Shattered

by amokeh

I've been sitting here thinking, crying, and then thinking some more since Walter stormed out, slamming the door irrevocably on our relationship, and I've come to some pretty unremarkable conclusions.  I am a completely selfish, self-absorbed, inconsiderate bastard who purposely rejects the people who love me in an unconscious effort to make my self-imposed pathos all the more real.  I have so completely bought into the belief that I am worthless and that I can't hold on to any serious relationship in my life, that I deliberately go out of my way to make it reality by hurting the people who are the most important to me .  Yes, folks, wunderkind Fox Mulder is really that fucked up.

I know why Walter ended it.  And it had nothing to do with my ridiculous tantrum last Friday night or not returning his calls that weekend.   Walter ended it because he is an intelligent man who realized, way before I did, that he can't save me.  He could try harder than anyone could have the right to expect him to try, and have more patience than any other human being could possibly have and it wouldn't make one whit of difference as long as I continue to purposely sabotage his best efforts at making me a whole person. 

The truly frightening thing in all of this is that despite my self-destructive actions I actually want to be a whole person.  I desperately, passionately, ardently want to be able to look in the mirror and like who I see.  I'm tired of wallowing in guilt and despair, feeling as if my loneliness is deserved, believing that I'm unworthy of love or the companionship of a decent, honorable person like Walter.  I am so fucking tired of it!  I want this...this...this curtain of doom and gloom that constantly wraps me in a terrible, suffocating embrace to be torn away so I can breathe freely; I want to stand in the sunshine with my arms open wide, welcoming the brightness and warmth into my very soul, rather than shrinking from it as I always do, retreating to my familiar, comfortable hidey-hole where I can jack off to the pathetic moans and cries of bargain-basement pornos, and tell myself that it's better for everyone this way, that the loneliness and despair is my due. 

Well, that is bullshit.  If a woman like Dana Katherine Scully can stand by my side after seven years despite everything, giving me her undying support and love no matter how many times I screw up, no matter how much shit I bring down on our heads, then I can't be that unworthy, can I?  If a man like Walter Sergei Skinner can love me so much that it kills him to watch me hurt myself, that he has to walk away despite the pain and grief it causes him, then there must be something there inside me that he sees, that he considers worth loving. 

So, what do I do to change?  God, what don't I change?  I rub my hand over my face, feeling the day-old stubble, and my task suddenly seems insurmountable.  I close my eyes and, for some reason, think of my mother.  Whenever she took on a huge project or began to plan a party or get-together for my father's co-workers, she always made a list.  She said it helped her to organize her thoughts.  I open my eyes and look around my apartment - no, my sty - for a pad of paper and a pen.  I have a feeling this is going to be one hell of a long list and I'm not about to trust it to my memory, no matter how eidetic it is. 

Okay - pen's on the floor under the coffee table, paper's on my desk.  I grab them both and return to the couch, hunching over the small table to start. 

     1.  Make coffee. 

Brilliant, I know, but I seriously need some more caffeine.  

     2.  Eat a real meal.

     3.  Clean the apartment - it's a fucking rathole. 

     4.  Take a shower and shave.  

     5.  

I pause, knowing that the next part is going to be the hardest.  I hunch further over the coffee table, my pen poised, hovering over the single numeral.

     5. 

I sigh and sit back, rolling my shoulders to stretch out the stress-tautened muscles.  Okay; I rub my face again, and lean forward to write:  

     5.  Win Walter back. 

Hmmmm.  I probably need to go into further detail here.   I ponder those three short words, and on impulse grab another piece of paper.   I re-write task #5 at the top of the page.  Underneath that brief sentence, my pen hovers once again as I try to think of how, exactly, to accomplish task #5.   Well, maybe I should look at it from Walter's perspective.  What's his biggest beef with me?  That I constantly act impulsively and without thought for my personal safety.  That I do so because I don't have as much regard for myself as he does.   That, since I lack self-worth, I push him away and hurt him because....because......  I drop the pen on the table and close my eyes, resting my head miserably in my hands as I finish the thought:  because I expected him to do the same eventually to me, and I wanted to beat him to the punch. 

You know, it's a terrible moment when you realize just how much of a bastard you truly are.

I decide to take care of numbers 1-4 on my list and stand up, but then bend back down, change #1 to #1B and hastily scribble in #1A:  Get some sleep and tackle this in the morning.  I need to think about this with a clear head, and I'm too tired and hungry to deal with it right now.  I toss the pen on the table and head to the kitchen to rustle up some food before I hit the sack for some much-needed rest.

*******************

I woke up this morning with a sense of purpose.  It's amazing how your environment affects your state of mind.  I spent the entire day yesterday taking care of Task #3 on my list - cleaning my apartment.  Hell, I even vacuumed.   And today it's as if the clutter in my brain was swept away with all the rest of the debris that I had allowed to pile up around here.  Man, that's the story of my life, isn't it?  I just let all this other garbage mess me up; I've let these cases, this quest muddy up what's really important to me, important to my life.  Well, it's all been cleared away.  No cases, no crusade to get in the way of getting back what I realize now I need more than air, more than those things we consider basic human needs for survival.  You know, we can sleep, eat, have shelter, clothe ourselves...but without love, we're simply existing.   There's no joy because there's no-one to share it with.  Well, today's Thursday:  I've got the next week-and-a-half to focus solely on showing Walter what he means to me, how much he means to me.  Eleven days to convince him I need him in order to live.  

