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Date Posted: 18:31:54 08/04/00 Fri
Author: Islandgirl
Subject: Another shippy fanfic from Islandgirl

Title: "Honey, I'm Home!"
Author: Angela W. (aka Islandgirl)
Category: MSR (You would expect anything else from me?)
Rating: PG-13 (implications of an intimate relationship between Mulder and Scully, but nothing "happens" in this story)
Timespan/Spoilers: Set late in Season 7; sometime after "all things" but before "Requiem"
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. They are the property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions.
Summary: Mulder contemplates the changed nature of his relationship with Scully. First person, Mulder's POV, throughout.

It's late and I'm exhausted. Just as Scully and I were about to slip out of the office for an evening of dinner, videos and cuddling on the couch, I got a call from Violent Crimes. They wanted me to do a consult for them. Ever since Scully and I got the X-Files back last year, we've been treading on thin ice. It's prudent that I do anything I can to make us seem more valuable to the rest of the bureau, so I went.
I explained to Scully and she nodded.
"I need to do some stuff over at my apartment anyway," she whispered into my ear. We're still afraid our office is bugged. "I'll spend an hour or two there and then meet you at your place."
"I may be late," I murmur.
"I'll make myself at home," she whispered back, a small smile on her face.
Now, as I let myself into my darkened apartment in the wee hours of the night, I contemplate my partner's words. It's not so much that she makes herself at home at my place as that she makes my place into a home. A refuge against the world, a place I'm eager to hurry back to and reluctant to leave. A year or so ago, she asked me why I didn't leave the office and go home. I told her I was home and, in a sense, it had been true. For years, the office was my home and this apartment simply the place I went when I needed a few hours to sleep, shower and change clothes. It wasn't so much that I'm a workaholic, although I'll admit to having a tendency toward that. It was simply that Scully was at the office and not (at least not very often) at my apartment. My home is wherever I can be alone with her.
The living room is lit only by the glow of the fish tank, but that's enough to show me there's no tiny redhead asleep on my couch. So I step into the bedroom, dim except for a streak of light coming from the partially closed bathroom door. Scully is asleep in my bed, waiting for me. The sight makes my groin tighten, but that's pretty much an automatic physical reaction. The feeling that overwhelms me isn't primarily sexual, although that's certainly part of it. It's more a tenderness, an awareness that this is what it's like to be loved.
I quickly shed my clothes and slip into bed beside her. For some reason, I remember the words and names we used when we were playing house back in that ridiculous subdivision. Now I truly am cuddled up to her like a baby cat. "Mulder?" she murmurs, half-statement, half-question.
"Hi, honey," I whisper. "I'm home."

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