what_wings_dare | 🅧 Please explain to me the scientific nature of 'the whammy'

There's really nothing to apologize for, but she doesn't say that. It's nice to wake up tucked against somebody that way. (Whatever extracurricular synchrony she gets up to, Scully is not habitually a cuddler. That doesn't mean she doesn't like it, only that she does not generally allow for it.)

It's been six months without him breathing down her neck. She could be more bothered by it.

"You slept," she points out, uncurling and daintily wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb. It's a simple fact. She doesn't bother to qualify it as good or bad because it's sleep, and that is never a guarantee for him. Medically, this is a simple therapeutic success.

"I don't suppose you invested in a coffeepot?"

He looks at her for a moment, not so much uncomprehending as unsure he comprehends right. This isn't the Scully he last saw at the J. Edgar Hoover Building a week ago. It's not not her, either - but it's hard to square that woman with the one stretched out on his blankets, asking for coffee.

(Maybe that's unfair of him, assuming she'd be tense and stressed out at the idea of waking up as the little spoon. She of all people knows bodies, and everything they're capable of when they're asleep.)

(Maybe what's really bothering him is the fact that he's bothered. But that would require admitting as much to himself.)

"I slept," he agrees, running a hand through his hair. It sticks up oddly despite that, no thanks to what's clearly a missing chunk on the left side. "If you could market that, you'd make a mint, you know. And there's a place across the street."

Consider: things are only awkward if you allow them to be awkward.
Consider: for half a year, Scully has had an alien chunk of rock slowly chipping away at her inhibitions.
Consider: perhaps Agent Scully is in fact in love with him.

Actually, don't consider that last one. She tries not to.

Unorthodox as it is there's an argument to be made that it served a medical purpose, and it certainly made her feel better, too, to know he got some rest and to wake up reassured that he hadn't disappeared.

"Hmmn." Another thing for the shopping list. Not that she plans on staying over regularly, but come on, Mulder. "Just let me fix my hair," she says with a sigh, standing up. His abysmal furnishing must include a bathroom at least. She's going to have a slight walk of shame aura but she'll clean up as best she can.

As far as the third point goes, he'll be damned if he thinks about it on any level. The world is full of lonely men who misread colleagues' kindness as attraction, and Fox Mulder has no intention of joining the club. He's seen how hard she works to be taken seriously in the field; assuming she looks at him and sees anything other than a friend would only undermine her efforts.

(That people look at her and don't see a force of nature is going to baffle him to the end of his days. He wouldn't believe it if he hadn't seen it for himself - the reality of her is self-evident, as far as he's concerned.)

(Not that he's thinking about any of this consciously. Not on a regular basis, anyway. But buried somewhere deep, informing everything else, it's there.)

"Sure." He's already wandering toward his bedroom, half-absorbed by trying to crack his neck. "Bathroom's over here."

He, at least, has some more clothes in the otherwise empty bedroom. Enough that he can shuck off yesterday's jeans and t-shirt and replace them with today's. The chunk missing from his hair is still kind of a problem, and he could stand to shave, but it doesn't seem all that important compared to Scully's request for coffee. Every day in Sumarlok feels like a day off, so far, and on a morning like this, he's a little lazy.

Back in the living room, he's checking his palm pilot with a grimace when Scully comes back out. "We might have to put shopping on hold. Looks like I'll be a little short until the end of the month."

It matters her to her immensely that Mulder has always treated her with impeccable professional respect. Sometimes he's a complete asshole when they disagree, but he's just as much of an asshole to other men they encounter. He never insists she's wrong just because of her sex, never mistrusts her expertise, always backs her up when she's right. All of that matters.

There have been rumors, she knows, since the day she set foot in that basement office. No one dares call her Mrs. Spooky to her face, but she knows. When she was younger it bothered her more, truth be told. It rolls off her back easily now; those people don't understand the half of their relationship.

And here she is in his bathroom, splashing water on her face and trying to smooth the wrinkles out of slept-in clothes. Six years of not sleeping with a guy and you end up rumpled in his bed anyway. It almost makes her laugh.

She's not quite up to her usual standard when she emerges, but it could be worse.

"Some places might give Gembonded credit," she suggests. "I could spot you for small stuff."

She could... probably spot him for larger stuff. But she'd rather not say so.

Scully looks like Scully when she comes out of the bathroom, as far as Mulder's concerned. The details beyond that don't really matter to him - though it's kind of novel to see her freckles so clearly. If that means she's a little less put-together than usual...well, she can probably see the 5 o'clock shadow gracing his jaw. At least she's not alone.

