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crack_van2007-07-20 03:38 am
memento64.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2007-07-20 03:38 am
Entry tags:
Primal Sympathy by Lydia Bower (R)
Fandom: X-FILES
Pairing: Mulder/Scully
Author on LJ: If anyone knows, drop me a line...
Author Website: Imagine the Possibilities
Why this must be read: Set post-Gethsemane, I read this fic while it was coming out as a WIP during the summer hiatus before season 5 began. The PTB were making us wait until November for the new season, so several very talented authors took up the challenge of arriving at their own conclusion as to how Scully’s cancer, which had recently metastasized, could possibly be cured, as well as how viewers were supposed to reconcile the idea of Mulder’s “suicide” with the fact that he wasn’t likely to actually be dead. Lydia Bower’s tale is, in my mind, one of the best (if not the best) of these stories.
This story is not the nice and neat rewind we got with Redux, where Scully knew all along that Mulder had faked his death. Lydia took the despair that Gillian projected on screen and interpreted that to mean that Scully was unaware of Mulder’s plans (and in this story, Mulder’s plan is a lot more carefully thought out and plausible than him breaking into the pentagon on a whim). She also depicts the ramifications of these decisions in all their hear-rending, angry turmoil. Although this is an MSR fic (with some damn fine smut), as Lydia says on her web page, “These stories are not the "hearts and flowers" type. I much prefer to write Mulder and Scully as the flawed, less-than-perfect human beings they are.” And they are so much better that way
Read it because it’s a well plotted resolution to a story arc that badly deserved proper resolution. Read it because Lydia’s characterizations (especially of Mulder) are dead on. Read it because it’s just a damn fine story.
I don't know what will become of this place now, or where all his possessions will finally end up. Mulder didn't leave any kind of legal will. Instead, I found a file in his computer directory the day after his suicide, aptly named death.doc. It contained nothing more than his request that he be cremated and his ashes given to me to "Do with whatever you want, Scully. I trust you to do the right thing."
The right thing.
I don't know what that is anymore. All I can be certain of is that everything feels wrong now. It's as though someone has tipped the world on its axis just enough to set everything off-kilter. The earth stills turns, but nothing is the same. My balance is gone.
How much of this is my fault?
Oh, you can label this all yours, a little voice whispers back. You can spend the rest of your days taking the blame for his death.
I have the ashes. I suppose all I'm missing now is the sackcloth.
I saw the way his mother looked at me today at his memorial service. She blames me, too. Even though she has no way of knowing what happened that night. Or the words we exchanged. She wasn't there to see the light in his eyes snuffed out in an instant--the result of my proclamation of his guilt.
We studied each other warily during the entire service. And she broke the contact between us often enough that I know she bears her own share of guilt. The secrets she holds so closely are yet another truth her son will never uncover now.
She approached me after the service and pulled me aside. She had a request. I suppose it shouldn't have shocked me. After all, she'd been completely unable to make any of the arrangements. It all fell into my lap. From picking out the urn to deciding on the memorial chapel to selecting the music.
And now she wants me to go through his things and do with them what I see fit.
It's no wonder I feel like a widow.
Pairing: Mulder/Scully
Author on LJ: If anyone knows, drop me a line...
Author Website: Imagine the Possibilities
Why this must be read: Set post-Gethsemane, I read this fic while it was coming out as a WIP during the summer hiatus before season 5 began. The PTB were making us wait until November for the new season, so several very talented authors took up the challenge of arriving at their own conclusion as to how Scully’s cancer, which had recently metastasized, could possibly be cured, as well as how viewers were supposed to reconcile the idea of Mulder’s “suicide” with the fact that he wasn’t likely to actually be dead. Lydia Bower’s tale is, in my mind, one of the best (if not the best) of these stories.
This story is not the nice and neat rewind we got with Redux, where Scully knew all along that Mulder had faked his death. Lydia took the despair that Gillian projected on screen and interpreted that to mean that Scully was unaware of Mulder’s plans (and in this story, Mulder’s plan is a lot more carefully thought out and plausible than him breaking into the pentagon on a whim). She also depicts the ramifications of these decisions in all their hear-rending, angry turmoil. Although this is an MSR fic (with some damn fine smut), as Lydia says on her web page, “These stories are not the "hearts and flowers" type. I much prefer to write Mulder and Scully as the flawed, less-than-perfect human beings they are.” And they are so much better that way
Read it because it’s a well plotted resolution to a story arc that badly deserved proper resolution. Read it because Lydia’s characterizations (especially of Mulder) are dead on. Read it because it’s just a damn fine story.
I don't know what will become of this place now, or where all his possessions will finally end up. Mulder didn't leave any kind of legal will. Instead, I found a file in his computer directory the day after his suicide, aptly named death.doc. It contained nothing more than his request that he be cremated and his ashes given to me to "Do with whatever you want, Scully. I trust you to do the right thing."
The right thing.
I don't know what that is anymore. All I can be certain of is that everything feels wrong now. It's as though someone has tipped the world on its axis just enough to set everything off-kilter. The earth stills turns, but nothing is the same. My balance is gone.
How much of this is my fault?
Oh, you can label this all yours, a little voice whispers back. You can spend the rest of your days taking the blame for his death.
I have the ashes. I suppose all I'm missing now is the sackcloth.
I saw the way his mother looked at me today at his memorial service. She blames me, too. Even though she has no way of knowing what happened that night. Or the words we exchanged. She wasn't there to see the light in his eyes snuffed out in an instant--the result of my proclamation of his guilt.
We studied each other warily during the entire service. And she broke the contact between us often enough that I know she bears her own share of guilt. The secrets she holds so closely are yet another truth her son will never uncover now.
She approached me after the service and pulled me aside. She had a request. I suppose it shouldn't have shocked me. After all, she'd been completely unable to make any of the arrangements. It all fell into my lap. From picking out the urn to deciding on the memorial chapel to selecting the music.
And now she wants me to go through his things and do with them what I see fit.
It's no wonder I feel like a widow.
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