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Title: Certifiably Normal
(Lux)
Author: Shawne
E-Mail: shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com
URL: http://www.shawnex.freeservers.com
Spoilers: post-ep Bad Blood
Rating: PG
Classification: VRH
Keywords: M/S UST, DAL
Archive: Yes to Gossamer, Ephemeral, Spookys (17K). Anyone I
haven't
heard from before, would it be too much to ask that you drop me a
line? <g>
Disclaimers: I'm just borrowing Mulder's brain for a paragraph or
sixty. He can have it back... if another fanfic author doesn't
want it
next. ;)
Summary: 'You make me see, make me *do* things, Scully. You make
me do
a lot of things I would never consider doing otherwise.'
Author's Notes: Third installment in an extremely slow-going
series
<eg> of journal entries, written by Mulder and addressed to
Scully.
You don't have to have read the first two stories to understand
this
one, but if you want to take a look at them, "Not That
Different" and
"Touched By Darkness" are both available on my website.
I have since
named the series Lux (Latin for 'light'), and I hope to expand on
it
once time and my Muses permit.
You do *not* wanna know how long this took to get off my computer
and
onto the web. It's just scary, and wrong, and more than a little
disturbing. I'll prattle on more at the end of the fic, if
you...um,
*really* want to find out what went wrong. <g> In the
meantime,
enormous thanks to Dreamshaper, who was patient, encouraging, and
most
importantly, Not Scared Away.
=======================================================
Scully--
You make me see things.
I swear you do. Around other people, I don't get sudden and
complete
hallucinations. I don't see things that aren't there, and I don't
see
them so clearly that I can't doubt they're anything but reality.
If you're wondering where all this came from, let me make
it clear
that I'm writing to you now after our little trip to
Chaney, Texas.
That's about where I started to lose my mind and go a bit
delusional,
imagining all kinds of impossible...
Hang on a minute.
If you think I'm going to admit that I didn't see
Ronnie Strickland
jumping at you like a "flying squirrel" of some sort
(those are your
words, Scully, not mine), skip the next paragraph or two. *That*
I
most definitely saw.
What I'm pretty sure I didn't see at the time (but
seriously
I'm-not-kidding-here thought I did), was the buck teeth
on that
cowboy sheriff you were salivating over. In retrospect, you were
right
about that. Our return trip was enough for me to notice that
Sheriff
Hartwell was... that he was... all right, I admit it.
Sheriff Hartwell was orthodontically unchallenged.
Happy now?
But that's not the point I'm trying to put across. Frankly,
I really,
really thought, at the time, that he had spectacularly huge front
teeth. Or at the very least... a slight over bite.
He didn't, as I later discovered to my secret chagrin. But
it was one
hell of a convincing hallucination.
So I've been trying to figure out what it means, Scully.
Why I see
things around you, things that pass themselves off as reality in
my
eyes and to my mind... and yet, they're things that simply don't
exist.
You make me see, make me do things, Scully. You
make me do a lot of
things I would never consider doing otherwise.
Before you protest, let me say that that isn't necessarily
a bad
thing. And before you give up on me as a lost cause and tell me
I've
lost every one of my marbles (even the ones that are already
cracked),
I'll try to explain what I mean.
I'm not going to pretend I'm not a... weird
person, Scully. I know
I'm someone a lot of people aren't comfortable around, someone
who's
the topic of watercooler conversations. I've overheard a few of
those
in my day, classics such as "That guy down in the basement
investigating aliens - why's he investigating his own kind?"
and
"Agent Mulder's a lot like Elvis... no one's quite sure if
he's dead
or alive."
Oh, ha ha ha.
Frankly, Scully, that doesn't affect me much. I know I
seem...
eccentric to others. Hell, I practically live in the
darkness of my
basement office. I'm always eating sunflower seeds, I talk about
aliens and conspiracy and goat-sucker crap...
Fox William Mulder, poster boy for the extremely abnormal.
But I have to admit... I like it that way.
