From:             "JenRose" 
Subject:          NEW: I Never Knew,  VA (Otherangst) Rated R, Ringfic
Date sent:        Mon, 30 Mar 1998 23:53:47 -0800


Okay, this is a cathartic little un-edited piece of
semi- autobiographical venting that came not so much out
of  "Mulder wearing a ring," (which I didn't notice at
the time and don't really feel like watching again to
see.) but the fandom broo-ha-ha that followed. 

Ya see, Mulder reminds me of my ex. And while it didn't
happen exactly this way (names have been changed...
 And events changed somewhat... I've never been
married.) I had to write this in response to the whole
"What if Mulder was married?" shtick.  Enough of this is
different from what "actually happened" (the
autobiographical bit) that nothing within can be
construed to represent a completely accurate portrayal
of events in my own life. While this is derived from my
own story, it has enough differences to be fiction. 

Do I think this is the most plausible explanation for
the wedding ring and the apartment? Hell no. I'm
personally of the "CC is messing with our heads" school.

But this is the story I could write.

Title: I Never Knew.
Author: Jenrose
Rating: R (Just 'cuz.)
Category: VA 
Keywords: Ringfic, Otherangst, Pre XF
Spoilers: Travelers
Feedback: If you want to.
Disclaimer: Mulder belongs to CC etc. No infringement
intended. Archive: Yeah, sure, fine, whatever.


I never knew he could be like this. 

It never occurred to me that this charming man who
wrapped himself  around me like a blanket could change
so suddenly into this cold,  hostile stranger.

Don't get me wrong. I knew from the start that he had
demons. I knew from day one that he was wounded. Call me
naive, I thought I could heal him. I thought I could
make him forget. I thought I could replace that which
was lost, that which was never there in the first place.

But it never occurred to me that the man who wooed me,
the man who cherished my body and adored my spirit could
one day look at me and tell me I was asking too much,
manipulating him, controlling his life.

I didn't think that what I was asking was all that
unreasonable.

I didn't have a happy childhood either, but I was well
parented. I guess I didn't realize what a difference
that could make. He said, did all the right things from
day one. I trusted him, trusted when he said, "Forever,"
trusted when he said, "I love you," trusted when he
said, "Marry me," and trusted when he said "I do."

Actually, I think he meant it, at the time. Mostly.

The first time he asked me to marry him, I said yes.
We'd only been seeing each other for a couple of months,
but I was young and I thought I knew. I'd never felt
what I felt for him, for anyone. I changed my mind while
we were living together, not because I didn't want to be
with him, but because I didn't want to take his name.

That's not quite true.

I wouldn't have minded taking his name if he hadn't been
so adamant about not taking any part of my name either.
It seems really silly now, but maybe that was one of the
pieces that made it all fall apart. He was happy for me
to keep my name, but I wanted us to share a name.

Bloody hell, I was 19. And even though he was 27, I
honestly don't think it helped him any either.

I changed my mind again when I found out we were... I
mean, I was pregnant. It wasn't the proposal of my
dreams. First thing he asked was, "Do you think we
should give the baby up?" While I was still reeling from
that, he countered with, "Do you want to get married?"

I should have known from the fear in his voice that he
didn't mean it. But I took him at his word, and blurted
out, "Yes."

Getting married at City Hall was an unpleasant
adventure, mostly because I kept having to dash away
from the "alter" to throw up in the nearest potted
plant. Needless to say he didn't want to kiss the bride.
Not the romantic satin-and-pearls fiesta I'd dreamed of
as a child, and not even the free-spirit melding of
souls my friends tried to convince me to let them plan.

More like a queasy sinking feeling and relief to have it
over with.

When we first met, he called me Starbright, said he
loved my passion, my hope, my naive belief that even if
the world wasn't a good place now, it would be soon. I
called him "Old Man," his 8 years advantage giving him a
world-wise and weary lead on my own innocence. He
flirted with me and I took him to my bed, and we wrapped
around each other until we forgot where he ended and I
began.

When I got sick, not six months after we'd first met, he
was there for me every moment. Didn't leave my bedside
for days. The look on his face when he came into my
hospital room terrified me and thrilled me. Who knew
someone besides my parents could love me that much? He
focused on me with all the blazing intensity of an arc
welder. I though we were joined permanently, then.

