***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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Writings: Pen to Paper
by shannono
shannono@iname.com


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

Rated R

Spoilers through "Folie A Deux"

Summary: Mulder writes in his journal, and makes a few
discoveries about himself.

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Writings: Pen to Paper
by shannono


May 14, 1998

And once again, I put pen to paper ...

And laugh at my own lousy handwriting.

Sometimes I wonder if, years from now, I'll even be able to read
these scrawled words. That's assuming I can even find this legal
pad.

And also assuming, of course, that I have a "years from now" to
look forward to.

Depressing thoughts, even for me. But with the fucked-up mess
that my life has become, what should I expect?

I thought I'd reached the nadir of my existence six months ago,
staring down my own gun through a curtain of tears. Sitting in
the dark, watching old tapes of old men, and castigating myself
over and over for my faults and failings.

Well, I survived that bout. Not so sure about the next six
months, though.

I can still feel the rasp of those damn restraints around my
wrists, though it's been four days since I got out of that
hospital bed. Of course, the wrists were already sore from
*another* set of restraints, those quite different, but that's
beside the point.

"You must have seen this coming," I told Scully. But to tell the
truth, after everything, I figured it would never happen. If I
hadn't ended up in a loony bin by now, I never would.

Yeah. Right.

I wonder, as I sit here, if it really was a hallucination. If the
madman's madness had indeed been projected into my consciousness,
helped along by my sometimes maddening empathy for the unstable
mind.

Takes one to know one, they say.

But if it was madness which overtook me, that would mean the
same madness affected Scully as well. And I simply can't face
the idea that she might have fallen so far.

I don't really hold Scully up on that high a pedestal. I'm in
awe of her professionalism, her caring, her integrity. She's
an amazing person, in every way. But I know she's not perfect.
She prides herself on her control, but she holds too much
inside. She doesn't talk to anyone. I'm not surprised that she
doesn't talk to me; I sure don't give her many opportunities,
and that's partly on purpose. I don't tend to talk to many
people, either. But I've been alone since Sam disappeared.
I've had 25 years to get used to it.

For Scully, it's different. She's always had friends and family
around her. She's calm and controlled, but she's also thoughtful
and loving. Not to mention beautiful. She's always had people to
talk to when she needed to.

Until she started working with me, and the combination of my
obsessions and our crazy cases pulled her away from her life.
I regret that, every day, even though I can't do anything about
it now. I used to think I could, that if I drove her away, if I
could just push hard enough, she could get back to that. But
the last three weeks have convinced me, finally, that nothing
I do can possibly make her leave. If she ever does, it will be
because of outside forces or her own needs, not me. And Scully's
not one to give up on anything without a fight. She's one
tenacious little redhead.

Not telling Scully about my double-agent role a few weeks back
was the hardest thing I've had to do in a long time. I felt like
I was betraying our entire partnership by keeping her in the
dark. I knew the sane, rational reasoning behind it -- but when
have I ever been completely sane or rational? And why did I
decide to follow the rules that one time?

She figured it out, of course. I should have known she would. I
could have saved her the trouble, and both of us the danger, if
I'd just thought about it. But no, I've got to jump in without
considering her reaction. Guess it's habit by now. Run out and
get myself in over my head, then sit back and wait for Scully
the Savior to come after me.

One of these days, that compulsion's going to get us both
killed. It's come pretty close before.

And then this "folie a deux" thing. I was so sure of what I
saw in that office, and then in my hospital room. And when
Scully came in like a Valkyrie, riding to my rescue yet
again, I was positive. She saw it; it must have been real.

Now, I don't know what to think.

Scully said she told Skinner it was a transference, like she
said to me. But after five years, I can read her pretty well,
and her body language was screaming the words she'd said to
me once -- "I'm afraid to believe." She didn't *want* it to
be real, so she was trying to convince herself it wasn't.
Chalk the unnatural sights up to our almost unnatural bond,
and get on with life.

She didn't believe me. She wanted to, she really did. She knows
I don't have anyone else. Having her believe *in* me, even when
she doesn't believe me, is the only thing that keeps me from
being labeled insane.

That was the other thing I told her in that hospital room --
she's the only one in the world who will ever believe my
craziness. "You're my one in five billion," I said, and it's
the truth. There's no one else out there for me.

