TITLE: ..But Dreams Are Free-Chapter 08-If I'd Found the Right Words to Say

NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/Sk
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing-STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.
SUMMARY: Four years after Choices Cost.
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist.
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: Nnnnnnnnnope.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Skinner NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20^th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But when I become king...

Author's notes:

Yeah, I know I said I wouldn't finish this...but...

If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop

If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

....But Dreams Are Free-Chapter 08-If I'd Found the Right Words to Say

by Mik

Hoover was also a very vocal dog. He barked at birds, at wind in the trees, the sound of the tea kettle, of my mobile phone. He barked at things that weren't even there, at least not in this time-space continuum. He seemed to know when the postman's van was lumbering along the road, because he'd bark so hard he seemed to levitate, but by the time the truck was actually rolling to a stop at the bottom of the drive, he'd lost interest, and would go look for something else to bark at.

He also seemed to be psychic about telephone calls. If the call was from a family member, or Kim calling to say hello, or one of Dustin's rare but welcome calls, they were announced by one, deep, warm 'woof'. If it was a telemarketer, he growled. If it was Agent Scully, she got protracted yapping, as if he was channeling the voice of that mop on paws she once owned.

"Sir, what is that?" she complained after the obligatory ritual of enquiring after one another's health and scrupulously avoiding anything remotely personal.

"Hoover, quiet!" I commanded.

He, of course, kept yapping, so I put him outside, where he continued to yap, but the sound was muffled by log walls.

"Sir?" she prompted, less than patiently.

I chuckled wryly. "His name is Hoover. I believe he's part dog and part tank."

"You got...a dog?" As if I'd purchased plutonium or illegally downloaded music.

"Yes. Sam...you remember Samantha, don't you?" I interjected, although I was close to certain the two had never actually met. "Anyway, she had some abandoned puppies and she asked if I wanted one. He's a nice dog, albeit a bit noisy. Hoover, quiet, boy."

"What about Mulder?" she protested, clearly disappointed by my thoughtlessness.

"He was all right, but I could never get him housebroken." I meant it as a lighthearted jest, a way of saying 'See? He doesn't mean a thing to me anymore', but it didn't quite succeed.

She wasn't listening. "He didn't want a dog. He hates dogs."

"Do you see Mulder here?" I snapped, both embarrassed by my poor taste attempt at humor and irritated by her failure to even notice the attempt. "Do you see him even on the continent? Last time I looked, he'd taken up residence on the other side of the Atlantic."

Her voice was softer, a bit more plaintive. She reminded me of my twelve year old niece the year she realized the truth about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. "But what if he comes back?"

Upon reflection, I'm surprised I didn't jump hopefully at that remark. "What if he does? I don't know if he is ever coming home. I don't know if he ever even arrived safely. All I have is hearsay."

"I'm sure he'll come home soon." She had said it so often it was a knee jerk response, spoken without a moment's thought.

"You've been saying that for five months," I reminded her, "and I've yet to hear one word from him, one way or the other, much less seen him come back. Hoover! Be quiet!"

"Well...have you written to him?"

"Written to him? Written to him where? How? Put a note in a bottle and toss it in the sea?"

She matched my irritation, ohm by ohm. "You have his email. It hasn't changed. Have you even tried?"

"Oh." I had no argument for that. "I didn't know."

"You didn't even try."

"No."

I guess she understood that this possibility absolutely had not occurred to me. She gave me a moment to absorb this information before continuing gently. "You said some pretty horrible things to him. Maybe he needs to know he's still welcome there."

"Of course he's welcome," I argued. "This is his home."

"His home," she drawled, "with a dog."

"Leave the dog out of it." This was scary. Here was a chance to make contact, open a dialogue, perhaps a chance to bring him back into my life. But I'd gotten used to this solitary life. I liked the dog. I liked the quiet when the dog wasn't barking. I liked the big bed and the extra space in the cupboards. Had all my protests about not hearing from him been only a ruse? Did I want him back? I didn't want to examine that too closely just yet, so I deflected gracelessly. "Besides, I don't know that he doesn't like dogs. I've seen him with dogs. He seems to get along fine with them. I think he just didn't want one 'til we were properly settled in the place." And that was a very tidy dance around the issue. I would have been proud of myself if I weren't so ashamed.

She didn't have a comeback for that. "I think you should write to him. I think you should spell it out, ask him to come ba-"

"No, I won't do that."

She made that sound only a female can make, that tsking, impatient sound at the back of the throat. Mulder used to imitate her when we were arguing, and it always made us both laugh. That sound had ended dozens of arguments over the years, but that didn't mean I welcomed it now. "Whyever not?"

"Because he would come back just because I asked him to," I explained sadly.

"And that is bad because...?"

"Because he wouldn't be coming back because he wanted to." Why couldn't she understand that? Did women have no pride whatsoever? "I won't have him back on those terms."

I heard her sigh, deeply aggrieved. "You men...all right, just ask him his intentions. Surely that won't reveal too much feeling."

"A year ago, you wouldn't have dreamed of using that tone of voice with me," I observed.

"A year ago you weren't being such an ass...Sir."

