********************************************************************* This author's e-mail address has changed to: xanaduxf@yahoo.com ********************************************************************* ***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. ========== Living by shannono shannono@iname.com Vignette, Angst, Mulder first person, Mulder/Scully UST Rated PG Spoilers through "All Souls" Summary: Mulder contemplates life and death. ========== Living by shannono I'd die for her. In an instant. She knows this. She'd do the same for me. But that's the easy part. It's simple to talk about death, and dying, from a distance. A "what if" somewhere in the hazy future, a possibility not so extreme but at least uncertain. If I were forced to choose, to decide which of us had to take a bullet, I wouldn't hesitate. Hell, I *didn't* hesitate, the one time it came to that. When I felt the urge to put that gun to my head, I pulled the trigger with scarcely a heartbeat's pause, my resistance only half-hearted. But when I felt my hand grab out for her arm and knew what Modell was going to do next, I fought. I struggled with every shred of will and muscle control I still had to keep from turning that gun on her. At that point, it didn't even matter if the round was chambered or not. Just the chance was enough for me. I'd rather die a thousand painful deaths than to be the cause of hers. Then last year, when she was dying and I was the reason, again, I nearly gave myself for her, again. Only sheer chance, and a bit of faith, saved me then. Saved us both. No, dying for her isn't a problem. It's the living that's hard. Living each day with her but without her. Near, but so far. She's right there, across the office, by my side at a crime scene, on the other side of the car. Day after day, come hell or high water, psychic or serial killer. Even when I push her away, try to put some distance there, she never wavers. It's a delicate balance we have. We don't touch each other often. It's too dangerous. My hand grazes the back of her waist, just over that tattoo I try not to think about. Her fingers brush along my arm to get my attention, tug my sleeve to draw my eye to the next clue. We've had our moments, of course. But those few tender scenes are tarnished around the edges, marred by circumstance. I remember embraces in a darkened house and a quiet hallway, light kisses on her face, a small hand reaching for mine. I want to enjoy those memories, but I can't. The fear, and the anger, and the pain, are too fully embedded within them. Mentally, we are close always, attuned to each other's every move. Even during the worst moments of our partnership -- even in the early days, when we were still wary of each other -- we've needed no more than a glance to gauge the other's mood, or thoughts. We are comfortable in our physical proximity. I spend entirely too much time within her personal space, whether leaning down to whisper a theory or just standing next to her during an elevator ride. I think that's where all those rumors and assumptions about the true nature our relationship come from. People see us together, a half-step less between us than with most partners, and that's the only explanation they can come up with. But really, it's more a habit than anything else. We don't need to be side-by-side to feel each other any more. We can read each other from across the room, and sometimes from across the country. Like when she called me from San Diego on Christmas Day. Her voice was steady and clear, her words innocuous, telling me she'd found something she'd like me to take a look at, if I wouldn't mind. But I knew, instantly, that this wasn't a case. This was personal. There was nothing in her voice, her intonation, to clue me in -- at least, not consciously. I shouldn't have known. But I knew. I knew, again, when I returned her call from a dirty phone booth outside a dirtier movie theater, that the case she was asking about was more than just another X-file. About that theater ... that's a good example of why the living is the hard part. I didn't -- couldn't -- tell her where I was when I called. She lives with my magazines and videos, even jokes about them, but she doesn't know about the theater. That's a recent development, and I'm not too happy with myself about it. But the regular methods aren't enough any more. I need ... I need ... Well, hell, I need *her*. But I can't have her, and that's the root of the problem. It's getting harder to keep her at arm's length -- figuratively speaking, of course; I'm rarely that far away from her when we're together, working or not. But even though I know it's the best thing, especially for her -- even though I know *she* knows the same thing -- I am chafing under our unspoken but mutually agreed upon restrictions. No hugs, no kisses, no hand holding, unless it's a dire case. And "dire" usually involves death threats or hospitalizations. But, damn it, we're only human. Two attractive, intelligent, humans, partners for five years, closer to each other than to anyone else on the planet. The love is a given, I'm not questioning that. But the pull is there, too, the ... *magnetism* between us. We've resisted for so long. But I don't know if I can keep it up. Dying for her, that's easy. Living for her, living like this ... It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do.