From: "Jim & Carol Gritton" Date: Fri, 2 Oct 1998 11:49:04 +0100 Subject: NEW: Love Of My Life 1/1 by Carol Gritton TITLE: Love Of My Life 1/1 AUTHOR: Carol Gritton EMAIL ADDRESS: jimcaz@dircon.co.uk DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox TV. They are used without permission and no infringement of copyright is intended. ARCHIVING: Please archive at Gossamer; anywhere else please ask first. Thank you! RATING: G CLASSIFICATION: V SUMMARY: A stark realisation for Scully in the event of Mulder's death. Comments gratefully received at the above address. Love Of My Life 1/1 by Carol Gritton (jimcaz@dircon.co.uk) He was the love of my life. It's a damn shame that it took me so long to realise it. It's too late now; he's gone. He tried to tell me how he felt so many times, but I didn't hear him, or maybe I chose not to listen. "If it's iced tea in that bag, it could be love." "You're my one in five billion." "You saved me, Scully. You've kept me honest and made me whole. I owe you so much." "I don't want to do this without you. I don't know if I can." All the little touches and looks that passed between us, all the risque innuendos... the tender hugs and kisses... He said he owed me everything; that I owed him nothing. I must have been blind not to see just what I meant to him. The call came a few days ago. He was in hospital and asking for me. I said I'd be there as soon as I could, dropping everything and getting the first available flight. It had been a while since I'd last seen him - we'd gone our separate ways years before. The last time we spoke he hadn't told me just how sick he was - that inscrutable Mulder facade was maintained right up to the end. In the event, he died alone - I didn't make it in time, and I'm haunted by the fact that he might have died calling for me. Was my name upon his lips as he took his last dying breath? They allowed me to see him, and through my tears I asked him why he hadn't waited for me. Then I kissed his bloodless lips and smoothed his greying hair. He was beautiful even in death. He died alone, but not unloved. His funeral is today. My part in arranging it was made easy; Mulder had planned the occasion in meticulous detail, right down to the clothes he wanted to wear - a charcoal grey suit, that looked as if it had been specially bought for the event, and a tie in a riotous melange of colours. His idea of a joke, no doubt. My suit, an austere black which does nothing for me, is hanging on the outside of the closet. I remember as I dress that the clothes of mourning are often referred to as widow's weeds, but I'm not a widow, although we seemed to have spent more time together down the years than your average married couple. I avoid glancing in the mirror, I know I look terrible. My eyes are red rimmed, standing out like two fiery beacons against the pallor of my face, akin to some spectral Hellhound. The hint of a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth - Mulder would like that analogy. The skin around my eyes is tight and sore from crying until I could cry no more. I've done my best to maintain that cool professional exterior and do my crying in private. I finally pluck up courage and look into the mirror - hopefully a little make up will conceal the worst ravages and go some way to making me look human again. The service is simple, and to the point, just as Mulder had wanted it to be. In life he never had the time for religion, but it was still a beautiful and moving occasion. He would be surprised, and secretly a little pleased, I suspect, by the number of people here today. Old colleagues and friends from our Bureau days - most of whom neither of us had seen in years. Each one files past the plain and simple casket, with its spray of white lilies adorning the top. Even if they didn't see eye to eye with Mulder, they respected him as a fellow professional and they mourn his passing. Now that everyone has departed, it's just me and Mulder. A fine drizzle starts to fall as I toss the single, deep red rose into the open grave. I'll come again tomorrow to say my final goodbyes and leave another on the top of the freshly tilled earth that will soon cover him. I have already given my promise that he will never be without fresh flowers, and that I will come back every year on the anniversary of his death. My business here is done. I'm packed and ready to go. I long to get back home, to be able to grieve in private for the man that I loved. To contemplate what might have been, if only I'd opened my eyes, my ears... and my heart. I never told him I loved him, he never knew, and that's what grieves me most of all. The End