Waiting and Watching

House Fanfic: Coda, vaguely House/Cuddy

cschick — Tue, 03 Jul 2012 03:16:16 GMT

You can call this a bit of programmer's block.

Title: Coda
Author: purplepeony (cschick)
Summary: James Wilson returns to die. This could be read as vaguely House/Cuddy.

Author's Note: After what House did to Cuddy, I cannot see the two of them ever being together again in a way that is true to Cuddy's character. So, this is not that. But it's a self-indulgent little piece of angst.

October came and went, bringing with it the colors of fall; November started, bringing the bitter winds and rain which foretold the coming of winter. And nobody heard anything from James Wilson.

Lisa Cuddy knew that she was no longer the second person on his list of people to contact, but with the upheaval of the past six months, she wasn't quite sure who he would contact, or if he would turn to any of his friends from Princeton-Plainsboro. After House's death, she had hoped that he might contact her again, might try to figure out what their friendship was without the complication of House.

But instead he had vanished, leaving behind the hospital and his entire life associated with the hospital.

When she had contacted Foreman and Chase, they had told her that neither knew where he was. Although she could hear the caution toward her in their voices, she believed that they were both telling the truth. None of the three of them wanted to not know what had eventually happened to Wilson, or to someday find that he'd died an anonymous John Doe in a hospital somewhere else.

The months had passed, and nobody heard anything. Being doctors, they all knew that time left to him was only a estimate, but as those months passed and then more, the worry that he had died somewhere, alone and unknown, grew stronger.

Then one night in mid-November, her phone rang.

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy?"

"Speaking."

"This is St. John's Hospice, in Trenton. We had a patient check in today, James Wilson, and we were asked to contact you."

Her heart skipped a beat. Obviously this meant he was still alive, but also meant that he knew that he was approaching the end.

"How is he? What is his condition?"

"What is your relationship to him?"

Her brain paused for a moment. Somewhere, she still had his medical proxy paperwork, granted back in happier days. She didn't believe he'd ever withdrawn that permission officially. "Physician and medical proxy."

She heard the woman on the other end of the phone clear her throat. "If you could come down and show us the paperwork, or at least fax us the paperwork, we can have one of our doctors discuss his condition with you."

"Is a doctor available there tonight?"

"Yes, until 11pm."

It was eight o'clock, enough time to drop off her Rachel with a friend and drive there. "I will be there by 10pm."

"We will see you then."

It was a clear night, though cold. She managed to arrive closer to 9:30, paperwork in hand, and wondered. How had he ended up here? Where had he been? She hurried through the front door and focused on the front desk, ignoring the small waiting area, ignoring the man that abruptly stood up and stiffly moved past her.

The woman at the front desk blinked at her hurry, and then said "Name?"

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy, here about a patient, James Wilson?"

"You have his medical proxy information?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Yates should be able to talk with you in a few minutes."

"Who told you to call me?"

"The man who brought him in, Michael Smith."

She frowned, the name didn't ring any bells.

The receptionist stood up and glanced toward the waiting area. "He was just over there ... I guess he's gone now. Skinny old guy, with a limp."

"A limp?"

"And a cane. It had flames painted on it, kind of neat."

Cuddy's breath caught at the description. While the logical part of her brain knew that he was dead, the description brought House to mind. She was well aware that between the worry about Wilson and her personal refusal to think about House, she hadn't really processed his death. But she knew he was dead, she knew that he had chosen to abandon Wilson via his own self-destructiveness the same way that he had chosen to abandon her. She knew that he decided not to be the one who had stood by Wilson through whatever he had struggled through during the past six months.

"Skinny, with a limp, and a cane with flames?" she found herself repeating.

"Are you okay? You look slightly pale."

"I just need to sit down for a moment ..."

Wilson would soon be able to clear this up. She wasn't quite sure how or why he'd managed to find another friend with a limp and a cane, but certainly that was the explanation. He'd probably found himself a cancer support group while he'd been on the lam from the rest of his life, and there were plenty of people in those types of groups who suffered from various disabilities. It would make sense that he had found himself someone who vaguely reminded him of House.

Dr. Yates came out a few minutes later. She was an older woman, short with graying hair. "Dr. Cuddy?"

"Yes."

"I have been told that you're James Wilson's medical proxy?"

"I am, as long as he still wants me to be."

She sighed. "I'm not sure how much say he'll have in the matter."

"What do you mean?"

"You know he has terminal cancer?"

"Yes, but he disappeared several months ago, and I'd like some information about what his condition is now."

"When he was brought in this morning, he was barely conscious. He's in decent condition for someone in his condition, but he's pretty close to the end. I think he will wake up again, but he has days left, if that. You said that he disappeared? Obviously he has been getting some type of care somewhere through today. Palliative care. When he came in, his morphine levels were already pretty high.

"Mr. Smith, the man who brought him in, had all his medical records and insurance information. As well as paperwork identifying him as Mr. Wilson's medical proxy. But he told us to call you, identified you as the person who would handle decisions about Mr. Wilson's care from now on."

Cuddy had known that if they found Wilson again before the end, this would most likely be the result. It wouldn't be the Wilson she remembered, the Wilson who she wanted back. It would be a sick and dying man who had disappeared on them all. But the reality was proving to be a bit much. She wished that she had called Foreman or Chase to come with her. But she was here, and she was alone.

"Can I see him?" she asked.

"Of course. He's in a room in our hospice wing, on the second floor."

She quietly lead Cuddy to a dark room on the second floor, as Cuddy tried to ignore how familiar yet strange the environment felt. It wasn't active like the hospitals she was used to, but quiet and peaceful in a way her hospitals rarely felt.

She entered the dim room to find Wilson asleep in the bed. A few monitors stood around him, ready to be used if necessary but dark and dormant for now. A morphine pump did stand next to the bed, its red numbers glaring through the darkness, but she ignored it.

He looked good for someone two months overdue for death. His face was thin and his eyes hollow, but his skin was a decent tan shade that said he'd been out in the sun and he looked relaxed in his sleep. Over in the corner of the room, motorcycle leathers were laid carefully over a chair, next to what appeared to be a well-worn leather bag.

She sat down next to him and took his hand in hers, expecting to find it thin-skinned and limp. Instead, it was well-calloused with tough skin on the palm, nothing like the delicate hands of the doctor she remembered.

At that, he stirred and opened his eyes, and she felt guilty at waking him up. "Howww …" he slurred for a moment, before his eyes focused.

"Lisa," he then whispered, his eyes focusing.

"James," she greeted him, surprised by how focused his gaze seemed to be, given that Dr. Yates wasn't sure if he was going to wake up again.

"I guess it has come that time," he whispered, his eyes focusing on the ceiling. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

"In his attempts to be selfless, he was incorrigibly selfish."

"Who?"

"House."

"House is dead, Wilson."

"That statement may now be true, I don't know."

She glanced at the numbers on the morphine pump, impressed that he was awake and talking at the dosage they'd allowed him. Grasp of reality might be beyond him now.

"I'm here now. Is there anyone else you want?"

"Does anyone want to say goodbye at this point?"

"I think that Foreman and Chase will be glad to know you're not some John Doe in a morgue somewhere. Sam also has been worried about where you are, although I'm not sure whether she wants to punch you out or say goodbye …"

Wilson laughed, a short, hoarse laugh that sounded nothing like she remembered. "You can tell them that I'm here. It's safe now."

"Safe?" she questioned, still confused.

"Safe, and normal, and nothing like the past six months."

"Okay, then," she paused, then continued "Where have you been?"

"Where haven't I been? Did you know that Route 66 is oddly beautiful from the back of a motorcycle? And Going to the Sun Road in early fall is eerie. You have the touristy places out west to yourself as soon as September starts."

"Who were you with?"

"Does it matter?"

Cuddy could feel the evasiveness in that answer, and realized that the morphine level in his blood meant nothing about his grasp of reality. "James, someone was taking care of you."

"Yes, someone was."

"Who?"

"A ghost and a friend." He laughed again, that same short and hoarse laugh. "Lisa, you wouldn't believe the story of my past few months. So I'm not going to tell it."

"Okay." She knew when she had lost a conversation. "I'm going to go call Chase, Foreman, Sam … anyone else I can think of …"

"Cameron, too. Please do. I think I can keep my head about me for another day or so." Wilson sighed, and she could see the strength go out of him. "Really, I am sorry Lisa."

"It's not the time to talk about that," she said in response, locking down the part of her heart that wanted to rage at him. "You go back to sleep, and I'll be back tomorrow."

"Okay," he sighed, closing his eyes. She laid his hand back on the sheet and slipped out, headed back toward the entrance and waiting area.

The receptionist provided her with information on visiting hours, the information she would need to pass onto everyone else, and she walked out into the cold wind. Bits of sleet bit at her cheeks, the clear night having turned cloudy. She walked over to her car and leaned against it for a moment, deeply breathing in the frosty air. Once again, she didn't know how she was going to do it, but she knew she needed to hold herself together.

As she pulled herself together, she noticed a piece of paper stuck under her wiper blades, its edge rustling in the wind. She rolled her eyes, the rush of annoyance that someone would stick an advertisement on a car parked in the parking lot of a hospital at 11pm at night fueling a small spark of anger. She stormed over to pull it out and opened it, wanting to see what kind of organization would do such a thing. But all she saw were a few faint handwritten words, too small and faint to be read in the dim light of the parking lot.

She opened the driver's door, started the car, then turned on her overhead light. In handwriting so familiar she refused to recognize it, she saw written, Cuddy, I'm sorry. There was no signature.

That was when she leaned her her head against the steering wheel and allowed herself to cry.

Fanfic, (WIP, will not be completed): When Tomorrow Comes

cschick — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 03:29:12 GMT

Sometimes, you read four or five chapters of some old story, and even you just want to know where exactly you had planned to go with it.

And yes, that is an indication that this will never be finished because I have no recollection of where I intended the story to go. Just browsing through old backups here. Written maybe 1997ish?

Prologue: Discoveries

Clarehill, Nebraska
June 26

Body number six, mutilated in the same manner as the first five.

Dr. Leah McCormick, ignoring the churning of her stomach and continued her autopsy, following patterns years of working with death had engraved into her mind, her hands.

But this wasn't a usual autopsy - one which she could do automatically, then forget about. Neither had been the other five. Although all connected by the brutality of the crimes, the connection the sheriff and the deputies recognized, another clue connected them as well. A clue that struck too close to home ... and a clue that only she and the slender teen standing beside her knew about.

A clue that she wished she'd never discovered.

She continued through her usual actions but could feel Claudia's impatient eyes upon her, wondering why she didn't check. How could she explain to the anxious teen the absolute terror she felt--how badly she wished never to see another--what it meant to her? She knew she couldn't. So the child, usually the perfect lab assistant Leah had trained her to be, just stared at her, her jaw slack and her posture impatient. Foolish child.

Lee just couldn't bring herself to look. Maybe, if she wished long enough, hard enough, it wouldn't be there, teasing her, tormenting her by its presence. Maybe its presence in the other five murder victims had been just coincidence.

Maybe, way out here in the middle of nowhere, she would actually find a pig with wings.

Horror and desperate hope forced her through other actions, leading her to intensely study the dreadful mutilations on the dead woman before her. But soon, it was all that remained.

Turning the woman's lifeless head, she glanced at the back of her neck, senseless hope stopping her heart for a fraction of a second.

But it died as her eyes settled upon the familiar scar. With the slightest sigh, she ran her scalpel across it and gently extracted the tiny silver chip--a chip she looked at with undisguised horror and hatred. Again, once again, just a tiny fleck of metal, but because of her knowledge it carried such a load of dread with it.

Claudia stepped forward, her eyes focused upon the thing, and Lee dropped it into her gloved hand. "Do exactly what you did with the others." she whispered.

Head bent, face expressionless, Claudia turned to obey. Lee watched her, guilt filling her heart for her decision to use such a child to commit her betrayal. But she couldn't tell anyone, couldn't reveal the existence of the chip ... reveal they had been in the necks of the victims ... reveal why she knew they were important ...

Her own life, and sanity, could possibly hang in the balance.

Cleaning up, she watched Claudia place the chip with the five others. Six tiny flecks of metal, so innocent in appearance, so destructive in intent. What they exactly were, she'd never decided. But she couldn't have those who knew becoming interested.

Leaving Claudia to finish, Lee began up the creaking stairs that lead for the basement morgue to the sheriff's office. This three-story frame house, never intended for the uses it had been forced too, was the most unusual place for Clarehill county sheriff's office. But it worked, and that was all that mattered ... especially to Lee.

Steve Handley, concern shining from his weathered face, met her about half-way up the stairs, and with the gentlemanly courtesy that marked his every action, offered her his support as they continued up the stairs together. Six months ago she would have never accepted it. Now, she leaned gratefully into his support.

"Same MO as the others?" he inquired quietly.

Lee just nodded her head, too exhausted and guilty to do anything else.

Handley sighed. "*Nothing* else? Nothing that'll give us a lead, *any* lead?"

Lee shook her head again as they emerged onto the first floor and entered his office. Poor Steve: baffled by the case, baffled by the fact such horrendous crimes could happen in his district. "I'm sorry, Steve." Sorry for all the lies, for not revealing info that could help him understand the case. God, she hated lying! But it was all for the best.

Steve flopped into his chair, leaving Lee standing by the door. "This is beyond me." he said, helplessness apparent in his voice. "I'm not equipped to handle a serial murder case--and both Mike and Liz are overworked as it is. I'm going to have to call the Feds in on this one ... probably should have already ..."

The Feds ... the FBI ... Lee's mind began whirling as she considered that horrible scenario. "Steve, please no ..." she said weakly, leaning against the door frame for support.

"LEAH! I already know your objections - I've listened to them several times this week in fact. True, ninety percent of them are bastards, but they know their job. And we are getting nowhere with this case and too many people have died. Damn it, girl, you're intelligent enough to get over whatever prejudices your parents pounded into your head ..."

If only you knew, Steve, if only you knew. Fear and anger began building up inside her ... and the lightheadedness she'd been fighting all day, hell she'd been fighting it for the past six or so months, roared forward to claim its victory. Oh, not now, she prayed, not now. And as the world began to gray around her, she hissed "Those government bastards aren't going to get anywhere with it, either." At least that was the truth.

As she began to sway, Steve rushed forward, realizing what was happening. And she collapsed into his arms, closing her eyes. Perhaps believing that she'd truly fainted he began muttering "Stupid, stupid ... was warned not to stress her ... godammit ..."

