Half Life Series

by jowrites (Joann H) - [email protected]

Half Life 1974 - One year after Samantha's disappearance, dinner at home with the Mulders.
Half Life 1976 - Mrs Mulder visits Fox's High School teachers.
Half Life 1984 - Fox Mulder is in England with Phoebe Green.
Half Life 1987 - Mulder is in the FBI, working for Bill Patterson.
Half Life 1995 - Mulder is working with Scully.

LEGALLY:
Legally these characters belong to some combination of 1013, CC and Fox.

HALF LIFE - 1974

A family affair. Mom's zoned out on one too many valium. I guess she took the bonus pill when she heard Dad would be home for the night. Dad is as calm as thin ice.

I can feel him staring at me. I know the expression on his face without looking. He's the cat and I'm a particularly ugly mouse he left in the porch. Daring me to move. Chew the food fifty times, be careful not to choke.

Mom prepared? I went to the shop. I peeled the potatoes. I cooked the food. I laid the table. I put it on the plates. I brought them to the dining room. Why don't you send me on a cookery course Dad, it would be more useful than the little pep talk you've doubtless got planned for me tonight.

I can hear his silence. Is that stupid? I didn't answer his question. Do it now, he won't want to have to ask twice. "No."

He starts breathing again. Seems that my survival skills are being honed by isolation.

Cold, crisp voice like jagged glass. "I was thinking about you on the way over."

Did my hand twitch? Bad idea. Keep it steady. Cats are attracted to sudden movement.

It definitely twitched that time. Can he hear my heart beat? I can hear it. I can't remember. I can't. I try and I try and I can't. I can't.

"You had my gun in your hand. We got your fingerprints from it. But you didn't fire. Why was that? Maybe you just froze, but maybe you saw someone you knew. Who did you see, who could have stopped you pulling the trigger?"

"You're shaking like a leaf. You can't be scared all the time. I think it's time for another visit to the Doctor."

Don't shake. He's going to take me out of school again if I shake. I've got enough trouble at school without that. Everybody knows and everybody understands. I've got leprosy, they get out of my way. I've got memory loss but they've got it worse, they act like I never had a sister. Like I don't have a sister.

"I hope you aren't going to have another little bout of hysteria. Only babies and toddlers cry for no reason, Fox. You aren't a child."

Why not? Why the hell not? The kids in my class at school are children. They have curfews. They have parents who watch them in the school play. They have birthdays. They have mothers who cook their meals. They have fathers who take them to ball games. I keep my eyes down, stare hard at my plate.

Nor do doctors. Nor does that bottle of whiskey. But he's right. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of making me cry. I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

Don't slouch. Jeez, he's slipping, or I'm getting better. Slouching doesn't constitute anything more than a minor misdemeanor. Maybe I am getting better. Or maybe I'm just getting less interesting as the novelty of him being home diminishes.

I risk looking up from my plate. Mom looks back at me as if she can't remember who I am or why I'm here, as if she's still trying to place my face from among the crowd of memories in her head.

Of course. Food. First anniversary of Samantha's disappearance and I have to eat my greens. Aren't they going to say anything? Raise a toast to absent friends? Oh shit. Now I've done it, now I have made myself cry. Maybe he won't notice. Provided I keep my head down, provided I keep eating. Chew don't choke.

What? An escape route. He's just going to let me walk out of the room, just like that? I gather up the plates. No one's eaten very much. Maybe it's not that easy for them either, maybe none of us really have an appetite tonight. Maybe Dad's just putting on a show of indifference for me. Maybe I just can't cook.

His hand snakes out as I walk past him, he grabs my wrist. I don't drop the plates I'm carrying but a couple of knives crash to the floor. He leans in to my ear. "Wipe your nose before you come back out here."

Sure, he wouldn't notice provided I kept my head down. Why do I have such stupid ideas? I'm supposed to be a genius. What a laugh. Fat lot of good it does me. As if I wasn't already a freak.

Canned fruit and cream jangles my nerves and scrambles my brain. Escape takes another half an hour.

A phone call for Dad. Bedtime for Mom. The dishes for me. I get it done fast so I'm through before Dad's off the phone.

I'm calm. Flat calm like the sky at night, confident of bright stars in the dark. Blank. If there's a God then he's found her, found her and brought her back. God can do that, omnipotent, omnipresent. Heard that in school. Here now. If there's a God then this can all just be my nightmare and it's time for me to wake up. Time. A year's long enough.

Time for the visit. Today's a bit special, so I'll take the radio. Close my eyes, I can see her on the bed. Tired but excited. We haven't seen one another all day. She wants to tell me about school, about dolls, about her friends. She wants to tell me stuff I'm not interested in. But that's ok, I just want to hear her voice.

Practiced ease, I can find the doorknob without opening my eyes, push the door open. Deep breath and walk inside. Close the door behind me and stand very still and listen hard.

I can hear her. Tiny giggly splutters of breath. Like we're playing hide and seek and I'm close to finding her and she's trying not to laugh, trying so hard it's making her breath catch.

I can see her. Sitting up on the bed, arm wrapped round that dumb doll, a story book at her side. I know what she'll say, "read me the story". And I'll tell her she's too old to be read to. And she'll say I'm just scared that the book will have big words and I don't want her to know that I can't pronounce them or say what they mean. And I'll tell her that I bet I know all the words in all her books. And...

And I open my eyes. Her hair's still in braids ready for school and she's smiling that challenge of a smile. Daring me.

Switch on the radio. Doesn't do to get caught talking to yourself, or the walls, or the bed, or Sam's dolls. A visit to the hospital and a room with no view if you get caught doing that. Whatever you do, don't get caught.

You can come back now. I've learned my lesson. I never really thought that you were in my way. Not really. I need you to come home. If you come home, maybe Mom or Dad will visit us sometimes. And even if they don't, it doesn't matter, because at least we'll be together.

I haven't had a very good year Sam. If Dad could have a hole drilled in my head and my brains sucked out to see my memories he would. Aw shit, so would I. They've tried therapy, with and without the drugs. They tried hypnosis but I just screamed until I brought myself back awake. Dad tried staring it out of me. Mom. Mom can look in my eye and see straight through, but she can't tell me what she sees on the way.

They don't talk about you, you know. No one does. Not Mom and Dad. Not the kids at school. No one. It's like you're a taboo subject. It's like you never existed.

But I know that's not true. I've been to things, school fairs and stuff, Mom doesn't go, but the other parents are there. They talk about you. Or about me. < That's the Mulder boy. You know, the one whose sister went missing. They left her alone with him and when they got back. No trace. > Like I'm not there either. As if I'm deaf as well as marked with a death's head.

