Title: If Ever Forever
Author: EverLeabae
Written: April 2002
Category: MSR, V, A (oh yeah!)
Keywords: MSR, Character Death
Spoilers: Existence kind of, and I think that's pretty much it.
Archive: Anyone, anywhere, anything. Just drop me a line so I know.
Rating: PG I think. It's kind of angsty though.
Feedback: If you have an extra 2 minutes, jut write me a brief summary of the things I've done wrong. I'll write back, I promise. I know that I'm not any kind of writer, but I really liked the idea so I didn't want it to go to complete waste. And if you didn't like it, just say so and I'll shut up!
Disclaimer: Oh, they're not mine, never were, never will be. Oh well.

Summary: How hard can it be to let go? Mulder POV

Notes & Thanks & more of everything @ the bottom


I hold an old photograph in my hand, a perfect image of love and happiness and all those simple pleasures of life that I could never get enough of. I smile at the memories, and see you smile back at me, but in a glimpse my momentary bliss is replaced with a feeling of emptiness and incompletion that has been following me around for the past few weeks like a shadow, because I know I will never see your beautiful face again, I will never breathe in your scent, I will not hold you in my arms and feel your heartbeat as if it is my own, and I will not be able to get another chance to hear your laughter. I feel a tear escape my eye, but before it can let others follow, I wipe it off with my hand, hoping that it will take my pain with it.

Hmm, how selfish of me. Every day, more and more I wish it was I down there, not you. Just so I won't have to feel like this, so I won't have to face each day with only the purpose of passing time in silent waiting for the moment when we are together again. I think a lot lately, about life in whole and its little complicated details, and feel my mind slipping away from my grasp slowly. And the worst thing (or maybe the best, I can't tell anymore) is that whatever topic I turn to, everything always comes down to you. And then I can do nothing to stop my tears. On the bright side of all that, though, it helps me sleep!

I guess that's always my ultimate escape from everything. Sleep. My dreams are the only place I can feel safe and happy, and you know why? It's because you're in them. In my dreams it's always just you, and me, and sometimes Will, and they're all like that perfume commercial, you know? Except it doesn't last forever; except then I wake up... and I'm back in this harsh reality, which, to tell you the truth, holds nothing more in it for me anymore.

I was thinking maybe that's how you are spending all your time, in some wonderful dreamland. I'd love to join you there sometime, love. I'd like to say my last good-bye to this crazy old world and go soar above the skies with you until my wings can carry me no more.

I try to remember our life, beloved, and you won't believe how much harder it becomes every day. I even started writing it all down. It's funny. Sometimes I read over what I'd written a few days before and can't remember writing it. Or experiencing the things that I read about.

But no matter how bad my head is, I can picture your face anytime I like. It always has a different expression, but, nevertheless, it's you. Sometimes I can just stare at a blank wall, and where others will see nothing but a boring piece of plaster splashed in white paint with occasional bumps and... pretty much nothing else, I'll see a short movie of sorts, all you. Much like the one I'm watching now. It's just another thing to keep me from remembering where I am and where you are.

And then I realize that I'm talking not even to myself, but to a wall, and for the thousandth time today it all goes to hell. And then I think more, and every time I come to the conclusion that there's nothing here for me, that I'm just an old geezer waiting for his chance to leave this world behind and find the next home for his soul. Time to time I try to think of the good things that I have yet to experience, and then I remember-what things? I've lived longer than I ever expected to, thanks to you, because you were the one who'd saved me and given me my life back more times than I can remember. I think back now and I let myself dote on the few memories I still have, all those times I would have been dead if it weren't for the guiding light in your window. But now that I've outlived my source of life, I am lost. That fountain of youth that kept me going for all these years has dried up never to be filled again, and the terrible thirst is ripping me apart.

I close my eyes to picture you, but the image is blurred, and my eyes are stinging from the tears that never really left, and I retire to my bed. That was our bed, you remember? Sometimes I can't stand the cold sheets that were always so warm and welcoming when you were there, so I go to the couch. Something is missing there too, so I try to just not think about it and drift off wherever I can. Much like I'm doing right now. Well, maybe if I'm lucky enough I'll get to see you soon. Good night. Oh, by the way, if you want to read what I've written, my notebook is on the desk somewhere, you'll find it. And, uh, I had a cleaning lady drop by and get our old stuff in order, so you can go through that, and if you find anything you want, take it. Don't forget to drop by my dreams tonight. I love you. ** If ever so near You still are that far Your face is not clear But your dreams are

My heart will be waiting My life will stand still My hopes will be living Though the pain might be shrill

You'll always be with me Cause part we shall never Cause you will stay here If ever forever

(Just felt like writing that. At first I couldn't come up with a name for this piece of crap, so I had two to choose from, and the first line of the poem is the second one. Neither makes any sense, but it's not supposed to. )

Notes: There might be a part two. In fact, I'm half done with it by now, so yeah.

