By Falling In And In - 4/5
SUMMARY: Things go AU after DeadAlive, and Scully must answer the following question: "So what do you want to do? Do you want to live separately? Do you want a place together? A creampuff wedding gown and a Barbie Dream House in Reston?"
RATING: R
SPOILERS: Through DeadAlive
DISCLAIMER: Breaking seal constitutes acceptance of agreement. Proceed at your own risk. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. For recreational purposes only. Driver does not carry cash. And, as always, thank you for choosing Aloysia Airlines for your direct flight from 1013 to fanfic.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Writing this story was a really interesting experience, because it deals with Mulder and Scully raising William together and I am not so much a fan of either AU or familyfic. But I did want to try my hand at writing one, and surprised myself by having a lot of fun with it. It was also a good chance to revisit the Charlie I wrote for Love's Austere And Lonely Offices. As mentioned in the summary, this pretty much goes AU from DeadAlive. I imagined Mulder having been in a coma for a week or so, then spending a few days at the hospital, then coming home.
CSM quotes Johnny Tremain without troubling himself to mention it.
Many, many thanks to Amanda for telling me I could do it, to Dasha for encouraging the first draft, and to Scarlet for kicking my ass on a fairly regular basis.
****
August 16, 2008
Dana Scully's heart and lungs are annihilated when the Nosler 175 Grain Spitzer Partition bullet rips through her chest. The bisected lead expands like the mushroom cloud at Hiroshima, fragmenting and shredding tissue on a lightning-fast path through her torso. It exits from what was - only a millisecond ago - her left shoulder. The impact throws her backwards and she is dead before she hits the ground.
William, who likes to sit in the front seat to play with the controls while Scully unloads the groceries, whirls around at the one-two sounds of the gunshot and his mother's body hitting the pavement. "Mom?" he calls, scrambling out of the car.
There is a rattling sound as Scully's blood acidity rises and her larynx spasms. The sphincter muscles of the iris relax, causing her pupils to dilate, though William is not yet close enough to her to see this.
"MOMMY!"
Blood spreads like a shadow beneath her. Blood as thick and red as strawberry syrup runs out the corner of her mouth, along her cheek, and down to the ground. Her lips are rapidly approaching the color of her eyes. There is no sound at all other than the barking of the German Shepherd two doors away.
William crouches down to touch the torn flesh and bone above her left bicep. He closes his eyes, searching for the cords that hold his mother's life to her body, but they have already frayed. He can sense them hovering nearby and reaches out with a thousand incorporeal fingers to snatch at them. He pulls hard, yanking them, anchoring them to the ruined pulp of Scully's thoracic cavity. He is trembling, sweat-soaked and nearly feverish when a neighbor pops her head out. She screams for someone to call an ambulance now, now, now Jesus Christ I think someone shot Dana Scully, lord have mercy…
Doors fly open and people rush out. Mrs. Alban from next door runs over to gather William, who wrenches from her grasp and returns to his mother's side, smoothing his fingers over the exit wound. There is a six-inch gap between what used to be her shoulder and the rest of her arm.
"I think…I think she's gone, honey," says Mrs. Alban in a choked voice, trying to pull him from the body again as she checks Scully's right wrist for the pulse she knows isn't there.
"She's not, she's not. You have to let me…" William reaches for the invisible cords again, pulling harder, then falls backwards from the exertion.
"William," breathes Mrs. Alban. "William, where's your daddy?"
Suddenly, there is a sound like a stick being pulled from thick mud. They turn to stare at Scully, who has begun to draw shallow breaths. Her eyes stare past the quiet circle of neighbors and her mouth works soundlessly.
"I need some tape," cries William. "Duct tape. Please, somebody." He runs to the car and dumps out a sack of apples, returning to Scully with the empty bag as someone nearby dashes into a house. Working quickly, he rips her shirt open, then spreads the thin plastic over the sucking chest wound, which is marked with a vivid froth of blood. Mrs. Alban's son returns from their home and tosses over a roll of silver tape. William secures the bag on three sides as his mother struggles for air. Her hands flutter against the pavement.
William brushes blood-sticky hair from her face. No one says anything at all until the ambulance pulls up. Then they are full of stories. The EMTs rush over and they move Scully in one piece - including her arm, whose severing must have been a trick of the light - to a stretcher.
****
Mulder staggers into the Albans' kitchen close to eleven o'clock. William has been bathed and dressed in some of the boys' outgrown pajamas. He is curled up on the couch, sucking his thumb, which he has not done for over a year.
"Is she okay?" whispers Mrs. Alban.
Mulder nods, too drained to speak.
William walks to his father and holds his arms out. Mulder lifts him up, carrying him wordlessly outside. Mrs. Alban is not offended by his silence.
Mulder and William sit on their front porch, watching the stars. "Your mom's okay," Mulder tells him. "You saved her life. Did you know that?"
William shrugs.
"How'd you know what to do?
"Saw it on a show."
"Mmm. That's what the EMT said you said. But is that what really happened, or is that what you think was the right thing to say?"
William shrugs again. "She's okay, right?"
"Yes, she is. You didn't do anything bad or wrong. I would just like to understand."
William squints up at the moon. Then he turns to watch moths cluster around the porch light. "She told me about the plastic," he says. "How to do it with the tape. She told me in my head. Like I told her where I was at the Bad Time." He tucks his knees up, wrapping his arms around them.
"Okay," says Mulder. He reaches out to draw his son close. "Can you tell me how it is when you hear people like that? When you talk to them?"
"It's, um, I guess it's like a radio. But I can't always pick what I hear but some stations I can hear real good without trying."
"And you can hear Mom well?" Mulder remembers when, for a time, he had a taste of what his son experiences. The chaotic babble humming like static, cut by the homing signal of Scully's voice.
"I guess so. But not all of her. Only the front parts. I can hear you too sometimes but quieter. I know about the girl with the long braids who died. But Mom's always the loudest and no one else hears me back." He huddles smaller. "I don't want to talk about it any more."
Mulder strokes the glossy chestnut hair. "That's fine. We can talk about other stuff. Anything else you're cool with telling me?"
The little boy is quiet for a time. "There are strings," he begins at last. "They go around everybody and they break when you get old or sick and stuff. And if you get better all the way, the ends go back together. But if you don't they don't. Until they all break."
"How do you know about the strings?" Mulder asks, gently.
"I can…kind of feel them, I guess. I can see them a little too, but mostly it's feeling. And hers were all, they were all broken at the end but they were still floating near her and I just grabbed them and I pulled real hard."
"Pulled?"
"Yeah. Like, they're usually are all floaty and stuff when something is sick or …dies but this time it was like somebody was holding the other end and I just pulled them back to her so they couldn't hold them anymore. I pulled and pulled until she breathed."
