CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
Quonochontaug, Rhode Island
May 22, 1986
Wednesday
"... God worked throughout the night, giving the father few words, but a firm, authoritative voice; eyes that saw everything, but remained calm and tolerant. Finally, almost as an afterthought, He added tears. Then He turned to the Angel and said, "Now are you satisfied that he can love as much as a mother?"'
- An excerpt from "When God Created Fathers" by Erma Bombeck
Mr. William Mulder bought the summer house way back in 1943 as a wedding present to his wife, Teena. It was where they got married and where they spent their honeymoon – an event that continued the whole summer of that same year. They spent time together planting flowers and tress inside the whole expanse of the garden to liven up the already-beautiful place.
When Mrs. Mulder was pregnant with their first child, she spent the whole nine months in Rhode Island, gardening and spending time with the rapidly blooming flowers. Mr. Mulder, who was then a president of a generic food company, traveled back and forth between Massachusetts, Washington DC, and Rhode Island. They spent their evenings basked in the moonlight, laughing and just being with each other, enjoying their time alone.
It was also where Fox William Mulder was born.
Teena wrestled with her son's bowtie, shaking her head at the way Mulder fixed it himself. He was able to casually wrap the two loose ends together in an another loose knot when his mother entered his old bedroom, appalled at the mess he had done on himself.
"Goodness, Fox, you should get bowtie-tying lessons from your friend, John. He seems quite good at it," she remarked, tightening the confining bow around his neck. Mulder groaned.
"Monica tied that for him."
A harrumph escaped her, and with one last tug, she finished. Mulder smiled appreciatively, turning around to look at his reflection on the full-length mirror.
It was like staring at a nervous stranger. His hazel eyes were wide and twitching, lips drier than usual, hands shaking. If it wasn't for the slick hair that was pasted on his head, he would've appeared like the 'asshole father of the bride.'
Shit. Was he that old already?
"You look handsome, Fox." Naturally, mothers would never tell their own sons otherwise.
Mulder watched Teena in the mirror as she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, patting him carefully. "I wish your father was here. He would've been very proud of Emily. And of you. You raised a wonderful and beautiful young woman," she added, with a quirk, "For a teenager, that is, you did an impressive job."
"Mom," Mulder warned, though his eyes betrayed his humor.
Teena grinned, fine laugh lines sprouting at the edges of her eyes. "I always hoped that you would get married here, like your father and I did. I-I suppose having my granddaughter married here is enough. Bill would've been happy nonetheless." Her smile saddened, drawing herself closer to Mulder until they were splitting the mirror between them. "When you didn't get married here, I was hoping that at least Samantha -"
He tilted his head so that his face now missed the mirror, so that his mother wouldn't see his reaction. The subject of Samantha was the least favorite for the whole Mulder clan - she was the
only woman in their whole history who didn't finish go to university, didn't settle down appropriately, and didn't hang around when there were family gatherings.
Needless to say, she probably wouldn't be around to join the party today.
"I'm sorry, Fox," Teena said, straightening out her glasses. She gazed upward at Mulder, craning her neck to reach the top of his blow-dried and gel-splattered hair. "Do you have any word about your sister?"
His mother had forgiven his sister a long time ago, despite the dysfunction she brought to their family and the death of their father, but Mulder still held a rock against his very own sister. His father was his best friend, his mentor; he stared up at his Bill Mulder with the belief that he could save the whole world with just one wave of his hand. When his father suggested that he take psychology, he didn't second guess it. When his father told him to take up French in college, the next thing he knew he was already lining up for a class with Mr. Dmeter.
No one should ever question what he felt for his sister, ever.
"No, Mom. The last time I heard anything about her was three years ago. She was headed to Hawaii back then, remember?"
Teena managed a nod, her eyelids dropping heavily at her disappointment. "Then how could you have sent the invitation?"
Good question. Mulder squinted one eye, knowing that it was time to say the awful truth. His Mom was not going to like it.
"I didn't," he simply said, hoping against hope that there wouldn't be any follow up questions.
"What do you mean you didn't, Fox?" A livid stroke came upon Teena's voice. Mulder ignored it, setting himself up for another argument. On his own daughter's wedding day. Way to go, Mulder.
"I didn't want Emily to be disappointed, Mom, so I pretended that I mailed the invitation to Hawaii, because that's where Samantha supposedly is. I didn't send it. I know it would never reach Samantha, either way."
