Title: Routine (1/1) Author: Samantha L. Caldwell Rating: PG Category: SRA Keywords: Mulder/Scully Romance. AU. The rest is open for interpretation. Spoilers: Well, if you haven't seen Existence you won't know who William is... other than that, none. This is set somewhere between Existence and the present day (mid Season 9) Summary: Everything he's ever wanted is sleeping under this roof. But he can't seem to connect with them... and it's ruining Scully's life. Disclaimer: Their biological father was abusive, so I'm adopting them. Feedback: will be worshiped. This is my first fic- I'm really nervous so a little encouragement would be *so* very appreciated! sister_spooky@hotmail.com Archive: Sure, wherever, just please keep my name and e-mail, and it'd be nice if you'd let me know. See end for author's notes. Routine By Samantha Caldwell Some of my memories have grown foggy. They have been reduced to wisps of time, furrowed and free-floating through my mind. I cannot call upon them for comfort and they do not haunt me. They are merely threads of past consciousness, barely remembered and barely missed. There are other memories which have become so clear and detailed that I can almost, almost step back into them with gentle advocation. The smell of her hair, the sound of her laugh, a flash of her eyes and I'm deep in a memory that is so concrete I can feel the leather of my couch under my thighs and against my back and taste the salty popcorn in my mouth. My memories of Dana Scully are so vivid they are almost real. I cherish these memories, of course. But I don't need most of them. To smell her hair I can step into the kitchen while she's making dinner and lean in close to her. To see the flash of intelligence and compassion in her eyes I can gaze at her from the bedroom door while she's singing our son to sleep. To hear her laugh.... to hear her laugh I would give my soul. But she doesn't laugh much anymore. I can remember the moment that I fell in love with Scully. I don't think I had ever known before, ever acknowledged that it was exactly then, but with the heightened clarity of these memories I have been able to pinpoint the exact instant when I gave my heart away. We'd been doing paperwork for Skinner one Friday afternoon, sometime within the first year of our partnership at the FBI. We were sharing my desk- Scully on one side and I on the other, both bent over our laptops and typing furiously as we attempted to meet the five o'clock deadline. It was really cold in the basement and I could tell her lips were starting to turn blue and was just about to suggest that we take a break when she had started laughing suddenly. I stopped typing and looked up from my report, curious as to what had my stoic and serious partner in stitches. "Someone's been into the margarita's..." I'd teased, peering at her from over my glasses. "Mulder," she gasped through her giggles, "Did you even read this?!" "What? What are you talking about, Scully?" I leaned over the desk to peer at the paper as she turned it towards me. "What's that?" "It's the expense report from the Collins-Smith case." She handed me the report, one perfectly manicured nail tapping at a specific column. "Read the list of expenses." The Collins-Smith case had been long and grueling. We'd gone to Alabama to investigate a series of murders that were being predicted by a little boy who was said to be psychic. There had been a few complications with local co-operation, and we'd ended up having to go undercover at a farm for half of the week. I scanned the report, reading down the list of expenses we were expecting the Bureau to cover: 1 pair of secondhand men's overalls - $10 to Soupie's Super Store 1 pair of secondhand women's overalls - $8 to Soupie's Super Store 4 secondhand flannel shirts - 4 x $4 to Soupie's Super Store 2 straw hats - 2 x $5 to Soupie's Super Store 2 pair of rubber boots - 2 x $20 to Walmart 1 pitchfork - $17 to Walmart 1 high-frequency sound recorder - $79 to Radio Shack repairs to barn roof - $700 to Mr. Dalton Guiness 1 1987 Ford Taurus - $1400 to Meyberry, Alabama Rental Services 1 John Deere 4-wheel tractor - $8700 to Mr. Joseph Hunter 1 Jersey cow - $4000 to Mr. Dalton Guiness Realizing the absurdity of the expense requests and remembering the old milk cow we'd accidentally mistaken for our suspect and shot and killed, I couldn't suppress my own chuckles. "Bessie..." I tried to explain through my laughter, but she understood. Scully nodded, laughing again, "Poor old thing..." "Skinner's gonna have a... a *cow* when he sees this!" She nodded again, laughing harder. "I know, I know!" It was then. Right then, when she lifted her head and looked right into my eyes. We were both laughing, bordering on hysteria in our tiny, freezing little office, shivering and giggling, and she was looking at me with such affection and amusement .... and her hair was falling into her flushed face and her eyes were clear and blue and she was so, so beautiful... It was then. I fell in love with her right then. This is my favourite of all my memories, the one I think about more than all the others. Scully doesn't laugh much anymore. Oh, she smiles now and then. When our son giggles at her, or when her mother's over for lunch, she stretches her face muscles and her lips pull into a grin. Her eyes bear love and appreciation in these moments... but they never twinkle with the lively shine of happiness I long to see there. So she doesn't laugh. Not ever. She is unhappy. I know this, and yet, I don't know how to make her happy. I don't know what to do. No... that's not entirely true. I do know what to do. I know that if I touched her- if I could kiss her and hold her and tell her I love her, if I could just *be* there for her... maybe she wouldn't be so sad. But I can't do that. Things have changed. Walls have