Chapter Text
Prim and proper. Respect the way things are. Toe the line and smile. Never forget to smile. Lips pressed together, it doesn’t need to be a real smile…
“Dana.”
She turned, looked across the station. She wandered too far and while her brother was minding the luggage, she needed to be minding their mother. Dana Scully turned fully from the windows now, the view of the passenger train just beyond them.
They were at the station, they were going to the shore, and her mother needed her. She was seated in her high backed wooden wheelchair, Charlie beside her, and next to him was their neatly stacked pile of luggage he had unloaded from the carriage.
“A glass of water, dear, thank you,” Margaret requested once her daughter was back at her side. Though Margaret was a firm believer in keeping with tradition, she preferred to be called ‘Maggie’ over her birth given name. She never felt much like a ‘Margaret.’
The tight lipped smile returned to Dana’s lips. It was not a real smile. Polite. Polished. Refined. It was not often they went on excursions anymore. At least not in the last three years or so. She needed to remember herself.
“Yes, mother,” Dana agreed easily and began toward the refreshments counter.
Charlie followed her. He abandoned their luggage beside their mother. None of the other passengers, dressed in their nice dresses and sharp suits, would bother their luggage, nor their mother. If anything, a gentleman might help load their suitcases and bags to the train. A woman might stop to converse politely.
The excitement of leaving on this trip kept Dana awake half the night and now she was paying for it dearly. She was more easily distracted, her thoughts kept wandering. She stepped to the small refreshments counter to obtain a glass of water for her mother and as she waited, her gaze went to the window again.
What if she hopped a train to another destination? Alone? With nothing but the clothes on her person. Her favorite blue dress that highlighted her eyes, her black brimmed hat, her traveling cloak. It was much too warm for her cloak, but her mother insisted they wear them, but it was because her frail frame was always cold.
Charlie stepped up beside her, blocked her view, and brought her back to the room. “Are you certain you don’t need me to accompany you?”
“I’ve told you, Charlie—”
“Charles,” he corrected.
They both knew she’d never call her baby brother anything, but ‘Charlie.’ “I haven’t needed a chaperone since I was seventeen.”
It was barely a year before her father allowed her to be in the accompaniment of her former fiancé without his presence, nor her older brother, Bill’s. They trusted Robert, though they likely shouldn’t have.
“It’s not so much the travel, but you’ll be alone there with… well, with her.” Charlie picked up the glass of water. “For three weeks, correct?”
“Perhaps longer,” Dana replied as she started back toward their mother who was, in fact, chatting politely with another passenger preparing to board. “As you can see, I packed for quite the trip.”
She had been making a joke, but in actuality, she had over prepared for this vacation. She didn’t want to be without, especially because it was to be just the two of them.
Charlie had initially planned to go, but he was promoted at work and could no longer get away. Dana found it no reason to cancel their entire trip. She needed to take their mother to the beach house, get her out to the sun and salty air. It would do them both some good.
He frowned at her and stopped short of reaching their mother. They weren’t even within earshot. “Yes, but a young woman and an older, sick––
“Charlie.” Dana fixed him with a look. As her younger brother, he didn’t need to be so protective.
“Charles,” he reminded her.
“I wrote the McNeills months ago, and again, a few short weeks ago.” She had to tell this story to each of her siblings. “They will be in their beach home the rest of the summer. You know mother and Mrs. McNeill enjoy each other’s company. I think being by the shore and spending quality time with an old friend will do her some good. It couldn’t hurt anyway.”
It was her job to care for their mother. She took on that role because Bill was married and away, living in Connecticut now. Missy just had her baby when their mother fell ill, and Charlie, well… he was the baby of the family and it certainly wasn’t a job for a son anyway. Dana knew this was her responsibility, it was also her fault, and she owed it to her mother, her family, and her late father.
“We will be fine,” she insisted. “I’ll even send you a postcard.” She grinned and he couldn’t resist smiling back. “And your mother is parched.” She plucked the glass from him and took it toward their mother, a more genuine smile on her face.