He expected his Mother to start giving him the worst scolding of the year, but instead, she rolled her eyes in disappointment.
That was an improvement, a very big improvement.
"Oh Fox. What do you have up your sleeve?"
He cringed.
Mothers knew best. Fathers did too ... somehow.
Here it comes:
"A bouquet of white roses from Aunt Samantha in Hawaii."
Teena grimaced, buttoning a jasmine on Mulder's lapel. He in turn also grimaced at it - but ignoring his preferences, she patted it in place. She also patted his cheek for an honest good luck. "You expect her to believe that, Fox? Emily is a smart woman. She takes after you."
She added as an afterthought: "And she's also twenty-one years old. She's big enough to see through your tricks."
"Yeah, but a father can only hope, right?"
His mother smirked and pushed him down to her so she could kiss his forehead.
Mulder had the strange teenage notion that when Emily was born, she was born into his arms: handed down from wherever babies came from without any barriers, without the natural conception, and without a woman. He was the first parent who had the chance to hold Emily in his arms. He was the parent who named her, and she became the name he bestowed, she became this "Emily" - that was all from him. Greedily, he acknowledged that it was all from him.
During the first few weeks after Emily's birth, Diana was too pained to even hold her daughter. Every time Mulder would good-naturedly offer the small baby to his wife, she would wail out incoherent phrases until the nurses would rush to her room.
Mulder gave Emily her first diaper change, her first bath, her first bottle feeding, her first kiss. Mulder gave her his life.
It was somewhat ironic that he was the one to walk her down the aisle on her wedding day. He was the father of the bride and yes, that was his unsung duty of course. Still, as Mulder first saw Emily in her wedding dress, he found it ironic.
She smiled warmly for him, the water within her eyes shining dangerously, threatening to fall. Emily was of white laces and crystal diamonds. Her veil, attached to her hair bun, scraped lightly on the ground with its intricate embroidery. The wedding dress itself was simple, sleeveless, and was outlined with miniature crystals that sparkled when the sunlight strike their translucent surfaces; however, the way the material bounced off her tanned skin was nonetheless breathtaking.
Mulder was completely choked up when he came to fetch Emily from the inside of the house. It was a garden wedding; they would have to walk towards the backyard, bursting from the front door for dramatic purposes.
Everyone was settling outside. They were the only ones left inside the house, save for the other people included in the opening repertoire. As he stepped into her dressing room (or the former master's bedroom), the eerie silence was enough to stiffen up his tears.
God. And it was only like yesterday that she was wearing those bouncy pigtails.
"How do I look?" She twirled around for him, also swirling untamed dust particles in her wake. Mulder resisted the urge to bawl in front of his daughter. He had never, honestly, seen her more beautiful. Of all the days she had to be this radiant - why did it have to be today?
"You look wonderful, honey. Magnificent," he coughed out.
Emily ran her tongue atop her lip. "Thanks."
Watching her reflection on the room's full-length mirror (Mulder had once called his parents "vanity- freaks" out of good ribbing due to their mirror fetish) for one last time, she cranked an elbow towards Mulder. He robotically slid his arm into place, and they began to walk down the stairs together, with him occasionally guiding Emily's long veil so that she or he would not step on it.
They were now in place behind the whole line of the repertoire. Mulder still hadn't squeaked more or less some encouraging parting words for his daughter.
Emily peered at him through her thick veil. "Daddy?" she timidly called out, her voice somehow reminiscent of its pitch when she was eight years old.
"Yes, honey?" he said, a little bit too quickly.
She let her mouth hang open first before speaking: "You are still my best friend. Nothing will change that even after this."
The tears that he had been restraining for so long finally broke free from Mulder's eyes. They trekked down his cheekbones, onto his slick black tux. Emily broke from his elbow clutch and hugged him, wrapping her arms around his shoulder blades tightly, as if she would never let go.
As if she would never let go.
"Christ, Emily ... I will miss you so much. So damn ... much," he stuttered, burying his face into her shoulder, controlling the tears despite himself so that it wouldn't ruin her wedding dress.
She didn't seem to mind as she hugged him tighter. "I will miss you too, Daddy, but we'll still see each other every week. I promise you that. You will always be my best friend. We would always be that two peas in a pod they always say we are. I will always be that little girl of yours." Her voice was cracking; she was also about to cry. Not a good idea, since she hadn't even exited the house and her make-up will already be ruined.
