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

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

"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.


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

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

"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

"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

"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

I sidestepped the second question. "He wanted to talk to me about my

"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

I shook my head slightly, "It's a huge promotion."

He looked at me incredulously. "You're leaving me." He stated

"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.


"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

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

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

"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

"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.


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
"I'm very proud. It's like being the mother of a Porno star"-
My mom on my ability to write BADFIC.