TITLE:		Twilight (1/1)
AUTHOR: 	Avalon
EMAIL:		avalon@fuse.net	
RATING:		PG for some very mild language
SPOILERS:	One reference to KillSwitch, Squeeze,
		and the Movie, post Requiem for content
CATEGORY:	SMSR
DISCLAIMER:	These characters beong to Chris 
		Carter and 1013.  I'm just playing
		here, guys...no infringement intended,
		as always.
FEEDBACK:	Always welcome, thanks!
ARCHIVES:	Having learned my lesson, Spooky's, 
		Gossamer, Ephemeral...anywhere really, 
		but if you're not one of those, please
		let me know where.
SUMMARY:	Scully must deal with Mulder's prolonged  
		absence and their son's growing needs.
AUTHOR'S 
NOTES:		At the end, as usual. 




Twilight


The bathtub, full of glistening bubbles, looks inviting, and I 
have to stop myself from getting in and indulging my 
aching body.  Ten hours on my feet, lecturing, slicing open 
body cavities and pointing out anatomy to eager 
students...my feet are singing their own strained opera as I 
imagine lying back, the porcelain cool against my neck, 
classical music playing lightly in the background...Not 
tonight, I remind myself, shaking my head to clear it a 
little.  Tonight, there are too many problems to focus on.

He asked me to come into the bathroom with him after he 
had undressed.  He is shy with me sometimes, even though 
I know his body as well as my own.  And tonight, I am 
certain he is a little afraid of me, afraid that I am angry with 
him.  I'm not, but I know this is what is racing through his 
mind.  His long dark lashes are lowered, hiding the moss-
green eyes that usually pierce me with their intelligence 
and understanding.  It is hard for me to believe sometimes 
that he is only six years old.  

Six years.  It has been a long six years.  A hard six years.  
Six years full of nightmares and false hopes, tears and 
frustrations, and more changes than could fill a lifetime.   
But this little boy...he has been the only light for me in that 
tunnel of darkness.  He is the only thing that has kept me 
going sometimes.  My son.

And now he sits in the tub, looking small and meek, 
surrounded by the burgeoning mass of shimmering 
whitecaps, his chin just touching the top.  I reach over to 
stop the running water, and he raises his eyes to me.

It is difficult sometimes not to catch my breath when he 
looks at me.  His eyes are just like his father's, and 
sometimes, just for a split second, I forget that this is our 
son.  I forget that he is not his father.  He is not Mulder.

Mulder.  Six years, and we have still not found him.  Six 
years of chasing leads that end in brick walls.  Six years of 
praying with no answer.  Well, maybe I have actually 
gotten my answer, and I just haven't wanted to hear it.  But 
I keep praying, hoping that God will change His mind.  
Hoping that He will reconsider, understanding that our son 
needs to know his father.  That the mother of his son needs 
him back, needs to resolve all the old issues that were never 
discussed before he went away to Oregon that last time.  I 
keep praying, but I don't think I'm getting anywhere.

I'm beginning to think that I should focus my energy 
elsewhere, at least in the prayer arena.

But he is looking at me, his eyes regarding me with a 
knowingness that is disconcerting sometimes.  He is 
waiting for me to say something, so I smile gently.

"So what happened at school today?"

He drops his eyes back to the bubbles.  He is not moving, 
not playing as most boys do in the tub.  He is serious, intent 
on his thoughts.  His speech is clear and precise when he 
answers.  "I had a fight."

"I know."  I shift my body forward a little, the hardness of 
the toilet seat cover starting an ache in my lower back.  It is 
a matching sensation to the ones in my feet, and I can't 
help but think my 41-year-old body is starting to fall apart.  
"Grandma told me she had to come and pick you up from 
the principal's office."

He nods, but he doesn't offer any more information.  I can't 
help but feel the corners of my mouth pulling into a small 
grin again.  He's as tight as a drum.  He never gives his 
hand away until he's ready.  He's like me in that way, I 
guess.

