Welcome To The Harem
A Hostage Of The Mirror by FirePhile
Summary: Everyone has a story to tell -- even Diana Fowley.
From: FirePhile firephile@aol.com Date: 25 Nov 1998 11:20:49 GMT Subject: New: A Hostage of the Mirror (1/1) by FirePhile Title: A Hostage of the Mirror Author: FirePhile (FirePhile@aol.com) Classification: SAR Spoilers: The Beginning Rating: PG -13 Warnings: Mulder/Other (past) Summary: Everyone has a story to tell -- even Diana Fowley. Archive: Freely. Feedback: Send all missives to FirePhile@aol.com Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Spender, Fowley...don't belong to me they belong to CC&Co, 1013 and FOX. Author's note at end. Dedication: This one is to Sue for her constant support and love. I adore you Sue and your comments are a joy to receive. No matter what you say about a story of mine I will still consider you one of my favorite people. Mirrors are my enemy. Each time I glance into one it dispels the fantasy I have of myself as smooth skinned, soft eyed, and full of passionate ambition. The mental picture disappears in the light of harsh wrinkles and pained eyes. I still feel like I'm twenty-five years old. It's only when I look at my mirror image that I see the truth. Forty-one years old and I'm on a dead-end assignment. For added enjoyment all I can think when I look into my mirror now is, so this is what a traitor looks like. My Dad used to say that I was ready to take the world by the balls and pull. Sure I was. He raised me that way. As the only child of a widowed homicide detective I was taught early on about crime and the realities of the world. Dinner conversation consisted of, "How many did you catch today Dad? Were they all bad? Did they resist?" I was utterly fascinated by the idea of being a police officer, even if it was a frowned upon goal for a woman back when I was a little girl. I would arrest my friends and charge them with Murder 1 and Assault and Battery -- big words that sounded wonderful when Dad rattled them off as easily as I did my ABC's. When it came time for college my career path was well defined. In four short years I would be a police officer, but had to get my degree first. Justice was my logical choice, but I also majored in psychology. I graduated from New York University with a 3.95 GPA and signed up to take the civil service exam for police officers the next day. 1979 was a good year for me. It was the first time I put on the blue uniform thatwould become my second skin, the year I memorized everything my Dad could say and could soon rattle off the codes and crimes the same way I used to be able to recite favorite song lyrics as a kid. It was the year I learned how to use a gun and defend myself in any situation. Being an officer wasn't quite how I pictured it, though. I was partnered with men, and the people who called us acted as if I didn't exist. Even when we were interviewing people the witness would ignore me and concentrate on my partner. Worse, some witnesses and suspects would assume that I was the "weaker" link -- that I was sympathetic, and they could use my emotions to their advantage. I quickly set them straight, but the way I was treated bothered me. I knew for a fact that I was smarter and more qualified than most of the people with I was paired. The one thing Dad failed to mention in all the years he told me stories were the victims: the abused children, the reluctant witnesses, the wives who closed the door on assistance, the families who had to be told about a loved one's demise or misfortune. I still have nightmares of knocking on doors to deliver bad news. On November 3, 1983 I got a knock on my door at four am, which could only mean one thing. "Your Dad was hit by a drunk driver," they said. "We're sorry Diana. Is there anything we can do?" they asked. "Nothing," I replied and shut the door to mourn in peace. I remember leaning against the door and taking a few deep breaths. I barely noticed when I slumped to the ground and started crying silently. That was the most emotion I allowed myself to feel -- any more and I would have never been able to stop the hysterics. A month after the funeral I received my first visitation. It was at night, right after the late movie. I was about to turn over and go to sleep, when I felt a chill in the room. When I stood up to close a window which had oddly opened, I saw a strange light in the middle of my room. I recognized the woman who was standing with her hand clasped in my Dad's -- it was my Mom. I recognized her, because once or twice when I was a little girl I awoke to see a bright woman near my bed, singing softly. No one believed me, and I assumed it was a dream. This was no dream. "You aren't happy are you?" Dad asked pointedly. I had to admit I wasn't. "We can tell. Your Mom's very proud of you Di, and she only wishes she got a chance to meet you. Neither of us like seeing you this way. Tell me what's wrong." I told them. I poured out my heart about how I felt both ignored and used in my current position. I told them about how I couldn't stand seeing another person turn away assistance, hear another scream in the night, tell another parent that their child wasn't returning. When I finished I sensed a faint pressure on my shoulders and felt more than heard my Mom's soft lilting words, "Perhaps you should try something else." This phrase haunted me for months until one day while I was researching my sightings in a parascience magazine, I saw an open position in England on a team of "ghostbusters". I wrote to the leader, told him my qualifications, and a few weeks later I was offered the job. The next morning I walked into the Sergeant's office, placed my badge, ID, and gun on the desk and sat down in a nearby chair. I told him I was leaving. He wished me