Title: Unraveling
Author: diehard
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Orison
Keywords: Sometimes it’s better when it all falls apart


Scully stands naked in front of the full-length mirror in her room, just out of the shower—she can’t be in the tub, not yet, maybe never.

It’s her first night alone after she killed Donnie Pfaster, first night back in the separateness, the quiet loneliness that is her apartment, her life for that matter. She is capable of this level of self-awareness after spending a week at Mulder’s. It’s amazing what unloading your service weapon into your demon kidnapper in frenzy of rage and panic will do. Frank appraisal of her life seems to have risen to the top of her list of priorities.


He wrapped her in her trench coat like a broken child’s toy, like a tarnished treasure after the police left, brought her to his apartment and watched over her almost constantly for a week since then. He was kind, funny, solicitous, cooked for her, gave her space but stayed always within earshot. Without telling her, he took care of getting someone in her place and making it liveable again.

Killing Pfaster unraveled her, but what she found in the wreckage of her soul was Mulder, holding the threads, silently waiting for the two of them to weave her back together.

As she alternated between his bed and his couch, half-sleeping during the day and walking the floor with insomniac guilt at night, all she was able to find when she could look him in the eye was love—naked, fierce and simple, possessive and tender.


Smoothing her wet hair back, she makes a decision, no, she accepts the truth, it’s wrong to be here alone. It’s wrong to try to re-build herself on stoicism and denial. She loves him, not as a friend, either. Her flesh aches for him, needs him, wants to be revealed to him, by him.

Scully has always loved God, and science and the things you can know and hold in your hand. And she is finally, finally at the place where she’s ready for the absolute truth of Mulder, of how he makes her feel, of her own need to mark him, to braid herself to him.

She doesn’t waste any time getting dressed, white shirt, black pants, shoes—and she’s out the door.


He’s washing the dishes and hears the key turning in the lock, her footsteps coming toward him. He hurries to finish, he wants to know what’s wrong, but he doesn’t want to panic her. Something must be wrong, she’s back so soon. He desperately wanted her to stay, but recognized her shuttered face and polite thanks for what it was—Scully needing to find Scully again. Turning around, he’s startled to see her hair’s still wet, slicked back against her head, that she’s not wearing makeup.

“Scully, what is it?”

“Couldn’t find what I was looking for…”

He stays silent, wanting to believe she’s going to tell him what he’s heard only in his dreams.

“You, Mulder. I was looking for you.”

She moves toward him, reaches for him, her hands rest on his shoulders, pulling him down to her level. Her mouth finds the side of his throat, hot on his skin. He leans into her a little and her hands slide down his arms and trail their way across his chest. She licks at him, working her way to his earlobe. She takes the flesh between her teeth and bites down. He manages to stay still until then, but that bright, little pain pushes him over the edge.

“I’m home,” she breathes, “I’m home, now.”

“Home,” he tells her and his voice is rough with tears.

He throws himself into her, unbuttons her shirt, shoves her bra up and begins to thumb her nipples around and around like time passing, like time chasing its tail. Her nipples harden and now he wants to touch her somewhere else, make her hard somewhere else, make time turn in on itself, start and stop and dissolve.

The kitchen stays silent. She’s quiet, even now. She talks to him this way, with flesh, with skin answering skin. His hands find the zipper of her pants, make it move, find their way between her legs where he’s finally allowed to know her small, wet, hard secret–the only secret that matters in this sliver of time. His fingertips trace time’s unraveling against her clit. Slowly, around and around, and then just for a minute he stops to look at her face, softer and younger now. Mulder’s eyes travel their way to hers—liquid, dark, deep. He’s sure he can see himself in them, and then she blinks and says,


His fingers move again, simple, simple circle—the circle erasing everything, blotting out the minutes, collapsing the hours. Scully starts to shake against him, closes her legs her legs against his hand. She shatters and he feels the waves of it, draws it into his soul through the tips of his fingers. When she is finished, he slowly takes his hand and licks away the taste of her, honey-sweet, salty as tears, bitter as ash.

“Now you,” she says, and reaches under his shirt. He puts his hand over hers, “Yes,” he whispers.

“Not here. Come lie down with me,” and he leads the way to the bedroom. They’re silent again, no sound except their footsteps, the sound of their breath.

Then he hears her.

“You knew, didn’t you?” she asks.

“I hoped,” he says, “I hoped you’d find your way home…”