CHAPTER THIRTY SIX:

St. Peter's Memorial Garden
Los Angeles
April 1, 1986
Tuesday

The sky was cloudy - not enough to bring precipitation to the city, but maybe just enough to bring respect and condolences to the string of families underneath it on the Memorial Garden's lush greenery.

That was the first thing Mulder noticed as soon as he got off the Skyhawk he bought for Scully on her birthday. It was the only black vehicle in his possession (him being fond of acid blue) and he decided that his slap-happy colored cars were not good for surprising the long line of friends that were coming to his grandson's funeral.
His grandson. It took him almost a month to finally accept that term. Even if Scully constantly tried to convince him that this baby was once alive, once was a part of Emily, and should always be a part of them all … his mind argued with his heart. He was secretly repulsed at the notion of this - of having a grandson that he didn't even get to teach baseball to. He was angry too, having to see his baby Emily go through all of this unnecessary pain.

And as usual, the press had a field day with this story right from the start. They tried to keep everything under their nosy noses during Emily's recovery, but unfortunately, on the morning of March 18, Frohike surprised him with a copy of the prominent tabloid paper National Enquirer. On the front page was a picture of him and Emily exiting the hospital. And included were the details of the upcoming funeral.

The time it took for Emily and Jeff to decide a funeral was a whole week. The time it took for the tabloids to pounce on it was three days. Yes, this was Hollywood at it's finest.

He straightened the Rayban shades atop his nose, shifting his crossed arms over his abdomen. Beside him, garbed in a black once-piece dress that framed her trimmed curves perfectly, was Scully. Her red hair was dried naturally, the crimping machine ignored for the time being, and this spread all throughout her shoulders and down her back. This was a suggestion from him, for he really loved her straight red hair and it was his little reward for being so patient about her compassionate naggings.

Mulder didn't find himself worrying about this apparent tragedy much, even if he brought the pain with him inside his heart. He had the movie to work for and Scully to take care of, anyway. The movie's cutting and editing was already three-fourths finished; the movie's soundtrack was almost done. Next month, all they would have to do was screen the movie with different audiences, and then submit it to the Censors. When they get the appropriate ratings, they could release Danced Yesterday in America. Next, the world.

He had his fair share of migraines and exhaustion so crisp it made him sleep for a whole day without even waking up. It would all be worth it though: throughout their frantic publicity stunts for the two lead actors, Pendrell's guest appearance on Knots Landing was heavily watched by the audiences. After Scully's successful stint of Cheers, they decided on getting them around TV so that the people could be familiar with them. Skinner had suggested Moonlighting, wherein Scully and Pendrell could both appear. Scully couldn't be happier with the idea. Pendrell was a little hesitant, though, because after Danced Yesterday, he at once accepted another starring role.

A few meters away from Mulder, standing in front of the small coffin built especially for Don March Spenders, were Emily and Jeffrey. Flowers of all kinds from everyone that cared and thought their care was needed decorated the borders of their ceremonial ground. Their acquaintances, his Mother, Jeffrey's parents, and some people that have slipped his knowledge stood with them - showering their family with enough grief and sympathy to last them all for ages.

It's not that he was ungrateful for it; he was just ticked that when Emily was in the hospital, only their closest friends seemed to really care. When the National Enquirer revealed to the world what was going on, everyone seemed concerned. And sympathetic. Even empathetic.

It made his insides curl into unfathomable proportions.

Emily's light brown hair twisted in the wind's grasp, her fingertips shaking slightly as she held up a piece of paper right in front of her nose, sniffling when the Pastor asked her to continue with the last words for her son.

"Umm…" Mulder's daughter started, clearing the unshed tears clogging her throat. "I found this … poem in my Grandmother's book a few years ago. And Grandma saw how fascinated I was with the book so she gave it to me. In it, there's a poem that was written by Avery Alexander for his son, John. They joined the 18th century war among the States and after nine months … Avery's son died. He wrote this poem to his wife as a source comfort." Emily stared up at Mulder's shaded eyes for some hidden hope of an inspiration. In response, Mulder removed his eyewear and smiled weakly at his daughter:

"Oh Mother, know your little son is rich; he is not poor;
For him there is a home in heaven, for him a treasure Sure.

