From: "carly" Date: Sat, 8 Apr 2000 17:53:01 -0700 Subject: NEW: Bonsai (1/2) by Lydia Harkness Source: xff Bonsai (1/2) by: Lydia Harkness email: xpositions@yahoo.com distribution: Gossamer, Spookys. Anywhere else, please email me. spoilers: references to Small Potatoes, Detour, & War Of the Corophages rating: PG (light cussing) classification: S, Scully POV summary: Scully point-of-view as she deals with another birthday. read more of my fanfic at: http://www.geocities.com/x-review _____ "It's a bonsai tree." That's what I said when my mom handed me my birthday present. Now normally Dana Scully is very good in these awkward situations. Dana Scully is tactful. Dana Scully is smart and sensitive. Dana Scully can think of something better to say than what flies out of my mouth. "It's a bonsai tree." The twig of a trunk juts up from hideously smooth rocks, and my mom adds with a gentle smile and soothing voice how remarkable such plants are. She tells me that such plants are not to be taken lightly. Extra care, a calm spirit, and an east window are required. The words "speak tree" actually surface in our conversation, and I wonder if it isn't too late to save for that retirement home is Greenwich. That's fabulous. Talking to a tree is just two steps away from having eighty cats, crocheted vests, and no life. Which ironically isn't far from where I'm at now. Jesus, another birthday here and gone. No one to celebrate with but my mother. Bill left a message on my machine this morning, accompanied by last nights arrival of a small package. Cubic Zirconia earrings, and freakishly unrealistic ones at that. I can tell Tara didn't help in the selection process; too busy mommy-ing it up probably. Bill was always a terrible gift-giver. This morning, on February twenty-third, at approximately seven forty-five, Dana Katherine Scully came into the world, kicking and screaming and as red as the hair on her now thirty-something hair. How she'll leave is anybody's guess, but I'm here now, and what a strange life it's turned out to be. Few family, no friends, no husband, no children, and one hell of a good attitude for all the shit I've been through. Happy freakin-birthday. Here's a bonsai tree. One twisted, garish, innocently small shrub. One shrub my mother probably spent fifty bucks on, including the small shears, spray bottle, and 'Loving Your Bonsai'. Thank you mom. The part of me that enjoys Mozart's Concerto for the Flute and Harp along with a bottle of Merlot and a lavender-scented bathtub is intrigued. Somewhat flattered that such a cultured past-time would be thought of interest to me. A great way to relieve stress. A way to connect with nature in the midst of the concrete and steel prison known as D.C. A way to find inner peace and relaxation. All lovely thoughts, but the part of me that can take down perps twice my size is a bit embarrassed. And baffled. Pencil thin, and strangely forlorn in it's cramped little box. Gravel polished to an unearthly sheen glistens around its base. The slight peach fuzz of green just begins to bloom on the tips. I think of Missy when I see my bonsai tree, and I wonder if subconsciously, mom didn't buy it for her. Where such an idea originated confounds me. The fact is, I know precisely why a bonsai tree was this year's gift. For a while we skirted around the issue. Mom would subtly bring up the fact that so-and-so whose parents live down the street was still single. And a lawyer too. Or so-and-so...remember him? From High School? Yes, single too. Isn't it a wonder. Mom believed I didn't have a life. In a twisted, unhealthy, career-centric way, I have too much of a life. Mom knows that, and I know that. And still we dance around the idea, in a way that would make the waltz of a rut Mulder and I engage in look simplistic. 'How are you Dana?' 'I'm fine, Mom.' (Liar). 'And how are you, Mom?' 'I'm fine, Dana.' (Liar). It's a pretty little dance. It's a comfortable, dependable, soft-spoken ballet. But this year she gave me a tree. And this morning wouldn't be so bad if it was a Saturday. Or a Sunday. Or really any other day where I could avoid the downstairs basement of headquarters and pretend I have something to do...someone waiting for me...somewhere. But the lovely fact remains that February twenty-third falls on a Wednesday, and Agent Scully never takes a sick day. She never asks for birthdays off. Ever. And so I face my day. Head on, armed with more than the Sig Sauer at my hip. I suppose today wouldn't seem so bleak if not for two other impending factors that have severely limited my outlook on life. I gave up coffee last week and have done my best to find contentment in a cup of green tea. Pale and uninviting, it assaults my tongue each morning in a way the curious drug of caffeine never did. Doctor Scully knows better than that though; dependency on a stimulant was never my intention. Second would be my suburban envy, which arrives as a monthly reminder of all the things I cannot have. A deep and conceited color that seems to mock me with any number of implications. It's like an emotional ketchup burst, splaying the red about with a haughty vengeance. Yes, it still hurts. It's more than that also. I hate to face it, but the mathematics just don't allow for denial. It's a scientific, cold, hard fact that I'm getting older. Dorian Graying is not my way of dealing with another year, but this time I feel a fear creeping