"We can pick up a Mr. Coffee and a frying pan," he says, as he locks the door. The idea of spending Scully's money doesn't exactly thrill him, but he can see he'll have money coming his way eventually. "Next time you stay over, I'll make pancakes."

It's not a matter of if she does but when. He can already tell he'll miss her tonight, as ambivalent as he feels about waking up wrapped around her.

Normally she takes as much care with her appearance here as she does at home-- impeccable makeup, fairly formal clothes, hair in perfect order-- but for some reason she ran out in a hurry yesterday. Who can remember.

"I didn't know you cooked without a phone," she teases. Pot, kettle; the occasional baking of chicken to throw on top of a bagged salad does not a gourmet make.

She doesn't argue the point, when instead of if. It's probably a bad idea to make a habit of sleeping with your coworker, even therapeutically and platonically. Someone is bound to get the wrong idea.

(In the privacy of her own mind, she can admit it might be her.)

Should they be holding hands again? Somehow it feels different to reach out this morning, though she won't shy away if he does; he just checked his balance, he'd know if he needs it. Probably.

Her fingers itch to grab his, though. Perhaps she's been too permissive with herself.

"I can be convinced to mix Bisquick and water in a bowl, if it's a special occasion." He's not a good cook - never has been, probably never will be. Measuring ingredients is boring; waiting for pots of water to boil is worse. But even on alien planets, there must be convenience food somewhere, and if that includes box mixes for pancakes, he'll consider making Scully breakfast in bed. It's the least he can do in return for convincing his body to shut down for a few hours.

On the other hand, making money here is so easy that he might just hug a few people and never eat at home again. Economics doesn't interest him much more than Julia Child cookbooks, but he can't help but wonder if they end up with runaway inflation, under the circumstances.

Mulder doesn't reach for her hand - he doesn't think to. Instead, he points out the place they're going to and says, "They have some kind of coffee with spices in it. Burns your mouth two different ways."

Does he sound kind of excited for that? He might sound kind of excited for that.

"I'll be sure to make a reservation."

Which is, admittedly, a tacit admission that she plans to stay over again. Not necessarily regularly, but it's different. It's one thing to bundle an injured partner into bed or crash on a couch after too long a night doing paperwork. They've shared hotel rooms, but only ever out of necessity; it's different if it's a free choice, though arguably, the necessity of synchrony makes that choice a little less free.

(That, she admits, is a particularly flimsy excuse.)

"Start the morning with a little suffering?" Seems on brand for her partner. If he keeps it to a numb tongue, she'll let him get away with it.

"It's good," he insists, though privately, he's wondered if it's supposed to be spicy, or if he's developed an alien allergy. Making Scully taste it, he realizes just now, might clear that up.

Outside it's already warm, and it's a short walk over to the coffee shop. And when they're waiting for their drinks, he asks, "What were you going to do today? I don't want to keep you."

Yes, he does. But at the same time - she's got a job, friends, who knows what else. At some point, they can't be joined at the hip any longer.

Imagine the cryptobiology papers she could write on this place, if they could take samples home. Even information; at least they could quit the FBI, write memoirs, and be successful science fiction authors.

"I have some errands I should get to after we sort out your Spartan furnishings," she admits, trying to feel less sorry about the idea than she does. Their near-constant low level connection has been immensely energizing, or maybe that's just how it always feels.

"And tomorrow I work, though if you want to drop by around lunch we can take some mammalian readings and grab a bite after."

Mulder's more than imagined. There's already a cardboard box - or the local equivalent, whatever, but it's shockingly easy to drop in the Earth equivalent mentally - that he's shoved in the corner of his closet, just in case. Considering how suddenly they were abducted, he doubts he'll get a chance to go to Alien Customs, let alone plead the case for taking artifacts back with him...but he's going to try. The collection started about two days ago.

"Another probing already?" he jokes, but it's not actually funny, so he goes on without pause. "Sure. You can take me to your Thai place."

And he can look into a job. If there is something out there that won't bore the life out of him, he'll take that over starting fresh as a gigolo. When their order's called, he goes to get it, handing her a cup with a little thread of steam leaking out the top.

Scully, mostly, has been keeping her observations and her data on a little alien flash drive, nearly always on her person if it's not locked away in her apartment. Rationally it doesn't make sense to imagine she could take it with her, but who knows? They have to try.

