Title: Dear Charlie: Love Dana,  Scully confesses (part 4 of 4)
Author: abbeydore
e-mail: abbeydore@aol.com
Spoilers: Up through Field Trip
Rating: PG
Category: MSR, H
Disclaimers, etc. still in Part 1.

Sorry, Charlie,

(I know how you hate that, but I couldn't resist)

I would have written you sooner - really I would have - but there's a funny
thing about quarantine.  It makes it a bit difficult for us to be in contact
with the rest of the world.  Actually, it wasn't so bad this time - as far as
quarantines go.  They just kinda confined us to an oh-so-nice government issued
'hotel room' far away from the outside world, wanting to make sure we weren't
exhibiting any odd symptoms.  I had to vouch for the fact that Mulder always
behaves that way, or we might still be there.

We must have been very good during our last stint because we even had a
pseudo-suite, which consisted of two bedrooms and an adjoining living/kitchen
area.  Surprisingly, quite cozy and private.  No cameras, and they only came to
check on us twice daily.  Shortest quarantine we've ever had.  Mulder thinks we
should check into having a permanent reservation - just in case.

Our little nature retreat (all of which we were confined indoors) was certainly
better then some of the past m/h-otel accommodations that Mulder's booked us.
A girl could get used to the indulgences I allowed myself there.  Sadly, no
Magic Fingers at our Casa de Quarantine (you really should give that a try
sometime, Charlie; the quarter slots next to the bed, not the quarantine), but
as you now know, I have Mulder, who has his own 'magic fingers.'

What was that, Charlie?  You want to know why the quarantine?  Or, channeling
Bill, 'what the hell did that partner of yours do now that would get you
quarantined? - and, hey, p.s., are you alright?'

In answer to your concern, would you believe a hallucinogenic, flesh-eating
fungus or as *my* Mulder has dubbed it: some seriously trippy, whacked-out
mushroom?  No?  Well, believe it.

And, my God, Charlie, the 'trip' *I* had.  My worst fear realized.  In it
Mulder was dead, and there was nothing I could do for him.  Everyone believed
he had been murdered except me.  Mulder was dead, and I was spouting his
theories to deaf ears.  Mulder was dead.  Truth be told, after that whole
horrendous ordeal nearly being eaten alive by a plant (of all things), all I
wanted to do was reassure myself that he was alright.  We were being driven
away, and I reached out my hand blindly, knowing he wanted the same assurances.
 Even when we arrived at our destination (jokingly referred to as Wonderland,
in reference to Alice, the caterpillar, and their trippy mushroom) he refused
to let go of my hand.  And I wasn't about to complain.

Let's just say -- and this is for your benefit only because I really do feel
bad about the way you found out about my current romantic status - that Mulder
and I lasted all of about forty- five minutes after everyone *finally* left us
alone in that spacious suite with two beds to choose from.  Well, we had to
reconnect after yet another near fatal experience.  The forty-five minutes
consisted of cuddling and talking, murmuring reassurances of our mutual
well-being, and checking for any listening devices so we could 'get it on'.
Yes, *my* Mulder.  Such a romantic.  Such a way with words.  Oh, and we did
'get it on' - three times.  Not too shabby for a couple who could have been
plant food just a few hours earlier, huh?

So, is that what you wanted?  Confirmation?  Details about my sex- I mean,
love-life?  I can spill.  I can confess my sins to you as well as to any
priest.  I seem to recall you almost had a 'calling' from the Church, until
puberty hit.

Oh, but you weren't asking details about that.  Consider it a bonus, 'k?  You
wanted to know about my baseball lesson from Mulder.  Why is everybody getting
back to that?  Was I really so obvious?  Was *it* so obvious?  Well,
apparently.  Okay, I'll admit it.  I'll 'fess up.  To you, Charlie, and only to
you.  Mom, I guess, will just have to pry the details out of me.  Or ask
Mulder.  It's a theoretic impossibility for that man to lie to her.

