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waxworkdaughter · 5 months ago

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i keep thinking about the lines from Vince Gilligan's Drive script, the antisemitic conspiracy theorist with the pressurized head demands to know if Mulder is Jewish and if Mulder is a Jewish name, and Mulder says, "Yes, I am, and no it's not," plus there's the fact that he was buried unembalmed, which made his resurrection possible in DeadAlive, plus DD's statement that he'd decided Mulder was Jewish and to play him that way unless told to do otherwise, so despite the messy parts of the Kaddish script and other culturally 'Christian Athist' Mulder moments in the writing (most likely because of how little cultural awareness there is about the difference in Christian vs Jewish theism that it bleeds through everywhere), I do think there was a conscious positioning of the Mulder character as Jewish Adjacent via his mother + complicated by his WASPy father's domination of the family...

But they wrote that without any specific research or much accommodation for the implications of keeping him tied up with alien conspiracy plots and eugenics plot. Yet! Mulder was always on the 'fighting it' side, and the power hoarding conspiracists were all signalled to be rich WASPy conservative men, all but one of whom were White.

Also early the 90s independent internet fringe conspiracy theorists, i.e. the Lone Gunmen, Max and others shown to be allied with Mulder, weren't the radical right wing fasch of the last 10-15 years, and in the context of the show don't carry the same strange implication of 'an ethnically Jewish person surrounding himself with conspiracy theorists' would in the present day. I do get the sense that they were radical left instead -- that doesn't necessarily leave out the antisemitism part, of course so it's not un-complicated, of course. (And though I suppose i should feel grateful that CC made Mulder's son a fish mutant and not a lizard mutant that's also not a particularly reassuring implication... but then again the Revival is a pretty different animal with different, less collaborative creative direction.)

Yes parts of this subtext do bother me a lot. The fact that they got 3/4rs of the way there in the writing but never once had Jewish Adjacent Mulder talk about the mental toll of sorting the wheat from the chaff, finding genuine abduction survivor and alien leads in amongst the mountains of antisemetic conspiracy bullshit on message boards or how he doesn't really ever know which contacts are going to meet him and decide he's the enemy because he 'looks Jewish'... it's both a missed opportunity and speaks to a lot of ignorance. It makes me pretty crazy. There are a lot of half gestures towards Mulder's Jewish background and then a lot of ugly coincidences and unfortunate implications because no one really thought about what that would mean in the context of The X-File's genre content and recurring themes. But also some of that uncomfortable feeling comes from the fact that there have been a lot of cultural shifts since the original run was on the air.

Like, i don't think he's culturally exactly anything, caught in the middle and mostly without. It's a story familiar to me and my mother because my grandmother was also a young Jewish woman who made a hasty love match (i.e. she got pregnant) with a WASPy goy from a rich industrialist family, and said family held the purse strings, so keeping his mother happy was everything -- which was true even after my grandparents divorced, because of complicated inheritance reasons. She assimilated and let my mother and her siblings be raised as Christmas and Passover celebrating 'nothing in particular' kids, who went to shul when visiting her parents and kept shabbos sometimes with the neighbors, but still broadly steeped in cultural Christianity and outside the community, because it was the 50s and 60s and she was a divorced mother in an upper middle class white area who had to be careful to keep social doors open to all of them. I figure Teena and Mulder had a pretty similar situation in the 60s and 70s, with the added complication of accidentally marrying into an actual WASPy conspiracy hub who could have you 'disposed of' for speaking out of turn.

I just... Jewish Mulder is deeply important to me as a character, it's the execution in practice that I find extremely frustrating. it's the half way there implications, partly intentional, partly accidental because it's apparent that no one educated themselves on the history some of the bigger themes beyond the surface familiar Scifi-Horror tropes. Actually getting there all the way and digging into it, or trying even 25% more to avoid the pitfalls around Mulder and Teena would have added a lot to the show. And would maybe even have insulated CC against (some of) the plot bungles in the Revival. Very frustrating all around. But at the same time, it is a scifi show, and the aliens and rich White conspirators are very literal in fact on the screen.