"His Father is the King of Kings and now to Him he's gone;
Now he shall wear a beauteous robe, white as the spotless snow.

"And never will that garment fade; it never old can be;
It is the gift of Him we love, of Him who died for us.

"How happy He will make him there, no words of mine can tell;
There he shall have no want, no sin, but with angels dwell.

"So do not grieve … and say poor child, when in the grave he's laid;
Think how rich with gold he is, though great the price he paid.

"And Mother seek to meet him there and also your sisters dear;
So rich and happy you will be, when you're no longer here.

"And in that city, bright, above at last a gathered band;
We'll ever bless our Savior's name, by whom redeemed we stand."

As the last word was spoken, Mulder watched with restrained emotions his daughter collapsed into her husband's arms, hugging Jeffrey tightly and hiding her face from the mourners. They disappeared into the background, behind Jeffrey's parents where they could cry in private.

When Emily was born, he promised that he would never let anything or anyone hurt her.

Mulder wiped an unwelcome tear from his lashes, quickly gentling the shades over his eyes to hide his pain.

He shouldn't have had made that promise if he didn't want HIMSELF hurt. Who was he kidding? Nothing he could do in this fucking world could save his daughter from immense anguish. If he were a magician that could stop time when he could foresee Emily getting hurt … he would be one, in an instant
But like before, he wasn't able to stop the pain in his daughter's heart when he divorced her Mother. Today was another testament to his mortality; another testament that try as he could … his Supermanliness could never give his loved ones everything that he wanted them to have.

Sometimes he tried too hard. Sometimes, he wished he could quit whenever he felt the tendency of hurting himself, or others.

"Mulder?"

He twisted his head to the sound of Scully's voice and dipped his mouth lightly beside her ear. "Y… Yeah?" he stammered, immediately clearing his throat afterwards.

She gazed up at him with her watery clear blue eyes, almost becoming transparent with so much emotion floating in them. "I haven't really told you yet … but I am very sorry about your grandson." A tear dropped, and Mulder plucked the battered tissue from Scully's hand to wipe at it. Overhead their voices, the Pastor read something from the Bible, giving the child the final blessing. As the gospel drowned on, his insides softened at the sight of his lover crying for his own daughter and grandson. It was a testament of sorts, an unmade and unmentioned testament that their emotions were one. They agreed back in the hospital that they were going to face everything together now; they were going to try.

This was a very lengthy step for both of them.

"Hey, it's okay. It's all fine." After wiping her tear, he hooked an arm around her waist, making himself forget that they were in a public place and this display of affection was deemed abnormal. For once in their whole relationship together, he didn't really care. He was just damn glad that she was there to shed his unshed tears for him. He was just damn glad that someone else was crying and he could be the one wiping the tears for her. That was their team: he was the great comforter, the great protector (no matter how much Scully disputed this), and she the ailing adult who needed the child in him. A contrast and perfectly so.

Scully dropped her head heavily on his shoulder, drawing in a deep breath. "I … I can't help wondering if this is what happened to Melissa."

The sudden outburst of her sister's name momentarily startled Mulder. He gazed at the top of her auburn head peculiarly before going on. "What do you mean, Scully?" Mulder inquired softly, making sure that they were the only one sharing the conversation.

"That," she meekly nudged her nose towards the direction of the small coffin. "This," she continued, this time pointing at Emily and Jeffrey who were now taking the front row while their son's coffin was being lowered onto the small grave. "Maybe … it's the reason why she never writes back. I was thinking that it was because she hated me for leaving … but right now … I'm …"

"Afraid?" he supplied, rubbing his palm over her protruding hip bone.

"Yes. I don't know where this fear comes from … staring at Emily and her …" Scully stopped, obviously gauging what she had just confessed.

Mulder threw all remaining caution in the nosy breeze that was invading their ceremony and kissed Scully's strawberry-scented head. "I understand. You could drop your relatives a call in Wales, if you want to … you know, you should do that. They must miss you."

