By Scarlet Baldy
scarletbaldy@hotmail.com

RATING: PG-13

CLASSIFICATION: That's a tough one. Eulogy of sorts?

ARCHIVE: yup.

EMAIL: scarletbaldy@hotmail.com

DISCLAIMERS: Read what the lady says, Chris. They've always been ours.

NOTE: this one is for all of you guys, for making M&S more complex and
interesting than CC ever intended. Thank you for all the great scenes
and stories that will remain forever in my mind.

**** I am.

I am multiple.

I am the Scullys.

All of them.

I have grown. I have expanded.

I carry a little of you in me, each and every one of you, my mothers
and fathers. Over ten years you made me, defined me.

Your are my scars and my beauty marks.

My curse and my blessing.

You. My writers.

Your portrayal of me has not always been accurate. The term 'out of
character' was sometimes used. You did not always follow the
sacrosanct character's canon.

Who said you had to?

It doesn't matter. I'm a just a construct, nodes of words giving birth
to meanings. I'm what you want me to be.

As long as you're having fun, nothing else matters.

I am all yours.

I am a medical doctor, a physician, a pathologist. I am educated,
literate, frighteningly smart. But despite these impressive
credentials my spelling skills sometimes fail me - "Mulder your late".

I giggle like a teenager, I get excited like a teenager: "OHMIGOD,
Mulder loves me!!!" I am jealous and mean and petty. I sulk and throw
tantrums. I make practical jokes. I spend way too much time thinking
about sex. I write love letters on nice paper and spray them with
perfume. I find piercing kinky and enjoy dancing in night-clubs. I
believe in love for ever.

I behave like an adult, I swallow my pride and forgive. I try to
understand different sets of values. I adapt and learn. I am aware of
my flaws. I keep my emotional displays private. Sometimes I make love
and it isn't perfect. I write shopping lists on scrap paper. I enjoy
quiet evenings on my sofa with a good book. I believe love is hard
work.

I get shy. I blush. I say: "Mulder, don't..." or things like: "it's
been a long time."

I'm an exhibitionist. I like red vinyl booths and Airports.

I'm both a virgin and a slut.

My insults are sometimes blunt : "Fuck you, Mulder." Sometimes more
subtle: "Feel like the blues, Scully?" "Around you, Mulder, that's a
gratuitous question."

I am deep and I am shallow.

I am in control and going insane.

I question my faith and my identity.

I like to buy shoes.

I buy lipsticks called 'Blow job Red' I use strawberry shampoo. I
always have my coffee with milk and no sugar. I like candles and lemon
scented soap. I like health food.

I like Sati and Celine Dion. I could have done without the latter, you
know?

I have a very exciting sex life.

Mostly with Mulder, but also with Skinner, Krycek, CSM, Detective
Kresge, the late Pendrell, Marita Covarrubias, a military chick named
Kaz, a sly pierced cop nicknamed Moo. Countless strangers of both
sexes, numerous toys... and a washing machine.

I've loved and been made love to in bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchens,
offices, cars, warehouses, museums, car parks, crawlspaces, closets,
fields, forests, lakes. Against doors, filing cabinets, windows,
vending machines, trees. I'm surprised I haven't fucked while bungee
jumping yet. (Please don't.)

You people have put me in the most awkward, embarrassing and -
alright, I'll admit it - sometimes exciting situations.

I've been handcuffed, tied up, gagged, spanked.

I've had it slow and tender. I've had it rough and wild.

The sum of my post-coital glows could keep Washington lit up for a
year, no doubt about that.

It hasn't always been  a joy ride though. You like to see me suffer.
You shot me, tortured me, raped me, made me blind, made me die.

Time and time again I became the sacrificial lamb on the altar of the
Mighty Plot Device - 'hurt & comfort'  as you call it. Let me tell you
this: you are one vicious lot.

You've let me bleed almost to death with a cell phone by my ear,
Mulder's voice the only thing giving me the will to live.

I nearly lost my mind, naked and tied up, held prisoner by a cooking
psycho obsessed by Patricia Cornwell .

I survived a plane crash and had to hike through the mountains with a
gaping wound in my leg. Don't get me wrong - I *was* grateful for that
Demerol.

You made me die with heart-wrenching poise, scribbling hundreds of
little notes before a tumor in my brain made me slip into a terminal
coma.

You got Skinner end my sufferings so I could escape a fate worse than
death on a remote planet where unbearable pain punished any
inappropriate thoughts I might have had.

You had me abducted and tested upon. You had me wear a lethal
bracelet on my wrist on a post-apocalyptic earth.

You put all kind of drugs in my system just to see how I would cope -
gave me countless viruses - you couldn't stop at the common cold,
could you?

You killed everyone I loved. My family, my children, Mulder.

You made me break down and cry more times than I can count. Just
because you could.

You gave me enough trauma to give me nightmares till the day I really
die.

When you forget me.

When you stop writing me.

When I become some guilty past pleasure. Something you will speak of
in hushed tones with a depreciative smile.

But I'm not bitter.

Because you also gave me beautiful memories.

Countless candlelit dinners. Wine by fireplaces. Snowball fights.
Cabin in the woods in the autumn. Mermaids dancing in the sunrise.
Watching the stars lying on the roof of a car. And Mulder, always
Mulder. Smiling at me.

You made me travel in time and be a princess.

You gave me children I should never have had.

I won't even make a fuss about your unfortunate choices of names. Not
even 'Bram' and 'Cordelia'. Although I should.

You gave me a partner who cared more about me than about little green
men.

You made us beautiful, you gave us toned and lean bodies, perfect
skin, perfect hair and perfect stamina to boot.

Not to mention an impeccable dress sense - most of the time.

You gave us sharp and interesting minds.

You gave us moments of breathtaking intensity of unbearable pleasure.

Against all odds, you gave us happiness. God knows we weren't designed
for this to begin with.

So when it all ends, I'll be grateful.

The lives you've created for me haven't always been well written. They
were sometimes clumsy, boring, trivial or downright ridiculous.

But no matter how flat or rounded a character you made me, how
simplistic or complex your plots were,  these lives were all worth it.

Because for constructs like me the only true offence is silence.

Thank you.

****

THE END.

****

EARN BROWNIE POINTS! HOW MANY FICS REFERENCES CAN YOU SPOT? :-)