From mishka@spiralcomm.net Tue Apr 22 11:52:51 1997 Subject: A Loser by Choice (1/1) by Mishka (MSR) From: mishka@spiralcomm.net -------- A Loser by Choice (1/1) by Mishka (mishka@spiralcomm.net) Category: VRA Rating: G Archiving/forwarding to ATXC: yes, please! Disclaimer: The characters and dialogue in the following story belong to Ten-Thirteen and FOX. No copyright infringement is intended. Summary: Mulder contemplates advice he gets from a born loser. Post "Small Potatoes" story. MSR. Comments are welcome. Please respond to mishka@spiralcomm.net. ******************** I asked Eddie why he wanted to see me. "I just think it's funny. I was born a loser, but you're one by choice," he observed. Eddie had learned a lot from the few hours he spent walking around in my shoes. Still, I had to ask him how he knew this. "Experience," was his response. Then he said something that has bothered me ever since. "You should live a little...treat yourself," he advised, reminding me of the kind of trite self-esteem-boosting encouragement that inspired his court-appointed therapist to make him wear that silly orange hat with "Superstar" emblazoned over the brim. But Eddie's advice was better. "God knows I would, if I were you," Eddie added. No shit, Sherlock. He already had been me, and had gotten farther with Scully in a few hours than I had in four years. The problem was, I had never seriously tried, aside from my little jokes and double entendres. Live a little, he said. Treat myself. If I had not burst through Scully's apartment door when I had, who knows how much more Eddie would have "lived a little" and "treated himself" with Scully. Later, outside the visiting room, Scully waited for me, having seen the whole embarrassing interchange on a monitor. She wouldn't look me in the eye, but as we walked down the hall to leave the jail building, she was compelled to make some kind of comment on what she had heard. "I don't imagine you need to be told this, Mulder, but you're not a loser." She kept her voice low and her eyes cast down, unwilling to look at me as she said the words. A sign of insincerity, perhaps? Or did she just want to save me from the humiliation I felt at having my inadequacy pointed out by the likes of Eddie? I had to answer her, even if it would hint at how I was feeling at the moment. "Yeah, but I'm no Eddie Van Blundht, am I?" I asked, glancing over at her to see her reaction. Scully remained silent and still would not look at me. We exchanged few words the rest of the time we were together -- the usual chit-chat we normally engaged in after a case was closed, the usual banter and innuendos that had become a habit for both of us. A harmless habit. I went home to my apartment and looked around, trying to see it through Eddie's eyes. The eyes of a born loser who envied what others took for granted, and which he would never have without pretending he was someone he was not. Eddie had been to my apartment, and had seen my life from a fresh perspective. I had grown accustomed to the comforting solitude I found there. It may be a lonely existence, but it's safe, too. Porno mags and phone sex are my release; the women in magazines keep the same inviting expressions on their faces, and the telephone doesn't demand committment or becoming emotionally vulnerable to another human being. I had seen the welcoming expression on Scully's face as she had been ready to receive Eddie's kiss. Seeing her like that with my mirror image made me feel like I was living a scene from "Scrooge" or "It's a Wonderful Life". Seeing what my life would have been like if I could just realise what I really had. Scully looked happy. Even my fish seemed happier since Eddie had played "Mulder for a day". They swam around perkily when they saw me, expecting to be fed on a regular basis now that their master had changed his ways. I went over to the tank and took the shaker of fish food flakes off the top, opened it, and gently shook some onto the surface of the water. They happily wagged their tails to kiss the waterline, grateful for their dinner. I stood and watched them for several minutes, replaying in my mind the scene I saw in Scully's apartment. I could only imagine what had gone on before I arrived. (Scully: I'm seeing a whole new side of you, Mulder. Eddie: Is that a good thing? Scully: I like it.) I left my cheerful pets to their feeding frenzy and walked over to the fridge. Peering in behind the meager edibles, moldy