Title: Watching Fox Author: Alelou E-mail: Alelou123@aol.com Rating: PG-13 for some language Keywords: Mytharc, Implied MSR, Biogenesisfic, Motherfic Spoilers: Biogenesis, various mytharc eps Mrs. Mulder is somewhat reluctantly drafted into keeping Mulder safe while Scully goes to the Ivory Coast. Disclaimer: Everybody here belongs to Chris Carter and 1013. Feedback/Archive: Sure! Feedback lovingly replied to. Notes: Many thanks to Ambress and MystPhile for their insightful beta-reading (and kind reassurance). Watching Fox The first time I met my son's partner, Dana Scully, was at his father's burial. She approached me, this tiny little redhead, and earnestly informed me that Fox was all right. I didn't know what to make of her, and I had other things to worry about in any case. Over the next several years I spoke to her several times on the phone -- either because Fox was in the hospital with some injury or another, or because she was in the office when, rarely, I called there to try to get him. (My son is not very good at returning phone calls.) I have a vague memory of her presence when I was in the hospital with my stroke. But really, that whole time is a nightmarish jumble that makes no sense. I no longer think about it if I can help it. She was also there one afternoon when he came over in a near- hysterical state and demanded to know who his real father was. When he took off with her car she was tight-lipped with what I imagined was anger and embarrassment. As was I. That was pretty much the end of contact with her (and with him) for some time. This is the first time I've seen her in over a year. She called me up about a week ago and pleaded with me to get him transferred out of Georgetown Memorial, where he was behaving for all intents and purposes like a raving lunatic, and into a private hospital. I suggested that she could do this more easily than I could (Fox gave her medical power of attorney years ago), but she said, no, she had to leave the country on an urgent matter related to his condition. She felt he was at serious risk of being inappropriately drugged or even experimented on by some people they had learned not to trust. This, unfortunately, had the ring of truth, so I packed a bag and headed to D.C. and succeeded at length in getting Fox transferred to the facility she had named as a safe haven. Once he stopped screaming, he pretty much curled up and went catatonic, so I sat around reading the latest John Grisham and wondering when and if Dana Scully would reappear. From time to time I would stand next to his bed and examine his face, noticing the first faint lines of middle age. It occurred to me for the first time that his sister, if she still were still alive somewhere, would probably have lost any traces of girlishness by now. He did once show mild signs of lucidity for a few moments. After one day in the new facility he stirred and said, "Mom?" I said, "Yes, Fox?" He muttered, "Holy shit," and his eyes rolled up in his head. The doctors were all excited but unfortunately nothing much came of it. Frankly, I found it a little difficult not to take it personally. But now Miss Scully is back. Has a bit of sunburn and looks as bedraggled as I've ever seen her -- though standing straight as usual on heels that would have labeled her a slut when I was a young woman. Not that she looks the part in any other way. "Mrs. Mulder," she says, acknowledging me breathlessly before she heads to the side of his bed and brushes his hair back from his forehead. He's lying there in his usual fetal position (curled away from me). "Thank you for keeping him safe. How is he?" "This is pretty much how he's been," I say. My hips protest at the effort involved in standing and approaching the bed. "He stopped screaming and went into that mode four or five days ago. Catatonia is the official diagnosis. He woke up for a few seconds on Monday, but that was it." She grimaces, fingers still rifling through his hair. And this shocks me a little -- she lowers her forehead to his and murmurs intimately -- though not so quietly that I can't hear -- "Mulder, it's me. Scully. I'm back. I saw the most amazing things, Mulder. Even you may have trouble believing them." And then she just stands there, head to head with him, softly caressing him, smiling a little and trailing her lips over his forehead. I'm feeling somewhat indignant at this display, though I do recognize that by modern standards (certainly John Grisham's) it doesn't amount to much. And jealousy is such a petty emotion. Still, do I need to watch this? Plainly there are things Fox hasn't told me about himself and his partner. I clear my throat, ready to make my excuses and go. She raises her head and smiles at me disarmingly. "This isn't what it looks like, Mrs. Mulder. Or at least, it's not what you think it is. But I do care very deeply for your son." Her eyes are suddenly swimming with unshed tears. I'm not sure what to say. There's a cold part of me that wants to say, "Too bad for you." There's another part, the part that grieves for my beautiful son's apparently neverending exile from everyday happiness, that feels almost choked with sudden gratitude. In the meantime, Fox just lies there. "Do you know how to bring him out of this?" I ask, finally. "I think it will just take a little time," she says. "And you think this because --?" She looks at me with a tiny, patient little smile. "I just have a very strong feeling." Oh. Well, I suppose she was right the last time, wasn't she? Though personally I'd prefer to hear something a little more definitive. She moves to the bottom of his bed and flips through his chart. "Has his doctor been in