Their beach home was more like a beach cottage. It was smaller than some of the others along the shore, though it had three floors. It was near the boardwalk, easily walkable, which was good for Dana because her mother was in the chair. Maggie was able to walk, but she grew fatigued quickly.
The Pequod, as her father had donned it, was directly across from the sand, the street between. Their home had a wide front porch with a second floor balcony. The back deck was a bit smaller, but perfect for conversation with a bit more privacy as there was an alley there. Dana planned to spend much of her time reading on the deck during the day when the street was busy, then she would take up a spot on the balcony in the evening.
Upon entry to their beach home, they found themselves in the formal sitting room. It was a bit stuffy inside. There was a gentleman that worked along the beach, he was friends with the McNeills, and he kept watch over the Pequod while they were away.
The home was in good standing otherwise, good condition, and Mrs. McNeill had sent their cleaning woman over for the day before their arrival. Dana imagined it needed quite a mopping and a dusting. They hadn’t been here in nearly ten years. Not since her father had passed on.
She helped her mother into one of the armchairs and brought her a glass of water. The man who gave them a ride from the train station had just finished bringing their bags in. Dana thanked him, and tipped him, then turned toward her mother.
“We can have supper in a minute,” Dana told her. They were going to the boardwalk. “I’ll check in with the McNeills first because they were sending help to bring a bed down to the den.”
The den was off the stairs and her father smoked his pipes and worked in there. The wood still smelled of the tobacco he used, same as the books. He had several bookcases, all filled. Dana planned to browse those to find something to read in addition to the small trunk of books she brought along.
“Whatever for?” Maggie asked, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.
“Mother, you cannot be going up and down the stairs.” Her words came out a bit sterner than she meant them to, but it was a serious concern.
“And why not?” Maggie replied hotly.
“I don’t want you to fall.” Dana went softer this time. She didn’t want this to turn into an argument.
“You will be here to help me, won’t you?” Maggie responded.
Dana nodded. “Yes, of course, but—”
“I sleep upstairs, as always,” Maggie cut her off with an air of finality.
Her bed at their home had been moved downstairs three years ago when she had been too sick to climb the stairs. Maggie always planned for it to be taken back up, but there never seemed to be a right time. Admitting it here, now, to old friends that she was too weak to go up and down one flight of stairs once a day… she refused to do it.
“Yes, mother,” Dana agreed with her. She would give it a day or two of helping her mother on the stairs and if it seemed too difficult, she would insist on having a bed moved downstairs. “Let me put our bags upstairs and I will take you to supper.”
Her relationship with her mother hadn’t always been so formal. Things had changed, she knew exactly when, six years ago, that their relationship had snagged beyond repair. That, too, had been her fault. She couldn’t escape it. This was her punishment.
She made quick work of carrying the bags upstairs. She made sure not to pack any too heavily. Dana did away with her cloak the instant she was in her room. She was already warm.
The room was familiar, yet unfamiliar at the same time. She remembered it being bigger, but since she would be sleeping in here alone, the size didn’t much matter. She used to share it with Missy. The boys slept in the attic and always complained of the heat.
She sighed softly. Being here without the rest of her family, without her father, was painful. There were many memories here, picnics on the sand, flying kites, splashing in the water. Spending time with the McNeills.
As far as she knew, the McNeills spent every summer at their beach home. Her father and Mr. McNeill used to sit and smoke pipes or cigars. Her mother would play cards with Mrs. McNeill and her friends. Dana felt a bit of freedom then, she was able to go to the boardwalk, explore the beach, usually with one of her siblings, but once in a while, she was permitted to go alone. Or maybe she would sneak away, she couldn’t remember.
In any case, she wasn’t sure if she would be able to find some time to go out on her own. Her mother needed her and Dana knew she shouldn’t leave her alone too often.
Besides, Dana was a woman now, not a child, and that meant she should have accompaniment on the boardwalk, especially in the evening. There would likely be no sunset watching for her anywhere except their porch or balcony.
Part of her hoped this vacation to the beach might have provided her some freedom, but she was concerned she was only going to feel more trapped and constricted.
