From: eponine119 Date: Sun, 10 Dec 1995 12:53:17 -0800 Subject: NEW: The Truth in the Face (1/2) This isn't the usual thing you might expect from me. It's serious, and save for one gaping plothole, I think it works with the tone of the show. I'm proud of it anyway. My thanks go to Ferdinand Ortiz, Jr. who kept me thinking about the Cigarette Smoking Man. Also to Ra Enright, J., Paul Wartenburg and Nancy, who helped me out with the Lone Gunmen. Hopefully they came out OK..if they didn't, that's my fault. I based a lot of what I wrote about them on one scene from "Paperclip". Disclaimer: These characters belong to Chris Carter, 10-13, and Fox, not me, so don't get mad. OK? The Truth in the Face by eponine119 eponine@uci.edu He wanted a cigarette. He needed a cigarette. His fingers caressed the letters on the red and white pack: Morley. His hands shaking, he yanked one out and jammed it into his mouth. He couldn't, though. He'd promised himself he would quit, if only for one day. But why did it have to be today? He went to the phone. Maybe a little mayhem, a little destruction would make him feel better. He punched in the numbers and listened as it rang and rang and rang. He replaced the phone. It was just as well, he thought, what good would it be if he couldn't smoke afterwards? But then what was he supposed to do? He could always plot. He could scheme. His brow furrowed as he stared at the heavy curtains that blocked the light from the room. Unconsicously he began to hum the theme from the Smurfs: Lalalalala... What was happening to him? He grabbed the pack of cigarettes and held them, tenderly, lovingly, inhaling their scent. He couldn't even think now, it had been ten hours since his last tar filled breath...ten hours, ten minutes... He dropped the pack on the desk in defeat. He was no one without his addiction. Slowly he lit the cigarette and inhaled. Relief flooded through him instantly. Today was not the day to stop. He'd been reminded of his own mortality, of how much he had lost. He needed the cigarettes, and he hated that, but he was helpless. They were all he had left. Fox Mulder's mother was dead. He was still stunned when he walked into her empty house, in the daze he'd been in since the phone rang several hours earlier that morning. Only a few months had passed since the death of his father. The house was still. He was all alone. "Alone in the world," he said to himself, standing in the entryway looking at the photographs on his mother's wall. His parents, Samantha and him. All gone, except him. He touched the glass in the frame and regarded it a moment longer, then pulled it off the wall and threw it in the box of things he was keeping. He hoped to go through the house and be back in DC by nightfall. And he was determined to remain unemotional. He moved through the rooms, delaying the trip up to the attic. That was where the pain would come, he knew. He sat down on the bed where she had died quietly in her sleep at 4:46 that morning. At least one of the Mulders had gone gently. He had to do it. This was the last room. He could put off the attic no longer. He dragged the box up the narrow stairs with him and found the overhead light. His hands on his hips, he surveyed the room. The walls were lined with shelves and the shelves were overflowing with boxes and books and piles of stuff. His mother had been the keeper of the stuff, anything to be passed on to future generations. Mulder's mouth twisted. End of the line, he thought. How had it come to this? He threw the photographs in the box without examining them, as well as the small amount of papers remaining to document his father's career. Mulder passed over the toys, running his hand lightly over the dusty Stratego game on the top shelf, closing his eyes against the pain in his chest. He found his sister's little pink diary, still locked after all this time, and threw it in the box. He paused over his baby spoon and her baby blanket, then gave in to sentimentality and added them to the box. Their baby books were there as well, and he opened his, paging through it, smiling, as he read his mother's proud comments on her oldest child's accomplishments: talking early, walking late, reading when he was barely three. His delight over his new sister. Impossible as it seemed, he had memories of the day they brought her home. He closed the book. Mulder moved more quickly through the shelves - atlases, recipe collection, boxes of jewelry. He shook the box and found his mother's engagement and wedding rings, slipping them onto his smallest finger. He remembed the day in 1973 she'd removed them both, although she had remained with his father until he had graduated high school, four long, painful, silent years later. There was a box wedged back in a corner, out of the light. Because he'd almost missed it, Mulder opened it with interest. He frowned. Letters. Old letters. Quite a few of them. The first of them was dated 1955 and he was afraid the paper would disintegrate in his hands. The letters were to his mother, but it wasn't his father's writing. Curiosity got the better of him and he skimmed it. Love letter. Cold washed over him when he reached the signature. "Love, Fox." His mother had love letters from a man named Fox. His name was Fox. Mulder didn't like this. The letters were erratic, continuing