From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Tue,  2 Sep 2008 21:01:18 -0500 (CDT)
Subject: Exposed by Xaos
Source: direct

Reply To: spook1121@gmail.com


Exposed
by Xaos

Rating - R, for language and subject matter
Spoilers - set late in season 3 

Summary - What if just another pretty face turns out to be the 
face he's been looking for?


Disclaimer - FOX refuses to acknowledge any association with 
the party responsible for this story. Any similarity to 
persons living or undead is entirely coincidental.


xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


The setting sunlight seeps through the blinds, casting the 
apartment in honeyed tones as Mulder shoulders his way in the 
door.  He sifts through the mail, kicking the door shut behind 
him.  A small package captures his attention.  The other 
envelopes fall neglected to the table, along with his keys. 

He rips open the packaging and lets the videocassette slide 
into his palm.  There is no name with the return address, the 
container necessarily nondescript, but he knows its origin.  
He receives an identical package every month, a birthday gift 
from Frohike.  Part of his video of the month membership.

Slipping the cassette in the VCR, Mulder lets it automatically 
start to play while he wanders the apartment, beginning his 
after-work routine.  The fish need to be fed.  So does he, but 
dinner can wait.  The answering machine display reads zero.  
He clicks on the desk lamp, sufficient lighting for now.  His 
suit jacket makes it no further than the back of the chair, 
followed by his tie and dress shirt.  His shoes and belt form 
a tidy heap by the sofa.  He unzips his slacks and settles 
into the cushions.  He'll finish undressing later.

The movie has already started, cheap dialogue giving way to 
sultry saxophone and a throbbing bassline.  He pays no 
attention to the plot, since he knows there is none.  His mind 
wanders, unwinding from the day - he becomes merely feeling 
and flesh.  His hand slips beneath his waistband, acting on 
years of habit and instinct.  The room flickers with the glow 
of the television.  Before him, bodies move, clothing drops.  
The rhythmic sighs and grunts set the pace for his hand.

It is the evening ritual of a bachelor.  Most nights, he can 
resign himself that it is enough.  Sometimes he supplies his 
own fantasy, his own dialogue for the scene.  Or his mind 
superimposes a more familiar, beloved face onto the writhing 
body on display.  

Tonight, he feels that twinge of familiarity.  The woman's 
hair is not red, nor short enough to easily complete the 
illusion.  Something in her features nags at him, but she 
isn't still long enough for him to get a good look.  She flips 
over on the desk, pressing her bare ass into the air for her 
partner.  The camera is not interested in her face, so Mulder 
loses interest too.  He picks up his pace as the man reenters 
her and the tempo increases.  

The camera angle shifts, moving directly in front of the woman 
to show the man pressing her toward the lens.  Her straining 
face moves closer into frame, and that twinge of recognition 
hits Mulder fully in the gut.  This is no figment of his 
libidinous imagination.  He knows that face - and it's not the 
one he usually supplies in his fantasies.

The camera shifts away again, back to a side view, but Mulder 
is no longer keeping pace.  From here, he sees only her hair 
and bare flesh.  Then a close-up of where the slick skin slaps 
together.  Sickness settles in the pit of his stomach while he 
waits for the angle to shift once more.  His body already 
knows what his mind has not yet accepted.

Then her face is in frame again, and there is no room for 
doubt.  He has seen her before.  The churning in his gut 
becomes a maelstrom.  As it threatens to overflow, Mulder runs 
for the bathroom.

His empty stomach has no contents to expel, but he remains 
bent over the toilet, gasping for air.  The nausea turns into 
a gnawing pain, but he welcomes it.  He feels dirty, sick, and 
the pain is his punishment.  When his composure has returned, 
he rises, knowing he must go back and look again.  He has to 
be sure of what he thinks he has seen.  And then he has to 
find her.

The groaning continues on the TV set, becoming frenetic.  His 
eyes averted, he grabs the remote to silence it, and he pushes 
rewind.  At the opening credits, he pushes play, and the scene 
begins again.  And there she is, walking into the room.  He 
pauses the image.

