***********************************************************************************
        This author's e-mail address has changed to: shalimar@attbi.com
***********************************************************************************

From: Shalimar <alcus@compuserve.com>
Date: 
Subject: The Letter   -   1/3


Archiving:   Please archive and forward to ATXC. 




********************************
Title:       The Letter

Author:      Shalimar    

Address:     alcus@compuserve.com



Summary:     This is another Field Where I Died post-episode story.  

Category:    MSR, Story

Rating:      Parts one and two are PG for language. 
              
             Part three is definitely NC17 for sexual content.

For those not interested in NC17 material, there is a logical ending at the
end of part two.   Just stop there.


Disclaimer:  The characters in this story belong to Chris Carter, 1013
Productions, and Fox.  The characters are used without permission, but with
no intention of infringement.

I know this episode is old news, but I think it was just on recently in  a
couple countries, so this is for those readers.


Many thanks to Becky for suggesting the last part!

Enjoy,
Shalimar
http://ourworld.compuserve.com/homepages/alcus



4/13/97

The Letter
by Shalimar

alcus@compuserve.com
copyright 1997


part 1/3




Scully jumped down from the Explorer and slammed the door behind her.  She
glanced over her shoulder at the main street of the small Tennessee town. 

No one was paying any attention to her.  

And why should they be?   

She eyed the large white Victorian building that housed the Hamilton County
Historical Society.  It seemed innocent enough.  

But then so had this case.

Slowly she climbed the steps to the wide porch.  A small sign was posted
beside the front door.

Open 11:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. Tuesday - Thursday

Scully glanced at her watch.  Good.  She had an hour before closing time.  


She pushed open the door.

A smell of mustiness tickled her nose as she stepped across the threshold. 
She stopped just inside the door and looked around the dim, deserted
hallway.  Antique furniture and oriental carpets lined the entry.  A
graceful stairway climbed high into the shadowy nether regions above. 
Light filtered down from old-fashioned gas jets.  

Civil War era portraits peered gloomily down at her from the walls.  

"Get a life, Dana Elizabeth Mary Margaret Katherine Scully," their gazes
told her sternly.    

She gave a shudder.  This was ridiculous.  She turned to go out again.

Suddenly a doorway creaked and Scully jumped.

An elderly woman entered the hall.  Scully took a deep breath and pasted a
polite smile on her face.  The old woman reminded her of a small wizened
lizard.  She was only about as tall as Scully's shoulder, and her face was
so wrinkled she had to be close to ninety.  Her hair was very white and
pulled up tightly in a small bun on top of her head.  Only her eyes were
alive, dark and curious in her ancient face.  The woman was dressed in
Civil War period costume.  

Naturally.

"May I help you?"

"I'm. . . ."  Scully cleared her throat.  "I'm . . . researching the
skirmish that occurred in Apison in November 1863.  November 26th.  I
wondered if you had any information here--about it.  Artifacts . . . first
person accounts . . .  photographs. . . ."

"Of course.  If you'll just sign our register first."

She gestured to the open book on the table by the front door.

For a split second Scully had the urge to make up a name.  Sighing, she
wrote her own.

"Ancestors?"

"Pardon me?"

"Most people come here looking up their ancestors."  

The woman peered long and hard at Scully's signature.  

"'Scully'?  That your married name?  What's your maiden name?"

"Um.  No.  I'm not married.  Dana Scully is my maiden name."

The woman peered long and hard at Scully.

"Hmmmph.  Well--I don't recall the name Scully playing any part in the
history of Apison--maybe on your mother's side?"

"Well, it's not actually *my* ancestors I'm . . . researching.  A friend's
. . . ancestor . . . actually."

"A boy?"  The woman's tone was sharp.

"A man.  Yes."

"A man."  The old woman gave a snort.  "Alrighty then.   Come on," she said
shortly.  "I'll show you what we've got."

Scully felt her face flush and wished she hadn't come.  Past lives were
sort of like ancestors, weren't they?  Oh, Mulder.  What have you gotten me
into this time?  This is your search--not mine.  And where the hell are you
anyway?  Probably still out standing in that field.  Crying.

Damn it.

She had a sudden vision of his face as he leaned over Melissa's dead body. 
As if the woman--whom he'd barely known--had been infinitely precious to
him.  

Mulder.  Mulder.  Mulder. . . .  And now he was convinced that *she* Scully
was his wisewoman or father or something.  His sage throughout time.  

Fat chance.

She *was* the rational one.  The sensible one.   And maybe she was his
sage.  Well, all right, so it was her search, too.  That was why she was
here wasn't it?  But if she was here to prove anything she was determined
to prove that she was more to him than that.  

Not to mention there was no way she was going to sit back and let a very
pathetic woman with multiple disassociative identities come out of nowhere
to snatch away a huge chunk of Mulder's happiness.  

And her own.

Which was indeed why this was her search, too.    

She glared at a portrait of an old man with particularly amazing sideburns
and mustaches.  

I do so have a life, Jedidiah.   

Jedidiah merely stared at her balefully. 

She looked around.  The woman was halfway up the stairs.

Scully hurried up the long staircase.  It was very quiet in the house and
with every creaky step on the stairs the woman's breathing became more and
more labored.   At last they reached the top and the woman rested hard
against the newel post, breathing heavily.  She gestured down the hall
toward a door at the end.

"The Apison memorabilia is in there."

Scully noted that the woman's color seemed normal and she probably *wasn't*
going to have a heart attack at that moment.  

"Thank you, I can just go take a look by myself.  You don't need to help
me.  I'm sorry to have made you climb all those stairs. . . .  Maybe you'd
better sit for a moment."

"I'm fine.  You just go look up your boyfriend's ancestor."  

"He's not my boyfriend!"

The old woman merely nodded and made a shooing gesture with her hand.  "In
there.  Maybe you'll find what you're looking for."

Scully escaped down the corridor and opened the door.  Reddish light
filtered through high dusty stained-glass windows, mostly covered by long
dusty red velvet drapes.  Peering through the gloom she could see antique
furniture lining one wall.  Glass-front cases lined another.  The walls
were hung with a multitude of various objects of war.  It would take a day
to go through everything in this room. The smell of old long-forgotten
things hung in the air.  

Scully examined the wall by the door for a light switch.  

She spotted one.  There.  The Twentieth Century.  Thank God.  She flicked
it on.  

Nothing.

"Damn it," said the woman from right behind her back.

Scully jumped.

"G'damn fuse must be out," the woman muttered. 

"That's okay," Scully reassured her.  "I'm fine."

The woman was already turning and making her way to the stairs.  Still
muttering--thankfully unintelligible--comments beneath her breath.  She
started slowly descending.

Scully turned toward the display in the room.  Dozens of framed photographs
hung on one wall.  Scully moved closer and peered at them through the dusty
glass.

