When the creative cabal known as the VS Producers sought a scribe to herald the arrival of this year’s valentine, they ill-advisedly nominated the one mister in a flock of sisters. This is somewhat like asking Coach Ditka to take quill in hand and compose a glowing tribute in verse to baby bunnies (if you don’t know who Mike Ditka is, you can already see the problem here).
My own X-fic has never been known for its rhapsodically romantic strains – I’m more of what VS Grandmistress Vickie would call a “gunzbombs” kinda guy. I’m more into throbbing blobs of carni-vorous ectoplasm than the throbbing ache of tortured obsession. My few attempts at shippiness have tended to draw more giggles than blissful mur-murs, have probably sent romantically inclined readers reaching for Advil rather than a hankie. Hey, I’m a Dumb Guy. I admit it.
But like most Dumb Guys surrounded by smart women, I ultimately get it. Beyond the mutant flukes and psycho-kinetic electric teenagers and destruc-tion-bent, frankly inhospitable aliens, the Files fundamentally is a love story – the saga of an ostensibly mismatched man and woman facing cosmically impossible odds together. Scully is the rationalist yin to Mulder’s quixotic yang. She is his touchstone; he helps her realize her boldest imaginings. Mulder wants to save the world; she seeks to save the savior.
I may prefer Bruce Willis comman-deering a hostage aircraft to Julia Roberts commandeering a rogue heart. I occasionally may leave the Doritos open and the lid up. And maybe the Mulder in my tales sometimes is a bit more interested in getting into Scully’s, uh, dossier than into her innermost soul. But I get it, and it’s with an undying affection for Our Heroes that I invite you to drink the dark wine of love, VS-style.
