Oh, Brother: a translation
Birthday fic for Rae
By ga (garrull@yahoo.com)
Rating: R for language
Category: Kick-ass Scully
Spoilers: post-Triangle (with an anachronistic Arcadia reference tossed in for the hell of it)
Disclaimer: I'll give 'em back, okay? Later
Archive: knock yourself out. See also http://users.rcn.com/garrull
Summary: If he hadn't been in the hospital...
Note: Happy birthday, Rachel! Go get 'em.

You love me.

You love me, Mulder.

Well, you've got one fucked-up way of showing it.

What good to me is your love if you're dead? When I'm standing there at your graveside in black, watching them lower your coffin into the goddamned ground, am I supposed to think "oh, but he loved me" and feel GOOD about it? Am I?

I'm sure you think it's a wonderful, romantic notion that you'd give your life for love, and for your quest. And let me say, I do not doubt that. You have risked your life for me, without question.

But you cheapen the gesture; you sure as hell didn't do this for me.

Nor could you really say that you did it for your quest, except in the loosest possible definition. You didn't expect to find Samantha on that ghost ship. Even if you did find the ship, even if you uncovered the capital-S Secrets of the Bermuda Triangle, it would bring you no closer to proving the existence of extraterrestrial life nor that any government has conspired to cover up same. The best-case scenario is that you'd see something cool.

Mulder, you're too old to die for cool.

I know, you didn't die, this time. Once again, you left just enough clues for me to go chasing after you--after pissing off the weasel in OUR office, our direct superior, and the entire rest of the FBI--and drag your sorry ass out of the water in time to get your heart started again.

Do you know what it costs to charter planes and boats to get to some damn point or other in the middle of the Sargasso Sea? Of course you do, since you did it just before obliging the Gunmen and me to. But, Mulder, my parents didn't have multiple homes on Martha's Vineyard and Quonochontaug. Your mad money (and I do mean mad as in seething outrage) is my entire fucking retirement fund. I don't want your money, and though I can't speak for them I doubt the Gunmen do either, even though they practically had to hock that cruddy VW bus to scrape the cash together--what do YOU think revenues are for The Magic Bullet?

What I do want is for you to take that declaration of love professed so earnestly and think about what it means. For one thing, it is customary to take the loved one's feelings into account when determining behaviors and actions; those who claim to love but don't do that have been known to end up under investigation. Love is a gift to be given unconditionally, not yanked away every time the Weekly World News runs an interesting article nor thrown up as a last-ditch attempt for clemency. But just in case that's what this is about...

It's hard to love a man with a death wish, but, God help me, Mulder, I do. Even when you have done something so pigheaded that I hate the sight of you, I still love you, unconditionally.

Do you hear that, Mulder? I love you.

Don't make me carve it on your tombstone.

Poopyhead.

visit ga at:
http://www.

all of my stories can be found at:
http://www.oocities.org/rachellee7/fanfic.html

Home