Mulder reluctantly drew apart, lingering his hand on her waist. "I know that, honey. I know that." Through the veil, he kissed her on her forehead, and then on the tip of her nose. "I love you, Emily. You know that, don't you?"
A single drop of tear managed to break free from Emily's eye, and she wiped it with her bare hand. "Yes, Dad. I love you, too."
Regaining much needed composure, they went back to their original position and was finally ready to head towards the garden.
At last, the live band cranked the immortal tunes of "Here Comes the Bride." Mulder smiled at Emily and they began to walk slowly, in time with the beat.
The front door opened imperceptibly, welcoming the first line of flower girls into the morning sunlight, into the colorful garden. All heads turned towards the entering cohort, eyes gleaming of excitement.
A certain flash of red caught Mulder's eyes as they were nearing the front door. Before he could even decipher whether it was who he was expecting it to be, Emily cut him off with a hint of amusement in her voice.
"She's here, Dad. Dana came."
Mulder hummed contentedly, taking a small step together with her.
"Oh, and Dad?"
The entrance was only a few meters from them. He could now fully see Scully, sitting at the rows of benches. He guessed at once that she came in at the last possible minute, after spending the whole day contemplating on the invitation. He was forced to leave her in Los Angeles when Scully was hedging the confirmation of her attendance.
"Yes, Em?" Mulder remembered to answer, stiffening his stomach as the first rays of the sun hit his forehead.
"Thanks for the white roses."
He managed a grimace before he needed to smile for the wedding guests.
John Doggett cranked a glass of white wine from Mulder, prying his fingers one by one. If the man didn't know any better, he'd say that Mulder's hands were suction cups.
"Heel, Mulder. Heel."
Mulder's wine fetish resurfaced when his emotions did. They were best of friends.
He didn't give a damn about what John was ordering him. His eyes were locked on Diana and her "new friend" as they were swirling on the makeshift dance floor of the living room, bouncing their assess off to Huey Lewis & The News's "The Power of Love." Her "new friend" was bald, tanned, had well-toned triceps and biceps, had those six-pack abdomen that were pretty visible from the thin white shirt the man had on. He didn't even bother to wear a tux - he had to wear those thin white shirts to show the world how his VIP card in the gym paid off. His name would probably rhyme with "Fabio." The nerve of Diana to bring him to their daughter's wedding when she had been ignoring Emily's phone calls the past few weeks. Suddenly, she appeared with this Fabio in tow. That woman was some piece of work, Mulder deduced with a belch and he tasted the wine in his breath. He was feeling very opinionated about this matter right now.
"Where do you think she found the time to get him?" he asked, not looking at his companion. John had successfully isolated the glass far away from Mulder, and he was sighing dejectedly at his friend.
He was twisting the glass close to his face, watching the fine white wine swirl on around the goblet. "Work, maybe?"
"Diana doesn't work. She didn't even work for this wedding day." The world will shift and the Great Depression will have to repeat itself, but the damn woman will never touch anything with the scent of labor.
John grumbled few recognizable expletives in Spanish (the only thing Mulder understood was mierda), ultimately allowing himself to coddle a well-deserved swig of Mulder's own wine. It was going to be a long, long day.
The reception was designed cordially only for the kindred or close family friends. However, when Diana sauntered into the ballroom with her "new friend" without even a second-glance at her daughter or at Mulder himself, the world suddenly turned into a spit ball. It annoyed him greatly that she had the guts to show up with her "new friend" when indeed this was her daughter's wedding and she had missed most of her appointments with them for the planning process. The invitation didn't say that you could bring JUST anyone along.
Oh, hey, hi, "Fabio," could we stop messing around for a while because I need to be somewhere right now? Oh yeah, it's nothing – just my daughter's wedding day. Want to have fun with me?
But from the obvious vantage point, John didn't think that Mulder was irritated by that fact. He was thinking more on the "green- eyed" monster lines. Celoso asno.
"What the hell are you doing eyeing them like you are doing, Mulder?" The wine had the desired effect on his friend. John's words slightly tilted to one punctuation as he spoke; it ad been a long time since he indulged himself to a one-shot liquor trip.
