Beating the Darkness Back, Part 1
Oct. 25th, 2008 07:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anjouficTitle: Beating the Darkness Back 1/7
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
comice aka Anjou (Anjou@rocketmail.com)
Posting Date: October 2008
Rating: R for language and sexuality; M for Mature readers
Classification: Mulder/Scully, MSR, post-ep for IWTB
Archive: No archival until the story is completed, please. I'll be submitting to Ephemeral and Gossamer myself.
Spoilers: Through I Want To Believe
Disclaimer: All X-Files personnel belong to 1013 and Fox. All other elements are mine.
Author's Note: Beating the Darkness Back will be posted in seven parts. Parts 1 & 2, and 3 & 4 will be posted together, as they are just long sections that needed to be cut in half for ease of posting. This story is finished, although still undergoing final editing for Parts 5-7. I expect it will be all posted in a week's time. Posts can be read on my fic journal:anjoufic, as well as Ephemeral and other XF fic sites. The whole tale will be archived at my website, No Other … , maintained by the generous dtg, when it is completed.
Thanks to Konrad Frye and especially the fabulouslilydale for not only willingly answering questions about the novelization of "I Want To Believe" that clarified the timeline for this writer, but for being brave enough to have read it in the first place.
As always, my biggest thanks go to my sister and editrix, Suzanne, for her support, and above all, her patience.
And now, before Jean Robinson's head explodes (and who wants that to happen?), on with the story …
Summary: Where do we go from here, now that we are free?
~*~
Beating the Darkness Back
January 21, 2008
Fox Mulder was a free man. The thought echoed a bit in his head as he pondered it, like it was being said by an old-time baseball announcer. For an instant, he had the urge to shout it aloud to the heavens above their house, but it was late, and Scully was sleeping.
"Free, man." He mouthed the words instead to the uncaring fish a few feet from their bed, then contemplated the walls that had been both his solace and his well-appointed jail cell for the past few years. He had said each word separately, and the cadence of the pause between them reminded him with an ache of Langly, of Frohike, the ghosts of those long lost. He turned away from that unhappy thought to regard Scully as she slept beside him, warm and real, only to find her brow drawn down in worry.
He rolled onto his side and faced her, reaching out to stroke the back of her hand with a finger, moving close enough so that she could feel his breath against her lips. A small sigh escaped her; he watched as her brow unfurled before her hand turned and wrapped around his, drawing him closer. He smiled ruefully at her unconscious gesture, recognizing that the events of the past two weeks had unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. Still, he could not help but feel pleased by her desire to keep him near, to know that he was beside her, even while she was alone in sleep. He placed his other hand at the hollow of her waist, and watched her dream.
The years of isolation had not been easy for Scully, not by a long shot. Although she'd had far more interaction with the outside world than he’d had, the nature of her long requalification, first in pediatrics and then in neurosurgery, had been rather solitary. Her first year in the area she'd spent largely alone, reestablishing herself in society after she’d returned to Washington and resigned from the FBI. She'd had to steadfastly maintain that she had no idea where he was, and after a year had passed without her doing anything more interesting than continuing her education, the surveillance on her had mostly ceased.
Still, the nearly two years that they'd been apart, except for their brief reunion while they were on the run, had taken their toll on both of them. Scully had become, not exactly embittered, but deeply, viscerally angry at everything that they'd lost. Essentially, all they had left was each other – her resignation from the FBI had further fractured the already brittle relationship with her brothers when she would not repudiate her traitorous partner. She still spoke with her mother, but that relationship had become more distant than it had previously been. Like William, Mulder had become a subject that Scully did not speak of with anyone other than him. By the time Mulder had quietly moved into their house, Margaret Scully had moved to the West Coast to be closer to her sons and grandchildren. Invitations to visit had been issued to Scully with some regularity, at least at first, but it seemed all parties had become resigned to the fact that they would not be accepted. She would not leave Mulder, and she could not tell them that, nor did she care to defend her choices to her brothers, or the world at-large.
He knew that she'd lost her ability to play nice with others over the course of that year after she'd left the FBI. Back then, the NSA or some other unnamed MIBs were likely to show up to interrogate her in the middle of the night, or to subject her to yet another pointless search of the small apartment that she’d had at the time. It had cost Mulder a great deal of money to get the government off Scully's back -- civil rights attorneys at the level necessary to make an impression on the Bush era Justice Department weren’t cheap -- but he would have spent twenty times that amount to get her free from the harassment. Money he had, most of it ill-gotten from his erstwhile father's activities, and he was not above savoring the irony of the Consortium paying for its own sins to be remedied. It was fitting.
Still, he ached to think about the humiliation she'd endured, and knew that her stoic nature meant that there were some things that she'd never told him in all their gory detail. His ready imagination, the one that could understand the minds of killers and other deviant thinkers, was perfectly capable of filling in the gaps, however, and it accounted her newfound inability to suffer fools gladly as a toll of that experience.
Dana Scully had never been the kind of person who wanted to lie about anything, but their secrets required a certain reticence, particularly because of their son. All of this had combined to make her more than particularly wary, and had probably made her more of an outcast at work than she would have otherwise been. After completing the required coursework at VCU Medical School, her only match for a residency had been at Our Lady of Sorrows. It was clear that she had been blackballed professionally; the Justice Department had never found anything to link her to Mulder breaking out of jail, but that didn't mean they were letting go of the search.
Scully had accepted the match and bought their little house in the country with its vast open acreage, miles of electrified fence and handy surveillance cameras. The first time the MIBs showed up there, they were filmed breaking and entering, and the Justice Department was threatened with exposure. Mulder's lawyers had warned that if the harassment continued that they had a sympathetic reporter who could make it seem like the Justice Department was needlessly harassing a former Federal Agent whose only crime was changing her career. It took two more visits for them to back off entirely. The last time they'd showed up, the county Sheriff, who was not a friend of the Federal government, was waiting on their property with a shotgun, a few deputies and a camera crew. A month later, on a moon-dark and stormy night just before the weather turned brutally cold, Mulder had moved from the tiny cabin built into the side of the gentle hill at the back of the property into their house. And there, he'd pretty much remained while Scully completed her residency and began her fellowship.
The MIBs hadn't been back to their house, although they had continued to poison the well for Scully at her job by showing up every once in a while. In a post-9/11 world, such open government surveillance gave rise to dark rumors of what her possible crimes could be. A lesser woman would have buckled under the pressure a long time ago, but Dana Scully was made of sterner stuff than her most recent set of tormentors. Besides, she'd survived far worse, and he knew it.
Still, the experience had made her far more apt to speak her opinions forcefully than she’d done in years past, an impulse he understood. When you've already been judged by people as suspicious, or perhaps a traitor, there's not much lower to go in their opinions. So, why hold back? Even so, he had been a bit surprised to note how fast she was to jump on Father Joe -- almost from the instant of their introduction to him -- as much as he had relished seeing that fire from her. The thing was, he wanted to see that sparkle in her eye from something other than anger or raw determination. He longed to see it there because of happiness, or delight, in fact.