"Am I going to have to interrogate you like a suspect, Will, 
or are you going to help me out by telling me the whole 
story?"

He sighs and slaps aimlessly at a stray streak of soap in the 
water.  I know he is gearing up, rehearsing it in his head, 
assessing just the right things to say to me.  So I give him a 
minute, content just to sit and look at the profile of his face.

He is a beautiful amalgamation of his father and me.  His 
hair is dark, like Mulder's, but in the sun it highlights to a 
gorgeous auburn.  Will hates that, of course, how his 
grandmother and I are always talking about his pretty hair.  
He would rather have it stay that dark, mysterious shade, 
another shadowy feature he can hide in.  His little face is 
angular, with my long chin and Mulder's long nose, and I 
know that he will be handsome when he has grown into 
adulthood.  And those eyes...those eyes that see 
everything, examining everyone, drawing conclusions and 
etching opinions into that six-year-old brain.  He would 
make a damn fine profiler someday, I know, just like his 
dad.

He looks at me again, and I am surprised by what he says.  
"Why did you name me Will?"

My eyes flutter a bit.  He has never asked about his name, 
and I am not sure why he is asking now.  "Well,"  I start, 
folding my hands on my lap, "both your grandfathers were 
named William.  Your father's middle name is William.  So 
I guess I wanted to honor all of them by naming you 
William, too."

"You should've named me Fox instead.  I look more like a 
Fox than a William."

I laugh, genuinely amused.  "Well, if your dad were here, I 
think he would tell you that growing up with a name like 
Fox wasn't always easy.  I think he would've spared you 
that, Will.  He never really liked being called Fox, 
anyway."

"You never called him Fox, did you, Mommy?  You called 
him by his last name."

I smile a little again.  "That's right, sweetie."  I stop then, 
suddenly understanding what all this is really about.  "Will, 
did your fight at school today have something to do with 
your dad?"

He looks away, feigning great interest in the grout between 
the wall tiles.  

"Will?"  I press.

He shrugs, the bubbles on his shoulders rubbing his ears 
and leaving little pearls of soap there.  "I guess."

I sigh.  "Will, you need to tell me what happened so we can 
work it out, OK?"

He turns his head to me again, and those expressive eyes 
are blazing.  It is shocking to see in someone so young.  
"What can we work out, Mommy?  I got mad at Tommy 
Falco for saying that I didn't have a dad.  I asked him to 
stop, but he wouldn't, so I hit him."  He smacks the water 
again as if to emphasize his point.  "I do have a dad.  I'm 
tired of them making fun of me."

I rub my forehead, knowing that my eyebrows are knitting 
together in consternation.  "You're right, Will.  You do 
have a dad.  But some people just aren't going to ever 
understand what happened to your dad.  And some people 
are mean and nasty and are going to tease you.  You just 
have to ignore it, sweetie.  You don't need friends like 
that."

"I don't have any friends, Mommy.  All the kids are scared 
of me."

This statement stops me cold.  No friends?  Scared of him?  
He just started school three weeks ago, the youngest in his 
first grade classroom.  The teachers and the principal were 
all so impressed with him in kindergarten that they insisted 
he would be fine in first grade.  "Why do you say that, 
Will?"

"Because they call me Spooky."  He shifts his eyes back to 
my face, his lips pursed in distaste.  "It means scary."

"I know what it means."  I am keeping my voice as steady 
as possible, but I am not sure how well I am doing.  
Disbelief is rolling through my head, rocking my sane grip 
on this conversation.  Spooky?  Of all things, they actually 
call him Spooky?  I see Mulder for an instant in my mind, 
and I think of what one of my Quantico classmates once 
said to me, after I had been assigned to Mulder and the X-
Files: 'Maybe you won't have to be Mrs. Spooky 
anymore.'  How could another six-year-old child possibly 
know that?  I can see my hands trembling slightly in my 
lap, and I press them harder into each other to stop them.  I 
need to keep this conversation going; I need to be present, 
to be here for Will.  I can feel his eyes boring into me, 
intense and impatient.  I breathe again, suddenly noticing 
that I had stopped.  "Why would they call you that, 
sweetie?"