His paint tasted best when his pores practically leaked alcohol. Mulder was determined to fend off, to fight off, the night terror tonight. Like David against Goliath, a strong smack straight into the sense of it… and that could be enough. Alcohol could be the key. Drown the brain and make it give in. Thaw it out the next morning. Maybe not eat the paint.
It calmed him, painting. He’d started out of sheer boredom and the fact that his father purchased the supplies in an attempt to help his mother. She didn’t use them, so Mulder did instead. He had talent, it came easy to him, and he experimented with colors and blending and dimensions, but the work he loved, his craft, well… it wasn’t pretty.
Why did paintings need to be linear, to be strict and realistic? Why did he have to be? The things that haunted him, his dreams, desires, well… he poured them out onto the canvas, but it never truly helped. That was what the alcohol was for.
Numb his body, his brain, his soul. Numb him down to a pulp with a heartbeat and some hands, fingers stained and dirty, and when did his fingernails ever have anything other than paint beneath them?
Sometimes he passed the buck, pawned it off, because maybe it didn’t have to be his fault. Maybe he could blame his troubles on someone else, something else. He owned his sleeplessness, he owned his drinking. But… but if he could place the blame elsewhere… Perhaps he could find freedom.
He tried to run, outrun it, but it followed him. It was easier to not sleep in New York City. He could run the streets, drink ‘til the sun rose. He’d see the suits heading to work and he was the bum with pissed in pants two steps away from ending up in jail for the day.
New York couldn’t last. No one wanted his art there anyway. He found some people, strange people, stranger than himself, if that was possible. His only friends and they saw past his demons. It was Frohike that inspired him to leave the city, though Langly and Byers urged him to stay where he would be less likely to be thrown out of town for being what they called a grifter.
He went west, what the hell, but it was dusty and all that sand made him think of home. The shore. His sister.
Mulder didn’t go home, however, he went a bit further south, to a beach town where his paintings didn’t sell, where the people who lived there called him crazy. They didn’t appreciate fine art. The finest art. Offensive, vile, and confusing art.
He was nearly homeless so he changed it up and painted what would sell, mixed it in with the visions he placed on canvas. The tourists didn’t hate the mysterious, and perhaps crazy, man along the boardwalk, selling paintings.
Sometimes he considered going back to New York, but he knew he couldn’t leave because it wasn’t until he moved here that he saw her for the first time.
He had gone off, on a bender, such little sleep in a four or five day period, he wasn’t sure, but it was painting after painting ‘til he ran out of paint, used a little blood before passing out, and that was the first time she came to him.
Her hair was red, fire under the sun, she brought the sun into his night. Her complexion was fair, her skin unblemished, ‘cept for the tiny imperfection above her lips.
It wasn’t solely her presence that soothed him that night, but the look in her eyes when she leaned over him, when she checked on him, touched his face, brushed his unruly, greasy hair back from his sweaty brow. There was a care and concern that was lacking from every other person to lay their unforgiving eye on him. But hers, but her, she seemed to actually give a damn about his sorry self. She seemed to know him.
The morning that followed the first sighting of her that long while ago was shameful and dark, lonely. But it didn’t have to be. He knew she had been a dream, a figment of his imagination, but at the time, she was as real as he was. Mulder left, bought new paints, and spent the next several days painting her, keeping her alive, keeping her there with him.
Sleep was not a pastime he enjoyed, but with her presence in his apartment, her watchful eye that he had yet to get right in his paintings, well… he could give in a bit. Especially because she appeared to him in a dream and he wanted her back. If sleep was the solution, he’d down a fifth of whiskey to get her back. He’d keep trying.
Elizabeth ‘Bet’ McNeill might’ve been the kind of woman Dana would have liked to fashion herself after, except that she was a bit of a busybody and she didn’t care to read. She enjoyed the material parts of life––beach homes and fancy dresses, card playing and dining out. Dana was only certain she attended church for the gossip and to keep up appearances.
