#i'm pretty sure i took some liberties with the scully family history | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mchalowitz · 2 years

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the woman is the king, part 8

summary: a throughline of the matriarchal scullys; be they ethereal, sharp-witted, and ill-omened.

part 1: melissa / part 2: dana / part 3: emily / part 4: scully / part 5: samantha (the interlude) / part 6: them / part 7: maggie

part 8: maggie, part 2

read on ao3

@today-in-fic

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No more than two days in a motel is their first self-imposed rule to protect their identities. After 36 hours at the Leisure Inn, she spreads a map across the bedspread.

Already clocking hundreds of miles trapezing across the Southwest, Scully is tired of the long stretches of desert. Mulder sits behind her, tracing his finger from their current location near Salt Lake City, and up toward the state of Washington. He stops a few inches short of Seattle.

“That’s a little populated, don’t you think?”

When running from the law, an ideal location boasts less than five thousand people. Scully once found the unforthcoming communities of a small town infuriating. She now takes the silence of the populous as an advantage.

“It wouldn’t be Seattle proper,” Mulder amends. “I have a contact in the area with a cabin. I’ve stayed there before.”

An interconnected community of like-minded people, as Mulder would explain, have fed him information for years. He categorizes his contacts as creditable allies. Scully wonders where these people source their information to gain their expertise and resources. She heeds their abilities with caution.

He attractively describes not-Seattle-proper by recounting his memories of a lake view, an impressively restored stone fireplace, and unequivocable privacy. It only takes an hour to map their route and pack their gear into the SUV.

Mulder still isn’t over the unfairness of the reality of running from the law. After so many endless months of longing for her, he and Scully can finally be together, and he can list a thousand things he would run from just to be with her forever, but sometimes he dwells on what they should have.

He reunited with Scully two months ago and neither of them have fully broached the events of the last year. It’s way too soon to wreck the elation he feels by confessing thoughts his mind hasn’t even fully accepted yet. Mulder can only attest to confronting the loneliness that almost killed them both in unspoken actions. Someday, maybe, he might be brave enough to chip away at the new hardness he sees she carries.

He drives with one hand while clawing his face with the other. He’s never grown more than a five day beard. His face constantly itches. Scully attempts to convince him it looks rugged, like Sean Connery or Burt Reynolds, and it’s the biggest fucking lie she’s ever told him. It’s a patchy mess; an undeniably horrible disguise.

Scully’s change in appearance is courtesy of drugstore boxed dye, a collection of large framed sunglasses, and as they criss-cross the southwest, the shortest of shorts. It’s a sight he’s grateful to witness.

Her nose buried in a crossword puzzle book, Mulder gets her attention with a gentle squeeze to her bare inner thigh. It’s starting to get dark after nearly four hundred miles of I-84 and probably best to stop for the night.

“Any motels coming up?”

Reaching under the seat, Scully pulls out a guidebook from the last gas station. She flips through the pages, cross referencing the map.

“If you can last another hour, there’s a three star that sounds decent.”

“I can last as long as you want, baby,” he jokes. It earns him a giggle and a whack on the bicep with the book.

They continue on. Scully watches the scenery through the window, having spent most of the ride focused on her puzzles, and they haven’t really talked all that much. He reaches for her now unoccupied hand to briefly bring her wrist to his lips. The next major junction leads them toward Portland.

“My brother lives near here,” she casually comments with her eyes still focused on the passing highway.

“You didn’t tell me Bill was restationed.”

“Not Bill,” she corrects him. “Charlie.”

She still hums with uneasiness; even while asleep atop the floral duvet in their room at the Snooze Lodge Motel. It is unlikely worth its three star rating but wholly average for budget accommodations.

Her pounding heart rouses her from sleep. No warm hand pulls her in tighter; no drowsy murmur of comfort brushes her ear. Scully panics.

Usually, she finds Mulder writing at the desk only a few steps away, or in the bathroom, and has her nerves easily calmed. He is nowhere in the room. She assures herself she would have heard sirens or an altercation. It is still possible he is gone completely; he would go willingly to protect her.

When Scully steps out into the surprisingly warm night air, her eyes land on movement in the pool below. A splash rises before his head breaks through the surface of the water. She pockets their room key and takes the steps quickly.

She sits on the hard concrete, submerging her legs in the water. Illuminated by only the underwater incandescents, Mulder rests his chin on her knee. She watches his soft hazel eyes; his overgrown beard scratches her palm when he nuzzles into her hand.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he admits without prompting to her unexpressed worry. She nods on a deep breath.

She observes his graceful strokes; not unlike the thousands of laps he swam during the first years of their partnership while she gazed on. He begins to tire and floats on his back.

She can thwart her endless concern for his safety during their untroubled moments. Her brainpower can refocus. Her letters must have arrived by now. Bill is likely furious. Scully pictures her mother’s shaking hands and heavy heart.

In final, unsteady words, on a desert highway barely a month ago, she requested, “Watch out for my mom,” as she embraced her superior. A duty Skinner will undoubtedly fulfill.