The commercial thing- you know the Ralph Lauren (I think that that's what it was) perfume commercial thing where there's a man and a woman and two kids, and they're speaking describing their dream, and they're saying something like, "We went to an island, and it was something, and it stayed that way forever, forever and ever and ever." That's what I'm talking about. So yeah.

Thanks: all those wonderful people that write fanfic. I love u all. Also to my friends who never listen to anything I say, so I really have nothing to thank then for. But their ignoring might have subconsciously caused me to start writing this! Thanks in advance for feedback, if you care to give any. And thank to Fox and CC and everybody for creating X-Files, cause it's the only thing that keeps me alive (ask my friends, they'll tell you!) How much more pathetic can I get, eh? E-mail(s): lizascorner@yahoo.com So, give me a buzz, I'll be on the net.

Title: If Ever Forever, Part 2

Author: EverLeabae

Rating: PG, maybe even G

Summary: A cleaning lady finds some old photographs and her employer's notebook. Cleaning lady POV

Timeline: I think (I forgot) that this is meant to be about 30 or so years after the current time slot. I wrote this WAAAY before the episode William, so disregard it and anything afterwards. Scully's dead here already, BTW. There's a part one to this, but it's slightly detached from this, so you don't have to read it to know what's going on.

Feedback: "Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said good-bye. Remember me, once in a while, please promice me you'll try..." (lizascorner@yahoo.com) always wanted, prefferably constuctive criticism. What do ya know, I might even respond.

Disclaimer: What can you take from a 14-year-old who can't even get her ass away fron the TV to go find a Summer job?

Archive: Please??? (just tell me)

Started & finished: A while ago. Maybe September to January(01)?

**IF Ever forever (part 2) by Everleabae

"Mr. Mulder, I'm almost done with this closet, but I don't think this photo album belongs in here. It looks valuable, and it's just going to rot in here! Mr. Mulder, can you hear me? Mr. Mulder?"

I should probably let this air out a bit; who knows how long all these pictures have been in here. Mr. Mulder probably forgot about them completely and will be grateful when I give them to him. Where did he go anyway?

"Mr. Mulder!"--No answer. I call again, and silence answers me. Well, he isn't on the second floor, 'cause I had that in my field of vision for the last hour, and no one came up or down. Urgh, where could he possibly be?

I check practically the whole house. He's not in the living room, which doesn't look very suitable for actual living, with its bare walls and lack of furniture other than an old couch and an even more ancient coffee table; not in the kitchen, and never was, or it wouldn't be this clean. I don't think he's entered the dining room in years. I do actually bother to check the second floor, but, of course, he's not there either. I don't imagine he's in the basement with all those boxes and weird smells, so all that's left is that other room that has some old junk in it, the one I still have left to clean. I knock softly and call out, "Mr. Mulder, are you in there?" and no answer still. I open the door slightly and see him on the bed. I think he's asleep. Well, I guess I should wait until he wakes up. This room is in extreme chaos! There are papers thrown around, pictures on the walls are crooked, the mirror is smashed, books lie in a heap on the floor instead of being on shelves above, and there's a distinct smell coming from... one of his drawers? Must be some sandwich rotting in there or something. I don't know if I should clean up here or maybe he likes it this way. Well, at least that sandwich isn't staying in there (and that is indeed what it was, an old sandwich with unidentifiable toppings).

I put the books in a slightly neater pile, shift the pictures back into their original positions, and pick up the papers, straightening them out and putting them on the small table near the bed. Even with all those sounds I made he hasn't moved at all. I think he was crying before because his pillow is stained like it is when you cry. Or maybe it's just dirty.

