XF fic: if you are to ask
Here’s the truth: ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Scully-centric. Mostly circa early season 1. Pg. 1570 words.
&
Here’s the truth: ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.
Yet everyone asks questions, an inescapable fact.
&
She’s in an office.
It’s a bland-looking office, nondescript, nothing special about it. Pale grey walls are set off by the darker grey carpet. Illumination is provided by the whitish-grey light streaming into the office via the open blinds. Outside the day is overcast, the sheet of clouds mere shades darker than white.
Besides her, there are three men in the office, dressed in suits, grey-haired. Two sit, one stands. The one standing leans against a grey filing cabinet, smoking a cigarette. He doesn’t speak, simply watches.
The man next to Section Chief Belvins asks, “Are you familiar with an agent named Fox Mulder?”
“Yes I am.”
“How so?”
She answers, mentions knowing him by reputation. She refrains from mentioning the whispers she’s heard, the whispers of Spooky has really loss his marbles. No sense repeating that information. All she’s heard are rumors, whispers, muttered because no one wants to mock him aloud, not yet at least.
(Later they will. And later they’ll whisper about her, watching her with curious eyes, unable to understand.)
Curiosity fills her as she waits to learn why she has been called here, along with a growing sense of apprehension. The question of where she has been brought here dances in her head, a question eventually answered. The X-Files project is explained to her, along with her assignment.
“Am I to understand that you want me to debunk the X-Files project, sir?” she asks, tone sharp. A question asked, dangerous, for the answer may not be to her liking.
Section Chief Belvins says, “Agent Scully, we trust you’ll make the proper scientific analysis. You’ll want to contact Agent Mulder shortly. We look forward to seeing your reports.”
What he really means: Yes, debunk the X-Files project. That is your mission. That is why we selected you, the scientist.
None of the men asks, “Will you do it?”
She’d have no answer to that question if it was to be asked. It isn’t asked though, no reason to ask. The expectation is there, causing a sort of icy water to rise up around, at her ankles now, inching upwards. This is not the kind of assignment she thought she would get, not at all. The reality numbs her.
She’s dismissed. Anaesthetized is what she feels, as she gets up, as heads towards the basement.
&
She’s in another office, this time one in the basement.
The walls and floor are a slate grey, dull and flat. Surfaces are covered: dozens of files and thick books stacked upon one another, newspaper articles and crime scene photos tacked to the walls, a poster saying I Want To Believe hangs on the wall. The air smells of stale coffee and sweat, of desperation and belief, of dreams and hopes.
She introduces herself.
Mulder asks, “So, who did you tick off to get stuck with this detail, Scully?”
“Actually, I’m looking forward to working with you,” she says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Lies comprise both sentences. She has yet to decide if she is looking forward to working with him, still reeling from the icy revelation she’s been chosen to shut down the X-Files project. Chosen because a group of men believe she will follow orders, believe she will do their binding. So she lies, wanting to disarm him perhaps, or maybe just make him less hostile. She lies for reasons she isn’t sure about.
He doesn’t call her on her lies. He says he thinks she’s a spy, he lists off her qualifications, he shows her slides.
Then: “Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?”
That question she answers honestly. The conversation continues, with its banter, its dialogue. No one giving, no one conceding, each firm in their opinion.
In the end, he says, “We leave for the very plausible state of Oregon at eight A.M.”
Once again she’s dismissed.
Putting a smile on her face, she walks out. Her thoughts are upside down, inside out, topsy turvy, all a jumbled. Excitement at a field assignment, wariness for the subject, doubt about her role: her thoughts. She walks through the dimly-lit basement hallway to the elevator.
She has no idea how many times she’ll make this journey in the future.
(If she had known what would happen, would she have ran and never come back? There’s no answer.)
&
After the first cases, she tells her parent about the new job.
It’s a Sunday evening. She’s having dinner at their house. Dinner is finished, the coffee is brewing, dessert will be served soon. There are candles on the white tablecloth, lending a soft glow to the dining room.
Her father leans back against his chair, waiting. Her position mirrors his. Her mother returns from the kitchen, saying the coffee will be ready in a minute. There are nods then silence.
“How’s the FBI?” her father asks, shattering the silence.
She pauses, considers how to answer. Tell the truth, tell a lie, or tell a mixture of the two? She settles for the latter option.
“I got a promotion, actually,” she says, sitting up slightly. The X-Files assignment isn’t a promotion, not in the strictest sense, not to anyone not planning to debunk and shut it down. “I’m in the field now,” she adds. She smiles as if proud.
At this point she has no idea what the job will become. No idea how embroiled she’ll get, how it’ll form the basis of her existence in the coming years. No idea of what she’ll gain, what she’ll lose, unaware of the costs associated with actions. No idea of how the past will linger, how everything will end.
(She did not debunk the X-Files project. Her decision and all decisions have consequences. Everyone knows that.)
“Sounds dangerous,” her mother says.
“I’ll be performing post-mortem examinations mostly, and assisting my partner. I don’t foresee it as that dangerous.”
