feedback: msnsc21[at]yahoo.com
10/13/02
Feedback: welcomed and adored!
Distribution: Kimpa and Enigmatic Dr., always; Ephemeral,
Gossamer, or if you've archived me before, yes; if you haven't,
please just let me know and leave headers, email addy, etc.
attached. Thanks!
Spoilers: Fire, though I also use some general information
gained after that episode.
Rating: PG-13. Reference to adult activities.
Classification: Vignette
Keywords: WMM POV, pre-XF
Summary: Family connections are always worth cultivating.
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine. They mostly belong
to the actors who portrayed them, but Chris Carter created them,
and Ten Thirteen and FOX own the rights. I mean no infringement,
and I'm not making any profit from them.
Further disclaimer: The opinions expressed by the characters here
are their own. I just wrote them down.
Acknowledgment: Thanks to the members of IWTB for questions
answered, and to Char for late-night reassurance.
=====
For God and Country
by ML
London, Summer of 1983
The club looked like any other gentleman's club on a quiet side
street in a good neighborhood. A discreet brass plate by the
door had the number of the house and the word "Private Club"
engraved on it.
The man about to enter the club was the epitome of a gentleman of
his class. His "bespoke" suit was perfectly tailored; the tie
knotted just so, but not so perfectly that it looked artificial. From
his impeccably groomed hair to his well-kept hands and down to his hand-made
shoes, he was unremarkable and not unlike any number of men of his class
and breeding. The casual observer would see nothing out of place about
this man. He was just a man in London, on business, perhaps. Just a man,
stopping in at his club for a smoke, or some tea on a sweltering August
day.
Someone who knew him well, however, would see the spark of anger
in his hooded eyes. As he approached the front door, it was opened by
a dark suited man who ushered him inside deferentially, giving a hushed
reply to his curt inquiry.
The Englishman entered the study, normally empty unless all the
members were gathered. He could smell the cheap American cigarette tobacco
before he saw the smoke, and his eyes narrowed, giving his face a pinched
look.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "Why call me
to
London a day before the meeting?"
The American rose from his chair, taking another drag on his
cigarette with slow insolence. He met the Englishman's angry gaze with
a calm expression. "This news couldn't wait. Bill Mulder's son is
going to Oxford."
This was unexpected news. "When? Is he there now?"
"No, but he'll be starting in the fall term. It's just been decided."
"Why didn't we know about this before?"
The American took another long draw of his cigarette, stubbed it out,
and lit another.
He hated this man Spender and his filthy habit, his superior attitude
when his true status was nothing more than an errand boy -- a pawn. But
he was always trying to advance his position. Like so many Americans,
he never seemed to know his place. Currently, the Yank was trying to curry
favor with him. But that didn't mean that Strughold or one of the others
wouldn't also be approached.
"We've only just confirmed it. I believe that there was some opposition
at home. Though it may have more to do with his course of study than where
he's studying."
"What is it?"
"Psychology." Another pause and an insincere chuckle from the
American. "I believe his parents wanted him to attend Harvard Law.
One of the few things they've agreed on in the past several years."
"That does change things," the Englishman murmured. His mind
was
already turning over the implications of this news. Rather than show his
own hand, he remarked, "But surely this could have waited
until tomorrow? After all, the term doesn't start for another month."
"And here I thought you'd appreciate a little advance information,"
the American said with false joviality. "You still have some ties
to Oxford? I'm sure that there are people there who could be persuaded
to keep an eye on young Mulder, and let us know how he's doing? Perhaps
even to influence him in some way? It could present a singular opportunity
for us," the other man said. "Away from home and family...alone
and vulnerable...and it can only increase your own standing within the
Consortium, to be able to supply this information."
"Yes, I get your drift," said the Englishman with a sarcastic
edge to his voice. Trust this fellow to state the obvious. He had no subtlety
at all. "I'll see what I can do."
"I'm sure you will," Spender said, lighting another cigarette.
x-x-x-x
He'd arranged to meet her at Benwick's Hotel, a small and discreet
establishment across town from his club. This was the first time he'd
bothered to get in touch with her directly since she'd come of age. He
administered her trust fund, but his responsibility hadn't extended to
her upbringing.