cheese and stale bread, I found something I had forgotten about: a bottle of red wine I had picked up once for some reason. Maybe it was in the hopes I'd have someone over to entertain. I don't drink much, but when I do it's usually alone. So the bottle was still there. The bottle was unopened. I took the bottle out. It was cold and moist to the touch, having lived in the back of my fridge for years. Putting it on the counter, I went to change out of my suit and into jeans and a t-shirt, discarding my dress shoes and slipping into comfortable sneakers. I felt more like myself in these clothes. (Eddie: We never really talk much, do we? Scully: What do you mean...like, *really* talk? No, we don't Mulder. Eddie: Well, what's stopping us?) I grabbed my jacket, the bottle, and my keys and left my dark and lonely apartment behind. She had said I wasn't a loser. I know I can trust her to tell me the truth. END From mishka@spiralcomm.net Tue Apr 22 23:28:25 1997 Subject: A Loser by Choice II (1/1) by Mishka (MSR) From: mishka@spiralcomm.net -------- A Loser by Choice II: Scully's Side (1/1) by Mishka (mishka@spiralcomm.net) Category: VRA Rating: PG Archiving/forwarding to ATXC: yes, please! Disclaimer: The characters and dialogue in the following story belong to Ten-Thirteen and FOX. No copyright infringement is intended. Summary: Scully considers the implications of her encounter with a born loser, and Mulder tries to live a little. A post-"Small Potatoes" story. MSR. Thanks again to all who wrote me asking for a sequel. Here it is! This one's from Scully's perspective, and takes things to the next step. Comments are welcome. Please respond to mishka@spiralcomm.net. ******************** I hope he believed me. He's not a loser. Obsessed with his work, yes. A little dense at times for such an intelligent man, yes. But he's not a loser. Mulder's always been so hard on himself. He expects so much from himself, and is never satisfied with anything less than perfection. Well, he could say the same about me, too. After four years together, I've learned that we're really much more alike than we are different. We've grown together, really. Now everything I thought I knew about our relationship has changed. If someone had asked me a month ago what we were to each other, I'd have said we're best friends. But when I thought it was Mulder who was here that night, everything was turned upside down. I would have let him kiss me. Gladly. I had only thought vaguely of that possibility in the past. I've had dreams -- what heterosexual woman wouldn't, working so closely with Mulder like I have? He's a handsome, intelligent, charming, attractive man. He has his dark side, his neuroses and problems, but I think those make up a large part of what made me come to truly care about him. I thought I had loved him like I'd love a best friend, much like a brother, but closer to me than my brothers or even Melissa ever were. But now I'm not sure if it isn't more than that, and I never realized it. Lately I haven't been thinking about finding romance or a relationship -- or anything more than getting through the next year without becoming incapacitated. Or without dying. The reality of cancer growing inside you will do that to you. The focus is on survival rather than growth. I don't even think about having children someday; that thought is too painful. It only comes to me in nightmares, or sudden flashes of waking thought that I quickly push away from consciousness. "Someday" is a difficult word for me now, because I don't know if someday will ever come. I now know that I need to think of the present as my future. I'm accepting that fact more every day. A familiar knock on my door brings me out of my self-absorbtion. I go to look through the peephole; it's Mulder, looking much like he did the last time I looked at him from this perspective. But, no, that wasn't him; it was Van Blundht. The man with the silent "h". Mulder has the same outfit on, and I can make out a bottle of wine in one hand. Oh, Lord, what is he up to? The ridiculous, dopey grin is gone, replaced by Mulder's typically forlorn expression. I open the door with my famous sardonic smile. "Mulder, did anyone ever tell you that you look like a lost puppy when you stand outside a door?" Mulder is inside the door with one long stride. "I hope you didn't call the SPCA on me, Scully; I think my tags are out of date," he says, managing to keep a straight face. "What's