Title: Dear Charlie: Bill's $.02 (part 2 of 4)
Author: abbeydore
e-mail: abbeydore@aol.com
Spoilers: Up through The UnNatural
Rating: PG-13, for language
Category: MSR, H
Disclaimers etc.  in Part1.

Charlie,

You sorry-assed son of a bitch.

You knew about Dana and that partner of hers, didn't you?

I had to hear the news from Mom, and even that was heard indirectly.

Last week, Tara, Matthew and I headed East for a long overdue visit.  As you
know, things have been pretty strained between Dana and me ever since her
cancer and remission and I think you know who I blame.  I mean, she had more
faith in *him*  than her own science and logic and doctors.

I knew then that she loved the no-good-bastard - I just hoped that *she* didn't
know that she loved him. You weren't there, Charlie (and that's not an
accusation, just a statement of fact).  You didn't hear what she said to me
after everyone else had cleared out.  After her remission had been announced.
Mom had gone to call you.  Her boss had long since left.  Mulder was nowhere in
sight, but I knew he was lurking around somewhere nearby.  Even caught him
sneaking out of her hospital room in the early hours one morning.  His eyes
were all red and swollen.  Yeah, keep crying, you son of a bitch.  It's your
fault.

But, anyway, I'd been taking my anger out on him - the deserving target to my
way of thinking.  And you'd be agreeing with me, don't deny it.  We've had some
long talks on the subject of 'what if she'd never met him', haven't we?

Apparently, Dana found out about my man-to-man chats with her partner (he
probably ratted me out).  I guess you could say that she took offence.

Remember how mad Mom was when Missy and I had that party the weekend that she'd
gone away to visit Aunt Olive and when she returned:

                1) two pieces of her Waterford crystal were beyond repair,

                2) her garden had been destroyed and trampled,

                3) her indoor plants' potting soil doubled as ash trays,

                4) her bed had not been *slept*  in, if you know what I mean,

                        5) and Missy was sporting that monster hickey that no amount of make-up
could
                cover up.

Do you remember how pissed off Mom was then?

Multiply that by about a thousand or so, and you may start to get some idea
about the wrath I was about to face in that hospital room.  Mom's got nothing
on being pissed off compared to Dana defending *him*.  Our sister has cornered
the market on being pissed, baring claws and all.

I distinctly remember being relieved to be in a hospital as I stood before her.
 Did I remember to tell Tara I loved her when I talked to her last night?

I mean, I'm a military man.  I could easily overpower her in hand to hand
combat, of that I'm pretty damn sure, and there she was - all 5'2" of her,
weakened and ravaged by that damn cancer, sitting in that bed with her hands
resting in her lap - and I was scared shitless.

I don't remember really all that she said, what with my life flashing before my
eyes and all.  But it went along the lines of: "You hurt him, you hurt me; you
damn him, you damn me.  You have no idea what this is doing to him.  You don't
understand.  And I don't care to explain it to you.  But don't you *ever*
unload all your anger on him again.  He's not the one who deserves it; he's not
the one who gave me this disease."  Yadda yadda yadda.  Basically, I was in a
lose/lose situation.

I knew I had crossed a line that day in her book, and things have never been
the same again.  It felt like a death, you know, Charlie.  I mean, Dana - thank
God - was going to be alright (she was gonna live anyway).  But Dana-and-I were
never the same.  All because of him.

We rarely talked much after that.  Too fuckin' awkward.  Hell if I knew where I
stood with her anymore.  Mom, God bless her, attempted to run interference,
updated me on which one of them was in the hospital from week to week..

Then Christmas, right before Matthew was born.

Dana did *not* want to be there, but you know how Mom can get.  So, she came.
We hadn't seen each other since her remission.

And then right away she started getting those weird ass phone calls from
'Melissa'.  And then that kid.  Jesus.  Even *I*  had to admit that kid looked
like a pint-sized Missy.

I knew it was only a matter of time before *he*  flew out to be with her.  If I
didn't hate the guy so much, I might've been grateful he was there.  God only
knows why, but he's the only one she seems to be able to trust these days.
Bastard.

And then that kid again.  Jesus H.  How the hell could that kid possibly be
Dana's? I mean, I know something about biology.  She wasn't gone that long.

Does she ever mention that kid - Emily - to you?  No one over here has even
spoken the kid's name aloud since she died.  Too afraid how Dana will react I
guess.