But the part of Bet McNeill that Dana enjoyed was the way she seemed to do what she pleased without a care. She didn’t come off as uncouth, she was quite well respected, but she seemed to fit into her role as her husband’s wife easily, or maybe they simply had a good marriage, Dana didn’t know. Arthur McNeill was the strong and silent type. He was a businessman, worked long hours, and was scarcely around.
The McNeills were at church every Sunday, however, and Maggie and Dana sat beside them. Her mother refused to take her chair today. She didn’t want to make a scene, and as long as Dana provided support, she swore she would be fine. They brought along a cane, but her mother had refused that as well.
Once church was through, as well as the conversation after that Dana spaced out during because it was nearly noon and she was hungry, they returned to the beach house to change into less formal attire. Dana helped her mother dress and then put on a lighter dress for herself.
They were having dinner with Bet this afternoon. She had hired help, with a room on her property for her maid, and they were provided quite a dinner spread with tea sandwiches, fresh fruits and flavored breads along with butter, honey, and jams.
Dana helped herself, being around Bet was like being around family, even though she could see her mother giving her a look at the rate at which she was eating. It wasn’t Dana’s fault that her mother always made them go to church with only a coffee before.
The conversation bored Dana here as well. Bet talked near endlessly, always filled the silence, but Dana did notice that her mother perked up in her friend’s company, seemed better, happier. She wished she could take Mrs. McNeill home. Maggie had friends back home, they stopped by weekly, but none of them held a candle to Bet.
“Have you been to the new shops on the boardwalk yet?” Bet asked Dana, having noticed the younger woman very silent through the conversation thus far. “The sweets shop has the most divine lemondrops.”
“We haven’t yet,” Dana told her. “I’ll be sure to pick some up.”
“And you have to see the trinkets in the gift shop,” Bet continued on. “Funny little wooden toys that bend and flop. Oh! And such beautiful kites there.”
“We will have to stop in,” Dana responded with a smile. She added a spoon of sugar to her tea.
Bet turned toward her friend as her jaw dropped a little. “Have you not let this poor child on the boardwalk, Maggie?”
“Of course I have,” Maggie answered.
“We’ve eaten in the restaurants twice,” Dana added in defense of her mother as she was accustomed to in order to assure everyone that they had a well balanced relationship, and her mother certainly was upstanding, understanding, and never at fault.
While they had been out to eat, that ended once Dana picked up fresh groceries. She knew her time outside of the beach home would dwindle now. Maggie liked to have her around. Besides, Dana wanted to be sure her mother didn’t need help and therefore, she needed to stay with her. It was fine, she supposed. She had plenty of books to read.
“Then your next order of business are the shops.” Bet reached for her small purse on the table and dug inside of it. She extended a monetary bill toward Dana. “Pick up some lemondrops, on me.”
Dana would have loved to have been able to see all of the lovely items Mrs. McNeill spoke about, but it was up to her mother when they would go. She had to refuse. “Oh, thank you, but that won’t be—”
“Maggie, tell your darling daughter to enjoy the morning tomorrow down at the boardwalk while you and I play cards with friends.” The bill was still hanging in Dana’s direction, but Bet’s gaze was on Maggie.
The other woman drew in a breath. Maggie knew the best thing for her relationship with her daughter was for them to have space from each other from time to time. It might not be the worst idea to allow Dana to go off on her own tomorrow to browse the shops. She could identify which ones they could visit together at another time.
“Yes, Dana, dear, why don’t you spend some time in the shops tomorrow?” Maggie suggested as she looked at her daughter. “You can bring us lemondrops on your return.”
Bet smiled and reached over to take Dana’s hand. She forced the bill into it and enclosed Dana’s fingers over it.
“There you are,” Bet told her, a smile still present and a slight twinkle in her eye. “All set for tomorrow.”
Dana realized Mrs. McNeill had given her the opportunity for a break and she greatly appreciated it. Back home, she had a routine with her mother. Dana had errands to run, breaks throughout the week to have space, with her mother’s friends stopping in to visit, always on time, and it worked well for them. Here, she hadn’t the opportunity to develop a new routine yet.
