Eyes That Only Cry by Rebecca Rusnak DISCLAIMER: None of these characters belong to me, and I'm just borrowing them for a little while. They'll be returned shortly. SPOILERS: None RATING: G CLASSIFICATION: S, possibly A, partially pre-XF SUMMARY: A view of Mulder and Scully, as seen through their mother's eyes. NOTES: This story bears the same stylistic content as another story of mine, "Here's Where the Story Ends." While it is not necessary to have read that one to enjoy this one, it's recommended. FEEDBACK: Yes, please! Write me at rrusnak@avana.net "What would touch me deeper, tears that fall from eyes that only cry." --Rush ***** October 13, 1961 Chilmark, Massachusetts The wind was rising, whipping through the trees, a mournful sound, and Elizabeth Mulder shivered. Her hospital gown was thin, and provided little protection from the drafts in her room. She wrapped her arms tightly about her middle, squashing her overly large breasts. She took a perverse pleasure in this--her expanding body and the lack of control she had exerted over it had made the last few months of her pregnancy an exercise in misery. Her eyes wandered again to the clock on the bedside table, then instantly darted away. No one was going to catch *her* acting the clingy wife, no sir! Bill had his reasons for staying away, good ones, too, he said. It was a source of contention between them, her husband's dedication to his country, his willingness to put his own life second to his patriotism. Somewhere in this hospital lay her child, her son, her firstborn. Still nameless, they had written "Baby Mulder" on his identification bracelet. Elizabeth had chuckled at that when they had brought him to her the first time--if he'd been a girl she would have been tempted to keep the name. Thinking of the baby made her sigh. A child. What was *she* doing with a child? In her mind, she was still the somber young girl she'd been a year ago, working her way through school on a secretary's pay, planning to spend the rest of her days in the quiet halls of academia. Then Bill had come around, flirting boldly with her in the dusty stacks of the library, making her blush and press her legs together against the sudden wetness there. Their courtship had been brief, whirlwind, their wedding, an autumn afternoon before a justice of the peace. Bill promised her a real wedding one day, kissed her goodbye, and left for Washington the next day. She had not cried then, and she did not cry now, alone in the hospital. Only a couple months into her marriage she had learned the hard price of dependence, of need. A tearful scene with Bill, remonstrances that while he shot up the career ladder at the State Department, she was languishing in this narrow-minded island town, nothing to do all day but clean the house. She had no one to turn to--he had an entire city at his disposal. She'd regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Her husband did not take well to hysterics. He'd demonstrated quite thoroughly that *she* was the only woman for him, and that *he* had better be the only man for her. The loving tenderness afterwards had only slightly improved things. Three months after the incident, she'd found herself vomiting endlessly into her pristine toilets, wondering if the baby was a child of hate, or love. Not that it mattered, in the long run. She had a child now, and she had to remember that her responsibility was to him, firstly. February 23, 1964 Miramar Naval Air Station San Francisco, California The sun cast its golden rays into the window of her room, but Margaret Scully was not deceived. Despite the sun, the air outside was cold, and some of it seeped in through the poorly caulked window. She shivered slightly, wrapped herself tighter in the blanket the nurse had brought her. She wished Bill were here with her, his arms holding her tight, his eyes full of pride and love. His ship was somewhere near Midway, however, and the best he had been able to do was to wire her. Unself-consciously, she opened the telegram, read the words she had already memorized: "Maggie: My dearest love on this very special day. Once again you have made me the happiest man alive. My thoughts are only for you and our child. William" Giving in to a sudden urge for melodrama, she pressed the paper against her full chest, closed her eyes, and imagined her husband beside her, saying the words in his familiar voice. She was proud of him, for loving his country and knowing how to face duty, but she could not help missing him, wishing he were beside her. Her daughter lay in the nursery, Dana Katherine, not quite a day old, sleeping under the watchful eye of the nurses. Soft pink fuzz covered her small head, and Maggie had smiled to see it, knowing young Dana would grow up to be her the apple of her father's eye. Tomorrow her other children, Bill Jr, and Melissa would flock to her bedside, eagerly jump and down outside the nursery window, but for now she was alone, and she enjoyed the silence. February 23, 1964 Chilmark, Massachusetts "It's good to see you again." His voice sounded sincere, but Elizabeth had lived with Bill long enough to know a lie when she heard it. "Does Bill know you're here?" She looked around, listened hard for Fox. For a three-year old, he could be incredibly quiet, popping up under her feet when she least expected it. "Of course." Bill's friend--she knew him only as John--blew a streamer of smoke into the air. "He sent me here." His eyes watched her shrewdly, but his posture was relaxed, his hands lying open, palm up on the couch between them. "I don't believe you," she protested. Vaguely she wondered where Fox was, then decided he must be playing in his room. Silly, how fearful she was