"Scully, are you all right?" He asked, concern blinding in his eyes, genuine curiosity deafening in his voice. His hand sought mine, gently sliding under one of my own, wrapping his fingers and squeezing softly. I hate when he asks me that.
He doesn't want to know the answer. He wants a lie. And I want to lie. It's almost like this routine is carved in stone, and the walls of familiarity would crumble around us if he or I deviated from the precise script transcribed for us. If I told him that something was really bothering me, ever, then the relaxed false sense of contentedness would disappear.
I could lie, spitting out the words thoughtlessly chosen for me, words that I know better than I know myself, a lie that I have told more times than I have told the truth. He asks if I'm okay, and I lie, and we both go about our lives as if that's the truth, trying not to let it bother us that it's not. For a man so desperate for the truth, it's impossible to believe he's so scared of it. I can hardly talk, seeing as how I have joined him on his fruitless endeavor, his somewhat compulsive journey, searching for the truth almost as fervently as he.
We're both living a very comfortable lie, and I think it would destroy us if we were forced to face a truth that we try so very hard to ignore and disregard. Although this is hardly the truth we're searching for. The truth is, we're both terrified of facing the fact that we can't handle when everything isn't okay.
We can't handle something that isn't scripted, or that isn't so overdone it's past cliché. We're happy living without knowing this truth; the sad truth that we are cowards, running away from improvisation, from unhappiness, from the unknown.
We can face the paranormal and the unexplained, but when it comes to the truth about our feelings, whether it's towards each other, or about something else, we can't bear it. I can't even tell him when something is wrong, because it would veer sharply from the formality and protocol of lies we tell to each other. Everything has to be perfect, and if it's not, make it so.
"No, Mulder, I'm not. I'm not fine. Not this time," I said, spilling the truth from a deceitful tongue. "And I'm done lying when I'm not." He wrapped his arms around me, kissing my forehead gently.
"Good. I hate when you say you're okay, when I can see pain sparkling in your eyes. I can't take you lying to me anymore. You'll explode if you bottle this up all the time. Don't you see, Scully? I want you to be able to come to me and tell me what's wrong. I hate when you say that you're fine. Because sometimes you're not. And that's okay. That's why you have me." He whispered, kissing the crown of my head then resting his cheek on the top of it.
"I love you," I whispered, snuggling into his chest, feeling more at home in his arms than I had in a long time.
"I love you too, Scully." He said, pulling me away from him and looking right into my eyes. A hint of mischief glinted; slightly dulled by the seriousness of the situation, but there all the same. "And I'll be okay if you're never fine again. As long as I can make it better."