Title: Sfumato (8/? - Sequel to "The Marionette Rebellion")
Author: supernova
Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue.
Rating: R
Category: MSR, Angst
Archive: Not this time.
Feedback: Feed me at supernova818@aol.com
Author's Notes: Many thanks to Beach for beta; her
thoughtfulness, kindness, and friendship are appreciated.
Thank you, Sybils, for relaying messages for me. And to
Snick, as always, much love.
 
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Sfumato
 
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Chapter 7
 
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Fate is a fickle woman.
 
It stands to reason that if you wash your car on Saturday
it will rain on Sunday. If you plant roses on a lazy Sunday
afternoon, by Monday morning, there will be some freakishly
out of season early morning frost. Then there are times
when fate lets you hang on by a thread, so that you can
find your destiny: your soul mate and two children. It sort
of cancels out that raining-on-my-just-washed-car
complaint.
 
Today, fate is not smiling all that kindly on Fox Mulder,
and the mere mortal Mulder is trying not to curse
everything that moves. Good 'ole Mother Earth and Fate have
conspired against him: Washington D.C. is under a
light blanket of snow. Mulder felt the first slight prickle
of flakes as he was walking into Washington National
Airport. After waiting in line for twenty-five minutes, the
ticket agent informs him of what he already knows but had
hoped wasn't true: all flights are delayed indefinitely
because of the escalating storm. The snow flurries are in
the process of become a full-fledged blizzard.
 
He turns and leaves the airport, gets into his car, and
begins the long haul toward Bangor on I-95.
 
William and Hope are safe with Scully and Skinner. No
details. Scully was cryptic as ever with her, 'I just can't
be at home right now,' and Mulder wonders where they might
have gone. He knows they will go to a motel; the only
problem is he doesn't know which one, and Scully was right
not to tell him, anyone could have been listening in on
their phone call. He ruminates over the possibilities and
narrows it down to three. Right now, it doesn't matter to
Mulder; he just wants to hold his children and Scully.
There is knowing and there is seeing, touching, and
holding. There is no substitute for the latter.
 
A billboard advertisement for an auto parts store creates a
domino effect in his mind that ends with a thought about
chains for his tires. As the giant sign for the store comes
into view, a few exits ahead of him, he decides to stop
because he doesn't want to be stranded indefinitely, or be
away from his children any longer than he has to.
 
A little over 600 miles away, Scully settles William and
Hope into a motel bed, and looks pointedly at William, "We
need to talk tomorrow, William"
 
"Okay," William says, unable to look at his mother.
 
"Everything will be all right, son," Scully whispers in his
ear. She kisses his cheek and tells both William and Hope
that she loves them. She paid for two rooms upon their
arrival, one for Skinner, and one for Scully, William, and
Hope. William is on the edge of the double bed shared with
his sister, and Hope is inching in his direction. Scully
glances at the other bed, and knows whether she is in it or
not, it will be empty. Scully leans across William and
kisses Hope on the tip of her nose. They smile at one
another and Hope closes her eyes.
 
As Scully moves off the bed, she feels William tug at her
jacket, "I've missed you so much, Mom," he says. His eyes
are full of unshed tears, the blue of his eyes, a mirror of
her own. She doesn't understand how he could know what has
happened over the past months, or the details of exactly
what he thinks he knows, but it's not important right now.
"I've missed you, too, William. I love you," she says. He
sniffles out an, "I'm sorry, Mom." She tells him they will
talk about it in the morning. After pulling the blanket
over the shoulders of her children, she rises from the bed,
and steps out the door of their motel room.
 