Mulder does not tell William that Lucian Patrick Strauth, brother to both Kyle and Andrew, was found dead in the woods behind the Albans' house. Lucian died of massive blood loss and extensive cardiopulmonary trauma, but the coroner had yet to establish a cause for the injuries.
****
February 17, 2009
The older man exhales a plume of smoke. "I told you years ago. You want to neutralize a person, you give him everything he ever wanted. Men with nothing to lose are dangerous." He stubs out the last of the Morley into a burled walnut ashtray.
His companion shrugs. "It doesn't matter now anyway. What does he know?"
"He knows what he wants to know."
"And the boy?"
The scent of a match being struck, and another cigarette being lit. "The boy is utterly unremarkable. Not at all what we had hoped."
"It's disappointing."
"These things happen."
****
March 4, 2009
Mulder is sleeping on his back, one hand across the thick comforter that covers him to the waist. He is bare-chested and rumple-haired, his lips slightly parted against a field of stubble. Scully props herself up on her side to listen to the steady sound of his breathing. The wide cuff of her blue silk sleeve droops down to her elbow, lit by the pale dawn filtering in between the blinds.
He draws a deep breath, his ribs rising, the little hollow pockets above his collarbones deepening for a second before he exhales.
Scully inches closer, inhaling the mingled notes of his soap and his cologne and the soft morning scent of warm skin against clean cotton sheets. She reaches out her right hand to trace the shape of his face. His eyes slide open when she presses her finger to the philtral dimple above his lip.
"Mmmf," he says. "Time izzit?"
She consults her watch. "Six oh two."
"I hate Mondays."
"Me too." She lays her head on his shoulder, draping her right leg over his thigh. Her arm rests across his torso and she makes little patterns on his skin with her nails.
He turns his head to kiss her. "What time is his play tonight?"
"Six. My mom's getting there early to save us good seats."
"He makes a very handsome Thomas Jefferson, Scully. Our Founding Fathers would be so proud."
"He does indeed. I guess we'd better get up," she says, checking the time regretfully. "Duty calls."
"You don't really mean that," he mumbles, sliding one hand along her waist.
She slaps lightly at his wrist. "I do. You have an eight AM lecture and I have a meeting with the SAC from the Baltimore Field Office. And William's alarm goes off at six-thirty."
"You just want to sound responsible because you know it turns me on."
"So if I don't try to sound responsible, it's because I wish to be irresponsible. And if I do try to sound responsible, it's only because I'm secretly trying to seduce you, thereby behaving irresponsibly? You think you're so smart," Scully says as he tugs at her pajama bottoms.
"I'm a certified genius. Now untie these stupid things. Time's a-wasting."
"You're a certified something." She gets up on her knees and deftly works the knot out of the drawstring.
Mulder looks on approvingly as she shimmies out of her pants. "Be honest. You stripped your way through med school, didn't you? My wallet's on the dresser. Get yourself a nice dollar bill. Aw, hell. Make it a five," he amends as she tosses her underwear to the floor.
"Your munificence is boundless as ever." She crawls back over to him. Mulder kicks the blankets off and she eases his boxers down. "And I took out gigantic loans and waited tables in med school."
"Was it at Hooters? I can see you in those little orange…Christ," he gasps as she straddles his lap, taking him inside her in one fluid motion.
"I am diagnosing you with ante meridian priapic tumescence," Scully says. "It's a serious condition related to flow of blood in your brain."
He skims his hands up her thighs and rests them just below her waist. His thumbs draw circles where her hips flare appealingly outwards. "Is it life threatening?"
"We should have you back to yourself in to time. I recommend steady massage with a warm compress." Scully demonstrates, watching his face as she moves.
Mulder groans. His head falls back against the pillows as he matches her rhythm and thrusts upwards.
Scully leans forward to kiss the long muscles off his neck and trail her tongue into his ear. "I am, however, regretful to inform you that this is a chronic condition. Treatment will be ongoing. Probably for the rest of your life."
"I certainly hope so," he says.
****
November 11, 2009
Mulder and William sit at the fountain in Kogan Plaza, watching people file in and out of the concrete cube that is the Gelman Library. Several students huddle under the rotunda, smoking and chatting.
"This is so cool," William says, hugging his backpack to his stomach. "Maybe they'll think I'm one of those kids who goes to college when they're eight."
"You're rather clever," Mulder replies, checking his watch. "And yet you still cannot remember to make your bed in the morning. Why do you suppose that is?"
"I'm too busy thinking to remember that stuff," William informs him loftily. "Can I see your office?"
"Sure. I need to stop in and grab a few things before class anyway."
They collect their belongings, then walk down the brick path, their breath curling white and translucent in the chilly autumn air. William scuffs his feet through a drift of damp leaves which give off a rich, woodsy scent as he kicks a clump of them upwards. He passes below the tall clock and a few students wave at his father. William is delighted by this.
"Hey, Dr. Mulder. New TA?"
"Just Mulder," Mulder says with a note of exasperation in his voice. "No Doctor. As I have mentioned. Repeatedly. This is my son. He's off of school today and is going to be giving me a hand."
William hoists his backpack importantly.
"Cool. I didn't know you had a kid, Mulder," says a blond guy as he fiddles with an iPod. "Hey there, buddy."
"I didn't know you were married," says a girl in a red pea coat. She flicks her eyes towards Mulder's left hand, where her gaze lingers a moment too long.
"They're in a domestic partnership," William explains, and is confused by the laughter that greets this. He retreats shyly behind his father.
"Couldn't have said it better myself," Mulder says. "I will see you all in forty-five minutes, I presume?"
The students nod. Mulder and William wave as they make their way to the large gate at H Street.
"How come they laughed at me?"
"Because lots of people think kids are either supposed to be idiots or smartasses," Mulder says, taking his son's small hand while they cross the street. "And when a kid says something reasonable, they don't know what to do. So they laugh."
"That's dumb," William observes, tucking his hands back into his pockets once they reach the safety of the sidewalk.
"It is," his father agrees. "It's what happens when you watch too many sitcoms."
"Too much TV liquefies your brain," William recites tiredly. "I know."
"What a good trained monkey you are."
They round the corner onto Twenty-second Street and walk to the glassed-in composite of buildings that comprise the Academic Center. "Cool. Your office is in here?"
"Yep. I teach one class in this building and one class at the Ashburn campus in Virginia."
They enter the lobby and make their way to the elevator. William hits the Up button. When the car arrives, he gets in and pushes the button for the seventh floor. He bounces impatiently on the ride up until the doors slide open. He runs out into the hall to check the doors until he finds one with Fox Mulder on the nameplate. "Here it is!"
The door is papered with cartoons, clippings, and bumper stickers given to Mulder by his students. He unlocks the door and pushes it open. "Well, here it is. It's not much, but you're welcome to poke around," he says, flipping on the lights.
William shrugs his backpack to the floor, then takes a seat in the swiveling leather recliner. He settles back, twisting experimentally. "This is a good chair. Do you like being a teacher?"