For those she calls family, Scully cares fiercely. A singular sign along Oregon highway reminds her that ferocity came with age. When she should have stood up, she retreated. Her youthful rebellion rarely applied to anyone’s benefit but her own.

Mulder’s thumb smooths the crease between her eyebrows. Barely above a whisper, he simply says, “Tell me.”

“I could’ve done a better job protecting my family,” Scully responds. She is being vague; purposefully making it difficult for him to articulate a follow up question.

“It’s hard to face something you’ve tried to stop thinking about,” he finally tries.

A motel parking lot is prime territory for a patrolman. The Snooze Lodge is no exception. Headlights nearly blind her. “We should go,” she insists to Mulder.

Mulder pulls himself from the water. Keeping a keen eye on the cruiser, and their hands tightly linked, they watch until it disappears down the road.

In the rosy of hue of morning, Scully listens to running water and last night’s baseball scores on talk radio. When she closes her eyes, she can imagine Hegel Place.

He emerges showered; she admires his casual nudity as he searches for clothes amongst their small collection of possessions.

Reacquainting themselves physically fills the spaces between sleeping and a life on the lam. She considers neglecting their schedule to entice him into a second shower.

“Mulder,” she murmurs lowly.

However, when one of them wants to rebel, the other swoops in with rationality. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” he responds with eagerness. “We should hit the road soon.”

Her clothes for the day land at her feet. Mulder practically buzzes with high energy around the small room. “Mulder,” she finally repeats. When their eyes meet, she raises her eyebrow.

Mulder rounds the bed to kneel at her side; no other hints are necessary. His lips meet hers in a deeply sweet morning kiss.

Within the hour, Scully stares down another day of never-ending highway.

He belongs to a truly skilled network of like-minded individuals; a group that aids each other in endeavors that fall outside mainstream channels and, arguably, in legal grey areas. While Scully sleeps, he receives the information he seeks in his covert, bi-weekly touch base and praises their group’s efficiency, and in due time, Mulder will repay the favor with his own expertise.

Scully teases him with small bites from fast food breakfast sandwiches during the stop-and-go morning rush hour. She brushes crumbs off his face while he attempts to nip at her fingers. “You cleaned up your beard,” she remarks, tracing her fingertips along the even line of his jaw.

“I hate this stupid thing,” he laments. His nails dig into his opposite cheek. Scully tries to soothe him with a series of I knows and Maybe once your hair gets longers but she doesn’t exactly sound hopeful.

When they finally break through the barricade of morning commuters, he can sneak longer glances at Scully. Making a bold inference that their exchange at the pool brought some peace to her, Mulder watches as her arm extends out the window; her fingers surfing the resistance of the breeze. She smoothly mouths along with songs on the radio.

She carefully tracks their route; their map blanketing her lap as she refers back to it often. Her head snaps up from its reclined position on the headrest when he takes a different exit than their planned itinerary.

He counters her unspoken question with a playful smile.

"Let’s embrace the adventure, shall we?”

His supposedly adventurous detour could not be more non-descript to Scully. Only a faded cross above the main entrance gives her any indication of their whereabouts. Mulder rarely goes out of his way to bring her closer to God.

“I’m confused,” she finally admits.

A pair of men materialize from a side door, pushing a cart of boxes that overfills the back of a tiny blue sedan. Vivid auburn hair catches her eye. Scully’s head snaps to the reckless lunatic in the driver’s seat.

“He’s the pastor here,” Mulder confirms.

The rigidity of theological devotion spawned an explosive splintering of their family; a life of faith seemed like the last thing Charlie would do. She wonders briefly if anyone knew about her brother’s career path.

What appears to be a discussion of official church business ends with a brief kiss between the two men. A breathy “oh” from her partner divulges a carefully guarded excommunication nearly fifteen years prior.

“Yeah,” she replies as her brother drives away.

Her father denounced her youngest sibling with an unforgettable, undoubtably cruel sternness. The Scullys would never all be in the same room again.

She believes that final gathering illustrates the pull between motherhood and matrimony. A balancing act Scully has now walked herself.

She and Mulder so actively, so knowingly disagree on many things, while following one another unquestionably. An inconceivable notion to her parents; to love each other and differ in values. Charlie suffered for it.

A mother’s child is forever changed by acts of finality. She wonders if her final act will be forgiven.

Mulder opens his door in a burst of sudden movement. Scully grips his arm, curling her fingers into his bicep. She is constantly ascertaining his every intention. He should be narrating his every move to her.

“We’re going in,” he states. His tone suggests that should be obvious. She shakes her head in refusal when he outstretches his hand to her.

Quick fabrications of an identity is one of their vitally important, well practiced skills. “My wife and I are new to the area,” she hears him explain, describing her as a former Catholic, and how funny, so is the pastor. As they continue to converse, Scully notices the prominent accent of her brother’s partner, and Mulder offers to carry boxes to the dumpster to extend the conversation.

“He definitely thought I was homeless,” he claims when he finally returns. “And my wife is just a face drawn on a paper bag.”

“Don’t count out that possibility,” she deadpans.

