TITLE: Clinging to Threads With Shakespeare
AUTHOR: Jillian D. Bassavo
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL: Xfile482@aol.com
FEEDBACK: That's the way, uh huh uh huh, I like it, uh huh uh huh.
CATEGORY: Vignette, I think.
RATING: Oh please ... just barely PG
SUMMARY: Mulder thinks.
DISCLAIMER: If they were mine, Duchovny would be wearing that Speedo a hell of a lot more often. But they're not, and so he must remain fully clothed.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The poem in this story is "Sonnet 60" by William Shakespeare. Also, I'm searching for a good beta. I'm an editor, so if anyone needs a beta, I'd love to do it, but I would like someone to 'double-check my work.' Please reply and let me know.
Thanks so much...hope you enjoy the story.
CLINGING TO THREADS WITH SHAKESPEARE
by Jillian D. Bassavo
***
You've changed, Scully.
I do not say this out loud, because I already know the reaction I'll get. A raised eyebrow, an 'I could say the same about you, Mulder.' But I still think it. Over and over again.
You've changed.
When you stepped into my office almost seven years ago, there was a haughtiness about you. An arrogant air that instantly made me want to take every single scientific formula that couldn't explain what I believed in and somehow, someway destroy it. To null what could potentially prove me wrong.
Now the arguments you throw at me are perfunctory. We both know you believe -- if not in everything in the X-files, at least in a hell of a lot more than you started out with -- but you still maintain the persona of the tight-assed scientist.
I know why; or at least, I believe I know why. You're scared that if you totally let go, totally and unquestionably surrender to the extreme, you'll lose yourself. You'll become a person you don't recognize, discovering monsters and mutants that aren't supposed to be there. And once you know they're there, you have to keep looking for them. It's the only way you can live with yourself, if you try to eradicate the evil you know exists.
I know, Scully. I was afraid of the same things.
During my years in high school, I fit into the rare categories of 'genius,' 'brilliant' or 'smart-ass'. I treasured those unspoken titles --especially genius. They let me know that I was different. Not weird different, or strange different -- funny, I dreaded being strange -- but good different. Something I could be proud of.
Through college, I had picked up a few more nicknames. Things like, 'brooding genius' by my literature professor, and 'demmed sharp fellow' by my psychology professor. Other pseudonyms, ones gained during fraternity parties in which the occupants of the frat house were a little too intoxicated, followed. Those ones I'd rather forget.
Next came Quantico. Contrary to popular belief, I didn't earn 'Spooky' there. Shooting cardboard figures in Hogan's Alley, arresting pseudo-suspects for bank robberies -- nothing that the average student couldn't excel at. I graduated top of my class, but that's not something that will get you a Nobel Prize. I was fresh out of the academy, looking forward to a brilliant career, never-ending accolades, and acceptance.
Acceptance.
That was ruled out after I announced that I was leaving the Violent Crimes mainstream and opening a 'division' of my own. Most of my coworkers were angry and disgusted. The same people who had 'affectionately' given me my 'Spooky' reputation now turned on me with a vengeance. Spooky Mulder: the man who got into the FBI and wasted a potentially legendary career to chase little green men and liver-eating mutants.
This is where I started to fit into the 'tortured, angst-ridden genius' category. Someone driven by the desire to see his sister, his only flesh and blood that he had a chance of getting along with. Someone who might not judge him because he hadn't tried to save her sooner. Someone who maybe, just maybe, would believe in him.
I still look for her. Out of habit, more than anything else.
But my point, Scully, the point that I know will do nothing for your decision to be the skeptic or the believer, is that you've changed. You've already lost yourself -- I know. You have become an entirely different person, one that your family and old friends don't recognize and aren't quite sure how to handle.
At one time I desperately clung to the very last shreds of my sanity, holding onto straws as I hung over a chasm, a chasm that would engulf me as soon as I let go, something I feared all my life.
This is where you come in, Scully.
You poor little thing. In the beginning, you were convinced that you were debunking the work, making it seem ridiculous in contrast to your medical and scientific rationalizations. What you didn't know at first, though you soon seemed to realize, is that you weren't debunking it at all. Instead you gave it validity, something I could base my theories on with peace of mind.
Acceptance.
The threads I clung to grew stronger, until gradually they became a rope. And bit by bit, I climbed. Up the gorge, heading towards solid ground every minute. But on my way up, I saw you, and that's when I realized it.
You've changed.
While I was moving up, reclaiming some of my lost sanity and finding little things that made me happy -- little things about you, Scully – I caught a glimpse of red in that chasm, and I looked down.
There you were, clinging to the same threads that I had previously been holding onto, looking terrified for your life and desperately trying to hide it. You had never been in that position before, Scully. A position where everything you've convinced yourself is true turns upside down, rearranging your thought process and belief system. Your life.
Slowly, though, you crawled up the threads, looking to me for encouragement. I gave it as much as I could, and soon your threads grew stronger.
We are now journeying up this cliff wall together, towards stability, sanity, solid ground. But there are small things, outside things, that I couldn't help but notice on the way.
The Dana that walked into my office and had received the title 'Scully' didn't give a damn about designer clothes or cutting-edge hairstyles. She was strong, too confident in her reputation to be bothered about what people thought about her looks. Some people called her dowdy, others deemed her a paragon of professionalism.
Sometimes, when I lie awake on my couch with moonlight splashing in through my window, I wonder where she went. Where is that agent who was still wet behind the ears, believing in God, family, and country? When was she replaced by the 'scientist-meets-Armani' Scully?
I'm not going to sit here and mentally judge you on taking pride in your appearance. You're a beautiful woman, and you've made the most of what you have. But sometimes, I wish for the ability to replay certain moments over and over again. Things I can remember about the old Scully; things I can hold on to.
As I sit in this office now, staring at a spot above your left shoulder and thinking of the damage and the blessings time gives, I recall bits of a sonnet that I learned in college, until I remember it clearly, reciting it in my mind.
'Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of life,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow
And yet to times in--'
"Mulder?"
I jerk my head up to meet your gaze. "What?"
"What are you saying?"
"What?"
"You were talking."
"Was I?"
"Yes," you say impatiently. "What was it?"
"Just something I remembered from college."
"Care to recite it for me?"
"It's just Shakespeare, Scully."
You shrug, as if to say 'so?' And I begin.
"'Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of life,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.'"
You look at me, bemused. "Are you saying I look old, Mulder?"
It is not a question to be answered. I smile and shrug as I turn back to my computer.
You've changed, Scully. You're different now.
But you're still Scully.
***
END
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Jill D. Bassavo
