Title: Sfumato (9/? Sequel to "The Marionette Rebellion") Author: supernova Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue. Rating: R Category: MSR, Angst-O-Rama Archive: Not this time. Feedback: Feed me at supernova818@aol.com Author's Notes: I posted this message on Sybils' new boards: Hello faithful "Sfumato" readers - I'm sorry it's been so long since an update. I was working my little fingers to the nub before I went on vacation for Christmas, but ultimately I just couldn't finish the chapter, and didn't want to rush it. I was gone for two weeks, but I've been working on the latest chapter since I returned home from vacation, and will post an update in a couple of days. As much as I'd like to update every week, that will be impossible from here on out, because of school and some exciting things going on for me personally, so I will be posting (crosses fingers) every two weeks instead. Also, thanks to Snick for her friendship. I'm about to fire my PA, because she's been sitting on her lazy ass by the pool, sipping fruity drinks, and damn it I think I might need help moving (grin). To Beach, my lone beta throughout this fic: thanks for going above and beyond the call of duty, thanks for your kind, encouraging words, and for your friendship. --------------- Sfumato ---------- Chapter 8 --------------- For nine straight years, Bangor has been voted one of the top ten cities in the United States to raise a family: low crime, clean aired suburbia at its best, although with the recent murders, Bangor is probably off the top ten list. In any case, the top ten version of Bangor had been one of the plusses for Mulder and Scully when they'd moved there almost eight years ago. They weren't West Coast people, they were looking for a nice place to raise their family, and they couldn't stay in D.C. - okay, so it happened more because Mulder had blindfolded Scully, laid a map in front of her, and told her to pushpin her way to their next home. They had been feeling spontaneous and were full of reckless abandon while pondering their newfound freedom. Scully had push-pinned Bangor, and they'd moved out of the safe house the next week, William toddling all the way, Hope gurgling her sweet, baby sounds. As Bangor had come into view, the sun had cast its contentment in a mishmash of colors, bright and forgiving hues of orange, pink, red, and blue. The inside of the car had been cozy and warm, the children fast asleep in their car seats; it had been peaceful. Mulder and Scully had held hands as if they were at the top of a roller coaster, the journey to the top behind them, all the best parts out in the distance in front of them: it had sprawled out in front of them like a lush, green promise, all fertile land and clear, brilliant sky. They'd rented a house for a year, then bought a home once all was well with the legal world and they were sure there were no shadows lurking at night. It was a beginning based on truth, honesty, and a love that had survived against all the odds. William and Hope emerged from infancy to toddlerhood, and finally into two beautiful people ever growing toward the teenage years, with adulthood looming not so far off in the distance. Time, when looking back, passes by so quickly. Mulder and Scully have grown older and more in love. In the car, whenever they drive to a movie or the Whig and Courier Pub, they still hold hands. They are still on the ride of their lives, and all the best parts are still in the distance in front of them, everything getting better with age and all. Mulder hopes that is the case anyway, that for now they have hit a momentary bump that has robbed them of their contentment, but everything will be smoother and better after this unexpected turn of events is resolved. The snow and ice have appropriately replaced the green promise they encountered that first day when driving in to Bangor. The weather always seems to complicate an already complicated situation, reflect an abysmal day, or shine on a good day. Just once, Mulder would like to be in a shitty mood, and have the sun shine. Maybe, just maybe, it would change everything. As it stands, the wind is spitting flakes of snow against the windshield, it's cold, and the sun is hiding behind a gray cloud that looks a little too much like an alien head for Mulder's liking. It's always the last place you look. Mulder had three motels in mind, and he's already been to the other two, not finding her car, this was to be the last stop. The last place on his list, the Main Street Inn, and here her car sits in the snow-covered parking lot. He is forced to park a good distance from Scully's car, because the lot is full, the weather having forced several motorists off the road. Mulder is just about to get out of his car when he sees Skinner emerge from a motel room, turn sideways, and knock on the door immediately to his right. Scully opens the door, turns around and says something over her shoulder, and then steps outside. Scully and