Little Conversations, A Letter In The Dark

      Comments Off on Little Conversations, A Letter In The Dark

Summary: Don’t forget me Scully. It’s the only thing that makes me real.

Author: Kits1013
E-mail Address:
Spoilers: Vienen, Nothing Important Happened Today
Archive: Ephemeral, Goss, IWTB
Category: MSR, Angst, Missing Fox Fic

The Little Conversations
On me are very rough
They leave me all in pieces
You know there’s never time enough
like a book with missing pages
like a story incomplete
like a painting left unfinished
it feels like not enough to eat.
Starvin’ by Concrete Blonde

Location: Unknown.
Date: Today, and every day.

My dear Scully,

I hope you don’t mind my calling you “My Scully” but that’s how I think of you. I know it sounds territorial, and by God, I admit it. It is. *I* am. I don’t care. I can just see you rolling your eyes at how caveman it sounds, but it’s all I can do, to keep from coming back there, and dragging you off to my lair.

Sometimes, when it seems that I’m finally thinking clearly, I think that when you told me to go, I should have had the courage to tell you to get on with your life. But, then, I think of you in someone else’s arms and William calling some other man ‘father,’ and the grief brings me to my knees.

It kills me, but this separation may be permanent. I know that whoever is hunting me, will one day catch me. When they do, I know, that will be the end. And there will be no one to tell you, that I won’t be coming back.

It wears me down some days, Scully.

I’ve chased enough men to know; no one can run forever. Sooner, or later, a determined hunter will run their prey to the ground. But I’ve never been a quitter Scully. I won’t quit now. So, I take out the picture of you and me and William, and that helps, but I keep imagining that I should not have been in that picture at all.

One thing I am sure of is, if I can come home, I will.

Death will be the only thing that keeps me from you. Hell. The freaky way my life has been, even that might not be enough.

I want you to remember, Scully, I am “your Mulder” and pray that if I can ever stop running, you will still want me.

Hell. I’m rambling. What am I talking about? It doesn’t matter. Even if you *don’t* want me, I’m yours. And in my mind and heart, you will forever be “My Scully.” It feels so damned good to say that. “My Scully.” I guess I can get by with calling you that. You aren’t close enough to kick my ass for it. God. I wish you were. I’d take any amount of ass kicking, if it were your little feet doing the pounding. I’ll just sit here and imagine, I’m there groveling at your pretty pink feet and you’ll take pity on me and won’t hurt me.

I know writing this letter is risky, but if I can’t tell you what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, I’ll go mad.

I miss the daylight, Scully. I don’t go too many places during the day, and it’s been so long since I felt the sun on my skin, that I’m starting to look like an X-file. Spooky, huh?

When I sleep, I sleep during the day. I travel at night, and when I run, I run at night. I can usually find a high school with a track. I miss the road running, but it takes me too far from my car or motel. It’s pretty boring, but I had to ditch my stuff one day, when our pal “Billy” got too close. Luckily, most of my things were in my car. It was parked away from my room, so all I lost was some toiletries, but even so, I don’t risk it very often.

Talk about a close shave. I shook for two days.

I miss color. I used to wear colored running clothes and never realized how I took that for granted. I miss my colored ties ” and no, I don’t care what you say, they were not “hideous ties.” But, I miss the look you’d give me, when I’d wear a new one. I miss the feel of your breath on my cheek as you fussed about them, and the feel of your hands while you straightened them. I know you swiped a couple of them to keep me from wearing them again. I wonder, sometimes; do you still have any of my ties?

Since I have to make sure my clothes will blend in with the shadows when I move at night, I wear dark blues and blacks and if I’m feeling adventurous, I’ll get brown.

I go to those 24 hour stores to buy food and to get stuff for when I move. The employees are used to the odd night people and so, pay little attention to a lanky red/blonde/brown haired man wearing all black and bad eyeliner. There is less chance of my raising eyebrows when I purchase hair color and makeup, if I do it at night.

I’m moving to a less cosmopolitan part of the country, now, and a little while ago, I over heard a trucker saying something about “Damn queers showing up everywhere” so I’m sitting here, writing and waiting for that truck driver to leave. It’s time to wash off the eye shadow and toss the Goth jewelry into a trash can.

