wordinista (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wordinista) wrote2004-07-21 12:32 pm
wordinista) wrote2004-07-21 12:32 pm
Why the hell not, right?
I keep threatening to post fics from other fandoms, right? Why not start now?
So, this first one, like the cut says, was my first-ever attempt at writing fanfiction. And, wow. I was really, really, really bad. Ouch.
Title: Light a Candle for Me
Disclaimer: Okay, y'all know the drill. These characters don't belong to me, I didn't create them, they belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and 20th Century Fox. I'm not making any money off of this so please don't sue me. I have nothing to give. You'll be wasting your time. Trust me.
"Light a Candle for Me"
By Fox's Gal
Special Agent Mulder's Basement Office
Hoover Building
October 13, 1998
Mulder gave up the attempt to bring order to the chaos that had accumulated on the desk to watch the doodles flow from the tip of the ballpoint pen onto the yellow legal pad. The doodles turned into names, the same names over and over again, morphing into one another.
Fox&Samantha SamNFox Foxamantha Samanfox. Fox William Mulder Samantha Mulder Samantha & Fox Mulder...
Then the pen ran out.
"Dammit..."
It hadn't been a good week. The one partner Mulder had ever been able to work well with was gone. Shipped out of the basement over to Quantico like an unwanted piece of office furniture. Scully had been in touch regularly, but the daily banter they'd shared so easily was gone, the conversations only present in leftover whispers of memory. The ensuing silence was unnerving -- potentially maddening.
The new spy sent down to the bowels of the Hoover Building sat quietly on the stool Mulder had grudgingly provided for him. The new guy was too much like that bastard Krycek: too pretty to trust
What the hell was his name again?
A quick glance to the mess of paperwork on the cluttered desk answered that question. Simpson. Anthony Simon Simpson.
A.S.S. Hoo boy, did his parents hit that one on the mark.
Simpson had been asking stupid questions all day, trying to come off as a skeptic, but skepticism can sound like arrogance in the unskilled.
A quick glance at the wall clock told Mulder that it was time to call it a day. One last paperclip went zinging across the room as the agent stood up and stretched. The suit had become uncomfortable, stifling, restricting...it needed to be burned.
Thank God it's Friday. I don't think I could put up with this moron for much longer. Mulder scrutinized the unsuspecting agent for a moment. The gossip around the place was that he was some sort of ladies man.
Don't make me laugh.
"Hey, Simpson...uh...I'm gonna head on out for the day, okay? Lock up when you're done here. Have a nice weekend." Mulder would have been hesitant to leave anyone alone in the office, but throughout the day it became inordinately clear that Simpson didn't even have the scant amount of knowledge it would have taken to make him a threat.
"Sure thing."
Mulder had no sooner opened the door to leave then did Agent Simpson speak up again. He had slipped off the stool and was crossing the room.
"Hey," he paused to clear his throat nervously. "Samantha, I was wondering if you had any plans this weekend."
Special Agent Samantha Mulder whipped around to meet Agent Simpson's eye with a deadly green glare. "Don't you ever call me that. Do you understand me?" she growled. "Ever." Without another word, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the building.
The black Taurus was a haven waiting for her in the parking garage. Just a few more steps and she could escape into that cocoon. Upon sliding into the driver's seat, she let out the shaky breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. Taking a furtive glance around the garage, she started the engine and backed out of the parking space. When the copper piquant of blood met her tongue, she realized she'd been biting her lip. Hard.
Come on Sam, just hold it together until you get home. That's all...it's not that far...just a few more miles.
She repeated this mantra to herself as she wove her way through the streets of Alexandria, stopping at a grocery store only long enough to pick up a bottle of cabernet, milk, eggs, corn flakes and -the hardest part- the cake.
Why do you do this? Why do you put yourself through this every year? Masochist.
Samantha's apartment was only a few miles from the grocery store, and her iron determination held her composure intact, but just barely. She opened the door to the apartment, dropped the bags on the counter and checked her messages. One message. Sam smiled; she knew who had called. She pressed the button on the answering
machine and listened to Scully's recorded voice.
"Mulder, it's me. I was just calling to see if you want any company." A long, static-filled sigh. "I know, I know, but I just want to let you know that you don't have to go through this alone. Give me a call later if you want, okay?"
Samantha smiled fondly. Scully didn't understand. She didn't understand that this was something Sam needed to do herself. Ever since her brother was taken from her all those years ago, she'd had to pretend that there was nothing wrong. Every year, his birthday passed and no one acknowledged it. She couldn't stand it. Sam started this tradition when she was 13, buying a miniature cupcake and sticking a single candle into it. It might have been morbid. It probably seemed sick to some people, but Samantha felt that if she stopped this yearly tradition, somehow she would be giving up on the hope that she would ever find her brother alive.