A photo of the homestead looking new and prosperous: "The Apison Homestead
in its Prime."  "Apison -- Prior to the Great War of Northern Aggression." 
Another picture of the town taken after the devastation of the war.  Shots
of the area taken circa 1850.  She moved slowly along the wall, taking in
each picture.   

A framed map of the farm, marking clearly the other two bunkers that had
taken ten FBI agents all day to finally find.

"Damn it," she whispered.

She moved quickly through the rest of the room. Furniture from the farm. 
Muskets with vicious-looking bayonets ranging from Revolutionary to Civil
War era.  Glass bottles with metal screw caps containing the remains of
some evil-looking substance that resembled dried blood; she squinted at the
spidery handwriting on the placard: "Sauce used to make the frequently
rancid meat palatable."  

She felt a sick feeling in her stomach and touched a finger to the bottle
top.  The soft metal gave beneath her finger.  

If the lead poisoning from the caps didn't kill them first.

A tattered Confederate flag, rust-stained with real blood this time. 
Uniforms, hats, a jacket, another rifle with an attached bayonet.  Some
small items in a glass case.  She leaned closer.  

A framed picture of the battalion.  

"The 15th Tennessee Volunteers.  Company K."  

She peered closer to try to pick out . . . Sullivan.  There.  Second from
the end.  Standing staring straight at the camera.  His expression
thoughtful.  His eyes, clear, compelling.  

He was tall, lanky and yet . . .  why . . . he was just a boy.   Seventeen,
maybe eighteen--she guessed--when the photo had been taken.  Her eyes
dropped to his shoulder.  He wore no insignia, perhaps a Private?  His
shoulder was close against another's, equally as tall as himself.  This man
was dressed in a more recognizable Confederate uniform jacket and pants.

She counted the stripes on his arm.

A Sargent.

Scully felt all the hair on her scalp prickle.  She closed her eyes for a
brief moment, then looked at his face.  He was barely more than a boy
himself.  But his expression was stronger, and he stood straighter; there
was something about him that made her feel he was protective of the other
boy beside him.  She didn't have to see the hair under the cap to know it
was as red as her own.

A shiver ran down her back.

Her eyes dropped to the names beneath the photograph.  There it was:  S.
Biddle.  And the name beside it, S. Ballentine.

Scully found she was holding her breath.  She let it out with a whoosh.

"S. Ballentine," she whispered.  "S."  The words fell oddly on the dusty
stillness of the room.

Her eyes fell on a small carved box in the same display.  Knowing better,
but unable to stop herself, she opened the glass lid of the case and picked
up the box.  It felt warm in her hand, the wood smooth, a carved scene of
men and horses covering the outside.  She ran her fingers over it
reverently, the carving had been done lovingly and painstakingly a long,
long time ago.  Gingerly she opened the lid.  It's old hinges creaked.

Empty.

She let out her breath with disappointment.  A smell of mustiness and . . .
tobacco . . . reached her nose.  She closed her eyes and took another
breath, letting the smell fill her nostrils.  For just a second it evoked .
. . something.  What?  Slowly  her fingers moved of their own accord to a
carved dog at the side of the box.  They found the nose and pressed. . . .

Suddenly a drawer sprang open at the other end.  Scully started and nearly
dropped the box.

She stared into the drawer.  Folded small and pressed down into the bottom
of the drawer were thin sheets of yellowed paper.  She knew she shouldn't
touch these either, the paper was old, it should be handled with gloves, by
an expert.  

Well, maybe an expert standing here beside her holding a gun on her might
have a chance of stopping her.  But then again, maybe not.

As gently as possible she pulled the sheets from the drawer.  She set the
box back down on its velvet spot and carefully unfolded the papers.

It was a letter, the closely written handwriting was brown and had come
through from the back sides of the paper, making the old-fashioned scrawl
on the front difficult to read.  Made more difficult from something
suddenly pricking her eyes.   Scully blinked it away and moved slowly to
the soft light coming in through the dusty window.

She began to read.






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

15th Tenn. Vols. 
Comp. K. 
November 20, 1863 
Apison, Tennessee

My Dearest Sullie,

As I write this, you lay sleeping on the cot next to mine. I hope I can
find the strength--or the foolishness--to commit my thoughts to paper
before it is time for us to awaken for the Company move before dawn.   The
smell of the night is around me.  The chill.  The earth.  The camp.  The
smell of wounds.  Of unburied limbs and rotted food.  Fetid flesh.  Blood. 
 I wonder tonight at my Sanity.  At times like this I think I cannot stand
the war another moment. 

But always there is you.  I could not have gone through these last two
years if not for you.  If I tell you anything I must tell you that.  What
we have faced together will bind us always. It seems foolish that I am your
Superior.  A Sargent's rank-- bought and paid for by my father--has no
meaning to me at all.  Doubly, as I am only six months your senior and
barely twenty.  

Tonight I feel a hundred years older.  We have been friends a long time. 
Sometimes it feels like forever. Our families say we could not be closer if
we were brothers.  We have always known one another, you and I. Have we
not, dear Sullie?  I cherish the memories of our Boyhood together.  More
than you'll ever know.  Boyhood--cut short--for we are barely children now.
 Sometimes I shut my eyes and pretend there is no war.  We'd be boys still.
 Going down to the creek to swim and catch catfish and crawdads.  Caring
nothing for anything but ourselves and our bellys.  Knowing nothing of
women.   And you would never have met--

But I am wandering.  Lately it seems I am unable to collect my thoughts.  I
am nearly out of the paper my dear Mama sent.  Shouldn't I spend the last
pieces of paper on her?  No.  I shall try to concentrate.  

I take my pen in hand to write to you tonight, Beloved Friend, because in
my heart I fear that we are not meant to live long enough to be together to
complete our quest.  To see Peace restored to our fair state.  I must tell
you, and I will say it bluntly, I have had a precognition of tomorrow.  A
dream, if you will.  It almost makes me smile to think of what you will say
when you read this.  For I am not the one given to flights of Fancy or
belief in the other sciences.  That is your talent, dear Sullie.  But the
dream itself, will not make you smile, for in it I saw my own end.  And I
believe it.  I feel strongly that I will not see the dawn.  We can only
wait and see what comes to pass. But I saw myself lying still, lifeless,
and the long grass waved above me in the smoky dawn, and you wept at my
side.

But that is not all I need tell you.  I must go back to the events of
earlier this evening.  Earlier tonight, as we sat by the fire and we
talked, I admit I was barely paying you heed, as, preoccupied by my own
thoughts, I tried to think of a way to tell you of my dream.  Idly I asked
you what it felt like to love Her so.  You know of Whom I speak.  You
answered, "When I think of her, I forget the War."   But you did not look
at me. 