That Christmas was bad enough.  But what about this last one? *You* were there.
 And how often does that happen?  We hardly ever can get us all together
anymore.

And she fucking missed the Scully family morning role call - for him.  Off on
some freakin' case.  Who the hell does he think he is dragging her off on
Christmas-fuckin'-Eve on some stupid ass case?  And who the hell does she think
she is, letting him get away with that crap?  Okay, okay, so it wasn't like she
spent the whole day with him, but still.

I'll never understand what it is about that guy that makes our sister (our
tough-as-shit, gun-toting sister) about as soft as that fluff ball dog she
inherited a few years back.  One call from him - "Scully, it's me" - and she'll
drop everything.

And what is that whole 'Scully' thing anyway?

Weird-ass.

What's wrong with her name?

Prick's even got her doing it.  Mulder this and Mulder that.  You know, I think
it's impossible for them to go more than two sentences without addressing
themselves by name in a conversation.  "I'm fine, Mulder." attached to Missy's
personal favorite, I'm sure, "I had the strength of your beliefs" - or
something deep and abiding like that.  Don't even get me started on how he says
our/her name.  The way he says 'Scully' makes me feel . . . don't want to go
there.

So, anyway, getting to last week.  Dana had yet to grace us with her presence -
preferably 'Prick'-less, if you know what I mean.  She was *supposed* to come
over for dinner, to visit with the brother and family she rarely gets to see,
what with her partner -- oh, excuse me -- her *job* being so time consuming.

Should have known that wouldn't happen.  Seems *Mulder* had other plans.
Alright, alright.  Accidents *do* happen.  Granted, they seem to happen to him
a lot more than anyone else.

From what I heard on Mom's end of the phone call, it was more funny than life
threatening.  Something about a fly ball, a poor boy, and Mulder's ass.  Now,
I'd have paid good money to have seen that, but at the time I was thinking only
one thing:

Since when did Dana play baseball, willingly?

Answer: since Mulder asked her to.

You know how much she hated baseball as a kid.  The question for her was never,

"Where did you go, Joe DiMaggio?"  It was always, "Who the fuck even cares?"

But one warm spring night a few weeks ago on a baseball diamond, and now she's
sportin' an oversized baseball jersey (three guesses whose, Einstein) and doin'
the wild thing with her partner.

And, *thank you*, little brother, for letting me know.  God damn it all to
hell, Charlie.  You could've warned me.

But, no, not you.  I had to listen in on half a conversation with our mother
and our sister, with Mom teasingly asking about home runs, and I knew she
wasn't talking about baseball.

Ugh.  Too much information - all of which I never needed to know.

If that wasn't bad enough - the revelation that Dana had a sex life after
nearly a decade long dry spell, and with that asshole, of all people - Mom
invited *both* of them over Saturday.

An afternoon with Dana and that no good son of a bitch.  Fucking great.

Tara wasn't too thrilled either.  But I think it's 'cause Dana scares her.  She
doesn't know how to act or what to say around her.  You know, mostly, because
of that kid.

So, Saturday.  It's around 1500 hours and Mom's already given me about fourteen
warnings to 'be nice to Fox'-- said in the same tone as her 'don't run with
scissors.'  As the day wore on and their arrival time neared, her tone shifted
more towards her ball numbing 'don't you give me that look.'  Oh, yeah, my
Saturday was really looking up.

And then there they were.

Christ, I'd never seen Dana so . . . alive.  Happy.  Giggling.  I never knew
she *giggled*.  Laugh, yeah.  Giggle, unheard of, until then.

I had a front row seat.

I was messing around in the garage, looking for some of my old stuff for
Matthew, for when he got older, when they pulled up into the drive.  Neither
one of them saw me.  Their attention was drawn to the front door.  Not too
eager to join the others inside.  Mulder looked apprehensive -- like he was
going to get a shot in the ass: it was for a good cause but was gonna hurt like
hell.  For several long minutes they just sat there in the car.  Then,
tenderly, Dana just sort of caressed his cheek.  He turned his head to kiss her
palm.  One of those maddeningly exclusive, lingering looks that Mom just
*loves*.  Finally, they got out of the car.  He waited for her to come around
so they could walk in together.  Holding hands.