Absently, she put the groceries away, her mind was wandering through childhood memories. Fox was a typical older brother. He had picked on her, teased her, and he'd protected her. She in turn, bound by some age-old code of the little sister, had annoyed him, bothered him, and loved him more than life itself.
She remembered the night he was taken. She didn't want to remember it, but for some reason, that repression defense mechanism wasn't
working when it came to the night Fox had been abducted.
His disappearance shredded their family apart. Samantha was sure her mother hated her, like it had been her fault. Fox had always been her mother's favorite. The tall boy with the careless hair and hazel eyes could have stolen anybody's heart. Even her father had changed. Samantha had always known that she was daddy's little girl, but after Fox had been taken, Bill Mulder retreated into himself and started drinking. He had passed away not too long ago and Sam had wished she could mourn her father more. It was hard to mourn for someone who had totally cut himself off from the family.
Soon, the groceries were put away and all that remained on the counter top was the small birthday cake. She forced herself to look at the cake. Sam was sure that Fox would have hated it; all of the yellow roses were far too girly.
Her eyes stung with unshed tears as she looked at the script.
Happy 37th Birthday Fox
"Goddammit!" she muttered. She swiped at her eyes, cursing the tears. She kicked her shoes off and wriggled out of the uncomfortable suit. She made her way to the shower where tears wouldn't matter.
She scrubbed herself furiously, memories assaulting her as she stood under the steaming stream of water -- her obsession with finding Fox. She had joined the FBI so many years before because she was sure that would give her an edge to finding out what had happened to him. Deep down inside, she knew that she probably seemed completely nuts to everyone else at the Bureau. She had been sure that's why they let her continue her work on the X-Files. It was a good way to keep "Spooky Mulder" out of everyone's beeswax.
Then she'd been paired up with Dana Scully. Samantha knew that even though that the official word was some chauvinistic garbage stating the new policy against two women working together, it was really because of the fact that Dana hadn't been doing her job. Oh, the two of them worked famously together and had one of the highest solve rates in the entire bureau. Dana Scully hadn't been doing her "other" job. Scully had been called in to debunk Sam's work on the X-Files.
So much for that brilliant little plan. Send a woman to work with another woman and she'll open up to her. She'll open up and
spill her guts and then We'll have her right where we want her.
Samantha smiled mirthlessly as she turned off the water. Stepping out of the tub, she toweled off and looked in the mirror, wiping the steam away. Sometimes she could see her brother in her reflection. She could remember his gray-green eyes when she looked into her own; they'd always had identically intense gazes. Sam figured that they would have similar jawlines, Fox's only more chiseled than hers.
Once again, blinded by tears, Samantha turned away from the mirror and wrapped herself in a thick terry robe. For just a moment, that robe was a magical shield that protected her from everything. When she was enveloped in that robe, life was good.
Unfortunately, that robe was not considered appropriate to wear in the field.
Much later, she had changed into sweatpants and a New York Giants sweatshirt. Curled up on her couch with a glass of wine, she watched the muted television, her mind wandering.
For the nth time, she wondered how people did it. She wondered how people got on with their lives after losing someone dear to them. There had been so many opportunities for Sam to get on with her life. In fact, she was sure that even Fox would have even wanted her to have gotten along with her life.
That, however, was not an option.
There was something in her that wouldn't let her forget Fox. It was this same something that wouldn't rest until she found out for sure where her brother was. Sometimes she felt like she was in a fog. She was a ship floating aimlessly in a thick fog with no beacon to follow. She used to have a beacon -- Scully. She used to have some sort of direction and now, for what wasn't the first time, she doubted herself. Would this all have been for nothing if next week she found the skeletal remains of that 12 year old little boy?
No. It would be no empty victory. I'd know the truth and that's what I want.
Jack Nicholson's voice echoed in her mind: "You can't handle the truth!" She smiled grimly.
What if I can't? What if I can't handle the truth?
She could come up with no answer for the unspoken question.
Sam glanced at the VCR clock: 8:48. She sighed. Time for cake, I suppose. She unfolded herself from the couch and padded into the kitchen. She lifted the plastic cover off the cake and got the package of candles from a nearby cabinet. She stuck a single candle into the cake and lit it. Samantha brought the cake into the dining area and put it on the table. She closed her eyes, which were now damp with tears, and blew the candle out.
Sometimes I wonder how it would have been different if it had been me. I wish it had been.
This next one was my FINAL attempt at XF fanfiction. There were lots in between, but I'm amused right now by doing a little "before and after" here.