Skinner is waiting for her; he'd said they needed to talk.
He looks at her like he did a lifetime ago when she was
dying of cancer, all sad eyes filled with pity, a little
something like righteous conflict making him seem more
dangerous than she remembers. Or, maybe that danger has
always been there, it's just she's grown up, faced her
little-girl denials, and knows what men are thinking when
they look at her that way. She hates when anyone except
Mulder looks at her that way; he's the only one who is
allowed to crowd her space in his odd broody and protective
manner, eyes lust filled, sure he will go home with her at
night. He should be here instead of Skinner, although
Mulder would probably have a few choice words for Skinner
if he saw the look in his eyes, even though her old boss-
savior can't help the way he looks at her. We don't choose
who we love, whether they return the sentiment or not.
She'd be lying if she said she didn't know how Skinner felt
about her, and she's not as good at pretending as she once
was. No man sells his soul to the devil for mere
infatuation; only love causes that kind of insanity. She
doesn't know why she's thinking about all of this now;
perhaps, it is because she hasn't seen Skinner in close to
five years, and she's forgotten the way he focuses on her
lips when he thinks she's not looking. Scully turns her
eyes to the stars, like she did a thousand years ago, when
they discussed starlight, and held onto each other because
at that time, there was no one else who could understand.
William sleeps in a bed now, instead of her womb, and Hope
is a tangible entity, instead of just a wish - the
familiarity of the situation, despite the obvious passage
of time, and the changes that have occurred since that long
ago night, still set her on edge. Mulder is somewhere too
far away, her children are in danger, Skinner has a vaguely
guilty look in his eyes, and she feels just as helpless and
alone as she did all those years ago.
 
Skinner and Scully avoid eye contact for as long as
possible, neither do they speak. Finally, Scully breaks the
silence, "Thank you for watching over William and Hope,"
she says.
 
"A man came to my motel room, knocked, and I opened because
I thought it was one of my agents. The man pulled a gun,
and I pushed him out of the room, and slammed the door in
his face. I went to the kids' room and woke them up, told
them to get their shoes on, and as the man was breaking my
door down, we exited through the sliding glass patio door.
Lucky for us we were on the ground floor. I made sure to
keep the kids in front of me; the bastard shot at me, but
missed. I stole a car and drove to Lariat. We rented a car
and drove to Bangor," Skinner says. "We've been waiting for
you, trying to keep quiet. I didn't answer my phone because
I didn't know how deep this went. William lost his pager
somewhere along the way, he's really worried about that,
Scully."
 
"It's okay," Scully says, not looking at Skinner, eyeing a
car pulling into the motel parking lot. The lights are
blinding, she and Skinner close their eyes, and turn away.
 
Skinner brings his hand to Scully's face; she flinches as
he pushes her hair behind her ear. "Who did this to you?"
he grinds out, gesturing at the yellowed bruising on her
cheekbone. She shakes her head, fighting the tears she
knows will come if she talks about her abduction, fighting
to keep it all together. Skinner seems to understand and
changes the subject. "What did you tell Mulder when you
called him earlier?" he asks.
 
"I told him to never give up on a miracle," Scully smiles
sadly. Skinner eyebrows her, a question hangs between them,
though no words have been spoken. "It means everything is
okay. He's on his way back to Bangor."
 
"I'll stay with you until he arrives," Skinner asserts.
 
"What has William told you about what's been going on for
the past few months?" Scully asks.
 
"I'll tell you if you want me to, but I'd rather you heard
it from William," Skinner answers. "We can talk tomorrow,
after you've had a chance to talk to him."
 
Scully nods, the moment between she and Skinner turns
awkward, and they go back to watching the stars. Finally,
Skinner tells her it's good to see her, although he wishes
it were under better circumstances. She quietly agrees. He
tells her to get some sleep, that they will discuss
everything in the morning. His hand brushes across her
shoulders as he makes his way inside the motel room beside
the one she, Hope, and William are sharing.
 
She stands, for a few minutes, watching the stars, sipping
on her secret-pain cocktail. It's in equal parts with a
splash of helplessness thrown in for good measure. Two
shooting stars streak across the sky and a little bit of
hope sparks in Scully's eyes: She wishes for Mulder's safe
return home, as she has too many times before, and that her
little fractured family can be put back together again. Her
next wish, that she feel anything besides nothing, is on
the tip of her tongue, but no others stars fall and
eventually she gives up waiting and goes back inside.
 
Three hours pass and still she is staring at the ceiling.
She's tossed and turned and turned and tossed and the bed
is so fucking uncomfortable Mulder is not with her and God
all this fucking pain and what does William know that he
doesn't want to tell her and if she's honest she doesn't
want to hear it and damn there's a spring from the bed
poking her right in the middle of her back.
 