Settling her gently to the floor, he began to yell for one of the deputies, telling them to get on the radio with the county hospital and get the damn ambulance over as quickly as possible. Claudia, probably realizing what the yelling meant, came pounding up the stair from the basement and began screaming at Steve. She really needed to have a talk with that girl ... tell her that some things are nobody's fault ...

Then, unconsciousness claimed her.

*****

Chapter 1: Government Bastards

Just outside of Clarehill, Nebraska
June 28 9:06 am

Watching the cornfields, green under the hot summer sun, rush past both sides of the rural highway, Fox Mulder came to a sudden conclusion. He hated small, Midwestern towns. Especially small towns in the middle of nowhere that the higher-ups in Violent Crimes sent him to, chasing down one of their cases, pretending he actually had a career. Sometimes after he solved cases like these, as he wandered down the halls in Washington or Quantico ignoring the glares and mutters that years of normal investigative work had failed to quench, he wondered why he continued. Even after years off the X-files, the reputation still followed him, dodging every step he made, inferring with his work. But still he continued with the Bureau, despite his weariness, his hopelessness, never handing in his resignation, never giving the bastards who had ruined his life the chance to see Fox Mulder finally surrender.

At least they hadn't saddled him with a partner this time. Over the past several years, he had chased away every assigned partner within a matter of days, intentionally frightening them with his dark, obsessive personality, with his wild descriptions of the cases in the closed X-files, or as a last, desperate measure, with the tricks he had used so successfully many years ago. Few survived even the length of one case.

For an instant without anything but the endless rows of waving corn to distract him, while chuckling at the memory of his latest partner fleeing in terror, he allowed his mind to wander to the one time his tricks had failed, and to that small basement office, now locked and dusty, to the happier years of searching for the truth, to the shattered haven and hopes. Anger, sorrow, worry, guilt; all crowded upon him, emotions his dead heart quickly suppressed. He knew he could never hope to understand the story behind those last days, the tangled mess that buried the truth and bewildered even the Lone Gunmen. Betrayal? Lies? whatever lay hidden, would stay hidden. After years of fruitless searching and the last soul-shattering betrayal, he had learned his lesson. Even with all the pieces the truth was subjective, and he, Skinner, and the LG only had the smallest scraps. Who really cared anyway? As long as they didn't affect him, left him to live among the scraps of dignity he'd managed to gather ...

Pulling himself away from such useless thoughts, Mulder glanced at the cornfields once again. No wonder no one else wanted this case. Who in his right mind wanted to visit Nebraska during the height of summer?

[Clarehill town limit - 5 miles] a sign flashed past, breaking the monotony of the road for a few seconds. Glancing at his speed, Mulder realized that meant he had about 3-4 minutes left. Another day, another case, another murderer, he thought grimly, thinking ahead to the hours he would spend living in the guy's head with absolute hatred. Well, he reminded himself, suicide was always an option.

*****

9:17am

After about ten minutes of searching, Mulder located the address he had been given. Pulling up to the curb, he looked at the building before him in surprise, then double-checked the address. A three-story frame house, children playing baseball in the side yard, lay before him. Only the small plaque hanging upon the door belied the appearance, revealing that this was truly the county sheriff's office, the center of law enforcement for Clarehill and the surrounding towns.

A rare, amused smile lighting his face for the briefest instant, he made his way across the lawn, unnoticed by the shouting children intently pursuing their game, and entered.

"Marge, we can't arrest ten-year-olds for bouncing a basketball through your garden ... Yes, you told me they ruined your tomatoes ... be grateful that Thomas and Mike asked permission to go and get it ... I'm sorry Marge, this just isn't a crime!"

Sighing, the gray-haired man placed the phone into its cradle, then put his head down for a second while Mulder indecisively stood in the doorway. "Don't worry, I saw you come in." the man said, lifting his head and fixing steely blue eyes upon him. "Sorry about that, but nothing will stop Marge Kinley when she's on a rampage. You're the promised FBI agent, I presume? I'm Steve Handley, the sheriff." He stood and offered his hand.

Mulder took the man's unexpectedly firm grasp. "Special Agent Fox Mulder. From Washington."

"Washington? I thought they'd just send someone from the Omaha office. Musta been why you took longer than I expected." Sighing, he looked toward the window briefly. "Oh, but Lee's going to have a cow!"

"Lee?" asked Mulder, slightly confused by the man's quickly changing topics. Taking the seat Handley gestured toward, he resigned himself to a long afternoon of playing friendly with the locals. The price of working with small-towners, he grumbled inwardly.

"Leah McCormick, the county M.E." Handley continued, sitting on his desk. For some reason, Mulder got the idea that the man was considering his words very carefully, an impression he quickly dismissed. "She was extremely upset when I was forced to call even the Omaha office in on this. Hates the Feds with a passion, I guess. It's probably why someone as intelligent as her decided to work out here. Last time we even had a agent within miles of us was 'bout fifteen years ago. She's probably only a generation away from the militia. Too smart to get caught up in their nonsense, but unable to shake her prejudices. Ah well, she'll have to live with it, I guess." A frown passed across his face and he looked closely at Mulder. "No partner?"

Mulder sifted uneasily in his chair. He hated that question. It always managed to bring back the memory of that one case in California, and all the baggage that went with it. "No." he answered, attempting to keep a schooled expression on his face.

Apparently, something got past his control, or Handley was a far better reader of people than Mulder suspected. "No offense intended. It's none of my business. I'm just glad you finally arrived. That nonsense," waving at the phone, "and drunk or high teens are normally the extent of problems in this town. Throughout the county, there's a little more, the jealous husband, boyfriend, the occasional nut-case. And enough suspicious deaths to keep Lee in business. But these murders have gone beyond anything I'm prepared to handle."

Mulder nodded in sympathy, while rejoicing inwardly. Finally, the case! Six deaths within the past week, scattered throughout the large county, but all with a common feature: every body was missing the vast majority of its internal organs. "Although the file I received was rather short on detail, the first idea these murders brought to mind was the possibility of a Satanic cult. They might be rarer than most people think, and usually only require the heart, but you may have one setting up shop in the area. Have there been any other recent evidence indicating strange activities?"

"Strange dances in the fields, mutilated animals, or people howling at the full moon? We actually began looking for recent oddities when the first body came in a week ago." He shook his head. "But there's been absolutely nothing out of the ordinary."

"Well then, I guess the first order of business would be to talk to Dr. McCormick about the autopsies, then I'll take a look at the newest crime scene. If you'll just introduce me to her ... " Mulder said, settling into his professional mold, a cold mask settling over his features. The slight friendliness he felt radiating from the grand-fatherly man before him he needed to ignore, to become the stone-hearted, brilliant bastard everyone at the Bureau now knew so well.

"Um...." said Handley, hesitating and bringing Mulder's eyes back toward him, "I don't think that's possible today." Sighing, shooting a glance at his watch, "But if you're willing to wait about fifteen minutes you can talk to her assistant ..."

"Or, ya can talk to her now." a new voice intruded, while the screen door slammed shut. Startled, Mulder twisted around, confronting a slender, brown-headed teen, a frown upon her face. "I've actually been listening for 'bout five minutes, but I figured I'd give Steve time to finish buttering ya up. I'm Claudia, Lee's daughter."

"Our town's unpaid lab tech. We can't afford to hire a real lab tech for poor Lee, so she just trained Claude. See no evil, hear no evil, right? I don't go down in the lab, so whatever Lee chooses to do to make her job easier ..." Handley said, a relieved grin splitting his face. "Claude, this is Agent Mulder, of the FBI. He need the information from the autopsies, and since Lee can't fill him in at this moment, I hoped you could."

Watching the girl's face closely, Mulder noticed the darkness and worry that briefly crossed it with the mention of her mother, then the slight frown of confusion as something seemed to register. She glanced at him for the briefest fraction of a second, puzzlement in her eyes, then suppressed everything, a business-like cool settling over her face. "Agent Mulder, I'd be happy to fill you in. Just let me change, and I'll meet you down in the morgue. Steve, show him down, will you?" she asked, dropping the extreme small-town accent.

As she started down the hallway, he stared after her for a second. He never expected such composure from a teen (or to be briefed by one for that matter). This town was starting to feel crazier with each passing instant. He didn't need this! Quickly solve the case, blow out of town, that was his pattern. Not getting interested in the stories of the locals ... closing his eyes for a moment, he pulled his disinterest back into place, concentrating upon the case.

*****

About a half-hour later, he found himself staring in amazement at the girl again. Although he had doubted this teen-ager could give him any of the information he needed, Claudia had handed him Dr. McCormick's report on the latest body, then since the body hadn't been released to the family yet, pulled it out and expanded upon the dry details.

Gesturing at different points on the mutilated body, she explained Lee's theories about the death and resulting mutilation. "As far as we can determine, the victims were dead at the time of organ removal, thankfully. Bleeding to death from these types of wounds, even before the shock of the organ removal, would have been quite a painful process. Our perp apparently used a scalpel, or instrument with very similar properties, judging by the exactness of the cuts. Oh, and Lee believed he probably was a professional, someone from the medical community, due to his knowledge of the human body ...."

"He?" asked Mulder, grateful for some reason to politely take his eyes away from the body, to focus upon Claudia, upon anything that didn't show the mutilations of this monster. Over the past few years, his ability to tolerate an autopsy, already low to begin with, had almost vanished. The sight of that white, cold body, patterned with deep cuts, was doing very unpleasant things to his stomach. And bringing back memories better forgotten.

"Most serial murderers are male, right? Lee mentioned that while she was examining the third body. Almost all the other murders were identical, down to the drug used to induce death. Well, that's about all I can give you - perhaps Lee can fill you in later." Pulling a sheet over the body, she slipped the body back into the single refrigeration unit in the wall of the morgue and said "Sorry, but I've got to run, Agent Mulder. If you've got any more questions, Steve can help you contact me. Or maybe Lee."

She ran out quickly, her nervous last words hanging in the air, leaving Mulder behind in the morgue, probably believing the slightly green man would quickly follow. But Mulder, who had been staring at her throughout most of the explanation, keeping his eyes away from the corpse, had noticed something. While claiming she had no more information, her eyes had briefly flickered towards a cabinet across the room and a frown had creased her brow. Although it could have been a perfectly innocent gesture, a teenager worrying about things outside this room filled with the smell of death, his instincts clicked into action. Knowing he was now alone, he walked to the cabinet and flung it open.

Six tiny bottles lined a small section of one shelf. Six tiny bottles with a very familiar computer chip in them. Abductee chips. Slamming shut the cabinet upon the sight, he strode across the cold room towards the body, all his repulsion now gone. Sliding the body far enough out to just expose the head, he drew back the sheet and checked the neck for the scar.

Memories flooded back - for an instant, it was Scully's body before him, her marked neck. But pushing back that pain, he grounded himself in reality.

Returning to the cabinet, he stared at the bottles and questions filled his mind. How? Why?

Oh, the irony! Someone decided to exclude those tiny chips from the report, so the one agent that understood their meaning had been sent. Mulder was sure that if these had been mentioned, he wouldn't have even heard of the case, despite the horrible locale. No use giving him ideas, after all.

He slipped one bottle into his pocket and quietly closed the metal door. Going through Skinner, who still supported him when he could, Mulder probably could have one analyzed off-the-record and compared to the one pulled out Scully's neck, so long ago. And the Lone Gunmen could check around in the government computers for unusual mentions of Clarehill county - anything that suggested a link to the government experiments ... bursting with ideas, his mind emerged from the frozen wasteland of the last horrible few years.

He really desired to talk with the mysterious Lee, the county medical examiner. Doctor Leah McCormick clearly knew what these were and how to identify them, thereby connecting her to the conspiracy as well. Energy poured through his body, an excitement that he hadn't felt for so long. An unexpected chance at the truth lay before him, a chance he never expected after the humiliation, betrayal suffered at the end of the X-files.

Almost running up the stairs, attempting to keep his excitement from showing on his face, a sudden thought doused his soul. Since the shadow government conspiracy was connected, it would only be a matter of time before one of those bastards made the connection and unceremoniously hauled him back to Washington. He could feel the cautions and fears, protections left over from his days on the X-files clicking into place, pushing him into top investigative form. His one chance to strike at the conspiracy that ruined every aspect of his life, took away everything. As he charged up the stairs, feral smile crossed his face, and strength filled his deadened heart.

*****

Chapter 2: Claudia

11:03am

Claudia quickly ran from the office, waving to Steve as she passed through the front door. He could handle that weak-stomached Fed who probably hadn't understood a word she had said. Government idiots.

But as she reached the sidewalk, the contempt fueling her race abruptly running out, Claudia realized that despite her lie to Mulder, empty hours lay before her. She had planned to spend the morning organizing the morgue, making sure everything shone brightly from its proper place. With the mess of the last few months, cumulating in these murders, the neatnik within Claudia rebelled at the disorder that reigned there. Plus, it was something she could do to keep her mind occupied, to block her over-active imagination ... and her guilt.

God, she hated lying! Even when it consisted of just editing the truth slightly. First to Steve, then on the reports, and now to the Feds! But Lee had been insistent that no one know about those little silver chips that she had pulled out of the necks of the murder victims.

Walking through the bright sunshine, Claude could still see Lee's face as she pulled the first chip out of the victim's neck. Pure terror--pale bloodless skin, her wide eyes--her panic. Seeing nothing special about the small fleck of metal, Claude had reached towards her, attempting to break the trance of horror. Lee, her voice dead, had forbidden Claudia from telling anyone about it. Confusion clouding Claudia's mind she had agreed, believing Lee would never exclude anything important.

Then the next appeared, and the next ...

And Lee had continued to exclude them from the reports, her fear increasing with each case. Claudia had watched her struggle under the stress, remembering the doctor's warnings, unwilling to confront her, yet worried she was hiding some vital clues.

And now the Feds! Claudia knew about Lee's hatred of the Feds, after listening to her mumble about government cover-ups and lies while watching news reports on CNN, and hoped the news of the FBI taking over the case wouldn't stress her. Lee already felt useless, believing that she wasn't keeping up with her work, and this newest situation ... God, everything was going to hell ....

Walking past the village park, she ignored the childish pleas that rang out, her memory hurrying her steps. Usually she willingly played with the kids, but locked within her thoughts, the calls just rolled past her ears. She just didn't understand! Her safe little world had turned into a soap-opera of intrigue, of lies, of confusion, that scrambled the familiar into strangeness. Bloody murders, violence that she knew existed but had never affected her world now; Lee the truthful, the one she trusted and worshiped turned liar and filled with fear ...

