Title: Portland Stories 1 - Beer with Mulder Author: Kayla Ariev Rating: R Spoilers: none Summary: Some unexpected announcements cause a bit of tension at the latest Scully family gathering. But Mulder somehow manages to set things right. Part one of a possible series. Category: S, R Keywords: Bill-fic, alt-universe, MSR Disclaimer: The X-Files, Mulder, Scully, and all the rest belong to 1013, FOX and Chris Carter. I'm only borrowing them for a nice little excursion. Note: This takes place primarily in Portland, Oregon -- my home, sweet beautiful home. I love this state and I love this city (go Portland State Vikings!). I have been as true and as accurate as I know to these places that I love so dearly. But I would like to clarify a couple things for all you non-natives, non-Oregonians: Oregon is pronounced "Or-eh-gun" (not Or-eh- gone, as so many mistakenly say) Willamette is pronounced "Will-ah-mette" (the "ah" as in "ham"; the "mette" as in "mit"; not Will-uh-met) This story takes place after the events of Season 7 (minus "Requiem") and varies in some ways because it really does occur in an alternate universe, and by alternate I mean that it is not part of the unhappy world Chris Carter wove for some of my most favorite characters. Feedback to kaylaariev@yahoo.com * * * Putting it lightly, I was not happy. Putting it how it was, I was pissed as all freaking hell. Fox Mulder . . . just the name made me bristle. When I found out that my kid sister -- soft, naïve, little Dana Scully, had legally changed her name to Mrs. Fox Mulder, well, that was more than I could take. Fucking A. They got married? When the hell did they start dating? Of course, Dana so kindly reminded me, she was still going to go by her family name -- by Dana Katherine Scully -- for all intensive purposes, primarily the FBI. Fucking FBI. And of course, that asshole -- her husband?! -- continued to call her Scully, as if she had no last name, as if the rest of her family -- also known as Scully -- did not exist. And Dana acted like it didn't matter. She even returned the gesture, calling him by his own last name, as if confirming to him that such an exchange was perfectly all right in her book. I wondered sometimes -- try as I might not to -- did they shout out their last names in the throes of passion, while they -- blech -- fucked? The thought of the thought makes me shiver. And now Dana shows up for the big fourth of July weekend -- late as usual -- with Fox Mulder in tow, and announces casually, as if she were mentioning a joke she'd heard on the elevator, that oh, by the way, we're married. Husband and wife. Yep, that's us! She smiled, he grinned -- I wanted to punch that grin. See, this year was supposed to be special, a little different. Mom wanted the whole family to get together, a reunion of sorts. And so we decided to hold the occasion -- over the fourth-of-July -- at an arbitrary location. Someplace we could all get to easily, someplace where we would all enjoy spending time, and someplace that would be beautiful and warm and pleasant in the middle of July. Well, Dana and Mom are out in D.C., I'm down in San Diego, and Charlie lives up in Idaho, with his potato-grown wife and kids. We all chipped in our own suggestions: San Francisco (mine), Chicago (mom), Boise (lazy, afraid-of-flying Charlie), and Portland (Dana). Well, we all ruled out Charlie's suggestion right away, deeming Idaho a bit too potato-y for our tastes. And Dana hates San Francisco, and Mom didn't really care. Charlie was eager to back up Dana's choice of Portland, since the Oregon town is still a manageable drive from Idaho. I really wasn't into the Pacific Northwest, but after Dana went on and on about the trees and the mountains and the rivers, I was starting to fall into her lull. And then she mentioned the possibility of driving out to the Oregon coast, so much like the New England coast we had all loved as children. So it was settled. Portland. We all arranged for our own travel, even Mom, who preferred to fly out of Richmond, instead of Dana's preferred airport in Dulles, and agreed to meet on the Fourth alongside the Willamette River at the waterfront park in downtown Portland. It was a bright, shiny day, the Fourth, the smell of popcorn and cotton candy still lingering in the air from the recently departed Rose Festival. If I squinted, I could just make out the indentations in the grass where carnival rides had stood just a couple of weeks ago. But instead, there was just grass, and pathways, and trees, and benches, and smiling Oregonians, lathered in sunscreen to protect their delicate, pale skin from the sun they seemed to see so little of. Even with sunglasses, I think they were squinting, their faces all bunched up. I kept chuckling to myself, so used to the bright sunshine in San Diego. But I knew immediately what Dana had meant about the beauty of this place. The sunlight seemed purer up here, and all the colors more true. The sky was blue -- really blue, just as the grass and trees were all really green. It seems that there is no other way to describe it. The river, even, sparkled and glittered like glass, the sunlight catching in the velvet blue ripples and small waves that lapped at the muddy, tall-grassed banks on either side. And because it was such a bright clear day, I could look around and point out to Matthew Mount Hood, and the rounded, blasted-off dome of Mount Saint Helens. I remembered the newscasts from way back when the volcano had erupted; looking at it sitting so placidly in the background of the urban city made me wonder how it ever could have exploded, showering the vicinity in dark ash and still smoldering particles of lava. Well, needless to say, strolling alongside the Willamette River perked my spirits, and made me glad that we had gone with Dana's choice of city. And I was glad to be there on the Fourth of July, looking forward to watching the fireworks explode over the river, watching Matty's face as the bright colors lit up the night sky, and I was