Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to Chris Carter,
1013 Productions, and Fox. The characters are used without
permission, but with no intention of infringement.
Please do not forward, archive or quote this story anywhere
without permission.
Summary: This is a Field Where I Died post-episode story. You
won't understand it at all without having seen that episode.
Thanks to Becky for suggesting the end.
Category: MSR, Story
Rating: NC17
The Letter
by Shalimar
shalimar@earthling.net
copyright 1997
Part 1/3
Scully jumped down from the Explorer and slammed the door behind
her. She glanced over her shoulder at the main street of the
small Tennessee town.
No one was paying any attention to her.
And why should they be?
She eyed the large white Victorian building that housed the
Hamilton County Historical Society. It seemed innocent enough.
But then so had this case.
Slowly she climbed the steps to the wide porch. A small sign was
posted beside the front door.
Open 11:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. Tuesday - Thursday
Scully glanced at her watch. Good. She had an hour before
closing time.
She pushed open the door.
A smell of mustiness tickled her nose as she stepped across the
threshold. She stopped just inside the door and looked around
the dim, deserted hallway. Antique furniture and oriental
carpets lined the entry. A graceful stairway climbed high into
the shadowy nether regions above. Light filtered down from
old-fashioned gas jets.
Civil War era portraits peered gloomily down at her from the
walls.
"Get a life, Dana Elizabeth Mary Margaret Katherine Scully,"
their gazes told her sternly.
She gave a shudder. This was ridiculous. She turned to go out
again.
Suddenly a doorway creaked and Scully jumped.
An elderly woman entered the hall. Scully took a deep breath and
pasted a polite smile on her face. The old woman reminded her of
a small wizened lizard. She was only about as tall as Scully's
shoulder, and her face was so wrinkled she had to be close to
ninety. Her hair was very white and pulled up tightly in a small
bun on top of her head. Only her eyes were alive, dark and
curious in her ancient face. The woman was dressed in Civil War
period costume.
Naturally.
"May I help you?"
"I'm. . . ." Scully cleared her throat. "I'm . . . researching
the skirmish that occurred in Apison in November 1863. November
26th. I wondered if you had any information here--about it.
Artifacts . . . first person accounts . . . photographs. . . ."
"Of course. If you'll just sign our register first."
She gestured to the open book on the table by the front door.
For a split second Scully had the urge to make up a name.
Sighing, she wrote her own.
"Ancestors?"
"Pardon me?"
"Most people come here looking up their ancestors."
The woman peered long and hard at Scully's signature.
"'Scully'? That your married name? What's your maiden name?"
"Um. No. I'm not married. Dana Scully is my maiden name."
The woman peered long and hard at Scully.
"Hmmmph. Well--I don't recall the name Scully playing any part
in the history of Apison--maybe on your mother's side?"
"Well, it's not actually *my* ancestors I'm . . . researching. A
friend's . . . ancestor . . . actually."
"A boy?" The woman's tone was sharp.
"A man. Yes."
"A man." The old woman gave a snort. "Alrighty then. Come
on," she said shortly. "I'll show you what we've got."
Scully felt her face flush and wished she hadn't come. Past
lives were sort of like ancestors, weren't they? Oh, Mulder.
What have you gotten me into this time? This is your search--not
mine. And where the hell are you anyway? Probably still out
standing in that field. Crying.
Damn it.
She had a sudden vision of his face as he leaned over Melissa's
dead body. As if the woman--who he'd barely known--had been
infinitely precious to him. Mulder. Mulder. Mulder. . . . And
now he was convinced that *she* Scully was his wisewoman or
father or something. His sage throughout time.
Fat chance.
Well, all right, so it was her search, too. That was why she was
here wasn't it? And maybe she was his sage. She *was* the
rational one. The sensible one. But if she was here to prove
anything she was going to prove that she was more to him than
that.
Not to mention there was no way she was going to sit back and let
a very pathetic woman with multiple disassociative identities
come out of nowhere to snatch away a huge chunk of Mulder's
happiness.
And her own.
Which was indeed why this was her search, too.
She glared at a portrait of an old man with particularly amazing
sideburns and mustaches. I do so have a life, Jedidiah.
Jedidiah merely stared at her balefully.
She looked around. The woman was halfway up the stairs.
Scully hurried up the long staircase. It was very quiet in the
house and with every creaky step on the stairs the woman's
breathing became more and more labored. At last they reached
the top and the woman rested hard against the newel post,
breathing heavily. She gestured down the hall toward a door at
the end.
"The Apison memorabilia is in there."
Scully noted that the woman's color seemed normal and she
probably *wasn't* going to have a heart attack at that moment.
"Thank you, I can just go take a look by myself. You don't need
to help me. I'm sorry to have made you climb all those stairs. .
. . Maybe you'd better sit for a moment."
"I'm fine. You just go look up your boyfriend's ancestor."
"He's not my boyfriend!"
The old woman merely nodded and made a shooing gesture with her
hand. "In there. Maybe you'll find what you're looking for."
Scully escaped down the corridor and opened the door. Reddish
light filtered through high dusty stained-glass windows, mostly
covered by long dusty red velvet drapes. Peering through the
gloom she could see antique furniture lining one wall.
Glass-front cases lined another. The walls were hung with a
multitude of various objects of war. It would take a day to go
through everything in this room. The smell of old long-forgotten
things hung in the air.
Scully examined the wall by the door for a light switch.
She spotted one. There. The Twentieth Century. Thank God. She
flicked it on.
Nothing.
"Damn it," said the woman from right behind her back.
Scully jumped.
"G'damn fuse must be out," the woman muttered.
"That's okay," Scully reassured her. "I'm fine."
The woman was already turning and making her way to the stairs.
Still muttering- -thankfully unintelligible--comments beneath her
breath. She started slowly descending.
Scully turned toward the display in the room. Dozens of framed
photographs hung on one wall. Scully moved closer and peered at
them through the dusty glass.
A photo of the homestead looking new and prosperous: "The Apison
Homestead in its Prime." "Apison -- Prior to the Great War of
Northern Aggression." Another picture of the town taken after
the devastation of the war. Shots of the area taken circa 1850.
She moved slowly along the wall, taking in each picture.
A framed map of the farm, marking clearly the other two bunkers
that had taken ten FBI agents all day to finally find.
"Damn it," she whispered.
