febuwhump day 1: touchstarved
pre-revival | no warnings apply | general audiences
He misses her and he knows he shouldn't, which only makes him miss her more, because she's the one who would normally be telling him that missing people doesn't solve anything. He doesn't think she'll ever tell him that again.
He's only missed her like this once before, when she was gone for that awful month back in '94, and he'd vowed once she returned to never feel that way again, to always keep her by his side. Yeah, good job, Spooky.
Last time had been worse, in so many ways - back then, he used to wake from dreams of her lying lifeless at the summit of Skyland Mountain, or trapped in a bright, white place with no way of moving. He'd had no way of knowing if she was alive or dead, nothing of her to hold onto except a tiny golden cross that he'd always known, no matter how she returned, was only with him for a short while, for safekeeping.
It should be better now. He knows she's alive, the evidence being the texts that ping his phone every morning, asking how he is. He doesn't dream anymore - the medication takes care of that.
But this time, he knows what it feels like to touch her. Back then, he only knew what it felt like to brush his hand against the small of her back, what her hand felt like resting on his. He'd rationed her touch the way a starving man rationed food, never letting her see how much he needed more. Over the last ten years, though, he's let himself get greedy. He knows everything, now. The way her cold fingers thaw between his on winter walks, the curve of her jaw against his lips, the feeling of her body pressed against his as they lie in bed, bare to the world. Everywhere he looks, he feels her touch: the couch where she'd rest her feet in his lap after a long shift at the hospital, the porch where she once spent an afternoon cutting his hair, the stairs, the kitchen, his office, their bed.
His phone buzzes. You okay, Mulder?
I miss you, he's typed before.
He's never pressed send. It never feels like enough.