Title: Releasing Hope (1/2) Author: Foxie Meg Rating: PG-13 (language) Summary: Doggett finds unexpected hope at the bottom of a box. Spoilers: All the way through "This Is Not Happening" (S8) Disclaimer: You know the drill - no matter how much he mistreats them, Mulder, Scully, Doggett, and all other characters of The X-Files belong to Chris Carter. Feedback: Always. megan86@thexfiles.com Archive: Just ask first. I'll probably say yes. I just like being asked. Author's Notes: Thank you, Al, for helping me with the =true= myth of Pandora. Also, my sincerest thanks and apologies to all my readers who refrained from flaming me when real-life issues demanded that I cut this adventure short. I hope I get to add more someday soon. *** "Mistress, please, can't you open the box again?" "Hush, child, 'twas not I who opened it in the first place, no matter what my husband says." "But Mistress! All the evil that is with us now because of it! Can you not open the box again, to release Hope from her prison there? I know she is there! I heard her calling!" Pandora sighed and tenderly touched the face of the young maid who tended her. "Cassandra, evils are easier to release than good. Epimetheus released an entire world of trouble, it's true, but there isn't much I can do." Cassandra stood her ground, her green eyes filling with tears, her full lower lip trembling slightly. "But there is still Hope in that box, and she may well ease the trouble we find ourselves in. Please, Mistress, can you not at least attempt to pry the lid?" Pandora, the first woman the gods had fashioned, fully perfect and the key pawn in a carefully orchestrated revenge against mankind, felt her heart swell with tenderness for this maidservant. A tear sparkled in her dark eyes, and she caressed the girl's hair. "For you, Cassandra, I will try. And when Hope is released, may she always live in your heart and in your words." *** Special Agent John Doggett let himself into Fox Mulder's apartment, heaving an exasperated sigh at the absolute pandemonium that greeted him. This disaster was of his making, and so he was going to clean it up before Scully came back to feed the fish -- or whatever it was she did in Mulder's apartment -- again. He left the bedroom for last, looking around the apartment with something like extreme satisfaction. He was relatively certain it hadn't been this clean even when it was lived in. But then there was the bedroom. He'd done a number on it, if he remembered correctly. Hurricane Doggett, at your service! Finally, it was all cleaned. Everything stuffed back into boxes, shoved under the bed and into the back of the closet. Well, everything except a couple of issues of Celebrity Skin he decided to borrow since Mulder wouldn't be missing them anytime soon. Then he caught sight of a piece of paper he'd missed, and picked it up, wondering where it belonged. He realized suddenly that he had not put everything into one of the boxes he'd overturned in his wild search for any clues of why Mulder had gone to Pennsylvania, and sat down cross-legged on the floor to do so. As he shuffled the papers around, trying to get them into a neat enough stack to go back into the shoebox, he realized suddenly that they were tied into a bundle... This didn't fit at all with the profile he'd developed on Mulder. Actually tying papers into a bundle and putting them into a shoebox? He put the papers into the box, including the one that had originally caught his attention, and tucked the box under his arm. Looked like the Celebrity Skin magazines were going to have some competition as far as weekend reading material went. Maybe he'd finally found the clue he was looking for after all. Once he got home and settled onto his couch with a cup of coffee, he opened the box and began reading. He almost put them down when he saw they were personal letters, but continued when he realized their nature. These would provide some valuable insight into Mulder's psyche. *** 14 February 1992 Hello Friend --You are my friend, right? First and fforemost, always my friend. You're my sanity, the thread I cling to as I fight for the life of my career and the integrity of the X-files. You're not like the others, not like the ones they keep sending to spy on me. Maybe you got this assignment for the same reason they did, but you'll stay because the work is important to you, because you love the truth and will fight for it. You won't take any of my BS, but you'll let me know in no uncertain terms that you don't think I've lost it; that you recognize that I'm still an FBI agent with a passion for investigating, not just the spooky coulda-been boy genius in the basement. I don't know. Maybe I =am= crazy after all, writing letters to a dream-partner that can no more exist in my destiny than God -- if He exists -- can care about me. Maybe I'm just Spooky after all. Or maybe I'm just lonely because it's Valentine's Day and the old wounds just won't heal like they should. Fox Mulder *** 16 February 1992 Hello again. Well, I made it through Valentine's Day and the