And now that he was a free man, for the first time there was a possibility that he could give her back some of the things that she deserved -- even the simple things, like taking her out to dinner in a nice restaurant. It was impossible for him to believe, after all the meals that they'd eaten together in almost fifteen years, but there was only one occasion that he could remember that truly fit that criteria. It had been in that sweet pocket of time before all Hell broke loose, after she'd come to his bed that first night, and before he went into the woods with Walter Skinner. She'd been called to give evidence on a case that she'd consulted on in New York City, and he'd been unable to resist the lure of ditching work and joining her. They'd gone to a fancy bistro on the Upper West Side, a restaurant with ridiculous prices and a wine list that boggled the mind with its complexity.
Mulder could close his eyes and conjure the memory of them lingering over that meal, him feeding her bites of the dessert that she'd claimed not to want or need, but that she'd savored anyway. They’d been seated at a center table in the restaurant, just like any other couple out on a date. She’d looked gorgeous in the candlelight, her hair still sleek and tamed into a bob, the color brighter than it was now. All the stresses and strains of worrying about her testimony or whether or not they might be observed had been wiped away by the good food and the wine. The hand not feeding her bites of something sinful and chocolate was wrapped lightly around her clever fingers as she twirled her wineglass, head cocked at him with just a hint of a smile on her lips, but more important and true, in her eyes.
Of course, she knew what he was about, and had shaken her head at him for placing her on display. But he'd been proud to show her off, wanted to see the appreciative looks on the faces of the other men who'd only see her beautiful exterior, without knowing how complex and real she was underneath the smooth, seeming impassivity of her serene visage. They had no idea, would never, because she was his, as impossible as it was for him to believe sometimes. After all, he'd belonged to her long before she was willing to even entertain such an idea about him. But in the end, it didn't really matter who'd gotten there first, who'd loved longest, as long as she was beside him, dreaming in their bed.
Mulder lay curled on his side now, watching her, knowing that he had to be careful not to wake her with his regard. Her exhaustion was bone deep; she needed her sleep. He wanted to wipe the expression of worry off her brow for more than one evening. When he'd said to her that they'd go away someplace, just the two of them, he'd seen the heat in her glance as she looked up at him, assessingly. He'd put his finger right on the thing she'd wanted when he proposed that idea.
Smoothing a finger over her brow lightly, he contemplated the possibilities: Paris, Tuscany, maybe a spa in some mountain aerie. He shook his head. No. They'd had enough snow to last them for quite a while, and a city full of great art would inspire the need to get out and sightsee in Scully, and that kind of a hectic vacation was not what she needed. Although, if he took her to Paris, she could buy her body weight in shoes, and that would definitely make her happy. Still … he pictured her languishing on a chaise under a huge beach umbrella and smiled at the picture of her he'd drawn. She looked beautiful, and it wasn't just because he'd clad her in a bikini in his imagination. She looked like she'd shed years of worry. He nodded, picking up a strand of her hair and feeling the silk of it running through his fingers. The beach. That was what they needed.
Pleased with his plan, Mulder fell asleep dreaming of holding Scully over his heart as they lazily rocked in a hammock, warm, soft breezes of fragrant air swirling around them and ruffling the trees of their tropical paradise for two.
~*~
When Mulder came to consciousness again, the long wave of Scully's hair was gleaming in the weak winter light of the new day. She was seated next to him on their bed, fully dressed, her hand on his cheek while she smiled at him apologetically for waking him.
"So early, Scully?" he rasped out.
She nodded ruefully, "I want to see if I can spend a little time in the lab today, aside from everything else."
He nodded, yawning, scrubbing at his eyes, while she traced his lips with her fingertips. "You want breakfast before you go?"
She bent over and kissed him, her fingertips lingering against his cheeks. His beard had grown out again to the point where it was no longer bristly, although it was still coarse, he had to admit. Scully kissed him softly again, shaking her head. "I'm not hungry yet," she admitted, then hastened to add, "but I will get something at the hospital."
In the past, he might have been satisfied with that answer, but he knew from recent personal experience that the food at Our Lady of Sorrows was bad enough to make the dead cry.
She smiled at his scowl. "Yogurt they can provide, Mulder," she said. "What are your plans for today?" Her fingers lightly grazed over his wounds, almost completely healed.
"Depends on the weather," he answered her. "But I'm thinking I've got to get after that ice in the gutter before it makes a dam and we're screwed."
She shook her head, "Mulder, I'm not sure you should be up on the ladder yet …" she began. "You had …"
"A concussion, Scully," he said, "and not even a bad one at that, according to the doctors at your fine medical establishment." He rapped his skull. "Hard as a rock -- you know that." He kept talking when she seemed about to interrupt. "It's been more than a week, Scully," he said firmly. "I'm fine. I'll call you every couple of hours and leave you a voicemail, how's that?"
She sighed, her expression revealing that she knew she was being managed, and that she didn't like it, not one bit.
"I'll be fine," he said to her softly. "Promise."
She pressed her forehead against his and took in a breath that was a little shaky from his perspective, but she nodded. "Deal," she said softly, but then added. "On one condition."
He waited for it.
"You shave today."
He laughed, then realized that she was serious. "Scully, my face is still pretty bruised and cut up," he said incredulously. "It'll hurt," he affected a pout.
"That's the deal, Mulder," she said crisply, standing up and smoothing her long jacket. "Besides, you always said that you'd only go caveman once a winter, remember? This year's option has been used. Shave."
"You threatening me, Scully?" he teased. "Gonna stop shaving again?"
She huffed and clomped over to the bureau in her impossibly high heels to put in her earrings. "You promised, Mulder," she reminded him. Their eyes met in the mirror as he sat up to watch her give her hair one last brushing before she left.
"You're still upset that it didn't bug me, aren't you?" he asked her.
She ignored him, and crossed the room on her way to the door, trying to get by him without incident. He waited for his moment and pounced, sweeping her into his arms and then rolling her over so that she was trapped underneath him.
"You could be as furry as a Yeti, and you'd still be the sexiest thing on two stilettos," he murmured, pressing his face into her neck as he covered her skin with tiny kisses.
She yelped and wriggled underneath him, trying to dislodge him. He made sure to stay out of the way of her vicious little feet.
"Mulder!" She pinched above his nipple when he wouldn't let go of her.
"Ow!" He bit her shoulder through her jacket, and she struggled below him, trying not to giggle. "Kiss," he said.
"No," she said, turning her head.
"Kiss …" he sang to her in a firm but silly tone. He waggled his fingers at her from where they were poised above her ribs, and almost lost her when she took advantage of his one-armed hold. He trapped her under his body and raised his hand again.
"No," she choked out, giggling already at the idea of being tickled.
"Kiss," he said to her sadly, making it seem like he would really regret tickling her. He hovered above her until she leant up and gave him a tiny peck. "OK, now, a real kiss, spoilsport."
"I already kissed you a bunch of times today," she mumbled, "and you are totally messing up my hair."
Mulder raised his eyebrow mockingly. "Yes, it will look terrible when you pull it up in that weird half-ponytail," he said in a tragic tone. "You won't look at all like the most beautiful woman to ever walk the halls of Our Lady of Sorrows."
