From: "Khiron" Date: Thu, 10 Aug 2000 17:50:57 +0300 Subject: "Three Easy Pieces II - Easy Come, Easy Go" by Khiron Source: direct Reply To: "Khiron" Title: Easy Come, Easy Go Author: Khiron E-Mail: khiron@www.fi Spoilers: No, and Requiem never happened. Rating: G Disclaimer: Carter, 1013, Fox, they're all yours. Summary: Mulder is a depressed drunk. Notes: Companion to "Of Movement and Stillness" and "Yesterday Is Gone". All pieces can be found at members.fortunecity.com/khiron -=-=-=-=-=-=-=- "It's me. Hi. ... Long time no see. You know, I didn't expect you to sound so much like ... you. Guess I still must sound pretty much the same too. Maybe it hasn't been that long, after all. Is three years that long? It is, isn't it? Guess I should've kept in touch, I really am sorry about that. I called because, well, because I found a stack of old photographs today. Mmmmh, okay. So you don't want to talk to me. Are you there? Pick up, please, if you are. Okay. So ... The photos. I moved out of my old apartment tod- - no, technically, it's already yesterday. I'd just carried the last box out, and I only came back up to see the place one last time. It's funny and it's sad how it didn't change over the years at all. You remember how it was, don't you? The fish died, I bought new fish that looked exactly the same. Something got spilled on the rug, I bought a new rug that looked exactly the same. Such a simple way of living. I mean, why mess with the good thing? Hey, did you ever wonder how the fish survived my tender care? I had one of those automatic feeder things. I never could bring myself to get rid of them completely, the fish had been around for so long- - no, that's not true. It was never really about the fish. The fishtank. I loved the humming sound, it broke the silence when the tv didn't. I bet you didn't notice, but often it just sat there empty. Well, not empty, there was one fish, he lived for almost twenty years. - - Though, I wouldn't really call him a fish, it looked more like a worm and I can't remember what the correct name for it was. In any case, he was always just Mr. Worm. He looked like a mister. Maybe he wasn't. One really had no way of telling. He was this cute, thin, two-inch thing with black and yellow stripes. Most of the times I couldn't even be sure if Mr. Worm was still alive, he lived under the rocks and didn't even come out to eat, not that I ever saw him anyway. But I always kept the fishtank. I figured, with time, dead things float, right? They do, in my limited experience. Belly up, usually. Wanna take a guess at why the fishtank isn't moving with me to my brand new apartment? Yesterday morning I found a black-and-yellow thing floating around on the surface. What was that? ... Are you there, Scully? ... Okay then. You're not there. Fine. So, my story. I did have a point. The photos. The apartment. I was standing by the front door and watched the livingroom without looking at anything, you know, letting my eyes wander. I wanted to check if I'd forgotten something. And what do you know, my eyes fixed on the bookcase. First on the empty spot, where the fishtank had been. I miss it. I miss Mr. Worm. ... Then my eyes moved higher up, all the way to the top shelf. I hadn't noticed it before, didn't remember putting anything up there, but there was something, a small box of some kind, on the top shelf on top of, just, uh, on- - near the roof. I figured the guy moving in after me might not appreciate the old ... magazines so I thought I'd get rid of them. In the box, there was a bunch of old photos. I wouldn't have paid attention to them, I would've just dumped them somewhere, but the one on top, it was of my dog. Did you know I had a dog when I was a kid? Johnston, his name was, a golden retriever. Dad bought him for me and Sammy when I was six or seven, but she always liked cats better. Johnston was my dog. Dad gave Jonhston up when I was thirteen. Said I wasn't capable of taking care of him. He should talk. I miss Johnston. I picked the photos up and browsed through them. Pathetic, really, how those thirteen pictures held the story of my life. You know, nine of them were from my childhood, from before I was twelve. ... If I were a shrink, I could tell a little something about my life. You know what stopped me from getting rid of those pictures right then and there? I could've done it, y'know. Used the lighter and puff! they would've been gone- - Oh yeah, that's right. I've started smoking again. I've changed after all, haven't I? I didn't burn them because I saw the last three, at the bottom of the pile. They were of you. Almost nine years together and all I had of my- - All I had was three photos. My life. There isn't even any prints on them. Completely untouched. How's that for miserable? The first one, the oldest, was taken at some crime scene and it's her in a light blue suit and high heels, looking straight to the camera. Her smile is irresistible. A little annoyed, though, I think. She's trying hard to be a tough girl, the little girl in the boys' playground, but at the same time she's wondering why she bothers. She don't have much respect for the li'l boys ... and 'specially the bigger boys around her, just about as much as they have for her, but, and, uh- - where was I going with this anyway? ... Never mind. You know how I could tell which was oldest and which taken only two days before you left? 