"They say I'm weird because I don't have a dad.  They say 
he wasn't really a man at all.  That he was a devil, or a 
ghost, or something."

I feel like someone has slapped me.  And I can feel anger 
burning in my throat, blossoming there and threatening to 
overtake my speech.  But I can't be angry with Will.  This 
isn't his fault.  How can he possibly be feeling right now?  
A secret part of me is glad he hit Tommy 
Falco...hopefully, he decked him.

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you that that simply isn't 
true."  I watch my son, but his face is a mask, unreadable 
and blank.  His father's face sears through my mind again, 
joking with me in that Federal Building in Dallas, so many 
years ago: 'When I panic, I make this face.'  They could be 
twins.  

Will doesn't answer me, instead opting to swirl the soap 
into interesting curlicues in the water.  I touch his shoulder, 
feeling the softness of his young skin underneath the 
coolness of the bubbles.  "Will, you know that's not true.  
Your dad is missing.  He has been missing since before you 
were born.  We were on a case--"

"And he disappeared."  He finishes it for me, having heard 
this story a million times in his short life.  He moves then, 
my fingers slipping from his shoulder, and I realize this is 
intentional, that he doesn't want me touching him.  Hurt 
flashes through me like a razor cut.  His eyes lock into 
mine, burning with that inner fire that turns them from pine 
green to an almost emerald shade.  "You should have gone 
with him, Mommy.  If you would have been there, he 
wouldn't have disappeared.  Then he would be with us 
now."

My throat clutches again, but not with anger.  The tears 
spring to my eyes, and his face blurs a little.  I don't want 
him to see that he has hurt me...he doesn't really want to 
hurt me, I know.  He is aching himself, wishing for 
someone that he has never had the chance to know, and he 
is lashing out, trying to make sense of it all in his mind. 

 "You might be right," I reply, and I can hear the slight 
tremor in my voice.  "But we can't go back and change it 
now.  If I could, I would, sweetie...but I can't."  I stand, 
crossing the short distance to the bathroom door.  "I think 
you should finish up your bath.  We'll talk about the 
consequences of your fighting tomorrow.  I'll be back up in 
a while to tuck you in."  I leave before he can say anything 
else.

I pause for a moment on the staircase, gathering myself, my 
head still spinning.  'If you would have been there, he 
wouldn't have disappeared.'  The familiar guilt washes 
over me again, and I have to bite my lip to keep it from 
trembling.  If only I had known then what I know now...if 
only I had checked the other abductees' medical files 
earlier...if only I hadn't been fainting every five minutes, I 
could've concentrated better on the case...

I hear Bill's voice in my head, the taunting one he used so 
often when we were kids: "If, if, if!  If my aunt had balls, 
she'd be my uncle!"

And then I hear Mulder's voice, that rumble in his throat 
that was always so comforting to my ears: "If I hadn't been 
so intent, maybe I would still be here.  It's not your fault, 
Scully."

I close my eyes, willing that voice to stop.  I don't need 
Mulder lecturing me right now.  Sometimes, I can hear his 
voice so clearly in my head it's as if he is in the same room 
with me.  Sometimes it's so intense that I nearly pass out.

And sometimes, I can't hear him at all.

I descend, undoing buttons and kicking off shoes as I come 
down the staircase in Mom's house.  We have been living 
here for the past five years, having moved in with her 
shortly after Will's first birthday, but I still think of it as her 
house.  It was only supposed to be temporary, until I could 
find a bigger apartment that had another bedroom for Will, 
but we just never left.  It was easier with my work 
schedule, since Mom started babysitting for me after Will 
came home from the hospital, and now, it had this 
wonderful comfort to it that I couldn't leave except for one 
reason.

