~

‘Wishes’

~

I wish there were something good on television.

God knows I could use the distraction from the turbulent thoughts
careening through my brain. But there is nothing but infomercials and
music videos. Snapping the TV off angrily with a flick of my wrist, I
sink back against my sofa, legs curled tightly beneath the afghan my
Grandmother made for me so many years ago. I stare at the now lifeless
television set, as though begging it for inspiration of some kind.
Perhaps it might give me the wisdom, the compassion I seek.

I wish I had all the answers.

Mulder expects me to sometimes. I know he does. He looks to me as though
I’m Einstein, Plato and the fucking Encyclopedia Britannica all rolled
into one. He expects me to find science and proof to support his
theories. He wants me to validate them, to give them merit and worth. He
needs me to listen. I sometimes fail in that; I sometimes forget to
listen. We both do. His failure to listen just seems to occur at the
worse possible moments. Fox William Mulder has a terminal case of bad
timing. I =needed= him to hear me about Diana Fowley. I think he
eventually did, but by then, it was too late. The damage between us had
been done and there was nothing left to do but figure out how to fix it.

I wish he hadn’t kissed her.

It’s an image I’ve had in my head since I caught on there was something
between the two of them. It’s an image that has tortured me in the
recesses of my subconscious, teasing me after our encounter in Mulder’s
hallway. Whenever I’d see them standing too close to one another, I’d
wonder – were they even closer last night? Even with nothing to base my
suspicions on, I hadn’t been able to contain my imagination. That he’s
given me proof now, so many months later, is no comfort.  I hate to
admit that even our first real kiss was tinged with thoughts of her, at
least on my end. We were able to deny what had almost happened for six
months – a new record for us, I believe.  Something took its toll on
Christmas. We’d survived that house of horrors – be they real or
imagined. We’d come through it, with words like ‘together for all
eternity’ running through our minds. Add the Christmas presents that
were a splash of joy for each of us and we couldn’t deny it anymore.

The memory of the first time we kissed is accompanied with a bittersweet
emotion. Because in my mind’s eye, I can see him kiss her and I know
damn well she didn’t feel the way I do when he kisses me. She didn’t
feel alive and loved and wanted; didn’t love and want him in return. She
didn’t feel as though she’d finally found somewhere to call home,
resting in the embrace of the only man she’d ever allowed herself to
love with her whole self. She didn’t know how God damn lucky she was to
have Fox Mulder believe in her, even after he’d been presented with
=proof= that she wasn’t trustworthy. I wonder if she knows how much I
fucking hate her because he had to go to her to know the truth, instead
of just =believing= me.

I wish Mulder had as much faith in me as I have in him.

I know that’s not entirely fair. I know what I mean to him – at least, I
suspect. It’d just be really nice to have him prove it. It would be nice
if, just one fucking time, he would take me on nothing but my word; that
he would accept that maybe – just =maybe= - I was right, even if that
meant he could be wrong.

Even as I lament his lack of faith in me, I realize I cannot fault him
for it. Why should he have faith in me, when I have none in myself? I
doubt almost everything I’ve held as gospel since I was a child.  I lost
my faith somewhere in-between the night Deep Throat was murdered and the
day Emily died. For a long while now, I have been left with only the
faith I have in him. I have allowed it to carry me through the darkness.
I have allowed him to become the most important person in my life; the
one whom I trusted above all others. It never occurred to me that he
might not feel the same.

I wish it had occurred to me.

If it had, I might’ve been able to prepare myself for the last few days.
I might’ve been able to erect the proper barricade, to fortify my heart
for such total deconstruction.  I don’t think I’d ever wanted to hit him
harder than when he had the balls to tell me I had allowed ‘this thing
to become personal’. Like his life’s work hasn’t been personal, based on
a little boy still trying to find his sister.  His insistence to take
Diana Fowley’s side, even presented with the proof the Gunmen and I had
supplied, is proof that =he’s= the one operating from a personal stance.

And why =shouldn’t= I fucking take it personally? My sister is dead
because some stupid fuck mistook someone nearly a foot taller, with
longer hair, for me. I lost three months of my life I will never get
back; will probably never know what occurred to me during. A chip in the
back of my neck caused me to almost die from Cancer upon its removal. A
child I never gave birth to, but through some perversion of science was
still mine, died in my arms, a meager few days after I’d met her. Every
belief I’ve ever had has been ripped to shreds by his whims, by his
all-encompassing need for the truth. Who the =fuck= does he think he is
to tell me not to take this personally? I hate him sometimes; especially
when I think about everything that’s gone wrong in my life I could so
easily blame on him.

I wish I could blame him.

I wish I meant that.

The cruel truth of my life is that I can’t hate him; not really. I love
him too much. He’s a breath of fresh air in what can often be a stale
life. He is a sip of ambrosia nectar, while all others around us drink
warm water. He is color, against a black and white background; a single
red rose among fields of dandelions. I still romanticize him in my own
head sometimes; still see him as perfect for split seconds of time.
These seconds never last, but the fact that they still exist proves
something to me.

We are real.

What we have together is precious and real and rare and hard and
frustrating and rewarding and painful and life affirming and calming and
healing and a thousand other things I couldn’t begin to list in a
millennium. Mulder can be an amazing prick; I know this. But he can also
be the kindest man to ever walk this earth. His capacity for empathy is
unmatched in my experience. I have known men who try their best; have
known them to strive for some level of excellence society expects from
its best and brightest.

Mulder leaves each and every one of them in the dust, without even
trying. It isn’t something he learned or even attempts to duplicate;
it’s the essence of being Mulder. He has a gift; a unique and precious
gift that gives him something indescribable. Some call it just being who
he is. Melissa would’ve called it his aura. I like to think of it as his
light – the biggest, brightest white light that seems to glow from
within, shining through the layers of anguish and darkness that dwell
inside him. That light shoots straight through my soul when we’re at our
darkest. It gives me an excuse to forgive him anything.

Couple it with the kaleidoscope of colors and emotions he calls eyes and
I never really stood a chance. He possesses every part of me; knows me
like no other; myself included. Yet somehow, it has escaped his notice
that the one want I have is to hold him close to my heart, to keep him
safe and warm. How he could know me so totally and not know that is
beyond my comprehension.

My eyes are drawn from the blank television before me, to the window. I
look out and see a star; I’m sure Mulder would tell me it was the planet
Venus, for no star shining in the night sky is ever that bright. I stare
at it for a long while, absorbing its light, comparing it to the mental
image I have of Mulder’s. Somehow, the star is left wanting in my eyes.

I wish I could make him see what he means to me.

I wish he wouldn’t make me so God damned angry.

Mostly, I wish I knew where he went tonight; wish I knew when he was
coming home, if he was coming home.

Mulder, I wish you were home.

~

END