Title: "Truth and Entrapment"
Author: Heather Horn
Rating: PG
Category: MSR, A
Original Post Date: 04/04/00 - Revised 03/27/02
Summary: Will Mulder find the truth locked in his heart
before the lies get underneath his skin?
Spoilers: "Millennium" and "En Ami"
Distribution: Anywhere and everywhere. Please keep my name
attached and tell me where you are putting it. Thank you!
Feedback: Please send any comments - kisses and flames are
both greatly appreciated - to heathabear@hotmail.com.
Thanks a billion!
Disclaimer: "The X-Files" is copyright Chris Carter, 1013
Productions, and The FOX Network. No money is being made
from this. No copyright infringement is intended.
Acknowledgements: Thanks, Marie, for all of your hard work,
kind words, and input - you're the best beta-reader a
writer could ever ask for.
"Love conquers all." - Virgil
"Truth and Entrapment" (1/1)
By Heather Horn
It began with a spark. A spark that caused Fox Mulder to
lie in bed that night, and many nights after, wondering what
that spark would ignite. He replayed the mesmerizing moment
in his head hundreds of times, that entrancing midnight
moment. He had kissed her, and this time around, she did
not turn into a pumpkin.
This was all he recalled. He could not recollect how he
came to kiss her, or what was said in the aftermath,
if anything. All he fathomed was that he had kissed her, and
this kiss had become his nightly subject of analysis. Sometimes
he would cogitate over the notion for hours, delving for its
clandestine signification - or perhaps the essence that
paraded right before his blind eyes. Other times, he would
simply play the scene repeatedly in his mind,
smiling contentedly to himself, his eyelids closed over his
inscrutable hazel eyes. He would fantasize about their
future together, and reminisce about the good old days. He
yearned to have her next to him, not in his bed,
necessarily, but on the couch, perhaps. She would laugh
with him over the memory of the time that they went
undercover as a married couple, then she would cry with him
over the thought of their Antarctic adventure.
She would, that is, if they ever spoke of such times.
However, their experiences together, whether they induced
smiles or tears, were only remembrances instilled in each of
their minds. To Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, these memories
were solitary, never permitted to slip into a conversation.
Mulder counted his blessings for the gift of these memories,
and guarded them with his life. The only thing more
important to him than his memories of Scully was Scully
herself. She had been taken from him many times in the
past, and contrary to what some might say, if you do not
watch out, memories can be stolen, too.
This time, it was not his memories that were embezzled.
They were all there, each and every one of them. His heart,
not a chip off the edge, but his entire heart, was missing,
proclaimed dead on arrival. The New Year that had seemed so
auspicious had not brought them closer together. Instead,
it pulled them apart.
He had not truly spoken to her in two months, not since she
went on a road trip with a rather ambiguous character,
leaving Mulder sick with anxiety. He did not fear betrayal,
for he knew that she would never leave him. He found the
entire predicament to be outright bemusing. But deep down,
he knew why they did not speak. He was belligerent when she
had returned, interrogating her judgement and causing her
chagrin in front of their friends. This put her in no
position to open up to him, regardless of how much she might
have desired to. Looking back on it, he did not know why he
was so cruel. He had run off many times before, and albeit
she worried like crazy, she never held it against him in the
long run. She expected the same from him, and he failed to
pay her that respect. This was his punishment from her, and
he knew that he deserved it.
It was so hard to give Scully the cold shoulder, to brush
her off like a piece of lint on a sweater. He knew there
was no liable excuse for his actions, but they were not
without reason.
He was afraid.
Not just apprehensive, but
scared-out-of-his-stark-raving-mad-mind afraid. Everyone
has a trepidation; a worst nightmare that they never want to
encounter. Some people are afraid of heights, some of
water, some of bees. Mulder was afraid of lies. Lies were
his worst enemy. They seemed to be everywhere, in the form
of anyone and anything that stepped in the way of his truth,
stepped in the way of Scully.