Is that his shirt? I remember thinking.  A baseball jersey for some team I had
never heard of (The Greys?).  The jersey had to be his.  It practically
swallowed her.  He must have been lovin' that: Dana wearing his shirt to visit
her family.

I behaved myself, I did.  By practicing the fine art of avoidance.

That lasted all of thirty minutes when I . . . sort of . . . caught them.
Making out.  I thought walking in on Mom and Dad when I was eight was bad.
This was somehow worse.  Don't ask me why.  I mean at least they were clothed
(unlike our parents).  There was Dana, in his lap, straddling him, and making
this sort of contented sigh/moan deep in her throat and . . . Where the hell
were his hands? Then -

- ah, shit -

He saw me.

Immediately he broke the lip lock, and she made this little frustrated sound.
He motioned over her shoulder.  Tentatively she looked over, saw me, and
blushed to her ears.  Or was she just flushed?  Again, I didn't want to know.

She nibbled on her bottom lip - like she used to do when she was a kid when she
knew she was gonna get it - and Mulder made a noise in the back of his throat,
shifting in his seat.  As she attempted to slide off of him, his hands made a
reappearance at her waist and kept her in place.

Trying to hide something, you horny son of a bitch?  I'd've laughed if it
wasn't Dana, and I didn't hate his guts.

Awkward, brief small talk.  Then I beat a hasty retreat.  Before I was out of
earshot, however, I heard him humming the Funeral March and a little laugh from
Dana.

Dinner.  Good God.  Was I morphing into Job?  How much more could I take?  How
much more was I willing to *endure* for the peace of my family?  And how the
hell did I manage to survive that meal?  It wasn't the conversation --or even
me -- that made it so unbearable .  It was them.  Now I don't go in for that
paranormal crap that he's so eager to believe in - and I know Dana doesn't buy
into all that either.  But what are they?  Psychic?  Practicing a little mental
telepathy between UFO sightings?  It was like they could read each other's
thoughts or something.  Fuckin' spooky the way they anticipated each other's
needs.  I've known Tara for a lot longer than they've been paired up, and we
can't read each other nearly as well as they seemed able to.

I swear, Charlie, I got a glance at Mom while all of that was going on and I'm
pretty sure she was making mental wedding plans with Mulder as the newest
addition to the Scully family.  By the time dinner was done, she'd narrowed her
catering choices down to two.

That's when I noticed it.

As Dana turned her head, a flash of gold around her neck caught my eye.  Just
assumed it was her cross, but felt compelled to do a double take.  And, yeah,
her cross was there alright - along with something that looked like . . . no.
Good God, no. . . that could only be a ring.  Ah, hell.

Shit.

Has Dana had any recent head trauma?  I'm only asking because she must be
seriously whacked in the head.  She *can't* be serious about that partner of
hers.  That is, if what I saw is what I think I saw because I'm pretty damn
sure what I think I saw was really what I thought I saw which means that our
sister is one taco short of a combination platter, if you know what I mean.

So, after dinner - which I could barely force down watching the love connection
across from me, finding out that Dana is apparently ambidextrous given the fact
that her right hand spent most of the meal under the table in the general
vicinity of his lap while her left dealt with the food on her plate - I took
Matthew upstairs to bed.  Tara and Mom cleared the table.

Which left two horny fibbies to their own devices.

You know, Charlie, I had to give myself a pat on the back.  I only gave him the
'you're an asshole' look a few times, and I bit my tongue on so many choice
phrases that I tasted blood, almost constantly.  And I had caught them mid-sex
act too.  No small feat keeping my thoughts about that to myself.  As if that
wasn't enough, I got an audio version too.  No, not of *that* (maybe God took
some pity on me that day after all).

Then shit again.

Matthew had finally nodded off after a navy-modified interpretation of
Goodnight, Moon.  So as I was coming downstairs, I heard Dana's voice, sort of
soothing like Mom's 'want me kiss it, make it better'.  They were in their
designated spot on the couch.  Made a brief mental note never to sit there
again.

"-no 'sorry son of a bitch' this time."

"Scul-ly. . ."

How can he put a pout in his voice?

". . . he *hates* me."

Truer words were never spoken.  I assumed they were referring to me.