"How's your year been Sam?" I bet it's been a barrel of laughs. Did you go to Disneyland? Did you get a bike for your birthday? Did you spill coke on your new dress? Did you get eaten by worms in an unmarked grave?

The police used to call. Every few weeks. To see what I remembered. They don't bother now. The FBI came a couple of times. Because of Dad's job. In case it was political.

I'm going to overdose on stupid today. How does she answer that? Knock three times for yes?

If I knew something, anything. I'd come and find you. One way or another. Kid or not.

I can hear the door opening. I scramble off my knees and onto my feet. Switch off the radio.

His voice like a pack of nails pinning me to the floor. "What the hell are you doing in here?"

All the muscles in my arms lock as my fingers curl into my palms. The shiver that runs up my spine leaves gooseflesh behind, curls me up into a hunch.

He steps in close, leans down, so I can feel his alcohol laced breath on my cheek as he speaks. "You've got no right. This is hers. Your mother wants it that way." A pause, I can see the red of his eyes. "What are you doing in here?"

I'm sorry Sam. I can't stay here. I have to get out. I have to breathe. Try to say it, can only mumble, "sorry." Run. Run for it. I'm frozen.

He picks up the radio, throws it hard at the door. Plastic crash and it cracks and the door shakes and a scar appears in the white gloss paint. "Get out." The sound of thin ice buckling.

Out the door and keep on running until I'm out of the house and don't stop then. The frost is already hard and I'm not dressed for outdoors and these slippers are not for running in. And this is stupid and I have no choice.

Survival skills. The stable block of the big house, only a mile and not very good locks. I have a certain knack with locks. Maybe it'll be a talent one day.

The horses make no noise at my entry to their home. I've visited them before. They seemed to be expecting me. One of them politely moves in his stall so I can see the spare blanket hanging on the rail. Generous. I won't stay the night. Just until I stop crying. They won't tell on me.

Half Life - 1976

RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATION: V A
DATE: Finally completed Jan 2002, posted July 2002
ARCHIVE: Gossamer, Ephemeral - others please ask.

SUMMARY: On the anniversary of Samantha's abduction. Mrs Mulder looks at her son.

LEGALLY: Legally these characters belong to some combination of 1013, CC and Fox.

He brings coffee to my bedside. A brief goodbye kiss. It's a ritual, a habit he fell into after Samantha.

It's no longer necessary, I have moved on and am ashamed of my past performance. Valium and sleeping pills formed an embarrassing interlude. I, who always took such pride in my self-control. Have I not always been a fighter, a woman in a man's world, a woman whose brains as well as her appearance have steered her fate?

I have forgiven myself for the breakdown. In the circumstances, my collapse into nothingness was inevitable. But for Bill to let me drown myself in drugs was an outrage. Of course, I've beaten the problem. The problems. Both the pills and my husband have been banished from my life, neither will be allowed to control me again.

Problems solved are battles won. In retrospect, perhaps it has been for the best. Unable to cling to me, Fox has learned self-reliance, independence, strength. My young man, my pride and joy.

I don't really expect him to go to school today. Though I do give him credit for trying to preserve the illusion. The right clothes. The neatly groomed hair. The finger nails scrubbed clean. My little boy knows how to fend for himself. The thought stabs at my heart before I move on. It is important to move on.

The boy gives himself away, all the time, mostly in tiny ways. I look into his tired red eyes, he didn't sleep last night.

I heard the door to Samantha's room open before dawn. He went to talk to her. That's not a mistake I'd make. I have moved on. Bill says that I should have made Fox move on. But Fox is not me, not Bill. Bill and I, we take such pride in our rigid strength, our straight backs, our unflinching gaze.

Fox has an extra layer of elasticity, an ability to bend and stretch and sway in the breeze.

His father imagines it shows weakness. He's wrong, I think. I see my young Fox spring back from disappointment and damage. His flexibility will make him resilient, not malleable. I hope.

Certainly, it is the resilience that I see now. He is changing almost as I watch, my boy is growing up. If he chose, he could be a heartbreaker. His eyes focus on me and I wonder where the gentleness in his spirit came from. Not from his father. Guilt, that was the father's contribution to the son. I'd like to claim the soul was mine, but that would be a lie.

He changed for me. After my daughter was taken, my little boy gave me little bits of my daughter back. He'd be embarrassed by that idea, so I'll never say. I'd never discourage him from helping me with the shopping, sharing the kitchen, kissing me goodnight.

I already wince at his self-conscious attempts to correct himself when Bill calls by the house. The brave, naive effort that Fox makes to show him only the well grown boy who is, before my eyes and far too soon, becoming a young man.

The phone rings. The School. Fox hasn't arrived. What a surprise. Foolishly, I allow myself to smile at the unseeing phone. I give them my prepared answer. It's the least I can do. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid Fox is a little unwell. He should be back tomorrow."

The teacher on the line seems to have more to say. No matter, I know how to ignore other people's problems. La, la, la, I'm not listening. I play the role, concerned mother who knows her son well enough to know there is nothing to be concerned about. The teacher concedes defeat.

I smile with a little shameful pride as I hang up. The things that I do for my boy. He probably doesn't even notice. A flash of a thought - maybe I should tell him that the school has called? So that he knows that he has been caught.

Isn't that what parents do, explain that such behavior is self- destructive? Explain that, in the end, you always get caught.

I smile at the thought. Imagine that, I smile, today of all days. My son can still make me smile. Maybe I should combine his telling off about skipping school with some lie that he would see straight through, like how such indiscipline might affect his grades.

I won't undermine his independence by explaining that I've saved him from an embarrassing little scene tomorrow in school. Let him work it out.

Another phone call from the school. Perhaps I could visit the Principal, he'd love to talk about Fox. Of course. I also love to talk about Fox. Tomorrow morning then, first thing.

We pull into the school's parking lot and when we leave the car my son comes to stand by my door, holding my coat ready for me to slip my arms into its sleeves. I wonder where he learned his manners. Perhaps from Cary Grant movies on the TV. I smile and thank him for his courtesy. He's nervous. He shouldn't be, I'm going to set him free.

A pretty young blonde thing bats false eyelashes in our direction while her friends giggle their encouragement. My young Fox barely nods in reply, apparently shy, but with just the slightest flutter of his own eyelashes as he meets her eyes.

Oh, yes. My boy could break hearts if he chose. I wonder if he will. Probably. But not, I suspect, in play. I fear my boy has lost the will, the talent, for play. He'll break their hearts, but with such good intentions, for such noble causes. That's something he shares with his parents. Good intentions and noble causes.

