Written 01/01/1998
Disclaimer: Again... not mine.
Summary: What affects one, affects the other. No matter what lies between them.
Author's Note: I've realized that if the depth of friendship Lola and I feel for one another is as strong as it is for two people so drastically different who've never even met, it must be exponentially so for characters such as M&S. And I can only hope that one day, you too will know the power of true friendship. Special thanks to Red Wolf (who continues to be so kind to post my stuff despite all rationality — Thanx Mactíre), Marianne, Diana, Sammy, and all my other X-Phile friends sharing their gifts with me. My love goes out to you all. May you all forgive me for any transgressions I have made and write to me always. I live for your emails. :)
This story is the companion piece to Bound As One I
Although the sun had long since set, the man clothed in darkness could no more fall asleep than if it were bright as day out.
He'd been out here for several days now, lending is innate genius to others in hopes of catching a more mundane, but no less lethal evil who--this time--liked to hunt down defenseless old women, and then viciously murder and mutilate them.
The case had already progressed far with his arrival, his profiling abilities coming effectively into play once again. And although he was certain they were very close to catching the serial killer who'd evaded authorities for over three weeks now, something wasn't right.
He didn't know what is was, or to what it pertained, but there was an indefinable niggling in his gut which just wasn't sitting right with him. He felt tense, uneasy, like something was bothering him. Only, it was distant. As if part of himself far away felt these things. But the only part of himself which wasn't here was...
Scully.
His hand was already reaching for his cell phone when he realized what time it actually was. She would be, no doubt, fast asleep. And in no mood to hear from him with his crazy theories. Besides, what could he possibly say to her? Sorry I called so late, I just had the feeling you needed me? She would be infuriated. She hated it when he got protective, thought it meant he didn't trust her. Even though most times he trusted her more than he trusted himself.
Turning the television on to some old late night B-movie, he stretched his long legs out from under him and sank back into the cushions of the hotel room sofa. Hoping that the distraction of the cheesy movie might spur his mind onto some other topic — like tracking down "The Granny Slayer" as he'd come to be dubbed.
It didn't work. Less than five minutes later he was up on his feet once again, this time pacing across the motel floor in long, sure strokes. The disquiet he felt guiding his motions.
He always paced when he felt frustrated. And although it disturbed everyone else — except Scully, who'd grown used to it — the constant motion served to sooth him and set his mind free to travel whatever paths might lead it to the answers he sought. It was one of his more effective techniques for making those incredible leaps in logic he was reknowned for. The steady action of pacing allowed him to turn all concentration inward as he released his remarkable intellect to examine every possibility — however extreme.
Tonight though, instead of using his ability to solve a case — as he probably should have — he tuned it into his own mysterious feelings of trepidation. He set aside all thoughts of the murderer at large, turning his complete focus on himself. His quick mind scanned, inspected, and analyzed dozens of thoughts and ideas in the time it normally took for most to check even one. But, despite his efforts, he was still at a loss to explain this sensation.
As he passed by the bed once more, he turned and plopped down on it. Rolling over onto his stomach, his eyes fell upon the nightstand — and the phone resting there. With an exaggerated sigh, he turned from it determinedly. Deciding that there really was no necessity for calling her. But, the niggling wouldn't stop. And as his gaze returned to the nightstand, an idea formed. Reaching into the first drawer, he sifted through its meager contents until he found what he was searching for. Grabbing the note pad and a nearby pen, he set about to uncover his discomfort with words.
Scully, it's me.
Hell, who else would it be? No one else is as moronic as I must be to do THIS. Writing to you like some poor pathetic wretch in the middle of the night. Though, I suppose it's safer than doing what I really wanted to-—call you. I know you would have been furious with me for waking you all because of some nasty little feelings.
But I've learned over the years to trust my instincts. They are eerily almost always accurate.
He snorted as if to emphasis the obvious. His intuition was more than just "eerie", it was usually down right spooky.
He smiled ruefully. How befitting.
The smile faded quickly.