"Very much. It's a neat job," Mulder says, opening a drawer in one of the filing cabinets next to the desk.
The chair spins in lazy circles. "Mom used to be a teacher, right? For cutting up dead people?"
"Right."
"But now she's the boss-lady. Was she ever your boss?"
"She's the assistant boss-lady. And no, she was not. She was my partner."
William taps at the keyboard briefly, then shakes a snowglobe from Chilmark, Massachusetts. He watches the white particles and glitter drift down over the tiny city. "Do you miss getting to have a gun at work?"
"There's not much call for a gun on a college campus. I guess I could use really bad papers for target practice, but it's frowned upon. Aha! Here we are." Mulder retrieves a CD from the drawer and tucks it into his briefcase.
"Did you ever cut up dead people?"
Mulder leans back against the wall. "No. That was never my specialty. But I did once help your mother go through a big container full of body parts looking for a human head."
The chair stops spinning. William stares incredulously. "Really?"
"Really. It was gross and slimy."
"That's so weird. I didn't know they did that at the FBI. Maybe I'll join." He turns on a laser pointer, which he directs at different spots around the room.
"Well, we were in a sort of specialized division," Mulder says, putting a sheaf of papers into a cardboard box. "Not everybody gets to look for heads. And you have to wear a tie every day, you know. You don't so much like ties."
He shines the pointer at Mulder, making a red spot on his forehead. "Yeah. But the badge is cool. And it's a good place to meet girls, right?" William gives his father a gap-toothed grin.
Mulder laughs. "Get your stuff and help me carry these papers down to the lecture hall. I'm giving a quiz and you can pass it out."
As they leave the office, William looks up and asks, "What's a DILF?"
"Where on earth did you hear that?"
"The girl with the red coat. What is it?"
Mulder rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Then he gets down on his knees, taking the lapels of his son's coat in his hands. "William, when you asked me where babies come from, what did I do?"
"You told me."
"When you ask me things, I generally tell you the answer. But right now I am going to say something I swore I would never say."
"Which is…?"
"Go ask your mother."
****
January 12, 2010
Scully sits on her mother's bed, sorting stacks of clothes to donate to a shelter. Her brothers are in the living room negotiating with the man from the antiques store. Mulder and her sisters in law are playing in the snow with Matthew, Simon, Jane, and William.
As a Catholic, she learned that the body is a vessel for the soul and that the soul can live separately from the body. As a pathologist, learned that once the brain is dead, the body becomes a collection of dead tissue. It is meat and bones and sinew. Either way, the ceremonies enacted for the dead are for the benefit of the living. Scully closes her eyes against the memory of the way her scalpel used to cut through the crepey suede-soft skin of the elderly. The way their prominent superficial veins looked. How women in particular lose fat and muscle mass to the point where reflecting the skin back from the underlying tissue requires the delicate care and precision of a doctor with a living patient. Funeral directors cluck their tongues in dismay when a careless pathologist buttonholes the throat. There was no autopsy on Margaret Scully. Sudden cardiac death from acute myocardial infarction is fairly straightforward.
Her eyes open when she hears footsteps in the hall. She knows without looking that it's Bill, because the stride is measured and even, and the steps fall more heavily than Charlie's.
"Are you two all done?" she asks him.
Bill sits on the bed next to her. "Yeah, they're hauling it all down now. Charlie's making some coffee. Do you want anything, Dana? I haven't seen you eat a thing since the funeral."
"Coffee would be good. Thanks, Bill."
"There's still a ton of food in the fridge. How about a sandwich? Chicken salad?"
"I'm okay."
Bill takes a pale blue sweater into his lap as though he plans to fold it. "I guess this is hardest on you in a way. You lived the closest, you saw her all the time."
"She was almost eighty, Bill. It's hard, yes, but her health had been steadily declining. I can't pretend this was a total shock."
"It's okay to admit you're hurting, Dana. Not that you ever have, of course, but no one would think less of you."
Scully moves the shirt on her lap back to the bed, then stands up. "Please, don't. I'm just not up for this today." She leaves the bedroom, lured towards the enticing aroma of coffee.
Bill follows behind her. "What? I'm just saying that you haven't even cried. That can't be healthy."
They pass through the living room and into the kitchen where Charlie has filled three mugs. Scully stirs a little bit of milk into one before she begins drinking it. "Bill, you mourn how you see fit and I'll do the same."
"Sometimes I think you've turned off completely. You did this when Dad died too. And Missy. You just push everyone away when you're upset. Like you always have, but more so over the years."
Charlie groans. "Bill, shut up. She didn't need a lecture from you on how to have cancer or how to be in a relationship or how to raise her kid and she doesn't need one on how to be sad either."
"Isn't Mulder a psychologist or something? What does he make of your Stoic routine?"
"I wouldn't know. He's well-mannered enough not to bring it up." She goes back to the living room to sit on the couch and fortify herself with caffeine.
"Well, if it were Tara, I know I'd be concerned," Bill persists, following her over. "I cried. Charlie cried. Maybe you should - I don't know - talk to someone."
"I don't need an audience to validate my grief." Scully puts her mug on a coaster. She opens one of the albums on the table. There's a grainy photo of her mother holding an overall-clad redheaded baby. She's not sure which one of them it is, but it isn't Missy, because the child hasn't got Emily's face.
Scully has buried her mother, her father, her sister, her lover and her daughter. She wonders how many times your heart can break before the pieces won't go back together anymore. And here is her well-meaning but pompous brother acting like she doesn't know how to cope with sorrow. She'd laugh if it weren't so terrible. Scully presses her hands to her face and breathes warm, moist air through her fingers.
"Why is it so important to you that she cries?" Charlie asks, coming into the room. He sits down next to his sister, putting an arm around her narrow shoulders. "Why can't you just leave her alone?"
"Why do you think the answer to every problem is to walk away from it? You and Dana both just turn off when things are too hard."
"You're in fine form today, Billy-boy. Why don't you go ahead and finish telling Dana how to feel? Then maybe you can remind her of how she disappointed our father, is living in sin, and how you still hold her responsible for Missy after fifteen years. Talk about how Mom always wanted to marry off a daughter, just to twist the knife a little deeper. Then you can start in on what a fuckup I am for finally calling Dad on his bullshit and paying my way through college while working two jobs to help raise my son. Missy's dead, so I guess she's earned some kind of sanctity for that. Then we'll sing hosannas to the Captain, laud our sainted mother, and round it all out with hearing about your latest commendation, you sanctimonious arrogant asshole."
"You're such a martyr, Charlie. I don't know how you manage to haul that big cross all over the globe."