Skinner begin discussing something; Scully looks tired and Skinner looks uncomfortable. Scully is the bastion of restrained calm. Skinner seems more perturbed as the seconds go by. Shaking her head, Scully turns around, and begins to open the motel room door. Skinner reaches over her shoulder with his big, bulky arm, and closes the door, puts his free hand on her arm. Scully jerks away from Skinner and begins speaking more loudly than before. Mulder doesn't realize he's gotten out of the car, instinct has begun to kick in, and he stealthily moves toward Scully. Skinner insinuates himself in front Scully, effectively trapping her, no doubt trying to calm her down, and Scully moves to walk away. Skinner makes a sudden move, probably frustrated by Scully's stubbornness, and Scully's hands fly up to protect her body from the blows she fears will follow. Skinner looks horrified that she could be afraid of him. Mulder feels something primal unfurl deep in his gut. Skinner is a hulking Neanderthal and Scully is his tiny, bruised lover. All he can think is: remove your fucking hands from her person. He's across the parking lot and calling out to Scully before she can slap Skinner for his impropriety, although in truth Skinner has done nothing wrong. Even still, Scully looks relieved and, if possible, even more stressed now than she has been over the last few days. William and Hope emerge from the motel room before any words are exchanged between the three adults present, and then Mulder's children are in his arms; the places that are labeled William and Hope in his heart are full once again, his shoulders feel lighter, and for several minutes Mulder feels whole. As quickly as that sensation washes over him, Mulder sees Scully glance at Skinner, shake her head when Skinner begins to offer what probably is an apology, and then she glances back at Mulder, and tries to smile. Scully leaves Hope and William to Mulder, the conversation with Skinner conveniently interrupted and unfinished, and goes back inside her motel room. She hears the excited squeals of her children as they hug their father, and the sound of the door the next motel room over being pushed closed. It isn't long before Mulder enters their motel room, Hope wrapped around him like a monkey, William walking beside his father. Mulder puts Hope down, and turns around to shut the door. Scully feels the walls closing in on her. It is too much, her family, everyone looking at her, wanting her to fix everything. Their sad faces and eyes full of longing pull her in a thousand different directions: Hope wants Scully to be soft and comforting, William wants her to be strong again, Mulder wants her the way she's always been. The air is heavy with tension and silence. William looks guilty, but remains quiet, his secret tearing at the child in him. Hope smiles blankly at Mulder, pretends to know nothing, yet worriedly looks over at William every few seconds. Mulder smiles back at Hope, but his eyes and his attention are pulled toward Scully, the force of her undeniable, as it has always been. Scully feels like she can't catch her breath. The room is too small. Not enough oxygen. Too many people. Can't breathe. She bisects the room from North to South when she launches herself toward the door, opens it, and barely makes it to the parking lot in time to vomit. She can hear Mulder behind her, as he tells the children to stay inside, turn on some cartoons, Mom is fine, and then there is the sound of water running, and some indeterminable time later she feels a cool cloth on the back of her neck. Her humiliation is complete when Mulder's hands hold back her hair so she can vomit again if need be. He is intuiting her weakness instead of her strength. She is lost inside herself, and she wonders not for the first time, if strength for her is a facade, and weakness is truth. She hopes that this indignity is a one-time occurrence even as her stomach churns. She sits down on the curb; the snow is cold against her legs, the warmth of her body melts the flakes, seeps into her jeans, makes her shiver. The curtains in Skinner's motel room sway back and forth when she is finally able to look back; the door to her own motel room remains open. Despite their father's instruction, William and Hope stand in the doorway looking at her with fear and uncertainty. Scully looks up at Mulder and nods toward the doorway, and he is gone, mumbling a fatherly reprimand at William and Hope, though there is no real anger in his words. If the ground could split apart and swallow her whole at this moment, she thinks she would gladly accept the reprieve. She would allow herself to be taken into the depths of the earth where she would be appropriated time to deal with her secrets and her pain, and then the ground could split apart again, and let her exit her refuge once she was healed. Even healing, for her, is a secret thing. "Do you want to tell me what is going on, Scully?" Mulder asks. His voice is pleading, with