Title: Begin and End
Author: MissAnnThropic
E-Mail: miss_annthropic@yahoo.com
Spoilers: The Truth
Summary: It seems like we begin and end in a hotel room.
Disclaimer: None of it’s mine. I’m just a sad little fangirl that spends her days writing fanfic and watching taped episodes of her favorite shows. Sad, isn’t it? :(
URL: wickmoo.com
A/N: Wow, this one almost freaked me out... I was going through the various fanfic folders on my computer and ran across this one and had absolutely no memory of writing it. I was reading through it and constantly there was this almost sense of recognition but not enough for me to recall where it was going or how it ended. And I wrote it on a whim not too terribly long ago. I guess it’s fitting it was an X Files fic, because it was practically an X File in itself.

It seems like we begin and end in a hotel room. It’s late... or early, I’m not certain which. I’m exhausted but for some reason sleep eludes me. I’m thinking too much to sleep. It’s not the first time, for years I’ve known too much, and every passing year I get a new understanding of Mulder’s insomnia.

There’s a soft rain hammering outside, remnants of an earlier storm, and I stand at the window and watch the water trail down the windowpanes in sick, pale shadows, lit by the neon blue hotel sign not far away. We began like this, the two of us, a hotel room, a storm outside.

They say the more things change the more things stay the same. That’s not true. Mulder and I have changed so much, every day we’ve been reborn by the work we do, the things we see and learn. The world unfolds and it never folds back upon itself, no comfort or security, no guarantees. Only this, the quickening now and the looming future we try so desperately to beat back, to fight.

I’m bone-weary and heartsick but not enough to lie down and find peace.

We started in a hotel room nine years ago. I was young then, foolish and naive. He was cocky. We were quite the pair. But we saw something in each other in a cramped hotel room while the rain outside pelted a pattern on the windows and roof. I don’t know what he saw in me that night; I can’t imagine him seeing more than a shaken girl, a fresh FBI spy out to sabotage his work. I’ve never asked him and I probably never will... that’s the past and we’ve learned to steer clear of it.

But I remember what I saw in him. Passion, conviction, intelligence. He was a tragic hero at heart, made to walk the thankless path and fight the good fight in the shadows where the beneficiaries of his work would never know his face. He was a little ‘out there’, but not crazy. I knew right away he wasn’t crazy.

He’s even less crazy to me now, or maybe over the years he made me a little insane and I get it, I see through his eyes enough to understand.

I turn away from the window and cast my eyes on the bed. He’s sleeping, untroubled and deep, and it’s a rare gift in Mulder’s world. His sleep is so infrequently peaceful, I know from years as his partner. He has nightmares... sometimes he tells me about them, but most of them time he just files the new haunt away in his photographic memory and trudges onward. All he’ll take from me is comfort, company, companionable silence, but I know it’s what he really needs. I’m content with that.

Tonight he’s found peace, sleeping without a frown, without tossing and mumbling in his sleep. He’s turned on his side facing me, body curled just enough that he would have fit on his couch back in his apartment. It’s been over a year since he’s lived there but his body remembers the dimensions and when Mulder gets really comfortable he curls to fit his couch, even if he’s on a bed. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he looks almost defensive. That’s just Mulder. He’s forever hunted, the eternal prey, and all parts of his psyche know it.

I stand and stare at him, as I have more times than I can count.

He’s older than he was in that first rain-battered hotel room. His body’s thicker now, not as lean and supple as the almost feline-agile agent I first met. My first impression of him so many years ago regarding his physique had been to label him ‘lanky’, because that six-foot frame seemed so gangly, but I learned fast that wasn’t Mulder at all. He was an athlete in disguise, and his body was his tool more than his vessel.

His hair’s different, shorter, not as soft... it’s darker, too. When I first met him he was closer to blond than dark brown, but that’s changed. And he has gray hairs. I don’t know if I failed to notice them before he left or if he’d earned them in his year away from me, but on our way to New Mexico from the brig I was studying him as he drove and I noticed a little gray amid the brown. Mulder’s getting older.

His face reflects the years gone by, too. Fine wrinkles etch at the corners of his eyes, creases bracketing his mouth that don’t completely disappear after he smiles, lines on his brow that grow deeper when he frowns. He has more frown-lines than laugh-lines, and for that I ache for him, for us.

Though his eyes are closed now, lashes gently resting against his cheeks, I know that his eyes have changed, too. What used to be gray-brown hazel when I first met him has changed to just gray, so little of the golden flecks I used to see in his eyes. The light behind his eyes has changed, too. If I had any doubt as to the passage of time and the trials of our lives I would need only to look in Mulder’s eyes to see everything. Mulder’s eyes have so much soul; I don’t think he knows how much his eyes speak for his heart. I suspect I’m the only one who understands the language his gaze speaks, and that’s fine with me.

I’ve changed, too, I can’t look at Mulder and catalog the differences then and now without recognizing the changes in me, as well.

Time has not been kind to us. Nine years have tested us, and sometimes we came out on top, and sometimes we didn’t. We’ve learned to lose, by no means graciously, and we’re steeled to lose yet again, every new day could be a failure.

Life with Mulder is a gamble, all the time.