Poor man. He's been like that for the last few days. He hired me to clean the house about a week ago, and whenever I came, he just sat on that old couch, staring, or sat at his desk in this room writing. I imagine something happened not very long ago that scarred him deeply; it's quite obvious from his behavior. He doesn't talk to me, only when I need to ask him where he'd like me to put something. He doesn't always respond even then. He's an old man, probably in his seventies, but his eyes... they are such beautiful eyes. I think that normally they are hazel, but they change to soft gray, or to green, and then back to golden brown. They seem to have a story of their own, but in all their glory, they are eyes of a lonely man, and the fire that I imagine brought those eyes to life is now gone.

Sometimes, when I'm close enough, I can hear him murmuring something while I clean out yet another closet or room. The first time I heard him talking like that, I called out to him, thinking maybe he was talking to me, but he didn't respond and just continued. And I didn't hear any other voice, so I guess he must have been talking to himself.

I find one stash of pictures lying next to his bed. They are very much like the ones in the old photo album I found, and these are turned upside-down, and I wonder if that photo album was put there for a reason. I look through the photos and melt a little more at each one of them. There is one I love particularly, that I found lying next to Mr. Mulder's pillow. There's a man that looks very much like Mr. Mulder, just younger, and he's standing behind a woman, far shorter than himself, with red hair. His hands are around her waist, hers are locked behind his head, they're both laughing; and there's a chubby hand wth short fingers covering a part of the picture:a child's hand, I think. And there's another; they're wearing the same clothes, but now the two are sitting down on the floor, legs crossed, the redhead in front again, and she's leaning back, and he's bent forward, kissing her; there's a little boy behind them, holding up his fingers behind their heads. His hair color is only slightly lighter then his father's, and his nose is very much like Mr. Mulder's (I'm guessing that the man is him), but the boy's eyes and chin are clearly his mother's. And they're all so happy...

I manage to pull away from the pictures, promising myself to ask Mr. Mulder's permission to look at them again later. Now the desk. There are so many things here! I don't even want to know what's happening in the drawers. I neatly put the unused paper in one pile, the used and scrunched up pieces go in another; I place his writing utensils into a glass that seems to be meant for them, judging by all the little pieces from pens, pencils and erasers inside. Among the endless scraps, books, and his old (and still unopened) mail I find a notebook with a cover that seems to have been dark blue before someone painted it white. I hesitate to open it, looking over at the man on the bed, wondering if he would mind. Eventually my curiosity wins and I slowly open the notebook.

The first page is filled with drawings. They are not very beautiful or skill-fully made, but what amazes me about them is how child-like and innocent they are, and at the same time the pain that is depicted in them can only be known to someone who has lived long and hard and lost so much of that which was dear to one in this world. There are occasional stains covering the page, some of them fresh, telling me someone cried once and again while looking down at this strange world of pure devotion and naive hope, destructional guilt and unending anguish. Maybe it was that girl that was hired to clean the attic before me.

I am quick to turn the page so as to not add more blots to those that have already found their resting place on this unlikely cemetery.

"September 17th. I had a dream last night," I start to read, " I don't remember very much of it, but I do know that it was wonderful. I kept seeing little pieces of it on the previous nights, but last night there were no more little pieces or unfinished ideas; there was us. It was like watching our wedding tape again, except it was not only of our wedding. It was everything that has ever happened to us, all those times you made me remember just how much I love you and all the wonderful moments when you reminded me why. It was so amazing to feel young again, to be lost and confused in the deathly labyrinth of conspiracies and aliens, and be guided out by you. It made me remember things I thought were banished from my memory forever.

It's so hard to be here without you. I reassured Will two days ago that I'd be fine by myself, so he went home. Now I sit here and I don't know what to do because I just can't make up a good reason to do it. Yesterday I found something that I think you'd like to see again. I was going through one of my drawers and I found all that classical music we bought for Will when he was a baby. You told me that it would help him develop, and soothe him and just have all the best effect on him, so I went out and got everything I could find. I remember how on this one very long afternoon William was asleep and that music was playing, and everything was so calm and peaceful. We just sat there and read, and then I just got up and stretched my hand out to you. You looked up from your book and gave your hand to me, and I pulled you up. And then we danced. The music went on for hours, and we swayed slowly around the room forgetting the world around us. And there was hardly a rhythm to follow. And I remember whispering to you over and over that I loved you, and I felt you smile against my chest...

Anyway, I'm feeling very tired the whole day today. I think I'll try and get some sleep. You just hang on tight, and I'll be with you again."

I turn my head to see if the writer is still asleep. He is, but his hands are now clutching the pillow tightly, and his face bears such a painful expression my heart aches for him. I cannot imagine the nightmares he dreams. I turn back to the notebook in search of comfort forgetting how the very first entry made me feel.