looking forward to seeing Charlie and his family, and my mother, and my sister. And they arrived in that order, except that when my sister came last of all, later than she had told us, later than a small flight delay would have allowed for, she was accompanied by that tall, lanky frame that was too familiar for my taste. He moved so smoothly, so casually, with her at his side. They seemed oddly familiar with the paths they walked. I had spotted Dana first, of course, her red hair reflecting brightly in the sunshine. And she was coming from the cluster of vertically challenged buildings across the street, the bustling hubbub of downtown Portland. And then there was that man beside her, and they were chatting and smiling and laughing and walking so comfortably. They took the turns of the streets and sidewalks with such unsettling familiarity. And then Dana was there with us, and her focus shifted from her companion, to her family as hugs and cheerful greetings were exchanged. Mulder, well, he stood awkwardly to the side, away from the family he was not a part of. And he deserved to feel awkward; this was a family reunion, he was not family, and he was not invited, not at all welcome to be there. But then mom -- sometimes, goddamn her 'welcome all' attitude -- took him up into her arms and greeted him as well. And then, the bastard, he relaxed, returned the gesture so easily, broke back into a smile, a bright grin. And then, before I knew what was happening, mom was introducing him to Charlie, and Deborah, Charlie's wife, and their kids, Ted and Millie, and then she was reintroducing him to Tara and little Matty. And then she did it to me, too! "Bill, you remember Fox, of course." And Dana stood beside her, muttering "Mulder," just as she had each time mom called her partner "Fox." I gritted my teeth, trying to force a smile that would not give my son nightmares, while I stiffly shook the man's hand. Dana watched on with fearful anxiety. Well, damn it, she deserved whatever anxiety wracked her little crazy head -- what had she been thinking, bringing Mulder along? What the fucking hell? And then -- oh my god! -- then she just casually let slip their supposedly new status. "Oh by the way," --oh by the way?!- "Mulder and I are married." She grinned, smiled, shrugged, then took his hand, and led the way as we all walked alongside the river, one big happy family -- and despite all I wished to the contrary, we really were -- all of us, even Mulder, one big happy family. Except that I wasn't happy. I was fucking fuming, pissed as all hell, ready to go ball's out on the guy, and punch him silly to leave his rotten carcass floating in the river for the authorities to find, giving this goddamn perfect place some real goddamn news! But I bit my tongue, held my fist, stayed as still as possible. Of course, I tried too hard; I sort of quivered with the exertion it took to remain silent and placid. Tara noticed, but did not say anything. God bless her dear heart, she was probably more aware of the tension between myself and Fox Asshole Mulder. Mom either didn't notice, or didn't care, too wrapped up in the giddiness she felt now knowing that her daughter had finally wed, even if it had been to that FBI pain in the ass. See, there's another thing -- why does it seem that I am the only one in my family to know what an asshole this guy Mulder can be? Did I say that out loud? I can't help but wonder, from the sharp look Dana has turned to shoot me. She must be hearing my thoughts; she must know. Well of course she fucking knows! I let her know how much I hate that man every time I talk to her, every chance I get, and I let her know a lot of other things, too. Like my disapproval of her lifestyle, of her job, of her hasty and emotional decision to leave the medical practice and become an FBI agent, for god's sake! But she was always so quick and so happy to remind me that if her decision to join the FBI had been so hasty and emotional, didn't I think she would have left by now? After seven years for fuck's sake, right Bill? Right? She always said it so matter-of-factly. I wondered if her partner knew how matter-of-fact she could be, annoying little priss that she was sometimes. Now look at me! Ragging my own kid sister. And it's all that asshole's fault. If I weren't so pissed at Fox Mulder, I wouldn't be getting all irrationally upset at Dana. It's his fault. His fault. Mulder's fucking fault. I am brought from my ranting thoughts by the tug and the whine coming from around my kneecaps. It's Matthew -- he's hungry, he wants lunch. Well, then we're all in a quandary about lunch -- where do we eat? But of course, Dana has the answer. "I thought we could picnic. We've got the perfect spot!" And before anyone can answer, Dana and --Mulder- are leading us to their car, parked up the street, from which they produce a bountiful picnic lunch. And then they lead us further on, all of our arms laden down with bags of food, a large cooler, and a cheap-o, plastic drug store whiffle ball set. After a few blocks we come upon a cluster of buildings joined by sky bridges about three stories above us. Between the eclectic buildings are message boards, racks of free local newspapers, benches, bike racks, trashcans, payphones, and a collection of tiny food carts, the smells of Thai and Mexican and Greek and Mediterranean and American foods and coffee mingling in a strangely aromatic way. Past the buildings and the food carts we found ourselves in the most enchanting of places I have perhaps ever seen in my entire life. We were there, in the middle of this metropolitan city, and we were surrounded by hundred-year old brick buildings and a few scattered Victorian homes, large maple and other trees looming over us, shading us comfortably from the sunshine. The concrete beneath our feet was still damp, as if it had rained recently -- and knowing we were in Portland, it probably had. And lush, light green grass sprouted up in the large patches between the convenient, criss-crossing