TITLE: Living With Words AUTHOR: Susanne Barringer EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net ARCHIVE: Anywhere okay with these headers intact. CATEGORY: SRA KEYWORDS: MSR RATING: PG-13, one "f" word and a couple of other lesser ones. SPOILERS: Up to Redux II SUMMARY: Post Reduxes. Mulder's presumed suicide causes some unanticipated problems between the partners. DISCLAIMER: The characters (and some of the events actually) belong to Chris Carter, 1013, Fox, etc. No infringement intended. NOTE: This is a sort of post-ep/alternative episode kind of thing for Gethsemene and the Reduxes. Yeah, I know I'm a year late. My muse is VERY slow. I got the idea for this story while writing "Snooping." The two stories are totally unrelated except for the fact that I've recycled one of my own ideas (although in a totally different context). ________________ Living With Words by Susanne Barringer I am called to Mulder's apartment. Again. I've already been there once in the last twenty-four hours to identify his body. As if that wasn't enough, Skinner has called me back. As much as I should be worried, I'm not. For some reason, I feel no fear that Mulder's plot has been discovered, that I am being called in for questioning. I trust Mulder. I trust his plan. I trust the decision we have made to carry this thing through. And so I steel myself, not for the possible revelation, but for the act that I must perform. For all intents and purposes, Mulder is dead. I have to remember that. I arrive in front of Mulder's door which is again wide open, like it was last night, the night Mulder allegedly took a shotgun and blew his face off. I'm surprised to see a handful of investigators still combing through Mulder's things. I wonder if Mulder thought about this at all, thought about the fact that people would rummage through all his belongings looking for clues as to why a Federal Agent would suddenly and without warning feel the need to kill himself so violently. I stand just inside the door for I don't know how long, willing myself to perform, to imagine I am wrapped up in a scenario I don't ever want to be true. Finally, Skinner turns and sees me standing there. He will assume I cannot enter because of the violent scene I witnessed last night, my partner's shattered body covered with blood. He walks toward me and places a steadying hand on my arm. "Agent Scully, thank you for coming. I'm sorry to bring you here again, but there's something I need you to look at." I let Skinner guide me by the elbow into Mulder's living room. The scene of the crime, as it were. The blood is still thick on the carpet and I turn away from it. Skinner notices, and I praise myself for my decision. It is a perverse act, to pretend that this spilled blood is my partner's. "Agent Mulder left you a letter," says Skinner, and my attention is narrowed from the activity of the room onto his words. He places a sealed envelope into my hands. "He left a note?" I'm confused. The initial report said there was no suicide note, and Mulder would have told me if he'd written one. That would definitely complicate the issue. "Not exactly," Skinner looks serious. "That letter was found in his desk drawer while we were searching for evidence to shed light on this . . . situation. We have no way of knowing exactly when it was written. It may not be related to this event at all." I look down at the envelope in my hand and read the words printed neatly on the front: "In the event of my death, please deliver to Special Agent Dana Scully, Federal Bureau of Investigation." I realize with a start that this letter is the real thing. It is a real letter Mulder has written to me in case he ever dies. I am not meant to read it now. Not yet. Not ever. When I don't say anything, Skinner continues. "Agent Scully, I realize this is difficult, but I need you to read that letter right now. I need to know if there's anything in it that might help explain this." "Sir, I don't think I can," I answer, not taking my eyes off the words Mulder has written on the front of the envelope. Reading the letter would be a betrayal. He must have forgotten about it. He would not want me to read it--of that I am sure. "Look," Skinner's voice drops to a whisper. "I had to do a lot of maneuvering to get that letter. It's evidence in an investigation of the death of a Federal Agent. I managed to convince them to let me handle it. I thought it might be . . . personal. If it's not relevant, I'll make sure it disappears from the evidence record. Understand? If you don't read it, someone else, someone who doesn't know you or Agent Mulder, will be reading what I'm sure he intended only for your eyes." I should be thankful for what Skinner has done for me and, of course, if this situation was real, I would be. "Thank you, Sir, I appreciate that." What in God's name do I do now? "I'll give you a moment." Skinner steps back and leaves me to read the letter. I sit on Mulder's sofa, right near where the blood that isn't Mulder's has dried into a dark brown stain. Skinner is watching me. I have no choice. I slowly slide my fingernail under the flap of the envelope, desperately grasping for a way to get out of this. I could act overcome with grief or faint or something, but Skinner knows me better than that. Stoic Scully--that's me. I am not stoic now, however. My hands are shaking uncontrollably as I pull out the paper covered in Mulder's distinctive handwriting. This is wrong. This letter is private. I have no right