DISCLAIMER: The X-Files characters are the property of Fox, Chris Carter, 1013, etc. The story contents are the creation and property of Djinn and are copyright (c) 2000 by Djinn. This story is Rated PG-13.


Musings of a Bitter Heart

by Djinn


So, it's done. It's over. I've willingly brought about my own destruction. And what I can't figure out, what I really can't understand...is why? I've played for years on the side of self-preservation. I've betrayed those I loved and all the ideals I held to in my youth. And I thought I could go on doing it. That to win, to survive, was worth any cost. And it was. Except that in the end, I couldn't betray Fox. I couldn't let him die. Even if it meant letting her have him. Even though it meant helping the woman I've come to hate and pity. Even if it means that I'll be dead soon.

I couldn't let him die.

So I helped her. Special Agent Dana Scully. Small, petite, cold-as-ice bitch. She hated me. And she loved him. And the really pathetic thing is that I don't think either of them have the courage to act on it. And she hated me because I'd known what it was to love Mulder. To physically love Mulder. And she knew that I still loved him.

It was amusing actually. Watching her cringe every time I called him "Fox." Something she either chose not to do, or was forbidden to do. I actually enjoyed doing it. "Is Fox there?" "Agent Scully, where's Fox?" "Fox, it's Diana." Interesting isn't it, how similar our names are. Diana, Dana. In numerology they add up to the same thing, mine is 20, hers is 11, both a 2. I've always been interested in coincidences. I guess it's no accident though that her number, 11, is ultimately a more powerful number than my 20. Because she's won, in the end. She gets him. Even if she doesn't know what to do with him.

I guess because my way is to use sex to seal a relationship, I just can't imagine being around Mulder for that long, loving him for that long, and not sleeping with him. My god, when I remember the nights and days and afternoons we shared. The hours we spent in bed. He could let go during sex, in a way he wouldn't any other time. It's when I got to know him best. Afterwards, when most men would have fallen asleep, my sweet spooky insomniac would pour his heart out to me. I learned to treasure those times. And I still treasure them. Because it's something she's never known. And I pray to god she never does.

But who am I kidding. If I thought he wasn't in love with her, I'd still be standing guard over him in that awful place. Looking at the blasphemous way they had laid him out. Waiting for him to wake up, to come back to me. If I thought he didn't love her, that he could love me again, I would never have betrayed myself. I would have kept him with me for all eternity if I could. But I could see it in his eyes when he looked at her. He loved her. More than he could ever love me. Possibly more than he ever did love me. He went to the ends of the earth to get her back, he wouldn't even come to Germany to find me.

And, despite the distaste I feel for Special Agent Scully, I believe she loves him too. Deeply, desperately, steadfastly. She'll never betray him. She'll always protect him. She too will journey to wherever he is to save him, to help him, to stand by him.

And why do I care. Why should I care a damn about either of them? I could have let him die. I should have let him die. Moved on and placed my trust and body firmly with the one man who could have saved me. But I didn't. And now that man will be here shortly. For this, he will send no trusted associate. He will do it himself. And I will see in his eyes the betrayal he feels. And the ultimate coldness as he pulls the trigger. And my only defense will be to say, "I couldn't let him die..."