Title: Glovebox Heart Author: XRie Contents: V, A, UST Rating: PG-13 Spoilers: None Distribution: Anywhere, but please let me know. Summary: A confrontation between a tired Mulder and Scully. Will they ever wake up on the same page? Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are not mine. I'm just airing them out for freshness. Don't sue. Also, the title and lyrics in this story are taken from REM's "Star Me Kitten." I don't own them either. Notes: Many thanks to Char for the quick beta. If it would survive the trip, I'd mail you a pint of Dryers Galactic Chocolate Fudge ice cream. Mmmm ... chocolate-y stars. Feedback: Send it to x_rie@hotmail.com and I will cuddle it and stroke it and probably read it way too many times. Glovebox Heart ******************************************** Hey love, look into your glovebox heart. What is there for me inside? This love is tired. I've changed the locks. Have I misplaced you? You. Me. We used to be on fire. ******************************************** "Mulder?" He was aware of nothing but sound. His breathing. Her voice. The door muffled his name, but the note of concern was unmistakable. Her key scraped in the lock. The bolt clicked, gave; the door edged open with a familiar creak. She stepped in, her heels scuffing lightly against the wood. "Mulder?" More concern. She saw ... darkness. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the eerie light emitted by the snow on the television screen. Flashing blue and white spots illuminated his form splayed on the couch--the first place she looked. He lay on his back with an arm thrown across his eyes, elbow crooked at a weird angle. A bottle of scotch refracted patterns of light onto the coffee table. Only half empty. He couldn't use unconsciousness as an excuse. Annoyance began to replace her concern. "Mulder." Still no response. She moved to stand above him, grasping his limp hand and lifting his arm off of his eyes. They were open. "Why didn't you answer the phone?" He blinked at her. She could see awareness in his dark iris. She let go abruptly, and he allowed his arm to fall back into place, bumping the bridge of his nose. He didn't move. She became aware of a steady throbbing in her head: the horror of the previous four days seeping from her gut into her eyes, words. She spoke again, her deliberate intonation lightly caustic with an underlying note of mounting stress. An angry parent to a rebellious child. "Mulder. I've been trying to get a hold of you all night. I left *two* messages here and one on your cell phone." An impatient huff of breath. "I know this case was hard. It was hell for me too; I just ..." She trailed off at his unresponsiveness, paced toward the television, stood silent, muscles taut with frustration. "Would you at least *acknowledge* me, dammit!" Her voice echoed through the sparsely furnished room. He rolled to face her, propped his head on one hand, but remained silent. She closed her eyes. An attempt to relax. Immediately the images strobed across her eyelids. Mutilated. Women. Cut. Dead. Blue. Scalpels. Hair. Her eyes snapped open, sweat glistening on her lip. Tears began to choke her throat, burn her eyes. She whirled to face the television again, kneading her brow with tense hands, fighting for control. She stepped on something; the thin cardboard gave under her weight. She picked up the empty video case and studied the cover, frustration and exhaustion boiling immediately to a cold rage. Acid in her gut. "How can you?" she managed to croak, motioning her chin toward the VCR and the flashing snow of the television. Her breath began to rise in irrational puffs, her throat constricted. She ignored it. "I have been trying to reach you for hours." Her words were clipped, venomous. "I was worried. I know this case was hard. I saw ... I saw your face, Mulder. I wanted to make sure you were alright, but you didn't answer. You were here the whole time" ... she sputtered, her voice rising in pitch with each syllable ... "jacking off, and you were scaring the *shit* out of me, Mulder!" She broke off with a strangled whimper, tears escaping from flashing eyes as she refused to let her body succumb to the spasms that threatened. "Would it make you feel better if I told you I thought of you the whole time?" His voice was emotionless. A hint of sarcasm in his first words to her. Her jaw clenched. She headed stiffly for the door, eyes locked on her destination. "Scully." The couch creaked, evidence of movement. She ignored him. "*Scully.* Wait." There was command in his voice. She stopped, pivoted to face him, arms crossed defensively in front of her: do penance if you dare. He remained seated, looked straight at her, swallowed. "They never leave me. The faces. Every time I close my eyes. Not just this case. All of them. I never get any rest, only dreams. Just dreams." He breathed finally, ran a hand through sweat-plastered hair. "This --" he motioned an arm toward the TV, eyes still locked with hers "- -is my only escape. My one form of exorcism." His eyes were haunted. Her stance shifted but didn't soften--a different kind of anger. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it as if reconsidering. She breathed, looked at the ceiling, met his gaze again. "Mulder, why ..." She pursed her trembling lips, closed her eyes, kneaded their sockets. Her unfinished question hung in the air between them. He rose from the couch, all at once comprehending her new emotion. Hurt--not anger. Hurt. He moved to stand before her, squeezing his hair at the roots as if the motion could invoke the words more easily. "Scully. Not you. You can't be it. You make me more ... you ... I need to ... don't want ..." His hand fell lamely to his side. Her head turned stubbornly away, chin jutting forward as tears flowed from steely blue eyes that refused to make contact with his own. A sudden irritation bubbled in his chest. He expelled his own pent-up breath of frustration. "It's always the same, isn't it?" He leaned towards her, a vein in his forehead twitching. "When have you ever revealed yourself to *me,* Scully? When have you come to me for help?" His index finger jabbed forcefully at the air, punctuating each word. "How many times have I practically begged you ...??" Dammit, he was sick of it. A bad movie on a loop. Fucking sick and tired ... His hands flashed downwards, trapping hers in a firm grip. Her initial reaction was to pull away, but she stopped when she saw his eyes. Boring into hers. Intense and frightening, but she wasn't afraid of him. Never afraid. He leveraged her wrists to push her firmly against the door, resting her knuckles level with her head, his palms pressed against hers. He inched his body closer, eyes challenging her with each movement to stop him. She didn't. Her lips parted, her gaze diffused hazily between his jaw and his mouth. Her chest heaved, caressing the edges of him with each upward and downward movement. It set him off. His head plunged, capturing her lips in his, sucking and stretching as she bit back. Finally her tongue meshed with his. He felt the maddening rush inside of him, amplified exquisitely by the fact that ... Scully. It was Scully. His mind began to rebel, but his lips followed their own violent agenda, searching every curve of her face, neck, jaw. His hands explored the bones of her arched back, reached down to untuck her shirt, dipping under and upwards to caress the skin of her torso. She gasped harshly, stiffened, backwards, pulled away. "Mulder." The word was hardly recognizable, extinguished by his kisses. "Mulder." Her voice gained strength, though choked and breathless. His lips continued their mad careen down her neck and along her clavicle. "Mulder!" She grabbed his head, shoved it away with shaking arms. "Stop this, Mulder," she panted. "Stop this now." Her hands moved down to his chest. His heart pounded, ribcage heaved. His thumbs were hot against her abdomen. She looked him in the eyes. His were glazed, dilated. She spoke slowly between gulps of breath. "I will not be fucked by you, Mulder. Not like that." She paused, dropped her head wearily, looked back up, infusing her voice with firmness despite the tears that betrayed her emotion. "I'm going home. Do not follow me. If you show up on my doorstep, I will not let you in. If you use the key, I will throw you out. We'll talk about this tomorrow." She dropped her arms wearily, sensing his stupor, his lack of resistance. He swayed slightly at the loss of contact, then leaned forward, hands leaving her body. He rested his head against the wooden grain of the door, trapping her in his heat. Breathing. "I'm sorry," he whispered somewhere near the back of her head. "Sorry." "We'll deal with it tomorrow," she choked, almost to herself. She turned in the cramped space, shoulder brushing his chest as she reached to grasp the doorknob. His fingers closed gently around her wrist, stopping its rotation. "Stay, Scully." His soft entreaty brushed her hair across her cheek. "Mulder, I can't." "Please, Scully." His eyes were closed, his forehead still pressed against the wood. "Please trust me." He felt her arm relax at the word. Trust. He continued in a barely audible murmur. "Why did you need to talk to me tonight?" She glanced downwards. "I ..." No words came. "Scully, I need you here with me. And I think *you* need to be with me tonight. Just be here." They stood motionless for a beat, then she loosened her grip on the doorknob in silent acquiescence, allowing his fingers to move from her wrist to entwine with hers. He stepped away from the door and tugged her gently towards him. Tendons stretched in her fingers as he led her to the couch. She settled down beside him, her head tucked gently under his chin. He reached to the ground, fingered the remote control and flipped off the television, plunging them into darkness before his arms wrapped tightly around her. Silence. ************************************** Have we lost our minds? Will this never end? It could depend on your take. Hey love, look into your glovebox heart. **************************************