to read it, not while Mulder is still alive and well. I open the paper and decide to just pretend to read it. But I don't. As soon as my eyes rest on the words, I start reading, and once I start, Mulder's words capture my heart and I can't stop. As I read, I feel Skinner's eyes on me, gauging my reaction. I don't have to fake it. Tears flood my eyes and I feel a sob envelop me. Mulder. My dear, sweet Mulder. "Dear Scully, If you're reading this, then the worst has happened. You should not be surprised. We've both always known how dangerous my interests were--it was only a matter of time before someone decided to finish me off for good. I want to tell you not to mourn for me, beautiful Scully, but I know you will. Perhaps you are the only one. Remember our good times, Scully, us, together, fighting the world and all it brought on. We were great at it, weren't we? Together. If there is anything I have done right and purely in my life it was loving you. It was always right--even before I met you. I'm afraid it was wrong for you. I'm sorry I didn't love you better. You brought me nothing but happiness; I fear I brought you nothing but misery. Was there ever a moment when you were happy because of me, Scully? Five minutes? I would suffer all the pain and betrayal of my life all over again for five minutes of making you happy. Perhaps that will be my redemption. And now a request which I know you will honor because I have asked it of you. Save my soul, Scully. Live. Just live. Live as long as you can and go after happiness. As long as you are alive and keep me in your heart, my soul will be saved. Love me, Scully, as you always have, but now by keeping me with you always. When it finally is your time, you will find me waiting for you. I will ride your coattails into heaven. I may not deserve to go there, but I'm sure they'll let me in if only because you knew me and loved me. An angel loved me, and I know that will be my salvation. How did I get so lucky? I love you, Scully. I have never once told you that, but I believe with all my heart that you know. What I fear is that you do not know how much. With all that I am and all that I have, I love you. Carry that with you always and believe that I will do whatever I can from wherever I am to protect you and keep you safe while I wait for you. Love, Mulder" The sobs crash over my body, wracking it with grief. I cannot help myself. Mulder is alive; there's no reason for this to upset me. But his words and the circumstances under which I should be reading them have seeped into my heart and I feel upended, disoriented. Skinner is suddenly standing next to me and I fight to keep control. "Agent Scully, are you okay?" "Yes," I manage to get out. "It's personal, Sir. There's nothing here to help out the investigation." Skinner nods and looks relieved, and I realize he is relieved for me, that my personal life with Mulder won't become a piece of evidence. "Keep the letter, Agent Scully. There's no reason for us to take it." I nod, place the letter into my jacket pocket. Tears are still streaming down my face. "I need to get out of here," I tell Skinner. He touches my arm in sympathy as he nods his agreement. As I walk down the stairs of Mulder's apartment building, my tears turn into anger. With each step down I become angrier, fuming at Mulder. Damn him. How could he have done this to me? How could he have left me this letter to read after he was dead? Didn't he know what this would do to me? Look what it *has* done and he's still alive! What good would it be to know all this after he died? Why hasn't he ever told me these things now, when we're both alive and able to talk about them? By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, Mulder's words have mutated from a beautiful admission of love into a betrayal of all that we are. ************ My rage swells over the next few days. When I am called to testify at the hearing, the anger gives me strength. The barely suppressed fury keeps me controlled, serious, able to lie better than I thought I could. I have to lie to protect Mulder, to keep him alive, because if he dies, the letter will become truth, a truth I can not and will not live with. My anger is mixed with fear. The only thing worse than reading that letter after Mulder's death would be reading that letter and *then* Mulder dying. The next time I see Mulder, he is officially alive and I am the one who is dying. I am, in fact, knocking at death's door, and Mulder is here for me, holding my hand and loving me. There are moments when I think I understand his letter because I feel so many things that I want to tell him, but don't. At the same time, my anger lingers. I hate him for thinking that anything could ease the loss of him, especially the shared secret of long-held but unexpressed feelings and doubts. I am too busy fighting, though, to concentrate on that anger. I want to live. I have no time to worry about Mulder dying. Still, I know that I will tell him what I want to say before I die, and I will ask him for the answers to what I need to know. I will not write down those things for after the fact. I will have the courage he does not have. As it turns out, I do not have to. I live. Mulder lives. The letter hovers between us like invisible words. It has become something that I should not know. When I am finally able, once again, to concentrate on my future, I know that I must bring the words to light. I cannot keep this secret. I cannot allow it to eat away at