***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references
in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter,
and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it.

ARCHIVING: Link only, please!

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Living
by shannono
shannono@iname.com


Vignette, Angst, Mulder first person, Mulder/Scully UST

Rated PG

Spoilers through "All Souls"

Summary: Mulder contemplates life and death.

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Living
by shannono


I'd die for her.

In an instant.

She knows this. She'd do the same for me.

But that's the easy part.

It's simple to talk about death, and dying, from a distance.
A "what if" somewhere in the hazy future, a possibility not
so extreme but at least uncertain.

If I were forced to choose, to decide which of us had to take
a bullet, I wouldn't hesitate. Hell, I *didn't* hesitate, the
one time it came to that. When I felt the urge to put that gun
to my head, I pulled the trigger with scarcely a heartbeat's
pause, my resistance only half-hearted.

But when I felt my hand grab out for her arm and knew what
Modell was going to do next, I fought. I struggled with every
shred of will and muscle control I still had to keep from
turning that gun on her.

At that point, it didn't even matter if the round was chambered
or not. Just the chance was enough for me. I'd rather die a
thousand painful deaths than to be the cause of hers.

Then last year, when she was dying and I was the reason, again,
I nearly gave myself for her, again. Only sheer chance, and a
bit of faith, saved me then. Saved us both.

No, dying for her isn't a problem.

It's the living that's hard.

Living each day with her but without her. Near, but so far.
She's right there, across the office, by my side at a crime
scene, on the other side of the car. Day after day, come hell
or high water, psychic or serial killer. Even when I push her
away, try to put some distance there, she never wavers.

It's a delicate balance we have. We don't touch each other
often. It's too dangerous. My hand grazes the back of her
waist, just over that tattoo I try not to think about. Her
fingers brush along my arm to get my attention, tug my sleeve
to draw my eye to the next clue.

We've had our moments, of course. But those few tender scenes
are tarnished around the edges, marred by circumstance. I
remember embraces in a darkened house and a quiet hallway,
light kisses on her face, a small hand reaching for mine. I
want to enjoy those memories, but I can't. The fear, and the
anger, and the pain, are too fully embedded within them.

Mentally, we are close always, attuned to each other's every
move. Even during the worst moments of our partnership -- even
in the early days, when we were still wary of each other --
we've needed no more than a glance to gauge the other's mood,
or thoughts.

We are comfortable in our physical proximity. I spend entirely
too much time within her personal space, whether leaning down
to whisper a theory or just standing next to her during an
elevator ride. I think that's where all those rumors and
assumptions about the true nature our relationship come from.
People see us together, a half-step less between us than with
most partners, and that's the only explanation they can come
up with.

But really, it's more a habit than anything else. We don't
need to be side-by-side to feel each other any more. We can
read each other from across the room, and sometimes from
across the country.

Like when she called me from San Diego on Christmas Day. Her
voice was steady and clear, her words innocuous, telling me
she'd found something she'd like me to take a look at, if I
wouldn't mind. But I knew, instantly, that this wasn't a case.

This was personal.

There was nothing in her voice, her intonation, to clue me
in -- at least, not consciously. I shouldn't have known.

But I knew.

I knew, again, when I returned her call from a dirty phone
booth outside a dirtier movie theater, that the case she was
asking about was more than just another X-file.

About that theater ... that's a good example of why the living
is the hard part. I didn't -- couldn't -- tell her where I was
when I called. She lives with my magazines and videos, even
jokes about them, but she doesn't know about the theater.
That's a recent development, and I'm not too happy with myself
about it. But the regular methods aren't enough any more. I
need ... I need ...

Well, hell, I need *her*.

But I can't have her, and that's the root of the problem.

It's getting harder to keep her at arm's length -- figuratively
speaking, of course; I'm rarely that far away from her when
we're together, working or not. But even though I know it's
the best thing, especially for her -- even though I know *she*
knows the same thing -- I am chafing under our unspoken but
mutually agreed upon restrictions.

No hugs, no kisses, no hand holding, unless it's a dire case.
And "dire" usually involves death threats or hospitalizations. 

But, damn it, we're only human. Two attractive, intelligent,
humans, partners for five years, closer to each other than
to anyone else on the planet. The love is a given, I'm not
questioning that. But the pull is there, too, the ...
*magnetism* between us.

We've resisted for so long.

But I don't know if I can keep it up.

Dying for her, that's easy. Living for her, living like
this ...

It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do.

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