He really didn't think much of his niece, but sometimes family
connections were worth exploiting.
She came breezing in fifteen minutes late, looking every inch the Sloane
Ranger. He pursed his lips at the sight of her. So much like her mother:
unconcerned with the world, interested only in herself and in her own
pursuits. He'd have to play this carefully, make her see that what he
proposed was in her best interests.
"Hello, Phoebe," he said reservedly, standing as she entered
the
private sitting room.
"Hullo, Uncle," she said, and accepted the chair he held for
her. "To what do I owe this honor? Have I overdrawn my allowance?"
He looked at her sharply. She looked back, unruffled.
"Not at all," he said calmly. He would not let her see that
her
directness unsettled him. He could see a sharp intelligence in her eyes,
and something more...feral? It didn't surprise him; he'd kept tabs on
her from afar, and not just for the sake of her mother. "It's been
a while since I've seen you, and I've been wondering how you are,"
he said neutrally.
"I'm just fine, Uncle," she said, settling comfortably in the
deep upholstered chair. She spread her arms wide. "As you can see."
He took her at her invitation, surveying her silently. Fashionably
cut hair, clothes that were casual but obviously expensive. She exuded
confidence and her expression hinted at a worldliness
uncommon in a young woman of her age and status.
She wasn't beautiful. She had rather thick, sensuous lips -- she got those
from her father's side of the family -- set in a slightly elongated face,
called by some aristocratic; by others, less tactful, horsy. She was thin
but well-shaped. And if what he'd been told was true, already quite experienced
in sexual matters. That trait, unfortunately, she'd probably got from
her mother.
There was more than a bit of the commoner in her, but that worked
to his advantage. She'd probably do what he asked, if for no other
reason than self-interest. Though he did control her trust fund, he hoped
he wouldn't have to resort to using it as leverage.
"Have I passed inspection?" Phoebe asked after several long
moments. She didn't wait for his invitation, but poured a cup of tea for
him and then for herself. She helped herself to a scone, not bothering
with the niceties of jam and cream before taking a bite.
He allowed himself a thin smile. "I think you'll do. I understand
you're attending Oxford."
"Yes. Your old college, if I remember correctly."
"I'd like to ask a favor of you," he said. He watched as she
stirred far too much sugar into her tea and waited for her response.
She sipped her tea and looked at him, which he took as a "get on
with it" sort of look. The young had no manners at all.
"The son of an old friend will be starting next term, and I thought
it might be a friendly gesture if you introduced yourself to him, perhaps
took him under your wing, so to speak."
She set her teacup down and wiped her fingers delicately on her
napkin. "What's he look like?"
He produced a small photograph from his breast pocket and handed
it over to her.
She whistled. "Not a bad looking chap, that. What's his name?"
"Fox Mulder," he told her.
She laughed and rolled her eyes. "Poor sod. What a name. What
else do you know about him?"
"His father used to work for the State Department in Washington,
DC, but has since retired. I believe he thought his son might follow him
into government service, but young Mulder has decided on another course
of study. I'm told he's quite an intelligent young man, turned down any
number of offers from American universities to come to Oxford. He's also
a bit of an athlete, did quite well in sports in school."
She studied the photograph. It was a good one, a candid snap of him walking
down a sidewalk. He had none of the gangliness of youth, and his face
had a closed, private look about it. He wondered if even Phoebe could
change that. Fox Mulder had kept to himself for a long time. The Englishman
found it surprising that the young man would choose to come to Oxford,
though it might be a form of rebellion. If he chose to assert himself
now, he would need careful watching.
"What's his course of study? Do you know?" Phoebe asked.
"As it happens, I do. He'll be taking a graduate course in Psychology."
"How very convenient," she murmured. "I suppose you know
that
it's my course as well?"
She was impossibly cheeky. It seemed time to remind her what side her
bread was buttered on. "I can't help but know, since I write the
checks which enable you to continue your studies."
She smiled over the rim of her cup and he was once again struck by the
calculating look in her eyes. She seemed to be assessing him as well,
and realizing that he was a worthy opponent.