Mulder twitched at his question. No doubt about it, John was thinking the celoso asno trick: the jealous ass trick, that was. That was not even close to the truth of his insecurity.
Diana was a beautiful woman. She had light creamy skin and Emily's brunette hair, her face the contour of exquisiteness - nose pointed and eyebrows light. Her figure wasn't something to laugh at too - she used to attend aerobics class every week when they were married.
When it came to attitude, though, it was a totally different story.
His ex-wife could be a bitch, period.
Every woman in the world could somehow be classified into a level of bitchiness, but Diana would be every level and all scores a bitch. She was a kind bitch, a bad bitch, a whore of a bitch, a grateful bitch ... the list of adjectives would go and on, each ending with the word "bitch."
His real problem, aside from Diana's bitchy audacity, was his insecurity of having noone when his ex- wife (yes, queen of the reigning bitches) had someone. It was normal, as psychology told him years ago, to have your ego knack you for things like these. It wasn't normal, as Mulder had defined it, to have his ego invite his insecurity in. They must be best of friends too.
Mulder squirmed in his seat, raising one leg and placing it atop his knee. That explanation, when said out loud, would never make sense. It barely made sense in his mind.
Opting for something less idiosyncratic, he answered his friend. "Diana had the guts to bring that man in her own daughter's wedding when she barely lifted a finger to help us plan it." State the obvious.
John called for a waiter to pour more wine onto the wine glass he was holding. The bulky Mexican waiter did so, and Doggett thanked the man in Spanish. The waiter brightened up, preparing himself to converse in smooth Spanish when the opposite table called his services. That was where Monica (painfully two weeks away from popping out) and Scully were seated, talking and enjoying the music at the same time.
"Why don't you dance, Mulder? It'll get rid of your tension," Doggett recommended dutifully.
"I've danced with Emily." He anchored a hand on his ankle. Mulder was indicating that she was the only person he would allow himself to dance with tonight. Frohike, Byers, or Langley were all OUT of the question.
"Why don't you take Dana?" John's eyebrow shot an imperceptible arrow towards the young woman sitting next to Monica. They were conversing in low voices - in Welsh, most probably. Monica would glance towards them occasionally, as if waiting for Mulder to approach the table and grab Scully. If this suggestion of John's was premeditated, he would kill the man later.
Right now, Mulder thought that he must fall for the premeditation.
He could include Dana Scully in his to-dance-with list.
Shrugging and nonchalant at best, Mulder rose from the table and began to trek towards Scully. Monica gave his presence away with her widened eyes, and the auburn woman congealed in her seat. That awkward move didn't stop Mulder from placing a hand on her shoulder and pressing his palm softly on her bare skin. That was his way of announcing his presence.
Scully snapped her head up to look at him, whispering a single word:
"Cacha."
The tone of her voice and the range of it told Mulder that she didn't want him to hear it. That was an expletive in Welsh.
"Dance?" He had gathered enough courage to move the rock of Gibraltar by that moment, thanks to the white wine and his tipsy ego (white wine combined with water, that was. If he drank ONLY white wine, he wouldn't want to know what would happen after their dance).
Scully warily gave him and Monica the eye. She stood up, though, having no other choice but to accept the father-of-the-bride's proposal. Smoothing her satin green strapless gown, she accepted his hand and they walked casually towards the crowded dance floor.
Keeping reasonable distance from her as they emerged face-to-face, Dana formally anchored her hands over his lapel, while he held her small waist, unintentionally feeling the soft skin of her back. Her gown was backless; did he mention that? It dipped to her lower back, lifting up to form a heart on her chest. Her toned legs peeked through its high slit, peeking from the gown's casing and making most of the young men present drool when they saw her.
She also didn't curl her hair. She let it dry naturally, forming soft straight edges on her shoulders and framing her face, making her seem more mature.
Oh, and did he mention that, next to Emily, she would be the most beautiful woman in the wedding?
Their eyes locked as the music changed to Whitney Houston's "Saving All My Love for You." He calmly studied the interweaving blues in her iris, hoping that his own eyes wouldn't give away his admiration for her.
Christ, her husband would be very lucky indeed.
Trying to break the tension, Mulder bolted his good senses out of his mouth and joked, "I'm not going to kiss you this time if you're worried about that." He was ready for the overkill, really.