pathways. And there, up just a little ways, was an expansive and welcoming picnic area, with rickety wood benches lined up in convenient, conversation-friendly patterns. "Dana this is lovely," said Mom, just as enchanted by this wonderland as the rest of us. Dana smiled, biting back a further grin, sharing a quick glance with her partner -- her husband -- Mulder. "Yeah, we really love to come here. These are the park blocks that are part of the Portland State campus; most of these buildings belong to the University." This time I was not alone, as all of my family members stared somewhat bewildered at Dana. "Have you been here before, Dana?" I asked boldly. "Well, yes," she said, sharing another one of those bitten-off grins with her partner -- evil husband. "Actually, our apartment is just a few blocks that way." And she pointed northward, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "What?" We all said it, although I'm sure I'm the only one who had to bite back a curse word. She shrugged. "Yeah, I meant to tell you. We, um, we moved. Also. We got married, and we moved . . . here. To Portland. We thought this would be a good time to tell you; all at once, in person, together." "Is there anything else you'd like to tell us?" I asked, disdain dripping from my tongue and dirtying the front of my newly pressed shirt. "Yes," she said, facing my disdain with more dignity and courage then I'd ever known anyone to possess. "Mulder and I shut down the DC X-Files; we closed them down. They were no longer serving their purpose. And then we wanted to get away from DC. So we left, we requested a transfer here. We'd been here before, on cases, and we both liked it. In fact, we love it here. So the FBI made it happen -- they were only too happy to be rid of the X-Files and to have us on another coast, 3000 miles from Bureau headquarters. And also . . . the University has hired us both as adjunct professors. So besides working at the new X-Files department, which we developed for the Portland field office, we also teach one class, two days a week at the University. It gives us some extra cash and it's nice to get out and interact with fresh minds that aren't distraught over some bizarre crime or mystery we happen to be investigating." Her smile this time was more subdued, but just as smug and contented. It made me almost want to puke. Bleh. I couldn't help the soft scoff that passed through my lips, and the subtle shaking of my head as I looked away. But Dana noticed it, and so did Mulder. "Is there something wrong, Bill?" he asked. He said it so nonchalantly. Like he and I had always spoken so casually. But there was something else in his voice; some sort of protective, inquisitive, forceful push that came towards me like an invisible wave. And it hit with full force. I was almost knocked over backwards by it. And because I had been attacked, I fought back. I pushed back. "Yeah. There's a problem." He didn't even ask what it was. His expression, the way he stood with his hands on his slightly cocked hips, his head leaning to one side as his eyes pierced through my skull. His lips pursed. He was waiting. "Yeah, there's a problem." I was beginning to repeat myself. "There's a problem, and it all starts with you." "Oh. With me." He meant it to be a question, but it came out in a pseudo- sarcastic statement. He was mocking me. At least, that's what I thought. "Yeah. You warp my little sister's brain," Mulder kept staring at me, while Dana let out a loud "tiff," but I continued. "You make her believe all this crap of yours about aliens and conspiracies within the US government. Well let me tell you something . . . I work for the US government. Hell, - you- work for the US government! It's crazy, this bullshit of yours, but you got her to believe you. Somehow. I'll be damned how, but you did. And now you've got her following you around, hanging onto your every word and dropping everything at whatever little whim you light upon. And then you go and marry her. You fuck her and you marry her and you don't even let her tell her family until after the fact. Let me guess, it was at city hall, right? And even worse -- you take her away! You just steal her away to another city, not even telling anyone. How dare you? How dare you do that to her; to us?" "That it?" asked Mulder, still not moving. He raised his eyebrows, almost daring me to go on. But that was all. I'd run my ammo, and my mother was watching, little ears were listening and I'd already cursed aloud too many times. "Good," he said, and shifted so that he was standing in an exact mirror of his previous stance. It was like he stood one way to listen, and then switched when he talked. "Because I've got some news for you. No one -- no one -- could force Dana Scully to do anything she didn't want to do. She can't be made to do things; she only does things of her own free will. So if she believed me -- which she rarely does -- it was her own choice to do so, and it was probably an informed and well-thought out decision. And if she followed me, it was because she wanted to. And if she married me, it was because I'm lucky enough that such a brilliant, beautiful, special woman who I happen to love more than life itself, well if she married me, yeah, it's because I'm goddamn lucky that she loves me back as much as I love her. And if she moved here to Portland, it was because she wanted to. Not because I made her. No one can make her do anything; she only does things of her own goddamn free will." He paused, chewing on his lip. He was holding something back. Then after a quick, but strangely meaningful exchange of a glance with Dana, he spoke again. "Of course, occasionally she's been known to do things just to spite her older brother." Oh. God. That hurt. If it had just been Mulder spouting, I wouldn't have cared. I'd have followed through with my previous, mental threats to beat the crap out of him . . . leave the carcass floating in the river. But there had been that glance with my sister. With