In her words she neglects to say how the motel was burned down on her first assignment, how she rescued her partner on another assignment. Doesn’t mention how a gun felt gripped in her hands in the heat of the moment. Keeps a secret how her partner is consumed by a burning desire for the truth, ready to risk everything in that desperate pursuit. Her parents would just worry, would fear she’d became something he’d risk.
And she can see it happening, hopes it won’t. Being a sacrifice for the truth is far from on her list of things to do.
Her father brings up Billy and his recent promotion. A topic switch and she keeps quiet, letting the topic slide away. She doesn’t ask, “Are you proud of me?”
(One day though she’ll know. She’ll know and she’ll say, “He was my father.”)
&
Mulder never says: follow me down the rabbit hole, into this strange (new) world of liver-eating mutants and killer bees and little grey men. Never asks if she wants to follow him through the underground tunnels of lies and misinformation and conspiracies, pass the suit-clad men and the deals with devils, pass the losses that smell of damp dirt, those losses that cling. Never tells her to follow him and never asks, “You sure about this, Scully?”
Maybe he thought she’d never last. Her time with the X-Files project could have been only temporary, could have been over before it began. But that’s not how the story unfolds, not her story of heartache and loss and love.
When she did stay, perhaps he chalked it up to her free will. And maybe he thought: there will be time.
One day comes a time when he does tell her to leave. He doesn’t question her on whether she wants to stay, tells her to go. Tells her after she holds a bouncing baby dressed in pastel, after some losses (three months, Missy, cancer, Emily; make a list of losses and see how long it is), before others (him, William), loss a constant aspect of the story. The story that seems neverending at times, but the story will end, at some point.
(There are always endings.)
“There has to be an end, Scully,” he says.
My place is with you, she thinks and doesn’t say.
She clasps his hand and holds it near her mouth. She doesn’t want this to be the end.
&
If he had asked at the beginning, before it all truly began? If he had asked: “Is this what you want, Scully? Are you sure?”
He never asked, but could have.
Her answer would have never done. “There were, of course, crimes committed,” she said when asked to justify the legitimacy of the first investigation. She likely would have said this if he had asked.
(And those words would have failed to capture her feelings, deep inside, the ones Mulder stirred, the ones the cases stirred.)
&
Shadows linger in the darkened corners of the room while ghosts, real and not, whisper and mill about. The baby sleeps in the other room, unaware of his mother’s melancholy.
Why did you follow him? the ghosts would ask.
“A path less travelled,” she’d say, and her answer wouldn’t do.
Or maybe she’d say nothing at all. And even if she did say anything, would it be the truth?
Here’s the truth: Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.
&
End
&
Here’s the truth: ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.
Yet everyone asks questions, an inescapable fact.
&
She’s in an office.
It’s a bland-looking office, nondescript, nothing special about it. Pale grey walls are set off by the darker grey carpet. Illumination is provided by the whitish-grey light streaming into the office via the open blinds. Outside the day is overcast, the sheet of clouds mere shades darker than white.
Besides her, there are three men in the office, dressed in suits, grey-haired. Two sit, one stands. The one standing leans against a grey filing cabinet, smoking a cigarette. He doesn’t speak, simply watches.
The man next to Section Chief Belvins asks, “Are you familiar with an agent named Fox Mulder?”
“Yes I am.”
“How so?”
She answers, mentions knowing him by reputation. She refrains from mentioning the whispers she’s heard, the whispers of Spooky has really loss his marbles. No sense repeating that information. All she’s heard are rumors, whispers, muttered because no one wants to mock him aloud, not yet at least.
(Later they will. And later they’ll whisper about her, watching her with curious eyes, unable to understand.)
Curiosity fills her as she waits to learn why she has been called here, along with a growing sense of apprehension. The question of where she has been brought here dances in her head, a question eventually answered. The X-Files project is explained to her, along with her assignment.
“Am I to understand that you want me to debunk the X-Files project, sir?” she asks, tone sharp. A question asked, dangerous, for the answer may not be to her liking.
Section Chief Belvins says, “Agent Scully, we trust you’ll make the proper scientific analysis. You’ll want to contact Agent Mulder shortly. We look forward to seeing your reports.”
What he really means: Yes, debunk the X-Files project. That is your mission. That is why we selected you, the scientist.
None of the men asks, “Will you do it?”
She’d have no answer to that question if it was to be asked. It isn’t asked though, no reason to ask. The expectation is there, causing a sort of icy water to rise up around, at her ankles now, inching upwards. This is not the kind of assignment she thought she would get, not at all. The reality numbs her.
She’s dismissed. Anaesthetized is what she feels, as she gets up, as heads towards the basement.
&
She’s in another office, this time one in the basement.
The walls and floor are a slate grey, dull and flat. Surfaces are covered: dozens of files and thick books stacked upon one another, newspaper articles and crime scene photos tacked to the walls, a poster saying I Want To Believe hangs on the wall. The air smells of stale coffee and sweat, of desperation and belief, of dreams and hopes.
She introduces herself.
Mulder asks, “So, who did you tick off to get stuck with this detail, Scully?”