But it maybe sometimes beneficial to keep his good senses away, because Scully smiled at his jive. She even relaxed a bit, her fingers falling on his chest with her right hand atop his beating heart.
Mulder couldn't help sighing deeply, watching her hand go up and down his chest in time with his breath.
It felt normal; it felt like the old days before he screwed up.
"Congratulations, by the way, Mulder," she said, her voice lowering along with the sharpness of her accent. Mulder smoothened the porcelain skin of her lower back with his thumb, and he felt her shiver slightly. She didn't pull back, even with that bold move of his. Wine was making him do crazy things again. He had to keep himself intact.
"For what?"
"For earning a son." Scully's smile widened to a grin.
"And for losing a daughter?" he added unintentionally.
That was not helping himself. Or her, for that matter. Fuck the wine.
Scully lowered her away eyes from his face, sympathetic at his suggestion. Seeing this, Mulder didn't want her sympathy. He didn't want any sympathy, especially when it was coming from her.
"No, I didn't mean it that way," he hoarsely took back, also looking down to study their shoes that were lightly brushing against each other. Mulder was trying hard to keep his emotions at bay.
"It's okay, Mulder. I understand. You will miss her very much."
That statement from her awakened something deep inside Mulder, a volcano bubbling out from nowhere, ready to spurt boiling magma.
How could she possibly understand what he was feeling?
How could she possibly understand the isolation and pain?
He was angry that his ex- wife's having a ball of a life; he's demented that his own daughter's leaving him; he's appalled that Scully was here and she was dancing with him inspite of what he had done to her. He was angry at the world for making him feel lonely when he's not. He was angry. That was it: concluded and period dotted on the end of the sentence more than a hundred times.
He was a complicated man - an equation straight out of Algebra and Chemistry books. She could never, ever understand him. Fuck the wine again!
Scully chose that particular moment to lift her head up and she tried to catch his eyes. He didn't budge, gaze still lingering on their shoes. His hands on her back transferred down to her waist, his newfound awkwardness surfacing.
"I do understand. If you don't believe me, at least look at -" A yelp came from her throat, cutting her statement. Scully was pushed into his arms, and he wrapped them around her protectively, raising his neck above her head to see what made her move into him.
Behind her stood Diana and Mr. New Friend, both mouthing a 'sorry.' However, they were studying the situation in mock bewildered expressions, being caught up in their own versions of dirty foxtrot that they forgot there was a planet revolving under their footsteps.
Bitchy Diana here.
Mulder stroked Scully's bare back and she tilted her head away from his chest to investigate whoever tripped her. Amer chienne. The bile bitch tripped you, Dana Scully.
French, this time.
"Oh Christ, we're so sorry, Fox." Diana raised a hand before his face, waving her fingers sweetly. Mulder nodded, watching "new friend" launch into the same mode.
Scully gathered herself from his chest, coming to stand beside him. Mulder remembered that his Spunk hadn't met his ex-wife yet, so he took the opportunity to be a nice host and introduce the two. Not forgetting "new friend," of course.
Motioning to his ex-wife, he turned to Scully, "This is Diana and..." He snapped his fingers for a name, and Diana snapped it back at him.
"Bob."
Too bad it didn't rhyme with "Fabio."
"... And Bob. Diana, Bob, this is Dana Scully. She's the lead in my upcoming movie."
They all shook hands, exchanging a few strained compliments, and that was all Mulder let them do.
That was also all he could take, looking at Diana and her "Bob/Fabio," Spunk and her statement, and the magma boiling in the pit of his belly.
He held Scully by the elbow and drew her away from the dance floor, away from Diana and "Bob," who were following their actions with curious gazes. It was as if something in him snapped. Which was the inebriated truth.
Scully tried to shake her thin arms free from him, jiggling it as they exited the living room. "Mulder, what are you doing? Let me go!" she demanded, her pitch rising to dangerous dimensions.
The garden was still littered with white chairs and the day's flowers. Mulder intentionally stepped on a spilled bouquet of red roses, dragging Spunk to wherever he was planning to take her.
With one final yank, Scully was able to bring Mulder to a stop.
"What are you doing? Why are you acting like this?" Her voice was enraged, and he heard a hint of panic. Mulder knitted his eyebrows tightly on his forehead.
"There! Now look at me! What do you see? Huh? Could you see everything and predict the next World War? Could you see what I am feeling?" He violently shoved his face close to hers. Scully recoiled slightly, but held her stance and kept their gazes, their noses scraping against each other.