Do I sound too defensive? Reading back over what I just
wrote... I
sound decidely sarcastic and embittered. I really don't mind, you
know, when people point and whisper in the hallways. I don't give
a
shit when they look at me and shake their heads pityingly, saying
in
low mock-concerned voices, "That poor man has soooo many
social
problems." I get that a lot.
To use a cliche, I've been getting that ever since I
stopped marching
to the beat of a universal drummer. In a way, it makes me feel
good.
I'm not one of the crowd, I'm different, I stand out.
I never used to care, Scully, what others thought. And even
now, my
general opinion of those who have opinions of me... it's an
apathetic
one. They can think what they damn well like, just as long as
they
don't get in my way, and don't try to rein me in.
To come to the point - and yes, I do have one, though it's
been long
in the making - one of the other things you make me do, Scully,
is to
actually care what others think. You make me see myself as the
rest of
the world sees me - a crackpot living on some kind of crazed
internal
fire, fighting a quest for a sister who is more likely to be dead
than
abducted.
And you make me realise that this isn't the person I should
be, or
could have been.
I should take fewer risks, ditch you less often, give you
all my
strength... the way you give me so much of yours. I shouldn't
make you
worry, because that hurts you, and I've already hurt you way too
much.
I could have been more grounded mentally, emotionally...
less set in
my ways and reluctant to change, even for you.
Because of you, Scully, I actually see myself as others see
me. And
sometimes, all I can see is how my life affected yours, affected
how
people see you. Your family doesn't approve of me (I'm
not going to
name people here, but the phrase Total B.S. does come to
mind), your
friends think you've lost your mind staying by my side (actually,
*do*
you have friends anymore?), your colleagues pity you for getting
a bum
assignment for five years.
The list just goes on and on.
And because you make me see all this, Scully, you also make
me want
to change it, even though I know I can't. I know that my life
needs to
be lived the way it always has been. Too often lonely, focused,
searching for a truth that, at times, only I can see. As
much as I'd
like to change for you, to become the perfect man, the guy you
dreamed
of as a child... I can't. I'm me, and you're stuck with me.
I'd like to be more open, though. To just be able to say
the three
simple words I can write so easily. To wake up in the morning and
say
"I love you", to go to sleep at night with you knowing
that, to be
able to say it to you at any time... just because I felt like it.
And it might be nice to loosen up a little sometimes, to be
able to
enjoy the world without fearing it might collapse in on me when
I'm
not looking.
On a related note, I've already established that I'm an odd
guy. That
also means I live an odd life, one which I gleefully loaned you
five
years ago, and one you're still paying regular installments to
share
with me.
I like it, my life. The challenges I face at work, the
crazy sleeping
hours, the conspiracy-charged days and the Scully-infused nights.
Like
the strange person that I am, I actually like living in
my own
secluded world. It's mine, it's private, and if I'm really lucky,
there are only two people in it... you, and me.
But you make me want to do things that are contrary to my
every
natural impulse and inclination, Scully. To change my life no
matter
how much I feel it fits me. I'm a loner, a maverick, the black
sheep
in the white flock. And yet you make me want to jump into the
nearest
vat of white dye and scream to everyone who cares to hear,
"Fox Mulder
is now certifiably normal!!" (Well, that probably isn't the
*best* way
to prove any sort of normalcy, but I trust you get my point.)
I know you want, need, deserve a normal life,
Scully. Unlike me,
you never intended to lose yourself in a web of darkness and
deceit.
You didn't know what you were getting in on when you first met
me. And
in a lot of ways, you didn't have a choice about that. You never
did.
From what little I care to remember of our first few months
working
together... you had a social life. There were appointments,
dinner
dates, lunches with colleagues from Quantico. You smiled a lot
more,
and when people in the halls of the F.B.I. building greeted you
cheerily, you greeted them right back. You had a comfortable
circle of
friends, and a family you loved. The most outrageous thing you
had
done was turn away from a career in medicine.
But even after that, you got back into the swing of things,
and made
your life normal again.
Unfortunately, I met you, took your life from your hands,
and
returned it mangled and unfamiliar. I took away your normal life,
Scully, even as you brought just a bit of normalcy into mine.