"God, would you both shut up?" Scully snaps, drawing her hands from her face. "You're ridiculous. The three of us are ridiculous. We just laid our mother to rest and we're arguing about this ancient load of tired bullshit again? Bill, mind your own damned business once in a while. Not everyone does what you do, and one day you'll have to accept that. We're not on your ship and you're not our commanding officer. And Charlie, let it go. Dad was a jerk to you. We know. Get over it. And if you can't get over it, then at least stop dragging it up because I am sick to death of hearing about it."
She gets up, jamming her hands into her pockets. "When you're ready to behave like civilized people, call me. Mulder and I were hoping to have everyone together for a few meals before you all go home, so just make sure you can either be pleasant or silent."
Scully walks to the door. She opens it, tugging on her coat as her brothers watch her.
"Dana, I -"
"We bury the dead alive," she says, walking out and pulling the door shut behind her.
"What the hell does that mean?" Bill asks.
"It means half our family's gone and none of us is getting any younger." Charlie replies. "So let's finish this up and play nice."
****
Charlie and Bill enter the house just after ten. Their wives are chatting in the living room, where Jane is teaching Matthew how to play Five Card Stud. William and Simon are setting the table while Scully cuts up a pineapple. Mulder is making scrambled eggs.
"Hey," Charlie says, setting several large brown paper bags on the counter. "We didn't know what people wanted, so we got everything."
"Four kinds of cream cheese," Bill adds, placing two bags next to the others. "And two dozen bagels."
"Lox," Charlie offers. "Whitefish salad. And Berger cookies."
"Brown-nosers," Scully says. "The oven's heated, so why don't you guys stick the bagels in to toast?"
Charlie does so. Ten minutes later, they are all sitting around the table and eating. Mulder brings a pitcher of Bloody Marys and a pitcher of mimosas to the table.
"My kind of guy," Larissa says, pouring herself a glass of each. "This is the only way to drink juice in my book."
"Hey, Dana, remember when Bill and Missy spiked the punch at your Sweet Sixteen and Aunt Olive got hammered?"
Matthew stares at his father. "You did?"
Bill laughs. "I had forgotten about that! Oh, man. Mom and Dad were so mad, I left a day early to go back to school, Dana. Do you remember?"
Scully grins, spreading chive cream cheese on an everything bagel. "I do. Missy and Dad had an epic blowout over that one. Remember the time she wore heels and one of your dress shirts over her bra and underwear and went as the Walk of Shame for Halloween? And Dad wouldn't let her have the car for two weeks?"
"Missy and Dad were always having epic blowouts," Bill says, spearing his fork into the lox. "I can't say I blame Dad for being upset with the costume though. And it still wasn't as good as Charlie's pregnant nun costume. Sister Spooky told Mom he was probably a Satanist."
"Sister Spooky told Mom that only prostitutes use tampons."
Jane looks baffled. "What? Why?"
"Hymen intactus," Charlie says in a loud whisper. "And I think once you're married you're supposed to be pregnant until menopause. But then again, religion was never really my thing."
"Yeah, like the time you asked Father McCue if the Resurrection meant Jesus was a zombie?"
Mulder laughs, nearly choking on a mouthful of tomato. Tara thumps him on the back and hands him a glass of water.
"Awesome," Simon says. "Nice one, Dad."
"How come they didn't kick you out of Catholic school?" Jane asks, stirring her coffee.
"Because he was brilliant," Scully tells them. "He was always right at the top of his class. Got a full ride to Berkeley."
"Pshaw. You're making me blush."
"You're the most arrogant man I know," Simon says to his father. "You should get some kind of recognition for it. Like a hat."
"It ain't braggin' if you really done it," Charlie replies in a lazy drawl.
Bill laughs. "He always was blessed with self confidence."
"You don't say," Larissa remarks dryly, picking through the fruit salad for strawberries.
"Dana was valedictorian," Charlie says. "She was voted Most Likely to Succeed."
"And Best Eyes," Scully adds nonchalantly. "Rumor was Missy would have been Best Hair but Lisa Carmichael got a spiral perm the week before voting."
"She was so pissed," Charlie recalls. "Were you voted anything, Mulder?"
Mulder shakes his head. "My school didn't do Senior Superlatives. If they had, I probably would have been Most Likely To Believe The Shah Was A CIA Decoy."
"Perhaps he was disguised as the swamp rabbit that attacked Jimmy Carter later that year," Scully suggests. "You know these covert ops types."
"I remember that," Tara says, rifling through a box of teabags. "What exactly is a swamp rabbit?"
"It is a rabbit which inhabits swamps and other wetlands," Mulder says. "And, according to President Carter, they hiss in a menacing fashion."
"Were you guys voted anything?" William asks his uncles.
"I got Best Eyes too," Bill says. "You were Best All-Around, weren't you Charlie?"
"Yep. And Most Likely To Have An FBI File. Hey, is there any truth to that, Dana? The Feds keeping an eye on me?"
Scully swallows a bite of bagel. "Not to my knowledge. But I'd be happy to get something started."
"Don't encourage him," Larissa warns. "He'll take it as a challenge."
Charlie points at her with a forkful of whitefish. "Excuse me, but I prefer to be an International Man of Mystery, unfettered by Uncle Sam. Oh, hey, we're moving to Panama City in July if anybody wants hats or cocaine or whatever the hell they make in Panama."
"The national bird of Panama is the harpy eagle," William says. "They're really cool. We're doing Central America in Social Studies."
"You'll have to come visit," Larissa tells him. "See if we can find one up close."
"They're endangered."
"Remember when Dad's boat got delayed in the Panama Canal and Mom dressed up as Santa?" Bill asks. "She had to stuff three pillows into Dad's suit to make it fit."
"She had to roll the pants way up too," Scully recalls. "She almost broke her neck in those boots."
"And Charlie cried when the beard fell off her face."
"Hey, I was three. It was very traumatic," Charlie says around a mouthful of eggs.
"Not as traumatic as my rabbit," Scully sighs. "I still feel guilty about that."
"I wasn't going to say anything," Bill tells her. "But that was kind of awful, wasn't it?"
"I still maintain that's why you went into pathology and law enforcement," Charlie remarks. "To learn to better cover up your crimes."
Scully throws a grape at his head. "Bill, remember when I graduated med school and you and Mom made a Red Velvet cake in the shape of a cadaver?"
"Ha! Yeah, she got the idea from Steel Magnolias."
"That cake wouldn't have been so gross if you hadn't filled it with vanilla custard," Larissa says. "It looked like pus."
"It was supposed to."
Matthew is gazing at his father with something like awe.
"She got her hair redone for my graduation party," Scully muses. "All frosted, with those big wings on the side. Dad told her she looked just like Murphy Brown."
"That reminds me. Bill, you know the time you and Missy found that raccoon and Mom took it to the vet and paid to have its leg set?" Charlie asks. "I found out she used her hairdressing money for that."
"Really? Who told you that?"
"Aunt Olive. When she was drunk at Dana's Sweet Sixteen."
