TITLE:  Love Letter
AUTHOR:  MystPhile@aol.com

Distribution: Gossamer, Ephemeral, XFC, Spooky, yes. Others,
please inform.

Category:  Post-ep Requiem, SA, MSR
Rating:  NC-17---mild
Spoilers:  Anything up through seventh season finale
Thanks:  To the gang who experienced and whooped through the
finale with me.  What fun!!!
Disclaimer: Property of 1013
Feedback:  Most welcome at MystPhile@aol.com
Webpages:   Thanks to Beaker:  http://members.xoom.com/MystPhile/
And many thanks to Galia:
http://galias.webprovider.com/mystphile.htm
And at Xemplary


<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
Seven years ago, you sprayed an indelible orange X on a road in
Oregon.  How was I to know that was also the beginning of the
permanent impression you were to leave on my heart?

You seemed somewhat demented, and I wondered how I could
possibly hope to distinguish myself in the FBI if I had to work
with you, a guy who thought that the laws of physics did not
apply.  I envisioned Einstein spinning in his grave.

Yet, nearly seven years later, when the Smoking Man took me for
a ride---and yes, he took me for a ride in all senses of the
word---he told me I'd die for you but wouldn't allow myself to
love you.  He was wrong.

I have loved you a very long time, just as I'm sure you've loved
me.  Circumstances kept arising, until recently, barricades that
were forever keeping us apart.  We grew close after our first
year together; sparks were flying in all directions; then, I was
abducted.  I came back frightened, troubled by flashes of
memory, of unspeakable horrors that my mind refused to access.
Too much pain.  I was too busy repressing my pain and my fears
to reach out just then.  I was absorbed in holding myself
together.

Later, we drew close again, but then my cancer occurred.
Deathbed romances are generally unwise.  They are exciting and
dramatic, of course, but too . . . cinematic, I guess.  There's
an air of artificiality.  You wonder, what if the disease goes
away, and there we are, stuck with real life, with all of its
tedium and none of the drama of encroaching death.  It was not
the right time.  Besides, we were both so tense, so touchy.  Our
fears stifled us.  Paralysis set in when we weren't in denial or
doing stupid things like having holes drilled in our heads.  I'm
sorry; I promised to let that go.  You were in desperate
straits, and I of all people am familiar with that feeling.

After the chip, after my recovery, the opportunity again seemed
ripe.  How long, I wondered, could we stay apart, our internal
magnets reaching out toward each other, calling "come closer,
come here."  I think that would have been our moment if not for
Emily.  Her death, my sterility, the fact that you had
information about my body that you hadn't shared with me. . . I
think I went into a clinical depression at that point.  My world
turned dark, and in my dreams, I wandered in dry, barren
deserts, a landscape as lifeless as I felt myself to be.  At
that time, living seemed a worse fate than dying ever had.  I
was depressed in every cell of my body.  Getting up in the
morning and maintaining the merest glimmer of interest in our
cases seemed like climbing Everest to me.  I was sick.

The grief eventually receded.  I tried to trust that God had a
plan, that the innocent child had gone to a better place,
escaped her life of pain.  That my life could proceed without
children.  My heart was beginning to open again.  Then came
Diana.  What can I say about her, Mulder?  Anything I write will
be filled with the pain of her presence, the venom she brought,
at least to my mind.  To you, she may have been nothing but an
old friend or an ex-lover.  To me, she was a thorn that pierced
my flesh, my heart.  There could be no peace while she was in
our lives, at least for me.  She was like the serpent in the
garden, and I was afraid she would strike, mesmerizing you like
a snake rising slowly from a fakir's basket in old films about
India.  I felt she'd cast a spell on you, used your past
loyalties.  You were lost to me in those days, and my life felt
very empty once again.