I apologize to my young man, he is tense and self-conscious enough without me drawing further attention to him. We head inside and he's some heady mix of skittish and subdued as he delivers me to the Principal's office. I swear that for an instant I can still see the five year old boy walking on tiptoe following a raid on the refrigerator.

He wants to say something, but doesn't, and I notice that his jaw clenches as he starts to back away. Orthodontist work is too expensive to be treated so casually. I expect I should stop him. After all, that's what mothers do. But I don't.

He nods and leaves before his eyes give anything more away. I imagine he'll head to the washroom and hide for a little while before he goes to class. I did that much for him at least, I taught him to hide.

I assume that the presence of three staff members is an honor. Perhaps it's just that I am an object of curiosity and they are making up for my three years of missed plays, basketball games, parents evenings, award presentations.

I see that I'm a surprise. Perhaps it's the Chanel jacket that disturbs them. With a son called Fox, perhaps they were expecting a flower child. Foolish thought, 1961 was not yet a safe place for hippies. Maybe now they will wonder about his father. Perhaps they already do. Do they imagine a dark skinned man called Running Bear?

"We're concerned about Fox." The first round is left to his year tutor. She has learned the habit of treating everyone as a small child. Fox probably uses her for target practice.

I smile at her nervousness as she falters. I'm sure my son seemed much more of a worry when she spoke to her colleagues. "How so?" I keep my voice bland, force the silly little bitch to say what she means. Not surprisingly, she flounders.

The man who identified himself as responsible for pastoral and careers counseling takes over. "Fox is withdrawn, he finds it difficult to make friends."

They look at me as if I've just recommended the use of leeches and bloodletting to cure his ills. Better that than their well meaning therapeutic snake oil. They try to explain it in easy words. Psychology for beginners. Spoken to me. The nerve of it.

I hear their sickeningly casual arrogance. "This withdrawal makes him bury himself in his studies, placing him under pressure that could lead to a breakdown."

Buried in his studies, of course. I force them to define their terms. "Yet he gets his head out of his books for long enough to play for your basketball and baseball teams."

They shrug, uncertain, then push forward again, acknowledging the point, then ignoring it. "He's a gifted student, but he's unhappy, he needs your support."

"He has my support. I believe the issue here is your assumption that he should be happy." Happy, how crass. Happy - a term that incidentally, they have yet to define.

There is a yawning chasm of silence. The Principal recognizes that it's up to him to break the impasse. "You understand his unhappiness?"

"His sister is missing. His parents have separated. He was treated as a virtual suspect in a criminal inquiry by the police, the FBI, his classmates, his neighbors. He's seen that suspicion in the eyes of his teachers. Do you understand that if he was *happy* - it would be a sign of insensitivity or worse?"

They shuffle guiltily back in their seats. It is time for me to move in for the kill, I had no idea that it would be so easy. "You expect me to order my son to act as if he fits your vision of happiness to salve your consciences?"

So why ask me here? I say nothing, they can see my reply written across my face.

"We just wanted to assure you that we are happy to help, in any way. That if ever there is something we can do...."

"Thank you. That's most reassuring. Perhaps you might start by assisting him in finding a scholarship to Oxford rather than dismissing his wishes as whims."

They freeze. Good. Learn to hate yourselves. Then maybe you'll understand Fox's world. And mine.

Half Life 1984

Title - Half Life 1984
Rating - R
Classification - S, A
Author: jowrites
22 March 98

Note to Gossamer archivists:
Could be part of a series (not sure yet) called Half Life,
Half Life 1974 is already on its way to you .

SUMMARY:
On the eleventh anniversary of Samantha Mulder's disappearance.
Fox Mulder is in England with Phoebe Greene.

Legally:
The people you know in this story belong to Chris Carter, 1013
and Fox as brought to life by DD, GA and the X-Files writers.
I've borrowed them for fun not profit. This story, is mine.

Normal is a much overused term. It is not, however, a term I would ever use about myself.

On a good day, I know that no one is normal. Today is not a good day. Nor should it be. I'm at least smart enough to know that much about me.

Phoebe has fully retractable claws. She slapped the soft velvet pads of her paws over me until I told her the origins of my descent into melancholia. She licked her lips, happy cat that had got the cream and was sated enough to enjoy it at her leisure.

The story of Sam and Fox. Not Sam Fox you understood, she's a topless model who does photos that adorn the pages of the national daily newspapers over here. Which makes me smile a little, stranger in a strange land.

Anyway the Sam story, let's call it that to avoid confusion and Freudian sounding but redundant parallels. Phoebe got the Sam story months ago. Stuffed a wedge under the defenses and levered the door open and all the skeletons in the closet had come tumbling out. Well, not all. Obviously, not all. I'm not that stupid and I wasn't that far gone on warm beer and hot kisses.

As I say, when my nerves crumbled and my mood rolled inexorably downhill this week, she noticed. She's used to the bouncing ball, not the one that just rolls downhill. She stroked and nagged and purred and rubbed up against me.

So I told her. Something I celebrate every year, whether I want to or not. Happy Anniversary. Which is fine, because I don't like Christmas, but I get forced to celebrate that. Well, watch other people celebrate it. Personally, I got out of that particular bad habit years ago. I watch other people who don't want to celebrate it, go along with it though. Path of least resistance. They do it for the family, for the children. Just like me and tonight.

She's going to help me kick the habit of celebrating alone. I'm terrified. I don't have the kind of illusions about Phoebe that you're supposed to have about your loved ones. Supposed to have? Ok, this is not a paperback romance. She's brilliant and alive, with all the softness of semtex and none of the predictability.

Love, like normal, is an overused and misused word. Misguided, poor benighted specimen that I am, love is not high on my list of preferred words today. Instead I'm waiting in my room, dressed to venture into the great unknown, ready for her to knock on the door. And hoping that she won't hurt me.

It's time, my carriage awaits. Heralded not by the knock on the door but by the tinny clank of the half broken doorbell. Life and poetry seldom rhyme.

A day of exorcising my demons, she said. Long walk along the Cherwell and then on to the Thames to watch boats padding through the locks. Are they mad? It's absolutely bloody freezing today. Who in their right mind would want to get on a boat in weather like this? What was that about normal?

We talk a little. No, I talk a little. She answers like a mirror, saying nothing original, just bouncing me back on myself, urging me on. I'm not that easy, but she has patience. Little bits of me slip out and she captures them, files them away. First kiss; first time I made the basketball team; first time I realized that I was smarter than my teachers. Last time I saw Sam.