me, killing me more slowly and painfully than the cancer that I have just defeated. When Mulder comes to see me, I look into his face and know that I must speak the truth. There can only be truth between us if we are to survive. He enters my hospital room, kisses me as has become his custom, and sits in a chair nearby. He takes my hand in his and asks me how I am feeling. This is our usual routine. Without any warning to him, I break it. "Mulder, I read the letter," I announce. Mulder looks confused. "What are you talking about, Scully? What letter?" "The letter you wrote me, in the event of your death." I actually *see* the blood drain out of Mulder's face. "Oh my God. Scully. Oh God, I totally forgot about that. I never meant for you to read that." Mulder looks panicked as he lets go of my hand and moves back in his chair, away from me. "I know, Mulder. I didn't have a choice. The investigators found it and Skinner made me read it to see if there was anything in it to explain your suicide." "Oh my God." "I'm sorry, Mulder. I never would have read it if I didn't have to. Skinner was standing right there waiting." "You read the whole thing?" Mulder looks upset, nervous. "Yes. I know I shouldn't have. What you said, Mulder, it . . ." "You weren't supposed to know those things, at least not now." Although I have decided to face Mulder without anger, his words send me into a frenzy of frustration. "And what good would they do me after you're dead?" I hear my voice rising with the fury that has been building since his words first pierced my soul. "Did you think that letter would make me feel better? Did you? Did you think it would make me feel better to have you say those things when you're dead and buried and there's nothing I can do about them? No way to answer you? What were you thinking, Mulder? How could you think I would *want* to know all that? Too fucking late, Mulder, way too late." Mulder looks stunned, and hurt, and I realize that my words are not what he expected. "I'm sorry, Scully. I guess I just wanted to make sure that you knew how I felt about you. I didn't want you to live and not know, just in case you weren't sure." "Oh, and the only way I'd find out is if somebody killed you? Great, Mulder. It was okay for me to live and maybe even die not knowing those things as long as you were alive. Why didn't you just tell me, Mulder? Then you wouldn't have to write me some goddammed pathetic letter to read after you're dead." Mulder looks at me in a way I have never seen. The hurt is written on his face as clearly as his own words in that stupid letter. "I don't understand, Scully. I don't understand why this makes you so angry." I'm not sure I understand myself. I'm not sure how Mulder's words, so beautiful to me when I first read them, have become this barrier between us. I should love the words, commit them to my heart, and love him for writing them to me, but all I can focus on is the betrayal I feel. I am betrayed by his lack of faith in us, in me. And, I realize, I am guilty about my own betrayal. Four years with Mulder and he doesn't know how happy he's made me. That can only be my own fault. How could I not have told him? Mulder continues, despite my silence. "I didn't know how important it was. I just thought that if I died, you'd want to know that I believed--I believed I'd still be with you, that I'd wait for you. I just wanted to leave you with something . . ." "Don't leave me at all, Mulder. Don't ever leave me." I know full well it is a promise he cannot make. If my cancer has taught me anything it is that life and death are unpredictable. To ask this of Mulder is not fair. His silence reminds me of that. "Scully . . ." Mulder is looking at me in shock and I can see tears welling up in his eyes. But he says nothing. For some reason, that only fuels my irritation. From somewhere deep inside of me, from the part that is barely recognizable as myself, all the frustration and anger of my entire life come exploding out, right into Mulder's lap. "I swear to you, Mulder, if you had died and left me that letter, I would have hated you! I would have hated you until the day I died! And then, if you were waiting for me, I would have dragged you down to hell with me to pay you back for the hell of making me live without you!" And then Mulder is crying and I feel bad, but not bad enough to comfort him. He stands up and leaves me, and I do not stop him from walking out the door. I am alone, more alone than I would be if Mulder were really dead. There are distances greater than that between heaven and earth; I have just sent Mulder that far. The letter burns in the pocket of my robe. Its words scorch my skin and weld my heart shut against the love I know they contain. Yet, I hold onto it. I continually reach into my pocket to touch the envelope, to make sure it is still there. I have every word memorized. So why does it hurt me so much? I do not see Mulder for four days. I am released from the hospital, sent home with orders to rest, and still he does not come. I do not blame him, but that does not stop it from killing me. ******** On the fifth day, Mulder comes to see me. He arrives at my door without warning. He is wearing jeans and an old T-shirt and it looks like he hasn't shaven in the four days we've been apart. I wonder where he's been. He looks different, changed, but somehow still the same. The same Mulder, always and forever. My Mulder. I know now with unwavering certainty he belongs to me. In this