Up close, she sniffed the alcohol in his breath and drew an immediate conclusion. "You're drunk again, Mulder. You're going bonkers. You should rest, get a bath and sleep …"
"NO! Tell me what you see, what you read, Scully! Isn't that what you're good at? Isn't that what you do when you want to argue with me? Isn't that what you do best?" He was shouting, but it didn't matter. The music inside was too loud for anyone to hear them and the garden was isolated. He didn't care.
He didn't want to care.
Scully gritted her teeth, accepting his challenge. "FINE! So I will read you! You know what I read? I read a man who's forcing himself to the brink of destruction when all around him are real friends who care for him! I see a drunk man who wastes his life on alcohol when problems arise! I see a man who wants loneliness when that is not what is bloody intended for him! I see a man who just cannot quit! And you are NOT quitting right now!"
Mulder bit his tongue in his mouth and then, there was silence.
When he told her to read him, he didn't say that she should open a new chapter.
Scully blinked back tears (he didn't want to think about that) as she began to talk again, this time in a hush, "Mulder, please ... quit." It was more of a plea than a command. "I don't want to say anymore. I don't want to do this."
She didn't want to argue with him. Not today.
Surprise, surprise.
He was still silent as he lifted his head up to the sky, to see the mad prisms the setting sun was weaving.
Scully did the same, trying to find whatever fascinating thing Mulder was looking at.
"I should be happy."
That was his conclusion over his breakdown – for his final act of stupidity in front of the person he would be utterly humiliated to act stupid in front of.
Now, the person he was referring to was sitting with him on the fresh ripe green grass, not giving a fuck about the fine gown she was wearing, taking a swig of beer as the stars began to appear and the full moon danced its opening act.
Mulder, his bowtie now loosened and his tux jacket used as a makeshift blanket, pointed the beer towards a very prominent star: the Northern Star.
"I should be happy today because my daughter is getting married." The star heaved a sparkle in disagreement. Of course, it wasn't true, so he rephrased it. "I should be happy today because she is married and she's moving on ... but I'm not."
Scully modified her position on his tux to make herself more comfortable. The gown didn't help make matters easier for her, but she kept her peace. "Why aren't you happy?"
Mulder discerned that Scully more than knew the answer to that - and she could recite the whole detail to him without intermissions, but somehow, tonight was for him. Tonight was for him to find clarity, to explain, to tell him what he truly felt.
"Do you sometimes ... feel that everyone is moving on except you? That the world is taking a new step everyday and here you are, still moving backward?"
She took a drink first, relishing the taste of beer on her red lips.
"Yes. You are moving but you take three steps forward and five backward."
Mulder nodded. "It shouldn't have come to me today. I had the whole month to think of it of the consequences Emily's marriage would have. I had a long time to think of the probably loneliness I was about to face. But I didn't. I didn't have the time to do so, or maybe I just didn't want to think about it." He took another gulp of beer. "Scully, I'm really sorry for what happened back in Vegas. I really am."
"I've accepted your apology a long time ago, Mulder."
"Then why are you treating me this way?"
Silence.
Scully lifted her legs from the ground and pressed them to her chest. This position always reminded Mulder of how little she was, of how vulnerable she could be. This was how she sat in the hospital, when she awakened from her nightmares, when she was afraid. He never wanted her this way, and he hoped she would drop her legs and stop positioning herself like that.
Oblivious to his thoughts, Scully hugged her legs with her arms. "I overreacted back in the bar - it was the wine. And why I kept treating you like this because … I guess I've never just thought of you that way. Romantically, that is." She ended this with her chin on her two knees, gazing up above at the insistent Northern Star.
"I never thought of you that way, either," he admitted, and it was true. He cared for the woman because she needed his care - because she needed him. In some ways, yes, he had needed her too. Scully was a beautiful lady, and he would be insane if he wouldn't admit his physical attraction to her - but that was how far it would ever go. He could never think of Scully that way, as a lover. Never.
It was a complicated relationship: wherein he couldn't define their purpose to each other and they didn't hold titles beyond the silver screen. It was easy with Emily: father, daughter. Easy with Diana, too: ex-husband, ex-wife. Even with John: best friend, best party animal.
With Scully, he couldn't say if she was his friend, best friend, or his new deity. How could he tell?