His shaky legs give way, and he falls to his knees before the 
screen.  Delicately, his finger traces her features.  The hair 
is different, but hair can easily be changed.  Not so the 
chin, the nose, the eyes.  These he recognizes.  They are the 
same features he studied closely on his father's porch that 
first morning.  On a bridge, contorted in determination and 
fear.  In a lab, duplicated and duplicitous.

With a shuddering sigh, he whispers her name.  

"Samantha."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It is not unusual for Scully to arrive at the office to find 
her partner already elbow-deep in work.  But today, his raised 
voice and impatient tones waft through the hallway, alerting 
her to more than a typical morning.

"Yes, I realize what time it is, but I need this information 
right away."

The door is ajar, and she pushes it open quietly, not wanting 
to disturb him.  His back turned, he paces toward his desk.  
The phone cord, extended to its limit, pulls him back like a 
rubber band.  His suit is crumpled, his hair spiky, as though 
combed only by his fingers and a few too many times.

He stops in front of the desk and absently taps at its 
surface.  "What about a social security number?  No, I 
understand that, but . . . "

Stepping further into the office, Scully notices the equipment 
to her right.  A TV and VCR unit, along with a printer 
designed to create stills from images on the screen.  Special 
equipment that he had to check out from upstairs, when he 
could have simply dropped off a tape and had the experts make 
the photos for him.

"No, I don't want to be put on . . . hold."  The way he says 
the last word, she knows that he just was.  He turns to lean 
against the desk and is surprised to see her standing in front 
of him.

"Scully, hey.  I didn't realize you were here."  He pushes 
away from the desk and shuffles some papers on its surface.

"Do we have new case?" she asks.

"Yeah, maybe.  But it may turn out to be nothing."

His agitation tells her this is more than "nothing," and she 
wonders what cards he is holding close to his chest.

"What's with the video equipment?  A little show and tell for 
me?"

Mulder looks to the TV cart, almost startled by its presence.  
She wonders if he forgot it was still there.

His attention returns to the phone.  "Yeah.  No, go ahead."  
He paces away from the desk again, and Scully steps closer in 
his absence.

There is a pile of loose pages pushed to the side.  A printout 
of an invoice.  A sheet filled with Mulder's chicken 
scratches.  Underneath a few layers, a photo is peeking out.  
She extracts it from the pile for a closer look.

"Do you at least have a last known address?  A phone number?  
Anything?"

The picture is a still shot from a video, apparently what he 
printed earlier.  At the center of the screen is a woman in a 
nurse's uniform.  Only, this is a uniform one would wear to a 
costume party, not to a hospital.  The low-cut front and high 
hemline would be lethal to patients with a heart condition.  
But Scully's attention is drawn to the face, which is somehow 
familiar.

"Okay, thanks for your time."  Mulder's flat tone sounds 
anything but thankful.  He hangs up the phone, and she looks 
up to see him turn to her and his face fall.

She has recognized the woman's face at the same moment he has 
realized she knows the truth.

Reaching over, he silently lifts the photo from her hands.  He 
rounds the desk and takes a seat behind it.

She waits for him to explain, but he is not forthcoming.  She 
must open the conversation. 

"Are you sure it's her this time?" she asks softly.

He shifts in his chair.  The photo dangles from his fingers, 
but his eyes gaze unfocused toward the wall.  "The others 
worked as scientists or decoys.  I don't see the point of one 
posing as a . . . an entertainer." 

"How did you find out about this?"  She slides the photo from 
his fingers and lays it on the desk between them, where she 
can steal another look.

His eyes focus, but not on Scully.  He shifts in his chair 
again, playing with his fingers, chewing on his lip. 

And she realizes what he cannot bring himself to say.  "Oh," 
she replies simply.  

The silence weighs on her, and she attempts to redirect the 
conversation.  "It sounds like you're having a difficult time 
tracking her down."  

He glances at his watch, then briefly at her.  "It doesn't 
help that it's only 6 AM in L.A., where this was filmed.  Nor 
does it help that the name in the credits is an obvious 
pseudonym.  Frohike's doing some digging for me.  Otherwise, I 
may have to wait a few hours before I can get hold of anyone."  
He looks at his watch again.  "Although, I'm half inclined to 
make those calls from the plane to L.A."  