luck, and that was the end of my police career. Within the week I was on a plane to Great Britain. I arrived in the group on July 1, 1984 and left about two years later to return to America. The times I spent in England trolling the countryside, investigating and researching ghosts and other things that went bump in the night, were among my happiest in my life. I still had family in DC, so I joined the police force there. There was no need for me to go through the academy again, and I felt as if a piece of myself returned when I was again holding a badge and a gun. Women were treated slightly better, and I found to my amazement that I had missed catching criminals. After a few months I was assigned to a task force dealing with the robbery of several armored trucks. The team soon became focused on John Barnett -- I won't forget that name ever. Through the task force I met Fox Mulder, the man who would become the slightly off center focus of my world for the next five or six years. Our relationship progressed quickly -- from friends to lovers in what felt like minutes. He came to me after the death of a fellow task force member, Steve Wallenberg, and wanted -- no needed comfort, which I gladly gave. The sex was incredible enough that I wasn't sure if I was providing comfort or receiving it. It was just physical -- at least at the beginning. Then, slowly it became something more. Over the years it progressed into something resembling a relationship. We were both busy with work. There were stints when I was deeply undercover for a few months. There were times when he was away for weeks. The reunions were almost worth the amount of time we spent apart. Almost. One time, right before I knew I would be gone for a while, I jokingly gave him a ring and told him, "Try to remember me." I was shocked to find that he had kept it on the entire time. When I opened my door and found him wearing the ring and grinning slightly, I knew I loved him beyond any reason. Even through the nightmares, the mumbled words I couldn't quite hear, the screams which stopped me from getting a good night's sleep, I stayed with him. One night, when the nightmares were at their worst, I suggested he try hypnotic regression. Dr. Werber was someone I had heard about through a friend who had been undergoing treatments. I joined the FBI, because one night my parents visited me again and told me to listen to my heart. Again, dad knew I wasn't happy and suggested that perhaps my calling lay elsewhere. After years of hearing Fox talk about his life on assignment, I had become jealous. Even if he told me these cases with a voice that spoke of pain and bitterness, it excited me. I was transported back to my childhood. Again I was sitting on a wooden kitchen chair and drinking milk from my special mug, listening to Dad talk about the interesting things that had happened to him that day. I wanted to experience Fox's life like I had wanted Dad's. The FBI Academy was a fresh form of hell but I got through it and graduated in the top 15% of my class. I was assigned to VCS, much to my delight and Fox's disappointment. I think he wanted me on White Collar Crime or a similar safe area. Luckily, he got over it. One day, as we were in the records room rummaging through older case files, valiantly searching for a deposition, we found something we'd never expected: The X-Files. I was searching through a box when I came upon a file about psychic ability. We read everything in the box and noticed that all of them were unsolved. Wordlessly, I tucked a few files into my briefcase. We continued to search for the deposition, which we found after a few more hours. Investigating the unknown became how we spent our free time. I dusted off my old parascience books and remembered everything I had been taught during my time in England. Fox became obsessed with the alien abduction reports, while I gravitated towards the para-psychological. With the truly bizarre we met in the middle. We steered ourselves to always get any off kilter case, including some that seemed insane. It was almost better than my time in England, because this time I was doing it with someone I loved. I never entertained the thought of leaving him. I was, for one of the first times in my life, truly happy. Content both physically and emotionally. Our secret work added another layer to our relationship -- it gave us a purpose and a goal. I still remember what happened on September 22, 1991. It was a warm night, I was walking back to my car through the FBI parking lot, having worked late -- as usual. Fox was waiting for me at his apartment. A man walked up to me, a cigarette between his lips and a general air of malice in his gleaming blue eyes. "Agent Fowley?" "Yes," I answered cautiously, wondering how this person knew my name. "Do you remember the Marcus McRabe case ten years ago?" As if I could forget that name. McRabe had been charged with possession/selling of narcotics, murder, kidnapping, and extortion. It was widely suspected that he had mob ties. Amazingly enough, we'd managed to find a few people who would speak out against him. They were placed under maximum protection. "Who are you?" I hadn't heard the name in years. "The case was dismissed and I believe you were promoted soon afterwards." He took a drag of his cigarette and held it between his fingers. "The witnesses died before the case was dismissed, but no one could figure out how anyone got to them. You were one of the officers in charge of their safety. Interesting isn't it?" He placed the cigarette back between his lips. "What are you implying?" My mind had already started to make the terrible connections. "I think you know Agent Fowley. I'd hate for this information to become public -- How would this reflect on your career?" "Are