Title - Half Life 1984
Rating - R
Classification - S, A
Author: Joann Humby
22 March 98

SUMMARY:
On the eleventh anniversary of Samantha Mulder's disappearance.
Fox Mulder is in England with Phoebe Greene.

Thanks to my trusty beta readers for edits/encouragement.

Legally:
The people you know in this story belong to Chris Carter, 1013
and Fox as brought to life by DD, GA and the X-Files writers.
I've borrowed them for fun not profit. This story, is mine.

=============

Normal is a much overused term. It is not, however, a term I would
ever use about myself.

On a good day, I know that no one is normal. Today is not a good day.
Nor should it be. I'm at least smart enough to know that much about
me.

Phoebe has fully retractable claws. She slapped the soft velvet pads
of her paws over me until I told her the origins of my descent into
melancholia. She licked her lips, happy cat that had got the cream
and was sated enough to enjoy it at her leisure.

The story of Sam and Fox. Not Sam Fox you understood, she's a topless
model who does photos that adorn the pages of the national daily
newspapers over here. Which makes me smile a little, stranger in a
strange land.

Anyway the Sam story, let's call it that to avoid confusion and
Freudian sounding but redundant parallels. Phoebe got the Sam story
months ago. Stuffed a wedge under the defenses and levered the door
open and all the skeletons in the closet had come tumbling out. Well,
not all. Obviously, not all. I'm not that stupid and I wasn't that
far gone on warm beer and hot kisses.

As I say, when my nerves crumbled and my mood rolled inexorably
downhill this week, she noticed. She's used to the bouncing ball, not
the one that just rolls downhill. She stroked and nagged and purred
and rubbed up against me.

So I told her. Something I celebrate every year, whether I want to or
not. Happy Anniversary. Which is fine, because I don't like
Christmas, but I get forced to celebrate that. Well, watch other
people celebrate it. Personally, I got out of that particular bad
habit years ago. I watch other people who don't want to celebrate it,
go along with it though. Path of least resistance. They do it for the
family, for the children. Just like me and tonight.

She's going to help me kick the habit of celebrating alone. I'm
terrified. I don't have the kind of illusions about Phoebe that
you're supposed to have about your loved ones. Supposed to have? Ok,
this is not a paperback romance. She's brilliant and alive, with all
the softness of semtex and none of the predictability.

Love, like normal, is an overused and misused word. Misguided, poor
benighted specimen that I am, love is not high on my list of
preferred words today. Instead I'm waiting in my room, dressed to
venture into the great unknown, ready for her to knock on the door.
And hoping that she won't hurt me.

It's time, my carriage awaits. Heralded not by the knock on the door
but by the tinny clank of the half broken doorbell. Life and poetry
seldom rhyme.

---------------

A day of exorcising my demons, she said. Long walk along the Cherwell
and then on to the Thames to watch boats padding through the locks.
Are they mad? It's absolutely bloody freezing today. Who in their
right mind would want to get on a boat in weather like this? What was
that about normal?

We talk a little. No, I talk a little. She answers like a mirror,
saying nothing original, just bouncing me back on myself, urging me
on. I'm not that easy, but she has patience. Little bits of me slip
out and she captures them, files them away. First kiss; first time I
made the basketball team; first time I realized that I was smarter
than my teachers. Last time I saw Sam.

The bed is creaky as she rewards me for my stories. My brain offers
its own guesses at the rate of exchange. My body just chases her
warmth.

Her fingers in my mouth stopped me arguing when she told me that the
next item on the agenda was for us to go out for the evening, get a
meal. Purr of a voice. "I've been right so far, haven't I? You need
this to be taken out of your hands for a while."

It's a beautiful thought. Let someone else carry me for a time, tell
me what to do. When to get up, when to go out. What more could a
depressive ask for? Maybe she'll choose the food as well.

All dressed up. Who'd have thought it? Happy anniversary.

-------------------

The claws are out. She used them to hold me in place when we got to
the pub and I saw the sign. The private room for the private party?

I should have known. I should have known better. What did I imagine
when she said it, "let's go for a meal". Dimmed lights. Gentle music.
Leisurely food. Me and her and a quiet tete a tete and some soft
words that we wouldn't quite mean, but which would do to get us
through the night.

It's Phoebe's birthday next week, what a nice coincidence. A time and
place to bring together a bunch of her friends and more startling
perhaps, she even sought out and invited some of mine. We are a
little late, because I was a little slow, a little reluctant to get
out of bed. I didn't know that I was being timed. They've been
waiting here for a while, they almost applaud as we walk in.

My beloved has a taste for the theatrical, she has her opening speech
prepared. When she told the happy band of invited revelers that it
was a combined bash, her birthday next week and my anniversary today,
they smiled and assumed that she was talking about us. Me and her.
She set them straight. Not our anniversary. Something special to Fox
alone.

Fox. That's a clue, you see. Subtlety isn't one of her strong points.
On those rare occasions when she needs to use my name she calls me
Mulder. Fox is the skin I'm supposed to shed. He has these problems,
these anniversaries.

Her claws pinch through the fabric of my jacket and I wish I'd worn
leather. Or a nice shiny metal coat of armour. She's good. I'll give
her that. She can drain the blood and not leave any visible scars

She lulled me, hypnotized me. Mouse that I am. She convinced me that
she was merely playful, not predatory. I just take it, like that
means I'm tough, like that means I can handle it, handle her. Sure.
We all believe that, me and her both.

