Title: The Fear Place

Author: Deb Longley

E-mail: av286@chebucto.ns.ca

Completed: Nov. 27/99

Category: MulderAngst, minor MulderTorture, M/S Friendship,
Scully POV

Rating: PG for language

Summary: Revelations and regrets help bridge the emotional
abyss between a son and mother. A look at Mulder through
Scully's eyes.

Spoilers: minor for "Detour", "Pilot", "Amor Fati", "Demons",
"FTF"

Archive: COX, MTA, EMXC, Xemplary, FWMW; others please
let me know

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Teena Mulder belong to Chris
Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions, and Twentieth Century Fox
Television. They are used here without permission. Why should
Chris and David have all the fun? No copyright infringement
intended.

Author's Notes: This was written for the Church of X Nov. 1999
Monthly Fanfic Challenge (see note at end).
Events follow Whistlewood, but it is not
necessary to have read that Fanfic to understand this story. Also
assumes "Biogenesis", "SE" and "SE II: Amor Fati" occurred
before October.

Thanks: to Grace and Medusa, for nit-picking.

Feedback: Mulder thirsts for iced tea, I crave feedback.



When we fall out with those we love
And kiss again with tears. --Alfred, Lord Tennyson


Somewhere near Newark, NJ
Dusk, November 24

It's late in November; leaves have been falling in sudden showers,
as gusts of wind sent them flying, while the highest leaves adhered
the longest to the tree branches. In subdued colors, they blanket
the ground surrounding the lake like a soft, knitted afghan keeping
it warm from the frequent frost.

It lays in a deep valley, facing south, bordered on one side by green
firs, undulating lightly like a thousand stones have been thrown
simultaneously into it. The ripples are broken solely by a line of
wild geese led by their mother. Honking, she swims faster and
faster, urging them on, then, ascending into the muted gray sky,
their wings flapping in unison, they fly away.

He broods. Standing alone on the lifeless, brown grass, the light
breeze fills his black wool trench coat and, fluttering, it's oddly
reminiscent of the geese. Leaving on our trip early this afternoon,
directly from the Hoover Building, we are still in our work clothes,
Mulder in black Armani and a robin's egg blue dress shirt. He's
wearing the tie I gave him for his birthday--it's flapping in the
wind, animating Betty Rubble and Wilma Flintstone doing the
Cancan. I smile as I remember an old conversation we had about
Betty's breasts--and how, as kids, we identified with them.

I wonder what other people see when they look at him; the man is
beautiful with his wild, windblown dark hair, and eyes, and tall,
lean frame. A few of them are audacious enough to look him up
and down, but they usually stop when they get to his eyes. He's
thirty-eight, but he has the eyes of an old soul. He sees deep, and
through, observing things that others overlook. He looks at smiles
and perceives the lies hiding behind them. He sees the truth.

Anticipation turns him away from the lake to face me even before
the dead leaves crackle beneath my heels, alerting him to my
presence. For a moment, his eyes look as bleak and barren as the
landscape. The heartbreak is unmistakable--grief for everything
he's lost: the parents who found it difficult to show their love, the
women who betrayed him, and the sister who disappeared. Then
it's gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it. He's clutching
himself as if he's cold.

"Are you feeling better, Mulder?" I ask. I'm a little annoyed at
myself for not querying him before and my tone is more bristling
than I intend.

He doesn't seem in any hurry to answer, but when I frown he
smiles tentatively. "I-I'm feeling fine. I just needed some air," he
fumbles. He moves toward me and I notice his limp is more
pronounced. His left sleeve is bulging--he has a cast on his
forearm. He hurt his left knee and arm last month--ghost hunting
on Halloween of all things. We've been in the car for several
hours, where he can't stretch out his legs, so his limp is to be
expected. Examining his face, I realize he does look better. The
fine sheen of sweat that was on his upper lip and forehead is gone,
superseded by pink cheeks reddened from the brisk fall air.

