Title: Dear Charlie: Love Mom (part 1 of 4) Author: abbeydore e-mail: abbeydore@aol.com Spoilers: Hmm, gonna blanket myself here and say through Three of a Kind (but here, it happened before The UnNatural) Rating: PG Category: MSR, H Disclaimers: Not mine. Chris's. 1013's. Fox's. But not mine, I say again. Feedback: yes, please; need to know what I did right and wrong; first-timer here. Distribution: ok, as long as I know about it Dear Charlie, Something is different with Dana. I know my daughter - admittedly not as well as I once did, but I know when something is different. Something happened. That I know. Saturday night. And I *know* it was Saturday night, because I was with her earlier that evening when she received a mysterious phone call. We were having dinner together. You know, I've long since given up trying to find her a nice young man among the sons of some of my friends. What with her job, her hours . . . her partner . . . A social life is all but impossible. And she seems content with that, and, so, who am I to intrude. I love Dana enough not to interfere. Nearly losing her: 1) when she disappeared a few years back, and 2) just this past January when she had that case in New York, and 3) whatever that was last summer when she came back manifesting all the symptoms of someone who just went out in a snowstorm sans clothes made me realize that as much as her job terrifies me, it is *her* work and she loves it. So, I will keep my opinions to myself. But, anyway, I've stumbled off track. Dinner at Angelo's, one of our favorite haunts. I'd noticed recently that Dana had been calling me more often, for dinner, lunch, just to chat. She half joked that it was to reassure herself that she wasn't so lonely. I wondered. Thinking about it later I realized that all of that had started right after that case, involving the writer (enclosed is the article about those gruesome murders. Did you ever get that article about that water monster? It had a lovely mention about how she delivered a baby in the middle of that hurricane. Dana said her newspaper friends were going to send you an article about that case. Poor Fox. I thought those marks on his neck were never going to fade away, or *go* away for that matter). Anyway, apparently this writer had been stalking Dana and developed quite a fascination with her. Fox told me about what happened, in hushed tones when I went to his apartment, while Dana slept in his room and the authorities were searching the building. Now, before you start turning into your brother - with a vendetta and a pent up rage against Fox, a man you have never even met - let me tell you what I know: I received a call from Walter Skinner (you remember, Dana's boss). Immediately I tensed - remembering the last call I had received concerning Dana had been her near fatal gunshot wound in January - but he assured me that both Dana and Fox were `fine' (i.e. not dead) and that I may want to go to Fox's apartment. There had been an `incident.' It took me sometime to get there. Then I saw the police cars . . . lights flashing . . . and, oh, Charlie, my heart sank. Mr. Skinner was waiting for me, and I followed him up to the `crime scene' - or, as I later found out `one of the crime scenes'. As we were going up in the elevator, he said, "Mulder wanted me to call you, thought you should be here, but . . ." And then I heard her, as I stepped off the elevator. Dana. Crying. Not crying. Sobbing. I stood in the doorway, and I saw her. With him. Clinging. Grasping. Burrowing. She couldn't get close enough to him. Clawing her fingers into his back as he pulled her still closer to him, like he was holding his world in his arms. And then I noticed the blood. On the floor. On him. On her. Soaking her shirt. It was hers, I was sure of it. Neither of them saw me at first. He murmured inaudible, soft assurances into her ear, kissing and stroking her hair. Then as if waking from a nightmare - which, I guess, was what she was doing - she lurched back from his embrace on the floor, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of her blouse. "Mulder, that man, he --" "Ssh, there's nothing there. I checked, remember? Before the police and Skinner got here. Blood, no wound." He took her hand in his and placed it over her chest, her heart. "See? Still beating." Gingerly, she leaned forward again and rested her head on his chest, listening. Then sighing, she said softly, "You, too." He kissed the top of her head again and whispered with a touch of humor, "Looks like you made into yet another X-File. You're such an overachiever, Scully." She laughed into his chest, faintly. "You wanna get cleaned up now? What I wouldn't give to see you prancing around my place in nothing but my Knicks shirt." Another stifled giggle and mumbled, "Mul-der . . ." And she hugged him closer. Then Fox saw us standing in the doorway. Dana sensed the change in him as he stiffened in her arms. Looking up, seeing me, she immediately sought and found her resolve. Her tears had already stopped, but her eyes were red, making the blue flash vibrantly. Nearly broke my heart when she politely refused my offer to help her clean up - after a quick hug. She asked Fox to help her. Once she was settled in his bed, asleep - at his insistence - Fox came back out to tell me what had happened. His explanation was . . . well. . . along with that newspaper clipping you'll see Fox's account to the police about what happened. When you're reading it, just keep reminding yourself that Dana's fine. Anyway, the next day, Dana was back to normal. She's resilient, like all the Scullys. Getting back to Saturday night. We were enjoying our meal. I was suggesting to her that she really should consider lightening up her wardrobe. I don't know if you're aware, Charlie, but lately your sister has been wearing black. All black, all the time. Very unsettling. Oh, well, there was the one exception when she and Fox had to go undercover on that case in California, when they had to pose as a married couple. Fox sent these adorable pictures of them - the pictures that they had to have in their house to kind of help with their cover. Anyway, she looked lovely in those lighter colors and her hair all soft and curled. Very cute pictures. Would you like to have one? It just occurred to me that you don't know what he looks like, do you? Those newspaper pictures never do him justice. And whatever you do, don't mention that assignment to your brother. Dana `neglected' to mention to him that she'd be staying in San Diego on her job related visit, fearing any confrontation. But I digress. Dana excused herself from the table to go and check her messages since she'd left her cell phone at home recharging. When she returned, I knew something was up. She had this secretive, bemused smile, with a faintly furrowed brow. "Ah, Mom--" I know that tone. She had to go. Before she left she assured me that it wasn't a case, at least she didn't think so and that same little smile. There would be no late night flights she insisted, followed by a mumbled, "I learned my lesson on *that.