traditional Hangover Recovery Day that follows. They ought to make that a national holiday. Anyway, I'm all in one piece, I think. Well, the pieces I have left. It doesn't get any easier, you know. It just gets harder every year. I have bad luck with women. I hope to God you're not a woman. Not a tall brunette with hooded eyes who will run your fingers through my hair and call me Fox, asking for favors that I have neither the power to give or refuse you. Not like her. I proposed to her onValentine's Day, you know. Fresh out of the Academy, on the Violent Crimes fast track, and head over heels in love with my partner. No, not Jerry. The one after him. Yep, that was me, Fox Mulder, poor clueless fool. She didn't even mind when we took the X-files. She was intrigued by the unusual and inexplicable nature of the cases. With childlike excitement, we wore the rings even though we weren't technically married yet, and a week before the wedding, she came to me unexpectedly one night, declaring her undying devotion and affection for me with much ado and fervent ardor. Much ado about nothing, apparently, as I awoke the next morning to find her ring atop a hastily scribbled note saying it was her, not me, and oh by the way, she was taking a reassignment in Europe. Unspoken, though understood, was that she didn't want to have to face me. Holding onto the naive thought that she might change her mind, I continued to wear my ring and kept hers with me at all times. Finally, when I realized that she wasn't coming back, I tossed the ring into the Reflecting Pool and said "Ciao" to Diana Fowley. So please, if you do decide to answer my prayers and grace me with your partnership, don't be a woman. Fox Mulder *** 26 February 1992 Hello, Looks like I found something interesting! Three unexplained deaths in Oregon and an equally unexplained recall of Federal Agents who hadn't turned up any conclusive evidence despite having some of the Bureau's best investigators on the scene. It'll take me a little while, but I'm working on getting permission to take this case. Problem? "Field Agents Must Operate With A Partner At All Times." Same old tune they play every time... they don't even have to hum a bar now, I recognize it on the downbeat. It's the same excuse they give me. A vicious cycle... they saddle me with partners to hinder my investigations, and when I finally get rid of them, I can't investigate. So this time I figured I'd shock them. I requested a partner. Just for this one case. It's got that certain smell to it -- Eau de Extraterrestrial if you will. I'll ditch my new partner at the hotel or somewhere because I'm certain I won't be lucky enough to get you the first time I go looking for you, and I'll investigate this thing by myself, find enough to satisfy myself, and let my idiot partner say whatever he wants. Sound like a plan? Then maybe next time I can cross my fingers and hold my breath and you'll be the one knocking on my office door announcing yourself as my new partner. Fox Mulder *** 5 March 1992 Hey there. They're giving me my new watchdog tomorrow. At least they were kind enough to warn me instead of just surprising me with the result of my unexpected request. I doubt they extended the same courtesy to her; they wouldn't want her quitting the Bureau before they got one more confirmation that ol' Spooky Mulder is hell to work with. No, I expect them to spring it on her tomorrow, just before she is scheduled to meet me. Yep. Her. Dana Scully, non-practicing M.D. A woman. Just one more sign that if there is a God, my life is His idea of some cosmic practical joke. She's going to be fun to run off, I can tell. She rewrote Einstein -- quite well, actually -- for her senior thesis, and is obviously one smart chick. Which means she won't listen to a single thing I say that defies the realm of science that she is so obviously in love with. I'll be surprised if she lasts more than her first day. Yes, I realize that I'm profiling her, but that is, after all, what I do best. Besides running people off, that is. So. I guess this is enough psychoanalysis for tonight. If I were feeling especially energetic, I might attempt to analyze my impulse to write these letters. But I have an idea that it would be a depressing diagnosis: "Fantasy mechanism as defense against feelings of loneliness, isolation, and insecurity." Real cheerful, huh? Fox Mulder *** 6 March 1992 Hi again. Scully is going to be one helluva force to be reckoned with. I did my best to scare her away first thing, to sort of test the waters, and she just gave me a sort of enigmatic smile and stood her ground. Yeah I'm calling her "Scully" straight off. Why? Because she's got a lot of potential to be you -- the partner I'm looking for -- with only one strike against her so far. Okay, two. One, she needs a little fashion advice. But somehow those baggy clothes are at once amusing and endearing. Two, and most important, she's a woman. A dangerous one at that. My preliminary profile was correct -- she is smart. Incredibly so. Almost erotically so. She