The coffin was lowered onto the ground, hitting the dry ground with a loud thud. Emily stepped away from the crowd, this time appearing calmer than a while ago. She bent and picked a piece of white rose from the hoards that were lying around the gravesite and wrapped the paper with the poem around the thorns. With a somber smile, she dropped the rose into the grave.

"Yeah," Scully responded, watching intently as the graveyard workers began to bury the coffin. "They must."

There was something cynical about her tone, about the abrupt way she ended her answer, but Mulder was forced to forget this when his eyes caught a loitering figure near a Fig tree a few meters behind the burial ground.

Apparently, Scully caught it too. She positioned a hand over Mulder's on her waist, and tightened her grip on his fingers. Then she added with a nervous whisper, "Don't go to her, Mulder. Stay here. Stay with me."

These words were all but an auditory blur for Mulder as he removed his hold on Scully and began to mutely walk towards the lone figure that was underneath the falling leaves of the tree. He took the most discreet way out of the crowd, making sure that no one followed him.

Once he reached the tree, Samantha appeared before him. She wore the same leather black jacket from the last time they saw each other, her curly brown hair dropping flatly on her shoulders, her pale face and sunken eyes more disturbing than the last time he noticed them. Mulder couldn't help the tinge of pity that struck him upon seeing his sister's condition, but he aptly pushed it away, reminding himself that this was Samantha - the woman who got his own Father killed.

"Hey Fox," she greeted chirpily, but was cut off by a throaty cough. Mulder disgustedly frowned, waiting patiently as Samantha coughed her lungs out.

When she finished, Mulder raised his eyebrows, digging his hands into his jeans' side pockets. "What are you doing here, Sam?" he asked, not caring if the venom dipped low on his tone. "Who called you?"

"Who cares who called me? How's Emily?" His sister began to walk towards the mourning crowd when Mulder took her by the arm, flinging her back onto the tree's shade.

"Sam, don't go there. I don't want you here," he sternly said, wrapping his fingers around his sister's thin elbow. "Mom called you, didn't she? I told her not to call … we're nearing the new Millennium and the women are getting more and more headstrong by the minute." He rolled his eyes, biting the insides of his cheek. Samantha raised an eyebrow at his comment.

"My brother, the misogynist. Who could've known this?"

"I'm not a misogynist. I happen to be born into a world dominated by fierce women. And crazy, stupid ones too."

"Thanks," Sam replied, not the least bit stung by his remark. "I'll remember that. Too bad I wasn't born into a world of a great, caring family. And brother."

"You were, Sam." Mulder clenched his fingers into tight fists inside his pockets. She actually dared to say that? In front of him? Oh dear sweet Jesus.

This time, anger was already fuming out of his ears, so clear that he was sure Samantha could see the fine lines of smoke. "You were born into this great, caring family, Sam. It was you who tore this great, caring family apart."

Her sunken brown eyes bulged at him. "How dare you say that to me!"

How dare him? How DARE her!

Mulder shook his head firmly, finally letting his sister's arm go, allowing some steam to leave. It amazed him how a simple conversation could always turn into the most idiosyncratic fights for both of them. They sure had amazing chemistry.

"Damn it, Sam, I don't want to fight you, okay? All I'm asking you to do is to leave this place and all will be well." All will be well if Samantha wasn't born into the world at all. She wasn't even at their Father's funeral and she had the guts to show her face then and there.

"I'm not leaving, Fox. I'm staying. I WAS invited and I'm HERE to fulfill that INVITATION!" With her last word, some people from the gravesite snapped their necks towards their direction, including his Mother and Scully. From the distance, he could see the alarm kick into his Mother's eyes, and her running to where they were.

Seeing this, Mulder reflexively backed away from his sister, adjusting his black collar.

Upon reaching them, his Mother didn't waste any time in taking Samantha's side. "Fox, what do you think were you doing?" she garbled, coming to stand beside the thin brunette woman, not the least bit apprehensive about her disobedience.

Mulder ogled them for a second, noticing how Samantha's appearances had mimicked his Mother's over the years she had been living on her own. Their lip shapes were similar, as were their strong hazel eyes. And yeah, attitude.