This one was written in 2002 -- my final year of grad school. I was actually living in Alexandria at the time, which always amused me.
Title: "Lovely, Dark, and Deep"
Author: Fox's Gal
A/N: The idea hit me, and I loved it... even after I figured out where it came from. Bonus points for anyone else who can figure it out.
***
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
From "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening," by Robert Frost
***
There is a sort of hopelessness that comes with silence. It's as though everyone has something to say and none of it is good, so silence becomes the next best option. The air was heavy with it; unspoken words, sentiments left unexpressed, all of them circling around an identical thought.
Just let him go.
It's not that easy. There's more to ending a life than a simple pulling of a plug. That phrase only degrades the human body to some sort of defunct kitchen appliance. Pull out the plug and throw it away; it doesn't work anymore. In this case, however, the appliance in question hadn't worked for a very long time. The doctor in charge had come to believe that this was the only option left. He'd been optimistic, of course. Patients who had been through worse had often survived. Most of them were able to regain a normal life. All of them, regardless of how normal their lives became, all had that shadowy area in their past to work through, but they managed.
The doctor and his colleagues had firmly believed that this man would have followed a path already well-traveled by those others. They hadn't wanted to believe that someone so young could give up on a life barely lived.
His frown deepened as he looked back and forth between the people seated in his office. Usually he was an attractive man; however, he'd allowed the weight of one patient to hang on him, and the physical effects of the stress were making themselves evident. He'd been feeling the stress for the better part of ten years. Numerous times he had encouraged the family to seek out another specialist, but they had refused. There had been doctors before him, but apparently there would be none after him. And he, since he had what was by now a vested interest, did not turn them away.
The silence was heavy, and he wanted to break it, but he couldn't – he wouldn't tell anyone that it was time to end a human life. They knew it, and they were well aware of the fact that they knew it.
"There hasn't been any improvement," he said slowly.
The woman – she might have looked younger once – shook her head. "But you said if we talked to him, if we spent time with him..."
He nodded. "I know. And on some level he's always been aware of who's in the room with him. His moments of lucidity have all but disappeared." The doctor rubbed a hand over his face. "There is no explanation for why he slid into a coma. There is no medical reason for it." And that fact drove him crazy. Never before had he had a patient who began to show marked improvement to such an extent before spiraling downwards, never to return. It sometimes occurred to a lesser extent; lucidity returned less often while stretches of catatonia lengthened, but never had he seen a patient show such promise before executing a complete one-eighty.
"I can't," the woman was saying. "I can't give up on him. I don't want to abandon him when he needs me. You have to understand that." The man sitting next to her covered her hand with his own and she turned to look at him, pleading in her light eyes.
The older man maintained eye contact with the woman. "What about brain activity?"
"His condition has worsened to such an extent that if he were to regain consciousness..." This was the hard part. How did you tell two people who obviously loved their son that he was a vegetable?
Mrs. Mulder's grip on her husband's hand tightened while Bill Mulder looked as though he'd aged thirty years in the short time they'd been speaking. He cleared his throat. "But there were times, like you said, when he was lucid. If he'd been that way before, why not again?"
"Lucidity and consciousness are not necessarily the same thing, Mr. Mulder. Your son was able to cultivate an extensive fantasy life for an extended number of years. He re-wrote history and based his fantasy on that re-written history. He interacted daily with the people in his head, and they began to compete with the world he left behind. To him, this world is one in which his sister was murdered. He was able to repress that, and create a world where she had not been killed, but was merely missing. Both existences have a degree of unhappiness – he feels too guilty to be happy, really."
In actuality, this was a world in which Fox and Samantha Mulder had been kidnapped on a bicycle ride to the beach during what was supposed to have been the halcyon days of childhood. It was a world where a 12 year old boy was forced to watch his sister be brutally tortured and sexually abused before her death. It was a world in which the child was forced to mutilate the body of his sister before he himself was raped, beaten and left for dead. Repression was par for the course.
"Fox has come to imagine himself as someone very important. He's someone who is a threat to others, rather than a victim. He has charged himself with finding Samantha, possibly because he feels responsible for her death. In his mind, he has created himself to be a conglomeration of everything American society considers 'heroic'. He's a highly educated FBI agent in a position of authority. The guilt he feels over Samantha's death comes out by way of sacrifice. He imagines himself sacrificing a promising career in order to find out the truth about her absence. It is entirely possible, Mr. Mulder, that your career influenced your son's choice in this matter."
He looked across the desk at the elderly couple. They'd been down this road before; this wasn't the first time they had considered euthanasia and it probably wouldn't be the last.