The bed is creaky as she rewards me for my stories. My brain offers its own guesses at the rate of exchange. My body just chases her warmth.

Her fingers in my mouth stopped me arguing when she told me that the next item on the agenda was for us to go out for the evening, get a meal. Purr of a voice. "I've been right so far, haven't I? You need this to be taken out of your hands for a while."

It's a beautiful thought. Let someone else carry me for a time, tell me what to do. When to get up, when to go out. What more could a depressive ask for? Maybe she'll choose the food as well.

The claws are out. She used them to hold me in place when we got to the pub and I saw the sign. The private room for the private party?

I should have known. I should have known better. What did I imagine when she said it, "let's go for a meal". Dimmed lights. Gentle music. Leisurely food. Me and her and a quiet tete a tete and some soft words that we wouldn't quite mean, but which would do to get us through the night.

It's Phoebe's birthday next week, what a nice coincidence. A time and place to bring together a bunch of her friends and more startling perhaps, she even sought out and invited some of mine. We are a little late, because I was a little slow, a little reluctant to get out of bed. I didn't know that I was being timed. They've been waiting here for a while, they almost applaud as we walk in.

My beloved has a taste for the theatrical, she has her opening speech prepared. When she told the happy band of invited revelers that it was a combined bash, her birthday next week and my anniversary today, they smiled and assumed that she was talking about us. Me and her. She set them straight. Not our anniversary. Something special to Fox alone.

Fox. That's a clue, you see. Subtlety isn't one of her strong points. On those rare occasions when she needs to use my name she calls me Mulder. Fox is the skin I'm supposed to shed. He has these problems, these anniversaries.

Her claws pinch through the fabric of my jacket and I wish I'd worn leather. Or a nice shiny metal coat of armour. She's good. I'll give her that. She can drain the blood and not leave any visible scars

She lulled me, hypnotized me. Mouse that I am. She convinced me that she was merely playful, not predatory. I just take it, like that means I'm tough, like that means I can handle it, handle her. Sure. We all believe that, me and her both.

Yessir, I just stand here in the middle of a crowd of the semi drunk and the heading that way. I let her grip my arm, announcing her ownership. The itch, to push her away and run, burns. But I'm too well trained, too aware of the need not to show weakness. Smile at your friends Mulder, Fox has an anniversary.

If it wasn't for the fact that I know Phoebe's thesis is on the 'Menstrual Cycle as a Predictor of Female Criminal Activity', then I would assume that I was actually her case study. Not just her hobby. Her little recreational lab rat.

Good little lab rat that I am, I learn fast. She smiles with delight as I allow the muscles in my arm to slacken. She kisses me on the cheek and squeals an over-exuberant "well done" into my ear. She relaxes her hold and goes off to play her role as party host.

"Nothing." I say. And bite the flesh inside my cheek to add emphasis to the mental thump that hits me hard in the stomach.

So I try again. "A family thing. It's." It's what? Come on genius. "It's personal."

After all, I don't want to spoil the party. Not when everyone's having such a good time. The questioner walks away, looks puzzled. He's probably trying to work out what sort of anniversary you celebrate with your girlfriend and a bunch of drunken guests but which can't be identified.

Believe me. You don't want to know. I expect they'll run a book on it later. Place your bets. Loss of virginity? Birth of first illegitimate child? Last time I wet the bed?

A glass of guinness appears, as if by magic. And a vodka to chase. I don't want to, but there's no doubt about it, it's the quickest way to leave the party.

The taxi takes me home. Home? The taxi takes me to the house I share in the row of turn of the century brick built flea pits. Not a fair description. Walk to the next block, street, whatever and you'll find almost identical terraced houses and they change hands for pots of money. Of course they've been yuppiefied, gone upmarket, new windows and doors and plants climbing up the walls and no parking space for the extra cars. It's not that I drank a lot. Not really. A couple of pints and a few vodkas. But knocked back fast. I never did get that food Phoebe told me we were going to eat.

At least I knew to go and get a taxi. Well, actually I didn't. At least Mike knew to make me leave with him. He has to get up early to do his weight training and he stays off the drink. He's a rower, should get his blue this year, main boat for the big race against Cambridge. What the fuck am I talking about.

Coffee. I read an article about that the other day, good or bad for hangovers? I mean for not getting hangovers. Can't remember the answer. Glass of milk maybe. Cup of tea.

Food then. Always a good idea to eat. Fries. Chips. Sure, good idea, find a sharp knife and get to work and burn the house down when I forget to turn off the fat fryer. Safer idea, food without cooking. Should have brought some home. Maybe I can go and get some. No, way too far on too cold a night. There's got to be something in here. Cookies. Biscuits. Crackers. Whatever.

When did I become a sensible drunk? Bit of a paradox there. Sober idiot. Sensible drunk. Dad would be so proud.

"Phoebe." Shut up, idiot. The house may be empty now, but talking to yourself is a really bad habit.

Phoebe. This was your idea. It was your theory that I wasn't supposed to be left alone today. So where are you? Why is it that it's only me and my demons huddling up together in the building.

Reckon I can make it to midnight without summoning up a vision of a dead little girl? Big prize if I make it, I'll declare myself cured. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? No sirree, not me, Post-PTSD.

If she's not dead then how come it's always a little kid who I conjure up in my head? Ha, ha, don't even need to study psychology to nail that one. If I try and imagine her all grown up the image gets too blurred, too unrealistic, too much like pretense. Imagine her maybe looking a bit like Mom, I mean like Mom did at that age. But Mom hadn't been dead for eleven years when she was twenty.

She's dead, move on. Visualize a funeral, imagine her name on the gravestone. Easy. Dead easy.

I never saw her dead. I never felt her die. If I felt it then maybe I could move on. I kid myself that's what all this is about.

Makes my specialist subject a little macabre but oh so understandable. Read about killers, imagine how easy it is to squeeze the life out of an eight year old neck. Imagine it so well until I can imagine that it's not a stranger's kid.

I hate you Phoebe, hate your cold eyes and your colder heart, hate your smiling face and your generous body. You're so sure of yourself, you and your quack cures. Get me out of my head for the night. So when Sam came knocking I wouldn't be at home. Bad idea, when Sam comes knocking, I need my wits about me. All the defenses manned and ready to repel boarders. Not standing in a kitchen without enough guts left to choose between coffee and tea. This little charade was intended as a cure wasn't it?

You thought it would help didn't you? This is not just a little game you constructed for your lab rat. Is it?

That's good, first step and I crash into the table, the food hits the floor. Great. Drunk and clumsy and blurred vision. When did I start crying.