'Twas easy. By her eyes- - well, not so much the eyes themselves, that'd be just a tad too poetic, wouldn't it? By the wrinkles around them. In the oldest one, it must've been the first or the second year, there are no wrinkles, just a few laugh-lines. She looks young, more ... child-like, and open. That was the woman I grew to trust with my life. I needed her in my life. The second picture is my fav'rite. I think it must've been taken around the time when she was first diagnosed with the big C thou shalt not speak of. I can't see her eyes clearly anymore, she's not looking into the camera this time but the hint of forthrightness is still in her eyes. And the first wrinkles are there too, no more laugh-lines. The outside is finally catching up with the inside. This woman, she respects the li'l boys running around her, she feels like one of them now. I could tell. But she despises the bigger boys now. No respect for them, no siree. No respect for messing with the li'l guys, big time. And in the background, I think it's the basement office, there's a tall, dark man standing behind her. But you know what makes this a really good photo? I remember that woman. I remember how important she was to me. That was the woman I grew to love. It's a cliché, but she was my life. And then there's the third photo. She's facing the foggy distance of an early morning sea. Everything surrounding her is grey but she stands out from the background wearing all black. The only reason I know this to be the last photo is that I took it and that I remember when that was. The symbolism of your posture hit me only a lot later. You're standing with your back to me. And, you said it yourself then, I was your past. You didn't say it in so many words, of course not, that might've hurt me, but basically, what you said was that you were my life and I was your past. That's when I realized you weren't the same person I had once known. A realization which made me a different person from what you had known. I always knew there was no such thing as "meant to be" or "forever". Or even "fate", or at very least, fate isn't the only thing deciding the outcome of our lives. People change, and, for better and worse, we changed. The trick is to keep changing together. We were uncapable of that. We had been through so much together. Too much isn't enough, you see. I realized that too then. That's when I knew we had come as far as we could together. You were ready to turn your back on your past. That woman ... she's the woman I have. The memory of her. And I can't love her. I was going to propose to you, y'know. That day by the ocean, I was going to ask you to marry me, that's why I brought you there. I wanted it to be memorable. And then you turned around and told me you were sorry. You were leaving me, FBI, everything, even your family. You didn't love me the way you used to, that's what you said too. Was that true? Why couldn't you try harder? I loved you. Why wasn't that enough? What was I to say to that? I couldn't ask you to stay, I knew what that kind of an opportunity meant to you. I can understand that you left the FBI but why did you leave me? I could have been a friend, if nothing else. How could you walk away from me so easily? Oh, and by the way, I sold the ring two days after we said goodbye in the airport. Did you cry even then, Scully? I thought maybe you could have given me that, shed a few tears for us. I sat there, on the floor in front of the bookcase, in silence, for a while, just holding the pictures. I was thinking about you. And myself. Not us, though. I was thinking maybe there never really was an "us", not in the common sense of the word. There were two persons whose lives were entangled almost inseparably. But only almost. There were always two separate entities. We were together for almost a decade, lovers for more than the last three years of it, but we didn't share much of ourselves. You never knew of Mr. Worm or Johnston. Maybe that's where we went wrong. If you really think about it, was there an "us", really? What did we ever share that wasn't forced on us? Well, that certainly came out bitter, didn't it? But it wasn't bitter, never that. We never hated. I'm glad it never had to come to that. Really. I was thinking how seriously I loved you back then. I called you for a reason. I have to tell you- - no, I have to ask you something something first. But I'm glad I only caught the machine. You would've cut in at one point or another and ... no, that's not how it would go. I'm too much of a coward. I would've hung up if you had answered the phone. ... At least you can erase the message now and pretend I never called. Is that what you're going to do? I'll give you my new number anyway. Call me, please. Anyhoo. I was going somewhere with this. Looking at the pictures I got to thinking of something. When did you become Scully? That's what you were to *me* from the very beginning, but when did *you* stop thinking of yourself as Dana? When did you stop being her and became only Scully? How long did it take? It was early, wasn't it? But the woman in the first picture, she didn't think of herself as Scully yet, didn't she? But by the second picture that's who she was, wasn't she? I wanted to apologize for that. I took a lot from- - How long does this tape go on anyway? I thought I had only two minute- -" A soft click. The phone is hung up on him. end.