*************************************************************** This author's e-mail has changed to: patfiler@hotmail.com *************************************************************** Date: Wed, 12 May 2004 16:00:49 -0700 (PDT) Subject: Title by Author Source: revision Title: I'm Gonna Lay it on the Line. Author:Pattie Rated: G Categorization: MA, Mulder POV. Summary: Mulder pours his heart out in a Journal letter not meant for her ladyship to see. Spoilers: None. Put it somewhere in Season 6. Archive: Gossamer, any other good home. May I visit? Feedback: pattie@parentpatch.com Disclaimer: Sid is nobody X-File or otherwise. All others are owned by CC, 1913 and Fox. GA and DD portray the finest Victorian courtship in the history of modern television. It all started with an innocent anonymous letter I wrote that she was not meant to read. But, as I had to leave my room for a few moments to separate two drunks after an all-nighter, she happened into my roo mand read the thing and now look who's about to confront whom. I wrote in the wee hours of the morning... The sun in your hair, the gleam in my eye, and here were are chasing down some numbskull who forgot that stealing satellite signals and selling them as a service is illegal. Still, I have never had such a beautiful partner assigned to me. When was the last time we had an office to ourselves since they closed us down for the second time? The atmosphere in the office reminds me of that 'no talking in class' rule and the stuffiness drives me crazy. (Call me sentimental, but I prefer that mildew in the basement to the regular ones any day). No breathing and no talking. No more playing solitaire when we get bored. No more word association. Yes, all the 'ever wonder?' questions get asked in some rental car on a dusty highway, nowadays. And then, it's a so-long-see-you- on-Monday and the weekend magically appears ever so quickly. Now I KNOW they're not only whispering about me, they're out to get me. You were right, of course, about asking if I ever wanted a normal life. I said I was living a normal life. Put people on rows of desks and ask them to research the normal crimes, they might say that is a normal life. To me, it's a slow, horrible death caused by boredom and watercooler paper cups. The idiot who turned up the volume on the radio to blast out 'Spooky little girl like you... ' lyrics should have been shot. Too bad I grabbed your gun. I guess I wanted to shoot him myself. When we're on the road, we never talk. Not really. Yet, we're so close we nearly think along parallel lines. How many people have actually just assumed we were married? And yet, we haven't done anything married people or even engaged people do. Yet each is only a touch, a word, a room, or a call away. We spend more time together than most married people, we just happen to be of the opposite sex, same thoughts pretty much lately, with a few discrepancies, but we... As I was saying, the sun in your hair, the gleam in my eye, and here we are chasing down some satellite signal thief. Then, we will retire to our separate motel rooms, clean up, write in our journals, make a few case notes, I'll go to you and compare notes, and then it's to sleep we go, only to investigate, write and confer until the case is summarized, maybe with a few innuendos and bad jokes from me along the way. Maybe it's fate. Maybe we're two very stubborn people. Maybe we're too stupid to realize what other people have been saying for so long right to our faces, (not to mention in the office behind our backs). The office pool has us secretly married and living in a secret apartment with our phone calls forwarded to Alexandria and Georgetown. They must love watching their taped soap operas at night. What imaginations. Well, we are who we are. If we do decide to take anything a step further, will the world really come to an end? And if you are NOT asking this same question of yourself right now, why the hell not? What on earth are you dreaming when I can hear though the adjoining motel romm walls? I hear you calling me, yet you're fast asleep when I get there, so i close the door and wander back to my bed. You are not being taken again, that's for certain. Maybe you fear one of us has been lost in the forest with no breadcrumbs, sent there to be forgotten by the mean old F.B.I. vultures devouring them as we each leave them for the other to follow. I have that one sometimes. When Donnie Pfaster twice tried to kill you. I got there on time. When I was shot and feverish, alone in a godforsaken motel you were there for me. You came when I called. You treated my shock, my seizures and my aching psyche. Well it all has to stop sometime. Just because I got up early this morning to write this, doesn't mean I'm not up to having it out right here, in the middle of this dusty small town. Tonight I will definitely lay it on the line... "Lay what on the line, Mulder?" Yup, she read my private little letter, which, if it had been on paper would be torn up, because it's that kind of thing you write and tear up, or delete in this case... I'm in trouble. "Oh, this? Trying out for a short story contest in a writer's magazine... " "Not. Try again. Only, save the fiction?" "Private Journal, Scully. You keep one, may I remind you?" "Well, I came in here looking for you to see if you'd decided on any new theories on who the accomplices could be, and I thought maybe you'd been entering them into the laptop before the scene broke out in the parking lot." "But you read it." Oh, no. I am SOOOO embarrassed. Scared. Caught red-handed. My face is candy apple red, I just know it. "No," she said, smiling. That's good. She's smiling. But maybe she's smiling to cover a lie that she did read it... "Just like you didn't read my journal entry when I was undergoing cancer treatment. So, do you want to talk about it? Tonight? Right in the middle of this dusty small town? Lay it on the line?" Gulp. Wisk me luck here, somebody. "Sure. How about we catch Sid Balovich in the act today? I think we can wrap it up and be outta here by... " "Sure. Fine. Whatever. Get the wire-tap gear and I'll get the camera. We never talk. Look, maybe someday we will. Cheer up, Mulder. You're not in the dog house." That was the third best reprieve I have ever had. Second was not dying from the brain disorder. The third, well, I am alive. END Pattie.