"Hello Mulder. You ran off without saying goodbye. They were all very concerned." Smile of a predator, she doesn't bother to hide her claws.

Half Life 1987

TITLE: HALF LIFE 1987
AUTHOR: jowrites
EMAIL: [email protected]
RATING: PG (but with language warning)
CLASSIFICATION: S A
KEYWORDS: Pre-Xfiles
PUBLICATION DATE: 23rd November 1998

SUMMARY: It's November 27, 1987, Samantha Mulder has been missing for 14 years, Fox Mulder is working for Bill Patterson in the ISU.

LEGALLY: Legally Mulder belongs to some combination of 1013, CC and Fox. But his soul belongs to DD. I've merely borrowed him. This story belongs to me.

"How long has he been in there?" Bill Patterson's voice was tight and cold. His eyes, as he looked through the two way mirror into the interview room, were colder still.

Mike Jardine tried to phrase a careful reply, preferably one that wouldn't get his throat ripped open. "Fifteen minutes. Tops. Should I get him out?"

Patterson's frown grew, the lines forming tight ridges across his skull. On the other side of the glass sat Special Agent Fox Mulder engrossed in discussion with a gray haired woman who had offered her psychic services to the NYPD. Not the only such offer they'd had, but the only offer that had led the team to find the bloody and discarded clothing of one of the missing children.

Mulder handed the woman another photograph, a dark haired little girl. The woman's hands shook as she studied the image. Her voice quivered. "This one. It's not so recent as the others." Her hand rubbed across the surface of the picture, she closed her eyes. "I can see water."

"The sea. Her bones. Salt water. Waves breaking. Perhaps it started with the river, but now, now she's in the sea. Lost a long time ago."

Silence that lasted too long. "It's all too blurred, too long ago, I don't know."

Mulder nodded his head before noting that the woman's eyes were still closed, her fingers still fingering the photo as if reading a message written in braille. "Should we move on?"

"Yes." She opened her eyes and handed back the picture, held her hand outstretched for the next.

Patterson shook his head, sucked in a noisy lungfull of air. Mumbled softly, mostly to himself. "It's far too late." He turned his eyes back to the detectives. "Why didn't you call the Bureau, ask for help? Asking psychics, for God's sake. Couldn't you pick up a phone?"

Jardine, the head of the police team, hit the frustrated reply. Ok, so Patterson was having some sort of a problem with this, but he wasn't going to let him nail the whole thing on them. "I called. I asked you for Mulder."

"And I told you that you couldn't have him. You were offered Dave Mitchell. If I'd known you were going to start dialing the psychic hotline, I'd have come up here myself."

"It looked like a cult. I wanted to chat to Mulder about some symbols, you said no."

"I said that, right now, Mulder isn't working on crimes against children, Mitchell is. Mitchell could have taken anything he didn't understand to Mulder."

"So you call in the psychics, then go behind my back to ask Mulder to act as umpire?" Patterson shook his head. "I can make this official. I should have your hide for this."

"I called Mulder for a chat. He said he'd stop off for an hour or so, that he was taking a few days leave."

Patterson shuddered, not allowing himself to lose the battle against fury. "Mulder doesn't take a few days leave. I order him to stop working. Do you see the difference?"

"We've got a killer who's escalating. Four dead kids and more to follow unless we stop him. I can see that."

"Don't try laying that on me. Mitchell would have helped, but you were too clever."

Jardine froze, suddenly aware of the meaning behind Bill Patterson's words. "You think the kid's in trouble?"

"I think you'd better get what you want from him as soon as he leaves that interview room. I'm taking him back."

Patterson's eyes flashed bolts of lightning across the room. "Trying to give me orders now, as well as telling my men what to do?"

As the woman was ushered away with an offer of more coffee, the detectives joined Mulder back in the interview room. Patterson studied the scene through the mirror. Mulder cheerfully held court with Jardine and two of his colleagues. They studiously avoided mentioning Patterson's arrival, careful not to interrupt the agent's confident flow of words.

Mulder handed back the photos he'd borrowed from the detectives. The four missing kids from the case. Certainly dead, he admitted with a sigh of disgust. The pictures of children from other crimes. The pictures of the fit and well family members of the officers that he'd used as controls during the interview.

Mulder waved one hand as he spoke, as if trying to beckon the words to come more quickly. "The woman knows the killer. She's no more psychic than I am. She made guesses about whether the kids were alive or dead based on my body language. She's good, I'll admit, but I misled her on a few and she didn't notice. But she spotted the bluff I gave her about one of your four missing ones. She knew I was lying, knew the kid was dead."

"What was that about the kid in the sea? Who was that? How did she know it wasn't recent?"

Mulder shrugged, felt the muscles in his back tighten a little and took a couple of fast shallow breaths to counteract it. "It's a family photo I threw in. It's about 15 years old. You get differential fading of colors on prints that age. Like I say. She's good, observant, but not psychic."

"I expect it's a relative of hers, or close as. We need to start looking around, and keep the pressure on her, she obviously wants to talk. We just need to give her the excuse." Mulder leaned back in the chair. "Over 30, white collar job. If he's not been charged with child abuse before, that's not because he's not been suspected, just that we couldn't get sufficient evidence. You've got my profile, I'll stick around today and help you sort your suspects."

The door opened, the detectives turned sheepishly towards the balding figure in the doorway. Mulder tried not to squirm.

Patterson ignored the detectives, locked on eye contact with Mulder. "I'm afraid that won't be possible, Agent Mulder. I need you back in DC."

Leaving the station, the two dark suited figures attracted a fair amount of attention, most of it unwelcome. Patterson studied the silent brooding figure at his side and quietly considered whether to handcuff him before they got out into the street. "I assume you came up here in your own car?"

Mulder barely managed to resist the temptation to kick an imaginary stone off the sidewalk. "Yes, Sir. I am on leave."

Mulder said nothing, let his tightly hunched shoulders tell Patterson that he didn't want to know anything.

"I watched CNN, heard this crap about some psychic who was hunting for dead kids and thought of you. Isn't that sweet?"

"I ran a check on the phone calls made from your desk yesterday afternoon, one straight to Mike Jardine's direct line. So fucking predictable."

The rest of the walk to the car was conducted in silence. The silence didn't interfere with the angry signals that were flying between the two men. The daggers were out by the time the men loaded themselves in.

"Bureau policy." Just the slightest hint of cold amusement in Patterson's voice.

Patterson studied his surroundings. "You can tell a lot about someone by their car. What do you think this says about you?"