"Are you sure she lives there?  Without an address, you may be 
wasting a flight."  

He sighs.  "No, I'm not sure.  The date on the video is 1994.  
I suppose she could be anywhere by now."  

The trilling phone interrupts, and he grabs it before it rings 
twice.  "Mulder."  A pause, then: "Cut the crap, Frohike.  
What've you got for me?"

He scrambles for a pen and a piece of paper.  After an "uh 
huh" and a nod, he writes down: Tawny Jones, Kitty Kat Lounge.

"No, that's okay, I can get her address from DMV.  Thanks, 
Frohike.  I owe you one."  He is out of his chair before the 
receiver hits the cradle.  

"She's working at a club in Las Vegas," Mulder says, stopping 
at the coat rack to put on his jacket.  "I'm going to catch 
the next flight out there.  I'll probably be back tomorrow or 
the next day, depending on how things go."  

Scully is instantly in motion.  "Hold up a minute, partner.  
I'm going with you."  

One foot already in the hallway, he halts and turns.  "Scully, 
you don't have to . . . " 

"Mulder, I haven't come this far with you just to miss out on 
the main event."  She comes up alongside him and says lightly, 
"Besides, you could use my help."  

He cracks a smile, warm yet bittersweet.  "Always," he says 
softly, gratefully, and escorts her out the door.  

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The hazy room reminds Mulder of a dozen other strip joints 
he's been in.  The lights are dim, drawing all eyes to the 
glare of the stage.  The air is stale with smoke and beer, but 
the establishment is otherwise clean.  This is no dive.  Not 
quite a "gentlemen's" club, but not the kind that makes you 
feel dirty just by walking in the door.  Mulder's been in his 
share of those places too.

The crowd is sparse, this early in the afternoon.  But the 
signage promises live shows all day, and inside, they deliver.  
The music is sultry and slow, and his peripheral vision spies 
a dancer gyrating on stage.  He doesn't want to look at her, 
but he can't help himself from sneaking a peek at her face.  
He is relieved that she's not familiar.  His eyes drop to her 
breasts.  Feeling his face burn with shame, he turns away.  He 
hasn't reacted like that since the first time he patronized 
one of these clubs, more years ago than he can count.

Scully walks steadily beside him as they cross to the door 
marked "Employees Only," where they were told to wait.  He 
doesn't glance down at her.  This is one time when he truly 
doesn't want her opinion.  But he knows that Scully has too 
much class to comment on their surroundings.  Especially when 
she knows why they are here.

The door opens, and a women steps out.  She is in shadows, and 
he sees her form before he sees her face.  Her body is wrapped 
in a thin satin robe that barely reaches mid-thigh, with 
nothing but bare legs showing below.  The smooth fabric is 
pulled tight across her ample chest, her taut nipples pushing 
against the fabric and leaving little to the imagination.  He 
has an impulse to take off his jacket and cover her.  But the 
woman on stage is a bitter reminder: most of the men here have 
already seen what's under that robe, and those who haven't 
will soon enough.

As she steps into a circle of light, he finally catches clear 
sight of her face.  The shapely nose, the dimpled chin - every 
bit a copy of the Samanthas he's met before.  All but the 
hair, which is a sandy brown.  Tawny, like her name.  The 
style is shorter and thicker than the clones he met, or the 
image from the video, and he wonders if it is really her own 
hair.

He only stares, but Scully is a step ahead of him.  She 
extends her badge in greeting.

"Ms. Jones?  We're Special Agents Scully and Mulder with the 
FBI.  We'd like to ask you a few questions."  She gestures in 
invitation toward a table.  

The young woman is anxious and hesitant, but she takes a seat, 
and they follow.  She produces a cigarette and lighter 
seemingly out of nowhere.  He wonders where she could have 
been hiding them under that scant robe.

Beneath the table, his partner's knee gently presses into his 
thigh.  That's his cue to break out of his funk and start 
playing his part.   

"Ms. Jones," Mulder begins.  

She waves her hand dismissively.  "Tawny."  

"Is Tawny your real name?"  It's not a professional question, 
he knows, but he feels compelled to ask it.

She inhales from her cigarette but is polite enough to exhale 
her toxic cloud to the side.  "I answer to it," she says, 
tapping the butt against the ashtray. "Is that real enough?"  

You ask an impertinent question, you get an impertinent 
answer, he thinks.  Duly chastened, he returns to the script.  
"Were you employed by the Starlight Film Company in 1994?"  

"Maybe," she hedges.  She eyes him scrupulously, sizing him 
up.  Whatever she sees there causes her to drop the pretense.  
Leaning forward on the table, she says with sincerity, "Look, 
I did a movie once, a few years ago.  It was a couple of days 
out of my life.  I don't remember the name of the studio."  

"Did you work for a Mr. Larry Schmidt on that project?" Mulder 
asks.

Her demeanor shifts again.  She sits back and crosses her 
arms.   "God, is someone finally charging that fucker with 
rape?" 

Mulder is floored by the question.  He glances at his partner.  
He can tell she no more saw that coming than he did, although 
her expression remains poised.  But concern inhabits her eyes.

Gathering his wits, he forges on.  "There haven't been any 
charges filed, to my knowledge.  Were you . . . did Mr. 
Schmidt assault you?" 

Tawny taps her cigarette with her finger, and a fragment of 
charred paper flutters down into the ashtray.  "'Auditions,' 
he called it.  Whatever.  It's not like it's the first time 
that's happened.  But he certainly fucked me over with money 
he owed me.  I'm supposed to get residuals for that shit, but 
I never saw a dime.  First and last skin flick I ever made.  
Dancing's where it's at.  I collect the cash myself, and they 
only touch me if I want them to.  Joe's got good bouncers in 
this place."  She waves her hand around to indicate the men in 
the shadows, leaving behind a thin trail of smoke. 

It is his job to continue the interrogation, but the words 
catch in Mulder's throat.  His hands feel bereft, wanting to 
choke the life out of the Schmidts and nameless men who would 
treat this woman with so little respect.

Scully fills the silence before they get derailed.  "Where was 
your previous employment before the acting job?"

Exhaling her last drag impatiently, Tawny asks, "What's with 
the twenty questions?  If this isn't about Larry, then what 
are you here for?  Do I need a lawyer or something?"  

"You don't need lawyer, Ms. - Tawny," Mulder says, placating 
her.  "We need your help on a case.  A missing persons case."  
He pauses, watching, trying to read how to pursue this 
delicate subject.  She is willing, but still wary.  

He rests his elbows on the table and leans forward slightly.  
He keeps his tone soft and supplicating.  "A young girl went 
missing in the '70s.  We have reason to believe that you might 
be her.  What can you tell us about your childhood?"  

Tawny laughs nervously, disdainfully.  "My childhood?  I 
didn't have one.  What there was of it, I spent mostly on the 
streets."   She sucks a breath from her cancer stick.

"What about your parents?" Mulder asks. 

Her eyes flit around the room.  Her tone is brave, but falsely 
so.  "I was in the foster system.  The longest I was ever with 
one family was a year.  It was easy enough to skip out when I 
was 15.  I've been on my own ever since."  

"Do you remember at what age you were placed with your first 
foster parents?"  

"Look, I'm clean now, but I did a lot of drugs when I was a 
kid.  There's a lot gaps in my memory.  And whatever's left 
isn't worth remembering."  

The cigarette butt is burning down quickly.  He wonders how 
long before the stub will singe her fingers.  Or if she'll 
even notice.  

"Would you be willing to take a DNA test?" he asks.

"Why?  Am I the long-lost heir to a billionaire?"  

The question is sarcastic, but not entirely off the mark.  For 
a moment, Mulder considers mentioning the tidy sum their 
father left behind.  Blood money.  Mostly invested in stocks 
and real estate, but all of it hers if she wants it.  If 
that's what it takes to persuade her, he's almost willing to 
dangle the carrot.  But those aren't the terms on which he 
wants her compliance.  