I would leave if Mulder came home.  

It looked like we would be living with Mom until Will 
graduated from high school.

I find her in the kitchen, wiping off the stove after cleaning 
up the dinner dishes.  She had made spaghetti, Will's 
favorite, and I am a little annoyed that she coddled him 
after knowing that he got into trouble at school.  She spoils 
him, of course, but grandmas are supposed to do that. With 
Will, however, it's different.  She has a fierce protective 
quality around him, something she doesn't show with the 
other grandkids.  I think she is afraid somehow of losing 
him, and I understand that fear.  I have it, too, although I 
know my mother doesn't know to what she may lose him.  
I do...and I know I have a reason to be afraid.

So far, they have left us alone.  Will is completely normal 
in every way, as far as medical science is concerned.  I 
have had every conceivable test conducted to determine 
this, and, apart from being a little on the thin side, he is a 
healthy six-year-old.  I have never had any reason to 
suspect that anyone with any kind of power could be 
interested in him at all.  

But I still sleep with my weapon in the drawer next to my 
bed.  It is loaded, and even though I am no longer in the 
field, I am still a damn good shot.

Mom tosses the dishrag into the sink and wipes her hands 
on the towel over her shoulder.  She has her dark hair 
pinned back from her face with barrettes, and tonight, in 
this light, I can see the crow's feet that have deepened 
significantly around her eyes.  The few strands of silver in 
her hair stand out severely, and I am stunned to realize that 
she is getting older, too.  Somehow, I guess I always 
imagined my mom would never age.  

She presses her lips together, and I know she is upset.  Hell, 
I'm upset, too.  I open the refrigerator and grab a bottle of 
Michelob.  I twist off the cap and throw it at the trashcan, 
missing by a good foot.  I sigh and take a swig as Mom 
bends over for the cap and slaps it into the can.

"Dana."  It is a statement, and I look at her blankly over the 
brown glass of the bottle.  

I swallow the sweet cold liquid and set the bottle on the 
counter.  "He's OK, Mom."  I walk past her to the large 
windows that look out onto the back yard.  The sun is 
setting, and the stars are beginning to light in the darkening 
sky.  Twilight time...I smile a little at the memory of that 
song playing, somewhere in an eerie X-File from long ago.  
I press my forehead against the coolness of the glass.  It 
feels good, like a loving hand on a fevered brow, and I wish 
I could stay here for awhile, enjoying the silence and 
allowing the world to just stop.

But Mom wants to talk, I know.  And she starts.  "Dana, 
what are you going to do about this?"

I don't turn to look at her.  "He knows he did something 
wrong, Mom.  He knows he has consequences coming.  I 
don't know yet...I thought I'd sleep on it."

I feel her behind me, and I close my eyes.  I don't want to 
deal with this tonight.  I try to turn up the volume of the 
song in my head, but she is speaking again, and her words 
drown it out.  "I'm not talking about his punishment, 
Dana."  Her hand is on my shoulder, and I feel compelled 
to look at her.  Her eyes are loving, but intense.  "I am 
talking about his father, Dana.  What are you going to do 
about that?"

I spit out a strangled laugh, pulling back from her.  "What 
am I supposed to do about that, Mom?  We've been 
searching for six years.  I think I'm doing the best I can in 
that area!"

"You know that's not what I mean, Dana."  Her grip on my 
shoulder is firmer this time.  "He is longing for his father."  
Her gaze catches mine, and I can see that her eyes are wet.  
Reflexively, my own start to burn.  I can't watch my 
mother cry without my own tears starting.  "And so are 
you."

