From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Fri, 21 Jan 2000 13:09:34 -0600 Subject: Recessional by Missy J Source: direct Reply To: SaluteAtX@aol.com TITLE: Recessional AUTHOR: Missy J SUMMARY: Thoughts about a child. KEYWORDS: A, M/S something RATING: Oh, PG13 or a very light R SPOLIERS: Definitely Christmas Carol/Emily, tiny one for the movie and Talitha Cumi DISRTIBUTION: You want it, you can have it. If you could drop me a line sometime so I can visit, though, that would be great. FEEDBACK: SaluteAtX@aol.com - A quick and easy way to get your e-mails hung on a refridgerator. It's my first piece, so anything actually responding to it will get me pysched . DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything here. NOTES: Infinite thanks to Jessica, my beta. Not only would this story not exist without her, but it's entirey possible that I would have died a codeine/nortryptilyne/viaxx induced death wihtout her. She deserves a medal for the things from me she puts up with. God of our fathers, known of old -- Lord of our far-flung battle line -- Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine -- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget -- lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies -- The Captains and the Kings depart -- Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget -- lest we forget! Far-called our navies melt away -- On dune and headland sinks the fire -- Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget -- lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe -- Such boastings as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law -- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget -- lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard -- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard. For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! -Rudyard Kipling Golden sunlight tumbles through the dusty window and onto the worn book resting on my lap, pages yellow and brittle. Allowing myself to sink into the plush couch, I tuck my legs under me, staring at the timeless words as if they hold answers to questions I cannot even ask. The illuminated "Recessional" at the top glows in the sunlight, brilliant and festive even in the tale of anguish it conveys. I remember this poem. I read it when I was fifteen, at my grandfather's funeral. The weather was awful that day, the wind howled and cold rain and sleet pelted the mourners like arrows from the heavens. My mother said that it was God crying for Grandad. Skeptical even in youth, I didn't believe her, but I've never forgotten her words. It should be raining now. If I can't cry for my daughter then God should. I shake off the thought and run my hand through my hair, closing the ragged book. I should do something productive, but for some forsaken reason Mulder has chosen now to stop looking for farfetched cases to follow to the ends of the earth, and I will feel all that much more pathetic if I go to work this Saturday afternoon during the holidays. Somehow it's wrong for today to be a Saturday. It should be a Monday, a rainy Monday. It's been three years today since my daughter died, and I haven't once cried for her. I flinch, and push myself off the couch, unwilling to linger in self-pity any longer. There must be something I should be doing, some case I should be typing a report for, some laundry I should wash. Isn't today when I'm supposed to have lunch with my mother? I perk at the thought before realizing that she's in California for Christmas. I really should be doing something. I want to call Mulder. Mulder could think of something to do. He could make up a case, get me out of DC. I want to be anywhere but this city. I want to be in San Diego. I should be crying beside my daughter's grave. Being in DC just proves I have no good excuse not to be there, no X-File to solve, not much work to do. I want to be out and doing something, anything, as long as I don't have to think about the dead. Shaking my head, I laugh out loud, harsh and grating. I would be surrounded by death if I went away for a case, I am surrounded by death every day. To believe that I would be able to forget the dead is ludicrous. But while Mulder may not make me forget, he drives the ghosts farther away. He's probably not doing anything. He wouldn't mind if I went over to his apartment for a while. I think I have an expense report to type up. I'm sure he has the receipts I need to do it. Half an hour later I'm sitting in my car, staring into Mulder's apartment and pondering my lousy excuse for a reason to be here. Well, dammit, I do have to do that expense report. I'm sure of it. On autopilot, I'm knocking on Mulder's door before I even realize I've left the car. I hear a muted crash and a click, presumably of the TV turning off, before he comes to the door, wearing wrinkled jeans and a heather gray shirt. Blowing a breath out, I remember a different time, years ago now, him wearing that shirt and trying to kiss me just a few steps away from where I'm standing right now. "Scully? You okay?" His brow is knitted in confusion, he wasn't expecting me. Suddenly, I'm self-conscious, realizing I'm standing outside his apartment in an oversized sweatshirt and thin jeans for no apparent or professional reason, something I normally am not prone to do. "Fine. Can I come in?" I ask, shoving past him before he has a chance to reply, dropping all pretenses of an expense report. "Have a party, Mulder?" I ask, arching my eyebrow at the disarray of his apartment. Mugs and cups litter his coffee table, magazines mingled with laundry are spread out over the floor. "It's the weekend, Scully. Give me a break," he sighs, perilously close to whining. I choose not to dignify it with a response. Walking over to his fish tank, I dump some food in for the two lone fish that have survived Mulder's erratic patterns of feeding. I swear, the only time they eat is when I come over. They joyfully dart to the surface, greedily swallowing the particles they come across, unsure whether they will ever be fed again. I wonder if mom put flowers on her grave. Swallowing convulsively, I try harder to focus on the fish. Emily does not need to invade every moment of this day. "Did you just come over to feed the fish?" he asks, prodding gently, curious, as always. "Do I really need an excuse every time I come by to say hi, Mulder?" I sigh, unhappy that he won't let the subject drop, not willing or ready to talk about her yet. "Of course not. You know that." Yeah, Mulder. I know. I walk around the apartment with no particular purpose, running my fingers along the old drapes and the top of his leather couch. Mulder follows hesitantly, unsure of me in my current mood. I stop at the picture of Mulder and Samantha, staring at it without really seeing. I hope we find Sam, we both need closure so badly on something, anything. Sam really is the best closure we could get. That, or finding the people who created and subsequently killed Emily. My eyes fill with tears at the thought, I welcome them. "Scully? Hey, c'mon, Scully. Talk to me," he murmurs, gently, trying not to push, sensing my tears even though my back is to him. "No. No. Really, I'm okay," I sniffle, trying to regain my equilibrium. "You don't have to hide from me, you know," he whispers softly. "I know." I murmur back, recognizing how sincere he is. I turn to face him, lifting my watery eyes to face his compassionate ones. His gaze is so unwavering, so comforting that I feel an unutterable urge to fall into it, to drown in his solace. "Sorry," I whisper, dropping my gaze, unable to meet his eyes, unwilling to be swallowed under the waters of his endless understanding. "You don't have to be, and you know it. What's wrong, Scully?" He strokes my hair, gently runs his fingers down my cheek, wiping away unshed tears. I am silent for an eternity. "I never cried for her, you know," I whisper. Confusion flashes across his face before it is filled with infinite sympathy. "Oh, Scully. Today's her anniversary, isn't it?" He doesn't need to ask, but I nod miserably anyway. Sitting on the couch, he takes my hands in his and guides me down next to him. Shifting, he turns his chest to me and opens his arms ever so slightly, unsure of whether I will bolt in the other direction or not. He had no need to worry; I practically launch myself onto his lap, desperate with the need for human contact. "You would think I could cry for my own daughter," I mutter, miserable, sure that even with his understanding he must think I am cold. I've seen him cry for Sam, hell, I've seen him cry for his mother, and there was no lost love between them. "I don't want to be so heartless." I whisper, my voice shaking in agony. "Oh, Scully. This," he motions to me, my trembling body, "isn't heartless at all. You are one of the most passionate people I know, you just show it differently." "I want to cry, Mulder. I just want to let go of her. I can't let go." "You wouldn't be human if you could let go of something that tragic. You wouldn't be you." I sigh into his chest before pulling away from him. "Do you love me?" I ask. I realize what a stupid question it is as soon as I speak it, but I need so badly for him to verify what I know, what I hope to be true. I need to know that I, I who can't have children, I with ghosts lurking all around me, I so damaged by the events in my life that I will never be whole again, can be loved. "Of course I love you, Scully. You can't doubt that." He says it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, as if it didn't even need to be said. I sniffle, not keeping the tears at bay, rather willing myself with all my heart to cry. His declaration almost makes it possible, it means so much that he can say that when he's lucid. "I want to believe." This elicits a hallow chuckle from him. "I love you to, you know," I mutter, dipping my head down, utterly ashamed that I haven't said those words to him before. "Yeah, I know. But it still means a hell of a lot to me to hear you say it." His voice is gravely and rough, and it brings the tears closer to my eyes. I say a quick and silent prayer to God to let me cry now, I've waited long enough. Mulder senses my tension and slightly tightens his arms around me. "Dammit, Mulder! I just want to cry! What have I ever done to anyone, that I'm not even allowed to cry for my own child?" I'm trembling now, upset beyond all rationality. "Shh. It's okay," he strokes my hair, trying to comfort me but not quite knowing how to deal with my newfound instability. I tilt my head towards his, find myself staring directly at his mouth. Without conscious thought I raise my head and press my lips to his, desperately, hoping that he will give me the release I need so badly. He makes a small noise of protest in the back of his throat, but I swallow it with my mouth. Pushing him back onto the couch, I straddle him, running my hands under his shirt and over his chest, desperation and lust and pain becoming intermingled in my frenzy. I kiss him harder, run my tongue across his teeth, tug on his lower lip, hands tangling in his chest hair. His mouth responds greedily, but his body is strained with protesting tension. Not caring, I reach for his belt, sensing rather than feeling his erection, trying to kiss away the memories of a little dead girl. His mouth stills against mine then, and he every so gently wraps his fingers around my wrists, stopping the motion of my hands and my mouth. I didn't notice before, but tears are streaming down my face. I let out an almost hysterical laugh, of course I would choose now, of all times, to cry. "Later, Scully. Later." His words are a promise and a comfort, and I allow them to wash over me and bathe me in hope and light. I'm openly sobbing now, and Mulder gently helps me off his hips so he can sit up, and, again, hold me in his arms. "You're crying," he murmurs, smiling into my hair. He knows how much I need to cry, knows that it's the best gift he could have given me. I nod into his shirt, as the golden sunlight pours though the window, and I realize what a beautiful day it truly is. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Feedback is worshipped : ) SaluteAtX@aol.com