Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, settings and song lyrics are property of their lawful owners. This story is written for entertainment purposes only and no profit is made. No copyright infringement intended.

Spoilers: Specific ones for William, The Truth and IWTB, but basically the whole original run of the show.

Relationship: Mulder/Scully

A/N: I started writing this story six months ago, back when all we knew about the revival was that Mulder and Scully had broken up because of his depression. At first I wanted to finish before the revival aired but when that didn't happen, I wanted to write the events of the episodes into this story but that didn't happen either so I just chose to ignore the revival timeline completely.

When Adele's album 25 came out, everyone kept saying it was written about Mulder and Scully, that every single song on the album was about the two of them. So I got the ambitious idea to write a story around the album, one continuous plot with each chapter titled with and inspired by a song on the album.
As I started plotting the structure, I realized the story would have to jump between present time and flashbacks. Please pay attention to the dates listed in the beginning of each chapter.

This is not a happy story, really, but there's hope and beauty and a lot of love in it. Sometimes it's not enough and sometimes it's all you need.

I already put this story up in AO3 earlier today but ffnet is my home turf so it's going here as well. I truly hope you enjoy this one.

CHAPTER 1: Hello

Hello, it's me
I was wondering if after all these years you'd like to meet
To go over everything
They say that time's supposed to heal ya, but I ain't done much healing

DANA SCULLY'S APARTMENT, NOVEMBER 2014

He's six time zones in her past. She wishes it were that simple to leave him behind, catalogue him as part of her history. But truth is that his presence, or lack of it, follows her wherever she goes. There's a Mulder-sized empty spot by her side, right there by her shoulder where he used to burst into her personal space like the concept was completely foreign to him. Sometimes she swears she can feel the air move around her like he was walking half a step behind her, gazing over her shoulder at whatever she's reading.

It's been two years now, and she doesn't flinch anymore when she finds the other side of the bed empty when she stirs awake from a nightmare, but every now and then she still finds herself glancing over her shoulder and saying "Muld-" when something particularly interesting or amusing happens, before she realizes he's not there anymore. It happened again today, and she feels like this time she reached a limit of some kind. She's tired. Tired of missing him, tired of living with the ghost of a man who's still alive on the other side of the ocean, tired of her own regrets.

The alarm clock on her bedside table paints the time 02:07 with bold, bright red numbers, the only illumination in her quiet bedroom. The scent of pinewood still lingers in the air from earlier tonight when she lit a scented candle because she was suddenly feeling nostalgic for the oddest things like their little trips to forests that usually ended in varying levels of disaster.

She has been trying so hard to make this place hers but when she closes her eyes and thinks of home, it's not these walls she sees. She sees an old couch in the soft, bluish light filtering through a fish tank. Or a squeaky floor in the house they shared, the way he never learned to avoid that one plank on his way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. She sees his smile, the look of utter awe that used to light up his face when he looked at her and realized she was his, over and over again, every single day until... until she wasn't. Or maybe she always will be, maybe it was him who was not hers anymore. Or maybe they both will belong to each other until the end of days but they just couldn't be together, the hell if she knows anymore.

It is Friday evening for him, little after eight, she does the math for the millionth time in her head. She has tried calling him at all possible times over the last six months - morning, afternoon, evening, even in the middle of the night - but he never picks up. She used to let it ring all the way until the machine picked up, but hearing his voice was starting to hurt too much and she always hangs up after the third ring now.

After two years, she is running out of work and family crises to keep her mind busy. The reasons that brought her here are gone now and she finds herself thinking of him more often than not, wondering how he's doing. She lets herself get lost in the happier memories for a moment, a guilty pleasure she does not indulge in too often because the return trip to reality is painful and the thought of living in a happy illusion is too tempting some days.

When she next glances at the clock, it is 02:28 already. Half past eight on a Friday evening. He'll probably be on the couch with a good beer and a bad movie.

She takes a deep breath and picks up the phone. He's on the first speed dial, like he has been for twenty years now. Even during that first year in Europe, when saying his name out loud felt impossible and there was no way she could have handled hearing his voice, his number was always there. A comfort blanket of sorts, she guesses. Nowadays it is the number she calls the most often, even if he never picks up and she never says a word.

The phone rings for the first time, second... Her throat constricts a little at the third one, and the next feels like someone was cutting her chest open with a dull knife. She can't put the phone down, though, not this time. Something broke inside her today and she is done pretending she doesn't miss him. Finally the machine picks up.

