They'd had good reason to hide out; for a while they'd been properly fugitives, and though the shine had worn off the outlaw-on-the-run game real quick, she never regretted going with him. And at first, it had been a hard re-entry for them both-- trying to put down roots when they'd avoided it for so long, careful and suspicious of everything. Even when their names had been officially cleared, it had felt strange to pick them back up; strange to give honest answers, and to try and find a polite way to dodge personal questions with answers involving conspiracy and treason.
She'd never regretted going with him, or staying with him; the truth is, too, that she didn't regret leaving. She hated the necessity of it, but that's not the same thing. Mulder has always-- since the day they met-- been overwhelming; she's been his rational guide, but she's never been able to be rational about him in his presence.
But in their times apart-- by choice or circumstance-- when she's taken the time to reflect, she's never had a moment of doubt that she wanted him. It would make her laugh, to think of him coming into her home and her bed as an intrusion; as though there's ever been a space of hers that he isn't in, implicitly.
And it's hard to ignore the appeal, when she's shifting underneath him; when she rolls her hips, desperate for friction against his thigh. Probably they shouldn't be negotiating the state of their relationship and future cohabitation while in the middle of foreplay, but try as she might, she can't be rational about that, either. Their world has always spun a little off-kilter; if time has taught her anything, it's to pick apart the difference between what she wants and what she thinks she ought to want.
(She ought to want the life she's made; neat, clean, self-sufficient. She does want it; at least, a lot of it. But she also wants to pass out on his shoulder watching movies, to steal his clothes, to watch him order fries at nameless diners so she can take them. And maybe those things aren't inherent contradictions. Maybe she could clear a few drawers and shelves, maybe he could remember to use a coaster.)
(When it comes to Mulder, she has-- after all-- always wanted to believe.)
She kisses his temple.
"We could try it out," she breathes. She's not reluctant; it isn't an attempt to dodge, or to offer something she won't deliver on. Maybe now more than ever she doesn't want to make promises she can't keep; but this much, that she can try-- that she wants to take these tentative steps, wherever they lead-- that's true.
no subject
She'd never regretted going with him, or staying with him; the truth is, too, that she didn't regret leaving. She hated the necessity of it, but that's not the same thing. Mulder has always-- since the day they met-- been overwhelming; she's been his rational guide, but she's never been able to be rational about him in his presence.
But in their times apart-- by choice or circumstance-- when she's taken the time to reflect, she's never had a moment of doubt that she wanted him. It would make her laugh, to think of him coming into her home and her bed as an intrusion; as though there's ever been a space of hers that he isn't in, implicitly.
And it's hard to ignore the appeal, when she's shifting underneath him; when she rolls her hips, desperate for friction against his thigh. Probably they shouldn't be negotiating the state of their relationship and future cohabitation while in the middle of foreplay, but try as she might, she can't be rational about that, either. Their world has always spun a little off-kilter; if time has taught her anything, it's to pick apart the difference between what she wants and what she thinks she ought to want.
(She ought to want the life she's made; neat, clean, self-sufficient. She does want it; at least, a lot of it. But she also wants to pass out on his shoulder watching movies, to steal his clothes, to watch him order fries at nameless diners so she can take them. And maybe those things aren't inherent contradictions. Maybe she could clear a few drawers and shelves, maybe he could remember to use a coaster.)
(When it comes to Mulder, she has-- after all-- always wanted to believe.)
She kisses his temple.
"We could try it out," she breathes. She's not reluctant; it isn't an attempt to dodge, or to offer something she won't deliver on. Maybe now more than ever she doesn't want to make promises she can't keep; but this much, that she can try-- that she wants to take these tentative steps, wherever they lead-- that's true.