She moved quickly through the rest of the room. Furniture from
the farm. Muskets with vicious-looking bayonets ranging from
Revolutionary to Civil War era. Glass bottles with metal screw
caps containing some evil looking substance that looked like
dried blood; she squinted at the spidery handwriting on the
placard "Sauce used to make the frequently rancid meat
palatable."
She felt a sick feeling in her stomach and touched a finger to
the bottle top. The soft metal gave beneath her finger.
If the lead poisoning from the caps didn't kill them first.
A tattered Confederate flag, rust-stained with real blood this
time. Uniforms, hats, a jacket, another rifle with an attached
bayonet. Some small items in a glass case. She leaned closer.
A framed picture of the battalion.
"The 15th Tennessee Volunteers. Company K."
She peered closer to try to pick out . . . Sullivan. There.
Second from the end. Standing staring straight at the camera.
His expression thoughtful. His eyes, clear, compelling.
He was tall, lanky and yet . . . why . . . he was just a boy.
Seventeen, maybe eighteen, she guessed, when the photo had been
taken. Her eyes dropped to his shoulder. He wore no insignia,
perhaps a Private? His shoulder was close against another's,
equally as tall as himself. This man was dressed in a more
recognizable Confederate uniform jacket and pants.
She counted the stripes on his arm.
A Sargent.
Scully felt all the hair on her scalp prickle. She closed her
eyes for a brief moment, then looked at his face. He was barely
more than a boy himself. But his expression was stronger, and he
stood straighter; there was something about him that made her
feel he was protective of the other boy beside him. She didn't
have to see the hair under the cap to know it was as red as her
own.
A shiver ran down her back.
Her eyes dropped to the names beneath the photograph. There it
was: S. Biddle. And the name beside it, S. Ballentine.
Scully found she was holding her breath. She let it out with a
whoosh.
"S. Ballentine," she whispered. "S." The words fell oddly on
the dusty stillness of the room.
Her eyes fell on a small carved box in the same display. Knowing
better, but unable to stop herself, she opened the glass lid of
the case and picked up the box. It felt warm in her hand, the
wood smooth, a carved scene of men and horses covering the
outside. She ran her fingers over it reverently, the carving had
been done lovingly and painstakingly a long, long time ago.
Gingerly she opened the lid. It's old hinges creaked.
Empty.
She let out her breath with disappointment. A smell of mustiness
and . . . tobacco . . . reached her nose. She closed her eyes
and took another breath, letting the smell fill her nostrils.
For just a second it evoked . . . something. What? Slowly her
fingers moved of their own accord to a carved dog at the side of
the box. They found the nose and pressed. . . .
Suddenly a drawer sprang open at the other end. Scully started
and nearly dropped the box.
She stared into the drawer. Folded small and pressed down into
the bottom of the drawer were thin sheets of yellowed paper. She
knew she shouldn't touch these either, the paper was old, it
should be handled with gloves, by an expert.
Well, maybe an expert standing here beside her holding a gun on
her might have a chance of stopping her. But then again, maybe
not.
As gently as possible she pulled the sheets from the drawer. She
set the box back down on its velvet spot and carefully unfolded
the papers.
It was a letter, the closely written handwriting was brown and
had come through from the back sides of the paper, making the
scrawl on the front difficult to read. Made more difficult from
something suddenly pricking her eyes. Scully blinked it away
and moved slowly to the soft light coming in through the dusty
window and began to read.
******************
15th Tenn. Vols.
Comp. K.
November 20, 1863
Apison, Tennessee
My Dearest Sullie,
As I write this, you lay sleeping on the cot next to mine. I hope
I can find the strength--or the foolishness--to commit my
thoughts to paper before it is time for us to awaken for the
Company move before dawn. The smell of the night is around me.
The chill. The earth. The camp. The smell of wounds. Of
unburied limbs and rotted food. Fetid flesh. Blood. Madness.
Is it? I wonder tonight at my Sanity. At times like this I
think I cannot stand the war another moment.
But always there is you. I could not have gone through these
last two years if not for you. If I tell you anything I must
tell you that. What we have faced together will bind us always.
It seems foolish that I am your Superior. A Sargent's rank--
bought and paid for by my father--has no meaning to me at all.
Doubly, as I am only six months your senior and barely twenty.
I must say tonight I feel a hundred years older. We have been
friends a long time. Sometimes it feels like forever. Our
families say we could not be closer if we were brothers. We have
always known one another, you and I. Have we not, dear Sullie? I
cherish the memories of our Boyhood together. More than you'll
ever know. Boyhood--cut short--for we are barely children now.
Sometimes I shut my eyes and pretend there is no war. We'd be
boys still. Going down to the creek to swim and catch catfish
and crawdads. Caring nothing for anything but ourselves and our
bellys. Knowing nothing of women. And you would never have
met--
But I am wandering, lately it seems I am unable to collect my
thoughts. I am nearly out of the paper my dear Mama sent.
Shouldn't I spend the last pieces of paper on her? No. I shall
try to concentrate.
I take my pen in hand to write to you tonight, Beloved Friend,
because in my heart I fear that we are not meant to live long
enough to be together to complete our quest. To see Peace
restored to our fair state. I must tell you, and I will say it
bluntly, I have had a precognition of tomorrow. A dream, if you
will. It almost makes me smile to think of what you will say
when you read this. For I am not the one given to flights of
Fancy or belief in the other Sciences. That is your talent, dear
Sullie. But the dream itself, will not make you smile, for in it
I saw my own end. And I believe it. I feel strongly that I will
not see the dawn. We can only wait and see what comes to pass.
But I saw myself lying still, lifeless, and the long grass waved
above me in the smoky dawn, and you wept at my side.
But that is not all I need tell you. I must go back to the
events of earlier this evening. Earlier tonight, as we sat by
the fire and we talked, I admit I was barely paying you heed, as,
preoccupied by my own thoughts, I tried to think of a way to tell
you of my dream. Idly I asked you what it felt like to love Her
so. You know of Whom I speak. You answered, "When I think of
her, I forget the War." But you did not look at me.
Your words were spoken softly and I believed the depth of your
love for her. But then . . . you lifted your eyes to mine and I
saw the truth. The longing I saw in your eyes, and the sadness
and the Love that shone there was not for her but for me. You
quickly hid your gaze from mine and I believe you felt
embarrassed of what you might have revealed.
