From: Dawn Date: Mon, 13 May 2002 20:46:28 -0500 Subject: NEW: Fragments (1/1) Source: atxc TITLE: Fragments AUTHOR: Dawn EMAIL: sunrise@avenew.com RATING: PG SPOILERS: William ARCHIVE: Gossamer; others are fine, just let me know SUMMARY: Her life is fragmented, broken pieces cobbled together in a desperate effort to make a whole. DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This was therapy. Many thanks to dtg and Michelle for their thoughtful beta. FEEDBACK: Yes, please. Fragments By Dawn Fourteen days, twelve hours, and 19 minutes. She feels each tick of the clock in the marrow of her bones, relentless agony. As a child she measured time by sunshine and streetlights-- hopscotch, swimming, and bicycles inexorably giving way to warm baths, cotton nightgowns, and bedtime stories. As Mulder's partner she tracked days by casefiles--flights and hotel rooms, 302s and expense reports. Receipts, vouchers, rental cars and greasy spoon diners. Frustration and elation. For the past year and a half, her world moved to the beat of the life grown inside her. Morning sickness and tender breasts, swollen ankles and the ever-increasing arc of her belly melted into hungry nuzzles and drooling smiles, chubby fists clutching her hair and gurgling chuckles in her ear. Now she measures time by a silent infant monitor. The emptiness of her arms and the fading scents of talcum powder and warm baby skin. Fourteen days, twelve hours, and twenty-four minutes. The William-shaped wound in her heart will never heal. Each day it seems she finds new ways to punish herself. Last Tuesday she parked across from the neighborhood daycare facility, watching apple-cheeked toddlers engaged in a boisterous game of Duck, Duck, Goose until she could no longer see past the veil of her own tears. Yesterday she drifted, wraith-like, through the infant section at Saks, fingering tiny overalls and baseball caps, shirts patterned with trucks and miniature running shoes. Today, Mother's Day, she's saved the best for last. Attempts to speak with her own mother have been rebuffed by an answering machine and a wall of bitter anger and recrimination. She will never forget the expression on Maggie's face as she haltingly, brokenly confessed to giving up her child. It is not the bewildered horror that haunts her--she expected no less. But the flash of disgust, fleeting and quickly tucked away, invades her dreams. She pauses in the doorway, a large cardboard box propped on one hip, and grants herself a moment's indulgence. Remembering how the crown of his little pumpkin head would pop up, peeking over the crib bumper when she walked into the room. The almost gleeful excitement, waving arms and kicking legs, she could provoke by simply leaning over the rail and smiling into his wide blue eyes. The soft cooing babyspeak as he talked himself to sleep or greeted a new day. The pain is a part of her now, as much a defining characteristic as the color of her hair or eyes. She accepts it; embraces it. Deserves it. Two attempts at motherhood, both failed. One dead child and one... A slow, deep breath, squared shoulders, and she sets to work. One by one, drawers are emptied, their contents transferred to the box. Small cotton tee shirts and footed sleepers. Soft pastel blankets and terrycloth bibs. A yellow duckie, its orange beak dented from enthusiastic baby gums. Tiny nail clippers and plastic teething rings. Her swift, efficient packing gradually slows and she begins to linger, each item more difficult to part from loving fingers. By the time she reaches the crib her nose has turned pink and stuffy, her throat raw from containing the sobs that even now she won't permit release. The sheets, stripped and washed, have already found their way into the box. She carefully lifts out the mattress and sets it aside, tugging a screwdriver from the back pocket of her jeans. The object, now visible through the springs, catches her eye, and she stills. She crouches and pulls it from beneath the crib with trembling fingers while another piece of her heart cracks and falls away. Cradling the sphere to her chest, she remembers... "A basketball, Mulder?" "The game of champions, Scully. Chamberlain. Jordan. Shaq. A manly contest of athletic prowess and skill. Every red-blooded American boy needs to learn the game." "He's barely 24 hours old." "I'll bring him along slowly. Besides, haven't you heard? All babies are natural dribblers." She drops to her knees and rocks, cradling the ball in her arms as she once cradled their son. "What have I done? Oh, God, Mulder-- what have I done?" Her