#vnerate

hazel eyes trail from the couple back to his partner's face where she still stared softly out of the window. steam from their food was fading fast and it rose past her to seek an escape in the ceiling. but none would be found. mulder's head tilts minutely and long strands of bangs sweep against the top of his forehead. the simple act of the couple sitting on the porch together and existing separately, but connected through their light grasp wasn't something that he thought would strike her so intensely. and it tugged at something within him. something that hadn't been discussed yet. she'd probably never guess that he felt so similarly.

“Did you ever think about me?”      ➜      sent,      @vnerate​.

To him it feels like such a silly thing to ask.  How foolish!  Of course,  of course,  of course!  How could he not?  His parents had told him young,  always being honest with him right from the very start.  It didn’t make him view them any less;  he loved them more than anything,  that wouldn’t change.  But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a part of him that always felt missing.  A constant yearn ache for something so faded in his mind,  constantly missing a piece inside.  He can recall so faint,  a space mobile on display,  a blurry redheaded woman.  At first he thought he’d conjured it up;  stolen from the visions and dreams of the blurry redhead woman;  the golden cross necklace so prominently displayed.  Now it all made sense with Dana right before him making the blurred images come to high definition as he makes out each of her features that looked so familiar, the curve of her jaw and slope of her nose vastly similar to his own.

she’d begun growing it longer when they were on the move.   no particular reason---   she could’ve had a haircut at any time.   he liked it.   he loved it,   really,   the messy buns she wore at work and the way it would fall,   gently wavy by the time her work day was over and she fought the band away from a lazy folds.   but she’d always tell him he was biased.   he could remind her day and night how he’d adored every inch of her,   however,   and she’d insist he was being polite   (   but she’d have a smile that met her eyes and he knew it would stick ).   she’d shake her hair out in their bedroom after peeling off layers of scrubs and removed shoes that made her soles ache,   squinting while the hairband was released,   and he’d reach,   a request,   to comb through with his fingers before she attacked it with a brush as a well-deserved bath poured in the other room.

he draws it back and behind her ears,   now,   cards it gently through his hands and stops at the smallest resistance.   she reminds him he doesn’t need to be so gentle---   but it had taken one day of a small whimper years ago when he’d tugged through a knot and he’d assured himself to be more careful.   he’d work them out slowly.   take her brush and hold a small tuft and work away the little tangle,   then continue with gradual brushes through damp hair,   pleasantly scented.   it was as relaxing for him as for her,   perhaps.   he’d sat her down and offered,   after all.

  it’s a meme and it sure isn’t getting an icon.   ⇢  @vnerate

ears ring ,   a deafening headache ,   pressure against his eardrum ebbing to be replaced by a rising shrill ,   emerging from a dreamlike vacuum .   blindspots from sources he could never distinguish burned into mind ,   lights too intense to keep eyes open ,   merging now with absence of light in familiar bed   (   this is not blindness ,   but a setting well known    ) .   figments moved out of sight ,   silhouettes he couldn’t see whispered paranoia with cold sighs on the back of his neck ——   but so had their concept conditioned a man ,   fearless of nothing ,   to tremor in his sleep .   the memories   :   they’re all tucked away somewhere deep ,   the same place all the vague recollection of samantha went .   now awoken he clutches the blanket ,   their silent bedroom in the middle of the night holding its breath ,   his chest heaving ,   his skin glistening with a cold sweat ,   his throat scraping with the scream that woke them both .

eyes adjust to the darkness .   her legs move by his side ,   disturbs the duvet as she pushes to a seated position .   he had slept soundly for weeks .   days they relished in the serenity of a full night’s rest ,   a room inviting with comfort in warmth and the soft scent of her perfume .   he would lay still ,   snores muffled into her hair ,   pressed against her with both arms across her body like they used to have ,   years before the abduction .

jaw quakes with each gasp  ;   her fingers trace his forearm ,   brush down the venous curve of wrist to palm .   she’s careful to wait until memory returns to his brow ,   when panting halts and a sigh attempts to veil demeaning desperation .   he welcomes her gentleness ,   then .   he stills and watches the gesture as if it is the sanctum of a hazy amber lampshade in pitch dark ,   spreads fingers to interlace with hers .   their custom :   hunched forth ,   elbows on thighs ,   shoulder to shoulder ,   color returning to knuckles and cheeks while his heart matches the gentle tapping of hers ,   thrumming against his thumb which presses against her pulse .

deposits self in husband’s lap.    ⇢    @vnerate​

tack    is    pushed    into    the    wall,    a    new    addition    to    the    madness    cluttering    an    old    cork - board    in    the    corner    of    his    office.    eidetic    memory    allows    for    his    own    chaotic    organization,    leaflets    of    a    newspaper    from    1964    tucked    away,    worried    ramblings    of    a    greater    danger    and    evil    in    this    world    no    one    seemed    to    worry    nor    care    about.    like    the    people    were    blind    and    only    one    man    could    see.    further    it    continued,    someday    to    find    a    piece    of    information    which    holds    little    value    until    the    day    he    hears    the    alignment    of    details :          the    way    the    witness    describes    three    glowing    green    orbs    and    how    they    floated    four    years    ago    on    a    lake    in    minnesota.    someday    he’ll    pull    that    clipping    from    the    wall,    chase    the    trail    to    what    that    worried    mother    may    have    truly    seen    that    night    and    compare    all    of    these    unique    events    across    the    country    and    ask    why   ?    he    files    them.    he    lays    them    out    for    himself    to    see    the    grand    picture,    memorizes    it,    keeps    the    snapshot    in    his    head    and    files    everything    away    and    moves    onto    the    next    case    until    he    needs    to    retrace    and    remembers    the    exact    red    folder    containing    the    account    of    those    green    lights    were    taken.

he    returns    to    desk    chair    as    the    door    cracks,    her    polite    yet    persistent    form      which    turns    the    knob    before    the    push,    ensuring    a    quiet    and    uninterrupted    wellness    check.    he’s    been    poring    through    articles    for    hours,    spine    bent    and    form    hunched    over    desk.    a    therapeutic    hobby :     scouring    words    nearly    lost    to    the    world    from    years    ago.    a    voice    which    so    desperately    wanted    to    be    heard,    at    least    heard    by    one.    perhaps    the    only    one    that    would    hear    it.