Spoken word has never been our forte.  We're most comfortable with a shared glance, a small, quiet gesture.  Things whose meanings can--and do--exist on so many levels. 

Maybe that's why we've never said it.  We both know we do and both know the other does as well, so why say it?  Why take the risk that one doesn't as much as the other?

But every once in a while there comes a time when the silent looks and gentle touches can go no further.  In those instances, we are forced to rely on words.  Various hallways in various years appropriately spring to mind. 

It should come as no surprise that when we do resort to the art of speaking, somehow we can't convey the true meaning, the fathomless depth of feeling, that exists just below the surface.  That the simple combination of larynx, tongue and teeth somehow seem to muddy the waters even further.

It is in those instances that we must return to our quiet comfort zone to reinforce what we are trying so desperately not to misconstrue. 

Yet now, as he stands yards away from me, in emotional distance if not physical, I realize that spoken word is all I have to rely on.  I cannot touch him without him pulling away.  And he will not look at me--hasn't looked at me for hours now.  I know <what> to say.  The problem is in the how. 

There are so many ways.  Poetic stanzas that lavishly describe the emotion in Technicolor detail.  Hard, fast, grunts laced with expletives yelled in the throes of passion.  Or even drunken murmurings followed by a request for another beer. 

It should be simple.  Three little words.  They're said all the time, but that phrase has never fallen from my lips with the ease that so readily comes to others.  Blame it on my natural reticence or even on my need to maintain control at all costs. 

But, please, don't blame it on him.

It has been years since I began to fully realize what I felt--feel--for him.  However, it took years for our uneasy trust to evolve into friendship and from there to mutual affection and from there to...here.  I have never felt this way about another man.  Certainly, there are men in my past, but no one has ever affected me so deeply and on so many levels. 

And no one else scares me as much as he does.

I worry that I am not strong enough to meet to him feeling for feeling.  That he will somehow swallow me whole and come back for more, his bottomless need continuing to seek justification and unmitigated acceptance in another. 

And other times, I am convinced that we are symbiotic.  An equal give and take that benefits each of us, allowing a seamless merging of our two selves into one. 

The trouble is, I can't figure out which time this is. 

Taking in a soft breath, I look over to his solitary figure as it leans against the car and shake my head.  One misspoken phrase and I've cut him to the core.  Never mind that his reaction was hardly the one I was expecting; the words should never have been spoken.  And now I fear that even a simple phrase will not undo the damage I have caused.  No matter what words it contains.

'Buck up, Starbuck!' I hear my father whisper in my ear.  'You'll never know until you try.'

But what if I don't want to know, Dad?  What if I'd rather go on as we have without risking our partnership?  Unfortunately, I've never been a coward.  Scared, yes, but a coward, never.

It is that knowledge that stirs me from my resting place against the Coke machine.  Tugging the soda can out of the dispensary, I square my shoulders and walk back toward the car. 

Just as I suspected, he doesn't so much as glance my way before climbing into the driver's seat.  I open my door and settle into the relative comfort of the Chrysler.  Without a word, he starts the engine and puts the car in gear. 

Resolving my courage, I murmur, "Mulder, wait."  My words are so soft it's a wonder he can even hear me above the engine.  His jaw sets in a grim line as his hands still on the wheel.  He is waiting.  How long he'll wait, I'm not sure.

"I'm sorry." 

He continues to stare straight ahead at the interstate traffic.  From all outward appearances, he is ignoring me.  But I haven't been his partner for seven years without picking up on a few Mulder habits.  His silence, while deafening, encourages me to continue, to explain.

"I should never have said that.  But in my defense, what I said was not what I meant to say."  I fumble, desperately searching for the words to bring him back to me, to restore us to what we were.  "There are many truths that we have spoken over the years and undoubtedly we will speak more in the future, but that was not one of them."

His death grip on the steering wheel loosens and I watch as his knuckles return to their normal golden color, the stark white of bone having faded into the recesses.  It's a start if nothing else. 

"Your parentage has nothing to do with the man you've become.  It doesn't matter who your father is, Bill Mulder, CGB Spender or some drifter on the highway..." the latter elicits a small quirk of his eyebrow and I can tell his hurt is easing.  "Or even who your mother is," I continue stifling the urge to spit on Teena Mulder's invisible grave.   "I can well imagine the home you grew up in after Samantha disappeared.  Our childhoods were night and day different, but they're over.  As adults we can no longer blame our parents for our actions.  We are responsible for who we are."

"So what are you saying?" his voice whispers through the air; its sound sweet music after the hours of silence.  "You think I like being such a screw-up?"

"No, Mulder." I shake my head.  "I don't think you <are> a screw-up."  I pause and reach over to him hoping that he will accept my touch, my attempt to reach him.  "I think you're a brilliant man who is misunderstood."  He doesn't shirk my hand and I find myself smiling softly.  "But I also think you rely on that so you can continue to be the enigma of the Hoover Building.  I think as much as you hate the 'Spooky' moniker, you also revel in its distinction."

Mulder's lips quirk, but he still doesn't look at me.  After a moment of silent contemplation, he breathes, "And that's a 'Truth?'"

"Well, part of it," I qualify as I squeeze his forearm.  "You are a good man, and no matter what everyone else might think of you professionally, they know this to be true.  You've proven it time and again."

The silence stretches between us and I feel the tender strands of our bond strengthening.  When I realize that we have once again avoided a possibly devastating situation, he turns to me, one hand leaving the steering wheel and coming to rest on my cheek.  His voice is gravelly and I feel a shiver course through me, stirring my senses like so many times before.  Maybe this time we'll do it.  Maybe this deserted rest stop in the middle of nowhere is the place we will finally admit the truth.

"You're forgetting something, Scully.  The biggest truth of all." 

My eyes latch onto his and he silently urges, 'Say it.  It's time.'

And suddenly, my breath is gone, stolen away by the intensity in his gaze, the green-gold hue of his chameleon eyes.  I find my voice a few minutes later and swallowing quickly, I nod.  "Yes, you're right, Mulder.  The big truth <is> still left."

Yanking my eyes from his, I slide my thumb against the slick dew of condensation that drips over my hand.  I had forgotten all about the can.  I feel a soft smile flit over my lips as I think, 'Maybe we don't need words after all.'  Raising the can, I offer it to him, every atom in my body begging him to remember.

He glances down and smiles.  The blue and white label of the Nestea clicking with quiet conversation outside of Tooms' apartment so many years ago.

"Could be, Scully?" he asks with a wry tilt of his head.

Biting my lip, I shake my head.  He takes the can from my trembling hand and I feel sparks simmer as our fingers brush slightly.  "No, Mulder," I whisper, surety of thought and deed coursing through my blood alongside the ever-present lust.  "It <is> love."
 

END