up. About a year ago I joined the Cult of Aloneness. I am the sole member of this chapter, and though I suspect my partner ought to join me for one of our services, I have yet to offer him the chance. Loneliness is a choice after all. My membership card was signed the moment I stopped trying to find normalcy. It simply doesn't exist below the surface of Washington D.C. This morning has left me with an acidic pissed-offedness. As always I am on time, dressed and pressed and perfect on the outside. Inside it takes me a while to collect myself...that and a cup of coffee. I suppose this is what they call shit-out-of-luck. With a quick glance around my apartment, always left spotless in the mornings, I notice the gift on my dining room table. As an afterthought I return to it, remembering mom's advice that the first days of ownership are a time of bonding. Learn to communicate with your plant. I blush at the thought, but on impulse I pick it up. If anything, it may grab Mulder's attention, high-lighting the fact that once again the twenty-third has passed by unremarked upon. _____ the end (Bonsai, 1/2) Bonsai (2/2) by: Lydia Harkness _____ Five steps from the door that reads 'Fox Mulder-Special Agent' and already I can hear him. A desk drawer or shoes shuffling. In my mind I see the lanky figure bent over, studying slides or photographs. Folders or files. Screwing with the slide projector or fumbling with the file cabinet? (The middle drawer of the new one always sticks). Individuality or insanity? Well, that's anyone's guess. As I arrive, the scene is mundane. The sound of a glossy magazine stuffed away at a moment's notice is ignored by both of us, but sends a shiver down my spine anyways. It's tact, that's what it is. Respect I'm not so sure about, but saving face is a top priority under ground. Still, it bothers me...for his sake. Porn at 8:00 a.m.? Mulder must be doing as bad as I am. I can still smell his stale coffee from last night, like a sixth sense. In determined cheeriness I set my bag and various items down on my "desk", and smile a good morning hello at Mulder. I say "desk" because technically it's one of those fold out tables you see at school bake sales and office seminars, stacked with pastries and....coffee. Mulder's desk is simply more permanent. It has drawers. A nameplate. It has a computer. And Mulder sits behind it, willfully ignorant of the temporary status I've lingered in for the past seven years. It's like at any time I might disappear. Like I've threatened to do so many times before. Mulder was never one for formalities, and he leans forward with a file outstretched towards me. If he gets any closer I'll be able to taste the coffee. "Reports last night of strange lights hovering over Point Place, Wisconsin." That's it. No 'hello' or 'happy birthday'. Strange lights that could have been anything from an electrical storm to a light show announcing a blow out sale at the Dodge dealer. Urgent. Top priority. And a good morning to you too, Fox Mulder. He's still holding out the file with eyebrows raised, and I wonder how long he can hold that position. Instead I snatch the file away, my cheeriness obviously just a show. "Good morning." Mulder looks at me quizzically as I begin to rummage through our most recent x-file. I know he's watching, and I think he knows I know, so slowly he draws out a careful response. "Good morning." Leaning back in his chair, he waits while I read, but before long his excitement is too much for this silence. "These strange lights have been sighted for the past....." He's rambling off like so many times before, and as I read the various reports, I come to a slow realization. Mulder is 'Rhapsody in Blue.' I pause for a moment to look up. He's still talking. Something about a farmer and his two sons...a dairy farm roof burnt horribly...maybe a dead cow is even uttered. But I don't hear a word. Instead, I hear Gershwin. It's insane, I know. But the way Mulder rambles on like this with muffled enthusiasm evokes something else in my brain. Gershwin's 'Rhapsody in Blue'. It's pompous. It's anti-climactic. It's over-dramatic for the piece of music that it is. The cymbals crash. "....also spotted by a deputy and..." The drums roll. "...no one can explain..." The horns blast. "...an airforce nearby. Locals suspect..." The cymbals crash again. The music dips and turns and rises as his wickedly pouted lips spout off once more our mission: to save the planet from unexplainable lights.The fact is, I've come to love that piece of music. When Mulder talks, that's what I hear, and it's like the Chinese water torture that transforms itself over time into an entirely different feeling. Sometimes you can't get enough of it. Yes, Mulder's rambling on again, at a frenetically understated pace. The music quickens, maddeningly, and today I don't feel I can take it. One of these days my head will explode. The thought wouldn't bother me so much, but I don't think Mulder will clean up the mess. Just wipe off the bake sale table and grab another partner. No need to purge any computer files or take down any nameplates. "...okay?" I blink and Gershwin has gone. Mulder is staring at me with an intensity that suddenly sets my heart beating too fast. "Scully..." He speaks slowly now as if he's a stupid tourist trying to make the locals understand. "..are..you..okay?" For some reason my usual denial of 'I'm fine.' is slow in coming, as