The Fisherman
by Carrie Plunkett  
cplunket@rmc.edu

Rating:  PG
Spoilers:  Season 5
Disclaimer:  I didn't create'em and  I'm just a poor college kid...so don't
sue.  All of the characters and whatnot that you recognize are not mine of
course.  
Classification:  Angst
Feel free to distribute anywhere as long as my name and e-mail are on there.
Thanks...
Note:  I based this story on my own childhood. 
I don't think Scully and her fam would have a lake house in Putnam County, GA
on Lake Sinclair...  
And I doubt that you can really bury somebody in your backyard without
breaking some kind of law or something....  I didn't research, I just wrote.
It was a thought and I ran with it... and edited too...(wow) So forgive me 
already for any technical inaccuracies.  And this is the first XF fic outside 
of Muldertorture that I have written.  And only the 2nd story I have released.
Warning:  Character dies.  :(  
Credits:  Suzi- for the encouragement
          Sarah- for the criticism
          and my family for giving me the inspiration
          and to the fisherman- rest in peace  
Summery:  Scully contemplates life after Mulder's demise.

************************************************************




"I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam uti chelidon-- O swallow swallow
Le Prince d'Aquitaine a la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you.  Hieronymo's mad againe.  
Datta.  Dayadhvam.  Damyata. 
          Shantih  shantih  shantih"
---The Waste Land
     T.S. Eliot


One year.  One year since he left me.  Fitted in the best tuxedo I could
afford and nestled into a pearl white coffin. He was covered with an American
flag- something he would have probably scoffed at for all that it had come to
represent:  the lies, the deceit, the pain.  But the truth was that he was
among the true American heros.   He stood up for what that flag had originally
been meant for.  

After his body was released, I flew it down to a lake I had visited as a
child.  With his parents dead and his sister still missing,  I was the only
one left to see to his proper burial.  Settled in middle Georgia, it was a
lake of considerable size, but little activity relative to the larger and
more popular Lake Lanier.  The summers I had spent there are forever engrained
into my memory.  Summers spent running, jumping into the water with Bill and 
Melissa while Charlie giggled on the dock.  My mother and Ahab smiling on 
their lawn chairs, enjoying the summer while keeping ever watchful eyes on us.  

Our days were simple then.  Waking early, we would get into our swimsuits,
grab our towels, and race down the hill to the lake.  Once we arrived, we
would eagerly look for the red bobs that signaled whether or not a fish had
been lured into grabbing the bait.  Mostly, our lines would come up empty.
But sometimes, the bobs would be so far underneath the water with the pull 
of a fish that we were unable to see it.  When we pulled them up, a fish 
would be struggling against the hook that its desire for food had led it 
to impale itself upon.

Bill would take charge and free the fish, throwing it back in if it were too
small to eat, or putting it into the basket hanging off the dock to be dealt 
with by my grandfather later- a source of one of my first "autopsies." 

After the rods were piled back onto the dock, Bill and Melissa would plunge
into the water while I gingerly tested its warmth with my toes.  Ahab would
start up the boat and we would go for a round of skiing before the dew had
even dried from the grass.  The images these memories bring is magnifcent
to me now- ducks and geese spreading their wings and taking flight from the
shore.  And a lone fisherman in his boat, tossing his line and slowly reeling 
it in.  

Sometimes, I think Mulder was like that fisherman we used to pass by every
morning.  Dipping his line again and again, the bait taken away and only an
occasional prize arose from the depths.  He worked mostly alone while I stood
by and watched his endless pursuit with quiet interest and outward skepticism.
I flew by in my own life, dragged on by the boat that was my profession- and
held up on the wooden planks that my own beliefs had created for me.  

And I never realized the true depth of the man who was the fisherman.  Of
course, I knew the man who was Fox William Mulder.  I had a piece of his heart
and of his soul.  We were partners, and above all, friends, for nearly seven
years.  We endured so many hardships together that it became impossible to
be independent from one another.  We knew what the other was thinking; 
instincts and seemingly unbelievable luck led us to save one another's lives 
again and again.  He was the first number on my speed dial, the first on my 
emergency contact list, and the same went for him- even though he had an 
impulsively protective personality that allowed him to ditch me on
numerous occasions.  I admired his dedication, his passion- but what was 
the underlying reason for it?  Why pursue this mission which would eventually
end in an untimely and undeserved death? His genes?  His experiences?  The
question will go unanswered.   

When I was twelve, the fisherman's boat was found endlessly circling around
its anchor.  My father helped drag the lake and they found him within hours.
No one could figure out what happened.  He had been adept at his singular
passion- and an able swimmer.  But somehow, his pursuits swallowed him whole,
and he fell into the abyss that was the lake.  

One year ago, Mulder also fell hook, line, and sinker. 
And the big fish pulled him in.  As much as we could figure, he had gone in
pursuit of one of my pseudo-daughters. There was only a piece of paper on
his desk that had an address and the name "Emily" on it. Ever the loner and
protector, he went without me and he never came back.  

We searched the address, surrounding buildings-- nothing. His body turned up
three days later in a dumpster outside my own apartment building.  No
distinguishable cause of death could be determined.  Only that he had been
beaten until the time of his death.  It was an unpleasant scenerio which I
dared not speculate upon.  I don't want to think about the "what if's."  I
don't want to think about the "why's" and the "how's" any longer.  All that
was covered in the month long investigation which was eventually non-
forthcoming. Skinnner had me barred from the proceedings despite my continuous
objections. But there was nothing to be done.  Whoever killed my partner did
a very good job in covering the evidence. I can only hope that his death was a
relief in comparison to the beatings he took beforehand- and in the rest of
his life.   

It is spring now.  The azaleas are in full bloom up on the hill leading to
the house.  The bees are eagerly collecting their pollen.  They will go on,
oblivious to our pain and our suffering.  Caught up in their own individual
salvation. A neighbor wearing a straw hat casts his reel from the dock as
the sun glides behind the trees. A boat speeds past, a young girl standing on
two skiis in its wake.  She is laughing, giggling at her accomplishment.  I have
heard the stops and starts of the boat all day.   The slices of sun glimmer on
the waves the boat makes.  And a fish jumps.  

I stand up from placing the liliths on his grave and walk out onto the dock.
The waves from the boat gently rock me.  The neighbor waves- he knows me well
now.  A duck leads her ducklings across the front of the dock and I smile
at their noisy chirping and the mother's answering quack.  And as the sun sets
behind the trees, I see that fisherman out on the lake.  Only this time, his
face and build is that of Mulder's.  He is casting his reel, bringing it back
in slowly. Caught up in his pursuit, he does not realize I am watching until
he has captured his prize.  And only then does he look up and gently smile
at me.  He looks happy- happier than I ever saw him while alive.  He motions 
at the fish in his hands, which is squirming eagerly to be returned to its 
watery dwelling.  I look towards the sun as the last rays of light pass behind 
the trees and when I turn back, his image is fading.  But he is smiling 
nonetheless- a reassuing smile. I manage a brief grin and a half-wave before 
he disappears and only then do the tears cascade down my face.  I turn my back 
on the lake and walk to the house.  

--End--
**translation of lines from T.S. Eliot:  
from Dante:  "he hid himself in the fire that refines them."  
from a Latin poem:  "that I may cease to be silent"
from a Nerval Sonnet:  "The Prince of Aquitaine in the ruined tower"
Dattagive
Dayadhavmsympathize
Damyatacontrol
ShantihPeace