Dana. She had condoned the comment, which meant she had shared the comment with him before, which meant she had said it, which meant it was true. Which meant Fox Mulder had just told me the god-honest, painful, deep-down throbbing hurtful truth that my little sister spited me. And I knew -- I knew, too late, too well -- that it was my own goddamn fault. No blaming Fox Fucking Mulder this time. Odd how I keep altering his middle name. Fox He-Loves-My-Sister-More-Than-Life- Itself-And-She-Spites-Me Mulder. He told it how it was. And I had been blinded by my hate for the man, only to realize he was the only one bold enough to lay it on me. Holy fuck. I just turned and walked away. Just started walking down the street, past casually dressed businessmen, and chatty summer coeds, and families with their dogs, and away from my sister who spited me. At some point, I stopped. Not because I had gotten lost -- although I didn't know where I was -- and not because I had walked it all off, and certainly not because I had cooled down. But rather, I stopped because at that moment a loud, bright red, clanging bit of machinery passed by me. It was like a pseudo-train-bus, filled with people staring out at me as it went past, clanging and hooting all the way, right across my path. After it had passed, I was a little hesitant, wary of some other clanging beast that might try to kill me. I began looking back and forth for signs of another encroaching trolley, or whatever. That was when I heard the soft chuckles behind me. It was Mulder. He'd caught up with me, and was standing just a few feet behind me, hands casually tucked into his pockets, laughing at my near-death experience. But then he approached me, touching the side of my upper arm slightly before crossing his arms and looking out where the --whatever- had just gone by. "The street cars are something to get used to, huh?" He glanced my way. "I nearly got ran over by one, myself. See, this one goes right through the PSU campus, and I was mindlessly walking down the tracks, wondering why students were pointing and shouting in my direction, when I heard that clang and bang horn sound right behind me." He chuckled again, softly, but this time at himself. He shook his head slightly, looking away. "Obviously, I escaped unscathed, save my ego." Fox Mulder's ego could be scathed? That was news to my ears. "Look, Bill," he said, turning to face me dead on, obviously focusing his somewhat irritating conversation onto more serious matters. But when I thought he was about to go on, he stopped. He cocked his head to one side, chewed on his lower lip, even went so far as to tap his fingers on his chin. His tapping morphed into a rub, and then he dropped his arms to his side. "How about a beer? There's a great place down the road, a local brewery. Better than anything you'll get in the market." And he was leading me down the street. "Come on," he said, nodding his head in the direction he was walking. And before I knew what was happening, I was following, my feet dancing down the pavement ahead of my brain and ahead of my own ego. Something told me a beer would be good. Something also told me that several beers would be better. I was expecting some dingy, dimly lit, smoke-filled dive. But what we walked into was anything but. There was a fairly contingent crowd of college students mingling about, but there was also a proudly eclectic mix of older patrons, and even a few families dining on burgers and sloppy sandwiches at the tables furthest from the bar. The bar itself was a long piece of highly polished mahogany, lined with tall, swiveling stools of swirling rod iron and cushioned seats in bright, whimsical fabrics. On the walls all around the pub -- and it was most certainly a pub -- there were fanciful murals. There were fluffy white clouds, with faces faintly distinct in several of them; an old man blowing a horn while he stood on a cliff that overlooked the crashing waves of the ocean; people gathered together, drinking and eating and laughing and just loving each other; and a smiling, blinking sun with long rays and fine lines of age and wisdom, accompanied by a nearby moon of similar lineage and frailty. I realized, looking around, that Dana would have loved this place. After a glance at Mulder's familiarity with it, I was certain she had been here. And something told me that Mulder had found the place, that he had found it and thought of her and took her here because --he knew- that she would love it. I realized, coming out of my thoughts, that Mulder had already seated himself at one of the barstools. He was looking my way with a bemused sort of contentment on his face, just waiting for me to sit beside him so we could drink our beer. And talk. I knew talk was coming, but it certainly wasn't going to be cheap. Mulder ordered the beers, which was wise, because he probably saw the overwhelming look come across my face when I looked at the menu of brews -- all local. "We'll have two Hammerheads," he said, and the waiter nodded knowingly. Mulder turned to me. "Trust me, the Hammerhead is the McMenamins specialty brew. They're famous for it." "The who?" I asked. "The McMenamins . . . these two brothers who own a whole bunch of local pubs, slash breweries, slash occasional music venues, slash a few hotels, slash some theatres, et cetera. This is one of their places, and their Hammerhead beer is one of their best." "Oh," I said, nodding, still not quite following. Not that it mattered, and not that I cared. We stayed quiet until the beer came, and when I took a swill -- well -- he was right. Mulder was right, I mean. This was the best goddamn beer I'd ever tasted in my entire life. It was the right blend of sweet and bitter, and it went down smoothly and didn't leave that mass-produced aftertaste in the mouth. But it also hit with a stronger punch, and I had to blink rapidly to keep from tearing up. Mulder was smiling beside me, taking smaller sips from his bottle, amused at my reaction. --He- had obviously