"Well …" Scully said agreeably. She put her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her, kissing him thoroughly. "That's not really that difficult, actually," she pointed out, then used a combination of her pelvic muscles and his distraction to heave him off of her as she stood and straightened her clothes.
When he reached for her again, she skittered out of reach to the doorway.
"Shave," she said to him pointedly. "And call me. I'll be home as soon as I can." She smiled and disappeared down the stairs as he flopped back down onto their disarranged bed, listening to the clip clopping of her high heels until they crossed the porch below their room.
He sighed, and closed his eyes as the sound of her car receded and silence descended on their house. He should probably get up anyway. He got up and fed the fish, then regarded himself in the mirror, running his hand over his nascent beard and then his chest. He raised an arm and made his bicep stand up while he critically regarded himself. His torso still looked pretty good, not gym hard anymore, but pretty good, especially considering the limited opportunities he had to exercise. Still … he leaned in to look at his chin closely. There were more strands of white than he wanted to admit to, gleaming in the morning light. He was getting old. He sighed at the thought.
Maybe shaving wasn't such a bad idea, after all.
~*~
It was nearing midday when Mulder heard the honking from the locked front gate. He shaded his eyes, looking over the roofline down their long drive, surprised to see Walter Skinner at the open SUV window. Being Skinner, he didn’t wave at Mulder, just kind of grimaced in his general direction. To say that Mulder was surprised to see Skinner was a bit of an understatement -- but he felt only minor apprehension at the sight. He was a free man now, wasn’t he?
He backed down the ladder carefully, dropping the rake he’d been using to ineffectually chip away at the ice and snow on the roof onto the ground. He should have gotten up on the ladder earlier in the week. The ice had already begun to dam. He opened his phone and checked for calls as he ambled down the long drive, his other hand fishing in his pocket for the keys. Luckily, they were there and not in the pocket of the coat he’d left on the porch. The morning sun was stronger than he’d first anticipated, and combined with the effort of trying to break the ridge of icy snow on the roof without destroying the shingles, he’d worked up a bit of a sweat. He noted that he had three missed calls -- one from Scully, one from his lawyer’s office, and one from an unidentified number that began with the DC area code. He assumed the latter was Skinner.
“You don’t answer your phone anymore?” Skinner asked acerbically when he got in shouting distance.
Mulder gestured backwards toward the house. “I was focusing on not falling off the ladder, most of the time,” he said. He walked over to the lock. “Are you coming in?”
“With your permission,” Skinner said.
Mulder squinted, hearing a bit of a sarcastic edge in Skinner’s tone. “Permission granted,” he said lightly, pulling the heavy gate back and away from Skinner’s SUV and then closing and locking it behind him.
“Expecting company?” Skinner asked as Mulder walked up to meet him.
“We haven’t had many welcome guests,” Mulder said. “Actually, I’m not sure we’ve ever had any.” He paused, watching Skinner as he took in their house, and all the land around it. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Skinner’s jaw tightened. “I have some paperwork for you, Mulder.”
“Oh,” Mulder said, taking in Skinner’s expression. “I’m not sure that I should accept any paperwork from you without talking to David.”
Skinner’s jaw tightened even more exponentially. “Your lawyer is a real pain in the ass, Mulder.”
Mulder smiled, pleased. “That’s why I pay him the big bucks,” he said. He motioned Skinner toward the porch. “Why don’t you come inside while I check my messages?”
He smiled as he listened to Scully, hurriedly checking in before she went into Grand Rounds. He checked his watch -- she wouldn’t be out for another hour.
David’s familiar, brash voice spilled into his ear before he could turn the volume down, “Mulder, David Truesdale,” the message began. “Your former boss insists on personally delivering all of the items I’ve requested for re-establishing your freedom. I’ve told him that if I hear even a murmur from you that this visit was unwelcome, or in any way resembled a hunting expedition on behalf of the FBI, the NSA, or any other acronym-wielding bunch of assholes, that I will personally make it my life’s goal to impoverish him to such a degree that his dead grandparents will wish they'd never gotten off the boat in the first place. I’ve faxed you the checklist of what you should be receiving from him. Call me.” The message cut off, as all David’s did, without warning.
Mulder smiled and saved the message so that Scully could hear it later as he walked to the office door, pausing before he opened it. “I’ll be just a minute,” he said. “Take a seat.” He slid into the office, closing the door behind him, then found the fax while he listened to Skinner’s message.
“It’s Skinner,” his former boss said. “I’m on my way to bring you all of the paperwork that was promised to you. I’ll be there in an hour or less.” The message ended without a goodbye, and Mulder pictured Skinner flinging the phone onto the passenger seat.
When he returned to the living room, Skinner was still standing, although he appeared to be looking around curiously at their belongings. “Nice place,” he said gruffly.
Mulder tilted his head, and regarded Skinner. “We like it,” he said. “We have a lot of privacy.” He paused. “So, just felt like taking a drive down to greater Richmond?”
“I didn’t feel that this,” Skinner gestured to the manila envelope in his hand, “was something that should be trusted to the mail, or a courier.” He held the item out to Mulder.
“Trust no one,” Mulder said softly, taking the envelope. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the objects inside slide around. He looked up at Skinner. “Thank you.”
Skinner looked irritated. “Don’t thank me, Mulder. I should have gotten you off those bogus charges.” He pulled off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, continuing on, “I shouldn’t have lost you in the woods in the first place.”
Mulder shook his head. “Sir,” he said sharply, “there isn’t a thing that you could have done to prevent either of those things from happening.”
Skinner sighed, but didn’t answer, other than shaking his head in a crisp negative gesture.
“Seriously,” Mulder continued. “They were determined to get rid of me,” he said. “and as to losing me … “ Now it was Mulder that sighed. “I spent a lot of years trying to re-write history. I’d hate to see you do that to yourself.” He gestured toward the kitchen with the envelope. “Come in and have a cup of coffee.”
Skinner looked at him suspiciously. “You make coffee, Mulder?”
“It’s an X-File,” he said, “but not as much of an X-File as when I taught myself to bake.”
Skinner’s eyebrows were still at his former hairline when Mulder turned around from setting up the coffee maker. Skinner seemed to be focused on the huge MixMaster on the counter of their small kitchen.
Mulder laughed at his expression. “It’s not like there are any Starbuck’s or bakeries out here,” he said. “If I wanted something, I had to figure out how to get it.”
“Are you any good?” Skinner asked skeptically.
“Scully’s really the better baker,” Mulder conceded. “It turns out there are all sorts of rules for baking, and well … you know how I like to improvise.”
Skinner rolled his eyes and sat down at the table. Now, his attention seemed fixed on the front of their refrigerator, which featured a grocery list written in Scully’s neat handwriting. Next to it, in a magnetic frame, was a picture of William at nearly a year, his sweet baby face wreathed in a smile.
Mulder purposefully looked down at the manila envelope on the counter. He didn’t want to discuss William with anyone other than Scully. Some losses were too deep and too personal to be shared, even with someone as intimately involved in the whole business as Skinner. He turned around and spilled the contents of the envelope onto the table, drawing Skinner’s attention away from William and back to the present. The envelope yielded a sheaf of papers, some letter-sized envelopes, and surprisingly, a passport and a Virginia driver’s license. He reached out and grabbed them both at the same time. “I thought you were just clearing the way for these to happen,” he said.