With his gentle strength, Mulder is a man who can make
everything all right just by wrapping me in his arms. He's my
friend; I want to be there for him now, too. I reach out my hand,
and, after an instant, he stops clutching himself and extends his.
Wrapping my fingers around his, they are freezing; I don't let go,
allowing the heat from my fingers to warm them.

"Mulder, I want to know why you had to run from the car. Tell
me."

Suddenly, Mulder pulls me into his arms. Startled, I hug him back.
Placing my head on his chest, he smells like fresh air intermingled
with the musk of cologne. He's trembling--whether from whatever
it is that's upsetting him or from the cold, I can't tell. He rests his
chin on the top of my head. I can feel his jaw move as he speaks.

"Scully, why do you think she asked me to come?"

"She's your mother," I offer lamely. When he doesn't reply, I add,
"It's Thanksgiving." Oh, brother.

After his sister was taken from the family home twenty-six years
ago, almost to the day, Mulder grew up feeling shunned--from both
his parents. The loss of their beloved daughter had left the
Mulders emotionally impeded: his mother became impassive and
his father lost himself in alcoholism. Sadly, Mulder blamed
himself. Even sadder, they allowed the guilt. He came to expect
that treatment from the rest of society--the condemning stares and
damning silences. While criminal profiling for the VCS under
Reggie Purdue, and, later, the BSU under Bill Patterson, his
colleagues had nicknamed him *Spooky* because of his inherent
ability to analyze serial killers, confirming his feelings of
alienation. The epithet followed him from Quantico to
Washington. When I had been assigned as his partner on the X-Files seven years ago, he had greeted me for the first time, after I
knocked on the door of our basement office, by saying, Sorry,
nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted.'

"I hadn't heard from her in months," Mulder says. "We don't talk
regularly--only if we have to. She came to see me in the hospital
when I was ill, but I couldn't communicate with her. She called
me on my birthday, *and* issued the invitation for Thanksgiving
dinner--killing two birds with one stone, I guess."

Extracting myself, I look up at him; his eyes are reflecting
pain...and something else. Culpability? For himself?
Validating my thoughts, he relates, "We had an argument two
years ago after my treatment with Dr. Goldstein. I accused her of
things no son has any business saying to his mother. I *hurt* her!"
The blast of vehemence comes out of nowhere and surprises us
both.

"I remember," I tell him. "I heard your voices but not the words."

Mulder is silent and I take it as a sign that he's finished talking--for now. "Let's go back to the car, Mulder."

The impish smile of a child graces his face. It takes years off him
and makes me imagine the boy he once was, endearing him to me.
It's a rare display, with the exception of his occasional childlike
approach to our work, observing phenomena with wonder. "Race
you," he challenges.

My eyes drop to his injured knee. "In your dreams, g-man."
Companionably, we walk back to Mulder's car where it awaits our
return.

Comfort Inn
Newark, NJ
November 25

We had driven three hours when Mulder suggested we check-in to
a motel and finish the remaining hour to his mother's in the
morning. We had something to eat in the inn's restaurant then
retired to our rooms--I settled in with Nicholas Evan's The Loop;
from the din coming from Mulder's room, he had elected to watch
television.

Early, I hear him stirring in his bathroom which is adjacent to my
room. It's the flushing of the toilet which first rouses me--*five
o'clock, Mulder!*--and we aren't scheduled to leave until nine.
After that, I hear him stomping around in his shoes--he has to have
gotten dressed and put on his sneakers; I wouldn't notice him
padding about the room in his bare feet.

He's going running. Damn the man. He's supposed to exercise his
knee, but it's bound to be stiff after being cramped in a car for
nearly two hundred and fifty-eight miles.

Who's he running away from, or, conceivably, to?

In Mulder's mind, he's running just to run--for the physicality of it.
He likes the feel of his heart pounding in his chest, the sweat
running into his eyes and blurring his vision, and the stitch he gets
in his side when he pushes himself too far. He also runs when he
needs to think--to clear his head--but I believe, because of his
despondent spirit, that, this morning, he is running to punish
himself.

