Title: Requiem of Snowfall Author: White Star 2 (hila-p@barak-online.net) Rating: PG Classification: SRA Distribution: Anywhere. I don't mind. But let me know about it. Spoilers: Unusual Suspects, Travelers, Redux II, The Blessing Way, Paper Clip, Pusher, Tooms, Squeeze, but nothing big or not discussed-to-death from any of them. Keywords: Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Mulder is feeling as depressed as ever. Will a guardian angel be able to show him that even if it's not such a wonderful life, it's better than the alternative? Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully and the rest of the gang are 1013's. It's A Wonderful Life belongs to Philip Van Doren Stern (story) and Frank Capra (director, producer). The parts of this that make you worry are mine. Author's Notes: I know this has been done to death by every series. I know it's been done a lot by fanfic writers. I know I don't have much chance to outdo anyone. But I wrote two scenes and liked it too much to drop it. Besides, anything worth doing is worth doing to death, right? Right! The story ad for this is at http://controlfreak.sandwich.net/Random/StoryAd1s.gif And send me lots and lots of feedback! Please! * * * Requiem of Snowfall by White Star 2 Mulder's Apartment December 24, 1996 11:02PM It was probably a lovely night outside, Mulder thought. It was Christmas Eve, and the ground was covered with fresh, loosely packed snow. It had snowed the night before, and the whole morning. The sky was probably cloudless. And starry. It was probably a wonderful night. But Mulder, sprawled on his couch, didn't see it. He added it to the list of things he'd missed in his life. He never really looked up anymore. Or around. Scenery was no longer beautiful. It was the means to someone's ends. Forests were hiding places. Mountains were vaults. Lakes were habitats, where mysterious creatures dwelt. He couldn't just look if he tried. And looking up... that was laughable. And when he did, he counted moving lights instead of still ones. And the same attitude could be applied to anything in his life, he noted. He was so busy running after the paranormal he'd completely forgotten about the normal. And, in the end, he'd thrown away his life. Thirty-five years of waste. All right, up to the age of twelve he was okay, but... not since. Everyone had their own madnesses, sure. But when the madness and the paranoia overshadowed the person within, it wasn't right. Was it right when they'd become the person within? No, of course not. Somehow he'd managed to find the only job that was well suited for someone as wrong in the head as himself. And, of course, he was always in danger of losing it. He'd made his career relying on outside help, not himself. He wasn't good enough to do it alone. Sure, he had his sources - there was Deep Throat, and there was X. And Maritia. But no one stayed to help him for very long. And soon enough, no one else would come, and he'd be left alone with work he wouldn't be able to do by himself. One thing alone saved his life from being useless and meaningless. Scully. If she had any interest in his work, it must have some importance. If she cared enough to stay for so long, he must've been more human than he imagined. But he wasn't even sure of that lately. It wasn't something she said or did, but he got the feeling that she'd rather be elsewhere sometimes. Doing work that didn't involve his life-long quest, that same quest that had hurt her so much already. He often wondered how he could've been selfish enough to drag her into all that. She was more important to him than anything else. And yet he endangered her again and again. Soon enough, her patience would run out and she would decide that she'd hurt herself enough times for him. All he'd brought with him wherever he went was death and pain. Scully, her sister, Deep Throat, X, his own father... he wondered how many more. How many lives was the truth worth? And the incomplete, misinterpreted truth he had? None. But he kept going, with the stakes so high. He had to. he had nothing else left but his work. His work that kept him locked up in the basement, and kept the name Spooky tattooed on his forehead. He never really had any respect from his colleagues. Once, maybe. Before they knew him. What was it about Spooky Mulder that was so unlikable? What was it that even Scully couldn't bear at times? And there was that unstable side of him - the side that had him running around enthusiastically and pushing everyone to their tolerance limit one moment and the next... the next moment he'd be playing with his gun like he was now, wondering if it would have been better to just end it... "I wouldn't do that if I were you." Mulder looked up. There was a dark-haired man in a suit leaning against the kitchen doorframe. "Who are you?" Mulder asked, changing the aim of his gun. The stranger looked calmly down the barrel. He put down a black briefcase he was holding, then smoothed his tie with his palm. "Peter Shaiman." "How did you get in? Why are you here?" The stranger hesitated for a second looking for the right words. "God sent me." Mulder raised an eyebrow, then snorted. "God sent you? What are you supposed to be, my guardian angel?" "I suppose so, if you put it like that. I was sent to stop you from doing something really stupid. But I don't do this too often." "What, then, Mr. Shaiman, *do* you