Skinner shook his head. “I figured it was better that I get them done myself, rather than risk them trying to jerk you around. As it is, I’m pretty sure that you should keep a copy of your exoneration with you when you venture out into the world. I’m sure your face is still on the wall at more than a few post offices.”
Mulder raised his head from contemplating the picture that Skinner had used of him, his last from the bureau. It seemed a lifetime ago. “I thought that David said …”
“Oh, David says a lot of things!” Skinner snapped. “But you worked for the Federal government for a long time, Mulder. Just because an order to take down your photo has been issued to the USPS doesn't mean every post office is going to follow it. Use your head.”
Mulder hid a smile as he turned to pour their coffee, handing Skinner his black coffee and the bowl of sugar. He crossed to the refrigerator and added milk to his own before he sat down, his back to the picture of William. “So … you and David talk on the phone a lot.”
“Where exactly did you find that bulldog, Mulder?” Skinner asked him. “He doesn’t seem like an Oxford boy, and, as far as I can tell, he doesn’t come from Massachusetts, but he defends you like his long-lost brother.”
Mulder nodded. “Yeah, he’s a good guy. You met him once before, a long time ago.” He picked up an envelope from the pile and turned it over. “Craddock Marine Industrial,” he said aloud. “Oh, my bank account is finally unfrozen? And just how much are they going to take in fees and taxes, I wonder …” he read the statement. “Son of a bitch!” He glared at Skinner.
“It's not like you really need that money, Mulder," Skinner said shortly.
Mulder tried to tamp down his very sincere irritation at the evidence of the institutional pilfering in front of him. "I earned that money," he said softly. "Every fucking penny of it."
Skinner sighed, and turned the sugar spoon over in his fingers. "I know, Mulder," he conceded grudgingly. "There was nothing I could do for you there. I freely admit that I’m powerless against the IRS.” He paused. “They probably scare Truesdale. And where, exactly, did I meet Truesdale?”
Mulder looked up at him. “In Pennsylvania,” he said. “At the Ruskin Dam.”
Skinner looked at him with dawning understanding. “Who?”
“His fiancee.”
Skinner nodded, his expression grim.
“After I was taken, and came back,” Mulder paused to sip his coffee. “David called me again. He wanted to know if there was any possibility that Caroline was still alive, as I’d been.”
“Jesus, Mulder,” Skinner said feelingly. “That was years later.”
Mulder shook his head. “For some of us, there is only one,” he said quietly. “David had become involved in MUFON to some degree, but couldn’t accept that what had happened to me was different. He got the order of exhumation, and … well, there was no happy ending. But we became … not exactly friends, but …”
“Comrades in arms,” Skinner said with understanding. “I’m amazed that his firm allowed him to take you on.”
“It’s not pro bono,” Mulder said shortly. “Besides, Caroline worked at David's firm, too. She was the niece of one of the senior partners. Like David, he has never accepted that he was told the truth about what happened."
Skinner nodded, and turned his coffee cup by the handle. "What are you going to do now, Mulder? Now that you're a free man?"
Mulder tipped his chair backwards, balancing on just two legs. "I don't know," he said.
Skinner hesitated, and Mulder could see the interior struggle as it played out across Skinner's only subtly changing visage. "You had only two more years until you qualified for a full pens –"
"No."
"Maybe you shouldn't dismiss it out of hand –" Skinner tried again.
"No," Mulder said. "She'll never go back to the FBI, and I won't go back without her. Besides …" he gathered his thoughts, thinking of Scully's face when he woke up in the hospital this last time, the way that she'd been reaching for him in her sleep all week, how she'd confessed that she couldn't sleep well without him anymore, even when her exile from their bed had been self-imposed. "I promised. And, even more than that, I think that there has to be something else, some reason why this all happened now."
"Like what?" Skinner asked. It was clear he was mystified.
"I don't know," Mulder said. He wasn't troubled in the least by the lack of clarity. "I've watched Scully struggle to requalify as a pediatrician, to re-establish herself in a career, and it's made me think. I think she had her own reasons for doing what she did –" and he wasn't about to explain his thoughts on Scully's need for expiation to Skinner, "and it's been really hard, really challenging at an elemental level. You know, a lot of what we did for all those years was dragging the monsters out of the darkness into the light, and now, what Scully does, trying to save those sick kids, it's like she's trying to shine a light into the darkness instead." He bit his lip, looking at Skinner, who looked puzzled. "I know, it's just the matter of perspective that's changed, but I wonder if that's what I need to do now, too. I lived in that darkness for a long time, with the monsters. I just … I don't want to live there anymore."
"On some level, I think I understand what you're saying, Mulder," Skinner said. "I just can't believe that you're not going to try and do something about …" Skinner waved his hand at the calendar.
"I didn't say that I wasn't," Mulder said. "Money's good for more than lawyers, you know." He smirked. "I just … there are other considerations for me now."
Skinner nodded. "If you change your mind …"
Mulder shrugged in a way that he hoped conveyed that this wasn't going to happen.
The kitchen fell to silence.
"So, what have you been doing with yourself besides baking?" Skinner asked.
Mulder laughed. "I actually became a pretty good cook," he said.
Skinner smirked.
"And I re-learned how to play the piano …" he added. Wrote some books, he thought. Sold them and made decent money, but made a lot more investing the money he’d inherited, which he'd liquidated the year he spent away from Scully and William. He’d used that, in turn, to fund some secret projects, Scully’s education – this house. "And this place has always needed a lot of help." He stood and circled the table, putting his empty cup in the sink.
"Is that how you've stayed in shape?" Skinner asked curiously, handing his cup over.
"We've got a lot of land," Mulder said. "When the weather's better, I run. In the winter …" he made a face. "Scully bought me a treadmill."
Skinner looked around their crowded first floor with a puzzled expression on his face.
"Cellar," Mulder said. "Don’t tell her, but I hate it. It makes me feel like a hamster, and frankly, too much of my life has been an exercise in futility. I've got a heavy bag, and a lighter one that Scully uses." He decided not to mention the yoga DVDs that Scully had bought and insisted that they use. He'd learned a lot from those programs, in fact. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"What were you trying to do on the roof with the rake?"
"Oh," Mulder sighed. "The gutter's full of ice and it's built a dam that’s creeping up under the shingles."
"Do you have any idea what you're doing up there?" Skinner was decidedly skeptical. “I mean, a rake?”
"I am actually from New England, you know," Mulder asserted. Off Skinner's continuing dubious expression, he said, "Listen, I can watch "This Old House" with the best of them. And you’re supposed to use a rake to pull the snow off the roof – it’s too easy to damage the shingles with a shovel."
"Ah," Skinner said.
"Unfortunately, I needed to get up there and rake that snow off the roof about two snowstorms ago -- it’s frozen solid from the gutter to the window,” Mulder said. He smiled. “And Scully's going to kill me when she sees what they recommend next."
Skinner looked intrigued, rather than worried at his pronouncement.