I had fallen back into sleep--I don't know for how long--when I
hear Mulder's motel room door slam. Damn it, Mulder. Your ass
is grass. He wanders into his bathroom; I hear him breathing hard,
gulping in air--he must have run himself into the ground. Oh, God,
it sounds like he's crying. Abruptly, I sit up, straining to hear, but
he turns on the taps to the shower, effectively drowning out the
sound, and my conviction. Troubled, I don't want to crawl back
under the covers so, rising, I go into my bathroom and, adding the
motel's vanilla-scented bath crystals to the tub, draw a bath.

After dressing in black dress pants and a fluffy, pink v-necked
sweater, there is a knock on my door. His voice muffled, Mulder
calls, "Hey, Scully, you up?! I'll pick up some breakfast, and be
back in twenty minutes! We'll have it in your room!"

Fastening my cross around my neck, I return, "Okay!" Apparently,
he wants to avoid public scrutiny--or, maybe, I'm analyzing the
poor guy too much. You're the doctor, Dana, Mulder's the
psychologist. I shake my head, chastising myself.

Letting him in, he has returned with two coffees and two whole
wheat and honey bagels; his is buttered and he has gotten cream
cheese for me. I study him for signs of distress, but I can't detect
anything--at least not on the outside. He is dressed unpretentiously
in blue jeans and a soft, black sweater. His hair is still damp and
glossy strands have fallen over his forehead. Tempted to mother
him and brush them into place, instead, I grasp my cross and stroke
it between my thumb and forefinger. I am grateful he's alive. The
emotional burden he shoulders is inconsequential.

Noticing my scrutiny, he leers suggestively. "Like what you see,
Scully?"

"As a matter of fact, Mulder, yes." He looks overwhelmed--it's all
the satisfaction I need. That'll teach him. I turn my head so he
doesn't see the amusement blanketing my face.

Sitting on the bed side-by-side, we unwrap our food; I place mine
near me--Mulder deposits his in his lap. I take a cautious sip of the
steaming coffee.

Hoping Mulder may open up if I keep sipping and don't say
anything, I do just that. Inhaling, he breathes in the aroma with an
appreciative sigh, but he doesn't drink. Setting the cup down on
the bedside table, he sits quietly for a moment.

"Scully, I..." His voice drops off and he begins again. "What's
your favorite memory of your mother?"

I hadn't expected a question, but, without hesitation, I reply, "I
was 11. Our class was putting on a play--Cinderella--and I had
been chosen to perform the lead role. Mom made me a beautiful,
lavender satin dress on her sewing machine. I sat there for hours
watching her hands guide the material under the needle. I thought
she had the loveliest hands." Again, I am silent and don't urge
him to speak.

"Whenever Mom cut my hair," Mulder says, "she would sit me
high up on a stool so that she could reach. She would lay
newspapers around the stool to catch the hair. I liked the feel of
her fingers on my scalp. As she trimmed, she would hum--I would
close my eyes so that I could concentrate on nothing but the touch
of her fingers and the sound of her voice." He pauses, and his eyes
close as if he is remembering the tune; his mouth turns up into a
small smile. They are shut just for an instant then he continues.
"When she was done, she would lean over and whisper, All done,
my darling boy.' Then she would kiss the back of my neck." Bit-by-bit, his smile disappears. "That was before Samantha--"
Mulder doesn't finish the sentence and, grabbing his coffee, downs
it in several gulps. "Let's hit the road, Scully."

I nod my acquiescence and follow. Mulder's childhood seems
divided into before and after Samantha--and they were polar
opposites. It must have been devastating for him to bear.

Teena Mulder's residence
Greenwich, CT

Mulder steers the car deftly into his mother's paved driveway.
Pocketing the keys, and grasping the bouquet of white roses, to his
right on the front seat, he climbs out of the vehicle and opens the
right passenger door for me. Thanking him, I feel a couple of
raindrops mixed with sleet on the back of my neck. Evidently,
Mulder does as well because he looks up into the gray sky, and,
nodding his head in the direction of the trunk, decides, "I'll get our
bags later."