"Sure. Let's see. Clean, but not over zealously so. Tidy, but not completely without personal objects. A newspaper. Sunflower seeds. Bottle of water. Pencils and notepads. Mid range sedan, a family car you might say. Dark blue. Two years old, well maintained. Want to tell everyone how well adjusted you are, Agent Mulder?"

"Trying for a formal insubordination charge or just hoping I'll suspend you unofficially again?"

Mulder waved as confident a goodbye as he could manage to the officer on the parking lot's exit gate. Decided, despite the war that was going on his brain, not to say anything else.

The miles passed too slowly for Mulder. Patterson nagged and Mulder parried, until finally the Section Chief moved in for the kill.

"Didn't need you. Didn't have to be you. What were you trying to prove? You were on vacation."

"Of course. So who was it for? Not for me, because I wasn't supposed to know. It wasn't for Jardine, he thinks the sun shines out of your ass ever since you got him that strangler. So, what was it about?"

"Maybe I don't like to see cases neglected. Not just because my boss thinks I can't cope. Maybe, I did it for me."

"Bullshit. If you were trying to do something for yourself, you really would have gone home. You'd have talked to your mother and you'd have sang Auld Lang's Syne over the family photo albums."

"My theory is that you are so far off from coping that you don't even know how to live with yourself for a day. You'd sooner see how badly you can rip yourself apart, because then, if it hurts bad enough, you don't have to face it."

"I don't know." Foot slipping a little heavier on the gas, despite the fact that it wouldn't get him away from Patterson's side.

"Probabilities Mulder. Kid that age goes missing. What are the odds of her being alive after 24 hours? 48 hours? A week? A year?"

The spasm that hit Mulder's neck, spiraled down, contracted the muscles in his arm, the car swung violently towards the curb. He slammed down his foot, hard onto the brake. Heard the horns of the cars swerving behind him, knocking him quickly back to attention. He brought the car to a halt at the side of the road.

Body stretched taut. Spine forced hard against the seat back, hands clenching the wheel, arms straight, elbows locked, muscles tense. Agony of power with nowhere to go, except to threaten to rip the car apart.

Patterson watched, could see the Agent's heart beat magnified as a trembling wave that rolled along his back and through to his fingertips. Every too fast beat, another tremor.

Shivering at last to a slower rhythm as his pulse rate subsided and his blood pressure fell. Until eventually, Mulder calmed enough to be able to force his uncooperative hands to open the door, shifted as carefully as he could and dragged himself out of the car.

Half stood, half sat, letting his weight rest on the cold metal of the car, let crisp cold air fill his lungs. Couldn't even hear the noise of the other cars, tuned them out as he listened to himself. Waited for the dry tears to slow down and his breathing to recover.

Patterson sat patiently, not relishing the role of uncomfortable voyeur of his usually over controlled, self consciously composed subordinate. Waited for him to get his balance back. Knew that Fox Mulder would hate being caught in a trap like this. Knew that Mulder would hate him for being a witness to the unraveling. Hate Patterson for that, far more than he would hate him for being a catalyst to the collapse. After all, Mulder, ruthless analyst even of himself, would consider such interview technique, fair game.

Finally, Patterson got out of the car, stood at least ten feet away from Mulder as he spoke. "Do you want me to drive?"

Patterson froze at the words, took a quick breath, desperate to check his understanding before Mulder sank back below his protective layers. "It?"

"Might be at risk of injuring yourself. And me. Especially, if I let you drive."

It was somehow appropriate that the ISU offices were deep under ground, somehow it was right that they should live close to the worms and the sewers. It was only the lack of natural light that rattled Mulder. He'd scarcely seen daylight since he got this job, only a year before.

His colleagues looked nervously towards him and Mulder felt his body shrink under their gaze. He was really in no mood to be profiled by twenty of the FBI's top analysts. Didn't they have any work to do?

He used the sudden surge of angry adrenaline to push him back to attention as he walked towards the coffee machine, collected the urgent caffeine fix. Prowled the area, cup in hand, caged tiger walking.

Mulder spun angrily towards Patterson, spitting out a reply. "I thought I was supposed to need a break."

The Section Chief's next word was barked loud enough for everyone to hear. "Now."

The office, already silent and watchful, shifted up another gear as they focused in on the latest round of the war between their boss and the golden boy. Mulder flinched, unhappy at the prospect of again being the lead item on the menu for the next week's gossip. Patterson turned away for an instant, glared at the onlookers for long enough to force them all to pretend to start working again.

Mulder slumped into his chair and tried to hide behind the too low partition walls. Suddenly recalled a bright moment in his memory, nudging Samantha to be quiet with a finger over his lips. Her unusual and instant compliance. He recalled turning her head to face the thin sapling of a tree. Standing, quiet in the twilight, a young deer. He could still hear Sam's gasp of delight. He could still see her bright smile as the deer carefully moved its head so that its eyes were hidden by the sparse leaves of one of the thin branches. As if it believed, that because it couldn't see them, then they couldn't see it.

Mulder sat up sharply, trying desperately to school his features back into calm indifference.

Patterson opened the folder on the desk in front of Mulder, the one he'd placed there early that morning. "I want you to write a profile of the kidnapper."

A dark haired little girl smiled up from the file and Mulder's gasp pulled the office back to maximum attention, curiosity overriding their regard for Patterson's clear but unspoken order. "Can't."

"It's more than you've had on other cases. You've got the scene of crime data. The witness interviews. The family background study. Do it." Long, cold pause. "Now."

Patterson's voice softened from an order to a more careful, but equally dispassionate, steady pressure. "Sure you can. Let's start easy. Profiling by numbers. Other incidents in the area, before or after, assaults, burglaries, kidnappings?"

"No." Mulder's hand twitched, his eyes racing between Patterson's face, the photo on the file and a place that only he could see.

Frighteningly cold tone of voice. "High probability that the UNSUB is a family member or knows the family well."

"Twelve year old boy, the elder brother. But his testimony is confused and patchy."

Cold voice cracking at the edges. "High probability that the boy is either directly involved or else an accomplice, willing or unwilling."

Voice failing, replaced by a sing-song rhythm of a whisper from a long way off. "High probability that the UNSUB is a family member or knows the family well."

"Very good, Agent Mulder. I knew it was just a question of you setting your mind to it. I expect to see that profile before you leave tonight."

The world closed in. Mulder slumped forward in the chair, placed tightly folded arms on his desk, rested his face in the pillow formed by his elbow. He could feel the weight of the memories crushing him down, feel the absence of the only memories that really mattered squashing the life from his lungs.

Let the weight crush the too fragile Fox and allow the dispassionate Spooky to take his place.

