TITLE: The
Way Things Are
AUTHOR: Sukie Tawdry
EMAIL: sukie_tawdry@hotmail.com
<mailto:sukie_tawdry@hotmail.com>
RATING: NC-17
SPOLIERS: 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 4 - Pitched Battle
"Dana, sweetheart, come in. You look tired; are
you
feeling all right?"
"I'm fine, Mom." Dear God, this was going to be hard.
The
memory of every time she had ever disappointed
her parents
flashed before her, from the first
"C" on a test to her choice
to join the FBI. Her mother took her jacket and
hung it in
the hall closet.
"It's just that you were in the hospital not too long
ago." Scully glanced away, uncomfortable
under her
mother's scrutiny. Margaret Scully missed
nothing.
"That was over a month ago, Mom, and I really am fine."
"Well, I'm just glad you're here. Dinner is almost
ready."
"You shouldn't have gone to a lot of trouble,"
Scully said, hugging her mother. "I'm here for the
company, Mom." Scully tried to keep her
voice light
as the two women entered the kitchen.
"It's no trouble at all. I hardly ever get to see you,
sweetheart. Let me fuss a little."
The scent of baking chicken filled the air, and Scully
reflected that a smell she would have found
appetizing a
month ago was rapidly causing her to become
nauseous.
"Uh, Mom, can dinner wait for a little bit?"
"Dana, honey, is something wrong? You just got very
pale."
There was a tiny vertical worry line between her mothers eyes
that Scully couldn't remember seeing before
tonight.
"Can we go into the living room, Mom? I want to talk to
you."
She couldn't stay in the kitchen a minute longer, and giving her
mother a visual demonstration of early
pregnancy was not her
idea of how to open up a dialogue.
"Of course. Let me turn down the
oven and I'll be right in."
Scully moved through the living room, hands clenched at her
sides. She pictured her father in this room, looking
up from
his book the night she told him about the FBI.
What would he say
if he could see the profound mess she'd made of
her life?
She glanced at the display of family photos: scrubbed faces in
school pictures, snapshots in front of the
Christmas tree.
She picked up a small silver frame, studying the photo of
seven-year-old Dana and Ahab as they
exchanged mock salutes.
Swallowing hard, she tried to force down the nausea.
She listened to the sounds of pans clanking and the oven door
being opened and closed. Picture in hand, Scully
drifted
over to the sofa. She turned at the sound of her
mother
entering the living room.
"All done. Dinner will hold as
long as it needs to. If there
is one thing I learned with four children, it was
how to hold
dinner." Margaret Scully anxiously dried
her hands on a dishtowel.
"Sit down, Mom," Scully said, patting the sofa. Her
mother tended
to rattle on when she got nervous and Scully
didn't think she could
stand to wait a moment longer to deliver her news.
"Mom. I...there's really no easy way to tell
you this..." Scully
couldn't look at her mother, staring instead at
the silver framed
photo.
"Dana, you're scaring me. What is it?" Margaret reached
for
Scully's hand, squeezing a little too tightly.
"I'm pregnant." There. It was out. Her mother was
silent,
shocked.
"I didn't even know you were seeing anyone," her mother
said,
finally finding her tongue. Disappointment was
etched on
Margaret Scully's face.
"I'm not seeing anyone, Mom. I...I know Dad would be so
ashamed of me. It was an accident." Who
was she kidding?
It had been a train wreck, a cataclysm. Scully's eyes filled
with tears.
"And the father? Was he an accident
too? Where does he fit
in?"
"He won't be involved, Mom."
"Is he married, Dana?" Her mother's mouth was a hard
little
line of reproach. There were rules--things a good
person did
and didn't do, and in Margaret Scully's eyes, an
affair with
a married man would be among the worst
transgressions.
"No, nothing like that. All that matters is he
won't be
participating."
"What kind of man would leave you to handle this alone,
Dana?
Do you have any idea how difficult this is going to be? It was
hard--you have no idea how hard--when you all were
babies and
your father was away. It's lonely, and you're more
tired than
you ever in your life dreamed of. Oh,
Dana..."
"He's not a monster, Mom. He's a good person, but he just
can't be part of this. I...uh...I'm in this
alone."
Her mother didn't speak for awkward seconds, no sound in the
room but their breathing and the tick of the clock.
Slowly,
Margaret Scully reached over and took her daughter's hand.
"You're not alone."
<><><><>
Two days later, she and Mulder went to
to investigate a case of automatic writing that
had turned
up clues in a stalled murder investigation. Life,
after all,
didn't stand still because she was having a
crisis.
Mulder had done as she'd asked, keeping his
concern to
himself, and in the process, keeping his
distance. He spoke
to her only when necessary and kept his comments
work related.
He made no move to carry her luggage and didn't turn around in
the airport to see if she was following him. Head
held high,
she refused to ask for help, even when her head
pounded and
her legs felt like lead.
It was a pitched battle between the two of them--Mulder's
studied unconcern, Scully's stubborn pride. Her
independence
proved almost impossible for her to maintain.
Trips to the
ladies room became longer and longer as she
vomited up every
morsel she consumed.
In the campaign to return to business as usual, Mulder seemed to
find an ally in the lovely detective who had called
them in on the
case. Pam Clayton was tall and slim and completely
professional.
