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“Oh, brother.”
Mulder couldn’t get the words out of his mind. He had recovered since, physically at least.
Scully had played nurse when he got out of the hospital, checking on him at least once a day. On principle, he loved having her around. But since that one ‘oh, brother’, being anywhere near her vicinity felt like torture.
After everything they’d been through, he finally confessed his feelings for her and this is what he had gotten back in return.
The more he remembered her face —turning away from him as she muttered the words, effectively leaving the room soon after that— the more he tried to lose himself in the memory of her; 1939 her.
1939 Scully had been pretty much the same as present day Scully, defending him (and saving his ass) while maintaining the same nonsense attitude that always amused him.
Yet, 1939 her was different in some ways too. She didn’t shy away from wearing bold red, no self consciousness about wether or not it might clash with the orange of her hair. 1939 her wore dresses, and tight ones too, not that he had payed that much attention.
Truth be told, he had really grown fond of present Scully’s boxy suits, her always-on hand blazers and her too-long pajamas. There were also days he found himself missing the giant shoulder pads that use to swallow her whole. He loved it because it was her.
Of course, he’d be lying if he said he wouldn’t love it if she wore the kind of dresses 1939 her did. Did she even own one? Mulder hated that he didn't know.
1939 Scully was perfect, from the reluctant faith she had in him to the strong hook she gave him a black eye with. But as perfect as she was, she didn’t stand a chance next to present day Scully.
Present day Scully was everything. She was Mulder’s first thought in the morning and his last one before going to sleep — which often happen to also be morning— his entire night spent going over ways he could tell her how he felt, scenarios on how good or bad it would go. The worse always won, of course.
But none of them were worse than ‘Oh, brother”. No,m;, this one was one for the books. For someone who had been subjected to ridicule all his life, he had never felt so stupid and embarrassed as he did that very.
For the umpteenth time, he tried with all his might to chase away the memory of the smirk sitting on the corner of her lips. She had never laughed at him per se, or maybe it was just that the humor in her voice had never hurt this much.
“Mulder, are you okay?” He’d been acting weird lately, like he was fed up with her every move. Scully knew he was struggling with losing the x-files, with this new assignment under Kersh. Still, none of it was her fault and she was getting a little sick of getting the brunt of his frustration.
She had enough frustration of her own; ever since the incident at the hospital. If she could even call that an incident, it was more of a devastating shitstorm if she was honest with herself.
‘I love you.” At last, he had finally muttered she had waited years to hear. Of course, nothing in her life went according to plan, so his declaration was no doubt the result of the concussion or the medication.
Either way, it wasn’t sincere, it was as fickle and delusional as his boat story, Scully knew this, yet she couldn’t stop the words from looping in her mind all day long.
She had pretended to laugh it off, mumbled something —she was so shaken she can’t even remember what left her mouth— and left the room, pretending like she was able to follow the conversation with Skinner and the lone gunmen.
After getting no response from him, Scully insisted, knowing she was very close to losing her patience. “What is it, do you need something or…?”
A beat passed and Mulder let out loud sigh followed by “Oh brother.” muttered in indignation. It came out a little louder than he meant it too, but after all, he really wanted her to hear. He wanted her to feel the words slice through her skin as much as it did his.
“What the hell is your problem, Mulder? ‘Oh, brother’? What does that even mean?”
Oh, is she going this route? Mulder felt something within him snap.
“So you’re going to pretend you don’t remember? Sweep it under the rug and make me look like the crazy one. How classic!”
Hearing that, Scully didn’t know wether to express her confusion or her anger first. Before she could make a choice, Mulder continued.
“What? Is it that you suddenly don’t remember what you told me when I told you I loved you?” Mulder hates how desperate he sounds, he hate the confused look on her face even more. Was his confession this forgettable?
“I didn’t… Mulder I didn't say that. I wouldn’t have?” She hates how unsure she sounds, hates that no matter how hard she tries, she can’t remember what is it she actually said. Surely she wouldn’t have replied so flippantly?
“Oh so now you don’t believe me? Again?”
Ironically, Scully can’t believe it. It hits her like whiplash, are they about to talk about this fucking ship again? When will she finally hear the end of 1939 her? And why did this bitch have to occupy his thoughts more than her —the real Scully.
She imagines she must be better as concept, that’s probably why Mulder keep going back to that other her, a version of her his mind made up to make up for everything he probably thought she lacked in real life.
“Jesus Christ, this story again? Mulder how many times-” Mulder doesn't want to hear what he's has to say, what she already said when he woke up.
“It happened, Scully. I have proof! Literal, physical proof of what happened and still you won’t believe me! I know what I saw— and, and… I know what I felt.” He hates how pathetic he feels, begging her to believe him. “Scully, it happened. All of it; the nazis and Cigarette Smoking Man and you and the kiss and the punch and-”
“The kiss?” Scully is even more confused now, worried too. She’s trying to convince herself that the worrying is for his concussion. If she were honest with herself, she’d say she’s actually worried about his answer.
Was there another woman he forgot to mention? Or was it 1939 that kissed him? Or did he kiss 1939 her? And why was this bitch lucky enough to get a kiss and all present Scully got was a deadly bee?
