From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 1 Dec 2001 11:59:30 -0000
Subject: Proxy by Abra Elliott
Source: direct

Reply To: xilerui@hotmail.com


TITLE: Proxy
AUTHOR: Abra Elliott
CLASSIFICATION: implied MSR; Angst; little Mytharc; lot of 
sap; third-person POV
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: do Nisei/731 even vaguely count as spoilers at this 
point?
DISCLAIMER: I know who the father of *this* baby is.
FEEDBACK: Procrastination lives on it, at xilerui@hotmail.com
ARCHIVE: with pleasure, just let me know so I can see!
DESCRIPTION: Mulder's search for answers takes him to the 
ends of the earth. (yes, my descriptions suck; please, just 
read)
NOTES: Cultural/vocab notes below.  Many, many thanks to 
Gail, who helped talk me through a particular bit of the 
story.  This one's for Amy, who keeps me writing when I've 
about decided not to, and the v-gang, who keep me laughing.  
I lurve you all!  Big sniffies coming on, so without further 
ado...

*****

Heian Shrine
Kyoto, Japan
December 25, 2001

The winter wind bites cold and hard in Kyoto; this late 
afternoon is no exception.

I gather the collar of my wool coat up close to my neck, 
readjust the small bundle I carry under my arm, and continue 
my brisk walk through the immense gates of Heian jingu.  

My eyes scan the scattered pockets of people for my contact.  
A bustling little crowd of tourists, dutifully following the 
upraised flag of a tired-looking tour guide...a pair of 
maiko, tying the white papers of their fortunes to a nearby 
tree branch...

And then I see him.  Moruda-san.

He sits alone on a far bench, absently watching the distant 
figures.  As I approach, his world-weary eyes meet mine in a 
moment of tentative recognition.  I nod slightly; he rises 
and extends his hand.  I grasp it in my own, unsure - as 
always - how to perform this ritual, and shake it with a 
slight bow.

"Moruda-san?" I confirm, too late.

He nods and says, "Mulder.  Yes."

We sit down together on the narrow wooden bench, and I 
proffer my small, paper-wrapped parcel.  He takes it between 
slender fingers and looks down at it distastefully, a sharp 
glint of anger rising in his nearly lifeless eyes.

"Ishimaru's notes?" he asks quietly. 

I nod and reply, in broken English, "Yes.  I find these in 
the old storeroom, Moruda-san.  Not many left."

He nods silently, his eyes never leaving the package.  

I've read the notes, of course.  They describe...unspeakable 
things; acts that no one - human or otherwise - should ever 
be made to endure.

Now it occurs to me - again, too late - that I have no way of 
knowing if this is actually Moruda.  That I have reason to 
trust him with the documents I've just handed over.  I groan 
inwardly and belatedly watch him for any hint of deceit.  

Yet...it's in his clear, strange eyes.  They reflect the 
light of the setting sun, taking in its melancholy and making 
it his.  This man's got no agendas.  I see it; yet, I can't 
help wonder why it is he wants this information.  I've been 
told almost nothing.

"Moruda-san," I begin, rousing him from his troubled 
contemplation.  He looks up quickly.  "My friend...he say you 
want Ishimaru notes?"  

Moruda nods, a question in his glance.

"I..." I search for the right words.  I've never been very 
good at English.

"I...my friend?  Trust...my friend.  His friend..."

Moruda nods, and I find myself hoping he really does 
understand what I'm trying to say.  

"Your friend?  My friend...trust, yes?"

He nods slowly.

"Yes...you trust your friend...your friend trusts mine...mine 
trusts me.  So you trust me?  Is that right?"

I nod vigorously.  

"I give you this Ishimaru notes, but I don't...why you want 
this?"

Moruda considers my question for a moment; long enough that I 
worry I've perhaps made a mistake.  That he's not the man 
I've been looking for.  Yet, when he speaks, his words 
assuage my fears.

"The things in here?  What they did?"

I nod, encouraging him to continue.  Assuring him I 
understand.

"They...they should never have happened."

Another nod, with more conviction this time.  "I think so 
too, Moruda-san."

His lips purse tightly, and he returns my gesture.  

"Right now..." he pauses, his eyes clouding slightly.  He 
looks away; an icy gust of wind blows against us, and I pull 
my coat close.  Moruda bites his lip...he looks like he's 
fighting back tears.  The cold can have that effect.

When he continues, his voice is slightly hoarse.

"I think these things in here?" he pats the package resting 
on his lap.  "I think they're happening now."

I don't so much hear his statement as feel it, an unpleasant 
jolt of electricity gripping my heart.  It must show on my 
face, because Moruda nods slowly, his eyes never leaving 
mine.

I can only whisper, "In...America?"

Moruda shakes his head.

"I think...everywhere."

"Usoo..." I utter my disbelief in Japanese, and Moruda eyes 
me quizzically.  "It can't be true..." I translate.

Moruda looks away again.  He's quiet for a long moment; when 
he turns back to me, he replies simply, "I think it is."

We fall silent, each of us perhaps praying for the future as 
we sit in this consecrated space.  

Our reverie is broken by the sound of a child - my son - 
calling out from across the wide, now-deserted courtyard.

"Papa!  Papa!!"  He begins running towards me, my wife 
following him up in more relaxed steps.  The sight of him 
brings a smile to my face; but now, for the first time since 
his birth, that smile is touched with fear.

I wave my hand.  "Ooi!  Takashi!  Kotchi da yo!"