So... (yet another point that's been long in the making!)
when I'm
around you, Scully, I sometimes have the wildest daydreams. I
imagine
us quitting the F.B.I., and settling in as a happy couple in some
suburban neighbourhood, growing old and grey together. You'll be
a
practising, successful doctor, and me? Hell, maybe I'll be a
dutiful
househusband, doing the occasional criminal profile for the local
PD.
That way, I can be at home waiting for you everyday, to kiss the
exhaustion off your face. And I could tell you all about the
adventures I had with our beautiful, normal children, and watch
you
smile as they told you their stories about school and the
backyard and
how Daddy couldn't make the mac and cheese the way you do.
OK, that obviously isn't a wild daydream in anyone's book
but mine.
The point is that it's a life I can't have with you, and it's a
life
you'll never have now that you're with me. What amazes me is
that...
when I'm with you, I actually want something like that.
A life in
which my biggest concerns are tuition bills for college, and
making
less money than my more intelligent wife. A life of balancing
checkbooks, baking cookies, and sleeping outdoors in hammocks
would be
considered adventure.
It's something I never wanted, Scully. Ever. Even
as a child, the
kind of domestic life I envisioned for myself was more Tarzan and
Jane
than Rob and Laura Petrie. Trying to imagine myself living such a
staid and boring life with anyone but you would just about induce
natural death by asphyxiation.
I think you understand what I mean, though. Don't you,
Scully?
Basically, you make me wish I could be someone I'm not. You
make me
imagine what it might be like to be a normal person, one who
isn't
haunted by a past that still casts a long shadow over his future.
I stopped believing in a lot of things before I met you,
Scully.
You walked into my office thirty-two years after I was
born. That's a
pretty big number, thirty-two. It gave me more than enough time
to get
disillusioned with the world I was living in... and I lost more
beliefs, ideals, hopes and dreams than I care to count. I only
clung
on to two, perhaps foolishly. I clung on to the possibility that
Sam
might still be alive, and that the truth would one day prevail.
Otherwise, I was a pretty cynical man when I first met you.
After
three remarkably rotten decades on this earth, my personal field
of
vision and ambition had been narrowed down to Sam, and the truth.
Nothing else seemed to be a worthwhile pursuit; no other dreams
needed
to be chased.
Cue the drumroll for dramatic effect, and you must have
realised by
now that you, once again, changed that. You made me see things
I'd
lost sight of, Scully. You made me believe that beauty could
exist
uncorrupted, that children could survive into adulthood
untainted,
that love was exactly what romance novels made it out to be.
I spent nearly twenty years of my life finding shadows in
the stars,
Scully. Whenever I looked up into the ebony canvas of night sky,
I
didn't see pinpoints of hope and light. I saw fear and anxiety
and
sleeplessness. A shroud above all of us, waiting to close in, the
twinkling stars cruel reminders of the darkness that would sooner
or
later eclipse us all.
Now, I seek out the stars hidden in shadows, the stars
which you
taught me to look for.
You make me believe in magic, Scully, because touching you
lifts me
about six feet off the ground, and looking into your eyes is like
disappearing into the safest place in the world.
You make me think true love exists, because I still have
you with me,
no matter how painful and battle-ravaged our lives might get.
And you make me believe in hope, because your continuing
faith in me
and our quest means that some good must eventually come of it. No
matter how many times I've disappointed you, Scully, you give me
your
trust.
Because of that, I find hope for myself, for you, for
everyone who
doesn't know what we're fighting for. *Who* we're fighting for.
Because of you, I'm allowing myself to be idealistic,
Scully. I was
becoming disillusioned, even with my quest. How often can a man
think
he has found the truth, have it taken away from him and hidden in
lies, before he starts to lose faith? You make me believe in the
existence of the truth I'm looking for, even though I might never
come
into physical contact with it, and thus never gain proof of it.
It has
to be there, somewhere... if nothing else, it has to be there
because
I believe it's there.
You make me want to believe in even the silly things,
Scully... to
want to relive them all. I want to wait up for Santa with you,
straining to hear bells and reindeer hooves on the roof. I want
to go
looking for colourful Easter eggs in the garden, and try to find
the
tracks of the elusive Easter bunny. As long as I get to do it
with
you, I don't mind looking like a fool. It would be nice to be a
child
again.