do?" "I'm a lawyer." "A lawyer? God sent down a lawyer as my guardian angel? I always figured I'd go to Hell for something, I just never knew hell would come looking for me." "Well, God sort of figured that in your case He needs to send down someone who can make a strong argument." "About what?" "About staying alive. Let's go for a walk." * * * The cold night air pierced Mulder's lungs. Had he been an outside observer, he would have been suspicious. Two men in black trenchcoats, walking silently side by side, late at night, on Christmas Eve. Neither he nor Mr. Shaiman said anything until they reached a park. "Why does God need lawyers in heaven?" Mulder asked. It was the first thing he could think of. "You'll know, all in good time." "Is that some sort of hint that I'm headed for heaven?" Shaiman smiled. "I'm not at liberty to comment." Mulder chuckled. "Lawyers..." Then he sighed. "But you know, at least your life has some meaning. You did some good. A lot of good, if you're more professional than you seem." "Actually," Shaiman said slowly, then paused. "I freed murderers, mostly." "So how did *you* get to heaven?" "I made a good case to get in." "Which was?" "That I also freed a few innocent people." "That's good to know." Shaiman nodded. "Yeah. I don't think I could have kept going for so many years if it wasn't for the occasional innocent man. Would have driven me crazy. Just like you would have gone crazy if you didn't stumble on a shred of the truth every once in a while." "But what good is a shred here and there? And to be hated and hunted..." "That's your life, and you brought it upon yourself." "Is that supposed to make it less awful?" "It's supposed to make you see the good in it, as well as the bad." "What good?" Mulder muttered. "There is good in your life," Shaiman said. Mulder sat down on a bench by what was a flower patch in the summertime. "No, there isn't. It's not even a life." He looked down at his hands, which he rubbed together to keep them from freezing. "Sometimes... sometimes I just wish that it was me instead of Samantha. She would've done so much more with a chance at life. She deserved it. It should have been me..." "It was," Shaiman said. Mulder looked up. "What?" "I get to do this if I have to. You were the one abducted." "You crazy bastard..." Mulder muttered. That's what he got for listening to complete strangers, especially on a night like this... "Please, just Peter will suffice." He reached his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a yellowing newspaper clipping. He unfolded it and read, "Fox Mulder, age 12, disappeared from his home in the middle of the night. His parents were out of the house, and his sister, Samantha, age 8, says she recalls nothing from the events of the night. The police have ruled out kidnapping." "Let me see," Mulder grabbed the paper. "Dated November 29, 1973. That's a very good picture of you," Shaiman remarked as Mulder read the rest of the article. Mulder's jaw was clenched and his fingers gripped the paper so tightly they threatened to tear it. It couldn't be true. It simply couldn't be... Shaiman took a seat next to Mulder. He put the briefcase he'd dragged along on his knees and opened it. He took out a manila folder and handed it to Mulder. Mulder opened it. Inside was a police file and a picture of him from 1973. He scanned it. Reported missing on November 28, 1973, at 2:21AM. File closed in '75. Reopened in both '79 and '84, once at the request of William Mulder and once at the request of Samantha Mulder. Presumed dead. "This can't be happening," Mulder barely let out. "Come on. I'll prove it to you." * * * It was so dark that Mulder thought it was just a trick of light; lightning or a street lamp blinking. When he looked around again he realized that it was no such thing and that he was beginning to think like Scully. "How did we get here?" Mulder demanded. Peter said nothing. "And why are we on the Vineyard?" "To see the family." Peter walked up to the window. While he waited for Mulder, he lifted both his feet, one at a time, to knee height and muttered something about mud and new shoes. Mulder looked through the window. After a few moments he realized that he wasn't breathing. He was looking right at Samantha. She was all grown up, almost like he'd imagined her, sitting in front of the fireplace. To talk to her would make this moment, dream or reality, perfect. "Samantha!" he yelled at the window. "Samantha!" One glass panel fogged up. Samantha didn't seem to notice anything. "She can't hear you," Peter said. Mulder ignored him and kept trying. "You don't exist. She can't hear you." Mulder stared at the morose face inside. She stared straight ahead. His mother came in moments later, a cup in her hand. She handed it to Samantha, who put it on the table without even stopping to look at it. Samantha smiled sadly at her mother. Mrs. Mulder sat down next to her and put her arm around her daughter. "Are you still thinking about him?" "It's hard not to," Samantha replied. "Especially at times like this, during the holidays." "We all miss him..." "It's not even that anymore," Samantha let her head drop to her mother's shoulder. "If he were dead, I could accept it. I just need to know what happened to him." "Your father will keep his word," Mrs. Mulder said, running her fingers through Samantha's thick curly hair. Outside the window, Mulder