Next stop, the black clothes will go it into a dumpster and I’ll transform into a ‘good ole boy.’ Good thing that I’ve seen enough Good Ole Boys, so I know how to approximate their clothing. I’ll hate that, but at least plaid isn’t solid black. This little car has been reliable, but it’s time to get rid of it, too. It will be good to know I can get by with carrying a shotgun and rifle in the back, when I find a truck. The accents in this part of the country aren’t too thick, so I think I can get by. And like I said, going out at night, makes it less likely that I’ll have to speak.

God, I miss talking to people. I miss chatting with the other runners at the track. I miss my basketball homeys. I wonder if that freckle faced Starbuck’s clerk, who always popped her gum as she told me about her boyfriends, wonders where I’ve gone. I even miss the bustle of the Hoover and the hassle of working with other departments on cases. I’d love to get an ass chewing by Skinner, and I could even stand to argue with Dog Breath.

How *is* “John” anyway?

Shit. I’m sorry. I know he’s a good guy. He tried to keep me from taking the fall for that refinery fire and I think he may have saved me from a law-suit and may have even kept me out of jail. He took a risk when he talked to that oil company’s PTB. I don’t remember if I ever got the chance to thank him.

I know that he and Monica are there to help you, now. And, I know he was there for you when I was gone and he watched your back. And forgive me for being selfish, but I am so jealous, I could die.

God, I miss you, Scully. More than I ever thought I could miss anything. I miss everything about you. I miss your laugh; I miss the feel of your hand on mine. I miss the taste of your lips. I miss the smooth feel of your lipstick when you kissed me, and I miss kissing it off you.

I miss watching you paint your toenails, and how you blushed when I told you that the color of pink you were using, was the exact same color as your sweet lips. I still laugh, remembering the appalled look on your face, when you realized *which* lips I meant.

Didn’t think that damned bruise on my arm would ever clear up. Didn’t even *try* to explain away that tiny fist shaped mark. Didn’t have to. One of my basketball pals asked where I got it. Another held his hand up, just so, and said, “Redhead.” Those assholes just high-fived each other, and laughed. There was no point in denying it. They’d seen you. They all knew how I felt, how I feel, about you.

Well, Scully, it seems that my trucker pal has moved on. I am starting to attract some attention from some other folks, so I guess I’d better get inside and clean up a bit, and get moving myself.

I love you. I miss you. I want to come home and hold you and never let you go. Kiss William for me. Please take lots of pictures, Scully. I can’t stand not being there, as he grows.

Don’t forget me Scully. It’s the only thing that makes me real.


The black-clad man pulled a bag from his trunk and walked back to the rest stop. He stopped for a moment, and stared at his reflection in the glass doors. He’d finally become accustomed to the sun-starved pallor and the makeup and the black clothes. It had taken a while to get used to applying it, but the result had been worth it. Most of the Goths thought he was a middle aged ‘poser,’ and so ignored him. The mundanes he met, thought he was “one of them” and so, steered clear of him. A few people, both men and women, had tried to pick him up, but a snarl and a look in his hard eyes was enough to make them run.

He carried the letter into the restroom and held it over the trash can, then slowly pulled his hand back. To the hell with it. He could not mail it, and it was risky to carry it, but he had felt so close to her while writing it, he decided to hold on to it for a while.

He removed his necklace and carefully wiped the pewter cross clean, and soon it was in the bottom of the overflowing trash can. He tucked the makeup kit back into his bag. He knew he’d need it again at some point, so he would stash it in his gear for future use.

A few minutes later, he emerged from the men’s restroom. He was clean faced and his clothes were still black, but the necklace and skull head earring were gone, and he hoped he looked like a
casual traveler. He laughed. Casual traveler, indeed.

He tucked the letter into his shirt pocket near his heart, and stopped at the snack machines. His hands shook a bit, as his coins clanked into the slots. He grabbed some chips and a coke, and thought, ‘next truck stop, coffee, and sunflower seeds.’

He couldn’t allow himself many thoughts beyond that act. Tomorrow, another town. Another motel. Another day without Scully. And, he hoped, another day closer to being able to go home and give her his letter, and to kiss her pretty lips.


For Sallie, a dear MSR friend, who suffered BetaTrauma while working on a M/K fic for me. It’s angsty, dear, but is about De Love.
Thanks to Logan for Beta. Any mistakes are in spite of his advice, and can probably be attributed to Post Beta TInkering.
Thanks to Char, for reminding me that even though I may stray down other paths with a dear friend, MSR is my true love.

Here are the Lyrics Concrete Blonde’s Little Conversations