Date sent: Tue, 5 Aug 1997 21:06:31 -0400 (EDT) From: Rebecca Rusnak Subject: Here's Where the Story Ends (1/1) Here's Where the Story Ends by Rebecca Rusnak CLASSIFICATION: SA SUMMARY: A random peek at Mulder and Scully's childhoods reveals how it is often the little events that shape us. DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, and their families do not belong to me, but to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen, and Fox. I'm just borrowing them for a little while, I promise. The title of this story is a song by The Sundays. I've always like the phrase--it could mean anything you want it to, including this story. SPOILERS: None KEYWORDS: Pre-XF story RATING: PG FEEDBACK: Yes, please! Mail me at rrusnak@avana.net Here's Where the Story Ends by Rebecca Rusnak Miramar Naval Air Station San Francisco, California Feb. 23, 1965 The little girl sat beaming in her small chair, pink frosting smeared on her face and hands. "Mom, look out!" Before anyone could stop her, the child had managed to rub a fistful of pink icing into her wispy red hair. Laughter erupted from the adults, and in the background a young boy scowled. "It wouldn't be so funny if I did that," he muttered. His sister turned to him. "Dana's only one years old, Billy. She's *supposed* to be messy." "I can be messy, too," protested Bill Scully. "Yeah, but you don't look cute when you're messy," replied Melissa. Dana squealed in outrage as a blue washcloth descended, and her face was wiped clean. She tried to squirm out from her mother's grip, eliciting a laugh from Maggie. "Oh, no, you don't." Dana continued to squirm. "She's a stubborn little one." "Just like her mother," chuckled Captain Scully, earning him a dark look from the woman in question and more laughter from the assembled adults. In the middle of it all sat Dana Scully, pink icing gluing her fingers together, a toothy grin on her face. Chilmark, Massachusetts Feb. 23, 1965 "It's good to see you again." "Does Bill know you're here?" His mother sounded worried, and three-year old Fox raised his head from the cars he was playing with. He was careful to be quiet--his mommy would be angry if she knew he was hiding behind the couch. "Of course." An exhalation. Fox screwed up his face; he didn't like the way this man smelled. "He sent me here." "I don't believe you." His mother sounded...could it be? She sounded scared. This was a first for Fox. Mommies could get angry--his did all the time--but he had not known that mommies could be scared, too. "It's true. Bill asked me to stop in, see how you were doing. When I get back to Washington, he'll want to know how you are." "I'm fine, thank you." His mother didn't sound scared anymore, and Fox relaxed, turned his attention back to the imaginary road before him. He paid no attention to the conversation above him, to the soft laughter. "I'll be sure to tell Bill you and Fox are doing well," rumbled the man's deep voice, sometime later. Hearing his name, Fox looked up again. "Maybe I'll come back around Thanksgiving. We might have... something else to celebrate then." "Oh!" His mother gasped, and the man laughed. Hidden behind the couch, the little boy scowled. ***** Miramar Naval Air Base San Francisco, California Jan. 20, 1970 The bus stopped with a squeal of brakes, and clutching her treasure to her chest, Dana Scully stepped off the bus. Oblivious to her siblings' impatience, she moved slowly, filled with importance. Let Melissa and Bill run pell-mell up the lawn--*she* was a big girl now. She didn't run anymore, she walked like a grown-up. "Hi, honey!" her mom said as she walked in the door. "How was your day?" Melissa and Bill were already curled up on the couch, fighting over a bowl of popcorn. Even though she was almost a grown-up six years old, Dana felt a surge of excitement and she couldn't help yelling. "Mommy, look what I did!" Enormously proud of herself, she held out the paper she had held closely all the way home from school. Maggie Scully unfolded the paper, read the straggling print at the top of the page, and smiled at her youngest daughter. "You printed your name, Dana!" "Let me see!" crowed Melissa. "Shhh! You'll wake up Charlie," scolded Bill. Melissa stuck her tongue out at him and grabbed the paper from her mother. Suddenly shy of all the attention, Dana shrank back against her mother. "Aw, this is nothing," Melissa scoffed from her lofty position in the second grade. "Wait until you get to learn cursive." "That's enough, Melissa," Maggie said, hiding an indulgent smile. "I want you and Bill