So, I took my daily run, showered, put on clean clothes and made an emergency run to the grocery store as my cupboards and fridge didn't have enough to entice even one of the many mice I've seen run through here.  Got home and decided that I wasn't going to put my new, healthy food in a refrigerator that could spontaneously generate new life forms at any moment, so I actually scrubbed it down for the first time in six years and, after everything was clean and put away, had a late breakfast. Well, okay, lunch.  It's now about 1:00 and I am sitting at my coffee table with a pile of blank stationery in front of me. I'm afraid if I call him or meet him face-to-face I'll just start crying and pleading for him to take me back, so I've decided to tell him how much I love him in writing. Call them love-letters if you will. I take a deep breath and then grab my pen.

Dear Walter,

Mmmm. No, it sounds too much like it's going to be a 'Dear John' letter. I crumple up the page and start again on a fresh sheet.

Walter -

Okay, that's better: simple, to the point, can't be misinterpreted...

I want you to know that I understand why you said the things you did the other day. Hell, if I was you I would have said and done the same thing. I mean, the last thing you need is me fucking up your life, right?

Well, that sounds a bit pathetic, but it's a start anyway, so I continue:

I don't say that to sound as if I'm wallowing in self-pity: I'm not. I know I didn't leave you much choice in the matter. I have never been very good at relationships, and I think that a big part of me subconsciously tries to sabotage it before I can get hurt. Then, when it's over, I can say to myself, "See? I was right - I knew it wouldn't last. It never lasts." But this time, I didn't realize that there was no way for me NOT to get hurt. I've simply come to depend on you too much, to love you too much. You're so much a part of me now, Walter, that if I lose you I might as well cut out my own heart.

Whoa. I stop because my hand is shaking from emotion. I think I cut to the chase a little too quickly. I mean, I want the letter to be passionate and emotional, but I don't want to come off as an emotional mess, pleading with him to make it better. No, I want him to see that I've thought this all through very carefully, and have decided that this is something I really want to commit to. Something I'm determined to commit to. I put my pen down and flex my fingers, cracking the knuckles and waiting for the shakes to subside. Eyes closed, I roll my head on my neck, working out a few kinks there as well. Then, when I feel I'm sufficiently settled, I open my eyes and pick my pen back up.

Okay, I think I'm going a little fast here. I want you to understand what's been going through my head over the last couple of days and, as you've figured out by now, that could take a while. But I want you to see that I've thought this out and am not just reacting blindly to events, as I normally do. After all, that's what got us to this point in the first place, wasn't it?

Well, Walter, I've realized that THAT is NOT the way I want to live my life. You were right when you accused me of going off half-cocked, blindly following any Tom, Dick or Krycek who promises me "THE TRUTH," like some demented horse galloping after an imaginary carrot on a stick. God, I look at all the times I've done this, and it sickens me. I mean, I'm an intelligent person, right? What the fuck was I thinking all those times? I asked myself that yesterday while I was cleaning my hovel of an apartment (yes, "cleaning" Walter - pick your jaw up off the ground) and this is what I came up with:

Even though I've been betrayed times too numerous to count; even though I've been hurt and lied to and used - there's a big part of me that still hopes, that BELIEVES, that I will find the truth. It's just like I've held on to the belief that I'll find Samantha one day, not just some clone/hybrid/whatever, but my sister - in the flesh. Maybe it's naive, I don't know, but I can't help it. The day I give up all my hope I might as well just let them shoot me. It's what keeps me going. It's what makes me get up every morning, slogging through bullshit report after report, thinking that maybe, just maybe the next case I work on, the next seemingly insignificant piece of data will turn up some real evidence, an honest-to-fucking-goodness trail that leads to my sister or helps to unravel this conspiracy that has destroyed so much in our lives. So that's the main reason I go off on these fool's missions. Not because I have no regard for my own life, or I have no regard for how much you love me or worry about me - there's this little boy inside of me that imagines that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and ignores all other warnings to run after it, everything else be damned.

I can't promise you that I'll never want to chase down leads, no matter how dodgy they might be. But I DO promise you this, Walter: from now on, when I get some mysterious phone call, email or note stuck to my door, I'll bring it to you before I chase after it. I'll bring the information to you, we can discuss it, and decide where to go from there. I WILL NOT go running off half-cocked with no word to you, without backup, without regard to how much you care about what happens to me. I swear this to you, Walter: on my very soul, on my sister's memory, I SWEAR this to you.

