Summary: One shot, Scully's POV on Mulder's absence.
Time line: After Requiem- Season Eight. Ish. Around.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own em…a sad, sad notion.
Agent Dana Scully stared into her bathroom mirror. She'd been trying to reason with herself for the past half hour, citing hormonal influences, work stresses, her overdue counselling session as the reason she was sitting here, again, crying silently into her hands, more saddened, more afraid than she'd ever believed was possible.
She sighed, giving it up as a bad job. The reason was far simpler, and more complex, than any of those, and had one name.
She just…wanted him. She wanted his arms around her, when she couldn't hold herself up. When throughout the day she held her head high and her spirits determinedly higher, until the sheer effort of holding together her soul bowed her.
Still, she bargained with her despair.
She bowed only on her bathroom floor, curled in on herself, sobbing silently on her cold tiled floor, for sounds would make her grief real.
She bowed only after her paperwork was filed or her mother, on one of her frequent visits, was safely home for the night, for her cluttered desk would serve as a reminder of his office one, and she couldn't stand to see the terrible concern in her mother's eyes
With no one to bear witness, she could make herself forget she'd ever fallen apart, for a while. She could pretend she wasn't hurting with each and every breath, could speak and breathe and talk freely…all the while still locked inside herself, fiercely imagining his voice, his touch and what it did for her.
She wanted his hand sliding across her shoulder after a hard day; she missed the lift of his brow and the sardonic turn of phrase that could lift her spirits, instantly. She missed not laughing as a general rule at his absurd jokes and pretending not to know when he was watching her. She even missed her embarrassment when he caught her watching him.
She wanted the way his hair caught the light and the ways he could infuriate her to the point of kissing or killing, she was never sure which until he invariably backed her up against whatever wall happened to be handy and decided for her.
She missed him letting her be strong, time after endless time, understanding her need for it, her drive to be better, best, to prove herself to herself. She missed him being strong. But more than that.
She missed the thousand strengths and weaknesses that made him up- she knew them all, by heart. She wanted to remember each moment they'd shared and only succeeded endlessly replaying pieces of their past, never enough to make her whole or satisfied with only memories. "What exactly are you implying, Agent Scully?"
She wanted him. Him. The million undefinable things that made him who he was to her. His stubbornness, his sheer gall and unorthodox conduct- the night to her day, and vice versa.
She wanted the nights when she'd hold him, through his despair, until the wildness in his breathing and in his eyes eased and he didn't look so hunted when he raised his head to look at her. Nights in turn when most pieces of her were made of pain and he was the warmth, the comfort to soothe and smooth the edges of that pain. To make her fit within herself once more.
Oh, and she missed those hands, gliding up and down her back as she struggled so hard to resist the touch, resist him. She missed what those hands did to her after she discovered she would no longer resist her attraction to him, wasn't even inclined to try.
She missed imagining what he was thinking as he looked at her across their office desk, and learning, later, if she was right. She wanted to trace her hands over parts of him and watch him smile and hear the sounds he made.
He balanced her. That was all. He turned her world upside down until it only made sense to both of them. They had their own language- a plethora of half-looks and sentences, touches and raised eyebrows that frustrated all outsiders and delighted them both.
Soul mates. Her soul mate. And she wanted him back.
Mulder. Her lips framed the word as she stared into her bathroom mirror, seeking the truth in the reflected glass. She could see him, in some part of her that belonged only to him. He was still alive, she knew it. Had to know it, didn't she? Because he was so much a part of her, she couldn't function without him.
Determinedly she turned her back on the mirror, wiping her eyes almost absently as she raised her chin, again. She would function. She would function. Because on the day she couldn't, all hope was lost.
Author's Note: Have never written X-Files fan fiction before, and after falling in love with the show and reading the wonderful fic on here, decided to give it a go. Comments very much appreciated, thank you for reading XD