Life Goes On

By Semper Mea

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. No money, ect. is being made. Don't sue.

Author's notes: This is a story that I've had in the works for a long time. It's definitely a WIP. Let me know what you think.

I love waking up to the smell of bacon frying. Dylan is an early riser, always had been, according to his mother, and has this odd habit of cooking breakfast for me. It's already past eleven today, however; even Dylan has trouble getting up at the crack of dawn when we'd fallen asleep at nearly four in the morning last night.

Stretching my arms above my head languidly, I sat up in the large four-poster bed, the pastel yellow satin sheet slipping to expose my nude chest to the warm afternoon sun. Placing my feet onto the floor, I stood. I reached for Dylan's maroon dress shirt, flung carelessly over the lampshade, and, sliding it over my bare shoulders; I buttoned four buttons in the middle. Soundlessly, I padded out into the kitchen.

When I rounded the corner, I stopped and smiled. Dylan, dressed only in a pair of work slacks, stood in front of the stove, singing loudly using a spatula as a microphone. "I'm addicted to you, don't you know that you're toxic!" Having not yet spotted me, he deftly flipped the pancakes, and then resumed his singing. "I am beautiful, no matter what they say. Words can't bring me down, no."

I couldn't help it. Really, I just couldn't hold it in any longer. I burst out laughing, and he spun around so fast that he dropped the spatula and stubbed his toe into the counter in the process; which, of course, only made me laugh harder.

When he got over his surprise, he quickly wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me close to him. "What's the matter," he asked. "Don't like pop music?" My only response was a gingerly lifted eyebrow. "Okay, bad pop aside, how do you want your eggs?"

"How do I always want my eggs?"

"Right." He turned back to the stove and, with a flick of his wrist, turned off the flames under the pancake pan. "Oh, Dana, there's a letter for you on the table."

The moment I saw the familiar slant of my last name on the envelope, I knew. Oh God, I hadn't heard from him in such a long time now. A long time. Not since we'd fought, and I'd walked out of his apartment, out of the Bureau, out of his life.

With trembling hands, I carried the letter into the living room as if it were made of lead. This was heavy; not the letter itself, but the weight of the feelings that I was sure were contained within the envelope.

Scully,

It's been a while. Okay, three years is more than a while, it's been forever. An eternity. But I'm not going to ramble on and on in the first paragraph – don't want to lose your attention so quickly.

Like you could ever lose my attention, Mulder, I thought fondly.

Skinner told me that he got a letter from you last Monday. An invitation, actually. To your wedding. You're getting married, Scully. Wow. Congratulations. I just wish you didn't hate me so much, that I didn't have to find out about it from your former boss, that I'd have been the one/\\\\ to get the invitation instead of the man that you never even really trusted. I'm so sorry.

Oh Mulder. I don't hate you. I never hated you, not once. I wish I could have sent the invitation to you instead, too. What did you scratch out in that sentence, Mulder? Did you make a typographical error, or did you wish you'd been the one to receive something else?

I was listening to your favorite radio station the other day, you know, the one that plays all those sappy songs from the decades gone. I listen to it now more than I would ever admit to. I heard your favorite song on there last week. Well, it used to be your favorite song. Iris, I think it's called. It's a great song, Scully. It's just too bad it makes me cry every time that I hear it now. Seems like so much can make me cry these days.

I don't know if she's told you, but your mom and I have been talking regularly since . . . since you left. She says that since none of her biological children live nearby, I'm kind of her surrogate son anyway. I'm really sorry Scully. I know how much that probably hurt you just now. But, your mother insisted that I write this to you, and she also demanded that I make the point that you're being unfair to her. She's been so kind to me, Scully. She saw how it was after you first were gone; I was just kind of pretending you were still here, that nothing had changed, that I hadn't changed. That didn't take long to wear off, and then, I just shut down. I'm sure that doesn't come as a surprise - you know how I am. Or you did know. Maybe you've forgotten by now. But I haven't changed. I'm still fighting the good fight, one consortium bastard at a time – it's just one lonely ride now.

He's right, that did hurt – a lot. Not only that, but also the accusation that I'd forgotten him. I could never forget, Mulder. Never.

I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that I'm doing okay. I'm hurting inside. It hurts so badly some days that I don't think that I'm going to make it, but I just keep telling myself that life goes on. You're not here with me anymore, Scully, you're miles away. And I still need you. I do. I always do. I always will need you. And the nights are stealing the days and it's all blurring together sometimes and at the end of it all, there's still nothing I can do. I missed my chance. I let it slip through my fingers, let you walk out my door, and now you're gone. There's nothing I can do. I miss you so damn much. If you could only know. And some nights, I lie there and I wonder, do you feel it too?