However, she wasn't conceding the game just yet. "What's the catch,
Uncle? she asked. "Is he gay? Is there some other ... dysfunction
I should know about?"
"None that I've heard," he said. He deliberately left out Samantha
Mulder's disappearance. The less she knew of his past, the better.
"I don't know the young man personally. As I said, he's --"
"-- the son of an old friend. Who happened to work for the United
States Government." She finished for him, and took a thoughtful
sip of tea. "Very well, Uncle, I'll help you out. I've always fancied
I had a bit of Mata Hari in me," she said. "What do I need to
do, winkle state secrets out of him?"
"I doubt he knows any," he said dryly. "Nothing so cloak
and dagger as that. As I said, he'll be a stranger here. I thought he
could use a friend. And since you'll be at Oxford as well..."
"How friendly must I be?" she asked, eyebrows raised.
"I'm sure he could use a confidant," he said cautiously.
As before, Phoebe was direct. "Do you want me to sleep with him?"
He nearly choked on his tea. "Good God, Phoebe. Do you think I'm
a procurer?"
"To be honest, Uncle, I don't know just what you are. You call me
for the first time in five years, invite me to tea, and ask me to befriend
this Yank who's evidently so pathetic he's incapable of making friends
on his own..."
"Wherever did you get that idea?"
She shrugged. "It just seems odd. How is it that he has the wherewithal
to get to Oxford, but needs help to meet people?"
He considered what to tell her. It was much safer for both of them if
she knew as little as possible. He would use her to further the cause
if he could, but he'd try to shield her from the full extent of what he
knew. It wasn't entirely for her own good. He had the distinct impression
that she'd find a way to turn it to her advantage.
"Have you even met this Fox Mulder?" she asked him.
"No, I have not," he admitted, "and I intend on keeping
it that way."
"Why is that?" she asked curiously.
"Because I think his father would prefer that he not get the feeling
anyone's keeping an eye on him. I'm sure you understand. You wouldn't
like it either, would you?"
"Of course not," she said. "Who would?" She sipped
her tea thoughtfully. "What am I to be, then? Some sort of security
blanket for the spoiled rich son of your old American friend?"
What kind of life had she had, to make her so self-assured and hard-bitten
at such an early age? She was much too worldly-wise to have had the same
pampered upbringing that her mother had had, though he'd always made sure
they wanted for nothing.
He had to admire his sister for standing by her decision, even after learning
what a bad one it was. She'd stood by Phoebe's father much longer than
she should have. Until he'd proven one last time just how worthless he
really was.
Best not to dwell on any of that. He couldn't afford to be maudlin. He'd
left the past in the past. It was the future he needed to ensure now.
Phoebe must have mistaken his hesitation for a withdrawal of the
proposal, for now she was saying, "I'm not saying I won't do it.
But to put it bluntly, what do I get out of it?"
He raised his eyebrows and sipped his tea. Here was the crux of it. Should
he appeal to her sense of duty to family or country? Or something more
venal? He tried the latter for starters.
"It's not enough that I pay for your schooling? That I've supported
your mother and you all these years? Don't you think you owe me a little
something in return?"
She licked her lips a little, and he suddenly felt a little revolted by
her. He hid his distaste by taking another sip of tea.
"It shouldn't surprise me to find that you expect a return on your
investment after all this time," she said with a touch of malice
in her tone. "It just surprises me that it should take such an altruistic
turn. I expected the request to be a bit more ... personal?"
He was truly horrified. What sort of tales had Phoebe's mother -- or,
more likely, her father -- been spinning? "What in God's name do
you take me for? If you really believe that of me, this interview is over.
I apologize for taking up your time."
"Don't let's be hasty, Uncle," she smiled. "I just want
to know what's expected of me. Do you expect me to befriend him, or seduce
him? Judging from his looks, it would be no hardship. In fact, it might
be fun."
"Just make his acquaintance. What happens beyond that is entirely
up to you." He'd always avoided this side of the business in the
past. He'd had to do entirely too much of this sort of thing in the War,
using women far more innocent, and far more selfless, than Phoebe was
capable of being.
Phoebe waited for him to say more, hands folded demurely in her
lap.