Mrs. Mulder inhaled deeply and tilted her chin upwards. "If he were somehow able to regain consciousness, how do you see potential recovery playing out?"
The doctor pursed his lips in thought. "It is my opinion that, if he is able to come out of this coma, the shock of reality opposed to the detailed fantasy that he has created would be particularly harmful. Recovery would be a long and arduous process. It would depend solely on whether he wanted to recover. As of right now, recovery is a threat to Fox. It is as though on some level he knows the pain existing on this plane. He has no control over this world. That alone could very well explain why he resists an awakening."
"That's why he's created those... people, you mean," Bill Mulder murmured.
The doctor nodded. "Exactly. They're... they're defense mechanisms. He's constantly trying to 'save' himself from what's waiting for him on this side. He considers consciousness a threat, and creates more threats to signify the threat of that consciousness. Similarly, he creates individuals – 'characters,' if you will, that he attaches himself to in order to make that fantasy world more appealing. By doing so, he also makes it more difficult to leave. This world cannot equate to what he's created."
The older woman looked down at her hands, still linked with her husband's. "That 'Scully' person, you mean."
"That's one example. We believe that he created 'Scully' as a stand-in for a maternal figure. She validates him while only appearing as a threat to his construction. He created someone to trust, who would believe in him and his fantasy. There are lesser players, of course, but they all play a part. Think of it like a house of cards. A man can create an intricate, if flimsy structure in so many years. The problem is that Scully, fictional though she is, has anchored Fox in his fantasy world, and any attempts to pull him out are considered a threat." The doctor paused. "He even considers me a threat. My efforts to help have been perceived as intent to harm both him and the people in his head. Looking back, we've been able to piece together much of what his subconscious mind has been trying to do."
"Trying to do?" the patient's mother asked.
"That's right." He leaned back in his chair and pressed his palms together. "Fox has transformed the threat that we pose into an amorphous omniscience – a different kind of 'threat.' Rather than the real world posing a threat to his sanity, he has created a shadowy evil that poses a threat to all of mankind—"
"Which in turn validates the fantasy," the mother cut in.
He nodded. "By remaining in this fantasy realm, he thinks he's saving the world. He couldn't save his sister, so he's trying to go above and beyond the call of duty."
Bill Mulder was quiet for a long moment. The pain in his face was evident. It was hard enough to have lost one child, but to lose two was a travesty. "I still don't understand. I don't understand how reality is a 'threat.' We're his parents. We love him. Doesn't he understand that?"
"From what we've been able to piece together, Bill, he's trying to protect himself against that too—"
Bill Mulder suddenly stood. "Who needs protection from their parents?" He walked the length of the room, seeming far older than his years. He had every reason for that – his daughter found brutally murdered, his son found curled in the fetal position, not five feet from her body. Fox had been through varying levels of catatonia, peppered with lucidity. Neither parent ever knew the joy of first dates, senior proms, or driving lessons. Neither of them would ever know grandchildren, or watching their children age into productive adults. They were both exhausted and outraged, and he understood that.
"If he was able to sever ties and distance himself emotionally from the memory of his parents, it would make his world ever more comfortable. After such a traumatic experience, this is his way of protecting himself against... himself." It was for that reason that Fox Mulder "killed" his parents – they were too present in his mind, and with that presence came the reminder of where he failed, and why he was where he was. They were a reminder of the time before. Of the Real World. By getting rid of that presence, he was able to move more freely within his own world. The doctor alone knew how hard Fox Mulder had been fighting them. He alone knew the extent of the man's fictional existence.
He also knew the role he played in that world. Though he tried to remain objective, being charged as a murderous threat when his life's work revolved around saving lives was, on some very primal level, insulting. He knew that Fox had tried many different ways to eliminate his presence, and the doctor was well aware of the patient's frustration at his inability to get rid of him.
"It's just too much to consider, Dr. Ryce. I'm sure you can understand that. We can't just... we can't kill our own son. He's our son."
Her husband's eyes were trained on his hands. "He hasn't been our son for almost thirty years."
Dr. Alexander K. Ryce nodded. "I can continue to work with him – there are a great deal of experimental treatments that are still open to us. But it's only just a matter of time before he stonewalls all of us completely. Before he gives up and backs out the only way someone can who is that desperate for distance and comfort."
The older woman's shoulders sagged slightly. "You mean before he simply gives up the will to live."
"No," Dr. Ryce said, his voice low, "before he decides to sacrifice his life for the world within his mind. This isn't a matter of 'giving up' for Fox. It is a matter of working for the greater good. A lie is only a lie for as long as you recognize that fact. Fox fully believes his lie. Somewhere in the process, a lie has become the truth, and he's willing to die for that truth."