Fox Mulder here. He sounds playful, but she swears she can hear sadness underneath his fake smile. Or that could be just her, reflecting her own emotions on him. If I'm not picking up, I'm probably chasing a monster of some kind or just don't wanna talk with you. The message is new, and she wonders if the last part was aimed at her. Feel free to leave a message, though. More for me to ignore.

The beep sounds awfully loud in her ear, but for some reason she still can't bring herself to put the phone down.

"Mulder?" she finally says, and her voice only quivers a little bit. "It's me. Scully."

THE UNREMARKABLE HOUSE, NOVEMBER 2014

He has to pause the DVD when he hears her voice. The words are familiar, but the way she whispers his name hesitantly is new, and the way she feels the need to add her name in the end brings a dull ache in his chest. Sure, it has been two years since they exchanged a single word. But it has been over twenty years since she sneaked under his skin and even if he scrubs himself raw in the shower, he can't get her out. She's a full-body tattoo, carved right underneath his skin with short stabs of sharp pain over time, impossible to remove. Even if she's on the other side of the world, she will always be a part of him.

"I'm coming to DC next week. Just a quick visit to see my Mom. I know it's been years and you owe me nothing but... if you'd like to meet, I'd... I'd like that. Maybe talk about this. It. Us. How we... How I..."

She heaves a sigh and he can imagine her rubbing that spot between her eyebrows that always tenses up when she's stressed or tired. He wonders if she's wearing her glasses. It must be late in Germany. Or perhaps early. Is she still awake or did she wake up thinking of him and pick up the phone?

He wonders if she sleeps in the T-shirt she stole from him when she left. He wonders the oddest things about her nowadays, when he finally lets himself think about her.

"I'm sorry, Mulder. I'm sorry for leaving the way I did. I'm sorry for running away instead of facing the problems. I'm sorry for breaking your heart."

She sounds tired, and he wonders what made her reach the breaking point and say those words out loud. She sounds like it has been too long since she last smiled and that thought hurts even more than the fact that she's gone. So far he has been able to lie to himself that wherever she is, she's happy now that she finally broke free of his self-destructive gravity that was threatening to pull her into the darkness.

He looks around the living room of the house they bought together back when they were... he wants to say happy but he wonders if they ever were. Better? Back when they were a team, a unit that worked together like a well oiled machine. There was laughter in this house. And then there was darkness and then, for a long time, there was nothing of significance, just a ghost of a man lying in the corner and staring at the ceiling.

It looks different now. He has moved the furniture around a little, painted the walls, hidden away some of the pictures Scully gathered on the mantle over the years. They are slowly finding their way back, though, as the memories slowly stop hurting and he finds himself able to look at the smiling faces and remember the good times with gratitude.

All he can hear next is her breathing. Deep, even breaths, like she's focusing hard on keeping it together. He wonders if she is gathering courage to continue or to hang up.

"In case you actually listened this whole rambling message before deleting... Thank you." Then she gives him her phone number, the same one he knows by heart already, the one that is saved on the first speed dial of both his cell phone and the landline. Maggie gave it to him the Christmas after Scully left. It was scribbled on the edge of a cheerful holiday card of what appeared to be drunk reindeers. He sent her a beautiful card with a baby Jesus lying on hay under bright stars, with his parents by his side. Wordless apology and forgiveness offered in the simple act of them both venturing outside their comfort zone for the sake of the other one.

Maggie came over on December 26th, filled his fridge and freezer with Christmas leftovers and home-cooked meals, did three loads of laundry and hugged him so tight he had bruises for days. They probably talked a little but he has no memory what about. Not Scully, that much is certain. She made a few visits after that, too, with the same agenda. Even helped him find a therapist who finally got through his defences enough to make a difference.

"I went to see her after Melissa's death. I know your grief is at a whole different level, Fox, but please give her a call. Perhaps she can help you, too."

He never understood how a woman who buried her husband and her daughter within a year could possibly think his pain was anything compared to hers, but somehow she seemed to understand. He took the card and he made the call, and that probably saved his life. Funny how it's always the Scully women who pull him out of his darkest moments and back into the light.

On the answering machine Scully breathes in, and out, then draws in a long, shaky breath and holds it for three seconds before hanging up. It finally hits him that she knew he would be there, right by the machine. She knew, but not once did she ask him to pick up the phone. Perhaps she knows he would do anything for her simple, whispered please.

A/N: Thank you for reading! And for the love of god, please leave a review. I write because I have stories stuck in my head demanding to be put on paper. But I share them with you guys because I want to know if they're any good.