grown more accustomed to this local brew. "So," he said, setting his bottle down precisely. "You want to kick my ass." I laughed. I couldn't help it -- it just escaped past my lips, blowing onto the glossy wood bar top. Mulder nodded. "I figured," he said. "I'm guessing, actually, that more than just an ass-kicking has gone through that military brain of yours." I shrugged. He went on. "Yeah, well, if you want to, fine. But I'll just give you fair warning, that Dana will inflict ten times as much damage on you than you can inflict on me." I realized then that that was the first time I'd ever heard him use my sister's first name. But he said it so easily, I was certain it was not the first time he had said it , just the first time I'd heard him say it. "I'm not gonna kick your ass." He nodded, already knowing this. "Not that I couldn't. I could." He nodded again, also already knowing this. Well, it took a certain amount of testosterone to be able to admit that. Maybe more than it took to lie about it. We fell into a lapsed silence, drinking our beer. I did this with more caution, Mulder did it casually, comfortably. He did not seem at all perturbed by the situation, and by sitting in my company. He knew I hated him. He knew. He's not dumb. He's smarter than me, that's for sure, just as I'm stronger than him. Physically, at least. If anything Dana's said about him is to be believed, he's suffered through emotional and mental shit way beyond my capacity. A bemused expression fell into my features and I shook my head slowly. "I can be a real asshole, sometimes." I almost think for a moment that I was the one who said that. But it wasn't; it was Mulder. He looked my way, obviously amused at my shock -- shock that he had said it. "It's no surprise, Bill. Dana knows it, too. Probably better than I do. But she puts up with me anyway." He sighed heavily, swallowing the last of his beer. He pointed towards the bottle, and the bartender produced a new, full one, which Mulder took a quick sip of. "You know, I graduated from Oxford with the highest honors. The same with Quantico. I was the FBI's top profiler. I've caught more killers and criminals than I'd care to remember. I can make leaps and bounds of logic out of the tiniest of clues, and I do it quickly, and it baffles law enforcement officers, and sometimes your sister, too. But for all my psychological expertise, for all the profiling I'm so adept at completing . . . I can't figure out why the hell someone as wonderful and as perfect as Scully, Dana, would want to be with me. Why she would pick me. Why she'd put up with me for so long, and then have me, and love me back, and . . . I just can't figure it out. Not that I'm ungrateful. I thank God every day for her, but I'm just so puzzled . . . she could have so much more than me." I nodded, slowly. "But she picked you." The bartender replaced my own empty bottle with a new one and I began drinking cautiously from it. I began thinking, realizing that I could deduce several things from Mulder's last little pseudo-speech. First of all, he knows what an awful, awful man he is. He knows he's an asshole. Well, that's not deduction -- he came out and said as much. But I could see that he's as confused about Dana's choice to be with him as I am. And I realized that Mulder's not some pagan, heathenistic devil -- not if he blesses God everyday for Dana. That she picked him. And Mulder knows that he's not worthy of Dana's love either, he just accepts it because he's lucky enough to receive it, and he returns it with more than he knows how. "Did you ever ask her?" I asked. He laughed, the beer relaxing him. I'm sure it relaxed me, too. "Yeah," he said. "I asked her." He turned to look at me. "She told me, so matter-of-factly in that perfectly matter-of-factly way Scully has about her, that it just felt right." He smiled. "She said that if we could get through all the shit we'd gotten through in our lives together, than we could do anything, and why not spend the rest of our lives getting through whatever other shit might come our way together." He laughed again. "Your sister wants to wade through shit with me." Then I began laughing. We were laughing together. Fox Mulder and yours truly were drinking beers and laughing together. Holy fucking mother of god! He shook his head slowly, humming a low monotone softly under his breath. "Of course, she also added some vulgar comments about the incredible sex." He sighed. "And . . . well, she said something else, too. And I'll never forget her words, either. She said, 'Mulder. I love you, and if I could only be with, only see one other person for the rest of my life -- and I mean in any capacity, Mulder -- it would be you. I would choose you. I do choose you.' She said she chose me. She chose me." He laughed again. He was doing that a lot, now that I noticed. It must be the beer, or else he found his own life very amusing. "As if I didn't have a say in the matter. She just decided one day that she wanted to spend eternity with me . . . and I agreed. I agreed, because she's Scully and I would give her anything." Again we slipped into silence, but thank god the bartender brought by a bowl of shelled, lightly salted peanuts. We began popping them into our mouths, hoping to balance out the alcohol, even just a little bit. "When did all this happen?" I finally asked. "Ah, you're not going to like the answer. Neither is your mother." He paused, not waiting for me to say something, just waiting until he was ready to say it. "About two years ago. There was a wedding, even. But Dana didn't want to tell her family. I didn't ask why. I never pressed with her familial issues, I just let her make her own decisions. So it was small, obviously. It wasn't a fancy wedding, by any means. I just wore a suit, a nice light gray suit with a pale blue shirt and matching tie. It was springtime, so Scully picked a spring color. And she wore this lovely, long white eyelet dress with trim in the same blue as my shirt and tie. And she