recently?" "He usually visits later in the afternoon. Various colleagues of his drop in from time to time all day, but I haven't seen one yet this morning." It occurs to me that I'm more than ready for lunch. "Why don't you take a break, Mrs. Mulder? You must be exhausted. If you'd like, you could take my car, use my apartment to take a shower and a nap." "Thank you but I have a room at the Sheraton," I say. It's next door, how fortuitous. She looks a little surprised, as if she had assumed I would sleep here in this chair every night. Sorry, dear, but no. But I don't want her to think I've been remiss, either. "Your friend Mr. Frohike has been most helpful watching him at night." She smiles again, a quiet smile, and looks back at Fox, and I get the feeling that she is absolutely desperate to touch him again. "Do you think I should stay?" I ask, tentatively. "Oh no, Mrs. Mulder, I think you should get some rest." "I mean, do you think I should stay here in Washington?" She looks surprised and a little dismayed. No doubt her mother isn't (wasn't?) the type to leave the bedside of a catatonic son, even if he is approaching forty. "Don't you want to see him when he wakes up?" she asks. Well, if she's going to put it like that. "Yes, of course. You really think that's likely to happen soon?" She blinks. "Yes, I do." "Then I'll be back this evening," I say briskly. "No doubt you could use some rest yourself, Miss Scully." And I gather up my small array of comforts, eager to get back to the peace of my room. xxx Back in my room I eat lunch, take a long bath and attempt a nap, but I'm not sleepy. I watch CNN until the repetition of the same stories becomes unbearable, then go downstairs with a magazine for a cup of tea in the restaurant. I don't particularly care to dine alone in public places, but when pressed I find that a magazine makes it more pleasant. Then he sits down across from me, reeking as always. I feel nauseated to think that I once smoked too. Even worse, that I smoked with him. "How is he?" he asks. "I'm quite sure you know," I answer. "I see his partner finally returned." I sip my tea, grateful that my hands are steady. "I have nothing to say to you." "And how did she feel he was doing?" "Why don't you ask her?" He smiles thinly and reaches for a cigarette, then grimaces with annoyance when he realizes that this is a nonsmoking area. He's never liked to obey anybody's rules. I'm somewhat surprised when he obeys this one. "I'd like you to give her a message for me." Oh, please. "Surely you have other ways to deliver messages?" "But I enjoy this way," he says, eyeing me with that strange mixture of affection and cruelty that I once, stupidly, found intriguing. I stand up. The thought of giving him enjoyment in anything is more than I can bear. "It has to do with your son's future," he says. "I would have thought you would be interested in it as well." xxx When I return to his room, I find her asleep in the side chair, mouth open and the tiniest little slip of drool trailing from it. I'm irrationally annoyed: where am I supposed to sit? She starts and wakes up. "I see you got at least a little rest," I say. She blinks and stretches, then jumps up to examine him. No change there as far as I can see. "You've brought us a message," she says flatly. My mouth drops open. "How did you know that?" "What is it?" she counters, though she appears to know already from the grim line of her mouth. Well, at least I won't have to find a way to introduce the topic. "That Fox's future at the FBI depends on your cooperation with them in understanding the effects of the artifact." "Cooperation is an awfully broad term," she says, dismissively, moving her attention back to Fox. "That's generally their style," I agree. This captures her attention. "So you are familiar with this man?" she asks. "The man we know as C.G.B. Spender?" You could say that. "Carl. Yes, I know him. He was a friend of Bill's." Right. "Not a very good friend," I add, primly, thinking that good friends generally don't fuck their friend's wives -- or kidnap their daughters. She glances sharply at me and it suddenly occurs to me that perhaps she knows exactly what I'm thinking. The effect of this artifact that has them so concerned? I had wondered what he was talking about. But I remind myself that I really don't want to know. I don't want to know anything. Agent Scully sighs. "Mrs. Mulder, about six months ago this Carl Spender told your son that Samantha had been taken from your family as a hostage to a race of aliens who are planning to take over our planet, and that she would be reunited with him at the time of the invasion. We received some corroboration of this from another abductee, actually, but we really don't know how reliable it was." She waits. When I don't say anything, she takes a breath and continues. "Some months before that he actually introduced a woman to your son as Samantha. This woman had pretty much persuaded Mulder that she was the genuine article -- she told him that she had been raised by this Carl Spender as her father, that she thought her mother and brother were dead. That she was now happy with children of her own and didn't want to see any of you." I don't say anything, just close my eyes. Naturally, I had not heard anything about either of these events. Nor would I have wanted to. "Do you know the truth?" she asks me. I stare sadly at her. The truth. "Do you?" she asks again, impatiently, even though she must know the answer if, indeed, my theory is correct. "I know that my daughter has been missing since she was eight years old. I know that my husband did the best he could to protect us but that it