through 1958 and then stopping except for the last one: December, 1960. Mulder read it with dread. Bill Mulder travelled a lot in the early months of his parents' marriage. Apparently this Fox had too. Right to Chilmark, MA. Mulder had the sinking feeling he hadn't really been born 7 weeks premature as he'd always believed. As he'd always been told, his birthday was supposed to have been November 30th. His father had been gone the entire months of January and February, 1961, returning Feb. 28th. His mother conceived him on that homecoming night. Or had she just lucked out and had a very small nine month baby? Lied to his father, and him, and spitefully named the child, HIM, for his real father? It seemed so incredible...but he held the letters in his hands. He noticed there was a piece of paper stuck to the bottom of the box, facedown beneath the letters. He pried it up. It was a photograph, black and white. He touched his mother's face. She was so young. She had to have been in high school, so it was what, 1954? 55? He looked at the first letter again. July 1955 - right after his mother's graduation. This Fox must have been her high school sweetheart. Then he looked at the man in the picture. And he began to shake, his head pounding with sudden incapacitating pain. This all had to be a mistake. This man could not really be his father. This could not be happening. Mulder threw the shoebox into his larger packing box and fled the house. He sped away, not looking back, driven by the resemblance he'd seen between the young man in the photograph and someone he knew. And himself. Mulder never showed up for work that Monday and Scully was worried. It wasn't her place, it was none of her business, and she knew he hated it when she checked up on him, but she couldn't help it. She called his house. No answer. So he's not sick, she thought, and walked up the stairs to Skinner's office. His secretary wasn't there and his door was open, so she knocked softly. "Sir?" He looked up from the report he was reading. "Agent Scully?" She stepped into his office, suddenly feeling foolish. "Agent Mulder didn't come to work today." she said. "As you may know, Agent Mulder has never taken a vaction during his years at the FBI." Skinner said. "He phoned this morning and requested time off." Scully frowned. "Why wasn't I informed?" she asked. Skinner didn't answer. "How long will he be gone?" "He didn't say." Scully knew her boss knew more than he was saying. The trick was the right approach. "What about the X Files?" "You can handle them on your own." It was a dismissive comment, but Skinner didn't look away. His dark brown eyes remained trained on her face. Scully slid into the chair across from his desk. "This is unusual, isn't it, sir?" "Yes." he replied candidly. "Did he give any reason for his sudden..." Scully asked. Skinner shook his head, frowing slightly. "You're worried about him, aren't you?" "This isn't like him, Agent Scully. I don't like it." "Then with your permission, I'd like to take a few of my own personal days and find him. Did he say where he was going?" "You're running a little short on personal days, Agent Scully." Skinner said. Her mouth opened slightly. She couldn't believe he was being so tough. "I hadn't realized being abducted counted as a vaction." she said bitterly. Skinner pressed his lips together. "You have to come back when I tell you to come back, whether he's with you or not." Scully rose from her chair. "Thank you, sir." "Don't let it get around, Dana," Skinner said, "But I am worried about him. He's a damn fine agent." "Yes, sir." she said, wondering how she was going to find him. Mulder had to move. He'd been sitting in his hotel room staring out the window for two days, trying to think of what to say. He still didn't know, but if he waited any longer, he'd lose his nerve. He'd reread the letters until he almost had them memorized, and he didn't want them in his head. They were mundane, average. His mother had even told of meeting his fa - Bill Mulder. Even then, there had been an air of sadness surrounding the Mulders. He rose from the chair. He had to go. For the first time in his life, he didn't want to believe. End of part one. More "Mulderangst" in part 2! Please tell me what you think!!!! =========================================================================== From: eponine119 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: The Truth in the Face, (2/2) Date: Sun, 10 Dec 1995 13:34:40 -0800 Disclaimed in part one. The Truth in the Face, part 2 by eponine119 eponine@uci.edu The man was smoking again, heavily, as he always did when he was depressed. The television in the library was on, but he didn't have the heart to pay attention to his favorite program, Cooking with Julia Child. It was so cheesy compared to his thoughts, which hovered forty years in the past. Forty years. Had it really been so long? He was an old man now, he realized, and lit another cigarette. It had taken him a long time to get where he was. He walked around the darkened library, touching his books, a rare collection of knowledge. He was a powerful man. More powerful than the president, he liked to think. The things he knew...the people he controlled. He'd sacrificed everything for that power. He exhaled heavily and lit another cigarette. There was a