Glancing over what I've written, I realise I have another
case to
make about the things you make me do, Scully. I'm typically a
sensible
kind of man, given to the usual fallibilities of my gender. I
forget
birthdays, I get loud and rowdy and enthusiastic about mindless
contact sports, I get insensitive and completely thick-headed at
the
most inopportune times of the month. Usually just as the female
I'm
most concerned with hits the peak of PMS. I enjoy my...
collection of
video tapes (I'm not going to insult your intelligence by
pretending
you don't know what they are), and I don't give much
consideration to
romance and candlelight dinners and moonlit walks by the beach.
I do try to be sensitive, Scully... don't get me
wrong. Sometimes,
I even try for romantic. But that doesn't mean I go for schmaltz
and
the kind of fluffy, weepy chick-generated concepts regarding
romance
in our generation. None of that two-lives-bound-by-fate kind of
crap,
or match-made-in-heaven rubbish. I believed, quite simply, that a
woman either fit... or she didn't.
That is, until I met you. (Felt that one coming, didn't
you?)
You make me want to live in cliches, Scully. You make me
want to beg
for the chance to do terrifyingly romantic things, things I've
never
done for another woman and would normally never want to
do. The
things I'd outrun the hounds of Hell to avoid doing.
Disgustingly enough, Scully, I want to wine you and dine
you and
whisper sweet nothings to you under the moonlight. Sitting on the
beach, listening to the lapping waves, watching gold and silver
fireflies dart through the water before us. I want to hold your
hand,
and feel sparks and see fireworks and hear violins. I want to
kiss you
under the mistletoe, serenade you at night, shower you with
cheesy
little gifts like perfume and soft toy hearts with "Be My
Valentine"
scrawled across them in loopy feminine cursive writing. I want to
saddle up and ride off into the sunset with you, leaving the
world
behind, living happily ever after.
Seriously... Scully, you make me think of things, and do
things, I
normally wouldn't think of or do. You make me believe in
shattered
dreams, and you make me hopeful for whatever lies ahead. You make
me a
person I'm not, a person I ordinarily can't be.
And I wouldn't, couldn't, want it any other way.
I think I'm still whooped up on chloral hydrate. How long
do the
effects of that drug last, Scully? It's been a few days now, so I
guess it can't be that. I'm most likely just hooked on you, and
that's
why I'm so high today.
I'm almost afraid to go back and read this entry, so I
don't think I
will. Not tonight, anyway. I'm sure I won't be disappointed by
how
insane it sounds when I read it tomorrow.
Who knows? I might burn it.
Well, Scully, I'm tired (surprise, surprise!) -- I guess
all this
soul-searching and heart-pouring takes a lot out of the
perpetually
drugged. I'll have to say good night. I hope you're sleeping now.
You
should be sleeping now; it's late. If you are, sleep
well. Sleep
sweetly, and try not to worry. You'll make me dream of you
tonight,
and I'll be thinking of you like always.
I love you,
Mulder
=======================================================
Even More Random Mumblings: I finished writing the first version
of
this story five months ago. It was sent on a few initial reading
rounds (thanks to Scarlet and Finn for the kind comments, even
then).
A month later, it knocked on Dreamshaper's electronic door, and
it
hasn't left her house since. <snicker> She's been working
on it on and
off ever since we met in November, and her constant grumbling
along
the lines of "What do you mean you've got nothing to post,
damn you?
Post journalfic!" must have finally hit home. <vbeg>
This fic has been toyed with, messed with, stressed over so many
times, I'm just going to let it go wild. Run, into the jungle of
XFic
with you! Propagate, live long, and yield many sequels! Bring me
much
feedback, glorious little monkey child!
Uh.... can you tell it's been a while since I've posted?
<g> I
apologise to anyone (*is* there anyone?) who's been waiting for a
third installment. And I'd love to hear from anyone who's made it
to
the end, and still thinks I'm normal enough to risk writing to --
feedback, as usual, nourishes the soul at
shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com.
Thanks for reading! :)
Added February 11, 2000