TITLE: The Way Things Are
AUTHOR: Sukie Tawdry
EMAIL: sukie_tawdry@hotmail.com
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: Season 1
CATEGORY: Guess you could call
it AU. Diverges
from canon some time during season 1.
KEYWORDS: Story, M/S (some
elements of M/other)
DISCLAIMER: None of the
characters belong to me. Sniff
SUMMARY: One night and their
whole lives were changed
forever.
FEEDBACK: Good or not so
good--go ahead. I can
take
it. I'm a big girl.
ARCHIVE: Again, go ahead.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks go to Sybils for
wonderful beta and support.
And
a big thank you to Foxymulderluver for giving
this
story a home on her website:
http://www.oocities.org/foxymulderluver
Part 13 - Complicated
"I'm gone a few months and 'Little Miss Goody-two-shoes' takes a
walk on the wild side."
"Melissa!" Scully said, as she embraced her sister, inhaling the
scent of patchouli. "I think it's been more than a few months.
When did you get back?"
"Last night. Sorry to barge in so early on a Sunday morning,
but I couldn't wait another minute to see this for myself."
Melissa's eyes flashed with amusement. A dozen bracelets clinked
on her wrists as she unwrapped her shawl.
"Mom's been in touch, I take it." Scully straightened her bathrobe,
tying the belt a bit more securely over her belly. Still in her
pajamas and slippers, hair in a ponytail, she felt muted next to
Melissa's exotic vibrancy.
"I finally caught up with my mail in
letters from Mom telling me that you were: a) pregnant, b) missing,
c) returned and d) had a complicated relationship with the baby's
father." Melissa grinned widely as she smoothed a hand over
Scully's abdomen. "Dana, I can't believe it."
"I'm trying to get used to it, myself."
She was getting used to a lot of things. Six weeks of waking up
next to Mulder, having breakfast with him, arguing with him at
work, eating dinner and falling asleep in his arms. Oh, and
making love. A lot of that.
"Come in, I'll pour you some coffee," Scully said, leading the way
into the kitchen. "Hope decaf is okay--it's all I have."
"Decaf is fine." Melissa watched Scully reach for two mugs and
fill them with fragrant coffee. "Day, look at you with a belly.
How far along are you?"
"Six and a half months." Scully rested her hand on the rise of
her abdomen. "There's no mistaking this for 'putting on a few
pounds' anymore."
By now, the entire population of the
of her condition. In the vernacular of pregnancy, Scully had
"popped." She hadn't developed a waddle yet, but three inch
heels were a thing of the past.
"Does Billy know?" Melissa asked, frowning.
"Mom told him. Thank God, he's still at sea. I'm hoping he
calms down before he gets back. Charlie called me. He was so
funny--wanted to make sure I named the baby after him."
"Where is Charlie these days?"
"Still in
"I never thought little Charlie would run farther than I did,"
Melissa said, wistfully. "So, tell me about this 'complicated
relationship' you have with the father-to-be? Mom said you work
with him."
"He's my partner."
The conversation paused at the sound of a key in the front door,
followed by shuffling noises and a thump or two.
"Scully? You up? Hey, do I detect the scent of swill?"
Mulder burst into the room, drenched with sweat from his run, the
bulky bundle of Sunday newspaper under his arm. Soaked sweatshirt
clinging to his athletic frame, he took her breath away. The paper
landed on the counter with a slap.
"I didn't know you had company," Mulder said, mopping his face
with a dish towel.
"Mulder, your sneakers are muddy," Scully said, trying to hide
her pleasure at the sight of her dripping partner. "This is
my sister, Melissa. Melissa, this is my partner, Fox Mulder."
"The prodigal daughter?" Mulder asked, toeing off his sneakers.
Drying his hand against his pant leg, he leaned over the table
to shake Melissa's hand. "It's good to meet you."
"I wouldn't have missed this for the world." Melissa studied
Mulder's face with fascination. "I just had to meet the man
who knocked up my baby sister."
"Melissa..." Scully sighed. Her sister never minced words.
"Sorry," Melissa said, blatantly unapologetic. "I'm still in a
state of shock."
"Tell me about it." Mulder blushed under Melissa's scrutiny,
dropping his gaze as he moved to the coffeemaker and poured
himself a cup. Scully hid her smile as he took a long drink
and came up grimacing. Two months after moving in, and Mulder
still made faces when he drank his decaf.
"Mmmm mmm. Bad to the last drop," Mulder quipped. He sniffed
the air in his immediate vicinity, crossing his eyes. "I'm
pretty ripe, here. Think I better grab a shower."
Mulder emptied the rest of his coffee into the sink and rinsed
out the mug. As he passed Scully, he tenderly cupped the back
of her neck with one coffee-warmed hand. The women were silent
as they watched him retreat from the room.
"Well, Dana," Melissa said with an observant smile. "I think
there's a lot that Mom didn't tell me."