Then, you were totally lost to me when your mind imploded a year
ago.  I was abandoned!  The only good result was that Fowley
lost her power over me.  Suddenly, I knew her to be a desperate
liar, one of "them," and I could leap to your defense with a
whole heart.  After much misery, I found you, once again with a
hole in your head.  Those damned butchers!  I clasped you to my
bosom, and I have never let you out of my heart since.  The
smoking man was wrong.  Since the day we stood at your door and
I told you of Fowley's death and we held each other, I have
unequivocally allowed myself to love you.  This past year has
been an elaborate and fascinating courtship, in my eyes.

We have faced all the usual mayhem, and never once has our faith
in each other wavered, even when you were aghast to see me shoot
down a man in cold blood.  Bless you, you tried to excuse the
inexcusable.  You gave me the same loyalty you give to all you
love or have ever loved, even those who've betrayed you.  You
took me to your home, plied me with hot drinks, and warmed me in
your arms.  We were very close then, and I loved you for your
unquestioning acceptance of me when I was unable to accept
myself and my actions.  You could forgive me what I could not
forgive.  You are far more generous than I.  You always have
been.

Seven years ago, I came to your hotel room in Bellefleur,
Oregon, scared and panicked, just as I did recently.  Years ago,
I lay on your bed.  That time I lay alone while you lounged on
the floor, telling me about your sister, your family, your
losses.  Finding Samantha was the only thing that mattered, you
told me.  You were very up front about that, and I should have
listened more carefully before I gave you my heart.  She would
always be the barrier between us.  Her very name was enough to
send you flying anywhere in the universe, usually without me.

That barrier fell this year.  I will not pretend to understand
what happened to her or to you.  I do believe that the journal
we read was hers, and that she suffered terribly, much like I
must have suffered during my abduction while I was being
experimented upon.  She, poor child, was much younger and much
more cognizant of what was happening to her.  My heart ached as
you read of her torments.  I cried for both of you.

You are now convinced that she escaped, that it was not death
that took her, but a more spiritual journey.  Fair enough.
That's how I deal with the loss of Emily, my father, my sister.
Mine is the afterlife of more traditional religions.  Yours has
your own particular magical spin.  As long as you feel she is
finally at peace, that she is not suffering, that you need no
longer search for her. .. . as you said, you were free.  She was
no longer the only thing that mattered.  At last, there was
time---and there was room in our lives---for us.

We were finally brought together by the casting out of my own
partially forgotten demon, Daniel.  The man who told me I was
making a big mistake and I would never amount to anything,
wasting myself in the FBI.  How stupid I was all those years not
to recognize the shadow he still cast over my life and my
perceptions.  As surely as Samantha, he was looming over us,
making me doubt that the life I was leading was the right one
for me.  He'd convinced me that somehow, outside of medicine, I
would always be second rate.  What an asshole that man was.  How
glad I am that I ran into him and saw the truth at last.

As I said good-bye to him, seeing him at last for the pathetic,
arrogant control freak he always was, I came upon you, just as
though I was meant to.  That night, we came together for the
first time.  No pun intended, Mulder.  I know how your mind
works.  If I were a fly on the ceiling, I would have loved
watching our twining together on your bed, the satiation of our
long famine.  That was the longest and happiest night of my
life, to that point.   We had finally found each other in every
sense of the word.

But, you know, the next morning, when I was getting dressed and
you'd dropped off to sleep, I felt a little incomplete.  We'd
had the actions.  Plenty of actions, wonderful, wonderful
actions.  But no words of love or commitment had passed our
lips.  As I left, I wondered what was in store for us.  What if
this was it?  I wanted more from you, Mulder.  I have always
wanted all of you.  I felt a little nervous as I left, the words
of an old, bitter Bob Dylan song insinuating themselves into my
mind:  You act like we never have met.

Would it be awkward at the office?  I didn't expect sex against
the filing cabinet, but I also didn't expect business to be
quite as usual.  Would we do this again?  Would it be just sex?
Where were we going?