*" No midnight autopsies for my little girl. So, I decided to call her later that night and see if she'd be going to church in the morning. I called at ten. Got the machine. I tried calling her cell phone at 10:15, just in case. No luck. After getting no response at 11, I gave up for the evening. And went to bed. She wasn't at church. I arrived home to a brief, vague message that she'd call me later in the week. Tuesday morning, I finally gave in myself and called her at work, inviting her over for dinner. She accepted happily. My suspicions crept up on me again. Just a feeling. "And Fox is invited too, of course." "*Mulder*, Mom - and he has, uh, he has other plans already. Cheese steaks with some . . . friends (that last word was sort of ground out through clenched teeth). Thank you for giving me an out to *that*. I was going to give you a call tonight, anyway." I wasn't so sure. Dana inherited your father's lying skills, or lack thereof. I suspected she would have been perfectly happy having cheese steaks with Fox, regardless of the `friends.' The moment I saw her, I *knew*. Whatever happened Saturday was responsible for her mood. It was prom-night-with-Marcus euphoria. Internalized, of course. You know Dana. As she helped with the salad in the kitchen, I asked her what was her meeting Saturday night. What did she do. And she blushed. She blushed. Even with her head bowed low, I noticed how her lips quirked into the faintest of very satisfied smiles, "Playyy . . .d . . . bayy . . . sbll." "What?" I couldn't believe she mumbled. And I couldn't believe what I *thought* she had mumbled. "What was that, Dana?" "Uh, played baseball. . ." And that little smile again, with pink cheeks. Played baseball? My mind repeated over and over in my head. Dana HATED baseball. Missy actually had liked it, but not Dana. You know how much she hated that sport above all others. Seeing her . . . embarrassment, I decided to let her little revelation slide, for the time being. Halfway through dinner, her constant inanimate companion (her cell phone) chirped from her jacket in the hallway. She excused herself with a put upon, resigned sigh - purely for my benefit I have no doubt - and a low, soft apology. Maternal instincts kicking in, I walked over to listen - just in case she was being called away and our dinner was being cut short, and for no other reason, Charlie, so get that look off of your face. I'm your mother, I know when you're feigning shock. She answered with, "Scully." Very no nonsense. Then her voice got all soft and sweet, airy almost. ". . . mmm, me too." And she laughed. Dana laughed outright. I'd forgotten her laugh. "What? . . .Frohike's kung fu is better than you-. . . Oh, Langley's. Well, that's completely different . . . No. . . You *know* I can't . . . *Mulder* -" Now things were getting interesting. "-- yeah, I'm still at my mother's. . . Hmm? . . . Oh, yeah, *Fox*, you were definitely part of our conversation. Ah, . . . Mulder?" Something had caught her attention. "What is Frohike saying about me? . . .Besides that. . . Besides *that*. No, Mulder, just now. What did he call me? `Party Girl'? What is with this `party girl' thing? Mulder, we're going to have to develop a code word so I don't get duped into another partially lost weekend with *your* friends. And I'm still waiting for them to reimburse me all - and, hey! You know, I just thought of something. You weren't very clear about your whereabouts that weekend. So where the hell were you? . . . `*Scully* Golightly'?! I am *so* gonna kick their asses. . ." I peered round the corner to look at her. Her posture was tense. She meant it. Who was Dana so angry with? Fox didn't seem to be taking her threat too seriously so he was in the clear. ". . . Uh-uh. Where were you? And don't tell me: searching fifty year old New Mexico obituaries for anomalies . . . Oh, Mul-der--" Charlie, my word, she practically *purred* his name. Not something I was comfortable listening to, but this conversation was so intriguing and increasingly revealing. She laughed again, murmuring several `uh-huhs' that were gradually making me feel just a little bit uneasy overhearing. "Mulder, you're mixing your sports metaphors. We already had a little one on . . . yes, I remember. Make contact, let it fly. . ." A dramatic pause. "Hips before hands. . . Is that some sort of universal --" She gasped, then sighed with absolute affection. "Bastard. . . Uh, Mulder, where are you now? . . .And the guys are there because . . .? Oh, and, ah, how many did they find? . . . Really? Guess we're popular this week. . . You tell Frohike to stay the hell away from my lingerie drawer. . . So, the place is clean now? . . . Is that them leaving? . . .Good. Tell them thanks, but I still owe them that ass-kicking. . ." Another laugh. "How do *you* know if I wear that to work or not? . . . May-be. . .Mulder, I told you before. Mom and I- . . . No, I didn't tell her--" I had to lean forward to hear this because she lowered her voice. "-- why I didn't answer the phone Saturday night. I told her about the baseball, and even that was too much. . . Because she- I used to hate baseball as a kid, okay? . . .Noooo. Well, Saturday, I had a very good coach. . . No, I'm not going to- . . . You're mixing your sports metaphors again. *That's* basketball . . . Wrestling, huh? . . . Hey, that's right. Well, as I recall you didn't want to. You were kinda out of it, Mulder, what with being attacked by that mothman and all. We could do that, I suppose. . . In the woods, again? . . .You think you can take me?" Was my thermostat working? "Yeah, that was a freebie. So - Oh, so you found my stash of non-fat tofutti rice dreamsicles?" Sometimes, I wonder, Charlie, why can't she indulge in some good old fashioned fattening real ice cream. You can't live forever, so why *not* live a little? I'm just relieved she's off that whole bee pollen kick. What was that about? Her voice got all low and airy again. I really had to strain to hear. ". . . very good authority that the air in your mouth does taste better than a non-fat . . . tofutti . . . rice . . .dreamsicle . . . Yeah . . . uh-huh . . . hmmm, oh, God, Mulder . . . I - me, too, but I . . . hmmm. Okay, soon. . . I love you too. I -- " Busted. As you used to say. She saw me. "Ah, Mulder, gotta go." Flipping the phone shut, her cheeks flushed crimson, she stammered out, "Ah, M-mom, s-s-sorry `bout that. It's just--" "Go home, Dana." How many times have you been able to say that you rendered Dana speechless? It had been awhile for me but it still felt good. Finally she managed, "Huh? But, Mom--" I repeated, "Go home, Dana. . ." Confusion mixed with fear, wondering just what and how much I'd overheard, swept over her features. So, I enlightened her. ". . . and be sure to taste some more of his air. A lot more." Her blush deepened, if that was at all possible, as she grabbed her jacket and headed out the door. Yes, Charlie, something is different with Dana. She loves and is loved by a wonderful man (And don't listen to your brother. He doesn't know the whole story. Only they do.). That in itself is not a surprise. You need only to see them together to understand how they feel about each other. But, love, Charlie. That's what happened to Dana. And it's about time. That they finally realized it, that is. Love, Mom P.S. Keep the news of Dana and Fox's new relationship to yourself, if you don't mind. In other words: don't tell Bill. I expect your sister wants to be the one to tell him. I only hope that I'll be there to run interference and offer support. What else could a mother do? P.P.S. Oh, and Charlie dear, keep your calendar open later this year. How do you feel about attending a fall wedding? Date: 11 Jul 1999 16:27:04 GMT Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Title: Dear Charlie: Bill's $.02 (part 2 of 4) Author: abbeydore e-mail: abbeydore@aol.com Charlie, You sorry-assed son of a bitch. You knew about Dana and that partner of hers, didn't you? I had to hear the news from Mom, and even that was heard indirectly. Last week, Tara, Matthew and I headed East for a long overdue visit. As you know, things have been pretty strained between Dana and me ever since her cancer and remission and I think you know who I blame. I mean, she had more faith in *him* than her own science and logic and doctors. I knew then that she loved the no-good-bastard - I just hoped that *she* didn't know that she loved him. You weren't there, Charlie (and that's not an accusation, just a statement of