"September 19th. I'm sorry I hadn't written yesterday. You see, I've found some old pictures in my drawers upstairs and I spent the whole day going through them, trying to remember the circumstances of each. I discovered that I could put a name to only a few. There's one of Will and I eating breakfast together. He's about five there, I think. It was taken on the day we took him to see the school he was going to go to. You remember how he chased after that kid that wouldn't leave him alone in the classroom? I can't believe you punished Will for that! I was actually kind of proud that he could stand up for himself."

There was another picture right under that one of Will crying when he was just eight or so months old. I don't know how, but I can recall feeding him his baby food just minutes before. Maybe it left such an impression on my brain because he wouldn't finish that thing (which really did look too green to be normal food ), so I tried it myself, and it was absolutely terrible! You convinced me that it was good for him, but I still mixed in some fruit juice into it when you weren't looking. I bought something like that at the market a few days ago, and the taste was the same exactly. I did the same procedure I'd done for Will, and it worked. Yesterday I was throwing out the box and just happened to read the side panel, and one of the suggestions on it was mixing the "product" with fruit. Spent my whole life, never bothered to look at the box." His words make me smile. I guess he was in a good mood that day.

"September 20th. I didn't finish writing yesterday because I got a call from someone, so I'll just finish now. There were more pictures I found, and I meant to put them in an album but I couldn't find it. You know light blue one with a heart cut out in the middle?" The album I found in the closet was light blue with a heart in the middle. "Anyway, there's a little more I recollect from the photographs. There were a few from that first time we went to the park near the house when Will was two or so. It was fall then and all the leaves were on the ground already, and I decided to take some snapshots of you and Will. In one of them he's running through a huge pile of leaves, laughing, and in another you're walking around, thinking, staring into space; and then there are a few more, and even one of Will and I, but there is one I love most. You are crouching down beside Will, and you're both pointing and smiling. You are whispering something into his ear. For I while I couldn't understand why I didn't remember taking that one picture, but I remember now. You were pointing to me as I was running at you, and as I looked at the picture under this one, the next thing I saw was all three of us on the ground in a big pile, leaves flying around. Skinner took those two pictures. How did he ever find us in the park?

"September 21st. Yesterday I went to that park. Fall will come yearly this year, you predicted not very long ago, and you were right. Most leaves have dried up, and those that dared to remain on their branches trembled with fear of falling whenever the lightest breeze blew. I sat on our bench and I watched the people walk by. They were all so happy, so engrossed in each other! I wish I could go back to the day we were that way. I remember the first time we found that bench. That day Margaret insisted on keeping William with her while we worked on the house, but we had a change of plans. I dragged you to check out the neighborhood, though you were insisting on working. So we drove out to the park and I tried to make you have fun, but you were very stubborn, so I pushed you into a pile of leaves, and then you softened up. We spent so many hours there, and then it started getting dark and we got very tired, so we sat down, on that very bench. I can't remember why that place was so special to us. Was it where I asked you to marry me? No, that was earlier. My God, my mind takes a bit too many vacations lately!

"September 22nd. After I wrote yesterday's entry I watched our wedding tape again. There were times I rewound and watched the same shots over and over again. A few times I forgot that... you weren't there sitting next to me, and I turned to look at you, but spoke to air. I wish one day I could turn my head and you would be there, even if an apparition or a dream. I miss you so much."

I continued reading. The next pages were all the same. I saw some more photographs, and some more lines that tore into my heart as if I were the one writing what I was reading. I felt as if I was getting inside his mind, or heart, and taking what was most precious to him. I couldn't shake off that feeling of guilt, and many times I tried to put down the notebook, but flipping through the next few pages I found something that grabbed my attention again. There were no more dates on the last few pages, and I assumed that those had been written just a few days before.

"I found one of Will's drawings this morning. It was among his things in the attic. It says 'Mommy, Daddy, and Me' on the bottom, and pictures of us. I remember when he gave it to us for our wedding anniversary and you found a frame that fit it exactly. It was still framed in that box. I'll try to hang it over the bed sometime." I turned and saw that there was indeed a picture like the one described hanging crookedly above the sleeping form.