They had the same standard "Hi-How are you?" dialogue every
morning at the office, but it had been awhile since they had
taken part in a meaningful conversation. They were not fans
of crying festivals at which they disclosed their every
feeling and passion, but still, something felt quite
strange; rather off-key and out-of-place. If it were anyone
but her, he would suspect that she had wandered over to The
Other Side. It was not someone else, though - it was Scully.
He loved her, and he prayed that she loved him.
The pain that his longing for Scully caused was too much to
bear, and there was nothing he could do to numb its
hardships. Tylenol, Advil, Smirnoff, even his favorite
movie ceased to ease his anguish. The only thing left to do
in the madness of his loneliness sat on his nightstand as it
did every night, but tonight it possessed a violent tranquility.
The sleek, dark gun with its rigid trigger was so inviting.
It was a companion; it offered to halt his desolation. The
gun was wise, and as he held it in his hand, the enigmas of
the world made sense. It was no wonder that she had
rejected him. She was assigned to the X-Files because he
was a crackpot, and it ruined her immaculate record, the
record as spotless as her pearly-white teeth. She was
abducted because of him, she could never have children of
her own because of him, and she had cancer because of him,
which brought him to the reason of his previous attempt at
ending his godforsaken life.
It did not take him long to decide where he would inflict
the lethal bullet. A hole in the space where his heart
formerly resided would do the trick rather justly. He took
the gun off of its safety setting and transferred the heavy
object from palm to palm. His sweat permeated onto the
handle, and the gun slipped from the grasp of his tired hands,
hitting the floor with a loud crash that inspired him to jump
halfway across the room.
This miniscule setback could not stop him. The weapon
called to him now, in a piercing voice that made his head
throb turbulently. It was beckoning him to pick it up once
more. He realized that it wanted to be a part of him as
much as he wanted to be a part of Scully. Its hypnotic
vigor pulled his index finger toward the trigger.
"Mulder," it called coyly, and he brought the gun slowly to
his chest, cringing at the bitter cold unfriendliness of the
barrel up against his bare skin.
*Tap, tap, tap*
"Mulder? Mulder, it's me."
As he heard the cherubic voice flowing musically from behind
the heavy oak door, he was graced with the perception of a
novel revelation. She had not rejected him, but accepted
him as much as she could without passing that thin but
prominent line between friendship and love. His heart
wasn't broken, only chipped. All he needed to fix it was a
little Scotch Tape and. . . Her. He had nothing to die for,
and everything to live for. He had her to live for.
Pulling his tattered New York Knicks T-shirt over his head,
he returned the gun to its place on the nightstand and
hurried to answer the door before he changed his mind.
She stood seriously, as she always did, her posture making
up for her stature. But there was a certain weariness to
her, and her clear, lustrous, blue eyes ceased to sparkle
the way they usually did. She did not look melancholy,
exactly, but seemed simultaneously disappointed and
relieved.
"Sorry to bother you so late," she murmured as she tried to
sort through her perplexity.
"It's not la-" he began, but a quick glance at the clock
told him otherwise. "It's not a bother."
He opened the door to its full capacity, and she stepped in,
staring down at her feet instead of looking him straight in
the eye with the withering stare that she normally used.
She was silent for several moments, and he matched her
silence, too preoccupied wondering what she would say to
ask her to say it. But she came around on her own
time - she always did. She was grateful that he had given
her the time she needed to collect herself. After one last
deep breath, she was able to look him in the eye. Her stare
was not the same, though, not as captivating and demanding.
But before he could decipher the swirling pools of her eyes,
she spoke.
"Mulder, the Smoking Man," she began, keeping her voice
strangely monotonous to prevent it from shaking, "Is dead."
It was his turn to instigate the silence now, and his round
hazel eyes adopted the same glassy look as hers. The
silence trudged on for several more moments, and when he
finally spoke, it was nothing above a whisper.
"Are you sure it's him?" He asked in disbelief. He wasn't
despondent, but he wasn't exactly breaking into song,
either. His eyes met hers again, and she slowly moved her
head up and down, never breaking eye contact with him.