fact). You didn't hear what she said to me after everyone else had cleared out. After her remission had been announced. Mom had gone to call you. Her boss had long since left. Mulder was nowhere in sight, but I knew he was lurking around somewhere nearby. Even caught him sneaking out of her hospital room in the early hours one morning. His eyes were all red and swollen. Yeah, keep crying, you son of a bitch. It's your fault. But, anyway, I'd been taking my anger out on him - the deserving target to my way of thinking. And you'd be agreeing with me, don't deny it. We've had some long talks on the subject of `what if she'd never met him', haven't we? Apparently, Dana found out about my man-to-man chats with her partner (he probably ratted me out). I guess you could say that she took offence. Remember how mad Mom was when Missy and I had that party the weekend that she'd gone away to visit Aunt Olive and when she returned: 1) two pieces of her Waterford crystal were beyond repair, 2) her garden had been destroyed and trampled, 3) her indoor plants' potting soil doubled as ash trays, 4) her bed had not been *slept* in, if you know what I mean, 5) and Missy was sporting that monster hickey that no amount of make-up could cover up. Do you remember how pissed off Mom was then? Multiply that by about a thousand or so, and you may start to get some idea about the wrath I was about to face in that hospital room. Mom's got nothing on being pissed off compared to Dana defending *him*. Our sister has cornered the market on being pissed, baring claws and all. I distinctly remember being relieved to be in a hospital as I stood before her. Did I remember to tell Tara I loved her when I talked to her last night? I mean, I'm a military man. I could easily overpower her in hand to hand combat, of that I'm pretty damn sure, and there she was - all 5'2" of her, weakened and ravaged by that damn cancer, sitting in that bed with her hands resting in her lap - and I was scared shitless. I don't remember really all that she said, what with my life flashing before my eyes and all. But it went along the lines of: "You hurt him, you hurt me; you damn him, you damn me. You have no idea what this is doing to him. You don't understand. And I don't care to explain it to you. But don't you *ever* unload all your anger on him again. He's not the one who deserves it; he's not the one who gave me this disease." Yadda yadda yadda. Basically, I was in a lose/lose situation. I knew I had crossed a line that day in her book, and things have never been the same again. It felt like a death, you know, Charlie. I mean, Dana - thank God - was going to be alright (she was gonna live anyway). But Dana-and-I were never the same. All because of him. We rarely talked much after that. Too fuckin' awkward. Hell if I knew where I stood with her anymore. Mom, God bless her, attempted to run interference, updated me on which one of them was in the hospital from week to week.. Then Christmas, right before Matthew was born. Dana did *not* want to be there, but you know how Mom can get. So, she came. We hadn't seen each other since her remission. And then right away she started getting those weird ass phone calls from `Melissa'. And then that kid. Jesus. Even *I* had to admit that kid looked like a pint-sized Missy. I knew it was only a matter of time before *he* flew out to be with her. If I didn't hate the guy so much, I might've been grateful he was there. God only knows why, but he's the only one she seems to be able to trust these days. Bastard. And then that kid again. Jesus H. How the hell could that kid possibly be Dana's? I mean, I know something about biology. She wasn't gone that long. Does she ever mention that kid - Emily - to you? No one over here has even spoken the kid's name aloud since she died. Too afraid how Dana will react I guess. That Christmas was bad enough. But what about this last one? *You* were there. And how often does that happen? We hardly ever can get us all together anymore. And she fucking missed the Scully family morning role call - for him. Off on some freakin' case. Who the hell does he think he is dragging her off on Christmas-fuckin'-Eve on some stupid ass case? And who the hell does she think she is, letting him get away with that crap? Okay, okay, so it wasn't like she spent the whole day with him, but still. I'll never understand what it is about that guy that makes our sister (our tough-as-shit, gun-toting sister) about as soft as that fluff ball dog she inherited a few years back. One call from him - "Scully, it's me" - and she'll drop everything. And what is that whole `Scully' thing anyway? Weird-ass. What's wrong with her name? Prick's even got her doing it. Mulder this and Mulder that. You know, I think it's impossible for them to go more than two sentences without addressing themselves by name in a conversation. "I'm fine, Mulder." attached to Missy's personal favorite, I'm sure, "I had the strength of your beliefs" - or something deep and abiding like that. Don't even get me started on how he says our/her name. The way he says `Scully' makes me feel . . . don't want to go there. So, anyway, getting to last week. Dana had yet to grace us with her presence - preferably `Prick'-less, if you know what I mean. She was *supposed* to come over for dinner, to visit with the brother and family she rarely gets to see, what with her partner -- oh, excuse me -- her *job* being so time consuming. Should have known that wouldn't happen. Seems *Mulder* had other plans. Alright, alright. Accidents *do* happen. Granted, they seem to happen to him a lot more than anyone else. From what I heard on Mom's end of the phone call, it was more funny than life threatening. Something about a fly ball, a poor boy, and Mulder's ass. Now, I'd have paid good money to have seen that, but at the time I was thinking only one thing: Since when did Dana play baseball, willingly? Answer: since Mulder asked her to. You know how much she hated baseball as a kid. The question for her was never, "Where did you go, Joe DiMaggio?" It was always, "Who the fuck even cares?" But one warm spring night a few weeks ago on a baseball diamond, and now she's sportin' an oversized baseball jersey (three guesses whose, Einstein) and doin' the wild thing with her partner. And, *thank you*, little brother, for letting me know. God damn it all to hell, Charlie. You could've warned me. But, no, not you. I had to listen in on half a conversation with our mother and our sister, with Mom teasingly asking about home runs, and I knew she wasn't talking about baseball. Ugh. Too much information - all of which I never needed to know. If that wasn't bad enough - the revelation that Dana had a sex life after nearly a decade long dry spell, and with that asshole, of all people - Mom invited *both* of them over Saturday. An afternoon with Dana and that no good son of a bitch. Fucking great. Tara wasn't too thrilled either. But I think it's `cause Dana scares her. She doesn't know how to act or what to say around her. You know, mostly, because of that kid. So, Saturday. It's around 1500 hours and Mom's already given me about fourteen warnings to `be nice to Fox'-- said in the same tone as her `don't run with scissors.' As the day wore on and their arrival time neared, her tone shifted more towards her ball numbing `don't you give me that look.' Oh, yeah, my Saturday was really looking up. And then there they were. Christ, I'd never seen Dana so . . . alive. Happy. Giggling. I never knew she *giggled*. Laugh, yeah. Giggle, unheard of, until then. I had a front row seat. I was messing around in the garage, looking for some of my old stuff for Matthew, for when he got older, when they pulled up into the drive. Neither one of them saw me. Their attention was drawn to the front door. Not