Most importantly, why the hell was Scully even entertaining the thought? None of it happened so it really shouldn’t matter anyway. At least that’s what she tells herself as she promptly ignores the wave of appeasement she felt washing over her when he told her it was her.
No other woman. That was reassuring, for reasons she doesn’t think she wants to get into.
“So you’re you kissed me.” She hopes if Mulder sees her blushing he’ll blame it on anger. “And then you’re saying I punched you.”
“Yeah, exactly.” He seems so adamant she almost wants to believe him.
Almost.
“Mulder, as… nice as this is, it would never happen. For a myriad of reasons.” She raises her arm in the air as if God would personally send help. It’s ridiculous, both the gestures and the conversation they’re having.
“Give me one. And I don’t want you to talk about historical possibilities or to discredit things you already have. Just give one reason out of that myriad as to why you refuse to believe me despite everything I’ve told you.” In other words ‘talk about the kiss’ is hat he meant. They both heard the subtext, and that being backed into a corner —corner that forces her to not only face, but also talk about her feelings— and snaps.
“You want to know? You really want to know what 'everything you told’ me is such unbelievable bullshit? I’ll tell you why. First of all, I’d never punch you after a kiss, Mulder. Especially not by you.” She’s so exhausted, so wound up from this unbearable tension and all the digs he’s made at her for the past few days.
To be fair, anger isn’t the emotion she masters most. Heartbreak even less.
“Don’t stand there looking all shocked, what are you going to sweep it under the rug and make me look like the crazy one? Like you didn’t know I’ve been fucking waiting for you to make a simple move, but no. If it’s not the work, it’s your fucking ex, and if not then it’s me being kidnapped for the umpteenth time.” She's yelling now, Mulder wants to remind her of how thin the walls are, that maybe she doesn’t want everyone to hear what she has to say.
He doesn’t though. He knows she doesn’t even mean for him to hear, and if he stops her now, he’ll never know all that she’s been keeping to herself for all this time. That’s not how he wanted this conversation about a potential ‘them’ to happen, but he also realizes there’s no other way it could’ve gone.
“And secondly, Mulder.” She gets all up in his face, that’s when he sees the unshed tears in her eyes. “You would never have the balls to kiss me first. Not unless it’s in some desperate attempt not to make me leave. Not unless it’s out of the egoistical, territorial need to make sure I’m still yours, to know I’m not actually paying attention to any man other than you.”
She doesn’t mean it, he knows that. He can tell from her tone and the oh-so-relatable feeling of just wanting to hit where it hurts. She knows him though, and so her calculations are exact; it does hurt
It hurts like a motherfucker, both because it’s exaggerated for the sake of argument, but also because the core of what she’s saying is the truth.
The truth. It’s so funny — ironic really, that he’s searched for it his entire life but right now, right this second there’s nothing else he’d like more than to run away from it.
Mulder finds he has nothing to say in return, nothing to contradict her with. So, feebly he asks what has been torturing him for years, the one thing he never had an answer to.
“What did he have more than me? I mean if he was a someone sane, I would’ve understood. But you might’ve just managed to find the one guy out there who’s crazier her than me. So what was it?”
He doesn’t know what answer he’s actually waiting for. A slap or another punch? That would probably hurt him less than what was going on right now.
“He saw me.” Scully said, defeated by the state of their decaying relationship. They’d never get over Ed Jerse, they’d never get over Diana Fowley. They’d never get over themselves, really. That last one probably hurt the most.
She started packing her stuff, she’s done now, she thinks. They’ve done enough damage. Enough for her to have said all the things she had never wanted him to know. All the things she never wanted herself to know either.
Before she even has the chance to pick up her purse and jacket, he turns her around, one hand on her right hip —his finger almost making contact with the skin under her shirt, just shy of the waistband of her jeans— the other is camping her chin.
She’s getting déjà-vu, a time where she had purposefully left the door open in hopes he’d run after her; and he had. This time, though, she doesn’t know what she wants from him.
Is he going to lean in, proving her right? God help her, she’d let him. She’d allow him to take anything he wants from her, anything he needs or desires.
Mulder wants to kiss her, he does. But he can’t allow her brain to rationalize the best thing that’s ever happened to him as a desperate attempt to get her to stay. He won’t allow it.
Instead, he makes her look at him, really look — he sees her, too.
“I love you.” He hears her breath hitch and her eyes well up with tears. At least, he thinks so, he can’t tell because very quickly his own vision becomes blurry. “No pain medication that makes me high or delusional, no concussion. I love you. That’s all there is to me.”
He braces himself for impact; she wouldn’t hit him, not this time, but her words have the power to wound him all the same. He doesn’t hear any ‘Oh, brother’ this time. He doesn’t hear much of anything actually because the next second he realizes Scully sealed their lips together.
The incredible thing with their relationship is that they have communication like that, unspoken. He knows what she’s thinking of— and right now, he knows she’s telling him she loves him too.
Funnily enough, in the end, their thoughts are about 1939 Scully. Mulder’s thinking even she can’t beat present life Scully while present life Scully? Well she’s thinking 'take that, 1939 me!’.