Silent tears streaming down her face, Claude glanced up and realized the path her thoughtless wandering had brought her down. Staring at the empty house, knowing the loneliness that awaited her within, Claude couldn't approach the door. Instead, wrenching sobs tore through her slender frame and she collapsed on the front stoop. How could all this be happening? How did all these terrors find her, sneaking in on their quiet paws to ruin her life?

"Claudia? Oh child, don't cry - sweetling, come here." Mrs. Packer, the elderly next-door neighbor, appeared, casting muddy gardening gloves aside to gather Claude into her arms. Claude buried her head against the woman's shoulder, too far gone in grief and confusion to feel embarrassed.

As the minutes passed, her sobs slowed, and she pulled away. Mrs. Packer let her regain her space, then offered her a handkerchief to wipe her face. "I'm sorry." she said, blushing in shame.

"You needed it, so don't apologize. I understand what's going on - the horror you're going through again. Don't worry, you'll won't lose Lee." At Claude's disproving glance: "If you do, I promise it won't be like the last time - child, we didn't know then! I'm sorry about that. You're part of the community now. We take care of our own.

"Well, now you look slightly more human, so come on."

Claude looked at the stubborn old woman in confusion, concentrating upon only the last part of her rambling speech. She didn't need a reminder of the rest, especially now. "Where are we going?"

"You, my dear, are coming to my house to have a glass of lemonade. Then you can spend the afternoon helping me weed my vegetable garden - since it's obvious you probably don't want to spend the afternoon locked away in there," waving her hand toward the house. "It'll give you something else to think about."

Claude rolled her eyes at the comment about the vegetable garden, since every child in town knew about the size of that monstrosity. Especially since they'd all been recruited to weed it at one time or another. But she willingly followed Mrs. Packer, grateful for her kindness. She didn't even know half of it, thinking of only Claude's understandable fear of abandonment, but offered a refuge anyway. An afternoon in the sun, free from worries, from thoughts of crimes and Lee and life in general--God, that seemed so perfect.

Ignoring the slight tinges of guilt the idea of forgetting everything entailed, she followed Mrs. Packer through the picket fence.

*****

Chapter 3: Learning some Truths

5:21pm

After managing to visit the two crime scenes closest to town and speak to the family of one of the victims, Mulder was tired and frustrated. Over the past several years he'd forgotten how difficult it was to investigate an X-file. Especially without a sounding board to tell him just how impossible, outrageous his ideas were, to force him to defend his theories and in the process help him refine and develop them.

No evidence at the sites pointed toward either the conspiracy's or the alien's involvement and the one woman whose family he had spoken to hadn't been a typical abductee. No episodes of missing time, no strange behavior or forgotten days emerged from the descriptions the bereaved husband and sister provided. Nothing strange, such as unexplained crop circles or burnt grounds decorated the areas around the crime scenes.

All these missing hint gave rise to haunting suspicions in Mulder's mind. If there were no clues pointing to the special natures of the murders, how and why did Dr. McCormick discover the well-hidden computer chips? He remembered how much time passed before Scully even discovered hers, and the circumstances that forced the discovery. But most importantly, did she understand what they meant? It was obvious, judging by both their exclusion from the official reports and Claudia's uneasy presentation, that someone ordered these computer chips hidden. And after spending an afternoon with Handley, he truly doubted it was him. Handley was mystified by the crimes, the reason he called the FBI in the first place. Without all the clues, and without the proof Mulder spent his life gathering, Handley was clearly out of his league.

He really wanted to meet Dr. McCormick, question her. She must have some idea of what they represented, to choose to hide them. And the fear of the federal government that Handley had described - she even knew who was responsible. How?

And he realized he was quickly running out of time. Someone in the shadows should begin to connect the pieces, they who held every clue and knew every answer he sweat his life-blood to discover, then call him, in horror, back to Washington. Even though, under normal circumstances, with a less observant or less informed M.E., he would never have connected these crimes to his dusty and locked files. They still feared him, even with his wings clipped and his heart stone, an irony that helped him survive the dark days.

"Handley? If possible, I need to talk with Dr. McCormick. I've got some questions Claudia was unable to answer - questions that deeply deal with the investigation." Mulder asked as they left the house of the grieving family.

"Are you sure?" And in answer to Mulder's nod, he sighed. "Well, I had hoped we could work on this case for now without disturbing her. But, if you believe it necessary?"

"Yes. I need all the pieces of this puzzle I can gather. And judging by some of the comments Claudia made, especially concerning some of Dr. McCormick's conclusions, I feel that speaking to her will be quite helpful. Is there some problem?"

"Lee's ill." At Mulder's raised eyebrow, he continued, "Cancer. She's been suffering for months but forced herself to keep working every good day she had. Two days ago, after the last autopsy, she collapsed from an interaction of several new drugs and ended up in the hospital until they can correct the dosage. She's supposed to be released tomorrow morning and wants to be back at work, but I ordered her to take several days off. With her stubbornness, she'll work herself to death.

"But, with this case, she's insisting that she must be back, that Claudia can't handle it. And allowing you to speak with her will just add strength to her claim."

Cancer! Memories flooded Mulder's mind, screaming at him about the connection between the cancer and the abduction cases. The MUFON women who Scully confronted, their painful months during which no cure worked, their hopeless deaths. "I'm sorry, but I truly need to speak with her." he repeated, amazed at the calm he projected in his voice. So opposite to the racing thoughts that tore through his head, the energy that sustained him.

Handley glanced at his watch. "If you don't mind waiting longer for dinner, I'll introduce her to you now. The hospital's just about ten minutes from here. You can ask her the most urgent questions now, then the rest maybe tomorrow, okay?"

"Fine" Mulder answered, grinning inside at the protectiveness that filled Handley's voice and stance. He wondered what type of woman could stir such a protective streak in the sheriff.

*****

5:47pm

Mulder followed Handley through the clean, white halls of the hospital, wincing at the smell that tickled his nose. Over the years he developed a true hatred of that scent - the smell common to every hospital he'd ever entered. If he could go without spending another day in one of these halls, he'd be so thankful. But due to his horrible luck, he knew that he'd probably end up in them, time after time, even if he left the FBI. At least the government paid his bills this way.

Handley stopped at the door of a small, private room, peeking his head around the corner of the half-open wood door. "Lee, I've got someone to meet you." He gestured Mulder into the room.

Too fast even for Handley to say words of introduction, Mulder's eyes settled upon the pale woman, so small against the whiteness of the bed, and his mind flashed back to a too-similar memory. A pale face, freckles so dark against its translucent whiteness, surrounded by flaming red hair ... now with an added hopelessness, eyes closed, face weary ... "Scully?" he gasped out.

Blue eyes flying open in shock ..."Mulder?" Almost too low to hear bu confirmation. Throwing all caution, all anger, betrayal, to the wind, ignoring the now puzzled Handley, he flew forward to seize her. So light, he thought, lifting Scully off the bed, huddling her thin body against him, feeling her tears begin to flow, a warm flood on the front of his shirt "Scully, Scully ..." he mumbled into her hair, unable to say more.

Even as some part of his heart screamed in outrage, trying to remind him of her betrayal ... trying to bring some sense back to his worried and astonished mind, he pulled her close.

She just grasped the front of his shirt and sobbed.

*****

Chapter 4: Lee's story

Huddled in his arms and sitting in the room's only chair, now quiet, Dana Scully dared not to speak, believing that if she did, it would all prove a dream. For the past several years, despite the pain the memories brought, she dreamed about this type of reunion, but knowing that he probably viewed her as a traitor, she'd thought that if she found him again, she'd only find anger and cold rejection.

This acceptance, this desperation, she dreamed of but never expected.

Warm, comforted, she didn't want to disturb the illusion - the safety he offered. Over the past several months, realizing that the past had finally caught up with her and remembering with fear the women of MUFON, she'd given into fear and hopelessness. She could never tell anyone of her past, and anyway who would believe her? She had lost the one that understood her due to her choices, even as she tried to protect him.

And spent years paying the price in loneliness.

His friendship she thought she lost years ago. How, why had it appeared now?

Especially with the recent deaths bound by the familiar computer chips. Finding the first had been an accident, and she had hid it in fear, knowing the discovery would bring unwanted (and possibly dangerous) attention upon her.

Then the next appeared, and the next ...

A normal Medical Examiner would have missed or ignored the tiny flecks of metal. She couldn't. Why had these deaths landed upon her doorstep? Had they managed to find her despite her precautions, her fool-proof new identity? How in hell had Mulder ended up on this supposedly non X-file in the middle of nowhere?

She shuddered slightly. Mulder, worry apparent in his voice, asked quietly "Scully, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mulder" she answered without thought, then regretted it as a wince flitted across his face. How easily they fell into the old patterns. "How are you here? Why are you here? This isn't an X-file!"

"And the computer chips?" She widened her eyes in shock and he looked down at her. "Yeah, I found them. Your daughter Claudia isn't the best actress I've encountered.

"Besides, if it were regarded as an X-file, I wouldn't be here!"

"Why?" she asked, voice trembling with the overload of emotions and exhaustion the evening had brought. For the first time since he entered the room, she studied his lined face intently and gasped. True, there had always been hurt there, an unhealed sadness that darkened his eyes, but the emptiness, the deadness of emotions, that was new.

"They're closed, Scully. I haven't been allowed near anything with a hint of the paranormal about it for years." His voice echoed dully.

The realization inflamed her, and she twisted to face him. "What!" The truth showed in the blackness of his eyes. "Those bastards; they promised. They promised!"

Puzzlement spread across his face "Who promised, what?"

Leaning her forehead against his chest "Oh God, it's a long story. A promise broken, probably never meant to be kept." And she remembered.

*****

Several years before - Washington DC
Lincoln Memorial May 24

"Agent Scully?" the polite voice broke into her lunch-time daydreams and she glanced up, blinking in the bright sunlight. She'd escaped from the office for a couple hours today, hoping to enjoy the warm afternoon sitting, watching the tourists at the Lincoln Memorial. Between cases at the moment and freed from the paperwork at the last moment by a bet with Mulder, she'd hoped to spend the rest of the day, unrecognized, in peace.

Cancer Man she thought, desperately, staring up at the older man, and at the dangling Morly hanging between two of his fingers. "Hello." she responded coolly, rising to her feet. "I presume there is a reason you sought me out this afternoon?" Bastard. What's he doing here?

"Ah yes. I can't pretend this was a chance encounter, can I?" exhaling a cloud of smoke in the direction of her face. Luckily, a small breeze drifted by at the moment, saving her from the densest portion of the cloud. "We have a proposal for you."

"I'm not going to deal with you, Sir." Scully snapped back, beginning to turn away, while her mind worked furiously, trying to decide which recent cases bore the marks of interference by the shadow government.

"Oh yes you will."

The last statement was said with such calm assurance that Scully turned back towards him in shock. Observing the calm smile that wrinkled his face, her loathing of the man increased tenfold. "Why?"

"Because if you don't, one of you will end up dead. Very publicly and finally dead. Without anything to connect the death to us."

Shock, disbelief, and fear warred within her heart. Glancing quickly around, reassuring herself that he would attempt nothing here, in the presence of so many witnesses, "So talk."

"My dear, you and your partner have become more than just a thorn in our side. In fact, you've begun to deeply hurt our organization, to expose secrets never intended for public release." A drag on the cigarette. "We've tried all the subtle ways to disrupt your destructive partnership, from attempting to kill you, to removing your supporter from the AD's office. And we've failed every time, while the danger kept mounting. Therefore we've decided upon this last course, despite our dislike of its inelegance. Agent Scully, you *will* leave the X-files within the next week, or one or both of you will be very definitely dead, very soon."

Attempting to kill me, frame Skinner, subtle ways of operation? Talk about killing butterflies with a bulldozer. "Direct threats? You can't be serious." Scully laughed grimly into his face. What depths they'd go to frighten her and Mulder.

"My dear, I'm *deadly* serious."

She looked into his eyes, the cold eyes of a viper, and realized he was telling her the truth. For once. "Sir, I will personally report this conversation and these threats to Assistant Director Skinner's office ..."

"You will not, if you value your life. Unless you give me your word that you will carry out my instructions to the letter, you will die, quite accidentally of course, within the next hour."

Cold terror washed across Scully and the minutes dragged to a halt. Life continued around her, but she focused only upon the grim-featured man before her. He was serious. Her mind flew, attempting to find any way out of this situation, any escape. But nothing remained .... except ... "We'll bargain."

A smile spread across his face at her coolness. "Bargain? My dear, you are at a major disadvantage here."

"We'll bargain, or I'll take my chances. And Sir, if I lose, I promise you it'll do more damage to your organization than you can even imagine. It's the advantage of having friends in journalism."

He couldn't keep his face expressionless. Worry flickered across the wrinkled forehead, betraying to Scully that her bluff was working.

"After my last disappearance I realized that keeping the information on this government-wide conspiracy locked away in a basement office wasn't wise. The parts of the MJ files we managed to translate, my and Mulder's reports, all our information on Krycek, MUFON, everything I could locate pertaining to your organization - it's all in the hands of a reporter, with orders to release it if something should happen to I or Mulder.

"Sure, it's all circumstantial, but taken all together - the pieces begin to fall into place. Most people, the abductees, the UFO watchers, only hold a few pieces, coming up with wild theories from them. Give them the amount that we gathered over the past several years, give all the American people our evidence, our attempts at the truth, and it will do more than just injure your organization. Especially with the new distrust of government, the upswing in the belief in something darker being out there. We don't have enough to destroy you, but to hinder your projects, weaken your veil of lies ..."

"We'll deal, but you still must leave the X-files and Washington."

He's beginning to panic - Thank God, he believed her little tangled web of lies! Knowing she couldn't get a better deal without blowing her bluff, and losing her life in the process, Scully presented her demands. "I leave under my own power, in my own way. And Mulder keeps the X-files."

"You leave today - however you wish. And you don't see or speak to Mulder." Seeing her ready to object "No buts, last offer. E-mail him if you wish." And he turned on his heel, melting into the afternoon crowds of Washington.

*****

"So I left ... e-mailed in my resignation and that cryptic letter to you. I went up to New York, contacted an old college buddy of mine and Dana Scully vanished. Tom may now concentrate upon investments and the stock-market, but his hacking abilities remain as good as the Lone Gunmen. They closed the X-files anyway? Figures. Those bastards" she slumped closer to Mulder in defeat, too exhausted for anger. Cancer did that to a person.

But the chest she slumped into was stiff with tension. She glanced up into Mulder's face and his eyes, fixed upon the opposite wall. "Mulder?"

"You sent a letter? And dealt yourself for the X-files?" he asked, his hazel eyes searching her blue for the truth. "You dealt yourself for me?"

"Yes."

