They are ships in the night more often than not; she comes home sometimes to find a bowl of hot soup waiting for her, or a cup of tea, but when her apartment is subsequently angel-free she knows that a Winchester has summoned him away. She doesn't mind, not really; she is the same when Mulder calls.
Once, Castiel rustles into being beside her dining room table, and there is a short stained blade in his hand and blood soaking his sleeve; she barely has time to shove her chair back before his phone is buzzing in his pocket. Castiel is tight-lipped; she gets only a quick, "It's fine," and then he's gone again, the rustle of his passage sending the pages of her case file in disarray across the floor.
Once, he settles into the corner of her couch, weary and rumpled, and she brings him a warm mug that he will not drink from, and she nudges herself beneath his arm for approximately three seconds before her own phone is ringing, and Mulder is reminding her that the plane will not wait so maybe she could get her ass downstairs. "San Diego," she sighs, and "Tonight?"
Castiel nods, but she doesn't see him for three weeks after that.
After a while, it occurs to her that the most reliable way to see Castiel is to snap at Mulder.
It's not something she notices right away. It's more a play of probabilities -- the more she snarls, "I'm fine, Mulder," the more likely it is that her space will show signs of angelic trespass -- that her covers will be turned down, or her bath will be drawn, or Castiel himself will be there to set gentle hands on her shoulders. The angel is primordial; he is impervious to her glaring.
Stretched on some anonymous hotel coverlet one night, her head on Castiel's thigh and nausea sickly sweet at the back of her throat (her joints ache, her fingers are too heavy), she mutters, "He called you."
It isn't a question, but he answers anyway. "Yes."
"He hates you." She is fevered; bemused.
"That's not what this is about, Dana."
In the morning, the angel is gone and her partner nudges through the doorway from the adjoining room, bringing her a fruit cup, a croissant, a ravaged video tape. She can't bring herself to yell. Mulder sprawls across the bed and they watch grainy footage ("That is not a sasquatch, Mulder") while she gnaws a bit of pineapple and he gets breakfast Cheetos on the pillow.
"He's busy," she says. "Stop it."
"I disallow all knowledge. Look, right there -- top left, you cannot tell me that's faked."
This is not what I was going to write because gabby already rocked that, yo
Once, Castiel rustles into being beside her dining room table, and there is a short stained blade in his hand and blood soaking his sleeve; she barely has time to shove her chair back before his phone is buzzing in his pocket. Castiel is tight-lipped; she gets only a quick, "It's fine," and then he's gone again, the rustle of his passage sending the pages of her case file in disarray across the floor.
Once, he settles into the corner of her couch, weary and rumpled, and she brings him a warm mug that he will not drink from, and she nudges herself beneath his arm for approximately three seconds before her own phone is ringing, and Mulder is reminding her that the plane will not wait so maybe she could get her ass downstairs. "San Diego," she sighs, and "Tonight?"
Castiel nods, but she doesn't see him for three weeks after that.
After a while, it occurs to her that the most reliable way to see Castiel is to snap at Mulder.
It's not something she notices right away. It's more a play of probabilities -- the more she snarls, "I'm fine, Mulder," the more likely it is that her space will show signs of angelic trespass -- that her covers will be turned down, or her bath will be drawn, or Castiel himself will be there to set gentle hands on her shoulders. The angel is primordial; he is impervious to her glaring.
Stretched on some anonymous hotel coverlet one night, her head on Castiel's thigh and nausea sickly sweet at the back of her throat (her joints ache, her fingers are too heavy), she mutters, "He called you."
It isn't a question, but he answers anyway. "Yes."
"He hates you." She is fevered; bemused.
"That's not what this is about, Dana."
In the morning, the angel is gone and her partner nudges through the doorway from the adjoining room, bringing her a fruit cup, a croissant, a ravaged video tape. She can't bring herself to yell. Mulder sprawls across the bed and they watch grainy footage ("That is not a sasquatch, Mulder") while she gnaws a bit of pineapple and he gets breakfast Cheetos on the pillow.
"He's busy," she says. "Stop it."
"I disallow all knowledge. Look, right there -- top left, you cannot tell me that's faked."
She throws a Cheeto at his head.