life is fragmented, broken pieces cobbled together in a desperate effort to make a whole. A once-bright career that brought disillusionment, sorrow, and death. A man she loves more than her own life, though they cannot be together. A child--the answer to prayer, a precious gift she could not keep. His voice over the answering machine, not the ringing phone, breaks through her anguish. She scrambles to her feet and seizes the receiver before he can hang up. "Mulder!" "Hey. I thought maybe I'd missed you, that you'd gone to your mom's." She fumbles a soggy and barely functional tissue from her pocket and clears her throat. "You shouldn't be calling me here; you know it's not safe. No one's swept for bugs since..." A moment of silence, and she can practically see his jaw clench. "I'm tired, Scully, and frankly, I don't give a rat's ass who's listening." The ice vanishes, leaving a warmth she longs to wrap tightly around her like a blanket. "How are you?" "I'm fine." More silence while he analyzes her words. "What were you doing just now?" Her fingers grip the ball until the knuckles turn white. "Just cleaning up." How does he do it? He's become too adept at peering past her barriers. "You were packing his things. Weren't you?" Her throat closes; she can't speak. "Damn it, Scully. Self-flagellation isn't going to solve anything. Why today? " Her chin comes up and she draws on the steel core instilled by her father. "Why not? It has to be done. Today is no different from any other." "It's Mother's Day." She squeezes her eyes tightly shut. "Not for me." Ragged breathing. When he finally manages to speak his voice is wispy and broken. "You are a mother. What you did, what you felt forced to do, can't change that." "I gave away our baby! What kind of mother does that make me, Mulder?" "The kind willing to sacrifice everything--everything, Scully--for the good of her son. To protect him. To keep him safe." A spark of anger kindles among the sorrow and she latches onto it with fierce determination. "Words, Mulder. Those are just words, and you know it. Tell me you weren't furious when you found out what I'd done. Tell me you didn't resent me, that I did what I did without consulting you." His voice takes on the first hard edge. "I can't. You know how I felt. I couldn't accept that you would make such a choice, do something so...so irrevocable without talking to me first. I had the right..." He stops, takes a deep breath. "But I've come to terms with that anger now. I understand how scared and alone you were: no way to contact me, the boys gone." He trails off and she can feel him struggling before he chokes out. "I know how much it hurts, Scully. He's my son. I love him, too." She cannot withstand him. Her armor is battle-worn, full of breaches and chinks. "You know what kind of mother I am, Mulder? I don't care that he's safe. I want him back." A sob breaks through, followed quickly by another. "God help me, I want him back." She struggles against the wave of grief, grateful for Mulder's silence. The last thing she wants or needs are empty words of sympathy. She deserves his anger, not his comfort. When he finally speaks, she realizes he is not angry with her, but with himself. "I'm coming home." Shock helps her regain control, sobs tapering to sporadic hiccups. "Wh...what? Are you cra...crazy? You can't..." "I'm tired of hiding--what good has it done? I haven't been there when the people I love needed me most. The past six months are what's crazy, Scully. They've tried to break us apart for years and we've handed it to them on a platter. I'm coming home." Hope surges in spite of her fear, dulling bright pain to a persistent ache. "But when? How?" "Not now. You said it yourself, the line's not secure. Give me time to think this through. I'll be in touch." His voice turns abruptly tender. "Do something for me, Scully. Shut the door." Just like old times. His dizzying lack of segue has her scrambling to keep up. "Shut the door?" "Stop punishing yourself. No more packing. I... We'll get through it when I come back. Together." She blinks back a fresh rush of tears. "Okay." They hang up, endearments and declarations of love unspoken yet tangible. She wanders slowly back to the bedroom, pausing with fingers on knob to consider the orange basketball clutched against her body. Imagines a tall, dark-haired man patiently coaching a little boy who shares his smile. A gift of love and promises, never to be fulfilled. Fourteen days, thirteen hours, and 52 minutes. She tosses it into the cardboard box and tugs the door firmly shut. End