Feeling his muscles tense and shift beneath her weight, Scully realized that if she hadn't been in his lap he'd be pacing with nervous energy. Softly: "Scully, I never received your letter. A week after your disappearance, after a week of desperate searching, trying to discover were you'd been that last afternoon, the higher-ups closed the X-files, using a report signed by you to explain it. A report full of lies about our work on the X-files, but so full of personal detail that it appeared you wrote it. A report that questioned the validity of our investigations, my mental state, Skinner's abilities as AD--something I would have expected from the little spy they sent me, or from Krycek. Not my best friend. We questioned its authenticity, but with you gone 'into protective custody' as they claimed, we couldn't refute any of the charges. Only luck, and Cancer Man's need to see me live in defeat, kept me in the FBI."

Horror spread through Scully's body. She pulled herself away from his chest and seized his arms, seeing the betrayal that shone dully from his eyes, the pain etched in every line of his face, from just the memory of that report. "I never wrote that report, I never questioned your sanity, or our work. Mulder, I couldn't have done that!"

"I know. I knew it then, I know it now. It just took me a few years to convince my heart of that. So angry ... but seeing you in that bed, weak but the real Scully I used to know - the woman I called my friend, I realized how they played with my mind, used my connection to you against me. Betrayal ... just the thought of it hurts. I hated the Scully they created for me, not you."

Hope filled Scully's heart. Even if only a little time remained to her she wouldn't die alone. Guiltily she remembered Claudia and Steve, but still the gladness remained. True she wouldn't have actually been alone, but ... though she loved and respected them both, they weren't Mulder, they didn't know her like Mulder did. And to her heart, that made a difference.

"We'll work together again."

Scully leaned back against the safety of his chest once again. Although she'd never been held by him in such a way during their partnership in the FBI--and she would have strongly objected had he tried to do so--it felt right. The solid return of the protection, the strength, she'd lacked. If only the past five years had been but a dream ... but memories of Clarehill, reality, spurred by her earlier thought of Steve and Claude made an abrupt return ... Clarehill, Oh GOD!

"Mulder, where did Steve go?" She'd been too wrapped up with Mulder, literally and figuratively, to notice.

"Handley? I don't know." He'd been too involved as well, she thought, noting his confusion.

Wondering just how much the man had seen "Now I've got to explain this!?"

*****

Chapter 5: Patience is the Best Policy

Steve Handley sat patiently in the waiting room, years of experience in police-work allowing him to maintain an exterior calm despite the curiosity burning inside. When Mulder had ran towards Lee, his heart bared to the world, and Lee had welcomed him with tears and open arms, he'd beat a hasty retreat from that room. Those two hadn't even noticed.

Scully? he mused, thinking about the small, red-headed medical examiner he'd come to know over the past several years. He'd always suspected that her cool mask and hesitant humor hid a darker past, deep-set pain, but her slight aura of aloofness prevented questions. Realizing that for a small county district to find such a well-trained, intelligent M.E. was nothing short of a miracle, he'd never questioned her past, believing that if Lee ever needed to talk, she'd find a kindred spirit through her own efforts, or confide in her adopted daughter, Claudia. Those two shared enough secrets anyway. But secrets dark enough, frightening enough to change her identity, and a connection to the hated Feds? Interesting.

The Feds, he thought, his mind drifting to Mulder. The man who gasped out Scully's name, emotions and unshed tears roughening his voice, wasn't the cold government bastard he'd worked with all afternoon. After the hints of friendliness Mulder displayed when disarmed by him and Claude that morning had disappeared into intense concentration, he'd turned from a human being into a walking computer focused only upon the case. Emotionless, hard, ignoring the feelings of the people involved to grasp at the facts - your typical FBI idiot. Not someone Lee would welcome with shocked surprise.

Somehow their stories intertwined - almost leaving one incomplete without the other, and Steve wanted to know how.

Five more minutes, he promised his curiosity, I'll give them five more minutes, searching the small room with his eyes, trying to locate a magazine to distract him: Life, Time ... oh, shit!

"Claudia!"

The girl, intently heading across the front of the room, spun to face him. "Oh God, Steve, is something wrong?"

"Calm down Claudia. Everything's fine." Steve laughed lightly. "Confusing, but fine. Have you ever heard the name Scully?"

"No, why?" she said, shifting from foot-to-foot, obviously wanting to check on Lee herself.

Well, Lee hadn't shared her secrets with Claudia. Now his interest grew - something Lee hadn't even trusted Claude with. "It looks like Lee's had a surprise from the past."

Grinning at the puzzlement that filled Claude's eyes, Steve turned back to searching the magazine piles and ignored her attempts to elicit more information. Then Mulder emerged into the waiting room. "Handley, Sc ... Lee sent me out to find you and apologize. We didn't mean to scare you from the room."

Glancing over the tall man standing before him, Handley quickly noted all the changes with surprised eyes. Mulder looked relaxed and ten years younger but still retained the intensity that had characterized his investigation. An interesting mix. "No problem Mulder. I know when I'm not needed. Claude, you can see Lee now."

Claudia tossed a distrustful glance in Mulder's direction, then ran out of the room. Handley leaned toward Mulder "You coming?"

"I've got to make some phone calls first."

*****

Chapter 6: Where Friends Hide

Washington DC
Location Unknown

*Ring, ring*

"Martha's Clothing Store. Please leave a message after the beep!" *Beep*

"It's Mulder. Pick up the damn phone."

Frohike glanced over at Byers, a silent question. Byers shrugged and motioned toward the receiver. Clearly, he was leaving it up to him. Approaching the phone as if it was a bomb (well, it could be--all those advances the government kept silent), and answered.

"Mulder? Mulder!?"

"Yes?"

His voice, his annoyance, his sarcasm. "You haven't called us in over a year, since we told you Scully could absolutely not be found. I believe you also told us that hell would freeze over before you contacted us again. Since that notable event has yet to take place ..."

Silence, then a slight intake of air. "Frohike, let me explain .."

"Drunk, depressed, and suicidal. Does that sum it up?" His memory of that day lingered in his mind for a moment. Mulder, unshaven, wearing rumpled clothes, and stinking of alcohol, screaming at the three of them as he staggered across the room. They still didn't know how he'd gotten home that night. "Mulder, we've spent the past year considering ways to contact you, hoping you'd call us. We understood how much Scully and the X-files, meant to you, and how you died when everything fell apart. So what do you need?"

Clarehill, NE
County Hospital

Back in Clarehill, Mulder stared at the phone for a moment before continuing, denying the tears that briefly gathered at the corners of his eyes. Emotional overload from the evening.

But these paranoid geeks could sure surprise him sometimes, revealing that they knew more than just what affected their own little corner of the universe, their own theories. Briefly he re-considered his decision not to tell them about Scully, but that news was too important to reveal over a phone line.

Anyway, she'd kill him.

"I need all the info you've got on the abductee implants, and on the cancer some survivors suffer, everything relating ..."

"Mulder, do you know what you're doing? You're investigating an X-file, aren't you? Are you an idiot?"

"I'm just investigating all possible leads, no matter how unimportant."

"Fine. I won't say a word." Frohike sighed. "You have a fax machine handy?"

"Hold on." Poking his head into the room where Handley and Claudia were interrogating Scully, trying to squeeze out every detail of her secret life. Glancing at Claudia, he realized that this was just the first interrogation she'd undergo this evening. He wanted to know just how that teenager had ended up calling Scully mother. "Handley, got a fax machine?

"I do, Mulder." Scully's clear voice rang out. Obviously she wanted an escape from their questions. In panic, Mulder glanced down at the cellular phone, only then noticing that he'd automatically hit the mute button. Thankfully. Frohike knew Scully's voice too well. "Who are you talking to?" she continued.

"One guess" he grinned at her.

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes."

"Don't you dare give them my address, my phone number, anything besides my fax number ... In fact, if you even tell Frohike it's mine ..."

"Me?" Mulder asked guilelessly and ducked the pillow that flew towards him, his heart filling with joy at the familiar expression on her face and the energy in her eyes. Friendly disbelief, lifted eyebrows, how often he'd wished to see it. "Don't worry, I won't even tell them about you."

"(308) 555-1121"

Ducking back out the door, Mulder repeated the fax number Scully gave him, and said farewell to Frohike. Then he dialed another familiar number, wondering if he'd still be in his office at this hour. After all, it was fast approaching 8pm in Washington. But he'd gotten more obsessive recently, trying to rebuild his own career after it had fallen into the same pit as Mulder's. He'd had better luck ...

*Ring*

"Skinner," the voice growled into the phone.

"Sir, it's Mulder."

"Of course. What other agent would decide to call me at this time of evening? Problem with your new case?" Skinner said kindly, reminding Mulder of all the help and support he'd gotten from the man over the past several years. Although he'd rejected all Skinner's attempts at friendship, the man still continued to offer, and to support his few off-the-record investigations. New guilt arose in his heart--emotions long frozen by the created betrayal, now emerging.

"No problems, exactly ... but I need your help. Off-the-record" he said hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"I'm Fed Ex-ing a small package to your home address and I need it analyzed. I think you'll recognize it. And I need you to pull the files on the implant taken from Scully's neck and fax them to me."

"Mulder, is everything all right?" Worry filled Skinner's voice.

"Yes!" he said, more happily than he intended. Oops. Now Skinner would know something was up.

"Okay. Send me the package, Pendell owes me a favor. I suspect he'll recognize it as well?

"That file's locked down in the X-files office isn't it? I think I'm basically alone in the building now, so I'll go pull it and fax it from a machine down on the first floor. Don't worry - I don't think anyone will notice its short disappearance. What's the number?"

Startled by Skinner's abrupt change in mood, from worry to business, Mulder automatically gave him the fax number.

"Package will be here tomorrow, I presume? Okay, Pendell will look at it tomorrow night, and I'll have the preliminary report to you as soon as it becomes available. I'll give him the number so he can send it the moment he finishes. Don't worry, he won't betray us. Call me if you need anything else."

Now in complete shock, Mulder said goodbye, and hung up the phone. It was the first time he requested help in a case that was clearly an X-file and had expected an argument at least. Not unquestioned help. Skinner was so against the shadow government that he was willing to help without question, to support an investigation that could take his badge? Looking back at his actions over the past several years, Mulder realized that his actions betrayed this. But he'd been so wrapped up in his own hurt, that he'd never discovered it. Until now.

"Agent Mulder?"

"Yes, Claudia?" glancing at the teen that appeared before him. He'd been so involved in his thoughts he hadn't noticed the girl approaching.

"Lee wants to know if you've finally finished. She needs to talk to you."

"I'll coming in." and began to walk down the hall towards the door he'd wandered from during his phone conversations.

"She calls for you during her nightmares, you know," the quiet voice filled with anger stopped him in his path.

"What!?"

"I recognized your name this morning--but couldn't remember from where. When I saw the two of you teasing each other just moments ago, I remembered. In of the night, she screams out your name, during the dreams she refuses to tell me about. She cries for you to help her, rescue her, then turns away when I wake her."

Nightmares - her abduction, Tooms, Pfaser, whatever; the dreams hadn't gone away. His fault, times he couldn't protect her, horrors she'd confronted because of the X-files. Like the situation that forced her to leave, let him believe in false betrayal. Again, he failed to protect her, leading her to a possible death. In Washington, the LG and MUFON would have had her in contact with the doctors that treated this strange cancer before, but here, in a small-town hospital ... his fault, again he had failed. He hadn't realized what the conspiracy had set out to do, and she paid the price and he'd believed in her betrayal. "No, oh no." he whispered, the sense of failure hitting his heart.

"She screams, and I can't comfort her. The only one that cared about me, who took me in, instead of returning to the streets where I belonged, who comforted and protected me, and I can't help her. I don't know what she dreams of, why she calls for you. If you hurt her again, I'll kill you."

"Claudia, I swear I'll never hurt Scully." Looking at the fierce teenager standing before him, "And if I could have, I would have been there for her during every nightmare, every day she suffered from cancer, during everything."

"You mean it?"

"Yes." The suspicion still glistened in her eyes, but remained in check. Stepping aside, she allowed him into the room, but followed closely upon his heels, determined to keep him in sight.

Hesitating at the door for an instant, he realized how quickly the world was whirling around him, how in the past hour or so he'd felt and cared about more than he had in over five years. A push from the girl following reminded him that the changes were far from over. And even more messy than they'd been when he'd checked out on life five years ago. When life pulls you back in, it sure doesn't go easy on you.

What, you don't say MORE?

cschick — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 04:04:24 GMT

Sequel to the last post. Yes, MORE 15-year-old crack!fic. We didn't call it crack!fic back then. People just smiled at you kindly and carefully edged away.

Note, June 30, 2011

There is some part of me which says … might as well. This is the follow-up to The File on the X-Files. But this definitely requires more explanation.

This story was written in July/August 1996.

If you don't remember or know what the Internet was like back then: cross-ocean Internet connections were slow as molasses. The three archive set up of the Gossamer Project was originally to combat that issue: Gossamer tried to keep servers in Europe/the UK, the United States, and Australia.

This story pre-dates that setup, and just barely pre-dates the organization of the Gossamer Project.

Natasha's site was what became the US Gossamer Project site at Simplenet. At the time this story was written, she had just inherited all the files from Vincent at the original Ohio-State Gossamer site and was busy working with a group of people (including me!) to develop the database has driven Gossamer from that point forward.

The British site was Steph's site. She ran eXtreme Possibilities, a site dedicated to Mulder/Scully romance stories. Soon after this story was written, she also began running the UK-based Gossamer mirror which shut down in early 1997. Steph was known for being an extremely dedicated shipper and a major presence on the ATXC newsgroup.

Also, in the few months between when the last story was written and this story, the term “shipper” came into usage as a result of the May 1996 relationship wars.

Netscape was THE BROWSER. The one and only.

I haven't the faintest clue what the “Winona Ryder rumor” was.

-----

The Truth of the Matter
Deirdre (cschick@gmail.com)

Okay, another Gnyfer story (everyone that read the first one, stop moaning please). This one's a wee bit more abrasive than the other ... please remember it's all tongue-in-cheek.

This might make more sense if you read the first one (The File on the X-files) or it might not. I don't know.

No insult intended to any 'shippers or romance writers, I bow before your excellence. Then I turn and make fun of it. Perfectly logical, huh?

Summary: Gnyfer strikes again! His sudden re-appearance reveals a deeply hidden secret of Chris Carter's, a secret that will shock 'shippers and anti-'shippers alike!

Rating: S,H

*****

Chris Carter leaned back in his chair and sighed. Producing a television show was hard work ... much too hard sometimes, especially on days when everything went wrong. But now, with about an hour to relax before anyone came seeking him, he could relax.

