Title: Requiem of Snowfall
Author: White Star 2 (hila-p@barak-online.net)
Rating: PG
Classification: SRA
Distribution: Anywhere. I don't mind. But let me know about
it.
Spoilers: Unusual Suspects, Travelers, Redux II, The
Blessing Way, Paper Clip, Pusher, Tooms, Squeeze, but
nothing big or not discussed-to-death from any of them.
Keywords:
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Mulder is feeling as
depressed as ever. Will a guardian angel be able to show
him that even if it's not such a wonderful life, it's
better than the alternative?
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully and the rest of the gang are
1013's. It's A Wonderful Life belongs to Philip Van Doren
Stern (story) and Frank Capra (director, producer). The
parts of this that make you worry are mine.
Author's Notes: I know this has been done to death by every
series. I know it's been done a lot by fanfic writers. I
know I don't have much chance to outdo anyone. But I wrote
two scenes and liked it too much to drop it. Besides,
anything worth doing is worth doing to death, right? Right!
The story ad for this is at
http://controlfreak.sandwich.net/Random/StoryAd1s.gif
And send me lots and lots of feedback! Please!
* * *
Requiem of Snowfall
by White Star 2
Mulder's Apartment
December 24, 1996
11:02PM
It was probably a lovely night outside, Mulder thought. It
was Christmas Eve, and the ground was covered with fresh,
loosely packed snow. It had snowed the night before, and
the whole morning. The sky was probably cloudless. And
starry. It was probably a wonderful night. But Mulder,
sprawled on his couch, didn't see it. He added it to the
list of things he'd missed in his life.
He never really looked up anymore. Or around. Scenery was
no longer beautiful. It was the means to someone's ends.
Forests were hiding places. Mountains were vaults. Lakes
were habitats, where mysterious creatures dwelt. He
couldn't just look if he tried. And looking up... that was
laughable. And when he did, he counted moving lights
instead of still ones.
And the same attitude could be applied to anything in his
life, he noted. He was so busy running after the paranormal
he'd completely forgotten about the normal. And, in the
end, he'd thrown away his life. Thirty-five years of waste.
All right, up to the age of twelve he was okay, but... not
since.
Everyone had their own madnesses, sure. But when the
madness and the paranoia overshadowed the person within, it
wasn't right. Was it right when they'd become the person
within? No, of course not.
Somehow he'd managed to find the only job that was well
suited for someone as wrong in the head as himself. And, of
course, he was always in danger of losing it. He'd made his
career relying on outside help, not himself. He wasn't good
enough to do it alone. Sure, he had his sources - there was
Deep Throat, and there was X. And Maritia. But no one
stayed to help him for very long. And soon enough, no one
else would come, and he'd be left alone with work he
wouldn't be able to do by himself.
One thing alone saved his life from being useless and
meaningless. Scully. If she had any interest in his work,
it must have some importance. If she cared enough to stay
for so long, he must've been more human than he imagined.
But he wasn't even sure of that lately. It wasn't something
she said or did, but he got the feeling that she'd rather
be elsewhere sometimes. Doing work that didn't involve his
life-long quest, that same quest that had hurt her so much
already.
He often wondered how he could've been selfish enough to
drag her into all that. She was more important to him than
anything else. And yet he endangered her again and again.
Soon enough, her patience would run out and she would
decide that she'd hurt herself enough times for him.
All he'd brought with him wherever he went was death and
pain. Scully, her sister, Deep Throat, X, his own father...
he wondered how many more. How many lives was the truth
worth? And the incomplete, misinterpreted truth he had?
None.
But he kept going, with the stakes so high. He had to. he
had nothing else left but his work. His work that kept him
locked up in the basement, and kept the name Spooky
tattooed on his forehead. He never really had any respect
from his colleagues. Once, maybe. Before they knew him.
What was it about Spooky Mulder that was so unlikable? What
was it that even Scully couldn't bear at times?
And there was that unstable side of him - the side that had
him running around enthusiastically and pushing everyone to
their tolerance limit one moment and the next... the next
moment he'd be playing with his gun like he was now,
wondering if it would have been better to just end it...
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Mulder looked up. There
was a dark-haired man in a suit leaning against the kitchen
doorframe.
"Who are you?" Mulder asked, changing the aim of his gun.
The stranger looked calmly down the barrel. He put down a
black briefcase he was holding, then smoothed his tie with
his palm. "Peter Shaiman."
"How did you get in? Why are you here?"
The stranger hesitated for a second looking for the right
words. "God sent me."
Mulder raised an eyebrow, then snorted. "God sent you? What
are you supposed to be, my guardian angel?"
"I suppose so, if you put it like that. I was sent to stop
you from doing something really stupid. But I don't do this
too often."
"What, then, Mr. Shaiman, *do* you do?"
"I'm a lawyer."
"A lawyer? God sent down a lawyer as my guardian angel? I
always figured I'd go to Hell for something, I just never
knew hell would come looking for me."
"Well, God sort of figured that in your case He needs to
send down someone who can make a strong argument."
"About what?"
"About staying alive. Let's go for a walk."
* * *
The cold night air pierced Mulder's lungs. Had he been an
outside observer, he would have been suspicious. Two men in
black trenchcoats, walking silently side by side, late at
night, on Christmas Eve. Neither he nor Mr. Shaiman said
anything until they reached a park.
"Why does God need lawyers in heaven?" Mulder asked. It was
the first thing he could think of.
"You'll know, all in good time."
"Is that some sort of hint that I'm headed for heaven?"
Shaiman smiled. "I'm not at liberty to comment."
Mulder chuckled. "Lawyers..." Then he sighed. "But you
know, at least your life has some meaning. You did some
good. A lot of good, if you're more professional than you
seem."
"Actually," Shaiman said slowly, then paused. "I freed
murderers, mostly."
"So how did *you* get to heaven?"
"I made a good case to get in."
"Which was?"
"That I also freed a few innocent people."
"That's good to know."
Shaiman nodded. "Yeah. I don't think I could have kept
going for so many years if it wasn't for the occasional
innocent man. Would have driven me crazy. Just like you
would have gone crazy if you didn't stumble on a shred of
the truth every once in a while."