is self-possessed with only a hint of nervousness showing through her careful confidence. And no, she doesn't believe that there are answers outside the realm of science, but I'll be damned if her calm, smiling, and -- shall we dare say "respectful"? -- refutation didn't make me want to fall in love with her on the spot. But I'm not interested. I could be, but I'm not. That's why I have to call her "Scully." The name sounds almost masculine - at least neutral. So maybe I can forget how much I'd love to love her. At the very least, though, this looks like the beginnings of a beautiful friendship. I may have found you after all. At the very least, I'll let her tag along with me instead of ditching her at the hotel like I'd originally planned. Her ideas might be interesting. Fox Mulder *** 7 March 1992 You know, in all honesty, I didn't expect her to show up for the flight. Oh, by the way, hello. Yeah, I'm talking about my new partner. She's actually acting like a partner, not just a watchdog. I'm scared, now. I'm very frightened. What am I going to do if she does turn out to be you? I mean, she's gotten under my skin. I =want= her to be you, now. I even found myself pleading with her to understand me earlier this evening. Yeah, that's right. Fox Mulder,=pleading.= I remember the exact words. I had a spiraling feeling in the pit of my stomach as I realized what I'd said, and how much it sounded like I wanted, =needed= her approval. Which I did, but she didn't have to know that. "I'm not crazy, Scully. I have the same doubts you do." I don't want her to think I'm crazy, because I know you wouldn't, and -- as I've already said -- I want her to be you. But what if I overestimated your willingness to stay with me, or what if they reassign her to Europe or someplace? I've never known a woman who could resist the call of Europe, though why that is I don't know. I admit, Venice is probably breathtaking and Paris may be rosily romantic, but I can't much get into a continent that lays claim to two of my failed attempts at love. Enough of that. How these letters turn into a psychotherapy session about my dysfunctional love life, I'll never know. We found more today than I ever thought we'd find... but this will be in the field journal. You can read that when the time comes. Or, for all I know, you may be the one writing the notes on it right now. Is this how people feel who are falling in love? I mean, the ones who have dreamed about that moment for a long time. The ones who actually want to fall in love and get married and have a family. When they meet someone they "click" with, do they sit awake at 4:30 AM and wonder if that person is "the one" or if it's simple attraction? If it's destiny or just desire? I'm too wound up to be considering such somber, mind-boggling things at the moment, especially with the implications of what Scully found today. Wonder if she's figured it out yet. God, this adrenaline rush has got to go somewhere, and the walls are too thin for a self-seducing release. No way in hell is Scully gonna know about that... of course, why am I telling you? Besides, I need something a little more violent, more exerting, than that. I think I'll go for a run. Running is always good. Maybe she likes to run too? I doubt it, as she is entirely too pleasantly curved to regularly partake in such a vigorous pastime. (Hey, I said I wasn't interested. I didn't say I was blind.) I'll ask her if she'd like to come along, just for the heck of it. Besides, I do want to know if she's figured out what that little thingy in the corpse's nose is. Fox Mulder *** 9 March 1992 Hello, Well our case went pretty well, all things considered. It looks like Scully is going to stick around for a while, much to my delighted surprise. We've begun an awkwardly graceful dance, the steps of which seem to be ingrained in our visceral memories. Nothing has ever felt this right, this natural -- and that in itself feels wrong, unnatural. Nothing is supposed to be this good for Fox Mulder, but I'm hoping this lapse in misfortune goes unnoticed by the gods for a while. What was that Paul Simon song? "When something goes wrong, I'm the first to admit it; but I'm the last one to know if something goes right. Can't get used to something so right." We understand each other intuitively, as if finally I've found someone who speaks my language, which is essentially made up of non-words. Example: She came into my hotel room, frightened out of her mind. Trustingly, innocently, she bared her skin and her emotions to me. Psychologist that I am, I know this meant she was -- perhaps unconsciously -- testing the depth of our surprising new connection. Had she not been silently asking me to define our initial easy, fumbling intimacy of souls, she would have found a less revealing way to ask about the marks on her back. I addressed her conscious concerns first -- they were mosquito bites -- and the alarms went off in my head when she hugged me. As much as I already liked her, I couldn't let her think that I was willing to let her be one of "Spooky's Girls." She had to have heard of these chicks -- my unofficial fan club whom I indulge with dirty talk and blatant flirtation. The poor things actually think they have a chance with me; they don't realize that Phoebe mauled my heart, and then Diana pretended to heal it just long enough to do some major damage. My interest in a relationship is presently less than nonexistent, and Scully deserves to know that. I can't let her be misled by those wolves in secretary's clothing. But I also didn't want her to think I wanted her to leave. I wanted her to stay, almost desperately, but not out of the false expectation that we would be something we won't. "Nothing else matters." That's what I told her. I explained my quest to her in great detail, and while I was simply laying out facts, I could see her eyes softening as I told of my sister's abduction. I could see sympathy - and something more - coming into her expression and I couldn't have that. Couldn't have her feeling tenderhearted toward me. It was too close to love, and no way was I going to mislead her like that. So I had to make sure she understood, clearly. ="Nothing else matters to me."= At the time, I have to say I thought it was true. But now one thing has made itself clear - something else does matter to me. Scully. I don't want her to get hurt by me, by my insane ideas that I keep chasing after. Her safety matters to me now, and her happiness. I think I would dare say she's my friend. I miss her now that we're back. I like having her to spar with, to bounce ideas off. She's a great sounding board. I'd like to talk her, actually, but I don't know if that would be welcome. Especially since it's eleven o'clock at night. Early for me, but some people actually sleep. I guess I'll Well, I've got my reason now. I don't know what I meant to write in that sentence up there so I'm not going to finish it. I'm going to call Scully. Someone just called and informed me that the evidence is gone. She has to know this. I need to talk to her. Fox Mulder *** END 1/2 *** Releasing Hope (2/2) All the legal stuff is in Part One. *** Doggett sighed and tucked away the letters. He yawned, and decided he was too impatient to go through the box in order. There was no telling how many boring cases Mulder had seen fit to catalogue in his letters. He decided to reach into the middle of the stack and read whichever one he came out with. The fates must have been guiding his hand, because he hit the jackpot. He recognized the date as being during the strange time Scully had been missing after having been kidnapped by a psycho named Duane Barry. It would certainly be interesting to see what Mulder had written to his imaginary friend during this time... *** October 22, 1994 Scully, See, even in my despair I can't call you Dana. I want to, desperately... but that name is only used to comfort you. Right now, I need Scully. Although I wouldn't argue if Dana suddenly showed up at my door. Speaking of doors... I've been thinking of a thing called The Open Door. The Stoics believed in it. I don't know if I've ever been a faithful adherent to Stoicism, although most of their philosophy seems to make sense... that nothing beyond our own behavior is within our control. Ironically enough, with you gone, not even my own behavior is within my control. It's erratic, beating out a painful arrhythmia with occasional murmurs of protest against this loss that is too great, too terrible. And the Open Door beckons me, tells me I may leave whenever I am ready. But something holds me back. The whisper that would be regret if I didn't find you. If you have not walked through that Door already, were not there to greet me on the other side. When did this happen, Scully? Death, or at least the option of it, used to be a comfort for me. I could retreat to a dark corner anytime I liked, with a gun to my head, and think about how nice it would be once I slipped into whatever awaited me after this turbulent, fragile existence was passed. When did it become meaningless to me except as a means to reach you? When did its only comforting purpose become the possibility that I might see you again past the barrier of this life? God, Scully, I can't breathe without you here. I'm suffocating. I never meant to become this dependent on you -- never, not in a million years. I never meant to need you this desperately. I never meant to love you this much. Love kills, Scully. It kills me, every time I give into it. I don't know that I loved Phoebe; I may have. I was fascinated with her, certainly, but perhaps in the same way that passersby are fascinated with a gruesome collision, in the same way I am fascinated with fire... what do they call that? A morbid fascination. I'm not sure how much she would like that description, but it fits with my statement. I think I loved Diana in my own way, in her own way. But that way isn't good enough for me, now that I know the way it can be. How one person can become the very air I breathe. Of course, I've always been that way. I've always been the type to focus on