"My strength is leaving me. Every day it is harder to get out of bed and it is even more difficult to find my way back by the end of the day. I'm forgetting your voice. I can no longer hear you when you come to me, and your image is fading. My God, I need you so badly. But I'm not worried. I feel that soon, very soon, we'll be reunited. I can feel his presence in the room when I close my eyes, and I try to open them to look at him, but he's not there. I only hope than one more time before I go I can know that you're with me. I hope that when I see him finally we'll look together, that you'll help me look. Until then, I'll wait here. Know that I love you, and that I miss you , always."

"I forgot that I wanted to tell you about..." I lifted the corner of the page to turn it but heard a voice behind me.

"Wait, I'm not done yet."

"Oh, sorry," I mumbled, not realizing yet that there shouldn't be any one speaking to me. When I did finally, I turned around fast and saw the old man leaning over my shoulder, squinting, attempting to read his own scribbling from distance. Becoming conscious of the fact that I'd gotten myself in trouble, I started fidgeting suddenly, mumbling.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Mulder," I closed the notebook and put the scattered pictures back in a messy pile, " I didn't mean to... Oh my God, I am so terribly sorry. I was just sitting and I opened it. I don't know why I would ever do that. Mr. Mulder..." just then I turned to face him, and all my worries ceased. He was chuckling, obviously amused at my behavior. I didn't dare move a muscle. He bent over the table and picked up his work, flipped through it.

"You don't want to finish it?" I didn't know how to take his question exactly.

"I have a lot of work to do, sir. Now that you're up, I think I should clean up in he-"

"That's all right," he cut me off, "I like it just the way it is."

I didn't argue.

"Could you do me a favor?" I nodded. "Can you read some of this to me? My sight has been going very fast lately, and I haven't gotten a chance yet to order new glasses." I didn't respond.

"You don't have to, though, you can go home now if you like. Can I assume that you're done with the mess?"

"I am, it seems. I mean, I think I did everything you told me to do. But I'll be happy to stay a little longer and read to you. It's not like I have much todo at home...I'll read to you if you like, I don't really mind at all."

"Thank you so much. These refresh my memory."

"'I went to the park last night and found our bench,'" I started, still shaking from the shock. "'It was cold there, and only a few people walked the paths. There weren't many leaves left on the ground. I saw some children running around, screaming. They reminded me of when William was little. We'd always come and sit on that bench, and William would find a new game every time. In the winter we'd have snowball fights, and you never joined. I had to pull you in by force. One time you fell right into a huge pile of snow, and William and I continued bombarding you with snowballs, and when you finally got up we ran for our lives. Poor Will couldn't run that well yet. You caught him, but I ran away.'" I smile at the picture in my mind.

"I think this one was written a few days later. The ink is different," I noted, then read on, "'Remember the Halloween party the Lone Gunmen had? William wasn't even two yet. I convinced you to buy him a little alien suit, and we dressed up as each other. Someone saw us and turned on 'Dude looks like a lady.' And then we had to stay late because William was having a heated discussion with Byers. I think he used up all he knew on the man. Poor Byers. Worn out by a baby.'"

I stopped reading. "What?" he asked me.

"This one has a date on top. It's yesterday's entry."

"I know."

"'It's late. I'm going to bed soon. I won't write any more. The memories cause me nothing but heartache. Or rather their lack. And, besides, I can hardly make out my own handwriting. Anyway, one last thing I wanted to tell you; if you see anyone reading this, please wake me up. I'd really like to hear some of these things. Maybe we can double up as audience sometime, you and I." I looked up at him. He nodded.

"It says 'Good bye, until we meet again' and 'the end' on the bottom. And that's it."

"Yes"

I didn't know what else to say, and the silence was growing more and more uncomfortable (for me, at least). I looked at my watch and said a little too happily, "It's four o'clock. I should go." He nodded again. I went to the coat rack and put on my coat. Before opening the door, I said "Whoever your wife was, I think she was very happy with you." He didn't respond. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him pick up one of the photos I left in a scattered pile on the table.

**je finis**

Notes: Well, I shouldn't have written this, but I couldn't bare to throw away a second fanfic, out of so few that I've written, so I finished it. I've had it lying around in my fanfics document for a long time, and I was putting all this note stuff on another one yesterday, and found this one. so here it is. sorry *feedback quote is from "Think of me" form Phantom of the Opera My E-mail: Lizascorner@yahoo.com

Give me a buzz, I'll be on the net

If Ever Forever" by EverLeabae

This story was downloaded from the Gossamer Project on 2 February 2018.

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