to go clean your rooms." She watched her two oldest children stomp off, then turned back to Dana. She bent down and engulfed her in a big hug. "I'm so very proud of you, Dana. You're growing up so fast. Would you like to pick what we're having for dinner tonight?" Offered the traditional Scully-household-reward for the first time, Dana could only throw her arms around her mother. Chilmark, Massachusetts Jan. 20, 1970 His steps dragged as he mounted the porch and he paused before opening the door. Samantha's playful shouts reached his ears as he walked in. Lucky Sam, Fox thought. She didn't have to go to school yet, didn't have to worry about report cards yet. "Fox!" His sister's glad cry of welcome lifted some of the gloom from his heart. Her dark pigtails bounced behind her as she ran up to him. "You promised me you would play with me today." The measured tread of their father's footsteps shook the hallway, and Sam's smile died. "Will you play with me tomorrow?" she asked softly. He only nodded, consumed with the unfairness of it all. If only Samantha was older, and he didn't have to face his parents; if only *he* could spend the day playing happily, blithely ignorant. "Well, come on, son. Let's see it." He followed his father into the study, a room he was never allowed into unless expressly bidden to. His father closed the door and Fox sighed. He reached into his backpack. Might as well get it over with. Bill Mulder's face darkened as he read the report card. "What's this? A B in social studies? A C+ in art? What did I tell you when you brought home your last report card?" Fox said nothing, and Bill demanded, "Well?" "Who cares?" he blurted out, unable to stop himself. "Who needs art? Art's for sissies, anyway." The thundercloud on Bill's face darkened, and Fox finished in a small voice, "At least, that's what you always say." The stinging slap rocked him back on his heels and tears filled his eyes. He blinked rapidly, fiercely trying not to cry. Crying just made his father angrier. "I don't care *what* you've heard me say! This isn't about me. This is about you. How do you ever expect to make something of yourself if you get B's in school? Answer me!" "I don't know," Fox mumbled, staring at the floor, his whole body braced for the next blow. "Go to your room, and you think about it," Bill said in disgust. "And I don't want to see your face again the rest of the night." "Yes, sir." Blinded by tears, he stumbled from the room. ***** Baltimore, Maryland Dec. 25, 1973 Grandma Scully was the neatest person Dana knew. The old woman could tell stories that made her laugh non-stop, and cooked an amazing Christmas turkey while she was at it. Her parents seemed more relaxed, too, and her father had been home for almost two weeks now, his presence the best Christmas present of all. "Melissa's got cooties...pssst!...pass it on." Charlie bumped her elbow, and grinned obnoxiously at her. Dana frowned at him as he ran off, wondering why little brothers were always such pests. Maybe it was something in their brains that did it. Certainly she could not remember ever being such a nuisance. "When are we going to eat, Grandma?" wailed Bill, holding his stomach as though he were starving to death. A teenager now, he ate almost as much as the other three children combined. "In about an hour," Grandma Scully replied, with a knowing look passing between her and her daughter. "Why don't you go help your father?" suggested Maggie. "That snow looks awfully heavy." Bill heaved a sigh, but complied, heading for the door. "Wanna help, Melissa?" Dana's older sister shrugged. "All right." She headed out with Bill, leaving Dana alone at the kitchen table. For a moment she pouted over being left, then got up and left the kitchen. Her mother and grandma continued to talk, not noticing she had left. The big Christmas tree beckoned from in the corner of the family room, and Dana went over to it. Tentatively she touched the tip of a branch, watching the pine needles cascade to the floor. Her father always made them take the tree down so early--she hoped Grandma would let them keep it up for a while. Looking around, she lowered herself to the floor and crawled underneath the lowest branches of the tree. Ribbons and glittering foil still littered the carpet, evidence of the frenzied opening of gifts that had transpired earlier in the day. Dana stared up through the tree, mesmerized by the branches, the greenness of the needles. The lights flickered steadily, creating small rainbows in the reflective surface of the ornaments. She inhaled