Teena's home is attractive: it's beige with the exception of the
blue front door and blue window boxes under the two front
windows. Even the sheer curtains are beige. On either side of a
stone walkway is a fence, in the same color, with a gate which, at
the moment, is unlatched.

The two of us make our way through it and up the walkway to the
front door, Mulder shifting the blooms from one hand to the other
betraying his nervousness. I give his right arm a reassuring
squeeze; the muscles feel taut beneath my fingers. I realize that
he's unnerved and trying desperately to conceal it. He knocks on
the front door, his head level with its frosted half-moon window,
before it opens to reveal his mother in the foyer waiting to
welcome us.

"Fox, Dana. Come in," she invites.

Mulder gestures for me to enter first then he steps into the
doorway and, shuffling his feet, hands the bouquet to his mother.
"Mom," he murmurs softly.

"Flowers? How thoughtful, Fox." She looks intently at them and I
wonder if she understands their significance for, most certainly,
Mulder does. There are several special meanings for white-
colored roses, including reverence and humility. It's his way of
apologizing to her even if he hasn't yet verbalized the words.

Mulder's eyes are focused on his mother's hands; he seems
fascinated by them. It strikes me that the two of them are
analogous with their eyes focused on anything but each other. It
would be amusing if it wasn't so sad.

Teena is wearing a matching navy blouse and slacks topped with a
flowered white knit vest, setting off her white hair--she is a splash
of color in a home of hardwood floors, cream walls and white
trim. There are a few paintings which add some contrast also. It's
very pretty, but how cosy would it have been for a teenager--especially an active, sports-minded male? I make a mental note to
ask Mulder if he had lived here with his mother.

Tantalizing aromas waft from the kitchen: heady pie spices and
baking turkey stuffed with bread, potatoes, and onions. With their
smell, I'm in my mother's house with the chatter of the voices of
both adults and children as we catch up on everyone's news. This
year, Mom elected to go to California and visit with Bill--my
sister-in-law's stepmother passed away a couple of months ago.
She loves to be where she's needed.

Teena suggests, "Why don't you take off your coats and go into the
sitting room, and I'll see if I can find a vase to put these in."

Mulder helps me remove my coat; he shrugs his off over the
cumbersome cast and hangs the two of them in the coat closet.
Leading me to the room beyond the French doors, I peer at one of
the paintings. It looks familiar--it's the flower garden inside the
fence out front when it's in full bloom. Peeking at the signature at
the bottom, it's signed TM July '98'. Surprised, I lift my
eyebrow.

The room is lovely; it, too, is in cream and white--even the plump,
elegantly upholstered chairs. The blue couch, big leafy plant near
the French doors leading to the deck, and another of Teena's
paintings--this one of a vase of cut dahlias--provide some color. I
have noticed the absence of family photographs--none are visible
so far. It's dissimilar to my mother's home where the walls and
tables are peppered with photos of the four of us and the
grandchildren. This house is a testimony to loss and the
unfulfillment of dreams. My heart aches for Teena and Mulder.

Looking around, Mulder's wearing his panic face. He's
remembering the last time he stood in this room under very
different circumstances. Ill at ease, he exhales deeply then his face
calms into an indifferent mask effectively burying his feelings,
bottling them up. I wonder how long it will be before he explodes.
He sits on one of the chairs while I lower myself on the couch.
Mulder reaches into his right jeans pocket and pulling out a
sunflower seed, puts it between his teeth, cracks it, and spits out
the shell into his hand. He looks for a place to deposit it. The
room is spotless; there's not even an ashtray to put it in. He
catches my eye then, sheepishly, places it back inside the pants
pocket. He repeats the procedure with several more seeds.

Returning, Teena offers, "I've put the kettle on. Would anyone
like some tea?" I answer affirmatively while Mulder, shaking his
head negatively, declines. Noticing Mulder's cast, she comments,
"Fox, you've hurt yourself." I don't know if she intends it that
way, but her tone makes it sound more like a criticism.