He continued. "I also hoped we might take tea once in a while, and
you could let me know how the young man is faring. I'd certainly make
it worth your time."
She smiled. "I'd be delighted, though I prefer sherry, actually.
But it might be difficult to get up to London all the time. My poor little
car is not very reliable these days. And petrol is so dear."
"I'm sure school expenses are higher than they used to be,"
her uncle murmured. "I've been intending to review your quarterly
allowance. I'll see what I can do."
"And so shall I, Uncle. I'll be in touch." She rose, ending
the interview and leaving him to watch her departure with compressed lips.
It was a little disappointing to find that she could be bought off so
easily.
x-x-x-x
Three months later.
"He really is rather sweet," Phoebe said. "Quite shy in
a very un-American way. I know any number of girls who are quite smitten
with him, but he barely notices them."
"I take it he's noticed you, however," he asked. He already
knew
the gist of it, but he wanted to hear from Phoebe.
"Oh, he's noticed me," Phoebe said. Her second sherry arrived
and
she sipped at it delicately. "I've made sure of that. He seems --
quite flattered, actually, by the attention. I wonder what American women
are made of, that he's so unused to female admiration."
"I'm sure he's had relationships in the past," the Englishman
remarked, not sure that he wanted the conversation to go down this path.
"Not very serious ones, I'd wager," she said. "He isn't
very experienced, but he makes up for that lack in enthusiasm. And he's
not afraid to try anything --"
"I don't need details," he interrupted. He had photographic
proof if he wanted details. The photos were grainy, but he could make
out enough to know what she meant. There was a particularly graphic series
that appeared to have taken place in a graveyard, atop Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle's tomb, of all places...
Phoebe was inventive and often rather cruel. Fox Mulder seemed to be in
her thrall, which hadn't been his intent. Spender seemed to think that
through Phoebe they could have some influence over him. The Englishman
disagreed; he thought it was much better to let the boy find his own path.
No matter what direction he decided on, with enough warning they could
find a way to keep an eye on him. The American thought they should try
to guide him, control him in some way, but that was a much more dangerous
task, and could too easily blow up in their faces.
He'd gotten much more than he'd bargained for when he asked for
Phoebe's assistance. She was certainly influencing him, but not in ways
that would be at all useful to them. It only seemed to illustrate what
a lonely life Fox Mulder had led thus far, to fall so hard for someone
like Phoebe. She'd barely had to crook her finger at him.
Phoebe turned wide, innocent eyes on her uncle. "I thought you wanted
to know everything. I thought that was the point. I was certain you'd
want to know as many details as I could supply. I can certainly confirm
a good deal for you. He is indeed quite athletic -- tireless, in fact.
And he's a fine physical specimen --"
"That's quite enough, Phoebe," he interrupted in a voice that
brought subordinates to their knees.
Phoebe merely raised her eyebrows slightly and sipped her sherry.
"I assumed you'd want your money's worth, Uncle," she said.
"That's not what this is about!" he said. "I merely wanted
you to --"
"--take the son of an old friend under my wing, if I remember correctly,"
Phoebe finished smoothly. "Well, I've done so. I certainly didn't
expect the thanks of a grateful nation, but I did think that you'd be
happy about it. Am I not performing to expectations?"
Everything she said seemed to have a double meaning. His sister
had been so guileless, so self-effacing. He could no longer see her in
Phoebe's face, and it made him both angry and sad.
Phoebe was the new generation, selfish and opportunistic. She might agree
to do something for someone else, but only as long as it served her own
interests as well.
He wondered briefly if that opportunist Spender had somehow gotten to
her before he had.
"Just try to be discreet," he said. "It won't help your
future, or his, to be caught in flagrante."
Phoebe smiled her knowing little smile. "That's half the fun, Uncle,"
she said.
x-x-x-x
Six months later.
He was nearly apoplectic when she finally came to the telephone.
He'd just returned from a successful visit to the States, where he'd stayed
with his friend and colleague, Dr. Belinda Charne-Sayre. To be greeted
with this on his return curdled all the enjoyment he'd gotten from his
trip.
"What is this I hear about your young man ending up in hospital?"
he said, barely containing his anger.
