How did it get so late so soon? It's night before it's afternoon. December is here before it's June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?

~ Dr. Seuss

He fell in love with her hands first.

No, that's not right. Her mind came first. Her fierce, fast, frustrating mind. She lured him in with her intelligence, led him deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of her consciousness. Let him trail his fingertips over walls constructed of science, the path illuminated by the bright white light of logic until he slammed head first into an obstacle of faith. With every dead end, he simply turned around and tried another route, his belief in her just as unassailable as hers in her god.

All these years later and he's still never made it through. Never unfolded the mystery of her. But he's come to understand that he likes it better this way. The day she stops surprising him will be the day it ends and that - that's not a thought he's willing to entertain.

Not on his better days, anyway.

(The day she packs her things in a U-Haul and leaves, he learns how wrong he is. Even in the cold embrace of their ending, she can still surprise him.)

But even on those days when he's not altogether himself, when the edges of his vision go black and his head turns into an echo chamber, it's her hands that grip him, keep him from falling into the welcoming warmth of the darkness. Her slender fingers running through his hair or along the slumped lines of his shoulders. The perfectly rounded nails - always shining with a clear coat of polish that it took him years to catch her applying - scraping over the sensitive skin at the small of his back. The weight of her palm against the middle of his chest, holding his ribs closed at the hinges to keep his heart from escaping.

A cloud of her perfume, sweet and floral, floats in the cool air of their bedroom. It's not something he ever would have picked out himself because nothing about her has ever made him think of the heavy scent of jasmine but somehow it's perfect, the way it tickles his nose, lingering long after she's left. He watches as she walks through the fog, eyes screwed closed and in just her undergarments, the control top of her pantyhose rolled down under her navel. The perfume bottle clatters against the glass top of her vanity. She catches his eye when she turns to face the mirror, her left brow twitching up in the way he's always found endearing.

She frets about it sometimes now, about the creases in her forehead and the thin lines around her eyes. He reassures her, his tongue clumsy with the words because it leaves him astounded that she could think she's anything less than gorgeous. The years look good on her, he promises. What he never tells her is that he regrets the lack of wrinkles around her mouth.

She deserved a life that would have left her with smile lines.

"We're going to be late, Mulder." Her hips shimmy as she works her skirt up her thighs, a mini hula dance that makes him want to throw on his swim trunks and bask in the tropical heat. "Again."

"Time is a flat circle."

She grabs her button-down from the back of a chair and swings it around her shoulders, the tail fluttering like a crimson cape. "I'm cancelling our HBO subscription tomorrow."

"Liar." He stands up from the bed, loose ends of his tie brushing against the soft cotton of his undershirt. The ribbed band of her pantyhose feels both familiar and exotic when he slides his hands into the unfastened waist of her skirt. "If you did that, how would you get your Jon Snow fix?"

Her elbows bump into his stomach as she moves for the buttons on her shirt. She starts at the bottom and works her way up, the tiny pearled discs slipping into their homes with ease. "Please," Scully scoffs, her perfectly lined eyes rolling. "You didn't speak to me for three days after I accidentally deleted that episode of Girls from the DVR."

"Lena Dunham is the voice of a generation, Scully."

"Not our generation."

His hands slide out of her skirt just as she reaches the top. Starting at the bottom, he follows her along her path, undoing each button with the same efficient grace. Her shoulder blades press into his sternum as she leans back against him, the top of her head not even brushing his chin. The skin of her neck tastes like soap and perfume and she sighs when his lips flutter against it.

Her shirt falls across his socked toes. They work together to push the skirt back down over her hips; his hands bunching up the fabric while she shifts from side to side, her body pressing against his in a way that makes him want to walk into the closet and set fire to every piece of clothing they collectively own. Her fingers slip into the spaces between his and he moves back, guiding her out of the puddle of her clothes.

She lets him pull her down onto the unmade bed, the rough texture of her hose rasping against the cotton sheets. Lipstick sticks to his mouth when he kisses her and she curls into him, her body warm and soft and perfect.

"Mulder." She sighs into his mouth as her hand creeps under his t-shirt, the lightness of her touch bringing goosebumps up along his stomach. "We're going to be late."

"We'll get there eventually," he assures her, hand sliding over the toned muscles of her back to find the tiny metal clasp of her bra. She reaches for his free hand, tangling their fingers together as he presses her body down into the welcoming give of the mattress.

And they will. If history teaches him anything, it's that. The route may be long and winding, but they will always get where they need to be.

Together.

Thank you for reading. Your thoughts and comment are always appreciated.