Your words were spoken softly and I believed the depth of your love for
her.  But then . . . you lifted your eyes to mine and I saw the truth.  The
longing I saw in your eyes,  and the sadness and the Love that shone there
was not for her but for me.  You quickly hid your gaze from mine and I
believe you felt embarrassed of what you might have revealed.

I could only sit stunned as you looked away and continued to talk of your
feelings for Her, then made your excuses and retired.  The past few hours
since you fell asleep I have thought of nothing but that look and I could
not sleep til I put this to page.  We must awaken in just three hours to
move before first light.  If my precognition is unfounded then this letter
will be safe.  I will put it in my wooden box.  The one my father gave me,
that his father carved.  Only you and they know of the secret bottom and
they are now dead.  So only you will see these lines.

If I live I truly do not know what I will do.  But if I am to die, I would
have you know that your feelings are not unreturned.  The flame that burns
in your eyes burns as brightly and deeply in my own heart.  There.  I have
said it.  The urge to reveal my love for you aloud is at once frightening
and profound.  Confusion tears at me.  Would it be so wrong to press my
lips to yours one time before we are struck from this Godforsaken Hell? I
ask myself, why did we not know on those Idyllic days when we were so
carefree?  Is it because the loving came with the war?

Perhaps, but I also believe I have loved you from childhood.  As you've
loved me.  But it was an innocent love between friends and cousins.   Does
that make it sane in a world gone mad?  What harm surely?  A kiss between
friends.  We were raised as brothers.  A kiss between brothers.  But no. 
It *is* wrong.  For I wish to kiss you not as my brother.   It is against
everything sane to love you so, but this existence is not sanity,
thus--maybe--loving you  is not wrong.

And what about Her?  Can it be you love us both?  Can you not see beyond
curls and a pretty set of ankles?  But, I know you, you are in love with
Love.  It is your Nature to look for Romance, fondly imagining it to be
something it is not.  All your talk of love for her is nothing to what
burns like a fire between the two of us.

You lie there so still on your bedroll.  Your soft breath fogging the
frigid air.  Not four feet from my hand as I crouch chilled beside this
infernal sputtering lamp.  If I reach out--so--I can touch you.  I can
brush that curl from your forehead.  Is that wrong?  Were I to place my
mouth against yours for an instant--would you wake--in horror?  I cannot
bear it if you were to remember me thus.

It is not as if I do not have the strong urges to make love to a woman.  I
do.  That does not stop me from wanting to press my arms around you and
hold you close, warming my chilled body against yours under your worn
blanket.  If the urges that make my body desire a woman were all that ruled
me I would not be the man that I am.  My feelings confuse me more with each
passing moment.  But at last, as I sit looking at your face in sleep, your
eyelashes against your cheeks. I have come to a realization. The bond of
true love is more than that of a brother or father or mother or child.  It
is them all, and it is more, it is the love for a mind.  This feeling is
for your Soul.  True Love has no thought of body, or gender.  

If I am strong, tonight I will lie in the dark of the tent beside you, and
shut my eyes without touching you.  

Beloved friend, I must end this because I am running out of paper, ink and
oil.  My careful Horde is exhausted.  And I'm frozen with the cold.  And
now, do I crawl in beside you for the two hours we have left together and
forget everything but each other? 

In the dark, there is no male--no female.  There is only you.

Damn the dawn.

Godspeed,

Samuel



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






end part one - continued in part two





******************
The Letter 
by Shalimar 
alcus@compuserve.com 
******************



From alcus@compuserve.com Wed Apr 16 12:18:51 1997
Subject: The Letter   -   2/3
From: Shalimar <alcus@compuserve.com>
--------


Archiving:   May be archived and forwarded to ATXC. 


********************************
The Letter 
by Shalimar alcus@compuserve.com 

part 2/3
********************************




Scully finished reading the cramped writing Samuel had struggled to squeeze
into every inch of the precious paper and stared unseeing at the dusty
glass of the window in front of her.

Oh, Mulder.

Slowly and carefully she refolded the letter.  She carried it back to the
box,  tucked it into the drawer and slipped it shut.  She adjusted the box
back onto its square of velvet and gently shut the lid of the case.   

Had she done it?  Had she crawled in bed with him and told him she loved
him in the  hours they'd had left?  She stared at the photo of the two
young boys, shoulder to shoulder.   Or had she let them both die, never
knowing. . . .

When had she admitted she was Samuel?  

Maybe when Mulder had said, "My Sargent is also dead.  He is Scully."  
Whether she'd wanted to or not, she'd believed him.   And she knew in her
heart that if he had spent his last few hours as Sullivan with Samuel, his
soul would have known.

She hadn't had the guts to do it.

She turned blindly at a sound at the door.  The elderly woman was back, and
behind her, filling the doorway, was Mulder.  The expression on his face
was anxious and changed instantly to concern when he saw her.  She stood
still and stared at his face, searching.

Great-Great-Granny wasn't paying any attention to her.  She was too busy
flirting with Mulder.

"It wasn't the fuse after all.  Miss Scully, if you wouldn't mind, perhaps
your gentleman friend would change that light bulb for me."

Mulder wove around the old woman without a word and gently took Scully's
elbow.  He stared down at her.

"Scully?  Are you okay?"

"I'm fi--" she started, then just shook her head and gestured to the
ceiling.  With a casual disregard for antiquities, Mulder pulled a rickety
chair from the wall and climbed up on it.  Swiftly he changed the bulb and
jumped back down, hardly taking his eyes from her.

Scully just looked up at him.  What could she say?  She had to tell
him--what could she tell him?  Should she show him the letter?  It had been
meant for him after all. . . .  She wasn't about to show it to him in front
of the old harpy.  She should have stuck it in her pocket.

Had Samuel been wrong about the look he'd seen in Sullivan's eye? After
all, in his regression session, Mulder's feelings for Melissa's circus of
characters had seemed so genuine. . . .

As the old woman prattled on, Mulder took a cursory glance around the room.
 With some sort of sixth sense his eyes immediately focused on the regiment
picture and he moved to bend over it.  Scully could tell by the slight
stiffening of his shoulders that he'd spotted Sullivan and then by his
sharp intake of breath that he'd recognized Samuel.  He turned and looked
at her.  The naked worry in his eyes must have echoed that in her own.



Scully barely noticed the chilly drizzle as they left the building.  Mulder
helped her into the passenger seat of the Explorer.  He climbed up into the
driver's side, but rather than starting the car, turned to look at her.  It
started to rain in earnest and the wet windows enclosed them.   

"Scully?"  His voice was gentle.  "What did you find in there?"

She didn't answer, she turned and stared at the droplets running down the
outside of the window.  She had a feeling if she opened her mouth she'd
burst into tears.  Reaction or something.

"Was it the picture?" he pressed gently.

She nodded, still keeping her head averted.   Hell, she was going to burst
into tears anyway.

"But that's not all of it.  What else?"

