TITLE:  Declarations
SPOILER STATEMENT:  Trevor.  Dreamland.  Duane Barry/Ascension/One Breath.
RATING:  PG
CONTENT STATEMENT:  M/S married.  M/S UST.  A little bad language.  A
minor tribute to Manly Wade Wellman's "Silver John" stories, which you
really ought to read.  But this is not a crossover, and you don't need
to have read them to "get it".
CLASSIFICATION:  VRA
SUMMARY:   Post-ep for Trevor.  Continuation of the "Making It Personal"
series.  In the aftermath of the Pinker Rawls case, Mulder and Scully
have dinner with her mother in hopes of patching things up.  Scully
reaches an epiphany.
THANKS:  To all the gals at Babyfishmouth:  Brynna, Paulette, Robbie,
Shannon and Sharon ... you know who you are!
 
 
 

Declarations

by Brandon D. Ray
 

I am 35 years old, I remind myself as I steer the car through late
afternoon Baltimore traffic.  I am 35 years old, I am a professional
woman, and I have been completely independent of my parents for more
than a decade.

So why do I feel so much like a little girl being called in for a spanking?

I glance over at Mulder, sitting in the passenger seat next to me. 
Outwardly he appears completely calm and relaxed, but surely that can't
be true.  Surely he's as nervous as I am.  He's got to be.  If he isn't,
I may have to kill him.

I turn my attention back to the highway.  Almost there.  Shouldn't be
long.  Not more than another 20 minutes until we arrive at my mother's
house for dinner.

God help us both.

Mom finally called me at the end of last week.  We hadn't spoken in
nearly a month -- not since that horrible confrontation in my apartment
the night of my birthday.  I had intended to call her the next day in
hopes of smoothing things over, but the case in Arcadia went longer than
we'd hoped, and then Mulder and I had that fight the day after we got
back, and then we'd barely made up before we had to go to California
again, and there was always *some* damned reason not to call her.

Yes, it was avoidance, and I knew it even while I was doing it.  The
truth of the matter was -- and is -- that I'm afraid to face my mother
again.  I don't know what I'm going to say to her; I don't know how I'm
going to explain the reasons which led me to marry Mulder.

None of this is going to make sense to her.  Hell, it doesn't make sense
to *me* when I stop and think about it too hard.  It's not something I
had ever considered, before that night in his apartment a few days after
the El Rico massacre.  As I said to Mom the night she found out:  It
just sort of happened.

But now I've done it -- *we've* done it -- and we have to move forward. 
We may not have thought this through as thoroughly as we might have, but
we did make this decision, and we did act on it.  Together, I remind
myself.  We did it together.  We've faced liver eating mutants and
prehistoric insects and dark conspiracies against all of humanity.  We
can face this, too, as long as we're together.

Besides, I *do* love the man, and I'm sure he loves me.  That ought to
count for something.

I glance at Mulder one more time, and now he's looking back at me with
warm, sympathetic eyes.  He smiles slightly and nods reassuringly,
almost as if he can read my mind, and he reaches out to squeeze my hand
where it rests on the steering wheel.  I force a smile in return, then
face once more to the front.

And there's Mom's house, dead ahead.

It's showtime.

#          #          #

The first few minutes of the visit are taken up by empty pleasantries. 
I have just the briefest instant of panic as the front door swings open,
but then Mom is stepping forward and giving me a warm hug, and I start
to feel better almost immediately.

Then she turns to Mulder, and I don't even have time for another panicky
moment because my husband is stepping forward and giving his best
friendly smile.  He really can be very charming, even charismatic, when
he wants to be.  For Mom's part, I'm pretty sure I detect a slight
hesitation, and maybe just a little stiffness as she moves to embrace
him.  Then she lets him go and leads us on into the house, ever the
perfect hostess.

Now we're seated in the living room, Mulder and me on the sofa and Mom
in the old recliner that was Ahab's chair for as far back as I can
remember.  It doesn't really go with the rest of the living room, but
every time I see it I'm glad she still has it.

As Mom rattles on about her neighbors and the letter she got from
Charlie last week and all the other trivialities involved in getting
caught up, it gradually dawns on me that she is as unsure about what's
going to happen this evening as I am.  Ever since that night in my
apartment I've been thinking of her as a powerful, threatening figure,
but she's really not.  She's my mother and she loves me.  All she wants
is for me to be happy.

Maybe this won't be as hard as I thought.

" ... but here I am chattering on, and I'm sure it's not really what's
on any of our minds tonight," Mom concludes.  She pauses and takes a
breath.  "Dana.  Fox.  I'm terribly sorry about ... that night.  Please
accept my apologies."