Mulder resigned to the fact that his was one fight he had to quit. There were no battling two strong-headed women in on this. "Sorry, it seems to be MY mistake." And true to his nature, added, "It seems to be my mistake in wanting to protect my family from that woman!" He pointed an accusing finger at Samantha, and his Mother's eyes shot blood red at this.

"FOX! That was very rude of you!" she scolded, in her best 'I'm-your-mother-and-if-you-don't-say-sorry-I'm-going-to-force-Sunday-school-on-your-Saturday-schedule' tone. It was the same tone she used on him when he learned the meaning of the word "shit" in 3rd grade.

Mulder rolled his eyes, exasperated. Yup, it was third grade all fucking over again.

Mrs. Mulder gritted her teeth together, taking a step towards Samantha, but not really allowing herself to touch her own daughter. "Take that back, Fox. This is still your sister." Samantha's eyes pricked at the last sentence, and obvious hurt flashed through her face in shades of embarrassing red.

He shrugged nonchalantly, readying himself to dispute this when the African-American Gospel singer began to hum a few bars of his song on the burial ground. Mulder snapped his head towards the crowd and saw them leaving the site, throwing albeit concerned glances at their impromptu family affair. Not far off from where the flowers were sheltered was Scully, reverently praying over his grandson's grave with Emily. Jeffrey was talking with the Three Musketeers, not far off from where Walter and the Doggetts were.

Mulder slackened his jaw, opening his mouth. "Sorry Mom, that's not what a not-great and not-caring brother from a not-great and not-caring family does." He lifted his hands up to stop them from sprouting profanities at him and began to carelessly stride towards where Scully and Emily was. The last thing he caught from his Mother and sister after his answer was one appalled face and one on-the-breakdown face.

Yup, it sure was third grade all over again. As if he ever grew up.

Coming up behind Emily, he placed both his hands over his daughter's shoulders. "Hey Honey … how are you doing now, huh?" he whispered into her ear, using the same tone he used on her whenever she told him that she had a boo-boo or that she broke up with her boyfriend. Emily loved that tone of his voice, and to make sure that she didn't tire of it, he only used it occasionally … during the times that she needed to feel better.

He heard her smile, "I'm holding up pretty well, Daddy." Emily turned around and engulfed him in an embrace, burying her face into his chest - disputing her answer into tears. Mulder reacted quickly, wrapping his arms around her.

"You know, Em, you could always try again. I would really love another grandson … or granddaughter," he offered, still using the same tone. Emily didn't retort at first, then he got a single nod … before a single shake of her head.

"What do you mean?" He drew her head up from his lapel and stared at her eye-to-eye. He was relieved that she wasn't crying anymore … but he wasn't necessarily sure if that was a good idea at all.

Emily licked her fading lipstick unsurely, "I don't think I have the energy or the … strength … to try, Dad." She closed her eyes, resting her chin on his stomach. "It still is too painful for me and Jeff. This is a hard one on us."

Was it that painful?

The psychologist in him was telling him that of course it fucking was painful, the Father in him was telling him that it was so damn painful that they shouldn't ever try again, while the Grandfather in him was saying otherwise … there should be a clan of little kids running around the Manor whenever they could. His very own grandchildren. Well, sure he had a twenty-one-year-old girlfriend - well, lover - but he'd proudly wear the badge of a Grandfather anytime. The experience they'd gone through changed his view on Emily's pregnancy. He didn't realize how much he wanted that child until it was too late.

He didn't know who to be at that exact moment.

Emily wasn't waiting for his answer, though. She tilted her head towards the direction from where he came from and with a hint of tweak in her voice, asked: "Is that Aunt Samantha? Is that really her, Daddy?"

Mulder had no choice but to say yes. Emily kissed him on his cheek and left him on the graveyard, eager to be with her Aunt. Once they met, she collapsed into Sam's arms and sobbed all over again.

The Director swallowed hard. As much as he tried to stop and hate it, Samantha had this special connection with his daughter. A connection he never liked even if it had somewhat dissipated over the years that his sister and daughter had spent apart.

With his eyes on his sister and daughter, he approached Scully and placed a steady arm around her shoulders. Gazing down at her, he murmured, "I don't know why she has to show herself here today. She didn't even attend Dad's funeral and here she is … Sweet Jesus, she has the nerve."