He gently touched her hand.  She swallowed hard, her eyes following one
raindrop that seemed to be moving horizontally across the glass.

"Scully."

She swallowed hard again and willed herself not to cry.

"Scully? Scully, you look like you've seen a ghost."

"I have--I think I have seen a ghost."

Mulder made a strange noise.

She turned and looked at him fully.

"It was me."

And then the floodgates opened and she burst into tears.  He looked at her
helplessly and covered her hand with his warm one while she sobbed.

"Shhh, shhh.  Scuh-lee," he whispered, his head bent close to hers.  "I'm
sorry.  This was my fault."

She turned her hand under his and linked their fingers tightly while she
cried harder.

Mulder swore under his breath and gripped her hand in return.  "Scully. 
I'm so sorry.  Shhhh."

He was silent for a while, letting her cry herself out.  Gradually her
sobbing slowed.

She lifted her chin and looked up at him.  She knew her nose and eyes must
be red, and her skin blotchy and red, too.  But his expression was so full
of concern and caring for her that she almost broke down again.  Damn,
she'd been so jealous when he'd looked at Melissa like that. She searched
his face.  Thank God, the tragic look of self-pity he'd been wearing for
the past twenty-four hours was gone.

"Stop being so damn nice to me, Mulder, and I'll stop crying."

The ghost of a smile played around Mulder's mouth.  

"Why didn't you tell me sooner what a selfish asshole I was being?"

"Mulder, you were being a total asshole."

"Thank-you."

"How are you feeling about Her, by the way, Mulder?"

Mulder raised his eyebrows.

"I. . . .  When I saw your face in there, it somehow snapped me out of it."
 He pressed a hand to his eyes.  "I feel like I've been almost in a
trance."

"You know, Mulder.  Vernon Ephision is typical of the charismatic leader
who manipulates his followers by a combination of drugs, hypnosis and
fear--and possibly a form of telepathy.  After all, he led all those people
to their deaths."

"Scully. . . .  Do you think that's what all of this was with me?"  He shut
his eyes briefly.  When he opened them, he was unable to guard their
expression.  She felt a little scared by the desperation in his eyes.  As
if he wanted deeply to believe her and not believe at the same time.  He
was unsure of himself. 

Because of Modell.  And because of Melissa.  She gave his fingers a little
squeeze.

"Some sort of hypnotic suggestion?"

Mulder nodded.

God, she wanted to say "Yes" and have it done with.  Mulder *was* highly
receptive to telepathic suggestion.  Modell's hold on him had been case in
point.  Had Ephisian manipulated his mind in the same way?  She shivered
slightly.  

"Scully?  Are you cold?  Here. . . ."  He pulled off his sweatshirt and
tucked it over her.  It felt good.  

But she couldn't lie to him.  Besides she'd found proof.

"No. . . .  I don't believe it was . . . entirely"

"No?"

"No."

Mulder didn't ask her why she'd changed her mind, he shook his head
slightly then rubbed his eyes.   "I was worried about you, Scully.  I
couldn't find you.  I needed to find you.  Before I found the car . . .  I
was afraid you'd gotten fed up and left without me."

Scully just looked at him.  As if.  Fed-up?  Maybe.  Go off and leave him? 
Never.

She reached out and took his hand again.

"I wonder if that old lady would let me copy that picture.  I think you
were taller than me, Scully."  He grinned at her.  "Scully," he mused, his
voice was gentle on her name.  His fingers just as gentle as his thumb
lightly stroked the back of her hand.   "I wonder what the S. stood for."

"Samuel."

He tilted his head and looked at her closely.  "Really?"

"Yes."

"Samuel?  Sam.  No kidding.  Come on, tell me what you found out."

"Mulder."

"Yes."

"I found a letter."

Mulder's eyes watched her closely, his concentration intense.  

"A letter?"

"Uh huh.  From Samuel to Sullivan.  'Sullie' he called him."

He smiled at that.   "Sullie. . . ." He tried the name, his voice catching
slightly.

"I know.  It gave me goose bumps.  Samuel wrote the letter to Sullivan the
night before they died at Apison.  He--Samuel--was writing to Sullie to
tell him--"   

Scully broke off, suddenly aware that Mulder was lightly stroking her hand.
 It felt good, too good.   The motion was sending little frizzles of
sensation up her arm.  She pulled back a little, he wouldn't let go.  His
fingers continued to gently rub her skin.  

"And this was in the Historical Society's papers?"

"No.  I found it in a hidden drawer in a box.  I just knew where to look. 
It was my box.  My grandfather had carved it."     

"Scully?!"   

"I meant--I meant Sam's grandfather.  Well, in the letter I wrote, I mean,
Sam wrote to you--that he--that I--" she broke off, slightly confused.

Mulder's hazel eyes were watching her intently, with just the slightest
trace of amusement.  He knew now that she believed him about the past
lives, but for the moment he was reserving comment.

"That you  . . . ?" he prompted.

"That Sam--" she finished up with a little rush, "--loved you."

Mulder just looked at her for a moment, his face wondering.

"Loved me?  You mean, like 'loved'?"   

She nodded.

"Wow," he said finally.  "They were lovers?"

"No, no, I don't think so.  I think, I--I mean I think *Sam* only realized
it that night, and then I--"  She gave up. "Then I didn't have the guts to
tell you."

"Wow," he said again.  He sat back in the driver's seat.  He sat there a
long time, one forefinger worrying his lower lip, his eyes on the rainy
windshield.  Then he shook his head and grinned at her.

"The plot thickens," he said.

Scully laughed for the first time in about a week.  His grin widened at her
response.

"Do you think it's true?  About them being--loving--each other, too . . .
?".

"If you'd read that letter, Mulder. . . ."

"Should we go back in?"

She glanced at her watch.  "No.  They're closed.  We'll get it tomorrow."

"It makes as much sense, Scully.  More."

"It struck me that way, too."

"So . . . *we* were lovers."

He gave her hand a suggestive little squeeze.

"Mulder.  I think they loved each other.  But I don't think they actually
consummated anything.  They'd gone through a lot together.  Childhood. The
war.  But they were just boys."

Mulder was quiet for a long moment.

"What made you cry?"

"I was crying because we weren't lovers.   Wait, that's not what I meant. 
It was just sad.  The letter was sad."

"So in this letter he had just found out?"

"It seemed he'd--Sam'd had a premonition he was going to die in the
morning.  And he wanted to write it down that he loved Sullie, to tell
him."

He smiled.  "A premonition?  You?"

"I knew you'd smile at that.  I was crying because they didn't know.  
Sullivan died without reading the letter.  And because they were just boys.
 And because Sam didn't have the guts to tell you how he felt.  Just like I
didn't have the guts to tell you how I felt when you did the whole past
regression session thing."

He stopped smiling and looked at her.

"How did you feel?"

