From: Imogen Date: 16 May 1999 08:39:28 -0700 Subject: [xfcreative] NEW: Bluebells From: "Imogen" TITLE: Bluebells AUTHOR: Imogen E-MAIL ADDRESS: imogen@angelfire.com DISTRIBUTION: everywhere, but please tell me where it's going SPOILERS: none RATING: U CLASSIFICATION: V, A KEYWORDS: S point of view, MSR, character death FEEDBACK: Flames for the fic gratefully accepted at imogen@angelfire.com Flames for the author's notes gratefully accepted at imo_gen@angelfire.com I'm serious! Please send feedback, though. AUTHOR'S NOTES: It occurs to me that you don't actually need to read this anymore, just read the information above, click reply and tell me what you thought. Honestly, though, don't flame me for this, pleeease. I know it's really short but what was the point of writing more than I had to say just because I felt it would be more respectable longer? I was picking bluebells and it popped out - kind of like childbirth but then again, not at all like childbirth. I might one day do something with it though, make it part of a longer piece. It's not quite as linear as a normal piece but it's not radical either. If you don't like it I don't care anymore. If you do like it I do care - let me know. This is dedicated to everyone at the angst-addicts list (we're taking over the world!- angst addicts bay-bee)- evidence of your influence is all over this! Spot the Sarah McLachlan refs and win a prize! Now that the author's notes are as long as the fic itself I feel justified in letting you go on to read it. Bluebells Mulder has never given me roses. He gave me bluebells. It surprised me at first; it didn't seem in keeping with his character, the passion with which he conducted his search for the truth and the intensity of the love he gave to me. I expected red wine and roses from Mulder but he gave me bluebells. The day after the night he gave his soul to me, its brightness burning my hands, he came to my door with the most wonderful smile, with the light of a thousand dreams in his eyes and his arms full of bluebells. He wouldn't tell me where he had picked them but there was mud on his shoes. The stain on the carpet has gone but I can still pick out the place where it once was. I think it meant that what we had together was something altogether more tender and delicate than anything either of us had had before. Sometimes, though, I think that he loved Samantha like this, before she was taken. Those weeks when the bluebells were in bloom he came to my door every morning to bring me new bluebells, to replace those that had begun to droop and fade. The deepest midnight blue of our nights together to pinks the colour of the shells on the seashore when I was a child and the most pure whites for our hopes of the future; every room carried their scent and if I inhale deeply enough, I can still catch it floating above the air. One day he took me to the wood, a long drive out of the city. He must have been getting up at dawn to bring those flowers to me before work every morning. We lay among the bluebells in the wood, sunshine hazy, pollen floating in the air, all day; the only day we left everyone else behind. I kept a flower from that day pressed into the pages of a book. Its pages are stained with indigo now. ________________________ Those three weeks when the bluebells were in bloom were the most....soft of my life. The bluebells have come again this year and, oh, god, there's a part of me that doesn't understand why you aren't here with them in your arms for me. They faded so quickly. Why did you give me bluebells? Did you expect this? I sit each day in the light and warmth of sun through the window. I feel you move around this place; I watch us together as we used to be; cradle me, rock me to sleep, my darling. I swear that grief has never been so sweet, sadness never so glorious as this. They won't let me work anymore, Mulder. I think they pity me; they pity the stains on my fingers. I wanted to remember you; I sat on the floor to watch us together. They tried to make me pass those places where you were without weeping for you, without falling to my knees. They tried to make me forget you. After I filled the office with dead bluebells they told me to go home. I'm tired of straight lines. I'll never write on a straight line again, I'll never walk one. You have given me this; it is your most precious and fierce legacy. ::Gentle:: You tell me to be gentle in grief. Bluebells were how you loved me, bluebells are how I'm to let you go. With sweetness and longing, with midnight blue, with spring-sky blue and fading every hour. FIN Angelfire for your free web-based e-mail. http://www.angelfire.com