Ok, so here goes:

The Confession of Dana Katherine Scully, or How I Learned to Enjoy Baseball
Without Cringing and Made a Home Run With the Batter:

Well, if you must know (and you do know), this whole thing between Mulder and I
has been building for years.  We'd be the last to admit it, but it's been there
since the beginning.  First let me say that I'm actually glad that we were so
unaware of the slow burn that was happening between us.  It made that first
time oh so . . . spectacular?  Hmm, what a weak word.  Mind blowing?  Mind
numbing?  Fantastic?  I'm sure you get the idea.  We didn't get out of bed
(okay, well, technically, my apartment) until Monday morning.  Late.  Oops.
Oh, well.  It was worth it.  We had a good -- personal --excuse.  Putting to
bed six plus years of sexual tension is reason enough to maybe straggle into
work three hours late.  Or at least that was our way of thinking.  And Mulder
already had a nice little cover story.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Sorry.  But thinking about sex with Mulder and indirectly writing about it
seems to make me a bit loopy (hmm, it must, if I'm using words like 'loopy').

Okay, Saturday.  Saturday morning to be more precise.  Mulder woke me up with a
call to meet him at work to help him do some research about a 'potential case'.
 Well, I wasn't too happy, but naturally I went in to help him despite the fact
that it was a gloriously beautiful day outside and I'd much rather be out there
enjoying it -- but only if he was out there with me. I'm pathetic, I know, but
at least I get that feeling only fleetingly from time to time; other times I
wonder why I didn't aim a little lower when I shot him. . . Oh, well, never
mind. *Now* I know.  Oh, yes, now I most certainly know. Am so very, very glad
I didn't do any serious damage down south when I was compelled to unload that
piece of lead into his body. Good thing I'm such a crack shot or else there
would be no reason for this letter.

Feel free to insert a heavy, contented sigh here, Charlie.

So, anyway, I decided to do a little payback.  I got myself a snack (a non-fat
tofutti rice dreamsicle, which is really a lot better than it sounds) and
teasingly ate a bite to get his attention.  I don't know what came over me.
But it felt so good to *play.*  In retrospect, I sort of/may have instigated
the evening's events, but I don't really think so, since - as you pointed out -
we'd had these feelings for awhile.

After Mulder defaced government property and took off for parts unknown (don't
ask), I went home, relaxed for awhile, called Mom for dinner plans, then spent
the rest of the afternoon in the park.  People-watching. Young couples in love.
 People with their children.  Old couples still in love after so many years.
People having adulterous affairs, meeting in a public place to say it's over so
that there won't be a scene.  Day-to-day occurrences, I guess.  But what do I
know?  That entire afternoon spent checking to see what a normal life looks
like and  realizing it would bore me senseless unless I was with the right
person.  And you know who that person is, don't you, Charlie?

 It was at dinner with Mom at Angelo's that things started to happen.

I had left my phone on all day, in hopes that Mulder would call and tell me
what the hell he was doing, or where the hell he was, or if he needed any help
breaking into some mysterious medical facility, whatever.  So, when I left for
dinner with Mom I had to leave my phone at home to recharge and hope that my
message service would be a suitable replacement.  Apparently not, poor Mom.  I
wanted to spend time with her, really I did, but Mulder was totally distracting
me.  I used the restroom twice, or at least that's what I told her, so I could
check my messages.  That excuse just was not gonna fly a third time or Mom
would start to worry about possible bladder problems so I told her the truth -
that I needed to check my messages.  I had one.  From a Fox *Mantle,* asking me
to meet him at the ball park.  I couldn't help but smile.  What was Mulder up
to?  I just had to know.  Gave Mom my apologies and went to meet him.