I have to pause at this point because I've been writing so furiously, trying to get the words out that I've got a cramp in my hand. I flex it again while I read over what I've written so far. So far, so good. Grabbing my pen, I hastily continue, not wanting to lose the momentum I've suddenly developed.

Now I realize you're reading this, shaking your head and thinking, "Yeah, he says this NOW..." But I mean it, Walter. I've actually looked at this logically and determined the following:

1) I've been inordinately lucky so far in that I haven't been killed yet by one of my foolhardy stunts, but my luck is bound to run out.

2) I'm no good to my sister or THE TRUTH if I'm dead, now am I? So it really doesn't benefit me in any way to get myself killed.

3) Every time I've run off on my own I've hurt the people most important to me - Scully and you. I don't want to hurt either of you anymore, but walking away from my relationships is NOT the answer. Not because it's immature, not because it's self-destructive, but because I've realized something else. I need you and Scully more than I need THE TRUTH. Yes, Walter, that's right. None of it matters at all if I don't have my best friend or my life partner.

And that's what you are, Walter, despite your trying to end the relationship. I know for a fact that you haven't stopped loving me, that you haven't stopped thinking about me, and that as you're reading this, you've got a lump in your throat to rival the fluke that sanitation worker coughed up. I know this not because I've got an extremely well-developed ego, but because I haven't stopped loving you, I haven't stopped thinking about you, and, as I'm writing this, I've got an equally-large lump in my throat.

That lump isn't borne of self-pity, Walter. It starts to form whenever I think about never touching you again, about never feeling your arms around me again, never making love with you again. I can't believe that I'll never come home again, tired, frustrated and grumpy to find you in the kitchen making dinner and feel annoyed by your cheerful attitude and refusal to take my bad humor personally. Well, I figured out something about that, too, Walter. I realized that you were happy because I was coming home to you, and that you didn't care what mood I was in - good, bad or indifferent - you would take me any way you could get me. I've realized this because right now I wouldn't care if you were in my face screaming at me, so mad you were shaking; I long for the opportunity to pull you into my arms and kiss away your anger. To show you with my eyes, my lips and my body just how much I love you and am glad to be with you. Please, Walter, tell me I'm gonna have the chance to do this. To talk to you as we lie together, sweaty and exhausted after lovemaking; to argue with you over who's going to win the game on TV; to just sit together on the couch while we get through paperwork at the end of the day; to fight over who gets to read which section of the Sunday paper first.  You know, when I think about why I love you, what I love about you, it's the little things that get me every time. 

I have to stop because my vision is too badly blurred at this point to even see the piece of paper, let alone what I'm writing on it.  I put the pen down and go the bathroom to grab some toilet paper to blow my nose.  While I'm there I wash my face, too.  After I toss my hand towel down on the counter, I stop to regard myself in the mirror.  My eyes are red-rimmed from crying and I've got dark smudges under them, but I have to say my color looks better than it has since last week.   I grimace, remembering the reason why I've looked and felt like shit for the last week.  I push away from the counter and head back into the living room.

There are so many things I want to say to Walter that I'm afraid it's going to come out as a jumble.  Suddenly I realize that Walter is probably used to my strange leaps in our normal conversations, so why would he expect a letter from me to be any different?  No, I'm not going to worry about style or eloquence; I just want him to see what's in my heart.

I sit down on the floor this time, pushing the coffee table a little bit further from me so I can use it as a desk without seriously fucking up my back. I actually could write this at my desk now that it's cleaned, but my desk is strictly for work and I don't want to lose my focus here.  I grab a throw pillow and scrunch it behind me; satisfied that this is as comfortable as I'm going to get, I read over what I've got so far and then grab my pen again.

So, because I consider you my life partner, Walter, I'm not going to let you walk away from this.  I plan to hound you, pester you, cajole you - whatever it takes - into giving me another chance.  You want flowers?   Done.  You want love letters?  Well, if this one is any indication - done.  You want promises, a committment?  Done deal.  You tell me what you want, Walter.  You tell me what it will take to prove to you that these aren't just pretty words and empty promises.  I want this to work.  I want US to work.   I don't want to sabotage our relationship ever again; I don't want to ever hurt you or myself again.  And I don't want to do something foolish that would betray your trust and might get me killed.  I want to live a long life with you, Walter Skinner.   And no lost sister, no aliens or potentially non-existent truth is going to keep me from doing so.  The only thing that can keep us apart at this point is you.

I could beg you to come back to me, Walter, but I think I'll save that for my next letter.  After all, I've got to give you something to look forward to, right?

Okay.  I think a 5-page letter is enough to subject you to in one sitting.  I'll pick up from here tomorrow.  Oh, and yeah, you can count on me writing to you at least every day until you finally cave, even if it's just to shut me up.  Right now I'll take you any and every way I can get you.

I love you so much, Walter.  Please remember that THAT is what this letter is about - it's not about me just being lonely or just needing someone, ANYone.  I need YOU.  Please give me another chance to show you just how much.

with all my love,
Fox

I put down my pen and rub my eyes.  Jesus, I'm tired.   After a long, drawn out look at the pages before me, I snatch them up, fold them neatly and stuff them in a matching envelope.  I write Walter's name and address on it, although I fully intend to deliver it personally.  I start to lick it shut, but stop, a memory suddenly popping into my mind. 

