Dear Spock, I really don't know what I was thinking. I mean, you so clearly belonged to Jim, and I started out with the best intentions of seeing that you got your man, but then a whole lot of plot thickened in the way, and all of a sudden you were being kidnapped and sold on the black market and forced to fight for your life and rescued by a beefy Klingon and collared as his love-puppy, and my god, all the scented baths and servile kneeling and clothes shopping and ruthless anal sex. What can I say. I was young. It will never happen again. Not to you, anyway.
Dear Mulder, I'm sorry for triggering a psychotic break that drove you to Walter Skinner's doorstep to act out my tawdry rentboy fantasies, though on the other hand, you had a few psychotic breaks in canon too if I recall, none of which helped you get laid, so I think mine was a bit more entertaining. I'm also sorry that I dropped you homeless onto the streets of Washington D.C. for a few years, until you became a smelly, semi-deranged derelict who couldn't even show his face in a stinking coffee house without earning sneers and getting kicked out like a dog--and yet, I did let Skinner find you, and you got laid, which you always seemed to enjoy; pushy, greedy little bottom that you were. I'm sorry too for making you a vampire, except again there was that whole "getting laid" side benefit. There's a trend here somewhere.
I'm not at all sorry for making you wear a dress--it's not as if you hadn't done that already, though for some reason you called yourself "Denise" at the time. And besides, I dressed you more tastefully.
Dear Krycek...oh, forget it.
Dear Blair, sorry about the traumatizing rape and the fishhooks and the gonorrhea and the facial scarring. Not sure if getting to body-wrestle with Jim was an acceptable trade-off, and we hadn't even gotten to the healing anal-sex stage before I stopped writing the story, which is perhaps the cruelest cut of all.
Sorry about making you a penniless rentboy just because it amused me. Well, I'm sorry about the penniless part--I swore I'd keep you floating in lattes, but I failed you, son. Oh, and the spanking--did you like that? You seemed ambivalent, but it looked as if it worked out in the, uh, end.
You know, looking over our history together, I think I did pretty well by you overall. I'm not even going to apologize to Jim. He got to bone your pretty tail now and then, and that's all any man needs; what he's got to complain about is beyond me. I have to say that for an ex-Ranger he's certainly a big, sulky candy-ass of a guy, isn't he? You can tell him I said so.
Dear Daniel, yeah, about the seedy semi-anonymous sex in midwinter--my bad. Clearly I should have sent you packing off into the sunset with Jack, perhaps to Tahiti with some coconut oil.
Sorry about stranding you at the ass-end of the universe on a nearly barren planet with only Jack and some goats for company. Man, you were bored. But, like Mulder, you're one of those guys who always seems to get laid no matter where he is--supply closet, space shuttle, lesbian potluck--so really, just shut up about it, okay? Who needs a Starbucks when you have gruel? A man like you should be happy with a field of pottery shards and a blow-job every now and then. So you led me to believe. Really, I blame you.
But I do accept full responsibility for making you have sex in front of aliens--anal penetration at that. I could remind you that these are the risks you take when you join the Air Force. I could, but I won't. I'm bigger than that.
In the end, what I'd like you to take away from your adventures with me is that you got to have Jack as your personal butt-slave, and I think we can all agree that's fun. For about thirty minutes.
Dear Jack, sorry about the butt-slave thing. I know you're not really a secret masochist, but you looked real purty in that collar.
Dear Scoobies, et al--what, you think I'm apologizing to you? Think again, suckers. I have not yet begun to violate you.