too eager to join the others inside. Mulder looked apprehensive -- like he was going to get a shot in the ass: it was for a good cause but was gonna hurt like hell. For several long minutes they just sat there in the car. Then, tenderly, Dana just sort of caressed his cheek. He turned his head to kiss her palm. One of those maddeningly exclusive, lingering looks that Mom just *loves*. Finally, they got out of the car. He waited for her to come around so they could walk in together. Holding hands. Is that his shirt? I remember thinking. A baseball jersey for some team I had never heard of (The Greys?). The jersey had to be his. It practically swallowed her. He must have been lovin' that: Dana wearing his shirt to visit her family. I behaved myself, I did. By practicing the fine art of avoidance. That lasted all of thirty minutes when I . . . sort of . . . caught them. Making out. I thought walking in on Mom and Dad when I was eight was bad. This was somehow worse. Don't ask me why. I mean at least they were clothed (unlike our parents). There was Dana, in his lap, straddling him, and making this sort of contented sigh/moan deep in her throat and . . . Where the hell were his hands? Then - - ah, shit - He saw me. Immediately he broke the lip lock, and she made this little frustrated sound. He motioned over her shoulder. Tentatively she looked over, saw me, and blushed to her ears. Or was she just flushed? Again, I didn't want to know. She nibbled on her bottom lip - like she used to do when she was a kid when she knew she was gonna get it - and Mulder made a noise in the back of his throat, shifting in his seat. As she attempted to slide off of him, his hands made a reappearance at her waist and kept her in place. Trying to hide something, you horny son of a bitch? I'd've laughed if it wasn't Dana, and I didn't hate his guts. Awkward, brief small talk. Then I beat a hasty retreat. Before I was out of earshot, however, I heard him humming the Funeral March and a little laugh from Dana. Dinner. Good God. Was I morphing into Job? How much more could I take? How much more was I willing to *endure* for the peace of my family? And how the hell did I manage to survive that meal? It wasn't the conversation --or even me -- that made it so unbearable . It was them. Now I don't go in for that paranormal crap that he's so eager to believe in - and I know Dana doesn't buy into all that either. But what are they? Psychic? Practicing a little mental telepathy between UFO sightings? It was like they could read each other's thoughts or something. Fuckin' spooky the way they anticipated each other's needs. I've known Tara for a lot longer than they've been paired up, and we can't read each other nearly as well as they seemed able to. I swear, Charlie, I got a glance at Mom while all of that was going on and I'm pretty sure she was making mental wedding plans with Mulder as the newest addition to the Scully family. By the time dinner was done, she'd narrowed her catering choices down to two. That's when I noticed it. As Dana turned her head, a flash of gold around her neck caught my eye. Just assumed it was her cross, but felt compelled to do a double take. And, yeah, her cross was there alright - along with something that looked like . . . no. Good God, no. . . that could only be a ring. Ah, hell. Shit. Has Dana had any recent head trauma? I'm only asking because she must be seriously whacked in the head. She *can't* be serious about that partner of hers. That is, if what I saw is what I think I saw because I'm pretty damn sure what I think I saw was really what I thought I saw which means that our sister is one taco short of a combination platter, if you know what I mean. So, after dinner - which I could barely force down watching the love connection across from me, finding out that Dana is apparently ambidextrous given the fact that her right hand spent most of the meal under the table in the general vicinity of his lap while her left dealt with the food on her plate - I took Matthew upstairs to bed. Tara and Mom cleared the table. Which left two horny fibbies to their own devices. You know, Charlie, I had to give myself a pat on the back. I only gave him the `you're an asshole' look a few times, and I bit my tongue on so many choice phrases that I tasted blood, almost constantly. And I had caught them mid-sex act too. No small feat keeping my thoughts about that to myself. As if that wasn't enough, I got an audio version too. No, not of *that* (maybe God took some pity on me that day after all). Then shit again. Matthew had finally nodded off after a navy-modified interpretation of Goodnight, Moon. So as I was coming downstairs, I heard Dana's voice, sort of soothing like Mom's `want me kiss it, make it better'. They were in their designated spot on the couch. Made a brief mental note never to sit there again. "-no `sorry son of a bitch' this time." "Scul-ly. . ." How can he put a pout in his voice? ". . . he *hates* me." Truer words were never spoken. I assumed they were referring to me. "Yeah, he does. But he's gonna have to get over it. Bill . . . Bill, he's a bully - in a big brother/don't screw with my sister kinda way. Surely, you can relate to that, Mulder. And, admit it. Even you've got some of that residual big brother behavior. All your over protectiveness . . . your touches, even your ditching me. And, Mulder, if you ever pull that again, I won't hesitate to shoot you--" "Again," he amended. "Again," she repeated. When the fuck did that happen? And why wasn't I invited? I'd have bought a ticket. "*Mulder.*" Uh-oh. Meow. You'd have to be dead not to recognize that tone. But to his credit - I grudgingly concede - he didn't take her on the family sofa, which seemed to be her desired intention. His mind was elsewhere. Should I have been flattered, Charlie? "Is it because he needs someone to blame, Scully, and he doesn't know about *them*?" Jeez, could the guy sound more fatalistic the way his mouth wrapped around the word `them'? "I mean, if that's it, Scully, let him hate me, by all means. If it helps put a name and a face--" "No, Mulder, no. I know what you're doing. So stop it. Stop blaming yourself. I don't. I never have; I never will. It's *them.* Bill doesn't, wouldn't, won't understand. And I don't want to have to explain. And if you think *I'm* skeptical--" "There's a difference between being skeptical and being close minded." Bastard. "True." Hey! "Mulder, the things that happened to me are because of choices I made. Not you. I chose to stay with you -- despite your odd quirks and the sunflower seeds scattered around the office and my apartment. I chose to cut short dinner with my mom at my favorite restaurant for a night under the stars, playing baseball with you. Mulder, *I choose you.