"Yeah, he does.  But he's gonna have to get over it.  Bill . . . Bill, he's a
bully - in a big brother/don't screw with my sister kinda way.  Surely, you can
relate to that, Mulder.  And, admit it.  Even you've got some of that residual
big brother behavior.  All your over protectiveness . . . your touches, even
your ditching me.  And, Mulder, if you ever pull that again, I won't hesitate
to shoot you--"

"Again," he amended.

"Again," she repeated.

When the fuck did that happen?  And why wasn't I invited?  I'd have bought a
ticket.

"*Mulder.*"

Uh-oh.

Meow.

You'd have to be dead not to recognize that tone.

But to his credit - I grudgingly concede - he didn't take her on the family
sofa, which seemed to be her desired intention.  His mind was elsewhere.

Should I have been flattered, Charlie?

"Is it because he needs someone to blame, Scully, and he doesn't know about
*them*?"

Jeez, could the guy sound more fatalistic the way his mouth wrapped around the
word 'them'?

"I mean, if that's it, Scully, let him hate me, by all means.  If it helps put
a name and a face--"

"No, Mulder, no.  I know what you're doing.  So stop it.  Stop blaming
yourself.  I don't.  I never have; I never will.  It's *them.*  Bill doesn't,
wouldn't, won't understand.  And I don't want to have to explain. And if you
think *I'm* skeptical--"

"There's a difference between being skeptical and being close minded."

Bastard.

"True."

Hey!

"Mulder, the things that happened to me are because of choices I made.  Not
you.  I chose to stay with you -- despite your odd quirks and the sunflower
seeds scattered around the office and my apartment.  I chose to cut short
dinner with my mom at my favorite restaurant for a night under the stars,
playing baseball with you.  Mulder, *I choose you.*"

Oh, there they go again.  Kissing, clothes rustling, a sigh or a moan here or
there.  In my distraction over Dana's little pseudo-Judas impersonation (not
defending me to him seems to me to be some form of familial betrayal), I missed
some of their conversation once they came up for air.

"-and Mom, I just know,  is discreetly collecting bridal magazines--"

"Hey, Scully, don't you have another brother?  Supposedly.  I'm thinking of
making him an X-File.  Seven years and I have yet to meet him.  Does he even
know about me?"

"Oh, yeah, Mulder,  he knows.  I tell Charlie *everything*--"

Hey, Charlie, you gettin' this?  Understand *now* why you're a sorry-assed son
of a bitch?

"Everything, Scully?  Everything?"

"Uh-huh."

"Even about our naked pretzel?"

Oooh, a mental image even therapy won't cure.

"I think he got the gist."

"The gist of . . . this?"

I swear to God, I heard her moan - and not in pain.  Agony, maybe, but the good
kind.  For her.  And for him, too, I imagine.

I didn't want to look, but it was like driving by the scene of an accident.
You couldn't *not* look.

Sure enough.  They were at it again.

She was all over him, straddling him, pinning him to the couch with her body.
Kissing - and . . . some other things.  His hands had disappeared under that
jersey again.

Then her words registered

You fucking knew all along.

Am I the last one to know?  Later, I even caught Matthew giving a knowing look.
 Or am I just turning into Mul-.  Oh, fuck it.

Suddenly felt a hand on my back as I stood in the doorway watching the accident
unfold on the living room couch.  How the hell does Mom sneak up like that?
*She* should have been in the FBI.

So, there we were.  Mother and son, watching our loved one playing an intense
game of tonsil hockey, with differing opinions.  Me, well, I'm sure you can
guess what I was thinking.  And, Mom, well, her eyes got all moist and she just
sort of smiled like she was remembering some other time; her hand over her
heart.

I don't know what the hell happened to me, but looking at Mom looking at them I
just got this *feeling.*  I don't know how to explain it.  All of a sudden I
just realized that that partner of hers really does care about her.  I may even
go so far as to admit he loves her.  They're good for each other.  It wasn't
like I turned into the-end-of-the-story-Grinch in that book you gave Matthew
for Christmas.  My heart didn't grow three sizes that day.  I didn't start
suddenly extolling the virtues of Fox Mulder.

That day is still set to happen a week after hell freezes over, or when aliens
take over the planet.  Whichever happens first.



Love (I suppose),

Bill

P.S.  How the hell are you, by the way?


 Respond to (abbeydore@aol.com)        Recommend Dear Charlie: Bill's $.02
 ------------------------------------                        (part 2 of 4)
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                                                             (part 4 of 4)