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Title: The Fear Place Summary: Revelations and regrets help bridge the emotional abyss between a son and mother. A look at Mulder through Scully's eyes. 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 Somewhere near Newark, NJ 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 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 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 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.
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