From: katchat42@juno.com
Date: Sat, 16 Aug 2003 03:26:06 GMT
Subject: No Subject Provided
Source: direct


Title:  Significant Other
Author: Katchat
Rating: G
Category: V, humor
Keywords: UST
Disclaimer:  I'm just tryin' to keep 'em alive.
Summary:  A Valentine's Day dilemma for Mulder

Significant Other

They just don't make greeting cards for people like Scully and me.  
Trust me, I've looked everywhere.  I once spent four hours in a
Hallmark store searching for a card that said, "Sorry a mysterious
writer took advantage of your loneliness and created a character in
his novel that tried to rip your heart out of your chest cavity".  I
couldn't find it.  I ended up getting the one with the fuzzy dog on
the front that said in curly letters "I know things have been 'ruff',
but I hope you feel better soon!"  I'm not sure it conveyed what I
really wanted to say.  Right now, I'm trying to find a card to give
her for Valentine's Day.  I'm surrounded by thousands of cards, and
not one shouts "Scully".  I can't even find a category for my
relationship with Scully.  She's not my wife, and she's not my husband
either.  She's not my grandparent or my boss.  She's more than a
co-worker or a friend, but she's not my lover either.  I'm
half-tempted to just buy a box of Power Rangers valentines.  This is
so frustrating.

Why am I buying her anything for Valentine's Day, anyway?  It's not on
our list of obligatory holidays.  Christmas, yes, but not Valentine's
Day.  We'd celebrate National Peanut Butter Day together before
Valentine's Day.  I'm certain she's not planning anything for me.  I
don't think I'm going to find her in this store pouring over cards
plastered with red and pink hearts and cupids mumbling "Oh, this is so
Mulder."  And she's not expecting anything from me.  So why am I here?  
It's not like if I walk into work tomorrow with no roses or chocolates
she's gonna be disappointed.

But something deep down in my stomach has been turning, gnawing at my
insides, provoking me here to this store a half an hour before closing
on February 13th.  It began this afternoon when, while sitting in our
cold little basement office, I studied her silently as she tapped her
pen against her lips while looking through her autopsy notes.  I do
that sometimes when she's not paying attention, study her.  I can't
tell you why or how I've managed it so that she's never caught me.  I
guess when you spend so much time with a person, you can't help but
notice them.  I noticed her this afternoon.  I noticed her blue eyes
as she stared intently at her files.  I noticed her plump red lips
while they whispered the sentences she was reading concerning a
victim's tox screen.  I noticed her slender fingers as she brushed her
smooth hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear.  It's not
the first time I've noticed these features.  I know them so well they
are permanent fixtures in my memory.  But it was while watching her
that I remembered just how important she is to me.  And I want to tell
her that.  It is mere coincidence that it is the day before
Valentine's Day.

So where was the card that said, "You're my closest, if not my only
true companion.  If not for you, I'd be lying dead somewhere.  You
give me hope, you inspire my convictions.  You're my favorite person
to fight with.  You make Skinner's lectures bearable.  You keep me out
of trouble, and every once in awhile, you let me do something
incredibly stupid.  You're like a family member to me.  I can't
remember what life was like before you.  You let me boss you around
and you're always willing to slap on a pair of latex gloves and bury
your hands in the innards of some dead person for me.  You don't kill
me when I call you at three in the morning every weekend.  I'm
surprised you've stuck around after all these years of my torture.  
While we're not more than the very closest of friends, you're no less
than my sole significant other, the other side of me, the cornerstone
of my being.  Happy Valentine's Day."

Hmm...that seems a bit long-winded.  I sigh and scan my eyes over the
selection of cards at my disposal.  My eyes fall on one with a black
and white photograph of two mismatching shoes, one larger than the
other, both a little worn.  On the inside, printed in small type, are
the words, "We make a great pair."

I buy it.  I take it home and scribble my name underneath the words.  
Tomorrow, I'll slip it in her briefcase or her coat pocket, and she'll
find it, and she'll know that she is the only person with whom I want
to spend Valentine's Day.

It's too bad I couldn't find one with aliens on it.