"The body mysteriously vanished within the last hour, but
Skinner got a good look at it. He found a letter addressed
to you." She used her matter-of-fact business voice, but it
trembled continuously. She handed him a creased white
envelope with the letters F-O-X written across the front in
black ink, her hand shaking as she did so. She did not
know what to make of the ordeal, and although she knew
that she should not depend on him at a time like this,
she looked to him for guidance.
His eyes met hers and for just a moment, she looked like a
helpless little girl. He shook the image quickly from his
head, though, because he knew that Scully was anything but
helpless. Taking the initiative, he flipped a light switch,
leading her into the living room. They both chose separate
ends of the couch, and a gap as wide as an ocean flowed
between them. They were comforted by each other's presence,
though, knowing that it would be all right as long as they
each had their other half. He opened the letter and coughed
as the scent of smoke entered his lungs.
Damn bastard, he thought, but he held his tongue for the
sake of not making her more uncomfortable than she already
was. Biting down on his lower lip, he forced himself to read.
His eyes, which had become strained and bloodshot due to
insomnia, ran down the paper. They were reluctant, yet
frantic. As he read, he felt his chest tighten, and he
he became short of breath.
The man who penned the note had used his last words to
inform Mulder of some secrets, secrets that infuriated him.
He clasped his hands over his face and let out a grunt,
halfway between a sigh and a scream.
Mulder did not care about most of the things in the letter,
most of them were obvious and he had anticipated them.
One stood out above all the rest, though, a simple statement
that made his blood run cold.
The Cigarette-Smoking Man was not his father - he
was Samantha's.
"Damn bastard!" He yelled, momentarily ceasing to care if
his rage intimidated Scully. "Damn lying bastard!"
"What is it, Mulder?" She questioned, attempting to grab
for his shoulder, but he pulled away.
"He's not my father, Scully. He's Sam's father."
"Oh, Mulder-"
"Life is just one big game to him, and he always has to win!
It's one big joke; one big lie! He finished his game; he
won his game by mocking me with another humorless joke,
spinning more lies to complete his web! He bragged of his
sins until the moment he died, and he's bragging about them
right now in hell!"
He wanted to retrieve his gun, but he knew that Scully
would shoot herself before she would let him shoot himself.
Instead, he slid to the floor in front of the couch and
tucked his head to his chest, squinting his eyes shut and
scrunching up his face in agony.
"I've got no where to turn, Scully, it's all just one big lie. My whole
damn life is just one huge lie-"
His voice broke off then, and he surrendered to the comfort
of her soothing arms. She rocked him back and forth for a
long time as she gently kissed the top of his head.
Eventually, they would mutually end the embrace. Usually,
she would leave without a word, and he would let her leave
without a word. This time, though, she sat sprawled in his
lap, and he leaned against the couch, his arms protectively
around her. She took his fingers into her own hands and
toyed with them, feeling safe and relaxed, as well as an
emotion that was quite foriegn to her. She felt
loved. Overwhelmed by her own contentment, she
attempted to voice her feelings.
"Mulder, sometimes I feel just like you do. Nothing makes
sense, and no matter how hard I listen, everything that I
hear is a lie. But then I think of you. You're my truth,
Mulder. The Cigarette-Smoking Man might have been a liar,
he might even be lying to you about Samantha, but he told me
one thing that I hold to be more true than anything else in
the world."
"Nothing that bastard said could ever be true," he muttered
irritably, but in a calmer voice. Having her in his arms
was so comforting that he could not help but capitulate.
"I know it's true, Mulder. I asked my heart, and it agreed
with what he said. Mulder?"
"What?"
"I love you."
She said the words with such ingenuousness that he knew
she was telling the truth. He loved her, she loved him, and
now everything would be perfect. Now they could laugh
about the time they went undercover as a married couple,
cry over their Antarctic adventure, and maybe, just maybe,
he could kiss her again.
"I love you, Scully," he said, "And that's no lie."
THE END (1/1)
Thank you for taking the time to read
"Truth and Entrapment". I hope you enjoyed it! Please send
any comments - kisses and flames are both greatly
appreciated - to heathabear@hotmail.com. Thanks a billion!
You can find all of my fan fiction at my website,
Mulder + Scully = True Love
http://mstruelove.tripod.com
"True love is friendship set on fire."