a tired edge to it, and a desperate yearning that probably reflects all that he feels inside. Want is very different than should, and because Scully does, most of the time, what she should, she begins relaying to Mulder her conversations with William. Scully lays the washcloth on the ground beside her; the neck of her sweater is damp and irritating against her skin. Mulder sits down beside her, takes it all in stride except when she gets to the part about William's confession, his gifts, and then Mulder's jaw twitches, and he looks far off into the distance. Scully thinks to herself, 'I have searched that horizon, and you will find nothing that is of any comfort there', but she says nothing. She also conveniently leaves out the part where she asked their son to keep secrets from his father. Mulder nods and looks at her, scoots closer so that their hips touch, and then asks, "Now, do you want to tell me what's going on with you, Scully?" "The past few days have been nothing short of terrifying Mulder, not to mention the past few months, that's what is going on with me," she answers. He drapes his arm around her, she allows herself to lean into him, then his lips are pressed against her temple, he pulls her into his lap, and the concrete scrapes against her jeans. The muffled sound of scraping is nails down a chalkboard, and Scully jerks spasmodically, then pulls away. "Damn it," Mulder mumbles. "Why can't you just talk to me? Why are you hiding from me, Scully? Are you still angry about Dara? Then please yell at me if it will make you feel better, or cry, or show some damn emotion. Are you scared of the men who abducted you? Then tell me, talk to me, cry on my shoulder. Are you afraid for the children? It's okay, I am, too, but we will protect them, the two of us, together. I'm here, Scully, and you don't have to go through any of this alone." "We need to rectify this situation, Mulder. We need to ensure the safety of our family; there will be plenty of time to deal with the ramifications of all that has happened, after we ensure that it will not happen again," Scully says. "I hate when you go logical on me. It's impossible to argue when you are rationally avoiding the real issue," Mulder retorts, and rises from the ground. "You're right about one thing, though, there will be plenty of time to deal with all that has happened once this situation is taken care of," Mulder says. Scully rises from her position on the ground, and stands facing Mulder, shoulders tense because of the nearness of him. He pulls her into his arms, brushes the hair away from her ear, finds a tiny blue line, and presses his lips to her skin, "I love you," he whispers. She would have pushed him away had he not let her go first. "I'm going to take care of this," Mulder assures. Suddenly it is ten, twelve, fifteen years ago, she is young and naive, and Mulder is trudging off without her, almost dying, and she is wearing her glasses typing up a field report she doesn't understand, while in the back of her mind all she can think about is him, that he is leaving, always leaving her, and she is always, always afraid he won't come home. "What do you mean by that, Mulder?" she asks, trying to sound calm, strong, levelheaded. "I want you to let Skinner put you and the kids in protective custody, and I am going to find the men that abducted you, find out the reasons why, make sure they never try to do it again," Mulder explains. "I don't," Scully stutters, "I'd rather you not do that," she says, finally. "I know, Scully, but I have to do this. We can't hope that this situation will resolve itself, or feign ignorance about how deep this might go. The stakes are so high," Mulder says, nodding his head toward the motel room, where William and Hope are. Scully is at a loss for words, it is too much, everything that has happened. She feels the world spinning, and then her vision tunnels, white starbursts explode against the inky canvas, Mulder's voice is a distant echo, and she is reaching out for anything so that she doesn't fall. Strong arms come around her, and she is grateful, and ashamed, and needy, and pain-filled. She and Mulder sit on the cold, cement curb together, and he tells her to take deep breaths. The darkness fades away, and then there is only Mulder, looking at her with tenderness in his eyes. Scully thinks she should tell Mulder everything, at this moment, when he is holding her so closely to his heart, but she doesn't. "I got up too fast, and I have barely eaten in two days. Sorry about that," Scully mumbles, and Mulder politely half-smiles. "Are you okay, Scully? Is something wrong, have you told me everything?" he asks, dismissing her explanation. This isn't their usual routine; they usually dance around the issues. Mulder pretends ignorance about any weakness, pain, or insecurity she might have, until of course she's ready to talk about it, if she's ever ready to talk about it, and even then they just sort of spit and shake