Scully's eyes were steadfast on the brown dirt of the small grave, her arms clasped around her waist. "She does seem to love Emily," she commented, voice soft. Mulder snorted impatiently.

"If she loves Emily, then she should've known better than showing herself out in here. I don't understand why she has to do this now … when she had the time of our lives back then. I'm forty years old and Sam's thirty-six. We're old …" Mulder stopped when he noticed how his sentences were all going in complete circles. "I'm rambling, sorry for this shit."

"Why are you sorry?" Scully finally looked up at him, her blue eyes lightening to an impossibly transparent hue underneath the afternoon sunlight. Mulder shook his head, tenderly brushing away a loose strand of hair from her forehead.

"It's … it seems irrational doesn't it?" He can't help stressing on the word irrational. It should define what they were experiencing for the past two months. Irrational, crazy, and very good. "Samantha and I are adults and are fighting like cats and dogs. It's fire and a truckload of gasoline every time we meet. We explode."

"I could tell you that it's normal … but hell, it's not." Scully smiled sadly, understanding his situation with his sister. She should have had some experience with this - she previously mentioned her bout with Melissa and her brother Charles. Their fights were also atrocious, sometimes as irrational as his with Samantha … but he believed that the strong-headed blood ran deep within the Scully's. It should, since something should account for the heat of Scully's moods. Orientation alone couldn't.

"Cats and dogs … we're more like a pair of kindergarten pupils -"

"Mulder, excuse me." Walter's voice resounded a few meters behind their positions. Mulder snapped his head towards his friend, demanding with his eyebrow what he needed. His Producer gestured for him to come closer.

"What's the deal?" Mulder at once impatiently demanded when Scully was out of ear shot. Walter tilted his head to his right, brushing his cheek against the polyester cotton of his black suit.

"The Big Bosses have branded me as the bearer of great news … well, I'm not entirely sure if you see this as GREAT news. I know how much this movie means to you."

"Walter, cut the crap," Mulder hissed, unintentionally breaking Skinner off. It hadn't been the most fantabulous day of his life, and the last thing he needed for the moment was his E.P. telling him riddles. He needed truth, out in the open and more raw than his grandson's body on inside that damn medicinal jar. "I'm sorry, but you should see that I have so many other things up my sleeve -"

"Yeah, it's all fine, Mulder." Skinner's eyes hinted at Samantha's direction, telling him that his friend understood his predicament. "Here," the Producer opened his jacket's lapel and stuck his hand inside, digging out a white envelope. He handed it to Mulder, waving it for a millisecond in the air and letting the arrogant sun reflect the newness of its surface. "Two tickets to Paris, France. That's for the fourth, my man."

"The fourth!" Mulder exclaimed, running his fingers through his hair nervously. What was this? A forced vacation of some sorts? And why the fuck through Walter? Why not summon or call him? "The - the movie's editing isn't even finished yet … and the movie's album … what is this, Walter? Did I do something that royally pissed them off?"

"Stop this, Mulder. The men just gave you a one-week stay in Paris so that you could scout for the perfect location of the Bee Gees' MTV. They want you to bring Dana with you so that she too could contribute … and they also want you to contact Mr. Friedrich Dupléra for this. He's the Director they recommended for this MTV. He'd get you a crew at once. Remember, the soundtrack is also important … and it is important that we release it together with the film." Skinner gave him a folder, opening it up so that he'd receive it that way. Inside were rows of papers concerning the MTV, the concept the studio wanted, and information about the certain Mr. Dupléra.

Reviewing all this, Mulder sighed. He really wanted to believe that this was the only layer in this Paris trip, but he had the underlying feeling that it was more than this. That he had done something wrong that's why they were tearing him away from one of his main priorities.

"Don't second guess, Mulder. Just do what they want. This would also do you good … you had been through a lot lately and I'm sure that Paris is just the place you need."