of her own child seeing her like this. After all, what could a child do? Who would believe a three-year old? Still, the women of Chilmark would like nothing better than some more fuel for the bonfire that burned for her. "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," John said. The affection in his voice was largely unfeigned this time, and Elizabeth relaxed further. "I'm fine, thank you," she mumbled, unable to look him in the eye. It was all part of the game, the dance. Would she, wouldn't she? A lady never told... John didn't say a word--he, too, knew how to play the game. She was grateful for that, for *him*, for the companionship he provided, for the attention he paid her. So different from the casual manner in which Bill treated her, or the towering rages he was prone to. His hand touched hers, and she froze, heart thumping. Would she, wouldn't she? Bill might argue that she exaggerated, that Fox was enough companionship, but he didn't know; he was not the one who spent long winter afternoons blinking back tears. She was *not* dependent on Bill, she told herself fiercely, but with John, she could choose. She could be anybody, anything she wanted. His hand teased hers, and she looked up at him. June 15, 1971 Miramar Naval Air Station San Francisco, California "Mom, I'm bored!" Maggie looked up from her book with poorly concealed impatience. Two minutes, just two minutes, that was all she asked... "Bill and his friends won't let me play with them 'cause I'm a girl!" Her lower lip stuck out, and blue eyes filled with crocodile tears, tears that couldn't quite hide the mischief lurking in those eyes. "Maybe they'd let you play with them more often if you didn't *bug* them so much," scoffed Melissa. She sat on the porch with her mother, cross-legged, doing what she called "harmonizing." As far as Maggie could tell, "harmonizing" was really daydreaming, but she said nothing. "I don't bug them," Dana protested. "*You* do, and all your silly friends!" She danced back, ready to flee if Melissa showed any signs of getting up, but Maggie's oldest daughter stayed put. A covert glance at her book, just a few more pages, just two minutes... "Why don't you go ask them again...nicely, this time?" she suggested. Dana scowled. "They still won't let me." But she ran off, in search of her brother. Maggie bit back a grin. She knew all too well what it was like to adore an older brother, one who scarcely noticed you existed until he wanted someone to fetch and carry for him. Bill would know what to do, she mused. He would take Bill Jr. aside, explain how special he was to Dana, make the boy feel important, yet at the same time, giving emphasis to Dana's feelings, how important they were, too. He had a way with the children, of letting them know that he respected them, as well as loved them. Not that she was any slouch as a mother, she thought. Her children loved her and minded her out of that love, not out of fear of punishment. At nine years old, Melissa still confided in her, and Maggie hoped to nurture that spirit of confidence through her teenage years. But Bill was overseas again, and she was spending another summer alone with her children. She could not say that she was lonely, but her yearning for her husband was never far from her thoughts. Maggie shot a glance at her oldest daughter, then dived back into her book. December 2, 1973 Chilmark, Massachusetts "Mom?" She did not turn her head. What good was he now, now that her baby was gone? Samantha had been everything, everything... "Mom?" Fox's voice was thick with tears, although he struggled manfully against them. She felt a vague tug of pride at that--she had raised her children well, *they* would not be dependent on anyone for their happiness. A hopeful little girl's face, shining brown braids. Elizabeth bit back a moan. And what had she said? "No, Mommy needs some time to herself. Go play by yourself." And now the little girl she had doted on, had taken such joy in, was gone. "Mom? Do you want anything to drink? Mom?" He was losing the struggle against the tears, and now she turned her head to look at him. "Go away, Fox," she said wearily. "Just let me rest." For a moment she thought he might argue with her, and she shrank at the thought. Then his youthful shoulders slumped, and he nodded. "Okay," he whispered. He didn't remember what had happened that fateful night, and for that she was grateful. John had kept one of his promises, at least. The door shut softly behind Fox as he left, and she was alone, so very alone. Bill was in his study, she knew, working out a way to get his daughter back, but Elizabeth could have told him he was wasting his time. Samantha would never be a part of this family again, be a fellow prisoner in this huge white house, on this tiny island. A misleading word: family. They had never been a family, she knew that now. Sammie's absence only served to underscore that bitter fact. Bill, Fox, and herself, they were doomed to spend the rest of their days trying to escape the unhappy farce that was their reality. They had taken Samantha, and in a strange way Elizabeth barely comprehended, she realized her daughter was the free one now. January 12, 1994 Annapolis, Maryland Melissa had vehemently opposed the song, the tinny radio, but Maggie had stood firm. It was exactly as her Captain would have wanted it. Beside her, Dana stood, her head high, her eyes devoid of tears. She had come from the office, and was planning to leave immediately after the funeral, heading to North Carolina for a case. Maggie felt a curious resentment at this. Her daughter could at least bury her grief in her work, while she herself had nothing to do after this but go home to an empty