deeply, savoring the pine fragrance. Christmas, she decided, was the best day of the year. Chilmark, Massachusetts Dec. 25, 1973 The snow on the sides of the road had stopped being white and fluffy hours ago, and now all that remained was an ugly gray slush. Fox Mulder stared at the dirty snow and wished suddenly that he was in Florida, in the Bahamas, anywhere but Martha's Vineyard. Anywhere but this house. The window fogged up with his breath, and he wiped it away with his sleeve. Once, his mother would have scolded him for smearing the window, but now she lay so deep in her drug-induced sleep that he could have smashed all the windows in the house before waking her. It was cold by the glass, and Fox moved away from the window, to the couch. He stared at the corner of the living room, where in years past the family's Christmas tree had stood. Bill Mulder had declared that there would be no Christmas this year, that no one in this house deserved it, and he would be damned if he wasted good money on presents that would go to waste. The fact that he had been so drunk he had been swaying on his feet as he said it had not lessened the hurt of his words. He means *I* don't deserve Christmas, Fox thought miserably, staring blindly, ferociously, at the corner. He was waiting for that moment when you had stared at an object for so long that it became just a blur, when it could be anything--even a Christmas tree. The sound of an engine dying brought him out of his trance, and he sank back into the couch cushions, trying to blend in with the faded upholstery. When his father's footsteps stopped in the doorway he did not look up. "Where's your mother?" His words slurred slightly; whiskey had served as Bill's Christmas dinner. "Upstairs sleeping," Fox answered. He raised his head and looked at his father. Tried one last time to make the holiday mean something. "Shouldn't we wake her up so we can have dinner?" Hated the desperate hope in his voice. "Let her sleep," Bill ordered. "The doctor said her nerves are shot. She needs to rest. Don't you be bothering her. Get your own dinner." On unsteady feet he turned around and walked away. Fox closed his eyes and buried his face in the cushions. He didn't want anybody to hear him crying. ***** Annapolis, Maryland April 30, 1980 The dress definitely did something for her eyes, Dana Scully decided. She ought to wear green more often. The fact that both her mother and sister had urged her to do so, and that she had ignored them both did not completely escape her. I just needed time to create my own sense of style, she thought defensively. Besides, Mel always thinks she's right. "Dana, hurry up in there, will you?" Charlie pounded on the door, and with a huffy, sixteen-year-old nobody-understands-me sigh, Dana gathered up the full skirt of her dress. She opened the door and walked by Charlie with a regal bearing, uttterly ignoring him. She had almost reached her bedroom when her mother breasted the top of the stairs. She drew in a breath and one hand rose to her throat. "Oh, Dana, don't you look beautiful." Pleased with the compliment, she shook out the skirt of the dress and did a little pirouette in the hallway. "Do you like it? Sylvia and I bought it yesterday. It's what I'm wearing to the Prom." Maggie smiled, the crow's feet around her eyes crinkling slightly. "Who are you going with? Jeremy?" Dana shook her head in impatience. Honestly! Her parents complained that she never told them anything, but when she did, did they ever listen? "Not Jeremy. He and I were never going out. Marcus asked me to the Prom." Maggie gave her a blank look, and Dana was hard put not to sigh again. "You know, the one who took me to the basketball game last week? We're doubling up with Sylvia and Burwood." Maggie nodded then. "Oh, that's right." She eyed Dana speculatively, then gestured. "Come here, I want to show you something." Dana followed her mother into her parents' bedroom, wondering suspiciously what lecture she was going to get from her mother now. She had her parents' trust and respect, but that still didn't stop them from being parents. Her mother walked over to her dresser, opened a top drawer, and pulled out a flat box. She opened it to reveal a pearl necklace and earrings. "I wore these on my wedding day to your father," she said. "Would you like to wear them to the Prom?" Dana's heart swelled up in her chest and impulsively she hugged her mother. "Yes, I would," she said simply, gazing at the beautiful jewels. Maggie clasped the necklace around her daughter's throat, and Dana