Fulcrum
by h0ldthiscat

Feedback: http://h0ldthiscat.tumblr.com/
Rating: PG-13
Category: Post-IWTB/Revival

Summary:  There are things he doesn't know about her
anymore. Like what color her loofa is or when she started
eating veggie chips, judging from the sad bag in her shopping
basket.

***

He sees her at CVS and freezes, studying her a moment as she
peruses the shampoo aisle. They'd both agreed to take some
time apart; she'd moved out, taken her remarkably small
amount of personal effects with her to a rental back in the city,
and said she'd call him when she was ready. That was seven
months ago. 

The red shopping basket dangles off her right wrist as she
reaches up on tiptoe to pull down a bottle of Tresemme on the
top shelf, too proud to ask for help. If her long, tan coat wasn't
covering her from shoulder to kneecap, he knows he'd see her
tattoo peeking out from the top of her smart gray slacks. Is he
the only person alive who knows that it's there? God, how he
hopes he is. 

He is about to approach her, to break their agreement, to offer
his help, when a guy comes up from the other side and pulls the
bottle down for her, giving her a warm smile and muttering a
quiet sentence Mulder can't make out from where he stands.
She smiles, not with her teeth, but a real smile nonetheless, one
that crinkles the corners of her eyes. "Thank you," she says,
and the guy nods and continues past her, twirling the black
bottle of his own shampoo in his hand. Mulder can't help but
snort derisively as the man brushes past him. The guy's young,
maybe thirty, handsome with dark hair and eyes and skin and a
neatly-trimmed beard. *"Most women are into that now,
apparently," he'd joked before they'd split; "Mulder you
should know by now that I'm not most women."*

He knows. God, how he knows. Or knew, he supposes. There
are things he doesn't know about her anymore. Like what color
her loofa is or when she started eating veggie chips, judging
from the sad bag in her shopping basket. 

Mulder is struck with the sudden urge to go home. He hastily
returns to his search for the needlenose pliers he came for and
heads to the checkout. He is proud of himself as he exits the
store and the air of a cool October afternoon hits his face.
She'll talk when she's ready, and he will wait. He's waited
much longer before. They both have.

"Mulder?" Her voice is behind him in the parking lot, hopeful
and reticent in the same breath.

He turns, and she stands there in her camel-colored coat with
the red shopping basket still in her hand, cheeks and nose
slightly pink from the chill, and he knows that he will never
stop loving her. 

"You cut your hair," he observes, liking the way it bobs across
her shoulders like in the old days. He hadn't noticed in the
store.

"Classic break-up move," she self-deprecates. "I know."

"Is that what we did?" he asks. "Broke up?"

"We did," she sighs, with a nod that says she's both happy and
miserable at this fact. It does not seem like an evasion, rather a
stream-of-consciousness question when she asks, "What are
you doing in the city?"

"Had a meeting. Needed some pliers." He holds up the white
plastic bag and it rattles lifelessly in the wind. 

She purses her lips at the sudden burst of cold, then wets them
once. He tries not to stare at her tongue as it darts out between
her lips. "They don't have pliers out in the boonies, huh?" she
asks good-naturedly.

"Nary a one," he says with a dramatic sigh. 

She smiles, like she'd smiled at the man in the CVS, but he
feels like this one is different. Like it's just for him. "Well if
you ever need some, I do have a pair. I have two, actually. I
could let you keep them."

"But then I wouldn't get to see you when I have to return
them," he points out, something in the brisk air making him
bold like it had that night of the new millennium. 

She shoots him one of her affectionate admonishing looks.
"Well how about this," she posits, glancing disinterestedly in
the direction of her car, "you come over to get them right now
and we worry about returning them later."

Something like hope swells in his chest, making it suddenly
very hard to breathe. He does manage to say, however, "Yes,
please."

She offers him her hand, opening and closing her fingers
against her palm twice, and leads him to her slate-colored
sedan. It is only hours later, when she slides out from between
the sheets and between his legs to take a shower, that he
realizes his car has most likely been towed. He doesn't give a
fuck.