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They've thrown caution to the wind, they've thrown it out the window into the path of passing cars, as the inside of the rental fogs and he pushes the seat all the way back. She's already underneath him, he's pressing himself on her, she's biting at his lips as she grips the back of his neck to pull him in closer. It's pitch black outside, it's pitch black in the car, and he can't see where he can get his footing so he doesn't crush her. His foot slips and he accidentally bumps the horn.
It wakes him up.
He veers the car back into his own lane and regains his focus. What time is it? he thinks, What time did I finally leave the office? He has no idea. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, and he looks to the passenger seat. The manilla file for the case he and Scully had been working on stares back at him irreverently. He pulls into a space outside his apartment building and turns off the ignition.
It's nearing midnight and he's just walking in his front door. He has his jacket slung in his arm and he drops it and his car keys on the table in exhaustion as he drags himself through his apartment, the heels of his shoes scuffing along the hardwood floor, so he kicks them off into the corner and deposits himself messily onto his couch. He rubs his eyes until he sees constellations behind them, until they hurt, he has to stay awake just a moment longer, he has to find that file…
His phone rings. As if on cue, as if she knows he's already thinking about it, Scully is on the other line, and he picks up after the second ring and groggily mumbles something into the mouthpiece, leaning back into the couch, tousling his hair.
"Mulder, I just got back from the autopsy, I'm at the office. I'm not sure how to explain what I found, but I really need a closer look at the case file for this. Have you got it with you? I can't find it."
His eyes pan around his living room in lazy sweeps, he's incoherent at best. He knows he had it in the car. He had something with him in the car. Scully… what did she ask for?
They have sex on his couch. It's summer, and it's heavy and damp, and they're all but gasping for breath just trying to stay alive, breathing each other in and drinking in the desperation. It's frantic and yearning. She's wearing a light blue t shirt, but it clings to her chest and her sweat and it doesn't really matter anyways because he's removed her bra already. His jeans are off almost completely but rest at his ankles, and she's pulling his shirt over his head as she rides him, grinds into him hard, and she barely lets a second pass before she's back at his mouth and plunging her tongue into it as if to taste the words she wants to hear him groan, guttural and visceral and impetuous.
It's an insatiable fucking, she's mad in the heat, she's vicious, and he loves it. He wants her to hit him while she's fucking him. He wants her to scream his name, he wants to scream hers, and she's digging her fingernails into his shoulders, and it hurts, and it hurts...
"Mulder?" she addresses him. "Are you still with me?"
He blinks and shakes himself cognizant. "Y-yeah. Yeah I'm listening."
"Seriously, Mulder. I got some really strange results from that autopsy. Have you still got the original case files in the office hidden somewhere, or do I need to remind you to bring them with you tomorrow morning? I need more history on the past cases, I'm really wracking my brain here."
He licks his lips. "I'm pretty sure I have them. Here. Yeah, I-I'll look, I'll find them…" His last syllable drifts off his tongue and dissipates into the air.
"Mulder, I think I'm losing you," she says. How many times has she said my name? he thinks. He loves his name on her tongue. Say it again...
"Are you with me, Mulder?"
"…Mulder?"
She's standing at the file cabinet, the one under the small window that barely brushes the ceiling, a piss-poor excuse for a window if he ever saw one. A small ray of late-day sunlight filters in and casts a halo around her and ignites her titian hair; she tucks a wisp of it behind her ear as she filters through duotangs of wild beasts and undefined horrors. He comes through the door to the office and closes it behind him with his foot as he continues stride towards her. She turns as she hears his entrance, and he holds a file out to her, and she takes it between her elegant, slender fingers and flicks it open with a sweep of her thumb. He's standing close to her, almost against her, and she looks up at him with a thankful smile playfully etched on her lips. The lips he wants so desperately to kiss, to have on his lips, to drink in like he's parched and he wouldn't even care if they were a mirage, he would die happily anyway. So he takes her, cups her face in his hands and drinks, and he's hunched over her and she pulls him into her as the file drops to the ground between their feet, her arms make their way over his shoulders and around him and she's on her toes now, as if she's sorry he has to bend all that way down to her.
She's on his desk, her back arched as far as it goes, and she's gripping the sides cause she can swear it's rocking back and forth and she's going to tip, she's going to fall, but little does she know she's already fallen, but not fast like she's been told she will. She's fallen in slow motion, in fact she's still falling, and the fall is gradual and painful and gorgeous, and oh God she's sure she's going to pass out so she pulls at his hair harder and bites her lip until it hurts. He's got fistfuls of her thighs to keep her steady and his hot breath is equally matched by her hot sex, he's panting and aching and is he entirely sure he locked the door behind him...?
"Mulder! Are you there? Do I need to remind you to pay your phone bills, too?"
"I'm sorry Scully, it-it's late, and, uh, I dunno, I'm honestly really tired, I might be dozing off…"
There's no response for a minute, until a short, breathy sigh pushes through the receiver. He's worried he's really pissed her off. "I am sorry, Scully, I…"
"Please remember the file tomorrow. Goodnight, Mulder."
The line goes dead.
He's in her kitchen with her. It's a late winter evening, they've finished their reports, but she didn't want him to go home, and he didn't want to go either, so now he has her straddled on the counter and she's gripping his shoulder blades and calling his name over and over as he makes love to her, and the counter is frigid cold against her flesh, but he's so warm, he's buried his face into the crook of her neck and breathing hot, sticky, harrowing exhalation. She takes his head in her hands, strokes his cheeks as he slows his rhythm, kisses him gently, kisses him not so gently, kisses him with the force of oceans and doesn't let go, and he speeds up his pace, and Jesus Christ she loves him and he loves her and they've never said those words to each other but they know.
Scully places the receiver back on the charging stand, but doesn't move for quite some time. She considers calling him again, she doesn't know what for, perhaps to just hear him breathe, to hear him sleep, to be there in some distant manner. Her exhaustion creeps up behind her and latches on, and suddenly she's very tired, and she'll see him tomorrow at the office anyways...