Well, kind of. Unfortunately his choice of diversions was one he needed to be careful that no one discovered, especially those insane x-philes on the 'net. For if they did, well, the results wouldn't be pretty. And not just because of the fan reaction. So, after stretching muscles cramped by several hours of sitting at his desk, screaming at people over the telephone, he stood up and silently locked the door.

Kicking at one of the many crumpled pieces of paper that littered his floor, he returned to his chair and turned towards the thing that dominated his desk. His computer ... his lovely, packed-full-of-options computer. Gigantic hard drive, lots and lots of RAM, and the fastest modem a person could buy ... everything a computer geek could desire.

And of course he only used the set-up for writing. Of *course*.

Turning it on, he waited impatiently for the system to boot up, aware of the time flying past, then quickly signed onto the Internet, avoiding his email. Someone could mention *business* in there ... a terrible, avoidable prospect. He wasn't online for business. Not tonight.

Immediately opening Netscape, he hesitated just for a second, mind rapidly sorting through the possibilities. Running over his list of memorized urls, recognizing his mood, he swiftly settled upon the perfect one. Ah, just how perfect! Although even he'd admit the US-British connections were sometimes too slow for his liking ... the collection, the collection was perfect.

Typing in the memorized address (for he didn't dare bookmark it--too risky, who knows what might take a look at that file?) he waited for the page to load, fingers tapping impatiently upon the desk. Glancing through the page he hastily weighed the prospects, organizing and rejecting ideas even as he looked towards others. Then he saw it. His eyes lit with glee and he clicked upon it, sighing with happiness and barely restraining a delighted shout. Finally!

Nothing could disturb this perfect evening. Well, almost nothing.

Totally engrossed, he barely noticed anything but the screen before him until two skinny legs, feet enclosed in bright purple shoes, suddenly appeared dangling before him. When they registered, he gasped in shock and hastily minimized the Netscape window, praying that it had not seen. "Why, hello."

The gray creature sitting upon the monitor returned the greeting with a nod and a smile. "Just coming to tell you that I like what you've been doing. 'Specially that recent announcement that shook those damn 'shippers right out of their socks. You know--the one where you claimed the two would never be in a romantic relationship because of the reaction of fans on the Internet? Artfully done, I must say. Especially coming on top of the Winona Ryder rumor."

Carter tried not to grimace, watching the thing gently thud its purple-shod heels into his computer screen. Artfully done? Yeah, especially if you counted the amount of people now angry at him ... one reason he'd been avoiding the newsgroups these past few weeks. It was so easy to want to defend himself, to explain ... but one word wrong, one word that revealed his true self and inclinations, one word that would be broadcast far and wide ... and very bad things would happen. Very, very bad things. Although this horrid thing might stop bothering him out of pure disgust. Quickly suppressing that thought, he responded "Why, thank you."

"Our agreement is secure, unblemished by that slop Pusher." the creature grinned. "And the general quality of the show is back on the upswing, thanks to my cooperation. Think the 'philes are anxious enough for the premiere by now?"

"Very ready, I hope."

And after laughing, which did very unpleasant things to his smashed-up features, the creature jumped down from his perch upon the computer, landing right upon the mouse pad, its purple cape swirling dramatically around it, revealing the slightest glimpse of a heavily jeweled handle of a tiny sword. Distracted, Carter stared at the sword for an instant, wondering why a figment of his imagination (or whatever) would be costumed in a bad copy of some Medieval outfit. A bad, bright purple copy, even to the fake felt cap on its hairless head.

And that distraction proved his undoing.

"Cool, you're online!" exclaimed the excited creature, peering at the Netscape icon on the bottom of the screen. "What 'ya doing?"

And taking the mouse in both hands, it double-clicked on the icon.

As what he'd been reading popped up on the screen, betraying him, Carter almost fainted. Now what was he to do?

Gloved hands resting upon cloaked hips the creature began reading aloud.

[ "You're sure?" he asked yet again, his hands running up and down her arms, smoothing along her skin.

"Yes," she said a bit more emphatically, bemusement creeping into her voice once more. "I'm fine."

"Well, I'm not," Mulder muttered as he brought his lips to hers with a kind of barely controlled violence. His mouth crushed against hers, surprising her. Blindly she clung to his arms for balance, while he kissed her as if he thought to mark her in this way, stamp her as his own. ]

"What in hell is this?!?!" it shouted, all humor leaving its voice, hastily using the mouse to scroll up the screen. "At a Loss for Words, by Karen Rasch? Why are you reading this slop?!?" Its skin had turned a brilliant green, a color that looked even worse than its usual gray for some reason. And a shade of green that clashed with the purple.

Searching his mind for a believable explanation Carter responded, "Um, someone just told me to check out this site ... I didn't know what type of fan-fiction was on it! I was as shocked as you are to read that!"

Clicking back, the creature answered "Yeah, right. You're on a site whose main page is entitled 'eXtreme Possibilities' and whose creator is one of the truly dedicated 'shippers on the 'net. And makes that clear on every page of her archive." It stared at Carter, red eyes demanding an explanation.

Feeling his face grow hot, Carter answered "Well, I was just trying to relax. You know, find some stuff that I've never read, enjoy these people's perspective on the show. I never expected to stumble on that."

"If you were looking for X-files fanfic, stuff that followed the show's format, you wouldn't be here. Do you think I'm computer-stupid? I keep track of these things, you idiot. You've be over on that Gossamer site, the one that has all the summaries."

"Natasha's, on Simplenet." whispered Carter without thinking, then glanced over at the creature, who was thankfully too enraged to notice.

"And you'd be reading Livengoo's Corpse, or even Sheryl Martin's Dragon Tales ..."

"Jackie St. George" issued quietly from Carter's mouth, another comment that it thankfully missed.

"NOT THIS!!!!! That's the type of stuff that works, the type of stuff that isn't or almost isn't erotic slop. You know what reading this could do to you?"

Luckily, his betraying mouth stayed silent this time.

"You could accidentally start to write more than UST into your scripts ... and lose my help. This is what Pusher emerged out of, isn't it?!? Reading this stuff off the 'net?"

"I didn't mean anything ... I was just reading ..."

"Go to hell." And with a swirl of its cape, it vanished.

Carter stared at the spot for a moment, his world crashing around his ears. If it left him, where would he get his ideas? Who would help him? Tears began rolling down his face, and he put his head into his hands, bemoaning his fate.

"Oh, stop it." the voice came from behind him.

He whipped around to find the creature seated upon a shelf, the green slightly faded back towards gray, a disgusted look on his face.

"You're such a baby. I'm not leaving forever, unfortunately. You've still kept our bargain, so I have to. I don't break my agreements, and deal harshly with those who do. Understand?"

Carter nodded.

"Good. Goodnight." It vanished again.

Glancing around to make sure it was fully gone, Carter shook his head. Now he had to be even more careful.

Glancing back at his computer, his eyes glanced over the words and he shook his head sadly. Now even this was too risky. Leaning over, he signed off and leaned back in his chair. No more, he promised himself, no more.

That resolution lasted about five minutes.

*****

Washington, DC

The man walked down the hall, his lighted cigarette glowing slightly in the after midnight darkness of the building, thanking God for the silence. After the party atmosphere of the last six hours--the endless music and laughter and screaming--it was far more than welcomed. It was required.

The aliens, those helpful, bossy, noisy diplomats whom the government tried to please in every way, had found out about Halloween. About the costumes, the candy, the fun ... and had demanded that they hold a costume party. It didn't matter to them that the holiday was over a month away, and only for children, they had demanded a party *now*. A party with costumes, bobbing for apples, hide-and-seek, a haunted house ... the full works. And candy, especially candy.

Candy and aliens ... well, it wasn't a good mix. Sugar went to their heads like alcohol to a human's head, a fact that he had thought funny once upon a time. Getting drunk on sugar? It seemed so fantastic. But not after tonight. Never after tonight.

Rubbing his pounding head, he continued down the hall, hoping that they all had finally collapsed somewhere. And knowing that he wasn't coming in early tomorrow. The last thing he needed to deal with was a bunch of aliens with hangovers.

But as he neared the back door, a thumping sound intruded into his silence. A rhythmic thumping that went on and on ... not ceasing even as he drew near. Rounding a corner in search of the noise, he saw a small shadow, draped in a long cloak, thumping his head against the wall.

Quickly remembering which aliens had been wearing such costumes, he realized who it was and tried to fade back into the shadows. Hell, the *last* thing he needed to deal with tonight was their primary diplomat, drunk on sugar and upset enough to start slamming his head into walls. It wouldn't hurt him, not with his extraordinary thick skull. Maybe it might even knock some sense into the idiot.

But the odor of the cigarette gave him away. The damn sensitive noses of those creatures! He turned and screamed "You! You! Why does everyone betray me?"

The man stared at the clearly delusional alien for a second and said "Gnfyer, no one's betrayed you."

"He's betrayed me ... even he doesn't believe in the right of my decision."

"Gnfyer ..." he said, not clear on how to respond, not even knowing what the thing was talking about. When these things got on a roll, nothing would stop them. Not even the fact that whatever was going on only mattered to them.

"I hate life." and the alien sank to the floor, and fell asleep.

The man dropped his half-burned cigarette to the floor and squashed it, then picked up Gnyfer. No, he didn't want to do this. But if he wanted to keep his hide in good shape, he wouldn't leave the supreme diplomat of the most-valued allies in earth's section of space laying on the floor in a back hallway. Luckily the short guy was really light.

Oh, he hated his life.

End.

There's nothing like 15-year-old crack!fic

cschick — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 04:00:38 GMT

Don't say the subject line isn't warning enough.

NOTE, June 30th, 2011

This story was written in MARCH 1996. Some people on Haven were concerned that Ephemeral was not working today, so I compared my list of stories I had written to the list of my stories posted to Gossamer. I happen to know why this story is not currently on Gossamer and realized I never put it back up.

This story is written using language that was common in the XF community in 1996 and I have decided not to edit that into language that is more common today.

Archive: This story is released to the public domain. Although, does the public domain even want it? That is the question.

-----

The File on the X-files (or Truth is Stranger than Fiction)
Deirdre (cschick@gmail.com)

Summary: Well, where does Chris Carter come up with his ideas for the x-files? Who helps him create the intricate web of conspiracies we all know and love? Gnfyer does! But, who, *what* is Gnfyer?

Rating: Humor

Comments: No, I don't hate Pusher - in fact I love the episode. It just bore the brunt of Gnfyer's anger because GNFYER hates it.

Disclaimer: CC belongs to CC, I *hope*. Gnfyer's mine (well, in a way)

*****

The little gray creature crossed his arms and glared at Chris Carter from a top his desk. "How could you let them do that?" it demanded, red eyes flashing in anger.

Chris Carter turned from his computer and glanced over at the thing, wondering what he'd done wrong *this* time. Its sudden appearance was not an uncommon occurrence, but its sudden anger was. "Do what?"

"Pusher!" cried the creature, his face distorting with pain. "A romp for those Romantics - that's all it was! They gave into the pressure of the massing Internet crowds and came up with that slop! It was such a perfect idea before they ruined it with that romance." Heaving sobs wracked its frame.

"It just showed the strength of the bond between the two - nothing more! It wasn't an attempt to mollify the Romantics." Carter insisted, not moved to apology by the creature's antics. His eyes searching the creature's smashed features for any sign of disbelief "Your help, our arrangement is far too valuable to risk losing it."

"Fine, sure, whatever." the creature muttered, kicking at a paperweight. Tears still wet its cheeks, but the crying fit was over for now. "Just remember that next time - my help can vanish as quickly as it appeared. No romance, and I will continue to give you my help, my ideas." And with one final look, it turned its back on CC and vanished.

Carter turned back to his computer, and the new script that scrolled across the screen. Okay, the thing had bought his explanation - this time. But he couldn't afford to put anymore 'accidental' hints for the Romantics for the next few months. He couldn't afford to lose the one who gave him his best ideas, the one who actually came up with the idea for the "X-files" in the first place. To that strange gray creature, whether it be a figment of his imagination or something else, he owed the success of the past few years. Nothing, not even the pressure of fans could force him to break his agreement with it. No romance - and it would continue.

But what in the world did that creature have against romance anyway?

With a glance to make sure no one even saw him thinking such traitorous thoughts, he turned back toward his computer, sighing.

He didn't notice the woman standing just outside the window, staring at the place from where the creature had vanished.

*****

File #11211013
Investigation of Chris Carter, creator of the "X-files"

... So, in summary, Chris Carter proves to be nothing more than an average television show producer. Nothing points to any connections with foreign intelligence agencies, or any activity against either the governments of Canada or the United States. Although there have been several strange reports of him talking to a gray creature none can identity, clearly these hallucinations have more basis in over-active imaginations than fact. Especially since there are no such things as aliens ...

The man put the report down next to the ash-tray with a still- smoking Morley. Although his superiors had thought him insane when he ordered the investigation of that TV show whose ideas sometimes came too close to reality - the proof was now before him, typed in plain black-and-white. The truth behind the television show named X. He should have realized it long ago.

"Gnfyer, get your little gray ass in here!"

The gray alien appeared before him, their version of a grin gracing his face. "Yes sir? Your coffee too hot; too cold?"

Sometimes the damn thing could be so annoying, especially when he was trying to be condescending. Yeah, he was a *great* pick for a diplomat. Even knowing that most of his people weren't any better. "Oh cut the crap, Gnfyer and read this."

It squinted at it for an instant, then laughed. "'Especially since there are no such things as aliens ...', Mr. High and Mighty thinks he knows everything, doesn't he. Do you want us to give his disbelief a little shake?"

The man gritted his teeth, knowing exactly what the damn thing was trying to do. "NOT THAT, GNFYER!" Calming down (you didn't want to anger the most important allies in this section of the universe) he continued "Read the line before it."

"Yes?"

"One of you is assisting that man in the creation of that show, aren't you."

"It appears that way."

Damn evasive creatures, always sticking their noses where they didn't belong. "Who ... and why? Do you know what they've done with me? Now I'm the next great television villain - they've so mis-portrayed me! Why would one of you do that?" he moaned.

"For fun? We love television and seek to improve it in any way we can. It's the one original thing you Earthers have come up with."

Putting his head in his hands, the man moaned. "But if you reveal our projects to the world ... especially if you mis- represent them ..."

"It's *fiction*. Do you actually thing anyone believes it?" Gnfyer was getting whiny, not a mood he wanted to deal with him in.

