Rated PG = VAH, MSR
Spoilers: Alone
Summary: Resolution, Mulder and Scully style.
Fox Versus the Volcano
by Livia Balaban
Cordless phone battery. Damn it, that's what she left off her shopping list. The thought occurs to her as she trips over her own left foot on the way to intercept the incessant ringing of the corded phone in the kitchen. "Hello?" she asks, out of breath and pissed at both her reduced lung capacity and her sudden clumsiness.
"Have you eaten?" Mulder asks, his voice pinging with the familiar echo off the walls of her front entryway.
"Can I call you later, Mom? There's a pest at the door."
One beat. Two. She would hear his formulated reply on three. The rhythm is instinctive, like holding the eyelash curler to the count of eight.
Three. "I have no response for that."
"God, no." He's been threatening for days, and she knows, just knows, her number is up.
"C'mon, Scully, you promised. I brought pizza."
She sighs, loudly; a sound she learned from her mother during her formative years. Every child knows its meaning, and Mulder, being a child himself, is likely to understand the implication: you are wearing my patience to the thinness of tissue paper, boy.
Unfortunately she is also the size of Lake Superior and famished beyond pride. Manipulative Profiler Boy has managed to make up just enough ground to be tolerable. "Let yourself in."
The pizza is greasy, and she discovers that she likes it. She isn't entirely
surprised: certain spices are oil-soluble, therefore the fullness of the
flavors can only be achieved in that particular, oily way. But it does
surprise her, nonetheless, that her stomach doesn't rebel. It rebels against
everything in recent days.
* * * * *
Only three nights prior, chocolate became the most recent casualty to her pregnancy, and it was a hard blow. With Mulder so irritatingly distant and glib since his dismissal from the Bureau, her only comforts were pleasant memories and chocolate. Her legs draped with a soft chenille throw, her ears soothed by a guitar and clarinet plucking at Fauré's exquisitely tranquil Pavanne, Scully sank into the soft cushions of the sofa and tore through the light foil inside the Lindor box with relish. The chocolate was smooth, creamy and rich, and it coated her tongue like silk as it melted away into sweet perfume on her palate. She felt herself loosen into bliss. Perfection in chocolate, she mused as the flavor slipped away without a noticeable aftertaste unlike the cheap stuff.
On one of their longer road trips, back when they still investigated oddball cases with unhampered relish, Mulder had spent twenty-seven minutes in a fruitless one man debate over Swiss versus Belgian chocolate, his monotone delivery belying the passion of his arguments. Belgian chocolate, he had claimed with his customary intensity, was about wildness tempered by sophistication. The shocking edge and breadth of the flavor, only barely restrained by...Scully had tuned out the rest of his babble and checked her watch.
That night, to shut him up, Scully had managed to locate a single box of milk chocolate Lindor truffles at the local supermarket. She'd knocked on his motel room door, handed the box over to him with crisp, surgical precision, and walked away. Five minutes later her phone had rung, and without a greeting on either side, she heard him intone, "Tell me you know where to get more of that." It was to be one of their only true points of concurrence.
Scully reflected on the almost impossible innocence of that night as she slid the tip of her tongue through the firm surface chocolate and down into the slick, melty interior of the truffle. The delight was short lived, however, when with that first duodenum-twisting slam of indigestion, she knew she had lost this simple pleasure as well.
All she had left for comfort then were her memories; fading images, shadows of the vibrant people they'd once been.
* * * * *
"Are you planning to tell me why it's so important we watch this movie, Mulder?"
He nudges the last slice of pepperoni-bacon-mushroom-onion-double-cheese to her side of the box. "Wait for it."
She takes the last piece and concentrates on the details of the film. Earlier in the movie, Joe was diagnosed with a 'brain cloud' by a bankrolled quack, and was given only a few months to live. The parallel does not escape her. "He doesn't really have a brain cloud, Mulder. There's no such thing."
He shakes his head but doesn't turn. "Wait for it."
On the screen, Joe attempts to putt a golf ball on an artificial green, afloat on a raft of expensive luggage. He's already given most of his share of the rationed water to the unconscious woman beside him.
Scully is about to comment on the matter when Junior completes an impressive handspring-flipflop-roundoff combination so intense it makes her woof.
"Big one?" he asks, moving in to have a feel. "Jesus!"
he yelps and jumps back when the novice gymnast tries it again, kicking
Mulder's hand.
Scully winces and shifts position. "Try being on my end of it."
Mulder yawns and rises. "You want a refill?" he asks as he takes the pizza box and their tumblers to the kitchen.
The relaxed sound of his voice unnerves her. Tranquillity isn't an eventuality she's prepared for, and she doesn't know how to respond except to go with it. "Sure." She shakes her head to clear it. "Thanks."
He doesn't reply. The response she receives instead is the clinking of glassware, the *fwip* of the refrigerator door as it opens, the splash of the apple juice, and the ascending pitch of the pouring liquid. There is a second *fwip*, then footsteps.
By the time he returns and settles back onto the sofa, the Waponi Wu are singing an odd hybrid of a Polynesian song and Hava Nagila.
"Abe Vigoda, Mulder?"
"Shh," he replies, his eyes riveted to the screen and his hands on her swollen ankles. "He's crucial to the moment." When did he maneuver her feet into his lap?
She doesn't bother to put much thought into it. With her head back on a soft cushion and her ankles massaged by strong hands, she drifts into the place she is confident Mulder intended all along. He wanted her compliant and slightly fuzzy. So he gets his wish; she is too limp to care. She can kick his ass later if need be.
Reflecting the distorted images of flower-decked South Sea islanders, two glasses of juice sit, gleaming dark gold, on the coffee table. Coffee, she remembers with distant fondness, and sighs. She might as well just rename it the juice table.
"I've been trying to write something, but I can't get it right," he tells her in a soft voice while his fingertips knead firm circles over the sore muscle and tendon of her ankles. "Then I remembered this movie, and I thought it might make sense."
"Mm-hm," she replies, measuring equal amounts of indulgence and satisfaction into the sound. She needs to make sure he knows she is enjoying the massage, and to keep him talking.
He turns and looks at her, but his expression is blank. She feels the warmth of his touch, however, so his panic face projects something very different from the distance and uncertainty of prior weeks. He is feeling something, at last, and is nervous about discussing it. It isn't the solid confidence she's been hoping for, but at least it's progress.
He turns back to the screen. "I ran a few errands today."
"Mmmm," she moans in relief. "Anything interesting?"
He shrugs. "I picked up my gun permit."
Despite the obstacle of her girth, she has little difficulty yanking her feet out from under his hands. She swivels, with slightly more effort, so she is facing him. "A gun permit."
He nods but says nothing. He is definitely nervous, and he has a damn good right to be. Let the ass kicking commence.
"Why the hell do you want to carry a gun?"
One corner of his mouth twitches with the accustomed need to make light, but he doesn't appear to give in. "I'm going to need it," is his cryptic reply.
She closes her eyes for a moment. Everything would be okay if she could just shake the world like an Etch A Sketch and clear away all the bad angles and jagged corners. When she opens her eyes there is no appreciable change, except that Mulder has begun to perspire just a little. The development pleases her.
"Do you plan to continue your trend of investigating Bureau business without credentials or legal authority?"
The distance returns. Clearly offended by her accusation, he reminds her in a cold voice, "Doggett's alive, Scully, and he was well on the way to being *not* alive when I got there, illegally and without credentials. Or a weapon."
She nods, granting this one concession, but she has a point to make and she will not be distracted by emotional blackmail. "So what you're saying is that you intend to continue to antagonize the Bureau."
Just as quickly, the distance fades, and when a small grin slides across his face, a familiar twinkle shines in his eyes. "With full authority, I assure you."
She squints at him. "What kind of authority?"
When he removes the wallet from his pocket, she understands he's been waiting for most of the evening to share this revelation with her. "This was the other errand I ran today." He handed her a card.
For a while, all she does is read it. Then she turns it over and reads the back. Then she turns it back and reads the front again. When she finally hands it back to him, his expression is self-assured, with just a hint of the sly smile she's missed so much over the past months. He is no longer the shadow of the man, but rather the man himself, trickling sweat and ready to sell himself off to remain in the investigation business. He must have even spent time in a classroom. Amazing.
"You're serious about this," she says.
His smile broadens and he slides the card back into his wallet. The wallet he drops onto the coffee table, signaling that he has no intention of leaving any time soon.
On the screen, Tom Hanks attempts to pull an octopus off his face.
Mulder's voice is calm. "I think it's where I've been heading for a long time. My heart hasn't been in the work since I learned the truth about Samantha. And with everything that's happened over the last year, and what's coming," he is looking off into space so she is unable to discern whether he is talking about the baby or alien colonization, "I don't know, it just...makes sense. Besides, it's sexy, admit it."
She has a difficult time suppressing her smile. "I will do no such thing. It's dangerous work."
"It is," he confirms, "and it's no different from before. Only this time I have more freedom and an unbearably sexy title. Come on, 'fess up, you're just dying to jump me now."
"Mulder," she chuckles, "be serious. This is a huge investment, and you'll have no expense account."
He shakes his head. "So what do you want me to do, Scully? Teach? Stand in a classroom all day and corrupt the minds of the young? And what happens when I need to follow an important lead? Do I just ditch them?"
The moment the words escape his lips, he winces, obviously aware of the impending verbal firestorm.
She decides to cut him a break. "You know what I have to say about that," she replies. "I understand that freedom is important. We have a lot to keep our eyes on, so on that count it makes sense. But where is the money going to come from?"
He smiles again. "A friend did a little creative banking with some offshore accounts."
"Meaning...?"
"I found some money I didn't previously know about."
Scully's stomach sinks. "Please tell me it's not stolen."
Mulder seems genuinely offended. "No," he replies with indignation that dissipates as he continues, "it's just not...entirely...legal...to begin with."
"But it's yours."
He grimaces. "I suppose if it had been legal to begin with, it would be mine now."
She glares.
"Probate law and all," he clarifies. "It's not a whole lot, but it's enough to cover the startup costs."
Great. But at least it's family money, she decides. "So when do you plan to go into business? And what are you going to call the firm?"