Soon, we were in Hollywood for that ridiculous premiere,
watching images purporting to be us writhing in a coffin.  I was
enthralled at how we came across to others.  You were miserable
to think that we would be viewed in that way and embarrassed, I
think, to see our sexuality exposed.  Of course, now we know
that the movie made less than eight million domestically and
went to video faster than the speed of light, so virtually no
one has seen that travesty.  But, my God, you were really
stewing when I ran you down on the soundstage.

That night, after some very fine food and wine at the Bureau's
expense, we enjoyed some very fine antics in the hotel's bubble
bath.  A new side of sex, for us.  Playful, an ebullient mixture
of champagne, bubbles, and laughter.  Teasing, lighthearted---I
thought that night that maybe we were in for the long haul.
That somehow we could meld our partnership with a sexual---and a
romantic---relationship.

It became fun to come to work.  The doppelganger case was not
fun, however.  Hell, no.  But it was interesting how we managed
to switch roles in that one, so easily and interchangeably, I
started to wonder where you begin and I leave off.  We even had
similar scars, unfortunately, when we both got caught in
segments of that hostile crowd.  But as we recovered, you won my
heart completely by coming over and crawling into my bed
sometimes and taking my hand as I slept.  I love to hold your
hand.  It's a way of being connected with you, and it worked
fine during our recovery.

Healed, we continued to see each other whenever we could,
carefully separating work and play.  I was surprised you invited
me over the night the "genie" case ended.  You'd spent the day
absorbed in the case and your wishes.  I know what your last
wish really was, in your mind, not the one you made aloud,
freeing that woman.   Your look, your gaze at me and my body,
could not have been more explicit.  But of course, you wouldn't
*wish* for me to straddle your lap and bury my salty-but-
unbuttered tongue deep into your mouth.  You didn't have to ask
a genie for that, and you'd want the act to be my own idea.  It
was.  I assure you, it was.

Your hands caressed my scalp, my white shirt went flying.  I
think it was my wish that came true that night.  We seemed to
have it all---passion, fun, tenderness, total loss of
inhibition.  All but the words of love, and anyway, while you
were buried within me on the couch, with Caddyshack finally
muted, you told me you loved me without using those words:  you
told me that when all were gone from the earth, the only person
you thought to look for was me.  Oh, Mulder.  You're the only
one I need too.  Or just about.

Oregon brought us full circle.  Full circle to find the truth.
The truth is our love.  This time, you were in the bed with me,
not sitting on the floor.  This time, you talked about me and my
needs, not about Samantha and your needs.  But you scared me,
Mulder.  You decided I needed a life, after all my many losses:
". . . so much more you need to do with your life.  So much more
than this.  There has to be an end."

To what, Mulder?  To us?  You frightened me.  I never want "us"
to end.  You are part of me, and you always will be.  Losing you
would be---correction, *is*---the greatest loss of all.  My
heart aches for you.

I am so glad that I woke up later, no longer dizzy and chilled.
You were under the covers by then, wearing only your boxers.  We
were turned to each other, my nose buried between your neck and
your collar bone.  You were where I belonged, and I will always
be happy that I woke you up as I wrapped both my arms and legs
around you and burrowed as deeply as I could into your body.

Soon, my clothes were flying to the floor and I rolled on top of
you, tasting your glorious mouth, your nose, your ears, your
neck.  "How do you feel?" you croaked.

"Your hands are all over me.  You tell me."

"Exquisite."

Sometimes your hands are like gossamer.  Sometimes they are so
large and strong that I feel you could pick me up and consume
me.  That night, they were lighter than butterflies' wings.
Your strokes inside me were long and slow and deep, your
fingertips brushing everywhere, setting me afire.  Your earnest
eyes delved into mine.

The words came at last.  The words I hadn't thought I needed,
but now, I am so very, very glad I had them.  Now, what I have
left is the memory.  Of our acts of love, in the field, in our
apartments, and in various beds and baths.  And the words, the
words, the words.  I really did need the words.

"I love you," you said, and you stopped moving.  Your finger
brushed my cheek, pushed back a fugitive lock of hair.  "I have
loved you for years and I will always love you."