And what's more, Mulder's particular blend of faith and hope and contention and interrogation, his willingness to Keep Doing The Work no matter what, because it's worth it and it needs to be done in the hope for a better world... that is very Jewish to me at more than a surface level. For me that makes all the awkward implications worth it.

#txf #txf meta #jewish mulder tag #txf negativity #antisemitism #character theory: mulder #fox mulder #for the last 4ish years i've been trying to learn and reconnect with my roots. plus since ~Lately actively half of my dash is jewish #because of changing who i follow and block due to realizing who will casually put antisemitic infographics on my dash. so my cultural #*my cultural awareness has shifted. But even so as someone who is still mainly Adjacent you don't have to do a lot really!#all it takes is a willingness to be aware and learning some basics and some common dogwhistles

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plasma-studios · 1 month ago

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The Shape of You (ao3: x)

Chapter 2: Daffodils

He wakes up.

There is a tingly feeling in his skull. When he touches his forehead, he feels small bumps near the crown; his fingers brush over the first, still blearily confused, tracing it down to his temple.

Then he realises, then stills. He traces it again. He feels the bulb, embed in his skull, and feels it out again, uncomprehending. It is small, barely even noticeable. He would not have noticed it if it were not for the stinging pain in his skull.

Then he touches what must be the base. And when he presses down, there is pain. Striking through his head— he gasps, and instinctively lets go.

It is when he lets go that he realises there is something growing out. It is thin, his fingers find each other around the stalk, as he feels it out in its entirety.

He touches something soft. Almost fragile, like tear-it-apart soft. But he is gentle with it. It is growing out of his skull, after all. It is with a delayed horror that he realises what that really means.

Blue thinks, with deepening horror, what is growing out of his skull?

He rips away the soft thing. There is a comparatively duller pain. The ache that flashes through his head is quick, lightning by comparison.

His fingers pull away with a single yellow petal. There is a drop of blood staining it.

The yellow blots into red.

There is a flower growing out of his head.

He panics silently for a few more minutes, but collects himself. This is fine. As long as he cuts out the flower stalk gently, there shouldn’t be any damage. This is just like when the boy down the street cut open a cyst and found an inch of blackberry vein. He could’ve gotten the seed lodged in before and just not noticed.

The bulb must have been the seed.

As long as he is careful, and his hands don’t shake, he should be able to remove it.

Blue is careful. He is still tense, but the good thing is that the tension makes his hands so stiff he barely shakes at all, when he uses the iron knife hung around his neck to cut the stalk—

The iron. He is numb. The flower falls to his feet.

The iron is rusted. The red dust sticks to his thumb, like pollen.

If the iron is rusted, then— something must have happened. Something might happen soon. There must be some Fae nearby, watching him.

He does not know where he is. He realises. He glances left, glances right, and finds himself in a meadow of the prettiest flowers. But he glances down, and thank the stars he is in a clearing.

It is never wise to step off the path, and even if he does not know where he is, if he is on the dirt path instead of the bordering dirt hosting yellow and white flowers, he is still technically safe. Though he would be safer back home.

But he doesn’t know which end of the path leads back.

Blue stills.

The soil, blooming with flowers, turns to snow less than five feet away.

He stares at the snow, and then back to the soil. He takes a step forward, watching the snowflakes glistening in the light—

“If you make it out of Winter alive, I’ll let you keep your pathetic life.”

He freezes. His hand is an inch away from where the snow starts falling. His feet, however, are still on the soil. He glances around, but the voice had come from right in his head. He touches the base of his skull, but he does not know if the icy coldness he feels there had formed with the warning. It is a memory.

The hand pressed against the base of his skull, as if to warm it, finds a second flower. He feels cold in his stomach, and reaches up. A third. A fourth. His hand flies to his knife. Snip. Snip. The flowers fall, petals gleaming in the light. When he has finally stopped gasping, he is standing in a puddle of petals.

A cackle that slices his ears open.

Light reflected off ice, reflected off metal.

He sees himself, like prey, staring at his reflection in the gleaming knife.

He retracts his hand. His breath has caught in his throat. He stumbles backward, away from the border of Winter. He’d escaped, then. He’d gotten out of Winter alive, so he had been left alive.

He stares at the flowers at his feet. Flowers he had cut out of his skull.

