By: Morgan (promise64@hotmail.com)


Sometimes, I fear.

I fear the intensity of this, the destructive power it contains.  I fear the fury, the strain, the aching need and unequivocal dependence.  It is a vortex swallowing me whole at times, a lifeline guiding me home at others.  It is something I need, crave, desire, fear, rage against, stand in awe of, stare in confusion at.  It is all of these things.  It is everything.

Mulder and I.

I fear.

Sometimes, it is laughable.  We are both so co-dependant.  He just the slightest fraction more than me, or so I've always told myself.  And I know he tells himself this same thing.  We are air and sustenance to one another.  Life and death.  We are something so perfectly linked we could be the model of what *not* to become in a relationship.  I mean, I know that fundamentally this type of relationship is considered unhealthy, damaged, something we would be better off without.

Better off.

Would I be better off?

You see?  That's where the fear lies.  Even if I might be, even if I would be, that's no longer the point.  That doesn't even begin to be the point.  The point is, I can never *be* without Mulder.  Yes, I could leave, walk away, move forward in my life towards a direction that does not include his presence.  This chance is always present in the form of a simple resignation, simple packing of boxes, simple trip to the airport, and I wonder sometimes if he would even follow me.


I could leave, but I would cease to be and so would Mulder.  We are like that, he and I.  Necessary.  Essential.  Frightening.  He would let me go and respect my wishes, part of him proclaiming that it would be best, I would be safe.  I know that he believes this.  He would let me go, and I would walk away, and it would tear us both slowly and surely asunder, as each mile and unvoiced thought brokers new pain and tears larger chunks of our souls easily from their moorings.

I would lose myself loosing him.  I know it.  It scares me sometimes.

Of course, there is always the other possibility, that mind quaking, midnight dream shaking possibility.  The dark chance.  The haunting future.

One of us could die.

It is, obviously, a constant threat.  Our jobs dictate this truth.  We chose it with arms open wide as dewy-eyed recruits at Quantico lining our sights up along cardboard enemies in sterilized firing ranges.  Careful, don't hit the innocent grandmother crossing the street.  There's the threat, that menacing, surly, grizzled with two-day-old stubble, roughian popping up from behind the drug store.

There's the threat.

Isn't it obvious?

The innocents were easy to identify.  The threat simple to assess.  We chose danger, embraced it as par for the course.  A chance.  A possibility.  In the face of a greater good, a job to be done, it seemed an easy choice.  I had a healthy fear of death, but I believed in the superiority of good and still held the feigned immortality of the young and lacking in experience.





Not for me.  That's the fear.  It wakes me from sweat drenched dreams, pulls at me in the dark hours.  To be alone, without him, what that would do.  I can see it so clearly, feel that void and know what it would mean.  I see it sometimes as the always-looming possibility, and the pure power of what we are comes back to me with the force of a revelation.

I would be lost, but could continue on.  Slowly dying, missing my soul, escaping the hold of warmth and laughter.  Dead but alive.  I could continue.  Moving on is easy when you think about it.  So easy to push forward when you have no where to go, nothing left to loose.  I could move on, but knowing what I had lost, what I could never hold again would kill me even as my feet kept up their steady rhythm and my eyes remained focused ahead.

I would be lost in his death, but Mulder would drown in mine.  Swiftly and hideously, I do not kid myself of this fact.  I remain to him as one real thing in a world left revealed so barren.  He clings to me in sad desperation mingled with astonishing love.  I am his touchstone, his fair lady in the tower, his valiant lord and master.  I ground him and guide him and stand by his side.  I link him to humanity and, as a result, to his own soul.

When did I become his soul?

When did he become mine?

I *should* fear this.  It's not natural.  It's not right.  If someone we love dies, we should be able to move on eventually.  We should grieve, for however long it takes, and then be able once again to find happiness, feel warmth, embrace the day.  I know Mulder would not do this were I to die.  I know that neither could I.

What are we, this all encompassing thing?  How did we get here?  When did we become these fairy-tale figures, these intertwined souls?  When did I first know that we were this grand and awing a folly?

The threat's not so easy to pinpoint anymore.  The danger hides in smoke filled shadows.  Good and evil link arm and arm and go out to diner and dancing with masks of authority and promises of good intentions.  Where does the threat hide now?  Where will the next blow come from?

So we stand, Mulder and I, with each of our heartbeats waiting for the other's echo, never knowing when silence may rear up and steal that answering rhythm, leaving us waiting forever for the response that will not come, our heart left still and silent in the void.  We stand and learn to know fear, to live with it side by side.  Breathing down our necks with silent menace, we allow these fears to keep us from what we might have while still sealing us together in what we will always be.

Sometimes, I fear.

Mulder, I fear.


You feel it too.  I know it, can see it on your face.  You fear with the same certainty, that same pained honesty of what we are.  Co-dependant isn't strong enough a word; it is laughably weak for a definition.  I see it in your eyes when you look at me, hear it in your voice when you call my name.  That same fear that drives you to push me away sometimes, trying to find distance, to escape what you know.

Haven't you realized yet that you can't escape?  Not ever.  We are this now, Mulder, have been for I don't know how long.

I fear, Mulder, and so do you, but I want to move past it.  I wish we could move past that.  I want what are only promises in your eyes on late nights in need of sleep with guard down and weaknesses revealed.  I want those simmering futures, the fear and bliss of what could be.  I want them and yet fear them desperately.

I fear, Mulder.

I fear *you.*

I fear you and me and us and what we are and could yet become.  I fear the intensity of this thing we share and fear with greater urgency the thought of what it may evolve into, what may now be inescapable.  I've always been the strong one, Mulder.  Always the rock of common sense and independence.  Always.  I was the one they sought out for advice, the one whose calm rationality was such an easy gift.  Dana would never be so foolish as to be entrapped by an abusive relationship.  Dana would never allow herself to be taken advantage of.  Dana has too clear an idea of who she is, too fierce a need to be independent.  Dana will always be the strong one.

I *am* strong, Mulder.  With you I am stronger than I ever was alone.  That was one of the first ways that I knew I loved you.  But I fear us because it makes me feel so vulnerable sometimes, the pull of what we are.  I could lose you someday and all of those strengths thought so impenetrable would bear a startling blow and I do not know that I would ever recover.

I am not one to be ruled by my fears, Mulder.  It is not who I am.  I have always faced them head on with eyes unflinching and strength a shield of imagined stone.  I do not want to fear us, and yet, sometimes I do.  I need your help, Mulder.  I need your help.

I'm afraid, Mulder, and I'm beginning to see that the only way we can ever face this fear is to do it together.

Can you hear me, Mulder?


Does he hear me?


Scully just started talking, so I wrote it down.  What do you think?
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