TITLE: Color Blind (1/1)
EMAIL ADDRESS: firstname.lastname@example.org
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere
SPOILER WARNING: Wetwired, Pusher
KEYWORDS: Mulder, angst
SUMMARY: Mulder muses about color blindness.
DISCLAIMER: These characters do not belong to me.
I want to see the color of your hair, Scully. I know it's red. Your personnel file says so. Everyone referred to you as my new, red-headed partner when you were assigned to me. But I couldn't see the color then. I never could. You never knew, did you? You never knew I could only see your silky, shiny hair in bland shades of yellow, not vibrant red, like burnished leaves of autumn.
I grew up among the autumn leaves of New England. Yet I never could tell the difference between red and yellow leaves on swiftly changing maple trees. I was told what a tapestry they created, as green morphed into subtle shades of daffodil and rouge. I believed what I was told, I mourned the loss of such simple beauty.
I got used to not seeing red. I learned the taste, the smell of my own blood when I injured myself. I never saw the raw, angry color of open wounds, but knew they were there instinctively, highly tuning my senses to injury. After Samantha was taken, I never saw the color of the trickling, metallic tasting blood, streaming down my face after a beating from Dad.
I learned to drive, to see the subtle difference when traffic lights changed from green to yellow to red again. And when I started work at VCS, I was spared the full impact of a bloody crime scene, unable to see the splatter of crimson across defaced human flesh. It gave me an objectivity that was unwelcome, an ability to see the destruction of lives in toneless shades of yellow, jaundiced glimpses of stolen humanity.
But when I met you, when you walked into my office that afternoon, I was never so keenly aware that I could not see red, could not sense which auburn shade streaked your beautiful, primly arranged hair. I was sizing you up in so many ways that day. The spy, the intruder. I should have had more to worry about than your appearance. And despite my well-practiced spiel, carefully prepared to unhinge you, my mind constantly wandered, taking in your lips, your eyes, the texture of your skin. You were soft, so soft, but hard as rubies. Your keen intelligence shone like a gem, and I was already liking you, liking you despite my need to defend myself against you, against your threat to my work.
You became an ally, a friendly presence, nodding off in the passenger seat, sleeping next door in less than comfortable motel rooms, drinking morning coffee in greasy spoon diners. You followed me everywhere, assigned to debunk my work, yet intrigued by its complexity, its lack of clean, clear explanations. Your superiors had chosen the wrong incisive mind, the wrong loyal heart, the wrong stalwart companion to ridicule me. You saved me from myself, from belief in everyone and no one, in everything and nothing. You made me choose the middle path, the one leading to the truth, the heart of the matter.
Your steadfastness served me well, reined me in when I was foolish, chided me when I stepped over lines of pure reason. I have not always obeyed your wishes, but I have never been able to ignore them, ignore you. You captured me that first day, and I have been your willing prisoner, your supplicant, your constant, sheltering shadow. You've never much cared for that vigilance, that hovering presence. But I'll always protect you, mindless of my own personal safety. It's second nature to me now, compulsively valuing your life above my own.
I never told you I was red-green color blind. You found out after pointing a gun at me in your mom's living room. After those video tapes manifested psychotropic effects in your mind, twisting you, manipulating you, causing you to turn against me. If your Mom hadn't been there, would you have dropped the gun? We'll never know. We may have found a way out, a way out of danger, as we did when Modell controlled my mind, forced me to turn a gun against you.
You never knew I couldn't see the true color of your hair till then, did you, Scully? I never saw you as any less than beautiful. It looked yellow to me, blond, yet not blond. I will never tire of looking at it, shining in the sunlight, blowing delicately around your face with a slight breeze. I could no more look away from you than I could cease to breathe.
You captivate me, fascinate me, arouse every nerve ending in my body. Spending time with you has been my most difficult lesson in self-control. My academic background in psychology could never have prepared me for the sublimation, the tamping down of emotions that comprise my daily prayer for sanity.
I wish I could see the true color of your hair, Scully. Maybe it would reveal what you honestly feel for me. Maybe knowing its true brilliance, its true intensity, would make it easier, clearer. I want to know you, Scully. You only let me so close, and then you lock me out. If I could just be certain, if I could just be sure. We'd waste no more hours of our lives together, waste no more time alone.
I can't wait much longer, Scully. I'm simply exhausted from all the minutes, hours, days, years apart from you. I need to know the true nature of your heart, the true ending to our tale. Please. Please, Scully. Let me know the true color of your heart...
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