For a moment there's an uncomfortable silence.  I glance at Mulder, and
I see that he's looking steadily at me, waiting for me to take the
lead.  Fair enough.  It's my mother.  I take my own deep breath, and
look back at Mom.

"Mom ..." My voice trails off and I shake my head.  "I don't know what
to say."  And I really don't.  This is not at all what I had been afraid
of -- Mom no longer seems to be angry or upset.  But it's still so very
awkward.  I glance at Mulder again, and he's still watching me, so I
reach out and take his hand before looking back at my mother.

"We never intended to hurt you," I continue.  "And I was telling the
truth that night; it really was ... rather sudden."  Mulder squeezes my
hand slightly, which for some reason I find infinitely reassuring.  "I
... we never meant to shut anyone out, though."  I can see her start to
cloud up again, and I realize this is still a sore point.

"It just happened so fast," I add hastily.  "Honest, Mom.  I would never
want to hurt you."  I wince as I realize I just repeated myself.  I'd
better shut up now; I'm starting to sound like a teenager trying to
explain what her boyfriend was doing in her bedroom.

There's another awkward silence, and now I can see in Mom's eyes that
even though she's trying to make a clean breast of things, she still
can't quite bring herself to forgive me for having kept her in the
dark.  She may feel guilty over the way she lashed out at us that night,
but she also still feels she was wronged.

Finally Mom lets out a sigh, and reaches over to pat my knee.  "It's
okay, Dana," she says.  "Sometimes ... things happen."  She smiles and
rises from her seat.  "Now why don't we go see about dinner.  The pot
roast should be about done by now."

But from her body language I can see that it's not quite okay.  Not all
of it.

#          #          #

Things seem to get a bit more relaxed during dinner.  Mom really does
have the gracious hostess routine down to a fine art, and Mulder --
well, Mulder can charm a baby away from its mother's breast when it
suits his purposes.  And tonight he's pulling out all the stops.

While Mulder and Mom are chatting I take the opportunity to look around
the dining room for a minute.  Not much has changed since I lived in
this house, I realize.  The same display cabinet with Grandmother
Kinsella's china in it.  The same reproduction of Winslow Homer's "Lost
off the Grand Banks".  The same handmade linen tablecloth.

I'm suddenly reminded of the case we just finished in Mississippi.  All
Pinker Rawls really wanted was an opportunity to live this sort of
life.  Another chance, Mulder said as we drove back to our motel the
evening we closed the case.  All that Rawls wanted was another chance at
... this.

I doubt that he would have been interested in these particular
trappings, of course -- but they're really just symbols anyway.  Symbols
of a home.  A family.  Neighbors.  Kids playing in the yard.  All the
conventional things.  A normal life, as I put it to Mulder last fall
during our abortive trip to Area 51.  Rawls wanted it so badly he was
willing to kill for it -- and ultimately, he was willing to die for it.

I wonder when *I* stopped wanting it?

I've always wanted a career, of course.  As far back as I can remember,
I wanted to do something more with my life than just raise children and
keep house.  I have nothing but love for my mother, and respect for her
accomplishments, but I never wanted her life.

On the other hand, I never intended to sacrifice a family life in order
to have a career.  I assumed that I would have all those other things,
sooner or later.  I never really planned for them, the way I did for my
career in medicine, and later in the Bureau, but I always supposed that
somehow they would come to me.  Good things come to those who wait,
after all.

But somewhere along the line I stopped wanting them quite so much. 
Despite what I said to Mulder last fall, sometime during the last six
years a "normal life" stopped seeming so important.  And just in the
past few months, whatever lingering desire I had for one seems to have
completely vanished.

I force my attention back to the conversation.  Mulder is just finishing
up an account of one of our less alarming cases, but from the look on
Mom's face I can see that our idea of what's truly alarming doesn't jive
with hers very well.  And I suddenly realize that this is yet another
way in which I've become set apart from my family and left the
conventional way of life behind.

My mother is not a sheltered schoolgirl, of course -- her husband was a
Navy man, and so are both of her sons.  But the X-Files are something
different, and there's a reason I've never tried to explain my work to
my family in any great detail.  In retrospect, I can see now why Mom
feels I've been shutting the family out of my life, but I was really
only trying to protect them.

Wasn't I?

Almost as if she can read my mind, Mom is now turning her attention
directly to me, and suddenly I feel like a bug under a microscope.  This
is the moment I've been dreading ever since she called me last week. 
The gloves are about to come off.

"So Dana," she says, her voice deceptively calm.  "Where should I be
addressing your mail these days?"

