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
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