Title: Green Eyed Monster
Summary: Something rears it's ugly head at a Bureau St. Paddy's Day Party.
Note: Submission for March COX 2000 Fic' challenge.
"The Green Eyed Monster", she had called it. Or, rather, _me_.
Excuse me, I am not so shallow.
"Oh, Agent Cochochozen." She'd blubbered as he drooled all over her hand and murmured something about "Looking forward to renewing their friendship and what trails they blazed..." or some crap like that (all said in that nauseating High Born British), and staring at her all the while with teal eyes (figures!) so intensely they positively glowed with delight.
Scully's old fellow classmate from her Academy days, she explained. This one must have predated Jack Willis, was my thought.
Most women tried to find another female to pal up with in order to get through the worst of the nudging, discreet leers and general harassment most women in the FBI must endure with stoicism, so they eventually may also wear the coveted badge.
Later, that badge becomes a shield in more ways than one. It was authority. It was their proof that they were as good as the men and could give as good as well. It was their crest of a battle waged and won.
So why was Scully all blushing and tongue-tied when ol' Cochochozen (what the hell kind of name is that anyway?!), stepped up out of this boring party with his gold-rimmed wine glass and proceeded to made it intolerably dull?
Well, because he wasn't only Scully's old soldier mate, he was to all appearances an old flame too. And he was good looking, in a thin, pasty way.
Later I tackled her on it, she she denied my suspicions with stutters and sputtering.
"He's just an old friend. We have sort of the same background. He'll only be here for a few weeks."
Hmph. Another sea devil. "How did an Englishmen get into the Bureau?"
"Although he's been back home in England for the last few years, he's actually an American citizen. His family came here when he was very young. He was like having a big brother, Mulder. Someone I needed. It wasn't easy being a woman in the FBI. Out of a graduating class of thirty-seven, there were only three women. Lucas*..."
"...helped me adjust."
In how many positions I wondered.
"You never mentioned him, Scully." I said in a lame attempt to catch her at a lie. Okay, she probably wasn't lying. He was most likely just what she said he was. But "Lucas Cochochozen"!? What is that? British-South-African-Cherokee?
"YOU never told me about Diana Fowley," she reminded me.
So I felt like a dickhead. Then, just as my ears stopped burning, she added:
"He always kisses my hand like that, he was raised with very old fashioned manners."
Unlike her crotch scratching, belching, sun-flower- seed spitting, hair barely combed, ugly ties partner she's thinking, I'm thinking, as we moved around the deadly dull Saint Patrick's Day Bureau Ball.
Yes, the beer is green. Sorry. Not into beer that reminds me of something Lucas might pull out of his nose during a "dreadful bout". At least the cheese isn't green.
"Can we go now?" I whine like a five year old.
"No." Scully meant it. "I want to hear the story of Saint Patrick."
"They're going to tell us a _story_!? Shouldn't we all be sitting in a circle?"
"Mulder. Shut up, they're starting."
I stayed quiet as a young male agent approached the podium, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. They always give this embarrassing stuff to the greenhorns while babbling on and on about what a privilege it is to speak before the FBI's finest and all the Department Heads too, when in reality, the new kids on the block got these shlock assignments because the seasoned knew better.
In the newspapers, the FBI came across to the world as bad asses. Maybe we were. But we also threw the dorkiest parties. Green cake for God's sake!
'Agent Greenhorn' spoke stiltedly and a bit run-on. He'd obviously memorized the thing verbatim:
"Saint Patrick was born in 387 A.D. in Britain as Maewyn Succat. His father Calphurnius was a Roman official. Saint Patrick was kidnapped at age 16 and sold into slavery in Ireland, according to his autobiography. He escaped by boat to Britain after six years of captivity and traveled to St. Martin's monastery in Tours, France, where he studied under Saint Germain of Auxerre and became a priest. In 431 A.D. Pope Celestine I named him Patricius and sent him on a mission to Ireland.
"In 432 A.D he arrived in Ireland and successfully converted the Island from Druidism to the Christian faith. He wrote 'The Confession' defending his life of service and also wrote 'A Letter' to Coroticus attacking slavery and denouncing British King Coroticus for kidnapping and enslaving his converts."