When I got there he was hitting the ball like a pro.  Now, Charlie, you know
me, I'm not one of those girls who goes for flowers and candy (although it
wouldn't hurt) and bedroom eyes, but when Mulder was standing there poised over
home plate in that oh-so-sexy baseball jersey, the bat resting against his
shoulder and he said those four words ("Get over here, Scully.") with that
voice and that look on his face, I tell you, Charlie, I discovered the meaning
of the phrase sensory overload.  But I tried to play it cool like he was having
absolutely no affect and I was only there to humor him.  My inner child -- the
one that goes in for sappiness and romance and all that girly stuff I tell
myself I don't have to have -- was absolutely swooning.  I was butter - in a
skillet.  Melting, melting.  Fighting it all the way.  But melting
nevertheless.

And, shut up.

All your 'Rocky Horror' and 'pelvic thrust' crap.  Very funny.  Ooh, but the
'hips before hands'(mmm, yeah) can carry over to some much more enjoyable
strenuous exercise.  You wanted details, didn't you?  There's this book, uhm, I
believe it's called the Kama Sutra.  You may want to refer to it for some of
the details, if you really want to know.  I just don't think I can tell you
*everything,* regardless of what I let Bill think.  Suffice it to say, we did
*not* do anything over home plate.  There was a child present after all-- who
was responsible for the balls being thrown our way -- and I didn't feel
comfortable being apart of his introduction to the birds the bees, and educated
MD's (Sorry, private joke).  I invited Mulder over to my place for a snack  and
some iced tea -- which I knew he'd be unable to resist -- and (insert knowing
grin) whatever else.

And from there, well . . .  you know. . . Won't be giving all the intimate,
loving, cuddling, oh-my-GOD details.  I won't give you a play by play.  I'm not
that kinda girl.  We had a very productive thirty-four hours after our first --
uninterrupted -- kiss in my hallway. See, we kinda had this thing about
hallways and kisses that was sort of an unspoken residual from our hellacious
summer last year.  That kiss was . . . again with the words.  There are no
words to describe . . .

Hence, my new found love of baseball.  Only with Mulder will I enjoy it,
though.  Again, sorry, Charlie.  We'll always have . . . what did we have?  You
guys were pretty exclusive when it came to contact sports.  And I do consider
baseball a *contact* sport. . .

You asked me in your letter about when did I know that I might conceivably be
in love with Mulder.  I have no answer for you.  I remember having feelings for
him during the moments you mentioned.  But at the time, I never recognized my
feelings for love.  Friendship, concern, yes.  But love as in 'in love,' no; I
couldn't admit it.  Realizing that we were *in* love was like answering a
question we didn't know needed to be asked.  We had the answer before we knew
the question.

In retrospect, I think you may have hit on something.  The Arctic.  I had an
inkling then.  I couldn't lose him, I couldn't.  At the time I didn't bother
with searching for why I felt that as adamantly as I did.

And thank *you,* baby bro, for bringing up the names of those women I'd just as
soon forget.  Really, too kind of you.

Remind me to use your body as target practice the next time you're in town.

Only kidding.  Somewhat.

You want examples?  Or details from my life since Mulder?

You're right.  I liked him from the start.  From the moment I walked into that
basement office and saw him.  Okay, so my first view was of the back of his
head, but it was like the room was charged with some sort of energy.  Very
disconcerting and exciting at the same time.  I'd never felt anything like it
before, and I never went in for that whole 'instant attraction/connection' that
Missy always insisted upon.

And then we made eye contact.  Oh, and he was wearing his glasses, which
compelled a little voice inside my head to shout "yummy." No man is supposed to
look so good in glasses.  So,  I'll concede, there was a little something
there.  What exactly, I'm not sure.  Mulder now insists it was his heart
constricting, then imploding, with some unnamed emotion.  Please.  He can just
stop trying to be poetic.  He's already got me and I've no intention of going
anywhere.