Mulder actively ignores her comment, although she catches his amused smirk. A bright piece of orange paper enters her hands. He bounces tigerish eyes between the paper and her eyes. She begins to scan the words.

Charlie relates a Psalm to the crushing and ever-evolving weight of loss from his sister’s murder. Scully takes a long moment to register her new lifestyle has completely altered her sense of time; another year without Melissa was not so much as a passing thought. She wants to cry.

Scully remembers those words on her answering machine. Melissa was safe with people she knew in California. She briefly believed her sister was pregnant with Emily during those months. Melissa vanished to reconnect with their brother.

“What was his name?”

“Alejandro.”

She slowly pieces together a theory aloud, as she has done with Mulder a thousand times before. “My sister used to write to me about a translator that traveled with her in Peru. I think that’s him.”

“You think she introduced them?”

Scully nods; it seems like she should have something else to say. Or be more inclined to wait for her brother to return. She could comment on Melissa’s fearlessness to reject their parents’ prejudices and introduce Charlie to a life-altering love, exactly like she encouraged Scully’s own transformative love, but to say anything else would be a rightful admission of the cowardly self-centeredness of her youth.

Instead, she only mumbles, “We should keep driving.”

This seemingly cozy cabin was once a prison of complete seclusion and crippling loneliness for Mulder. A reminder he combats by scooping up his girl to carry her across the threshold. He plans to show the proper respect and erase every forlorn memory by absolutely defiling this place with her. With an appropriate amount of romance. Of course.

Her nose crinkles at him and she teasingly admonishes him with, “You are so gross,” as she begins to explore their temporary abode.

“I’ve already picked where we’re gonna make out later,” he informs her with an added tap on the ass. Mulder retreats from her playful scowl, hands raised in surrender, to retrieve their belongings from the car.

Mulder turns and slides a labyrinth of locks with duffle bags at his feet. It's the reality of this most picturesque hiding spot. A long string of numbers activates a powerful security system. He’ll probably tell Scully about the pack of wild turkeys that roam the backyard before he shows her the closet with feeds from outdoor cameras.

While Scully reclines against a throw pillow with her eyes closed, Mulder assesses their food situation. His homelessness theory feels confirmed by the extra food pantry box that seemed to magically appear for him at the church. He’s still thankful, because it will be a few days before they can explore the nearby town, and the contents of the box is enough to get them through.

Unpacking the final item, Mulder grins, and casually offers her a snack. She mumbles an affirmative response. It only requires a slice with a knife and a transfer to a plate but he enjoys burying the lead by slamming cupboards, running the sink, and starting the microwave.

He presents the plate of white cake with strawberries and whip cream frosting, coming down to a kneel at her side, as he announces, “Dana-cake for my Dana-girl,” and smacks a loud kiss on her cheek.

Mulder watches Scully hold the plate in both hands; her reaction starts with the sound of a whimper, and within seconds, she has broken into full sobs.

Utterly unclear as to what he did wrong, listening to Scully sob for ten minutes seems like an eternity. Her favorite dessert is one of her simplest, most decadent of pleasures; a tearful breakdown was not a reaction he could have ever predicted. He only prepared to lose a finger or two trying to steal a bite.

“Water,” he finally blurts out. “I’ll get you some water. Do you want some water, Scully?” With her unexplainable distress, Mulder reaches the point of useless panic to comfort her. He starts to stand, only to be pulled down by the hem of his shirt.

“Where did you get this?”

“In the food pantry box from the church,” Mulder answers in a rush; his shirt is still clutched in her fingers. “I thought you would be excited. It looks homemade.”

With the plate held right between their noses to give him a micro view of the dessert, Scully’s voice shakes when she says, “They’re hearts.”

Mulder still has an oral history of Scully’s fondest memories from when she was sick with her cancer tucked away in the back of his mind. It seemed important for someone to have a mental record of the little things. She never told him she needed him to remember. But Dana-cake was a Scully family tale worth remembering with every detail.

It was her childhood obsession; a summertime constant no matter where military life took them. Her mother grew the strawberries at home, hence why it required such extreme patience, and became so associated with the third Scully child that it was renamed for her.

When Scully’s health reached a decline, Mulder made his first and only attempt at baking in his life from a handwritten index card. Scully stressed the dire importance of the heart shaped cut as she stepped in before he “ruined it.” Even the ones no one would see had to be hearts.

Because the love had to be on the outside and the inside.

Her chest aches from heaving sobs; Scully senses the endlessness of running away. She has been given so many second chances at living and what she reclaimed threatens to fade away.

“What if we’re doing this forever, Mulder?”

Her throat stings. She should have accepted his offer for water.

“Scully,” Mulder whispers quietly. A few snaps near her ear earns him no response. Her deep sleep emboldens him to pull the cord from the phone until he’s in the bedroom with the door shut. He dials and lets it ring.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Scully,” he says. “Hi.”

#x files #xf fic #msr #fox mulder #dana scully #i'm pretty sure i took some liberties with the scully family history #liberties in general because it's on the run/pre-iwtb era #but it's all gonna connect eventually i promise

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