Oh. He hadn’t gotten out of Fae domain. He’d just broached the borders and gone further into it.

He was in Spring. *** And then, there is the next season. The blooming of daffodils marks the beginning of Spring. Beautiful, ardent Spring.

“Sketches of Iridescent Irises” is perhaps the most-well known depiction of its splendour. The Spring Court is beautiful, after all. The poets sing endlessly of the marvels within the Court of forever-blooms and the sweetest fruit; who could refuse the allure? The Spring Ruler himself does not refrain from indulgence.

Come, savour the honey that will taste all the more sweet by his hand. He is not stingy with his favour. So many have been taken into the meadow already, made beautiful, made better.

Spring is known for its beauty, not for its kindness. *** How did he get here? He lets out a breath. Was he glamourised? But he’d taken all the precautions when he’d gone to meet Dust for the last time. He’d worn red, had iron on him and had been careful not to stray from the path. He’d been leaving town by that abandoned road that took left through the forest, to the other path, right? Yes. And he’d promised to walk Dust out of town, down the fork—

There was a fork in the road. And there had been a blizzard.

His blood runs cold.

Could they have gone right?

And what was to the right of the path?

“Let my friend go.”

He flinches. That is his voice. He hears it again, and again.

He only makes sense of it on the second minute. He lets out a slow, unsteady breath.

Dust had been taken. And he had followed.

He trips. He almost curses, but swallows it. Why is he on a flower path? He touches the yellow petals, everything so absurd he cannot help but be curious. He recognises the flower. It is a daffodil. Daffodils.

He reaches up and feels the stalks extending from his head. It is a halo, he realises. It is a self-grown flower crown. And now that is so absurd he wants to laugh.

He finds a bud attached to a stalk. With his touch, the flowerbud blooms.

He tries to press the petals together and stop it from blossoming, but the petals pull away from the centre, spreading out quite lovely, and there is one more flower growing out of his head.

The flowers grow back. They grow back in minutes.

He is so stricken, he cannot even think.

He has to remove the seeds. The flowers grow back.

He reaches for his iron knife again, but stops. What is wrong about the flowers? Something pricks at him, some seed of longing. The flowers are so soft. Hell, the flowers under his feet fold in so easily. It would be beautiful, in some odd manner, having a flower crown poking out of his skull.

He’d woken up confused. He’d woken up, dazed, without memory.

He’d woken up with a full head of flowers.

He lets out a shattering breath. It feels like he’s been struck. A flower takes up water from the soil. What were the flowers in his skull taking up?

He reaches up, knife in hand, and wants to cut the first seed out. The pain blooms in his head, the blood dripping, and he mops it up with his scarf. He can’t afford to leave his blood around in Fae land. Blood was used for binding. Whatever enchantment the Fae could weave with even a drop of it— he rubs religiously at the leaking blood, but he has to continue.

He braces himself. The first seed tumbles out.

He lets out a sigh of relief, then promptly realises he has several more seeds to go.

He allows himself the dignity of a silent swear. Then he starts cutting.

By the time he’s done, there is so much blood staining his scarf it is now a deep, bruised purple. If it were lighter, it would be just like a hyacinth.

He steps on the seeds sunken into the ground. He does not want to dwell too much on his sudden knowledge about flowers.

Blue forces himself to get up. He can’t stay here for too long. Surely one or two Fae has already noticed the mortal passed out by the border, and if he keeps moving, it will be harder for them to catch up.

Of course, they would just need to follow the path. He ought to leave it and find his own way through the Court.

No. That was a stupid idea. Why would he leave the path? Paths were neutral ground. He wouldn’t be trespassing for as long as he stayed on-route. That’s why the old tales always warned about wandering off, second only to giving your name away. Fae loved to exploit the unwary, luring them with sweet words into the brambles and shadows, before claiming debts for the slightest infraction with blood.

He touches the still aching spots where he’d removed the flowers from, and sighs.

He could find the town border of Spring, he thinks. All Seasons have a border to the human world. But he finds he is unwilling. Dust, he thinks. He can’t just leave him there.

He made a deal.

He blinks.

He made a deal for Dust. He wagered his Name, and Dust’s.