loud pounding on the door. He frowned and turned off the television. He was expecting no one. There is was again, insistent, threatening to break in the door if he did not answer. He didn't want company. He'd spent so many days of the last thirty or so years alone. He liked it that way. His attachments were of his own choosing. But it seemed he did not have a choice. He opened the door. He was suprised to see the FBI agent on the other side of the threshhold, but then he thought about it. This was to be expected. They stared at each other. Mulder shifted from foot to foot in the hallway. "I'm coming inside." he said. The smoking man moved out of his way to allow him entrance. Mulder wondered what the hell he was going to do next. The man led him into the library and silently gestured to a chair. "Don't you have any lights in here?" Mulder snapped, wishing he could see his surroundings more clearly. The man said nothing as he put out his cigarette. Mulder took a deep breath, but the room was full of smoke. Directly across from him, the man waited for him to speak. He struck a match to light another cigarette and it illuminated his face. Mulder felt sick. He recognized the grey eyes staring back at him. They were the same as the ones he'd seen in the mirror every day of his life. The match burned out. the man waited for him to speak, but there was nothing to say. Mulder left and the man did not stop him. They both knew why he'd come. Scully spent two entire days beating her head against the wall. It was as though Mulder had disappeared into thin air. She was even beginning to wonder if he'd been abducted. She had one last place to try before she gave up and went back to the X Files casework. She dreaded the idea of investigating the paranormal even more than she dreaded her last option, so she knocked on the door and waved at the hidden surveillance camera. Finally the door swung open. The three men stared at her, not quite hostile, but not exactly friendly. At least they'd let her in. "I can't find Mulder." she said. "I've tried everything. I'm hoping you know where he is." She knew instantly that they knew. That was a relief, but now they had to decide if they trusted her enough to tell her. No one moved and no one spoke. Scully waited out the silence. "I think if your partner wanted you to know where he is, he would have told you, Ms. Scully," Byers informed her with a slight sneer. Scully didn't react, just stared coolly back at him, wondering where Mulder had ever found these men. Of the three, Byers was the one who reminded her most of mulder, but also the one she had the most trouble picturing Mulder hanging out with. "On the contrary, I think Mulder might be happy to see her in his time of need." said Frohike. "Time of need?" echoed Scully. "Mulder's mother died four days ago." Frohike said. "I'm surprised he didn't tell you." Langly added. Scully frowned. "You know Mulder." She said. "Is he in Massachusetts?": Frohike spoke when the others refused. "He's in Arizona." "Arizona!" cried Scully. "Thank you." She headed for the door. "Don't mention it," suggested Langly, and she knew what he meant. Mulder would be furious. He thought of a hundred questions in the airport. A hundred more of them came to him on the plane as he tried to sleep. Mulder started thinking of smart remarks as he rented the car. Anything but silence, he thought. Now he would have to go back. He drove on. The needle on the gas gauge stood straight up. 1/2 a tank. Exactly enough to return her to civilization. Scully parked the car on the side of the road and got out. She knew how Mulder's mind worked. He had to be here. She found him in the shade of a rock, staring squint-eyed into the gorgeous orange sunset. He didn't turn but she knew he was aware of her presence. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Here in Arizona, or are you referring to something more specific?" Mulder asked, bitter irony in his rusty voice. She was the first person he'd spoken to in how many days? He'd lost track. "We can start with Arizona." "I'm watching the sun set." Scully bit her lip, looking at him carefully. His skin had already turned quite brown; she'd never imagined Mulder's pasty skin would tan at all. She sat down next to him. "And these?" she picked the paper box up from the ground. Mulder didn't say anything, just stared at the sun. She reached over and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and crushed it into the dirt. "You don't smoke." "I do now." He reached for the pack, but she was faster, snatching it away. He glared at her. "You've never smoked and you should be glad." "Shows what you know, Scully." Mulder said, not caring enough to be irritated. "I smoked in high school." For about two weeks, he added in his head. He reached for the packet. Scully threw it away from them with all her might, the red and white package impacting some feet away. She threw like a girl, he thought. "Mulder." she said as she had so many times before. He jumped and she looked at him. "Don't call me that," he ordered, feeling his tenous control slipping. Oh hell, he thought. He didn't even have his name any more. "I can't call you Mulder?" she said, angry. "And I can't call you Fox." He closed his eyes. Who the hell was he now? he wondered, feeling empty. He was no one. He wished he was dead. "Get in the car." she ordered. He didn't move. "Mul-" She stopped herself. "I didn't come out here to leave you sitting in the desert getting melanoma and emphysema. Now I don't care if I have to knock you out and carry you to the car, you're coming back with me." He clenched his teeth and she could see the muscles in his jaw tighten as they always did when he was under stress. But he got in the car and fastened his seat belt. She drove too fast on the way back. She played country music and sang along. But all he did was look out the window without a word. "I wish you'd talk to me," she said as she pulled into the gas station, the gauge exactly on empty. Mulder didn't reply. Scully rolled her eyes and got out of the car to pay for the gas that would take them back to the airport. She looked over her shoulder to see which pump she was at and saw Mulder with his forehead pressed to the passenger window. He was crying. She tried to decide how to handle this as she pumped the gas. Finally she decided to do nothing at all. He knew she'd be there when he needed her to listen. That had to be enough. She couldn't push him and she couldn't baby him. He'd lost both his parents in the last few months. He gave her the slip in the airport. Scully went back to DC alone, trying to understand This time he kicked the door open before it was answered. Mulder had worked up a good satisfying rage. "Is she my sister?" he demanded of the flabbergasted man who stood in the foyer of the apartment, the cigarette dangling from his lips. "Is she?" "Don't be a fool," he replied, collecting himself. "We couldn't take a chance like that, what if you fu-" He noticed Mulder's confusion. "Who are you talking about?" "Who are you talking about?" Mulder demanded. "Scully." Mulder laughed without really feeling it. "Why would I think...?" he shook his head. The man turned away to stub out his cigarette. Mulder pinned him to the wall. "Samantha." he said. "Is she my sister?" he demanded, pressing his arm across the man's throat. "Is she?" "Yes." he whispered. Mulder pressed harder. "My full sister?" The man said nothing. "Where is she? Where, damn it?" "Don't...know." he gasped, his face turning red. Mulder released him and he sagged against the wall. Mulder turned and went into the library. Gasping for air, the man followed him and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply and setting it down in the ashtray. "What are you looking for?" he rasped. Mulder stopped his survey of the shelves of unlabelled books. "The truth." "I don't have a book by that name." "I don't find it funny that my entire life has been a lie!" roared Mulder, wanting to break something. Preferably the man's neck. "Say something." he ordered. "What do you want to hear?" he offered smoothly. Mulder turned to go. All he would find here were more lies. He already knew everything. Conformation from this source would mean nothing. He opened the door to the foyer and heard the man gasp. Mulder turned and saw the man look at him in surprise, red blood blossoming from a wound in his shirt. He looked over to where sunlight entered the room through the parted curtains. Mulder's eyes followed. He couldn't believe what he saw. Alex Krycek, holding a silenced pistol, climbed in the window, fury on his face. Mulder met his former partner's eyes. "Good riddance." Mulder said and left. Krycek heard the front door slam behing Mulder and stood over the man's lifeless body. He tossed his pistol on the carpet beside the inert form. But he didn't leave. He knelt down next to him and whispered. "I always wondered who my father was. Bastard. You got what you deserved." He spat on the man and left quickly. He didn't notice the cigarette still burning, the ashtray tipped over onto the Oriental rug. Mulder was sitting at his desk when Scully arrived for work. She stood in the doorway and stared at him. He looked as though someone had propped him up on the chair. His skin was grey, the bags under his eyes had deepened into bruises, and she would swear he'd lost twenty pounds. "Mulder," she said, approaching him, "What happened to you? When was the last time you slept?" He shrugged, as was his way. "I'm all right." he said. "I doubt that." "Everything's back to normal." Scully picked up a thick stack of new X Files and put them down on his desk. "Then you're ready to look for the truth?" she said, half-kidding. He looked wearier than ever. "I've looked the truth in the face, Scully. And I didn't like what I saw." he said. She kneaded his shoulder and ran her hand down his arm. A spark of life ignited in his eyes. "I hope you'll tell me about it sometime," she said. He opened the first familiar manila folder. He ran his hand over its cover. Things didn't really change, he thought. He fought to understand, yet he never would. But there remained truths for him to seek. Truths he actually wanted to find. He would rely on the paranormal for his normal and that would see him through. And he had to let her in. He'd seen what he could become. He nodded, his eyes dipping closed for a moment. "Sometime." he said. End. What do you think? Characters? Plot? Discrepancies? I really wanna know. Email me at eponine@uci.edu Coming soon: probably a short Scully Christmas story, and a longer serious story called "Ondine". After that...???