The man got up and walked out of the room, still shaking his head. He couldn't believe what they had to put up with to ally themselves with these things. The universe's party animals, which only concerned themselves with what they found funny ... damn idiots who never thought what their actions could do ...

He was so involved in his thoughts that he didn't hear Gnfyer's last wailing comment: "I like feeding the American paranoia - it's fun! Besides, I just *couldn't* let it become another 'Moonlighters'."

End.

Glee brain rot: or, the problem with guest stars

cschick — Sat, 07 May 2011 12:01:28 GMT

Yes, I watch the brain rotting television show otherwise known as Glee.

This season, I've become quite the Kurt/Blaine fangirl, because Kurt's storyline over the course of the season was the strongest and most interesting storyline over the course of a season which has run otherwise fairly cold. Since the majority of the Dalton storyline took place away from New Directions/McKinley, this is kind of a sad commentary on the McKinley aspects of the season so far.

Usually, I can go along with the onscreen romantic stylings of a television show, even when they don't match up with my preferred pairings. But the Finn/Rachel/Quinn triangle either makes me want to throw things at the television or simply fast-forward past those parts.

Having gotten my hands on the releases of Jar of Hearts and Rolling in the Deep from the upcoming episode, I now can say exactly why. The Rachel/Jesse relationship was the strongest, most real (most fucked up) heterosexual relationship they've ever written for this show. I just can't see why she's still screwing around with her crush on Finn after she was in something like that.

Publication is Publication

cschick — Mon, 18 Apr 2011 16:07:45 GMT

In some ways, I can't believe that more than 15 years after the first evidence that the Internet can be eternal, we're still fighting this fight.

Publication, whether you publish online or in print, is publication. When you publish, copyright applies. Yet copyright is about more than the rights granted to the author.

In the US, the Constitutional Clause which even permits copyright to exist is:

To promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts, by securing for limited Times to Authors and Inventors the exclusive Right to their respective Writings and Discoveries.

And in the 1976 revamp of US Copyright law, publication is defined as:

"Publication" is the distribution of copies or phonorecords of a work to the public by sale or other transfer of ownership, or by rental, lease, or lending. The offering to distribute copies or phonorecords to a group of persons for purposes of further distribution, public performance, or public display constitutes publication. A public performance or display of a work does not of itself constitute publication.

(bolding mine)

Until the 1970s, copyright itself required that you place the document on deposit with the Library of Congress, so that the document would continue to exist beyond the limits of copyright, to eventually be entered into the public domain. Even if you chose to withdraw the document from publication, it still existed and still would eventually be a part of the public domain.

(Edited, 4/20/2011: the above is wrong, prior to the 1970s, notice was required for copyright but not registration and deposit. Although from what I have found, registration and deposit was still required for doing much of anything about infringements, as it is today: http://www.copyright.gov/fls/fl109.html).

Nowadays--while that requirement has been lifted--if you do not register your copyright, your ability to do anything when your copyright is violated is still limited, in particular ways which deeply affect copyright infringements of free publications.

Before an infringement suit may be filed in court, registration is necessary for works of U. S. origin.
If registration is made within three months after publication of the work or prior to an infringement of the work, statutory damages and attorney’s fees will be available to the copyright owner in court actions. Otherwise, only an award of actual damages and profits is available to the copyright owner.

Also, once you've published, you have started the countdown to the document eventually being a part of the public domain. That is the flip side of copyright--you are granted copyright on your published document in return for it eventually NOT being under copyright and freely available to the public without restriction.

So, I am starting from this basis.

1. Under US copyright law, posting a fan fiction story publicly to a service which allows distribution to other fans constitutes publication as defined.

2. Thus, all aspects of copyright law and case law apply, both the author's rights to restrict future new distribution and the rights which copyright/case law has granted over time to the end user's ownership of their personal copy of that document.

Over the past year, I've gotten into another online community which also deeply struggles with the reality of copyright on electronic files, and what it means legally. In the case of this particular community, there are not quite the gray areas which we sometimes associate with copyright on fan fiction. In fact, what copyright allows to the creator and end user have been fought through the courts over the past century and there is case law which is directly applicable to the community. And to my surprise, the way the rights permitted to the end user have been interpreted and are implemented are far more liberal than you'd expect.

For example, there are free documents available for download (there are also documents available for purchase). When I chose to "download" a freely-offered file on the major site for this community (over a million users), I can either select to download that file to my computer, or save it into my electronic library on the site.

Should the author of that free document chose to remove it from the site and I've "downloaded" it only into my electronic library on the site, it is still available to me. In the way that copyright law has been interpreted here, I now own a particular copy of that document whether I downloaded it to my computer desktop or only to my electronic space on the site.

For years, I've played with an evolving design for a new fan fiction archive, and this idea was certainly something that never occurred to me. Once a reader saves a file into their own electronic bookshelf, they forever own a particular copy of that file--whether they've downloaded it to their physical computer or not. The fan fiction community would explode. But it is a legally valid interpretation of how copyright functions in combination with electronic bits.

It still would be a violation of copyright for me to then take my copy of that file and e-mail it to another person. Unless of course, I did that AND deleted my personal copy of the file. But the other person, once they finished with the file, could e-mail it back to me.

Then we get into the murkier rights about copyright and time-shifting/use-shifting which are still being fought. In essence, as long as I do not USE my copy of that file while the other person has "borrowed" it from me, is it a violation under the spirit of copyright and the understandings granted by case law? So if the electronic site set up a "lending" relationship between users which allowed a user to "lend" the file for a limited amount of time and locked the file for the original user during that period, would that be legal? In my understanding, yes.

Beyond that, we get into the reality of what the original author of the document can actually do once their copyright has been violated:

1. If a creator/author really wants to take this to court, they must register their document and put it on deposit with the Library of Congress, thus ensuring that this document has been made immortal. Which doesn't seem like a good idea if the author has intentionally tried to suppress the document.

2. Unless the registration was made within a very limited amount of time and prior to the act of infringement, the creator/author can only sue for actual damages or profits. Which in the case of a freely downloaded document being passed between end users, amounts to probably nothing.

I'm not even going to get into the exceptions to copyright which the law grants to libraries and other forms of archival activities, because those are nowhere near settled in the case of electronic files and electronic lending. History shows that there's a chance of those being settled in the favor of the library/archive over authors, but we are possibly decades away from rulings on those. And nobody knows how technology will change in the meantime.

So, back to fandom, orphaned works, deleted works.

Recognize that before you publish (defined above), in return for your implicit copyright on your work, YOU ARE giving up something important. You are giving up the ability to make those words forever vanish from the face of the world. If some crazy real life library decided to start downloading, printing, and lending your fan fiction, that would be perfectly within their realm of rights and you couldn't make them stop even if you deleted the online version of your story. That paper copy would then exist as long as it existed.

If some academic downloads and quotes your story with your name attached in a modern day analysis of the crazy world of fandom, that is perfectly within his or her rights. If I back up my archive to CD and my great-great-great (however many greats) grandchild gives that CD to a publisher in 200 years, it doesn't matter whether your story was removed after the backup was burned. It's in the public domain, because you published it.

If that realization makes you not want to write or publish fan fiction--don't write or publish fan fiction.

House, Fanfic: Crossroads

cschick — Fri, 15 Apr 2011 21:56:33 GMT

Title: Crossroads

Author: Cschick

Author's note: I apologize to all those who are waiting on new chapters for Universal Forces. After a long creative drought over the past six months, I'm trying to write again. At the moment, I'm finishing up some short scenes and stories I've partly written over the past year or so.

This is a Cuddy introspective I wrote after the season finale last year.

Distribution: This story is released to public domain.

In her forty-odd years on this earth, Lisa Cuddy knew that she had learned at least one thing about life. There are moments when you suddenly realize that you're headed down the wrong path at full speed. Moments when every fiber of your spirit suddenly rises up and protests against the plan the logical part of your brain has plotted, when you see the perfect life you've designed for yourself and hate it for the heartless shell it is.

How you react to those moments, that is the measure you have of yourself.

Perhaps the moment had arrived because she had been so completely focused on so different an issue-emergency management, on getting herself and other hospital staff organized to take care of the crane collapse. Perhaps after the proposal she had so thoughtlessly accepted the night before, the proposal she had been half-expecting and yet never really considering, some part of her subconscious was waiting for a moment of pure distraction to start screaming at her about what she had forced herself to become.

Or perhaps the moment had arrived because of that strange connection that she and House seemed to share, the connection that made House the only one that truly understood her, the only one who could both tear her down completely and build her back up again in a blink of an eye. The connection that always lead him to do the wrong thing at the right time, and the right thing at the wrong time.

When House had handed her the book, that was one of those actions. Her single moment of shock felt like it lasted a thousand years, that moment when she thought he was giving her an engagement present.

Afterward, it didn't matter that he intended it as a house-warming present rather than an engagement present. With the way they both lived their lives, cohabiting and marriage meant the same thing. As either type of present, the book and its inscription meant the same thing. He was trying to accept that her relationship was permanent, that Lucas was going to be an ongoing presence in her life. He was trying to tell her that he accepted it, that had he accepted it to such a degree that he had inscribed its existence in a present he knew she would find deeply meaningful.

Lisa Cuddy had looked at the book and its inscription, and instead of feeling happiness, instead of rejoicing that for once in her life everything, including House, was falling into the place where she wanted it to be, her heart seized with despair.

Rather than revealing to her what she was receiving, the gift brought home the reality of what she was losing. And for the briefest of moments, her heart collapsed in on itself, leaving behind confusion and devastation.

For that evening, she hated House. Every time she encountered him being his apparently lazy and destructive surface self at the accident site, she clutched the evidence of his failures to herself, gathering them as reminders of why she was willing to lose the chance she had spent the past year running away from.

Every time he threw pointed questions her way, using his uncanny ability to read her to pry directly into her confusion, she turned the anger she felt at herself back on him. She gathered together every scrap she knew about him and his vulnerabilities to try to bring the same despair on him that she felt.

And through their encounters at the site, through their confused discussions that both spoke about the patient and themselves, she tried to tear him apart but destroyed them both. Every time she launched another verbal bullet in his direction, from her declaration that that she did not love him, to her full-out attack that questioned the worth of his life, she felt it hit herself. She was using her own hurt to destroy a man she on some level respected, and on another level, loved. With every moment she ignored both of those aspects, with every word she used to try to convince him she neither respected nor loved him, she felt her own despair grow.

Then once again, as she'd seen happen many times before, House had turned his own destruction into a chance to save someone else. But this time, she was the direct cause of the destruction. This time she had designed the depths of his destruction, and she could only marvel at what he suddenly and unexpectedly extracted from that darkness.

As she listened to the girl scream, closed her eyes against the sound of the saw yet still pictured behind her closed lids the blood and tissue destruction that House was creating in that garage of horrors, she finally had to admit that right at this moment, what she hated was herself. She hated what she had let herself become, the path she had chosen to follow for every logical reason in the world. She hated the beautiful ring that was tucked so neatly away in the drawer of her desk, the proposal she had accepted with so much, yet so little thought. It was in that moment that she knew that she needed to actually make a choice, to follow her heart or follow her brain, and to embrace that choice fully.

She had called him from her office at the hospital, perhaps too cowardly to face him in person. "I can't do it."

"Do what?"

"Continue this relationship, marry you . . ."

"Lisa . . . " she heard the sound of a sigh come over the phone. "Take a day to think about it?"

"I did take a day to think about it."

"How did he get to you?"

Even Lucas knew who his competition was. "By giving up. By showing that he could actually change, even in some small degree."

"He's a bastard."

"Yes, he is."

"I hope you're happy, Lisa."

"I can't know unless I try."

"That's your flaw."

Lucas had ended the conversation there, ending the call with no goodbye. At some point, they'd have to deal with the messier details-returning the ring, getting the belongings he'd moved in out of her house. But not tonight. Tonight, she didn't want to deal with anything, but she had one thing she needed to deal with.

His apartment door was unlocked, not a good sign. When she found him sitting on the floor of his bathroom, staring at the pills as if they were some sort of salvation-or escape-she knew that she couldn't stop him, but couldn't allow her own denial to be the direct cause of his destruction any longer.

"You here to yell at me again?" he asked.

"No . . ." she responded, trying to find the right words.

"Well, I'm running out of ideas," he said sarcastically, using his words to hide his pain, as he always did.

"Lucas," she mumbled, wishing that maybe she's rehearsed this, maybe she'd at least tried to figure out the right words.

"Oh, great. You're feeling uncomfortable again. Probably means you just got back from some quickie wedding in Vegas or you're already pregnant."

She took a deep breath, and realized all she had was the truth. "I ended it."

Underneath the despair, the destruction she had brought on him, she could see that slightest light of hope suddenly appear in his eyes. "What?"

"I'm stuck, House." She didn't know where to direct her eyes, so she took a deep breath, looked down and continued. "I keep wanting to move forward. I keep wanting to move on, and I can't. I mean, my new house, with my new fiancé, and all I can think about is you.

"I just need to know if you and I can work."

The look of despair on his face echoed that in her heart. "You think I can fix myself?"

And once again, she could only give him the truth. "I don't know."

"'Cause I'm the most screwed-up person in the world."

Wasn't the first step to fixing something admitting that it existed? "I know. I love you." She paused, but felt forced to continue, "I wish I didn't. But I can't help it."

Below her, she could see the mixture of confusion and hope cross his face, and both hated and rejoiced that she had brought at least some shadow of hope to a face that so rarely showed it. House tried to push himself off the floor, but his exhausted and defeated body failed him. With that look of hope again crossing his face, he reached a hand up to her, and she took it, pulling him up against her.

He brought his lips down to hers, perhaps the gentlest kiss they ever shared, in their long history of few kisses. She found herself responding in kind, barely able to process what she had done here, how he was responding.

House pulled back and his face darkened for a moment. "How do I know that I'm not hallucinating?"

She caught her breath against the honesty and fear in his voice but tried to hide it. "Did you take the Vicodin?"

At the same moment, they both looked at the pills, the temptation, nestled in his palm. "Nope," he responded, that lilt of ego that was completely House coloring his tone.

She finally smiled, that tone reminding her of all the aspects of the man standing before her. "Then I think we're okay."

"Yeah."

In this moment, for this moment, she knew with both her mind and her spirit that she had found the right path. How this would all work out-right now that didn't matter. Even as she had spent years of her life running from it, she knew that she needed this. She needed to stop running, to stop planning, and even it if was for a short time, to just experience this man who life continued to throw at her.

Spring, spring, spring! sang the frog

cschick — Mon, 04 Apr 2011 02:54:27 GMT

Ah, the weather is determined to mislead us. It got up to 75 degrees here today, after a 60ish degree yesterday.

