***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! ========== Love Letter by shannono shannono@iname.com Rated PG-13 for language, spoilers for "Orison" Author's notes at the end. ========== Love Letter by shannono He found the box while helping with that final sort-and-pack of evidence and personal belongings before closing the case, for good this time. He'd needed something to do, something to keep him occupied until he could leave, until he could close himself up in his apartment and be alone. He'd chosen to go through the box of personal effects the prison had sent over the afternoon before, too late to be any good to the investigation. Buried under the few books and personal items sat a hard plastic box holding a sheaf of lined index cards, each covered with scrawled, nearly indecipherable writing. Curious, he flipped through them carefully, latex-covered fingers separating the worn, wrinkled pieces where they stuck together. He lifted one from about a third of the way in, sliding a thumb in to hold the spot in the stack, and squinted, trying to make out the words. *bitch* He flinched involuntarily as the letters jumped out at him, and something clenched deep inside. He braced himself before he looked again, reading the rantings of a madman. *you think you beat me bitch well you'll find out what winning is when I get the hell out of this hellhole* That was all the card held, and he returned to the box, slipping the paper back in place and retrieving the next. *all I wanted was to take care of you, didn't you know? You wanted it wanted to be taken care of that asshole couldn't take care of you* The words stopped again, and he replaced the card, hands beginning to tremble. He reached for another, this time further back in the box. *to see your hair all clean and wet and dark dark red when I finish and then I dry it and brush it and its shiny and shimmers in the light* He shoved the card back in and slammed the box down on the table, standing so fast that his head spun. He paused for a brief second, just long enough for the room to straighten out, and then in three quick strides he was out the door. ========== She found him twenty minutes later, just where she knew she would -- standing alone in the morgue, staring at the rows and rows of metal doors, his hands fisted at his sides, his breathing ragged. His eyes were dark with roiling emotion and reddened from tears and rubbing and days without enough sleep. Her voice, soft and tremulous as it was, sounded like a thunderclap when she spoke his name into the chilled air. "Mulder." She saw him fight it for a few seconds, but the breath gasped out as if it was his last. And he growled, like an animal, a primal sound of pure pain, impotent rage with no target. His hands lifted toward the ceiling as his voice rose in pitch and volume, his fingers twisted into upraised claws. As quickly as it began, it was over, and he sank slowly to his knees on the tile, folding in on himself, hands resting on his thighs, palms upturned, fingers still curled. "I want to *kill* him," he moaned, his voice broken. "I want to watch him suffer, watch him *die*." She lowered herself to the floor beside him, sliding her hand down his arm from his shoulder to his hand, wrapping her fingers around his. "I know," she murmured, her voice tired, her own emotions long drained and empty. "I know." A moment of silence passed, and then he moved like a panther leaping, quick and quiet. Suddenly she was enveloped in his arms, being held to his chest so tightly she could barely breathe. His face pressed against her neck, and she could feel the burn of tears on her skin. His shoulders quivered from exhaustion and pain and anger and fear, and she forced herself to move, as if through mud, sliding her arms around him, returning his all-encompassing embrace with equal force. And she let her own tears run. =====END===== Author's notes: This story was written to answer the Scullyfic "love letter" challenge. No, I didn't know when I wrote this if Pfaster died in the ep; that was my own invention (and hope). You may place all blame for this one squarely on Caz' shoulders for encouraging me, though you could also thank Bonnie's "Chilled" for inspiration (and I even worked a tiny nod into the story, too ). Thanks also to Robbie and Brandon for beta reading. Feedback always made welcome at shannono@iname.com.