Author: Heather Horn
Rating: PG
Category: MSR, A
Original Post Date: 04/04/00 - Revised 03/27/02
Summary: Will Mulder find the truth locked in his heart
before the lies get underneath his skin?
Spoilers: "Millennium" and "En Ami"
Distribution: Anywhere and everywhere. Please keep my name
attached and tell me where you are putting it. Thank you!
Feedback: Please send any comments - kisses and flames are
both greatly appreciated - to heathabear@hotmail.com.
Thanks a billion!
Disclaimer: "The X-Files" is copyright Chris Carter, 1013
Productions, and The FOX Network. No money is being made
from this. No copyright infringement is intended.
Acknowledgements: Thanks, Marie, for all of your hard work,
kind words, and input - you're the best beta-reader a
writer could ever ask for.
"Love conquers all." - Virgil
"Truth and Entrapment" (1/1)
By Heather Horn
It began with a spark. A spark that caused Fox Mulder to
lie in bed that night, and many nights after, wondering what
that spark would ignite. He replayed the mesmerizing moment
in his head hundreds of times, that entrancing midnight
moment. He had kissed her, and this time around, she did
not turn into a pumpkin.
This was all he recalled. He could not recollect how he
came to kiss her, or what was said in the aftermath,
if anything. All he fathomed was that he had kissed her, and
this kiss had become his nightly subject of analysis. Sometimes
he would cogitate over the notion for hours, delving for its
clandestine signification - or perhaps the essence that
paraded right before his blind eyes. Other times, he would
simply play the scene repeatedly in his mind,
smiling contentedly to himself, his eyelids closed over his
inscrutable hazel eyes. He would fantasize about their
future together, and reminisce about the good old days. He
yearned to have her next to him, not in his bed,
necessarily, but on the couch, perhaps. She would laugh
with him over the memory of the time that they went
undercover as a married couple, then she would cry with him
over the thought of their Antarctic adventure.
She would, that is, if they ever spoke of such times.
However, their experiences together, whether they induced
smiles or tears, were only remembrances instilled in each of
their minds. To Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, these memories
were solitary, never permitted to slip into a conversation.
Mulder counted his blessings for the gift of these memories,
and guarded them with his life. The only thing more
important to him than his memories of Scully was Scully
herself. She had been taken from him many times in the
past, and contrary to what some might say, if you do not
watch out, memories can be stolen, too.
This time, it was not his memories that were embezzled.
They were all there, each and every one of them. His heart,
not a chip off the edge, but his entire heart, was missing,
proclaimed dead on arrival. The New Year that had seemed so
auspicious had not brought them closer together. Instead,
it pulled them apart.
He had not truly spoken to her in two months, not since she
went on a road trip with a rather ambiguous character,
leaving Mulder sick with anxiety. He did not fear betrayal,
for he knew that she would never leave him. He found the
entire predicament to be outright bemusing. But deep down,
he knew why they did not speak. He was belligerent when she
had returned, interrogating her judgement and causing her
chagrin in front of their friends. This put her in no
position to open up to him, regardless of how much she might
have desired to. Looking back on it, he did not know why he
was so cruel. He had run off many times before, and albeit
she worried like crazy, she never held it against him in the
long run. She expected the same from him, and he failed to
pay her that respect. This was his punishment from her, and
he knew that he deserved it.
It was so hard to give Scully the cold shoulder, to brush
her off like a piece of lint on a sweater. He knew there
was no liable excuse for his actions, but they were not
without reason.
He was afraid.
Not just apprehensive, but
scared-out-of-his-stark-raving-mad-mind afraid. Everyone
has a trepidation; a worst nightmare that they never want to
encounter. Some people are afraid of heights, some of
water, some of bees. Mulder was afraid of lies. Lies were
his worst enemy. They seemed to be everywhere, in the form
of anyone and anything that stepped in the way of his truth,
stepped in the way of Scully.