When we arrived home from a birthday party early yesterday afternoon, we found all our neighbors using a rented power rake to dethatch their yards. If you've never put in sod, my recommendation now is to avoid it at all costs. Our 7-year-old sod is a pain in the behind. It keeps developing this thick layer of dead grass (we never, ever mow without the bag) which suffocates it. To keep that thatch under control, you use a machine called a power rake which pulls it all out and then rake it up and put it out as yard waste (or, if you're allowed to by local regulations, compost it).

Most of our neighbors do this yearly. Since we are lazy, we had a landscape crew do it once in the past 7 years ... and last summer our yard suffocated itself. Thus, we knew it had to be done, and when we arrived home to find all our neighbors chipping in on the rental for the the needed machine, we joined up and did it too.

And then, today was supposed to be warm but terribly rainy. The rain never appeared and temperature went up to 75 (65 predicted). Despite the fact that both my arms and back were already screaming at me, I went out and enlarged the big garden area (we're moving it one foot forward and putting pea gravel in the last foot against the house), planted another row of asparagus, then mixed in compost with the rest of the big garden and got the soil turned.

Then I went to work on the little veggie garden and found spinach! Beautiful, growing, great-looking spinach. I've never been quite successful in growing spinach, I presume this was from the seed that didn't even try to sprout last year. Perhaps I've been planting spinach too late? So, given that perhaps, I prepped the garden bed and put out spinach and snap peas today rather than a month from now. It's just seed, I can afford to lose it. Snap peas can survive just about anything. I've harvested them into mid December in Chicago.

I think that April 3rd is about the absolute earliest I've ever tried to plant anything outside around here.

It was an oddly fannish history type of day ...

cschick — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 01:11:28 GMT

So, this is what happens when fandom reaches out and grabs me by the collar again. All I'm looking for is some cute slash, thus I start reading my friendslist again, and fannish meta drags me right back in.

Although, I'm not sure I could have avoided fannish meta over the past couple of days. Even my knitting site seems to determined to drag me back to fandom. Fandom? Knitting? Why?

So, Castle tweaked the shippers on Monday. And suddenly, there's discussion everywhere about shippers. What shippers are, how shippers and shipping came to be called such.

See me standing here, my hand raised like a teacher's pet. Ohhhhh!! I know the answer to that one. Shippers were called relationshippers (obvious term) for several seasons in X-Files fandom. Eventually, the xf-romantics list was formed on the chaos mailing list server. In April-May 1996 (I believe) the romantics list and alt.tv.x-files (not alt.tv.x-files.creative) engaged in what came to be called the great shipper wars. During that flamefest, the xf-romantics list embraced the term shipper for themselves. I also think there was something to do with some song with lyrics related to a ship (yeah, actual boat type of ship).

Go over to Google groups and search on alt.tv.x-files, and you'll find references to relationshippers prior to May 1996, then 'shippers proceeding to shippers starting in May 1996. But, my recollection is that while atx may have provided some of the catalysis for the change, xf-romantics embraced the change. And xf-romantics has vanished into the ether, right?

Not really. Somewhere in this house, somewhere, there are cds with backup files of chaos. Somewhere in those backup files are message archives for most of the lists that chaos hosted over the years. I posed the question to C tonight, and he confirmed that xf-romantics was one of the lists archived from its first day of existence.

Now this post is going to go wandering off into a far different track--a question I've struggled with for years, and still struggle with. What is my responsibility to this data?

Another meta fannish discussion in the past 24 hours lead me here from a different direction. I don't think that people who are in fandom now process how small online fandom actually was during the mid to late 1990s. It was gigantic and active compared to what had existed before. It was teeny-tiny compared to what fandom has become today. Once upon a time there were four largish fandoms, with four largish archives (for their time). There was X-Files, with Gossamer. There was Star Trek, with the ASC Archive, now Trekiverse. There was Forever Knight, with their archive. And there was Babylon 5, with their division into the gen/non-adult archive, the adult mailing list, and a couple of large relationship archives.

All these fandoms were pretty contained across a couple of limited spaces. All these fandoms had crossovers (authors, readers, and those who discussed) with one another. All these fandoms affected one another in a way that was pretty direct and quick compared to today.

I look back and ask myself: why in hell didn't I download the John/Delenn ftp archive one of those many times I was there? Why did I delete my personal archive of unrestb5 that one day I was cleaning up my e-mail? Babylon 5 fan fiction, once a major fandom, has all but vanished off the face of the Internet. That was something that has hit home more than once over the years, like when I was chasing down the XF "author" who appeared to be plagiarizing most of her work from a personal copy of either John/Delenn or unrestb5. You have a personal copy of a missing fannish archive and you PLAGIARIZE from it? What kind of person are you? And I only caught you out because I KNEW those stories. I only tossed you on a technicality because I couldn't prove crap about your real plagiarism. I think I still have some plagiarized work from one of your identities on my archive and it pisses me the hell off, how ever many years later.

What responsibility do I have to those stories?

Many discussions which affected all fandoms, and in some ways shaped future fandoms, took place on the chaos lists. How much terminology originated on Fictalk? How much discussion about what fan fiction archives should be and should become took place on the archivists list? Maybe less than I remember, maybe more.

So little, and so much. So much fannish history I could have saved if I'd just thought about it. So much fannish history that should be gone, but doesn't necessarily have to be. But can we or should we make it public? The gaps in Google Groups are extreme, why are they there? Is it just really data that was missed, is it data that was removed by choice?

Hell, I'm in a foul mood.

Fanfic: Too Meta

cschick — Thu, 06 Jan 2011 04:04:07 GMT

Title: Too Meta
Author: Cschick
Fandom: Castle

Summary: Just a quick little missing scene from the episode Nikki Heat. How did Castle say no to Natalie?

When Natalie stalked into the room with her hair dyed brunette, her clothing an almost-exact match to Beckett’s, Rick Castle’s ability to distinguish between reality and fiction momentarily collapsed.

It was Beckett standing in front of him . . . and it was Nikki Heat. It was the manifestation of every quality that he admired in Beckett, with every desire he’d incorporated into Nikki. It was, for the moment, a figure of his imagination appearing in the world of his reality. “Just like I dreamed it . . .”

With that look of sarcasm that was all her own, Beckett made him aware he’d made that statement aloud. He tried to stay behind, to listen to her comments on the situation, but his feet followed that figment made real into the hallway, down to the elevator, as Beckett faded away from his side.

The warm reality of her lips encountering his suddenly brought his brain out of its daze, returned him to the here and now. He smelled the acid scent of the hair dye, saw the thick layer of makeup that created her perfect face, once again saw Natalie hidden beneath the character she’d tried to so perfectly create.

“Hey, hey . . .” he stammered, pushing her away just after the elevator door shut behind them.

She skillfully pouted at him, a frown that carefully did not wrinkle her face, a look that was perhaps Natalie, maybe Nikki, but definitely not Kate Beckett.

“Aren’t I exactly what you imagined?” she asked, stretching before him, thrusting her breasts too far into his personal space, artfully tossing her hair back.

He swallowed hastily and took a deep breath, trying desperately to process the situation. This he recognized, this he knew.

The self-centered desire to pull every eye to herself, to be exactly who she wanted to be in each moment. The ability to convince everyone that she was someone other than herself, to play a part to the hilt. The talent to hide her inability to figure who out she was under the characters she created. He had seen it in his mother, he had seen it in his ex-wives.

He had fallen for it too many times.

“You are Nikki Heat,” he responded, smiling at her while he carefully slid himself along the wall and out of her embrace.

“And you are Rook. Come be Rook with me.”

That demand cleared the final hazes of the fiction from his mind. He was not Rook, she was not Nikki. This was not Kate Beckett standing in front of him, her clothing professional and her face open and honest. This was Natalie Rhodes, her clothing provocative, her face a mask.

“No.” He did not even allow himself to consider the proposal.

The confusion and shock twisted her face, making her not Nikki, not Kate, but only Natalie. “No?”

“Rook is fiction, Nikki is fiction. You may live fiction, but I only write fiction.”

A wave of anger swept across her face, and she stepped away from him, crossing her arms across her chest. Now, despite the hair, despite the clothing, he only saw Natalie.

“I don’t get it.”

The elevator doors opened onto the ground floor and he stepped out, leaving Natalie glaring after him. “Good night, Natalie.”

Home Repairs

cschick — Sun, 26 Dec 2010 17:54:48 GMT

So, we have wooden floors through part of our first floor. A few years back my parents' large dog was running around our house like a 100-pound crazed fool, and a strange, round hole the size of a pencil eraser appeared in the middle of the hallway. I sighed and figured that he'd managed to pop out a knot. Mainly, I've ignored it since, although "fill in hole" has been on my mental to-do list since.

This morning I was cleaning up the Christmas mess and realized the hole had increased a bit in size. So, I ran down into the basement and finally got the wood putty and a putty knife. I put putty in the hole, and it disappeared.

Put more putty in the hole, and it disappeared.

Scooped a big wad of putty with my finger and pushed it into the hole, and it disappeared.

The little pencil-sized surface hole took at least several teaspoons full worth of putty before it backfilled to the surface.

The End of Many Eras

cschick — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 02:54:47 GMT

So, today, Chael informed me that with the new year, the Gossamer admin server and Tooms are probably moving back to a shared server environment; almost all the chaos.x-philes.com mailing lists are being retired; and I'm posting this from my new netbook which seems to be kind of pissed off with the way I type.

In the ongoing battle of the picky eater . . .

cschick — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 19:28:32 GMT

Last night, the kid looked at my sweet potato casserole and said "What's that? Pumpkin?"

Me: "Yes, it's pumpkin."

Kid: "Yummy!"

*kid tastes the casserole*

Kid: "It's good pumpkin."

*kid screws around, not eating casserole*

Me, like 30 minutes later: "Why didn't you eat your pumpkin?"

Kid: "What's on top of it?"

Me: "Candy."

Kid: "Oh, OK!" *gobbles it down*

(In this case, Candy = nuts tossed in brown sugar + butter.)

Saving for myself: duplicating fieldset rounded corners in FF and Safari

cschick — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 19:09:05 GMT

CSS to duplicate IE rounded corners on fieldsets in Firefox and Safari:

-moz-border-radius-bottomleft: 7px;
-moz-border-radius-bottomright: 7px;
-moz-border-radius-topleft: 5px;
-moz-border-radius-topright: 7px;
-webkit-border-radius: 7px;
border-radius: 3px;

Note: may also be able to be used to put rounded corners on divs in FF and Safari. But fieldsets are the only way to achieve rounded corners in IE using easy html/css.

Yea, sweet cucumber!!

cschick — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 00:17:25 GMT

Apparently, from reading gardening message boards recently, there's this massive problem out there with gardens producing bitter cucumbers.

When I was a teen, one reason I maintained a garden was that my mom hated cucumbers and wouldn't buy me the amount of cucumbers I wanted to eat. So, I grew them up the chain link fence that ran along one edge of their property. I never had a problem with bitter cucumbers, and had no clue this was common.

I grew out of my addiction to cucumbers, and haven't really grown them because I haven't had a chain link fence to grow them up on. This year, I learned that cucumbers don't care if you grow them along the ground, so I planted cucumbers. And they have sat and stared at me for months, with no fruit.

When we came back from vacation on Sunday, I went out and found your ol'massive cucumber laying on the ground. A almost club sized cucumber. It must have been there before we left, but I never saw it.

And it is sweet and delicious.

But as far as I can tell, there are no more cucumbers :(

"I Write Like"

cschick — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 14:22:10 GMT

One of my stories returned to me Dan Brown, the other Vladimir Nabokov.

I presume that combination is equal to: you write like nobody else, and we're not sure if that is a good thing, or a bad thing.

If you have been living in a cave for the past week, and have no idea what "I Write Like" is about --> here you go.

cschick — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 20:34:16 GMT

I think I have found the utterly dumbest toy over-packaging possible. I bought a plastic toy for $4.98 on clearance at Target today. I doubt it was more than $10 originally. I sat down with scissors to extract it, only to discover that the toy was actually SCREWED into its packaging. They put metal screws through the cardboard up into the toy.

And from the husband: they weren't even nice enough for all the same screws to have the same size head. He needed two differently sized screw drivers to extract it.

It was this toy, the little tikes octopus bubble maker.

Gardening, and etc

cschick — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 15:54:54 GMT

I am currently giving a salt bath to my garden's first head of broccoli--even though it doesn't appear that we've actually got the cabbage loopers that you're supposed to be killing with the salt bath. Better safe than terrifying the kid with one of the veggies he subsists on.

I took a picture of the garden yesterday, to show exactly how the pumpkins have decided to take over. This is much more success than I ever had with pumpkins as a kid. Which is probably why I underestimated them. Also these are sugar pumpkins, not jack-o-lantern pumpkins, perhaps that makes a difference. In that mass of vines, there are two about half-grown pumpkins I know about. Since I think that as a kid I always had problems with the pumpkins actually getting fertilized to grow (why do the male and female flowers grow about six feet away from one another?) I've also been keeping an eye out for the female flowers and making sure some pollen gets over to them.

My tomato plants, which are in the side garden, are not doing anywhere as well as they did last year. Which means I'm not going to have 4 plants put out 600 tomatoes ;) I'm still not sure how 4 roma plants put out 600 tomatoes last year, but they also got to about six feet tall (when I stood them up and measured them, since they'd collapsed their cages and were sprawling all over the ground). The romas are only about 2-3 feet tall this year, and already well into tomato production. Oh, well.

The definition of "this sucks"

cschick — Sun, 20 Jun 2010 22:35:07 GMT

Six weeks ago, my parents spent 14K replacing their roof down to and including the sheathing, rebuilding their chimney, replacing all their gutters, and repairing their eaves and porch. This hadn't been done in close to 50 years.

On Friday, a tree fell over, took out their brand-new chimney, part of the new roof on the third story, a part of the gutters on the south side of the house, and the support beam for half the porch.

On the topic of food . . .

cschick — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 00:55:16 GMT

So, for the past few weeks, I've been involved in an on-and-off discussion about groceries, food, classism and other topics on a blog elsewhere. One of the claims that comes up over and over on that blog has been that you might as well go out to dinner, because making dinner for 4 costs $25-$30 in groceries. My mind boggles. I have no idea how making dinner for 4 costs $25 in groceries. Right now, my weekly grocery bill is about $110 and THAT includes wine. Drop the wine, and I could probably drop it to about $70-80/week. Those groceries are: every breakfast of the week, most lunches of the week for C and I (school feeds the kid) and every dinner of the week.