was never enough. I know that Carl Spender is a lying son of a bitch who gets off on power and enjoys manipulating people. Beyond that, I know nothing for certain except that if I make any noise I'll pay the price." I nod at the bed. "Or he will. Maybe even she will." She looks at me appraisingly. Then she turns back to Mulder, and I think with some relief that this interview is over. But then she murmurs yet another question. "Who is his father?" How dare you, I think. "He needs to know," she says, as if that explains everything. "He has no right to doubt," I reply. "Doesn't he?" she asks gently. I'm trying hard to maintain a strong sense of righteous indignation, but I can't help an inward cringe of shame. Still. Who gave this chit the right to question me? I've suffered a great deal in life, and one of the things I've learned from it is how to take care of myself. Bill couldn't protect me -- didn't even want to, eventually. Fox tried in his way, but he was just a child. But I've become quite good at it. Which is why I turn on my heel and leave. xxx I somewhat surprise myself and don't go very far. I'm awakened from my hotel bed early the next morning by a ringing phone. "Mrs. Mulder?" It's her. "He's awake," she says, joyfully. Then she hangs up. xxx I peer into the room before entering. She's holding one of his hands and tenderly brushing his hair back with the other. He looks asleep to me, but at least he's straightened out of his fetal position. But then his eyes open and they both turn towards me in the doorway. "Mom," he says. "Fox. How are you feeling?" He shares a sideways smile with his partner. "Fine. Dopey, like I slept way too late." There's something about his eyes that reminds me of him when he was just a little boy -- my darling little boy with innocent, trusting eyes and gorgeously long eyelashes -- something so precious and vulnerable that my throat suddenly constricts, thinking of that bastard waiting out there somewhere. "I'm going to be okay," he says. "How can you be sure?" I ask. He squeezes his partner's hand. "I just am." "He's checking out fine in all his tests," his partner adds, more practically. She clears her throat and pulls her hand away from his. "Excuse me, Mrs. Mulder. I need to make some phone calls." He watches her leave, then turns to me with a look that is warm yet wary. "Scully told me you stayed with me all this time. You must be worn out." "I'm fine," I say automatically, moving closer. Something does feel different today. There is a sort of warmth -- and an ache -- inside me I haven't felt in a long time. It's a relief, in some strange way, that I don't have to pretend to be completely ignorant of what he's up against anymore. "I'm glad you're feeling better." He smiles. "Bill Mulder was your father," I blurt out. He looks taken aback for a moment, then serious. "Thank you. I had begun to wonder." "And he was Samantha's father, too. Though suggestions otherwise were made to your father at one point, I believe. And I don't claim that my behavior was beyond reproach. Neither of which made for a very happy home." I don't add the part about how losing a daughter didn't help. He knows it well enough. "I know you did the best you could," he says. Embarrassingly, I start crying. "Mom," Fox says, uncomfortably. He reaches out and pulls me closer to him on the bed, patting my back as I lean down and cry into his sheets. I cry and cry in a way that I haven't done since Samatha was still with us -- and I thought I still had a marriage in more than name only -- and I still believed that my son had nothing but good prospects ahead of him -- and I still thought of myself as a strong and virtuous woman. Certainly I've cried in the years since, but they've been stingy tears of frustration and outrage. This is a cleansing cry. Still, it's mortifying to cry in front of one's child, and I'm relieved when I'm able to get myself back under control. "Sorry," I mutter, getting myself back together. He reaches over for one of those tiny little hospital kleenex boxes and hands it to me before sitting back against the pillow, looking pale and tired. There are tears on his face too, but he doesn't look unhappy. "I have a theory that your partner can read minds," I say, to change the subject. "I'm quite sure she can read mine," he says, with obvious satisfaction. "And you? Can you read mine?" I ask. He looks as if he's trying for a moment, then shakes his head. "The effect of this thing we were dealing with has worn off, I think. I hope. Apparently I'm not very well-equipped for that particular talent. Scully thinks it's a temporary effect, anyway." "Then maybe he'll leave you alone?" "Who will?" "Cancer man," his partner says, walking back into the room. "Spender?" he asks, obviously surprised. "I haven't told him about our conversation yet," she tells me. "I thought perhaps you would like to discuss these things with him yourself. Though I doubt anything you tell him will come as a big surprise." "What things?" he asks. She's gives me a look that is a mixture of challenge and compassion. "I'm leaving you and your son to talk for awhile, Mrs. Mulder," she says. The unspoken message is: don't screw it up. It suddenly occurs to me that in the passage between yesterday and today she's suddenly become even more proprietary of him. "I need to tell you about Spender and your father," I say. "What I know, or think I know. What they told me, anyway." She starts gathering up things, preparing to leave. "And then I think you need to tell me about Miss Scully and yourself," I add. That stops her. They exchange glances. "Okay, Mom," he says, with a small smile. "Let's talk." THE END