No instant -- admitted -- attraction.  Which may come as a disappointment to
some (Mom for one, perhaps).  I mean, let's be honest, he was far too wary of
me the first few cases to even think of being attracted to me in the sense that
I would consider appealing.  He had too much self-preservation for that.
During our first few months together I had to work hard to prove myself to him
-- that I wasn't sent to spy on him.  Jumping his bones would have really
helped my case, huh?  "Oh, no, Mulder I'm not here to debunk your work on the
X-Files. Wanna do it right here on the desk?  How 'bout up against the filing
cabinet?  I promise it won't compromise your integrity or your life's work in
the eyes of whoever might be watching."  That would have gone over real well,
Charlie.

*Now,* in light of recent changes in our partnership, some of those thoughts
might be worth pursuing . . . Hmm, the desk. . . I think it looks sturdy enough
for some *probing* investigations. . .

Apologies yet again, Charlie. Am I placing images in your head you'd really
rather not have?  Can't help it.  I'm happy.  I feel entitled to tease, and be
teased.  And, you know, Charlie, I really had planned on telling you about my
'close encounter of the Mulder kind' (he really liked that by the way), but
quarantine intervened.

This is what happened:

        Baseball
        Mulder and I had sex, *lots and lots* of sex
        I avoided Mom till she pounced
        Sex, sex, sex
        Baseball
        Sex, sex, sex
        Started on the letter to you
        Sex, sex, sex
        Weekend with Mom and Bill, et al.
        You-made-it-through-a-Saturday-with-my-brother-Bill, good-for-you-Mulder sex
        Whacked-out mushrooms, near death by digestion
        Quarantine
        Sex, sex, sex
        End of quarantine
        Sex, sex, sex
        Got your letter
        Sex, sex, sex
        Started rewriting the letter to you
        Sex, sex, sex
        Writing you now
        (anticipating sex)

I may have left out a few things, like sex with Mulder (Come on, we have a lot
of sexual tension and deprivation to make up for), oh, and work, but you get
the idea, don't you?

You would have had your letter a lot sooner if you'd get an e-mail account like
a normal person.  You live thousands of miles away on another continent, and
yet you continue to maintain contact with your family through snail mail.  Even
Mom's got an account now, and that's saying something.  Just a suggestion: get
e-mail.  I promise if you do, you'll always be the first to know about the
goings-on in my personal life, with Mulder.

Bill was awful damn sneaky, noticing the ring.  After Mulder gave it to me, I
wanted to wear it, but not in the obvious place since people might get the
wrong idea.  He understood and suggested I might wear it with my cross.  So
sweet the way he hesitantly offered up the idea, afraid of how I might react.
I could never wear it on my finger now.  Now it's close to my heart, like the
man who gave it to me.

Rest assured, it's not what you -- and Bill and Mom -- might think.  At least,
not exactly.  It's Song of Solomon: "I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine"
in Hebrew.  Mulder called it a promise ring.  Despite all our years together
and the events we've shared, he's still man enough to tense at the word
'commitment' in terms of a personal relationship.  Kinda cute really.  Almost
makes him . . . normal.  But I won't tell him that.  Might ruin his image.

So, no, it's not an engagement ring.  Not in the traditional sense.  More like
a promise to be together forever.  That's all.  We don't need a ceremony to
cement our feelings or vows.  We know now.  That's enough for us.

No wedding bells in the foreseeable future.  Mom will just have to get over
that dream. But what I wouldn't give to see my guy in a tux. . .

Love,

your blissfully sated sister,

Dana

P.S.  Mulder thinks you don't exist.  So get your ass over here and meet him.
Soon.

P.P.S.  And, no, we don't make a habit of doin' our naked pretzel three times
each . . .session . . .  in our down time.  Sometimes there's oh-so-much more.
For variety's sake.

Do you hate me for that last lingering image?
Better us than Bill and that plank of wood, huh?

Love, again, 99

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE END

 Respond to (abbeydore@aol.com)         Recommend Dear Charlie: Love, Dana
 ------------------------------------                        (part 4 of 4)
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