put her hair up, in loose curls and whisps, with a few little yellow tea roses tucked in amidst the locks. And she had white tulips for a bouquet. White tulips, because she said she always loved white tulips, so that morning I went down to the florists and demanded a bouquet of every last white tulip they had. And when they informed me that they had too many white tulips to fit into just one bouquet, I settled for an even dozen. "So there she was, in that dress, with her hair, and the white tulips I'd run out to get. And there I was, in a new suit I'd bought special for the wedding -- because I usually prefer darker suits -- and it was just lovely. A friend of ours had decorated the small chapel with daisies and daffodils, so it was like a springtime wonderland. And there was just a small group of us. Three mutual friends of ours, and they all managed to wear suits and ties, which was a first for two of them. And our boss was there, too. And that was really it." He lapsed back into silence, his eyes far away, obviously seeing mental images of that day in his head. "But," I said hesitantly, "why would you go through so much trouble for four people to attend? Why not just get married at city hall?" I could not believe I had just said that! What the fuck do they put in this beer? Magic hops? "Because we wanted a wedding. We both did. Even if it was just four people attending, and just us." He glanced my direction. "We've got photos, of course. We'll make copies for all of you now that you know." "So . . . how long have you been married?" He smiled. "It was two years ago in May." He looked down at his beer, peering into the tiny opening at the top of the bottle, swirling it slightly and watching as the foam settled on the sides of the glass and then gradually fell back down into the remaining liquid. "Bill I wanted to talk to you for a reason. Obviously." He forced out a soft chuckle. "We're not exactly beer drinking buddies. I mean, right?" He glanced my way. "But I want you to know that what we did -- what Dana and I did -- has nothing to do with you, or with your family. I know it will undoubtedly have some effect on your family. But that was not, and is not, nor will ever be our intentions. But our lives . . . our lives are different from other people's lives. We don't live day-to- day in our own blissful little worlds. We live in the global world, in the universal world and in a time that has yet to come. We are dealing with factors so delicate that the slightest altercation could have astronomical, even apocalyptic repercussions." I shook my head. "I don't understand." He laughed softly through his nose. "No, of course you don't. But you don't need to. What you need to understand is this: Dana and I are never going to live normal lives. Not so long as this impending future sits in front of us. Until we can destroy that, promise ourselves a normal future, we cannot live a normal life." "But what could possibly be so bleak and awful that you would sacrifice your lives for it?" I was beyond hating the man at this point. I just wanted to understand -- I really wanted to understand. Not so much for Mulder's sake, but for my sister's. I wanted to be able to give her my empathy. Or something. At this point, I was still way too confused. Mulder shook his head, sadly. "I can't tell you, Bill. And for that I am truly sorry. And if Scully and I fail, I am even more sorry. But I can't tell you. It would only make matters worse. Even if you believed us -- and I'm talking about us, here, Scully's with me on this one hundred percent, because she wouldn't be doing this if she only wanted to believe. She believes. She knows, first hand. But even if you believed us, Bill, then you would do one of two things. You would either lose hope, and destroy your life and your family's life, or you would want to join with us and sacrifice your life as well for this supposedly 'noble' cause of ours." He scoffed. "I'd hardly call it noble, Bill, but for fuck's sake . . . what the hell else do you call something for which you are becoming a martyr?" I raised my eyebrows. "A martyr?" "Hey, I'm not alone on this, I told you." He pointed a finger at me from the hand that was wrapped tightly around the neck of his beer bottle. "Dana's just as much a martyr as I am. And she's already lost enough. Fuck. We both have." I watched, almost shocked -- no really shocked -- as he bent his head low, almost to the bar top, and he began shaking. His whole body, just quivering and shaking, his chest heaving. And then I heard the heavy, forced breaths, and the soft sobs. He glanced up at me, tears in his eyes. "We should have children," he said through his tears, his voice thickened by his emotions. "We should have a house in Sellwood with a picket fence, a little path down to the river where the children we should have should be able to paddle around in a little inflatable raft. We should have a dog -- a good, solid dog, a Labrador. Maybe a brown one. I always liked the brown ones. And we should have a couple of cats, too, because what is an upstairs window surrounded by dark green shudders unless there is a cat or two perched on the windowsill from inside, looking down as the children go by on their bicycles. And they should be able to ride their bikes out front, because it would be Sellwood, and it would be a quiet street with little traffic, and friendly neighbors, where all the children could ride their bikes and play with jacks and marbles and hula hoops and pick-up-sticks and sidewalk chalk and bubbles. Where they could sit out on a summer night, setting off firecrackers and snaps, sucking on Popsicles that melt down their arms in the warmth of the evening, making them sticky for us to wash off of them later. We should have a porch with a swing, where we could sit together later on those summer nights, after the kids were asleep upstairs, their windows open to let the cooling air into their bedrooms, and we would sit on the porch swing -- Scully and I -- and watch the stars and worry only about the next mortgage payment. She should wear sundresses and an apron and those little plastic flip-flops from the drugstore, and tie her hair back with a rubber band. She shouldn't walk around in business suits and pumps, always primped and coifed to present herself professionally in this testosterone- filled, man-run world that we've put ourselves into. That we've been tied to. That we've become trapped in." His voice died off at this point. Me? I just stared at him. I didn't know he had such an image in his mind, such a perfect and complete picture. He looked up at me so fiercely then that I almost fell off the barstool. His eyes pierced right into mine and I never knew that a human being could possess such an invasive stare. "I just want to wake up one day and find myself living the 'Leave it to Beaver' dream. 