~*~
Part 2
Author:
comice aka Anjou (Anjou@rocketmail.com)Posting Date: October 2008
Rating: R for language and sexuality; M for Mature readers
Classification: Mulder/Scully, MSR, post-ep for IWTB
Archive: No archival until the story is completed, please. I'll be submitting to Ephemeral and Gossamer myself.
Spoilers: Through I Want To Believe
Disclaimer: All X-Files personnel belong to 1013 and Fox. All other elements are mine.
Author's Note: Beating the Darkness Back will be posted in seven parts. Parts 1 & 2, and 3 & 4 will be posted together, as they are just long sections that needed to be cut in half for ease of posting. This story is finished, although still undergoing final editing for Parts 5-7. I expect it will be all posted in a week's time. Posts can be read on my fic journal:
anjoufic, as well as Ephemeral and other XF fic sites. The whole tale will be archived at my website, No Other … , maintained by the generous dtg, when it is completed.Thanks to Konrad Frye and especially the fabulous
lilydale for not only willingly answering questions about the novelization of "I Want To Believe" that clarified the timeline for this writer, but for being brave enough to have read it in the first place. As always, my biggest thanks go to my sister and editrix, Suzanne, for her support, and above all, her patience.
And now, before Jean Robinson's head explodes (and who wants that to happen?), on with the story …
Summary: Where do we go from here, now that we are free?
~*~
Beating the Darkness Back
January 21, 2008
Fox Mulder was a free man. The thought echoed a bit in his head as he pondered it, like it was being said by an old-time baseball announcer. For an instant, he had the urge to shout it aloud to the heavens above their house, but it was late, and Scully was sleeping.
"Free, man." He mouthed the words instead to the uncaring fish a few feet from their bed, then contemplated the walls that had been both his solace and his well-appointed jail cell for the past few years. He had said each word separately, and the cadence of the pause between them reminded him with an ache of Langly, of Frohike, the ghosts of those long lost. He turned away from that unhappy thought to regard Scully as she slept beside him, warm and real, only to find her brow drawn down in worry.
He rolled onto his side and faced her, reaching out to stroke the back of her hand with a finger, moving close enough so that she could feel his breath against her lips. A small sigh escaped her; he watched as her brow unfurled before her hand turned and wrapped around his, drawing him closer. He smiled ruefully at her unconscious gesture, recognizing that the events of the past two weeks had unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. Still, he could not help but feel pleased by her desire to keep him near, to know that he was beside her, even while she was alone in sleep. He placed his other hand at the hollow of her waist, and watched her dream.
The years of isolation had not been easy for Scully, not by a long shot. Although she'd had far more interaction with the outside world than he’d had, the nature of her long requalification, first in pediatrics and then in neurosurgery, had been rather solitary. Her first year in the area she'd spent largely alone, reestablishing herself in society after she’d returned to Washington and resigned from the FBI. She'd had to steadfastly maintain that she had no idea where he was, and after a year had passed without her doing anything more interesting than continuing her education, the surveillance on her had mostly ceased.
Still, the nearly two years that they'd been apart, except for their brief reunion while they were on the run, had taken their toll on both of them. Scully had become, not exactly embittered, but deeply, viscerally angry at everything that they'd lost. Essentially, all they had left was each other – her resignation from the FBI had further fractured the already brittle relationship with her brothers when she would not repudiate her traitorous partner. She still spoke with her mother, but that relationship had become more distant than it had previously been. Like William, Mulder had become a subject that Scully did not speak of with anyone other than him. By the time Mulder had quietly moved into their house, Margaret Scully had moved to the West Coast to be closer to her sons and grandchildren. Invitations to visit had been issued to Scully with some regularity, at least at first, but it seemed all parties had become resigned to the fact that they would not be accepted. She would not leave Mulder, and she could not tell them that, nor did she care to defend her choices to her brothers, or the world at-large.
He knew that she'd lost her ability to play nice with others over the course of that year after she'd left the FBI. Back then, the NSA or some other unnamed MIBs were likely to show up to interrogate her in the middle of the night, or to subject her to yet another pointless search of the small apartment that she’d had at the time. It had cost Mulder a great deal of money to get the government off Scully's back -- civil rights attorneys at the level necessary to make an impression on the Bush era Justice Department weren’t cheap -- but he would have spent twenty times that amount to get her free from the harassment. Money he had, most of it ill-gotten from his erstwhile father's activities, and he was not above savoring the irony of the Consortium paying for its own sins to be remedied. It was fitting.
Still, he ached to think about the humiliation she'd endured, and knew that her stoic nature meant that there were some things that she'd never told him in all their gory detail. His ready imagination, the one that could understand the minds of killers and other deviant thinkers, was perfectly capable of filling in the gaps, however, and it accounted her newfound inability to suffer fools gladly as a toll of that experience.
Dana Scully had never been the kind of person who wanted to lie about anything, but their secrets required a certain reticence, particularly because of their son. All of this had combined to make her more than particularly wary, and had probably made her more of an outcast at work than she would have otherwise been. After completing the required coursework at VCU Medical School, her only match for a residency had been at Our Lady of Sorrows. It was clear that she had been blackballed professionally; the Justice Department had never found anything to link her to Mulder breaking out of jail, but that didn't mean they were letting go of the search.
Scully had accepted the match and bought their little house in the country with its vast open acreage, miles of electrified fence and handy surveillance cameras. The first time the MIBs showed up there, they were filmed breaking and entering, and the Justice Department was threatened with exposure. Mulder's lawyers had warned that if the harassment continued that they had a sympathetic reporter who could make it seem like the Justice Department was needlessly harassing a former Federal Agent whose only crime was changing her career. It took two more visits for them to back off entirely. The last time they'd showed up, the county Sheriff, who was not a friend of the Federal government, was waiting on their property with a shotgun, a few deputies and a camera crew. A month later, on a moon-dark and stormy night just before the weather turned brutally cold, Mulder had moved from the tiny cabin built into the side of the gentle hill at the back of the property into their house. And there, he'd pretty much remained while Scully completed her residency and began her fellowship.
The MIBs hadn't been back to their house, although they had continued to poison the well for Scully at her job by showing up every once in a while. In a post-9/11 world, such open government surveillance gave rise to dark rumors of what her possible crimes could be. A lesser woman would have buckled under the pressure a long time ago, but Dana Scully was made of sterner stuff than her most recent set of tormentors. Besides, she'd survived far worse, and he knew it.
Still, the experience had made her far more apt to speak her opinions forcefully than she’d done in years past, an impulse he understood. When you've already been judged by people as suspicious, or perhaps a traitor, there's not much lower to go in their opinions. So, why hold back? Even so, he had been a bit surprised to note how fast she was to jump on Father Joe -- almost from the instant of their introduction to him -- as much as he had relished seeing that fire from her. The thing was, he wanted to see that sparkle in her eye from something other than anger or raw determination. He longed to see it there because of happiness, or delight, in fact.
