From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Thu, 22 Jun 2000 06:18:36 -0500 Subject: Small Things 1 of 1 by Marie Endres Source: direct Reply To: joemimi@prodigy.net "Small Things" by Marie Endres joemimi@prodigy.net Classification: Scully Angst Rating: PG-13 Spoilers: "Requiem", "All Things" Summary: A book title turns Scully's thoughts toward small things. Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully aren't mine. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Broadcasting. Author's notes: While I have not yet read Arundhati Roy's book, "The God of Small Things," I was nonetheless greatly inspired by its title. For that, I am immensely grateful. "Small Things" Bill, bill, credit card offer, sales circular, small box. This summarizes the content of my mail today. I turn over the cardboard parcel to see what it could be. The return address reads, "Book of the Month Club." Why I have kept my membership current for so long, I am not sure. Perhaps it represents a part of my life that never was, a normal part. This mundane subscription showed that I somehow still maintained a tie to a world of reading before bedtime and a life outside of a car-even if I never read the books. Like a child eagerly opening a package from a far-away aunt, I pry apart the cardboard that surrounds the book. The cover shows dark brown and green lily pads surrounding a single, small, pink, water flower. It looks like a picture of my life right now-darkness all around a perfect, tiny, budding life. The white letters of the title read, "The God of Small Things." Thinking of the million small things to which I need to attend, I toss the book on my kitchen table. I know it will probably remain there until I relegate it to my bookcase to join the other un-read selections. The title stays with me as I walk to my bedroom to change. It has been a long day spent at my desk, checking and re-checking every lead imaginable. I prayed often today to the God of everything that one of these blind alleys would lead me somewhere closer to Mulder. It has been weeks since I saw him, held him last. I promised him that I would let him go alone. I reach instinctively to touch the cross around my neck, trying to make a connection with Something bigger than myself. Before my fingers make contact with bare skin, I remember. I gave him this small part of me to go with him when I could not. As my hand skims across my abdomen, I realize it is now I who does not go on alone. Longing for comfort, I pull open the bottom drawer of my dresser, searching for my most wellworn pair of jeans. Yes, jeans and a familiar gray T-shirt left here not-so-long ago will feel good, secure. I peel off my armor of work clothes and try to mentally shed the layers of stress as well. I live in a constant state of vigilance now, always wondering if I missed something, anything which could be the clue, the lead to end this madness. As my fingers hold the shirt, I know that I have washed it. It no longer retains his scent, yet I breathe deeply as I slip it over my head, hoping for just a fleeting whisper of him to remain with me. I reach for my jeans and pull them up. As I begin to ponder what I could eat tonight that would not make me queasy, I realize something. I cannot button them. It is as though my waist has disappeared. There is no more roundness to my belly than before. Yet, the button will not find its familiar hole. This is real, I think to myself. My body is changing daily. This I cannot deny. I begin to wonder if this God of small things is concerned with how small my clothes seem, how ever- expanding my body appears. I look in the mirror and know that His concern is real. I see a woman looking back at me who was formed with this very purpose in mind: to give and sustain life. How could I have ever doubted? ++++ I am meeting Kimberly for lunch. I think these weekly luncheons are Skinner's not- so-covert attempts at surveillance of his only pregnant agent. She walks up to my table in the commissary with a book tucked under her arm. "Hi, Dana! How are you feeling?" she asks with that concerned tone that everyone who speaks to me lately seems to have. "Fine," I quickly attempt to change the subject. "What are you reading?" I gesture toward her book. "Oh, I haven't even started it yet," she responds. She turns the book over as if looking at it for the first time and says, "The God of Small Things." Like a blond with a pony tail, this book title keeps popping up, trying to get my attention. I am reminded again of small things, like Mulder's soft sighs as we made love, how he sounded, how he tasted. I recall the softness of his earlobe as I would gently take it between my teeth. His light touch behind my knee, on my thighs would drive me to distraction. The sound of our easy laughter even while in bed is replayed for me. I remember the vague scent of Ivory soap on his skin as I would hold him afterward, how he liked to settle his head on my breast just before falling off to sleep. I cannot clearly recall any big moments, bold declarations of love and forever. Yet the God of small things has reassured me that I will never forget the minutiae of our time together. My intimate memories fill me with both longing and comfort. "Dana? Dana? Are you sure you're OK?" Kimberly asks. Regaining my composure I answer, "Yes, just a little distracted, I guess." "I'm sure you are," she replies, adding a comforting pat on my shoulder to her words. "If you're up for something spicy, I hear they have a nice taco salad today. C'mon." Against my better judgement, I follow her to the line. +++++++ As I sit at my desk later in the afternoon, I try to force myself to concentrate. I've heard women say that pregnancy plays upon your thought processes. I never believed them until now. And then I feel it. At first, I think it is a moment of revenge for daring to eat something less than bland at lunch. This sensation is different than simple heartburn, however. It is the smallest of things that somehow means everything. This tiny movement within me, feeling like the small, bubble breath of fish, can be only one thing. I have felt the first stirring of the life of my child, our child. I reach for the phone to call my mother to confirm my experience, and then I stop. I decide to savor this moment. Alone, yet not. I will spend it in quietness before the God of small things, with a prayer on my lips for one more miracle. END Feedback: Your kind words are not just small things- joemimi@prodigy.net Thanks you's as always to Georgia, your friendship as well as your beta help are special treasures. Also, much gratitude to the XScenes group, you make me smile each day!