His head bowed, censured, he responds, "Just a broken arm. You
know me--curiosity killed the cat."

Switching her attention to me, she says, "I'll get your tea, Dana.
Do you take milk and sugar?"

"Milk is fine, thank you."

Teena leaves the sitting room and Mulder moves to the French
doors that lead to the deck. Opening them, and striding outside, he
closes them behind him. Through the sheers, I watch him walk to
the rail and lean on it. Tossing his head, he's a silent, forbidding
figure although he's not doing anything more threatening than
surveying the house next door. At the sound of his mother's voice,
I turn reluctantly.

"Here you are." Handing me the tea from a tray, in a pretty teacup
with a matching saucer, she sits in the chair Mulder vacated
moments ago. Her own head turning to look at him, she sighs and
remarks, "He's brooding outside. It reminds me of when he was
younger. If he was disquieted, he would isolate himself in his
room or go out on the deck. Fox was a strange and difficult boy.
He was a loner, always absorbed in a fantasy world of his own
creation, although, looking back, I suppose it was Bill's and my
fault as much as his. We weren't there for him--not like we should
have been." She takes a sip of her tea. "I'm thankful he has a
friend like you."

Yes, children like that are forced to set their own boundaries, build
walls; in essence, prisons of their own making. I understand
perfectly well where Mulder has come from--I had done it myself.
Oh, not for the same reasons, but I'd walled myself in emotionally
to avoid being hurt. For years, I'd been shutting Mulder out, and
have only just realized recently that if I give our friendship half-a-chance, it may evolve into something good.

"When Bill and I divorced, I bought this house and brought Fox
with me. He wasn't very happy here--he missed the Vineyard. I
suppose he thought Bill and I were giving up on Samantha as well
as each other."

Finishing my tea, I ask, "May I freshen up?"

"Certainly, dear. There's a washroom on this floor off the
kitchen."

Excusing myself, I locate the bathroom. I'm only gone a few
minutes, and I'm making my way back to Mulder and Teena, when
I hear his voice raised in anger. I stop in the hallway and don't
advance another step. It doesn't matter really; I've left the doors
open and I can hear every word clearly.

"Shit, Mom, when were you going to tell me?"

"I don't want to hear that kind of language in my home."

"That's it, change the subject. Swerve and avoid. It's what you're
good at." The bitterness in his voice obvious, he's hurting and
lashing out.

"Sit down, Fox." Her voice firm, it remains calm and in control.

There is quiet; I assume Mulder is seating himself. "This isn't
easy for me," he admits.

"It's not easy because you make it hard...I was waiting for the right
time to tell you."

"When would that be? I'm thirty-eight. Jesus. You denied it two
years ago--I had to hear it from *him*." //You lied to me// is
unspoken, but I hear it in his voice as clearly as if he had uttered
the words.

"I wasn't about to discuss it in the agitated state you were
in...What do you want to know?"

"*Why*?"

"I was young--"

"Come on--"

"Let me finish. Bill wasn't a demonstrative man. I know he loved
me, but his job in the state department required that he travel
frequently, and, when he came home, he was secretive of his work
--he shut me out. I know now he was protecting the family, but,
then, it served solely to create more distance between us."

"And that's your justification for betraying him."

"I'm not looking for your approval or absolution, Fox."

"Tell me about the Cancer Man."

"He answered a need. He loved me, and I wanted desperately to
believe in that love. He paid attention to me, and, later, to you and
Samantha. At the time, that was all that mattered--not that it was
wrong, although how could a liaison that produced you be wrong?"

"Did Dad--Bill--know?"

"Of course not--and Bill *was* your father; at least, in all the ways
that count. He raised you. He loved you."

They are mute. I am torn as to whether I should intrude, but I
can't linger in the hallway either. Solving the dilemma for me,
Teena insists, "This conversation is finished," and exits the room.
Spotting me there, I feel a blush tinting my cheeks, but she only
asks, "Would you give me a hand in the kitchen, Dana?" To her
credit, she doesn't seem worried that I've overheard anything.
Obviously, she is as adept at hiding her feelings as is her son--it
must be genetic.

