Title: Chaste

Rating: T

Spoliers: Pusher

Notes: I would have made this a "4 Times They Did and One Time They Didn't" thing, except that there are about four million times they didn't, so I just left it at five times they should have. I made up the last four scenarios, but the first one is stol – uh, borrowed from the episode Pusher (one of my very favorites).

As they walk heavily out of Modell's hospital room, Scully wants so badly to verbalize the rage and terror she felt as Mulder took aim at his own temple, pulled the trigger, and leveled the barrel at her. She wants to tell him how relieved she is that the second chamber was empty and how she sees this as proof that God is keeping an eye on them and how glad she is that he shot that son of a bitch. Instead she takes him out for a beer and kicks his ass at pool. As the car idles outside her apartment building, she is overcome by her inability to express herself, so she leans over the center console and presses her lips to his for the briefest of seconds.

"Goodnight, Mulder."

With a thud so strong it should be audible, Mulder realizes that she is not where she is supposed to be and deep inside himself he is sure that she is in mortal danger. He drives like a bat out of hell, her death playing a thousand horrible times with every inch he lowers the gas pedal toward the floor. Harm comes to her again and again as he cuts off her automated voicemail for the third time. He arrives at the next logical place to look for her and he doesn't notice if he turned off the car before leaping out of it; he is pretty sure that a squirrel with unfortunate timing became the fourth casualty in this case. He pounds frantically on the door for one and a half seconds, then bursts in. She is reaching for her gun, a towel wrapped haphazardly around her and a trail of soap suds trailing slowly down her left calf. He is so inexplicably relieved that he grabs her damp face in both his hands and covers her mouth with his for one long moment.

"Mulder, what the hell is going on?"

"You weren't answering your phone. Kalingares got past the sheriff, he's on the run."

For the longest ninety-three seconds of her life, all she can do is watch as he flatlines, disappearing into a crush of white coats and green scrubs and drowning in a sea of yelling ("Clear!"). For those ninety-three seconds, she can't swear that her heart was beating either, and she knows her lungs do not bother expanding until the monitor begins spiking in a normal rhythm again. Then out of her mouth and under her breath rushes the most heartfelt expression of gratitude to her deity that she has ever voiced. After that she can only sit by his bed until he wakes, reminding anyone who tries to tell her that visiting hours are over that she it's okay because she is a doctor. Even though that is meaningless in this context, they daren't provoke the wrath of anyone with that much emotion in her eyes. He sounds like he's been eating sandpaper when he croaks out her name, his eyes opening cautiously against the fluorescent glare. She sends another whisper up to her god, kisses Mulder hard, and resists the urge to beat him about his already-concussed skull for getting himself into this situation in the first place.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"So how did you like your present?"

"What present?"

"My gift to you – one perfectly normal birthday. No alien abductions, no gunfights in bars… just a regular day at the office and a nice dinner afterward."

"Does it really meet the definition of normal if I spent my whole birthday with my coworker?"

"Aw, Scully, don't be mean."

"I'm sorry, Mulder. Thank you so much for my lovely birthday."

"Can you say that again without rolling your eyes?"

"No."

"But that's definitely a real smile."

"…Yes, it is."

"So… you going to invite me up, or what?"

"Why, Mulder! How very presumptuous of you!"

"Haha, yes, you're very funny. But it's rather cold out here, so if I can't come in, then I'm going to go back to my warm car."

"Well maybe you just ought to do that, then."

"I don't want to do that, though. I want to come with you, even though you're being coy and mean tonight. But it's okay, 'cause I know you don't mean it."

Laughter. "I appreciate that. However, I have to be at my mother's house by eight tomorrow, so it's probably best for you to go. I mean, you have monopolized me all day long…"

"And you love me for it." Accidental, mildly-intoxicated slip-up, meet the Scully Eyebrow. Well, Scully, you can Brow me all you want, I'm letting that one stand. "And because I'm being so very nice and generous in honor of your special day today, I will forgo the birthday spankings in lieu of a birthday kiss."

And so there, in her doorway, under circumstances much more difficult to explain away than before, he pressed his lips to hers softly, slowly, and for just a moment too long for it to qualify as chaste.

Scully drags him to her mother's party, certain that he would otherwise spend the holiday season alone in his apartment or on a case, though she isn't sure which would be worse. He meets her in the doorway to the kitchen, where she has gone to fetch them drinks. "Kiss!" her nephew yells, pointing upward. In unison their gazes follow his finger up to the mistletoe centered perfectly above them. Tara laughs and Mulder leans in for a chaste moment of contact. Scully just smiles at him and hands him his glass.

Mrs. Scully's normal holiday exuberance has turned her home into a minefield of awkwardly public intimacy and by the third time the pair finds themselves caught under a sprig, caution has fallen to the wayside. A few people remain in the living room, though most filtered into the dining room with the emergence of food platters. Most importantly, though, Bill Scully is not in sight. For the first time, they allow barriers to fall and lips to part as they put male and female agents consorting in the same hotel room while on assignment to shame. They resent the necessity of breathing.

"Damn, Scully, that must be some potent eggnog."

A mischeivious grin.

"I haven't had any eggnog yet, Mulder."