I shrug her hand from my shoulder and turn back to the 
approaching evening.  "Whether I am or not, it doesn't 
matter," I whisper.  "It's been six years, and I haven't been 
able to bring him back."  The glass on my forehead feels so 
good.  It makes things easier somehow.  "What if he's 
dead, Mom?  What if he's never coming home?"  I breathe 
in, feeling the burning sensation in my throat as I choke 
back the sorrow there.  "I have to think about that, you 
know, and it's not easy."

She puts her arm around the top of my shoulders and 
squeezes me, just as she did when I was a little girl.  Her 
voice is quiet next to my ear.  "Then you have to keep him 
alive, Dana.  For yourself, and for Will."

I can see Orion rising in the distance, just over the horizon.  
It has always been my favorite constellation, mostly 
because it is one of the few that I can easily recognize.  I 
can remember many nights on cases with Mulder, sitting in 
a requisitioned car on a stakeout, sipping coffee and 
listening to him lecture on astronomy.  He knew all the 
constellations, and he liked to tease and quiz me to see if I 
paid attention when he pointed them out to me.  I usually 
failed miserably, and he would laugh, telling me to go to 
sleep, taking my Styrofoam cup from me and nestling it 
back in the drink tray from a nearby coffee shop.  And I 
would slip from consciousness easily, feeling secure in the 
knowledge that Mulder was awake, Mulder was there, 
Mulder would protect me as he always did.

I blink, realizing that my mother is waiting for me to reply.  
"I don't know how to do that, Mom."

I can hear the smile in her voice.  She was always fond of 
Mulder, even when Bill resented him, and even when she 
feared that what we were pursuing was dangerous.  "You 
have to tell Will about him.  You never talk about him, 
Dana."

I whirl around, feeling reprimanded somehow.  "Will 
knows everything about Mulder's disappearance, Mom!  I 
have never kept anything about that from him."

She shakes her head.  "Not his disappearance.  Will already 
knows about that.  What he doesn't know is who his father 
really is.  He doesn't know what kind of a man Fox is.  He 
doesn't know what he likes, what he thinks.  He hardly 
even knows what he looks like, Dana, because you don't 
keep any pictures of him.  Those are the things that Will 
needs to know."  Mom smiles softly.  "You need to share 
him with your son, Dana.  It will make you both feel 
better."

My eyes wander from my mother's face up to the sky 
again.  I know she is right.  I know that these are things that 
Will must long for, but I've never been able to bring myself 
to talk about Mulder that way with him.  It was never easy 
for the two of us to share our feelings together when 
Mulder was here; now that he is gone, I have tried to bury 
everything about him except the singular notion of finding 
him.  It is easier that way.  Focusing on the feelings just 
plain hurts too much.  I have grown used to the ache after 
so much time, but extracting memories of Mulder is often 
like rubbing salt in a wound.  "I'm afraid to do that, Mom," 
I finally say, keeping my voice soft and controlled.  I don't 
want to cry tonight.

"Why?  Are you afraid you'll finally have to admit how 
you feel about him?  Are you scared to tell Will that you 
loved Fox?  That you still love him?"  I can see Mom 
searching my profile out of the corner of my eye, and her 
face is strained.  "He needs to know that you loved Fox, 
Dana.  That you loved each other, and that that love is what 
brought Will into this world."  She makes me look at her, 
her hand pulling my chin in her direction.  "You have said 
so many times that Will is a miracle.  And maybe he is.  
But he wouldn't be here without Fox.  He wouldn't be here 
if you had ignored how you both felt.  And I know if Fox 
were here, he wouldn't want you to keep sheltering him.  
He would want you to tell him the truth."

She drops my chin and smiles again.  I can never resist my 
mother.  She is the warmest human being I know.  "Well, 
I'm going upstairs to read."  Her lips brush my cheek.  "I'll 
see you in the morning, honey."

I stand there for a long time after she leaves the kitchen, 
looking up at the heavens.  The bruised color of the sky has 
deepened to the ebony of night, the stars laid out in their 
intricate shimmering patterns against its backdrop.  And I 
can't stop myself from whispering, "Are you up there 
somewhere, Mulder?"

