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haseuldior · 4 months

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human credentials

A realisation, a car ride, and a question.

“Scully… do you think there’s a chance you might be autistic?”

Autistic!Scully fic, because my brain wouldn't shut up until I wrote it. I've pictured it taking place in season 2, but it could probably fit anywhere between season 1-6. Many thanks to @i-want-those-files for the autistic Scully meta that started this whole thing, and for the Discord loaves who have put up with me talking about this for weeks <3

Read on AO3 | @today-in-fic

It's been a long morning.

A phone call at 3am; Skinner’s voice, still thick with sleep, apologising for the early hour. Some weapons bust at a warehouse in northern Virginia – intel was fresh, perps were in place, and all hands were needed on deck for go time in two hours. A car would be outside his apartment in ten minutes. Mulder had rolled off his couch, turned off Space Odyssey, and was waiting by the kerb within two.

Scully was already in the back of the sedan, but they’d maybe exchanged ten words on the way – she’d dozed as Mulder had watched the pitch-black countryside roll past the window, feeling a familiar itch buzz through him. If he was back at his apartment, he’d be heading out for a run to shake it off. He guessed an armed raid would be a suitable replacement.

They got to the rendezvous late, barely twenty minutes before it was time to go – just enough time to get kitted out and receive a rundown on the plan. He sat next to Scully in the SWAT van, elbows bumping in the close quarters, and waited for the signal to go.

It was loud, messy, but over in less than ten minutes – the gang had been caught unaware, with barely a chance to react. All the same, there were casualties: two agents and four suspects wounded in the crossfire, and one suspect dead from a hand grenade he’d detonated accidentally. Mulder’s ears were still ringing, four hours later.

Four hours later, when he’s still at the warehouse, because a big raid like this means one thing: paperwork.

His rifle has been checked three separate times, and he’s been asked the same questions twice, by separate senior officers: How many times did you fire your weapon? Do you feel you reacted with proportionate force? Who provided your orders? Did you voice any concerns prior to engagement? Were these listened to by your task force leader?

And he’s answered the questions as they want him to, playing the good little FBI agent and biting back any sarcastic response that threatens to raise its head. They’ve shut the X-Files before. He doesn’t need to give them encouragement to do it again.

Once the seniors are satisfied, he’s allowed to go, so long as he promises to keep his cell phone close by and not to speak to any press until the official statement is released. They give him permission to turn in his vest and helmet, and after leaving the debrief area he’s finally allowed to talk to the other agents milling around the scene, looking just as drained and bored as he feels.

There’s only one agent he wants to talk to, but she’s nowhere to be found.

He feels his heart twist in something that feels like disappointment as he realises she’s probably long gone, on her way back home after her own debrief. There’s an understanding that they won’t be in the office until later, now, but part of him had been hoping they’d drive back to Washington together, sharing common grievances and singing to the radio. He swallows the familiar feeling of abandonment and asks another agent how to get out of here.

“There are cars out the back.” Mulder nods and turns to leave, until the agent adds, “Good luck out there.”

He doesn’t bother asking why, but the comment is explained soon enough.

Someone must have tipped off the press, because the moment he steps out of the warehouse he’s blinded by camera flashes. There are microphones being thrust towards him, and he can’t respond even if he’d wanted to, because all the questions are flowing together, too loud for him to hear. For a long moment he just stands there, blinking away the sunspots in his vision.

Then he remembers – he’s got to be a good little FBI agent, and standing mute and dumb in front of the press is not a good look.

“Excuse me.” He squeezes past the cameras, keeping his head down.

He isn’t wearing his windbreaker, and he hopes that with nothing to formally identify him as FBI the journalists will soon lose interest. A few keep trying as he edges through the crowd, but after a few ‘no comment’s they leave him alone.

As he leaves them behind, the first drops of rain start to fall. He hurries around the side of the warehouse to the cars, flashing his ID to the agent monitoring them as he ducks under the ticker tape.

It’s a standard fleet, government-issue black sedans, and Mulder knows each one has the keys waiting for him in the ignition, ready for him to head back to Alexandria with the understanding that he’ll return it to the Hoover Building at his convenience.

He doesn’t like being a good little FBI agent, but it does have its perks.

He’s surveying the cars, reading to take his pick, when he sees a flash of red hair out of the corner of his eye.

It’s Scully. She’s sat in a car – in the passenger seat, he realises with a grin.

She waited. Of course she did.

He practically bounds over, throwing open the driver’s door, and leans in. “To Georgetown, ma’am?”

