Disclaimer: Not mine—what else is new?

Author’s Note: I wrote this a while ago but for some reason didn’t upload it. No spoilers, not set at a definite point in the series; just a Scully-POV drabble. Read and enjoy!

Understood

The end of another investigation means lots of things. It means another report to write and file, more paperwork to fill out and bureaucratic red tape to maneuver through. It means more odd looks from people in the office, who hear about the things we do and can’t bring themselves to believe.

But for me, mostly, it means this: sitting here (because I don’t have the strength left to stand) with my partner (who’s standing only because I got to the seat first) and feeling spent. Drained, physically and emotionally. Fully accepting of the silence, while it lasts. Knowing that it won’t last much longer.

It’s been another hard case. They all are—I should stop being so surprised by them. After this long you’d think it’d be normal. Wake up, drink coffee and read the morning paper, go to work, investigate supernatural phenomena, go home, eat a nice dinner, go to bed. No routine is constant any more. If I am used to anything, I am used to change, and exhaustion that sometimes kicks in as soon as I wake up.

And Mulder. I think, by now, that I am used to him. His presence during each investigation, his wild theories that in practice become even wilder truths, his unconventional method that’s nevertheless kept him (and me) alive.

His presence and silence with me at the end of every case. I think that just might be what keeps me sane—has kept me sane all these years. As soon as we fly home, I’ll have to think about everything that’s happened here. I’ll have to sit in front of a computer screen and try to find the words to fit the impossible things that have happened to us. But here, we sit (or stand) in a silence that speaks more loudly of our thoughts than any words could.

There is something between us that lives in that silence. It is always there, beneath the surface, whenever we’re together. I know that it’s there. A part of me has known since that first day in the basement office. It is more visible now, when emotions are high and nerves are tense—but always it is there, in our casual touch that ignites sparks, in friendly banter, in the way we unconsciously complement each other. In my mind, we are always a “we.”

He knows, too. It used to scare me. I used to think that maybe this was all too much. But I have learned through these quiet moments we spend together that somehow, we’re on the same page. We’re not denying anything. But we have rules—unspoken, practically unconscious guidelines. The casual touches, the banter, the trust and support we share—all those are allowed.

Beyond that…?

I spare a moment to look at Mulder. My crazy, unconventional, dependable partner. He can make me smile at the oddest moments, like right now when he looks up and catches me looking at him. Our gazes lock, but such scrutiny is not uncomfortable. Instead it is the essence of comfort—the knowledge that I care for him and that he cares for me and that however that care is intended we will always and forever be a “we.”

I break the contact, at once startled by and appreciative of its intimacy. Whatever is between us—whatever inhabits the silence—so long as we both know it is there, and know what it means, and accept it—we can sit, together, and enjoy the quiet.

Liked it? Please review and let me know!