"Sounds good," she says, with a small smile as she takes the cup.

"What are the chances you stay out of trouble?" she teases, taking a deep breath of the steam before trying a careful little sip.

"Depends on how we're defining trouble." He takes a swig of his coffee, and it goes hot down the back of his throat. "You might have to be a little more specific."

Inevitably, Scully's definition encompasses far more than anything Mulder could come up with.

If they were at home she might rephrase and tell him not to have too much fun, but in fairness here having too much fun might be a sound financial decision.

"I don't have enough to bail you out of jail." It's not nearly as funny, alas.

She takes a deeper sip of the coffee, and makes a small noise of surprise at the tingle of spice. So, if it's an alien allergy it's at least a shared one.

"So I won't get arrested." Evenly, good-humored, with the kind of confidence they both know he probably shouldn't use to make promises. "Unless they haul me in for looking for work."

Of course, it always starts out simple - but he's already expecting to be turned away from anything interesting, and he doesn't know the place well enough yet to know what he isn't being told. Job-hunting is simple reconnaissance at most.

In the meanwhile, Scully doesn't say this isn't burning my tongue, Mulder, so he's probably not experiencing anaphylactic shock. Always good to know.

"This isn't bad," she muses, looking at the cup. "You know, they grow this fruit-- I've only seen it in Marilla-- like a banana, but spicy like a pepper." It's not entirely a fond memory since she was, you know, stranded on a deserted volcanic island when she had it, but it reminds her a bit of this.

She looks up at him, considering. All in all she does trust him; it doesn't hurt that barring anything truly unreasonable, the Gembonded get a lot of slack. That doesn't mean she wants to leave him on his own, though.

"Sounds like a good start for you."

"Sounds interesting." Hard to picture, for that matter - bananas are so bland that he can't quite marry the tastes. Maybe it just curves the same way.

Scully's looking at him, and they might as well be touching, with the way her gaze penetrates. For a moment, he's tempted to reach for her hand, or bump his foot against hers under the table. He doesn't, but he thinks about it for a moment while her blue eyes weigh and measure him for reasons unknown.

"It might be." With a shrug, he adds, "I get the feeling I don't qualify for top-secret clearance here, if they're confining you to the tedious stuff."

This is going to be the problem for them: not achieving synchrony, but staying in control of it. She's not sure whether it's possible without touching, but when they do it feels so natural, so normal; easy to slip into without meaning to.

It'll be good for their bank accounts at least, but maybe less so for their boundaries.

She shrugs.

"It takes a while to earn their trust. It's not like they could call my references when I applied."

Mulder's sense of the borders between Do This and Don't Do That is well-developed, if something he ignores frequently. More and more, it might end up feeling like the opposite, though: a desire to keep those lines intact with no idea where they've gone.

For the moment, at least, he's blissfully unaware of just how complicated life is going to get.

"At least a lab tech can borrow the equipment after-hours." He's more amused than annoyed. Scully having an in at the labs benefits them both, and the fact that she's found something worthy of her time is a good thing. If anything, he's jealous. "If the options are police dispatch or beat cop, I might as well pick up juggling and join the circus."

Working with Mulder is at least one third keeping him out of trouble, and keeping Mulder out of trouble is a variable mixture of reverse psychology, regular psychology, out-stubborning him, and knowing him well enough to give the vague impression of precognition.

"You could be a sideshow act here," she remarks, sipping her coffee. The heat and the spice make her lips tingle a little.

"Well, find me some nails, and I'll let you be my geek." Simply existing wouldn't be enough here, not after so many humans have come through. "On second thought, I don't know if I love the idea of clearing out my sinuses with a hammer. Maybe I can join the lab."

They're equally (un)serious possibilities to him, delivered with a smile.

"Well, keep your nose clean a while-- preferably without hitting the hardware store-- and maybe the Noctian government will find a use for your talents."

Really, whatever he ends up doing-- if he does anything-- it's going to be for his own sanity and amusement, she's not worried about his paying the bills. Even if he doesn't end up embracing the local culture, which she definitely isn't going to think about or wonder about or secretly agonize about when they're apart. It's Fine.

"Come on, let's find your frying pan."

[ n a m e ; ]	Dana Katherine Scully
[ c a n o n ; ]	The X-Files
[ g a m e ; ]	spicy times in noctiumrp

🅧 Please explain to me the scientific nature of 'the whammy'

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