"Worried.  Angry.  Scared for you."  She looked away from him for a moment
and took a deep breath.  She could see his reflection in the car window.

He kept looking at her.  As if he was really seeing her, for the first time
in awhile.

"I'm sorry."

Her lips twisted wryly.  "And maybe just a little bit betrayed."

"Betrayed?  Why?" 

Scully turned her head further toward the window.  Because I thought it was
like that between us.   She sighed.  She couldn't tell him that.

"I don't know why."    

"Do you want to know how I felt, Scully?"  He gave her hand a tug and she
turned and looked at him.

"Yes."

"I felt like I'd found the person who was supposed to be the love of my
life and I didn't even like her."

"Really?"

"It felt like an arranged marriage."

Scully looked at him sympathetically for a moment.  "Now that you mention
it, Sydney didn't seem like your type, either."

Mulder sat back in his seat and smiled hopefully at her.  "Yeah, but I bet
you picked him out for me 'cause he had a lot of money."

"Mulder!"  She punched him the arm.  "I'd *never* make you marry for
money!"

"No?"

"No.  Never.  Only for love."

Mulder looked down at the hand he still held.  Suddenly his voice changed. 
It became soft, seductive.  "So they never kissed."

"I don't know.  I don't think so."

"You're wondering, too, aren't you, Scully.  What it was like . . . 
between us."

"I don't know.  Maybe.  No."

"Yes, you are, Scully.  You remembered, you're remembering."

"No. . . ."  Her voice came out softly, too.  His eyes held hers as he
slowly raised her hand to his mouth.  Gently, he pressed his lips to her
knuckles.

For a long moment neither of them moved.  She stared mesmerized at his
mouth as he kissed her hand.  The warmth of his lips on her skin was a far
more intimate feeling than she'd ever felt from him before.  

She shut her eyes and shook her head slightly.  A voice in her head said,
You don't have the guts Dana Katherine Scully.  

At that moment the rain on the roof suddenly stopped.  She felt a
determination come over her.

"Mulder, I'm starving.  Let's go out, get a nice dinner and a bottle of
wine somewhere."     

"And relax."

"And relax."

They smiled at each other.    

"You think we can relax after this, Scully?"

"We can try."

"I saw a cute little Polish place just on the other side of--"

"Not on your life, Mulder.  Any of your lives!  I saw an Italian place--I
don't remember any Italians being involved in your--our--past.  Let's go
there."

Mulder started the car and swung out onto the road.  The sun suddenly burst
through the clouds, slanting across the main street of the small town with
the golden glow of late afternoon.  Scully looked at his profile, he was
forcing the light mood and so was she, but for right now it was what they
both needed.

"Al-dough," Mulder said in his best Godfather accent.  "Now that you
mention it.   Da name Antonio is kinda ringing a bell.   Tony?  Maria?  
Sound familiar?"

"Geez, Mulder.  Not them!  Besides, you're not the Antonio type."  

He glanced at her sideways as she stared at him speculatively through
narrowed eyes. 

"Antonia, maybe," she suggested.

"Okay, then . . . *Mario.*"  He grinned at her.  "Italian it is."  

And with a flourish he stepped on the gas.




end part two 
continued in part three








****************
The Letter 
By Shalimar 
alcus@compuserve.com 
**************** 



From alcus@compuserve.com Thu Apr 17 12:03:41 1997
Subject: The Letter --  3/3
From: Shalimar <alcus@compuserve.com>
--------

This part didn't show up so I'm reposting it.   My apologies if  it arrives
twice.   Both part 3/3 posts are exactly the same.


Archiving:   May be archived and forwarded to ATXC. 



********************************
The Letter 
By Shalimar 
alcus@compuserve.com 

Part 3/3           **NC17**


Thanks to Becky for her critical input and humorous suggestions.

 

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


It was much much later and they were back in the Explorer.  Scully was
driving.  Their headlights were the only light on the dark curving road.  A
watery new moon, high in the sky, ducked in and out of the fast-moving
clouds.  Scully eyed the sky.  Another rainstorm was threatening.

She glanced over at Mulder.  He was staring off into space looking
thoughtful and relaxed.  They'd finished off one bottle of Chianti at the
restaurant and he'd convinced her they should buy another bottle to take
back to the motel.  She was feeling rather relaxed herself.  Dinner had
been . . . well . . . delightful.  Mulder had shed his despair and worked
hard to charm her into forgetting the events of the last couple days.  

And he could be very charming when he wanted to.  

The specters from past lives had faded to the background and she was
beginning to feel safe again, wrapped closely in their private cocoon that
excluded everyone else.

She smiled to herself.  She'd missed that feeling.  Her mind touched
inadvertently on Melissa and she felt a sadness.  She'd never wished anyone
dead in her life, but relief went through her at the thought that the woman
hadn't lived.  What would she have done to Mulder if she'd lived? 
Thoroughly fucked him up, probably.

The headlights of the car flashed over a sign that read Red Bluffs National
Military Park.  She shivered.  Mulder glanced at her and reached over to
pull one of her hands off the wheel.  He let their hands rest on the
console between the seats.  They'd been doing a lot of hand-holding all
evening.  It wasn't exactly appropriate FBI behavior, but no one had known
them in the restaurant and it had felt right somehow.  She liked it.  It
had opened another line of communication and helped them reconnect.

"More ghosts?"

"No."  She gave his hand a tiny squeeze.  "It's just this whole area . . . 
there are battlegrounds everywhere.  Twenty-three thousand men died at
Shiloh, a thousand here at Red Bluff . . .  probably right where we're
driving."

"Death doesn't normally make you uncomfortable, Scully."

She spotted the main entrance to the park and made a sudden turn. 

"Why are we going in?  It'll be closed."

"I just want to take a look, Mulder.  We'll be too busy tomorrow, and it'll
probably be raining.  Look.  The gates are open."

The drove into the deserted park, weaving their way down the road for a
while and then pulled up beside a long row of silent cannons, glinting
dully in the light of the car's headlights.  

She cut the motor and all at once they were wrapped in silence and
darkness.   Through their half-open windows the warm night breeze brought
the sound of the Tennessee River, rushing past its banks several hundred
yards away.  The soft smell of dampness and leaf mould filled the car.

She turned to him.  She could just see his face in the darkness.

"Death always makes me sad, Mulder."

He looked at her for a long moment.

"I'm glad you took our minds off it tonight," she said.  "But we'll have to
talk about this."

"I know."

He turned his head and stared out his window.

"I don't feel them," he said.

"Who?"

"The ghosts of all the men who died here."

She was quiet for a moment, opening up all her senses to the night. 

"I can feel them a little.  I think."

He peered closely at her in the darkness.  "Oh, excuse me, Miss, I must
have gotten into the wrong car at that restaurant.  You'd better take me
back.  My partner must be wondering what the hell happened to me."