A surge of joy flooded through me as I grasped your face in both
hands, aware of your filling me on every conceivable level.  I
was full of you, overflowing with emotion.  "I love you," I
said, pulling you down for a gentle kiss.  "Always."

My vision blurred with tears, and I think yours did as well.  My
hand on your face felt damp as your movements resumed and you
rocked me to a gentle, exquisite climax.  If it was to be the
last time, it was glorious.  I am so glad I woke up, not dizzy,
and could be with you that one last time.

Only a short time at the Bureau remained.  Then, we found
ourselves in a hallway, again.  I'm surprised our first act of
sex didn't occur in a hall.  Come to think of it, it would have
been interesting, but that's another story, isn't it, Mulder.
We took possession of each other there, Mulder, in our last
private conversation, for you were whisked out of there within
the hour.   Verbal possession, I mean.

You turned into a bossy man who suddenly had the right to tell
me what to do:  you weren't going to let me come along.  I was
an abducteee, which they were taking.  You stated your need and
I had to accept it:  "I'm not gonna risk losing you."  This is
love.  We own parts of each other.

And I, in turn, had my own demand:  "I won't let you go alone."

We now had the right to give orders concerning the other's
welfare.  We belong to each other.  We still do, Mulder, and I
will find you and take you back and never let you go.

I sent two protective devices with you since you wouldn't let me
come:  Skinner and my cross.  I would like to have given you a
cathedral.  Or a guardian angel.  Our last private words were
exchanged in a public hallway.  We hugged, we drew back, and
simultaneously, we uttered the same two words.  "Love you,"
emerged from both sets of lips, collided in mid-air, tangled for
a second, then headed toward their targets, like arrows twisting
in a gust of wind.  Message received, chaste kiss exchanged, the
end for who knows how long.

Skinner did his best, I'm sure.  And I'm sure you did as well.
I don't feel ditched, or abandoned.  I remember the tape of my
hypnotic regression, when I was mindlessly drawn to the bridge.
I know first-hand the rapture those forces can unleash.  As I
told the Gun Men, they wanted you.  As usually happens, they got
you.  I have experienced their power.

I want you back.  I want you to hold your child, be here for the
birth.  The miracle birth.  Sometimes technology is not perfect,
and women have hundreds of thousands of ova.  Surely there were
some hiding in crevices.  And we, smart people that we are, KNEW
that I was barren and used no protection, having ascertained
that we were pathetically free from the possibility of STD for
people of our ages.  We live and learn, Mulder.  Or at least, I
hope to.

I am suffering the severe emotional swings of early pregnancy.
Pendulum-like, I careen from joy at the news of the new life
growing inside me---a new life created by us, by our love---and
the despair and worry about where you are and what they're doing
to you.  Will you remember any of it?  Will you remember me, for
that matter?  Will you return?  In what condition?   Are you in
pain?  I would willingly take on your pain, Mulder.

And then, again, my heart leaps up.  I thought I was barren.  I
had despaired.  It's like an oasis springing up in the Sahara.
I pray it is not a mirage.  Maternal instincts hit me with the
force of a freight train, nearly knocking me off my feet.  I
feel like dancing for joy, and the tears run down my face and
blur the paper I'm writing on.

I'm keeping this for you, Mulder, because I know you'll be back.
You have almost singlehandedly taught me the meaning of hope.  I
am a practical person.  I don't expect to find you tomorrow,
although that would be ideal.  But I have a realistic goal---be
back here, Mulder, or let me find you, Mulder, by the time I
feel our child kick for the first time.  I want your hand on my
swollen belly, feeling the force of the life inside.  I want you
to kiss our baby through my flesh.  I want to see the expression
on your face when you fully realize what our love has created.
I want to spend many, many happy years with you.

Come back, Mulder.  I miss you so much.  We need you.  I'm going
to find you.  I promise I will find you and bring you back.

I love you.  Scully

END

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