Pajamas (1/1)TITLE: Pajamas AUTHOR: Piper E-MAIL: Piper624@hotmail.com RATING: PG-13 KEYWORDS: Mulder POV, Vignette, Angst SPOILERS: CC/Emily ARCHIVING: I'd be absolutely honored. Just let me know so I can come visit! SUMMARY: Being a parent is a state of mind. FEEDBACK: Deeply cherished and always replied to. NOTES: I've already written one Emily post-ep, "Crying Out Loud", but I felt that there was a story to be told from Mulder's POV as well. This vignette can fit between the first and second paragraphs of my earlier story, or it can stand alone on its own. DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, Emily, and the other characters I mentioned don't belong to me. I'm just borrowing them for a little bit, and promise to return them at the end in good condition. No infringement intended towards Chris Carter or Ten Thirteen. Pajamas by Piper ***************** "She liked cartoons." These are the first words Scully has spoken since we left the church. She says them simply, offering an unneeded explanation for the bright animation on the small pajamas that she is folding. After a moment, they join the ever-growing neat pile on the bed. I stand against the wall, silently bearing witness to this ritual of closure. I don't respond to her statement - somehow I don't think that she expected me to. There's really no reason for me to be here. As experienced as I am in self-torture, today Scully is beating me by a mile. All I do is keep vigil as she stubbornly insists on boxing up the clothing that she bought in such blind hope for Emily, now about to be worn by some Goodwill kid who doesn't know even know how lucky she is to be alive. I never thought Scully could buy so many clothes in such a short period of time. She never struck me as much of a shopper, despite her stylish wardrobe. I guess I always thought she looked upon shopping as more of an annoyance that had to be faced occasionally for the sake of convention. But somehow, I don't think this last shopping trip was anything like that. Her hands move methodically over the brand new clothing, developing a steady rhythm that dulls my senses. Fold, bend, fold, tuck, pile...fold, bend, fold, tuck, pile... My mind begins to wander, escaping the cloak of loss hanging over this room as my body can not. The events of the past numberless hours flash through my mind, a slideshow of misery and hopelessness. As much as I try to tell myself to stop, to think of something, anything else, the images continue to play back in full color. It's almost as if by going over everything again and again, I'm trying to find that one point, that one moment where I fucked up, where I could have prevented this. Or maybe I'm just using the tried-and-true method of pressing on a wound until it the pain gets to be so much that it's replaced by numbness. Oddly enough, I find myself merely skimming over the details-my meeting with Calderon, the visit to the nursing home, my ill- fated encounter with Kresge. The only images that constantly fill my mind are of Emily, from her heartbreaking smile over Mr. Potato Head, to the pillow-soft warmth of her in my arms, to her lying helplessly in bed, just waiting for death to come and take her away. I had lied when I told Scully that I had never seen her as a mother before. My own mother never set a stellar example of motherhood, but I had still known what I was missing. I saw my friends' mothers come bring their lunch to school when they forgot it, be waiting in the car to pick them up so they wouldn't have to ride the bus home, cheer them on at their Little League games, hug them to tell them how proud they were and kiss their bruises and scrapes away. I tried to tell myself that I was fine, that I could take care of myself, that I didn't need some girl babying me anyway. But I never really believed it. When I met Scully, worked by her side day after day, I just knew. When you lack something in your life, you develop an instinctive knowledge of what you've always been looking for, and you learn to recognize those qualities in a person. I never saw Scully as a mother figure towards me, but I knew that deep down she was the kind of woman who would be the perfect wife and mother, one who would never ignore her child. She would attend all of his Little League games, bring him his lunch when he forgot it, make the monsters under the bed go away. She would love him with all her soul and being. She already knows how to love unconditionally. But when I saw Emily and Scully together for the first time, I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. Not because of how perfect the two of them looked together, although I know that's a picture that I'll carry in my heart forever. No, I was punched in the gut by the stark realization of how much I wanted to be a part of that picture. For the first time, I wanted everything to simply melt away-aliens, government conspiracies, the F.B.I., everything. I just wanted it to be Scully, me, and that beautiful little girl. I wanted to shelter them from what I instinctively knew was coming. I had always seen Scully as a mother, but for the first time, I saw myself as a father. Scully's hands freeze in the air, another pajama shirt clutched in her hands. The change in rhythm stirs me out of my reverie, and my gaze refocuses on her. The fabric is crumpled in her tight grip, her knuckles white. As my eyes settle on the material in her hands, a flash of recognition hits me full force. I am by her side in an instant, and my hand instinctively goes to her shoulder. She turns into my body, and I pull her to me. I can feel the grief that she had been trying so hard to fight settle over both of us, and I tighten my arms around her. Emily's pajamas are crushed between us, familiar but not comforting. They were what she had been wearing when we found her burning up with fever, when I held her tiny body in my arms for the first and last time. They were the last thing she wore before she changed into her final outfit, her hospital gown. I can feel Scully's body trembling against mine, and I cradle her head to my chest. As her arms go around my back, I hear her earlier question replay itself in my head. They're bastards, Scully, I answer silently. They're fucking bastards who were so blinded by their cruelty that even the innocence of your baby girl couldn't reach their cold, soulless hearts. Earlier, I had felt despair as I realized that they had forever killed the dreams of a parent. But now, as I feel the grief tear at my own heart, I know that I was wrong. They had killed the dreams of two parents. *************** End 1/1 Feedback is treasured at Piper624@hotmail.com Author's notes: Much, much heartfelt thanks to my two wonderful betas, Barb and Mystphile, for their constant support and encouragement, and for not hesitating to point out my mistakes. Thanks guys! Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy.