From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: 28 May 2007 13:07:31 -0000 Subject: The I in FBI by Athene Source: direct Reply To: athene1121@hotmail.com Title: The I in FBI Author: Athene Email: athene1121@hotmail.com Distribution: Gossamer; all others please ask Rating: PG Category: Vignette, R Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance Spoilers: The Truth Summary: She kept up with me. Hell, she lapped me, and I had met few people who could spar with me and hold their own. I gave her the standard hassle, and she tossed all my barbs out of the proverbial ring and kept swinging. Disclaimer: All characters property of 1013 and Chris Carter Author's Notes: big thanks to my beta reader extraordinaire, YappiChick, who didn't let moving boxes get in the way of lightning-fast beta. The I in FBI By Athene "I, Fox William Mulder, do solemnly swear to support, uphold and defend the Constitution of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic, to obey the lawful orders and directives of those appointed before and above me, and that I enter into this office without any mental reservation whatsoever, so help me God." With those simple words, I became a civil servant, and a special agent with the FBI. The path I followed to get where I stand today is circuitous, and even I never imagined how it would play out. When I went over to Oxford, I had no plans for a future profession. The FBI vigorously recruited me, even before I wrote my last exam and accepted my sheepskin from Dr. Barlow. The Director himself instructed a team of recruiters to fly over and approach me at the start of Trinity term, my final year. The recruiters arranged to meet with me for the first time at a Pub on the High, and it was amusing to see awkward American bonhomie rub up against the staid and unobtrusive British scholars at Oxford. Those American G-men stuck out like sore thumbs with their ill-fitting polyester suits and their wide rayon ties, hair cuts painfully short, and voices just a little too loud. I'd been in England for close to three years, and in that time I had brushed shoulders with enough upper-class scholars at Oxford to know a well-tailored suit when I saw one. When I met with the American agents, I was ripe for rescue, and I thought my deliverance was at hand. Phoebe Green, my first grown-up girlfriend, macerated my self-esteem with her sexual manipulation. I was young enough to be flattered at the attention of such a prestigious agency, and egotistical enough to believe the fulsome compliments they gave me. Never wanting to see Phoebe Green again was a powerful motivator. The starting salary for a civil servant, even that of a field agent, was unimpressive. I wasn't hurting for money, though. Having two estranged parents who substituted cash for intimate contact had given me quite a respectable nest egg. The Rhodes money paid my tuition and a small stipend, so expenses were minimal. That's how I developed my preference for Armani, by the way. Considering the damage done to my wardrobe by Clyde Bruckman, Tooms, and that Beast Woman in Atlantic City, it's a good thing I had a robust portfolio and some aggressive money men. Mom and Dad were appalled when they heard that I was considering a career in the FBI. Dad had always hinted that he would like to see me graduate with a law degree, and ultimately serve at the State Department in a capacity similar to his own. I determined, however, that a law-enforcement connection could enhance my ability to finally find Samantha, so becoming an agent was the best move at that point in my life. The Academy itself was a streamlined, surprisingly comfortable, miniature city in the middle of a Marine Corps base in Virginia. One gradually got used to the thump of helicopter rotors, monotone cadence calls during drills, and the distant sound of high-powered rifles. The bookwork wasn't a strain; even the endless hours we spent in class going over tax fraud and racketeering scenarios were a breeze. I found myself amused at the classes we had in How To Gamble Convincingly; we might someday, after all, be undercover in a casino, and need to appear knowledgeable and competent. Sort of like James Bond. The physical part of the FBI trainee course was equally undemanding; running, push-ups and other physical agility tests were easy. Even the five mile runs were not difficult for me; the long, quiet time spent in my own head gave me the chance to do some internal problem-solving. I spent a large part of my time contemplating how the resources of the FBI could help me find Samantha. According to my father, the State Department and the FBI had been useless when he searched for her. My biggest challenge at the Academy ended up being firearms. Raised on the Vineyard, and then by my mother, the only time I ever held a gun was in my aborted attempt to defend Samantha that horrible night in 1973. Gun ownership in Great Britain is restricted, so I wasn't really exposed to weapons until I entered the Academy. Aim was a minor issue; I could conquer that with practice. My problem was grip and stance. Mostly grip. Put a gun in my hand, and my suave appearance dissolved into comic relief. Even the female agent- trainees laughed at my expense. The little snub nosed pistol I bought for a back up weapon felt ungainly and slippery in my hands. Don't get me wrong; I hit what I aim at. Most of the time. Gun and range safety was a breeze. Regardless, something about holding that metal instrument of death sent a cold chill down my spine, and I could tell overcoming this was going to be my biggest challenge. After switching to rubber grips, and after a lot of practice on the firing range, I was able to pass firearms and marksmanship to the satisfaction of my instructors. I was being consulted for profiles even before I graduated from the Academy. I knew from the time I was recruited that the Bureau was interested in me because of my ability to see the behavioral clues left by a killer and then infer crucial information for a profile. At first, it was really satisfying when I was able to provide the