But I’ve chosen this. I could have left, I could have walked away, but I couldn’t leave the work because the work couldn’t leave the man any more than I could. Mulder would always be his quest, his mission, and I had to take him as he was, a package deal. Mulder comes with some strange baggage, but it’s an odd kind of normal to me now. I wouldn’t trade it for normal if normal wasn’t Mulder, and I know it never will be.

I’ve made my choice, and I have only a few regrets.

Mulder is breathing deeply and I listen to the rhythm. He doesn’t know I’m watching him, instead continues to sleep undisturbed; he knows he’s safe with me. That trust is something I could never put a price on. Mulder’s most precious gift to another is his trust... so few have earned it, and many who did failed to keep it. It’s a demanding, unending test to prove Mulder’s trust placed in good faith. Through those tests I’ve become a better person. Mulder has made me a better human being and I treasure that.

I’ve seen Mulder disappointed, seen people he thought he could trust let him down, and I never, ever want to see that look on his face because of me. Take all of me before that be allowed to happen. When I’ve lost sight of everything else I can gauge my reality, myself, by the way Mulder sees me. I can anchor to him in chaos and I find purchase every time. He grounds me and he always will as long as I prove that I can do the same for him. Mulder just needs a lighthouse, a touchstone, and I love that he’s chosen me.

Mulder lies on the bed, curled and unfettered, and I find it ironic so few people have ever seen him like this. Mulder is a deeply wounded man; he’s gun-shy with people because he’s been hurt so many times. His coping strategy is to break away, take the path of most resistance, and put off others in the process. Mulder’s a maverick, a rogue, feral. Somehow, through a thousand tiny gestures and a few gigantic efforts, I’ve won his trust. He let me tame him. So what if I had to go a little wild to do so?

I look at him now and I see so much more than I could have imagined discovering in this man nine years ago. I see my best friend, my partner, my safety, my harbor. I see the father of my child, my lover, my truth. I see my necessity, my joy, my peace. Mulder’s all of those things and more.

We’ve changed so much and I can’t stop staring at him thinking about time and what it’s done to us. I can’t stop thinking about William and never knowing if he will grow up to have hazel eyes and a genius intellect given a rough edge by unorthodox beliefs.

The calm, rain-heavy air in the room suddenly grows tense and Mulder’s breathing changes and slowly, deliberately, he opens his eyes and looks at me. Into me, through me... with Mulder, it’s all the same.

“Scully?” he whispers, and I’ll never tire of that voice. I can glean so much from it, from that single word. I know his question, his concern, his curiosity, his confusion, his need. Always, in his voice, he needs me, and I’ll always come running because of it.

“It’s okay, Mulder,” I say gently. And it is. We don’t know where we’ll end up tomorrow, but for now it’s okay. We’re here, together, in a hotel room taking shelter from the rain.

Mulder looks at me a long time, his gaze intense and I feel like he’s intellectually dissecting me, undressing me emotionally and spiritually. He’s always done that, maybe without conscious awareness of it. He sees and studies and catalogs and notes with uncanny acuity. He’s always been a brilliant mind before anything else.

Mulder blinks and finally speaks again. “Come to bed,” he beckons, but so softly and gently that it’s more hopeful request than command. That is new, being called to his side in bed, but it’s a welcome change.

I move over to the bed and Mulder scoots over to make room for me while I let the robe I’m wearing slide off my shoulders and pool on the floor. The white T-shirt I’m wearing underneath (the only thing I’m wearing underneath) does little to fend off the storm-induced cold and I quickly slip under the covers into the spot Mulder just vacated. It’s warm and it smells like him and I close my eyes and luxuriate in its serenity for a second.

When I open my eyes Mulder’s watching me and I give him a very small smile. I can’t imagine tomorrow but for one certainty... I can’t imagine it without this man. Over the years he’s come to mean everything to me, and I go with it.

On impulse I reach up and touch his cheek, rake my fingers up through his hair, and he blinks heavily in content at the touch and takes a deep breath. When finally we gave in to our feelings for one another and became lovers I learned something very basic to Mulder, so fundamental that I was shocked I had no idea of the true depth of this personality detail before. He’s tactile. Mulder cherishes touch like no one I’ve ever known before. Even simple familiarities and demonstrations of affection, from a hand on the harm to a kiss on the cheek, lift his spirits and calm his demons.

I plan to make it a point to touch Mulder as often as I can... it might be all the comfort I can give him in the days to come.

Mulder lingers in my touch then opens his eyes and I know he wants more. I don’t protest when he reaches out and pulls me to him. I snuggle into his side, and here I can almost disappear. Our physical sizes are so disparate that his arms and body almost swallow me, and it’s a place unlike any I’ve ever known before. Perfect.

I cuddle up to Mulder and feel his body next to mine, smell him near me, and I sigh.

“Scully,” Mulder says softly, this time not a question but an acknowledgment, an affirmation, touching base.

“Sleep, Mulder,” I beckon gently, and I wrap my arms around him to indicate I intend to join him, not to leave his side ever again.

Mulder relaxes under my touch (though his arms don’t let me go) and I close my eyes and rest my head on his chest.

I don’t know what the future will bring, but the present is me and Mulder together in bed, and I can live with that. Gladly. For the next five minutes it will be happily ever after.

END