one thing and pursue it relentlessly, single-mindedly, until it becomes my life. Until nothing else is important to me. You know this, from my search for Samantha. And now that search -- the desperation of it at least -- has been intensified a thousand fold. I can live without Samantha. I have lived without her for years now. I don't think I can live without you. I have become reckless and careless of my life, because you aren't here to give it value. Why else would I actually sleep with my primary suspect in a bloody set of murders? You're the only thing that keeps me from self-destructing, and I admit it -- I'm a selfish bastard. I want you back because I need you, not because I think you'd be better off here with me. I am trying to rescue you so that you can save my life. Even though I don't think I'm worth the saving, I crave you because you're my savior. Please, Scully. I can't live without you. Please come back; don't let me walk through the Open Door. What if your religion is right, and suicide would send me to hell? What would I do then? I certainly wouldn't find you there. But maybe... God, Scully. Maybe I'm already there. Do you remember the story? Yeah, believe it or not, I know a few Bible stories. I don't remember where I heard this one, but it stuck with me, for reasons that will become obvious to you as we go on, I'm sure. There was a man, a very rich man, who took for granted all he had. A righteous beggar sat beside the gate of his house every day, but the rich man ignored him. One day, both died. Because of his narrow-minded selfishness, the rich man was sentenced to hell, while the beggar, having been a God-fearing man, was taken to heaven. The rich man looked up from the depths of hell and became a beggar himself, pleading desperately for just one drop of water from the hand of the man he had always been too good to notice, too good to appreciate, before his death. I'm not trying to call you a beggar, Scully, but I've lived in hell all my life and you were the first person to ever give me the water I needed. I know sometimes I've taken advantage of your kindness, but God help me, if I ever get you back... I can't say I won't, because -- like I said -- I know what a selfish bastard I am... but I will definitely make every effort to never take you for granted again. You're my heaven, Scully. I miss you, more than my own life. I don't seem to be able to end this letter, although I don't have anything left to say. I am afraid that if I stop writing that I will lose the tenuous connection I pretend to have with you, wherever you are. So it will remain open-ended; I won't close it. I love you. *** Doggett decided he liked this random way of choosing letters -- so little in his life was random; he couldn't allow it to be -- and reached in for another, noting with some surprise that Mulder had neglected to date it... from all indications, a serious break in habit. However, it wasn't hard to reckon out at what point in the partnership this had been written. *** Dear Friend, Our third case together, and I'm already lost. Totally and completely lost. Asking her if she thinks I'm spooky, trying my damnedest (and succeeding -- mostly) to avoid classic "male posturing" with her asshole ex-classmate, and falling prey to a desperate fear that I'll lose her. Colton -- the arrogant bastard who called in her expertise on this case, which was, I might add, his only intelligent (lucky?) decision -- blatantly said he was going to try to take her away from me. The panic and anger that flooded my system with adrenaline left me weak with pure relief when she told him that she was staying with me. I wanted to put my arm around her, kiss her, and tell Colton, "Bug off, she's mine." Of course, she probably would have killed me for that, but it almost would have been worth it. As it was, I guess my possessiveness managed to show through -- if nothing else, through my defense of her allegation that Tooms was the killer we were looking for. I'm almost certain she didn't see the look in my eyes at Colton's presumptuous rescue mission. She commented on my "territorial" behavior as she called it, then turned away as if she were embarrassed to infer that I might care enough about our partnership to actually defend her like a dog with a bone. I've noticed a strange phenomenon. My body is not under my control around her. As I was reassuring her that her perceptions were correct -- "Of course I was," as if she should know by now that her respect is like water in my desert -- my hand reached out of its own volition to snag the necklace that dangled between her breasts, as if catching a lifeline... a tether to keep her with me. Of course, I released it quickly, releasing her along with it, telling her I wouldn't take it personally if she wanted to work with Colton and the VCS. No, let me take that back. I said I wouldn't hold it against her. There is every possibility that I would have taken it personally. I look back on it now, and find it ironic. The next person to snag that necklace took it from her as a