====
Before Me
====
By Hardra6
Copyright notice: I owned Mulder and Scully from 1984 to 1986. CC bought them from me for 50 cents at
a yard sale. I didn't mean to put them in the box, but my mom just didn't understand. (I swear to God!!!)
Spoilers: Requiem
Key words: MSR, MA, Mulder/other, babyfic (kinda)
Note: This can go along with my other Requiem piece, "No Room for Tears", but you could probably
manage w/o it.
Summary: .....My life ended one cold night in Oregon, Scully; my last thoughts were of you.
**************
"Before Me"
11/4/00
By Hardra6 (hardra6@yahoo.com)
**************
"Goodnight, sweetheart. Sweet dreams."
I shut the book with a smile and stroked her cheek. She smiled calmly back at me from the ocean of
blankets, her dark hair splayed on the pillows surrounding her small form. She's almost six. I remember
when I was six, and my mom and dad would take turns reading me various books.
She's not my daughter.
Sometimes I wish I had a daughter. Or a son. Someone I could play with, hug close......Sammy is close to
an actual daughter. She's already telling me her "deepest darkest" secrets, i.e. she prefers listening to my
voice reading her stories than her dad. Which I find cute, and understandable. He has the sweetest of hearts
but women usually win for nicest voice.
Sometimes I wish she *really* was my daughter. Legally, anyway.
*He's* a good twelve years older than I am, but I try not to look at that. I love him. I love him a lot. I would
like him to pop the question sometime before the sun explodes or the solar system is sucked into a black
hole. I get the feeling he's kind of scared. Which I understand. Guys are typically scared of that kind of
thing, right?
I padded over to the door and flipped the light off. She's a brave girl. She's not afraid of monsters, or the
dark, or other things that six year olds tend to be afraid of. She's also the most kind, considerate child of
half a dozen years that I've ever come across. ("Thank you, Kelly." "Thank you, Daddy." "Thank you,
ma'am.") I've watched the duo in action before; not only is she a magnificent child, but he is a magnificent
father. Whenever she does something the least bit selfish, he calmly and correctively asks her to tell him
what this other person must be feeling; even when it's himself that has been put down by the six year old.
She will abashedly admit her wrongdoings and look down at her pink tennis shoes, mumbling her sorry to
the offended one or ones.
I love him.
I love him!
That, in fact, was what I had planned to do this evening; nine o'clock sharp, cuddle on the couch, drink
wine and exchange Eskimo kisses. I peeked into his living room, to be sure everything was set up straight;
believe me, it was. He was reclined on the sofa, eyes half-open and hardly concentrating on the college
basketball game that happened to be showing on the tv. In a few minutes, I could have him concentrating
on something *else*...
I started towards the living room but remembered the "Sounds of Wood and Steel" CD that I'd just bought,
the perfect background noise for our snuggling. Annoyed, I hurried down the hallway past his daughter's
room again and tiptoed into his office, messy as usual, and scratched around on his desk for the unwrapped
CD.
I found it, but accidentally I knocked some papers off of the top as I did so. Grumbling again, I got down
on hands and knees and picked them all up one by one.
.....Love for you has.....
I saw the word love flash by and I stopped moving papers, started reading them. The first few papers were
reports for his boss or something, so I put them back on his desk. The next paper, I found, was a small font
with no letter head, address, addressee, and hardly a signature. I put the other papers away and leaned
against the desk absently. "Love"?
S,
For such a long time I've given myself for you. I have lived for you, for her, for hope. But now, I finally
realize that there is no hope for you. You are gone. You will always be gone, no matter how hard I look.
As I told Frohike a few days ago, "I don't want to move on. But I have to."
I stopped reading, looking up around the office. Who was this addressed to? S? What was that? It couldn't
be me; my initials were KAB. As far as I knew, none of his friends had S as an initial.
I re-read the first few sentences; Had. Gone. Will be gone.
God, this was addressed to....
To......!
I lightly pressed the letter to my front, looking around suspiciously. I wasn't supposed to be reading this.
God, it was his most personal thing. Could be, anyway. My guess.
He never told me what became of his daughter's mother.
Had. Gone. Will be gone. No hope.
Oh God. I snapped my eyes down to the paper again. I shouldn't read this, but it's like I have to.
By why did I have to? God, this is for Her eyes. Whoever She is. Not me. God, not me. But I read on:
.....You have to understand....I think you do, but I want to write it. I want you to trust my word.
Samantha needs a mother. She needs a mother like I need you. But she cannot have you; neither can I; so
there has to be someone else.
How can I say this?? After all I have done.....after everything you have done for me, after everything I have
done to you......
My life ended one cold night in Oregon, Scully; my last thoughts were of you.
