Title: Illusions
Author: XochiLuvr
E-mail: xochiluvr@surfacing.com
Category and Rating: PG-13, UST, MA/SA
Archive: Ephemeral, Xemplary, Gossamer. I'll say yes, but all
    others please drop me a line so I can wave at my offspring.
Send me feedback, and I might do my Kermit the Frog does the songs of "Man
    of La Mancha" impressions for you. <"I am I, Kermit Quixote, the Lord of
    La Mancha, my Destiny calls and I riiiiiide...">
Disclaimer: At no time in the production of this fanfic were any songs from
    Moby's "Play" used or listened to. I just wanted to prove it's possible.
Author's Note: Well... you can tell how long *this* fic has been fermenting.
    Additional notes and thanks at end.
Summary: The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of
    respect and joy in each other's life. Rarely do members of one family
    grow up under the same roof. - from 'Illusions' by Richard Bach
Spoilers: Post ep for Closure, sequel to a story I wrote called "virtutes
    jam purgati animi," but works as a standalone.

The Virtutes Series:
    Virtutes Jam Purgati Animi
    Illusions
    Engendered
    Recollections of a Future Passed (post-series)

All my stories can be found at http://surfacing.com/xl/


Virtutes 2: Illusions
by XochiLuvr
Started 4/12/00
Finished 12/8/00

-----
Every person, all the events of your life are there because you have
drawn them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you.
- from 'Illusions' by Richard Bach
-----

Once again, we are sitting on the couch. As before, we are shrouded in
darkness, the only light coming from the fish tank across the room. My
mother is gone. Samantha is but a memory. I feel as though I am tethered to
death, a bond from which I will never be released. Even now, with Scully
beside me, I believe I am destined to be alone.

"You're not alone," she whispers.

"If I'm not alone now, I will be soon."

As I speak, I turn to look at her. At first, I think I see surprise and fear
in the oceans of her eyes. But seas are ever-changing things, and these
quickly boil into anger and determination. She shakes her head, pauses to
calm herself, and replies: "I never took you for a defeatist."

Melissa said something similar to me once, in this same apartment. Now, as
then, the words are said with fire, and I am burned. I respond with the only
weapon I have left.

"Unless I'm mistaken, you've never taken me, period."

"If you continue to act like a recalcitrant child, I never will."

My turn for surprise. I am stripped of my arsenal. Defenseless.

"'Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.' Remember that,
Mulder?"

"'Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill came tumbling after,'" I
finish. "You think of me as a brother?" I don't even bother with a leer.

"Actually, many literary historians believe the characters weren't
siblings," she answers, the hint of a smile traced upon her lips. "My point
is that we're partners. When you hurt, I hurt. I know you; can you deny you
feel the same?"

If I wanted to be even more of an inconvenience, I might consider arguing
with her. I can count the times she's let me help her through a personal
crisis on one hand, but now is not the time for pettiness.

"Get your coat," she commands. "I know what you need right now, and we're
going for a drive. Give me your keys, and I'll be down in a few."

I don't answer, except to drag myself up from the couch, and toss her my
keys. As I grab my coat and head out the door, I hear her dial her cell and
say quietly, "Hi, it's me. I need a favor."

To whom is she speaking? It could be anyone, I suppose. For a moment, I fear
there is another man in Scully's life. I know that is false, however, if for
no other reason than the fact that I've never given her enough free time for
even casual friendships, let alone a serious relationship. She must be as
lonely as I am.

The realization hits me like a fist, and I narrowly avoid falling down the
steps as I make my way to the car. As I punch in the numbers to the driver's
side keypad and slide over to the passenger side I ponder, for not the first
time, if Bill was right all those years ago in that hospital corridor.

I hear a door slam, and turn to watch as Scully hurries down the steps
outside my building. She looks beautiful, and is strangely in a much better
mood. As she opens the car door I wonder if I was wrong about her having a
boyfriend, dismissing it once again as she clutches my hand in one of hers
while the other gropes under her to pull the seat closer to the steering
column. Except to shift gears as she pulls out, her hand remains clasped
around mine. Such an open demonstration of caring from my stoic partner.
What's next? Bill in three inch heels bringing me root beer? A sad chuckle
rumbles through me at the image, but as I look up to the profile of her
concerned face, I realize that tonight the joke is on me. Is me, perhaps.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll know when we get there," is the only reply I receive.