"My young man?" Phoebe yawned. "Oh, you mean Fox Mulder?
There was a little accident with a candle. I'm sure he's fine now."
His niece made unconcern a fine art.
"Your `little accident' almost burned down the cottage, and you both
could have been seriously hurt," he said. "I suggested that
you befriend him, not torture him!"
He could hear her yawn over the telephone line. "Your concern is
touching, though I'm not sure whether it's for the cottage or for me.
We were playing a little game. It got a bit out of hand. He moved when
he shouldn't have, that's all. We've done it before."
"Yes, I know," he said, "I know exactly what you've been
doing, but you won't do it again." He immediately regretted the slip,
and had little hope that Phoebe wouldn't notice it.
The quality of the silence on the other end of the line changed, and then
he heard her say, in a voice edged with anger barely contained, "What
else do you know? You've been spying on me, have you?"
"You've not been keeping in touch as agreed. I sent someone down
to find out why."
"You don't trust me, do you?" she asked.
"It's got nothing to do with trust," he snapped. "I believe
I made a mistake in asking you to do this. You are not keeping up your
end of the arrangement. I think you should discontinue your relationship
with Fox Mulder immediately."
"That's not your concern," Phoebe said. "You introduced
us, so to speak, but you cannot control what happens from then on. You
are not Pygmalion, forming me or Fox Mulder to your whims or
specifications."
"You may have damaged that young man irreparably."
"Physically? I don't think so. Mentally? That's another kettle of
fish. He already has some issues that you neglected to tell me about,
Uncle. I was actually trying to help him face one of his fears. You might
call it an experiment. Did you know he's afraid of fire?"
"I can see that your training in psychology is serving you well."
"Why do you care? And spare me the `old friend' cant. I don't believe
it, I never did. I think you wanted to keep track of Fox Mulder for some
other purpose. What, I can't fathom. If you choose not to tell me, so
be it. But don't pretend that you have his best interests at heart."
"You couldn't possibly know or understand my interests," he
said.
"Because you've never bothered to share them with me. You've
simply said, `do this,' and I've done it, without asking awkward
questions. You seem to think that I'm still a child, with a child's understanding
of things. Well, Fox has told me a little about his life. I can draw my
own conclusions about things from there."
She had to be bluffing. Fox Mulder knew next to nothing about what his
father did; he'd stake his life on it. However, he couldn't take the chance.
Phoebe was smart, and though she didn't have access to the information
he had, she obviously knew there was more to this situation than meets
the eye.
He considered his options before speaking again. He needed to find
a way to salvage the situation before it got much worse.
"Phoebe," he said carefully, "You are correct that I know
quite a lot about what you and young Mulder have been doing. I also know
quite a bit about some of your other, shall we say, escapades? Things
that you might prefer were not known generally. Perhaps things you'd prefer
that Mulder not know about you..."
"Oh, I've told him plenty," she said airily. "But he forgave
me. He always forgives me."
It appeared that they were at an impasse. Forbidding her to see him
would only make her more determined. He could hope that she'd become bored
with Mulder in time. But what havoc would she wreak in the meantime?
He could find a way to force her: he still had control over most of her
money and while she wouldn't starve, she'd have to do without many of
the luxuries she'd grown to depend upon. However, he didn't want to lose
his influence over her entirely; there might be future occasions where
she could be of use.
What other incentive could he offer her? What was as seductive as
money? He though back over their conversations, and the kinds of
questions she'd asked, the statements she'd made.
Information. Perhaps it was time he'd told her a few things.
"Very well, Phoebe. Can you come up to the house this weekend?"
"May I bring Fox? Perhaps it's time he met you," she said, a
dangerous sweetness in her tone.
"No, you may not. What I have to tell you has nothing to do with
him."
"You won't sway me any more in person, you know."
"There are things you need to know. I think you're ready to hear
them, and they can't be said over the telephone." He hoped that he'd
used the right tone of reluctance and resignation to pique her curiosity.
"Very well, Uncle. I'll hear you out."
He could hear the undertone of triumph in her voice.
x-x-x-x
Ten years later.
Benwick's was long gone, a victim of some high-rise hotel chain,
soulless as Strughold but therefore anonymous, and very discreet.