'Pleasantville,' right? The full skirts, the perfect pancakes, the dippidy-doo hairstyles, the 'honey I'm home.' I could really go for that, you know? And I think Scully could, too. We've just had too much. I just want to wake up one day and find out that all of this bullshit we've been manipulated by doesn't exist, and that this happy fantasy of mine is the reality. The nightmare of our true lives was the dream, and not vice-versa. We should have children." When I finally spoke up again, it was hesitantly, my voice hoarse. "So you want kids?" Then he laughed again, one of those nervous and strained laughs of an individual so enshrouded by misery that he laughs too much to release some of that obnoxious, ceaseless tension. "Yeah. Three of 'em. Two boys, and a girl. The girl would be the middle one. Because while she'd be the middle child, she'd be the only girl so it would all work out okay. And she would have tea parties on the porch while the two boys played catch out in the street. And then they would taunt her with lizards and snails and she'd come running to Scully and myself, and I'd hold her in my arms and tell her everything'd be just fine. And Scully would haul ass out front and give those two boys a good lecture about teasing their sister with poor, nasty creatures they'd picked up down by the river." He glanced over at me. "We've even picked out names." "Names?" He nodded. "Yeah. Don't think this is my dream alone. Maybe the sundresses are my idea, but we share the same dream . . . our first son would be named William, but after my father, not yours." He gave me a short glance, almost a "sorry" of sorts, but somehow I knew that the name had been Dana's idea, and not his. "But we'd call him Will. And our daughter would be named Samantha, for my sister, and we'd call her Sammie. Because I always liked that, regardless of my sister. And our last son we'd name Daniel. Because we both liked that one. It was just a nice name. And those would be our kids: Will, Sammie, and Daniel. And occasionally Scully'd get a phone call from the school, 'Mrs. Mulder your son put another lizard in his desk today . . .' and that would be our life. It would be so beautiful." He sniffled, loudly. I looked at him seriously, really considering him for the first time. "You've thought a lot about this." He nodded, sadly. "Too much." He looked at me. "It hurts, you know?" I shook my head, honestly. "No, I don't. I can only imagine." "Well you don't want to, believe me. It really fucking hurts." He paused for a moment, about to take another swill of beer. But he decided against it, slamming the bottle down onto the bar top. He pulled a few bills from his pocket, setting them beside the bottle. He'd put out enough to cover both our beers, and I let him. He looked back up at me. "So we do what we can, Bill. We're in this fight together, and we can't have our dream. So at least we can have each other." And then I finally got it. I mean, I knew nothing -- hardly anything at all. I just knew that they were involved in something over my head and they both intended to keep it that way, and, frankly, so was I. But they had made this sacrificial decision together, but at least they could have each other. That's why they'd gotten married, run off, picked up and moved away to a place that made them happy. They didn't like D.C. -- who would? But they loved it here; they loved Portland. And they loved each other. So they would hold onto those things, and when they went to sleep at night they would dream. And judging from what I'd just been told, they dreamed during the day, too. They never stopped dreaming. But in the meantime, they had each other. I nodded, finally. "Let's go get back to our families, huh?" I looked at him, waiting for approval. "Our families," he said, nodding as well. "Yeah. Let's go get back to our families." Outside, the sunshine struck my eyes with surprise. I had forgotten that the sun had been shining while we were inside. Being in the Pacific Northwest makes Californians like myself think that it must always be overcast, always cloudy and either raining or on the brink of a downpour. But it was sunny, and I squinted against the pureness of the light, following Mulder as he led the way back to the park blocks, where we had left our family. We took a different route back, obviously a shorter route from the bar. When we came upon them, they were playing a game of whiffle ball. From the looks of things, they had already eaten, leaving the remaining food for Mulder and myself to pick at. The only one not playing ball was my sister. She sat watching them with sad eyes, leaning against a large tree trunk, her legs laid out in front of her, her ankles crossed. She looked over at our approach, probably sensing Mulder more than hearing us. She smiled at him, more brightly than I have ever seen her smile -- even when dad was around. And suddenly, I was ignored. Mulder moved past me, and his arms reached down as my sister's reached up and their hands clasped. He pulled her up easily, and then into a brief, soft, tender kiss. Suddenly, no one else existed; no one else mattered except for each other. The two of them moved