The conversation spins like a Ferris wheel, dizzying and bright, covering high points and low. Scully and her brothers remember the woman their mother was, forget the woman she wasn't, and remind each other of the people they used to be.
****
Part 5
RATING: R
SPOILERS: Through DeadAlive
DISCLAIMER: Breaking seal constitutes acceptance of agreement. Proceed at your own risk. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. For recreational purposes only. Driver does not carry cash. And, as always, thank you for choosing Aloysia Airlines for your direct flight from 1013 to fanfic.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Writing this story was a really interesting experience, because it deals with Mulder and Scully raising William together and I am not so much a fan of either AU or familyfic. But I did want to try my hand at writing one, and surprised myself by having a lot of fun with it. It was also a good chance to revisit the Charlie I wrote for Love's Austere And Lonely Offices. As mentioned in the summary, this pretty much goes AU from DeadAlive. I imagined Mulder having been in a coma for a week or so, then spending a few days at the hospital, then coming home.
CSM quotes Johnny Tremain without troubling himself to mention it.
Many, many thanks to Amanda for telling me I could do it, to Dasha for encouraging the first draft, and to Scarlet for kicking my ass on a fairly regular basis.
****
August 16, 2008
Dana Scully's heart and lungs are annihilated when the Nosler 175 Grain Spitzer Partition bullet rips through her chest. The bisected lead expands like the mushroom cloud at Hiroshima, fragmenting and shredding tissue on a lightning-fast path through her torso. It exits from what was - only a millisecond ago - her left shoulder. The impact throws her backwards and she is dead before she hits the ground.
William, who likes to sit in the front seat to play with the controls while Scully unloads the groceries, whirls around at the one-two sounds of the gunshot and his mother's body hitting the pavement. "Mom?" he calls, scrambling out of the car.
There is a rattling sound as Scully's blood acidity rises and her larynx spasms. The sphincter muscles of the iris relax, causing her pupils to dilate, though William is not yet close enough to her to see this.
"MOMMY!"
Blood spreads like a shadow beneath her. Blood as thick and red as strawberry syrup runs out the corner of her mouth, along her cheek, and down to the ground. Her lips are rapidly approaching the color of her eyes. There is no sound at all other than the barking of the German Shepherd two doors away.
William crouches down to touch the torn flesh and bone above her left bicep. He closes his eyes, searching for the cords that hold his mother's life to her body, but they have already frayed. He can sense them hovering nearby and reaches out with a thousand incorporeal fingers to snatch at them. He pulls hard, yanking them, anchoring them to the ruined pulp of Scully's thoracic cavity. He is trembling, sweat-soaked and nearly feverish when a neighbor pops her head out. She screams for someone to call an ambulance now, now, now Jesus Christ I think someone shot Dana Scully, lord have mercy…
Doors fly open and people rush out. Mrs. Alban from next door runs over to gather William, who wrenches from her grasp and returns to his mother's side, smoothing his fingers over the exit wound. There is a six-inch gap between what used to be her shoulder and the rest of her arm.
"I think…I think she's gone, honey," says Mrs. Alban in a choked voice, trying to pull him from the body again as she checks Scully's right wrist for the pulse she knows isn't there.
"She's not, she's not. You have to let me…" William reaches for the invisible cords again, pulling harder, then falls backwards from the exertion.
"William," breathes Mrs. Alban. "William, where's your daddy?"
Suddenly, there is a sound like a stick being pulled from thick mud. They turn to stare at Scully, who has begun to draw shallow breaths. Her eyes stare past the quiet circle of neighbors and her mouth works soundlessly.
"I need some tape," cries William. "Duct tape. Please, somebody." He runs to the car and dumps out a sack of apples, returning to Scully with the empty bag as someone nearby dashes into a house. Working quickly, he rips her shirt open, then spreads the thin plastic over the sucking chest wound, which is marked with a vivid froth of blood. Mrs. Alban's son returns from their home and tosses over a roll of silver tape. William secures the bag on three sides as his mother struggles for air. Her hands flutter against the pavement.
William brushes blood-sticky hair from her face. No one says anything at all until the ambulance pulls up. Then they are full of stories. The EMTs rush over and they move Scully in one piece - including her arm, whose severing must have been a trick of the light - to a stretcher.
****
Mulder staggers into the Albans' kitchen close to eleven o'clock. William has been bathed and dressed in some of the boys' outgrown pajamas. He is curled up on the couch, sucking his thumb, which he has not done for over a year.
"Is she okay?" whispers Mrs. Alban.
Mulder nods, too drained to speak.
William walks to his father and holds his arms out. Mulder lifts him up, carrying him wordlessly outside. Mrs. Alban is not offended by his silence.
Mulder and William sit on their front porch, watching the stars. "Your mom's okay," Mulder tells him. "You saved her life. Did you know that?"
William shrugs.
"How'd you know what to do?
"Saw it on a show."
"Mmm. That's what the EMT said you said. But is that what really happened, or is that what you think was the right thing to say?"
William shrugs again. "She's okay, right?"
"Yes, she is. You didn't do anything bad or wrong. I would just like to understand."
William squints up at the moon. Then he turns to watch moths cluster around the porch light. "She told me about the plastic," he says. "How to do it with the tape. She told me in my head. Like I told her where I was at the Bad Time." He tucks his knees up, wrapping his arms around them.
"Okay," says Mulder. He reaches out to draw his son close. "Can you tell me how it is when you hear people like that? When you talk to them?"
"It's, um, I guess it's like a radio. But I can't always pick what I hear but some stations I can hear real good without trying."
"And you can hear Mom well?" Mulder remembers when, for a time, he had a taste of what his son experiences. The chaotic babble humming like static, cut by the homing signal of Scully's voice.
"I guess so. But not all of her. Only the front parts. I can hear you too sometimes but quieter. I know about the girl with the long braids who died. But Mom's always the loudest and no one else hears me back." He huddles smaller. "I don't want to talk about it any more."
Mulder strokes the glossy chestnut hair. "That's fine. We can talk about other stuff. Anything else you're cool with telling me?"
The little boy is quiet for a time. "There are strings," he begins at last. "They go around everybody and they break when you get old or sick and stuff. And if you get better all the way, the ends go back together. But if you don't they don't. Until they all break."
"How do you know about the strings?" Mulder asks, gently.
"I can…kind of feel them, I guess. I can see them a little too, but mostly it's feeling. And hers were all, they were all broken at the end but they were still floating near her and I just grabbed them and I pulled real hard."
"Pulled?"
"Yeah. Like, they're usually are all floaty and stuff when something is sick or …dies but this time it was like somebody was holding the other end and I just pulled them back to her so they couldn't hold them anymore. I pulled and pulled until she breathed."
Mulder does not tell William that Lucian Patrick Strauth, brother to both Kyle and Andrew, was found dead in the woods behind the Albans' house. Lucian died of massive blood loss and extensive cardiopulmonary trauma, but the coroner had yet to establish a cause for the injuries.