*" Oh, there they go again. Kissing, clothes rustling, a sigh or a moan here or there. In my distraction over Dana's little pseudo-Judas impersonation (not defending me to him seems to me to be some form of familial betrayal), I missed some of their conversation once they came up for air. "-and Mom, I just know, is discreetly collecting bridal magazines--" "Hey, Scully, don't you have another brother? Supposedly. I'm thinking of making him an X-File. Seven years and I have yet to meet him. Does he even know about me?" "Oh, yeah, Mulder, he knows. I tell Charlie *everything*--" Hey, Charlie, you gettin' this? Understand *now* why you're a sorry-assed son of a bitch? "Everything, Scully? Everything?" "Uh-huh." "Even about our naked pretzel?" Oooh, a mental image even therapy won't cure. "I think he got the gist." "The gist of . . . this?" I swear to God, I heard her moan - and not in pain. Agony, maybe, but the good kind. For her. And for him, too, I imagine. I didn't want to look, but it was like driving by the scene of an accident. You couldn't *not* look. Sure enough. They were at it again. She was all over him, straddling him, pinning him to the couch with her body. Kissing - and . . . some other things. His hands had disappeared under that jersey again. Then her words registered You fucking knew all along. Am I the last one to know? Later, I even caught Matthew giving a knowing look. Or am I just turning into Mul-. Oh, fuck it. Suddenly felt a hand on my back as I stood in the doorway watching the accident unfold on the living room couch. How the hell does Mom sneak up like that? *She* should have been in the FBI. So, there we were. Mother and son, watching our loved one playing an intense game of tonsil hockey, with differing opinions. Me, well, I'm sure you can guess what I was thinking. And, Mom, well, her eyes got all moist and she just sort of smiled like she was remembering some other time; her hand over her heart. I don't know what the hell happened to me, but looking at Mom looking at them I just got this *feeling.* I don't know how to explain it. All of a sudden I just realized that that partner of hers really does care about her. I may even go so far as to admit he loves her. They're good for each other. It wasn't like I turned into the-end-of-the-story-Grinch in that book you gave Matthew for Christmas. My heart didn't grow three sizes that day. I didn't start suddenly extolling the virtues of Fox Mulder. That day is still set to happen a week after hell freezes over, or when aliens take over the planet. Whichever happens first. Love (I suppose), Bill P.S. How the hell are you, by the way? Date: 11 Jul 1999 16:30:52 GMT Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Title: Dear Charlie :-- uh, Dear Dana, Charlie's response (part 3 of 4) Author: abbeydore e-mail: abbeydore@aol.com Dana, Dana, Dana, My favorite little Agent 99. I've been getting quite the eyeful with letters from home. Mom's always been good for gossip about family and friends (Can you believe your unfortunate prom date Marcus had such an affinity for farm animals? Animal husbandry, my ass.. . or theirs, I guess. Hehe). But, as I was saying, if I ever need an update on the goings-on, I can always count on Mom. Some of the stuff she's said about you over the years, frankly, I found hard to believe, but since your friend (Byers, is it?) sent me a complimentary subscription to that `newspaper' of his I have to confess I don't envy your job -- much. And the opinions page. . . Hoo-boy, Dana, I think you've got more than your share of admirers at that newspaper. So, Mom sending letters -- and the occasional newspaper clipping (Wouldn't be a care package from Mom without one or two) -- about you and your partner is no surprise (Now, is it Fox or Mulder? There seems to be some discrepancies in all the letters I've been getting). But when Bill starts getting in on the act, I've just got to ask. Are you and he/Mulder/Fox/your partner/whatever . . . involved? Bill is under the - mistaken (thank you very much for keeping me in the dark too, but I'll get to that later) - impression that I was well aware of this development. And since my loyalties are decidedly with you, unlike some siblings I know, I will tell you that Bill was sort of spying on you and - oh, hell, I'll just call him what you do - Mulder when you all got together at Mom's. Were you ever going to tell me? Or did you just figure that *saying* that you told me might make it true somehow? I'm not one of your so called X-Files. We may be close - though, regrettably not like we used to be - but even I can't read your mind, especially from so far away. From what I've gathered from Mom and Bill, you and your Mulder have been enjoying a mutual passion for . . . I'll be nice and call it . . . recreational sports. I believe Bill's exact words were "tonsil *hockey.*" Mom's references ran the gamut and were more or less quotes from you (You really should check behind the doorways in Mom's house. You never know who is getting an earful or an eyeful. Dana, reality -- you're an FBI agent -- check for these things.). And this all started over baseball. *Baseball?!* Why develop a love for the sport now? I used to *beg* you to play with me when we were kids. Had to fork over a large percentage of my allowance just so you'd pitch the ball to me, if I recall. And you get one call from your Mulder and you're positively giddy over the prospect of `hitting a horse hide with a stick'. Isn't that how you so lovingly referred to America's favorite past time? I just want the story to be clear. Let me know if I'm getting warm. Alright, you were assigned to work with him what was it . . . `92, `93? And, by your own admission, he was cute but a little on the weird side. You did later write to say that my suggestion of `spooky' was wholly inaccurate and cruel. Did I touch a nerve? He didn't trust you at first. He, and I have to laugh at this, I really do, he thought you were sent to spy on him. You?! A *spy*? Too funny, Dana. As Dad used to say, "That's rich." After that first case, I knew, I don't know what you felt at the time, but I had one of those Missy-like feelings that you two were stuck with each other. Just reading your letters I could tell that you'd met your match. And since I know you so well, I also knew that he'd met his. And he never saw it coming. You blind-sided him, Dana, you really did. Missy told me that. Yeah, if it wasn't Mom it was Missy, telling me about you and your Mulder. After your disappearance, Mom was full of these absolutely gut-wrenching descriptions of how he was taking it all. Wearing your cross. I tell you, Dana, that was a huge sign for me. He loved you, of that I was certain, and I hadn't even met the guy to figure that one out. Even the way Mom, and later Missy, wrote about him - how he looked, how he behaved, how he fought them about your living will. Good God, Dana, did you even have a clue? I mean, before you disappeared? Did either of you? Okay, don't want to be a total downer, so I won't start turning into Bill on you. Are sports some sort of weird constant in your budding personal relationship with your Mulder or what? What was with the football video? You come back from brink, the line between life and death, and all you got was some stupid Super Bowl video (well, not so stupid. I own it too. But I actually watched it. Can you say the same?). And I hear about wrestling in the woods (Mom said it in her last letter, just so you know who to go after). What's that about? And then, the baseball. I'm sure I'm missing something, but I haven't gotten a letter from Tara or Matthew so I don't know what they might have to add. But I have to say, 99, your partner has sure got some whacked-out ideas about romance. Or, maybe not. Since they seemed to have worked. Sucker. But getting back to my little synopsis of the ever-evolving relationship you have with your partner. I have to confess, though, that whole Mulder-wearing-your-cross thing is a little hard to overlook in my attempt at an unbiased, objective, distant, third-party summary/opinion/whatever. Oh, screw it. *He wore your cross, Dana.* "Partners" just do *not* do that. You see that line in the sand? That DANGER DANGER DON'T/CAN'T CROSS THAT LINE line? He pole-vaulted over that line the second the clasp was fastened around his neck. There. Got that out. Moving on. Dana, I know your eyes are blue, mostly, but sometimes I have to wonder. Are you even aware of how many times you've been bitten - and bitten hard - by the green-eyed monster? I've been going through some of your old letters to me, trying to find the time you may have allegedly told me all about you and your close encounter of the Mulder kind so I could live up to Bill's new honorary title that he thought up just for me (and that would be: "sorry-assed son of a bitch"), and to my complete shock and surprise I found no such reference. Instead, I found some rather bitter words about a virtual bevy of Mulder babes. I made a list: 1. Phoebe Green: a `walking British toothpick who may have a more successful career advertising the cons of STDs', if memory serves. Or was it `back-stabbing bitch'? Can't remember. 