Instead, he says, "The girl who went missing has a family who 
loves her very much, and who never stopped looking for her."  

Her interest is piqued, nonetheless.  "What happened to her?  
Why was she missing?"  

He feels Scully tense beside him.  Although he is never 
content with half-truths, he has learned enough from her to 
realize that sometimes tact is called for.  Tact in the form 
of truth carefully doled out.  

"She was taken, from her home," he says simply.  "It's not 
clear when or where she may have ended up after that."  

"Then why do you think I'm her?"  

Because I've met your clone?  Perhaps not.  "Because you match 
her description."  

Tawny sighs and looks out across the dim room.  "It's a nice 
story, but I've spent my life trying to forget my past.  The 
only family I've got is here."  

"Are you happy here?" he asks gently.  

"Is anyone really happy?"  She shrugs.  "I'm in a relationship, 
with a woman who taught me I don't have to be abused anymore.  
I share my body on my own terms now.  No more men wiping their 
sweaty hands on me.  And I get a fair cut.  I'm not using 
anymore, and I'm not being used, so yeah, I guess I'm happy."  
But she is agitated, not contented.  Her expression is only 
one step above miserable.  

It's a gamble, but Mulder feels it's time to lay all his cards 
on the table.  "Tawny, it's my sister that went missing.  I 
think you're my sister."  

She scoffs, but her eyes betray her vulnerability.  "You 
really want someone like me for a sister?"  

"Yeah," he says softly.  "I do."   

For an instant, her eyes are hopeful.  But the harsh mask soon 
slams into place.  "I'm sorry, but I'm nobody's sister."  She 
stubs out what's left of her cigarette, leaving it smoldering 
in the tray.  "I'm on stage in twenty minutes.  I gotta get 
ready."  

Tawny stands and turns.  In a matter of seconds, she will be 
out of reach.  Mulder rises and grabs her shoulder.  She spins 
on him, pulling away abruptly, shaking him free.  She steps 
backward, her eyes darting to the shadows for the bodyguards 
awaiting her summons.

Mulder raises his hands to show that he means no harm.  His 
act was one of desperation, afraid to lose her again.  "I'd 
like to give you my card.  If you change your mind, you can 
call me."  Careful not to alarm her further, he tentatively 
reaches into his jacket and hands her his business card.  

With barely a glance, she takes the card and marches off.   
The door swings shut behind her.  She is gone.

He stands there, frozen in place, watching the door where she 
disappeared.  This time, he knows where she is.  Even so, she 
is lost to him.  

The warm pressure of a hand alights on his arm.  It is the 
steady presence of his partner, guiding him once again.  "We 
should go," she says firmly yet tenderly.  "I don't think you 
want to be here for her performance."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx


The hallway is quiet as Scully treads the well-worn path to 
the door marked 42.  Quiet enough that she pauses to listen 
before knocking.  No distinctive noises from within, but his 
car is here, so she feels secure that he is home.

She raps surely, and is answered by a distant call within.  
"It's open!"

Top notch security for a man who's so paranoid.  Or maybe he's 
just that certain it's her.

She enters, and is surprised by a pile of boxes haphazardly 
stacked by the door.  Taped with duct tape, not labeled.  From 
her vantage point, she quickly inspects the apartment, but he 
is nowhere to be seen.

"Mulder?"

"In here," he calls out, somewhere beyond the living room.  
She pursues the disembodied voice to a threshold she has never 
before crossed.  To her right, a door that has always been 
shut is now open.

She stands in the doorway and observes the controlled chaos 
inside.  There is indeed a bed, and matching furniture, but 
files, books, and other miscellany are the only residents 
here.  In the midst of it is her partner.  And more boxes.

"So you do have a bedroom," she teases.  "I always assumed 
this was a storage closet."  

"Might as well be."  

He is down on his knees, digging under the bed.  Glossy 
magazines fly from his hand into an open box, one after 
another.  He doesn't seem to be sorting them, and she wonders 
if he even cares what they are.

