Her face is turned from his as she hangs her coat. He watches. Later when she goes for coffee he'll do the same. Otherwise he plays it cool and keeps his eyes on the file in front of him as they go about the business of their day. That they again have shared days is something to which he is still becoming accustomed. There is no getting around the fact that a remnant of fear is still there each morning until she comes through the door. His day doesn't start effectively until this has occurred.

During her stay in the hospital they'd been warmer with each other than they had ever been since becoming partners. Twice he'd held her hand and once after she'd gone to sleep he'd kissed her forehead. He was always her last visitor and it was a little bubble of a world they inhabited together for a brief while. Watching her go to sleep wasn't just a ritual that calmed him in a way that no drug ever could; it also helped to restore the strength that had eroded during his three-month tour of hell.

Now she is on the computer, and when he hears the familiar rhythm he bends to get something from the lower drawer of the desk so that she won't see him grinning should she happen to glance his way. It is her insistent use of the backspace key that causes this. Scully loves her backspace key, and hearing her battering it again is like music. He remembered a day last year when he'd inadvertently started tapping his pencil in time to her editing strokes. He'd been doing it for a good minute before either noticed, and then she'd given him the slightly raised eyebrow. The percussion section was silenced.

It's a nice day. Cool, but not yet too crisp to be outside and he wonders if he should suggest lunch by the reflecting pool. For no particular reason this spot near the Washington Monument seems to have become the place they most often ended up when they needed to get out of the office during a long day, and then also to meet after the X-Files had been closed down. He chases the latter memory away. Today he doesn't want to go there. Yes, lunch outdoors where the sun will do them both good seems an excellent idea. Among other things, he will be able to look at her hair shining in the natural light. Her hair has become quite long and he's sure she'll cut it soon, but in the meantime he is enjoying how it touches her shoulders, and even curls a little. He suspects that she works to keep that at bay.

It is quiet now. She is reading. She's a terrific editor, and almost never prints her reports until the next to the last draft. He, on the other hand, prefers his hard copy all the way for editing. They are different in so many ways, but he never has felt more at home anywhere than he does right here, with her there. It isn't just that she's returned, but that she remains.

Now she gets up. Coffee. He declines when she asks if he wants any. Then she turns to go, and he starts to tap his pencil against the blotter as he watches her. She opens the door but then comes back to stand before him. In an instant she rests her hand on his, stilling his symphony. He looks at her and for a moment it is like it had been between them in the hospital. Just a moment. Nothing has changed except for everything.

Then she goes.

~ End ~

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This story is (c) Copyright 2006 by Christine Leigh. "The X-Files" and its characters are the property of the Fox Network and Ten-Thirteen Productions and are borrowed here without profit or intent for profit.