Date:	95-12-03 18:55:44 EST


Disclaimer: M and S and XF=FOX and CC

The Letter
     by Joyce Fuller Kleikamp (Joyce AZ)



 As the evening hues crawled along the D.C. horizon, snuffing out the final
remnants of yellow and gold, Dana Scully sat quietly upon her partner's sofa,
holding the letter that he'd written for her but hoped she'd never see. She
hadn't bothered to turn on the lamp, somehow the shadows matched her mood
perfectly. Mulder's apartment was never bright, often illuminated solely with
the blue glow of the television screen unless she was present, and even then
it was sparingly lit. Tonight it just seemed more peaceful to sit in the
dark. 
 Perhaps she was adopting his habits. He brooded with the lack of light and
felt nurtured by its haunting cloak, he had once told her that the absence of
light reminded him of safety. Odd how that sounded at first; darkness too
often shielded the serial killers and rapists. But it was light that had
taken his sister, she conceded. At the moment, the apartment did seem to
enclose her in a strange cocoon of calm. 
 Dana didn't care that she'd been as a warm statue, sitting alone in the dark
for over an hour. There was plenty of time, her flight not due to leave for
three more long hours. Waiting was more tolerable right were she'd settled
earlier in the afternoon. In his home, where she'd gone at his request. 
 That request had come two days ago, spoken in a whisper so intense and
shattering that she'd wondered at her own hearing, or at the least, the
cellular's reception. It was rather like perceiving a spirit's command from
Beyond, not at all like listening to a phone conversation. Admittedly, the
situation was tense--she was in this same place, frantically scanning the
alien autopsy tape trying to see the damn code being punched in. Mulder was
locked in a rail car, rigged to explode within a few more heartbeats. He'd
been coolly impatient when she'd hesitated. "His hand's in the way." 
 "Tick, tick, Scully." At a time like that, Fox Mulder's sense of humor
touched her, focused her and she was able to give him the final number. Give
him what she prayed to God was the correct number. It was then that his
desperate voice, or an unuttered wave of pure impulse reached her mind.
"Behind the frame, Scully." 
 After that, she heard a shuffling and muffled groan, the sounds of a heavy
door moving and static--then nothing. Blessed and damned nothing. Later,
after 17 hours of panic and impossible fear, Agent Scully had learned that
her partner and friend had been found in the Midwest. Near an explosion site.
Wounded but alive. Alive. She was set to fly there at 8:27 this evening; he
most likely would be released into her care to return back to Washington in
the morning. 
 Before leaving for the airport, Scully had a decision to make, one that was
unusual. One that she resented having to make. In her hand she grasped three
pages that Fox Mulder had written to her; a token of proof, the kind of
evidence that she considered of impeccable quality and worth. Although she
had obtained it with appropriate authorization, Dana knew that Mulder had
never intended her to see this letter while he was still alive. Somehow, when
he feared that he wouldn't make it back, he had asked her to look "behind the
frame," either by actual spoken request, or perhaps psychic bidding. She
couldn't *believe* she was actually considering this theory--Mulder's habits
had indeed influenced her. 
 Scully ultimately knew that he meant the decorative frame in his apartment,
the one that held Samantha's photograph. Again, how she knew was strange. She
had at first headed for their basement office in the Hoover building, but
somehow realized while driving there that it wasn't that frame, nor any in
her home. It was the ornate copper frame, the one that he kept near the sofa.

 She'd found it easily, the few thin pages of laser paper folded in quarters
and tucked behind the picture. Words he'd written nearly a year previously,
scrawled across the unlined surface, getting progressively misshapen and hard
to read--most likely the hardest thing he'd ever composed because it required
him to open his heart and allow trust to guide his pen. And because he knew
that the words would never be shared.
 While reading the letter, Dana had been stunned by the depth of emotion, the
discordant insanity and utter eloquence of his language in expressing
himself. This was not something that could be folded up and put away. Nothing
had ever touched her like these resurrected pages and she refused to accept
her first inclination to tuck it back. 
 It had become a matter of respecting privacy. Given that he survived, Mulder
would not want Scully to have read the letter. Dana argued with herself.
After all, it's too late, I've already read the letter and there's no way I
can pretend I haven't. What should I do? As another half hour fluttered by,
the intensity of her thoughts imploded upon themselves, sending Dana into a
shudder of frustration.
 Days later, she would reflect back upon this erratic meditation and wonder
how she could've tangled herself in such a fruitless debate. There had been
only one simple conclusion. Sharing the truth with her partner, openly and
gently had been the sole option after all. They had both been through too
much for even the slightest veil of secrecy to mock their course.   
 Agent Scully folded the letter and placed it in her purse. Rising with a
sigh, she headed for the door. Without dallying any longer, she left Mulder's
building and drove to National. 
 After a minimum of hassle she found her way to the gate and boarded the
flight. How many other times in the past three years had she been on her way
to see Fox Mulder in a hospital? She couldn't estimate fewer than a dozen
instances. It was a wonder this guy *was* alive. Suddenly Scully realized
something. In her indecision over what to do about reading his letter, she'd
failed to consider how she felt about what had been expressed. For the first
time she focused her thoughts upon her own reaction to having read the words
and forgot for the moment what Mulder's response would be.
 Just what did she think? Really think and feel about his soul-bearing
confessions? What did she want to do about them? And, more importantly now,
what was the nature of her own hidden truths. Finally, Dana Scully had a
ready answer. There was no puzzle about this at all. She settled back in her
airline seat and smiled.

        the end



(Note: this story was written *before* I read a recent EMXC piece which deals
with a letter from Scully to Mulder. It's a pleasant similarity that my story
focuses on the reverse situation, not an attempt to copy the theme.) 

Joyce AZ