Next year would be easier. Maybe Patterson was right, finally get this out in the open and next year would be easier. Clung to that hope, had to, else there was no point even trying to breathe.

Half Life 1995

TITLE: Half Life - 1995
AUTHOR: jowrites
EMAIL: [email protected]
RATING: R (language / profanity)
CLASSIFICATION: V A
DATE: Finally completed (years after it was started) Nov 2002!
ARCHIVE: Gossamer, Ephemeral - yes, Others - please ask

SUMMARY:
It's just coming up to the 27th November, 1995. Samantha Mulder has been missing for 22 years. Fox Mulder is working on an X-File with Dana Scully

M&S are working on the Revelations/Kevin Kryder case (killer targeting people with stigmata wounds). This story includes one take on Fox Mulder's view of religion as handled in the Revelations episode - the sensitive may not approve.

LEGALLY:
Legally these characters belong to some combination of 1013, CC and Fox. Mulder's soul belongs to DD.

But really, it's a talent. Possibly hereditary. Which would be appropriate, I guess.

The first rule of survival is to know your limits and I'm so close to mine right now that I don't dare even think about where they lie.

Scully's eyes are full of confusion and I can't handle that. I need them clear and blue and certain. And that may mean I'm weak and selfish, but oddly enough I just think it means that I'm a realist.

If I could pick and choose, we would not be here today. But a serial killer has already murdered eleven and he will not stop now. He's far too busy, enjoying himself far too much, killing his way to own deliverance. So close now that he must be able to taste the triumph in every drop of blood he spills.

We have to be here, no choice. Story of my life, one way or another. Doing things that I don't want to do, because the alternative is worse. Story of everybody's life, I guess.

If I celebrated every anniversary then my life would be one long party of self-indulgent misery, a wake that lasts all year. But, with a rationality that I'm sure Scully doesn't believe that I possess, I've condensed all the corpses into my own personal day of the dead.

As befits such a generic festival, the date was chosen for me, back when I worked for Bill Patterson and the behavioral unit.

Someone slipped me a ticket to watch the Knicks and I went. So the next profile in the inbox stayed there. The killer chose that night to finish his campaign by killing his mother, father, kid sister, brother-in-law, two nieces and a nephew. I didn't even need to turn in the profile; his last job was to use the gun on himself.

I'm a pragmatist as well as a survivor. If I'm busy on May 7, I save the celebrations for a quieter day. I'm sure the dead don't mind. But a seat at the playoffs has never has quite the same magic.

So it is with this other anniversary. iIt's not only the date of Sam's disappearance - I try to make it generic and movable. My day of the undead, of the missing, of the recovered.

I've often thought that would be easier if I were Catholic. Light a candle. Say a prayer. Duty done.

As a rule it's better if I'm on a case, chasing someone else's demons. But as we visit Kevin Kryder I'm not so sure.

Scully is hovering over Kevin and I keep feeling these little tremors of nerves.

I'm glad she's in there fussing, trying to take a little of the edge off the cold inquisition. And it's good that all three of my partners are ready to do battle for him. Scully the agent, Scully the doctor, Scully the woman. It's a display of multiple personality at its best.

And I'm even more impressed because that's a trick that I don't seem to be able to manage right now.

Why did it have to be a kid? Some Holy Roller pumping tomato ketchup down his sleeves to impress the gullible would be more palatable. Work - pure and simple and unadorned. But it's never simple when it's just an innocent little kid.

I'll admit I'm a little surprised by the turn of events. Scully normally leaves the kids to me. She doesn't like to see them hurting. Maybe it's because this one's scars are on his hands not in his head?

Abuse? First by his dad and now by his mom? Or by his mother all along? Professional distance is a wonderful thing and at this distance I can stand back and take a good long look.

And it doesn't smell like abuse. And it seems too atypical, too specific in its details and presentation to be Munchausen's by Proxy, unless mom is on some Madonna kick. In any case, it doesn't seem as though anyone saw a mark on the kid when he came into school this morning.

Which leaves me with one suspect and fortunately he had both the motive and the opportunity. Kevin did it to himself and he did it because he wanted to bring his dad home.

A kid will go a long way to try to get his dad to come back. If I'd ever believed that a couple of bleeding hands would have done the job, I'd have done the same thing. No problem.

I watch her carefully as I state my case and she doesn't argue but I can see that she doesn't want to agree.

Though I guess she might. I should ask her. I wonder, did she ever feign a limp when Captain Scully was home on leave and she wanted to get a little extra attention? Did she ever fantasize that he wouldn't go back to sea if she made herself ill, or went missing, or got herself in trouble with the law?

No, I guess not. Scully was a good little girl. Melissa jumped through the attention-grabbing hoops and fell out of the family. Dana probably learned something from that. I wonder if she would admit it. I wonder if she knows.

Scully's hesitation about my explanation for Kevin's wounds doesn't surprise me but the source of it does. It looks almost as if she's disappointed that I've pointed out the obvious explanation. What was she expecting?

Fuck this. I do not profile my partner. That's the law. I do not profile my partner. I'm working. OK.

If I could pick and choose, I would just close my eyes and everybody would live happily ever after.

If I close my eyes they die and even if I can keep them open, there are no guarantees. We play percentages and I play survival and Scully - Scully keeps a clear head and a sense of proportion. That's who Scully is.

Visiting Kevin's father confirms my prejudices. I think he loves his son. I think he believes his son has been chosen as one apart. I think he may once have marked his son to match his view of the world.

I think Kevin wants his dad back and plans to prove that his father was not responsible for his scars.

Ironically Kevin's dad didn't just confirm my prejudices, he has also apparently reinforced Scully's uncertainty. She looked at him in fascination, as if he held the keys to the castle. Which he may well do in some pharmacologically enhanced world. But I really don't think that he knows who is out to kill his son.

He uses those words - those them and they words. Whereas I, I am most definitely looking for a him. Singular. Very singular indeed.

Which is ironic really, because I use those they and them words to describe a lot of my own life's little horror stories. And sometimes I'm right. When they took Scully, I'm sure that was a they. When they took Samantha, I'm sure that was a they, too. Because if I wasn't right, I would have caught up with him by now. Wouldn't I? Because I really am that good at this job. A fair fight and I win. And if I don't, that's because of them.

Fuck this. I do not profile myself. That's the law. I do not profile myself. I'm working. OK.

She looks at me for reassurance. Come on Mulder, come see the miracle, come sniff the roses on Saint Owen's incorruptible body, come and feel the hand of God cutting holes in a little boy's hands to show proof of his sanctity.