She doesn’t acknowledge him. At first, he thinks nothing of it, just climbs into the seat and starts to buckle his seatbelt, but then he notices her hands. She’s got both of them resting on her thighs, and she’s clenching and releasing her fists, over and over, so fast it seems an almost unintentional movement, a spasm of muscles.

He looks up at her face, and realises her eyes are squeezed shut. Her shoulders are tight, pulled up towards her ears, and her hands keep going. In, out, in, out.

He’s never seen her like this. He’s not sure what to make of it.

“Scully?”

There’s a noise, then, a whine almost, quiet but continuous, and it takes him a moment to realise that it’s coming from his partner.

“Scully?”

It doesn’t stop. To his distress, her movements start to get more frantic, her fists clenching faster and faster, until suddenly something changes. Before he can stop her, her hands have come up and she’s hitting herself, slapping her open palms against the side of her head hard enough that it must be hurting, but she doesn’t stop.

Mulder doesn’t think, just moves – he gets out of the car, indifferent to the steady downpour that’s now started, and heads to her side, opening the passenger door. He reaches in and grabs her wrists, so tight he can see the skin there turning red as he pulls her arms away, back into her lap.

“Scully, stop.”

His touch seems to freeze her, and she stops, not fighting him – but as soon as her hands still, her feet start to move, her knees bouncing up and down, and she’s still making that noise, a soft keening in the back of her throat. Frantic, he runs his eyes over her, searching for an injury, blood, anything that would explain… oh.

Some part of his brain finally kicks into gear, and as he watches her, watches the tension in her body and the need to move, it all slowly starts to make sense in a way he hadn’t been expecting but now seems entirely logical.

“Scully,” he says quietly, kneeling down next to the car. “Scully, I think I know what’s going on. I know you need to help yourself calm down, but I can’t let you do something that’ll hurt you. Okay?”

She doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t open her eyes or relax, but she acknowledges him, gives him a quick, jerky nod of the head.

“So if I let go of you, I need you to do something that won’t hurt. Promise me?”

Scully nods again, and he releases her wrists.

As he’s expected, her legs slow their bouncing as she laces her fingers together, squeezing them against each other. Little by little, her shoulders start to relax.

Mulder stays kneeling by her side, and keeps his voice quiet, his tone even.

“Can you tell me what happened back there?”

For a long moment, Scully doesn’t reply, just sits there, clenching her hands. Then, just as quietly as he had, she speaks. “It was too much. It was just… too loud, and too bright, and there were too many people, and it wouldn’t stop.”

Her hands start to move faster, and he fights the urge to grab onto her again. Instead, he exaggerates his breathing, gently prompting Scully to do the same, helping her breaths come slow and deep. He waits until her hands slow down, and then asks her another question.

“How can I help?”

“Uh…” She gives a shaky smile at that. “Honestly, just keep doing what you’re doing.”

That eases the grip of fear from around his heart, just a little. He’s doing something right, at least. Realising he’s still crouched next to her open door, he starts to straighten, giving her space.

“Should I get back in the car?”

For the first time, Scully’s eyes open, seeking his.

“No,” she pleas. “Stay there?”

Her desperation makes him pause; he relaxes back onto his haunches as her eyes slide shut again, and stays in place by her side, feeling the rain drip off his hair. “Okay. I’m here for as long as you need me.”

Gradually, her hands start to slow, moving from a regular rhythm of clenching and releasing to an occasional squeeze together, until they’re resting on her lap, entwined but still. Her breathing has steadied, too, and with a final deep inhale Scully lifts her head and opens her eyes again to look at him.

“Okay. I think I’m okay.”

There's a moment where he wants to say something, wants to take her hand and squeeze it, but he stops himself, aware they’re not completely alone.

Instead, he suggests the only thing that he can. "Do you want to get out of here?"

She breaks eye contact, something under the surface that he can’t quite place. "Yeah. Let's do that."

He gets back in the car and they drive.

xXx

It’s been almost an hour of driving before Scully speaks.

“I’m sorry about that.”

They’ve made good progress through the near-empty roads on the way to DC, but now, as they near the capital, the traffic has started to pile up; Mulder watches the rain bounce off the trunk of the car ahead as he tries to think of a way to reply.

Finally, he settles for an easy response, a non-answer, really. “How are you feeling now?”

“Better. Calmer. I think it was bad because I hadn’t slept - my nerves were a little frayed.”

“Has it happened before?”

“A few times. I normally deal with it before it gets that bad.”

What she doesn’t say doesn’t escape his attention. This has happened before. Multiple times.

