A/N: I'm not even AT this point in the series, and I'm writing a fic about it. Clearly, I have a problem. But at 3 am my brain was like, "You know what'd be fun? Let's write something super-sad and put it on the internet!" So, see. Blame 3 am me. She's a bitch.
Set between the 2002 movie and Season 10. (ICYW, I've seen Season 10, but now I'm watching from the beginning and am up to S6.) Light spoilers for both. Title comes from the Beatles song.
Enjoy, let me know what you think, and then go read something fluffy and fun. (Feel free to throw a rec my way…)
All rights belong to the creators.
He woke before first light. The house already felt emptier, as if she'd taken half the air with her and now it was difficult to breathe.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling. He'd known this day was coming. She wouldn't tell him when. But last night, he could tell. In the way she kissed him, touched him, in the way she'd cried into his chest afterward, when she thought he was asleep.
He could tell that when he opened his eyes in the morning, she'd be gone.
The tiniest of sounds from the kitchen made him sit up. It came again—the sound of someone trying to be deathly quiet and not quite succeeding. He swung out of bed, pulled on some clothes, and padded down the hall.
Her bag and her briefcase waited by the back door. She was bent over the table, writing. Her hair was tucked behind her ear and her necklace swung freely, shimmering in the lightening gloom.
She looked up at his movement in the doorway and straightened. Laid down the pen.
"Sneaking out?" he asked.
"You could always change my mind," she said. "And I have to do this."
"I know. I'm not going to stop you, Scully." He circled around her and picked up her bag, held the screen door for her to exit first. He put her bag in the trunk for her, like he always used to do. The thunk of the lid sounded muted and terribly final.
She was waiting for him by the driver's side door. The light in her eyes was dimmed, and her face, that he had seen in a thousand different expressions, from inquisitive to scared to loving, just looked set and sad. The knowledge of her pain twisted like a dozen tiny knives in his gut. She was hurting and he couldn't make it better for her. It wasn't even his job to try anymore. All he could do was what he was doing now.
He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead, a benediction and a goodbye. "Go be a doctor," he said, and brushed his thumbs over her cheekbones. She smiled, and a little of her light returned.
He walked away.
He heard the car door as he went up the porch steps, heard the engine start as the screen door ratcheted shut. Then he closed and locked the back door. He could let her go, but he couldn't watch her leave.
The note was still sitting on the kitchen table, a faded piece of pink construction paper amid their shared clutter. The ink of her words had bled out at the edges. He capped her pen and read her quick, curving script.
Take care of yourself, my love. Doctor's orders.
He sat down heavily and pushed the paper away. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be okay, but not today. He put his head down on his arms and cried, as the morning sun crept over the windowsill and turned everything to gold.