And then, Skinner tells me you're getting married, and I think, that's it. You're never coming back. Why would you now, after all this time? You've finally got your life that you've always wanted. I'll bet he's perfect. I'll bet he's a doctor. No. He's a veterinarian. He's tall, taller than me, with a stronger build and deep blue eyes probably. I'd say dark brown hair with one lock that falls into his eyes, but I'd be wrong, and I'd be flattering myself. If I said he had dark blonde hair that was cut long enough that required a daily brushing but not as long as yours, Scully, then I'd be right. Close your mouth – I'm not spying on you. I am a profiler after all. Don't worry, Scully, I'm sure he's perfect for you.

Just, not as perfect as I could have been. Never doubt that I love you, have always loved you; will always. I'll see you in the next lifetime. I'll leave you to your own life in this one, as hard as I know that'll be. I love you.

Love,

-M

Something akin to shock took over my body as the tears that had been welling in my eyes since I picked up Mulder's letter trickled their tired way down my cheeks. All along, I'd been running from my feelings, only to discover now, too late, that he'd felt the same way. I've read this story; in a hundred different books, told a hundred different ways. The tragic lovers, fated to forever love each other, but, alas, never be together. Just my luck. Eight years of monsters, shadows, and conspiracy theories. Eight years of loving an unlovable man. A one second choice in which I ended it all. Three years, three wonderful years spent blissfully free of the aforementioned monsters, shadows, and conspiracy theories, and somehow, I've managed to regain all of the feelings of those eight years - all because of a tiny, hand-written letter.

A hand on my shoulder causes me to start forcefully. "Dana? Are you alright?" Dylan's warm, concerned voice inquires. Try as I might, I cannot force myself to tear my eyes away from the sheets of legal paper in front of me, but I nod for Dylan's benefit.

He moves around to the front of the couch and sits next to me. I should have known he would not be so easily convinced – he is like Mulder in that respect. He does not make a motion to read the papers in my hand, and I do not try to conceal them. We have built a mutual trust not unlike the one that Mulder and I shared, although, and I see it now, not nearly as strong. "Dana . . ." Dylan trails off and looks away from me. I can almost hear the lecture he is going to give me in my head - I have heard it many times. And, suddenly, I realize that I have no desire to hear it again.

"You know what, Dylan?" The tears that are still in my eyes and on my face can be heard in my voice, and he looks up at me sharply. "I'm not fine. I . . ." I trail off, not really knowing where to go with this. To tell the man that I'm supposed to marry in less than two weeks about not only this letter, but about everything else . . .

Because, you see, Dylan doesn't know about Mulder. At all. To him, I've always been a forensic pathologist for the Medical Examiner's Office here in Chicago. I never told him about my past at the Bureau, mainly because of the hurt that I felt over the situation with Mulder and the reluctance to discuss it with anyone. As time wore on and Dylan and I grew closer, the need to put Mulder out of my mind completely surpassed any other sort of idea I might have had for coming clean.

So, instead, I take the easy way out. I hand Dylan Mulder's letter. I know he's going to be hurt and confused, but it's the only way I can think of to explain. However, when he's finished, he looks up at me with a sort of amusement in his eyes. "You dated a profiler, Dana? Like, from the FBI?"

It's all I can do to prevent myself from running out of the house. He's incredibly intelligent really, just horribly dense at times. "No, I didn't, Dylan." I mutter, my eyes focused somewhere around my feet.

"Who'd he work for then? The CIA? The Secret Service?" He's becoming more and more excited with each name he rattles off, so I finally snap my head up to lock my gaze onto his. He immediately stops talking.

I stand, pacing the room as my thoughts become more and more jumbled. I'm still not sure where to start, but one lone sentence stands out in the tangled chaos that has become my mind – I never dated him . . . I never dated him! I didn't realize that I had said this out loud until I looked up and caught the startled look on Dylan's face.

"Well, that letter – it was just, I just assumed that you, well, I . . ."

I sink into the leather armchair across from the sofa. "He was my partner." Again, my head is hung low, my gaze focused on my lap, as I wait.

"Partner? At the Medical Examiner's Office?"

I'm really trying to figure out what attracted me to Dylan in the first place, because, right now, he's displaying a level of idiocy that I'm finding hard to believe. "No. At the FBI."

I look up at him then. I see the precise moment when realization hits him like a sledgehammer. "Dana, you worked for the FBI? But, you told me that you'd been an assistant ME since you'd been out of Med School."