to sit on the bench, next to the remainder of the picnic lunch. They began fixing themselves their midday meal, completely engrossed in one another. Eventually, Dana looked up and saw me. She smiled, but it was that sad, far-away smile I'd seen on her lips too often. "Come on Bill, you must hungry." I nodded, slowly. "Um, yeah. Yeah, I am." I sort of stumbled towards them, and fell onto the bench. I shook my head, holding it between my hands. It was beginning to hurt, throbbing with a gentle dull pain. "Oh, god, my head hurts all of a sudden." Dana sighed, and looked over at Mulder. "How many did you give him, Mulder?" He shrugged, holding his arms out innocently. "Mulder." She gave him that look -- that patented Scully look that dad used to use on us as kids; none of us had inherited it quite like Dana had. No one could resist that look -- trust me, I know from personal experience. She was shooting it at him full force, and he sighed resolutely, obviously too familiar with --the look- to try and bother fighting it. "Hey, can I help it if the man is used to the crap they sell in the grocery stores?" "How many and which brew?" The look did not waver. He nodded once. "Two. Hammerhead." "You gave him Hammerheads?" Her voice raised. "Mulder, you can hold your liquor, and I can hold a fair amount, But Bill Scully, Junior cannot hold his liquor. One Coors can put him under -- and you gave him two Hammerheads?!" My head was swimming. Really. What the hell --did- they put in their beer up here? Especially if Dana was going berserk about just two little pissant beers. Of course, my head was throbbing and I couldn't feel my feet, except for the faint tingling at the end of my ankles. Maybe she was right . . . yeah, I could not take liquor. I never could. Goddamn it all to hell. And it was good beer, too. Just . . . strong. Yeah. "Come on, Scully, it's not like I forced them on him!" His voice rose humorously in pitch. She let the look slide away and began chuckling softly, shaking her head slowly. "Getting my brother drunk on the Fourth of July . . . shame on you, Fox Mulder. Shame on you." "Ah, come on," he said, wrapping an arm around her waist, nuzzling the side of her face. "He'll sober up in time for the fireworks." "Promises, promises," she sighed against his lips, and then kissed him again. I looked away. The man may have bought me a couple of super-strong beers, and he may have made me understand why he and my sister had done the things they'd done, but there was one thing I could still not manage to stomach. And that was watching them kiss. It made me want to puke. Or it could have been the beer. Either way, I turned my head. I gobbled down some turkey sandwiches, a pickle, some watermelon, a handful of chips, a soda pop. Orange cream -- also a local brew. Jiminy. And then I focused all my attention on winning the whiffle ball game, leaving my kid sister and her husband -- not quite so evil -- to their own PDA devices. Ah, love. Mulder had been right of course. I'd sobered up in time for the fireworks. And what a fireworks display, it was. We stood once again in the waterfront park, leaning against the railing, as bright colors exploded over our heads, reflecting in the water that lapped at the shore just below us. It was quite spectacular, quite beautiful. Every now and then, a firework would go off in just the right part of the sky to reflect against the late-season snow remaining on the peak of Mount Hood and it would be like a magical, real-life Disneyland effect. Afterwards, we moved away from the crowds -- the whole Scully clan -- to bid our farewells until the next time we might chance upon each other. Charlie, of course, was excited at the new proximity in which he and his favorite sibling lived. That was something I'd always been a little bit jealous of: his and Dana's closeness. But I'd live. We hugged and kissed, and mom got a little teary-eyed, especially when she had to say goodbye to Dana. They had not seen each other that often back east, even when they lived so near each other in the greater Washington, DC area. But now that Dana was on the other coast, mom felt this great need to be able to see her every single day. Mom'd live, too, but she just couldn't help her tears. I was the last one to say goodbye to Dana. And Mulder, too. They stood side-by-side, like a package deal -- speak to both or none at all. My sister and I looked at each other silently for a long time. She was not going to apologize for that comment earlier -- the one Mulder had made, but that she had condoned. The one about her spite for me. She wasn't going to apologize, because the truth is nothing to apologize for. And we both knew that. I, on the other hand, had many things to apologize for, and all of those things could probably boil down to my prideful ego. But I didn't apologize, either, but only because I am too much of a coward. She knew it, too, and so did Mulder. But thank god they let it slide, because I could not have handled that apology; not at that time. Someday; it'll come someday. It's due, overdue, even. And I owe it to them -- both of them. I watch as they turn and leave, holding hands as they walk up the street towards their apartment. They become dim silhouettes against the buildings in the bright starlight and electric streetlamp glow. But I watch them until they vanish, into the shadows and around an unfamiliar corner. Unfamiliar, at least, to me. But they know these corners, these streets, so well. They are part of their dream. I never thought I could have such appreciation for their relationship. I never thought I could accept it, even. Who knew that having a beer with Mulder could resolve so many internal conflicts? Well, I guess Mulder knew. Because otherwise, we wouldn't have had the beer. And this knowledge made me smile. * * * the end . . . please, please send feedback. Do you want more Portland Stories? Let me know! Also, here's a plug: . . . be sure to read your Daily Vanguard! We're online now, at www.dailyvanguard.com