I could only sit stunned as you looked away and continued to talk
of your love for Her, then made your excuses and retired. The
past few hours since you fell asleep I have thought of nothing
but that look. I could not sleep til I put this to page. We
must awaken in just three hours to move before first light. If
my precognition is Unfounded then this letter will be safe. I
will put it in my wooden box. The one my father gave me, that
his father carved. Only you and they know of the secret bottom
and they are now dead. So only you will see these lines.
If I live I truly do not know what I will do. But if I am to
die, I would have you know that your feelings are not unreturned.
The flame that burns in your eyes burns as brightly and deeply in
my own heart. There. I have said it. The urge to reveal to you
my love for you aloud is at once frightening and profound.
Confusion tears at me. Would it be so wrong to press my lips to
yours one time before we are struck from this Godforsaken Hell? I
ask myself, why did we not know on those Idyllic days when we
were so carefree? Is it because the loving came with the war?
Perhaps, but I also believe I have loved you from childhood. As
you've loved me. But it was an innocent love between friends and
cousins. Does that make it sane in a world gone mad? What harm
surely? A kiss between friends. We were raised as brothers. A
kiss between brothers. But no. It *is* wrong. For I wish to
kiss you not as my brother. It is against everything sane to
love you so, but this existence is not sanity,
thus--maybe--loving you is not wrong.
And what about Her? Can it be you love us both? Can you not see
beyond curls and a pretty set of ankles? But, I know you, you
are in love with Love. It is your Nature to look for Romance,
fondly imagining it to be something it is not. All your talk of
love for her is nothing to what burns like a fire between the two
of us.
You lie there so still on your bedroll. Your soft breath fogging
the chill air. Not four feet from my hand as I crouch chilled
beside this infernal sputtering lamp. If I reach out--so--I can
touch you. I can brush that curl from your forehead. Is that
wrong? Were I to place my mouth against yours for an
instant--would you wake-- in horror? I cannot bear it if you
were to remember me thus.
It is not as if I do not have the strong urges to make love to a
woman. I do. That does not stop me from wanting to press my
arms around you and hold you close, warming my chilled body
against yours under your worn blanket. If the urges that make my
body desire a woman were all that ruled me I would not be the man
that I am. My feelings confuse me more with each passing moment.
But at last, as I sit looking at your face in sleep, your
eyelashes against your cheeks. I have come to a realization. The
bond of true love is more than that of a brother, or father or
mother or child. It is them all, and it is more, it is the love
for a mind. This feeling is for your Soul. True Love has no
thought of body, or gender.
If I am strong, tonight I will lie in the dark of the tent beside
you, and shut my eyes without touching you.
Beloved friend, I must end this because I am running out of
paper, ink and oil. My careful Horde is exhausted. And I'm
frozen with the cold. And now, do I crawl in beside you for the
two hours we have left together and forget everything but each
other?
In the dark, there is no male--no female. There is only you.
Damn the dawn.
Godspeed,
Samuel
Part 2
Scully finished reading the cramped writing Samuel had struggled to
squeeze into every inch of the precious paper and stared unseeing
at the dusty glass of the window in front of her.
Oh, Mulder.
Slowly and carefully she refolded the letter. She carried it back
to the box, tucked it into the drawer and slipped it shut. She
adjusted the box back onto its square of velvet and gently shut the
lid of the case.
Had she done it? Had she crawled in bed with him and told him she
loved him in the hours they'd had left? She stared at the photo
of the two young boys, shoulder to shoulder. Or had she let them
both die, never knowing. . . .
When had she admitted she was Samuel?
Maybe when Mulder had said, "My Sargent is also dead. He is
Scully." Whether she'd wanted to or not, she'd believed him.
And she knew in her heart that if he had spent his last few hours
as Sullivan with Samuel, his soul would have known.
She hadn't had the guts to do it.
She turned blindly at a sound at the door. The elderly woman was
back, and behind her, filling the doorway, was Mulder. The
expression on his face was anxious and changed instantly to concern
when he saw her. She stood still and stared at his face,
searching.
Great-Great-Granny wasn't paying any attention to her. She was too
busy flirting with Mulder.
"It wasn't the fuse after all, Miss Scully. If you wouldn't mind,
perhaps your gentleman friend would change that light bulb for me."
Mulder wove around the old woman without a word and gently took
Scully's elbow. He stared down at her.
"Scully? Are you okay?"
"I'm fi--" she started, then just shook her head and gestured to
the ceiling. With a casual disregard for antiquities, Mulder
pulled a rickety chair from the wall and climbed up on it. Swiftly
he changed the bulb and jumped back down, hardly taking his eyes
from her.
Scully just looked at him. What could she say? She had to tell
him--what could she tell him? Should she show him the letter? It
had been meant for him after all. . . . She wasn't about to show
it to him in front of the old harpy. She should have stuck it in
her pocket.
Had Samuel been wrong about the look he'd seen in Sullivan's eye?
After all, in his regression session, Mulder's love for Melissa's
circus of characters had seemed so genuine. . . .
As the old woman prattled on, Mulder took a cursory glance around
the room. With some sort of sixth sense his eyes immediately
focused on the regiment picture and he moved to bend over it.
Scully could tell by the slight stiffening of his shoulders that
he'd spotted Sullivan and then by his sharp intake of breath that
he'd recognized Samuel. He turned and looked at her. The naked
worry in his eyes must have echoed that in her own.
Scully barely noticed the chilly drizzle as they left the building.
Mulder helped her into the passenger seat of her Explorer. He
climbed up into the driver's side, but rather than starting the
car, turned to look at her. It started to rain in earnest and the
wet windows enclosed them. "Scully?" His voice was gentle.
"What did you find in there?"
She didn't answer, she turned and stared at the droplets running
down the outside of the window. She had a feeling if she opened
her mouth she'd burst into tears. Reaction or something.
"Was it the picture?" he pressed gently.
She nodded, still keeping her head averted. Hell, she was going
to burst into tears anyway.
"But that's not all of it. What else?"
He gently touched her hand. She swallowed hard, her eyes following
one raindrop that seemed to be moving horizontally across the
glass.
"Scully."
She swallowed hard again and willed herself not to cry.
"Scully? Scully, you look like you've seen a ghost."
"I have--I think I have seen a ghost."
Mulder made a strange noise.
She turned and looked at him fully.