sighed. "They're happy," he said softly. "They have each other. And Dad." "No, they don't," Peter whispered. A spark lit in the dark behind Samantha. A tail of smoke dragged into the room behind a Morley's cigarette. "Dad," Samantha turned around to face him. He smiled a wrinkled smile and sat down with them. "What the hell..." Mulder uttered. "Let me try to explain," Peter said. "After you were abducted, your father kept trying to find you. He wanted to know that you were alive. He endangered the secrecy of the project." "They killed him?" "They had no other choice." Mulder's face twisted into an expression of pain. "A year or so after he died your mother remarried." "What did Samantha say about it?" "She was okay with it. When it turned out that he was her biological father, she took it hard at first. But she accepted it in the end." Mulder nodded solemnly. "But when she found out that he knew about what happened to you, things got hot between the two. She's hardly been home for ten years. Until last year." "What happened then?" Peter said nothing and looked back in the window. "You promised," Samantha hissed. "I've done everything you asked me to! How much more do you want?" "Sam, honey," he put out his cigarette. "I'm not doing this for me. It's for the good of the project. We still need your help, and I'm still not sure you can be trusted with all the information. When the others trust you, I promise I'll explain it all." "I don't give a damn about your stupid project! He's dead, isn't he? He's dead and you're just going to keep using me for as long as you need me and then dispose of me just like you did to Mom's husband!" "Sam..." "Or did you have him killed so you can step in?" "Samantha!" Her mother snapped. "No, Mom, I did things so unimaginably horrible for him for this long, and I won't do it ever again!" She violently pulled herself out of her mother's grasp. "I just remembered why I don't come home for the holidays," she muttered while grabbing her coat. Mulder left his place by the window and ran toward the front door. Samantha came out and marched angrily to her car. Mulder followed, but she didn't see him. He stood beside the car as she twisted the ignition key so violently he thought it would break. "Where the hell are you, Fox?" she whispered into the night before driving off. The question was left hanging in the air as Mulder watched the car shrink until it was just a light in the distance. "Where the hell am I?" Mulder wondered. "Ready to go?" Peter asked. "Why would she work with him?" "Because she loves you and she wants to find you. And she doesn't have the resources you had as an FBI agent." "So she sold out?" "What would you have done?" And light flashed around them again. * * * Mulder's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline when he saw the woman curled up in the chair with a book. "That's..." "Yes, it is," Peter said. "She's..." Mulder frowned at a ring on her finger. "Yes, she is." The hum of running water in the background stopped. The woman put down her book and untied her robe in a single tug. "I'm coming in," she yelled in the direction of the bathtub. "Ready or not!" "We don't have to stay for this, do we?" Mulder rolled his eyes. "This coming from a porn addict?" Peter chuckled. "It's just your ex-wife. Can't you be an adult about this?" "Never," Mulder replied as the scenery changed again. * * * "Where are we now?" Mulder demanded. "Arlington, Virginia," the "angel" answered. "Why are we here?" "Just wait and see for yourself." Mulder looked around the apartment. It was well lit and nicely decorated. Here and there he noted the hints of a professional decorator's work. And the place was immaculately clean. The Christmas tree in the corner seemed almost out of place in its surroundings. This lead him to conclude two facts about whoever lived here - they were rich and they didn't spend much time at home. A door opened from what appeared to be the bedroom and then closed. When the man turned his face to them, Mulder frowned. "Tom Colton. Why are we at his place? I'm sure that with me not around he's as much of an ass as ever." His angel stood there and said nothing. Colton sat down at the dining room table, in front of a pile of papers. He sighed and pulled out a pen. "You're sure he can't see or hear me?" Mulder asked. "Absolutely." Mulder smiled. He jumped and landed sitting on the comfortable leather couch. He put his legs up on the coffee table and put his hands behind his neck. "Okay, what am I supposed to be seeing?" Just then a key turned in the front door. Colton capped his pen and got up to greet whoever it was. The door opened. Mulder, with Colton's form and the walls blocking the view, couldn't see who it was. "Hi, honey," he said, and there was a sound of a quick kiss. "You wouldn't believe the kind of day I had," said a woman's voice. Mulder's jaw dropped. "Oh, please, tell me that's not--" Mulder whispered and slowly moved his hands from behind his neck. A small, red-haired figure appeared from behind Colton. Mulder felt a sting of slight jealousy. She unshouldered a purse and dropped it and a set of keys on the dining room table, next to Colton's papers. "Draining meetings today, Dana?" Colton asked. "Yes," she said. "Mostly with the dead." She paced around restlessly, her coat still on. "I got called in to do an autopsy after lunch. Strange case..." "What's