<><><><>
Margaret Scully had certainly been accurate in her assessment of
the current situation. How could life with Fox Mulder be anything
but complicated? The man was a walking contradiction--egocentric
and selfless, visionary and blinded, somber and passionate.
He was relentless when he focused on something, and he seemed
to have fixated on her. Specifically, Mulder had become
obsessed with pregnancy. He never tired of touching her body,
gauging the changes to her breasts, her abdomen, her skin or
any other part of her.
She would find Mulder reading pregnancy books in bed, lamplight
gleaming on his bare chest, glasses perched on his nose. He
had a thousand questions.
Could she tell if her pelvic bones had begun to shift yet?
No.
Had she thought about giving birth in a tub of water?
Maybe.
Did she know that they could have sex almost up to the time
of birth?
Yes. If they were very lucky.
She was pretty sure he hadn't told his parents about the
impending grandparenthood. He didn't seem to have much
contact with them at all. As far as she knew, the last
time Mulder had spoken to his father was from the hospital
in
Mulder had spoken to his mother only once since he moved into
Scully's apartment, a painfully stilted birthday greeting.
The misery on his face when he hung up kept her from asking
him about his reticence.
She would have worried about his inability to be honest with
his parents if he hadn't been so genuinely enthusiastic. He
came along on her doctor visits--all the way into the exam
room. There was no mistaking the look of amazement and joy
on his face when he listened to the baby's heartbeat for the
first time.
And then there was the nursery. Scully came home late one
afternoon after lunch and a shopping trip with her mother to
hear loud voices drifting through her apartment.
"You missed a spot, nimrod."
"Would you watch what you're doing, Langly. You're getting
it all over."
"Jeez, Byers. The kid will be in college before you finish
that wall."
"Will you guys settle down? I thought you were here to help."
She traced the voices to the spare bedroom, now empty of
furniture. Pale yellow paint was everywhere, on the walls,
the dropcloth covered floor, on Mulder and two of the three
other men in the room.
"Scully! I thought you'd be out a little longer," Mulder said,
wiping his hands on a rag. "I wanted to surprise you."
"Oh, I'm surprised all right. Mulder, what on earth..." She tried
to ignore the rabid stare of the smallest of Mulder's three
helpers.
"Do you like the color? It's called "Baby Chick'. I remember
you said you weren't going to paint the room pink on the basis
of an ultrasound, so I thought this was a safe color."
As Mulder rambled, the three men watched him, obviously amused at
his nervousness. Where did Mulder meet such an odd assortment of
people?
"I can see Mulder isn't going to introduce us. If you'll permit
me, lovely lady, Melvin Frohike at your service," the small man
said, extending a paint covered hand. "Oops, sorry. You don't
want to be wearing baby chick yellow."
Frohike wiped most of the paint off and shook Scully's hand, his
eyes never leaving her face. A theatrical cough got his
attention and he shook his head slightly as if to clear it.
"The scarecrow here is Richard Langly." Scully nodded at the
gawky man, who had held up messy hands and smiled, shaking his
head. His paint-streaked blond hair hung over his shoulders.
"John Byers, Ma'am." She shook the clean, dry hand of the
soft-spoken man. Unlike the others, he didn't have a spot of
paint on his neatly pressed khakis and immaculate polo shirt.
"We're friends of Mulder's."
She glanced at Mulder, trying to take in this new aspect of him.
These men seemed genuinely fond of Mulder, enough to help with
the paint job on a sunny Saturday afternoon.
"Mulder, you are one lucky dog," Frohike said, slapping Mulder
on the back. "This is one lovely lady. I gotta tell you, man,
we were totally floored when you called us. Mr. 'One Night Stand'
needed us to paint a nursery."
"Hey Scully," Mulder interrupted and attempted to walk her out
of the room, "Being around these fumes can't be good for you."
"Mulder, you're using latex paint," she said, pointing at the
can by Langly's feet. "I'm perfectly safe, and I'm enjoying
the conversation."
"We have a million stories," Frohike said, obviously amused by
his friend's discomfort. "There was the time Mulder..."
"Enough, Frohike. Come on, Scully. Show me what you bought
while the three stooges here get busy." Mulder guided her
from the room, shooting Frohike a pointed look.
The men finished the second coat of paint, and Scully ordered
pizza while they washed up. Sitting around her kitchen table,
the three men told her how they began working together and how
they met Mulder. She'd seen their newsletter among the pile
of papers on Mulder's desk and found its wild claims rather
amusing. Looking around the table, she tried to reconcile
the three completely mismatched people with the wild stories of
government conspiracy.
Scully found herself relaxing and laughing at their stories.
Mulder seemed to enjoy himself too. She realized how rare it
was to see the solitary Mulder interact on a social level.
These were extraordinary men to be able to draw him out.
She looked from face to face around her table, marveling at
the experience of sharing food and conversation. It occured
to her this must be what normal couples do on the average
Saturday night.
