Storm Tossed 
 by Vickie Moseley vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com 
 Date: Wed, 29 May 96 

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, "your 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