"It was me."
And then the floodgates opened and she burst into tears. He looked
at her helplessly and covered her hand with his warm one while she
sobbed.
"Shhh, shhh. Scuh-lee," he whispered, his head bent close to hers.
"I'm sorry. This was my fault."
She turned her hand under his and linked their fingers tightly
while she cried harder.
Mulder swore under his breath and gripped her hand in return.
"Scully. I'm so sorry. Shhhh."
He was silent for a while, letting her cry herself out. Gradually
her sobbing slowed.
She lifted her chin and looked up at him. She knew her nose and
eyes must be red, and her skin blotchy and red, too. But his
expression was so full of concern and caring for her that she
almost broke down again. Damn, she'd been so jealous when he'd
looked at Melissa like that.
She searched his face. Thank God, the tragic look of self-pity
he'd been wearing for the past twenty-four hours was gone.
"Stop being so damn nice to me, Mulder, and I'll stop crying."
The ghost of a smile played around Mulder's mouth.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner what a selfish asshole I was being?"
"Mulder, you were being a total asshole."
"Thank-you."
"How are you feeling about Her, by the way, Mulder?"
Mulder raised his eyebrows.
"I don't know. When I saw your face in there, it somehow snapped
me out of it." He pressed a hand to his eyes. "I feel like I've
been almost in a trance."
"You know, Mulder. Vernon Ephision is typical of the charismatic
leader who manipulates his followers by a combination of drugs,
hypnosis and fear and possibly a form of telepathy. After all, he
led all those people to their deaths."
Mulder's eyes widened. "Scully. . . . Do you think that's what
all of this was with me?" He shut his eyes briefly. When he
opened them, he was unable to guard their expression. She felt a
little scared by the desperation in his eyes. As if he wanted
deeply to believe her and not believe at the same time. He was
unsure of himself.
Because of Modell. And because of Melissa. She gave his fingers a
little squeeze.
"Some sort of hypnotic suggestion?"
Mulder nodded.
God, she wanted to say "Yes"and have it done with. Mulder *was*
highly receptive to telepathic suggestion. Modell had been case in
point. Had Ephisian manipulated his mind in the same way? She
shivered slightly.
"Scully? Are you cold? Here. . . ." He pulled off his sweatshirt
and tucked it over her. It felt good.
But she couldn't lie to him. Besides she'd found proof.
"No. . . . I don't believe it was "
"No?"
"No."
Mulder didn't ask her why she'd changed her mind, he shook his head
slightly then rubbed his eyes. "I was worried about you, Scully.
I couldn't find you. I needed to find you. Before I found the car
. . . I was afraid you'd gotten fed up and left without me."
Scully just looked at him. As if. Fed-up? Maybe. Go off and
leave him? Never.
She reached out and took his hand again.
"I wonder if that old lady would let me copy that picture. I think
you were taller than me, Scully." He grinned at her. "Scully," he
mused, his voice was gentle on her name. His fingers gentle as his
thumb lightly stroked the back of her hand. "I wonder what the S.
stood for."
"Samuel."
He tilted his head and looked at her closely. "Really?"
"Yes."
"Sam? No kidding. Come on, tell me what you found out."
"Mulder."
"Yes."
"I found a letter."
Mulder's eyes watched her closely, his concentration intense.
"A letter?"
"Uh huh. From Samuel to Sullivan. 'Sullie' he called him."
He smiled at that. "Sullie. . . ." He tried the name, his voice
catching slightly.
"I know. It gave me goose bumps. Samuel wrote the letter to
Sullivan the night before they died at Apison. He--Samuel--was
writing to Sullie to tell him--"
Scully broke off, suddenly aware that Mulder was lightly stroking
her hand. It felt good, too good. The motion was sending little
frizzles of sensation up her arm. She pulled back a little, he
wouldn't let go. His fingers continued to gently rub her skin.
"And this was in the Historical Society's papers?"
"I found it in a hidden drawer in a box. I just knew where to
look. It was my box. My grandfather had carved it."
"Scully?!" "I meant-- I meant Sam's grandfather. Well, in the
letter I wrote, I mean, Sam wrote to you--that he--that I--" she
broke off, slightly confused.
Mulder's hazel eyes were watching her intently, with just the
slightest trace of amusement. He knew now that she believed him
about the past lives.
"That you . . . ?" he prompted.
"That *Sam* loved you."
"Loved me? You mean, like 'loved'?"
She nodded.
Mulder paused for a moment, his face wondering.
"Wow," he said. "They were lovers?"
"No, no, I don't think so. I think I--*he* only realized it that
night, and then I--" she gave up, "Then I didn't have the guts to
tell you out loud."
"Wow," he said again. He sat back in the driver's seat. He sat
there a long time, one forefinger worrying his lower lip, his eyes
on the rainy windshield. Then he shook his head and grinned at
her.
"The plot thickens," he said.
Scully laughed for the first time in about a week. His grin
widened at her response.
"Do you think it's true? About them being--loving--each other,
too . . . ?".
"If you'd read that letter, Mulder. . . ."
"Should we go back in?"
She glanced at her watch. "No. They're closed. We'll get it
tomorrow."
"It makes as much sense, Scully. More."
"It struck me that way, too."
"So . . . *we* were lovers."
He gave her hand a suggestive little squeeze.
"Mulder. I think they loved each other. But I don't think they
actually consummated anything. They'd gone through a lot together.
Childhood. The war. But they were just boys."
Mulder was quiet for a long moment.
"What made you cry?"
"I was crying because we weren't lovers. Wait, that's not what I
meant. It was just sad. The letter was sad."
"So in this letter he had just found out?"
"It seemed he'd--Sam'd loved Sullie, but hadn't really realized it.
He'd had a premonition he was going to die in the morning. And he
wanted to write it down that he loved Sullie, to tell him."
He smiled. "A premonition? You?"
"I knew you'd smile at that. I was crying because they didn't
know. Sullivan died without reading the letter. Because they
were just boys. Because, Sam didn't have the guts to tell you how
he felt. Just like I didn't have the guts to tell you how I felt
when you did the whole past regression session thing."
He stopped smiling and looked at her.
"How did you feel?"
"Worried. Angry. Scared for you." She looked away from him for a
moment and took a deep breath. She could see his reflection in the
car window.
He kept looking at her. As if he was really seeing her, for the
first time in awhile.