if at long last my lips have forgotten how to form the words they know the best. Mom would be so proud. I toss the file back at his desk before unpacking my own things and sitting down at my bake sale table. The bonsai tree that looked so detached and unwanted in my apartment suddenly seems like a breath of fresh air that mistakenly wandered through the venting system and found itself trapped here. Maybe it's because Mulder's waiting for my response, or maybe he understands what's happening, but whatever the reason he crosses the distance over to my desk. His eyes locked on mine. His brows furrowing with worry. His arms crossed determinedly. If there's anything I know not to stand in the way of, it's this man and his ambitions. I look up amidst my stack of files and reports, more than curious as to how he'll handle this awkward morning. He's about to face our internal crisis head on when his eyes suffer a moment of timidity and the momentum is lost. He looks at the tree. "What the hell is that?" I sigh, still unready to answer. But it's a better choice than playing emotional dodge ball with Mulder, a game I can't walk away from without a bruise or scratch. "It's a bonsai tree." "I can see that. But why's it here?" "Mom bought it for me." Hint, hint, hint, hint, hint. "Oh." He stares at it for a moment or two, with a look of familiarity that surprises me. As he so often does. Mulder picks up the tree. "It's a Satzuki." Mothmen, alien-electronic-killer-cockroaches, and now Japanese horticulture. Jesus, is there anything this man doesn't know? "My mom used to have one when we lived on Martha's Vineyard." My heart suddenly feels like it's been drop-kicked into my stomach. So much for avoiding emotional dodgeball. First point goes to Mulder. I worry that the moment will pass as so many have passed before, with too many things left unsaid and our feet stuck in the mud of professionalism. But instead of returning to his desk as I fear he will, a small smile breaks out on the coffee-flavored lips. "One day it bloomed. They only bloom for a day or two, but when they do it's...." He shakes his head, starting over. "I hope I'm around when this blooms." I smile, grateful that for once Mulder let himself enjoy a memory. He has so few to trust, and even fewer to savor. The moment, gray and vague...that terrible color of uncertainty and non-committal emotions...is gone, and he sets the tree down on my desk. Feelings are strange things, and I wonder if when we ever find the Truth, emotions will be relegated to the drudgery of human existence alone. My birthday seems like a piss-poor reason to be crabby, and the thought that sacrifices much larger han mine have been made over the past seven years throttles me angrily. The accusations 'selfish' and 'self-centered' cross my mind, but fade again. This type of introspection will have to wait for another time. Mulder still stands at my desk, his hands gripping the edges. I wonder if this won't be another one of those moments when all he has lost returns in a flood of anger. I lean forward, and simultaneously I reach out to grasp a hand as he turns away. My perfect timing. I'm left reaching out into the cold sterility of my desk as Mulder returns to his half of the office. He flops back into his chair, and asks cheerfully. "So what are you doing here, Scully? It's your birthday." If I can handle the shock of this, maybe my head won't explode after all. "I..." "Why don't you take the rest of the day off?" No, no. No, no, no, no, no. Requesting a day off from Skinner isn't what I need right now. Today's one of those days when authority seems to stand double tall, and any courage held on retainer is leaked away is small drips. But Mulder is persistent. "C'mon, you sure look like you could use it." I don't want to know what that means. He's probably trying to just get rid of me already, knowing a last-minute flight to Nowheresville, Wisconsin would be out of the question with me around. Or maybe not. "I don't know, Mulder." Mozart, Merlot, and lavender sound a hell of a lot better than a moldy office and Mulder's skanky coffee tempting me from across the office. My determination is slipping, and I stand without my usual confidence, wondering what I can take home to work on. "Look, I'm sure you have plans tonight..." How generous of him to think so. "...but I thought maybe I could treat you to a home-cooked meal." "I didn't know you cooked, Mulder." "Well, pasta pretty much covers the extent of my abilities in the kitchen." I nod, knowingly. It's a vague response, and it suits us. "So, how about it? My place...six o' clock okay?" A flash of familiarity blindsides me, and I wonder if I shouldn't inspect Mulder for a monkey tail before carrying this conversation any further. Instead, I take his advice and pick up a few files before grabbing my things and heading for the door. "You don't think Skinner would mind?" "Nah, we cost the bureau too much already. He'll be giddy." I never really thought of Skinner as 'giddy', and the idea puts me at ease. Reimbursements, overtime, property damage...Good God, we're awful. "I'll see you at six. Oh, and Scully...." I turn again, certain this conversation can't get any better. "Bring the bonsai." He smiles and leans back in his chair. Welcome to the Cult, Mr. Mulder. Here's your membership card. "They bloom in February, you know." They most certainly do. _______ the end (Bonsai, 2/2)