So, this first one, like the cut says, was my first-ever attempt at writing fanfiction. And, wow. I was really, really, really bad. Ouch.
Title: Light a Candle for Me
Disclaimer: Okay, y'all know the drill. These characters don't belong to me, I didn't create them, they belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and 20th Century Fox. I'm not making any money off of this so please don't sue me. I have nothing to give. You'll be wasting your time. Trust me.
"Light a Candle for Me"
By Fox's Gal
Special Agent Mulder's Basement Office
Hoover Building
October 13, 1998
Mulder gave up the attempt to bring order to the chaos that had accumulated on the desk to watch the doodles flow from the tip of the ballpoint pen onto the yellow legal pad. The doodles turned into names, the same names over and over again, morphing into one another.
Fox&Samantha SamNFox Foxamantha Samanfox. Fox William Mulder Samantha Mulder Samantha & Fox Mulder...
Then the pen ran out.
"Dammit..."
It hadn't been a good week. The one partner Mulder had ever been able to work well with was gone. Shipped out of the basement over to Quantico like an unwanted piece of office furniture. Scully had been in touch regularly, but the daily banter they'd shared so easily was gone, the conversations only present in leftover whispers of memory. The ensuing silence was unnerving -- potentially maddening.
The new spy sent down to the bowels of the Hoover Building sat quietly on the stool Mulder had grudgingly provided for him. The new guy was too much like that bastard Krycek: too pretty to trust
What the hell was his name again?
A quick glance to the mess of paperwork on the cluttered desk answered that question. Simpson. Anthony Simon Simpson.
A.S.S. Hoo boy, did his parents hit that one on the mark.
Simpson had been asking stupid questions all day, trying to come off as a skeptic, but skepticism can sound like arrogance in the unskilled.
A quick glance at the wall clock told Mulder that it was time to call it a day. One last paperclip went zinging across the room as the agent stood up and stretched. The suit had become uncomfortable, stifling, restricting...it needed to be burned.
Thank God it's Friday. I don't think I could put up with this moron for much longer. Mulder scrutinized the unsuspecting agent for a moment. The gossip around the place was that he was some sort of ladies man.
Don't make me laugh.
"Hey, Simpson...uh...I'm gonna head on out for the day, okay? Lock up when you're done here. Have a nice weekend." Mulder would have been hesitant to leave anyone alone in the office, but throughout the day it became inordinately clear that Simpson didn't even have the scant amount of knowledge it would have taken to make him a threat.
"Sure thing."
Mulder had no sooner opened the door to leave then did Agent Simpson speak up again. He had slipped off the stool and was crossing the room.
"Hey," he paused to clear his throat nervously. "Samantha, I was wondering if you had any plans this weekend."
Special Agent Samantha Mulder whipped around to meet Agent Simpson's eye with a deadly green glare. "Don't you ever call me that. Do you understand me?" she growled. "Ever." Without another word, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the building.
The black Taurus was a haven waiting for her in the parking garage. Just a few more steps and she could escape into that cocoon. Upon sliding into the driver's seat, she let out the shaky breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. Taking a furtive glance around the garage, she started the engine and backed out of the parking space. When the copper piquant of blood met her tongue, she realized she'd been biting her lip. Hard.
Come on Sam, just hold it together until you get home. That's all...it's not that far...just a few more miles.
She repeated this mantra to herself as she wove her way through the streets of Alexandria, stopping at a grocery store only long enough to pick up a bottle of cabernet, milk, eggs, corn flakes and -the hardest part- the cake.
Why do you do this? Why do you put yourself through this every year? Masochist.
Samantha's apartment was only a few miles from the grocery store, and her iron determination held her composure intact, but just barely. She opened the door to the apartment, dropped the bags on the counter and checked her messages. One message. Sam smiled; she knew who had called. She pressed the button on the answering
machine and listened to Scully's recorded voice.
"Mulder, it's me. I was just calling to see if you want any company." A long, static-filled sigh. "I know, I know, but I just want to let you know that you don't have to go through this alone. Give me a call later if you want, okay?"
Samantha smiled fondly. Scully didn't understand. She didn't understand that this was something Sam needed to do herself. Ever since her brother was taken from her all those years ago, she'd had to pretend that there was nothing wrong. Every year, his birthday passed and no one acknowledged it. She couldn't stand it. Sam started this tradition when she was 13, buying a miniature cupcake and sticking a single candle into it. It might have been morbid. It probably seemed sick to some people, but Samantha felt that if she stopped this yearly tradition, somehow she would be giving up on the hope that she would ever find her brother alive.