He tries not to think about that – about her struggling, panicking, feeling overwhelmed and not feeling able to tell anyone. Has it happened when he’s been close by? After she’s left the office, or in the adjoining motel room? Have there been times where he’s missed it, or mistaken it for tiredness or irritation, when actually it was something deeper, something far more difficult for her to explain?

He remembers what crossed his mind, standing in the rain next to the car.

“Scully…” He starts, immediately trailing off as the words escape him.

How do you ask something like this? And not just to a stranger, but to a friend, his partner, who knows him better than anyone? Who he knows better than anyone?

Someone he should know better than anyone. There’s a voice at the back of his head asking why it took him so long to notice, why he never asked the right questions or picked up on certain things, why it took him until now to join the dots together. He can’t indulge that voice right now - there’ll be time for blame and rumination later. He needs to finish his question, get it out before he loses the confidence to do so. So, before he can overthink it any further, he sets his jaw and bites the bullet.

“Do you think there’s a chance you might be autistic?”

He can’t look at her as he says it, but there’s a pause, and he feels her eyes on him. He keeps his fixed on the headlights of the car in front, giving her time. She can shout at him if she wants to – he thinks he might deserve it.

She doesn’t shout. After a moment, she asks him a question in response. “You’re the psychologist, right?”

He knows what she’s asking, and he doesn’t want to lie to her.

“I think… I think what happened earlier, what you described, was sensory overload. And what you were doing with your hands looked a lot like stimming.”

“And that’s related to autism?”

“It can be.” She’s not going to let him drop it, not that easily, so he fishes for the right words for a moment. “Scully, I can’t diagnose you, and even if I could I wouldn’t want to. A diagnostic label is so definite, and people can find it so harmful if they’re not ready, and the last thing I want to do is to make you feel uncomfortable - I know it’s not easy to hear, not if you’re still processing the idea.”

He stops himself, aware the words are coming out faster than he can control them.

“I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t want to upset you.”

“You’re not.” He turns to look at her. She’s looking right back, endless blue shining with a resolute certainty. “Mulder, back there… that’s the first time anyone has ever understood what’s going on, or said something helpful. When I used to – what did you call it?”

“Stimming. Self-stimulating.”

“I used to do it sometimes, in grade school, when it got loud, or everything was too much. I’d just… click my fingers, or clench my fist over and over. But then the teachers told me off for fidgeting, and the other kids laughed at me, so I forced myself to stop.”

He forces himself to wait, to let her fill the silence.

She takes a long, deep breath.

“I remember thinking ‘what’s wrong with me?’. It felt like there was some big joke, something everyone else was in on, but that I couldn’t work out.

“I still feel it now, sometimes, this sense of…” she gestures vaguely. “Of something being wrong. Something’s wrong with me, and everyone else knows, but I can never pinpoint what it is.”

She runs her tongue over her lip, and her next words shake a little. "Mulder, are there… are there other things? About me?"

He knows what she means. And she wants it from him straight, so that's how he gives it to her.

"I know that when people make small talk with you, you get uncomfortable. You prefer it when people say and act how they think, and you find fitting in with people, especially other women, difficult. You don't like change. You have a very rigid belief system, and you don't like anything challenging that. Expressing emotion doesn't come easily to you, but when you feel you feel a lot. You like numbers and science and the certainty of the laws of nature."

And there's nothing wrong with you, he thinks, but doesn't say. There's nothing wrong with you at all.

Scully's quiet for a long moment. He knows her well enough to know that this means she's thinking, probably too much.

“Okay. I probably, to some degree, fit the profile. But I can do all those things. I can make small talk and act interested in those conversations, and I can tolerate uncertainty and change. And I can deal with too much noise and movement, most of the time.”

“Isn’t that the problem?”

She looks at him.

“The words you’re using, Scully. ‘Act’, and ‘tolerate’ and ‘deal with’. You don’t do those things because you find them easy, or because you enjoy them. It’s because you have to.

"A lot of autistic people - autistic women, especially - talk about pretending. Masking how they actually are or feel, because they want to blend in. It's like… like constantly wearing a disguise you don't feel safe enough to take off."

She falls silent again. The cars ahead start to move, and he puts the car into drive, almost missing her next words under the noise of the engine.

“I thought that was how everyone felt.”

Mulder doesn’t know how to respond to that, or if she even needs a response, so he just waits.

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t even know myself. So much of who I am is for other people, to fit in, and I don’t even know why I bother because it doesn’t make me feel better. Instead I feel like I’m hiding, and I’m terrified of being found out. I’m waiting for someone to realise I’m not who I pretend to be.