Memories. The flowers were stealing from him his memories.

Blue wants to travel back in time and punch his past self. But he is already very lightheaded, and he does not want to waste his strength. It’s not as if he’s going to try to forgo the deal, anyway. There’s no world where he willingly leaves him behind.

He feels the snowflake at his wrist, and swallows. One token down, three more to go.

He has to find some way to get the Spring Ruler on his side. He’s said to have a soft spot for artists. Blue’s no artist. But if he pleads his case— the Spring Ruler was said to be the most merciful, after all. If he can just convince him of his intentions, perhaps it is really possible to earn the second token.

Blue jerks back— Ouch! His back slams into the ground. But the breath that leaves him is relieved, because he had almost stepped off the path. He looks closer, and realises the yellow blooms are not petals, but living flowers, growing right next to the path.

The difference is almost imperceptible. He almost stepped off the path.

He blinks and pushes himself back onto his feet. He turns, but he sees no one. He sees nothing. He tears off the shoots clinging to his clothes, and takes a minute to steady himself.

He does not hear that chuckle. Say nothing, Blue. If you don’t acknowledge it, they’ll get bored and leave you be.

He was never good at lying. Least of all to himself.

“I know you’re there.”

His voice wavers. His words hang in the air, and he wonders if he’s talking to no one.

He smells something. Sweet, but thick. Roses.

“Are you not going to come out?” He swallows. “It’s getting kind of rude.”

The moment the word rude comes out of his mouth, there is rustling. Roses blooming thick and strong.

“My. So impatient?”

The rustling stops. He turns. There is no one there.

And a soft laugh. Right in his ear.

There the Fae is, looking over his shoulder. He knows better than to show his fear. And yet, he must falter for a fraction of a second, because the Fae is smiling.

Ah. He hopes it isn’t to his detriment.

“Hello, dear. May I have your name?”

He sighs. “Nice try. No.”

“Shame. I do enjoy a good name.”

A Spring Fae. It’s obvious, the curve of his frame draped in rose-colored silk clinging to bone rather than flesh. A skeleton, like Blue. Bone gleaming like ivory. A single rose tucked behind his ear.

The Fae’s eyes linger on Blue’s skull. Pink pupils in the hollow sockets. His mouth stretches into a laugh, voice as lilting as birdsong.

The sight of him is breathtaking. And it feels so wrong.

“It would’ve been a beautiful crown.”

He’s already known this. It doesn’t stop his stomach from twisting.

The ache in his skull is nothing if he doesn’t make it back. “Let me pass, please.”

“Pass?” The Fae makes a soft titter. “I never stopped you, did I? You’re the one lingering. Perhaps you like the way my roses smell.”

“No.” And it might just be his bad luck that the scent lifts just enough to make that moment a lie, the smell not quite as overpowering as before, the smile deepening to reveal teeth. “Not really. It’s sweet. But too sweet for me.”

“Ah. Pity.” His lie has been forgiven, or so he hopes. He has enough on his plate. “But are you sure you know which way to go?”

“The path.” The path was neutral ground. Step off, and he would be lost.

“But surely you’re looking for something? Wandering aimlessly by the path won’t do you much, dear. Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll find you a shortcut?”

Ah, so definitely altruistic. He knows what he wants. To get Dust home. To do that, he has to get the charms. To get the Spring charm, he needs to meet the Spring Ruler.

He has no idea how to do that.

“Are you certain, little skeleton?” The Fae presses, taking a step closer. As smoothly as silk unfurling. “Paths can twist and tangle.”

He carefully looks over the path.

“How do I get to the Spring Ruler?”

"Ah.” The Fae hums. “How curious. A little brash.”

“How do I get to him?” He has to worry about that later.

The Fae smiles. “Come with me. I’ll take you to him.”

He sighs. Take my corpse to him, you mean. Or some other loophole left in the laughably vague offer.

“Come now. I don’t think you made that deal with the Winter King just to fail at the first Court, did you?”

He freezes. Slowly, he looks back at the Fae.

He traces their amused gaze to the snowflake at his wrist. He curses, or he almost does, before swallowing the curse and tentatively asking, “How long has it been since?”

“A few hours.” The Fae is still smiling.