A few more expected words about American Celebration of it's Irish roots and Greenhorn stepped off the podium, wiping his brow. He seemed relieved as did most of us.
"That was interesting," Scully said to me. "I didn't know Saint Patrick's father was a Roman Official. I wonder how far back his ancestry went and from where?"
Figures Scully would find it all fascinating, being a right Irish girl. I didn't say anything because I didn't know anything and didn't care either.
Of course, who should pull up in his Gucci loafers but Lucas the Righteous, who immediately started drivelling out everything he knew about it and more:
"What he didn't tell you is far more interesting that what he did." Lucas said.
Scully appeared immedietly at his attentive disposal. My mind began to wander off but my more stubborn feet didn't.
"What they didn't tell you was that he was originally a shepherd and a slave."
Had I heard the faintest disdain in his voice right there?
"...and though ordained a priest in 417 AD, his priestly education was of low standard."
Yes. Disdain. Scully, ever the scientist, protested with a slight smile that most of what was known about Saint Patrick was legend and myth anyway. Yet, she seemed slightly less charmed by Lucas than before. It was her Irish blood and religious fortification asserting themselves I thought.
"Oh, no, my dear. Some of the myths have been of course, embellished, but most of them have some basis in fact. Truth is often stranger than we imagine. Isn't that right, Agent Mulder?"
I looked at him. It was true enough but I just shrugged.
"But isn't it also true that he was called The Apostle of Ireland, and that he baptized people by the hundreds? And that the legend of him having "driven the snakes from Ireland" is actually a parable of his converting the Druids to Christianity? Even more interesting is the mythical stories of the Tuatha de Danaan. The Tuatha de Danaan were supposed to be a race of fairies or gods and they had quite a civilizing impact on the people of Ireland. As a matter of fact, legend says that when Assyria captured Israel, these Danites struck out in their ships and sailed west through the Mediterranean and north to Ireland. Just before his death, Moses prophesied of Dan: 'Dan is a lion's whelp: he shall leap from Bashan'..."
Scully has always kept me guessing. This time is no different. She was impressing even me.
"Irish annals of history and legend tell that the new settlers of Ireland were the 'Tuatha de Danaans,' which means, when translated, 'Tribe of Dan.' When the name is written as 'Tuathe De,' it means 'People of God.' And that they left their name on many places: Dans-Laugh, Dun-dalk, Dun-drum, Don-egal Bay, Don-egal City, Dun-gloe, Duns-mor - meaning "more Dans'. As well, the name Dunn in the Irish language means the same as Dan in the Hebrew. And so when Patricius arrived, he found a mixture of so-called "pagan" Druidian and other more ancient Judean-Christian beliefs. It was his mission to weed out the "snakes", the pagan element."
She seemed to have stilled his dissing of her Irish Saint for the time being.
I knew my Scully. She had just been warming up.
"I have heard that." Was all Lucas said. "But let us not speak of the dead." He stated, as if in dismissal of The Good Saint Patrick and all he represented.
Lucas took Scully's arm in his and lead her away to the buffet.
She went off with Lucas Cock-chokin' or whatever his name was. I could hardly bear to think whether or not Scully has ever choked on his. That's crude and unfair to her but
I finally spotted her out on the balcony laughing like she was having the time of her life.
Her teeth were showing. I watched her for few minutes, (just her, trying to forget that it was _him_ making her look like that). She looked fabulous. The dress was great of course, nice soft green knee length number and a bit clingy in all the right places, (I'd put on the only green thing I owned, a black tie I knew had with green stripes. Color- blind me - they looked grey), but it was Scully's face that made me stop and just, well, enjoy the view. She was so..._light_.
So happy and smiling. Relaxed. Enjoying herself like it was something new to her. I'd never seen this before.
She was also a bit tipsy. Jeeze, she was having fun for the first time in how long? And all I had managed during my evening performance was to insult her friend and act like a perfect dink.
I would apologize, I decided, and moved to disentangle myself from the crowd, so I could step out onto the balcony. Maybe I'd apologize to Cock-Chokin' too.
