From: taffyxf@yahoo.com
Title: Forgive Us Our Trespasses
Author: Taffy Northwood
E-Mail: taffyxf@yahoo.com
Rating: NC17 (eventually)
Category: AU, MSR
Archives: Just ask.
Feedback: Never in bad taste
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner and any
other XF characters are on loan only.
Summary: In 1909 New York City, there were two
distinct and separate worlds: that of the very wealthy
and that of the very poor. Could love bridge the
great divide between those worlds for two star-crossed
lovers?
Author Notes: Like a huge part of the fandom, I've
become absolutely dotty over AU fic. This is my
modest attempt to put Mulder and Scully into another
time and place. Please be aware, this is a
work-in-progress.
Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Mathew Fox's story part 1
New York City - 1909
The slum is the measure of civilization - Jacob Riis
Even in the most abject poverty, children play, their
voices raised in excitement. They have no toys save
the things other people cast off, fragments of brick,
bits of wood, scraps of rag.
Fox raised his camera, carefully framing the children
in the shot. The ruddy-faced boy with the stick in his
hands would be the central figure, but Fox wanted the
to get the ragged girls on the stoop in the shot as well.
A dark-haired boy held the "ball" aloft, tightly-wrapped
rags around a stone. He wound up the pitch and Fox
depressed the button on his pocket Kodak.
"What yer doin', Mister?"
The boy stood on the sidelines of the game, his legs
badly bowed by rickets. Fox had captured this child
in the picture too. In fact, though the batter was
the central figure, this boy was the focus.
"I'm taking your photograph," Fox replied.
"Ain't that somethin'!"
Fox smiled. His subjects were not always so easy to
impress. On the piers and up in the Sixth Ward he
usually resorted to his clumsy but discreet Scovill
camera.
"I'll bring you a picture next time I'm here," he
promised.
"Golly, thanks, Mister," the boy said.
"What's your name?" *Boy on Clinton Street, New York
City, 1909* would do, but Fox preferred to know names.
"Benny Pinsker. What's your name?"
It sounded more like, "Whatcher name," but Fox's ear
had gradually become tuned to the argot.
"Mathew Fox."
When he first stumbled onto this exotic pocket of New
York, Fox had been overwhelmed by the noise and
stench. Since then he'd gained a fascination for the
languages, the foods, the people themselves. He
strolled the teeming streets, camera at the ready. He
watched, he listened, and most of the time he was
ignored.
In a narrow alley a girl was pulling laundry from a
clothesline and bundling it into a basket. He wondered
if she was a laundress but quickly abandoned that
thought. Laundresses were never as fresh and lithe as
this girl. Hot water and lye aged them early, scrubbing
gave the women enormous forearms and blistered red skin.
This girl's hands were delicate, her arms slender.
Daylight was fading, but Fox unfolded his camera and
checked the view.
There's an element of chance in photography. You
don't always capture what you want, and sometimes you
catch what you didn't see at all. The girl wore a
plain white shirtwaist and a trim blue skirt. He
watched as she struggled to fold the sheets into halves,
then quarters, then eighths before she piled them into
her basket. He clicked the shutter, and then wound
the film forward for another shot.
Perhaps one of these would come out. He'd learned a
few tricks in the darkroom and he hoped for the best.
Sadly, her best feature would be lost in the photograph.
The shining auburn hair piled atop her head would be
boring gray.
But now the girl turned to face him, and he lowered
his camera at her approach.
"I beg your pardon. I only wanted to take your
photograph," he said.
"You might have asked me first," she said. "Do you
always go about taking people's photographs without
their permission?" She held the basket against her
hip, leaning a bit to counter the weight.
"Yes," he answered, too surprised to lie. The people
he'd encountered in this neighborhood were rarely so
well spoken. Her voice was melodic; he picked up the
slightest lilt hinting at an Irish birth.
"How rude," she pronounced. Good heavens, she was
beautiful. Her skin was creamy white, the cheeks
pinkened by exertion. It was her eyes that left him
almost speechless, so blue and clear a man could
almost swim in them.
"Please forgive me, and let me explain. I'm not
trying to make portraits for a gallery. I want real
photos of people doing the things they do."
"And so you skulk about like a thief," she said.
She wasn't angry. She sounded like a tutor correcting
a backward pupil.
"Please accept my apology," he said.
She nodded and started up the steps of the stoop.
He watched her balance the basket against the door
until she could open it, then watched her disappear
inside.
He should have offered her a print, he thought. He
should have offered to carry the basket.
Twilight was approaching and now the streets were
filled with men and women, boys and girls, returning
from the factories. Barely time to stop in at
Penazek's grocery store before he headed home.
Fresh ground coffee scented the air in the grocery
and Fox took a moment to inhale and enjoy. Penazek
nodded at him from behind the long, cluttered counter
as he turned the handle of the large brass coffee
grinder. A little girl stood on a milk box, dusting
cans of pickled beets and evaporated milk.
"Mr. Fox the photograph man!"
"Hello, Anna! You're more beautiful than ever!"
Little Anna was always happy to see him or to pose for
him. Her father grunted a greeting.
"I know what you want," she said.
"Then you must be a very smart little girl," he said.
"But you always buy the same thing!" she crowed.
Penazek was already measuring a scoop of roasted
sunflower seeds into a paper bag. Fox placed a penny
on the counter.
"Show me the picture again," Anna begged.
Penazek gave her a little frown and shook his head.
"It's all right," Fox said. The photo was worn and
bent, although he always treated it with care.
He'd taken the photograph himself five years ago.
Unlike his current subjects, the young girl in this
picture was dressed in ruffles, her dark, curly
hair tied up with ribbons.
"Samantha, the beautiful lost girl. Maybe she's
locked in a dungeon, or under a spell," Anna said.
If only this was a fairytale, Fox thought.
"Maybe she is," he said as he slipped the snapshot
back in his pocket.
"Don't be sad. One day you'll find her," Anna said.
"Perhaps, one day," he said, softly. "So, young lady,
how is school?"
"Very good. I'm the only one in the whole class
who can do the seven timeses. Want to hear me? Seven
times one is seven, seven times two is fourteen--"
"Anna," Mr. Penezek interrupted as he bagged a
customer's purchase. "You bother Mr. Fox too much.
Your mama will be wanting help to make the supper."
Fox glanced at the clock behind the counter and
[continued in next message]
--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
* Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)
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