****
February 17, 2009
The older man exhales a plume of smoke. "I told you years ago. You want to neutralize a person, you give him everything he ever wanted. Men with nothing to lose are dangerous." He stubs out the last of the Morley into a burled walnut ashtray.
His companion shrugs. "It doesn't matter now anyway. What does he know?"
"He knows what he wants to know."
"And the boy?"
The scent of a match being struck, and another cigarette being lit. "The boy is utterly unremarkable. Not at all what we had hoped."
"It's disappointing."
"These things happen."
****
March 4, 2009
Mulder is sleeping on his back, one hand across the thick comforter that covers him to the waist. He is bare-chested and rumple-haired, his lips slightly parted against a field of stubble. Scully props herself up on her side to listen to the steady sound of his breathing. The wide cuff of her blue silk sleeve droops down to her elbow, lit by the pale dawn filtering in between the blinds.
He draws a deep breath, his ribs rising, the little hollow pockets above his collarbones deepening for a second before he exhales.
Scully inches closer, inhaling the mingled notes of his soap and his cologne and the soft morning scent of warm skin against clean cotton sheets. She reaches out her right hand to trace the shape of his face. His eyes slide open when she presses her finger to the philtral dimple above his lip.
"Mmmf," he says. "Time izzit?"
She consults her watch. "Six oh two."
"I hate Mondays."
"Me too." She lays her head on his shoulder, draping her right leg over his thigh. Her arm rests across his torso and she makes little patterns on his skin with her nails.
He turns his head to kiss her. "What time is his play tonight?"
"Six. My mom's getting there early to save us good seats."
"He makes a very handsome Thomas Jefferson, Scully. Our Founding Fathers would be so proud."
"He does indeed. I guess we'd better get up," she says, checking the time regretfully. "Duty calls."
"You don't really mean that," he mumbles, sliding one hand along her waist.
She slaps lightly at his wrist. "I do. You have an eight AM lecture and I have a meeting with the SAC from the Baltimore Field Office. And William's alarm goes off at six-thirty."
"You just want to sound responsible because you know it turns me on."
"So if I don't try to sound responsible, it's because I wish to be irresponsible. And if I do try to sound responsible, it's only because I'm secretly trying to seduce you, thereby behaving irresponsibly? You think you're so smart," Scully says as he tugs at her pajama bottoms.
"I'm a certified genius. Now untie these stupid things. Time's a-wasting."
"You're a certified something." She gets up on her knees and deftly works the knot out of the drawstring.
Mulder looks on approvingly as she shimmies out of her pants. "Be honest. You stripped your way through med school, didn't you? My wallet's on the dresser. Get yourself a nice dollar bill. Aw, hell. Make it a five," he amends as she tosses her underwear to the floor.
"Your munificence is boundless as ever." She crawls back over to him. Mulder kicks the blankets off and she eases his boxers down. "And I took out gigantic loans and waited tables in med school."
"Was it at Hooters? I can see you in those little orange…Christ," he gasps as she straddles his lap, taking him inside her in one fluid motion.
"I am diagnosing you with ante meridian priapic tumescence," Scully says. "It's a serious condition related to flow of blood in your brain."
He skims his hands up her thighs and rests them just below her waist. His thumbs draw circles where her hips flare appealingly outwards. "Is it life threatening?"
"We should have you back to yourself in to time. I recommend steady massage with a warm compress." Scully demonstrates, watching his face as she moves.
Mulder groans. His head falls back against the pillows as he matches her rhythm and thrusts upwards.
Scully leans forward to kiss the long muscles off his neck and trail her tongue into his ear. "I am, however, regretful to inform you that this is a chronic condition. Treatment will be ongoing. Probably for the rest of your life."
"I certainly hope so," he says.
****
November 11, 2009
Mulder and William sit at the fountain in Kogan Plaza, watching people file in and out of the concrete cube that is the Gelman Library. Several students huddle under the rotunda, smoking and chatting.
"This is so cool," William says, hugging his backpack to his stomach. "Maybe they'll think I'm one of those kids who goes to college when they're eight."
"You're rather clever," Mulder replies, checking his watch. "And yet you still cannot remember to make your bed in the morning. Why do you suppose that is?"
"I'm too busy thinking to remember that stuff," William informs him loftily. "Can I see your office?"
"Sure. I need to stop in and grab a few things before class anyway."
They collect their belongings, then walk down the brick path, their breath curling white and translucent in the chilly autumn air. William scuffs his feet through a drift of damp leaves which give off a rich, woodsy scent as he kicks a clump of them upwards. He passes below the tall clock and a few students wave at his father. William is delighted by this.
"Hey, Dr. Mulder. New TA?"
"Just Mulder," Mulder says with a note of exasperation in his voice. "No Doctor. As I have mentioned. Repeatedly. This is my son. He's off of school today and is going to be giving me a hand."
William hoists his backpack importantly.
"Cool. I didn't know you had a kid, Mulder," says a blond guy as he fiddles with an iPod. "Hey there, buddy."
"I didn't know you were married," says a girl in a red pea coat. She flicks her eyes towards Mulder's left hand, where her gaze lingers a moment too long.
"They're in a domestic partnership," William explains, and is confused by the laughter that greets this. He retreats shyly behind his father.
"Couldn't have said it better myself," Mulder says. "I will see you all in forty-five minutes, I presume?"
The students nod. Mulder and William wave as they make their way to the large gate at H Street.
"How come they laughed at me?"
"Because lots of people think kids are either supposed to be idiots or smartasses," Mulder says, taking his son's small hand while they cross the street. "And when a kid says something reasonable, they don't know what to do. So they laugh."
"That's dumb," William observes, tucking his hands back into his pockets once they reach the safety of the sidewalk.
"It is," his father agrees. "It's what happens when you watch too many sitcoms."
"Too much TV liquefies your brain," William recites tiredly. "I know."
"What a good trained monkey you are."
They round the corner onto Twenty-second Street and walk to the glassed-in composite of buildings that comprise the Academic Center. "Cool. Your office is in here?"
"Yep. I teach one class in this building and one class at the Ashburn campus in Virginia."
They enter the lobby and make their way to the elevator. William hits the Up button. When the car arrives, he gets in and pushes the button for the seventh floor. He bounces impatiently on the ride up until the doors slide open. He runs out into the hall to check the doors until he finds one with Fox Mulder on the nameplate. "Here it is!"
The door is papered with cartoons, clippings, and bumper stickers given to Mulder by his students. He unlocks the door and pushes it open. "Well, here it is. It's not much, but you're welcome to poke around," he says, flipping on the lights.
William shrugs his backpack to the floor, then takes a seat in the swiveling leather recliner. He settles back, twisting experimentally. "This is a good chair. Do you like being a teacher?"
"Very much. It's a neat job," Mulder says, opening a drawer in one of the filing cabinets next to the desk.
