Dear Charlie:  Respectfully Mulder
Author:  abbeydore
e-mail: abbeydore@aol.com
Spoilers: through 6th season and Field Trip
Rating: PG
Category: MSR, S, H
Disclaimers: Not mine, don't own ‘em, just borrowing
Feedback: is the aloe to my sunburnt backside
Author's notes:  This is the fifth installment in my Dear Charlie series, and
is dedicated to all of you who pushed, prodded, and pleaded <g> for a Mulder
letter. It may make more sense if you've read the other 4 letters, and these
can be found at:
http://www.ravenet.com/users/theship/index.html#ship  (OBSSE)  or
http://www.members.xoom.com/MSRchick2000/index.html (MSR Library) 

``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
````````````````````````````````````````````

Charlie, 

Are you real?  Do you even exist?

Sc- uh, that is Dana (*Scully*), she'll be the first to admit that I'm open to
extreme possibilities.  And your existence, let's face it, does fall into that
category.  But being around your sister for the last seven years has apparently
started to rub off on me, and . . . I need proof.

Pictures crammed into an envelope aren't gonna cut it.  I've seen more than my
share of doctored photographs that have seemed more than just a little
convincing.  I need more.

So, go on, prove it to me.  Prove to me that you exist.  Scully's really
looking forward to seeing how exactly you'll pull this off.

In return, I'm prepared to give you my version of the events that led us (that
is, Scully and me) to this point in our lives.  I am all too aware that you've
heard just about every opinion on the subject of us (finally) getting together
– except for my own.

Well, here it is. . . 

First and foremost, make no mistake about it, your sister means more to me than
anything else in the world (hmm, too limiting; the universe).  I love her. 
And, she'll probably kill me if she ever finds out that I've said this (much
less put ink to paper), but . . . I'd give my life for hers – without question,
without hesitation.  

I can't believe it's come to that.  Never in my life did I ever imagine that I
could love like this.  That I could *be* loved like this.

And, Jesus, Charlie, were we slow to realize it.

Scully let me read your letter – or, really, she read me some of it.  Let me
tell ya, she had questions for me thanks to you.  Mostly about her cross.

She never knew.  She never knew that I wore it while she was gone.  Sure, she
was aware that I found it, that I kept it, that I returned it to her, but she
never knew that while she was missing for that momentary eternity, I had the
symbol of her faith secured firmly around my neck.  Originally, I planned for
your mother to have it, figuring she would want it.  But she refused to keep
it, saying that I should be the one to give it back to Scully when she
returned.

Damn, your suspicions were right *on*.  I loved her even then.

Like hell I'd ever admit it though.

Not to her.

Not even to myself.

Some would say it was guilt that compelled my silence.  What would happen if
*they* found out we were involved . . . romantically?

Well, Scully would kick their asses if anything happened to either of us again.

And, hell, Charlie, they've done some pretty scary shit already.  Involved or
not, we are each others' Achilles' heels – and *they* well know that.

No, not guilt.

Fear, maybe.

Of rejection.

Let's face it.  I'm not exactly what a family's expecting for their baby girl
(not that I would *ever* refer to your kick-ass sister in those terms.)  I'm
not . . .boyfriend material -- and that's the only term jumping out in my mind
right now.  Go on, conjure up every variation of the word bachelor in your
mind.  You were one once.
I have put my own unique spin on every conceivable interpretation of the word. 
In spite of and because of your sister.

I love her.

That feels good to say.

Even when I told her the first time and she rolled her eyes in that patented
way of hers and sighed, "Oh, brother."  It felt good.  To finally say the
words.  

And can ya believe it?  She didn't believe me.

But I knew.  I knew how she felt.

She liked me.

Felt like grade school.  Pull the hair of the girl you love – like I haven't
been doing that for the last seven years.  Sometimes, I'd pick an opposing
viewpoint in a discussion (Scully might call them arguments/me-being-me;
po-ta-to, po-tah-to) just for the pure enjoyment of watching her mind work.

Damn, smart is sexy.  Especially when it's in the body of the beautiful,
exceptional, Sig-lovin', intelligent, at times intimidating, yet loving woman
that is your sister.

After her return from her abduction, my immediate response and emotion was
gratitude.  That she was returned to me, to us.  After her cancer and
remission, the same feeling swept over me.  She was alive, she was here.  That
was enough for me.  I could have been perfectly content by simply breathing the
same air.

But this all changed last year.  I wanted more.  More for me.  More for her.  

I almost lost her again.

No.  No way.

I wouldn't lose her. . . 

.. . . but it all comes back to timing.

And, let's face it, Scully and I have lousy timing.

My attempt – last summer – was aborted.  Circumstances intervened.

But I bided my time, hoping another chance would present itself.