house. She could not stop her tears, nor did she want to. Bill Scully had been a good man, a loving husband and father, and he deserved a show of grief. Later he would deserve nostalgic memories recalled with a smile, but Maggie could not see that far ahead right now. She saw no further than the end of the pier, where the priest was now scattering Bill's ashes. Bill Jr. had not made it in time--he would arrive later that night. She found it slightly ironic that he was late for his father's death, while Bill had been late for his children's births. Charlie had come, though, and he and Melissa stood off to one side, clustered under one umbrella. Maggie stole a look at them, at their silent tears, and her heart broke for her children. She could bear anything, but their pain... "As a Captain, he was entitled to burial at Arlington with full ceremony." Dana, who had stood by her mother against Melissa's disapproval, but who could not help speaking now. "This is exactly the way he wanted it," Maggie replied, unable to say anything more at first. Hesitantly, she spoke about the song, about Bill proposing, her eyes misty with remembering. Dana answered, and Maggie hardly heard her, until the end of her sentence. "...was he at all proud of me?" She did not turn to look at her youngest daughter, her Dana, her little girl, but she knew what she would see if she did. Vast strength in the eyes looking up at her, but also a young child's need for acceptance. "He was your father," Maggie said simply. Garden of Reflection Parkway Cemetery Boston, Massachusetts April 22, 1995 She was in the minority here, a woman amongst suit-clad men, sober in their dark colors, their hands clasped in front of them. Against their solemnity, the flowers surrounding the grave struggled to maintain their bright colors. Elizabeth did not hear the priest, his fulsome praise of Bill, nor did she hear the soft murmurs from behind her. Bill's passing did not inspire grief; rather she felt a curious weight lift from her shoulders. She could hardly wait to get back to her own house in Connecticut, walk through the rooms. Back among her own possessions, she would have time to explore this feeling of weightlessness that had taken hold of her ever since the police had called from West Tisbury. She'd gotten off the Vineyard as soon as possible, of course. She'd seen Fox safely off to Oxford, and begun calling movers the next day. She'd bought the house in Greenwich a week later, in a flurry to be away from Chilmark, and the watchful eyes of its women. "Sadly, I've been informed today by the mother of William's children.." the priest said, shocking Elizabeth out of her trance. Behind her stoic facade, she was grinning. The mother of William's children...*not* William's wife. She had argued with the priest about that, and he had finally acquiesced to her wishes. >From the day of their wedding, she had not truly been Bill's wife, and she would not be one on the day of his funeral. "....that his son Fox could not be here to share with us in this time of sorrow." She knew, too, that the story of a botched robbery was a lie. Bill had been killed, his death governed by the same men who had ruled over his life. She knew, too, that Fox had been there that night, and when the FBI had informed her of his supposed "death," fear had leaped into her heart. Would she be next? Or was living to be her punishment, knowing that her children had been taken, killed by these men? The priest finished, mourners began heading to their cars. Before anybody could gather courage to speak to her, Elizabeth fled. She did not want to get caught in a conversation loaded with false sympathy and grief--she was not sure how good of an actress she was. She thought again of Fox as she sidestepped the gravesite. Whether Bill's colleagues had kept him away or not was beside the point. Even now, twenty years later, her son was still trapped in this family, held by pain and secret betrayals. She wondered idly if he *would* have come, had he been able to. Then a woman stepped in her path, and she was forced to look up at the young redhead. "Mrs. Mulder? My name is Dana Scully. I work with your son." Elizabeth fixed her features into that of someone paying attention, and listened. January 21, 1997 Allentown, Pennsylvania An old man two rooms down gave her a kindly smile and a nod. Maggie flushed and turned away from him, but she still could not bring herself to open the door in front of her. Her mood did one of those dizzying swoops again, and she found herself nearly shaking with rage. That her baby, her little girl had cancer was bad enough, but for Dana to have left it to her partner to break the news was nearly unforgivable. Or would have been, if Dana hadn't been dying. There was no time now to carry grudges. Yet, how her heart had broken for the young man who had called her, asked to do so by Dana herself, his own emotions barely held in check. Fox Mulder had been in tears on the phone with her, and that was something else Maggie had a hard time forgiving her child for. The anger died, was replaced by a crushing sadness, and an overwhelming sense of injustice. How much more could she be expected to take? How many more loved ones must she lose in this lifetime? Tears welled up, and she pressed her fingers into her eyes, holding back the tide. She would not cry in front of Dana. The old man down the hall was still watching her, and Maggie actually placed her hand on the doorknob this time before pulling away. No, not yet. She could not face Dana yet. The doctor was in there. She might interrupt something. She turned away from the door, stared blankly at the white wall now in front of her. Dana had never once complained