11: The Life of Our Hearts
TITLE: The Life of Our Hearts
AUTHOR: memories_child
SPOILERS: The Truth
RATING: PG
CHARACTER/PAIRING: Mulder/Scully
WORD COUNT: 345
DISCLAIMER: I'm not making any money off these.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is drabble number 11 based on the prompt 'in spite of it all...'. Originally written for and posted at Inkstains Plus.
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They have been on the run for three years. Her hair is now a dull brown; the car filled with packets of dye stuffed in spare spaces small enough to hold them testament to the time she has, and will, put into ensuring her flame red hair remains hidden - for at least as long as they are.
She hasn’t spoken to her mother for three years. Messages are passed on in personal ads, items needed and obscure articles in even more obscure papers, and she hears enough to keep up with the family. Bill and Tara have had twins, a boy and a girl now eighteen months old. Charlie is living in England, holed up in some Islington pad with a sometime actress. Family friends have aged, moved, died, and she hasn’t been there to mourn them.
They move on every few months; sometimes more quickly, sometimes more slowly, depending on the infrequent communiqués from their friends in high places. Each time they move they change their histories. She has been Joan Fowley, Laura Petrie, Melissa Byers (nods to their past, she thinks, that keep at least a tenuous connection to the them that they were and the them that they are alive). She has been a history teacher on sabbatical, a legal secretary, an aspiring writer but never a government employee, medical doctor or scientist. Never anything that could alert Them to their presence or make her long for her past life.
They are tired and homesick, irritable and withdrawn. They spend some nights sleeping continents apart on their rented beds and others tangled in each other, longing for the lives they have lost. They still have sex, which she is grateful for, though they make love only slightly more often than they fuck. They live off their savings, brand food traded for Wall-Mart’s own, clothes bought from second hand stores and patched up as often as they wear out. They are each other’s only company: confidante and confessor; ally and outsider; lover and enemy.
And still, and still; she wouldn’t be anywhere else.
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AUTHOR: memories_child
SPOILERS: The Truth
RATING: PG
CHARACTER/PAIRING: Mulder/Scully
WORD COUNT: 345
DISCLAIMER: I'm not making any money off these.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is drabble number 11 based on the prompt 'in spite of it all...'. Originally written for and posted at Inkstains Plus.
___________________________________
They have been on the run for three years. Her hair is now a dull brown; the car filled with packets of dye stuffed in spare spaces small enough to hold them testament to the time she has, and will, put into ensuring her flame red hair remains hidden - for at least as long as they are.
She hasn’t spoken to her mother for three years. Messages are passed on in personal ads, items needed and obscure articles in even more obscure papers, and she hears enough to keep up with the family. Bill and Tara have had twins, a boy and a girl now eighteen months old. Charlie is living in England, holed up in some Islington pad with a sometime actress. Family friends have aged, moved, died, and she hasn’t been there to mourn them.
They move on every few months; sometimes more quickly, sometimes more slowly, depending on the infrequent communiqués from their friends in high places. Each time they move they change their histories. She has been Joan Fowley, Laura Petrie, Melissa Byers (nods to their past, she thinks, that keep at least a tenuous connection to the them that they were and the them that they are alive). She has been a history teacher on sabbatical, a legal secretary, an aspiring writer but never a government employee, medical doctor or scientist. Never anything that could alert Them to their presence or make her long for her past life.
They are tired and homesick, irritable and withdrawn. They spend some nights sleeping continents apart on their rented beds and others tangled in each other, longing for the lives they have lost. They still have sex, which she is grateful for, though they make love only slightly more often than they fuck. They live off their savings, brand food traded for Wall-Mart’s own, clothes bought from second hand stores and patched up as often as they wear out. They are each other’s only company: confidante and confessor; ally and outsider; lover and enemy.
And still, and still; she wouldn’t be anywhere else.
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