Vivid recollection:  I was sitting at Walter's coffee table with Walter on the couch behind me, filling out a request for some file transfers, and was about to lick the envelope closed when he leaned forward and just grabbed me around the shoulders in a quasi-headlock, and buried his lips in my neck, zeroing in on that one spot behind my ear that he knows drives me wild.  I remember I chuckled, pleasantly surprised by his attack, and said in a teasing voice, "Someone's feelin' feisty..."  And he growled against my skin, the heat from his touch raising the gooseflesh on my neck, "I'm not feisty.  I'm horny.  Now put down that envelope and get over here..."  I practically flew the envelope across the coffee table and turned around and pounced.  God, we didn't even make it to the stairway. 

The feel of tears running slowly down my cheeks brings the image to a crashing halt, and I quickly wipe my face with the back of my sleeve and finish sealing the envelope.  Glancing at the clock, I see it's just about 3:00.    I figure if I leave now, I can pick up some flowers (after all, I promised) and head over to his condo, leave the blooms and envelope leaning up against his door, and get out of there in plenty of time.  I don't want to see him; I mean, I DO want to see him, but I don't want to explain what I'm doing there.  I just want him to see the flowers and the letter.

Okay.  I grab the letter, my keys and my wallet and head out.  My heart is beating so hard you'd think I had just run a marathon, and I haven't even delivered this yet.  As I get behind the wheel of my car, I realize that I'm totally stressed because so much is riding on this:  my happiness, Walter's happiness - our future together.  Pulling out into traffic, I'm compelled to send up a silent plea:  God, Allah, Buddha, David Koresh - whatever;  please let him see my intent behind the words, that I mean what I say.   Please help him to forgive me and not give up on me.  I haven't believed in any kind of god since Samantha was taken, but I can't help the prayer that pours out from my soul, no matter what a hypocrite it makes me.  Please.  God.  It's my mantra all the way to the florist, and then all the way to Crystal City.

*******************

I wake slowly to sunlight beating warmly upon my face.   I must have turned my alarm off in my sleep.  No surprise, there; I had a bad night.

I don't know how many nightmares I had, but they were all variations on the same theme:  losing Walter.  In one, I was facing Spender the Elder and demanding he tell me where Samantha was while Walter stood behind me, supporting me like always.  I shouted at him to tell me the truth.  He told me I could only have Samantha back if I were to give him someone to take her place.  I offered myself, but he laughed and said he could have me taken whenever he wanted.  The point of the exercise was to force me to make a choice.  It was like I was hovering above myself, like I was watching a stranger play me in some surreal play.  I was trying to yell to my dream self, "Don't do it!  Don't say it!"  and was horrified to see that stranger with my face say, "Walter.  You can take Walter."  And my floating self and my dream self looked back at my lover, to see the anguish and the betrayal on his face.  I heard Walter say, "I always knew she was more important to you than I was.  After all, you've sacrificed me for her again and again..."  And then he was surrounded by a suffusion of white light, blinding light, and when the light faded, he was gone.  And there was no one in his place.  I turned to Spender and screamed, "Where is she?  Where is Samantha?  You promised a trade!"  And he just smiled a jackal's smile, exhaling a hateful plume of smoke and said, "Samantha is dead.  She's been dead for twenty years."  And my dream self fell to his knees as my floating self cried at what a fool he was.

Another one involved Krycek and his little nano-toys.   The bastard wanted me to go with him, to fight the aliens with him, but I said, no, I can't leave Walter.  And Krycek just grinned terribly and said, that's easily taken care of.  And he pulled out the palm pilot and before I could reach him, he turned it on high.  I barely had enough time to make it back to Walter's side to hold him while he died in terrible pain, but still managing to tell me how much he loved me.

Random, interlacing images from my dreams float through my memory as I struggle to come fully to consciousness and banish them back to the darkness.   Finally, I manage to sit up and swing my legs, leaden with exhaustion, over the side of the bed.  I force myself to get up and put on running clothes.  I'm sure a good, long run will drive them away so I can get back on track.  I shoot a glance at the clock on my nightstand and hurry out my bedroom door - it's already 9:00.  No dilly-dallying today.  I'll have to start on my next letter as soon as I get showered and changed.

*******************

I ran an extra five miles this morning to help work off the stress from my nightmares, but I still managed to get back and cleaned up before 11:00.   I make myself a huge roast beef sandwich - massive enough to warrant a full Scully-lecture on the dangers of fatty food and my ever-increasing cholestrol level - and take it plus a glass of iced tea out to the coffee table to get started on my letter.  The thought of Scully immediately brings to mind our phone conversation from the night before.