2. Angela White: something about a dye job. Uh, Dana. Pot, kettle, black. You may be a natural redhead, but not as red as you've been lately. 3. Dr. Bambi Birenbaum: Oh, Dana, you made that up. A bug doctor named Bambi, fascinated with the sexual appendages of cockroaches? Not likely. "Her parents are naturalists." And Mom feared working in the FBI would somehow ruin your sense of humor. I can't even take this too seriously as jealousy, since I have my doubts about her existence. Just exaggerating like you did when you were a kid, huh? 4. Diana Fowley: Sis! Such language! Been having impure thoughts of the murderous kind? Remind me to stay on your good side. I don't want an autopsy on *my* body till I'm good and dead. Thank you very much. Then came your cancer. How is it possible to actually hate a six-letter word (Never mind. Bill hates M-U-L-D-E-R, doesn't he)? From what I gathered - courtesy of our very own intelligence officer, Mom - you and your guy weren't getting along all that well. I should have known it was you, doing what you always do in situations like that: suspect a problem, deny it, distance yourself from everyone who cares about you so you can deal with it all by yourself. Damn your "I'm fine's." Thank God for your Mulder and the faith and trust you have in him when your world is falling apart. And don't even think for one minute that I'm through being pissed with you about that. How could you make Mom keep something like the fact that your dying secret from the rest of us? Bill's still ticked about that. Now, ordinarily, I'm just his usual `yes man', letting him fume and vent till whatever it is gets out of his system, but . . . sorry. I have to side with Bill on this one. All of this, soon followed by what I now refer to as: The Implant Controversy. Since I wasn't there (first time I ever damned the Navy), I can't realistically take sides because I didn't hear the arguments for and against. Or was there even a real discussion? Bill's letters had `bastard' every other sentence and he kept ranting about how the cancer was eating away your common sense if you were actually considering putting a piece of metal in the back of your neck because *he* brought it to you. Hey, don't y-incision the messenger. I'm just finking out our big brother like I always do. Well, whatever that thing is in your neck, it seems to have done the job. And for that I'm grateful. Was it then that you knew? Or was it even earlier that you realized that you were head over heels? Contrary to Bill's mistaken belief, you've never told me your deepest, darkest, most intense (dare I say, erotic) feelings - especially about your partner. Wait! Hold up. I've got it! Practically from the beginning, right? You've loved him almost from the start. Liked him right away (I have the letters that prove that much). But it's only been recently that you have admitted these feelings to yourself - and to him. Am I warm? What's my prize? I mean, Dana, come on, you've always been good at denial. Need a couple of examples? Okay, here goes: "I don't have an Electra complex. Ooh, I think I'll date Jack." Or: "I can be a morning person if I set my mind to it." Dana, thy name is denial. And it's so cute the way you wear it. Okay, I can't hold back any more. Am gonna have to rehash. Baseball, Dana. Tell me. Gimme the details - in a PG kinda way. Did he wrap his arms around you under the pretext of teaching you the proper way to swing the bat? Did he lean in close, whispering in your ear his methods on how to hit the ball? Let me guess: `hips before hands', right? And you fell for that? Ha (Okay, okay: I got that last bit from Mom's letter. Did I have ya goin' there for a little bit?). Or was it more Rocky Horror? Was there a pelvic thrust involved in the lesson? Come on, Dana, spill. Give details to your little brother. You so owe me, you know, since I haven't written to Bill to let him know how I was as clueless as he was about the recent undercover shift in your partnership with the sly fox. The only reason I'm not ratting you out is because I'd like Big Bro to believe that he really was the last to know (why should he know *that* dubious honor went to me?). Serves him right after the way he's treated you over these last few years. Hmm. Just thinking. You want that I should make another list? Let's call this one: Things That Revealed Dana's Deep, Deep Feelings for a Certain Self-Confessed Brilliant, Alien-Obsessed, Oddly Named Special Agent/aka Her Partner. 1. Items 1-4 of my first list should fit in quite nicely here, don't you think? 2. Your constant Arctic vigil at his bedside after his `bad case of freezer burn'(by all accounts, he does seem to have a way with words). 3. Uh, Congress, you, jail? Ringin' any bells here? 4. You're still with him after *everything.* Hoo-boy, and, Dana, that man has got it bad for you. Even Bill sees that. And that's saying something. I'd offer you a list to prove his love for you, but I think by now you've pretty much got them all figured out. Just goes to show you, 99, you two have got to be (and I know you don't go in for this sort of thing, but humor me -- and Missy) soulmates. I mean, I've never met the guy and I already know that I have to like him because . . . whatever it is about him - and apologies in advance here for the sap and, no, Sis, I am not drunk -- he completes you. Ever since you met him, I've read your letters, enjoyed the rare visit, and you just have this glow that envelops your words and you. You ready for me to totally pull a Missy on you? Here goes: you + him = One Person. Alright already, my sucrose new age moment is *done.* I'm just trying to tell you: Go for it. Be happy. Little brother approves. Only wish you'd been the one to tell me. I will have to get you back for that. It's what siblings do, isn't it? So now you've got two Scullys wholly in favor and one - surprisingly because it's Bill - straddling the fence. Love Affectionately, Charlie P.S. Didn't mean for your last image to be of Bill wrapping his legs around a plank of wood. Oh, and Mom's leaning towards a fall wedding. Would you mind - if it's not too much trouble - letting me know in advance of any nuptials so I can make plans? Hate to get another one of Mom's damn - though quite informative - newspaper clippings announcing the service two months after the fact. And what's this I hear from Bill about a ring that's been resting right along side the cross around your neck? tellmetellmetellmetellmetellmetellmetellmetellmetellmetellmetellmetellmetellme Or I'm tellin' Mom. Date: 11 Jul 1999 16:32:31 GMT Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Title: Dear Charlie: Love Dana, Scully confesses (part 4 of 4) Author: abbeydore e-mail: abbeydore@aol.com Sorry, Charlie, (I know how you hate that, but I couldn't resist) I would have written you sooner - really I would have - but there's a funny thing about quarantine. It makes it a bit difficult for us to be in contact with the rest of the world. Actually, it wasn't so bad this time - as far as quarantines go. They just kinda confined us to an oh-so-nice government issued `hotel room' far away from the outside world, wanting to make sure we weren't exhibiting any odd symptoms. I had to vouch for the fact that Mulder always behaves that way, or we might still be there. We must have been very good during our last stint because we even had a pseudo-suite, which consisted of two bedrooms and an adjoining living/kitchen