But she's wrong. I know as soon as I see the 295 North sign. We're headed to
her mother's home.

The total driving time is maybe an hour, and with a single exception, we are
silent.

When we're about halfway to our destination, she softly inquires, "You know,
don't you?"

"Where we're going? Of course. Your mom's house. I just don't know why."

She sighs, and I understand I answered correctly. Just not the right
question.

When we arrive, the porch light is on, and there is a note on the door
instructing us to enter and head to the basement. We do so and find her
mother dressed in housecoat and slippers, sitting on the concrete floor,
surrounded by cardboard boxes.

Mrs. Scully rises quickly as we arrive, and moves in to gather her daughter
in a strong hug. I step away to give them space, but she sees me over her
daughter's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Fox. I know how you must feel." I'm sure she does. Her own
parents, her husband. A daughter, a grandchild... Through her eyes I see
that she can read me as well as her daughter. I get barely two steps back
before I too am nearly lifted off the floor. I am brought out of my reverie
by her voice in my ear: "Let's go upstairs. Food works wonders when you feel
blue."

Numbly, I nod, and Scully takes my hand and leads me upstairs into the
kitchen. She grabs three mugs from the cupboard and starts the coffeemaker
while her mother removes a pan from the oven, and the intoxicating smell of
fresh coffee and pie wafts through the air. From the white powder on the
counter, the nasally burn of airborne cinnamon, and the half empty paper bag
of apples sitting beside the pantry, it doesn't take any time to realize the
pie is apple, and made from scratch. Moments later, Mrs. Scully passes me a
warm cup, and motions me to have a seat while she turns to fill the other
two mugs.

So I sit at the large round table, watch the Scully family in action, and
reflect. How many times have they done this throughout the years? How many
times have they dealt with death? How do they cope with such pain?

I haven't had all that much experience with people close to me dying. I
always hoped to find Sam alive. Mom handled Dad's funeral; I was unable to
attend, physically or mentally. The closest I've come was trying to help
Scully grieve for Emily, but she refused to let me.

I know the stages of grief. I just don't know what exactly I'm grieving for.
My relationship with my mother was essentially nonexistent. I've been
without a sister for more than two-thirds of my life. I've been without a
family for just as long. Is that what I miss? A family, or simply the
opportunity to have one at all?

Scully moves into a chair beside me while her mother works in the
background, and a nondescript plate with a huge slice of warm pie - complete
with a dollop of vanilla ice cream - is placed on the table in front of me,
along with a silver fork. I wonder if the fork was part of the Scullys'
wedding set. It's beautiful, obviously expensive, and well used. The Captain
and his wife must have held some beautiful dinner parties over the years.

I take a sip of my drink. As I swallow, I realize my hands have been
trembling, and I set the cup on the table trying not to drop it.

In one of my first cases with the VCU, I talked with a woman who'd lost her
husband as a result of a brutal attack by a serial killer. Sitting with her
on the steps of a library on a blustery winter day, I was amazed at how calm
she was, and for most of the interview she was more composed than I. When I
got up to leave my coat fell open, and as she looked up at me she began
shrieking and crying. When she had finally calmed down somewhat, she told me
what caused the episode. It turned out that her husband and I had the same
taste in ties - he was wearing a remarkably similar one the night he died.
As soon as I got home, I turned my entire tie rack over to the Salvation
Army, and have spent years gathering unusual ones that are unlikely to
precipitate so much sadness in the poor victims and their families I've
interviewed through the years.

A professor of mine once stated in a lecture that 'when a person is dealing
with grief, there are innumerable catalysts that may incite an emotional
outburst.' Sometimes the smallest things can be the most important. Of all
the possibilities, I never thought something as simple as home-cooked food
would be my undoing.