formed between us. I know that it is because of me that she is unhappy. I know she used to want us to have a real relationship- the kind where we take turns getting up with our son during the night, kiss each other goodmorning, celebrate a wedding anniversary every year with a glass of champagne. She's given up hope, now. We don't have a real relationship. I don't hug her, I don't touch her. I don't touch William either. I don't get up with her during the night, I don't kiss her goodmorning, and we certainly don't have a wedding anniversary to celebrate. She wanted to have a life with the man she worked with for seven years. She wanted to raise a child with the man she knew better than anyone else in the world. I am not that man anymore. We have fallen into a routine of sorts. She puts William to bed and I stand in the doorway watching her. She rocks him in the big wooden rocking chair her mother bought her, and sings softly to him until he falls asleep. I long to go to them and take them both into my arms, to love them so thoroughly and solidly that neither will ever be unhappy. But... I can't. Then she gets up and brushes quickly past me into the bathroom. She takes off her clothes and steps into the shower. She leaves the bathroom door open and I watch her. Here is another vivid memory I have- showering with her, washing her back gently, wet, warm skin against mine, cold tiles against my back, her sweet- smelling and saturated hair pressed against my chest and under my chin. She is beautiful, still. I long to step into the shower with her again, to touch her and reclaim her as my own, to smooth the washcloth over her soft shoulders and cleanse us both of the heartache we bear. But... I can't. I can't. After she has bathed, she walks to the bedroom and dresses in the soft flannel pajamas she loves. Then she climbs into bed. I follow, slipping in beside her soundlessly. Scully settles back against the pillows, pulls the comforter up tight around her chin, and begins what I've come to call her nightly admission. It is always the same. She stares into the ceiling, not looking at me, not looking at anything. Balling the sheets up in her fists, she starts to speak. "Mulder," she says my name. Then, "I love you." Her voice is soft, always. I know she is thinking of William, of the past, of the X- files, of what her life has become. Sometimes after she tells me this, she starts to weep softly. When this happens, I long to reach out and gently wipe the tears from her cheeks with my fingers. I long to kiss her. I long to tell her that I do love her, too. But I can't. I can't. She is unhappy. I know this, and yet, I can't make her happy. I don't know what to do. So every night I carry out my own routine. I lie beside her silently while she says her nightly admission, and when she falls asleep I lean over, taking in her wonderful and familiar smell, and I gently brush my lips over her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, her lips. I kiss her like this, and whisper my assurances of love into her ear and I hope that it is enough. It's all I can give her, now. Tonight is the same. She is performing her routine. William is sleeping, she has bathed, the pajamas are on. She's lying in bed and I've slipped in beside her, waiting for her admission. No. Tonight is different. She begins to cry right away. Fat, heavy tears of frustration and sorrow, deep wrenching sobs she tries to swallow so that she won't wake up our son. Tonight is very different. Her admission is different, too, spoken in gasps through her tears. "Mulder," she sobs. "I miss you." I sit up. She continues. "I miss really talking with you. I miss laughing with you. I miss making love to you." She takes a deep, shaking breath and I listen intently. "I love you. I do love you. Every time I look at William, I love you. Every time I walk into the basement office, I love you. I've loved you since... since forever." I long to touch her, to wipe away her tears, to hold her in my arms. I long to reach out to her, and I do this time. I reach out to touch her, like I have so many times before, and like so many times before, my aching hands pass right through her soft, solid body. With a frustrated, agonized cry that she just doesn't hear, I retract my hands. "I'm sorry that I never told you before, but ... I was afraid. Its too late now. I'm such a coward," she balls her fists and punches the bed at her sides. She's as frustrated as I am. "I want you to be here with me when I tell you I love you. I want to hear you answer, Mulder. I want to... I want to fall asleep beside you. But..." Her crying has subsided somewhat, and her voice is whisper-soft. "I can't..." She sighs heavily, spent, and closes her eyes. I long to tell her that I know she loves me, that she does fall asleep beside me. I long to comfort her, to rock her like she rocks William. I want to marry her. I want to have a life with her. But I can't. So I follow my own routine. As she slips into sleep, I lean over, taking in her wonderful and familiar smell, and I gently brush my lips over her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, her lips. I kiss her like this, and whisper my assurances of love into her ear and I hope that it is enough. It's all I can give her, now. Finis ~*~*~*~ I'm thinking about maybe a prequel or a sequel... that is, if this one goes over well. What do you think? Drop me a line: sister_spooky@hotmail.com Author's Notes: This is my first attempt at posting X-files fanfic. I've been writing it for a few months, and I thought I'd see what actually posting something is like. Sorry I didn't stick a 'Character Death' warning in the keywords, but I kinda though that'd ruin the whole thing. It was a depressing ending, I know, but I might be persuaded into creating a happier sequel... =) Thanks for reading! -Samantha