I steal a glance at the sitting room; I wish I could see Mulder. Is
the knot of temper still snowballing within him, or has it dissolved
in despair? Deciding that he probably wants to be alone, I go with
his mother, but my mind is with the man I've left behind.

Teena and I had set the round kitchen table for dinner; with the
peach-colored linen tablecloth, flowered cloth napkins, light green
dishes, sparkling silver, and Mulder's roses as a centerpiece, it was
exquisite, intimate--the large dining room table, and its empty
chairs, would have been simply a painful reminder of the past.

The meal was a pleasant surprise; not the food, of course, it was
delicious, but the atmosphere. I hadn't been sure what to expect. I
thought it would be civil, but strained; however, Teena's
confession to Mulder seemed to have cleared the air.

Wiping his mouth with his napkin, Mulder places the square of
cloth on his empty pumpkin pie plate, and drops his right hand into
his lap. "That was great, Mom."

"Thank you." She is staring at him so intensely that, shifting in his
chair, the inspection rattles him.

"W-What?" Mulder asks. "Do I have pie on my chin?"

She smiles and touches his face, caressing his chin then pulls
away. "You and I are the only family left, Fox. We're all we've
got now." Her voice catching, tears in her eyes, she finishes, "I
was never more aware of that than when you were gravely ill."
Taking a breath, she composes herself. "I was devastated when I
lost my little girl. For years, I deluded myself that she was coming
back. When she didn't, I died inside. I couldn't lose you, too, so I
pushed you away. It was a mistake."

Shocked, he doesn't blink. He doesn't twitch a muscle. "My--"
His voice failing him, it's the only indication of the emotion
stirring within him. Clearing his throat, he attempts to speak
again. His voice is soft, barely beyond a whisper, affirming the
difficulty he's having with his mother's disclosure. "My entire life
has been a search to fill a void--to find a missing part of my soul.
No matter how good I was at anything, it wasn't enough. It
seemed that I was always starting over, proving myself again. It
was a self-imposed penance for losing Samantha, a way of earning
back your and Dad's love."

"We've lost many precious years that we can't get back. I'm sorry
for that. We can't change the past; we can only learn from it. I'm
proud of the man you are. I love you."

Mulder's eyes tear up. He reaches for her and draws her into a
hug. His back is rigid, but when she responds, he relaxes and leans
into her embrace. It's a beginning. The chasm between them
can't be bridged in a day, there's too much hurt there. But, what is
it they say about love conquering all?

Mulder's lake
Newark, NJ
November 25

The lake is tranquil. In the dark, we sit together, my knees drawn
up to my chest and Mulder's legs sprawled in front of him, a
blanket from the trunk both beneath and over us protecting us from
the cold. We are watching the stars; illuminating the water, the
effect is much like a room lit by candlelight.

"Dad and I used to look at the stars," Mulder says. "He would
point them out and tell me their names. Sometimes, we wouldn't
talk at all--it was companionable enough to just sit there and stare
for hours." I feel him shift his legs under the blanket. Continuing,
he reveals, "There's a place in my head--The Fear Place--where I
put all the fears, the regrets, the hopelessness, the dead dreams. I
could ignore them in the light of day, but, in the darkness, when I
couldn't sleep, they were summoned up, preying on my thoughts.
Sometimes, I wondered if I would ever feel safe again."

He looks down at me and smiles. "I'm not so afraid of that place
anymore, Scully."

Returning his smile, I rest my head on his shoulder. He pulls me
close. You're right, Mulder. There is no need for words.

~~~end~~~
Deb

Challenge #2: Going with the holiday theme once again, write
something involving Thanksgiving. Have Mulder join the Scully
family for dinner, and have each of them ponder what they are
thankful for in their lives. They can be thinking to themselves, or
it can be a conversation between them. Has to go deeper than
'Mulder is thankful for Scully' and vice versa. Perhaps expand into
regrets as well. Angst and MSR content are up to you.