you threatening me?" I asked incredulously. "I would never..." "There is a way to make sure -- you know, that this remains our secret. And, of course, a way to ensure your continued safety," he interrupted, glaring at me. He took another drag on his cigarette and breathed out calmly. "My continued.... You are threatening me. You know it's a federal offense to...." He almost laughed, "Your laws mean nothing to me. Just imagine how your family would react to this news -- or your death." I felt a chill run through me. I had never encountered anything like this before, "What do you want?" "Berlin is lovely this time of year, and the Bureau needs more Agents over there for Counter-terrorism." "I don't understand...." "There are, Agent Fowley, worse things than a ruined reputation. Tomorrow morning Section Chief Blevins will call you for a meeting with AD Johnson. Johnson will offer you a position in Berlin. You will take it and leave next week. Say a word about our meeting to Agent Mulder or have contact with him afterwards...you know what will happen." "What does this have to do with Fox?" "I'm sure I don't have to repeat myself." "Why can't I speak with him after I leave?" "If you value your life you'll do what I say." His tone broadcast no argument. I'd never seen someone actually smoke menacingly. The next week was a blur. Fox and I worked on cases at our apartments, kept up the regular routine. Each time I was at his place I took more and more of my things with me when I left. Our lovemaking had a new frantic and desperate quality. If he noticed he didn't comment. I wanted to memorize him, because I knew these were going to be the last times I would see him in a while. I wanted something powerful to remember. The night before I left we were on assignment. We were lying in a hotel room, and I couldn't put it off any longer. I had to tell him. I sat up in bed and drew my knees to my chest. "Fox, we have to talk," I whispered, half of me hoping there would be no answer. He turned towards me and looked at me, waiting for me to speak. "I was called into AD Johnson's office a few days ago," "Why?" His brow creased, "And why didn't you tell me when it happened?" I sidestepped the second question. "He wanted to talk to me about my career." "What happened?" I could tell he was getting nervous. I took a deep breath, "They offered me a Legat position in Europe." He stared at me for a second, "And you turned them down." He said hopefully. I shook my head slightly, "It's a huge promotion." He looked at me incredulously. "You're leaving me." He stated simply. "It's very rare that these positions open up. Berlin is a new experience and an honor." I said, knowing how pathetic my reasons sounded. "I'm sorry. But I need to do this -- for my career." I wanted to take back the words the minute they left my mouth. The whipped puppy dog look he shot me was almost enough to make me tell him everything. Almost. "It's me isn't it?" He asked after a few seconds. "This has nothing to do with how I feel about you Fox...nothing." I gently took his hand and held it tightly. "I love you. Nothing will change that." I caressed the top of his hand with my thumb and purposely avoided his eyes. Fox squeezed my hand in return, "You know how I feel about you Diana." He wrapped an arm around my back and pulled me against his chest. Holding me tightly he kissed the top of my head. We sat there, so melded, for what felt like the longest time. It was probably only a few minutes. He released me and started getting dressed. "I just don't know how to react to this news. I'm going for a run." After he left I padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I stepped under the water and leaned against the wall. There was only enough time for a quick cleaning. My taxi was coming in 20 minutes. I wasn't going to my apartment though, which was already fully packed and full of boxes waiting to be sent to Berlin or put into storage. I left my cousin Amanda in charge of this detail. She could handle it. After all, she knew what would be needed in Berlin -- she'd lived there for four years herself. Three hours later I was on the plane to Berlin. I'd never really gotten a chance to say goodbye, and the only thing I could think of during those first few days was how much I regretted not giving him a kiss before I left. Leaving him was one of the hardest things I could imagine, and I knew that if I had stayed until he came back from his run...I would have never made my plane. For six years I had no contact. The first few months were the toughest. I'd have to dig my nails into the palm of my hand to keep myself from picking up the phone and dialing his number. I also had to avoid any chance of getting back to the states. I received news of his actions, though. When he was assumed dead, I had to force myself not to search for him. When he was found alive, I breathed easier. One day a year or so ago I heard that he was found dead in his apartment, a suicide. I got very drunk that night and poured out my heart to a random person sitting next to me at the bar. I couldn't stand it anymore -- hearing things happen to Fox, being unable to do anything. I needed to be back in the states. I applied for a transfer, and it finally went through. I thought my life would be the way I had left it. I played out the moment when I'd see him again over and over in my mind. For some reason I never anticipated that he would have replaced me in his heart. He was so changed, it took me a few moments to recognize him. I didn't miss the looks that were exchanged between Fox and Agent Scully. He only came alive in her presence. Otherwise he was...for lack of a better term, lifeless. It wasn't until we talked that I came to the horrible realization that his current