And now that he was a free man, for the first time there was a possibility that he could give her back some of the things that she deserved -- even the simple things, like taking her out to dinner in a nice restaurant. It was impossible for him to believe, after all the meals that they'd eaten together in almost fifteen years, but there was only one occasion that he could remember that truly fit that criteria. It had been in that sweet pocket of time before all Hell broke loose, after she'd come to his bed that first night, and before he went into the woods with Walter Skinner. She'd been called to give evidence on a case that she'd consulted on in New York City, and he'd been unable to resist the lure of ditching work and joining her. They'd gone to a fancy bistro on the Upper West Side, a restaurant with ridiculous prices and a wine list that boggled the mind with its complexity.
Mulder could close his eyes and conjure the memory of them lingering over that meal, him feeding her bites of the dessert that she'd claimed not to want or need, but that she'd savored anyway. They’d been seated at a center table in the restaurant, just like any other couple out on a date. She’d looked gorgeous in the candlelight, her hair still sleek and tamed into a bob, the color brighter than it was now. All the stresses and strains of worrying about her testimony or whether or not they might be observed had been wiped away by the good food and the wine. The hand not feeding her bites of something sinful and chocolate was wrapped lightly around her clever fingers as she twirled her wineglass, head cocked at him with just a hint of a smile on her lips, but more important and true, in her eyes.
Of course, she knew what he was about, and had shaken her head at him for placing her on display. But he'd been proud to show her off, wanted to see the appreciative looks on the faces of the other men who'd only see her beautiful exterior, without knowing how complex and real she was underneath the smooth, seeming impassivity of her serene visage. They had no idea, would never, because she was his, as impossible as it was for him to believe sometimes. After all, he'd belonged to her long before she was willing to even entertain such an idea about him. But in the end, it didn't really matter who'd gotten there first, who'd loved longest, as long as she was beside him, dreaming in their bed.
Mulder lay curled on his side now, watching her, knowing that he had to be careful not to wake her with his regard. Her exhaustion was bone deep; she needed her sleep. He wanted to wipe the expression of worry off her brow for more than one evening. When he'd said to her that they'd go away someplace, just the two of them, he'd seen the heat in her glance as she looked up at him, assessingly. He'd put his finger right on the thing she'd wanted when he proposed that idea.
Smoothing a finger over her brow lightly, he contemplated the possibilities: Paris, Tuscany, maybe a spa in some mountain aerie. He shook his head. No. They'd had enough snow to last them for quite a while, and a city full of great art would inspire the need to get out and sightsee in Scully, and that kind of a hectic vacation was not what she needed. Although, if he took her to Paris, she could buy her body weight in shoes, and that would definitely make her happy. Still … he pictured her languishing on a chaise under a huge beach umbrella and smiled at the picture of her he'd drawn. She looked beautiful, and it wasn't just because he'd clad her in a bikini in his imagination. She looked like she'd shed years of worry. He nodded, picking up a strand of her hair and feeling the silk of it running through his fingers. The beach. That was what they needed.
Pleased with his plan, Mulder fell asleep dreaming of holding Scully over his heart as they lazily rocked in a hammock, warm, soft breezes of fragrant air swirling around them and ruffling the trees of their tropical paradise for two.
~*~
When Mulder came to consciousness again, the long wave of Scully's hair was gleaming in the weak winter light of the new day. She was seated next to him on their bed, fully dressed, her hand on his cheek while she smiled at him apologetically for waking him.
"So early, Scully?" he rasped out.
She nodded ruefully, "I want to see if I can spend a little time in the lab today, aside from everything else."
He nodded, yawning, scrubbing at his eyes, while she traced his lips with her fingertips. "You want breakfast before you go?"
She bent over and kissed him, her fingertips lingering against his cheeks. His beard had grown out again to the point where it was no longer bristly, although it was still coarse, he had to admit. Scully kissed him softly again, shaking her head. "I'm not hungry yet," she admitted, then hastened to add, "but I will get something at the hospital."
In the past, he might have been satisfied with that answer, but he knew from recent personal experience that the food at Our Lady of Sorrows was bad enough to make the dead cry.
She smiled at his scowl. "Yogurt they can provide, Mulder," she said. "What are your plans for today?" Her fingers lightly grazed over his wounds, almost completely healed.
"Depends on the weather," he answered her. "But I'm thinking I've got to get after that ice in the gutter before it makes a dam and we're screwed."
She shook her head, "Mulder, I'm not sure you should be up on the ladder yet …" she began. "You had …"
"A concussion, Scully," he said, "and not even a bad one at that, according to the doctors at your fine medical establishment." He rapped his skull. "Hard as a rock -- you know that." He kept talking when she seemed about to interrupt. "It's been more than a week, Scully," he said firmly. "I'm fine. I'll call you every couple of hours and leave you a voicemail, how's that?"
She sighed, her expression revealing that she knew she was being managed, and that she didn't like it, not one bit.
"I'll be fine," he said to her softly. "Promise."
She pressed her forehead against his and took in a breath that was a little shaky from his perspective, but she nodded. "Deal," she said softly, but then added. "On one condition."
He waited for it.
"You shave today."
He laughed, then realized that she was serious. "Scully, my face is still pretty bruised and cut up," he said incredulously. "It'll hurt," he affected a pout.
"That's the deal, Mulder," she said crisply, standing up and smoothing her long jacket. "Besides, you always said that you'd only go caveman once a winter, remember? This year's option has been used. Shave."
"You threatening me, Scully?" he teased. "Gonna stop shaving again?"
She huffed and clomped over to the bureau in her impossibly high heels to put in her earrings. "You promised, Mulder," she reminded him. Their eyes met in the mirror as he sat up to watch her give her hair one last brushing before she left.
"You're still upset that it didn't bug me, aren't you?" he asked her.
She ignored him, and crossed the room on her way to the door, trying to get by him without incident. He waited for his moment and pounced, sweeping her into his arms and then rolling her over so that she was trapped underneath him.
"You could be as furry as a Yeti, and you'd still be the sexiest thing on two stilettos," he murmured, pressing his face into her neck as he covered her skin with tiny kisses.
She yelped and wriggled underneath him, trying to dislodge him. He made sure to stay out of the way of her vicious little feet.
"Mulder!" She pinched above his nipple when he wouldn't let go of her.
"Ow!" He bit her shoulder through her jacket, and she struggled below him, trying not to giggle. "Kiss," he said.
"No," she said, turning her head.
"Kiss …" he sang to her in a firm but silly tone. He waggled his fingers at her from where they were poised above her ribs, and almost lost her when she took advantage of his one-armed hold. He trapped her under his body and raised his hand again.
"No," she choked out, giggling already at the idea of being tickled.
"Kiss," he said to her sadly, making it seem like he would really regret tickling her. He hovered above her until she leant up and gave him a tiny peck. "OK, now, a real kiss, spoilsport."
"I already kissed you a bunch of times today," she mumbled, "and you are totally messing up my hair."
Mulder raised his eyebrow mockingly. "Yes, it will look terrible when you pull it up in that weird half-ponytail," he said in a tragic tone. "You won't look at all like the most beautiful woman to ever walk the halls of Our Lady of Sorrows."
"Well …" Scully said agreeably. She put her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her, kissing him thoroughly. "That's not really that difficult, actually," she pointed out, then used a combination of her pelvic muscles and his distraction to heave him off of her as she stood and straightened her clothes.
