From: char@chaffin.com   
      
   NO ARCHIVE   
      
      
      
   A LIFE, PROLOGUE: DEAR HEART   
   By Char Chaffin   
   MSR, PG-13   
   Spoilers:  Vague, Through Season Nine   
   Disclaimers:  Clones on Loan   
      
   THANKS:  To everyone who emailed me, asking for 'just one more   
   "Life" story, please!'  This is for you, with love -   
      
   DEDICATION:  To Nancy, who is a dear spot in my own online life!   
      
   Additional notes at the end -   
      
   Summary:  'It's a lonesome town, all right...'   
      
      
   "Dear Heart"   
      
      
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
   'Dear Heart, wish you were here to warm this night...'   
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
      
      
   Another dingy town, small and nondescript.  Another motel, another   
   greasy spoon diner, another series of days and nights spent holed up.   
      
   He hates his life.  No, that's not quite correct, because by no   
   stretch of anyone's imagination could this be called a life.   
      
   He hates his existence, that's more accurate.   
      
   Sitting in a corner booth at the diner, which is named - of all   
   things - simply, "Eats," he pokes at a cold hamburger nestled between   
   two halves of a soggy bun, garnished with wilted lettuce.  One bite   
   convinced him that his stomach couldn't handle the stress, so instead   
   he's downed several cups of coffee and has spent the evening staring   
   out the clouded window.  Main Street, Po-dunk, USA.  On a weeknight   
   there's nothing happening.  He figures it's as boring behind closed   
   doors as it seems to be out in public.  Ironically it's these deader-   
   than-a-doornail towns that afford him the most anonymity and safety.   
   He used to think the big cites were easier to disappear in.  He   
   doesn't think that way any longer.   
      
   It's a clear night and the stars are slowly popping out.  There's a   
   quarter moon as well, and as he gazes at it through the blurry window   
   he can't help but wonder if his woman is staring at the same moon,   
   and thinking of him.   
      
   Of course, she is.  He knows her.  She might have her feet planted   
   firmly on the ground but deep inside her heart she's a romantic, and   
   a moon-gazer.  He used to tease her about it just to watch her get   
   indignant and argumentative.   
      
   "I do NOT gaze at the moon, Mulder!  Why on earth would I want to?"   
      
   "Because you're hoping, if you do, you'll see a "Moon-Gotcha."   
      
   "I know I'm going to regret this, but... what's a "Moon-Gotcha?"   
      
   "Well, I'll show you.  See the moon?"   
      
   "Yeah..."   
      
   "GOTCHA!"   
      
   "MULDER!  Let go of my kneecap; that TICKLES!"   
      
   He can almost hear her laughter, as he stares at the moon.  Almost.   
      
   *************   
      
      
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
   'Dear Heart, seems like a year since you've been out of my sight...'   
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
      
   She's the reason he sits in tiny, dark diners that smell of old   
   frying oil.  She's the reason he moves from place to place, back-   
   tracking and side-stepping his way across the country.  She and his   
   child, his William.  Two days old when he left, bending over the   
   bassinet to kiss the tiny, perfect face.  Trying to stem the tears,   
   upset when two of them dripped onto the soft blue receiving blanket   
   that lay over his son as he slept.  Spilling more tears on her pale,   
   sad face when he had to say goodbye; had to hold her so tightly one   
   last time, there in the doorway of the bedroom they'd shared all too   
   infrequently.   
      
   As he'd wiped at her wet cheeks, she'd done the same for him.  And   
   their final words to each other were banal and frustrating and so   
   much like them...   
      
   "You'll need to change vehicles several times.  And don't forget to   
   get word to me - safely, of course - when you need more funds."   
      
   He'd nodded and buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent,   
   imprinting in his mind the good clean of it, knowing that anything   
   resembling good was going to be damned scarce.  "I'll try to leave   
   notes with the guys, and maybe I can email you once in a while.  As   
   soon as I secure everything and it feels safer."   
      
      
   He'd wanted to say that, over and over again.  Instead he'd talked of   
   notes and goddamned email messages.  They were both idiots, it would   
   seem.   
      
   But the kiss they'd shared more than made up for the words they   
   never spoke.  Hard, desperate, taking, greedy, soft, tender,   
   supplicating, needy...  unutterably sad.  No words could have topped   
   it, and so none were offered.  He'd walked to the curb and climbed   
   into the taxi; it drove away carrying him, his suitcases... but not   
   his heart.  He'd left it, beating out its love for her, in her hands.   
      
   That drive away from Scully had signaled the beginning of hell for   
   him.  Days and nights on the road.  Buying a beat-up car, driving it   
   until he could dump it, and buy another.  Seeking to vanish into the   
   mystic the way their enemies seemed to be able to do at the drop of a   
   hat.  Praying that with his absence, he'd secure a measure of   
   security for the woman and child he'd walked away from.   
      
   Mostly, he'd prayed.   
      
   ********************   
      
   The sheets on the lumpy bed are old and pilled, frayed, smelling of   
   bleach and a touch of mildew.  The blanket is threadbare and the   
   bedspread should have been put out of its misery years ago.  It   
   doesn't matter all that much to him because it's not like he's going   
   to fall asleep, anyway.  Usually he finds himself flat on his back,   
   staring at the ceiling and wishing with an intensity bordering on   
   pain that he was in that apartment in Georgetown.  He'd have both   
   arms full of family, better believe it.  Instead, he counts the   
   cracks in the cheap plaster job that some underpaid Joe Schmoe   
   slopped over the ceiling - probably back during the Depression - and   
   he thinks of every second he held her, every kiss he gave her.   
      
   It keeps him sane.   
      
   From that first tentative meeting of lips to the first mesh of their   
   bodies on a night much like this one, he never questioned that they   
   belonged together.  In his mind it was inevitable.  If he was unsure   
   of anything, it was the regard and interest their relationship might   
   generate among those who'd seek to use them to control and manipulate   
   a future that he was just beginning to comprehend and to fear.  That   
   alone kept him from declaring himself on more than one occasion.   
      
   But one night... one night it was impossible to deny it any longer.   
   One night everything that needed to be said between them was whittled   
   down into a kiss so fiercely sweet that it nearly sent him to his   
   knees.   
      
   He still can't recall who kissed whom first.  It just seemed as if   
   one moment he was looking into her eyes and the next she was bare and   
   warm and beneath him in his rumpled bed, their mouths fused together.   
   There was no memory of having undressed; only the magic they created   
   on each others' bodies with lips, tongues, hands.   
      
   Her skin was damp and satiny against his.  Her legs twined around   
   him, holding him tightly while her mouth fed from his with greedy   
   passion.  Into the silence of the room their sighs and gasps, broken   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)