“You know, I get so excited about science. About the beauty and the mystery of it, and its absurdity and incredibility, about how I’ll never know everything about how the world works, and how the laws of nature and physics are older than the Earth, and will keep the universe moving even after I’m gone. But I can’t explain that to anyone in a way that makes sense, so I pretend I’m interested in science and medicine in the same way everyone else is.

“But it’s not just that, it’s everything else. I mean, at work I wear certain clothes and style my hair in a certain way, not because I want to but because that’s how I’m expected to, and I look in the mirror and don’t recognise myself because that’s not me. I feel like you’re one of the only people who’s ever seen past that, who even gets close to knowing who I actually am. To everyone else, I’m completely different. I’m some person who doesn’t even exist, it’s just a lie.”

She pauses.

"It's… it’s exhausting.” Saying that seems to help some of the tension leave her body.

“That’s how I feel. I don’t know if I can explain how… how tiring it is, having to be normal, for other people.”

“What if you didn’t have to be?”

She gives him a look. "Mulder."

"No, just bear with me for a minute. I know you won't be able to with everyone, but with me, at least. What if you could completely let go of that need to be normal?"

Another pause. Then, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear: "I'm afraid."

He's only heard her say that once before, sat at his bedside discussing belief and life after death, and her father who passed away only a few short days before.

"I think I'm afraid of what happens if I let go of the mask."

Something twinges in his chest at the idea that Scully – Scully, who can stand in front of a team of seasoned agents and give orders with the best of them, who will stare death in the face without blinking, who is the kindest, most compassionate, most amazing person he’s ever known, is scared of the judgement of other people.

The words come to the front of his mind again, and this time he feels them almost slip from his lips: There is nothing wrong with you. Everything you think is weird, or wrong, or unacceptable, makes you perfect. You’re incredible, Scully.

But he can’t say that. Can’t allow himself to say it, not like this, because he’s a little bit scared of what it signifies. So instead, he says something that he hopes is close enough to what he means, what he wishes he could say.

"Scully, I am the last person on earth who would judge you." It comes out softer than he'd intended it to.

Slowly, they edge forward with the traffic, the rain starting to slow. He doesn’t take his eyes of the car ahead, but he can feel her thinking all the same. This time he finds himself filling the silence.

“I want you to know that if the office is ever too loud, or we’ve just come out of a busy meeting, and you need time to yourself or you need to stim, you can do. I know it might be hard if you’re used to hiding it, but I don’t want you to feel like you can’t.”

“I wouldn’t want to distract you.”

He glances across at her. “Scully, I do it around you all the time. It doesn’t bother me.”

They stop again. There’s a moment of silence, and when he turns to face her, Scully’s looking at him, forehead creasing in confusion. Mulder suddenly realises that he’s always just assumed Scully knew.

“I stim.” He answers her unasked question. “When I tap pencils, or chew seeds? It’s different to you, I do it to concentrate, but it’s the same thing.”

“But you’re not…”

“Autistic? No, I’m not.” Now he has to explain, he’s not actually sure how to. He’s never said the words out loud before. “In 1983, ten years after Samantha went missing, there was a police inquiry into her disappearance. I had to have a psychiatrist assess me, to check how reliable my testimony was, and if there was a chance I had a psychotic disorder that would explain what I saw.

“When he finished the assessment, he asked why no one had ever assessed me for attention deficit disorder before.”

Scully smiles at that, her lips twisting into a half-grin.

“I know,” Mulder jokes. “You’d think I would have worked that out sooner, given the 21 years I’d spent with my brain and the three-year psychology degree.”

The traffic starts to move again – the roads are clearing now as rush hour comes to an end and they move further towards the centre of the city. They both fall quiet once more, Mulder’s attention on the roads ahead and Scully back to gazing out of the window. It’s a peaceful silence, though, one that Mulder hopes is a good sign rather than an indicator that Scully’s lost in her own thoughts again. Neither talk until he pulls up outside of her apartment building, which is when Scully turns to look at him, one hand on the door handle.

“Mulder?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

He hears the gratitude in her voice, deeper than he’d expected. He can’t quite acknowledge it; he wants to tell her she has nothing to thank him for - that all he’s done, really, is the bare minimum, and probably far too late, at that.

He doesn’t say any of that – just nods a little, in understanding, and offers her a small smile.

“Any time.”

She opens the door, saying over her shoulder almost as a second thought, “I’ll see you later?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Scully glances back at him properly, and he gives her a full-blown grin. “I’ve got a case about hydrokinesis that’s got your name on it.”

She rolls her eyes at him as she gets out of the car, and he laughs.

#I LAUV THIS #so well written

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