The chair spins in lazy circles. "Mom used to be a teacher, right? For cutting up dead people?"
"Right."
"But now she's the boss-lady. Was she ever your boss?"
"She's the assistant boss-lady. And no, she was not. She was my partner."
William taps at the keyboard briefly, then shakes a snowglobe from Chilmark, Massachusetts. He watches the white particles and glitter drift down over the tiny city. "Do you miss getting to have a gun at work?"
"There's not much call for a gun on a college campus. I guess I could use really bad papers for target practice, but it's frowned upon. Aha! Here we are." Mulder retrieves a CD from the drawer and tucks it into his briefcase.
"Did you ever cut up dead people?"
Mulder leans back against the wall. "No. That was never my specialty. But I did once help your mother go through a big container full of body parts looking for a human head."
The chair stops spinning. William stares incredulously. "Really?"
"Really. It was gross and slimy."
"That's so weird. I didn't know they did that at the FBI. Maybe I'll join." He turns on a laser pointer, which he directs at different spots around the room.
"Well, we were in a sort of specialized division," Mulder says, putting a sheaf of papers into a cardboard box. "Not everybody gets to look for heads. And you have to wear a tie every day, you know. You don't so much like ties."
He shines the pointer at Mulder, making a red spot on his forehead. "Yeah. But the badge is cool. And it's a good place to meet girls, right?" William gives his father a gap-toothed grin.
Mulder laughs. "Get your stuff and help me carry these papers down to the lecture hall. I'm giving a quiz and you can pass it out."
As they leave the office, William looks up and asks, "What's a DILF?"
"Where on earth did you hear that?"
"The girl with the red coat. What is it?"
Mulder rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Then he gets down on his knees, taking the lapels of his son's coat in his hands. "William, when you asked me where babies come from, what did I do?"
"You told me."
"When you ask me things, I generally tell you the answer. But right now I am going to say something I swore I would never say."
"Which is…?"
"Go ask your mother."
****
January 12, 2010
Scully sits on her mother's bed, sorting stacks of clothes to donate to a shelter. Her brothers are in the living room negotiating with the man from the antiques store. Mulder and her sisters in law are playing in the snow with Matthew, Simon, Jane, and William.
As a Catholic, she learned that the body is a vessel for the soul and that the soul can live separately from the body. As a pathologist, learned that once the brain is dead, the body becomes a collection of dead tissue. It is meat and bones and sinew. Either way, the ceremonies enacted for the dead are for the benefit of the living. Scully closes her eyes against the memory of the way her scalpel used to cut through the crepey suede-soft skin of the elderly. The way their prominent superficial veins looked. How women in particular lose fat and muscle mass to the point where reflecting the skin back from the underlying tissue requires the delicate care and precision of a doctor with a living patient. Funeral directors cluck their tongues in dismay when a careless pathologist buttonholes the throat. There was no autopsy on Margaret Scully. Sudden cardiac death from acute myocardial infarction is fairly straightforward.
Her eyes open when she hears footsteps in the hall. She knows without looking that it's Bill, because the stride is measured and even, and the steps fall more heavily than Charlie's.
"Are you two all done?" she asks him.
Bill sits on the bed next to her. "Yeah, they're hauling it all down now. Charlie's making some coffee. Do you want anything, Dana? I haven't seen you eat a thing since the funeral."
"Coffee would be good. Thanks, Bill."
"There's still a ton of food in the fridge. How about a sandwich? Chicken salad?"
"I'm okay."
Bill takes a pale blue sweater into his lap as though he plans to fold it. "I guess this is hardest on you in a way. You lived the closest, you saw her all the time."
"She was almost eighty, Bill. It's hard, yes, but her health had been steadily declining. I can't pretend this was a total shock."
"It's okay to admit you're hurting, Dana. Not that you ever have, of course, but no one would think less of you."
Scully moves the shirt on her lap back to the bed, then stands up. "Please, don't. I'm just not up for this today." She leaves the bedroom, lured towards the enticing aroma of coffee.
Bill follows behind her. "What? I'm just saying that you haven't even cried. That can't be healthy."
They pass through the living room and into the kitchen where Charlie has filled three mugs. Scully stirs a little bit of milk into one before she begins drinking it. "Bill, you mourn how you see fit and I'll do the same."
"Sometimes I think you've turned off completely. You did this when Dad died too. And Missy. You just push everyone away when you're upset. Like you always have, but more so over the years."
Charlie groans. "Bill, shut up. She didn't need a lecture from you on how to have cancer or how to be in a relationship or how to raise her kid and she doesn't need one on how to be sad either."
"Isn't Mulder a psychologist or something? What does he make of your Stoic routine?"
"I wouldn't know. He's well-mannered enough not to bring it up." She goes back to the living room to sit on the couch and fortify herself with caffeine.
"Well, if it were Tara, I know I'd be concerned," Bill persists, following her over. "I cried. Charlie cried. Maybe you should - I don't know - talk to someone."
"I don't need an audience to validate my grief." Scully puts her mug on a coaster. She opens one of the albums on the table. There's a grainy photo of her mother holding an overall-clad redheaded baby. She's not sure which one of them it is, but it isn't Missy, because the child hasn't got Emily's face.
Scully has buried her mother, her father, her sister, her lover and her daughter. She wonders how many times your heart can break before the pieces won't go back together anymore. And here is her well-meaning but pompous brother acting like she doesn't know how to cope with sorrow. She'd laugh if it weren't so terrible. Scully presses her hands to her face and breathes warm, moist air through her fingers.
"Why is it so important to you that she cries?" Charlie asks, coming into the room. He sits down next to his sister, putting an arm around her narrow shoulders. "Why can't you just leave her alone?"
"Why do you think the answer to every problem is to walk away from it? You and Dana both just turn off when things are too hard."
"You're in fine form today, Billy-boy. Why don't you go ahead and finish telling Dana how to feel? Then maybe you can remind her of how she disappointed our father, is living in sin, and how you still hold her responsible for Missy after fifteen years. Talk about how Mom always wanted to marry off a daughter, just to twist the knife a little deeper. Then you can start in on what a fuckup I am for finally calling Dad on his bullshit and paying my way through college while working two jobs to help raise my son. Missy's dead, so I guess she's earned some kind of sanctity for that. Then we'll sing hosannas to the Captain, laud our sainted mother, and round it all out with hearing about your latest commendation, you sanctimonious arrogant asshole."
"You're such a martyr, Charlie. I don't know how you manage to haul that big cross all over the globe."
"God, would you both shut up?" Scully snaps, drawing her hands from her face. "You're ridiculous. The three of us are ridiculous. We just laid our mother to rest and we're arguing about this ancient load of tired bullshit again? Bill, mind your own damned business once in a while. Not everyone does what you do, and one day you'll have to accept that. We're not on your ship and you're not our commanding officer. And Charlie, let it go. Dad was a jerk to you. We know. Get over it. And if you can't get over it, then at least stop dragging it up because I am sick to death of hearing about it."