The clock on the bedside table reads 2:51; she thinks to
herself that whether Mulder had to drive or fly, he should
make it to Bangor by around ten o'clock this morning. Only
seven hours and nine minutes to go.
 
"Mom?" asks William, "Are you awake?"
 
"Yeah, I'm awake, William," Scully answers.
 
"Are you mad at me, Mom?
 
Scully turns over in her bed, and looks at William. Hope is
still asleep so Scully brings her finger up to her mouth,
indicating for William to keep quiet, and slowly rises from
the bed. She whispers for William to put on a jacket and
his shoes and they will go outside to talk. Mother and son
stumble around in the dark, slip on shoes and don jackets,
quietly step outside their motel room, and sit on the curb
directly in front of the door to their room. William sits
hunched over with his arms hugging his body. Scully wraps
an arm around her son and draws him to her. Theirs is a
relationship wrapped up in miracles, a dash of heartache,
and a bond unbreakable because of it all. It is easy and
effortless for her to be a mother as a whole, although she
struggles with the details at times, and children are all
about details. It's something like a catch-22, but the
rewards far outweigh any heartache, and something like a
smile, a hug, or a head resting on a mother's shoulder make
the details all worthwhile. The love for her children is
equal, but William is her first born, her miracle baby boy
who she gave away, and who was returned to her. There is
something humbling in that.
 
"Why don't you tell me what's going on, William," Scully
states in her best mother-voice.
 
"Are you mad at me?" William asks.
 
"No, I'm not mad at you William," Scully reassures.
 
"Things have been happening that I don't understand, Mama,"
William says tearfully.
 
"Tell me, Little Mulder," she says, and William smiles.
It's been a term of endearment between them for years now.
When William was about five years old, he'd asked Scully
why she called Daddy by his last name, and she told him it
was because the name Mulder was special, and it meant she
and Daddy had a different love than most people, the kind
that never ended. William had looked up at his mother and
asked if she would call him Mulder, too. She said he could
be "Little Mulder," if Daddy didn't mind.
 
"I know you," he pauses, sniffs, and finally continues,
"haven't been at home for a while. I know there was a woman
at home pretending to be you, but she wasn't," William
says.
 
"How do you know, William?" Scully asks, pulling away from
William, looking into his eyes.
 
William looks down at the ground and props his elbows on
his knees. He tells Scully that three weeks ago he
confronted the woman living at their house, and told her he
knew she wasn't his mother. She tried to deny it, but
William was insistent, and finally she admitted it. "She
told me you would come back eventually, and everything
would be fine, but if I told Daddy she wasn't you, then she
would kill you and take Daddy from us, too," William says,
kicking at some loose pebbles of asphalt.
 
"William," Scully sighs, and shakes her head. "I'm so
sorry, William, that you have had to deal with all of this.
You did the right thing, and I am not angry with you, not
at all."
 
"I want to be honest, Mom, about everything, but I don't
want you to be afraid of me," William says.
 
"I could never be afraid of you, William," Scully assures.
 
"You were when I was a baby. You were afraid because I
wasn't like other kids," William says, barely above a
whisper.
 
Scully looks at William in disbelief. She and Mulder have
never discussed William's infancy, except to tell him that
he went to live with another family for a while, because it
hadn't been safe, at the time, to live with his parents.
She's never told him about the details of just how special
he was as a baby, though. Even she and Mulder have barely
skimmed the surface on what went on with William after he
left her and their three-day-old son, all those years ago.
She realizes she hasn't said anything, and that William is
looking at her, taking her silence for agreement. "I was
never afraid of you, William, never. There were times,
however, I was afraid for you, because of your gifts,"
Scully says.
 
The words come tumbling out of his mouth as a confession, a
relief, "I can't read people's minds exactly but I can read
their feelings. I don't know how to explain it, Mom. It's
like I can't read their exact thoughts, but I know if they
are happy, or sad, or lying. Sometimes, it's more than
that, and I can read a feeling that leads me to a thought,
and sometimes, it's just a feeling without a person
attached to it. You and Daddy have always known that I had
ways of knowing how people felt, and that's why you've
always been so careful around me with what you are feeling;
when you are trying to keep how you feel from me it's like
a door closing. The other woman couldn't do that, though. I
couldn't read her thoughts but I knew she was evil and
because of that, she couldn't be you. I'm sorry I couldn't
help you, Mom," William says, crying without shame.
 
