FADE
Memories are designed to fade over time.
That's just the way they are.
Like so many tangible things - videotapes, cassettes, old clothing that has been used too many times- their colors tend to fade, the edges to dull, and somewhere along the way, the sound can get garbled. Through it all, though, the purpose, the emotions, and the utter feeling of it all remain.
Always.
While the whole recollection may grow blurred over time, some things remain crystal clear forever. The oddest things stand out in your mind, small things, things that really shouldn't matter at all. If you asked me now what Mulder said to me the first time we made love, I wouldn't be able to tell you. I wouldn't. I don't know why that is; believe me, it was a momentous enough occasion to warrant remembrance- but it just is. I could tell you where his hand was, though, without even stopping to ponder it. On my lower back, his fingers splayed, his heat soaking into my skin like sunshine. The feeling is still so clear, even today, that on sleepy mornings when my bathroom clouds with steam, I find my hands drifting, find myself checking to see if I have the outline of Mulder's handprint permanently seared into my skin. It's the little things like that that stick in your mind, even when the rest has faded.
Years from now, I may speak of how much I missed him while he was gone, how I hoped he would come home safely. From my words, my faded memories, no one will be able to tell that my life ended when he left and has only recently begun again. No one will be able to tell that having him gone was like having a piece of me missing, a piece so vital and important that I didn't know if I could go on without it. No one will be able to tell that I walked around for nearly a year as a shell, a hollow, empty shell with no purpose besides finding him, besides bringing him back. That worries of his death surrounded me constantly, that the chest-crushing fear that I would never see him again so overwhelmed me that one August morning in our musty basement office, I found myself mired in my chair, without the ability to rise again. The faded manila folders stacked in front of me, my new partner's careful concern, even the child tossing in my stomach - nothing was real, nothing would tie me to my life without him beside me. I was scared to death that he was gone this time -really, and truly gone - and that there was nothing I could do to bring him back. How foolish we were, how easily we'd discounted fate! Even a man with seemingly impossible good luck has to run out of it sometime. I was terrified that we had wasted nine years together, that we would never get a second chance. We'd squandered our second chances already, along with our third ones, fourth ones, fifth. I was terrified that he was already bruised and broken, that he'd been dead since the moment Skinner had lost him in the forest. I was even more afraid that I would never have the closure that he himself had so desperately fought for, that I would live out the rest of my life trapped in a madcap spiral, searching for him under every rock, around every corner, in every face in the crowd and case that crossed my desk. I was petrified that his passion was to become mine, that I would drive myself mad in an attempt to find a man who was never really mine to begin with. I was terrified, petrified, indescribably afraid; but, years from now, using merely words, no one will be able to tell.
Years from now, I might not remember the color of the shirt he was wearing when it happened, or the cars I saw passing by as I opened the door and realized that it was him, that he was finally home. I may not remember the color of the scar that snaked across his temple, a purple ribbon -or was it mauve? The way a bruise blossomed at the crook of his mouth, a speckled gradient of greens and yellows and grays, the color of corpses. The hidden tremor that he fought to hide, a soft trembling in his beautiful hands. Hands once soft and gentle now cracked with wear and spiderwebs of untold horrors.
Years from now, I may choose to describe his lips on mine as "gentle" or "soft", instead of "essential", "perfect", totally and completely "necessary". I may not remember the look on William's face as Mulder finally cradled him in his arms after so long, nor the unabashed look of relief on Mulder's. I may not remember the first time that he took me into those same arms, arms weak and weary, but still cast into the same mold as I recalled. I may not remember how I felt at the realization of his lips on my skin -finally, after so long, so many months apart- or even the heart-stopping feeling of pure euphoria that flooded me as he did so.
There is always the chance that I won't remember, but in this case, I doubt it.
Some memories never fade.