Christmas was particularly hard for me.  Not that I get all into the holiday
season. Never really been a point for me to get into decking the halls.  Don't
know if Scully told you, but I was the reason she missed out on some of the
holiday cheer at your mom's.  I tricked her into spending Christmas Eve with
me.  Okay, tricked may be the wrong word.  I took her car keys so she would
have to stay with me.  How sick is that?  I just didn't want to be alone, and I
was too insecure to flat out ask her to keep me company.  So, what do I do?  I
make sure she has the scariest, most bad-ass Christmas of her life.  Some
friend, huh?  

Really don't want to get into the nightmare-inducing details of the events that
led up to one of the best early mornings of my life.  Suffice it to say, Scully
gave me the best present of all for Christmas.  Her company.  And I didn't even
have to ask.  She arrived at my door at some exceedingly early – or late – hour
on what would be considered Christmas Day.  Me, I had been sitting alone in my
empty apartment half-watching some full of good cheer Christmas movie, when
there was a knock at the door.  My gift had arrived, with a present in hand.  

Guess I had been a good boy after all.

I couldn't remember the last Christmas I had actually enjoyed, celebrated, been
with someone who cared about me.

That's right, Charlie.  Your sister's in love with a loser.  

Or, a more apt description was coined by your brother.  Sorry son of a bitch. 
He must have forgotten the ‘ass' part of it when he bestowed that nickname on
me.  Unfortunate you should get saddled with that, when I'm sure you weren't
the intended target.

Just when I was working up my courage to make my move, she got that case in New
York.  There had better be a corner reserved in Hell for Kersh since he
assigned her to that overeager, trigger-happy sorry excuse for an agent.  So
help me, so help him, if she had died.  I still contemplate exacting some form
of revenge on that not nearly repentant enough Agent Ritter.  Fortunately, he
is aware of this fact and is in a constant state of apprehension.  

Anyway, I should skip over the next month and half or so, because – I admit – I
behaved like a complete ass to her during that time.  Don't ask me why.  I'm
still not fully sure.  Frankly, she should have shot me again after some of the
crap I said to her.  In retrospect, I would have gladly given her my gun.

Then we got the X-Files back.

And our first case, we had to "pose as prospective home buyers."  Man, I tell
ya, Charlie, I was all over her – playing nice.  Or overplaying.  Grade school
infatuation reared its touchy-feely head.  Again.  I mean, I *really* got into
my part in our under cover assignment as Rob Petrie (pronounced ‘pee-tree', you
know, like the dish).  That's right.  Your ‘honey-bunch' of a sister was Laura
to my Rob.  Confidentially, I half-hoped she had packed some Capri pants to go
along with her namesake.  But no.  

Gotta confess here, Charlie, that I am somewhat uneasy should we ever go
undercover again.  Next time, I promised her that she gets to choose the names.
 And considering the glare she shot me when I -- maybe a little too exuberantly
-- announced our names on this case, I can only imagine what awaits me on our
next similar assignment.  But I would love for her to pick Lucy and Ricky. 
She's got the hair for it, and I do a mean ‘Babbaloo!'.  Would definitely have
to hide her gun.  Can't you just picture her face if I would say something
along the lines of:  "Scully, you got some ‘splainin' to do!"?  

In case the question comes up, I did check the little box marked ‘organ donor'
on my driver's license.

That case was good for something.  The rift between us wasn't nearly so vast. 
Thank God.

Pretending to be married to Scully helped me immensely.  Why?  Because I
*liked* it.  I liked the fact that we were sleeping under the same roof – in
the same house and not some nondescript motel.

And, while we were there, I could tell.  She wasn't nearly as pissed as she had
been.  You know what?  She even got into the act.  Oh, don't get me wrong.  She
fought it.  Deep down, she still harbored some angry feelings towards me, but I
was getting to her.  Playing house was getting to her.

After that cozy little assignment, I resolved that by the end of this summer,
your sister would be fully aware of my feelings for her.

Again with the timing.  Shit.

If it's not some anxious, ass-wipe agent shooting her, it's some seriously
disturbed writer, who not only was obsessed with her but also happened to be my
next door neighbor.

Can't she ever get a break?

I know you've heard *all* about that whole mess.  Won't wig you out by
detailing the case to you.  But, hell, Charlie!  I could have lost her again. 
When I found her on the floor of my apartment . . . and all that blood.  For
the longest of seconds, a life without her flashed through my mind.  Who would
I love?  Who would love me? Selfish thoughts, I know, but I'd only just
realized . . .

Then as I knelt over her, praying to her God that she was alive, her eyes
flashed open, her arms flailed in an attempt at defense until her gaze focused
on me.  And she recognized me.

My heart could beat again.

I cradled her in my arms, allowing her to cry the tears that I held back.  God,
she cried.  I can count on one hand the number of times I'd seen her do that. 