this?" Mulder asked, while in the background something much like an X-File was being described. "What is Scully doing with him? And it's Christmas Eve... she should be with her family, not at work." "It's all about a ring," Peter said. Mulder looked at her left hand, massaging her neck as she paced around the room. A simple gold ring stood out. "With you not around, she went from Mrs. Spooky to Mrs. Colton. They dated for a while, two years ago, then got married. And he's been pulling strings in the Bureau to help her career. They both work days, nights, holidays, and don't seem too unhappy about it." "That's not like her." "It's not like Dana Scully. But Dana Colton is a very different person. A lot of character shaping moments never happened. And she's just as devoted to her work as ever, it's just different work than she did with you." Mulder turned his attention back to the "case report". "...Then some suits pulled me out for a meeting. In the middle of the autopsy!" She made large circles with her head. "Did it go well?" Colton smiled. "Not really. I told them to go to hell and never interrupt me when I have a scalpel in my hand." Mulder chuckled. Colton didn't seem quite as amused. "It took me three days to arrange that meeting for you. They were there to see you about a promotion!" Dana sighed. "I'm happy where I am right now, Tom." "That took a lot of resourcefulness on my part!" Colton's face was starting to turn red. "The least you could do is be thankful!" "That guy takes work way too seriously," Mulder whispered to Peter. "Reminds you of anyone?" Mulder rolled his eyes. "Well, the least *you* could do is tell me before you sic the higher-ups on me!" Dana yelled back at Colton. "Loving marriage," Mulder commented. "Well, if you want to spend your life chopping up corpses, fine! When you regret it, don't come running to me!" "I chose to do it! And if there's one thing I regret is that I haven't had the chance to chop you up yet!" Mulder saw the immediate regret as Dana realized what she'd said. Colton didn't notice it. "Why you..." he growled as his hand flew at Dana's face. Mulder started at him, fists raised. Peter put up an arm to block his path. "You can't do anything to intervene," he said. "That bastard..." Mulder muttered. Dana brought her hand up to her cheek. Her face was expressionless. "Dana, I..." Colton started, even more shocked than her. But she didn't say anything and neither did he. She grabbed her keys from the table and walked out. Colton dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. * * * Mulder looked around him. The Hoover building in DC. The fading in and out was starting to creep him out. "Let's go," Peter said and lead him into a room full of filing cabinets. "Take a seat," he pointed to a chair. Mulder sat, still shaken by what he had seen. He was starting to lose his patience with this crazy charade. Peter started pulling files out of the cabinets. "Here. Take a look." Mulder grabbed a file. "This is Modell." He ran his finger down the first page, then flipped to the next. "The case has been open for a long time." "He hasn't found his worthy adversary yet. And killed two agents so far - Frank Burst and Jerry Lamana." "Well, so much for them being alive with me not around." "Reggie Purdue is now the agent in charge of the case." "...At least he's not dead." Mulder took another file. "Eugene Tooms killed five people and disappeared." "All these," Peter raised the thick and still-growing pile of folders in his hand, "Remain unsolved because you weren't there to make the intuitive leap... or however it is that you do what you do." Mulder leaned back in the chair and dropped the folders in his hand on a small end-table. "Will you spare me the eyestrain of reading and just give me final figures?" Peter put down the folders in his hand. "Ninety-four killed, forty-one missing, and a position open for a top profiler after one was killed in a case that would have been yours." He paused. "And counting," Mulder muttered. "One more thing you should see," Peter said. Mulder sighed and pushed himself to his feet. Mulder dragged his feet all the way to the open area where the agents - those not locked away in the basement - worked. He looked for Scully's name on a desk, knowing he wouldn't find it. He did, though, find a name that almost made him growl in anger: Alex Krycek. "He works here?" "He's still waiting for the right time to backstab everyone, I suppose. He's worked here for more than two years - leaking information, of course, but hasn't crossed over to the other side completely. Not yet, at least." Papers of every kind littered the desk. Nothing there to indicate that the man had a life... other than a single picture frame in the corner of the desk. Mulder picked it up to look at it and almost dropped it in surprise. Peter glanced over, then looked away. "Your ex-wife is married to the rat. Tough." Mulder gritted his teeth. Mulder looked at the picture again. And again. Then he struggled with the thoughts of "What the hell went wrong with that relationship, anyhow?" After his mind had quieted sufficiently, he asked, "All right, now what?" Peter was about to answer when the sound of footsteps came from outside the room through the open door. Mulder listened closely. Women's shoes, or so it sounded. Mulder felt he knew whose, too. Scully walked with a blank expression and her head held