Yessir, I just stand here in the middle of a crowd of the semi drunk
and the heading that way. I let her grip my arm, announcing her
ownership. The itch, to push her away and run, burns. But I'm too
well trained, too aware of the need not to show weakness. Smile at
your friends Mulder, Fox has an anniversary.

If it wasn't for the fact that I know Phoebe's thesis is on the
'Menstrual Cycle as a Predictor of Female Criminal Activity', then I
would assume that I was actually her case study. Not just her hobby.
Her little recreational lab rat.

Push the buttons, see him jump.

Good little lab rat that I am, I learn fast. She smiles with delight
as I allow the muscles in my arm to slacken. She kisses me on the
cheek and squeals an over-exuberant "well done" into my ear. She
relaxes her hold and goes off to play her role as party host.

"What's the anniversary?" Happy smiling face in front of mine.

"Nothing." I say. And bite the flesh inside my cheek to add emphasis
to the mental thump that hits me hard in the stomach.

So I try again. "A family thing. It's…" It's what? Come on genius.
"It's personal."

After all, I don't want to spoil the party. Not when everyone's
having such a good time. The questioner walks away, looks puzzled.
He's probably trying to work out what sort of anniversary you
celebrate with your girlfriend and a bunch of drunken guests but
which can't be identified.

Believe me. You don't want to know. I expect they'll run a book on it
later. Place your bets. Loss of virginity? Birth of first
illegitimate child? Last time I wet the bed?

A glass of guinness appears, as if by magic. And a vodka to chase. I
don't want to, but there's no doubt about it, it's the quickest way
to leave the party.

---------------

The taxi takes me home. Home? The taxi takes me to the house I share
in the row of turn of the century brick built flea pits. Not a fair
description. Walk to the next block, street, whatever and you'll find
almost identical terraced houses and they change hands for pots of
money. Of course they've been yuppiefied, gone upmarket, new windows
and doors and plants climbing up the walls and no parking space for
the extra cars. It's not that I drank a lot. Not really. A couple of
pints and a few vodkas. But knocked back fast. I never did get that
food Phoebe told me we were going to eat.

At least I knew to go and get a taxi. Well, actually I didn't. At
least Mike knew to make me leave with him. He has to get up early to
do his weight training and he stays off the drink. He's a rower,
should get his blue this year, main boat for the big race against
Cambridge. What the fuck am I talking about.

Coffee. I read an article about that the other day, good or bad for
hangovers? I mean for not getting hangovers. Can't remember the
answer. Glass of milk maybe. Cup of tea.

Food then. Always a good idea to eat. Fries. Chips. Sure, good idea,
find a sharp knife and get to work and burn the house down when I
forget to turn off the fat fryer. Safer idea, food without cooking.
Should have brought some home. Maybe I can go and get some. No, way
too far on too cold a night. There's got to be something in here.
Cookies. Biscuits. Crackers. Whatever.

When did I become a sensible drunk? Bit of a paradox there. Sober
idiot. Sensible drunk. Dad would be so proud.

"Phoebe." Shut up, idiot. The house may be empty now, but talking to
yourself is a really bad habit.

Phoebe. This was your idea. It was your theory that I wasn't supposed
to be left alone today. So where are you? Why is it that it's only me
and my demons huddling up together in the building.

Reckon I can make it to midnight without summoning up a vision of a
dead little girl? Big prize if I make it, I'll declare myself cured.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? No sirree, not me, Post-PTSD.

If she's not dead then how come it's always a little kid who I
conjure up in my head? Ha, ha, don't even need to study psychology to
nail that one. If I try and imagine her all grown up the image gets
too blurred, too unrealistic, too much like pretense. Imagine her
maybe looking a bit like Mom, I mean like Mom did at that age. But
Mom hadn't been dead for eleven years when she was twenty.

She's dead, move on. Visualize a funeral, imagine her name on the
gravestone. Easy. Dead easy.

I never saw her dead. I never felt her die. If I felt it then maybe I
could move on. I kid myself that's what all this is about.

Makes my specialist subject a little macabre but oh so
understandable. Read about killers, imagine how easy it is to squeeze
the life out of an eight year old neck. Imagine it so well until I
can imagine that it's not a stranger's kid.

Oh fuck.

Don't even think like that. Your strait jacket awaits, Sir.

I hate you Phoebe, hate your cold eyes and your colder heart, hate
your smiling face and your generous body. You're so sure of yourself,
you and your quack cures. Get me out of my head for the night. So
when Sam came knocking I wouldn't be at home. Bad idea, when Sam
comes knocking, I need my wits about me. All the defenses manned and
ready to repel boarders. Not standing in a kitchen without enough
guts left to choose between coffee and tea. This little charade was
intended as a cure wasn't it?

You thought it would help didn't you? This is not just a little game
you constructed for your lab rat. Is it?

Trashy tinkle of broken door bell.

That's good, first step and I crash into the table, the food hits the
floor. Great. Drunk and clumsy and blurred vision. When did I start
crying.

"Hello Mulder. You ran off without saying goodbye. They were all very
concerned." Smile of a predator, she doesn't bother to hide her
claws.

Next year. I'll get it right.