Six weeks ago, I bought a 4lb chuck roast, grass-raised and certified organic, directly from the farmer who raises the cattle, for $18. Now, that's like twice what you'll pay for a 4lb conventionally-raised black angus chuck roast and she kind of guilted me into it. Farmer's market guilt ;)

I got it home, and since I trusted it had only been once-frozen, thawed it just enough to chop it in half. I refroze half (~2lbs), and roasted the other half with as 90 minute on Sunday.

That day, we ate about half the roasted meat, with mashed potatoes (4 potatoes out of a $2.50 5lb bag), green beans (about $2) and salad (seriously, I purchase a head of variety greens for each week and a whole bunch of peppers and onions, each side salad maybe costs $1).

I put the other roasted half in the fridge, and later in the week, I served it sliced thin and reheated over toast/with a roux+sherry sauce, with broccoli (and salad, we eat salad almost every night).

This Saturday, I thawed/roasted the other half I'd frozen, and again roasted it with a 90 minute roast, served with potatoes + carrots that had roasted alongside it (and broccoli!)

Again, we ate about half of the roasted meat. Tonight I came home and chopped up the other half, chopped up two potatoes (heck, we're still working on that 5lb bag of potatoes from above), chopped up some carrots, and tossed them all into enough water to cover with paprika and garlic powder. Let simmer for 25 minutes, while I made baking powder biscuits. Mixed up about a tablespoon of sour cream + two tablespoons flour, poured in some of the broth from the stew, got everything to dissolve, dumped it in. Yum, beef stew and biscuits. With salad ;)

I'm not sure what the cost per meal was here, but I don't think it was $25. And since it all started with the $18 roast which was pretty expensive for my blood, these meals were probably about on the higher end of what I "pay" per meal. And yes, I'm feeding 3, not 4 here. But even with 4, I think I could have done about the same--both the secondary meals had enough leftovers to also serve us for lunch the following day.

But the secret isn't to buy meals, it's to buy food and figure out the best meal-usage to result in the least waste. I know how difficult that can be, and in some ways I'm still learning. But to just out-and-out state that making dinner for under $25 is impossible (especially for an omnivorous middle class family, not living in a food desert--the types of people who were making these claims) is untruthful.

And I'm ranting here, because I am sick of people calling me a liar there.

L&O: SVU fanfic: Confessions

cschick — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 14:53:12 GMT

Title: Confessions
Author: Cschick
Fandom: Law & Order: SVU
Pairing: Olivia/Alex
Rating: G
Archive: Archive freely; this story is released into the public domain.

Author's note: The episode P.C. annoyed me in several different ways. I did not like what they did to/with Olivia, especially without any consideration of the how the behavior of Babs and their suspect together would have affected her after her attack and PTSD less than a year previous. This is my answer to that annoyance.

When the door to the crib creaked open, Olivia turned herself away from it, hoping it was only one of her coworkers grabbing something from a locker. Someone who would note her apparently resting form and politely ignore her.

But luck was not on her side. Footsteps walked across the floor and stopped next to the bunk she had chosen. Then, a weight settled down on the mattress beside her.

"I have Elliot's statement, Olivia, but I need yours as well."

She didn't yet want to face anyone-including, or maybe especially, Alex-so she cleared her throat and tried to speak in a normal tone. "Five minutes, counselor, okay? Five minutes and I'll come out there and give you whatever you need." With five minutes, she would be able to splash some water on her face and find the eye drops she kept in her locker.

But Alex didn't move. For a moment, she just sat there, then Olivia felt her hand against her shoulder, a gentle pressure encouraging her to roll over and face Alex. She remained on her side, facing the wall, refusing.

"Liv, tell me what's going on here."

"Nothing, Alex. It's nothing."

"You successfully broke a suspect, in front of me, your partner, and god. But instead of staying and riding out that high, instead of remaining for the rest of the questioning and processing, you run off into the crib for thirty minutes. And everyone tells me to leave you alone. I'm not understanding this."

That the rest of the station suspected why she had run off into the crib, at least well enough to warn off Alex, didn't exactly sit well with Olivia. She knew that last year they had been walking on eggshells around her, but she thought that she had convinced them that she was handling it outside of work, that she had stabilized well enough to continue her work without their protection.

Until the past few days, she believed that she had as well.

"It's been a tough couple of days, Alex."

"It's always tough around here, Liv. Tough doesn't send you running off to hide. You thrive on tough."

Alex was right. Tough didn't send her running-tough just made her fight harder. Or used to, at least.

She rolled over and sat up, letting Alex see her exhausted appearance, her red eyes. "I'm not the person I used to be, Alex."

She could see the worry darken Alex's eyes, tighten her lips. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Should I insist you talk about it?"

"Probably."

Alex remained silent, her head tilted to one side. She focused on Olivia with a steady gaze, and Olivia almost had to laugh despite her exhaustion and depression. Over the years, Alex had definitely learned how to apply certain interrogation techniques herself-particularly those that depended on a person's strong internal desire to confess to an understanding and engaging listener.

"I froze in there at the last minute, Alex. That's why I left, why I let the two of you take over."

Alex nodded, probably trying to mentally match up Liv's confession with her own memory of events.

"He forced me to grab him, and I froze for that brief moment . . . "

"You've had suspects get sexually aggressive with you before."

"Yes."

"What's different?"

"Me."

Alex didn't say anything, but continued looking at her with that gaze that tried to persuade her to go on, continue the story. Olivia knew she could stop here, could prevent Alex from learning anything more for now, but also knew that she had an obsessively curious friend and a whole precinct of coworkers who knew at least part of the story.

"Last year . . ." she started, and then faltered. In some ways, this was still hard, despite her experiences with sharing her story and emotions in her therapy group, despite her assurances to herself over the past year that she'd survived, she'd gotten past it. She cleared her throat again. "Last year, I was undercover and I was attacked."

She saw Alex whiten. Apparently, she hadn't heard anything about this since she had returned as their ADA. On her arm, Alex's hand briefly tightened, then started to gently rub up and down her arm. She tried not to pull back, although right at this moment, again thinking about those memories, pulling away was all she wanted to do.

"He didn't rape me." She let out a bitter half-laugh. "Although that was his intent, if all hell hadn't broken loose just in time."

"Who's the prosecutor on the case?" She could see the anger in Alex's eyes, that driving force that made her the ADA that their unit needed.

"There's no case, Alex. I was undercover in a woman's prison. You know how things end up there. He's been disciplined. But there's no case."

"That's not how it should be."

"That's how it is."

"Liv, that's not how it should be."

"If you want to fight that battle, Alex, don't let me be the reason you're trying."

"You're reason enough to fight it, damn it."

"Every woman in there is reason enough to fight it."

Alex nodded in agreement, and Olivia wiped at the tears that were once again slowly leaking from her eyes. She tried to turn back away again from Alex, but Alex both tried to resist and give at the same time, pulling her close even as she allowed her to turn away. Olivia ended up in an awkward position against Alex, not quite leaning into her shoulder, but near enough that it made no difference.

In all the months since, it was the first time she'd had anyone who held her as she cried. The relationships she had with Elliot, Munch, Finn, didn't quite allow it. She'd always held back to some degree at her therapy group, not quite developing those strong ties with the other women that the rest had developed. She didn't sob, but she allowed her tears to fall freely for once, holding onto Alex's arm.

Alex enclosed her with her other arm, and Olivia tensed for a moment, expecting the momentary panic she'd experienced every time since that time, when anyone had tried to embrace her. It came, she breathed out, and it left. More quickly than any time previous.

She took a few more deep breaths, stopping her tears, then looked up at Alex with a bit of guilt. Alex hadn't come in here expecting to pick up the pieces of one of her detectives.

She tried to pull away again, mumbling "Alex, I'm sorry . . . you need that statement. "

"Liv, Liv . . ." Alex more strongly resisted her pulling away this time. "Don't apologize. I don't need that statement right this minute."

She and Alex ended up face-to-face, barely a breath apart. That closeness caused her to flash to the memory of the other event that had started her spin out of the balance she had found for herself over the past year-Babs Duffy's attempt to kiss her the other day, her equal parts panic and confusion that had haunted her even as she had escaped from the apartment, sarcastically warned the other officer.

But this was not Babs, it was Alex. It was Alex looking at her with worried eyes, barely a breath away from her but no threat. Alex, closer than she had allowed almost anyone else to be for the past year, not trying anything more aggressive than a simple hug, a simple embrace.

Out of her roiling, confusing emotions, she suddenly found herself wanting more than that. She blinked and shook her head in confusion.

"Liv? What?"

"I think I want to kiss you." The words escaped her, and she shook her head again slightly, expecting Alex to either pull back or laugh.

"Okay." Alex didn't laugh or move back, keeping her face and her lips those mere inches away.

Olivia didn't even know that she could carry through on that brief desire, that strange confession that she'd allowed escape. But when Alex didn't move away, when she instead closed her eyes and tilted her head slightly, she found that her body was perfectly willing to follow through, even without the full participation of her brain.

She touched her lips to Alex's, and felt Alex sigh against her. She almost managed to keep it a brief, barely engaging kiss, then she felt Alex kiss her back.

Again, that brief seizure of panic, the same instinct toward fight or flight that had mentally thrown her when Babs had launched herself at her. But this wasn't Babs, this was Alex. This was her choice, not something someone else was forcing on her.

Just that thought alone steadied her. Then Alex's hand moved slowly up to the back of her head, her fingers gently brushing her way through her hair, and it became much more than Olivia had ever intended it to be.

A few heartbeats later, she broke the kiss and felt Alex pull away. Olivia kept her eyes closed, and Alex's hand traced down her jaw, dropped to her shoulder. Then Alex breathed "And?"

"I think I'm confused."

That earned her a chuckle. "Confusion is a perfectly acceptable response."

She didn't know how Alex could be so suddenly lighthearted. "What about you?"

"Liv, in certain things I've learned to accept what comes to me. It was a kiss. A nice kiss."

She felt Alex's hands brush her hair away from her cheeks on either side, and she opened her eyes. Alex had moved a bit further back, a slight smile curving her lips.

"How about I give you five minutes, and then you come back and give me that statement?"

"Will do." Olivia wasn't even sure she needed the full five minutes anymore, but she would take what she could get here.

Alex stood up and began to walk away. Then she turned back to face Olivia, a more serious look on her face. "Maybe one day we can figure out who we both are, and want to be." Then she turned around and hurried out of the crib, the door shutting behind her.

This is my evening . . .

cschick — Wed, 26 May 2010 02:52:23 GMT

I have finally found the one thing that makes the midge bites stop itching and burning for like 3 whole hours. Not anything with antihistamine in it--I've been dosing myself silly on antihistamines without affecting the itching or swelling. Bactine though, works wonders.

It was a good discovery too, because I also sprayed the bite that has been bothering the kid for a week and minutes later he announced "it STOPPED itching!!" Good, very good. Maybe he'll stop scratching the skin raw too. (FYI: apparently, in "sensitive" individuals, these damn things can remain itchy for up to two weeks.)

And in the hours they have not been itchy or bothersome, the swelling from the grouping of three bites on my left shoulder has decreased. Which is good, because the shoulder was starting to look very weird.

In non-TMI news, I suddenly have one teeny-tiny, itty-bitty asparagus shoot in my garden. Maybe the crowns aren't dead after all.

I feel miserable . . .

cschick — Mon, 24 May 2010 17:51:11 GMT

So, since I transplanted a bunch of stuff yesterday and it's going to be 90+ degrees here today (in MAY??) I went out this morning at 6am to soak down my gardens. When I turned on the hose, I was swarmed by a bunch of little black insects which kept getting in my eyes and hair and were being quite annoying. I managed to smash quite a few of them. They looked like flying little black ants.

When I got back in the house, I looked in the mirror and basically said "oh, no." Last spring, and this spring, we've all been getting these bloody insect bites that start basically as a blood blister-looking thing and then turn into a quarter-sized welt that can get a whole lot bigger if they're in a location with a lot of skin movement (one on the inside of my elbow last summer actually covered over half my arm length before it started to improve). The welts can take weeks to heal, and they don't just itch, they burn.

I had about twenty of those little blood blisters on my neck and along my hairline. Now I have about twenty quarter-sized welts, except for the one directly under the frame of my glasses, which is currently about 2 inches in diameter and expanding. And this is after I took a heavy-duty antihistamine dose. I hurt.

But at least I apparently now know what is biting me. Based on the smashed ones, they are biting midges and they apparently started becoming more common in IL in 2007. Oh, and apparently even insect spray doesn't do a whole heck of a lot to deter them. I think I'm just going to hide in my house now.

Gardening (what else do I have to talk about?)

cschick — Fri, 21 May 2010 00:57:52 GMT

In the spirit of "jokes taking on life" what has decided to grow this spring have been potatoes. How did I end up planting potatoes, you ask? I bought a bag of organic red potatoes from Trader Joes that sprouted about 3 days later in my pantry. I cursed at the loss of the $4 for the bag of organic potatoes, and then sliced a few of them in half and let them scab on my counter. I then put them into 10 gallon planters with a few inches of dirt. Every time they get more than about 4 inches tall, I add more dirt.

One of those containers is going to be full pretty soon. Let's see if I get real potatoes. Once its full I have to wait for the greenery to die back and see.

My greens didn't really grow this spring. I have no radish seeds left, and no radish. I think the spinach started sprouting this week, six weeks after I put out the seeds. It's been a weird, weird spring weather-wise.

The asparagus roots have all apparently died. *sigh* I put cantaloupe at each side of their bed so that if they decide to grow sometime this summer, they have the underlying dirt to themselves, but I'm not entirely wasting the garden space. If they never grow, I'll try again next year, maybe by special-ordering one of the more modern all-male varieties that are supposedly hardier (planted Mary Washington this year).

Heck, I've never had problems sprouting peppers in the house before, and they decided to sprout this week, after I'd thrown up my hands and bought seedlings from the nursery. You know, eight weeks after I planted the seeds in the mini greenhouse.

But since the veggies were all depressing me, I went out and got some IL-native tall prairie flower species for my perennial garden.

cschick — Tue, 18 May 2010 16:48:38 GMT

Once I stopped rolling around the floor, laughing until I almost peed, my brain insisted on thinking about this ad. The more I think about it, the less sense it makes. They're implying that the voters are sheep, but saying that the voters being sheep is a GOOD THING, until a wolf gets into the flock? Oh, and the evil wolf with glowing red eyes wants to lead the flock, not eat the flock.

So they want the voters to come become sheep for the other side? But embrace their identity as sheep none-the-less.

I think they really missed a basic fact here. I always thought that being called a sheep under any circumstances was intended as an insult, not as praise.