But when I finally healed, I wasn't Starbright anymore.
I'd looked death in the face and for the first time
since I hit puberty, I got scared. I crawled into my own
hell and stopped being the blazing light to chase away
his demons. We were together, but together in darkness,
and neither of us could find the way out.

The pregnancy was just the last straw. His intensity
turned to disdain. Who could blame him? The beautiful
young woman he'd fallen in love with was morphing into a
mother, and he never did do well with mothers, not his,
not mine, and, oh god, not me. My face grew rounder, my
breasts sagged, my belly grew heavy and my skin showed
the stress in tiny flame-like stretch marks everywhere.

I could blame him. After all, he *did* help make the
baby. He went through the motions, went to work every
day, that damned job that asked more of him than I ever
could, did the shopping, warmed my bed. He even told me
I was beautiful still, sometimes.

More often he'd ask me why I didn't do more. He'd ask
why I couldn't help when bending over made me throw up.
He'd ask why I didn't take better care of myself when I
couldn't tell if I was hungry I was so nauseated all the
time.

I tried to tell him it was temporary. I tried to tell
him that I'd be more myself, more the person he loved,
when the baby was born.

When I was seven months along, my only uncle died. That
pushed me over the edge, into a full blown depression. 
And my depression pushed him over the edge. He couldn't
deal with my depression, and I couldn't deal with his
anger. He told me it was over.

I remember looking down at my round belly, and trying to
compute that. It just wouldn't mesh. It didn't fit. I
couldn't understand. I told him I could not move out
until the baby was old enough for me to go back to work.
He shrugged, said, "Okay," and we went on.

I was able to put all that aside for the next two
months. I simply did not admit to myself or anyone else
that my marriage had fallen apart.

Or rather, that it had never fallen together.

Our daughter was born in a picture perfect birth, he
cried, I glowed, and he was very helpful while I was in
the hospital. I almost thought, just for a moment, that
maybe he wouldn't be able to abandon me, abandon his
child. Again he seemed to radiate that care and love I'd
seen from the start.

Then we went home. And he waged a campaign to convince
me that he was not, never had been, never could be the
husband I hoped for or the father our daughter needed.

Resuming smoking was the least of it. He picked up some
woman in a bar when our daughter was four days old, and
brought her home and screwed her on the couch while my
child and I were in the bedroom down the hall. I think,
though the fog of postpartum lactation-induced sleep
deprived mania makes my memory suspect, that he actually
brought the woman into the bed we used to share while I
nursed my daughter in her room down the hall.

Three days after our little girl was born I begged him
to stay at home for one more day. He looked at me long
and cold and told me, "I'm going to work, where they
*really* need me."

Through all of this he wore his wedding ring. I'm not
sure why.

Later he would apologize to me. He always apologized. He
was good at that. Not groveling, simply saying what a
son-of-a-bitch  he'd been, and he
wished there was something he could say to  make it
better.

Like hell. Maybe if he'd called when I was at my
mother's for a month. Maybe if he'd ever come to visit
this child with his eyes and his hair and his damned
mouth. Maybe if he hadn't violated every rule of
civilized behavior, I could have forgiven him when he
spoke the words.

I did forgive him, as much as it is possible to forgive
when you can't forget.

We even tried to fix things for a while. I thought he'd
changed. But  finally I realized that no matter what he
did, no matter how he changed, I could not get past it.
And I realized that he didn't really want to. We stayed
friends even, for a while, until his obsessions took
over and I realized that staying friends could put our
daughter's life at risk. He seemed relieved when I told
him that I was moving away.

I'm glad I never took his name. Our daughter has his
name, but buried in her middle name where it can be
safely ignored until he no longer feels that chasing his
demons is more important than her.

Anna Denise Mulder Culverson.

She calls herself Anna Culverson. And she never asks
about her father.

And for all his intensity he has about his sister, gone
for so many years, Fox never asks about Anna either.



-- 
JenRose

________________________________________________________
_________

"I don't care if they get together on the show. I've
still got 3000 MSR fanfic stories to read."

"Smut?  What do you mean, SMUT???"

"I am not a pheasant plucker, I'm a pheasant plucker's
son. And I'm only plucking pheasants 'til the pheasant
plucker comes." --a tongue twister extraordinaire I
learned in college.

***Keep that up Mulder and I'll hurt you like that
beast-woman.***

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