I hadn't talked to her since Monday at the Hoover building.   She had left me numerous messages on my machine but I hadn't felt like talking to her either Monday night after my disastrous effort to speak to Walter or Tuesday after Walter's visit.  Wednesday I was too focused on my goals to even think about her, so I just let my answering machine field my calls and left my cell off.  Well, after listening to all fourteen of her messages last night, I finally broke down and called her.   Needless to say, she was pretty worried by that time and ready to come over to throttle me.  Anyway, after her initial "Why haven't you called me?  Where have you been?  Are you all right?" I told her what happened between Skinner and me; I didn't leave out any of the details.  She listened quietly, not interrupting once.  When I told her how he had kissed me before he left, she just let out this big sigh and said, "Well, that explains a lot."

"What, why I haven't called you?  Because I can explain that..." I started to defend myself but she cut me off.

"No, it explains Skinner's behavior the last couple of days.  He's been roaring at everyone and frankly, Mulder, he looks like shit."   She sighed again, and I tried to swallow past the huge lump in my throat and not feel guilty for finding some small comfort in the fact that he was as miserable as I was.   "But anyway, you were going to explain why you haven't called me?"   I winced from the slight sharpness in her tone.  She was trying to say it lightly, but I could tell she was pissed.  So I told her about what I had decided, in terms of making changes in my life, and of my plan to win Walter back.

"So, I'm really sorry I didn't call you back right away, Scully.  But I've been pretty focused on getting my shit together."  I heard her snort but chose to ignore it and instead continued to explain.  "You know, I came to the realization that all of this happened for a reason.  It was a wake-up call, Scully.  It was fate or whatever knocking on my skull to say, 'Hey, dipshit, look at everything you've got!  Why are you trying to throw it all away?'  So, I'm not going to let him get away, Scully.  No way.  If you thought I was obsessed with finding Samantha, you just watch."

Scully chuckled, "So, is that why they always used to say in VCS, Mulder always gets his man?"

I grinned too.  It was good to be joking with someone again.  "Yup.  And you thought they were talking about the criminals...."

"I should have known that with you, Mulder, it couldn't be anything that banal."  I could hear the smile in her voice and it made me feel almost normal again.  Well, as normal as Fox Mulder can get anyway.   "Seriously though, Mulder, that sounds great.  I mean it.  If anyone can break Skinner down with their tenacity and persistence, it's definitely you.  And I hope it works.  Soon.  I don't know how much longer any of us can last under his present mood."

My throat tight again, I nodded and agreed, "Yeah.   I know exactly how he feels.  I hope it doesn't take too long either."

We were both silent for a few moments, but then she turned into Dana Scully, Surrogate Mom and nagged me a little about eating right and getting enough sleep.  So I told her how I spent the day cleaning and had restocked my kitchen.  I wish I could have seen her face when I told her I actually cleaned my refrigerator.  I think she was speechless for a full ninety seconds.

Finally, she admitted, "Well, Mulder, it seems like you really have gotten your shit together.  I don't know what to say.  I'm proud of you.  This is a great first step."  Her voice was warm and loving, and I was suddenly very glad I had called her.  She is so much more than just my partner - she's my confidante, my best friend, even my savior sometimes.  I told her exactly that and I could almost hear her blush.  But she replied saucily, "And don't you forget it!"  And we both started laughing.  We chatted for a couple of minutes more, but ended on that note of laughter, renewed friendship and hope.

I finish up my sandwich and swipe my hands against my blue jeans before reaching for fresh paper and my pen.  I just sit there, staring at the blank page for a while, all these thoughts and images swirling through my mind, trying to find a way to put order to the chaos that is Fox Mulder.  I chuckle at that and, without further preamble, put pen to page.

Walter,

I miss you.  I dreamed of you last night or rather late this morning; it was a wonderful dream of you curling up around me, the heat and solidity of you firmly pressed against my back, making me feel safe.  Making me feel loved.  It was such a vivid feeling that when I woke up, it was startling to realize you weren't really there.  I guess I've gotten spoiled.  I didn't realize what an effect you had on my sleeping patterns until the nightmares returned.  Other than that brief respite this morning with the imagined sensation of your body against mine, I had a pretty horrible night.  Jesus, it was bad.  One fucking nightmare after the other, and all about losing you.  I won't bore you with the details.  Sorry.   I know you wouldn't be bored - you were always willing to listen to my midnight ramblings.  But I'd rather not talk about them now.  And I don't want you to think I'm trying to make you feel guilty or anything.  It wasn't my intent, and you really have no reason to feel guilty anyway.  I didn't have a bad night because of you; I had those nightmares because of me and my fears and insecurities.  It's just that when you're with me, those fears seem to disappear.  Well, they fade into the shadows anyway. 

You know, I just re-read that first paragraph and almost crumpled it up, but decided that it might be a good place to start telling you what a difference you've made in my life.  I mean, there are so many things you've given me, but the safe factor is a good one to begin with. 