And never once like that day in my living room.  Her fingers dug into my back,
pulling me closer.

I wanted to be closer.

That night she slept in my bed.  Nothing happened. Unless you count the fact
that I didn't sleep at all, sitting beside her, watching her sleep.  Wanting to
be there for her as she's been there for me on so many occasions.  Wanting to
be there, in case the events of the day opted for an encore performance in her
nightmares.

I had an epiphany that night as I sat beside her.  An idea formulated.  Nothing
cold and calculated.  Just a goal.  

I was going to make Scully laugh.  Smile, if anything.  I wanted to hear her
laugh – a sound, that sadly, I rarely heard.

How the hell was I ever going to accomplish that?

One Saturday morning, I woke up lonely.  For her.  

Thought up some vague idea for a case and called her.  Oops.  I woke her up.

Gotta interject with a question, Charlie.  Has she always slept the day away –
given the chance, that is?  I mean, it was around 7:15.  I'd been up for hours.
 Just figured she'd be up too – maybe reading Truman Capote or the latest
edition of some medical journal.  

Come to find out, reading is a leisurely afternoon or night time pleasure.  How
was I to know?

So, anyway, as I was saying, I woke her up.  With that
you-just-woke-me-up-this-better-be-damn-good voice that I find so endearing,
she answered the phone.  Quickly, I doused my tone liberally with a plea and
asked her to meet me at the office.  After a long pause, during which I'm sure
she managed a few more winks of sleep, she caved.  And my heart leapt, doing a
little dance of getting-to-see-Scully joy.

Okay, now remember my goal right?  At this point it was still in the planning
stage.  The idea docked firmly in the recesses of my mind, quietly formulating
possible scenarios.  

Scully, it turned out, was one step ahead of me.

When the hell did your sister learn to flirt like that?  I've known her for
years – *years* – and she's taken the innuendo I've lobbed her way with a
small, faint smile.  Never did figure out if she smiled out of politeness or if
it was an attempt to suppress that laugh it had become my obsession to hear
again.  Anyway, she'd been holding out on me.

After going upstairs to dig through the archives for me, Scully returned with a
plain, nondescript brown paper bag.  Out of the corner of my eye, I observed
her, standing on a table – rather precariously, in my opinion – and gazing out
at the day that was passing us by.  Then, her hand slipped into that bag to
reveal a most unlikely torture device.  An ice-cream cone.

No, wait.  It wasn't an ice-cream cone.

It was a non-fat tofutti rice dreamsicle.

And it wasn't the frozen treat that proved to be the torture.  It was the way
she was eating it.

Now, who would have thought it?  Scully's a flirt.

Have seriously debated about investing in stock in whatever company it is that
makes those dreamsicles.  Ice-cream?  What's ice-cream?  I'm a recently
recruited tofu supporter – but only when it passes her lips.

Sweet torture.  I made a move for the frozen snack in her hand only to have it
plop down on some ancient FBI property, with the sound of your sister's joyous
and surprised laughter reverberating in the basement office.  Oh, that sound. 
How can something as banal as a sound – a laugh – be so addictive and necessary
to me? I wanted to hear that again.  Needed a plan, needed a plan. . . 

When I left her and the office in a hurry (left, ditch; semantics), I really
did leave to do some digging about a case-- ‘case' in the loosely worded
definition of *my* internal vocabulary.  But there was another reason I took
off so fast.  I think the janitor may have switched the A/C unit off
downstairs.  That office got pretty damn warm – even with just the two of us
down there.

Ahem.

That afternoon an acquaintance of mine gave me some sound advice after a
long-winded tale about baseball and searching out the mysteries of the heart.  

I thought of Scully.  And my goal.

But damn if she wasn't home.  Had to leave a message, hoping she'd get it.  And
she did.

*We* were going to play baseball.  Don't know why exactly that idea came to me.
 How to Get a Girl to Laugh in Five Easy Lessons never mentioned the game of
baseball as one of the possible methods.  Had I known she hated the game as a
kid, I definitely would have found something else for us to do.  

The setting: a baseball field, a star-kissed night (well that's what it *was*),
and Scully in my arms.  All dreams I'd ever had about her paled vastly in
comparison of that night, that reality.  

I achieved my goal.  She laughed.  I heard it.  I could *feel* it – when she
giggled in my arms as I taught her the proper way to hold and swing a bat.  

Mission accomplished.  I was content.  I was over the moon.  Heart racing with
pure elation.  I made Scully laugh.
  
I needed nothing more.

Scully had other ideas, however.  She invited me over to her apartment –
tempting me with her sweet-tasting herbal iced tea.  I was a goner. . . 

Monday rolled around, and you know the rest, don't you?

She wanted . . . she had planned on letting you be the first to know –
something about how she just thought you'd be saying, "It's about time."

