From: =?iso-8859-1?q?Finn?= Date: Sun, 28 Sep 2003 22:28:25 +0100 (BST) Subject: They Tell Me That It's Tuesday By Finn O'Brien Source: direct Title- They Tell Me That It's Tuesday Author- Finn O'Brien temple_of_low_men@yahoo.co.uk Rating-PG-13 Classification- Angst, Character POV Spoilers-Emily/Christmas Carol Summary- Scully doesn't deal with dealing alone. Mulder's hazy role in the story is made clear. Author's Notes - I really hated these episodes for the longest time. Not least because the kid scared me. But this one came to me in a dream, believe it or not. I got to thinking how one would even begin to deal with this kind of situation. And this is the result. -------------------------------- I come awake without even knowing I've slept. One state just fades into another without remark or noticable change. I wish it did. I wish waking would bring light and illuminate the fogginess that seems to have taken residence in my brain. I wish sleeping was a definite, infinite darkness, free from unobtainable visions and different ways real life scenarios could have played out. It's been three days already, that's what the faint sounds of the TV are telling me. The newsdesk anchors are muffled, but they clearly tell me that it's Tuesday. It feels like less than a day, and more than a year all at the same time. I inhale deeply, trying to force air into lungs that seem useless. I watch the rise and fall of my chest as I breathe in and out, watching what I know is a sign of life, unrelenting. But I don't feel it. I feel as cold and dead as she is. My beautiful baby girl, who I didn't even know existed, was murdered by the people who created her. My miracle that was never meant to be, but she found me. She found me and snatched away again before I could even get used enough to the idea to tell her I loved her. I never told my child, the only one I will ever have, that I loved her. And I do, with every fibre of my being. Firstly as a purely instinctive mothering and protective love, but over the few short hours of our time together, it became a fondness for this brave and incredibly bright child. A fondness that grew into a deep, deep love. Yet at the same time I was scared of her. This child was not natural, not meant to be, maybe not all human. Those eyes were not the innocent eyes of a child. They were old...dead. There was no spark in them, no twinkle of a girl who is discovering the world around her. In our work we occasionally deal with cases of missing children, and Mulder once said something very profound to me. We were looking at the photo of a young girl that would be circulated to the press, and he very carefully put it back in the file and closed it. I remember looking at him quizically as he very quietly said "She's dead Scully" and sat on his chair, deep in thought. I was about to launch into a speech of "We don't know that yet Mulder"'s , but he continued. "You ever looked at these photos on the TV or in the newspaper? The photos are only circulated once the police know they have slim leads. It's a kind of clutching at straws. And these are the residual images that people will remember when they hear the child's name. How the child will be remembered in the mortal world, and in every single one of those photo's...the eyes are dead Scully. It's like they knew somehow before the event that they were not going to be here for long." I realised he was right, and also realised what he wasn't saying about a little girl with dead eyes in a photo. What he didn't say said so much more than what he had, but still, I think of it now. Emily had dying eyes. I think my darling girl knew she would die, and that scares me more than I will admit. Mulder is stirring now. I had fallen asleep on his couch, with my head in his lap. I allowed him to help and comfort me in the hope that I would feel something. But I feel nothing. Numb. But now I feel panic. Some irrational part of me needs to get out of there as quickly as I can. In a matter of seconds I have slipped on my shoes and dashed out of the door, not bothering to close it gently behind me, but letting it slam. I don't bother with the elevator and take a left to dash straight down the stairs. My lungs are burning, but it feels good, I can feel something. I can also feel the sting of tears in my eyes, the blood pounding in my ears, and a giant lump in my throat that I cannot swallow past. But it is feeling. I keep running straight out of the door, and up the sidewalk. It's early enough that not many people are around, and those that are seem content enough to ignore me. They ignore me while I struggle to ignore what I have been for days. My grief is finally catching up with me, and this last desperate run from it will not succeed. I slow to a stop at the corner. Staring at the traffic and wondering whether to cross. The tears are flowing freely now, and my chest begins to hitch and rack violently as I let out sob after sob. Staggering back to the wall of the corner building, I brace my back against it and release my grief to the sky. Only seconds have passed when I see his shadow cover mine on the ground. I feel his arms go around me and pull me away from the wall, but to lean on him instead. His has buried his face in the crook of my next and is lulling me and shushing me while trying to take all of my weight as I struggle to stand. I feel the dampness on my neck, and gently lift his head to find his eyes red and crying too. His eyes burn into mine and it is then that I realise how selfish I've been. He has lost a daughter too. The man in front of me takes my responsibilities as his own, and I believe now that had she lived, he would have fulfilled the role of father in her life. He would have rejoiced in the role, thrived in it, been the most perfect father. His simple, small arrangement of flowers placed on her painfully tiny coffin at the funeral were the most heartfelt offering there. He was her father. But I robbed him of the chance while she was with us. I pushed him away and that, is the worst thing about the whole affair. He whispers my name ever so softly, so low that I'm not sure if he said it at all, but then he repeats it. "Scully, we will find them. We'll find them and bring them to justice." The guilt and anger are vying for dominance in his eyes. I find my hand gently smoothing away the tears on his beautiful face. I need him to know, I need him to know that in my eyes he was Emily's Dad. "Mulder, we can't. There's nothing to be done. Every trace of evidence is gone and they will never be held accountable for the death of our little girl..." I hear his breath hitch as I say the words, and redirect my gaze to his chest. Watching the rise and fall. Life unrelenting. "But we have to keep up the bigger fight, bring them to justice for what they have done, for her memory as well as all the other pain they've caused us." I pause for a good few moments, listening to the traffic going past, his heavy ragged breathing, the few birds singing, and all the time staring at his chest. Eventually I tilt my head up to meet his eyes again. A few droplets of rain fall on my face, a warning of a coming down pour. "At least we had her in our lives for a short while. I can't imagine not even knowing she existed, not knowing that our little girl.." I say it again to make sure he knows it "...That our little girl was in the world, and not being able to even try and protect her. We tried Mulder, there was nothing that could be done." The tears are coming again and they mingle with the rain as it starts to fall, heavier with each rise and fall of his chest. His arms are still wrapped around me and he pulls me tighter to him again, kissing my hair and holding me with every ounce of strength he has left. The rain comes and washes away a tangible residue that left itself on us the past three days. At least now we both know that she was ours. And together we can continue on from here. A miracle that was meant to be was finding each other. We won't let this one die. ~Finis~