Shit.  Shit, shit, shit.  A very reasonable question, but one for which
I don't have a reasonable answer.  Even worse, it will lead inevitably
to other questions, questions for which the answers I have are even less
reasonable.  Well, nothing to do about it now but respond as best I
can.  My mother loves me, I remind myself.  Even if she doesn't always
understand why I do the things I do, she still loves me.

"I'm still living at my apartment in Georgetown, Mom," I reply, trying
to match her calm as best I can.  "Same address and phone number."  As
you well know, I add to myself.  You called me there last week, remember?

She nods slightly, and her gaze flicks to Mulder and then back to me. 
"I take it Fox has moved in with you, then?"

I sigh and shake my head.  No, this isn't going to be easy.  "No, Mom,"
I reply.  "We ... haven't worked out all those details yet."  We're
sleeping together most nights, Mom, but we're not *sleeping* together,
if you catch my drift.  Another one of those minor details we overlooked
when we embarked on this little venture.

My mother's eyebrows do not shoot up in surprise -- she has raised four
children, after all.  I do see the barest flicker of ... something ...
in her eyes, but before I can say or do anything, Mulder intervenes.

"Mrs. Scully," he says, leaning forward slightly and catching her eye. 
"As Dana said, this has all been very sudden, and there are a lot of,
well, practical details that we haven't worked out yet.  Some of it's as
mundane as living arrangements."  He reaches over and takes my hand and
squeezes it.  "But I want to assure you that I do love your daughter.  I
wouldn't have done this if I didn't."

Damn him.  Or bless him.  Or something.  I couldn't have asked for a
better speech if I'd written it myself.  Mulder and I aren't the types
to go in for flowery declarations or wearing our hearts on our sleeves,
but for Mom ... well, that was just about perfect.

It *was* just for Mom.  Wasn't it?

Mom is nodding thoughtfully, still looking at Mulder -- and I suddenly
remember that the two of them have a relationship of sorts; one that
does not include me other than as a common interest.  It was formed
after I was kidnapped by Duane Barry, and I've never been able to find
out much about it.  Melissa claimed not to know anything, and I've never
had the courage to ask either Mom or Mulder directly.

"I see," Mom says.  She glances briefly at me and then looks back at
Mulder.  "Well, I guess that's all that really matters, isn't it?"

"I like to think so," Mulder replies, and he actually reaches over with
his free hand and briefly squeezes hers, and then his lips quirk
slightly.  "Besides, there really isn't anyone else who'd be able to
keep me out of trouble.  It's kind of a full time job."

Mom chuckles slightly and shakes her head.  "I have no doubt of it," she
says, and then she turns back to me, which is just as well.  I was
beginning to wonder if I was still part of this conversation.

"Dana," she says -- and I can see from the set of her shoulders that
she's about to tackle a topic which she considers difficult.  "I realize
you're probably going to regard this as a rather personal matter, but
...."  Her voice trails off, and I suddenly realize what she's about to
say.  Oh God, please no.  Not that argument; not again.

Unbidden memories flash through my mind; memories of the horrible fight
the night Missy told Ahab she wanted to marry outside the Church.  She
finally stormed out of the house, and was gone for more than a year. 
She didn't even come back for his funeral.  Mom, I can't go through
that; not again --

"Dana, I really think you ought to tell your brothers."

"What?"  I'm so startled by what Mom *didn't* say that I almost didn't
hear what she *did* say.

"Bill and Charlie," she says, much more gently than I had expected.  "I
think you should call them.  Or at least write.  They're entitled to
know, Dana."

"Mom, I don't know," I say.  My voice sounds childish and whiny, even to
me, and I try to firm it up a bit.  "You know how Bill feels, and
Charlie -- "

"You brothers will adjust," my mother says firmly.  "I know that Bill
and Fox have had their ... differences, and I have to admit that I
contributed to that a bit."  She frowns, and I know that she's
remembering the same things I am:  The cancer, and Bill's reaction to
the whole thing.  I'd always wondered why he responded with such extreme
hostility towards Mulder, and I think maybe this is as close to an
explanation -- or an apology -- as I'm ever going to get.

"Just tell them, Dana," she says, very gently.  "They may not like it at
first, especially Bill, but they'll come around in time."  And now she
reaches out and squeezes *my* hand, completing the circuit.  "We all
love you, Dana," she adds.  "Whatever else happens, don't forget that we
all love you."

#          #          #

It's later, and Mulder and I are on our way home.  Back to D.C., I mean;
it's still a little premature to say that we have a well-defined home. 
We've spent a few more nights together at my apartment than we have at
his, but that's mostly because I live closer to work than he does.