And I didn't have a comeback for that. "All right, Agent," I said, matching her sigh, "I will write to him. And then we'll consider the matter closed."

"'The matter'?" she echoed shrilly. "Five years of your life is written off as 'the matter'?"

I didn't bother to hide my anger this time. "Would you prefer a more dramatic phrase? What about...my life will be over? My heart will be broken? It will be the end of my world as I know it?" I felt a little catch in my voice and I hardened it before it betrayed me. "Better?"

She was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry, Sir. I was out of line."

"Yes, you were." I had to let her off the hook, so I added, "but thank you for all your advice."

"Yes, Sir."

We spoke for a few more minutes; I told her my plans for the spring planting, she shared William's development. We said our goodbyes. And as I had promised, I went upstairs to write to him. It was probably the most terrifying prospect of my entire life.

It took hours. And to this day I'm not entirely sure what I said. I have never gone back to reread it. I struggled not to sound angry. I couched everything in such comfortable, pleasant terms as to make the whole exercise pointless. But I wanted to be able to look Agent Scully in the eyes and tell her I had written.

The instant I hit the 'send' button, I knew it was a mistake.

I opened another message window, addressed it and typed simply and roughly, 'I don't care what you do, I just want you to be happy. Stay or come back, just tell me what you want, and I'll accept that, so long as it's what you want.'

Pathetic. I know.

It was midnight there. I knew there was a good chance he wouldn't even see it for hours, but I stayed glued to that chair, waiting breathlessly for an answer. I got up after an hour to let the dog in, fill his water dish and get myself a drink and went right back up to keep vigil over my inbox.

After another hour, I went to get Hoover out of my closet before he chewed another seventy dollar shoe. I got myself another drink and went back to the computer, staring blankly. Waiting.

An hour later, I let Hoover out to bark at some invisible birds that dared perch in our snow covered firs, and I brought the bottle upstairs with me.

An hour later I was playing a very sloppy game of solitaire.

An hour later, I was resting my forehead on the keyboard, and the bottle was empty.

At midnight EST, I was passed out under the computer desk, and Hoover was on the deck, barking at snow flurries.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There was no reply when I dragged myself out from under the desk. There was barely a hint of light in the air, but even that suggestion of brightness made everything behind my eyes protest. I staggered into the shower, and turned it on, letting the cold water soak me. I might even have shrieked in agony.

I brushed my teeth, toweled off, dressed and went downstairs to let Hoover back in. His expression was one of sorrowful accusation and he hid under the dining table all day, refusing to even come out for his breakfast. He was so dispirited by spending a night outside, he couldn't even manage a feeble 'woof' at the approach of the postman.

I drank two or three pots of coffee, and began to feel something akin to human. And when the rational, reasonable part of my brain overcame the effects of thirty year old single blended scotch, we came to an agreement that no man, not even Fox William Mulder was worth spending a night under a DIY computer desk ever again.

And with that decision, I dug back into my solitary life with such determination it could almost be called vengeance. I would not let him wander across my thoughts, not even a casual stroll through memories. I practically banished words starting with M.

I allowed myself one peek at my email each day, and each day I was a little less disappointed.

Days became another week. Dustin came up for a visit before the show opened. We had a nice meal, he helped with dishes, we fucked in front of the fireplace while Hoover sat upstairs, huffing indignantly and chewing on the strap of my briefcase. Dustin left in the morning and I was still glad to see him go. I knew that until I heard from Mu-from him, I'd never be free to love anyone else. And after loving him, I didn't know if I'd ever want to be free.

The snow thawed overnight. I went to bed thinking I might have to shovel the drive to get down to the mail in the morning, and when I got up, the drive was a muddy, snow free mess. I started making plans for turning the ground behind the kitchen into a vegetable garden. Suddenly Hoover wanted to be outside. It seemed I spent the next week mopping floors and wiping his paws.

Dana invited herself up to spend Palm Sunday with me. I think she thought I was lonely and she was just the person to cheer me up on such a solemn occasion. I don't think she meant any harm, she genuinely did not know that she was the last person I wanted around me once I'd made the decision to eradicate certain letters from my alphabet. One didn't think of Scully without Mulder any more than one thought of salt without pepper or Ethel without Fred. His name hadn't come up between us since that day, but it was inevitable that we would discuss it during her visit. I wished she'd go somewhere else.

I spent the time awaiting her arrival getting the garden started, and trying to teach Hoover not to jump up on people. When he got up on his hind paws, he was taller than Dana. I had a feeling she wouldn't care for that.

I decided I'd make a traditional Easter meal for her, even though it was a week early. Hoover, sensing treats, stayed under my feet despite all warnings, entreaties and threats to be somewhere else. The only thing that distracted him even momentarily was his daily psychic announcement that mail was in the offing.

As the time of her arrival drew near, I decided to err on the side of caution and dragged Hoover out to the back side of the deck and tied him up. He wasn't happy and told me and everything possessing ears within a five mile radius that he was not. I alternated between promising to let him off his chain as soon as she was inside and settled, and trying to out shout him. Neither was very effective.