area. Surprisingly, quite cozy and private. No cameras, and they only came to check on us twice daily. Shortest quarantine we've ever had. Mulder thinks we should check into having a permanent reservation - just in case. Our little nature retreat (all of which we were confined indoors) was certainly better then some of the past m/h-otel accommodations that Mulder's booked us. A girl could get used to the indulgences I allowed myself there. Sadly, no Magic Fingers at our Casa de Quarantine (you really should give that a try sometime, Charlie; the quarter slots next to the bed, not the quarantine), but as you now know, I have Mulder, who has his own `magic fingers.' What was that, Charlie? You want to know why the quarantine? Or, channeling Bill, `what the hell did that partner of yours do now that would get you quarantined? - and, hey, p.s., are you alright?' In answer to your concern, would you believe a hallucinogenic, flesh-eating fungus or as *my* Mulder has dubbed it: some seriously trippy, whacked-out mushroom? No? Well, believe it. And, my God, Charlie, the `trip' *I* had. My worst fear realized. In it Mulder was dead, and there was nothing I could do for him. Everyone believed he had been murdered except me. Mulder was dead, and I was spouting his theories to deaf ears. Mulder was dead. Truth be told, after that whole horrendous ordeal nearly being eaten alive by a plant (of all things), all I wanted to do was reassure myself that he was alright. We were being driven away, and I reached out my hand blindly, knowing he wanted the same assurances. Even when we arrived at our destination (jokingly referred to as Wonderland, in reference to Alice, the caterpillar, and their trippy mushroom) he refused to let go of my hand. And I wasn't about to complain. Let's just say -- and this is for your benefit only because I really do feel bad about the way you found out about my current romantic status - that Mulder and I lasted all of about forty- five minutes after everyone *finally* left us alone in that spacious suite with two beds to choose from. Well, we had to reconnect after yet another near fatal experience. The forty-five minutes consisted of cuddling and talking, murmuring reassurances of our mutual well-being, and checking for any listening devices so we could `get it on'. Yes, *my* Mulder. Such a romantic. Such a way with words. Oh, and we did `get it on' - three times. Not too shabby for a couple who could have been plant food just a few hours earlier, huh? So, is that what you wanted? Confirmation? Details about my sex- I mean, love-life? I can spill. I can confess my sins to you as well as to any priest. I seem to recall you almost had a `calling' from the Church, until puberty hit. Oh, but you weren't asking details about that. Consider it a bonus, `k? You wanted to know about my baseball lesson from Mulder. Why is everybody getting back to that? Was I really so obvious? Was *it* so obvious? Well, apparently. Okay, I'll admit it. I'll `fess up. To you, Charlie, and only to you. Mom, I guess, will just have to pry the details out of me. Or ask Mulder. It's a theoretic impossibility for that man to lie to her. Ok, so here goes: The Confession of Dana Katherine Scully, or How I Learned to Enjoy Baseball Without Cringing and Made a Home Run With the Batter: Well, if you must know (and you do know), this whole thing between Mulder and I has been building for years. We'd be the last to admit it, but it's been there since the beginning. First let me say that I'm actually glad that we were so unaware of the slow burn that was happening between us. It made that first time oh so . . . spectacular? Hmm, what a weak word. Mind blowing? Mind numbing? Fantastic? I'm sure you get the idea. We didn't get out of bed (okay, well, technically, my apartment) until Monday morning. Late. Oops. Oh, well. It was worth it. We had a good -- personal --excuse. Putting to bed six plus years of sexual tension is reason enough to maybe straggle into work three hours late. Or at least that was our way of thinking. And Mulder already had a nice little cover story. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Sorry. But thinking about sex with Mulder and indirectly writing about it seems to make me a bit loopy (hmm, it must, if I'm using words like `loopy'). Okay, Saturday. Saturday morning to be more precise. Mulder woke me up with a call to meet him at work to help him do some research about a `potential case'. Well, I wasn't too happy, but naturally I went in to help him despite the fact that it was a gloriously beautiful day outside and I'd much rather be out there enjoying it -- but only if he was out there with me. I'm pathetic, I know, but at least I get that feeling only fleetingly from time to time; other times I wonder why I didn't aim a little lower when I shot him. . . Oh, well, never mind. *Now* I know. Oh, yes, now I most certainly know. Am so very, very glad I didn't do any serious damage down south when I was compelled to unload that piece of lead into his body. Good thing I'm such a crack shot or else there would be no reason for this letter. Feel free to insert a heavy, contented sigh here, Charlie. So, anyway, I decided to do a little payback. I got myself a snack (a non-fat tofutti rice dreamsicle, which is really a lot better than it sounds) and teasingly ate a bite to get his attention. I don't know what came over me. But it felt so good to *play.* In retrospect, I sort of/may have instigated the evening's events, but I don't really think so, since - as you pointed out - we'd had these feelings for awhile. After Mulder defaced government property and took off for parts unknown (don't ask), I went home, relaxed for awhile, called Mom for dinner plans, then spent the rest of the afternoon in the park. People-watching. Young couples in love. People with their children. Old couples still in love after so many years. People having adulterous affairs, meeting in a public place to say it's over so that there won't be a scene. Day-to-day occurrences, I guess. But what do I know? That entire afternoon spent checking to see what a normal life looks like and realizing it would bore me senseless unless I was with the right person. And you know who that person is, don't you, Charlie? It was at dinner with Mom at Angelo's that things started to happen. I had left my phone on all day, in hopes that Mulder would call and tell me what the hell he was doing, or where the hell he was, or if he needed any help breaking into some mysterious medical facility, whatever. So, when I left for dinner with Mom I had to leave my phone at home to recharge and hope that my message service would be a suitable replacement. Apparently not, poor Mom. I wanted to spend time with her, really I did, but Mulder was totally distracting me. I used the restroom twice, or at least that's what I told her, so I could check my messages. That excuse just was not gonna fly a third time or Mom would start to worry about possible bladder problems so I told her the truth - that I needed to check my messages. I had one. From a Fox *Mantle,* asking me to meet him at the ball park. I couldn't help but smile. What was Mulder up to? I just had to know. Gave Mom my apologies and went to meet him. When I got there he was hitting the ball like a pro. Now, Charlie, you know me, I'm not one of those girls who goes for flowers and candy (although it wouldn't hurt) and bedroom eyes, but when Mulder was standing there poised over home plate in that oh-so-sexy baseball jersey, the bat resting against his shoulder and he said those four words ("Get over here, Scully.") with that voice and that look on his face, I tell you, Charlie, I discovered the meaning of the phrase sensory overload. But I tried to play it cool like he was having absolutely no