Title: Blue Monday

Author: Deb Longley

E-mail:av286@chebucto.ns.ca

Completed: Dec. 21/99

Category: Vignette, Other POV, MulderTorture, MulderAngst

Rating: PG for language

Summary: After the unconventional brain surgery of "Amor Fati",
Mulder experiences amnesia and, with no recollection of his past,
confides in a psychologist.

Archive: COX, MTA, EMXC, Xemplary; others please let me
know

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter, Ten
Thirteen Productions, and Twentieth Century Fox Television. Dr.
Merlin Sweet is mine (however, he's a poor substitute for Mulder).
They are used here without permission. No copyright infringement
intended.

Author's notes: This was written for the Church of X Dec. 1999
Monthly Fanfic Challenge (see note at end).
Transpires after "SE II: AF"; assumes the hallway
scene and subsequent episodes never occurred (*sob*).

Thanks: To Grace and Medusa, for, as always, your support and
insight.

Feedback: Mulder has an appetite for triple-X videos, I crave
feedback.

Dr. Merlin Sweet's office
Independence Avenue, Washington, DC
December 6, 1999

"Tree limbs whip my face, and my heart is pounding so hard it feels
like it's pulverizing my chest from the inside out, but I can't stop
running. I hear him gaining on me, the sound of his footfalls on the
dry, decaying leaves is deafening. Suddenly, I crash to my hands
and knees, sprawled in the undergrowth. Imagining that his bullet
has slammed into my back, I wonder if it has, but I'm too numb
with fear to feel its impact.

"My chest heaving, the smell of rot suffocating, I force myself to my
feet, knowing I've lost precious seconds, but I keep running. I see
nothing but trees, their seclusion mocking me. God, is there no one
who can help me?"

"I'm here to help you." It sounds cliched, even to my own ears.
When he doesn't reply, I proceed. "What do you think the dream
means?"

"Isn't that what you're supposed to tell me, doc?"

"I'm interested in your interpretation, Fox." Noticing his grimace at
my use of his first name, I file it away for future reference.

He rubs his stubbled jaw, deep in thought. "It's my frantic search
for a place I feel safe...and the certainty that I'll never find it." He
rakes his fingers through his hair until it is a dishevelled mess. "I
may hate my life now, but it *is* my life."

"What is it that you despise?"

"Jesus, isn't that obvious? I'm not myself--I'm somebody else. I
was myself last month, but now everything's changed. I've
changed! I don't know who I am!! *Their* butchers saw to that!!!"
Climbing like a crescendo, his voice is outraged, tinged with
desperation, reverberating through the office.

"You're Fox Mulder."

"No shit!" Unapologetic, he remarks with sarcasm, "I'd tell you that
I'm not always this much of a bastard, but..." Grimacing, he kneads
his forehead as if all he's generated with his outburst is a massive
headache. "Mul-der." He rolls it around his tongue, tasting it,
savoring it, like he's decanting a bottle of superb, rare wine. "Fox."
Distastefully, he spits it out like he's ascertained the wine's been
spoiled and tastes bitter.

"You don't like your name."

He grabs my name plate from the desk top, gives it a perfunctory
glance, then sets it back down. "It's worse than Merlin--although
not by much." At that, we both grin, but, slowly, his smile fades.
"When I woke up in the hospital, I didn't know my name or what I
was doing there dressed in a hospital gown at eleven o'clock in the
morning. Learning what my name is validated that I'm real, that I
exist but nothing more."

Rising from his chair, the legs scraping on the hardwood floor as he
pushes it away from my desk, he paces the room like a restless lion.
A bit too thin, he looks as if he's been sick, which he has. His
hands are shoved into the pockets of his khakis; I can see that he's
clenched them into fists. He's suppressed his emotions so
thoroughly that I wonder if I'll be able to reach him.

He pauses in front of an antique oblong mirror, that hangs between
two windows overlooking The National Mall, and, with his back to
me, he massages his neck with one hand. Inspecting his reflection,
he traces the contours of his face with the tips of his fingers,
running them over his nose and lips, and coming to rest on the mole
on his right cheek, before his arm drops to his side. "I'm tired of
staring into a mirror, trying to see something familiar. I spent
roughly an hour this morning looking at my face from every
conceivable angle--it's still the face of a stranger."

His shoulders slumping slightly, he seems wounded, alone. Turning
away abruptly from his image, he backtracks to his seat and sinks
into it, the old leather loudly protesting the burden, his arms and legs
drooping like his shoulders moments ago. The fatigue on his face is
pronounced: there are shadows under his eyes, and the twin lines
on either side of his mouth reveal his age in a way they hadn't
before. He brushes the front of his white t-shirt as if he is removing
a piece of lint, but the words that follow tell me that the simple
gesture implies something further. "When I open my closet, I'm
shocked at what I find--the Armani suits, eclectic ties, Italian leather
shoes. Even though I must have worn them, I don't want to put
them on."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know." Reconsidering, he weighs his words carefully
before speaking, but they still sit clumsily on his tongue. "It's...it's
disorientating. The world no longer seems real, but quite surreal,
like in a dream, only I know that I'm not going to wake up." He
sighs heavily. "After I was released from the hospital, and went
home, I found two fish belly-up in the fish tank. Appropriate, don't
you think?"

"In what way?"

"They were metaphors."