life, in the next life, for eternity. Why does he not know that about me? My mother is here, and Mulder greets her with a strained smile. "I need to talk to Scully," he tells her. "It's important." His voice is tight, controlled. My mother looks at me. I nod my assent, so she leaves my apartment. She leaves us alone. Mulder sits in a chair across from where I am stretched out on the sofa, still not having fully recovered from the disease that has sapped my strength and resuscitated my beliefs. Long moments pass during which neither of us speak. I don't need to hear his words to know what he is feeling. He is the one who is angry now. It reaches across the canyon between us, settling over me, smothering me. I look up at him and he is staring at me. His glare makes me uncomfortable, but I do not look away. I know that if I do, we will never be the same. We will never recover. "Scully." His voice catches on my name and I flinch with the emotion that is ticking between us. So much unsaid--yet, he has come here to say something. He begins again. "Scully, I don't understand. I realize you are hurt, but I have tried and tried and I still don't understand why. You act like I did it on purpose. I wrote that letter to you to let you see into my heart. I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't write it to leave you hating me, or hating us. How could you think that?" His words burrow into my heart which has been, at least lately, shut off to him. I know he is right. As angry as I was at him, he did not do it intentionally. It is my own guilt that eats away at me now. Mulder gets up and comes over to me on the couch. He starts to sit, then waits for me to move my legs out of the way. I do, but only because he leaves me no choice. He sits beside me and turns so he faces me. I've pulled my legs up in front of me, my arms wrapped around my knees, and I am glad for this barrier between us. "Tell me, Scully. Tell me REALLY why that letter bothered you." At last, Mulder has hit the heart of the matter. He has figured it out. My anger at him was only half of the story; it was just as much anger at myself. We are both equally responsible for not being honest with each other. After four years together, after all we've been through, we should not have to ask. That is what I tell Mulder. "Mulder, how could you doubt me? How could you think that I was miserable all the time we knew each other? Four years, Mulder! Four years! You shouldn't have to ask me if you've ever made me happy. You should have known. You just should have known, the same way you knew that I loved you." Mulder nods but says nothing. He is giving me my chance to speak. "Oh, god, Mulder. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I never let you know I was happy." The tears spill from my eyes and all the frustration of the last few weeks comes rushing out along with them. "Your letter, Mulder. I couldn't believe you didn't know. I couldn't believe that you might have died believing that all you did was make me miserable." Mulder leans closer to me and touches my hand. I instinctively pull my knees up tighter. Mulder doesn't fail to notice, and he backs off. "Right, Scully. I've just made you so happy that you can't even stand me touching you. That really helps convince me." The softness of his face as I spoke my fears has now turned to a hardness, a grimace. I have hurt him again. When will we stop hurting each other? Will we ever be able to say all that is in our hearts without the pain and hurt of the unspoken which has festered for too long? "Touch me again," I say without thinking. I lower my knees to stop sending the signal that I am unapproachable. Mulder looks at me, doubt still swimming in his eyes. He moves closer to me one more time, but tentatively. I throw my legs off the sofa and turn so that we are sitting next to each other. Mulder takes my hand again. I allow it. In fact, I hold on for dear life. We sit like that for a long time. No words, no threats, no tears. Just touch. In that time, all between us over the last few days drifts away slowly, like fog, allowing us room to breathe again. "There's your five minutes, Mulder," I finally say. "What?" he looks at me curiously. "You asked if you ever made me happy for even five minutes. You just did." Mulder looks at me in astonishment, like he can't believe it. "Why is that so hard for you to believe, Mulder?" "It's not," he says thoughtfully. "But what am I supposed to live for now?" I smile at him and I can see in his eyes that my smile has lifted a weight from him. "More of it, I guess." "Maybe I should set my goals high and aim for an hour," he suggests. "How about a lifetime?" I ask without hesitation and realize just as the words pass over my lips how much I really mean it. Mulder looks at me with his soul pressed wide open and glittering in his eyes. "I could do that, Scully. I swear I could." What easily could have become playful banter between us suddenly carries the full weight of our long-unspoken connection. "Then do it," I say. In that split second, it is all said. All of it. So easily, so simply, no fanfare or brass bands or flowery rhetoric to wrap around it. Just the pure, honest truth of four years of feelings blanketed in a few simple words. Just us. Mulder and me. And suddenly, nothing will ever be the same again. Mulder opens up his arms and I go to him. I live. I save his soul. We don't have to ask or wonder anymore. ___________ END Feedback welcomed at: sbarringer@usa.net