The rest of the evening ... passed.  Mulder's driving now because he
seemed to be less stressed by the whole experience than I was.  To be
fair, Mom never did subject us to the inquisition that I'd been more
than half expecting -- but she didn't quite let us off the hook,
either.  There was always a slight edge to the conversation, and the end
result has left me feeling pretty drained.

At last we arrive at my apartment building.  Our apartment building?  We
have been sleeping here more often than not when we're not out in the
field -- but is that enough to make it "ours" rather than "mine"?  I'm
just tired enough to find that a meaningful question, but not nearly
tired enough to believe that I can reach a useful conclusion.

I push that particular distraction away and turn in my seat to find
Mulder looking back at me quizzically.  I know exactly what question he
has on his mind -- but I also know that he will never, ever flat out ask
me if he can spend the night here.  The fact that our marriage has not
yet progressed to the point where my husband and I can count on sleeping
next to each other on any given night is one of the many things I'm just
as happy not to have had to explain to Mom this evening.

But it's an ill wind that blows no good.  Mulder's willingness to wait
patiently for an invitation means that I have as much time as I need to
decide how to broach the *other* subject that I've been ruminating about
for a good part of the evening.  And so for a pair of minutes I study my
husband's face.

He really has quite a good face, in my admittedly biased opinion. 
Sensitive, almost feminine lips.  A prominent, fleshy nose which some
may think is too big, but which seems to me to be just right.  And his
eyes:  warm and liquid and hazel colored; caring and compassionate. 
Mulder truly lives in his eyes, and I could spend a lifetime exploring
them and never tire of his infinite variety.

As I examine my husband's face I feel the beginnings of a warm tingling
between my legs, but I quickly suppress it.  It's not the time for that,
unfortunately.  I tried to act on those feels last week, the night we
returned from California, and it was an unmitigated disaster.  Mulder
and I need to be on much firmer footing before we try to explore that
particular extreme possibility.

"Mulder," I say, quietly but abruptly.  I need to say this quickly,
before I lose my nerve.  "Mulder, I don't want to stop the car."

There.  It's out.  To his credit, Mulder's expression barely flickers --
but then, we've been carrying on this intermittent metaphor of a
conversation for more than six months now, so there's really no reason
for him to be surprised that I'm bringing it up again.  The only real
uncertainty lies in the timing of my statement.  Profiler that he is,
he's probably already figured out what I'm about to say.

"I mean it, Mulder," I continue.  "I've been thinking about it for
months, and tonight when we were at Mom's ...."  I let my voice trail
off as I struggle to find the words that will make my meaning clear.  "I
got a glimpse of the world I used to live in," I say at last.  "The
world I grew up in.  And as I told you a few weeks ago, there was a time
when I think I could have found my niche in that world, and been happy
in it."

I reach out and lightly scratch the back of his hand as it rests on the
steering wheel.  "But that's not true anymore, Mulder," I go on, still
looking into his eyes, and finding nothing there but love and
understanding.  "I *don't* live in that world anymore, and I don't want
to go back -- if for no other reason, then because *you* don't live
there.  Pinker Rawls -- I can get into his head, but only partly.  A
normal life?  I don't want a normal life, Mulder; I just want what's
mine."  I lean over and kiss him gently on the cheek.  "And I've already
got it."

Mulder looks at me for just a moment or two after I fall silent.  I can
see that he's calculating something, trying to come to a conclusion. 
Only a few weeks ago seeing this look on his face would have filled me
with unease, but not anymore.  Now I know beyond any possible doubt that
whatever he decides and wherever he goes, he'll take me with him.

At last, without ever breaking eye contact, he moves his hand to the
ignition switch and starts the car.  "Where would you like to go,
Scully?" he asks, very softly.

I smile and shake my head.  "I don't care," I reply.  "As long as we're
together."

He nods, and an expression flits across his face which can only be
described as one of pure delight.  "I've been hearing reports from the
back country in the Carolinas of an itinerant balladeer named Silver
John.  Nobody seems to know who he is or where he comes from.  But they
say that wherever he passes, good things happen.  Magical things."

My smile broadens.  "I'm sure there's a logical, scientific explanation,
Mulder."

"We'll never know unless we go look, though, will we?" he replies, his
voice the perfect mix of amusement and affection.

"No, we won't," I answer.  And Mulder throws the car into gear and pulls
away from the curb and I lean back in my seat and close my eyes.  I
don't need to watch where we're going; not with my husband at the wheel.

Later, it will be my turn to drive.
 
 

Fini