trophy, marking her as his next intended victim. I barely made it to her in time, and it frightened me that I nearly lost her again. Seems I'm always almost losing her to some rabid overachieving male or another. But anyway, it's late now and I am tired beyond belief. Eugene Victor Tooms is safely locked away in jail, and Scully is safely tucked away in her bed. I made sure of that, and called her at regular intervals to make sure everything was all right after I left her apartment. At least, I did until she told me to stop before she offered me to Tooms for his quota. I guess every five minutes is a little too regular. But our case is solved, Scully is safe, and everything is right with my world. At least, it's more right than it has been in years. Fox Mulder. *** Doggett stumbled wearily into his apartment, choking back tears and gasping at the tight pain in his chest. It was all too horrible, all too familiar. And Scully's face when she'd seen him... His vision blurred, and he staggered over to his couch, sinking wearily into the piece of furniture, closing his eyes against the pain and wanting nothing more than to sob out the tears that his ragged breaths threatened to release with every exhalation. He clenched and unclenched his jaw, still seeing the vision of Scully standing, stoic, by his graveside... flashing back to her terror and despair in the woods that night... hearing her hoarse voice rasping, "No autopsy. Please." ...watching her keep vigil over his body until they had to take him to place him in the casket. He opened his eyes, hoping fervently that physical sight would replace the memories. His gaze darted around the room, looking for something -- anything -- to land on. It found the box of letters. Desperately, he grasped it, wrenching the lid off, and dug down to the very bottom. He had to know the very last thing Fox Mulder had written, and he hoped against hope that it would give some reason to the madness he'd watched Dana Scully struggle through for the last few months. He hoped that Mulder hadn't given up writing long before his disappearance. He wasn't disappointed. Wrapped up in the letter was a poem, and he startled, then noticed the credit at the bottom of the page that Mulder had given. The pages beneath the poem were the letter, and he read both, knowing that one day he had to find a way to give these to Scully. *** I can hear the soft breathing of the girl that I love As she lies here beside me, asleep with the night And her hair in a fine mist floats on my pillow Reflecting the glow of the winter moonlight She is soft, she is warm, but my heart remains heavy And I watch as her breasts gently rise, gently fall For I know with the first light of dawn I'll be leaving And tonight will be all I have left to recall Oh what have I done; why have I done it? My life seems unreal, my crime an illusion A scene badly written in which I must play Yet I know as I gaze at my young love beside me That morning is just a few hours away --"Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M." - Paul Simmon & Art Garfunkle Scully, I write this in apology, from the deepest part of my heart. I can only hope everything turns out all right, and that the end will justify these means that I find I must use. As I write this, you are asleep in my bed, in my bedroom. I wonder if you know. If somehow, you can tell what I've planned. Your kisses tasted of "goodbye"... or was that just my own imagination, knowing what tomorrow will bring. I'm beginning to regret this already, but I have to steel myself, knowing that I did it for a logical reason. I'm an idiot -- you still don't know what I've done. Forgive me, Scully. Forgive me before you ever read this. I haven't told you... all the times I've wished you would tell me, I know now why you didn't. Why it was easier to say, "I'm fine" and pretend it was true. Why it made it better to be able to believe that nothing was out of place... and not having my knowledge, my caring, crumble that belief. If you knew... oh, if you knew, Scully, your eyes would change when you look at me. Your smile would take on a tinge of sadness. And your pain would kill me. I've waited so many years to see open love in your eyes, I can't bear to think of ruining it now. So I haven't told you. Haven't told you that... God, this is so hard to even write it to you. That I'm dying. When Cancer Man told you that he was dying from the brain surgery in the fall... he neglected to tell you that the other victim of that butchering was also dying. And the other victim wasn't about to tell you either. I've been looking for cures. I wanted to have some answers before I told you -- wanted to have some hope to give you. And now I have one last chance, and I'm too chicken to even tell you about it. I'm just afraid that if I tell you, you won't let me go. That if you're there with me, that you'll protect me. And if you weren't able to protect me, you would blame yourself for not being a good partner. You've been with me too long; you've begun to react the same way. I know, I've seen