“News travels that fast?”

“I happen to know someone in the Winter Court. I was very curious about the mortal they chased to the border. I almost returned you, but their King ordered them to leave you be once you crossed. That’s all. Though I suspect there will be many more Fae in the know very soon.”

“Because you’ll tell them?” He asks wearily.

“No secrets in a Court, dear. Now, where to find the Spring Ruler? I’ll grant this favour for you, and you’ll owe me one in exchange.”

“No deal.” A favour to a Fae? Might as well give them his Name.

“I wouldn’t leave it in the open, that would be unfair.” The Fae’s smile only deepens. The playful edge makes him want to bash his skull in. “Oh, come now.” They tilt their head. “If you want my help, you will need to give for it.”

He steps forward, shoes scuffing against the dirt. Behind him, the Fae’s laughter echoes softly.

“You won’t be able to find him on your own. And Fae can’t lie.”

Yes. That’s true. Fae can’t lie.

He turns. “What kind of favour would I owe? I’m not giving up my name.”

The Fae makes a disappointed sigh. “I can’t ask for your name.”

“I think that’s enough, Lust.”

The Fae stills. Their pink pupils dilate. The Fae— Lust takes a half step back. ( Lust fits the Fae to a tee, he thinks.)

“Clever lure. Pity I was just close enough to render it obsolete.”

The voice rings clear and resonant.

Lust’s smile falters. A noise like a crinkle.

“Turn around, mortal. Are you going to make a deal with me with your back turned?”

For a moment, there is silence. Lust’s gaze darts to Blue, then back to behind him.

“Another time, then.” He steps away. Blue blinks, and they are gone.

Blue has to turn. He doesn’t want to, but he has to. He feels the weight of the Spring Ruler's gaze, pulling at him like he’s a single leaf on a branch in a storm. He takes a breath, slow and deliberate, and then he turns fully.

He meets eyes with the Spring Ruler.

He blinks. Yellow blots into orange. A square into an oval.

“You want something from me, yes?”

The Spring Ruler is also skeletal. He thinks of Nightmare, the only other Fae Ruler he’s met. He would’ve been underwhelmed if not for the changing eyelights.

Orange into purple. But a spiral, this time. “Gonna need an answer, Blue.”

“How do you know my name?” He has to ask, if only to stall. He notices the flower they have clutched between their phalanges. They are plucking petals from a flower— and Blue is relieved that he is no longer able to name it.

“Why the concern? Would you like to give me it?” The ever-changing eyelights twinkle.

He resolutely shakes his head. And then thinks, why the hell not? “I need a token from Spring for a deal I made with Nightmare.”

The Spring Ruler’s bony fingers twitch slightly. Their gaze locks onto Blue.

“Oh? Tell me about this deal.”

“Long story. And I’m on a time limit.”

“We can walk.” Their smile is not soft, but it feels more real. It does not help the prick of annoyance. “Then we’ll have time.”

He does not have time. A walk wouldn’t take that long. But he doesn’t know where they want to lead him, and he does not want to find out.

He needs to change the topic. He hedges his bets. “You know me, but I don’t know you. Isn’t that unfair?”

Their laughter is harsher. Not soft like Lust’s. Whatever softness there is is edged by something rough. It’s some rough thing being ripped away. peels of sound echoing somewhere in his head. Unhesitant. Rippling. But he drinks it in, the warm sound.

“You would make a good Fae. Most folk call me Ink.”

Blue doesn’t move. “Okay, Ink. What will it take to get a charm from you?”

Ink gazes upon him. And he reaches.

He flinches. He catches Ink’s palm, pressed against his temple. The dulling pain under his fingertips. He wants to draw back, but the now green eyelights are staring at him, pinpricks hardly visible in the hollow sockets and the pain is gone.

He blinks. The ache in his head is gone. He reaches up, and pulls away.

There is no blood sticking to his fingers. He touches his head. Nothing. Not even the wounds left behind when he’d cut out the seeds.

“Walk with me,” Ink repeats. He just healed him.

“Appreciate it.” He doesn’t try to hide the sullenness in his tone. With a sinking feeling in his stomach as he counts down the days to the Winter Solstice, he steps into place right beside him.

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