“Actually, I’m looking forward to working with you,” she says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Lies comprise both sentences. She has yet to decide if she is looking forward to working with him, still reeling from the icy revelation she’s been chosen to shut down the X-Files project. Chosen because a group of men believe she will follow orders, believe she will do their binding. So she lies, wanting to disarm him perhaps, or maybe just make him less hostile. She lies for reasons she isn’t sure about.
He doesn’t call her on her lies. He says he thinks she’s a spy, he lists off her qualifications, he shows her slides.
Then: “Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?”
That question she answers honestly. The conversation continues, with its banter, its dialogue. No one giving, no one conceding, each firm in their opinion.
In the end, he says, “We leave for the very plausible state of Oregon at eight A.M.”
Once again she’s dismissed.
Putting a smile on her face, she walks out. Her thoughts are upside down, inside out, topsy turvy, all a jumbled. Excitement at a field assignment, wariness for the subject, doubt about her role: her thoughts. She walks through the dimly-lit basement hallway to the elevator.
She has no idea how many times she’ll make this journey in the future.
(If she had known what would happen, would she have ran and never come back? There’s no answer.)
&
After the first cases, she tells her parent about the new job.
It’s a Sunday evening. She’s having dinner at their house. Dinner is finished, the coffee is brewing, dessert will be served soon. There are candles on the white tablecloth, lending a soft glow to the dining room.
Her father leans back against his chair, waiting. Her position mirrors his. Her mother returns from the kitchen, saying the coffee will be ready in a minute. There are nods then silence.
“How’s the FBI?” her father asks, shattering the silence.
She pauses, considers how to answer. Tell the truth, tell a lie, or tell a mixture of the two? She settles for the latter option.
“I got a promotion, actually,” she says, sitting up slightly. The X-Files assignment isn’t a promotion, not in the strictest sense, not to anyone not planning to debunk and shut it down. “I’m in the field now,” she adds. She smiles as if proud.
At this point she has no idea what the job will become. No idea how embroiled she’ll get, how it’ll form the basis of her existence in the coming years. No idea of what she’ll gain, what she’ll lose, unaware of the costs associated with actions. No idea of how the past will linger, how everything will end.
(She did not debunk the X-Files project. Her decision and all decisions have consequences. Everyone knows that.)
“Sounds dangerous,” her mother says.
“I’ll be performing post-mortem examinations mostly, and assisting my partner. I don’t foresee it as that dangerous.”
In her words she neglects to say how the motel was burned down on her first assignment, how she rescued her partner on another assignment. Doesn’t mention how a gun felt gripped in her hands in the heat of the moment. Keeps a secret how her partner is consumed by a burning desire for the truth, ready to risk everything in that desperate pursuit. Her parents would just worry, would fear she’d became something he’d risk.
And she can see it happening, hopes it won’t. Being a sacrifice for the truth is far from on her list of things to do.
Her father brings up Billy and his recent promotion. A topic switch and she keeps quiet, letting the topic slide away. She doesn’t ask, “Are you proud of me?”
(One day though she’ll know. She’ll know and she’ll say, “He was my father.”)
&
Mulder never says: follow me down the rabbit hole, into this strange (new) world of liver-eating mutants and killer bees and little grey men. Never asks if she wants to follow him through the underground tunnels of lies and misinformation and conspiracies, pass the suit-clad men and the deals with devils, pass the losses that smell of damp dirt, those losses that cling. Never tells her to follow him and never asks, “You sure about this, Scully?”
Maybe he thought she’d never last. Her time with the X-Files project could have been only temporary, could have been over before it began. But that’s not how the story unfolds, not her story of heartache and loss and love.
When she did stay, perhaps he chalked it up to her free will. And maybe he thought: there will be time.
One day comes a time when he does tell her to leave. He doesn’t question her on whether she wants to stay, tells her to go. Tells her after she holds a bouncing baby dressed in pastel, after some losses (three months, Missy, cancer, Emily; make a list of losses and see how long it is), before others (him, William), loss a constant aspect of the story. The story that seems neverending at times, but the story will end, at some point.
(There are always endings.)
“There has to be an end, Scully,” he says.
My place is with you, she thinks and doesn’t say.
She clasps his hand and holds it near her mouth. She doesn’t want this to be the end.
&
If he had asked at the beginning, before it all truly began? If he had asked: “Is this what you want, Scully? Are you sure?”
He never asked, but could have.
Her answer would have never done. “There were, of course, crimes committed,” she said when asked to justify the legitimacy of the first investigation. She likely would have said this if he had asked.
(And those words would have failed to capture her feelings, deep inside, the ones Mulder stirred, the ones the cases stirred.)
&
Shadows linger in the darkened corners of the room while ghosts, real and not, whisper and mill about. The baby sleeps in the other room, unaware of his mother’s melancholy.
Why did you follow him? the ghosts would ask.
“A path less travelled,” she’d say, and her answer wouldn’t do.
Or maybe she’d say nothing at all. And even if she did say anything, would it be the truth?
Here’s the truth: Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.
&
End