"Mulder?" She stops as she hears me sobbing, moving to hold me as I start
to shake. "Mom?" she asks over her shoulder. Mrs. Scully comes over and
is directed to help move me to the living room couch, where I am positioned
with my head in her daughter's lap. If I had a slightly less tenuous hold on
reality, I would probably object to this public display. As it is, I find
comfort in my partner's affection for me. Minutes pass, and I am brought
back from my despair by Scully's hands softly stroking my hair.

"It's... I'm okay, now, I think. I'm sorry," I say shakily, but I make no
move to release myself from the embrace.

"It's not okay," Mrs. Scully says, sitting in a plush, well-worn chair
beside the sofa. It is said firmly, yet softly, with compassion and, as I
look up and over to her, a small smile.

"It's nothing, I'm sorry," I repeat. "I don't know why I reacted to such a
small thing."

"What was it, Mulder?"

"My mother never cooked for us. Not once," I answer. Up until the abduction,
there were nannies that pretty much did everything. Even before Sam was...
gone, my parents were very distant. To me, at least. Dad more so, but they
were both guilty of it.

"After Sam... Well, let's just say that if there was something I couldn't do
for myself, it generally didn't get done," I shrug. "The first and only time
I tried to make real hot chocolate, I made it with a Hershey's Bar I bought
at the store on the way home from school. I was too young to know better. I
tried to brew it in their coffee percolator."

I smile at the memory, and both women laugh at my youthful stupidity. My
smile fades and I turn somber as I remember what came after.

"I washed it out as best I could, but I knew I'd ruined it. The next morning
I saw it in the trash. I... I was scared I'd get yelled at, or that Dad was
going to hit me, but..."

"Fox? Your father didn't beat you as a child, did he?"

"No, ma'am. He didn't. Neither did my mother. They didn't do anything, in
fact. Except for throwing it away, nothing happened. They bought a new one,
and that was that."

As a child, all my friends thought my parents were great. I had no curfew
or bedtime. If I skipped school, I didn't have to worry if my parents found
out. It was like I could do anything I wanted. That wasn't true. I couldn't
visit a museum with my mom, or take in a ballgame with my father. My
parents slept two doors down the hall, but with my sister's abandoned room
between us, I often felt like an orphan. I suppose every child wants what
they can't have. I would have traded anonymity for affection in a heartbeat.

Looking at Scully, I say, "Sometimes I envy you. Even if your father wasn't
around as much as you may have liked, you at least knew his love. No matter
what I did, good or bad, nothing happened. To them I was a mouth to feed and
not much else. I'm all alone now, but it doesn't really matter. I always
have been. You were your father's 'Starbuck.' Only nickname I've ever had
was 'Spooky.'" Granted, my nickname is apropos, and I've learned to
appreciate it over time, but it was given in jealousy and misunderstanding,
not out of love, or even simple companionship.

Turning to her mother, I shut my eyes and continue: "God knows, Mrs.
Scully, you and your daughter are two of the most beautiful people I've ever
met, mind and spirit. And I've done nothing but cause both of you pain."

I remember that my eyes have been closed during my impromptu speech,
and as I open them, I see two pairs of blue eyes, tears falling silently.
Why can't I do anything right? I move to sit up, to leave before I hurt
anyone further, but two freckled arms hold me fast.

"Muld...." For once, it's not me that cuts my partner off mid-sentence.

"That's not true, you know."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Scul..."

"Stop right there," she says, not unkindly. "Call me Mom. Or Maggie. You've
done nothing to harm us. I've seen you at your worst, and I know what Dana's
lost. But I see what she's gained. I've gained it, too. I have a good man in
my life who cares at least as much for my daughter as I do. You are a son to
me, and while you may not know how it feels to have a parent, I know damn
well how to be one. You are not now, and never will be, alone. There are two
people in this room who will make certain of that. Now sit up and I'll get
you another cup of coffee."

I am shocked by her words, and before my brain can even process her
command I am moving to comply. As raise up I look at my partner and note
that she has the same flushed look on her face that mine must bear. As Mrs.
Scully leaves to warm our drinks, Scully whispers to me.

"I'm as surprised as you are, Mulder. I knew she liked you, that's why I
called her to see if she could help us. I... I never expected the depth of
her emotion. I don't think I've ever seen her defend anyone so staunchly
except her own children."