Mulder finished his beer off, gently placing it in between his toes to play with the smooth glass. "My Mom told me that when she gave birth here, she barely reciprocated the pain because the birds were humming in her ear and she could smell the flowers she planted surrounding her. She said that her infatuation with this place was born along with me.
"Even if it is against my better will that this place be under my name, my Dad surged forward with the idea. He told me that this is where my life started, and I should own that piece of my life."
"What about your sister?"
The question, in any other day, would be dismissed with a mock or a grumble, but Mulder was so relaxed that he didn't even mind her asking him about Samantha.
"Samantha was too far gone to be even remembered when the land was transferred to my name. My parents were still angry with her back then."
Scully shivered as a light breeze passed through them. Mulder placed a light hand on her bare back.
"Cold?"
A nod answered his question.
Mulder went straight up on his feet, helping Scully up on hers too. His soiled tux rested on his arm and they kicked the empty bottles of beer on the grass. They were about to leave the garden when Scully pulled back and ran towards the empty bottles, bringing them with her as they walked towards the summer house.
The guests had left for their hotel accommodations - even his mother - and it was by his request that he be left at the summer house. The extra helpers were already polishing off the whole place, leaving it spick and span for him to be able to sleep steadily tonight. He wanted tonight as a rare time for him to relax and just be himself.
Instinctively, his hand draped itself on Scully's thin shoulders as if they had a life of their own. He pulled her closer, and for what seemed like the first time in months, she didn't hesitate.
That made an ounce of unnamed emotion lift from Mulder's heart.
They were nearing the front porch when he brought up a question he never thought he would ask for the night:
"Will you stay?"
Scully worried her free finger over her lips. "My clothes are all in the hotel, Mulder."
"I have excess jeans and t-shirts. A belt will hold up pretty well."
She laughed at the absurdity of his idea. "Do the words underwear occur to you, Mr. Superman?"
That was the least of his worries for tonight. He didn't care if she was in underwear or without, he didn't care if she'd raid his whole wardrobe and he'd have to sleep naked.
It'll be too crass to answer no, so he opted for something else.
"Stay?" He was begging now, pleading with his puppy dog eyes at her. Scully immediately softened when she saw his face.
"Okay," she said, and that made another sack of emotion rise up from deep inside of him.
Scully opted for something reasonably baggy: his Yankees shirt and denim jeans. He was right after all. The belt did hold it up pretty well, even if the rest of his jeans bunched up on her ankles like mud puddles.
She was folding her gown in a neat square (she must have spent the last 30 minutes doing it over and over again) when he entered the master's bedroom with real blankets in one hand and a picnic basket in the other. Her back was to him, so she didn't see what he was holding yet.
"Where would I be sleeping tonight?" As the last fold came, she thrust the long sleeves of his shirt up on her shoulder.
Mulder leaned his body on the doorframe. "With me," he said innocently.
Scully chuckled appreciatively, thinking that his statement was a joke. "Real bed, Mulder. Real nice be -" She was cut off when she swirled around and discovered what he was holding. The chuckle in her voice was now a smirk of disapproval.
"What is that?"
"You could be helpful and bring the pillows."
Her hand found her forehead and massaged it to ease some of the confusion away. "What is this? Camping out?"
"Yeah."
The hand rested on her hip, her expression becoming vaguely amused.
"Where are the pillows?"
"Look at the stars," Scully breathed at him, rubbing her slightly bulging stomach. The ham sandwich he concocted while she was taking a shower was heavy on mayonnaise. She ate three of them - and almost gobbled up half of his share. He let her, since she was working on a dancer's appetite and a twenty-year-old metabolism. He, on the other hand, had to carefully watch what he ate unless he wanted a pouch before they fall asleep.
He did as she said, propping his head up on his two hands. The sky was one gigantic sea of jewels. "What's to look at?" he wanted to know, squinting his eyes at the billions of stars that were glinting at them.
"'The moon is my friend, and the stars are our audience as we share a passion for the darkness ...'" she recited in dull monologue, her eyes scanning the sea of sparkling diamonds. "A ni dawns oblegid dyna neb yfory ... cyfan hynny mater ef ni heno.'"
"What could that possibly mean?" Mulder rolled over to his side, anchoring his head on his hand so that he could look at her. Scully didn't shunt, still seemingly attracted to the midnight sky.