"Doing some spring cleaning?" she asks.

"Something like that."  

Curious now, she steps further into the room, coming alongside 
another short stack of boxes.  The top one is open, and she 
glances inside.  A buxom blonde stares back, gracing the cover 
of "Celebrity Skin."  Other issues appear to be beneath, a 
confined mess, carelessly tossed inside.

"Looks more like you're cleaning house," she observes.

This time, Mulder doesn't answer.  He is standing now, next to 
the bed.  For the first time since she entered, he is studying 
the cover of one of the issues.  But there is nothing 
salacious about his perusal.  He is frowning.

She closes the distance and rests her hand on his arm.  
"Mulder?"  

He turns to her and holds up the magazine to her gaze.  "What 
does this say about me, Scully?"  

Unsure how to reply, she says nothing, communicating concern 
and compassion with her eyes.  He sits on the bed, shoulders 
slumped, and she settles next to him.  

He holds the magazine loosely in his lap.  On this one, a 
brunette smiles at them coyly.  "All these years," he says, 
"I've never really thought about these women.  I've never see 
them as someone's sister or daughter."  He looks over at 
Scully.  "It's not like I didn't care about them as people, 
but I just figured it was an industry.  I'm a paying customer, 
and they provide the product.  But I never stopped to think: 
are they happy doing this?"  

At his pause, she realizes his question is not rhetorical.  He 
needs her understanding, her validation.

"Some of them might be," she says carefully.  "But this 
industry has a history of exploitation, particularly of women 
and children.  Even for those women who are involved by 
choice, many may feel like this is all that's available to 
them.  I think most of them would choose a different 
lifestyle, if they could."

He releases a long, forlorn sigh, and stares down at the 
smiling woman on the cover.  She is selling her wares, but he 
is no longer certain of the truth in advertising.  

"You know who I was thinking about today?  Lucy Householder," 
he says.

Scully remembers her well, that broken young woman who never 
completely escaped her past.  And the strange connection she 
forged with Mulder.  But Scully doesn't voice this.  She 
remains silent and waits for him to continue.  

"I had almost forgotten the prostitution convictions on her 
rap sheet.  Never once did I see her that way.  I just can't 
picture her standing on a street corner enticing men.  To me, 
she was always a lost little girl, like Amy Jacobs."  Or like 
Samantha - but those words linger unspoken.  "It was because 
of the abuse.  She was never able to break the cycle.  She had 
never experienced real love, and she didn't know how to find 
it.  So she let people use her because she didn't understand 
that she was worth more than that."

He lifts the magazine in his lap and gesticulates with it.  
"And now, I can't help but wonder, how many of these women are 
Lucys?  How many were sexually abused as children, or just 
never experienced true love and respect, and feel this is the 
only way anyone will value them?"

But Scully perceives this isn't really about Lucy.  Or about 
the nameless women they will never meet.  Almost a week has 
passed since the trip to Las Vegas, and he hasn't said a word 
about his sister in days.  In this instance, Scully doubts 
that no news is good news.

"Have you heard from her?" she asks softly.  Scully is not 
even sure what to call her: Tawny? Samantha?  But he knows.

And he shakes his head no.

She gently caresses his back, soothing the pain she sees in 
his eyes.  "Give it some time.  All you can do is be available 
to her.  Maybe someday she'll be ready, and you'll be here 
waiting for her, with open arms."

He tosses the magazine into the box at his feet.  A 
videocassette lying next to him on the bed shifts with his 
movement.  He picks it up, turns it over in his hands.  Scully 
can't read the faded label, but she can guess well enough the 
contents.

"I'm just like the rest of them, aren't I?" he says, his tone 
full of self-loathing.  "The sweaty hands she's trying to 
escape from.  The men who make her feel like she's not worth 
being someone's sister."  He throws the video toward an open 
box across the room.  The cassette ricochets against the 
inside flap and falls to the bottom.

Scully eyes the room as it hovers in mid-transformation.  What 
was once a shrine to silicone and celluloid is giving way to 
space and light.  

Leaning close, she pats his knee and confides, "Not anymore."  

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