affect and I was only there to humor him. My inner child -- the one that goes in for sappiness and romance and all that girly stuff I tell myself I don't have to have -- was absolutely swooning. I was butter - in a skillet. Melting, melting. Fighting it all the way. But melting nevertheless. And, shut up. All your `Rocky Horror' and `pelvic thrust' crap. Very funny. Ooh, but the `hips before hands'(mmm, yeah) can carry over to some much more enjoyable strenuous exercise. You wanted details, didn't you? There's this book, uhm, I believe it's called the Kama Sutra. You may want to refer to it for some of the details, if you really want to know. I just don't think I can tell you *everything,* regardless of what I let Bill think. Suffice it to say, we did *not* do anything over home plate. There was a child present after all-- who was responsible for the balls being thrown our way -- and I didn't feel comfortable being apart of his introduction to the birds the bees, and educated MD's (Sorry, private joke). I invited Mulder over to my place for a snack and some iced tea -- which I knew he'd be unable to resist -- and (insert knowing grin) whatever else. And from there, well . . . you know. . . Won't be giving all the intimate, loving, cuddling, oh-my-GOD details. I won't give you a play by play. I'm not that kinda girl. We had a very productive thirty-four hours after our first -- uninterrupted -- kiss in my hallway. See, we kinda had this thing about hallways and kisses that was sort of an unspoken residual from our hellacious summer last year. That kiss was . . . again with the words. There are no words to describe . . . Hence, my new found love of baseball. Only with Mulder will I enjoy it, though. Again, sorry, Charlie. We'll always have . . . what did we have? You guys were pretty exclusive when it came to contact sports. And I do consider baseball a *contact* sport. . . You asked me in your letter about when did I know that I might conceivably be in love with Mulder. I have no answer for you. I remember having feelings for him during the moments you mentioned. But at the time, I never recognized my feelings for love. Friendship, concern, yes. But love as in `in love,' no; I couldn't admit it. Realizing that we were *in* love was like answering a question we didn't know needed to be asked. We had the answer before we knew the question. In retrospect, I think you may have hit on something. The Arctic. I had an inkling then. I couldn't lose him, I couldn't. At the time I didn't bother with searching for why I felt that as adamantly as I did. And thank *you,* baby bro, for bringing up the names of those women I'd just as soon forget. Really, too kind of you. Remind me to use your body as target practice the next time you're in town. Only kidding. Somewhat. You want examples? Or details from my life since Mulder? You're right. I liked him from the start. From the moment I walked into that basement office and saw him. Okay, so my first view was of the back of his head, but it was like the room was charged with some sort of energy. Very disconcerting and exciting at the same time. I'd never felt anything like it before, and I never went in for that whole `instant attraction/connection' that Missy always insisted upon. And then we made eye contact. Oh, and he was wearing his glasses, which compelled a little voice inside my head to shout "yummy." No man is supposed to look so good in glasses. So, I'll concede, there was a little something there. What exactly, I'm not sure. Mulder now insists it was his heart constricting, then imploding, with some unnamed emotion. Please. He can just stop trying to be poetic. He's already got me and I've no intention of going anywhere. No instant -- admitted -- attraction. Which may come as a disappointment to some (Mom for one, perhaps). I mean, let's be honest, he was far too wary of me the first few cases to even think of being attracted to me in the sense that I would consider appealing. He had too much self-preservation for that. During our first few months together I had to work hard to prove myself to him -- that I wasn't sent to spy on him. Jumping his bones would have really helped my case, huh? "Oh, no, Mulder I'm not here to debunk your work on the X-Files. Wanna do it right here on the desk? How `bout up against the filing cabinet? I promise it won't compromise your integrity or your life's work in the eyes of whoever might be watching." That would have gone over real well, Charlie. *Now,* in light of recent changes in our partnership, some of those thoughts might be worth pursuing . . . Hmm, the desk. . . I think it looks sturdy enough for some *probing* investigations. . . Apologies yet again, Charlie. Am I placing images in your head you'd really rather not have? Can't help it. I'm happy. I feel entitled to tease, and be teased. And, you know, Charlie, I really had planned on telling you about my `close encounter of the Mulder kind' (he really liked that by the way), but quarantine intervened. This is what happened: Baseball Mulder and I had sex, *lots and lots* of sex I avoided Mom till she pounced Sex, sex, sex Baseball Sex, sex, sex Started on the letter to you Sex, sex, sex Weekend with Mom and Bill, et al. You-made-it-through-a-Saturday-with-my-brother-Bill, good-for-you-Mulder sex Whacked-out mushrooms, near death by digestion Quarantine Sex, sex, sex End of quarantine Sex, sex, sex Got your letter Sex, sex, sex Started rewriting the letter to you Sex, sex, sex Writing you now (anticipating sex) I may have left out a few things, like sex with Mulder (Come on, we have a lot of sexual tension and deprivation to make up for), oh, and work, but you get the idea, don't you? You would have had your letter a lot sooner if you'd get an e-mail account like a normal person. You live thousands of miles away on another continent, and yet you continue to maintain contact with your family through snail mail. Even Mom's got an account now, and that's saying something. Just a suggestion: get e-mail. I promise if you do, you'll always be the first to know about the goings-on in my personal life, with Mulder. Bill was awful damn sneaky, noticing the ring. After Mulder gave it to me, I wanted to wear it, but not in the obvious place since people might get the wrong idea. He understood and suggested I might wear it with my cross. So sweet the way he hesitantly offered up the idea, afraid of how I might react. I could never wear it on my finger now. Now it's close to my heart, like the man who gave it to me. Rest assured, it's not what you -- and Bill and Mom -- might think. At least, not exactly. It's Song of Solomon: "I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine" in Hebrew. Mulder called it a promise ring. Despite all our years together and the events we've shared, he's still man enough to tense at the word `commitment' in terms of a personal relationship. Kinda cute really. Almost makes him . . . normal. But I won't tell him that. Might ruin his image. So, no, it's not an engagement ring. Not in the traditional sense. More like a promise to be together forever. That's all. We don't need a ceremony to cement our feelings or vows. We know now. That's enough for us. No wedding bells in the foreseeable future. Mom will just have to get over that dream. But what I wouldn't give to see my guy in a tux. . . Love, your blissfully sated sister, Dana P.S. Mulder thinks you don't exist. So get your ass over here and meet him. Soon. P.P.S. And, no, we don't make a habit of doin' our naked pretzel three times each . . .session . . . in our down time. Sometimes there's oh-so-much more. For variety's sake. Do you hate me for that last lingering image? Better us than Bill and that plank of wood, huh? Love, again, 99 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE END