From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: 4 Dec 2002 13:14:43 -0000 Subject: Corrected: Reluctant Madonna by Abra Elliott Source: direct Reply To: xilerui@hotmail.com Title: Reluctant Madonna Author: Abra Elliott Classification: V, A, Scully-POV, post-Truth Rating: PG-13 Spoilers: William, The Truth Disclaimer: I know who the father of *this* baby is... Feedback: Love it, at xilerui@hotmail.com Archive: With pleasure - just let me know where I can visit! Description: Not babyfic and not really happy Christmas-fic, either, but I just felt it when I wrote it. Notes: All the other fic is at www.xilerui.org, and I'm working on Muchuu!! ***** I've finally convinced Mulder to go inside. He's worried about me, but I need a little space. With all due respect to the Southern hemisphere, Christmas just isn't the same without all the wintry trappings. A warm fire, cocoa, a merry little tree...the barren cactus there in the middle of the parking lot leaves a lot to be desired. I miss my mother, my family - Mulder's the only family I have now. I'm not complaining; the simple truth is that I cannot imagine my life without him. But, even so, he can't be mother and father, brother and sister to me...true love is all good and well, but we cannot be the world to one another. Our solitary months on the road have brought that truth home, and I sometimes find myself longing for the chance to go out for coffee with an old friend or two while Mulder tinkers in the tool shed. My old dream of suburban bliss. I guess nothing ever really changes...and yet, the dream is altered in ways I can barely admit to myself. I look up at the blue, blue sky. It's different here...maybe it's the contrast with the reddened earth, but the sky seems deeper and even more enigmatic now than ever did before. The moon is just a ghost right now - a whisper of what it will be later on - and I find myself stifling an urge to make a wish. A bitter laugh escapes my lips. There's no room in this life for wishes and dreams...I think it, even as I know that it's a lie. I can blame our life, our 'quest', for my unhappiness, but somewhere deep down I know that it's only an excuse. The truth is more brutal and far more damning. Someone's watching TV - maybe another guest. Screams of laughter - so easily mistaken for terror - ride the wind, only to be replaced by more haunting tones. I know this song - a carol that's been on my mind for weeks. Torturing me. I turn away from the sound of some Christmas commercial as tears sting my eyes. I know Mulder's watching me from the window...I wish he'd leave me alone. A memory...of a Christmas decades ago. A nativity play; my parents watched on as we all - Bill, Melissa, Charlie and I - performed our roles. Bill had been relegated to the role of third sheep from the left - punishment for picking a fight with a (former) fellow wise man. Charlie played one of the shepherds...I remember him using his curved staff to pull the girls back by our waists, like he'd seen on some cartoon. Melissa was the wife of the Innkeeper - a role that she managed to make important, in spite of its lack of lines. I played Mary. Only once - all the girls in our church had a chance to play her at one time or another, and it was just my turn. I took the part seriously, cradling the baby Jesus doll in my arms as if it were a real child, smiling gently into its blank eyes and dreaming of my own child. Even then, though, something in me sensed the tragedy of it all...this baby destined to be crucified, a mother helpless to do anything about it. I wipe at my eyes as I hear the motel room door behind me opening. "I'm fine, Mulder," I whisper shakily. More to myself than to him. He sits down beside me on the curb. A muscular arm slips stealthily around my shoulders. Part of me wants to shrug it away...part of me knows I can't. I bury my face in my hands and the tears flow freely. All I see is the face of my boy...the baby I couldn't raise. All my dreams of motherhood mock me. I only wanted a normal baby...a normal life. But, when the going got tough... Mulder's arm tightens around my shoulders, and I can't help it. My tears turn to heaving sobs, and my mind cries out in anger - at myself, at our fate, at Mulder. There are nothing but rebukes - if only I had been stronger. If only the world was a different place. If only I hadn't ever met Mulder. But I know that these, too, are lies. Or rather, they aren't the source of my anger. I did what I could for my child - wherever he is tonight, he's safer for being there. I've never been one to dwell on 'what if's'; our lives are what they are, nothing more, nothing less. And Mulder...for every time I've regretted ever meeting him, there are ten that thank God I did. What hurts - what turns my soft rain of tears to a storm - is the knowledge that I have few regrets for giving up my child. I should have them. Everything I've ever thought or believed tells me so. A mother - a *real* mother - always wants her baby. She sacrifices everything for his happiness. No matter how bad things become, she stays with him, nurturing him, loving him. I didn't. And part of me - just a part, but there all the same - isn't sorry. It was too much...I couldn't keep him safe, and all my energies were spent trying. From the night he was born until the day I gave him away, my nights were spent in vigilance. It reached the point where I could barely tell which way was up anymore. Exhaustion had claimed me. Mulder brings his head close, leaning it against my own. My cries are softer now, but the pain is just as strong. He says, in his gravelly whisper, "You made sacrifices for him, Scully. You made the greatest sacrifice a mother could make." He's been doing this more and more often, lately. I've known he could sense my thoughts for months...but I think he's been reluctant to admit the truth until now. So many hard truths. I breathe a quivering sigh. "Then why is part of me glad, Mulder? Why should my sacrifice feel like the lifting of a burden?" He squeezes my shoulder again, but this time I push him away. The old Mulder would have taken this as a rebuff and disappeared, but now he simply scoots over a little and gives me some space. He's learning...we're learning how to be together and not drive each other insane. We sit in silence. There are no easy answers, no pithy platitudes that will ease my aching heart. This will not be the last time I cry over the loss of my baby, nor will it be the last time I berate myself for not feeling more than I do. A crimson sunset glows before our eyes, casting long, warm shadows over us. A hot, dry wind brushes past, carrying with it the soft sounds of awakening crickets. I look up into the sky again...the moon is there, looking down on us as it has for millennia. I reach out my hand, and Mulder takes it in his own. ***** ~finis~