She gets up, jamming her hands into her pockets. "When you're ready to behave like civilized people, call me. Mulder and I were hoping to have everyone together for a few meals before you all go home, so just make sure you can either be pleasant or silent."
Scully walks to the door. She opens it, tugging on her coat as her brothers watch her.
"Dana, I -"
"We bury the dead alive," she says, walking out and pulling the door shut behind her.
"What the hell does that mean?" Bill asks.
"It means half our family's gone and none of us is getting any younger." Charlie replies. "So let's finish this up and play nice."
****
Charlie and Bill enter the house just after ten. Their wives are chatting in the living room, where Jane is teaching Matthew how to play Five Card Stud. William and Simon are setting the table while Scully cuts up a pineapple. Mulder is making scrambled eggs.
"Hey," Charlie says, setting several large brown paper bags on the counter. "We didn't know what people wanted, so we got everything."
"Four kinds of cream cheese," Bill adds, placing two bags next to the others. "And two dozen bagels."
"Lox," Charlie offers. "Whitefish salad. And Berger cookies."
"Brown-nosers," Scully says. "The oven's heated, so why don't you guys stick the bagels in to toast?"
Charlie does so. Ten minutes later, they are all sitting around the table and eating. Mulder brings a pitcher of Bloody Marys and a pitcher of mimosas to the table.
"My kind of guy," Larissa says, pouring herself a glass of each. "This is the only way to drink juice in my book."
"Hey, Dana, remember when Bill and Missy spiked the punch at your Sweet Sixteen and Aunt Olive got hammered?"
Matthew stares at his father. "You did?"
Bill laughs. "I had forgotten about that! Oh, man. Mom and Dad were so mad, I left a day early to go back to school, Dana. Do you remember?"
Scully grins, spreading chive cream cheese on an everything bagel. "I do. Missy and Dad had an epic blowout over that one. Remember the time she wore heels and one of your dress shirts over her bra and underwear and went as the Walk of Shame for Halloween? And Dad wouldn't let her have the car for two weeks?"
"Missy and Dad were always having epic blowouts," Bill says, spearing his fork into the lox. "I can't say I blame Dad for being upset with the costume though. And it still wasn't as good as Charlie's pregnant nun costume. Sister Spooky told Mom he was probably a Satanist."
"Sister Spooky told Mom that only prostitutes use tampons."
Jane looks baffled. "What? Why?"
"Hymen intactus," Charlie says in a loud whisper. "And I think once you're married you're supposed to be pregnant until menopause. But then again, religion was never really my thing."
"Yeah, like the time you asked Father McCue if the Resurrection meant Jesus was a zombie?"
Mulder laughs, nearly choking on a mouthful of tomato. Tara thumps him on the back and hands him a glass of water.
"Awesome," Simon says. "Nice one, Dad."
"How come they didn't kick you out of Catholic school?" Jane asks, stirring her coffee.
"Because he was brilliant," Scully tells them. "He was always right at the top of his class. Got a full ride to Berkeley."
"Pshaw. You're making me blush."
"You're the most arrogant man I know," Simon says to his father. "You should get some kind of recognition for it. Like a hat."
"It ain't braggin' if you really done it," Charlie replies in a lazy drawl.
Bill laughs. "He always was blessed with self confidence."
"You don't say," Larissa remarks dryly, picking through the fruit salad for strawberries.
"Dana was valedictorian," Charlie says. "She was voted Most Likely to Succeed."
"And Best Eyes," Scully adds nonchalantly. "Rumor was Missy would have been Best Hair but Lisa Carmichael got a spiral perm the week before voting."
"She was so pissed," Charlie recalls. "Were you voted anything, Mulder?"
Mulder shakes his head. "My school didn't do Senior Superlatives. If they had, I probably would have been Most Likely To Believe The Shah Was A CIA Decoy."
"Perhaps he was disguised as the swamp rabbit that attacked Jimmy Carter later that year," Scully suggests. "You know these covert ops types."
"I remember that," Tara says, rifling through a box of teabags. "What exactly is a swamp rabbit?"
"It is a rabbit which inhabits swamps and other wetlands," Mulder says. "And, according to President Carter, they hiss in a menacing fashion."
"Were you guys voted anything?" William asks his uncles.
"I got Best Eyes too," Bill says. "You were Best All-Around, weren't you Charlie?"
"Yep. And Most Likely To Have An FBI File. Hey, is there any truth to that, Dana? The Feds keeping an eye on me?"
Scully swallows a bite of bagel. "Not to my knowledge. But I'd be happy to get something started."
"Don't encourage him," Larissa warns. "He'll take it as a challenge."
Charlie points at her with a forkful of whitefish. "Excuse me, but I prefer to be an International Man of Mystery, unfettered by Uncle Sam. Oh, hey, we're moving to Panama City in July if anybody wants hats or cocaine or whatever the hell they make in Panama."
"The national bird of Panama is the harpy eagle," William says. "They're really cool. We're doing Central America in Social Studies."
"You'll have to come visit," Larissa tells him. "See if we can find one up close."
"They're endangered."
"Remember when Dad's boat got delayed in the Panama Canal and Mom dressed up as Santa?" Bill asks. "She had to stuff three pillows into Dad's suit to make it fit."
"She had to roll the pants way up too," Scully recalls. "She almost broke her neck in those boots."
"And Charlie cried when the beard fell off her face."
"Hey, I was three. It was very traumatic," Charlie says around a mouthful of eggs.
"Not as traumatic as my rabbit," Scully sighs. "I still feel guilty about that."
"I wasn't going to say anything," Bill tells her. "But that was kind of awful, wasn't it?"
"I still maintain that's why you went into pathology and law enforcement," Charlie remarks. "To learn to better cover up your crimes."
Scully throws a grape at his head. "Bill, remember when I graduated med school and you and Mom made a Red Velvet cake in the shape of a cadaver?"
"Ha! Yeah, she got the idea from Steel Magnolias."
"That cake wouldn't have been so gross if you hadn't filled it with vanilla custard," Larissa says. "It looked like pus."
"It was supposed to."
Matthew is gazing at his father with something like awe.
"She got her hair redone for my graduation party," Scully muses. "All frosted, with those big wings on the side. Dad told her she looked just like Murphy Brown."
"That reminds me. Bill, you know the time you and Missy found that raccoon and Mom took it to the vet and paid to have its leg set?" Charlie asks. "I found out she used her hairdressing money for that."
"Really? Who told you that?"
"Aunt Olive. When she was drunk at Dana's Sweet Sixteen."
The conversation spins like a Ferris wheel, dizzying and bright, covering high points and low. Scully and her brothers remember the woman their mother was, forget the woman she wasn't, and remind each other of the people they used to be.
****
Part 5