Absently, she put the groceries away, her mind was wandering through childhood memories. Fox was a typical older brother. He had picked on her, teased her, and he'd protected her. She in turn, bound by some age-old code of the little sister, had annoyed him, bothered him, and loved him more than life itself.
She remembered the night he was taken. She didn't want to remember it, but for some reason, that repression defense mechanism wasn't
working when it came to the night Fox had been abducted.
His disappearance shredded their family apart. Samantha was sure her mother hated her, like it had been her fault. Fox had always been her mother's favorite. The tall boy with the careless hair and hazel eyes could have stolen anybody's heart. Even her father had changed. Samantha had always known that she was daddy's little girl, but after Fox had been taken, Bill Mulder retreated into himself and started drinking. He had passed away not too long ago and Sam had wished she could mourn her father more. It was hard to mourn for someone who had totally cut himself off from the family.
Soon, the groceries were put away and all that remained on the counter top was the small birthday cake. She forced herself to look at the cake. Sam was sure that Fox would have hated it; all of the yellow roses were far too girly.
Her eyes stung with unshed tears as she looked at the script.
Happy 37th Birthday Fox
"Goddammit!" she muttered. She swiped at her eyes, cursing the tears. She kicked her shoes off and wriggled out of the uncomfortable suit. She made her way to the shower where tears wouldn't matter.
She scrubbed herself furiously, memories assaulting her as she stood under the steaming stream of water -- her obsession with finding Fox. She had joined the FBI so many years before because she was sure that would give her an edge to finding out what had happened to him. Deep down inside, she knew that she probably seemed completely nuts to everyone else at the Bureau. She had been sure that's why they let her continue her work on the X-Files. It was a good way to keep "Spooky Mulder" out of everyone's beeswax.
Then she'd been paired up with Dana Scully. Samantha knew that even though that the official word was some chauvinistic garbage stating the new policy against two women working together, it was really because of the fact that Dana hadn't been doing her job. Oh, the two of them worked famously together and had one of the highest solve rates in the entire bureau. Dana Scully hadn't been doing her "other" job. Scully had been called in to debunk Sam's work on the X-Files.
So much for that brilliant little plan. Send a woman to work with another woman and she'll open up to her. She'll open up and
spill her guts and then We'll have her right where we want her.
Samantha smiled mirthlessly as she turned off the water. Stepping out of the tub, she toweled off and looked in the mirror, wiping the steam away. Sometimes she could see her brother in her reflection. She could remember his gray-green eyes when she looked into her own; they'd always had identically intense gazes. Sam figured that they would have similar jawlines, Fox's only more chiseled than hers.
Once again, blinded by tears, Samantha turned away from the mirror and wrapped herself in a thick terry robe. For just a moment, that robe was a magical shield that protected her from everything. When she was enveloped in that robe, life was good.
Unfortunately, that robe was not considered appropriate to wear in the field.
Much later, she had changed into sweatpants and a New York Giants sweatshirt. Curled up on her couch with a glass of wine, she watched the muted television, her mind wandering.
For the nth time, she wondered how people did it. She wondered how people got on with their lives after losing someone dear to them. There had been so many opportunities for Sam to get on with her life. In fact, she was sure that even Fox would have even wanted her to have gotten along with her life.
That, however, was not an option.
There was something in her that wouldn't let her forget Fox. It was this same something that wouldn't rest until she found out for sure where her brother was. Sometimes she felt like she was in a fog. She was a ship floating aimlessly in a thick fog with no beacon to follow. She used to have a beacon -- Scully. She used to have some sort of direction and now, for what wasn't the first time, she doubted herself. Would this all have been for nothing if next week she found the skeletal remains of that 12 year old little boy?
No. It would be no empty victory. I'd know the truth and that's what I want.
Jack Nicholson's voice echoed in her mind: "You can't handle the truth!" She smiled grimly.
What if I can't? What if I can't handle the truth?
She could come up with no answer for the unspoken question.
Sam glanced at the VCR clock: 8:48. She sighed. Time for cake, I suppose. She unfolded herself from the couch and padded into the kitchen. She lifted the plastic cover off the cake and got the package of candles from a nearby cabinet. She stuck a single candle into the cake and lit it. Samantha brought the cake into the dining area and put it on the table. She closed her eyes, which were now damp with tears, and blew the candle out.
Sometimes I wonder how it would have been different if it had been me. I wish it had been.
This next one was my FINAL attempt at XF fanfiction. There were lots in between, but I'm amused right now by doing a little "before and after" here.
