Work Text:
Mulder sweeps the pillow clean, still expecting to find a stray strand of copper, a sign that her hair had once been splayed there in sleep and in satisfaction. He knows that he won’t. It has been almost a year, he has washed the sheets, begrudgingly each time; but still he looks for a tint of colour with the same obsessiveness he has looked for the truth.
He has been writing her letters in his head, ever since he found out she had started seeing other people. He had been stunned with the news, and the image of her wearing stilettos and lipstick for someone else would keep him up at night. He could picture her taking a sip from her drink, running her tongue over her lower lip, tossing her head back with that sultry, deep laugh of hers, her neck and collarbones catching the light like ivory. He feels possessive about these images. These images are his memories and all that's left of her.
He always stops after “Dear Scully.” He doesn’t know how to say these things. He wants to tell her that he hopes her life is going well. That he wishes for her to get home to music and life and laughter. He hopes these new men make her laugh and take her out in style and treat her how she deserves; and that when they’re strong, they’re strong for her, and that when they kiss, for it to be something new. But most of all, he hopes that, like he, she cries a little in the dark sometimes. He hopes that she calls out his name, just by mistake.
He calls out hers more times than he cares to admit.