hands, promise to be there for each other, and then Scully spends most of her energies working things out in her own time. More often than not, Mulder will come to her if he is having a problem with something, talk to her, and she will advise him, hold him, or make love to him, and in the blue light of morning, he will feel better. Scully, however, retreats, buries herself in work or projects around the house, takes extra long baths, gets a little rougher in bed, but rarely speaks the words, "I need you, Mulder, help me." No, that's not her style, and for Mulder to alter their routine throws her completely off balance. For now she lies, because for her, there are no other options, "Yes, Mulder, you know everything. I'm having a difficult time, though, because of the children. Everything will be fine," she says, easily. Mulder doesn't believe her, but he doesn't have the strength to call her a liar. Instead, he sits hip to hip with her, and pretends that everything will be fine. Love and denial often go hand in hand. -X- The problems didn't start until they were getting ready for bed. After lunch for four, Skinner having bowed out gracefully, Mulder had gone back to the Mulder-Scully home, checked out the house, made sure his and Scully's bedroom was cleaned up, and then had called Scully to bring the children home. They'd spent the day decompressing, alternately resting and eating, saying nothing about recent events. It was decided that everyone needed one day to regain his or her bearings, and that everything else could be dealt with tomorrow. Skinner had accompanied them home; Mulder had led Skinner to the guest bedroom, and asked him to stay the night. As the day wore on, Hope had gone to her room, and curled up in bed with a few books, and a raggedy doll that had belonged to an aunt she'd never met. William had played Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata at Scully's request. Mulder and Skinner had conspired in a corner of the kitchen, each man quieting and looking at Scully the three times she passed through. Eventually, Skinner had excused himself and gone to bed, Mulder and Scully tucked in Hope and William, and they were left only with each other for company. The first slightly disconcerting incident was when Mulder was taking off his jeans, getting ready for bed, and Scully entered their shared bedroom with an armful of garbage bags. She'd ripped most of her clothes off their hangers, and had begun shoving them into the garbage bags. "She wore my clothes," was Scully's only explanation. After her clothes, Scully had attacked the bed, and had stuffed sheets, comforter, and pillows into the trash bags, finally settling on the trashcan when the comforter refused to be contained by the bags. Similar words were offered as explanation, "She slept in our bed." It was one of those moments where reality is so insane that he wanted to laugh, because all he could think of was Goldilocks and the Three Bears. And then, as quickly as he'd wanted to laugh, he'd felt as violated as Scully must've been feeling. Hell, he had not only been violated, he'd also been given the role of unwilling accomplice, although, he suspected Scully rarely considered the "unwilling" part of unwilling accomplice. Thinking about it made is head hurt. He tried to hold her, but she pushed him away, although she had dressed in one of his shirts for bed. The bed had been made up with an odd concoction of old sheets and blankets, after Mulder had assured Scully that Dara had never touched the aforementioned linens. Scully might not realize it now, but they were going to have to move, because Dara had lived in their house as Scully would have lived, and there were very few things she didn't touch. Mulder replays the night's events again and again, trying to decipher any clue, trying to keep his mind off the nearness of Scully. Currently, Scully is as close to the edge of the bed as possible, and trying to sleep. Without warning, she rolls over, and lays her head on Mulder's chest. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm so sorry, Mulder." "What are you sorry about?" he asks. "This is my fault, all of this," she answers. "No, Scully, this isn't your fault." He believes it, although his voice seems unconvincing to his own ears, because he is distracted and wonders why she would think it is her fault. He holds her close to him, one arm around her shoulder, the other arm around her waist. He is grateful that she is letting him be near her, and then he realizes she is asleep. It is not long before he gives in to exhaustion as well, and he sleeps soundly through the night. Morning brings with it blinding sun, and as he wakes up, Mulder realizes the sheets are cold. He gets out of bed, and searches his and Scully's room, he checks on the children, he creeps down the stairs, searches the kitchen, office, family room. He opens the door to the deck, searches for any sign of her, but she is nowhere to be found. Continued in Chapter 9