They had the same standard "Hi-How are you?" dialogue every
morning at the office, but it had been awhile since they had
taken part in a meaningful conversation. They were not fans
of crying festivals at which they disclosed their every
feeling and passion, but still, something felt quite
strange; rather off-key and out-of-place. If it were anyone
but her, he would suspect that she had wandered over to The
Other Side. It was not someone else, though - it was Scully.
He loved her, and he prayed that she loved him.
The pain that his longing for Scully caused was too much to
bear, and there was nothing he could do to numb its
hardships. Tylenol, Advil, Smirnoff, even his favorite
movie ceased to ease his anguish. The only thing left to do
in the madness of his loneliness sat on his nightstand as it
did every night, but tonight it possessed a violent tranquility.
The sleek, dark gun with its rigid trigger was so inviting.
It was a companion; it offered to halt his desolation. The
gun was wise, and as he held it in his hand, the enigmas of
the world made sense. It was no wonder that she had
rejected him. She was assigned to the X-Files because he
was a crackpot, and it ruined her immaculate record, the
record as spotless as her pearly-white teeth. She was
abducted because of him, she could never have children of
her own because of him, and she had cancer because of him,
which brought him to the reason of his previous attempt at
ending his godforsaken life.
It did not take him long to decide where he would inflict
the lethal bullet. A hole in the space where his heart
formerly resided would do the trick rather justly. He took
the gun off of its safety setting and transferred the heavy
object from palm to palm. His sweat permeated onto the
handle, and the gun slipped from the grasp of his tired hands,
hitting the floor with a loud crash that inspired him to jump
halfway across the room.
This miniscule setback could not stop him. The weapon
called to him now, in a piercing voice that made his head
throb turbulently. It was beckoning him to pick it up once
more. He realized that it wanted to be a part of him as
much as he wanted to be a part of Scully. Its hypnotic
vigor pulled his index finger toward the trigger.
"Mulder," it called coyly, and he brought the gun slowly to
his chest, cringing at the bitter cold unfriendliness of the
barrel up against his bare skin.
*Tap, tap, tap*
"Mulder? Mulder, it's me."
As he heard the cherubic voice flowing musically from behind
the heavy oak door, he was graced with the perception of a
novel revelation. She had not rejected him, but accepted
him as much as she could without passing that thin but
prominent line between friendship and love. His heart
wasn't broken, only chipped. All he needed to fix it was a
little Scotch Tape and. . . Her. He had nothing to die for,
and everything to live for. He had her to live for.
Pulling his tattered New York Knicks T-shirt over his head,
he returned the gun to its place on the nightstand and
hurried to answer the door before he changed his mind.
She stood seriously, as she always did, her posture making
up for her stature. But there was a certain weariness to
her, and her clear, lustrous, blue eyes ceased to sparkle
the way they usually did. She did not look melancholy,
exactly, but seemed simultaneously disappointed and
relieved.
"Sorry to bother you so late," she murmured as she tried to
sort through her perplexity.
"It's not la-" he began, but a quick glance at the clock
told him otherwise. "It's not a bother."
He opened the door to its full capacity, and she stepped in,
staring down at her feet instead of looking him straight in
the eye with the withering stare that she normally used.
She was silent for several moments, and he matched her
silence, too preoccupied wondering what she would say to
ask her to say it. But she came around on her own
time - she always did. She was grateful that he had given
her the time she needed to collect herself. After one last
deep breath, she was able to look him in the eye. Her stare
was not the same, though, not as captivating and demanding.
But before he could decipher the swirling pools of her eyes,
she spoke.
"Mulder, the Smoking Man," she began, keeping her voice
strangely monotonous to prevent it from shaking, "Is dead."
It was his turn to instigate the silence now, and his round
hazel eyes adopted the same glassy look as hers. The
silence trudged on for several more moments, and when he
finally spoke, it was nothing above a whisper.
"Are you sure it's him?" He asked in disbelief. He wasn't
despondent, but he wasn't exactly breaking into song,
either. His eyes met hers again, and she slowly moved her
head up and down, never breaking eye contact with him.
"The body mysteriously vanished within the last hour, but
Skinner got a good look at it. He found a letter addressed
to you." She used her matter-of-fact business voice, but it
trembled continuously. She handed him a creased white
envelope with the letters F-O-X written across the front in
black ink, her hand shaking as she did so. She did not
know what to make of the ordeal, and although she knew
that she should not depend on him at a time like this,
she looked to him for guidance.