His voice comes then, clear and definite, much closer than 
a million miles away.  "I'm right here, Scully."  And I can 
feel a faint fluttering in my chest, as if he had just touched 
me, right above where my heart is beating.  

My eyes close, and I can see him again, easily this time.  
Sometimes, I struggle to remember his face, time eroding 
pieces away in an exasperating and hateful way.  His eyes 
are the same as Will's, that deep, dark green that I can lose 
myself in, floating away on a calm sea of intimacy.  
Tonight, they seem to settle on me, and Mulder's face is 
serious.  "Are you really here, Mulder?"  I can't tell if I am 
speaking aloud or not.  It doesn't matter, anyway.  "Are 
you still alive?"

"You listen to your mom.  You keep me alive, Scully."  I 
feel a touch again, the lightest of sensations in nearly the 
same spot my mother just kissed.  "I don't want to be just a 
name to him, Scully.  Help me be more for him than just 
that."

I feel my lower lip trembling again as I try to smile.  "You 
have to help me, too, Mulder.  Don't let me forget.  I can't 
bear to forget you."

"I'll be here, Scully."  His voice is fading now, and his face 
swims in and out of my head.  "I won't let you forget."  
And he is gone, nothing more in my ears but a tiny ringing 
and the echo of his words.

I push away from the window, my hands trembling just 
slightly, and I walk upstairs on shaky legs.  The door to 
Will's room is half open, and the green light from the 
single lamp on his dresser casts interesting shadows about 
the space.  He says he is too old for a nightlight, but he 
likes to leave that lamp on, its odd-colored light bulb his 
choice.  

I peek in.  Will is under the covers already, lying on his 
side facing the wall.  Above his head, all over the ceiling, 
the glow-in-the-dark stars and planets that he had insisted 
upon positioning himself wink at me, a reminder of the real 
ones outside.  A reminder of Mulder, and Will doesn't even 
know that.

I cross to his bed and sink down onto the edge.  He is still 
awake, but he doesn't turn over to look at me.  I reach out 
and stroke his hair, tucking the longer strands behind his 
ears.  "You know," I begin, continuing to run my fingers 
through the fine silk of his hair, "I just love the stars you 
have on the ceiling.  They remind me of your dad."

There is silence for a moment, and then a rustling as he 
moves under the sheet onto his back.  His eyes are dark and 
solemn in this light.  "They do?"  

I nod, smoothing the blanket down around him.  "Yep.  
Your dad knows every constellation in the sky.  He used to 
quiz me when we would be working out at night."

"Did you know the answers?"

I chuckle.  "Not usually, no.  Mulder used to say I was 
hopeless."

I can see a smile forming on Will's lips.  "I don't know 
them either, Mommy."  His mind is working now, forming 
an idea, and I know what it is before he can articulate it.  
"Maybe we can learn them together.  Get a book from the 
library."

I smile back at him.  "I think that's a great idea, sweetie.  
I'd really like to do that."  I plunge forward, knowing this is 
right.  "I'd also like to tell you more about your dad.  
Would you like to hear some stories about him?"

The smile on his face broadens, and I know I have not 
made a mistake.  "Tell me one now, Mommy."

I pull my feet up under me, getting comfortable on the 
mattress.  "OK, Will.  There are so many...where can I 
start?"  I grin again as the memories come rushing back, 
filling me up with a warmth and lightness I never imagined 
they could.  And I can feel Mulder again, in that place in 
my chest, smiling right along with us.

He is still here.  He is with us.  We are a family.  A strange, 
X-Files sort of family, but a family nevertheless. 


***END***

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Well, I started thinking about the idea of
		Mulder never returning to Scully, and how 
		she would have to deal with their child as a
		single mom.  My thanks to my boys, Max and 
		Ben, for their inspiration during bathtime
		one night.