"But what good is a shred here and there? And to be hated
and hunted..."
"That's your life, and you brought it upon yourself."
"Is that supposed to make it less awful?"
"It's supposed to make you see the good in it, as well as
the bad."
"What good?" Mulder muttered.
"There is good in your life," Shaiman said.
Mulder sat down on a bench by what was a flower patch in
the summertime. "No, there isn't. It's not even a life." He
looked down at his hands, which he rubbed together to keep
them from freezing. "Sometimes... sometimes I just wish
that it was me instead of Samantha. She would've done so
much more with a chance at life. She deserved it. It should
have been me..."
"It was," Shaiman said.
Mulder looked up. "What?"
"I get to do this if I have to. You were the one abducted."
"You crazy bastard..." Mulder muttered. That's what he got
for listening to complete strangers, especially on a night
like this...
"Please, just Peter will suffice." He reached his hand into
his coat pocket and pulled out a yellowing newspaper
clipping. He unfolded it and read, "Fox Mulder, age 12,
disappeared from his home in the middle of the night. His
parents were out of the house, and his sister, Samantha,
age 8, says she recalls nothing from the events of the
night. The police have ruled out kidnapping."
"Let me see," Mulder grabbed the paper.
"Dated November 29, 1973. That's a very good picture of
you," Shaiman remarked as Mulder read the rest of the
article. Mulder's jaw was clenched and his fingers gripped
the paper so tightly they threatened to tear it. It
couldn't be true. It simply couldn't be...
Shaiman took a seat next to Mulder. He put the briefcase
he'd dragged along on his knees and opened it. He took out
a manila folder and handed it to Mulder. Mulder opened it.
Inside was a police file and a picture of him from 1973.
He scanned it. Reported missing on November 28, 1973, at
2:21AM. File closed in '75. Reopened in both '79 and '84,
once at the request of William Mulder and once at the
request of Samantha Mulder. Presumed dead.
"This can't be happening," Mulder barely let out.
"Come on. I'll prove it to you."
* * *
It was so dark that Mulder thought it was just a trick of
light; lightning or a street lamp blinking. When he looked
around again he realized that it was no such thing and that
he was beginning to think like Scully.
"How did we get here?" Mulder demanded. Peter said nothing.
"And why are we on the Vineyard?"
"To see the family."
Peter walked up to the window. While he waited for Mulder,
he lifted both his feet, one at a time, to knee height and
muttered something about mud and new shoes. Mulder looked
through the window. After a few moments he realized that he
wasn't breathing.
He was looking right at Samantha.
She was all grown up, almost like he'd imagined her,
sitting in front of the fireplace. To talk to her would
make this moment, dream or reality, perfect. "Samantha!" he
yelled at the window. "Samantha!" One glass panel fogged
up. Samantha didn't seem to notice anything.
"She can't hear you," Peter said. Mulder ignored him and
kept trying. "You don't exist. She can't hear you."
Mulder stared at the morose face inside. She stared
straight ahead. His mother came in moments later, a cup in
her hand. She handed it to Samantha, who put it on the
table without even stopping to look at it.
Samantha smiled sadly at her mother. Mrs. Mulder sat down
next to her and put her arm around her daughter. "Are you
still thinking about him?"
"It's hard not to," Samantha replied. "Especially at times
like this, during the holidays."
"We all miss him..."
"It's not even that anymore," Samantha let her head drop to
her mother's shoulder. "If he were dead, I could accept it.
I just need to know what happened to him."
"Your father will keep his word," Mrs. Mulder said, running
her fingers through Samantha's thick curly hair.
Outside the window, Mulder sighed. "They're happy," he said
softly. "They have each other. And Dad."
"No, they don't," Peter whispered.
A spark lit in the dark behind Samantha. A tail of smoke
dragged into the room behind a Morley's cigarette. "Dad,"
Samantha turned around to face him. He smiled a wrinkled
smile and sat down with them.
"What the hell..." Mulder uttered.
"Let me try to explain," Peter said. "After you were
abducted, your father kept trying to find you. He wanted to
know that you were alive. He endangered the secrecy of the
project."
"They killed him?"
"They had no other choice." Mulder's face twisted into an
expression of pain. "A year or so after he died your mother
remarried."
"What did Samantha say about it?"
"She was okay with it. When it turned out that he was her
biological father, she took it hard at first. But she
accepted it in the end." Mulder nodded solemnly. "But when
she found out that he knew about what happened to you,
things got hot between the two. She's hardly been home for
ten years. Until last year."
"What happened then?" Peter said nothing and looked back in
the window.
"You promised," Samantha hissed. "I've done everything you
asked me to! How much more do you want?"
"Sam, honey," he put out his cigarette. "I'm not doing this
for me. It's for the good of the project. We still need
your help, and I'm still not sure you can be trusted with
all the information. When the others trust you, I promise
I'll explain it all."
"I don't give a damn about your stupid project! He's dead,
isn't he? He's dead and you're just going to keep using me
for as long as you need me and then dispose of me just like
you did to Mom's husband!"
"Sam..."
"Or did you have him killed so you can step in?"
"Samantha!" Her mother snapped.
"No, Mom, I did things so unimaginably horrible for him for
this long, and I won't do it ever again!" She violently
pulled herself out of her mother's grasp.
"I just remembered why I don't come home for the holidays,"
she muttered while grabbing her coat.
Mulder left his place by the window and ran toward the
front door. Samantha came out and marched angrily to her
car. Mulder followed, but she didn't see him. He stood
beside the car as she twisted the ignition key so violently
he thought it would break. "Where the hell are you, Fox?"
she whispered into the night before driving off.
The question was left hanging in the air as Mulder watched
the car shrink until it was just a light in the distance.
"Where the hell am I?" Mulder wondered.
"Ready to go?" Peter asked.
"Why would she work with him?"
"Because she loves you and she wants to find you. And she
doesn't have the resources you had as an FBI agent."
"So she sold out?"
"What would you have done?"
And light flashed around them again.
* * *
Mulder's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline when he saw
the woman curled up in the chair with a book. "That's..."
"Yes, it is," Peter said.
"She's..." Mulder frowned at a ring on her finger.
"Yes, she is."
The hum of running water in the background stopped. The
woman put down her book and untied her robe in a single
tug. "I'm coming in," she yelled in the direction of the
bathtub. "Ready or not!"
"We don't have to stay for this, do we?" Mulder rolled his
eyes.
"This coming from a porn addict?" Peter chuckled. "It's
just your ex-wife. Can't you be an adult about this?"
"Never," Mulder replied as the scenery changed again.
* * *
"Where are we now?" Mulder demanded.
"Arlington, Virginia," the "angel" answered.
"Why are we here?"
"Just wait and see for yourself."
Mulder looked around the apartment. It was well lit and
nicely decorated. Here and there he noted the hints of a
professional decorator's work. And the place was
immaculately clean. The Christmas tree in the corner seemed
almost out of place in its surroundings. This lead him to
conclude two facts about whoever lived here - they were
rich and they didn't spend much time at home.
A door opened from what appeared to be the bedroom and then
closed. When the man turned his face to them, Mulder
frowned. "Tom Colton. Why are we at his place? I'm sure
that with me not around he's as much of an ass as ever."
His angel stood there and said nothing. Colton sat down at
the dining room table, in front of a pile of papers. He
sighed and pulled out a pen.
"You're sure he can't see or hear me?" Mulder asked.
"Absolutely."
Mulder smiled. He jumped and landed sitting on the
comfortable leather couch. He put his legs up on the coffee
table and put his hands behind his neck. "Okay, what am I
supposed to be seeing?"
Just then a key turned in the front door. Colton capped his
pen and got up to greet whoever it was. The door opened.
Mulder, with Colton's form and the walls blocking the view,
couldn't see who it was. "Hi, honey," he said, and there
was a sound of a quick kiss.
"You wouldn't believe the kind of day I had," said a
woman's voice. Mulder's jaw dropped.
"Oh, please, tell me that's not--" Mulder whispered and
slowly moved his hands from behind his neck. A small,
red-haired figure appeared from behind Colton. Mulder felt
a sting of slight jealousy. She unshouldered a purse and
dropped it and a set of keys on the dining room table, next
to Colton's papers.
"Draining meetings today, Dana?" Colton asked.
"Yes," she said. "Mostly with the dead." She paced around
restlessly, her coat still on. "I got called in to do an
autopsy after lunch. Strange case..."
"What's this?" Mulder asked, while in the background
something much like an X-File was being described. "What is
Scully doing with him? And it's Christmas Eve... she should
be with her family, not at work."
"It's all about a ring," Peter said. Mulder looked at her
left hand, massaging her neck as she paced around the room.
A simple gold ring stood out. "With you not around, she
went from Mrs. Spooky to Mrs. Colton. They dated for a
while, two years ago, then got married. And he's been
pulling strings in the Bureau to help her career. They both
work days, nights, holidays, and don't seem too unhappy
about it."
"That's not like her."
"It's not like Dana Scully. But Dana Colton is a very
different person. A lot of character shaping moments never
happened. And she's just as devoted to her work as ever,
it's just different work than she did with you."
Mulder turned his attention back to the "case report".
"...Then some suits pulled me out for a meeting. In the
middle of the autopsy!" She made large circles with her
head.
"Did it go well?" Colton smiled.
"Not really. I told them to go to hell and never interrupt
me when I have a scalpel in my hand." Mulder chuckled.
Colton didn't seem quite as amused.
"It took me three days to arrange that meeting for you.
They were there to see you about a promotion!"
Dana sighed. "I'm happy where I am right now, Tom."
"That took a lot of resourcefulness on my part!" Colton's
face was starting to turn red. "The least you could do is
be thankful!"
"That guy takes work way too seriously," Mulder whispered
to Peter.
"Reminds you of anyone?" Mulder rolled his eyes.
"Well, the least *you* could do is tell me before you sic
the higher-ups on me!" Dana yelled back at Colton.
"Loving marriage," Mulder commented.
"Well, if you want to spend your life chopping up corpses,
fine! When you regret it, don't come running to me!"
"I chose to do it! And if there's one thing I regret is
that I haven't had the chance to chop you up yet!" Mulder
saw the immediate regret as Dana realized what she'd said.
Colton didn't notice it.
"Why you..." he growled as his hand flew at Dana's face.
Mulder started at him, fists raised. Peter put up an arm to
block his path. "You can't do anything to intervene," he
said.
"That bastard..." Mulder muttered.
Dana brought her hand up to her cheek. Her face was
expressionless. "Dana, I..." Colton started, even more
shocked than her. But she didn't say anything and neither
did he. She grabbed her keys from the table and walked out.
Colton dropped into a chair and buried his face in his
hands.
* * *
Mulder looked around him. The Hoover building in DC. The
fading in and out was starting to creep him out. "Let's
go," Peter said and lead him into a room full of filing
cabinets. "Take a seat," he pointed to a chair. Mulder sat,
still shaken by what he had seen. He was starting to lose
his patience with this crazy charade. Peter started pulling
files out of the cabinets.
"Here. Take a look."
Mulder grabbed a file. "This is Modell." He ran his finger
down the first page, then flipped to the next. "The case
has been open for a long time."
"He hasn't found his worthy adversary yet. And killed two
agents so far - Frank Burst and Jerry Lamana."
"Well, so much for them being alive with me not around."
"Reggie Purdue is now the agent in charge of the case."
"...At least he's not dead." Mulder took another file.
"Eugene Tooms killed five people and disappeared."
"All these," Peter raised the thick and still-growing pile
of folders in his hand, "Remain unsolved because you
weren't there to make the intuitive leap... or however it
is that you do what you do."
Mulder leaned back in the chair and dropped the folders in
his hand on a small end-table. "Will you spare me the
eyestrain of reading and just give me final figures?"
Peter put down the folders in his hand. "Ninety-four
killed, forty-one missing, and a position open for a top
profiler after one was killed in a case that would have
been yours."
He paused. "And counting," Mulder muttered.
"One more thing you should see," Peter said. Mulder sighed
and pushed himself to his feet.
Mulder dragged his feet all the way to the open area where
the agents - those not locked away in the basement -
worked. He looked for Scully's name on a desk, knowing he
wouldn't find it. He did, though, find a name that almost
made him growl in anger: Alex Krycek.
"He works here?"
"He's still waiting for the right time to backstab
everyone, I suppose. He's worked here for more than two
years - leaking information, of course, but hasn't crossed
over to the other side completely. Not yet, at least."
Papers of every kind littered the desk. Nothing there to
indicate that the man had a life... other than a single
picture frame in the corner of the desk. Mulder picked it
up to look at it and almost dropped it in surprise.
Peter glanced over, then looked away. "Your ex-wife is
married to the rat. Tough." Mulder gritted his teeth.
Mulder looked at the picture again. And again. Then he
struggled with the thoughts of "What the hell went wrong
with that relationship, anyhow?" After his mind had quieted
sufficiently, he asked, "All right, now what?"
Peter was about to answer when the sound of footsteps came
from outside the room through the open door. Mulder
listened closely. Women's shoes, or so it sounded. Mulder
felt he knew whose, too.
Scully walked with a blank expression and her head held
high. There was a large red mark on her cheek that, Mulder
thought, would be turning into quite a bruise in the
morning.
His first instinct was to hide himself behind the door as
she walked past. Then he looked at Peter, who was putting
back the picture he'd dropped on the desk when he'd rushed
to the door just moments before. Mulder gave it half a
thought, then took off after Scully.
He walked close to her. Under normal circumstances she
would be able to feel his breath on the back of her neck.
He felt the need to protect her - she was his partner, and
she'd been hurt. And he felt the helplessness of having to
stand aside.
He looked to see where they were going, and saw his angel
standing by one of the doors. Mulder picked up his walking
pace. He eyed the plaque on the door Peter was standing by.
DANA SCULLY
HEAD OF FORENSIC PATHOLOGY
"Scully?"
"She didn't like Colton all that much."
"The name or the man?" Mulder muttered.
Scully got to the door. Peter signaled Mulder to move back.
He did. Scully picked out one of the keys in her bunch and
unlocked the door. She stood for a long time, holding the
open door and looking out into the hall. Mulder walked in,
and Peter followed.
Finally, she closed the door and sank into the chair behind
her desk. She had an office not unlike Skinner's, Mulder
noted. A large conference table, a few comfortable
armchairs, and - nicely personalizing the place - a floor
to ceiling library of medical texts.
She sat there for what seemed like minutes, doing nothing.
Her expression didn't change - still the same composed one
she had worn both in the hall and when she had walked out
of her apartment.
When she finally moved, she raised a hand to the forming
bruise on her face. It was as if by the push of a button,
silent tears streamed down her cheeks.
"That's enough," Mulder said. Peter didn't move. "Get me
out of here."
"All right," Peter said as Scully picked up the phone on
her desk and started dialing.
The last thing Mulder heard in that room was Scully's
muffled voice whispering into the handset. "Missy?"
* * *
"Nothing else?" Mulder said.
Peter didn't look kindly on the sarcasm. "Show's over. Now
it's time for you to decide."
"Decide?"
"If this is really what you want."
It should have been a no-brainer. People were hurting.
Because of him. But they were in the real world, as well.
And there was one thing that kept nagging in the back of
his mind.
"Where am I in this world?" He realized it ultimately came
down to that - to his own selfish need to not feel the pain
that his choice of a life had brought him. And maybe if he
knew, he could find Samantha...
"That would be too easy, wouldn't it?" Peter said. "No, I'm
afraid that's one thing I can't tell you."
"And Samantha - in my world - what happened to her?"
"You have to find out by yourself."
Mulder shook his head. "How long do I have to decide?"
"Until sunrise. After that, it's a one way ticket. No
exchanges, no refunds."
"And you?"
"I'll stay the same either way." And he vanished, leaving
Mulder alone in the park. He strolled down the narrow paths
for hours.
With each step, his uncertainty grew. He'd never dreamed of
having the chance to turn back time. He had the chance to
give Samantha a life. This was as good as finding her, in a
way.
But would the Fox Mulder of this world think this, too?
Where was he? Dead? A test subject, somewhere? A
human-alien hybrid? Or maybe, he pondered the worst - maybe
working for the smoking man and his friends. He never
doubted that if he'd been approached at the right times in
life he would have turned to their side...
There was too much unknown in both these worlds. He wanted
neither. Since that was not an option, he had to weigh them
one against the other.
He felt another surge of anger at Colton, and compassion
for Scully. He couldn't leave her here, like this. And his
sister, enslaved by the men he hated most. It was like a
bad dream. Only it could be made very real. All he had to
do was say the word.
He closed his eyes and drove away all the selfish and
irrational reasons in his head. He wanted to protect the
people he loved. They didn't seem safe here. In a world
where he was an FBI agent, and friend, not foe, he could do
something to protect them. He could search for Samantha. He
could be there for Scully. He could continue with his work.
Then he opened his eyes and watched the sun rise.
He turned his head to the side. Peter was sitting next to
him, briefcase on his knees. "You've made up your mind?"
Mulder nodded.
* * *
11:21PM
Mulder opened his eyes. He sighed in relief to find that he
was in his apartment. Everything was the same. And nothing
was the same. Not in his head, at least.
He was, at the same time, more confused and more
clearminded, shaken and reassured, but he had a rush of
energy. He had a cause and a will to follow it wherever it
took him. It was a lot better than the alternative.
He knew he'd probably regret this decision at times. He
could have thrown himself into the unknown. He could have
given so many a chance at life. But it was too late for
that now, and he sure had what to live for.
The phone rang. He fumbled for it in the darkness.
"Mulder?"
He smiled. "Scully. Where are you?"
"My mother's place. We were just about to leave for Mass. I
figured you'd be awake."
"I'm not coming."
She chuckled. "Merry Christmas, Mulder."
"Merry Christmas, Scully."
---
Mulder smiled and went to sleep.
Author: White Star 2 (hila-p@barak-online.net)
Rating: PG
Classification: SRA
Distribution: Anywhere. I don't mind. But let me know about
it.
Spoilers: Unusual Suspects, Travelers, Redux II, The
Blessing Way, Paper Clip, Pusher, Tooms, Squeeze, but
nothing big or not discussed-to-death from any of them.
Keywords:
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Mulder is feeling as
depressed as ever. Will a guardian angel be able to show
him that even if it's not such a wonderful life, it's
better than the alternative?
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully and the rest of the gang are
1013's. It's A Wonderful Life belongs to Philip Van Doren
Stern (story) and Frank Capra (director, producer). The
parts of this that make you worry are mine.
Author's Notes: I know this has been done to death by every
series. I know it's been done a lot by fanfic writers. I
know I don't have much chance to outdo anyone. But I wrote
two scenes and liked it too much to drop it. Besides,
anything worth doing is worth doing to death, right? Right!
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* * *
Requiem of Snowfall
by White Star 2
Mulder's Apartment
December 24, 1996
11:02PM
It was probably a lovely night outside, Mulder thought. It
was Christmas Eve, and the ground was covered with fresh,
loosely packed snow. It had snowed the night before, and
the whole morning. The sky was probably cloudless. And
starry. It was probably a wonderful night. But Mulder,
sprawled on his couch, didn't see it. He added it to the
list of things he'd missed in his life.
He never really looked up anymore. Or around. Scenery was
no longer beautiful. It was the means to someone's ends.
Forests were hiding places. Mountains were vaults. Lakes
were habitats, where mysterious creatures dwelt. He
couldn't just look if he tried. And looking up... that was
laughable. And when he did, he counted moving lights
instead of still ones.
And the same attitude could be applied to anything in his
life, he noted. He was so busy running after the paranormal
he'd completely forgotten about the normal. And, in the
end, he'd thrown away his life. Thirty-five years of waste.
All right, up to the age of twelve he was okay, but... not
since.
Everyone had their own madnesses, sure. But when the
madness and the paranoia overshadowed the person within, it
wasn't right. Was it right when they'd become the person
within? No, of course not.
Somehow he'd managed to find the only job that was well
suited for someone as wrong in the head as himself. And, of
course, he was always in danger of losing it. He'd made his
career relying on outside help, not himself. He wasn't good
enough to do it alone. Sure, he had his sources - there was
Deep Throat, and there was X. And Maritia. But no one
stayed to help him for very long. And soon enough, no one
else would come, and he'd be left alone with work he
wouldn't be able to do by himself.
One thing alone saved his life from being useless and
meaningless. Scully. If she had any interest in his work,
it must have some importance. If she cared enough to stay
for so long, he must've been more human than he imagined.
But he wasn't even sure of that lately. It wasn't something
she said or did, but he got the feeling that she'd rather
be elsewhere sometimes. Doing work that didn't involve his
life-long quest, that same quest that had hurt her so much
already.
He often wondered how he could've been selfish enough to
drag her into all that. She was more important to him than
anything else. And yet he endangered her again and again.
Soon enough, her patience would run out and she would
decide that she'd hurt herself enough times for him.
All he'd brought with him wherever he went was death and
pain. Scully, her sister, Deep Throat, X, his own father...
he wondered how many more. How many lives was the truth
worth? And the incomplete, misinterpreted truth he had?
None.
But he kept going, with the stakes so high. He had to. he
had nothing else left but his work. His work that kept him
locked up in the basement, and kept the name Spooky
tattooed on his forehead. He never really had any respect
from his colleagues. Once, maybe. Before they knew him.
What was it about Spooky Mulder that was so unlikable? What
was it that even Scully couldn't bear at times?
And there was that unstable side of him - the side that had
him running around enthusiastically and pushing everyone to
their tolerance limit one moment and the next... the next
moment he'd be playing with his gun like he was now,
wondering if it would have been better to just end it...
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Mulder looked up. There
was a dark-haired man in a suit leaning against the kitchen
doorframe.
"Who are you?" Mulder asked, changing the aim of his gun.
The stranger looked calmly down the barrel. He put down a
black briefcase he was holding, then smoothed his tie with
his palm. "Peter Shaiman."
"How did you get in? Why are you here?"
The stranger hesitated for a second looking for the right
words. "God sent me."
Mulder raised an eyebrow, then snorted. "God sent you? What
are you supposed to be, my guardian angel?"
"I suppose so, if you put it like that. I was sent to stop
you from doing something really stupid. But I don't do this
too often."
"What, then, Mr. Shaiman, *do* you do?"
"I'm a lawyer."
"A lawyer? God sent down a lawyer as my guardian angel? I
always figured I'd go to Hell for something, I just never
knew hell would come looking for me."
"Well, God sort of figured that in your case He needs to
send down someone who can make a strong argument."
"About what?"
"About staying alive. Let's go for a walk."
* * *
The cold night air pierced Mulder's lungs. Had he been an
outside observer, he would have been suspicious. Two men in
black trenchcoats, walking silently side by side, late at
night, on Christmas Eve. Neither he nor Mr. Shaiman said
anything until they reached a park.
"Why does God need lawyers in heaven?" Mulder asked. It was
the first thing he could think of.
"You'll know, all in good time."
"Is that some sort of hint that I'm headed for heaven?"
Shaiman smiled. "I'm not at liberty to comment."
Mulder chuckled. "Lawyers..." Then he sighed. "But you
know, at least your life has some meaning. You did some
good. A lot of good, if you're more professional than you
seem."
"Actually," Shaiman said slowly, then paused. "I freed
murderers, mostly."
"So how did *you* get to heaven?"
"I made a good case to get in."
"Which was?"
"That I also freed a few innocent people."
"That's good to know."
Shaiman nodded. "Yeah. I don't think I could have kept
going for so many years if it wasn't for the occasional
innocent man. Would have driven me crazy. Just like you
would have gone crazy if you didn't stumble on a shred of
the truth every once in a while."
"But what good is a shred here and there? And to be hated
and hunted..."
"That's your life, and you brought it upon yourself."
"Is that supposed to make it less awful?"
"It's supposed to make you see the good in it, as well as
the bad."
"What good?" Mulder muttered.
"There is good in your life," Shaiman said.
Mulder sat down on a bench by what was a flower patch in
the summertime. "No, there isn't. It's not even a life." He
looked down at his hands, which he rubbed together to keep
them from freezing. "Sometimes... sometimes I just wish
that it was me instead of Samantha. She would've done so
much more with a chance at life. She deserved it. It should
have been me..."
"It was," Shaiman said.
Mulder looked up. "What?"
"I get to do this if I have to. You were the one abducted."
"You crazy bastard..." Mulder muttered. That's what he got
for listening to complete strangers, especially on a night
like this...
"Please, just Peter will suffice." He reached his hand into
his coat pocket and pulled out a yellowing newspaper
clipping. He unfolded it and read, "Fox Mulder, age 12,
disappeared from his home in the middle of the night. His
parents were out of the house, and his sister, Samantha,
age 8, says she recalls nothing from the events of the
night. The police have ruled out kidnapping."
"Let me see," Mulder grabbed the paper.
"Dated November 29, 1973. That's a very good picture of
you," Shaiman remarked as Mulder read the rest of the
article. Mulder's jaw was clenched and his fingers gripped
the paper so tightly they threatened to tear it. It
couldn't be true. It simply couldn't be...
Shaiman took a seat next to Mulder. He put the briefcase
he'd dragged along on his knees and opened it. He took out
a manila folder and handed it to Mulder. Mulder opened it.
Inside was a police file and a picture of him from 1973.
He scanned it. Reported missing on November 28, 1973, at
2:21AM. File closed in '75. Reopened in both '79 and '84,
once at the request of William Mulder and once at the
request of Samantha Mulder. Presumed dead.
"This can't be happening," Mulder barely let out.
"Come on. I'll prove it to you."
* * *
It was so dark that Mulder thought it was just a trick of
light; lightning or a street lamp blinking. When he looked
around again he realized that it was no such thing and that
he was beginning to think like Scully.
"How did we get here?" Mulder demanded. Peter said nothing.
"And why are we on the Vineyard?"
"To see the family."
Peter walked up to the window. While he waited for Mulder,
he lifted both his feet, one at a time, to knee height and
muttered something about mud and new shoes. Mulder looked
through the window. After a few moments he realized that he
wasn't breathing.
He was looking right at Samantha.
She was all grown up, almost like he'd imagined her,
sitting in front of the fireplace. To talk to her would
make this moment, dream or reality, perfect. "Samantha!" he
yelled at the window. "Samantha!" One glass panel fogged
up. Samantha didn't seem to notice anything.
"She can't hear you," Peter said. Mulder ignored him and
kept trying. "You don't exist. She can't hear you."
Mulder stared at the morose face inside. She stared
straight ahead. His mother came in moments later, a cup in
her hand. She handed it to Samantha, who put it on the
table without even stopping to look at it.
Samantha smiled sadly at her mother. Mrs. Mulder sat down
next to her and put her arm around her daughter. "Are you
still thinking about him?"
"It's hard not to," Samantha replied. "Especially at times
like this, during the holidays."
"We all miss him..."
"It's not even that anymore," Samantha let her head drop to
her mother's shoulder. "If he were dead, I could accept it.
I just need to know what happened to him."
"Your father will keep his word," Mrs. Mulder said, running
her fingers through Samantha's thick curly hair.
Outside the window, Mulder sighed. "They're happy," he said
softly. "They have each other. And Dad."
"No, they don't," Peter whispered.
A spark lit in the dark behind Samantha. A tail of smoke
dragged into the room behind a Morley's cigarette. "Dad,"
Samantha turned around to face him. He smiled a wrinkled
smile and sat down with them.
"What the hell..." Mulder uttered.
"Let me try to explain," Peter said. "After you were
abducted, your father kept trying to find you. He wanted to
know that you were alive. He endangered the secrecy of the
project."
"They killed him?"
"They had no other choice." Mulder's face twisted into an
expression of pain. "A year or so after he died your mother
remarried."
"What did Samantha say about it?"
"She was okay with it. When it turned out that he was her
biological father, she took it hard at first. But she
accepted it in the end." Mulder nodded solemnly. "But when
she found out that he knew about what happened to you,
things got hot between the two. She's hardly been home for
ten years. Until last year."
"What happened then?" Peter said nothing and looked back in
the window.
"You promised," Samantha hissed. "I've done everything you
asked me to! How much more do you want?"
"Sam, honey," he put out his cigarette. "I'm not doing this
for me. It's for the good of the project. We still need
your help, and I'm still not sure you can be trusted with
all the information. When the others trust you, I promise
I'll explain it all."
"I don't give a damn about your stupid project! He's dead,
isn't he? He's dead and you're just going to keep using me
for as long as you need me and then dispose of me just like
you did to Mom's husband!"
"Sam..."
"Or did you have him killed so you can step in?"
"Samantha!" Her mother snapped.
"No, Mom, I did things so unimaginably horrible for him for
this long, and I won't do it ever again!" She violently
pulled herself out of her mother's grasp.
"I just remembered why I don't come home for the holidays,"
she muttered while grabbing her coat.
Mulder left his place by the window and ran toward the
front door. Samantha came out and marched angrily to her
car. Mulder followed, but she didn't see him. He stood
beside the car as she twisted the ignition key so violently
he thought it would break. "Where the hell are you, Fox?"
she whispered into the night before driving off.
The question was left hanging in the air as Mulder watched
the car shrink until it was just a light in the distance.
"Where the hell am I?" Mulder wondered.
"Ready to go?" Peter asked.
"Why would she work with him?"
"Because she loves you and she wants to find you. And she
doesn't have the resources you had as an FBI agent."
"So she sold out?"
"What would you have done?"
And light flashed around them again.
* * *
Mulder's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline when he saw
the woman curled up in the chair with a book. "That's..."
"Yes, it is," Peter said.
"She's..." Mulder frowned at a ring on her finger.
"Yes, she is."
The hum of running water in the background stopped. The
woman put down her book and untied her robe in a single
tug. "I'm coming in," she yelled in the direction of the
bathtub. "Ready or not!"
"We don't have to stay for this, do we?" Mulder rolled his
eyes.
"This coming from a porn addict?" Peter chuckled. "It's
just your ex-wife. Can't you be an adult about this?"
"Never," Mulder replied as the scenery changed again.
* * *
"Where are we now?" Mulder demanded.
"Arlington, Virginia," the "angel" answered.
"Why are we here?"
"Just wait and see for yourself."
Mulder looked around the apartment. It was well lit and
nicely decorated. Here and there he noted the hints of a
professional decorator's work. And the place was
immaculately clean. The Christmas tree in the corner seemed
almost out of place in its surroundings. This lead him to
conclude two facts about whoever lived here - they were
rich and they didn't spend much time at home.
A door opened from what appeared to be the bedroom and then
closed. When the man turned his face to them, Mulder
frowned. "Tom Colton. Why are we at his place? I'm sure
that with me not around he's as much of an ass as ever."
His angel stood there and said nothing. Colton sat down at
the dining room table, in front of a pile of papers. He
sighed and pulled out a pen.
"You're sure he can't see or hear me?" Mulder asked.
"Absolutely."
Mulder smiled. He jumped and landed sitting on the
comfortable leather couch. He put his legs up on the coffee
table and put his hands behind his neck. "Okay, what am I
supposed to be seeing?"
Just then a key turned in the front door. Colton capped his
pen and got up to greet whoever it was. The door opened.
Mulder, with Colton's form and the walls blocking the view,
couldn't see who it was. "Hi, honey," he said, and there
was a sound of a quick kiss.
"You wouldn't believe the kind of day I had," said a
woman's voice. Mulder's jaw dropped.
"Oh, please, tell me that's not--" Mulder whispered and
slowly moved his hands from behind his neck. A small,
red-haired figure appeared from behind Colton. Mulder felt
a sting of slight jealousy. She unshouldered a purse and
dropped it and a set of keys on the dining room table, next
to Colton's papers.
"Draining meetings today, Dana?" Colton asked.
"Yes," she said. "Mostly with the dead." She paced around
restlessly, her coat still on. "I got called in to do an
autopsy after lunch. Strange case..."
"What's this?" Mulder asked, while in the background
something much like an X-File was being described. "What is
Scully doing with him? And it's Christmas Eve... she should
be with her family, not at work."
"It's all about a ring," Peter said. Mulder looked at her
left hand, massaging her neck as she paced around the room.
A simple gold ring stood out. "With you not around, she
went from Mrs. Spooky to Mrs. Colton. They dated for a
while, two years ago, then got married. And he's been
pulling strings in the Bureau to help her career. They both
work days, nights, holidays, and don't seem too unhappy
about it."
"That's not like her."
"It's not like Dana Scully. But Dana Colton is a very
different person. A lot of character shaping moments never
happened. And she's just as devoted to her work as ever,
it's just different work than she did with you."
Mulder turned his attention back to the "case report".
"...Then some suits pulled me out for a meeting. In the
middle of the autopsy!" She made large circles with her
head.
"Did it go well?" Colton smiled.
"Not really. I told them to go to hell and never interrupt
me when I have a scalpel in my hand." Mulder chuckled.
Colton didn't seem quite as amused.
"It took me three days to arrange that meeting for you.
They were there to see you about a promotion!"
Dana sighed. "I'm happy where I am right now, Tom."
"That took a lot of resourcefulness on my part!" Colton's
face was starting to turn red. "The least you could do is
be thankful!"
"That guy takes work way too seriously," Mulder whispered
to Peter.
"Reminds you of anyone?" Mulder rolled his eyes.
"Well, the least *you* could do is tell me before you sic
the higher-ups on me!" Dana yelled back at Colton.
"Loving marriage," Mulder commented.
"Well, if you want to spend your life chopping up corpses,
fine! When you regret it, don't come running to me!"
"I chose to do it! And if there's one thing I regret is
that I haven't had the chance to chop you up yet!" Mulder
saw the immediate regret as Dana realized what she'd said.
Colton didn't notice it.
"Why you..." he growled as his hand flew at Dana's face.
Mulder started at him, fists raised. Peter put up an arm to
block his path. "You can't do anything to intervene," he
said.
"That bastard..." Mulder muttered.
Dana brought her hand up to her cheek. Her face was
expressionless. "Dana, I..." Colton started, even more
shocked than her. But she didn't say anything and neither
did he. She grabbed her keys from the table and walked out.
Colton dropped into a chair and buried his face in his
hands.
* * *
Mulder looked around him. The Hoover building in DC. The
fading in and out was starting to creep him out. "Let's
go," Peter said and lead him into a room full of filing
cabinets. "Take a seat," he pointed to a chair. Mulder sat,
still shaken by what he had seen. He was starting to lose
his patience with this crazy charade. Peter started pulling
files out of the cabinets.
"Here. Take a look."
Mulder grabbed a file. "This is Modell." He ran his finger
down the first page, then flipped to the next. "The case
has been open for a long time."
"He hasn't found his worthy adversary yet. And killed two
agents so far - Frank Burst and Jerry Lamana."
"Well, so much for them being alive with me not around."
"Reggie Purdue is now the agent in charge of the case."
"...At least he's not dead." Mulder took another file.
"Eugene Tooms killed five people and disappeared."
"All these," Peter raised the thick and still-growing pile
of folders in his hand, "Remain unsolved because you
weren't there to make the intuitive leap... or however it
is that you do what you do."
Mulder leaned back in the chair and dropped the folders in
his hand on a small end-table. "Will you spare me the
eyestrain of reading and just give me final figures?"
Peter put down the folders in his hand. "Ninety-four
killed, forty-one missing, and a position open for a top
profiler after one was killed in a case that would have
been yours."
He paused. "And counting," Mulder muttered.
"One more thing you should see," Peter said. Mulder sighed
and pushed himself to his feet.
Mulder dragged his feet all the way to the open area where
the agents - those not locked away in the basement -
worked. He looked for Scully's name on a desk, knowing he
wouldn't find it. He did, though, find a name that almost
made him growl in anger: Alex Krycek.
"He works here?"
"He's still waiting for the right time to backstab
everyone, I suppose. He's worked here for more than two
years - leaking information, of course, but hasn't crossed
over to the other side completely. Not yet, at least."
Papers of every kind littered the desk. Nothing there to
indicate that the man had a life... other than a single
picture frame in the corner of the desk. Mulder picked it
up to look at it and almost dropped it in surprise.
Peter glanced over, then looked away. "Your ex-wife is
married to the rat. Tough." Mulder gritted his teeth.
Mulder looked at the picture again. And again. Then he
struggled with the thoughts of "What the hell went wrong
with that relationship, anyhow?" After his mind had quieted
sufficiently, he asked, "All right, now what?"
Peter was about to answer when the sound of footsteps came
from outside the room through the open door. Mulder
listened closely. Women's shoes, or so it sounded. Mulder
felt he knew whose, too.
Scully walked with a blank expression and her head held
high. There was a large red mark on her cheek that, Mulder
thought, would be turning into quite a bruise in the
morning.
His first instinct was to hide himself behind the door as
she walked past. Then he looked at Peter, who was putting
back the picture he'd dropped on the desk when he'd rushed
to the door just moments before. Mulder gave it half a
thought, then took off after Scully.
He walked close to her. Under normal circumstances she
would be able to feel his breath on the back of her neck.
He felt the need to protect her - she was his partner, and
she'd been hurt. And he felt the helplessness of having to
stand aside.
He looked to see where they were going, and saw his angel
standing by one of the doors. Mulder picked up his walking
pace. He eyed the plaque on the door Peter was standing by.
DANA SCULLY
HEAD OF FORENSIC PATHOLOGY
"Scully?"
"She didn't like Colton all that much."
"The name or the man?" Mulder muttered.
Scully got to the door. Peter signaled Mulder to move back.
He did. Scully picked out one of the keys in her bunch and
unlocked the door. She stood for a long time, holding the
open door and looking out into the hall. Mulder walked in,
and Peter followed.
Finally, she closed the door and sank into the chair behind
her desk. She had an office not unlike Skinner's, Mulder
noted. A large conference table, a few comfortable
armchairs, and - nicely personalizing the place - a floor
to ceiling library of medical texts.
She sat there for what seemed like minutes, doing nothing.
Her expression didn't change - still the same composed one
she had worn both in the hall and when she had walked out
of her apartment.
When she finally moved, she raised a hand to the forming
bruise on her face. It was as if by the push of a button,
silent tears streamed down her cheeks.
"That's enough," Mulder said. Peter didn't move. "Get me
out of here."
"All right," Peter said as Scully picked up the phone on
her desk and started dialing.
The last thing Mulder heard in that room was Scully's
muffled voice whispering into the handset. "Missy?"
* * *
"Nothing else?" Mulder said.
Peter didn't look kindly on the sarcasm. "Show's over. Now
it's time for you to decide."
"Decide?"
"If this is really what you want."
It should have been a no-brainer. People were hurting.
Because of him. But they were in the real world, as well.
And there was one thing that kept nagging in the back of
his mind.
"Where am I in this world?" He realized it ultimately came
down to that - to his own selfish need to not feel the pain
that his choice of a life had brought him. And maybe if he
knew, he could find Samantha...
"That would be too easy, wouldn't it?" Peter said. "No, I'm
afraid that's one thing I can't tell you."
"And Samantha - in my world - what happened to her?"
"You have to find out by yourself."
Mulder shook his head. "How long do I have to decide?"
"Until sunrise. After that, it's a one way ticket. No
exchanges, no refunds."
"And you?"
"I'll stay the same either way." And he vanished, leaving
Mulder alone in the park. He strolled down the narrow paths
for hours.
With each step, his uncertainty grew. He'd never dreamed of
having the chance to turn back time. He had the chance to
give Samantha a life. This was as good as finding her, in a
way.
But would the Fox Mulder of this world think this, too?
Where was he? Dead? A test subject, somewhere? A
human-alien hybrid? Or maybe, he pondered the worst - maybe
working for the smoking man and his friends. He never
doubted that if he'd been approached at the right times in
life he would have turned to their side...
There was too much unknown in both these worlds. He wanted
neither. Since that was not an option, he had to weigh them
one against the other.
He felt another surge of anger at Colton, and compassion
for Scully. He couldn't leave her here, like this. And his
sister, enslaved by the men he hated most. It was like a
bad dream. Only it could be made very real. All he had to
do was say the word.
He closed his eyes and drove away all the selfish and
irrational reasons in his head. He wanted to protect the
people he loved. They didn't seem safe here. In a world
where he was an FBI agent, and friend, not foe, he could do
something to protect them. He could search for Samantha. He
could be there for Scully. He could continue with his work.
Then he opened his eyes and watched the sun rise.
He turned his head to the side. Peter was sitting next to
him, briefcase on his knees. "You've made up your mind?"
Mulder nodded.
* * *
11:21PM
Mulder opened his eyes. He sighed in relief to find that he
was in his apartment. Everything was the same. And nothing
was the same. Not in his head, at least.
He was, at the same time, more confused and more
clearminded, shaken and reassured, but he had a rush of
energy. He had a cause and a will to follow it wherever it
took him. It was a lot better than the alternative.
He knew he'd probably regret this decision at times. He
could have thrown himself into the unknown. He could have
given so many a chance at life. But it was too late for
that now, and he sure had what to live for.
The phone rang. He fumbled for it in the darkness.
"Mulder?"
He smiled. "Scully. Where are you?"
"My mother's place. We were just about to leave for Mass. I
figured you'd be awake."
"I'm not coming."
She chuckled. "Merry Christmas, Mulder."
"Merry Christmas, Scully."
---
Mulder smiled and went to sleep.