But then we had our little adventure with that wiggy mushroom and its penchant
for human flesh.  All in a day's work.

Followed by our stay at Wonderland.  

Ah, beautiful, blissful Wonderland.   Okay, so it *was* quarantine, and we were
stuck indoors.  But Scully was with me – which always makes for an enjoyable
isolation.  Especially this one, what with us finally resolving the unresolved.
 Amazing how everything changes. Decontamination had never been so stimulating.

Your sister bemoaned the fact that our germ-free home away from home lacked
such amenities as "magic fingers," saying, "I'd kill *Bill* for a massage." 
Well, we couldn't have that, no matter how much he may hate me.  So I eagerly
volunteered for the task of pampering her (which I think was her way of keeping
me occupied during our quarantine).  Hell, I'm trying to find a way to make
that my full time job. Who needs to hunt down little gray aliens when Scully
needs her toenails painted Berry Lush?

Ignore that last statement.  Really.  I was drugged.  That never happened.  I'd
mark it out, but a bunch of scribbled out words wouldn't leave the rest of the
page very aesthetically pleasing.

And, believe me, I know *all* about the meaning of those words.

I gave her a ring.  Did she tell you that?  I debated on whether or not to
follow tradition and buy her one with a fairly substantial diamond – maybe
pear-shaped in a simple gold band.  Classic.  Elegant.  Like her.

But we've never been traditional, conventional, so I opted for something that
bypassed the status quo for something uniquely us.  A ‘wedding ring' without
the trappings of a ceremony.  Our lives are a little too hectic right now. 
Unfortunately.  

You know what, Charlie?  I had this dream last night.

Your sister . . . in a veil and a simple ivory wedding gown -- an
overwhelmingly exquisite smile toying with the corners of her lips -- walking
down the aisle towards me. Well, more like she was struggling to reach me. 
Something snagged the train of her dress.  

No, it wasn't some crazy creature from one of our cases.  But close, though.

It was Bill, writhing down the aisle on the floor, holding onto her train with
a death grip as she dragged both of them closer to me.  Clearly, he had no
intention of letting go, so she oh-so-forcefully nudged him in the shoulder
with her three-inch satin heel before resuming her slow, confident march
towards me.  I'm aware there is a not too well hidden look into my subconscious
thoughts concerning your brother (I did dabble *a little* in psychology, as
Scully may have told you), but . . . you should have *seen* the look on his
face, Charlie.  Hehe. 

Then at last, she stood before me.  Her eyes met mine.  She flashed that smile
that makes my heart soar . . . and I woke up.

I don't think that Bill should be asked to give the bride away – should we ever
agree to take that final step.

See, a few weeks ago, when Scully and I spent the day at your mother's visiting
with Bill, Tara, and Matthew, your brother kept staring at me with this ‘I know
seven different ways to kill a son of a bitch like you' look.  Hey, I don't
have to be a profiler to know when I'm not liked.

But I endured, for the sake of everyone else.  Especially Scully.

She had promised a reward.  It's not what you might be thinking.  No.  She
agreed to make me a home-cooked meal, complete with homemade bread.

Well, bread-maker bread.  Some friends of ours (mine, really) pulled a prank on
her a few months back, leaving her thoroughly pissed.  Frankly I was ticked at
them too for pulling a stunt like that, but I got the girl, so to speak. 
Anyway, in an attempt to get back in her good graces, she's been receiving
‘anonymous' gifts about every other day.  The bread-maker being but one token
of their groveling.

Scully, a closet chef?!  Who knew?  She'd been holding out on me.  

Weekends for us now are bizarrely domesticated.  Grocery shopping. Watching a
game on TV.  Fixing dinner (I'm no slouch in the kitchen, just out of
practice).  Lazy Sunday afternoons.  Not that I'm an expert, but I think it's
what a ‘normal life' is supposed to be like. 

She loves me.

She says it all the time now.

She said it before, of course.  Countless times.  Without the words.

Now, she says the words.

And I feel compelled to ask, why?

Why me, with my healthy dose of self-pity and occasional self-loathing?

I ask this with a sense of dazed awe:  Why out of all the men in the world
(even our boss would like to get to know her better, if you believe the rumors
around the Bureau), has she deemed me the keeper of her heart? 

When I question her about the why, she rolls her eyes and smiles incredulously,
with this, ‘what's not to love?' look that leaves me speechless.

"Mulder, I love you – because you're *you*.  Your passion for me, for life, for
the Truth. . ."

If I asked her to, she could go on forever about why she loves me ("for the
sunflower seed shells in my sofa cushions. . ."), but I don't need that.

She loves me.  And I love her, Charlie.  I do.

So, my part of the bargain is taken care of.  It's your turn.

Do you exist? 


Very respectfully, if you are – in fact – real, 

Mulder             
~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE END