From: Vickie Moseley 
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW: Storm Tossed by Vickie Moseley
Date: Wed, 29 May 96 21:33:53 GMT



Hi, this is Michelle Hiley. The following story is being sent out by me
on behalf of Vickie Moseley, who is having problems posting. Apart from
posting it, I have no involvement, so please do not send comments on the
story to me, send them to Vickie at vmoseley@fgi.net although I'll
forward any that come to me accidentally. Thanks.


No Spoilers, rated PG13 for language.

This is not a happy story.  I wrote it before I saw the season
finale, but  I think Mrs. (Insert favorite female name here)
Mulder has a story to tell.  So this is her story.  Nobody dies,
but then maybe it would have been happier if someone had,
huh?  One hankie, if you're a real softie.

Standard Disclaimer:  It's a damn fine show, Mr. Carter.  I
would be ungrateful if I infringed on your copyright, so I
promise not to.  I would ask your indulgence in another
matter, though.  Could you please name that woman?  It
makes it look like you have no respect for motherhood by
keeping her 'Mrs. Mulder'.  Good grief, Shelia Larkin's
character has a first name!  Might I suggest 'Ann'?

The Tempest is by W. Shakespeare and is very appropriate to
this story.  If you know the play, you'll know what I mean.

Let me know if you like this style and if you think there is
more of the story to tell.  I'm at vmoseley@fgi.net

Storm Tossed
By Vickie Moseley

     "Mrs. Mulder?  Would you like a cup of coffee?"  I look up
and see the young man standing at my kitchen doorway, coffee
pot in his hand.  I shake my head.  Coffee is the last thing I
want.

     "When can I go see my son?" I ask.  He shrugs,
noncommital.  He isn't in charge, just an underling.  The Agent
In Charge is talking to Bill in the bedroom.  They shooed me
out long ago.  I'm not considered stable.

     To hell with them all!  I'm as stable as any mother would
be.  I'm perfectly stable considering I have one child missing
and the other in a coma.  I'm so frigging stable I could run for
President!  And I'm pissed.  Pissed at them all.  But most of all
I am pissed at Bill and he knows it.  Hence, I'm not stable.

     I glance around my living room.  Or what was once my
living room.  Not exactly delicate, the FBI.  There is some sort
of dust on everything and smudges where ever I look.  Tape
marks a spot on the floor where we found Fox when we came
home last night.  Everytime I chance to see it, it freezes my
heart.	I was sure he was dead.  I remember screaming his
name and holding him and not wanting to let go until the
ambulance arrived and Bill pulled him from my arms.  Then,
when I wouldn't stop crying, Dave Martin was there with his
little black bag.  I thought Dave had given up making house
calls long ago, but then, it was a special case.  Can't have a
screaming maniac on the same block as a plastic surgeon.
Wouldn't be proper.  My arm still hurts where he jabbed the
needle.  No wonder he went into plastic surgery.  Damn
obvious that psychiatry was not an option.

     The Agent In Charge, his name is Janson, finally comes into
the room.  Bill is with him, but I'll be damned if I talk to the
bastard.  I'm waiting for my time with Bill.  There will be hell
to pay and he knows it.  He ducks his head and looks at the
floor, stooping to pick up a marker from the Stratego game
that is now broken from being under some agent's foot.  I walk
up to Janson.  I am calm, I am steel.

     "Agent Janson.  I want to see my son.  May I please
leave?"  My voice is so steady.  For once, being Miranda in the
Senior Class production of 'The Tempest' seems to have come
in handy.  Inside, I'm shaking so hard I feel like I'm going to
pass out.

     Janson looks at me, silent.  He's thinking.  I can see the
hamster wheel turning in his head.  He's trying to decide if
there is anything else I could tell him.  Finally, he figures he
won't get anything else out of my, since my beloved husband
has already convinced him that I am one step short of
psychotic.  "Okay, Mrs. Mulder.  I guess that would be all
right."

     "Darling, I don't think that's a good idea."  Well, the
bastard speaks!  What a surprise.  It's the most he's bothered
to say to me since we walked in last night.  He comes over, all
concern.  Damn, I forgot.  He played Prospero in that same
production.  "Sweetheart, you need to rest.  Dave is at the
hospital and he promised to call if there is any change.  Fox is
sleeping."  Yes, of course.  Sleeping so soundly his mother's
screams can't wake him.  Sleeping so soundly that the word
'vegetable' has been used to describe what he'll be like when or
if he wakes up.  That damn hypo took too long to work.	I
heard every word the ambulance driver was saying on the
radio to the hospital.

     "I don't want to rest, William.  I want to see my son."  I use
an even tone.  I am not hysterical.  I am simply a mother who
has a sick child who needs her.  And besides, it's not a real
good idea to have me, Bill Mulder and all those nice FBI
service revolvers in the same room right now.  Then, at least,
it would give these poor agents something to do. . .

     He's always been able to read my moods.  That might
explain the look of fear that flashes in his eyes.  "All right,
sweetheart.  I'll go get my car keys."

     I put my hand on his arm to stop him.  "No, darling, that's
all right.  I'm sure Agent Janson has more questions for you.
If one of these nice young men could give me a lift."  Damn, I
can be charming when I want to!  Even Janson looks
impressed.  Bill still looks nervous.

     "Well, sure, Mrs. Mulder.  It's the least we can do.  Harris,
get over here."  A lanky young man with sandy hair lopes
over.  Absently, he swipes at the lock of hair that falls over his
forehead.  He looks so much like Fox when he does that.  My
Fox.  My baby.

     I'm really not all that interested in watching the inner
workings of the FBI.  It's pretty mundane and worthless.  I
know what happened.  Bill sold my child to the devil.  It's
simple, actually.  Samantha.  Funny, I always thought she was
his favorite.  It makes so little sense that he would trade her
for his life.  I mean, Fox, he would trade for a subway token,
but Samantha, she was his prize.

     Maybe that's why I'm not all that concerned about Sam
right now.   I know Bill is being eaten alive inside.  It wasn't
supposed to be this way, they were supposed to take Fox.
This is a new wrinkle.	And Fox's illness, how does all that fit
in, Bill?  Was this a part of the deal?

     I have no doubt that Sam will be returned.  I mean, what's a
threat if it's carried out?  It ceases to hold weight.  Then, it
becomes an action, and as such, will create a reaction.  And
god forbid it if Bill were to react.  That is exactly what they
were hoping to avoid.  So I know it will be over soon.	Now
that they've shown their power, they will drop her off, safe and
sound.	Just a little scare, Bill.  Just to keep you in line.  But
what in god's name has this done to our son?

     Agent Harris is a nice young man.	I mean that, I'm not
being flippant.  He's well mannered and polite.  He tries for
small talk in the car.	He tells me that this is his seventh
missing persons case and in all the others, the person was
returned unharmed.  He tries very hard to reassure me.	So I
smile at him and nod.  He knows absolutely nothing.

     For a split second, I consider telling him everything.  He's
young, bright.	It's obvious that he's good at his job.  This one
is high profile, State Department official has his 8 year old
daughter abducted from his home.  Pull out the 'big' guns for
this one, boys.  As we were walking into the hospital, I notice
we made the Boston papers, front page, banner headline.
Very impressive.

     So, if I tell him what I know, and my suspicions, what will
he do?	Will he act on them?  Will he take them to dear Agent
In Charge Janson and make a formal report?  Or will he brush
it off as being the rantings of a woman under extreme stress?
What would be the use?	I would probably get this very nice
young man killed.  I don't want that on my head.  I keep quiet.

     I really want them to take Fox to one of the Boston
hospitals.  I want him away from his father, away from the
FBI.  I know that if he wakes and he still has the capacity to
speak, they'll question him.  While I was 'resting', I overheard
Janson telling Harris that they could not discount the
possibility that Fox was a suspect.  I almost got out of the bed
and hit him.  To suspect Fox is as ridiculous as it would be to
suspect me in these charades.

     The room they have him in is small.  It's a private room.
They have him hooked up to some machine that supposedly
measures brain activity.  That, and an IV in his arm, giving him
fluids, are the only signs that he's not just sleeping.  He looks
so young.  He's just a little boy.  He would 'kill' me if he heard
me say that.  But this is how I will always see him.  My little
boy.

     "Hello, munchkin," I whisper.  He hates for me to call him
that.  It's what I called him when he was tiny.  There he was,
barely three and reading and writing and asking so many
questions.  I once told him I thought he was a munchkin,
dropped from OZ.   The mayor of Munchkin City, perhaps.
Or the Coroner.  He liked the idea then, but 12 year old boys
don't like to be reminded that they once sat on your lap and fell
asleep sucking their thumbs.  Damn it all, I have to stop
crying.

     "Hello, Mrs. Mulder."  I look up and see Dr. Howe
standing in the doorway.  He's our pediatrician.  In two more
years, he won't see Fox anymore, Fox will be too old.  But
right now, I'm glad he's still taking care of my baby boy.

     "Dr. Howe, what is wrong with him?"  I hope I don't sound
like I'm begging, but I know I do.  Dr. Howe shakes his head.

     "I wish I knew, Mrs. Mulder.  I really wish I knew."  He
picks up the chart at the end of the bed.  "He's in a coma.  I've
been on the phone this morning to a friend of mine in Boston,
who just got back from Nam.  He says it's not an uncommon
sign of intense emotional trauma.  Fox is hiding, inside his
mind.  He doesn't want to come out right now.  Not until it's
safe, at least."

     "When will it be safe?" I ask.  I meant it in the rhetorical
sense, but Dr. Howe doesn't realize that.

     "Probably in a couple of days.  Unfortunately, he probably
won't remember much of what happened.  It was too
frightening for him to handle.	He may never remember, his
mind might never let it surface.

     I look at him critically.	"You talk as if he'll be all right."

     He smiles at me, giving me a kind look that tells me that he
understands my concern.  "I really feel he will be fine.  He's in
shock.	After what happened, that's understandable.  We can
thank God that who ever took Samantha didn't harm him."  He
realizes what he's said and looks embarrassed.  "Mrs. Mulder,
I didn't mean. . ."

     "It's all right, Dr. Howe.  I was thinking the same thing
earlier.  The FBI is looking for Samantha.  I'm sure they will
do everything in their power to find her.  I just glad that Fox
was unharmed."  I'm getting so good at lying, it's coming
almost as naturally as the truth these days.  "Can he hear me?"
I want him to be able to hear me.  I need to reassure him.

     "I really don't think so, Mrs. Mulder.  There is not enough
brain activity.  But that's not to say he doesn't know that you
are here and that you love him.  I'm sure he knows that.  I'll
leave you alone with  him."  He gives my son one last look and
leaves the room.

     "Fox.  I don't care what the doctor says, I know you can
hear me.  Baby, please, it's going to be all right.  We're going
to get Sammi back, sweetheart, don't worry.  We, I just want
you to get well.  Please get well, sweetheart.	Can you do that
for mother?  Can you get well for me?"  Ouch.  My heart hurts
watching him.  He's not moving a muscle, not even his eyelids.

     "He will recover, you know," a voice says from the
doorway.

     "What the hell are you doing here?" I growl.  I get up from
my seat and charge, head first.  The bastard takes a few of my
punches and then grabs my arms and holds me tight.  He
moves me backwards and closes the door with his foot.
"Now, now, let's calm down, all right.  We certainly don't want
to make a scene now, do we?"

     "Yes, I do," I hiss at him.  "A scene so big that you fry in
hell, you bastard!  Where is my daughter?  When is she coming
home?"

     "I really have no control over that, and you know that."
And I do.  But I don't want to believe it.  I want him to be
responsible.  I want someone to blame and he's the only other
person standing in the room.

     "When?" I say again.  I'd kill him if I could.  But then, what
could a dead body tell me?

     "I don't know.  In some ways, that's up to your husband.  I
can't help you.  But I can help him."  He nods toward the
hospital bed where Fox is sleeping.

     "What are you talking about?"  I hate this man so much it
makes my head hurt.

     "Look, you're friends of mine. . ."

     "Not anymore!  Never again," I interrupt.

     "*Were* friends of mine.  I couldn't stop what happened
last night.  I tried, really I did."  He looks at me like he almost
expects me to believe this load of shit he's trying to sell me.  I
hope he sees in my eyes that I'm not buying.  "Anyway, last
night is in the past. . ."

     "I want my daugher back," I growl.

     "At the price of your son's life?"  He actually looks curious.

     "What are you talking about?"

     "They need a hostage.  Samantha is that hostage.  I can
assure you that she's safe."

     "I don't believe you."

     "I can't help that, it's the truth.  But if you make too much
of this, if you try to do anything that might endanger National
Security," he pauses for effect, the bastard, "you're son will
suffer.  He might possibly give his life for your foolishness."

     "You're threatening Fox?"

     "No, I'm offering him my protection.  Let this go.  It will be
handled by others.  You've lost one child, my dear, you don't
really want to lose both.  You can't have anymore, or so your
medical records show.  Keep this one.  It's the best I can
offer."  He starts to open the door to leave.

     I look over at Fox.  He's still asleep, oblivious to this
discussion of his very life.  How can I let them harm him?  He's
all I have.

     "Wait."  I can't believe I've spoken.  He stops in the
doorway, expectant.  I can't breath for a moment and he holds
his peace, giving me time.

     "I accept."

the end

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