There's never really been a safe harbor in my life, Walter.  Not the ones normal people consider safe at least.  My family?   God, that's a laugh.  Job?  Right.  Between the antagonism of fellow agents and persecution from higher-ups (yourself excluded), there's not a lot to feel safe about.  Then, of course, there's always been the added bonus of having my phone tapped, office bugged and Ole' Smokey popping up unexpectedly.  Heh.  Although I WAS describing my office, I might as well be describing my apartment, except for my apartment you can throw in video feed too.  So that knocks "Home" off the list also.  Scully?  I don't know.  I mean, I feel safe in my friendship with Scully, but ever really totally safe?  I don't think so.  I mean, it just seems as if we're always in the middle of the maelstrom, that safety just doesn't play into it.  But you, well, although there's always been the risk of being exposed to the bureau, you still make me feel as if all the shit out there conspiring against me, against us, can't touch me.  It's like I'm in this magic circle when I'm with you, and when we lie together and you put your arms around me, the monsters can't get me.   Nauseating, I know.  What can I say?  I'm a sap.  My secret's out.   But you're my safe harbor, Walter.  And without you, I feel like I'm lost at sea. 

Okay, now I don't want to hear any cracks about docking procedures.  I'm trying to be serious here.  I know, I'm awful.  But I'm trying to open my heart to you and at the same time, the cynical asshole inside of me is laughing it's head off at the awful imagery and metaphors.  Well, if I had any talent at poetry, I wouldn't have gone into criminal psych.  If you can push aside the cynical asshole in you long enough to read this without snorting scotch out your nose, then I guess I can push mine aside too.  Word of warning, though:  if you ever quote any passages from this letter in mixed company, I swear, Walter, I'll deny even KNOWING you.  Okay?  All right...

I have to stop to flex my fingers - Jesus!  I think my hand has turned into The Claw.  I take a quick swig of iced tea and stand up, stretching my legs and rubbing my right hand at the same time.  The curse of doing all your writing on a keyboard - weak hand muscles.  When the cramping dies down, I return to my position at my coffee table to resume the letter before I lose my nerve.   I knew I was going to get really sappy in this one, but dammit!  Men just really aren't equipped for this!  I shake my head in amusement at my awkwardness and pick up the pen once more.

Actually, Walter, you're the talker in this relationship when it comes to sharing your feelings.  THAT came as a total surprise.  Here I thought that you would be the same closed mouth, uptight man you are at the JEH, but once you step away from the J-O-B, you become someone else entirely.  God, your smile.   Do you know that I worked for you for six years before I saw you smile?  You simply don't DO it at work.  You probably don't believe it fits in with your hard-assed AD persona.  It's just as well.  If you smiled all the time at the bureau, I would NEVER have had a chance with you.  I would have had to fight off every assistant in the administrative pool.  Not to mention the closeted agents - and there are QUITE a few that have checked you out over the years, Walter.  You may not have noticed but I certainly did.  Well, Walter, very simply put, your smile is stunning.  Exquisite.  Mesmerizing.  When you smile, this light just suffuses your face, and your eyes brighten and I swear, you lose ten years easily.   It's a glorious sight to behold.  And I'm so honored and proud that you've loved me enough to share it with me.  When you smile, I know it's either FOR me, or BECAUSE of me, and god, I love being the reason for such a thing of beauty.  I love making you smile and I love making you happy, although my recent behavior might belie that fact.  But it's true.  For the longest time I didn't believe I could make anyone happy.  Shit, I could never make my parents happy, or any of my former lovers happy.   I've never really been able to make Scully happy, despite the fact she loves me.   But you, you I make happy just by walking in your door.  God, I could walk in that door and not say a word and you would just throw that beaming smile my way.  Do you have any idea how that always made me feel?  Like I was floating on air, totally on some kind of endorphin rush, and all because you turned up the corners of your mouth.   That's the power you have over me, Walter.  Like I said, it's the little things.

Another change you've made in my life is pretty remarkable, given my track record. I've never had much luck with relationships, as I've told you many times, not to mention how I've gone out of my way to show you exactly why I've never had much luck with relationships. Well, I'm not just talking about romantic relationships - my family life left a hell of a lot to be desired. Dysfunction thy name is Mulder. Between my father's drinking and my mother's constant state of denial there really wasn't much to build a relationship on. But it was always the same with my friends, too, after Samantha's abduction. And then, later at the bureau, I was really never able to build much of a rapport with my fellow agents - not even my own partners. I mean, I'm closer to Scully than I've ever been with anyone else, but we still have a pretty stand-offish relationship outside of the office. It's not like we've ever just hung out together, or just shot the shit, you know? I'm always trying to convince or persuade her of something crazy, and she's always rolling her eyes, doing that eyebrow thing (you KNOW what I'm talking about) and doing her damnedest to blow all my carefully thought-out theories out of the water. We've got a pretty rote relationship by now, but it works for us. What I'm trying to say is, that although I trust Scully with my life and love her totally, we've never just been equals. We always have roles to play: my Believer to her Skeptic; my Fool Rushing In to her Angel Fearing to Tread; my Invalid to her Caregiver; or my personal favorite (heavy sarcasm here), my Reckless Child to her Overprotective Mom. Not that I resent the roles; I don't. It's just that I never step totally out of one long enough to just BE me. To just be Mulder, with no agenda, no quest, no wild theory to prove. After seven years together, the rituals are too comforting in their familiarity.