She smiled.  "If it would make you feel better, I could rationalize the
feeling as too much wine and garlic shrimp and a warm breeze."

"No.  I'd rather think you feel them."

"Why?"

When he spoke, his voice was low and she had to strain to catch it, but
what he said made her smile.  "Because I like to think that once in a blue
moon, you feel the same kind of inexplicable things that I do."  His lips
curved in a wry little smile as he turned and looked out the window again. 
His hand tightened on hers gently.  

Scully looked at his averted profile.  Lonely.  She realized in surprise. 
Mulder was lonely.  He was a genius, with a sixth sense--and maybe a
seventh--and a biting sense of humor, but he didn't have very many friends.
  It took awhile to get used to him.  To really get to know him and like
him.  Would she have made the effort if she hadn't been forced to?  

He probably wouldn't have let her, she realized sadly.

That's why he'd been so desperately willing to buy Melissa's story that she
was his 'soul mate'.  He wanted to believe he had a connection with
someone.   A real unbreakable connection.   She felt a sudden overwhelming
sadness he hadn't felt he'd had that kind of connection with her.  

Maybe the past was written, but this lifetime wasn't.  And in this battle,
there was no reason why she shouldn't win.

"Speaking of wine,"  he turned to her and pulled the bottle from the floor,
"too bad we didn't buy the screw-top kind."

"There's a Swiss Army knife in the glove compartment."

He looked at her closely again.  "Oh, it *is* you, Scully."

Reluctantly, he let her hand go and opened the glove compartment.

Suddenly she remembered what else was in the glove compartment.

"Mulder, I'll get it--"

"Here it is--  What?"

She sat back and smiled.  "Nothing."  She watched him.   She always  liked
to watch him when his attention was on something else.  She settled back in
her seat and buried her nose in his sweatshirt, she was still wearing it,
she'd been stealing little sniffs of it all evening.   It smelled like him.


He gave a neat twist with the corkscrew and pulled out the cork  with a
pop.  "Unless you've got cups in your purse, I guess we're  going to be
drinking this out of the bottle."

"It won't be the first time."  She took the bottle and took a sip.  She'd
better not drink much more.  She wouldn't be able to drive.

"I'll drive," he said.

"You're psychic, Mulder."

"I know."

"What else am I thinking?"  Wolves, she thought.  Wolves.

"It's probably illegal to have an open container of alcohol in a car in
Tennessee."

Phew.

"Wrong.  Though you're probably right."  

"What were you thinking, Scully?"

"Never mind." 

"We'll just flash our badges and tell them we're on a stake-out."

"Staking-out what?  Ghosts?"

"Well we are, aren't we?"

"I guess.   Mulder--" she began.

"I know.  We need to talk."

She sighed.

"Scully, I don't want to talk about. . . .   What about Sullivan and
Samuel?  What else did he say in the letter?"

"That it was cold and horrible.  That he felt a little crazy."

"Crazy?"

"I think they all must have been a little bit crazy.  So far from home and
loved ones.  Starving . . . so lonely."

She peered at him in the dark.

"At least they had each other," he said.

"I think that was what kept them alive as long as it did."

"I think that's what's kept me alive as long as this,"  he said slowly.

"Mulder. . . ."

"It's true, Scully.  I wouldn't be alive and you know it.  Maybe that's the
real function of the bond between our souls in--" His tone turned wry.
"--the 'Great Circle of Rebirth'."

He fell silent.

The breeze had risen slightly and she could smell the approaching storm, it
was nearly upon them.  A sudden gust blew a handful of dead leaves with a
splat against the windshield.  The leaves hung there suspended against the
glass for a moment then blew away.   The air in the inside of the car
changed, a faint hint of electricity stirred the air and made the pores all
over her body prickle.

"But I couldn't save your life that dawn at Apison."

"And you didn't even kiss me good-bye. . . . " he mused.

Scully caught her breath.

"Mulder.  I--"

"If you knew we were both going to die before dawn tomorrow would you kiss
me good-bye?"

His eyes were dark, absolutely unreadable in this light.  She didn't
answer.

"Scully?"

"Mulder," she could barely raise her voice above a whisper.  "Are you
talking about them or us?"

He looked at her for another long moment.

"Who do you think?"

"I don't know."

"Should they have, Scully?"

"Kissed?"

"Kissed."  His voice changed, becoming very gentle.  "Made love."

It took her a moment to answer.

"Yes," she said softly

"Scully?"

"Mmm?"

"Maybe we should give them their kiss."

"Mul-der. . . . "

"You know, let them have one last chance."

She stared at his face.   He sat slouched back against the door, seemingly
relaxed, but his whole body was watchful.  His knees  stretched toward her.
 She suddenly knew if it wasn't for the console between the seats, their
knees would be touching.  

"You mean pretend to be them?"

"Pretend?"  He shrugged.  "We are them."

Her gaze dropped to his mouth.  Just visible in the thin light.  As she
watched he bit his lower lip gently, then released it.  

"Okay," she said, half teasingly, half meaning it.

Mulder seemed startled.  "Okay?"

"Sure.  We can handle it, right?  A kiss between friends." 

**A kiss between friends.**  

Sam's words echoed in her head.  What had he said next?

Mulder sat up, but she could see him hesitating.  He'd obviously just been
teasing her, too, never expected her to go along.  

She undid her seatbelt.  Leaning across the arm rest, she reached for  his
shoulders.  "Come here," she said softly, and pulled him.  Slowly, almost
reluctantly he leaned toward her. 

She stopped when his face was close to her own.  His warm breath played
across her mouth.  He smelled of coffee, and of wine.  His eyes regarded
her steadily.  They were so dark.  She wished she could see them more
clearly.  

She waited.  His face was no closer than it had been to her own  any number
of times.  His disregard for her personal space had  unnerved her at first,
now she liked it.  But at the moment he seemed unwilling to come any
closer.  Maybe four inches was his minimum boundary.  Hers was more like
four feet.  Except with him.

His gaze dropped to her mouth then rose to her eyes again.  He swallowed
hard.

She hesitated for just a second.  Guts, she reminded herself.

"I love you, Sullivan," she whispered and smiled at how good it had felt to
say it.

Mulder caught his breath, and then his hands went up to cup her face.  He
leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers.  His nose touched hers.

"I love you, too," he whispered back.  She could tell from his voice he was
smiling, too.

Scully felt tears fill the back of her throat.   Those words--in Mulder's
warm voice--completely unsettled her.

She swayed forward and touched her lips to his.   His were warm and soft,
and gave slightly under her own.  Then he tilted his head a little to the
side and pressed his mouth back against hers with a small sigh.  

Mulder's mouth was incredibly gentle on hers.  He moved his lips lightly,
trailing across her mouth, and then she could feel him withdrawing, pulling
back.  He was going to stop at a chaste little kiss.     

