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Mulder pours his heart out in a Journal letter
not meant for her ladyship to see.
Rated: G
Category: MA, Mulder POV.
Spoilers: None. Put it somewhere in Season 6.
It all started with an innocent anonymous letter I wrote that she
was not meant to read. But, as I had to leave my room for a few
moments to separate two drunks after an all-nighter, she happened
into my room and read the thing and now look who's about to confront
whom. I wrote in the wee hours of the morning...
The sun in your hair, the gleam in my eye, and here were are chasing
down some numb-skull who forgot that stealing satellite signals and
selling them as a service is illegal. Still, I have never had such
a beautiful partner assigned to me.
When was the last time we had an office to ourselves since they
closed us down for the second time? The atmosphere in the office
reminds me of that 'no talking in class' rule and the stuffiness
drives me crazy. (Call me sentimental, but I prefer that mildew in
the basement to the regular ones any day). No breathing and no
talking. No more playing solitaire when we get bored. No more word
association.
Yes, all the 'ever wonder?' questions get asked in some rental car
on a dusty highway, nowadays. And then, it's a so-long-see-you-
on-Monday and the weekend magically appears ever so quickly.
Now I KNOW they're not only whispering about me, they're out to
get me.
You were right, of course, about asking if I ever wanted a normal
life. I said I was living a normal life. Put people on rows of
desks and ask them to research the normal crimes, they might say
that is a normal life. To me, it's a slow, horrible death caused
by boredom and water cooler paper cups.
The idiot who turned up the volume on the radio to blast out
'Spooky little girl like you... ' lyrics should have been shot.
Too bad I grabbed your gun. I guess I wanted to shoot him myself.
When we're on the road, we never talk. Not really. Yet, we're so
close we nearly think along parallel lines. How many people have
actually just assumed we were married? And yet, we haven't done
anything married people or even engaged people do. Yet each is
only a touch, a word, a room, or a call away. We spend more time
together than most married people, we just happen to be of the
opposite sex, same thoughts pretty much lately, with a few
discrepancies, but we...
As I was saying, the sun in your hair, the gleam in my eye, and
here we are chasing down some satellite signal thief. Then, we
will retire to our separate motel rooms, clean up, write in our
journals, make a few case notes, I'll go to you and compare notes,
and then it's to sleep we go, only to investigate, write and confer
until the case is summarized, maybe with a few innuendos and bad
jokes from me along the way.
Maybe it's fate. Maybe we're two very stubborn people. Maybe we're
too stupid to realize what other people have been saying for so long
right to our faces, (not to mention in the office behind our backs).
The office pool has us secretly married and living in a secret
apartment with our phone calls forwarded to Alexandria and
Georgetown. They must love watching their taped soap operas at
night. What imaginations.
Well, we are who we are. If we do decide to take anything a step
further, will the world really come to an end? And if you are NOT
asking this same question of yourself right now, why the hell not?
What on earth are you dreaming when I can hear though the
adjoining motel room walls? I hear you calling me, yet you're fast
asleep when I get there, so I close the door and wander back to my
bed. You are not being taken again, that's for certain. Maybe you
fear one of us has been lost in the forest with no breadcrumbs, sent
there to be forgotten by the mean old FBI vultures devouring them as
we each leave them for the other to follow. I have that one sometimes.
When Donnie Pfaster twice tried to kill you. I got there on time.
When I was shot and feverish, alone in a godforsaken motel you
were there for me. You came when I called. You treated my shock,
my seizures and my aching psyche.
Well it all has to stop sometime. Just because I got up early
this morning to write this, doesn't mean I'm not up to having it
out right here, in the middle of this dusty small town. Tonight
I will definitely lay it on the line...
"Lay what on the line, Mulder?"
Yup, she read my private little letter, which, if it had been
on paper would be torn up, because it's that kind of thing you
write and tear up, or delete in this case... I'm in trouble.
"Oh, this? Trying out for a short story contest in a writer's
magazine... "
"Not. Try again. Only, save the fiction?"
"Private Journal, Scully. You keep one, may I remind you?"
"Well, I came in here looking for you to see if you'd decided on
any new theories on who the accomplices could be, and I thought
maybe you'd been entering them into the laptop before the scene
broke out in the parking lot."
"But you read it." Oh, no. I am SOOOO embarrassed. Scared.
Caught red-handed. My face is candy apple red, I just know it.
"No," she said, smiling. That's good. She's smiling. But maybe
she's smiling to cover a lie that she did read it...
"Just like you didn't read my journal entry when I was undergoing
cancer treatment. So, do you want to talk about it? Tonight? Right
in the middle of this dusty small town? Lay it on the line?"
Gulp. Wish me luck here, somebody. "Sure. How about we catch
Sid Balovich in the act today? I think we can wrap it up and be outta
here by... "
"Sure. Fine. Get the wire-tap gear and I'll get the camera. We never
talk. Look, maybe someday we will. Cheer up, Mulder. You're not in
the dog house."
That was the third best reprieve I have ever had. Second was not
dying from the brain disorder. The third, well, I am alive.
END
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