But with you, there are no roles. Once we leave that building, it's just Walter and Fox. Do you have any idea what it took for me to able to lower all my walls in order to let you in? God, Walter, I was so scared - I was scared I would let you in and get used to you, even need you, and then I'd lose you just like everyone else I've loved. But deep down I came to realize that it was less scary to let you in than it was to keep you out. I know you can completely relate to this, because you've got more walls up than anyone I've ever met. Or at least, you HAD more walls. You let them down, one by one, for me to see the real you. And it was that voluntary exposure of your innermost self that allowed me to garner the courage to do the same. You gave me your friendship and your trust, and for the first time in my life I felt safe enough to throw my arms wide and say, "This is who I am! Know me!" and in return you accepted me, warts and all. You not only accepted me, but embraced me completely. The end result was a kind of stability and sense of "home" I have never felt before. God, even when I was being a total dick, you accepted that, too. You'd generally just wait me out until I finally stopped the childish games and just told you what was going on in my twisted head, and then you'd just hold me. Or kiss me. Or say, "It's not a big deal, Mulder. Come sit down; the game's on." Heh. Men. It's a wonder we've been able to communicate as well as we have...

But we HAVE communicated; and in that communication I've found something I didn't think possible for me. True friendship. A partner I like and respect who, miraculously, likes and respects me back. A lover I can laugh with, cry with. Someone who can always see through my ploys and tantrums and just cut through to the heart of the matter: my fear and self-loathing.

Now, I need you to do something for me, Walter. This is above and beyond taking me back, by the way. Everything I said to you last Friday night, everything I said Monday and Tuesday - all the confused, emotional crap I spewed needs to be thrown out. Just cast it aside as if it never happened. God, when I think of all the stupid shit I said and what I accused you of, it just makes me ill. I don't believe any of that, Walter. I know you respect me and believe in my work.  I know I'm more than just a piece of ass to you.  All that guilt shit I tried to lay on you about leaving me just like everyone else in my life was SO fucked, Walter.  There is no way I could ever compare you to anyone else in my life because you've given me so much more than anyone ever thought to give.  And my parents, well, they don't figure into this at all, except to help explain why your love has been so hard for me to accept.  I want you to throw all of it away except for the part where I said that I need you.  That was possibly the only honest thing I said to you through all of it.  The rest was just pathetic, paranoid, self-destructive ramblings of a man terrified to admit how important you and your approval of him had become.  You had every right to believe that the relationship was over, given how I had acted and what I had said.  But I need you to forget all of it, Walter.  Jesus, I had to get fucking wasted to believe it enough myself to even say it to you; and then I just kept getting madder and madder because I knew it was lame, I knew it was a lie, but at that moment I needed it to be true so I could have some reason to walk out.  Not because I wanted to walk out, but because I was too afraid to stay. 

When you ordered the censure, Walter, it really drove it home just how badly I had scared you, just how far I had crossed the line; when you ordered the censure, I thought for sure you were going to end it, so I decided, subconsciously, to beat you to the punch.  I know:  I'm a selfish bastard.  But I don't want to be a selfish bastard anymore.  I'd much rather concentrate on being happy with you and making you happy.  Oh, and making you smile, so I can get that warm tingle all the way up and down my spine when your face crinkles up in a grin and your dimples show.  Like I said:   I'm turning into a sentimental fool.

Okay, I promised you some begging in my last letter, so here goes:  please give me a chance to show you how much I love you.  Please allow me the opportunity to prove that I can learn from the past and be the partner you and I need me to be.  I'm begging you, Walter, to look beyond all the crazy things I said that horrible Friday to the fear which prompted my tirade.  And finally, I'm pleading with you NOT to give up on me; I need you so badly; I really don't want to do any of this without you.  I don't think I can.  Not anymore.  You've become as necessary to me as the air in my lungs.

I'm reminded of a poem I read at Oxford.  I'd like to complete my transformation into a total sap by sharing it with you, so grab the Pepto and be prepared:

     I would like to watch you sleeping,
     which may not happen.
     I would like to watch you,
     Sleeping.  I would like to sleep
     with you, to enter
     your sleep as its smooth dark wave
     slides over my head
     and walk with you through that lucent
     wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
     with its watery sun and three moons
     towards the cave where you must descend,
     towards your worst fear

     I would like to give you the silver
     branch, the small white flower, the one
     word that will protect you
     from the grief at the center
     of your dream, from the grief
     at the center.  I would like to follow
     you up the long stairway
     again and become
     the boat that would row you back
     carefully, a flame
     in two cupped hands
     to where your body lies
     beside me, and you enter
     it as easily as breathing in

     I would like to be the air
     that inhabits you for a moment
     only.  I would like to be that unnoticed
     and that necessary.

Well, I think that says it all.

