[email protected]
RATING: PG-13
KEYWORDS: Mulder POV, Vignette, Angst
SPOILERS: CC/Emily
ARCHIVING: I'd be absolutely honored. Just let me know so I can come
visit!
SUMMARY: Being a parent is a state of mind.
FEEDBACK: Deeply cherished and always replied to.
NOTES: I've already written one Emily post-ep, "Crying Out Loud", but I
felt that there was a story to be told from Mulder's POV as well. This
vignette can fit between the first and second paragraphs of my earlier
story, or it can stand alone on its own.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, Emily, and the other characters I mentioned
don't belong to me. I'm just borrowing them for a little bit, and
promise to return them at the end in good condition. No infringement
intended towards Chris Carter or Ten Thirteen.
Pajamas
by Piper
*****************
"She liked cartoons."
These are the first words Scully has spoken since we left the church.
She says them simply, offering an unneeded explanation for the bright
animation on the small pajamas that she is folding. After a moment,
they join the ever-growing neat pile on the bed.
I stand against the wall, silently bearing witness to this ritual of
closure. I don't respond to her statement - somehow I don't think that
she expected me to. There's really no reason for me to be here. As
experienced as I am in self-torture, today Scully is beating me by a
mile. All I do is keep vigil as she stubbornly insists on boxing up the
clothing that she bought in such blind hope for Emily, now about to be
worn by some Goodwill kid who doesn't know even know how lucky she is to
be alive.
I never thought Scully could buy so many clothes in such a short period
of time. She never struck me as much of a shopper, despite her stylish
wardrobe. I guess I always thought she looked upon shopping as more of
an annoyance that had to be faced occasionally for the sake of
convention. But somehow, I don't think this last shopping trip was
anything like that.
Her hands move methodically over the brand new clothing, developing a
steady rhythm that dulls my senses. Fold, bend, fold, tuck,
pile...fold, bend, fold, tuck, pile...
My mind begins to wander, escaping the cloak of loss hanging over this
room as my body can not. The events of the past numberless hours flash
through my mind, a slideshow of misery and hopelessness. As much as I
try to tell myself to stop, to think of something, anything else, the
images continue to play back in full color. It's almost as if by going
over everything again and again, I'm trying to find that one point, that
one moment where I fucked up, where I could have prevented this. Or
maybe I'm just using the tried-and-true method of pressing on a wound
until it the pain gets to be so much that it's replaced by numbness.
Oddly enough, I find myself merely skimming over the details-my meeting
with Calderon, the visit to the nursing home, my ill-fated encounter
with Kresge. The only images that constantly fill my mind are of Emily,
from her heartbreaking smile over Mr. Potato Head, to the pillow-soft
warmth of her in my arms, to her lying helplessly in bed, just waiting
for death to come and take her away.
I had lied when I told Scully that I had never seen her as a mother
before.
My own mother never set a stellar example of motherhood, but I had still
known what I was missing. I saw my friends' mothers come bring their
lunch to school when they forgot it, be waiting in the car to pick them
up so they wouldn't have to ride the bus home, cheer them on at their
Little League games, hug them to tell them how proud they were and kiss
their bruises and scrapes away. I tried to tell myself that I was fine,
that I could take care of myself, that I didn't need some girl babying
me anyway. But I never really believed it.
When I met Scully, worked by her side day after day, I just knew. When
you lack something in your life, you develop an instinctive knowledge of
what you've always been looking for, and you learn to recognize those
qualities in a person. I never saw Scully as a mother figure towards
me, but I knew that deep down she was the kind of woman who would be the
perfect wife and mother, one who would never ignore her child. She
would attend all of his Little League games, bring him his lunch when he
forgot it, make the monsters under the bed go away. She would love him
with all her soul and being.
She already knows how to love unconditionally.
But when I saw Emily and Scully together for the first time, I felt like
someone had punched me in the gut. Not because of how perfect the two
of them looked together, although I know that's a picture that I'll
carry in my heart forever.
No, I was punched in the gut by the stark realization of how much I
wanted to be a part of that picture. For the first time, I wanted
everything to simply melt away-aliens, government conspiracies, the
F.B.I., everything. I just wanted it to be Scully, me, and that
beautiful little girl. I wanted to shelter them from what I
instinctively knew was coming.
I had always seen Scully as a mother, but for the first time, I saw
myself as a father.
Scully's hands freeze in the air, another pajama shirt clutched in her
hands. The change in rhythm stirs me out of my reverie, and my gaze
refocuses on her. The fabric is crumpled in her tight grip, her
knuckles white. As my eyes settle on the material in her hands, a flash
of recognition hits me full force.
I am by her side in an instant, and my hand instinctively goes to her
shoulder. She turns into my body, and I pull her to me. I can feel the
grief that she had been trying so hard to fight settle over both of us,
and I tighten my arms around her. Emily's pajamas are crushed between
us, familiar but not comforting. They were what she had been wearing
when we found her burning up with fever, when I held her tiny body in my
arms for the first and last time. They were the last thing she wore
before she changed into her final outfit, her hospital gown.
I can feel Scully's body trembling against mine, and I cradle her head
to my chest. As her arms go around my back, I hear her earlier question
replay itself in my head.
They're bastards, Scully, I answer silently. They're fucking bastards
who were so blinded by their cruelty that even the innocence of your
baby girl couldn't reach their cold, soulless hearts.
Earlier, I had felt despair as I realized that they had forever killed
the dreams of a parent. But now, as I feel the grief tear at my own
heart, I know that I was wrong.
They had killed the dreams of two parents.
***************
End 1/1
Feedback is treasured at [email protected]
Author's notes: Much, much heartfelt thanks to my two wonderful betas,
Barb and Mystphile, for their constant support and encouragement, and
for not hesitating to point out my mistakes. Thanks guys!