I can see her need to tell me something more. It dances on the edge of my peripheral vision, teasing me. So I ask her about miracles. She believes and I can't help but ask, "Even if science can't explain them?"

Nice one Scully. She changes the rules of the game and of all the times to do it, she picks now. I'm not going to argue philosophy or theology with her. Distance is everything. Avoidance is mandatory. I am looking for a specific man with a specific psychological disorder and if a miracle can make Owen smell of roses, surely a more useful miracle would have made him strong enough to fight the man who strangled him.

I really have no idea what to say to her. Does she want to hear a list of psychopaths working in the Lord's name that I profiled when I was at Quantico? Religious fervor was one of my specialties. Patterson liked the way I could reel off tracts of the Bible during the interrogations. I could do the Koran as well, but there was less demand for that back then. And Crowley for that matter - but I'm sure Scully doesn't think of that as a parallel text.

Kevin's losing his life. Step by step, inch by inch. His father. His familiar desk at school. The people he knows. His mother's warmth. His comfortable bed at home. All being quietly stripped away, so that soon he will have nothing left.

If we win, then he'll still be alive. If we lose, then he dies. And that's enough motivation for me. I really don't need more.

But Scully wants me sign on to defend God's chosen one and to protect the world from Armageddon. She asks too much. She wants me to see more than a little kid. She wants me to see more than a serial killer who gets his kicks on a religious crusade. She misses the point.

We walk up to the location of a traffic accident that is, because of its context, too obviously a murder scene.

With the death of his mother the destruction of Kevin's life is almost complete. And this time there's no hope of recovery to be offered. His dad might have left that hospital. His mom will not return from the grave. There will be no happy ending here, not even the fantasy of one.

When hope dies, what then? Mourn and move on? How often have I heard that order? Is it better to have no hope left?

Scully looks at a little boy who's lost almost everything and tells him that we can protect him. He wants to believe her. So do I. It's not that I doubt her abilities, or mine for that matter. False modesty was never my style. But he only has his life left and I'm not sure that we can even protect that.

I know it's futile but I do what's expected and start to warn her about getting personally involved. It's a standard speech that I'm sure they reel off in every place from Med School to Quantico. I have it memorized. I have heard it before. So has she. In fact I've heard her deliver it.

And I'm only a few days late, but eh, it's the thought that counts and I will admit I couldn't quite believe what I was seeing.

She's out of her depth, or maybe just out of her comfort zone. And I should know because it's a familiar place. I just don't want her to go there.

Well, you know how it is. I fly by instinct. She makes sure the airport landing lights are switched on when I come home.

I don't really know what to say. Not being believed grows old fast and today's a reminder of how old I've grown without being believed. Which wouldn't be so bad if I believed it myself. But I'm stuck with only wanting to believe.

So now we get to play babysitters to our only witness and the killer's next target and I'm sure Scully can find a way of making that sound legal and perhaps even professional in our report. Not that the procedural niceties matter, it's just that I don't know what it'll do to her if we fail. I don't know what it'll do to me.

I play along with it, even though we're way past the realm of personal involvement now. The Bureau, the social services, the local police and God knows how many alphabets worth of child protection services could nail us to the wall for this. But they won't - not so long as the kid makes it out OK.

And if the kid doesn't make it out alive then the wrath of every agency under the sun will be nothing compared to the purgatory that we'll make for ourselves. I don't think Scully has actually even thought about it, but then again I don't think Scully has a choice. Which leaves me with no choice either.

We will have to save the kid. And if Scully thinks she's saving the world from Armageddon then let her. Just don't let her try to assign that role to me.

"How is it that you're able to go out on a limb whenever you see a light in the sky, but you're unwilling to accept the possibility of a miracle? Even when it's right in front of you."

And I snap, because she asks too much and pushes too hard. "I wait for a miracle every day. But what I've seen here has only tested my patience, not my faith."

Imagine that - a revelation. A miracle? Because a miracle's the only way I'll ever find Samantha.

Why didn't he bilocate his way out of the bathroom when he realized that someone was trying to break in? He didn't even fucking scream.

Scully suggests we visit Kevin's dad and in the absence of some better alternative, it'll do. At least we'll be doing something.

Unfortunately the psychiatric unit had no idea that their resident religious nut was our last great hope and our only available witness. He's so far under the cotton wool haze of Haloperidol that he can't keep his eyes focused, let alone his brain.

Scully still thinks he's the key. But if he is, then it's not to a place that I want to visit.

Miracle of miracle, my cellphone brings redemption. Gates was at the airport less than half an hour ago. Something tangible. Let's go!

But Scully's already racing down some other track that has everything to do with coincidence and looking for patterns where none exist, and listening to the ramblings of a psychotic whose only visions of the outside world come from the printing on the hospital's trash cans. What next, the chicken on the cornflakes packet told him so?

It's OK, I've been there before, trying to read the writing on the wall when all there was was condensation.

"Scully, the man is at the airport. If he hasn't already killed Kevin, he's trying to get as far away as he can."

And it strikes me now that religious fervor is infectious, a kind of mass hysteria. Albeit so quiet and understated when played back through Scully that you might almost mistake it for rational thought. "You think it's you, don't you? You think you're the one who's been chosen to protect Kevin."

OK? Hell, of course it's not OK! But that's OK, we'll play it your way, Scully. God knows I'd play it my way if I were you.

If she'd told me that she had a hunch, I'd have gone with her without a second thought. Now isn't that ironic? It was her very certainty that made me doubt. Her faith in myth that made me trust only the facts.

She's made no accusations since she returned from her rescue mission. Between us we covered all the angles and there's no shame in that.

I don't want to have faith in a purveyor of miracles who can make the dead smell sweet but will let a little boy's mother die. I don't want to know a God who would steal a father from his child just to paint bloody patterns on his hands.

I don't even want to believe that Scully could accept such a God. Into her heart. Into her soul.

If I were to believe in things like that then I might also have to believe that a little girl could be stolen from her family in the middle of the night, without reason and without hope of return. That innocence does not protect and that love does not keep the maybe-dead alive.

"We have a couple of hours before our flight. I told the sheriff we'd go down and make a formal statement about Gates' death."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd handle that alone, Mulder. I have an errand I need to run."

"OK." Never mind that I wasn't there, so my statement will be something between fiction and hearsay. It doesn't matter. I believe what she told me of Gates, about their struggle, and her victory. I'll report it for her as if I know it for a fact. I believe in her even though I couldn't believe.

"Half Life 2001" was listed on the "shorts" page, but linked to a "coming soon" page. It wasn't posted to ATXC either. Needless to say, it's not likely to be coming anytime soon.
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