When he reached for her again, she skittered out of reach to the doorway.
"Shave," she said to him pointedly. "And call me. I'll be home as soon as I can." She smiled and disappeared down the stairs as he flopped back down onto their disarranged bed, listening to the clip clopping of her high heels until they crossed the porch below their room.
He sighed, and closed his eyes as the sound of her car receded and silence descended on their house. He should probably get up anyway. He got up and fed the fish, then regarded himself in the mirror, running his hand over his nascent beard and then his chest. He raised an arm and made his bicep stand up while he critically regarded himself. His torso still looked pretty good, not gym hard anymore, but pretty good, especially considering the limited opportunities he had to exercise. Still … he leaned in to look at his chin closely. There were more strands of white than he wanted to admit to, gleaming in the morning light. He was getting old. He sighed at the thought.
Maybe shaving wasn't such a bad idea, after all.
~*~
It was nearing midday when Mulder heard the honking from the locked front gate. He shaded his eyes, looking over the roofline down their long drive, surprised to see Walter Skinner at the open SUV window. Being Skinner, he didn’t wave at Mulder, just kind of grimaced in his general direction. To say that Mulder was surprised to see Skinner was a bit of an understatement -- but he felt only minor apprehension at the sight. He was a free man now, wasn’t he?
He backed down the ladder carefully, dropping the rake he’d been using to ineffectually chip away at the ice and snow on the roof onto the ground. He should have gotten up on the ladder earlier in the week. The ice had already begun to dam. He opened his phone and checked for calls as he ambled down the long drive, his other hand fishing in his pocket for the keys. Luckily, they were there and not in the pocket of the coat he’d left on the porch. The morning sun was stronger than he’d first anticipated, and combined with the effort of trying to break the ridge of icy snow on the roof without destroying the shingles, he’d worked up a bit of a sweat. He noted that he had three missed calls -- one from Scully, one from his lawyer’s office, and one from an unidentified number that began with the DC area code. He assumed the latter was Skinner.
“You don’t answer your phone anymore?” Skinner asked acerbically when he got in shouting distance.
Mulder gestured backwards toward the house. “I was focusing on not falling off the ladder, most of the time,” he said. He walked over to the lock. “Are you coming in?”
“With your permission,” Skinner said.
Mulder squinted, hearing a bit of a sarcastic edge in Skinner’s tone. “Permission granted,” he said lightly, pulling the heavy gate back and away from Skinner’s SUV and then closing and locking it behind him.
“Expecting company?” Skinner asked as Mulder walked up to meet him.
“We haven’t had many welcome guests,” Mulder said. “Actually, I’m not sure we’ve ever had any.” He paused, watching Skinner as he took in their house, and all the land around it. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Skinner’s jaw tightened. “I have some paperwork for you, Mulder.”
“Oh,” Mulder said, taking in Skinner’s expression. “I’m not sure that I should accept any paperwork from you without talking to David.”
Skinner’s jaw tightened even more exponentially. “Your lawyer is a real pain in the ass, Mulder.”
Mulder smiled, pleased. “That’s why I pay him the big bucks,” he said. He motioned Skinner toward the porch. “Why don’t you come inside while I check my messages?”
He smiled as he listened to Scully, hurriedly checking in before she went into Grand Rounds. He checked his watch -- she wouldn’t be out for another hour.
David’s familiar, brash voice spilled into his ear before he could turn the volume down, “Mulder, David Truesdale,” the message began. “Your former boss insists on personally delivering all of the items I’ve requested for re-establishing your freedom. I’ve told him that if I hear even a murmur from you that this visit was unwelcome, or in any way resembled a hunting expedition on behalf of the FBI, the NSA, or any other acronym-wielding bunch of assholes, that I will personally make it my life’s goal to impoverish him to such a degree that his dead grandparents will wish they'd never gotten off the boat in the first place. I’ve faxed you the checklist of what you should be receiving from him. Call me.” The message cut off, as all David’s did, without warning.
Mulder smiled and saved the message so that Scully could hear it later as he walked to the office door, pausing before he opened it. “I’ll be just a minute,” he said. “Take a seat.” He slid into the office, closing the door behind him, then found the fax while he listened to Skinner’s message.
“It’s Skinner,” his former boss said. “I’m on my way to bring you all of the paperwork that was promised to you. I’ll be there in an hour or less.” The message ended without a goodbye, and Mulder pictured Skinner flinging the phone onto the passenger seat.
When he returned to the living room, Skinner was still standing, although he appeared to be looking around curiously at their belongings. “Nice place,” he said gruffly.
Mulder tilted his head, and regarded Skinner. “We like it,” he said. “We have a lot of privacy.” He paused. “So, just felt like taking a drive down to greater Richmond?”
“I didn’t feel that this,” Skinner gestured to the manila envelope in his hand, “was something that should be trusted to the mail, or a courier.” He held the item out to Mulder.
“Trust no one,” Mulder said softly, taking the envelope. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the objects inside slide around. He looked up at Skinner. “Thank you.”
Skinner looked irritated. “Don’t thank me, Mulder. I should have gotten you off those bogus charges.” He pulled off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, continuing on, “I shouldn’t have lost you in the woods in the first place.”
Mulder shook his head. “Sir,” he said sharply, “there isn’t a thing that you could have done to prevent either of those things from happening.”
Skinner sighed, but didn’t answer, other than shaking his head in a crisp negative gesture.
“Seriously,” Mulder continued. “They were determined to get rid of me,” he said. “and as to losing me … “ Now it was Mulder that sighed. “I spent a lot of years trying to re-write history. I’d hate to see you do that to yourself.” He gestured toward the kitchen with the envelope. “Come in and have a cup of coffee.”
Skinner looked at him suspiciously. “You make coffee, Mulder?”
“It’s an X-File,” he said, “but not as much of an X-File as when I taught myself to bake.”
Skinner’s eyebrows were still at his former hairline when Mulder turned around from setting up the coffee maker. Skinner seemed to be focused on the huge MixMaster on the counter of their small kitchen.
Mulder laughed at his expression. “It’s not like there are any Starbuck’s or bakeries out here,” he said. “If I wanted something, I had to figure out how to get it.”
“Are you any good?” Skinner asked skeptically.
“Scully’s really the better baker,” Mulder conceded. “It turns out there are all sorts of rules for baking, and well … you know how I like to improvise.”
Skinner rolled his eyes and sat down at the table. Now, his attention seemed fixed on the front of their refrigerator, which featured a grocery list written in Scully’s neat handwriting. Next to it, in a magnetic frame, was a picture of William at nearly a year, his sweet baby face wreathed in a smile.
Mulder purposefully looked down at the manila envelope on the counter. He didn’t want to discuss William with anyone other than Scully. Some losses were too deep and too personal to be shared, even with someone as intimately involved in the whole business as Skinner. He turned around and spilled the contents of the envelope onto the table, drawing Skinner’s attention away from William and back to the present. The envelope yielded a sheaf of papers, some letter-sized envelopes, and surprisingly, a passport and a Virginia driver’s license. He reached out and grabbed them both at the same time. “I thought you were just clearing the way for these to happen,” he said.
