First Sight
by Hth


*Do you think I'm spooky, Scully?*

I always knew he needed me. Mulder is a man who lives between the Scylla of 
his work, forced into obscurity by the concerted efforts of a shadow 
conspiracy, and the Charybdis of his reputation, fueled by the very passion 
and integrity that makes him so exceptional. If he would just *lie* 
occasionally, he might not sound like a madman quite so often. The truth 
drives him. I'm still waiting for it to set him free.

But I am familiar with his work, the best and the worst of it, and I do not 
judge anyone by reputation alone. I have elevated the X-Files from Mulder's 
sad obsession to Mulder's pride and joy. I have contradicted him, sometimes 
with good cause, and sometimes because I too am excruciatingly exact, and an 
unexplained phenomenon is no less unexplained because Fox Mulder can call upon 
all the resources of an astronomical IQ and an Oxford education to snow out 
something vague about volcanos, soul transference, syzygy, or mushrooms, all 
with an appealingly sincere look on his face. *Because* I have contradicted 
him, he treasures the cases where I do not. They give him worth, legitimacy; 
he would scoff at the idea, but even Mulder needs to be vindicated by the 
cruel world now and then.

There are so many things that the cancer prevents me from telling him; I don't 
want to change anything now, to leave him unsure as to who I really was. I am 
his security, and he is so convinced that he understands me. How can I tell 
him that I, too, want to believe? In the beginning, maybe we fit our 
paradigms: the simple dialectic of skeptic and believer. But I have seen so 
much. I believe, now, that science does not cast its net as far as I once 
thought. The real difference, ironically, is that Mulder hates to leave things 
unexplained. I don't mind, particularly. Call a spade a spade, my father 
always said. It's Mulder who rushes headlong into everything, determined to 
make it as pat as an episode of *Scooby-Doo* (So, Professor Derryberry, it was 
YOU all along!), no matter how convoluted a narrative he has to produce. I 
don't mind leaving it unexplained. Evidence can neither confirm nor deny, 
etcetera. But as far apart as our perspectives still are in many ways, I want 
him to succeed, and soon, and in a way that can never be forgotten. Soon, 
Mulder. Please, I want to be here to see the look on your face.

Debunk the X-Files? No, not from the minute I laid eyes on him, and saw a man 
who seemed literally illuminated by his faith. That is so rare these days, 
rare and holy. The FBI's most unwanted...well, Mulder, what coward ever wanted 
to sit down with a brave man? 

Mom told me that Mulder once asked about my cross, and that she hadn't known 
how to answer him. If it ever comes up between us, I do know how to answer. I 
wear a cross because I love the idea that a man might choose to walk a painful 
and lonely road, might choose the truth in the face of lesser men's hate. I 
have given myself over to Mulder's truths, and now suddenly I am the one on 
the dark road. With Mulder always trying to carry my cross for me.

Damn you. Damn you, Mulder. I'm your partner. I can't be your equal if you 
won't let me suffer what you are prepared to suffer. I know you think I didn't 
choose this path, but I did. I'm dying for this, and can't you see how cheap 
you make it by insisting that I'm the victim of your search? Why can't you 
believe that after four long years, I care about the X-Files as much as you 
do? That I might choose to be here and bear my own consequences?

*Do you think I'm spooky, Scully?*

My Scylla is that, yes, I think Mulder is *spooky.* I think he's terrifying. 
He's a storm at sea, and I don't know where I will find myself when it passes. 
I have always found the unknowable, not illegitimate, but...spooky.

My Charybdis is that, no, I think he's a genius. I trust him absolutely. I 
believe in Mulder, and I believe that sooner or later we'll have our miracle, 
whatever it may be.

I live between faith and fear. I do it because I choose to. But I'm having too 
much trouble staying afloat to be Mulder's lover, too. I am on the road, I am 
under the cross, I am in the storm, and I cannot stop now. Not even for his 
love.


It all changed on Skyland Mountain. I lost my arm in Siberia, but I lost my 
life on Skyland Mountain -- everything I believed, everything I knew to be 
true.

I knew a man would be careful with his life, hovering so precariously above 
the earth. And then I watched Mulder push that damn cable car until I was more 
afraid for his life than I've ever been for my own. I wasn't thinking of any 
assignment when I turned that car off; I would have cheerfully killed anyone 
who had tried to stop me. I'm surprised I remembered to hit the operator -- 
but that's the story of my life, everything slips through the fingers except 
the things you probably shouldn't have been planning in the first place. The 
only thing on my mind just then was, *I'll do anything, Mulder, just don't 
die.*

And then he tried to crawl the fucking cable, and it all tore loose inside me. 
Cancerman wanted to *stop* this man? Not fucking likely. Not without a 
chainsaw. Fox Mulder was a man in love, and by God, if this wasn't what love 
looked like. It defied power, and gravity, and logic, everything except maybe 
time. Love was all too aware that time is fleeting.

It was my job to cost him time. It was a close thing; I had to start the car 
early, because any sane person could see that he was just going to get himself 
killed. I hadn't been given any orders to cover that eventuality, which was 
good, because it kept me from having to disobey them. He almost made it in 
time.

Me? I was shaking, and so relieved I was afraid I'd cry. Cry! I don't ever 
remember crying, though I'm sure I have at one time or another, probably. But 
at that moment I felt like crying, because it was all just so horribly clear.
Love was fearless, and it admitted no judicious retreat. Loving someone was 
possible, it happened; I'd just witnessed it with my own eyes. It was real, 
and it all came down to one ridiculously simple promise.