<><><><>
Their days were filled with work, and their nights were filled
with each other. After investigating leads, filling out paperwork,
researching phenomena and submitting expense reports, they'd
come home and have each other half stripped before the apartment
door closed.
She and Mulder continued to disagree at work, which she found
incredibly reassuring. Mulder still gravitated to the paranormal
interpretation of every anomaly, and Scully leaned toward the
scientific explanation.
The Arthur Davison case was a prime example. Even after
another man confessed to finding the raped and beaten Sandra
McCaffey and killing her, Mulder was still convinced that
Davison was responsible.
Angel Munoz was a dishwasher at the Poblano Grill, a quiet man
with no previous arrests, not even a parking ticket. Munoz
maintained that he'd found a stunned McCaffey, bleeding in the
alley behind the restaurant and smashed her skull with a brick.
Munoz had no idea why he'd killed her; he said it was as if
someone else controlled his body.
People sometimes behave impulsively, Scully argued. Something
triggers them to take action that has no precedent. The facts
all added up now, neatly and precisely. Davison's DNA was
present in McCaffey's vagina and his teeth marks on her body,
because he *had* raped her earlier that day. She didn't die
until after Davison had left her in the alley and been
arrested elsewhere in the city.
Munoz found her and killed her, but because he was wearing
latex gloves for work, he left no fingerprints on the brick.
His clothes were covered by a plastic apron, leaving his
clothes free from blood. Understandable evidence, neatly tied
up with a ribbon.
And utter hogwash, according to Mulder. The actions of normally
non-violent men have been directed by others--he had two file
drawers full of similar cases if she cared to read them.
Davison's hatred of women was so strong, so powerful, it had
taken on a life of its own. This festering hatred had waited
after Davison left the scene and entered a new host: Munoz.
Munoz, who was on suicide watch now, and who loved his wife
and three small children--was a gentle and stable man according
to every person they'd interviewed. The ribbon on Scully's
bundle of evidence was frayed and tangled.
She had been called as an expert witness at Munoz' preliminary
hearing, explaining Sandra McCaffey's autopsy results. Mulder
hadn't been required to testify. He'd spent the morning
sitting with her in the courtroom as she waited to be called.
Scully was still waiting to testify when the midday recess was
called. After a quick bite near the courthouse, Mulder
returned to the Hoover building for a meeting. He seemed to
throw caution to the winds, when he turned to her on a busy
Washington sidewalk and kissed her. She smiled all the way
back to court.
Her smile was gone by the time Munoz was brought back into
court. The man appeared stricken, his eyes filled with fear
and pain. Scully wondered if Mulder might not have been right
all along. She'd seen other defendants in court, people who
were defiant, angry, sneering, icy calm, delusional or even
bored. None of them had ever looked as devastated as Angel
Munoz.
She delivered her testimony, acutely aware of Munoz' reaction.
The man seemed to flinch with each detail of the damage to
McCaffey's body. She was completely drained by the time she
was able to step down from the stand.
It was nearly
office. She stood at the door, listening to the drone of
Mulder's voice. Engrossed in a phone conversation, he didn't
notice her entrance.
"Why should I believe you?" he asked, his back to her. "No.
I can't." Mulder shook his head as if whoever was on the
other end of the phone could see his refusal. He seemed to
stiffen, perhaps in reaction to what was being said. "Yes.
Where? All right."
He hung up the phone, releasing a ragged breath. It was only
when she dropped her briefcase that he turned to look at her.
"All done?" he asked. He fidgeted with the papers on his
desk.
"I hope so. I don't know how much more I can take of this."
"I...uh, I have to leave for a little while, Scully." He ran
his fingers through his hair, leaving it in little spikes.
"I have to chase down some evidence."
"Evidence, Mulder?" she asked. "From which case?"
"Gotta go, Scully," he said as he hurried from the room.
"Back soon."
She tried to keep busy, organizing the notes from the
McCaffey case. Davison's trial for the rape and beating
would be starting early next month. But she couldn't quite
escape the nagging feeling that something was wrong.
She waited. She paced, and straightened her desk, and
dusted some of the assorted oddities on the shelves at
the back of the office.
followed by six and seven.
She'd resisted calling him, afraid perhaps of giving in
to the fear that he wasn't out running errands--that he
hadn't just lost track of time. She eyed the items on
his desk, hoping for a clue to his whereabouts. The urge
to tear the desk apart was strong, but she fought against
it, chiding herself for her lack of faith in Mulder.
By
and worried. The phone in Mulder's apartment rang
and rang, his voice on the answering machine a hollow
substitute for the real thing. No one picked up at
her place either.
She tried his cell phone, her hands shaking a bit as
she hit the button for speed dial. Icy fingers seemed
to trace along her spine as she waited for him to
pick up.
*The cellular customer you are trying to reach is
unavailable*
<><><><>