"And we dance because there is no more tomorrow ... all that matters is us tonight," she sighed, also turning to look at him. Seeing that she was still a few inches from his face, she perked herself up with the pillow under her. Now they were eye-to-eye: one of their best and favorite positions together.
"I didn't know you wrote sonnets in your spare time," he teased, earning a glare from her.
"That, for your information, Mister, is a Welsh classic poem by Ray Dist. It's called "The Moon, My Friend." I recited it once for English class back in junior high." She grinned at thememory, that lilies and carnations grin. Mulder warmed at the sight of it. She hadn't been showing those whites of hers the past week, and he was just happy that they were real friends once again. Happy that, at least, she was real and she was there for him.
"Why is that poem so special to you?" He smiled back, reaching over to caress her cold cheek, to force some warmth onto her frozen pale skin. Scully allowed herself to lean into his palm; closing her eyes with his touch.
"It soothes me, Mulder. When I feel alone, it soothes me," she said with the softest of her timbres.
He breathed in the crispy air of the evening, eventually retrieving his hand from her cheek and lying down on his side. He opened his arms and invited Scully in, which she took without hesitation. Her head laid down on his biceps, pillowing there comfortably and his free arm rested on her waist, circling her rounded stomach. Pulling her close to him to generate more body heat, he placed his cheek on her ear, his nose under her chin - where he could breathe in her wonderful scent.
"Owe it to the only living forest here in the vicinity of Rhode Island for the cold breeze. It is summer and it's cold," he snickered, gentling a blanket over their forms. They stayed silent for a moment, getting used to the feel of each other's bodies.
Mulder kissed the outline of Scully's jaw, taking another whiff of her amazing scent. He'd love to wake up to her fragrance tomorrow, together with the singing of stray birds and the flowers' perfume.
"Thanks," he said suddenly, surprising her.
"For what?" She rubbed her head against his arm, trying to catch a glimpse of him, but his head was effectively pinning hers in place.
"For being my friend. For keeping me company. For putting up with an asshole like me. For being real."
Scully groped for his hand in the dark, finding it on her stomach. She intertwined her fingers with his, settling it on her hip bone. That was her way of saying that it was all her pleasure.
Mulder obscured his face into the pit that connected her shoulder and neck, "Tell me the rest of your poem, Scully." His lips met that spot below her neck as an advance thank you.
Her voice slurred slightly as she began to talk, with a gentler voice:
"I am lonely. Afoot on a cobblestone of chills and blizzards that howl in my ear. The midnight cuckoo clock angrily banishes me from the evening, telling me to silence my emotions – they are too noisy.
"Solitude is in the night; Mother Earth says that the moon would keep me company. Fi ewyllys cael ef er y noson a ef ewyllys dangos fi pa mor ar dawns.
"The moon is my friend and the stars are our audience as we share a passion for the darkness. A ni dawns oblegid dyna neb yfory... cyfan hynny mater ef ni heno."
He fell asleep to the sound of Scully's voice, with his nostrils filling up with the scent of strawberries, cucumber, and baby power.
Someday, he might want to think about this relationship with Scully - why they enjoyed each other's touches, why they needed each other, why and how they could hold onto each other like lovers yet still remain friends …
Someday.
But not tonight.
"We dance because there is no more tomorrow... all that matters is us tonight. And I believe for a second, that tomorrow will never again come. A fi credu er yail hynny yfory ewyllys byth eto dod. That tonight is the last chapter in the fingertips of Mother Earth."
END OF CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A/N: I distinctly remember writing this chapter and finding a particular joy within my heart as I was doing so. This is one of my favorite chapters from the whole book. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
By the way, I found one photograph of the Spunk chapters from my old website. This is the one for Chapter Fourteen: open?id=0BywQGY6DFv1ZNGhXVEVuanBjb3c&authuser=0 The concept for this photograph is that we are getting a glimpse of a photo album from the Mulder family. I'm not going to say who wrote the caption under the photo, but you can make an educated guess!
By the way, I have at least eleven unpublished chapters of Spunk BOOK II with me here in my hard drive. BOOK I will be ending soon – there are only five chapters left and I'll be posting faster now since vacation is on its way.
Thank you for your feedback! I'm so happy to see more familiar names rereading this story. This repost is really for the old fans, and now, for the new ones!