emotional state was partly my fault. What could I say? How could I apologize for my actions? What would heal six year old scars? I was shocked by the defensive attitude he had. It seemed as if he didn't trust me. "Hey, I'm on your side." I reminded him, and we continued speaking. The touch of his hand on mine still gave me the same thrills. Only I wasn't sure if it was mutual. There seemed to be a war waging inside him, and I wondered if perhaps he and his partner were closer than I thought. The way he looked at me in that instant, distrustful and skeptical, made me wonder exactly what he had been through or what I had put him through. In that moment I wanted to wrap him in my arms and never let him go, but I knew I couldn't do it-- I'd lost that privilege. Yet, I couldn't forget the look he gave me in the rear view mirror, the connection was still there...only buried. I'm not sure how I feel about him. He's so changed. He's cold where he was once emotional and loving, pained and torn where he was once playful. I'm not sure if I even want to love the man he's become. Not that I get a choice. Being shot was one of the worst experiences of my entire life. I'd read about it and heard stories. One or two police friends of mine had told me what it felt like when a bullet entered the body and the damage it could cause. There was no way I could have imagined the agony. Before I slipped into unconsciousness, I saw a man enter the hotel room and grab Gibson -- I was powerless to stop him. Floating between life and death, it was almost comforting in a way. Family members, long forgotten and dead greeted me warmly as I made my way down the path. The outside world with its beeps and breathing machines barely registered as the light became closer. I knew I was dying. When the bright light imagery finally got through to my mind, I turned and tried to run, my slippered feet sliding as I pushed against an invisible force. Recognizing my choices I walked proudly towards the light and was about to reach for it, when my eyes snapped open. Hospital -- I was in a hospital, and a man had his hands over my chest. The machine still breathed for me and I almost choked when I woke up. Next to the man was the one who had accosted me long ago. "I wouldn't recommend speaking for a while. Just listen. I cured you. If I hadn't decided to take an interest in your case, you'd be dead by now. The man with his hand on you healed your bullet wound enough so you would live." His fingers fidgeted, a nicotine addict on forced withdrawal. "In return...I need someone on my side who Agent Mulder trusts, you will be that person. You will keep tabs on him, and tell one of my associates his plans. This is small payment in return for life -- don't you agree? Blink once if you understand." I blinked quickly and sealed the bargain. Recovery was a long and painful process full of moving little balls up clear tubes with a good breath of air. When I returned to my former strength, the man came to see me outside of my physical therapist's office. "Congratulations on your recovery Agent Fowley -- I'm sure you haven't forgotten our agreement." "No, I haven't." I heard the unspoken threat. "The X-Files are being reopened. Agent Spender has already been assigned but a believer is needed. Your name has come up." Spender? He had to be kidding. Spender would never be able to handle Fox -- who hated him already. I bit my lip so I wouldn't say what I was thinking. "Why me?" "You have the experience, the open mind...and you owe this to us. When you are on the X-Files, Agent Mulder will be compelled, almost forced to see you, spend time with you. You will let him work "unofficially" on a few cases, but keep Agent Scully in the dark. He will trust you again and you only occasionally have to lie. The more he trusts you, the worse his partnership with Agent Scully will become. You will be the knife we use to sever their tie." I stared at him horrified as his words seeped through my tired mind. "You want me to betray him?" "Yes. And you have no choice in the matter. Accept the new position and start working with Agent Spender." I nodded and signed over a part of myself. It was amazing how that man knew exactly how Fox would react. Now, it is time for me do what I'd promised. I finish up my eye-liner and put on a fresh coat of red lipstick. "What I witnessed that night was an unknown man being bludgeoned to death by an unsub in the core of a nuclear power plant. No ma'am I haven't read Agent Mulder's report. No, I didn't see anything else." It is easy to lie, becoming easier every day. I smile into the mirror and turn around to get dressed. If I tell myself the story enough times I can get myself to believe it. I've found that being a traitor is easy with the proper motivation. Now it's time to get to work. END Author's Note: I'd like to thank my "team" of beta-readers, I've never needed so many for a short story. Amanda, Sue, Mom, Anna, Ashlea, DarkJewl, Jen, KT and Luvmulder. Great job guys. If this story made you feel anything, or even if it didn't I'd love to hear about it at FirePhile@aol.com. This story contained a lot of speculation and theories about the history of Diana Fowley. These are only my theories and I gladly take responsibility for them. The title of the story is from a line off "Spirit" by Jewel. In case anyone was wondering, Steve Wallenberg and John Barnett are from the first season episode, Young at Heart". Barnett robbed from armored trucks and was Mulder's first case after the academy. Thanks for reading! Rachel E. --- FirePhile@aol.com http://www.geocities.com/~annaotto/intro.html#r "I'm very proud. It's like being the mother of a Porno star"- My mom on my ability to write BADFIC.
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