Shit, did I really just write that? There goes all my
carefully-won control over my baser instincts, which for
years have been urging me to just grab her and "have my way"
with her. Bury myself so deep I'd need a surgeon to get out.
Never mind that I'd be screwing up the only halfway decent
relationship I've been able to maintain for more than a year
or so in my entire life.

Damn. Great. Now I've got specters of Phoebe and Diana and a
shitload of one-night stands floating before my eyes. Oh, and
let's not forget Kristen, the ultimate in one-night stands.
Nearly my last night, that one. And I didn't even feel it. I
came, yes, but hell if I know whether or not she did. I sure
couldn't say whose name I called out, although I have my
suspicions. Even my photographic memory couldn't manage to
retain much about that night.

Thank God for small favors.

I actually thought we might be getting somewhere last month.
Scully reached out to me, twice in two days. Not me pushing
my way into her life, the way I usually have to if I want her
to talk to me.

She held my hand. So simple. And the first time, she didn't
even know she was doing it. She was acting totally on
instinct, knowing I'd be there for her if there was any
way at all I could.

But I guess she thought she'd gone too far, because she yanked
herself back, hard. During that case in Wilmington, she was
fighting to keep from flinching every time I got near her.
What, did she think I was going to shove her into the wall
at the police station and rip her clothes off??

Not that the thought didn't cross my mind ...

But I digress. The point is, she got me all riled up again. Not
her fault, really; my libido's got a mind of its own. I tried
the normal relief efforts, but my silicone-enhanced videotape
library has lost its appeal. Maybe soon I'll make Frohike a
very happy man and hand them over.

I even ventured toward trying something new -- well, not new,
but something I hadn't done in years. I didn't want to, but
the draw was more than I could resist. I was so relieved when
Scully called, before I got inside, that I almost thanked her
for pulling me back. My libido could wait; Scully needed me.

And she so rarely lets herself need me.

That case was hard on her, but I actually think it ended
up helping her. She still didn't talk to me, but she
seemed more relaxed afterwards. She even mentioned Emily
in passing without flinching. The pain was still there;
her eyes couldn't quite hide it from me. But it's progress.

Progress. Why does it always seem that with us, it's two
steps forward, one step back?

Probably because we're a couple of ornery cusses. (I *knew*
that trip to Texas would do me some good, even if it was
just adding new colors to my vocabulary.) We're so set in
our dysfunctional ways that we wouldn't know "normal" if
it jumped up and bit us on the ass.

Oh, yeah, and *that* would really be normal.

No, normal is something we'll never be. I never would have
been, probably not even if Sam hadn't been taken. Scully
could have been, but she'd probably be bored by now.

But at least she might have had a few years of true
happiness before the walls started closing in on her.

What if, what if. Why do I do this to myself? You'd think
with all that money put into that fancy Oxford diploma I've
got stuffed in a box somewhere, I could do a better job of
analyzing myself.

Physician, heal thyself, I think automatically. Too many
cliches out there, and I can't forget them if I try. But
this one's pretty true, at least for me. And for Scully,
now that I think of it. She's always been a hell of a lot
better at worrying about my health than she has been at
taking care of her own. She runs herself ragged, usually
running after me, and she's just about sworn off vacation
time.

I guess she doesn't trust me with her pencils any more.

It's gotten to the point where I'm considering taking another
vacation myself and convincing her to do the same. I could
shut down the office for a few days, leave town, maybe just
drive up and down the Atlantic seaboard. Stop in Richmond,
and Charleston, sightsee a little, walk through some Civil
War battlefields ...

Okay, bad idea.

But the vacation, that could work. She'd never go for a
week. She knows I wouldn't take that long voluntarily. But
we could take off a Thursday and Friday, take a four-day
weekend. Maybe over Memorial Day, get an extra holiday in
there. Find some remote spot in some state that doesn't
conjure up images of an X-file from our past.

Let's see ... already did away with the battlefields, and
Maine's not an option any more. Can't do Philly, or New
York, for that matter. I'm not going anywhere near Alberta,
and if I never set foot in Minnesota again, it'll be too
soon.

Hmmm ... Maybe Denver. We haven't been there for a case --
yet -- and they've got that great new ballpark. She likes
baseball. We could take in a game, maybe drive up into the
mountains, spend a night or two in a nice, rustic cabin
with a fireplace. Maybe a hot tub --

Hold on a second. At what point did this become *our*
vacation?

Oh, you've got it bad, Mulder.

And I thought my life was fucked up before.

Just when, exactly, did I fall in love with my partner?

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