Besides, Dana was simply relieved she wasn’t being forced into card playing with the older women. She’d have been incredibly bored in the company of their snooty friends with their lowbrow gossip. The boardwalk was much more appealing and Dana planned to take her time, wanting to be sure she did not arrive home until the other women were gone.
He knew her.
Her hair was red, even brighter when the sun hit it, and she had a hat upon her head, a tan hat, wide brim, pale yellow and pink flowers at the center of it. Her face was hidden and that was how he knew she wasn’t really someone he knew.
She certainly would have a face like a gargoyle, pinched about all wrong, a sneer in his direction. That was how they all looked at him. Like he was the creature from the sea. Some kind of monster that emerged all briny and raw. They loathed him here, showing off his paintings, some kind of desolate, good for nothing, son of a—
She turned and his heart stopped. She wasn’t a stone faced creature, she was the beauty from his dream. Surely, he must have seen her before in order for her to visit him at night. Hell, he had a portrait of her within his work here today. He always kept one with him. The last time he sold her was a year ago. Inanna he had called her when the gentleman asked for the name of her.
Inanna.
A Mesopotamian goddess for beauty, love… sex. Queen of Heaven. Courage and strength. He fell into the texts, studied the myths, was beat by his father for believing, especially when he claimed his sister hadn’t vanished, but returned to her place in the heavens, among the gods, sea foam, into her place with those who controlled and toyed with human fates. He was turned black and blue for that one, too.
“Have you painted all of these?”
And she spoke. To him.
Those blue eyes were on him, the ones he’d nearly gone mad over because no matter how often, how long, he stared at them in a dream, how he looked into them, jumped in, swam in them, he still couldn’t paint them. He never got them right.
He saw now, his mistake, because they shined in a specific way, and he always painted them much too dark, because they weren’t dark like the ocean, but they were the horizon, the darker blue of the sea that met that pale blue of the sky, and the color mixed together for a perfect world. His perfect world, a smattering together of sky and sea and dreams. How could they be so inviting and piercing all in one go?
“Sir?” she prompted, her reddened lips parted just a touch.
“Sorry!” The first word to her was an apology and that seemed fitting. “Yes. They’re mine.”
It was the church that drew her over because of the chipped paint, the darkened brass bell. At first, she thought it was an old schoolhouse, perhaps an abandoned home, but there was a cross there, above the wooden doors he had marred up, and it was intriguing because churches were generally a bit more pristine. Reverends took pride to bring in their flock, and parishioners would never allow such disarray. There was a story here.
“Do you get a lot of buyers?” She was making conversation and she had moved on from the church, however, because there was so much more to see.
There were larger paintings, the country and farms. Fields of corn, fields of flowers. Hazy skies and sunsets. She breezed over them quickly, wondered if he created these images or if he was well traveled. They were slightly odd, some of the colors were off. A sky a bit too purple at sunset, grass a little too blue green. Discrepancies that could be overlooked, she supposed.
“Quite a bit,” he lied. “Generally out of towners.” Not a lie. “Like you.” Stab in the dark, but she was out of place here. She emerged from his damn dream to be here. And she didn’t respond to the comment, only hummed.
Mulder watched her as she examined the very few portraits. They were considered grotesque and most related to sideshow attractions. Not so much the bearded lady, but men with two many arms or women with two many eyes. The proportions were off.
He generally brought his tamer painting here, the landscapes, the landmarks. It was only these that showed his true work, true calling, true pride. She was going to think they were strange. And then he realized he should stop her because at the very back was a painting of her. Perhaps she wouldn’t see the resemblance.
“You have quite the imagination,” she commented, then looked over at him. She had stopped herself from reaching the end of the stack. “Though, I suppose that comes with the job of an artist?”
“Of course,” he answered immediately.
Mulder needed to keep her attention. Keep it away from the portraits. She could be one of those prim and proper ladies, and if she thought he spotted her somewhere and painted her, she could be offended, as if he spied on her. Hell, she could be married. Had to be married. Look at her.