Scully moves closer to me and I put my arm around her. This closeness has
become almost common in our private time since that first night in my
apartment, but I cherish each time as if it were the first. I bring my head
back to rest on the sofa, and as I close my eyes, I hear a whispered,
"Welcome to the family, Mulder."

I must have dozed off for several minutes because as I lift my head at the
sound of a ceramic cup being set in front of me, I see that a handmade
patchwork quilt has been placed on Scully and me. Mrs. Scully sits in a
recliner beside the coffee table and is the first to speak.

"Are you feeling better, Fox?"

I reach over and take a long sip of the dark beverage, swallowing slowly and
letting it coat my throat as it warms my stomach.

"Yes. Quite a bit, in fact. I don't know how to thank you for all yo..."

"I told you. It's what family does."

"Not mine," I reply dourly. A weight may have been lifted, but the darkness
I have fought these many years is like a part of me; It is not so easily
divested.

"Tell us, Mulder."

"Yes, Fox. Tell us more about your parents. Your sister as well."

I take another deep gulp, and place the mug on a coaster on the table in
front of me. A deep breath and slow exhale to collect my thoughts, and I
begin.

"If they were going somewhere, they'd plan for Sam, but I was basically an
afterthought. When we went to Disney World the summer before the
abduction, we only went to places Sam said she wanted to go. I had no say in
the matter. I always had to fend for myself. The first time I got on the
honor roll, I taped my report card to the refrigerator, hoping they would
see it, see how smart I was; I wanted them to be proud of me. That night
they took it down to make room for one of Sam's stick drawings. They didn't
even read it! It sounds like I was jealous of her, I realize, but that's
untrue. I was smart enough to know it wasn't her fault, but I hated them for
loving her so much more than me.

"I still have it, you know. The drawing, I mean. When Sam and I were
out by ourselves, it was my responsibility to protect her, but... but
with our parents, it was her job to look after me. That trip to Disney
World? The morning of our last day, she asked me where I wanted to go,
to list everything I wanted to do. When we got back to the park, she told
our parents that *she* wanted to do those things. Even asked to go on all
the roller coasters kids her age could ride, and she was afraid of heights.
She did that for me. I might have envied her, but I loved her above all
else. Until Scu- Dana, I've never...  Never mind." I trail off, a sheepish
look on my face.

"Until my daughter what?"

They both look at me,  Scully's eyes willing me to answer. I clear my
throat, subconsciously hoping the act will somehow make the baring of my
soul that much easier. Haven't they both made it clear how well they feel
they know me? Why do they even need to ask?

"Until your daughter, I've never loved anyone that completely."

Hearing Scully's sharp intake of breath, I shift in time to watch as she
hides her face and coughs, attempting to cover the gasp. I look up at her
mother to see her smile get inexplicably wider, and see that her cheeks
are wet again.

"You're both welcome to stay the night. Whenever you want, Fox. The spare
key is under a rock beside the begonias in the back yard." With that, she
gets up and pulls two photo albums from beside her chair, places them on the
table, and moves to the foot of the stairs. "Dana, honey, here are the books
you wanted. Just bring them with you the next time we have lunch." Scully is
silent, head still turned away as she nods, but I have a last question.

"Mrs. Scully?"

"I'm sorry, Fox, I thought we discussed that."

"Oh, yes. Umm... Mom?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sure you told your children all kinds of stories and rhymes when they
were kids. Was 'Jack and Jill' one of them?"

Just as her daughter sometimes does when deep in thought, she turns her head
to the side, contemplating before answering, "'Jack and Jill went up a hill
to fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down, broke his crown, and Jill came
tumbling after.'"

"Do you remember the rest?"

"If I remember correctly, the rest goes something like this:

"'Then up got Jack and said to Jill,
As in his arms he took her,
'Let's go fetch that pail of water.'
So Jack and Jill went up that hill
To fetch the pail of water,
And took it home to Mother dear,
Who thanked her son and daughter.'

"Goodnight, Fox."

"Goodnight, Mom," I nearly whisper, "and thank you."