that?" I ask, indicating the bottle. "Uh, it's a cylindrical vessel containing the juice of fermented grapes, Scully. Otherwise known as a bottle of wine. I would have thought you'd know that." He hands it to me, and I start to carry it towards the kitchen. I stop and turn back to Mulder, who is following close behind. The bottle has beads of moisture on it and is cool to the touch. "I would have thought you'd know that you *don't* refrigerate red wine, Mulder," I return with a serious glance. "Didn't you grow up in that big house on the Vineyard? The one with the wine cellar?" Mulder looks slightly embarrassed and unsure of himself. Now I regret having pointed it out, but he recovers and continues with the usual banter. "I guess I didn't pay much attention to what went on at my parents' wine-and-cheese parties. I had a mis-spent youth -- playing 'Space Invaders' on my Atari in my room." "And you haven't stopped playing 'Space Invaders', have you, Mulder?" I say with a slight grin. Touché. I make ammends. "Thanks for the bottle, anyhow, Mulder. Like they say, it's the thought that counts. I have a bottle of red in my pantry, I think," I say, going to the kitchen where the "pantry" was -- actually, a closet which houses all my soups, pastas, and, yes, there it is: the occasional bottle of wine. Mulder opens the bottle and we settle on the couch with two glasses. Oh, God, this is giving me deja vu, but I'm not going to tell Mulder about it. I fill each glass and we each take a sip. I'm surprised that this is the best-tasting wine I've ever had. It's really nothing fancy. I'm afraid to ask Mulder why he came, but I do. "I was just thinking we never really talk," he says, trying to look casual, draping his left arm on the back of the couch. Oh, Hell, this is too spooky. "You're right, Mulder; we don't. Maybe we should." Mulder takes a larger sip, swallows, and looks back at me with those sad eyes of his. He begins. "Dana, I wanted to ask you -- did you really mean what you said to me? Back when I went to see Van Blundht a few weeks ago? Do you really think I'm not a loser?" I'm shocked that he'd still be thinking of that. "Of course I meant it, Mulder. I wouldn't lie to you; you know that." Mulder only nods in response. He just needed to hear it again, I suppose. "Mulder, you have so much going for you, and you don't even realize it. If anyone's a loser, it's me." He looks surprised at the comment. "Scully, I...how can you say that? You're wonderful...you're smart, you're beautiful, you're interesting..." "...I have cancer," I add, as if continuing his list. Shit, why did I say that. But it's true. We have to talk about it. Silence hits us. Mulder looks frozen in time, even his breathing put on hold. Finally he breaks the spell. Angered. "Scully, you can't think like that," he says, raising his voice in his urgency to get the words out. He pauses. "It's...it's just like me. I've spent my whole life focused on the past and thinking about the future...about getting Samantha back." He stops and puts his glass down on the coffee table. I can tell he's trying to keep from letting the emotions tied up with his sister interfere with what he's trying to say right now, at this moment. He looks over at me and takes my hand roughly in his, then lightly places our two clasped hands on his lean leg resting between us on the couch. His eyes are reddened, but he's kept his sorrow in check. "God damn it, Dana, we're both pretty damned fucked up," he says with a shaky, yet determined, voice. "It's about time we do something about right now, instead of always thinking about what was or what might be." He's right, I think. Absolutely right. He leans forward, bringing his lips bare inches from mine. He waits to see how I'll react. I don't know why, but he seems to be afraid that I'll reject him. He doesn't find it; I lean forward and meet his lips with gentle eagerness. We both move in closer, embracing like we had been lovers for all these years, lovers who had maintained their initial passion for each other while growing in closeness through a long, committed partnership. At this moment, with everything feeling so right, I can't help but think now that if anything can heal me -- heal us both -- we have finally found it. Or if not healing, at least a chance to live a little. END And to think I call myself a "relationshipper"! Well, it *is* a relationship. ;^) Please send any comments to mishka@spiralcomm.net.