Requiescat. By dot. Slash. DD.

The sky is grey, and at the first thud of earth against wood, it starts
raining. Typical Mulder, always with the dramatics. Scully's here, of
course. She's staring straight ahead, tears streaming down her face; she's
just letting them fall, her mouth set. Your mother beside her. Those three
weirdos you used to hang out with, looking uncomfortable in mismatched
black. A few people from the Bureau you didn't piss off too badly.

And I'm here, Mulder, as I've always been. There needed to be a speech, so
I gave it. I talked about things like passion, dedication, the burning
desire for the truth which, finally, cost you your life.

Truth is a dangerous thing, Mulder.

For instance, the truths I didn't mention. How you would turn up late
nights, agitated, exhausted, needing to be soothed, held. Your reckless
abandonment in bed, matching my thrusts with yours, back arched, gasping,
sweat covering your body. The weary innocence of your face in sleep.

Truth, as the poets say, hurts. But none so much as the truth I denied you,
the words I could never bring myself to speak aloud, not even to you.

Goodbye, Fox. I love you.

Loved you.

dorothy8@netvigator.com