He waited in a mockery of a men's club, called of course "The Club
Lounge." The chairs were comfortable enough, but he could hear the
noise of the lobby from where he sat, and there was no escaping the ubiquitous
piped-in music. At least smoking was not allowed here.
He sipped his over-priced whiskey and waited. Phoebe was late, as always,
though she had a better excuse for her lateness now.
He'd kept an eye on her over the years. It had surprised him that she'd
decided to go into law enforcement, but perhaps Mulder had influenced
her more than she'd ever admit. The Englishman had unobtrusively given
her a helping hand up the ladder in the Force. She was one of the youngest
female Inspectors ever, and was on track to be a Chief Inspector before
she turned forty, if she played her cards right.
She had a tendency to sleep with her superiors, which so far hadn't hurt
her chances at advancement. Phoebe hardly ever put a foot wrong professionally,
and she'd learned to be more discreet, which was why he'd called her.
It had surprised him that she'd believed his story all those years ago.
He'd spun a story about national security and State secrets, and had made
it convincing enough. Someone had once told him that the most convincing
lies were those placed between two truths, and he'd told just enough truth
to make Phoebe believe. She'd agreed to stop
seeing Fox Mulder as a result. It hadn't been a clean break, unfortunately
for young Fox, but he'd managed to survive.
The Englishman shook his head and took another sip of whiskey. He'd had
quite an argument with Spender over the whole affair. Spender still thought
that he could control Fox Mulder somehow, especially through his relationships.
He'd tried it again just a few years ago, throwing that Fowley woman at
his head, with mixed results. Diana Fowley had been agreeable, up to a
point, but
apparently she'd begged off and had been reassigned. At least that parting
didn't seem to be as devastating to Mulder. He'd kept pretty much to himself
since then, but hadn't exhibited the same self-destructive behavior he'd
shown when Phoebe broke things off.
Now Spender was trying again, and the news from the States was alarming.
Fox Mulder's new partner had much more influence over him than anyone
had expected.
There had been much discussion about Mulder's developing interest in the
X-Files, and the Consortium was divided. Some wanted to see Mulder's activities
shut down; others felt that what he did could be useful, as long as they
were kept informed of his actions. The Englishman had always been in the
latter camp, feeling that it was
much easier to lead a man to a place he was interested in going anyway.
Dana Scully had been carefully chosen. Inquiries had been made before
she had been given the assignment. She'd appeared ideal; someone who believed
in following the rules, in obeying orders. She'd never questioned an order,
never made any waves. She'd agreed to take the assignment and was following
it to the letter, though not in the fashion that the powers that be had
intended.
The two agents weren't involved in a personal relationship, as far as
anyone could tell. No one had even suggested this to Dana Scully and she
wasn't the type to think that way, unlike either Phoebe or Diana Fowley.
She didn't just follow the rules because that was her training; her integrity
ran bone-deep. It was obvious, at least to him, that it wouldn't be possible
to persuade or coerce her into betraying
anyone, and especially not her partner. And it appeared that Fox Mulder
sensed this, too. He was beginning to trust Dana Scully in a way he hadn't
trusted anyone in quite a while. It was time to drive a wedge between
these two before things got out of hand.
"Hullo, Uncle," Phoebe said, and he rose to kiss her cheek.
She was as willowy as she'd been in college, and she looked very smart
in her tailored suit and coat. She had a bright scarf thrown over her
shoulders adding a touch of panache.
"Inspector Green," he said with a small smile, and waited until
she'd seated herself.
She gave him a familiar smile and took a sip of the waiting glass of sherry.
"To what do I owe the honor?"
end.
completed 10/13/02
Author's Notes:
I used the X-Files Timeline to determine when Mulder attended Oxford.
According to calculations there, he started in 1983 and graduated in 1986.
He would have been twenty-two, and therefore probably a graduate student
when he started. It seemed to me therefore that he might have gone to
school as an undergraduate someplace else, possibly in the States, getting
only his Ph.D. at Oxford.
As to the relationship between the WMM and Phoebe? Absolutely no support
for that theory anywhere. It's just an evil little thought that popped
into my head one day.