details law enforcement officers needed to narrow down their list of suspects and identify a probable perpetrator. I felt like I was making a real contribution to society. Gradually, however, I realized that my assistance was coming tragically after the fact. The murders were, in almost all cases, already committed, and it was uncommon to have a happy resolution for the families of the victims. Bill Patterson, the former head of the BSU, was a toxic waste dump in my life. He took me under his leathery, bat-like wing, and showed me the seamy side of profiling. When I showed increasing talent at thinking like a monster, he piled on more cases, the ones that sucked the humanity out of the VCS profilers assigned to them. I was no different. I just hid it better. When I would surface with thoughts of well-earned vacation time, he hit me with searing post-mortem photos of discarded little children; how could I contemplate time off when it might mean the death of more innocent victims? There came a time when I'd had enough of hunting human monsters. There had to be a way out. Escaping his grasp, I fled to the field. Some information I had received from a quirky retired FBI agent led me in the direction of the X-Files. Profiling was a skill I honed, but despised, and it was actually a relief to read about the various manifestations of restless spirits. There were some case files that were hoaxes, of course, but I found hundreds of files that sounded genuine; they could keep me busy for years, trying to prise the truth from the accounts. Senator Matheson contacted me early in 1990, and with his patronage, I got a permanent assignment to the X-Files. In doing so, I was given more free rein than I had ever anticipated. At this point, I began to delve into my murky repressed memories of Samantha's abduction, and I could not have been more pleased that my purpose, my role in the FBI had positioned me perfectly to conduct my own search for her. Diana Fowley came into my life at about this time. She was older than I by several years, and I was flattered that I had attracted her attention. When she left me, I began to feel the press of loneliness in my professional as well as personal life. Dad never bothered to keep in touch with me, didn't return my calls, and never responded to the occasional letter or card. Mom was wrapped snugly in a dense white cloud of depression, feet planted firmly in the past. And Samantha was nowhere. Time and space spread between us like a chasm with no passage. I threw myself into the X-Files, spending long days and even weekends sitting alone in the basement, reading accounts of unlikely or unexplained phenomena. Those files tugged at my heart, even the ones that seemed unbelievably bizarre. I had no idea at that time what sort of hornet's nest I was exposing by dipping into the X-Files. It's obvious to me now why the hand-to-hand combat skills they reinforced at the academy failed me as my interest in the X-Files grew. I spent a lot of my time getting my ass kicked, in spite of my general good physical condition. And my ever-improving aim. Blevins and McGrath were not the only jackasses whose main goal in life appeared to be harassing me. I found myself sitting alone, more often than not, in the cafeteria on those days I could summon up the interest in food and the energy to ignore the curious stares and mocking laughter of my former Academy classmates. Skinner was around in my periphery, but up until the time Scully was assigned to me, he kept his distance from my day-to-day activities. Scully. Scully blindsided me. On paper, she appeared to be an uptight, overeducated spinster with a willingness to scab for the FBI conspirators. At first glance, she was a short, slight-built teenager in her mother's office suit. Inside, to my amazement, she was a supernova of warmth, wisdom, knowledge, and immeasurably brilliant. She kept up with me. Hell, she lapped me, and I had met few people who could spar with me and hold their own. I gave her the standard hassle, and she tossed all my barbs out of the proverbial ring and kept swinging. I believe it took me about one week to fall irrevocably in love with her, and about 7 years before I was in a position to publicly treat her like the love of my life. Scully turned out to be the truth I had been seeking since I was twelve years old. She was and is the only one I will ever completely trust. My career in the FBI didn't march itself out like I planned. I certainly didn't part company with Uncle Sam after twenty years holding a gold watch and a pension. I never distinguished myself. I nearly died, and nearly got my partner killed, too many times to count. We lost each other once or twice along the way. The memories are still bitter. The Consortium, CGB Spender and Krycek were major players in the drama that is my professional demise. Those rat-bastards had no morals, and no loyalty to anyone. Diana reappeared in my life, and her meddling, along with my misplaced trust in her, threatened to destroy me and my relationship with my partner. In the end, Diana turned out to be as guilty as Scully had insisted, though her last days were spent helping to free me from Spender's illusory "other life." Scully's safe, and she's with me; that's enough to make me very content right now. She gave up far more than I did when she decided to come into hiding with me, and I know she longs to resume a normal life. We haven't had any luck contacting Skinner or Gibson Praise, and Scully's family must be convinced she's dead by now. That may be all for the best. 'For the best' because the sky is falling, Chicken- Little. Make the holiday season of 2012 count, because it could be your last. Not if we can help it, though. It doesn't really matter if you don't believe in the existence of an alien plot to invade our planet, because Scully and I know the truth now, and we're going to put ourselves between humanity and those vicious scavengers. Regardless of Aztec predictions and the word of that cigarette-smoking son of a bitch, we're going to fight this future with everything we've got. The End