high. There was a large red mark on her cheek that, Mulder thought, would be turning into quite a bruise in the morning. His first instinct was to hide himself behind the door as she walked past. Then he looked at Peter, who was putting back the picture he'd dropped on the desk when he'd rushed to the door just moments before. Mulder gave it half a thought, then took off after Scully. He walked close to her. Under normal circumstances she would be able to feel his breath on the back of her neck. He felt the need to protect her - she was his partner, and she'd been hurt. And he felt the helplessness of having to stand aside. He looked to see where they were going, and saw his angel standing by one of the doors. Mulder picked up his walking pace. He eyed the plaque on the door Peter was standing by. DANA SCULLY HEAD OF FORENSIC PATHOLOGY "Scully?" "She didn't like Colton all that much." "The name or the man?" Mulder muttered. Scully got to the door. Peter signaled Mulder to move back. He did. Scully picked out one of the keys in her bunch and unlocked the door. She stood for a long time, holding the open door and looking out into the hall. Mulder walked in, and Peter followed. Finally, she closed the door and sank into the chair behind her desk. She had an office not unlike Skinner's, Mulder noted. A large conference table, a few comfortable armchairs, and - nicely personalizing the place - a floor to ceiling library of medical texts. She sat there for what seemed like minutes, doing nothing. Her expression didn't change - still the same composed one she had worn both in the hall and when she had walked out of her apartment. When she finally moved, she raised a hand to the forming bruise on her face. It was as if by the push of a button, silent tears streamed down her cheeks. "That's enough," Mulder said. Peter didn't move. "Get me out of here." "All right," Peter said as Scully picked up the phone on her desk and started dialing. The last thing Mulder heard in that room was Scully's muffled voice whispering into the handset. "Missy?" * * * "Nothing else?" Mulder said. Peter didn't look kindly on the sarcasm. "Show's over. Now it's time for you to decide." "Decide?" "If this is really what you want." It should have been a no-brainer. People were hurting. Because of him. But they were in the real world, as well. And there was one thing that kept nagging in the back of his mind. "Where am I in this world?" He realized it ultimately came down to that - to his own selfish need to not feel the pain that his choice of a life had brought him. And maybe if he knew, he could find Samantha... "That would be too easy, wouldn't it?" Peter said. "No, I'm afraid that's one thing I can't tell you." "And Samantha - in my world - what happened to her?" "You have to find out by yourself." Mulder shook his head. "How long do I have to decide?" "Until sunrise. After that, it's a one way ticket. No exchanges, no refunds." "And you?" "I'll stay the same either way." And he vanished, leaving Mulder alone in the park. He strolled down the narrow paths for hours. With each step, his uncertainty grew. He'd never dreamed of having the chance to turn back time. He had the chance to give Samantha a life. This was as good as finding her, in a way. But would the Fox Mulder of this world think this, too? Where was he? Dead? A test subject, somewhere? A human-alien hybrid? Or maybe, he pondered the worst - maybe working for the smoking man and his friends. He never doubted that if he'd been approached at the right times in life he would have turned to their side... There was too much unknown in both these worlds. He wanted neither. Since that was not an option, he had to weigh them one against the other. He felt another surge of anger at Colton, and compassion for Scully. He couldn't leave her here, like this. And his sister, enslaved by the men he hated most. It was like a bad dream. Only it could be made very real. All he had to do was say the word. He closed his eyes and drove away all the selfish and irrational reasons in his head. He wanted to protect the people he loved. They didn't seem safe here. In a world where he was an FBI agent, and friend, not foe, he could do something to protect them. He could search for Samantha. He could be there for Scully. He could continue with his work. Then he opened his eyes and watched the sun rise. He turned his head to the side. Peter was sitting next to him, briefcase on his knees. "You've made up your mind?" Mulder nodded. * * * 11:21PM Mulder opened his eyes. He sighed in relief to find that he was in his apartment. Everything was the same. And nothing was the same. Not in his head, at least. He was, at the same time, more confused and more clearminded, shaken and reassured, but he had a rush of energy. He had a cause and a will to follow it wherever it took him. It was a lot better than the alternative. He knew he'd probably regret this decision at times. He could have thrown himself into the unknown. He could have given so many a chance at life. But it was too late for that now, and he sure had what to live for. The phone rang. He fumbled for it in the darkness. "Mulder?" He smiled. "Scully. Where are you?" "My mother's place. We were just about to leave for Mass. I figured you'd be awake." "I'm not coming." She chuckled. "Merry Christmas, Mulder." "Merry Christmas, Scully." Mulder smiled and went to sleep.