"I'm sorry."
Her lips twisted wryly. "And maybe just a little bit betrayed."
"Betrayed? Why?"
Scully turned her head further toward the window. Because I
thought it was like that between us. She sighed. She couldn't
tell him that.
"I don't know why."
"Do you want to know how I felt, Scully?" He gave her hand a tug
and she turned and looked at him.
"Yes."
"I felt like I'd found the person who was supposed to be the love
of my life and I didn't even like her."
"Really?"
"It felt like an arranged marriage."
Scully looked at him sympathetically for a moment. "Now that you
mention it, Sydney didn't seem like your type, either."
Mulder sat back in his seat and smiled hopefully at her. "Yeah,
but I bet you picked him out for me 'cause he had a lot of money."
"Mulder!" She punched him the arm. "I'd *never* make you marry
for money!"
"No?"
"No. Never."
Mulder looked down at the hand he still held. Suddenly his voice
changed. It became soft, seductive. "So they never kissed."
"I don't know. I don't think so."
"You're wondering, too, aren't you, Scully. What it was like . . .
between us."
"I don't know. Maybe. No."
"Yes, you are, Scully. You remembered, you're remembering."
"No. . . ." Her voice came out softly, too. His eyes held hers as
he slowly raised her hand to his mouth. Gently, he pressed his
lips to her knuckles.
For a long moment neither of them moved. She stared mesmerized at
his mouth as it kissed each of her knuckles. The warmth of his
lips on her hand was a far more intimate feeling than she'd ever
felt from him before.
She shut her eyes and shook her head slightly. A voice in her head
said, You don't have the guts Dana Katherine Scully.
At that moment the rain on the roof suddenly stopped. She felt a
determination come over her.
"Mulder, I'm starving. Let's go out, get a nice dinner and a
bottle of wine somewhere."
"And relax."
"And relax."
They smiled at each other.
"You think we can relax after this, Scully?"
"We can try."
"I saw a cute little Polish place just on the other side of--"
"Not on your life, Mulder. Any of your lives! I saw an Italian
place--I don't remember any Italians being involved in
your--our--past. Let's go there."
Mulder started the car and swung out onto the road. The sun
suddenly burst through the clouds, slanting across the main street
of the small town with the golden glow of late afternoon. Scully
looked at his profile, he was forcing the light mood and so was
she, but for right now it was what they both needed.
"Al-dough," Mulder said in his best Godfather accent. "Now that
you mention it. Da name Antonio is kinda ringing a bell. Tony?
Maria? Sound familiar?"
"Geez, Mulder. Not them! Besides, you're not the Antonio type."
He glanced at her sideways as she stared at him speculatively
through narrowed eyes.
"Antonia, maybe," she suggested.
"Okay, then . . . *Mario.*" He grinned at her. "Italian it is."
And with a flourish he stepped on the gas.
Part 3
It was much much later and they were back in the Explorer.
Scully was driving. Their headlights were the only light on the
dark curving road. A watery new moon, high in the sky, ducked in
and out of the fast- moving clouds. Scully eyed the sky.
Another rainstorm was threatening.
She glanced over at Mulder. He was staring off into space
looking thoughtful and relaxed. They'd finished off one bottle
of Chianti at the restaurant and he'd convinced her they should
buy another bottle to take back to the motel. She was feeling
rather relaxed herself. Dinner had been . . . well . . .
delightful. Mulder had shed his despair and worked hard to charm
her into forgetting the events of the last couple days.
And he could be very charming when he wanted to.
The specters from past lives had faded to the background and she
was beginning to feel safe again, wrapped closely in their
private cocoon that excluded everyone else.
She smiled to herself. She'd missed that feeling. Her mind
touched inadvertently on Melissa and she felt a sadness. She'd
never wished anyone dead in her life, but relief went through her
at the thought that the woman hadn't lived. What would she have
done to Mulder if she'd lived? Thoroughly fucked him up,
probably.
The headlights of the car flashed over a sign that read Shiloh
National Military Park. She shivered. Mulder glanced at her and
reached over to pull one of her hands off the wheel. He let
their hands rest on the console between the seats. They'd been
doing a lot of hand-holding all evening. It wasn't appropriate
FBI behavior, but no one had known them in the restaurant. It
had felt right somehow and she liked it. It had opened another
line of communication and helped them reconnect.
"More ghosts?"
"No." She gave his hand a tiny squeeze. "It's just this whole
area . . . there are battlegrounds everywhere. Twenty-three
thousand men died at Shiloh . . . probably right where we're
driving."
"Death doesn't normally make you uncomfortable, Scully."
She spotted the main entrance to the park and made a sudden turn.
"Why are we going in? It'll be closed."
"I just want to take a look, Mulder. I've never been. We'll be
too busy tomorrow, and it'll probably be raining. Look. The
gates are open."
The drove into the deserted park, weaving their way down the road
for a while and then pulled up beside a long row of silent
cannons, glinting dully in the light of the car's headlights.
She cut the motor and all at once they were wrapped in silence
and darkness. Through their half-open windows the warm night
breeze brought the sound of the Tennessee River, rushing past its
banks several hundred yards away. The soft smell of dampness and
leaf mould filled the car.
She turned to him. She could just see his face in the darkness.
"Death always makes me sad, Mulder."
He looked at her for a long moment.
"I'm glad you took our minds off it tonight," she said. "But
we'll have to talk about this."
"I know."
He turned his head and stared out his window.
"I don't feel them," he said.
"Who?"
"The ghosts of all the men who died here."
She was quiet for a moment, opening up all her senses to the
night.
"I can feel them a little. I think."
He peered closely at her in the darkness. "Oh, excuse me, Miss,
I must have gotten into the wrong car at that restaurant. You'd
better take me back. My partner must be wondering what the hell
happened to me."
She smiled. "If it would make you feel better, I could
rationalize the feeling as too much wine and garlic shrimp and a
warm breeze."
"No. I'd rather think you feel them."
"Why?"
When he spoke, his voice was low and she had to strain to catch
it, but what he said made her smile. "Because I like to think
that once in a blue moon, you feel the same kind of inexplicable
things that I do." His lips curved in a wry little smile as he
turned and looked out the window again. His hand tightened on
hers gently.