Scully takes William in her arms and tells him everything
is okay, that she loves him, that it's not his fault. He
cries longer than she imagined he would, and they sit on
the curb, the air cold and crisp around them, holding on
tightly to one another. Scully opens the door to her soul,
the part where the love for William, Hope, and Mulder is
carefully guarded, so William will know she is telling the
truth. At first, she doesn't think it has made a
difference, and then all at once William pulls away and
looks at her with such awe. He looks at her with the eyes
of a little boy who knows the full reality of a mother's
love; the trickle of tears ends, and he lays his head in
Scully's lap, his knowledge of that kind of love a comfort
to him.
 
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction,
so says Isaac Newton. "Mom?" William looks up at Scully
with a different kind of awe than a few moments ago.
 
"Yes?" she says, smiling down at William. The look in his
eyes causes her to lose her focus, and the glancing
communication she has shared with Mulder for so many years,
is suddenly hanging between mother and son.
 
"I know-" William stops when he sees tears in his mother's
eyes. Scully shakes her head, indicating she doesn't want
him to continue, and so he sits and waits, wishing the past
year never happened. 'Do over,' he wants to say.
 
"Have you told anyone else?" she asks.
 
"No, I didn't know until just now," he answers.
 
She looks away from him, hating herself for burdening her
son in this way, "You cannot tell your father," she says,
wiping her eyes.
 
"I know," William answers. Scully is nervous, the door to
her tightly held emotions isn't quite closed. He's never
really considered that his mother was afraid of anything;
he's never considered that behind her brilliant smile and
comforting words was so much pain. The door closes; William
is immensely grateful, and sighs in relief.
 
"I'm sorry to have to ask you to keep something from your
father, you know how much we are opposed to being
dishonest, but the situation necessitates it right now.
William, all he would do is feel helpless and worry himself
sick. You know how he gets about all of us, how he
worries," Scully tries to explain, the words sounding like
nothing but what they are: a justification for having her
son keep a secret from his father.
 
"I know he loves us, and he worries about us, but Daddy
acts different when he thinks you're hurt, or sick, or just
sad," William says.
 
"What do you mean, William?" Scully asks.
 
"I know you think I'm just a kid, but I see the way he
looks at you, and I see the way Mike's dad looks at Mrs.
Greggs, and it isn't the same. He loves you more than
anyone, Mom, we all know that," William says, and seems sad
by his admission.
 
"Daddy doesn't love you any less than he loves me, Little
Mulder, it's just different. Sometimes I think it scares
him how much he loves us, and so he tries to pull back from
it just a little bit, because it's so overwhelming," Scully
says. "We're his family, and he's given up a lot to keep us
safe and together. The sun rises and sets on you and Hope,"
Scully smiles.
 
"And the stars shine when he's with you," William smiles in
return. He has no idea how his words affect her, the wisdom
laced with innocence that only Mulder's son could possess.
No matter how mature William is, no matter how wise and
intelligent, he is still a little boy worried about his
mother, about his life returning to some semblance of
normalcy. "When are you going to tell Daddy? What are we
going to do? Is everything going to be okay?" The questions
spill from his lips, and Scully sits quietly, unwilling to
lie and unable to answer.
 
"I don't know, William," she says, after a long pause.
 
They sit for an indeterminable amount of time, side by
side, the coldness of the night settling deep in their
bones. A few flakes of snow begin to fall, land in
William's soft, brown hair, and remain there until they
melt away. Eventually, without speaking, Scully stands up
and pulls William up with her. They share a hug before they
enter their motel room. Scully takes off her shoes and
lines them up neatly in front of the dresser. She slides in
between cool sheets; William sits on the edge of the bed he
is sharing with Hope, his shoes thump-thump on the floor.
Scully closes her eyes. At some time during the early
morning before dawn, William and Hope migrate to her bed,
and for a moment, she feels warm inside.
 
 
 
 
 
Continued in Chapter 8