This one was written in 2002 -- my final year of grad school. I was actually living in Alexandria at the time, which always amused me.
Title: "Lovely, Dark, and Deep"
Author: Fox's Gal
A/N: The idea hit me, and I loved it... even after I figured out where it came from. Bonus points for anyone else who can figure it out.
***
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
From "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening," by Robert Frost
***
There is a sort of hopelessness that comes with silence. It's as though everyone has something to say and none of it is good, so silence becomes the next best option. The air was heavy with it; unspoken words, sentiments left unexpressed, all of them circling around an identical thought.
Just let him go.
It's not that easy. There's more to ending a life than a simple pulling of a plug. That phrase only degrades the human body to some sort of defunct kitchen appliance. Pull out the plug and throw it away; it doesn't work anymore. In this case, however, the appliance in question hadn't worked for a very long time. The doctor in charge had come to believe that this was the only option left. He'd been optimistic, of course. Patients who had been through worse had often survived. Most of them were able to regain a normal life. All of them, regardless of how normal their lives became, all had that shadowy area in their past to work through, but they managed.
The doctor and his colleagues had firmly believed that this man would have followed a path already well-traveled by those others. They hadn't wanted to believe that someone so young could give up on a life barely lived.
His frown deepened as he looked back and forth between the people seated in his office. Usually he was an attractive man; however, he'd allowed the weight of one patient to hang on him, and the physical effects of the stress were making themselves evident. He'd been feeling the stress for the better part of ten years. Numerous times he had encouraged the family to seek out another specialist, but they had refused. There had been doctors before him, but apparently there would be none after him. And he, since he had what was by now a vested interest, did not turn them away.
The silence was heavy, and he wanted to break it, but he couldn't – he wouldn't tell anyone that it was time to end a human life. They knew it, and they were well aware of the fact that they knew it.
"There hasn't been any improvement," he said slowly.
The woman – she might have looked younger once – shook her head. "But you said if we talked to him, if we spent time with him..."
He nodded. "I know. And on some level he's always been aware of who's in the room with him. His moments of lucidity have all but disappeared." The doctor rubbed a hand over his face. "There is no explanation for why he slid into a coma. There is no medical reason for it." And that fact drove him crazy. Never before had he had a patient who began to show marked improvement to such an extent before spiraling downwards, never to return. It sometimes occurred to a lesser extent; lucidity returned less often while stretches of catatonia lengthened, but never had he seen a patient show such promise before executing a complete one-eighty.
"I can't," the woman was saying. "I can't give up on him. I don't want to abandon him when he needs me. You have to understand that." The man sitting next to her covered her hand with his own and she turned to look at him, pleading in her light eyes.
The older man maintained eye contact with the woman. "What about brain activity?"
"His condition has worsened to such an extent that if he were to regain consciousness..." This was the hard part. How did you tell two people who obviously loved their son that he was a vegetable?
Mrs. Mulder's grip on her husband's hand tightened while Bill Mulder looked as though he'd aged thirty years in the short time they'd been speaking. He cleared his throat. "But there were times, like you said, when he was lucid. If he'd been that way before, why not again?"
"Lucidity and consciousness are not necessarily the same thing, Mr. Mulder. Your son was able to cultivate an extensive fantasy life for an extended number of years. He re-wrote history and based his fantasy on that re-written history. He interacted daily with the people in his head, and they began to compete with the world he left behind. To him, this world is one in which his sister was murdered. He was able to repress that, and create a world where she had not been killed, but was merely missing. Both existences have a degree of unhappiness – he feels too guilty to be happy, really."
In actuality, this was a world in which Fox and Samantha Mulder had been kidnapped on a bicycle ride to the beach during what was supposed to have been the halcyon days of childhood. It was a world where a 12 year old boy was forced to watch his sister be brutally tortured and sexually abused before her death. It was a world in which the child was forced to mutilate the body of his sister before he himself was raped, beaten and left for dead. Repression was par for the course.
"Fox has come to imagine himself as someone very important. He's someone who is a threat to others, rather than a victim. He has charged himself with finding Samantha, possibly because he feels responsible for her death. In his mind, he has created himself to be a conglomeration of everything American society considers 'heroic'. He's a highly educated FBI agent in a position of authority. The guilt he feels over Samantha's death comes out by way of sacrifice. He imagines himself sacrificing a promising career in order to find out the truth about her absence. It is entirely possible, Mr. Mulder, that your career influenced your son's choice in this matter."
He looked across the desk at the elderly couple. They'd been down this road before; this wasn't the first time they had considered euthanasia and it probably wouldn't be the last.
Mrs. Mulder inhaled deeply and tilted her chin upwards. "If he were somehow able to regain consciousness, how do you see potential recovery playing out?"
