Dear Mr. Carter,
If I am honest, it's really been over for quite a time; dead in the water, practically, but before now I've not had the courage to admit it to myself, let alone anyone else – even Scully. Especially Scully, the one person in my life I have tried my damnedest not to hurt. It is not easy, even now, to admit that our relationship has run its course.
I am unsure when the cracks in our relationship with you grew too large to paper over with facile assurances that it was 'only a minor setback', that it 'was fixable'. Back then, I cared enough – we cared enough – to actually work through the bad times with you, mainly because – then – I actually believed that there was actually a viable relationship there to be salvaged.
It may come as a surprise but we, too, have limits beyond which we will not be drawn, a line that we will not cross. I know that that may be hard for you to believe. Until recently, I hadn't thought about what I would do if you crossed them. I will admit freely that this is because – until recently – I had never dreamed I'd need to.
The roots of it began very early on, even as early as the first year of our association, and it continued as our collaboration lengthened. For someone who professes to know us so well, sometimes I don't believe you know us at all. Some of the situations you placed us in – for example, in our fourth year with that ridiculous 'talking' tattoo – were so out of character it beggared belief.
Then, in our sixth and seventh years, it became patently obvious to everyone – including us, but it would seem excluding you – that the rot had really started to set in. By the end of our seventh year practically everything had been sewn up – explained, even if we sometimes considered the explanations a little too facile – and we were beginning to hope that our relationship would be permitted to die a natural death, the death we expected from someone who purported to be serious about our relationship.
How wrong could we be? For months, we were left up in the air about whether or not our relationship had been brought to its natural conclusion. I don't know your reasoning behind it (Scully and Skinner believe it to be sheer bloody-mindedness, the Gunmen were convinced that it was nothing more than filthy lucre), but for some reason you've decided that you wish to continue our alliance for yet another year.
We can only hope, Scully and I, that you will not prolong this artificial relationship any further. We are tired. We have resolved everything we set out to resolve, and achieved at least a veneer of closure.
Please, Mr. Carter. Let us have the luxury of a normal life – we have already given you seven years of ours. You can, after all, have rather too much of a good thing.
Regards,
Fox Mulder.
If I am honest, it's really been over for quite a time; dead in the water, practically, but before now I've not had the courage to admit it to myself, let alone anyone else – even Scully. Especially Scully, the one person in my life I have tried my damnedest not to hurt. It is not easy, even now, to admit that our relationship has run its course.
I am unsure when the cracks in our relationship with you grew too large to paper over with facile assurances that it was 'only a minor setback', that it 'was fixable'. Back then, I cared enough – we cared enough – to actually work through the bad times with you, mainly because – then – I actually believed that there was actually a viable relationship there to be salvaged.
It may come as a surprise but we, too, have limits beyond which we will not be drawn, a line that we will not cross. I know that that may be hard for you to believe. Until recently, I hadn't thought about what I would do if you crossed them. I will admit freely that this is because – until recently – I had never dreamed I'd need to.
The roots of it began very early on, even as early as the first year of our association, and it continued as our collaboration lengthened. For someone who professes to know us so well, sometimes I don't believe you know us at all. Some of the situations you placed us in – for example, in our fourth year with that ridiculous 'talking' tattoo – were so out of character it beggared belief.
Then, in our sixth and seventh years, it became patently obvious to everyone – including us, but it would seem excluding you – that the rot had really started to set in. By the end of our seventh year practically everything had been sewn up – explained, even if we sometimes considered the explanations a little too facile – and we were beginning to hope that our relationship would be permitted to die a natural death, the death we expected from someone who purported to be serious about our relationship.
How wrong could we be? For months, we were left up in the air about whether or not our relationship had been brought to its natural conclusion. I don't know your reasoning behind it (Scully and Skinner believe it to be sheer bloody-mindedness, the Gunmen were convinced that it was nothing more than filthy lucre), but for some reason you've decided that you wish to continue our alliance for yet another year.
We can only hope, Scully and I, that you will not prolong this artificial relationship any further. We are tired. We have resolved everything we set out to resolve, and achieved at least a veneer of closure.
Please, Mr. Carter. Let us have the luxury of a normal life – we have already given you seven years of ours. You can, after all, have rather too much of a good thing.
Regards,
Fox Mulder.