*I will not let you go. They'll have to take you from me, against everything I 
am.*

Imagine that. Alex Krycek suddenly groks the eternal mystery. And, like all 
good mysteries, it was obscenely easy, once you had that one, perfect clue. In 
my case, the clue just happened to be the answer, too.

They haven't taken Mulder yet, and I damn well haven't let him go. It's been a 
hell of a ride, keeping the Consortium convinced that I was still their 
boytoy, while I cultivated my own contacts, found my own sources. Building up 
the resources to back him all the way to the top, while avoiding the 
executioner's bullet. It's a game I haven't won yet; there have been plenty of 
setbacks, and I've had to do a few things along the way that still turn my 
stomach a little, even with my moral dipstick being what it is. But I'm alive, 
and Mulder is alive, which means we still have time. Time is the only thing 
that love respects.

Oh, I'm not crazy. I know it's not me he loves. I was out of *that* game 
before I even joined the team; Dr. Dana Scully remains undefeated. Somebody 
give her the fucking gold and get it over with. Shit, I know he hates my guts. 
Someday, I'd like to think I'll have a chance to explain it all to him, and 
that he'd believe me. But that's not the point.

The point is that I've been *inspired,* by the finest man I know. Beaten up a 
lot, too, but definitely inspired. And it won't matter, in the long run, 
whether I die peacefully in Fox Mulder's bed, or young in an alley with a clip 
emptied out between my eyes. As long as I get one more chance to feel that 
thing I felt on Skyland Mountain -- sheer awe, that a human can be so *much.* 
Only next time, I want to feel it about Alex Krycek.

When my ship comes in, when I've had my chance, I'll be ready for anything. I 
won't have one qualm about looking death in the eye. I'll say, *Yeah, but I 
never let him go. I've had a hell of a life, but they had to fucking take us 
apart. Against everything I am.*

***

*Let it go, Agent Mulder!*

*Like hell.*

It's a funny thing to fall in love with, isn't it? Two words, flat and almost 
bored. The vague, meaningless hand gesture. A back turned toward me. (Ah, but 
what a back -- shoulders like a Greek hero, a Jason or a Perseus-- Jesus 
*Christ,* Skinner. You're pretty fucking far gone.)

But that must have been the beginning, because that's when I decided to hell 
with them all, and if someone was going to pay in blood for Agent Scully's 
death, it wasn't going to be the man who was paying for it in pain. It was 
damn well going to be the devil picking up the check this time.

I thought it might ease him, a little. Things worked out differently, though, 
and I can live with that, too. If Cancerman had died, someone else just 
would've taken his place, and we would always have the dirty secret of his 
murder standing between us.

Of all my memories, *Like hell* is the one that calls up the strangest rush of 
pleasurable sensations. Pride in him, as though I had something to do with his 
bravery or his devotion. A warm rush of relief, because at that moment I 
thought he was a dead man, and to date he is still alive, causing me heartburn 
and hard-ons. Respect, and an angry kick of adrenaline, just for excitement, 
because how *dare* he just dismiss me like that, when I'm the one who makes 
sense, who's trying to save his sorry life? Only Mulder can brush off an AD 
quite like that, and only Mulder can make my heart race and my temperature 
rise, in red rage as well as red desire. It's a turn-on, in more ways than 
I've been able, or entirely willing, to deconstruct just yet.

Here's a truly amusing anecdote. Both Mulder and Scully are working here 
because of an FBI policy I helped construct, to facilitate entry into the 
Bureau of female, minority, and disabled agents. Back when I was more 
idealistic. If good old-fashioned male bonding hadn't kept Scully out ten 
years ago, it's fair to suppose that her height would've been a major 
stumbling block. We're expected to intimidate, you know. Federal agent. Drop 
your weapon. Who would have known that she'd be so good at it, if there hadn't 
been a policy in effect that adjusted the physical requirements for female 
candidates? And would she even have been singled out if we hadn't been looking 
for women to recruit?

As for Mulder, that policy was his ticket, the only thing that could have 
served to counterweight his vision impairment. That's what we call it, in the 
'90s. Used to be color-blindness, and now it's vision impairment. We still 
call people like Mulder disabled, but now we let them be FBI agents.

So I got them into this, in a half-assed sort of way. Squeaking in along the 
margins -- then setting up shop there. Marginal, yeah, that's the X-Files for 
you. The word comes up all the time in staff meetings. Agent Mulder's 
somewhat, ahem, ahem, *marginal* projects. Just a bit more out in the open 
than AD Skinner's somewhat, ahem, ahem, *marginal* preferences.

Hell, maybe that's what I love about him. That he shouldn't be here, that he 
works in the copy room, that his cases take him to Aubrey, Missouri and 
Gibonstown, Florida and Jerk-off, Wisconsin, that he believes in the Whammy 
and could author the Trivial Pursuit Heinous Murders Edition and takes advice 
from a man named Frohike. That's a name? Frohike? That Mulder lives and 
thrives and grows brave on what, in a lesser life, would be waste, a 
disability. That most of us live in the shadows because we have no choice; the 
bright lights of Mainstreet, USA just don't want us. But not Mulder. He has a 
love affair with the shadows, the margins, the eccentrics, the victims. It 's 
as if I can see those soft, dark, unknown places within his eyes now, and they 
are strange and inexplicably beautiful. Nothing to fear at all.

The world would turn against the marginal, the minority, the disabled, the 
bizarre. Cut it all loose and hope it floats away, weird cults and gay men and 
alien abductees. Let it go, Agent Mulder. *Like hell.*