She moved on to his highest sellers and his weakest work. Plain simple paintings of the ocean. Waves and sand and sun. Sometimes he’d toss fistfuls of sand at the canvas while they were wet. She had looked over five before pointing out a person on the shoreline, distant, a young girl with a hat, long dark hair beneath it, and a pale blue dress.
“This girl… by the water, you paint this figure often.” She easily spotted variations of her in three more of his paintings, all at the beach.
“My sister,” he admitted.
There was another figure he painted quite often, this figure in front of him, those blue eyes, just as stark as he saw in his dreams, and he briefly wondered if he conjured her, if she was a figment of his imagination, a night terror out for a daydream stroll.
Mulder looked around, could they see her, too? Yes, others could see her because two young gentlemen were fixated on this woman. He understood. She was beautiful.
“I will come back another time, perhaps with my mother.” Perhaps not. Her mother might find the practice of buying art off the boardwalk to be reprehensible. “We will be staying here for a bit of time.” She addressed his earlier comment. Yes, she was from out of town. “Can I ask your name?”
His name? His dream was here and asking his name, and he gave a slap to his thigh and she frowned at him. It stung and he wasn’t asleep. He had to make sure.
“Mulder,” he said and decided to ignore the fact that he slapped himself so hard.
“Mulder?” she repeated, a question. It wasn’t a name, but a surname, and she was hoping for something less formal, though to ask would certainly be inappropriate. “Mr. Mulder, I—”
“No.” He stopped her, almost reached out to touch her, but he jammed his hands into his pockets. “Just Mulder.”
“You’ve initialed them F.M.” She could simply guess. “Francis?”
“Fox,” he supplied. Otherwise, this would be a very long game and he wanted to know her name.
“Is that short for…” No, she had nothing. Her eyebrows drew together. “Like the animal?”
“My sister was almost Fawn.” His mother may have spent a little too much time alone and on opium treatments for her ‘hysteria.’ “My mother named her for the nurse that saved them both. Samantha.” Perhaps his sister had been doomed since birth.
“Mr. Fox Mulder…” That was quite a name, but it seemed to suit this man before her. He appeared as wild as the name, disheveled, intriguing. Sly. She would consider his slyness because he seemed like the type to get himself out of any situation.
“And you are…?” Mulder prompted and then she smirked at him. His eyes widened slightly. She smirked.
“Scully,” she told him. She could be Scully here, at the shore.
He laughed. She gave her last name. Damn, when was the last time he laughed and meant it. It felt good, like something mended in his soul.
“Miss Scully––” Mulder started, but that couldn’t be right. “Mrs.?”
“Just Scully,” she corrected, as he had, and that faint smile was still upon her lips.
Well. Damn. This was unreal, surreal, and they were interrupted. A couple, out of towners, here for the boardwalk experience, some penny candy, the smell of the sea. And to interrupt the first real bond he’d had with another person in over a year.
The woman clinging to the arm of the man was gushing over his least favorite painting of a church with overgrown wildflowers in front, chipped paint on the siding, a slightly crooked cross above the door, and a tarnished bell. It made Mulder believe the church was uncared for, neglected and abandoned because God was dead. This woman clearly didn’t see it that way.
They purchased the painting because out of towners made up the majority of his business. It paid for his food and his tiny apartment so he’d take it. Likely, they believed his work was trash like the rest of those who lived in town. Mulder was certain the vacationers only wanted a story to tell, about the man selling paintings along the shore and they bought one as proof.
Once he handed off the painting of the church and took their money, he looked for her, Inanna––no, Scully, but she was gone, just like his dream.
Mulder scanned the boardwalk for her, his gaze landed upon the woman, she was far from him now, and he sighed heavily. He had half a mind to chase her down, but she might wallop him one good for that. Or a gentleman beside her might if they thought the madman painter was attacking.
Perhaps she would come back to him. At least, he knew she’d return to him in a dream. He’d hold onto that notion and he’d wait. In one way or another, she would be back. She always came back.