**A kiss between brothers, but no, for I wish to kiss you not as a
brother.**  

No.  

She took hold of his shoulders more firmly and tugged him to her, her lips
moving persuasively against his mouth.

Mulder went still for a second.  He pulled back slightly, then he murmured
something against her mouth and wrapped his arms around her.  He gathered
her to him, hauling her across the center console and into his lap.   She
dropped her head back and her mouth opened to welcome him as his tongue
nudged its way inside, caressing her lips, slipping along her teeth and the
sides of her cheeks.  She dipped her own tongue into his mouth and met his
with her own, tasting it and stroking it. 

He tasted like dinner, and the wine, and another raw exciting taste that
she'd never dreamed he'd taste like, but that spoke to her and made her
groan low in her throat and press her whole body against him.

She slid her fingers into his hair and dragged his head closer.  Mulder,
Mulder, she thought as her mouth moved deeply with his.  She snuggled more
closely against him.  Desire stirred inside her and began to slide though
her veins like warm honey.

You're supposed to be thinking Sullivan, Sullivan, she reminded herself. 
Oh, right.  Samuel.  Before I forget.  This is for you.  She slid one hand
out of his hair and caught his hand, linking their fingers.  She let all
the pent up feelings of anxiousness and grief that had been welling in her
chest--all day since she'd read the letter--and the past forty-eight hours
since she'd heard about Sarah--be crowded out of her head by the feelings
of warmth and love that she felt threaten to overwhelm her.  She thought of
cold, confused Samuel crouched beside the one person he loved most in the
world in the chill of the Tennessee night and empathized with his
indecision.  She thought of Sullivan in his bed unaware that he was the
object of his best friend's love and desire.   And she tried to show him
all the warmth and love flowing from her for him through their tangled
mouths and linked hands.

Then, she felt Samuel slipping away, and it was her kissing Mulder. 
Kissing away his loneliness and kissing away her own.  Opening up her heart
to him.   A soulmate.  She'd always been searching for one, too.  She'd
just been looking in the wrong place, for a father figure rather than a
lover.  A lover.  She smiled against his mouth.  

Her lover. 

Mulder smiled back against her and cupping her neck with one warm hand,
gentle beneath her nape, and they kissed unhurriedly and thoroughly.

Finally he pulled away, looking down at her.

They were both breathless.  They just sat breathing hard and searching each
other's faces. One of his hands was traveling over her body.  He touched
her face, her hair, her shoulders and back.  His hand barely skimmed the
sides of her breasts and she felt them swell with desire.  She was dying
for him to touch them.  He was very aroused, she could feel the evidence
pressing against her bottom.  

She let her head fall against his shoulder.  He wrapped his arms around her
and tugged her close.  She could feel his heart through the thin cotton of
his shirt.  It was pounding hard.  

His voice was tender when he spoke "I haven't held and kissed someone like
that for a very long time."  

"You haven't?"

He let out a little breath with a soft whoosh, stirring the hair near her
ear.  "No, usually kissing is just a means to an end."

"Oh?" She shifted her bottom against his erection.

"Scully.  Sit still."

"Okay."   Carefully she adjusted her seat on his lap again.

"Scully!  Stop it.  What about you?"

"Do *I* use kissing?  I thought this was just giving Samuel and Sullivan
their kiss."

"Was it?"  His voice was suddenly carefully empty of the tenderness of a
moment ago.  

The warm humid wind was rising before the oncoming rain, tossing the limbs
of the trees lining the row of canons.  It rifled Mulder's hair.  She
reached up and gently stroked the hair back from his temple.  It was damp. 


Samuel and Sullivan were long gone.  Mulder was here and he needed her. 
And she needed him.

"It was me.  Samuel was there, but he was satisfied with what he got and he
left after a little while."  Her hand traced down the side of his cheek.
"Mul-der," she let her fingers rest on his bottom lip.  He drew one finger
into his mouth and sucked on it lightly.  "Was it you or Sullivan?"

"Yes."  He smiled down at her suddenly.

"Just stop talking and kiss me." She reached up and touched her lips to his
again.

This time the kiss was different.   It was hotter.   She was hotter.  She
pressed her swelling breasts against him and he groaned.  His hands flew to
them immediately, kneading them lightly through the material of the
sweatshirt.

His thumbs teased her nipples.  She cried out softly into his mouth and his
tongue thrust out to meet hers.   His hands dropped to her waist and found
her skin.  They slid up under her shirt and found her nipples again.   Now,
just the lace of her bra was covering them.  She drew in her breath and
pressed herself more closely against him.   

He kissed her as if he was starving for her.  And she kissed him back the
same way.  She couldn't get enough of him.  Their mouths were open,  their
tongues mating, her lips caressed his over and over with their own words of
love.   

She slid her hands to the neck of his shirt and began unbuttoning it
quickly, raining kisses on his neck, down his chest.   Scully managed to
get his shirt completely unbuttoned and pushed it back off his shoulders,
then pressed her lips against his chest, licking the salty moisture from
his skin.  Mulder slid his hands down her sides and grabbed the bottom of
the sweatshirt.  He yanked it up and over her head, taking her t-shirt with
it.

She moved around to kneel above him  His mouth went to her breasts, teasing
them through the white lace of her bra. He eased the lace down so first
one, then the other breast sprung free, supported by the underwire of the
bra.  He latched on to one nipple and began sucking.  

Scully buried her hands in his hair and held him to her breast.  He suckled
greedily at first one breast then the other.

She felt the warm gush of moisture between her legs and suddenly could only
think about getting his jeans off.  She slipped her hands down and undid
the top button.  

He raised his head back to her mouth and began kissing her again, still
desperately, as if he still couldn't get enough.  She couldn't get enough
of him either.

His hands went to the waistband of her jeans.  He undid the top and tugged
at the zipper.  He got it undone and began to push her jeans down over her
hips.  There was a brief tangle of arms and legs and knees and dashboard,
then suddenly her jeans and panties were down around her ankles, held on
only by her boots.   

There was no way she was going to stop to take off her boots, she thought
as she pulled at his zipper.  Finally it gave and she revealed the hard
ridge of his erection straining against his boxers.

It was the work of a moment to release him, and it leaped free.  Straining
toward her in the dim light.  Scully bent down and kissed the tip.

"Scuh-leee," Mulder breathed and pulled her up to kiss her mouth again. 
She slid further forward on his lap, til her curls were brushing his penis
and the tip was pressed hard against the moist warmth of her opening.  

"Oh, Scully," he murmured between kissing her eyes, her cheeks.  "Oh,
Scully. . . ."

"Mulder, wait, just. . . . we need a--""

"A condom."   His voice was breathless.  "Yeah.  I don't have one."

He pulled his mouth away from where he was kissing her eyebrow and ran his
tongue down the line of her cheek.  "I'm HIV negative, Scully."  