I felt tears coming. Why?? Why was I reading this?? This was a worn lover's bare heartfelt feelngs towards
another. And although I admit that I felt slightly pretentious--my man was writing such of another woman;
begin to growl and bare teeth--my heart was another place and time.
I'm not stupid. I know about love. I know what it's like to end a relationship you don't really want to end. I
know what it's like to find the perfect *other* person. Then look back at the first one. I've done it several
times.
He still loves his child's mother.
Wherever, whoever she is.
.....Please let me let you go......I still do not want to let go; but there has to be someone. She can not grow
without a mother. Please understand. There has to be someone. Someone.
You will always be in my heart. You will always live inside of Her. My love for you has never grown
weaker; not even now, not tomorrow, not years from now, not when they lay me in the ground; Scully; not
on my wedding day. Not even on my wedding day.
I do it for her.
I do it for myself.
I do it for you, as well.
I do it for Kelly.
I took a sharp breath at the mention of my name. Wondering if I had any right at all in the world to read
further, and wondering if I could get away with reading it, I checked to make sure I was alone again.
.....You would like Kelly. I think I did a good job. Or maybe it was you, somewhere; or maybe it was
just fate. Or something. But you would like her. She would make a good mother...if she takes me. Of
course I would take you. She loves Sam. And I am no longer afraid to say that *I* love *her*.
I don't tell lies to you, Scully. All right, maybe I did, once or twice. But only when I thought it was best for
you. Only when it was your life I was keeping safe. I will not lie any more. Never again. I love Kelly. That
is no lie. But I do not love her the same way. Please understand.
You are my anchor.
You keep me honest.
You complete me.
Kelly loves me, I think. She loves me as I love her. I know she can and will love Samantha as her own
daughter. She will be my wife....if she takes me. I will love her as my wife. I will love her, and protect her,
in sickness and in health till death do us part, to God I will keep her.
But be there for me when it's over.
Be there for me, remind me I have two things to live for. That I have two beautiful women to live for, to
care for and protect. That will be my life, Dana Scully, and that will be my driving force.
You will not leave me. You have not. I do not need this golden cross to keep you with me. You live in me,
not this inanimate piece of metal. Know this.
Goodbye for now. I have to go and live. I have to care for Her, care for Kelly. Stay with me, all right?
You used to pick me up when I fell over, then dust me off and give me a good shove. You can still do that.
You are no longer limited.
So now I will live, and I will go on, and I will remember you.
But when it's over, be waiting for me.
M.
That was all. No post scripts, no address, no Love or Sincerely or Yours Always. Just an M. M, for Mulder.
Fox Mulder.
"Why did you read that, Kelly?"
As jumpy as I was, I was not startled to hear his voice from the doorway. I was no longer looking at the
paper, but some undefined spot on the floor of his office. My cheeks were drenched in tears, and I felt frail
and light, as if blown around by the wind.
I didn't bother to apologize. That would just start a fight.
"She died," I said blankly.
"Yes, she did." His tone matched mine.
"Fox, I'm sorry," I finally said, not sure whether I was apologizing for reading the letter, or acknowledging
his loss. I did not look at him. Somehow, I felt afraid. I had just intruded in a space way past my
boundaries.
I felt his hands on my shoulders and a second later I was sitting Indian-style on the thick carpet floor. He
sat down next to me, held my hand casually; I tried not to tremble.
"I'm not ready to talk about this, Kelly, I'm really not."
"I understand." I whispered to him. I did.
There was a long, comfortable silence. I wished we were sitting on the couch. I wished I'd never read the
letter.
"Will you marry me, Kelly?" did I detect a single strain of uneasiness in his tone?
"Yes, I will," I said in a whisper. "I love you."
I felt him sigh, rather than heard it, and he wrapped one arm around my shoulders. Settled, he probably did
not find that enough, so he took his other arm and wound it around my waist. I nestled my head under his
chin; he nestled his into my messy blonde mop-on-top.
Then we both sighed; I don't know with what. I knew that the next morning, he would wrap the letter into
an envelope, and he would place it who knows where, where I would never see it again, where maybe even
he would never see it again.
Maybe Samantha would one day read it. When she could understand.
I melted into him and one tear more ran down my face, dispersing as it hit his grey tee shirt.
I knew why he wrote the letter. His plans for tonight were the same as mine, only with bigger proportions. I
should have waited. I just should have waited. He is brave. Very brave. He would have asked me as we
snuggled on the couch drinking wine. It would have been perfect. But no, instead it was here.
He wrote the letter to his dead soul mate, simply to ask permission to take my hand.
It was a complete feeling.
"Thank you," he whispered.
~*The End*~
11/4/00
Note: A mop-on-top is a high bun, usually messily and quickly created, which, after a while, begins to
become more of a sloppy *ponytail* than sloppy *bun*. Just in case you were wondering. Oh yeah, and it
doesn't work on curly frizzy hair, (*damn it.*)
Before Me
====
By Hardra6
Copyright notice: I owned Mulder and Scully from 1984 to 1986. CC bought them from me for 50 cents at
a yard sale. I didn't mean to put them in the box, but my mom just didn't understand. (I swear to God!!!)