Scully looked at his averted profile. Lonely. She realized in
surprise. Mulder was lonely. He was a genius, with a sixth
sense--and maybe a seventh--and a biting sense of humor, but he
didn't have very many friends. It took awhile to get used to
him. To really get to know him and like him. Would she have
made the effort if she hadn't been forced to?
He probably wouldn't have let her, she realized sadly.
That's why he'd been so desperately willing to buy Melissa's
story that she was his 'soul mate'. He wanted to believe he had
a connection with someone. A real unbreakable connection. She
felt a sudden overwhelming sadness he hadn't felt he'd had that
kind of connection with her.
Maybe the past was written, but this lifetime wasn't. And in
this battle, there was no reason why she shouldn't win.
"Speaking of wine." He turned to her and pulled the bottle from
the floor. "Too bad we didn't buy the screw-top kind."
"There's a Swiss Army knife in the glove compartment."
He looked at her closely again. "Oh, it *is* you, Scully."
Reluctantly, he let her hand go and opened the glove compartment.
Suddenly she remembered what else was in the glove compartment.
"Mulder, I'll get it--"
"Here it is. What?"
She sat back and smiled. "Nothing." She watched him. She
always liked to watch him when his attention was on something
else. She was still wearing his sweatshirt, she'd been stealing
little sniffs of it all evening. It smelled like him.
He gave a neat twist with the corkscrew and pulled out the cork
with a pop. "Unless you've got cups in your purse, I guess we're
going to be drinking this out of the bottle."
"It won't be the first time." She took the bottle and took a
sip. She'd better not drink much more. She wouldn't be able to
drive.
"I'll drive," he said.
"You're psychic, Mulder."
"I know."
"What else am I thinking?" Wolves, she thought. Wolves.
"It's probably illegal to have an open container of alcohol in a
car in Tennessee."
Phew.
"Wrong. Though you're probably right."
"What were you thinking, Scully?"
"Never mind."
"We'll just flash our badges and tell them we're on a stake-out."
"Staking-out what? Ghosts?"
"Well we are, aren't we?"
"I guess. Mulder--" she began.
"I know. We need to talk."
She sighed.
"I don't want to talk about. . . . What about Sullivan and
Samuel? What else did he say in the letter?"
"That it was cold and horrible, and that he felt a little crazy."
"Crazy?"
"I think they all must have been a little bit crazy. So far from
home and loved ones. So . . . starving . . . so lonely."
She peered at him in the dark.
"At least they had each other," he said.
"I think that was what kept them alive as long as it did."
"I think that's what's kept me alive as long as this," he said
slowly.
"Mulder. . . ."
"It's true, Scully. I wouldn't be alive and you know it. Maybe
that's the real function of the bond between our souls in--" His
tone turned wry. "--the 'Great Circle of Rebirth'."
He fell silent.
The breeze had risen slightly, the storm was nearly upon them. A
sudden gust blew a handful of dead leaves with a splat against
the windshield. The leaves hung there suspended against the
glass for a moment then blew away. The air in the inside of the
car changed, a faint hint of electricity stirred the air and made
the pores all over her body prickle.
"But I couldn't save your life that dawn at Apison."
"And you didn't even kiss me good-bye. . . . " he mused.
Scully caught her breath.
"Mulder. I--"
"If you knew we were both going to die before dawn tomorrow would
you kiss me good-bye?"
His eyes were dark, absolutely unreadable in this light. She
didn't answer.
"Scully?"
"Mulder," she could barely raise her voice above a whisper. "Are
you talking about them or us?"
He looked at her for another long moment.
"Who do you think?"
"I don't know."
"Should they have, Scully?"
"Kissed?"
"Kissed. Made love."
"Yes."
"Scully?"
"Mmm?"
"Maybe we should give them their kiss."
"Mul-der. . . . "
"You know, let them have one last chance."
She stared at his face. He sat slouched back against the door,
seemingly relaxed, but his whole body was watchful. His knees
stretched toward her. She suddenly knew if it wasn't for the
console between the seats, their knees would be touching.
"You mean pretend to be them?"
"Yeah."
Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Just visible in the thin light.
As she watched he bit his lower lip gently, then released it.
"Okay," she said.
Mulder seemed startled. "Okay?"
"Sure. We can handle it, right? A kiss between friends."
**A kiss between friends.** She heard the echo of Sam's words.
What had he said next?
Mulder sat up, but she could see him hesitating. He'd obviously
just said it in teasing, never expecting her to go along.
She undid her seatbelt. Leaning across the arm rest, she reached
for his shoulders. "Come here," she said softly, and pulled
him. Slowly, almost reluctantly he leaned toward her.
She stopped when his face was close to her own. His warm breath
played across her mouth. He smelled of coffee, and of wine. His
eyes regarded her steadily. They were so dark. She wished she
could see them more clearly.
She waited. His face was no closer than it had been to her own
any number of times. His disregard for her personal space had
unnerved her at first, now she liked it. But at the moment he
seemed unwilling to come any closer. Maybe four inches was his
minimum boundary. Hers was more like four feet. Except with
him.
His gaze dropped to her mouth then rose to her eyes again. He
swallowed hard.
"I love you, Sullivan," she whispered and smiled.
Mulder caught his breath, and then his hands went up to cup her
face. He leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers. His
nose touched hers.
"I love you, too," he whispered back. She could tell from his
voice he was smiling, too.
Scully felt tears fill the back of her throat. Those words--in
Mulder's warm voice--completely unsettled her.
She swayed forward and gently touched her lips to his. His were
warm and soft, and gave slightly under her own. Then he tilted
his head a little to the side and pressed his mouth back against
hers with a small sigh.
Mulder's mouth was incredibly gentle on hers. He moved his lips
lightly, trailing across her mouth, and then she could feel him
withdrawing, pulling back. He was going to stop at a chaste
little kiss.
**A kiss between brothers, but no, for I wish to kiss you not as
a brother.**
No.
She took hold of his shoulders more firmly and tugged him to her,
her lips moving persuasively against his mouth.
Mulder went still for a second. He pulled back slightly, then he
murmured something against her mouth and wrapped his arms around
her. He gathered her to him, hauling her across the center
console and into his lap. She dropped her head back and her
mouth opened to welcome him as his tongue nudged its way inside,
caressing her lips, slipping along her teeth and the sides of her
cheeks. She dipped her own tongue into his mouth and met his
tongue with her own, tasting it and stroking it.
