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They’ve never been big on salutations.
Hello!, How are you?, Good morning!—all were abandoned in the early stages of their partnership, replaced instead by a language translatable only by the two of them—the arch of an eyebrow, the nod of a head, or simply a glance and soft hum of recognition that the other is now near.
And in the evenings, in a darkened parking garage, a weary smile and the sudden absence of his fingertips against her hip are enough to send them on their way.
To them, Hello and Goodbye are more than simply words. They have weight, they have meaning. They signify arrivals and departures, openings and closings, beginnings and endings. And those things are powerful. Those things they’ve experienced too many times to count. To invite them in seems unnecessary, foolish even.
It’s much easier to just always maintain some amount of togetherness, to never be fully apart, no need for greetings or farewells or any of the other emotions that accompany them.
The two of them are like blood spiraling through a body—platelets, plasma—winding through a labyrinth of veins and arteries. Though they may not always take the same path, some small piece is always with the other, maintaining a connection, even while travelling to the furthest of extremities. Toes. Fingers. Oregon. Antarctica.
But always, they return, reuniting as they flow back through the heart, renewed once again to face the journey ahead.
Once they’ve rejoined, salutations hardly seem necessary, for they were never apart, not really.
Sometimes their connection is stronger than others. They live on a continuum, at times spread as far apart as the fingertips of opposite hands, and at others, flowing side by side in parallel capillaries, barely a hair’s width between them.
Where they fall on that continuum at any given time ebbs and it flows- depending on the tides, depending on the season, and depending on the ache that settles deep in their bones on the very loneliest of nights.
Seven years in, that ache is stronger than ever. It burns inside them, urging them, prodding them, begging them. He feels it, and she feels it. They feel it so desperately that something needs to give. Soon.
It’s scary though, terrifying. They’re well-versed in navigating the unknown, but for some reason, this unknown is the scariest of them all, scarier than all the monsters and corruption they’ve faced. Scarier than aliens or flukemen. Scarier even than cancer.
And neither of them can bring themselves to face that fear. Saying hello to a new version of their relationship means saying goodbye to what’s existed between them for years. And that’s more terrifying than all the rest combined.
….
She sits on her couch on a Tuesday evening, the ache persistent tonight. She’s not sure why. Is it because her shoulder still tingles from the touch of his palm this afternoon? Or because her ears still ring from the velvet sound of his voice this morning? Regardless, it’s there, heavy in the air, as tangible as the book lying across her lap.
She attempts to distract herself, to fill herself with anything but the thought of him. Music, food, wine, television—none of it works. They have no substance, sliding through the sieve of her body, drawing even more attention to the only thing that remains—the yearning.
She feels empty, hollow. The ache within her expands outside her body, seeping into the room, filling the corners and the nooks and crannies of her apartment. She can’t ignore it any more. It finally demands attention.
….
He sits at home as well. And though miles spread between them, he feels the yearning just as acutely as she. There’s a quiet effervescence below the surface of his skin making him fidget, making him pace.
The sensation isn’t new, but its ferocity is—this ache has teeth that sink into his flesh, make him bleed. He can’t escape it, no matter how many crumpled papers are shot into the wastebasket, no matter how many sunflower seeds are cracked.
….
It could easily be an evening like the dozens that have preceded it, two lonely souls craving the other’s touch, yet eventually lying down alone. It isn’t though, for this is the evening of their breaking point. The ache has finally become too overwhelming to ignore.
Seven years in and it’s come time to say goodbye.
Seven years in and they’re finally ready for hello.
….
As a last-ditch effort, she attempts to read but the words shimmer and they swim on the page. Setting the book aside, she drops her forehead into her hands, eyes sliding shut in resignation.
Before she realizes it, the phone’s in her hand and she’s dialed his number.
She doesn’t know why—she has nothing to say.
She has everything to say.
She wants to tell him she needs him, that flowing through veins and arteries only to reunite for moments in the heart isn’t enough anymore. That never saying hello or goodbye isn’t working.
She wants to tell him she’s ready for the chaos, the mess, the uncertainty, that he is the thing that will help rein her in.
She wants to say all of this, but when he answers, her throat tightens and she says nothing; all she can do is breathe.
She inhales.
She exhales.
Breaths holding the weight of the world travel through the line until they puff against his ear.
And he knows.
He knows.
“Scully,” his voice is a whisper, intimate and precious against her cheek, “I’ll be right there…”
As the line goes dead, all she can do is close her eyes, her entire existence about to change.
….
When he arrives, she’s still there, unmoving.
He uses his key to open the door, filling it in a way that’s almost too sensual for her to bear. His breaths come quick and sharp, and he looks at her with an intensity that makes her shudder.
His eyes are dark, and the way they grab hold of hers takes her breath away. She gasps, heart fluttering in her chest. She clenches the fabric of the couch into her fists.
They’ve not said a word, but there’s no need. Everything’s already being spoken, in the weight of his gaze and the wavering of her breath.
He moves toward her, slowly, and the tension of it all comes close to breaking her. This slow dance has lasted seven years too long as it is.
The moment stretches like a rubber band, and she’s both aroused and afraid of what will happen when it snaps.
She rises, trembling, as he approaches. The pounding of her heart echoes in her ears. Goodbye goodbye goodbye that same heart thunders beneath her breast.
“Mulder…,” she whispers, but before her voice even hits the air, it’s sucked into his throat as his mouth descends upon hers.
He crushes her to him, and suddenly, there’s no apart at all. There’s only together together together, blood mixing and swirling and mating.
She grasps his neck to steady herself, and with hands sliding through hair, they gorge themselves, sucking out the ache and filling it with one other instead. Their bodies press so tightly together it hurts, but the hurt is so good, they press even further. They consume and they devour, and it’s more than divine, more than fulfilling.
He carries her to the bedroom, her arms and legs clung around his torso, the wings of her shoulder blades cupped in his palms. And with tongues and lips and fingers, they unearth each other’s bodies—a smooth belly, a furred chest, a hardened nipple. Each new discovery is more unravelling than the last, and the crescendo builds until she’s gripping the hard globes of his ass and he’s pounding himself inside her.
It’s an ending, it’s a beginning, and it’s everything, absolutely everything, in between.
Their gasping breaths calm, their slickened bodies cool, and they cocoon themselves in one another’s arms.
Looking him in the eye, she smiles. And then, easy as anything, she cups his jaw and she whispers, “Hello.”