"Maybe they were just starved for food."

"They were dead; figuratively, Fox Mulder is dead. I flushed every
last, fucking fish down the toilet--even the live ones."

"And how did that make you feel?"

"I thought that I would feel better but I didn't. Empty fish tank,
shell of a man. Because of a choice conceived without my consent,
I have to walk away from who I was; that person doesn't exist
anymore--his soul doesn't, anyway."

"You just referred to yourself as 'him'."

He grunts. "Yeah. I guess I did." His eyes close briefly then open,
widening slightly, exposing that they are...sightless. He doesn't see
me, or anything else for that matter, so lost is he inside his own
head.

"Talk to me, Fox," I direct.

My vocalization releases him from his paralysis, and he blinks, his
eyes appearing slightly disoriented then focusing. His face looks like
he's been hit in the back of the knees and tumbled down a flight of
emotional stairs. His voice breaking, he moans, "I-I just wish none
of this was happening. I-I don't want it any of it. H-How do I go
about finding a lost life?" He realizes that he's very close to tears
and clears his throat, trying to regain control. "It's like being
confined inside of a tunnel I can see only what's in front of me, not
where I've been."

"Do you realize that you're already making the decision?"

"To move forward."

I nod, indicating that he got it right. "Yes."

"I have thought about it a little," he admits. "I do know that I have
to leave the FBI. Colleagues know me but I don't recognize them.
It makes me uncomfortable. Maybe I can make a difference
somewhere else in another segment of law enforcement. Police
work perhaps." He leans his head against the back of the chair and
emits a loud sigh. "Shit, I don't know." There is an audible lack of
enthusiasm in his tone.

I fold my hands and place them on top of the desk, leaning toward
him. "It's okay to be confused," I assure him. "You've been cast
adrift, in a way."

"I feel like I'm failing everyone--my sister, my partner, humanity."

"What about your responsibility to yourself? To your future?"

His eyes darken and fill with grief, and his mouth moves into a taut
line. "I have to let go of the past because, until I do, I have no
future."

Looking around the room, something on the desk catches his
interest. Seizing a framed photograph, and holding it in both hands,
he inspects meticulously the sandy-haired child, dressed in a Little
League uniform, before replacing it. "Is he your son?"

"His name is Jesse. He lives with his mother in Richmond."

"I have a picture of my sister Samantha. She has pretty hair and a
sweet smile." His voice defeated and bitter, he says, "I don't
remember her." His frustration escalating, he continues, "That's the
worst thing of all that I have no recollection of my family or my
friends." Cracking his knuckles, a patent reaction to his inner
tension, it takes a moment before he catches himself, then he folds
his hands across his chest, hugging himself.

He redirects his attention to the petite red-haired woman who has
been sitting silently in the chair to his right. He is staring at her, his
gaze infinitely sad. "It's not just about me anymore. Without
meaning to, and I know it's not my fault, I've hurt her. I don't
know her, I don't remember our friendship."

"Dana came with you today."

"Yes. She's been helping me. She's given me a thumbnail sketch
of my past, and without that, I'd feel empty. Feeling empty hurts.
I'd rather feel anything but empty."

She is clutching a handful of tissues, her head bowed. For an
instant, I think she's crying. She raises her head and meets his gaze;
his hazel eyes narrow, probing her red-rimmed ones intensely.
What he observes in her eyes isn't tears of sorrow, pity, or even
anger--it's much more.

Courage.

His face, haggard from experiencing the effects of anger,
exhaustion, and anxiety, all in the space of an hour, erupts into a
small smile, warming and transforming his features. What he sees
in her is enough. For now.

Reaching for his hand, she covers it with her own, and gives it a
quick squeeze.

Turning to me, he declares, "See you next Monday, doc."

"Next Monday," I echo.

They both stand up; she extends her hand to me and I grasp it in
mine. "Thank you for letting me sit in, Dr. Sweet," she says, her
gratitude mirrored in that incredible face, and her firm grip.

I nod, accepting her thanks, but my mind is already on my next
appointment. I open the pertinent folder and begin perusing my
notes on last week's session. Despite the concentrated scrutiny of
my scrawling handwriting, I manage to hear the brisk click of her
heels, endeavoring to keep up with his long legs, and I grin. Voices
out in the foyer, waft through my open office door.

"Come on, Mulder, I'll treat you to all-you-can-eat Chinese food."

"Do I like Chinese, Scully?"

There is silence as if she is hesitating before responding. "Find out
for yourself," she speaks finally. I approve.

There are some losses one never gets over, never accepts. She isn't
ready to give up. Neither is he.

~~~end~~~
Deb

Challenge #1: Either Mulder or Scully experiences near-total
amnesia. He or she is still articulate, can still speak and function in
the real world, but has lost all sense of self and history. There is no
memory of previous life and action, does not recognize anyone
around them. IMPORTANT: The person *cannot* gain the
memory back within the story--ever. This is not your standard
amnesia fic, where it "will all come back to him soon." His or her
life has been *erased* and he or she must start over. How did it
happen, what will he/she do now, how does the other react? The
story must be more in-depth than 'True love survives, they are
meant for each other, they're lovers within the month.' Not that
such a theme can't be present, certainly, but it has to be more
difficult than that. There has to be some angst, there has to be some
anger and frustration, and it must mean something if they do come
back together.