I love you, Walter.  Please give me another chance.

with all my heart,
Fox

I set down my pen and massage my right hand. Reading over the letter as I work the blood back into my fingers. Sappy enough? Oh, definitely. Passionate? Yup. Clear-headed and rational? Absolutely. Desperate and needy? Well, I think I've been pretty open about that....

Although some parts seem a little verbose, I refuse to change a word. I promised myself I would just lay it all on the line for him, and I've done exactly that. God, I'm so tired though. I feel like I've run an emotional marathon.   I swivel my head around on my neck, producing a satisfying crack, and slowly unwind my body out of the cramped position I've maintained for the last...I check my watch and am startled to realize it's already 3:20.  Jesus!  I grab an envelope and hastily scrawl Walter's name and address on it, but show a little more care with folding the letter (nine pages!) and stuffing it into the too-small envelope.  I grab my keys and wallet, licking the envelope on my way out the door.

********************

I left him daisies this time; bright yellow and purple daisies along with the thick, sealed envelope against his door.  I thought they'd go well with the purple irises from yesterday.  I have to admit that I never thought I'd be writing love letters to another man, let alone buying him flowers, but the experience has been cathartic in a way.  It's as if I've been able to exorcise whatever demons have been driving me through the sharing of my innermost thoughts to Walter.  Anyway, I'm already planning my next letter in my head.

I toss my keys and wallet on my desk and head for the kitchen, grabbing the remote on my way.  Switching on the TV, I open the fridge, looking for the fresh fettucine, alfredo sauce and garlic bread I picked up at the supermarket.  I definitely feel like Italian tonight.

About twenty minutes later, I'm happily settled on my sofa, plate of fettucine alfredo in my lap (along with half a loaf of hot garlic bread - I LOVE this stuff!) and flipping through channels.  You know, it's strange; I think that before all of this happened, I would have secretly hated sitting here by myself, thinking it to be just more proof of my lonely, pathetic existence.  But right now it feels good to have some down time, to just relax, eat and watch some mindless television like, oh yes!  THEM!  God, I haven't seen this classic B-movie in a while.  I chuckle as an obviously super-imposed giant ant attacks one of the screaming extras and dig into my pasta.  Mmmmm.  I never realized how much better the fresh stuff is than the canned.  I don't think I'm ever going back to Ragu.

The movie ends and I leave the sofa to clean up the remnants of dinner.  I get everything washed and put away and return to my seat in front of the boob-tube to do some channel-surfing.  I find a cooking program - Julia Child and some french guy - and, as they're making some really tasty-looking dessert, I leave it there and lay down on the couch, my stomach comfortably full.  I find myself dozing a little, my emotional weariness finally getting the better of me.  I know it's only about 8:30, but after not sleeping last night, I don't fight my fatigue.  I feel the fuzziness of sleep overtaking me just as Julia's putting a roast in the oven...

*************************

Pounding.  Someone's pounding on my door.

I suddenly awaken, almost jumping off the couch, shaken by the abruptness of the loud noise.  It takes me a moment to focus, to realize that yes, someone is actually at my door, that it's not a dream.  I rub my face roughly, wiping the residual drowsiness away, and rise slowly off the couch. 

Bam bam bam BAM!

"All right, all right!"  Jesus.   "Hold on a second!"  I rub my eyes again for good measure and go to the door, careful to stand to the side of it, rather than directly in front of it - an easy target.  "Who is it?"  I ask, a little pissed that someone's practically pounding my door down at - I look at my watch - at 11:13 at night.  

The next sound I hear stops me cold in my tracks.  A soft, tentative voice from the other side of the door.  "It's me."

Walter.

Jesus.

I rub my face vigorously, this time with both hands - just for good measure - and try to still the shaking that has suddenly consumed my limbs.   Walter.  Here.  Jesus.

I remove the chain, throw the latch and slowly open the door.

Walter's there - REALLY there (I'm not imagining it) - his shoulders slightly slumped.   His eyes are a little red, but they're bright and searching mine hungrily, as if he's a starved man looking for the $1.99 buffet.  God, I know exactly how he feels.  I know I'm looking at him exactly the same way, drinking in the sight of him.  We both just stand there, staring at each other for god knows how long.  He's the one who finally breaks the silence.

"I got your letters."  His voice is hoarse with emotion, and although he only uttered four words, I can tell that there are volumes waiting to be spoken.

I push the door fully open and stand slightly aside.    I nod my head slightly towards my living room and say, "Come in."   If my eyes weren't still locked with his, I would have flinched at how needy those two little words had come out.  But you know something?  It just doesn't matter.   Because at that moment he smiles at me.  A small, hesitant smile that somehow manages to convey forgiveness, a request for absolution and hope.  I can feel the tingle already moving down my spine.

He smiled at me.

I smile back, shakily, and his gaze finally breaks with mine as he strides across my threshhold. 

And I close the door behind him, the smile growing bigger on my face.

To be continued....

 Continue to Part 5 - REVELATIONS

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