it in your eyes. The case in Kentucky, when the serial killer broke my fingers... don't think I didn't see the look on your face. Don't think I didn't see your finger twitch for the trigger of your gun. Don't think I didn't recognize the guilt that flashed momentarily in your eyes. And that was just a broken finger. What would you do if you let me walk onto a spaceship? One tiny part of me wants you there, to witness it, so that you will know and believe that there are aliens. But the rest of me knows that I could never do it if you were standing there. That if you were there, I would say to hell with the deal and walk back to you, giving myself up to die if only to stay with you. I actually can barely believe I've convinced you to stay. And I hate that I'm doing this to Skinner. Tell him it's not his fault, will you? Tell him there was nothing he could have done -- I made a deal. The aliens... they are healers, Cassandra Spender said. So I made a deal to go with them, in hopes that they will heal this death that is eating away at my brain, and that when I return to you -- when, not if, Scully -- I will be whole again, and we'll have the rest of our lives ahead of us. I want to grow old with you, and watch you with our children. I meant what I said to you -- not to give up on a miracle. I know you're going to have children, Scully. I know it. You're too wonderful as a mother for you to not have them. There's another miracle I need you to not give up on -- my life. Because I'm scared, truly scared. I know there is no guarantee that the promise will be honored, that I will be returned to you alive. I know I may very well be wasting the last months of my life chasing a nonexistent cure when I could have spent them by your side. But, Scully, whatever happens -- remember: I'm doing this for you. I knew I had to do it after you told me that night that I was your destiny -- that all the twisted roads and strands of your life had led you to me. How could I die knowing you felt that way? How could I let myself waste away when you thought I was the most important thing in your life? I had been going to tell you that night. The crop circles that I investigated in England? A cover-up. A colleague from Oxford had told me of some experimental medicine that might be able to cure me, and I wanted to go. Needed to go. I was nearly dancing with excitement -- I thought I might be going to live. I asked you to go with me, but I couldn't bring myself to tell you why. So I told you about the crop circles. You didn't come with me, and I know you must have thought my hurt and anger entirely disproportional to your refusal. After all, as far as you knew, it was only crop circles. I sent you to Colleen Azar, who had been working with me to find a cure. Somehow, I think I was cowardly enough to hope she would tell you. But she knew you weren't ready to hear it. She told me that I would have to be the one to tell you. When I came back, and told you that it was a waste -- that was the truth. I had been going to tell you, that night, that I was dying. That the waste was really in the medicine. They hadn't been able to do a damn thing for me, and I had no idea where to turn. But when you told me that... I knew it was too much to get into then. I knew I couldn't tell you. I couldn't give up; I had to keep looking. I was on the verge of asking you to look with me... but you fell asleep. Don't blame yourself for that, either. You have no idea how much I loved watching you sleep. And by the time you'd awakened... my courage had passed and I was back to hiding in the shadows of my "everything is right with the world" smile. I want you to know... I'm sorry for being a coward. I'm sorry I can't be as strong as you were when you had cancer. I'm sorry I can't find a cure for myself like I found for you. Remember when you went off on a trip with Smoking Man? As much as it angered me... I had a secret hope that the disc might actually have the technology on it. I had been going to tell you then, too. But when it was empty, I couldn't say it. It dashed my hope to pieces, and my strength to admit this illness along with it. And I saw your anguish at not being able to save the world with that technology -- and I knew I couldn't add to it by giving you a specific world that you hadn't been able to save. My anger at C. G. B. Spender was more at that moment than it has been in a long time. Whether he knows it or not, that bastard stole my life along with the technology. There is so much I want to tell you, but morning will be here soon, and with it, my plane. My last best chance, although even I admit it's a risky one. If you still believe in prayer, Scully -- and at this moment, I'm hoping fervently that you do -- pray for me. Pray that I will be returned to you soon. You will be my anchor and harbor while I'm gone. Please know -- I'm doing this for you, for us... and for the miracle I still haven't given up on. Please don't give up on me. No matter what happens, don't give up hope. And always remember -- I love you. Mulder *** END 2/2