The doctor pursed his lips in thought. "It is my opinion that, if he is able to come out of this coma, the shock of reality opposed to the detailed fantasy that he has created would be particularly harmful. Recovery would be a long and arduous process. It would depend solely on whether he wanted to recover. As of right now, recovery is a threat to Fox. It is as though on some level he knows the pain existing on this plane. He has no control over this world. That alone could very well explain why he resists an awakening."
"That's why he's created those... people, you mean," Bill Mulder murmured.
The doctor nodded. "Exactly. They're... they're defense mechanisms. He's constantly trying to 'save' himself from what's waiting for him on this side. He considers consciousness a threat, and creates more threats to signify the threat of that consciousness. Similarly, he creates individuals – 'characters,' if you will, that he attaches himself to in order to make that fantasy world more appealing. By doing so, he also makes it more difficult to leave. This world cannot equate to what he's created."
The older woman looked down at her hands, still linked with her husband's. "That 'Scully' person, you mean."
"That's one example. We believe that he created 'Scully' as a stand-in for a maternal figure. She validates him while only appearing as a threat to his construction. He created someone to trust, who would believe in him and his fantasy. There are lesser players, of course, but they all play a part. Think of it like a house of cards. A man can create an intricate, if flimsy structure in so many years. The problem is that Scully, fictional though she is, has anchored Fox in his fantasy world, and any attempts to pull him out are considered a threat." The doctor paused. "He even considers me a threat. My efforts to help have been perceived as intent to harm both him and the people in his head. Looking back, we've been able to piece together much of what his subconscious mind has been trying to do."
"Trying to do?" the patient's mother asked.
"That's right." He leaned back in his chair and pressed his palms together. "Fox has transformed the threat that we pose into an amorphous omniscience – a different kind of 'threat.' Rather than the real world posing a threat to his sanity, he has created a shadowy evil that poses a threat to all of mankind—"
"Which in turn validates the fantasy," the mother cut in.
He nodded. "By remaining in this fantasy realm, he thinks he's saving the world. He couldn't save his sister, so he's trying to go above and beyond the call of duty."
Bill Mulder was quiet for a long moment. The pain in his face was evident. It was hard enough to have lost one child, but to lose two was a travesty. "I still don't understand. I don't understand how reality is a 'threat.' We're his parents. We love him. Doesn't he understand that?"
"From what we've been able to piece together, Bill, he's trying to protect himself against that too—"
Bill Mulder suddenly stood. "Who needs protection from their parents?" He walked the length of the room, seeming far older than his years. He had every reason for that – his daughter found brutally murdered, his son found curled in the fetal position, not five feet from her body. Fox had been through varying levels of catatonia, peppered with lucidity. Neither parent ever knew the joy of first dates, senior proms, or driving lessons. Neither of them would ever know grandchildren, or watching their children age into productive adults. They were both exhausted and outraged, and he understood that.
"If he was able to sever ties and distance himself emotionally from the memory of his parents, it would make his world ever more comfortable. After such a traumatic experience, this is his way of protecting himself against... himself." It was for that reason that Fox Mulder "killed" his parents – they were too present in his mind, and with that presence came the reminder of where he failed, and why he was where he was. They were a reminder of the time before. Of the Real World. By getting rid of that presence, he was able to move more freely within his own world. The doctor alone knew how hard Fox Mulder had been fighting them. He alone knew the extent of the man's fictional existence.
He also knew the role he played in that world. Though he tried to remain objective, being charged as a murderous threat when his life's work revolved around saving lives was, on some very primal level, insulting. He knew that Fox had tried many different ways to eliminate his presence, and the doctor was well aware of the patient's frustration at his inability to get rid of him.
"It's just too much to consider, Dr. Ryce. I'm sure you can understand that. We can't just... we can't kill our own son. He's our son."
Her husband's eyes were trained on his hands. "He hasn't been our son for almost thirty years."
Dr. Alexander K. Ryce nodded. "I can continue to work with him – there are a great deal of experimental treatments that are still open to us. But it's only just a matter of time before he stonewalls all of us completely. Before he gives up and backs out the only way someone can who is that desperate for distance and comfort."
The older woman's shoulders sagged slightly. "You mean before he simply gives up the will to live."
"No," Dr. Ryce said, his voice low, "before he decides to sacrifice his life for the world within his mind. This isn't a matter of 'giving up' for Fox. It is a matter of working for the greater good. A lie is only a lie for as long as you recognize that fact. Fox fully believes his lie. Somewhere in the process, a lie has become the truth, and he's willing to die for that truth."
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