He tasted like dinner, and the wine, and another raw exciting
taste that she'd never dreamed he'd taste like, but that spoke to
her and made her groan low in her throat and press her whole body
against him.
She slid her fingers into his hair and dragged his head closer.
Mulder, Mulder, she thought as her mouth moved deeply with his.
She snuggled more closely against him. Desire stirred inside her
and began to slide though her veins like molten honey.
You're supposed to be thinking Sullivan, Sullivan, she reminded
herself. Oh, right. Samuel. Before I forget. This is for you.
She slid one hand out of his hair and caught his hand, linking
their fingers. She let all the pent up feelings of anxiousness
and grief that had been welling in her chest--all day since she'd
read the letter--and the past forty-eight hours since she'd heard
about Sarah--be crowded out of her head by the feelings of warmth
of love that she felt threaten to overwhelm her. She thought of
cold, confused Samuel crouched beside the one person he loved
most in the world in the chill of the Tennessee night and
empathized with his indecision. She thought of Sullivan in his
bed unaware that he was the object of his best friend's love and
desire. And she tried to show him all the warmth and love
flowing from her for him through their tangled mouths and linked
hands.
Then, she felt Samuel slipping away, and it was her kissing
Mulder. Kissing away his loneliness and kissing away her own.
Opening up her heart to him. A soulmate. She'd always been
searching for one, too. She'd just been looking in the wrong
place, for a father figure rather than a lover. A lover. She
smiled against his mouth.
Her lover.
Mulder smiled back against her and cupping her neck with one warm
hand, gentle beneath her nape, and they kissed unhurriedly and
thoroughly.
Finally he pulled away, looking down at her.
They were both breathless. They just sat breathing hard and
searching each other's faces. One of his hands was traveling over
her body. He touched her face, her hair, her shoulders and back.
His hand barely skimmed the sides of her breasts and she felt
them swell with desire. She was dying for him to touch them. He
was very aroused, she could feel his erection pressing against
her bottom.
She let her head fall against his shoulder. He wrapped his arms
around her and tugged her close. She could feel his heart
through the thin cotton of his shirt. It was pounding hard.
His voice was tender when he spoke "I haven't held and kissed
someone like that for a very long time."
"You haven't?"
He let out a little breath with a soft whoosh, stirring the hair
near her ear. "No, usually kissing is just a means to an end."
"Oh?" She shifted her bottom against his erection.
"Scully. Sit still."
"Okay." Carefully she adjusted her seat on his lap again.
"Scully! Stop it. What about you?"
"Do *I* use kissing? I thought this was just giving Samuel and
Sullivan their kiss."
"Was it?" His voice was suddenly carefully empty of the
tenderness of a moment ago.
The warm humid wind was rising before the oncoming rain, tossing
the limbs of the trees lining the row of canons. It rifled
Mulder's hair. She reached up and gently stroked the hair back
from his temple. It was damp.
Samuel and Sullivan were long gone. Mulder was here and he
needed her. And she needed him.
"It was me. Samuel was there, but he was satisfied with what he
got and he left after a little while." Her hand traced down the
side of his cheek. "Mul-der," she let her fingers rest on his
bottom lip. He drew one finger into his mouth and sucked on it
lightly. "Was it you or Sullivan?"
"Yes." He smiled down at her suddenly.
"Just stop talking and kiss me." She reached up in his lap and
touched her lips to his again.
This time the kiss was different. It was hotter. She was
hotter. She pressed her swelling breasts against him and he
groaned. His hands flew to them immediately, kneading them
lightly through the material of the sweatshirt.
His thumbs teased her nipples. She cried out softly into his
mouth and his tongue thrust out to meet hers. His hands dropped
to her waist and found her skin. They slid up under her shirt
and found her nipples again. Now, just the lace of her bra was
covering them. She drew in her breath and pressed herself more
closely against him.
He kissed her as if he was starving for her. And she kissed him
back the same way. She couldn't get enough of him. Their mouths
were open, their tongues mating, her lips caressed his over and
over with their own words of love.
She slid her hands to the neck of his shirt and began unbuttoning
it quickly, raining kisses on his neck, down his chest. Scully
managed to get his shirt completely unbuttoned and pushed it back
off his shoulders, then pressed her lips against his chest,
licking the salty moisture from his skin. Mulder slid his hands
down her sides and grabbed the bottom of the sweatshirt. He
yanked it up and over her head, taking her t-shirt with it.
She moved around to kneel above him His mouth went to her
breasts, teasing them through the white lace of her bra. He eased
the lace down so first one, then the other breast sprung free,
supported by the underwire of the bra. He latched on to one
nipple and began sucking.
Scully buried her hands in his hair and held him to her breast.
He suckled greedily at first one breast then the other.
She felt the warm gush of moisture between her legs and suddenly
could only think about getting his jeans off. She slipped her
hands down and undid the top button.
He raised his head back to her mouth and began kissing her again,
still desperately, as if he still couldn't get enough. She
couldn't get enough of him either.
His hands went to the waistband of her jeans. He undid the top
and tugged at the zipper. He got it undone and began to push her
jeans down over her hips. There was a brief tangle of arms and
legs and knees and dashboard, then suddenly her jeans and panties
were down around her ankles, held on only by her boots.
There was no way she was going to stop to take off her boots, she
thought as she pulled at his zipper. Finally it gave and she
revealed the hard ridge of his erection straining against his
boxers.
It was the work of a moment to release him, and it leaped free.
Straining toward her in the dim light. Scully bent down and
kissed the tip.
"Scuh-leee," Mulder breathed and pulled her up to kiss her mouth
again. She slid further forward on his lap, til her curls were
brushing his penis and the tip was pressed hard against the moist
warmth of her opening.
"Oh, Scully," he murmured between kissing her eyes, her cheeks.
"Oh, Scully. . . ."
"Mulder, wait, just. . . . we need a--""
"A condom." His voice was breathless. "Yeah. I don't have
one."
He pulled his mouth away from where he was kissing her eyebrow
and ran his tongue down the line of her cheek. "I'm HIV
negative, Scully."
"Me, too. Ohhhh."
The tip of his penis had slipped just inside her. She could feel
his pubic hair tickling her clitoris and all she wanted to do was
to slide down on his straining erection and ram it home inside
her. To hell with the rubber. She tried to rock her hips
forward, but she was stuck.