Scully would have hated her if she could muster up the energy.
The agents spent nearly a week in Dearborn evaluating the actual
paranormal aspects of the case and assisting with
the
investigation into the clues brought
forth. And perky little
Meg-Ryanesque Pam Clayton was with them
every minute, smiling up at
Mulder,
asking him questions and generally occupying his attention.
The first day, they witnessed an automatic writing session.
Mulder and Detective Clayton watched with
barely concealed
excitement as Marcella Krause, a seventy-year-old
legally blind
retired school teacher, scratched out phrases
she couldn't see,
even with her coke-bottle glasses. Scully hung
back, standing
near an open window, both to show her skepticism and because the
stale old-lady smell of the room was making her
sick.
"What do you think, Scully?" Mulder
asked, as he walked to the
window. "I mean, if you were able to form
an opinion from over
here."
"I saw all I needed to from here. Do I think Mrs. Krause
has tapped into some source of information about
the Hartfield
murder? No. I'm not sure how she is doing what
she's doing,
but I think we'll find a more conventional reason
than
'transmissions from the great
beyond'."
"Well, I'd love to here your theory," Mulder said. Detective
Clayton moved over to them, resting her hand gently on Mulder's
arm.
"I've looked over the phrases Mrs. Krause wrote,
and some of
them are very promising. I'd like you to take a
look, Agent
Mulder."
Of course, Mulder had to give Pam his
undivided attention.
To be fair, Detective Clayton had been warm and friendly to
Scully, seeking her expertise on the forensic
details.
Scully lived on ginger ale and saltine crackers. One night,
she treated herself to a 7-Up for a change of
pace. It really
didn't matter, since she couldn't keep any of
it down. By
the third day, she began to worry a bit, knowing
she would need
to call Paula as soon as they got back to DC.
Much to Mulder's pleasure, the clues
developed into some
excellent leads. Scully reminded herself it
didn't matter
how the information had come about as long as it
helped solve
the crime and led to a conviction. But it still rankled her
to see Pam beaming at Mulder.
Detective Clayton invited them both to dinner on the night
before they returned to Washington. Meals had
been a trial
all week, with Scully attempting to avoid Mulder's scrutiny.
She'd managed to be away from the others at mealtime as often
as she could.
The prospect of being a third wheel as Mulder
charmed the lovely
Pam was just too much for Scully and she begged off, saying she
wanted to order room service and have an early
night.
She managed six saltine crackers and a half cup of chicken
bouillon but lost all of it within the hour. She
worried that
for every drop of fluid she took in, she lost more
with every
session of vomiting.
She tried to sleep, but her body was restless. The sheets
felt rough as her arms and legs thrashed about.
Scully dozed,
her mind fuzzy and unfocused. She tried not to
listen for
sounds from Mulder's
room.
It was late when she finally heard footsteps in the hall. The
door to Mulder's room
opened and closed. Voices drifted
through the wall--Mulder's
drone and the higher lilt of a
woman's voice. She recognized that light tone
as belonging
to Detective Clayton's. Scully grimaced in the
dark.
The voices murmured in conversation for what seemed like
hours, and Scully found herself straining to see if
she could
detect a shift from the drone of speech toward
giggles and
moans.
"Oh God," she muttered as she realized what she was
doing.
She didn't need this. Life was wretched enough without being
the unwilling witness to Mulder's
overactive sex life, she pulled
a pillow atop her head to block out the sound
and tried to sleep.
Exhaustion overtook her eventually, and she fell into a deep
dreamless sleep. She woke feeling bruised in the
morning. Regarding
her image in the bathroom mirror, she noted her
alarming pallor. Her
eyes seemed lost in purple shadows. She gave up
trying to cover
the damage with makeup.
Her suit seemed to hang on her frame, the button on her skirt a
little loose. But she was beginning to detect
a hard little bulge
below the waistline and she knew that soon, her
secret would be
out. Then the rumors
would start, the whispers behind her back.
Her legs felt like rubber as she walked to Mulder's
door.
He answered her knock, looking crisp and healthy. He was in
his stocking feet, his shirt untucked.
"Come on in, Scully. I'm just about ready," he said,
buttoning his shirt cuffs. "I ordered some
toast and
orange juice. Why don't you help yourself."
In the short time she'd known him, she couldn't remember
Mulder ever
ordering toast for breakfast. She picked up a
half slice of dry toast, taking a tiny bite. It
gave her
something to do that didn't involve looking at
the
unmade bed.
Mulder sat down to tie his shoes, and she
couldn't resist
any longer. The bed was well rumpled, sheets
tangled and
pillows thrown about. Scully turned away and
looked out
the window.
"All ready. Let's go," he said.
She slept most of the flight home, grateful for the
brief oblivion. She would open her eyes from time
to time, and Mulder
always seemed to be watching her.
It was nearly 2:00 PM when they landed at Dulles. Mulder
surprised her by not relinquishing her bag when
he
pulled it from the luggage carousel. She
wanted to
protest, but knew she wouldn't have been able
to manage
it. She could hardly put one foot in front of the
other
as it was.
They had almost reached the exit when the world tilted
and she stumbled against Mulder.
He dropped the suitcases
and caught her before she fell. Her last thought
as
she fainted dead away was that this was the first
time
Mulder had held her since that one insane
night.