A/N: This was my first foray into X-Files fic, and it's not really a whole lot of anything, I just decided I needed something slightly less crappy and slightly less Bones-fandom-y on here. To show I have range, or something.
Some mornings, she'd storm into their office with that look on her face. That look where her eyes were hard, glassy, saw straight through you, and her jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it could shatter at any moment. The look that told you if you even tried her, she'd kick your ass into next Friday.
He'd follow her upstairs and watch her make coffee, always too busy before she left home to do it then, but as soon as she was at work, that she was safe, she'd be straight to the coffee machine, her arms folded across her chest as she waited.
He remembered the first time it'd happened, he'd been on the receiving end of a death glare and followed her up, wanting to apologize, but instead finding himself fascinated by the almost ritualistic way she would make her coffee.
She'd noticed him staring, and though her tone was blunt, there was no sarcasm there when she told him that sometimes, she liked it black. She said it in a way that suggested this piece of information was like a secret she'd just given away.
To him, it almost was, and he filed it away for later reference, noticing every time after that, when she was in one of her moods, the first thing she'd do in the morning was to punch the elevator button and head straight for one black, one sugar, courtesy of the FBI's coffee machine.
Black and white, straight to the point. Just like Scully.
She didn't watch television. He often teased her for it, letting references fly straight over her head as she raised an eyebrow and almost smiled at him, Antarctica eyes melting just a little.
She told him that she didn't need it, she had better things to do with her time.
That's what she'd said about the baseball.
So he'd always have the TV on when she was over, just to irk her and deter her from engaging him in intelligent conversation. He liked the time they spent together in his apartment, it was relaxed, a discussion that could only lead to argument could ruin the peaceful feeling that settled over them when they sat on his couch or were childish and lay on their backs in the middle of his living room.
He liked it when she was like that. Uninhibited and saying things that she didn't normally say, simply because the ridiculousness of being on the floor made her do it.
More pieces of his Scully puzzle to wonder over, wander over, when she'd gone away.
He would add her intimidating presence to her piercing eyes and come up with something almost too indestructible, and though she'd like to think she was, she wasn't that way. He'd add her vulnerability, and think of how he felt he could see her soul through her tears, but she still wasn't human like that. It was the tiny things, the insignificant ones that would be looked over, how she held a wine glass, how she'd smile awkwardly whenever he said something inappropriate in the company of someone else. But he didn't know all these things about her. He didn't understand why she thought the way she did about simple things that it seemed no one but he cared to know about.
She saw the world differently than he did, and he'd figure her out eventually.
Black and white.