"I've got to take off my boots Mulder, I feel like my ankles are
tied up. Look in the glove compartment."
She struggled off him, giving a little gasp as he popped out of
her. She reached around and tore at her boot laces with what
must have been a seat belt digging into her hip. Finally in the
light from the glove compartment she managed to undo one boot and
pull it free. She yanked off that leg of her jeans and stretched
her leg thankfully. Her knees were going to be killing her
tomorrow.
"Found one." The crackle of the wrapper. His voice changed.
"Mint-scented? Scully, what are we doing with mint-scented
condoms in our glove compartment?"
"Mint-flavored." She reached out and took it from him, slipping
it over his penis and stroking it down its length. It only
reached about half- way. "I guess I should have bought extra
large," she said against his mouth, and reached beneath him into
his jeans to cup his balls. They were warm and furry in her
hand, she juggled them slightly and Mulder groaned.
"Scully. Stop or I'm going to--uhhh." He groaned again.
She climbed back on his lap and kneeled over him. His hands
went behind her to undo the clasp of her bra. It disappeared as
his hands ran over her, stroking her breasts and rubbing them,
then cupping her bottom and pulling her against him. He paused
for a split second and she looked up to meet his eyes. His eyes
held hers as she pushed down onto him, and he thrust up into her,
filling her. She rocked her hips against him, taking him
deeper.
Now that their bodies were linked they were not quite as frantic
as they'd been a moment ago. She braced her hands on his
shoulders and lifted her pelvis to meet his as they explored each
other's rhythm.
Their faces were just inches apart. He never took his eyes from
hers.
A streak of lighting lit the sky. For a split second she saw his
expression. It was sweetly tender, and slightly dazed.
"One-one-thousand," she counted and she eased down to meet his
thrust.
"Two-one-thousand." She pushed against him again, a little
harder.
"Three-one-thousand." Thunder crashed down around them as she
plunged against him taking him inside her completely.
"Three miles away," she whispered against his lips, then captured
his mouth again.
"Scully," he whispered roughly in rhythm to their movements.
"Scuh-lee. Scuh-lee." Another flash of light lit the night.
"One," he whispered and pushed into her.
"Two." He pushed again. He braced his legs against the floor in
front of him and her knees rose off the seat as he pushed up hard
into her.
Crash, the thunder shook the car.
"Two miles. The storm's almost here." She gasped against his
mouth. The sprinkling rain changed to a sudden downpour,
showering both of them through the open window.
He grasped her buttocks and lifted her then settled her back down
on his hard length with a groan. She moved her hips more quickly
against his. They both started pushing faster and at last she
was riding him hard.
Suddenly lightening flashed through the sky and struck nearby
with an almost instantaneous crash. All at once she clenched her
muscles on him and came with a little scream. With a final
shuddering thrust, Mulder groaned against her hair and came, too.
They clutched each other as the smell of ozone and burning wood
filled the air.
"What the hell?"
"Oh, my God!"
"Are you all right?"
"I'm okay, are you?"
Mulder pulled her close against his chest. His lips pressed
tightly against her forehead.
She opened her mouth against his chest and breathed him in. His
warm smell was mixed with the fresh scent of the storm. She
could hear his heart beating rapidly under her ear. It drummed
in unison with the drops on the roof.
Suddenly she realized the windows were still open. The cool rain
felt good on her flushed skin.
Oh God.
She'd seduced him.
She hadn't known she'd meant to do it, but on the other hand, of
course she'd meant to.
She wondered what on earth he was thinking.
"Mulder?"
"Mmmmm.
"If the ranger comes by right now we're going to have a hard time
thinking up a story."
"Mmmmm."
"Maybe we should go back to the motel."
"In a second. I can't move."
Some of her hair was sticking to his lips. He turned his head to
free them, then nestled his mouth against her ear.
"Scuh-lee?" he whispered softly into her ear.
"Mmmmm?"
"Are you really okay?"
"Mmm-hmm. Though I feel like a teenager . . . making-out in a
car. But instead of some dumb guy from highschool--it's you."
"I know. It's you, too." He lifted a hand and traced the line
of her cheek with one finger. "Scuh-leee."
She shut her eyes for an instant. When he said her name with
that little soft sound in his voice it made her want to cry and
it set her blood on fire both at the same time.
"Are you okay, Mulder?"
He was quiet. She felt a streak of panic strike through her.
"Mulder, it's perfectly normal. Making love is a psychosomatic
release and a normal response to the overload of emotional
turmoil you--we've both--gone through in the last few days. The
act of physical connection with another human being, no matter
how tenuous or inappropriate--is something--"
Mulder cut her off with a large, warm hand clamped over her
mouth.
"Shhhh."
"Mul--"
"Shhhh, Scully. You can rationalize and tell me that what just
happened between us was a normal response and I'll agree with
you. But I'll tell you I can't remember the last time I did
anything that feels so appropriate."
He brushed her lips with his thumb as he removed the hand from
her mouth. She stared up at him silently, relaxing as his words
sunk in. "And as for tenuous?" he continued. He leaned down and
kissed her mouth softly. "I can't think of anyone that I'm
connected to any more strongly."
*********************
Scully watched him as he read the letter. His face washed an
eerie red by the stained glass window.
His expression was sad, but at the same time . . . excited.
"But Scully," he said suddenly. "I thought you said they didn't
kiss."
"What!?"
He pointed at the bottom of the letter.
She moved close to him and looked down where he pointed. She
read for a moment then gasped. "It didn't end like that
yesterday, I swear, Mulder," she reread the lines rapidly, "I'm
telling you the truth. The paper. . . ."
Mulder looked down at her, then his eyes dropped to her mouth and
he leaned forward and pressed a warm kiss on her lips.
"I believe you, Scully."
Scully looked down again at the final paragraphs of Samuel's
letter.
The ink and paper as old and brown as it was yesterday:
************************
There I have done it. The shame is gone. I feel exultant. And
it was not wrong as I had feared. It was right. Your eyes did
not open, but your mouth moved. I swear. And now as I watch,
your mouth moves upward in the barest grin. We are best friends!
We are lovers!
And now, I will blow out my lamp and crawl in beside you.
For with my kiss you are mine forever.
As I am yours,
Sam
The end.
Thanks for reading,
Shalimar
(
geocities.com/area51/hollow) (
geocities.com/area51)