Spoilers: Requiem
Key words: MSR, MA, Mulder/other, babyfic (kinda)
Note: This can go along with my other Requiem piece, "No Room for Tears", but you could probably
manage w/o it.
Summary: .....My life ended one cold night in Oregon, Scully; my last thoughts were of you.
**************
"Before Me"
11/4/00
By Hardra6 (hardra6@yahoo.com)
**************
"Goodnight, sweetheart. Sweet dreams."
I shut the book with a smile and stroked her cheek. She smiled calmly back at me from the ocean of
blankets, her dark hair splayed on the pillows surrounding her small form. She's almost six. I remember
when I was six, and my mom and dad would take turns reading me various books.
She's not my daughter.
Sometimes I wish I had a daughter. Or a son. Someone I could play with, hug close......Sammy is close to
an actual daughter. She's already telling me her "deepest darkest" secrets, i.e. she prefers listening to my
voice reading her stories than her dad. Which I find cute, and understandable. He has the sweetest of hearts
but women usually win for nicest voice.
Sometimes I wish she *really* was my daughter. Legally, anyway.
*He's* a good twelve years older than I am, but I try not to look at that. I love him. I love him a lot. I would
like him to pop the question sometime before the sun explodes or the solar system is sucked into a black
hole. I get the feeling he's kind of scared. Which I understand. Guys are typically scared of that kind of
thing, right?
I padded over to the door and flipped the light off. She's a brave girl. She's not afraid of monsters, or the
dark, or other things that six year olds tend to be afraid of. She's also the most kind, considerate child of
half a dozen years that I've ever come across. ("Thank you, Kelly." "Thank you, Daddy." "Thank you,
ma'am.") I've watched the duo in action before; not only is she a magnificent child, but he is a magnificent
father. Whenever she does something the least bit selfish, he calmly and correctively asks her to tell him
what this other person must be feeling; even when it's himself that has been put down by the six year old.
She will abashedly admit her wrongdoings and look down at her pink tennis shoes, mumbling her sorry to
the offended one or ones.
I love him.
I love him!
That, in fact, was what I had planned to do this evening; nine o'clock sharp, cuddle on the couch, drink
wine and exchange Eskimo kisses. I peeked into his living room, to be sure everything was set up straight;
believe me, it was. He was reclined on the sofa, eyes half-open and hardly concentrating on the college
basketball game that happened to be showing on the tv. In a few minutes, I could have him concentrating
on something *else*...
I started towards the living room but remembered the "Sounds of Wood and Steel" CD that I'd just bought,
the perfect background noise for our snuggling. Annoyed, I hurried down the hallway past his daughter's
room again and tiptoed into his office, messy as usual, and scratched around on his desk for the unwrapped
CD.
I found it, but accidentally I knocked some papers off of the top as I did so. Grumbling again, I got down
on hands and knees and picked them all up one by one.
.....Love for you has.....
I saw the word love flash by and I stopped moving papers, started reading them. The first few papers were
reports for his boss or something, so I put them back on his desk. The next paper, I found, was a small font
with no letter head, address, addressee, and hardly a signature. I put the other papers away and leaned
against the desk absently. "Love"?
S,
For such a long time I've given myself for you. I have lived for you, for her, for hope. But now, I finally
realize that there is no hope for you. You are gone. You will always be gone, no matter how hard I look.
As I told Frohike a few days ago, "I don't want to move on. But I have to."
I stopped reading, looking up around the office. Who was this addressed to? S? What was that? It couldn't
be me; my initials were KAB. As far as I knew, none of his friends had S as an initial.
I re-read the first few sentences; Had. Gone. Will be gone.
God, this was addressed to....
To......!
I lightly pressed the letter to my front, looking around suspiciously. I wasn't supposed to be reading this.
God, it was his most personal thing. Could be, anyway. My guess.
He never told me what became of his daughter's mother.
Had. Gone. Will be gone. No hope.
Oh God. I snapped my eyes down to the paper again. I shouldn't read this, but it's like I have to.
By why did I have to? God, this is for Her eyes. Whoever She is. Not me. God, not me. But I read on:
.....You have to understand....I think you do, but I want to write it. I want you to trust my word.
Samantha needs a mother. She needs a mother like I need you. But she cannot have you; neither can I; so
there has to be someone else.
How can I say this?? After all I have done.....after everything you have done for me, after everything I have
done to you......
My life ended one cold night in Oregon, Scully; my last thoughts were of you.
