Title: Gold to Thinness Author: Maria Nicole e-mail: marianicole29@yahoo.com Rating: PG Disclaimer: Not mine; 1013's. Archival: Anywhere this goes automatically is fine. Anyone else, please ask first. Classification: SRA Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance Spoilers: A blink-and-you'll-miss-it one for Triangle. Summary: "Our two souls, therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion Like gold to airy thinness beat." --John Donne, "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" Just a little short something in response to a Scullyfic challenge to have one character write a love letter to another. Gold to Thinness Maria Nicole My dearest cupcake, So there I was, sweet petunia, on the 16th hole of the golf course, wondering why I'd ever volunteered to play this game in the first place. I was close to par, but it looked as if we was still going to lose when I made a great drive. Not a hole-in-one, but a hole-in-two--as close to perfection as I'll ever get. Upshot of this is, our team won by two, and the business deal is going to go through. Playing golf is the damndest way of getting a contract that I ever saw, but it worked. I assume that things are going per plan on your side of the business. I just got your letter dated the 17th yesterday--mail's slow to get here--and was glad to hear that the business deal with Smithers went through without a hitch. Proud of you, sweet pea. I was a little worried to hear about the near-accident that you had on the way back--as you say, it was probably just some kids joyriding, and there was no harm done, but some drivers just don't belong on the road. You know, it's the strangest thing, because I woke up that Thursday with the feeling that something was wrong somewhere, and then it went away a few minutes later. I figured that if there was something wrong in your corner of the world it had resolved itself, but I was relieved when your letter confirmed that you were all right. Although this just confirms what my Aunt Sally always said, how people can be in touch on a spiritual level. Now I know, honeybunch, that you don't believe that my Aunt Sally had the second sight, you just think she was a creepy old gossip who learned what she knew because she snooped around people's purses and eavesdropped, but you have to admit that her intuition was right on sometimes. At any rate, it's a little bit of a comfort to know that we're still in touch on a more immediate level than paper and pen. It would have been nice if we could have gone together on this business trip instead of having to head in separate directions for the good of the company. I hate to think that we left our home behind. As you may have heard, there's been a rash of burglaries in our area, and I don't like the thought of some punkass teenager like the one who nearly ran you off the road rifling through all the things we've built up over--God, we've been in that house seven years, haven't we? It doesn't seem like that long. But most of the things in our house can be replaced, of course, and we won't have any income to live on if the business goes under. But what do you say we go away for a few weeks by ourselves after this is over? Maybe Bermuda--after all, that is where I first told you I loved you. And call me a sentimental fool (or whichever half of that term you think most applies), but I'd like to go back there together and spend some times on the beaches, rubbing sunscreen onto your back and watching your face freckle. Yes, sugar dumpling, I'm well aware of the fact that you get a few freckles when you spend too much time in the sun, even if you do try to cover them with makeup. Your secret is safe with me. I'm glad to hear that Johnny was able to check on your mom for you, to make sure that she's doing all right. They're calling us to go to a strategy meeting over dinner. I think the cooks (well, that's what they call themselves) are trying Mexican tonight. I'll finish up this letter after dinner, then, and let you know the latest news. Bad news. I don't know if you ever met Jenny, but her husband--he's in law enforcement--was gunned down on a drug deal gone sour. She found out at dinner--she was all antsy because he was supposed to join us, and he was late, and then Matt came in with the news. Jesus, it's hard to watch someone's world go to hell that quickly. I wish you were here. I know you're safe, I know I'd know if something was wrong, but I still want you here so that I can touch you. It scares me, knowing that you're so far away, that I'm not there to yank you from the path of oncoming traffic and vice versa. It scares me shitless to know that one night, I could wake up in the middle of the night and *know* that something's wrong, but the feeling might not go away, it might just get worse. Spiritual communion, my ass, I want you here body and soul. I miss you. I'm sitting here in my room with my dinner of what they're calling taco salad, mostly congealed cheese on half-stale tortilla chips. And all I can think about is the last time we ordered Mexican, in that hotel in Denver, the way your mouth tasted like sour cream and guacamole, and your eyes closed and you said my name with a sigh and stretched against me. I imagine you reading this letter, with your hair messy and your glasses on and your makeup off, dressed in a little tight t-shirt and jeans (yeah, yeah, this is my imagination), with those two little vertical creases between your eyebrows that you get when you're concentrating. And I would give any amount of money, any possession I have, to be there right now, smoothing those lines away with my finger, pulling off that t-shirt slowly and kissing the place where your neck and your collarbone meet. When we're in our strategy meetings, I can almost hear your voice; I know what you would say, what cautions you would give. But I don't know whether, if I called you dear cupcake to your face, you would actually kill me then and there or only give me a look that promised later revenge. Or if you'd do neither and simply say, "Yes, darling fruitcake?" I don't know; you've always surprised me. I imagine your hands, typing your letters to me (and yes, sentimental fool that I am, I miss the smooth, familiar curves of your handwriting, even though I know that typing is, among other things, faster), and I miss their touch more than I can say. I miss watching your hands as they gesture to emphasize some point in an argument or examine some object with complete competence. I miss the way your mind works, how you can cut through layers of bullshit without even thinking about it, how you see the clearest path and all its pitfalls. I miss the way we make each other's minds work faster, the exhilaration of working ideas out without having to explain them step by step, because we know where each other is going. I know you're needed at your end, to cut through all the crap there, but it doesn't stop me from wanting you here as well, or wishing I were there with you. I have to go--Ted is going out to deliver the mail, and I wanted you to know the results of the golf game as soon as possible. We're putting off the strategy meeting for a few days, until we know what exactly went wrong with Jenny's husband's death. I'll let you know what strategy we take. Take care--seven years isn't long enough, and I do want to see your freckles in Bermuda. Love you, sweet petunia, M. End feedback always appreciated at marianicole29@yahoo.com