I turn to face Moruda, and find him looking on with an 
enigmatically crooked smile.  I point and explain, "My son, 
Takashi.  My wife."

He nods, and I unthinkingly ask, "You have a family?"

Moruda's eyes fill now; he quickly brings a hand to his 
face...pinches the bridge of his nose behind tightly closed 
eyes, quietly struggling for control.  I instantly regret my 
words.  I've been told so little...I have no idea what makes 
him like this.

I spy the shiny, almost-new gold band on his left hand, and 
my question is answered.

"I have a son..." he begins.  "A...a wife."

I don't know what to say, and look towards my own wife in 
supplication.  She's still off in the distance - too far away 
to help me know how to respond to this man's pain.  My eyes 
take her in...her soft lines.  Her sweet face.  I don't tell 
her often enough, but it occurs to me now, again, how much I 
love her.

Glancing down at her package-laden hands, I see the cake box 
bulging the sides of a large plastic bag.  Suddenly, I 
remember.

Christmas.

It means little to us; we buy the usual Christmas cake, open 
the champagne - the non-alcoholic kind, meant for kids - all 
for Takashi.  He's seen it all on television, and there's no 
way we can avoid these little commercial trappings.  He loves 
it, and so we celebrate for him.

But...I remember now.  This is one of the biggest 
celebrations of the year in the West.  In America...the year 
I spent there in college taught me this much, and I suddenly 
understand Moruda's inconsolable melancholy.  I don't need 
English to know that he's alone, separated from his family, 
on a holy day.

Takashi runs up to me and hurls himself heavily at my legs.  
I utter an "oof" and grab him, grateful for the chance to do 
so.  He's suddenly so precious to me.  Moruda laughs suddenly 
- a loud, hearty thing - and I look over to him with a 
worried smile.

I needn't be concerned.  His eyes share my amusement at my 
son's impulsiveness, and he laughs again.  Takashi steps back 
slightly, warily eyeing this unusual stranger, and Moruda 
laughs even harder under his childishly piercing gaze.

"He is shy," I explain, and Moruda nods.

Naomi comes up, and we both rise.  Moruda holds out a broad 
palm at the same time that Naomi bows; embarrassed, he 
returns her motion with the exaggerated bow of a foreigner.

"My wife," I repeat, and Mulder shyly murmurs, "Hello."  
Naomi smiles.  She's beautiful, even after all these years.

Takashi begins tugging on my arm, pulling me away.  He's been 
ready for Christmas cake for a month now, and the light is 
finally at the end of the tunnel.  I begin to bow to Moruda, 
trying to excuse my son's behavior with an apologetic glance 
down.  He seems to understand, holding out his hand one last 
time.

I take his hand in mine, gripping hard.  

"Thank you," he says.  "Thank you for your help."

I shake my head.

"It's nothing."

We start to walk away as Moruda takes his seat again.  The 
cold air has grown icy in the time we've been here, and I can 
scarcely believe he wants to stay.  

Naomi looks back over her shoulder at him, and then places a 
soft, gloved hand on my arm.

"Anata," she begins, and I glance down at her.  "Ano 
hito...samishiso jya nai desu ka?  Kawaiso desu yo.  Ie ni 
yobimasho yo.  Kurisumasu paati ni.  Ne?"

Takashi begins hopping up and down in excitement; his shyness 
seems to have worn off.  I nod to Naomi, who smiles back, 
satisfied.  Taking Takashi's little hand, we return to 
Moruda.

"If you like..." I begin tentatively, "We have a Christmas 
party.  Cake...you come too?  To my house"  I point in the 
general direction of our neighborhood, nodding.

Moruda looks as though he doesn't know whether to laugh or 
cry.

"Christmas *cake*?" he asks, and Takashi answers, "So da yo!!  
Kurisumasu keeki da yo!  Tabeyo yo!"

He takes Moruda's hand in his, pulling desperately.  Moruda 
looks down at this impromptu handshake and smiles.  Maybe he 
sees his own son, I don't know.  All I know is he stands and 
lifts Takashi over his head in one fluid movement.  Takashi 
screams in delight.

"Papa, Papa, mite!  Sugoooi!"

I laugh and clap Moruda on the arm.  He smiles back at me, 
and we join Naomi, waiting for us with an indulgent smile on 
her face.

We head for home; tonight, Moruda-san is one of us.

*****

~finis~


RANDOM NOTES: 'kay, so.  Heian Jingu (=shrine) is in Kyoto.  
People visit Shinto shrines to pray, particularly at the New 
Year; you can buy little papers with your fortune printed on 
them - that paper is long, narrow, and white.  When you're 
done, particularly if the fortune is not so good, you fold 
the paper lengthwise and tie it to a branch or nearby rope.  
"Maiko" are geisha-in-training - they wear the traditional 
makeup and kimono as well.  Kyoto is one of the few places 
where you still see them walking the streets these days.
There is, in fact, such a thing as Christmas cake, and it's 
*huge*.  Right now, every store out there is taking orders.  
Kids eat it, and drink this impossibly sweet bubbly stuff 
called "champagne," but it's more like carbonated liquid 
sugar.  Worse than Coke.  Oh, and in Japanese, Mulder's name 
actually *is* 'Moruda' - M/S is 'Morusuka', fyi and 
completely ot.
This is just utter and complete fluff, but this year is the 
first year I'll be away from home for Christmas ever, and it 
got me to thinking that poor Mulder might get lonely, too...

Thanks for reading!

Fanfic at: http://www.geocities.com/xilerui/abra