stared at herself in the mirror. She hardly recognized the reflection that stared back at her. Only lately had she given up her daily uniform of jeans and sweatshirts, discovered makeup and jewelry, and she was still not used to seeing herself dressed up. Maggie stroked Dana's fiery hair. "You'll be the prettiest girl at the Prom, I guarantee it." Dana smiled up at her mom. "I know. Thanks, Mom." Chilmark, Massachusetts April 30, 1980 "Okay, people! If you would all line up over here, please. No, no, over here. Straight line, people, please." The teacher's voice droned on and Fox Mulder tuned it out, bored to death. Graduation practice was hardly a fun way to spend an afternoon, and already he was looking forward to it all being over. Nobody else knew he was going to England, to Oxford. Nobody cared, really. Oh, a few of his teachers knew, congratulated him with pats on the back, and he smiled and thanked them, but the praise meant nothing. He was not going to Oxford because of its prestige, or because of his intelligence. He was going to England because it was the farthest place he could think of to get away from home. "Hey, watch it, Foxy!" A hard shove in the middle of his back sent him reeling, and his cheeks flamed hot with the laughter behind him. "Oh, don't. You guys shouldn't make fun of him," came a girl's voice, and he stood as straight as he could, his head high. The defending words, designed to help, hurt worse than the insults and laughter. At least he could handle those. "People, please! This is a serious occasion," called the teacher in charge, vainly attempting to line the students up. Two months...two months..two months. The chant ran through his head endlessly, and he clung to it. In two months he would be in England, where nobody would know anything about Fox Mulder that he didn't let them know. Nobody would know that he had let his eight-year old sister be taken one cold November night, or that he still could not remember what had happened that day. Ahead of him three girls stood in a tight knot, throwing giggling glances over their shoulders. Although the girls in the class all publicly defended him to their boyfriends, not a one had ever broached him privately. "What a fox," they would murmur to one another, rolling their eyes in a caricature of lust, and he would turn away, hating them all, and hating himself more for caring. "People, please!" the teacher called in exasperation. ***** Washington, DC March 6, 1992 The gray clouds beat down oppressively on the city, and he glared at them sullenly through the living room window. Another sleepless night, and now he had finally reached the day he had dreaded--his new partner in the X-Files arrived today. He wrapped his arms around his middle tightly. Whoever he was, this new partner, he was sure he could run him off fairly quickly. But it irritated him to think of all the time he would waste until that happened. His sister was out there somewhere, and every day he was forced to drag along a partner was one more day he wouldn't find her. His eyes drifted to the framed photograph on his desk, the two happy children, smiling big for the camera. His throat constricted, and he sucked in a deep breath. Whatever happened today, he would get through it. He had survived worse things, God knew. He would survive this. He picked up the photograph and held it for a moment. Then he put it back down and in a barely audible whisper said, "I can do this." Washington, DC March 6, 1992 At least it hadn't snowed in the night, she thought, opening the curtains experimentally. She had expected to wake up this morning to several inches of snow, and her spirits rose at the sight of the bare pavement. Maybe the weather would hold for a few days. Her good mood was colored though, by trepidation. She had been given notice that she was being re-assigned today, given a partner. No more autopsies at Quantico, no more delving into the mysteries of the human body. She had no idea what awaited her today, and she disliked the not-knowing, the anxiety it brought. Sitting up in bed, she glanced at the photograph of her parents on her dresser, the two adults smiling on a second honeymoon. Her mother had backed her decision to leave medicine, but her father's disapproval still stung. He had not said a word, and his silence hurt more than words. But I did the right thing, Dad, she thought, and I'm going to make you proud of me. She got out of bed and padded to the dresser, touched the glass in the frame. Slowly she pulled her hand back and said firmly, "I can do this." END