Skinner shook his head. “I figured it was better that I get them done myself, rather than risk them trying to jerk you around. As it is, I’m pretty sure that you should keep a copy of your exoneration with you when you venture out into the world. I’m sure your face is still on the wall at more than a few post offices.”
Mulder raised his head from contemplating the picture that Skinner had used of him, his last from the bureau. It seemed a lifetime ago. “I thought that David said …”
“Oh, David says a lot of things!” Skinner snapped. “But you worked for the Federal government for a long time, Mulder. Just because an order to take down your photo has been issued to the USPS doesn't mean every post office is going to follow it. Use your head.”
Mulder hid a smile as he turned to pour their coffee, handing Skinner his black coffee and the bowl of sugar. He crossed to the refrigerator and added milk to his own before he sat down, his back to the picture of William. “So … you and David talk on the phone a lot.”
“Where exactly did you find that bulldog, Mulder?” Skinner asked him. “He doesn’t seem like an Oxford boy, and, as far as I can tell, he doesn’t come from Massachusetts, but he defends you like his long-lost brother.”
Mulder nodded. “Yeah, he’s a good guy. You met him once before, a long time ago.” He picked up an envelope from the pile and turned it over. “Craddock Marine Industrial,” he said aloud. “Oh, my bank account is finally unfrozen? And just how much are they going to take in fees and taxes, I wonder …” he read the statement. “Son of a bitch!” He glared at Skinner.
“It's not like you really need that money, Mulder," Skinner said shortly.
Mulder tried to tamp down his very sincere irritation at the evidence of the institutional pilfering in front of him. "I earned that money," he said softly. "Every fucking penny of it."
Skinner sighed, and turned the sugar spoon over in his fingers. "I know, Mulder," he conceded grudgingly. "There was nothing I could do for you there. I freely admit that I’m powerless against the IRS.” He paused. “They probably scare Truesdale. And where, exactly, did I meet Truesdale?”
Mulder looked up at him. “In Pennsylvania,” he said. “At the Ruskin Dam.”
Skinner looked at him with dawning understanding. “Who?”
“His fiancee.”
Skinner nodded, his expression grim.
“After I was taken, and came back,” Mulder paused to sip his coffee. “David called me again. He wanted to know if there was any possibility that Caroline was still alive, as I’d been.”
“Jesus, Mulder,” Skinner said feelingly. “That was years later.”
Mulder shook his head. “For some of us, there is only one,” he said quietly. “David had become involved in MUFON to some degree, but couldn’t accept that what had happened to me was different. He got the order of exhumation, and … well, there was no happy ending. But we became … not exactly friends, but …”
“Comrades in arms,” Skinner said with understanding. “I’m amazed that his firm allowed him to take you on.”
“It’s not pro bono,” Mulder said shortly. “Besides, Caroline worked at David's firm, too. She was the niece of one of the senior partners. Like David, he has never accepted that he was told the truth about what happened."
Skinner nodded, and turned his coffee cup by the handle. "What are you going to do now, Mulder? Now that you're a free man?"
Mulder tipped his chair backwards, balancing on just two legs. "I don't know," he said.
Skinner hesitated, and Mulder could see the interior struggle as it played out across Skinner's only subtly changing visage. "You had only two more years until you qualified for a full pens –"
"No."
"Maybe you shouldn't dismiss it out of hand –" Skinner tried again.
"No," Mulder said. "She'll never go back to the FBI, and I won't go back without her. Besides …" he gathered his thoughts, thinking of Scully's face when he woke up in the hospital this last time, the way that she'd been reaching for him in her sleep all week, how she'd confessed that she couldn't sleep well without him anymore, even when her exile from their bed had been self-imposed. "I promised. And, even more than that, I think that there has to be something else, some reason why this all happened now."
"Like what?" Skinner asked. It was clear he was mystified.
"I don't know," Mulder said. He wasn't troubled in the least by the lack of clarity. "I've watched Scully struggle to requalify as a pediatrician, to re-establish herself in a career, and it's made me think. I think she had her own reasons for doing what she did –" and he wasn't about to explain his thoughts on Scully's need for expiation to Skinner, "and it's been really hard, really challenging at an elemental level. You know, a lot of what we did for all those years was dragging the monsters out of the darkness into the light, and now, what Scully does, trying to save those sick kids, it's like she's trying to shine a light into the darkness instead." He bit his lip, looking at Skinner, who looked puzzled. "I know, it's just the matter of perspective that's changed, but I wonder if that's what I need to do now, too. I lived in that darkness for a long time, with the monsters. I just … I don't want to live there anymore."
"On some level, I think I understand what you're saying, Mulder," Skinner said. "I just can't believe that you're not going to try and do something about …" Skinner waved his hand at the calendar.
"I didn't say that I wasn't," Mulder said. "Money's good for more than lawyers, you know." He smirked. "I just … there are other considerations for me now."
Skinner nodded. "If you change your mind …"
Mulder shrugged in a way that he hoped conveyed that this wasn't going to happen.
The kitchen fell to silence.
"So, what have you been doing with yourself besides baking?" Skinner asked.
Mulder laughed. "I actually became a pretty good cook," he said.
Skinner smirked.
"And I re-learned how to play the piano …" he added. Wrote some books, he thought. Sold them and made decent money, but made a lot more investing the money he’d inherited, which he'd liquidated the year he spent away from Scully and William. He’d used that, in turn, to fund some secret projects, Scully’s education – this house. "And this place has always needed a lot of help." He stood and circled the table, putting his empty cup in the sink.
"Is that how you've stayed in shape?" Skinner asked curiously, handing his cup over.
"We've got a lot of land," Mulder said. "When the weather's better, I run. In the winter …" he made a face. "Scully bought me a treadmill."
Skinner looked around their crowded first floor with a puzzled expression on his face.
"Cellar," Mulder said. "Don’t tell her, but I hate it. It makes me feel like a hamster, and frankly, too much of my life has been an exercise in futility. I've got a heavy bag, and a lighter one that Scully uses." He decided not to mention the yoga DVDs that Scully had bought and insisted that they use. He'd learned a lot from those programs, in fact. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"What were you trying to do on the roof with the rake?"
"Oh," Mulder sighed. "The gutter's full of ice and it's built a dam that’s creeping up under the shingles."
"Do you have any idea what you're doing up there?" Skinner was decidedly skeptical. “I mean, a rake?”
"I am actually from New England, you know," Mulder asserted. Off Skinner's continuing dubious expression, he said, "Listen, I can watch "This Old House" with the best of them. And you’re supposed to use a rake to pull the snow off the roof – it’s too easy to damage the shingles with a shovel."
"Ah," Skinner said.
"Unfortunately, I needed to get up there and rake that snow off the roof about two snowstorms ago -- it’s frozen solid from the gutter to the window,” Mulder said. He smiled. “And Scully's going to kill me when she sees what they recommend next."
Skinner looked intrigued, rather than worried at his pronouncement.
~*~
Part 2
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Date: 2008-10-27 12:00 am (UTC)