"Need … but not want," he interjected, whispering the last word. His eyes scanned the perimeter of his grandson's funeral … from Scully's lone figure in front of the fresh grave, Emily and Samantha talking in hushed tones with his mother looming in their background, the dispersing guests, the springing flowers of the scattered trees, the peeking sunshine of Los Angeles …

Need, but definitely not want.

"Fine, I'll follow their orders. They are THE gods, anyway."

"This will do you more good than bad, Mulder," Skinner testified, patting him on his shoulder. Despite the thick shoulder pads that he had to wear to keep his suit uptight, he could still feel the heaviness of his friend's hand on his bones. "I promise."

Since Scully had not yet learned how to drive the Skyhawk he bought her for her birthday, it was under his hands for the while. He frequently used the car when picking Scully up from the studio, or whenever they were together, period. It was a small reminder of their togetherness for him, a small reminder of their relationship that they kept hidden from the public. It's also newly tinted, unlike his other cars (which he would get tinted too, soon), so it was a plus for keeping the prying eyes of the media away from him and his star.

"Par … Paris?!" Scully uttered in disbelief, cradling the tickets in her hands as if they were gold. She alternated glances from Mulder, to the tickets and the folder, outside of the car, and back at him. "What … what … why? I mean … that's Paris, Mulder. They want us to go to Paris?"

"The location of the Bee Gees' MTV."

"Oh my god … I can't believe this … oh god … this is definitely something!"

"Yeah, sure it's something," he replied in a dull monotone, flipping his sunglasses from the dashboard and putting it square on his nose when he saw the flock of media people scrambling outside the cemetery's gates. He was following the procession of guests from the funeral, and he saw how each car was hassled by the very persistent reporters. Thank god he used the Skyhawk.

Scully took one last, lingering gaze at the tickets and tucked them back into the envelope, in turn removing the impromptu trip specifications from her lap and onto the dashboard. "What's wrong? You don't seem excited about Paris. This is Paris, Mulder. You should … your Father …"

"Don't you think it's the least bit odd that they're giving me a vacation in the finishing process of the editing? What about you? You still have tours and guest slots to process." Mulder stoically drove the car into and out of the crowd, ignoring random callings of his and Scully's name and the hard tapping of the reporters' hands on the car when they slowed down. After they were safely out of the media's zones, Mulder resumed his 60.

"Well, technically," Scully murmured, toying around with the air condition vents. "I'm done. I've musically arranged Danced Yesterday, have appeared in Cheers … and Moonlighting's still next month. Mr. Skinner is the person in charge of processing my guest appearances … leaving me with virtually nothing to do for the next two weeks. I was thinking of visiting Mr. Jayson for three days in Las Vegas, since you too are busy with postproduction, but this Paris trip just came in time." She licked her lips, afterwards biting the lower portion to keep her excitement at bay. "There are editors, Mulder … you know that. You can't be the director and the editor and the casting agent ... It's about time you let go."

"This is my first film, Scully. I have to ensure its perfection."

"And you've done your best," she said, putting a hand on his forearm. Mulder sighed, knowing that pretty soon he'd be giving up and consenting this Paris trip in no time. Scully should've been a businesswoman. She could convince a whole herd of cows that they were born monkeys. "Don't you think we deserve this trip? Just the two of us? To get us away from all the chaos here in LA? I want to go, Mulder, please. I need …" she trailed off, removing her hand from him and looking out of her window. "I need to be with you, alone. There had been too many things going on around us and in our relationship lately - and with our recent fight … don't you want to slow down? To take stroll? To stop running for once?"

"Sure, I'm running, but I do so at a leisurely pace."

"MULDER," she scolded, her tone becoming firm. She faced him again, scooting over closer to the driver's seat. "We should go to this trip. We'll get great sleep, great sex, great romantic dinners, and you'll be able to exercise your French."

Great sex?!

Oh god.

"You just officially sold me out, Ms. Dana Scully." Mulder grinned, genuinely for the first time that day. She reached over and kissed the side of his neck, breathing into his ear a small "thank you," before reaching over the wheel and plucking his hand, resting it on her thigh and interlacing their fingers together.

He's also officially needing AND wanting that trip right now.

END OF CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

A/N: I'll try to upload the next chapter within this month. Let me know what you think so far, because we're going to Paris!