Little Conversations, A Letter In The Dark

NEW: "Little Conversations, A Letter In The Dark"
By Shelba

Author: Kits1013
E-mail Address: [email protected]
http://www.geocities.com/secret_jedi/
Spoilers: Vienen, Nothing Important Happened Today
Archive: Ephemeral, Goss, IWTB
Category: MSR, Angst, Missing Fox Fic
Summary:
Don't forget me Scully. It's the only thing that makes me real.

The Little Conversations
On me are very rough
They leave me all in pieces
You know there's never time enough
like a book with missing pages
like a story incomplete
like a painting left unfinished
it feels like not enough to eat.
Starvin' by Concrete Blonde

Location: Unknown.
Date: Today, and every day.

My dear Scully,

I hope you don't mind my calling you "My Scully" but that's
how I think of you. I know it sounds territorial, and by God,
I admit it. It is. *I* am. I don't care. I can just see you rolling
your eyes at how caveman it sounds, but it's all I can do, to keep
from coming back there, and dragging you off to my lair.

Sometimes, when it seems that I'm finally thinking clearly, I think
that when you told me to go, I should have had the courage to tell
you to get on with your life. But, then, I think of you in someone
else's arms and William calling some other man 'father,' and the
grief brings me to my knees.

It kills me, but this separation may be permanent. I know that
whoever is hunting me, will one day catch me. When they do, I
know, that will be the end. And there will be no one to tell you,
that I won't be coming back.

It wears me down some days, Scully.

I've chased enough men to know; no one can run forever.
Sooner, or later, a determined hunter will run their prey to the
ground. But I've never been a quitter Scully. I won't quit now.
So, I take out the picture of you and me and William, and that
helps, but I keep imagining that I should not have been in that
picture at all.

One thing I am sure of is, if I can come home, I will.

Death will be the only thing that keeps me from you. Hell.
The freaky way my life has been, even that might not be
enough.

I want you to remember, Scully, I am "your Mulder" and
pray that if I can ever stop running, you will still want me.

Hell. I'm rambling. What am I talking about? It doesn't matter.
Even if you *don't* want me, I'm yours. And in my mind and heart,
you will forever be "My Scully." It feels so damned good to say
that. "My Scully." I guess I can get by with calling you that. You
aren't close enough to kick my ass for it. God. I wish you were.
I'd take any amount of ass kicking, if it were your little feet doing
the pounding. I'll just sit here and imagine, I'm there groveling at
your pretty pink feet and you'll take pity on me and won't hurt me.

I know writing this letter is risky, but if I can't tell you what I'm
thinking, what I'm feeling, I'll go mad.

I miss the daylight, Scully. I don't go too many places during
the day, and it's been so long since I felt the sun on my skin,
that I'm starting to look like an X-file. Spooky, huh?

When I sleep, I sleep during the day. I travel at night, and
when I run, I run at night. I can usually find a high school with
a track. I miss the road running, but it takes me too far
from my car or motel. It's pretty boring, but I had to ditch
my stuff one day, when our pal "Billy" got too close. Luckily,
most of my things were in my car. It was parked away
from my room, so all I lost was some toiletries,
but even so, I don't risk it very often.

Talk about a close shave. I shook for two days.

I miss color. I used to wear colored running clothes and
never realized how I took that for granted. I miss my
colored ties " and no, I don't care what you say, they were
not "hideous ties." But, I miss the look you'd give me, when
I'd wear a new one. I miss the feel of your breath on my
cheek as you fussed about them, and the feel of your hands
while you straightened them. I know you swiped a couple
of them to keep me from wearing them again.
I wonder, sometimes; do you still have any of my ties?

Since I have to make sure my clothes will blend in with the
shadows when I move at night, I wear dark blues and blacks
and if I'm feeling adventurous, I'll get brown.

I go to those 24 hour stores to buy food and to get stuff for
when I move. The employees are used to the odd night people
and so, pay little attention to a lanky red/blonde/brown haired
man wearing all black and bad eyeliner. There is less chance
of my raising eyebrows when I purchase hair color and makeup,
if I do it at night.

I'm moving to a less cosmopolitan part of the country, now,
and a little while ago, I over heard a trucker saying something
about "Damn queers showing up everywhere" so I'm sitting here,
writing and waiting for that truck driver to leave. It's time to
wash off the eye shadow and toss the Goth jewelry into a trash
can.

Next stop, the black clothes will go it into a dumpster and I'll
transform into a 'good ole boy.' Good thing that I've seen
enough Good Ole Boys, so I know how to approximate their
clothing. I'll hate that, but at least plaid isn't solid black.
This little car has been reliable, but it's time to get rid of it,
too. It will be good to know I can get by with carrying a shotgun
and rifle in the back, when I find a truck. The accents in this
part of the country aren't too thick, so I think I can get by.
And like I said, going out at night, makes it less likely that I'll
have to speak.