"It's probably a little early for a firm. So far there's just me. But maybe when you're done with your leave, you might want to head up my evidence lab."
"Mulder," she chides out of habit. But the truth is, with all that has happened in recent months, she has more and more difficulty envisioning herself back at the Bureau. And without Mulder beside her...
"That's Fox Mulder, *P.I.* to you," he says with a verbal swagger, "and I'll be opening for business as soon as I find an office with decent security and good facilities. I found one this morning about twenty minutes from here that has some promise."
She grins and turns back to the television. Abe Vigoda looks on at Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, who are dressed to the nines, laden with flowers, and standing on the edge of an active volcano. Scully knows the feeling.
"Hey, this is it," Mulder tells her, reaching for her ankles again.
The verbal exchange is rapid fire, and it's over as quickly as it begins. A handful of words later, Scully understands what he's been trying to write, without success, and why this scene would appear to hold the answer for him. It is, as they are, no-nonsense. Mulder was right: Abe Vigoda is the key, with his straightforward question and the characters' straightforward answers.
<'Do you want to marry her?'>
<'Yes.'>
<'Do you want to marry him?'>
<'Yes.'>
<'You're married.'>
Scully smiles.
Mulder rubs her ankles again and lets his head drift until it lolls on the back of the couch.
"Calm before the storm," she warns him.
He nods, awkwardly. "It's our decision, nobody else's."
"You're not really yourself yet," she cautions him.
"Neither are you." It stings, but she concedes the point and changes the angle of her resistance.
'Whither thou goest,' Meg Ryan insists onscreen.
"It's so...official, Mulder, and it feels rushed. Let's decide this when we have some time."
He chuckles and raises his head. "What do you call this?"
What she calls this is the waiting room of the soul, a limbo in which nothing is real or settled until the little life inside her is finally explained and guaranteed to be safe. But she simplifies it for him, and eliminates the inner drama she seems to be adding to every thought these days. She settles on, "This is just a breather."
He doesn't appear to disagree. "So when? When we're dodging bullets and clouds of acid? When we're on the run or in hiding? When we're fighting for our lives? When does it happen?"
A volcano spits out Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan into the open ocean.
Scully sighs and closes her eyes. "I don't know. Maybe it doesn't."
Although his hands don't actually stop rubbing her sore ankles, the pressure lightens, and the strokes of his fingers become uneven.
She continues, "Maybe it doesn't have to."
His hands do stop at last and he turns his head to her.
"Maybe it already has happened," she finishes.
A small grin slides across his lips. In a soft voice Mulder asks, "Do you?"
Her eyes widen in understanding and then she nods. "Do you?" she echoes.
He nods.
Scully nudges his thigh with one foot in a silent demand to resume the massage. "Well, there you are."
He snorts a half-chuckle through his nose, and turns back to the screen in time to see the two castaways rescued once again by the protagonist's costly baggage. Mulder chuckles again, gives one slow blink and smiles. "Drink your juice."
She reaches for the glass. "If they find a good partner for Doggett, I'm not going back," she tells him, making the decision final as she utters the words.
He nods. "I know."
She takes a sip of the juice. "But then they'll win."
Mulder continues to rub her ankles. "So what? Proving Kersh is a horse's ass isn't going to improve your life in any appreciable way."
He has a point.
"I was blind, Scully. From the day I left college I've had one job - one - and while it may have opened some doors for a while, eventually it closed a lot of windows. I think I forgot there's a great big world out here, and I don't need the Bureau to save it."
But there is of course the matter of making a living. "And when the world isn't yielding up clues about how to come to its rescue?"
"Then I follow cheating spouses, look into corporate pilferage, and follow cases even the Bureau won't touch. It'll be great."
She imagines him standing at a suspect's door, leather-clad and needing a shave, holding up his ID in introduction: Fox Mulder, Private Investigator. Damn it, he was right. It *is* sexy as hell.
She takes another sip of the juice. "Keep the leather jacket."
He smirks. "Be my partner."
The dork is actually asking his partner to be his partner. She takes one long, slow gulp of the juice. Doesn't he know that she's already jumped into a volcano with him?
She's taken too long, and his expression of mirth begins to melt away.
"Whither thou goest," she assures him with another slow nudge
of her foot, wondering if that luggage in the movie is real, and where
they can acquire some. She has the nagging feeling they're going to need
it.
=====
End.
Notes:
Thanks to Lysandra and Virginia. Mwa. Oh, and to the Internet. Where else you can find, in under sixty seconds, a text version of any old film script you could possibly want?
Thanks to me for the movie poster. Go Team Me.
Yes, Livia clearly needs a nap.
Thanks also to the listmembers. Your notes of cheerful stalking have drawn me back in to finish the dozen-plus fics in my "Writin'" folder.
While I'm up here, I'll keep going until the orchestra begins to play...
Thanks to Sybil for the endless, supportive stalks. You rule, girlfriend.
I've taken a nearly year-long break from writin', RL having intervened like a mofo. Time to get back to it. Much more is forthcoming, so I'll apologize in advance. Sorry.
Wet, sloppy smooches,
LB