His eyes met hers and for just a moment, she looked like a
helpless little girl. He shook the image quickly from his
head, though, because he knew that Scully was anything but
helpless. Taking the initiative, he flipped a light switch,
leading her into the living room. They both chose separate
ends of the couch, and a gap as wide as an ocean flowed
between them. They were comforted by each other's presence,
though, knowing that it would be all right as long as they
each had their other half. He opened the letter and coughed
as the scent of smoke entered his lungs.
Damn bastard, he thought, but he held his tongue for the
sake of not making her more uncomfortable than she already
was. Biting down on his lower lip, he forced himself to read.
His eyes, which had become strained and bloodshot due to
insomnia, ran down the paper. They were reluctant, yet
frantic. As he read, he felt his chest tighten, and he
he became short of breath.
The man who penned the note had used his last words to
inform Mulder of some secrets, secrets that infuriated him.
He clasped his hands over his face and let out a grunt,
halfway between a sigh and a scream.
Mulder did not care about most of the things in the letter,
most of them were obvious and he had anticipated them.
One stood out above all the rest, though, a simple statement
that made his blood run cold.
The Cigarette-Smoking Man was not his father - he
was Samantha's.
"Damn bastard!" He yelled, momentarily ceasing to care if
his rage intimidated Scully. "Damn lying bastard!"
"What is it, Mulder?" She questioned, attempting to grab
for his shoulder, but he pulled away.
"He's not my father, Scully. He's Sam's father."
"Oh, Mulder-"
"Life is just one big game to him, and he always has to win!
It's one big joke; one big lie! He finished his game; he
won his game by mocking me with another humorless joke,
spinning more lies to complete his web! He bragged of his
sins until the moment he died, and he's bragging about them
right now in hell!"
He wanted to retrieve his gun, but he knew that Scully
would shoot herself before she would let him shoot himself.
Instead, he slid to the floor in front of the couch and
tucked his head to his chest, squinting his eyes shut and
scrunching up his face in agony.
"I've got no where to turn, Scully, it's all just one big lie. My whole
damn life is just one huge lie-"
His voice broke off then, and he surrendered to the comfort
of her soothing arms. She rocked him back and forth for a
long time as she gently kissed the top of his head.
Eventually, they would mutually end the embrace. Usually,
she would leave without a word, and he would let her leave
without a word. This time, though, she sat sprawled in his
lap, and he leaned against the couch, his arms protectively
around her. She took his fingers into her own hands and
toyed with them, feeling safe and relaxed, as well as an
emotion that was quite foriegn to her. She felt
loved. Overwhelmed by her own contentment, she
attempted to voice her feelings.
"Mulder, sometimes I feel just like you do. Nothing makes
sense, and no matter how hard I listen, everything that I
hear is a lie. But then I think of you. You're my truth,
Mulder. The Cigarette-Smoking Man might have been a liar,
he might even be lying to you about Samantha, but he told me
one thing that I hold to be more true than anything else in
the world."
"Nothing that bastard said could ever be true," he muttered
irritably, but in a calmer voice. Having her in his arms
was so comforting that he could not help but capitulate.
"I know it's true, Mulder. I asked my heart, and it agreed
with what he said. Mulder?"
"What?"
"I love you."
She said the words with such ingenuousness that he knew
she was telling the truth. He loved her, she loved him, and
now everything would be perfect. Now they could laugh
about the time they went undercover as a married couple,
cry over their Antarctic adventure, and maybe, just maybe,
he could kiss her again.
"I love you, Scully," he said, "And that's no lie."
THE END (1/1)
Thank you for taking the time to read
"Truth and Entrapment". I hope you enjoyed it! Please send
any comments - kisses and flames are both greatly
appreciated - to heathabear@hotmail.com. Thanks a billion!
You can find all of my fan fiction at my website,
Mulder + Scully = True Love
http://mstruelove.tripod.com
"True love is friendship set on fire."