As I placed one foot in front of the other, I realised he was watching me.
Not as a person would who was catching sight of a new acquaintance, who then looks up, politely nods then looks away.
No, he was staring at me like a wolf, as if there was something alive in behind his eyes beyond two green fluid filled orbs. Something that was not him, but looked out upon the world with it's own vision and will. It was desire. Need.
As he watched me, the middle finger of his right hand slowly circled the glass of sherry he was sipping as if it were circling the clitoris of a lover. As if, (as he stared at me with eyes frozen and malevolent, two icy little moons), he were touching Scully.
With all but his eyes it seemed, he surrounded her. The rest of him, his hands and uncomfortably white flesh, were concentrated only on her.
On my partner.
Christ, it made me stop in my tracks. It was a though a heavy door had just been slammed down in front of me and I couldn't make another step. Not one inch.
He stared at me as if he knew me - recognized me.
Then, it was gone.
To clear my head and take control of the mixed emotions I was feeling, I found the men's room and splashed some water on my face.
I decided that maybe it was just me. My own Green Eyed Monster - jealousy - that was making me see things that were not there. Making me hate this man for no reason other than he used to know Scully. Well, lots of people used to know Scully, I reminded myself. Lots of people I never knew, I reasoned. Besides I knew she loved me.
Even though she's never said it.
Or kissed me.
Or made any move to kiss me.
Or even speak of us as anything but "partners" or "friends".
Stop it! I yelled to myself.
Forcing congeniality, I returned to the balcony to find they weren't there.
Great. Now I had to go looking -
- But maybe they'd left? Maybe together?
No. I know Scully better than that, she said so herself.
At the balcony's railing, I finally spotted them out standing on the lawn just inside the edge of the decorative gas lights next to the replica of the Blarney Stone the Bureau had had erected for the occasion. They were talking. Scully was still laughing.
And without warning (and without there being any way for him to know I was once more up there looking down) he was again looking at me.
This time, there is no error on my part. I was not hallucinating or imagining it!
He was staring directly at me with wide open arrogance. As if he now possessed something I couldn't. As if he now held her in his power just as easily as he held her right hand between his two. Unmistakably, he was challenging me!
I felt again that this was not just a man, but some... _thing_, some force at play behind his shining eyes, something telling me that Scully was about to be taken from me as sure as the thin layer of vulnerable snow would melt when the sun rose.
Suddenly I was shivering and all over me drifted a cold wind, like fingers of evil. It sounds fanciful. Fox Mulder going off half cocked again?
No. I promise you.
I'm telling you.
It was coming from him.
"Langly?" If anyone could dig up some dirt on this asshole, it was the guys. "It's me. Listen I need you to find out everything you can about an old Academy pal of Scully's. Some blue blood by the name of Lucas..." (I spelled the last name)..."There's something very odd about this guy, I think he's some kind of psycho. What? No, I haven't been drinking and I can see just fine! Just find out everything you can about him and call me back as soon as you know."
When I hung up, I had a feeling I ought to go and check on Scully. They hadn't moved and this time he didn't look up.
But I hated that he was still standing so close to her and the way his hand would reach out and touch her every so often. Little intimate pets (deliberately implied I'm sure), that said despite only a few moments in her presence, he was being allowed physical intimacies which for me, after seven long years, were still being denied.
Uh-uh. This was not the Green Eyed Monster of jealousy rising in my bones if that's what you're thinking. This was genuine concern for Scully's safety. But I couldn't simply go up to them, accuse him of being abnormal or dangerous and expect Scully to believe me.
They chatted as I waited for my call and though I couldn't hear what was being said I could tell the conversation had taken a slightly sour turn.
I made my way through the crowd to the elevator and down the three flights to the manicured lawns. The gardens were still spotted with sculpted bushes covered with cloth, still protecting them from the last snow sprinkles of winter.
There was nothing protecting Scully, I thought as I saw her gather her fur wrap more tightly around her shoulders. Her wine glass was almost empty. That would be her fourth.
The level in Lucas' glass hadn't dropped at all and he held it in his left hand as if it were a Chalice full of jewels. He held it like a priest would hold the Cup of Christ.