I shoot him an icy glare. "Look, Dylan. I'd really rather not talk about that right now. If you want to understand who Mulder was – is – you've got to put aside the fact that I lied to you and just listen to me." He nods solemnly and I squeeze my eyelids tightly together. This isn't going to be easy, I know. It's going to be one of the most difficult explanations of my life, and yet, one of the most important. I've got to explain to the man that I thought that I loved why I was wrong. I take a deep breath and stand up. I know I am not going to be able to say this facing him.

"A little over eleven years ago, I was assigned to FBI's X-Files division, which essentially investigated the Bureau's unwanted cases – aliens, ghosts, the unexplained, spooky stuff that no one else wanted to look into. Before I joined the X-Files, only one agent was working on the project – Agent Fox Mulder.

"Mulder and I spent years gaining each other's trust, which we ultimately did. In fact, by our third year of partnership, neither of us trusted anyone else. With that trust came a profound friendship that I came to cherish, as did Mulder. People often mistook us for lovers; we were not, however.

"With our jobs came a high degree of danger. We both sustained a number of on the job injuries. I was abducted and contracted cancer through my job. We both sustained numerous gunshot wounds. Together, though, we dealt with whatever the job handed us. We both knew we wouldn't change anything. I think that being together was enough.

"Then, a case eight years ago proved to be a little tough. It was, well, we were investigating a series of murders out in Colorado. They had what Mulder felt was a paranormal element that a friend of his had a sort of expertise in, and called her in to consult for us. Turns out that they had a sort of . . . past, and, to make a long story short, a lot of things happened on that case, and in the end, he ended up trusting her over me." The words came out cold, my matter-of-fact tone surprised me. How I could rattle off the overview of my relationship with Mulder the same way that I'd relay the findings of an autopsy or in the manner of a field report, I couldn't say.

"Well, that'd make sense," Dylan points out cautiously, interjecting into my explanation for the first time. "Considering that she had an expertise that you didn't have."

"You don't understand the situation, or how much emphasis our relationship was on trust. You'd just have to meet Mulder to really understand that."

"Maybe I should."

I look at him, startled. "Meet Mulder? My God, Dylan. I haven't seen him myself in three years. Not since I walked out on him." I am saddened when I think about that night, about how different it could be now if I would have played my cards just a little differently, if I wouldn't have walked out that door, or, at the very least, let him follow me like I know he would have if I would have made it possible.

I look up at Dylan, who has his arms crossed in front of his chest and a contemplative look on his face. "What?" I ask him, suspicious.

"Maybe you should go see him. I can tell from his letter that he's resigned himself to never seeing you again." I open my mouth to protest, but he holds his hand up to stop me. "No, hear me out. If he doesn't think that he's ever going to see you again, and you so obviously think that's a bad idea, why don't you give him no choice and just show up on his doorstep?"

"I never mentioned anything about going to see him! In fact, I think that's a horribly bad idea!" I protest half-heartedly.

"I don't think that's true. I can tell from your mannerisms that you're nervous about something, meaning that you're about to tell me something big. So either you're pregnant, which I know is impossible, or you're about to call the wedding off. I'm going to choose the latter, because I can tell that you loved, and still do love, this guy." Dylan's eyes are shining with unshed tears, but he smiles up at me. "I'm really no comparison, huh? I can tell by the look in your eyes when you talk about him."

I'm beginning to remember why I fell for this guy – he's genuinely sweet. He's a great catch – for someone else. Dylan's right; he's no comparison to Mulder. I lean down and give Dylan a tight hug. "I'm really sorry," I whisper in his ear. "But I'd almost forgotten . . .that I felt like this. It's just . . . right. I'm so sorry."

He hugs me back with a ferocity that I've never felt from him. "I'm sorry too, for not seeing this before, not understanding that something was missing with us and for wasting the last two years of both our lives."

"It's not your fault," I tell him.

"I can't help feeling like I should have sensed it somehow. But, I don't know what we're standing around talking about it for. Go, pack, whatever. Get going. I think you have a relationship to fix – I don't think it'll be that hard."

"You don't know Mulder that well. The trust – it'll take a long time to come back."

"But the love was never gone, that makes a huge difference."

"I just have to convince Mulder of that." I give Dylan a quick kiss, and run to the bedroom. As I'm throwing underwear into a suitcase, the ridiculousness of packing for a trip to have a surprise reunion with my ex-partner that I've been secretly in love with for close to ten years while dressed in only my current, soon to be ex, fiancé's maroon dress shirt strikes me. Soon, I cannot control my laughter, and then, I can't tell the laughter from the tears.

A/N: More to come with this. What's Mulder doing? We'll see. Oh, and this fic is inspired by Poison's "Life Goes On". If you know the song, you might be able to pic out some lyrics!