"Me, too.  Ohhhh."

The tip of his penis had slipped just inside her.  All she wanted to do was
to slide down on his straining erection and ram it home inside her.  To
hell with the rubber.  She tried to rock her hips forward, but she was
stuck.  

"I've got to take off my boots Mulder, I feel like my ankles are tied up. 
Look in the glove compartment."

She struggled off him, giving a little gasp as he popped out of her.  She
reached around and tore at her boot laces.  What must have been a seat belt
was digging into her hip.  Finally in the light from the glove compartment
she managed to undo one boot and pull it free.  She yanked off that leg of
her jeans and stretched her leg thankfully.  Her knees were going to be
killing her tomorrow.   

"Found one."  The crackle of the wrapper.  His voice changed. 
"Mint-scented?  Scully, what are we doing with mint-scented condoms in our
glove compartment?"

"Mint-flavored."  She reached out and took it from him, slipping it over
his penis and stroking it down its length.  It only reached about half-way.
 "I guess I should have bought extra large," she said against his mouth,
and reached beneath him into his jeans to cup his balls.  They were warm
and furry in her hand, she juggled them slightly and Mulder groaned.

"Scully. Stop or I'm going to--uhhh."  He groaned again.

She climbed back on his lap and kneeled over him.   His hands went behind
her to undo the clasp of her bra.  It disappeared as his hands ran over
her, stroking her breasts and rubbing them, then cupping her bottom and
pulling her against him.  He paused for a split second and she looked up to
meet his eyes.  His eyes held hers as she pushed down onto him, and he
thrust up into her, filling her.   She rocked her hips, then settled
against him, taking him deeper.  

Now that their bodies were linked they were not quite as frantic as they'd
been a moment ago.  She braced her hands on his shoulders and he lifted his
hips to meet hers as they explored each other's rhythm. 

Their faces were just inches apart.  He never took his eyes from hers. 

A streak of lighting lit the sky.  For a split second she saw his
expression.  It was sweetly tender, and slightly dazed.

"One-one-thousand," she counted and eased down to meet his thrust.   
"Two-one-thousand."  She pushed against him again, a little harder.

"Three-one-thousand."   Thunder crashed down around them as she plunged
against him taking him inside her completely. 

"Three miles away," she whispered against his lips, then captured  his
mouth again.   

"Scully," he whispered roughly in rhythm to their movements. "Scuh-lee. 
Scuh-lee."   Another flash of light lit the night.  

"One," he whispered and pushed into her.

"Two."  He pushed again.  He braced his legs against the floor in front of
him and her knees rose off the seat as he pushed up hard into her.  

Crash, the thunder shook the car. 

"Two miles.  The storm's almost here."  She gasped against his mouth.   The
sprinkling rain changed to a sudden downpour, showering both of them
through the open window.   

He grasped her buttocks and lifted her then settled her back down on his
hard length with a groan.  She moved her hips more quickly against his.  
They both started pushing faster and at last she was riding him hard.  

Suddenly lightening flashed through the sky and struck nearby with an
almost instantaneous crash.  All at once she clenched her muscles on him
and came with a little scream.  With a final shuddering thrust, Mulder
groaned against her hair and came, too.  They clutched each other as the
smell of ozone and burning wood filled the air.

"What the hell?"

"Oh, my God!"

"Are you all right?"

"I'm okay, are you?"

Mulder pulled her close against his chest.  His open lips pressed  against
her forehead as he caught his breath.

She opened her mouth against his chest and breathed him in.  His warm smell
was mixed with the fresh scent of the storm.  She could hear his heart
beating rapidly under her ear as his chest rose and fell with each breath. 
It drummed in unison with the drops on the roof. 

Suddenly she realized the windows were still open.  The cool rain felt good
on her flushed skin.

Oh God.  

She'd seduced him.

She hadn't known she'd meant to do it, but on the other hand, of course
she'd meant to.

She wondered what on earth he was thinking.

"Mulder?"

"Mmmmm.

"If the ranger comes by right now we're going to have a hard time thinking
up a story."  

"Mmmmm."

"Maybe we should go back to the motel."

"In a second.  I can't move."

Some of her hair was sticking to his lips.  He turned his head to free
them, then nestled his mouth against her ear.

"Scuh-lee?" he whispered softly into her ear.

"Mmmmm?"

"Are you really okay?"

"Mmm-hmm.  Though I feel like a teenager . . . making-out in a car.  But
instead of some dumb guy from highschool--it's you."

"I know.  It's you, too."  He lifted a hand and traced the line of her
cheek with one finger.  "Scuh-leee."  

She shut her eyes for an instant.  When he said her name with that little
soft sound in his voice it made her want to cry and it set her blood on
fire both at the same time.

"Are you okay, Mulder?"

He was quiet.  She felt a streak of panic strike through her.

"Mulder, it's perfectly normal.  Making love is a psychosomatic release and
a normal response to the overload of emotional turmoil you--we've
both--gone through in the last few days.  The act of physical connection
with another human being, no matter how tenuous or inappropriate--is
something--"

Mulder cut her off with a large, warm hand clamped over her mouth.

"Shhhh."

"Mul--"

"Shhhh, Scully.  You can rationalize and tell me that what just happened
between us was a normal response and I'll agree with you.  But I'll tell
you I can't remember the last time I did anything that feels so
appropriate."  

He brushed her lips with his thumb as he removed the hand from her mouth. 
She stared up at him silently, relaxing as his words sunk in.  "And as for
tenuous?" he continued.  He leaned down and kissed her mouth softly.  "I
can't think of anyone that I'm connected to any more strongly."



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


Scully watched him as he read the letter.  His face washed an eerie red by
the stained glass window.

His expression was sad, but at the same time . . . excited.

"But Scully," he said suddenly.  "I thought you said they didn't kiss."

"What!?"

He pointed at the bottom of the letter.

She moved close to him and looked down where he pointed.  She read for a
moment then gasped.  "It didn't end like that yesterday, I swear, Mulder,"
she reread the lines rapidly, "I'm telling you the truth.  The paper. . .
."   

Mulder looked down at her, then his eyes dropped to her mouth and he leaned
forward and pressed a warm kiss on her lips.

"I believe you, Scully."

Scully looked down again at the final paragraphs of Samuel's letter. 

The ink and paper as old and brown as it was yesterday: 



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

There I have done it.  The shame is gone.  I feel exultant.  And it was not
wrong as I had feared.  It was right.   Your eyes did not open, but your
mouth moved.  I swear.  And now as I watch, your mouth moves upward in the
barest grin.  We are best friends!  We are lovers!  

And now, I will blow out my lamp and crawl in beside you.

For with my kiss you are mine forever.  

As I am yours,
Sam

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





The end. 






Thanks for reading, 
Shalimar

alcus@compuserve.com