I could hear snippets of conversation drift toward me through the stiff branches:
Her: "I've found that faith in God has a power to support or heal when things are at their worst. I'd hardly call that a "good times religion."
He: "But it's a crutch, Dana. A wiggling, wobbly stick upon which the weaker lean when they think they can no longer support themselves. It's what many have been lead to believe. That we need the Olde God because we are too feeble to survive otherwise. Belief is a powerful force."
Her: "Yes. I've learned that these last seven years. But what you choose to do with your faith is at least as important as the thing you choose to believe in. Or the belief itself is as empty"... I saw her hold up her glass. ..."as this glass."
I saw him hold up his. "Or as full as this one. It all depends on what you think of yourself."
Scully shook her head, smiled despite their difference of opinion. "Lucas. I don't remember you being so cynical, or so sacrilegious. You come from a very old family with a long history of involvement in the church."
Him: "An error I decided to correct in myself. Here,"
He stepped closer to her. "Try this. It's delightful. It's a sherry my family has produced for centuries. It's body is so deep and full, there will remain no room for anything else."
Again, Scully shook her head. "No thanks. I think I've had enough. I'm a bit dizzy."
But he was not to be so easily dissuaded: "Dana. I brought it especially for you."
Her: "You brought it? From home?"
My phone rang.
Him: "Yes. You'll not find the recipe anywhere else in the world"...
I answered it. It was Langly who began talking fast and furious in my ear.
Her: "Well. One sip."
Him: "It's quite eye opening."...
Pulling my gun, I raced there in fewer steps than I thought humanly possible. "SCULLY!"
Immedietly, Lucas stepped back, but only a foot or two from her.
Scully seemed indignant at my rude interruption and boorish entrance.
"Mulder? What are you doing?"
"I don't know who he is but this man is not Lucas Cochochozen."
"What are you talking about? Of course he is, don't you think I'd know my old classmate?"
I didn't lower my gun. In fact I stepped closer to them both. If I had to, I would shoot. "Scully, I had the Gunmen check him out. Lucas Cochochozen _died_ four years ago." I addressed Lucas:
"Whoever or whatever you are, it's finished."
Scully's mouth dropped open. ""Not him"? Mulder, this better not be your idea of an early April Fool's."
"Scully. After all we've seen together, after seven years, you know by now when I'm not kidding."
No, I was dead serious and my voice told her that.
"Then who is he?"
Again I addressed the imitation Cock-Chokin': "That's the Sixty-Four-Thousand Pound question isn't it, "Lucas"?" I said to Scully: "We have to contact the Bureau and the British Embassy - find out what he did with the real Lucas."
His momentary shock at my intrusion appeared to have passed and he was again the arrogant snot. "Actually, I am from Ireland, originally, my dear Fox. You are a fool." Was all he said to me and closed the gap between himself and Scully once more. I stepped forward. Point blank range so I wouldn't miss.
"One more step and I'll shoot you." I warned him.
He took it and I fired.
Lucas did not go down. He didn't even flinch. What he did do was look down at his unmarred, not even wrinkled suit jacket and chuckle. Then he turned his attention from me as if dismissing an annoying insect and again focused on Scully.
"Dana. Drink. This will make you see whole new light. You will forever be in glory you could never imagine. I promise you, you will thank me always."
I shot again. And again and again, emptying my clip into him. He didn't even flinch. "Scully! Don't drink it!" I shouted.
But I didn't need to warn her as she backed away from him.
Lucas followed. The air around us turned swift, the wind whipping up, chilling us to the bone.
"Dana!" Lucas yelled above the gale. "Drink! In this glass is truth like you've never learned. You'll be free of all that need, of His".. he pointed skyward, "of his", he pointed to me. "of anyone's need. Of _yours_! White is black, Dana, and black is white. Don't you see?!"(# , ~*)
Lucas grabbed her, forcing the glass to her lips, trying to pour it down her throat.
I tackled him but he was immovable, like an ice carving in the snow, solid and frozen. I was powerless. Even beating my gun against his head proved useless. It didn't even scratch his skin.
Lucas had Scully by her hair, tilting her head back, the wine would pass her lips. It was his poison somehow. His power ready to fill her.