about her work, her job, her lack of a social life. She had never once intimated anything but enjoyment for what she did. Maggie had to wonder, though. Dana's work had cost her a sister, a chance for a promising career. And now she was dying, and would *never* have the chance for anything. This time the tears did not come, but the dull anger began creeping back. Maggie took strength from it, inhaled raggedly and turned around. Dana would not give in so easily, and she could not surrender, either, for her daughter's sake. She would stand by her, until the bitter end. With surprising ease, she opened the door and stepped into the room. "Dana." Her voice was the right amount of casual, and she smiled, as much from relief at that as from joy at seeing her daughter again. Dana looked up at her, and visibly relaxed. "Hi, Mom." April 30, 1997 Greenwich, Connecticut The last of the stairs fell behind her, and she breasted the threshold, turned, went into her bedroom. The door closed behind her with a bang, and Elizabeth winced. She pressed her back against the solid wood, laid a hand on her galloping chest, the hand that still stung from slapping her son. And just what was Fox doing now? Part of her waited, dreaded the sound of his footsteps coming up the stairs, and part of her felt a dark eagerness to confess, to finally speak the secrets of the dead. She was through lying, and Fox was tired of being lied to. It was time to clear the air. But the footsteps never came. Instead she heard a car door, and an engine, and then silence settled over the house. She had been left, left alone, and bitterly she realized that her son would never return. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she blinked them back with ease, born of long practice. She had not cried in years, not since Fox had forced at least one secret from her, after his return from the dead. She would not cry now. An ugly laugh escaped her, and she slid down the door until she was sitting, her feet splayed before her. When Fox was gone, she could love him, grow determined that the distance between them would be shortened, that she would finally be honest with him. Yet when he had come to her, so full of emotion that he could not even look at her, she had found all her good intentions for naught. Elizabeth could not tell her son the truth, and so she had damned him. He would immerse himself in his work, in his futile search for Samantha, and she would receive a Christmas card from him, if she was lucky. The bitter laughter turned into a grim smile. Maybe, if *he* was lucky, he might finally be able to find some happiness now, perhaps with that woman partner of his, even. Her eyes slid closed for a moment, then she was standing again, pulling open the bedroom door. She had intended to putter around in her garden some today--there was still enough light in the early spring day. It would be a crime to waste it. May 20, 1997 Alexandria, Virginia The years of independence stood in her good stead. The circle of mourners was few, the sympathy fake and cloying, not unlike Bill's funeral. Only the pretty partner, Dana Scully, cried real tears, her tiny shoulders shaking. Elizabeth envied her; such a display of emotion was impossible for her, so she merely stood still, her lips pressed firmly together. With dry eyes, she gazed at the coffin carrying her son, the son she never known how to handle, how to love. Fox's death left her alone now, truly, and she was amazed to find that she did not know how to react to this fact. Should she wear black for the rest of her days? Should she set up a trust fund in his memory? Should she sell the house and buy a condo in Palm Beach? The future was dim, unclear, and she had to squint to see. The service was over, the crowd breaking up. Elizabeth shook herself back to the present. People were moving in her direction now, and she straightened her back a little more. She knew she had to face them, and she resented the intrusions they presented. At least Fox had been spared this; his death had ensured he would never have to endure such a farce for her. For all time, he had escaped the oppressive atmosphere she had refused to call "family." Her son was finally free. August 29, 1997 Annapolis, Maryland Too many funerals in such a short span of years. The circle of mourners behind her was large, the snifflings and muffled sobs of those gathered back there reached her ears dimly, as through a veil. Tears stood in her own eyes, refusing to fall, and Maggie blessed them for that. Too many times, she had cried for her daughter. On this day, she owed Dana smiles, even laughter. Her eyes stared at the coffin, but she did not actually see it, choosing instead to see her daughter as she remembered her, vibrant, smiling, filled with joy just to be alive. Both her girls were gone now, and she had found herself relying on Bill and Charlie's advice often in the past few days. She had drawn her sons close about her, leaned on their strength, surrounded herself with their families. The noise, the bustle in the house had helped ease the ache, the loneliness. She could not stand to think of a future without Dana, and she deliberately shut out the thought. The service ended, the mourners began to move, slowly, as if coming out of trances. Some of them headed in her direction, and Maggie swallowed back the tears. She had loved Dana with all her heart, as had the people come here today. Together they would share memories, smile fondly in remembrance. The cancer had been merciless to Dana, but in the end her daughter had triumphed--she had died in peace. Her daughter was finally free. ****** END ****** "Guns don't kill people-- the government does." -Dale on "King of the Hill"