I saw the sunlight glint on the windshield of her sedan as she rolled off the road into the drive at the foot of the hill. Wiping my hands, first on my jeans, and then catching myself, on a napkin from the stack destined for the table, I went to the front door. She was getting back into her car, and took the incline with her usual care.

I came down to meet her as she reached level ground. She had brought a pot of Easter Lilies, and she backed out of the car, bringing the pot with her.
"I picked up your mail," she announced, in lieu of greeting. "Good Heavens, what's that racket?"

"That's Hoover," I told her, taking the flowers and the stack of circulars and bills from her so she could release her son from his captivity. He was making nearly as much noise as the dog. "I'll take these in. Your timing's perfect. Supper's nearly done." I climbed the steps of the deck, fumbling with the pot and trying to flip through the mail. Suddenly the pot slipped from my arms, and magazines and offers for cut rate internet service, zero interest rate credit cards and two for one coupons fluttered around me. I held the envelope in my hand, not daring to look away long enough to tell her what it was.

She knew, though. She could tell by my expression; the stew of hope, dread, and longing. "Sir?" she said, her voice querulous and pinched, as she came up the steps, William attached to her somewhere-to her head for all I was aware.

"It's from him." I hugged her impulsively. "Your timing really was perfect. I don't..." I swallowed, "I don't know if I could read this alone."

I didn't tear into the envelope. The circumstances seemed to dictate a certain respect, a level of ritual. We went inside. We chatted politely. We had our meal, both of us trying not to let the other catch us sending glances toward that packet on the coffee table. When the food had been consumed (for it's certain neither of us tasted it), the table cleared away, the dishes done, only then we were ready to face what I think we both knew was coming. With cups of coffee poured, and cake neither of us wanted, we sat, opposite one another. We considered the postmark and decided he had taken time and care with his response. She saw that as hopeful, I looked upon it with foreboding.

I opened the letter at length, and let the words spill over the pages and stain my fingers and my soul, I could hear the laborious skritching of his pen on the paper, the way his breathing would hitch, and then release on a long sigh. I could see him pausing, removing his glasses, rubbing his eyes, only to replace his glasses, pick up his pen and continue. I felt every stroke of the pen on the page.

When I had read it through three times, I offered it to her, and sat back and absorbed the facts. I felt both lightheaded and heavyhearted, free from chains but bent double from the years of wearing them, passing through a newly opened door, with nowhere to go.

She handed the letter back to me, her bright blue eyes brighter with tears. "So, is that it?"

I let my eyes slide over the heartbreakingly familiar script. "Yes," I said, trying to sound resolved. "I think so."

"He won't come back? Ever?"

"No." I folded the letter carefully, and slipped it back into its envelope. "I don't think so."

"But why? He loves you. You love him." She just couldn't make those bright blue eyes see what I saw.

"Because," I began carefully...and sadly, "the only way he could come back to me now would be on his knees, begging me to take him back, swearing to me that he loves me. And he won't do that."

Scully was faintly repulsed. "Why should he?"

"My dear, it's a curse. Call it masculine pride, if it must have a less histrionic name. I can't accept him back until I know he genuinely wants and needs to be here. And he can't admit that, even if it is true."

"You men are so stupid," she said bluntly.

"Yes," I agreed and put the letter up on a bookshelf, where I hoped to forget it existed and never be tempted to reread it. That was only my pride trying to trick me. I knew I'd take it down and read it over and over until the folds of the paper became so thin that they'd begin to separate, and the words would become so faint as to be mere memories on the page. "But that's the way it is. Wishing it to be different won't make it different."

"So...that's it. Four years of your life flushed away. For nothing."

"Oh, no. Despite his weak efforts to rip it all into meaningless pieces, there were some very, very good times in the last four years. I wouldn't trade them for anything, not even to have him back here right now."

"It's a waste," she said, collecting her bag.

"No, not really." I moved to pick up her coat. "Good things can come out of even the worst things. He'll be happy there. He'll be doing something that he wants to do, something that makes him feel important. And, who knows, maybe find someone who shares those unique passions of his." I held the coat for her to slide her arms into. "And believe it or not, knowing he'll be happy makes me happy."

"He should be here. He belongs with you," she insisted, but with a little less conviction.

"No. That's just our notion of happily ever after, the one fed on Disney movies and our mothers' bedtime stories. The truth is, for us to stay together, one of us would have had to give up too much. I want this life. He didn't. I didn't want to give up the dream I'd spent years making into reality, and I didn't want to watch him give up what he wanted in order to live this life with me." I held the door open for her. "There are all kinds of happy endings, Dana. Just because things don't end the way we think they should, doesn't mean they aren't happy endings." I bent and kissed her cheek. "Drive safe and call me when you get back to D.C."

I closed the door. On her. On him. On the wrong ending to the faerie tale. My Prince Charming had chosen the castles of England, and I was left here, in my garden, in my solitude, in the peace and equanimity of conscious. Someday in the not too distant future I'd be able to smile warmly in remembrance and then turn a page and read on. To everyone around me it would appear the unhappiest ending of all. But the truth is, we all do live happily ever after...if we choose to.

Mulder was wise enough to choose the happily ever after that was right for him.

And so will I.

END