What is it about us Scully? Have you ever noticed that even after five years of depending on almost exclusively each other, we still hide things from each other? Like our feelings. We're both intensely private people, and stubborn and set in our ways, I know this. But, after everything we've been through... the losses, the pain... why do we still persist to keep it from each other? Is it out of a need to protect? To shelter one another from the pain and horror so very present in every other aspect of our lives? More than likely, but who are we protecting? Ourselves, or each other?
I no more have answers to these questions than I do about the ones I have of Samantha.
He paused, expecting the pang of guilt and loss that has always stabbed through his heart at the mention of his sister's name. He knew what it would feel like, down to every minute detail. He'd felt it so often.
He was more than a little startled when it was not forthcoming. But he surprised himself even more by not really caring.
A lot has changed over the years, hasn't it? Not only in the world around us, but in ourselves. When I first met you I was an obsessed, cocky, and guilt-ridden man who carried a wall of black stone around him as protection from the world. I am no longer that Mulder. I'm still obsessed, still rather cocky-—as you love to point out—-and even more guilt-ridden, but you've broken down the wall guarding my heart. Slowly but surely, you've ripped away brick after brick and forced your way in.
You're in so deep now that our souls have merged and we can't ever be separated again.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
I wonder sometimes whether you even recognize that somewhere during our journey together, you blended your spirit with mine? We've both gotten so good at covering emotions, it's so hard to tell anymore.
Unless I can see your eyes.
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I used to think it highly-cliched and honestly, somewhat corny. But, since meeting you, I've come to realize that most cliches are that way because they are, more often than not, true. And as corny as it sounds, when I look into your eyes, it is your soul I'm seeing. And that has never kept anything from me. I suspect it to be the same with me for you.
Our bond has grown strong, stronger than I ever even imagined was possible. We know each other so well, to the point where we routinely predict the others' actions. A feat in itself. And then there's object of wonder and mystery to everyone who knows us — the silent communication we so easily share. Right from the start, that understanding seemed to be there and with the time and use we've given it, it is now perfectly flawless.
Except when we deny it. As I'm doing right now. Everything within me, however faint, is urging me to pick up the phone and see if you're all right. Just to hear your voice, if nothing else. Something inside me told me that something had been bothering you, and though the sensation has died now, the residual fear still lingers. I can almost sense you are at peace now as much as I could sense your trepidation mere moments ago.
Unless the peace came from unconsciousness, some part of him added.
He quickly squelched any thoughts of his beautiful partner lying in a coma in some hospital, wires running everywhere, her flame-colored hair dull and as lifeless as her eyes...
He would definitely be able to feel THAT. He was certain, because he'd already felt it before.
No, she was safe. He knew it.
No, I won't call. The danger has passed. If you'd needed me, you would have called. Or someone else would have done so for you. So, while I may not now what it was that started this whole mess, I won't disturb you to find out.
Maybe I'll ask you when I come home.
The concept of "home" was, for him, normally not a pleasant one. But, for some reason while he wrote this letter, a realization came to him which his conscious mind had still not yet acknowledged.
That his "home" was no longer a place with walls, but a woman bound as one with his essence, heart, and soul. His home was wherever she was. For she was his life.
He quickly signed the letter and then with the utmost care, folded it and securely tucked it into his briefcase. He doubted he would ever give it to her, it had been written more for his own needs to purge the dread than for hers. Still, the idea to get rid of it never even crossed his mind as it was stowed amongst his belongings.
The next morning, after having waken refreshed from only a few hours dreamless sleep, he had wasted no time in coming up with a profile of "The Granny Slayer" and the murderer had been caught by afternoon-—with more than enough evidence found at his apartment to lock him up for the rest of his measly life.
The case had been closed, and his duty keeping him away from Scully had ended. He boarded the next plane back to DC without even a second thought.
He was on his way home.
Would you believe that the exact same moment I typed the final period at the end of my "The End", a shout came from the living room? My mother's joyful voice, informing me it had just turned midnight. The New Year is upon us. Make the most of it everyone. Life is just too damned short to waste.
Happy New Year and welcome to 1998!