She nods in response and moves up the darkened staircase.

As I hear her bedroom door shut, I notice that Scully has yet to move from
her position, and is gently shaking. "Scully, are you all right? Scully,
please look at me."

She does, and the sight of her thin, hopeful smile and tear-streaked face
nearly breaks my newly-healed heart. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Do you really?"

"Really, what?"

"What you said before, about me."

"Every word. You have been the most important person in my life since you
walked into it. I may not have found Sam, but I did find you."

"And your mom?"

"I guess my hope for her is the same as it always has been; that she's out
there somewhere, with dad and Sam, cheering me on. It's just that now she's
got a better view. I used to hate them, and as I grew older, I tried to
understand why they treated me like they did; that's one of the reasons I
went into psychology. I never did figure it out, but as the years have gone
by and I've learned more about them and myself, my anger has diminished. I'm
still confused, and I may never entirely forgive either of them, but it's
time to let go of the past. Sam, my parents, all of it. "

Now it hits me. I know what she was asking on the drive over here. This
time, I think I have the right answer to the real question. I still want
the truth, but the reason for my desire has changed. "I used to fight for my
past. Now I'm fighting to give us something to look forward to. Our future."

With that, she smiles, and turns and rests her head upon my chest.

-----

Once again, we are sitting together on a couch. As before, we are shrouded
in darkness.

My mother is gone, and Samantha is but a memory, and though I grieve for the
loss of one family, I have found my hope in another. I am not alone. I feel
now as though I am tethered to love, a bond from which I hope never to be
released.

With Scully beside me, I am resolute. I am free.


-----
But the one heeded them not, and taking a breath did let go, and at once was
tumbled and smashed by the current across the rocks.

Yet in time, as the creature refused to cling again, the current lifted him
free from the bottom, and he was bruised and hurt no more.

- from  'Illusions' by Richard Bach
-----

End.

Notes and thanks:

    It has been many, many years since I read my first Richard Bach book,
'Illusions,' though he's much more famous for 'Johnathan Livingston
Seagull,' which was later made into a motion picture. His books are
powerfully uplifting, and yet they avoid that cloying, surfeited feeling
many other "inspirational" fiction novels possess. All faiths and
denominations welcome, even if you don't have one, or even want one. :)
Anyone unfamiliar with his works is hereby urged to pick one of his stories
up and find a happy thought. A seemingly little known fact is the existence
of a website, www.richardbach.com It's a great place for information, and
the webmaster is none other than the author himself.

    As you saw in the headers, this story was two-thirds of a year in the
making, and would forever be at the bottom of my drafts folder if it weren't
for the kindness and help of the following people. Smart men surround
themselves with even smarter women. I just got lucky.
    Original Drafts: Calli- Fumbler, High Priestess of Hot Cocoa, and keeper
of my sanity, who saw the very first draft and kept my morale high while
telling me it was crap. RocketMan- cherished memory and incomparable talent,
who read the second draft, also said it was crap, and sent notes almost as
long as the story itself, the majority of which were incorporated, even if
it did take me 6 months to figure out how.
    Final Revisions: These two ladies, wonderful authors in their own
right, sent feedback on Recollections exactly 1,234 minutes apart. A
few days later they got roped into beta duty. Jemirah- yet another one
from Tennessee, deacon of the resurrected Scully, who manages to confuse
the hell out of me and keep my tenses straight, all at the same time. M.E.
Cieplinski, Damn Yankee and proud of it, feared by dogs everywhere, for
beta-masochism, an abundance of happy vibes, and immoral support beyond the
call of duty...
    Whew! Anyone else? <yeah, I hear the music, I'm not DONE yet!>
    Oh! Much thanks to Livia, "Ivory-Skinned Peacemaker, Possessor of
Vast Breasts," for the crazy email, quick wit, and stylistic insight. It
took forever to come, but... Wait, did I really just say that?

I'm just a po' Georgia boy... ya'll send me some feedback, ya'hea?

--
http://surfacing.com/xl/
xochiluvr@surfacing.com
Chief Cook and Bottle-
Washer, MSR-SMUT