Using all my weight I struck his arm away from her mouth and in his surprise, he let go of the glass.
We all watched as it dashed against the Replica Stone, shattering, the red liquid within turning to a fine spray of blood red crystals.
Helping Scully up, I turned to confront Lucas, only to see a white owl flapping it's huge wings. It turned white, then clear, then into wind whipped flurries, scattering in a wild curtain of frost, spreading out on the sparkling snow then, sinking, disappeared.
Lucas, whatever he had been, was gone.
Scully seemed to be in shock. She was shivering and I draped my dinner jacket around her shoulders. All the alcohol in her blood could not be helping matters.
"Mulder. What happened here,...did it just happen?"
"I don't know what just happened here, Scully. But whoever, _what_ever that was, it can't hurt anyone now."
Scully looked at me suddenly, as if a revelation had hit her square between the eyes. "Mulder?"
I stepped in closer, concerned suddenly. Had he managed to hurt her after all. "Are you sure you're okay, Scully?"
She didn't answer my question, just continued to stare at me. I was afraid that he had indeed "tainted" her or something, infected her with his evil.
"I remember the Legend of the Countess' soul. Demons came in the guise of white owls and tried to take it from her. And a demon came to the Saint and tried to trick him into drinking poisoned wine, but Patricius turned it to ice instead, and so it lost it's power. Your last name, "Mulder". It's Jewish, isn't it?"
Not clear why she suddenly was making a point of it, "Yeah. Yeah, it is."
"Like one of the ancient Tribes." she whispered so softly, I could hardly hear her. "But, your first name, you don't know, do you?"
""Sionnach", Mulder, it's Irish. "Fox". A very old Irish name."
Scully bent down and scooped up in her hand a small white butterfly that had evidently landed on her sandalled foot, tickling it. We both examined the delicate creature in amazement. That such a creature of summer would be there, near us in a cold eastern March night -
She cried a little and it broke me heart. "You may think I'm crazy, Mulder."...
..."But in one legend, after a demon fools a king into cutting his own throat, a white butterfly leaves his lips, proving he had a soul." She seemed sad. "Is this my soul, Mulder? My faith? Some frail thing wavering in the cold, fluttering in a wind that blows it every which way until finally it dies?" (~)
"Is that what you think?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. Sometimes that's how I feel. What happened here tonight..."
"Believe it, Scully. Call it what you will, but we both saw it. Demon, devil, magician or Magi, this "Lucas" was here. Whatever it means, we both saw what he did or tried to do."
Scully frowned. "It's not moving any more."
"Take it home, Scully. It's not your soul. It's a butterfly."
"But it's dead."
"Put it in a glass case. Captured or free, it's still beautiful."
Touching the still wings of the creature with a finger, "Thank you, Mulder." she whispered.
We walked slowly back to the party. I tried to lighten the mood by making some kind of appropriate conversation.
"You know, Scully, they say if you kiss the real Blarney Stone, it brings good luck."
"That's true. But they say if you kiss someone who's kissed the Blarney Stone, that's better." Scully stopped walking, turned and hugged me close.
Closer, holding on.
Looking up at me, she closed the distance, purposefully invading my facial space. "Have YOU ever kissed the Blarney Stone, Mulder?"
I didn't move. "No, but I've sat on it."
"And so you became a wise ass." Scully inched closer until there was only an inch between our lips. "Oh well...that's close enough."
And kissed me.
For Web site about Saint Patrick and St. Patrick's Day (from which I loosely gleaned info' for this story):
Christine O'Keeffe's St Patrick's Day Page: http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Parthenon/1502/stpat.html#top
@ History of Patricius: http://www.reocities.com/Athens/Parthenon/1502/shistory/stpathis1.html#top
* Legend of Lucat Mael: http://www.reocities.com/Athens/Parthenon/1502/slegend/stptlegpoi.html#top
~ The Countess' Soul: http://www.reocities.com/Athens/Parthenon/1502/slegend/stptleg11.html#top
~* The Druid's Soul: http://www.reocities.com/Athens/Parthenon/1502/slegend/stptleg8.html#top