I felt tears coming. Why?? Why was I reading this?? This was a worn lover's bare heartfelt feelngs towards
another. And although I admit that I felt slightly pretentious--my man was writing such of another woman;
begin to growl and bare teeth--my heart was another place and time.
I'm not stupid. I know about love. I know what it's like to end a relationship you don't really want to end. I
know what it's like to find the perfect *other* person. Then look back at the first one. I've done it several
times.
He still loves his child's mother.
Wherever, whoever she is.
.....Please let me let you go......I still do not want to let go; but there has to be someone. She can not grow
without a mother. Please understand. There has to be someone. Someone.
You will always be in my heart. You will always live inside of Her. My love for you has never grown
weaker; not even now, not tomorrow, not years from now, not when they lay me in the ground; Scully; not
on my wedding day. Not even on my wedding day.
I do it for her.
I do it for myself.
I do it for you, as well.
I do it for Kelly.
I took a sharp breath at the mention of my name. Wondering if I had any right at all in the world to read
further, and wondering if I could get away with reading it, I checked to make sure I was alone again.
.....You would like Kelly. I think I did a good job. Or maybe it was you, somewhere; or maybe it was
just fate. Or something. But you would like her. She would make a good mother...if she takes me. Of
course I would take you. She loves Sam. And I am no longer afraid to say that *I* love *her*.
I don't tell lies to you, Scully. All right, maybe I did, once or twice. But only when I thought it was best for
you. Only when it was your life I was keeping safe. I will not lie any more. Never again. I love Kelly. That
is no lie. But I do not love her the same way. Please understand.
You are my anchor.
You keep me honest.
You complete me.
Kelly loves me, I think. She loves me as I love her. I know she can and will love Samantha as her own
daughter. She will be my wife....if she takes me. I will love her as my wife. I will love her, and protect her,
in sickness and in health till death do us part, to God I will keep her.
But be there for me when it's over.
Be there for me, remind me I have two things to live for. That I have two beautiful women to live for, to
care for and protect. That will be my life, Dana Scully, and that will be my driving force.
You will not leave me. You have not. I do not need this golden cross to keep you with me. You live in me,
not this inanimate piece of metal. Know this.
Goodbye for now. I have to go and live. I have to care for Her, care for Kelly. Stay with me, all right?
You used to pick me up when I fell over, then dust me off and give me a good shove. You can still do that.
You are no longer limited.
So now I will live, and I will go on, and I will remember you.
But when it's over, be waiting for me.
M.
That was all. No post scripts, no address, no Love or Sincerely or Yours Always. Just an M. M, for Mulder.
Fox Mulder.
"Why did you read that, Kelly?"
As jumpy as I was, I was not startled to hear his voice from the doorway. I was no longer looking at the
paper, but some undefined spot on the floor of his office. My cheeks were drenched in tears, and I felt frail
and light, as if blown around by the wind.
I didn't bother to apologize. That would just start a fight.
"She died," I said blankly.
"Yes, she did." His tone matched mine.
"Fox, I'm sorry," I finally said, not sure whether I was apologizing for reading the letter, or acknowledging
his loss. I did not look at him. Somehow, I felt afraid. I had just intruded in a space way past my
boundaries.
I felt his hands on my shoulders and a second later I was sitting Indian-style on the thick carpet floor. He
sat down next to me, held my hand casually; I tried not to tremble.
"I'm not ready to talk about this, Kelly, I'm really not."
"I understand." I whispered to him. I did.
There was a long, comfortable silence. I wished we were sitting on the couch. I wished I'd never read the
letter.
"Will you marry me, Kelly?" did I detect a single strain of uneasiness in his tone?
"Yes, I will," I said in a whisper. "I love you."
I felt him sigh, rather than heard it, and he wrapped one arm around my shoulders. Settled, he probably did
not find that enough, so he took his other arm and wound it around my waist. I nestled my head under his
chin; he nestled his into my messy blonde mop-on-top.
Then we both sighed; I don't know with what. I knew that the next morning, he would wrap the letter into
an envelope, and he would place it who knows where, where I would never see it again, where maybe even
he would never see it again.
Maybe Samantha would one day read it. When she could understand.
I melted into him and one tear more ran down my face, dispersing as it hit his grey tee shirt.
I knew why he wrote the letter. His plans for tonight were the same as mine, only with bigger proportions. I
should have waited. I just should have waited. He is brave. Very brave. He would have asked me as we
snuggled on the couch drinking wine. It would have been perfect. But no, instead it was here.
He wrote the letter to his dead soul mate, simply to ask permission to take my hand.
It was a complete feeling.
"Thank you," he whispered.
~*The End*~
11/4/00
Note: A mop-on-top is a high bun, usually messily and quickly created, which, after a while, begins to
become more of a sloppy *ponytail* than sloppy *bun*. Just in case you were wondering. Oh yeah, and it
doesn't work on curly frizzy hair, (*damn it.*)