Work Text:
Chris Carter rubbed his eyes and looked blearily down at the keyboard, fighting to concentrate on the work in front of him. He glanced over at the clock and sighed. 2:23 a.m. and still an entire act to write. Well, he'd done without sleep before.
He pushed back from his desk and closed his laptop, stretching his long, denim‑clad legs out in front of him for a moment before getting up to go in search of a dose of caffeine. The ginsana that Mary had bought for him to keep his energy up just wasn't going to cut it tonight.
As he made his way through the darkened set to the crew kitchen, he considered the script he was writing. Or as he'd come to think of it, "The Script."
He'd sworn he'd never do it but after 44 years, he should have known better than to say "never" about anything. The pressure was overwhelming. He could take the heat from the fans ‑ they actually seemed to like it when he refused to give them what they wanted. He could even take the heat from the network executives who were certain that a steamy liaison between the two stars of the show was just what the final episode of the series needed to kick Fox into the top ratings slot in the last week of the season. Yes, he was extremely good at saying "no" to everyone who urged him to let romance develop between Mulder and Scully.
Everyone that is, except himself.
It isn't fair. Keeping her for yourself, not wanting anyone else to have her. You're doing the right thing for the wrong reasons… although no one knows that but you.
Pouring himself a strong cup of coffee, he shook off his bizarre thoughts impatiently. What was he saying? Dana Scully was a fictional character. He couldn't have her even if he wanted to.
And he did want to.
As a writer, his power lay in words. It was in words that he'd found comfort and strength, success and power. So he supposed it wasn't surprising that he'd find love there, too.
He knew all about artists falling in love with their creations. Hell, the story was as old as history. He was nothing more than Pygmalion in love with a post‑modern Galatea.
But it was time to let her go. He'd written the perfect soulmate for her ‑ his alter ego, who'd been waiting patiently for seven long years. Yes, time to let her go. A few more pages of script and she'd be out of reach forever.
As he made his way back to his office, he was grateful that he'd put off writing the final scenes until everyone had gone. He could write anywhere, as he was fond of pointing out, but this time it was personal. Tonight, on this last night, he needed to be alone with Scully.
He grabbed his laptop from his desk and headed back to the soundstage. Navigating confidently through the tangle of cameras and lighting rigs, he made his way to the portion of the set that was Scully's apartment.
Reaching for the lamp on the end table, he nodded with satisfaction as the light came on and filled Scully's living room with a soft, ambient glow. A small pack of matches left behind by a crewmember lay nearby and he used them to light the thick scented candles on the coffee table. It would be nice if the fireplace worked, but this would have to do.
He sat heavily on the sofa, running his weathered hands lovingly across the soft fabric as if caressing her skin. Scully's couch. Scully's world. He could sense her everywhere, but most of all here. Her brisk footsteps echoed across the floor. Her laughter, infrequent but more precious for its rarity, reached out from his memory and lingered in the corners of the room like the last remaining drops of bittersweet perfume.
Closing his eyes, he allowed himself a few brief moments of luxury as he let the sensations wash over him. Then he struggled to order his thoughts, gathering about him the substantive threads of what he must write, pushing away the pain that came in doing so. When he was ready, he reached for the laptop and heard the soft hum of the hard drive as he powered it up in preparation for the most difficult words he'd ever write.
"I love you, Dana," he said softly into the shadows of the room.
From behind him, he heard a muted rustling. He turned quickly, mortified that someone had heard his bizarre declaration of love for a woman who existed only in his imagination.
He caught his breath as he saw her, standing quietly at the edge of the set, a small smile playing across her face.
It could have been Gillian, but it wasn't. The two women were similar, of course, but he’d created one and not the other. Loved one and not the other. And a man knows.
She crossed the room quietly and sat next to him. He said nothing, afraid to move, afraid to speak lest he disturb the image. Real or imagined, it didn't matter. She was here.
She reached out and took his hand and he gave a small gasp of surprise at the warm touch of her skin against his. If it was a dream, it was the most vivid dream he'd ever had… which wasn't surprising, it was a dream seven years in the making.
She rubbed her thumb gently across his hand, the pale white of her small fingers contrasting delicately with his deeply tanned skin.
“Aren't you going to say hello?"
He laughed out loud, her matter‑of‑fact question putting him instantly at ease. "I guess I should apologize for intruding."
She crooked her eyebrow at him. "Everything here is yours, too, you know."
"Not everything."
“No. Not everything."
They settled back into silence. He studied her intently, taking in every subtle curve and gesture, storing the memories against the years to come without her. He could sense her waiting for him to adjust to the reality of her presence and knew she'd be patient while he did so. He'd given her patience.
She gently slid the computer from his lap and onto her own, flipping it open and scanning the text. He waited, not as patiently, while she read what he'd written.
When she'd finished, she lifted her eyes to him and he saw tears gathering in them as she struggled to speak.
"You're giving me Mulder?" she said in a voice barely above a whisper.
He nodded, swallowing hard.
She closed her eyes tight. He felt his heart contract painfully. So it was true. She did love Mulder. He choked back an irrational wave of jealousy. Of course, she loves Mulder. You wrote him for her, set the whole thing up. You put the knife in your own heart this time, Carter.
She set the laptop carefully on the coffee table and looked at him with such profound gratitude that he felt ashamed for his selfishness in keeping them apart.
She rose quickly, fluidly, and walked over to the stereo. She flicked on the power switch and the room filled with soft music. Turning to him, she held out her hands.
“Dance with me."
He got up and crossed the room to join her, luxuriating in the feeling of her slim body in his arms, feeling her warmth pressed against his. All at once he understood why he'd written her as she was… her head fit perfectly into the curve of his neck, her slim waist felt snug in the contour of his arm.
She didn't seem to mind when he wrapped her more tightly in his embrace, didn't even appear to notice when they stopped moving altogether and just stood, motionless, in the center of the room.
He buried his face in her fiery hair and gave in to the moment, feeling her heart pounding steadily in identical rhythm against his own. The soft sounds of her breathing filled his senses as she stood quietly within the tight circle of his arms.
He pulled back a little and looked into her face. There was compassion there, as well as gratitude. And sorrow for what could never be. He knew he shouldn't, but she didn't resist when he bent his head towards her.
A low moan of pleasure came from deep in his throat as his lips brushed hers. She was soft velvet and sweet red wine, as he knew she would be. As he'd written her to be. He forced himself to stop, resisted his impulse to carry her into the bedroom and love her. She wasn't his to love. And he had someone waiting for him at home.
The song ended and she disengaged herself gently from his arms, stepping lightly out of his embrace and contemplating him with the look of tender but unbending steel that he'd crafted for her.
"It's time, Chris," she said gently.
He nodded. "I know."
"I wish I could love you. But I wasn't written that way."
He nodded again, tears in his eyes now.
"Thank you. For…" She made a slight gesture in the air to indicate her surroundings. Her life.
Despite the tears, his blue eyes still twinkled. "No problem."
In the years to come, he would remember this night. The night that his Galatea had risen from the unknown depths of his imagination to love him, if only in passing. The night she had sat with him until dawn, her fingers over his on the keys, her voice whispering in his ear, as he gave Dana Scully over to the man she was written to love.