God, I miss talking to people. I miss chatting with the other
runners at the track. I miss my basketball homeys. I wonder
if that freckle faced Starbuck's clerk, who always popped her
gum as she told me about her boyfriends, wonders where I've
gone. I even miss the bustle of the Hoover and the hassle of
working with other departments on cases. I'd love to get an
ass chewing by Skinner, and I could even stand to argue with
Dog Breath.

How *is* "John" anyway?

Shit. I'm sorry. I know he's a good guy. He tried to keep me
from taking the fall for that refinery fire and I think he may
have saved me from a law-suit and may have even kept me
out of jail. He took a risk when he talked to that oil company's
PTB. I don't remember if I ever got the chance to thank him.

I know that he and Monica are there to help you, now. And,
I know he was there for you when I was gone and he watched
your back. And forgive me for being selfish, but I am so jealous,
I could die.

God, I miss you, Scully. More than I ever thought I could miss
anything. I miss everything about you. I miss your laugh; I miss
the feel of your hand on mine. I miss the taste of your lips. I
miss the smooth feel of your lipstick when you kissed me, and I
miss kissing it off you.

I miss watching you paint your toenails, and how you blushed
when I told you that the color of pink you were using, was the
exact same color as your sweet lips. I still laugh, remembering
the appalled look on your face, when you realized *which* lips
I meant.

Didn't think that damned bruise on my arm would ever clear up.
Didn't even *try* to explain away that tiny fist shaped mark.
Didn't have to. One of my basketball pals asked where I got it.
Another held his hand up, just so, and said, "Redhead." Those
assholes just high-fived each other, and laughed. There was
no point in denying it. They'd seen you. They all knew how I
felt, how I feel, about you.

Well, Scully, it seems that my trucker pal has moved on. I
am starting to attract some attention from some other
folks, so I guess I'd better get inside and clean up a bit, and
get moving myself.

I love you. I miss you. I want to come home and hold you and
never let you go. Kiss William for me. Please take lots of
pictures, Scully. I can't stand not being there, as he grows.

Don't forget me Scully. It's the only thing that makes me real.

Yours,
Mulder

The black-clad man pulled a bag from his trunk and walked back
to the rest stop. He stopped for a moment, and stared at his
reflection in the glass doors. He'd finally become accustomed to
the sun-starved pallor and the makeup and the black clothes.
It had taken a while to get used to applying it, but the result had
been worth it. Most of the Goths thought he was a middle aged
'poser,' and so ignored him. The mundanes he met, thought he
was "one of them" and so, steered clear of him. A few people,
both men and women, had tried to pick him up, but a snarl and a
look in his hard eyes was enough to make them run.

He carried the letter into the restroom and held it over the
trash can, then slowly pulled his hand back. To the hell with it.
He could not mail it, and it was risky to carry it, but he had felt
so close to her while writing it, he decided to hold on to it for a
while.

He removed his necklace and carefully wiped the pewter cross
clean, and soon it was in the bottom of the overflowing trash can.
He tucked the makeup kit back into his bag. He knew he'd need it
again at some point, so he would stash it in his gear for future use.

A few minutes later, he emerged from the men's restroom. He
was clean faced and his clothes were still black, but the necklace
and skull head earring were gone, and he hoped he looked like a
casual traveler. He laughed. Casual traveler, indeed.

He tucked the letter into his shirt pocket near his heart, and
stopped at the snack machines. His hands shook a bit, as
his coins clanked into the slots. He grabbed some chips and
a coke, and thought, 'next truck stop, coffee, and sunflower
seeds.'

He couldn't allow himself many thoughts beyond that act.
Tomorrow, another town. Another motel. Another day
without Scully. And, he hoped, another day closer to being
able to go home and give her his letter, and to kiss her
pretty lips.

Fin

For Sallie, a dear MSR friend, who suffered BetaTrauma while
working on a M/K fic for me. It's angsty, dear, but is about
De Love.
Thanks to Logan for Beta. Any mistakes are in spite of his advice,
and can probably be attributed to Post Beta TInkering.
Thanks to Char, for reminding me that even though
I may stray down other paths with a dear friend, MSR is my
true love.

Lyrics of "Little Conversations"
By Concrete Blonde

The Little Conversation
Is Over Very Soon
And I watch in admiration
From my corner of the room.
They shine on you with starry eyes...
They rain a friendly storm.
Like kids around a Christmas tree
And then you smile all nice and warm

The Little Conversations
If I tried my very best
you know I never could say anything
In twenty words or less.
Somewhere, sometime, down the line
someday I may confess,
and spill it all. that's all

these little conversations
well for me they'll never do
now what am I supposed to do with
broken sentences of you?
i'll stay in my corner `cause
that's all that i can do
and let the others speak for me.
Little Conversations
Are We.

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