Classification: VA
Rated: PG
Key Words: ScullyAngst, UST, implied MSR
Spoilers: Season Eight onwards
Disclaimer: They ain't mine.
Archive: Gossamer, please. Email me
before archiving elsewhere. I don't
see why I'd refuse.
Summary: In the space of only seven
years...

Notes: Thanks to Lib for her delightful,
thoughtful beta :)



--------------------
1999
--------------------

Last night, someone snapped the aerial on
her rental car. Some kid probably, walking
past in the wee hours of the morning, taking
swigs from a bottle of Jack Daniels with his
friends. And for some reason this kid felt
the urge to reach over and break off the
aerial, like it was nothing. Like it was
a joke.

Scully isn't laughing.

This is just typical, she thinks, as she
flicks off the fuzzy radio with a sharp turn
of her wrist. Just typical.

She's spent the whole day elbow deep in
decaying human flesh, she's stuck in New York
rush hour traffic, and she needs music. Any
music would do. She would even listen to
Mulder's techno crap, if she had it. Hell,
she would hum along to elevator music.

How can so many bad things happen to one
person in one day? It must be destiny. Maybe
it wasn't a kid who broke the aerial--maybe
God struck it off with a lightening bolt. Just
for cosmic kicks.

"Damn it," she mutters, slamming a hand against
the steering wheel. At the moment, she feels
like every adjective for 'tired' in the
thesaurus. Every adjective for 'angry' too,
now she thinks of it. Let's see--wrathful, livid,
furious, enraged...

Damn Mulder, she thinks. He's probably stretched
out on his sofa right now, scoffing Chinese
takeout and watching the baseball. Damn him for
being comfortable while she's stuck in this
sardine tin of a Ford, circa 1992, without any
entertainment or food. Damn Mulder. He's never
cut into an exhumed body in his life, let
alone weighed a human liver.

She shakes her head to clear her thoughts,
running a hand through her hair. Rationally,
she knows Mulder has nothing to do with this.
It isn't his fault she was assigned to do these
autopsies. It isn't anyone's fault--aside from
the perp's, of course.

How dare she indulge in self-pity when she's
investigating such a brutal case? How can she
possibly be craving Kung Pao chicken when she's
spent the whole day with mutilated corpses? Here
she is, alive and healthy--well, physically
healthy--with a supportive family and a best
friend waiting for her at home, and all she can
do is bitch and moan about a broken aerial.

She needs to feel human again. She needs
something to remind her of why she's been
doing these autopsies. Her eyes scour the
city streets, searching for something to
reignite her trust in the universe, like a
blossoming tree or a thoughtful child. But
there is nothing.

The cars packing her in are hulking, dark
shapes beneath pale streetlights. Everything
outside looks bleak. The only people are
huddled under umbrellas, as they shuffle
past shuttered storefronts. The sky above
is choked with clouds and her tires slip
over the icy road beneath. Sleet starts to
cake on her windshield, and is thwarted when
she flips on the wipers.

If Mulder was in the car right now, she would
have more than enough to focus on. She sighs.

If only Mulder was in the car right now...

The traffic is moving again but for a second
she doesn't notice. By the time she does, her
foot lowering to the pedal, there's a crack
like a gunshot and her neck whips forward.

Metal crunches and tears as her car slides
forward on the ice, bumping into a black
Mercedes. People start yelling, horns start
honking, and Scully wonders if a fender bender
is going to snap her last thread of sanity. If
this tiny traffic accident will finally drive
her over the edge.

"Come on, Dana," she mutters, her vision
blurring with tears. She's faced worse than
this. Much, much worse. So why is she suddenly
on the verge of a crying jag? She never cries.

An angry New Yorker is pounding on Scully's
window, but she lets him wait as she straightens
her hair and rubs her neck, and brings herself
under control. When a dull ache starts throbbing
behind her eyes, she grits her teeth and
pretends she doesn't feel it.

There won't be any tears, she tells herself
firmly. Not now, not ever.

She never cries.

Scully takes out her ID, gets out of the
car...

--------------------
2006
--------------------

...and closes the door, leaving the engine
running.

"Mommy, stay here today," says Will, tugging
her hand.

Scully's lips curve into a gentle smile,
seemingly on their own volition. "Honey,
I have to get to work. You know that."

Will also knows exactly which buttons to
push, and how. Right now he's wide-eyed and
pouting, his small fingers squeezing hers.
She can't resist squatting in front of him
to enfold his tiny body in her arms. He
sniffles against her cheek and she turns to
kiss his smooth forehead.

"I know you have to work, mommy, but can't
you stay for just a little while? A teeny
little while?" Will whispers this in her ear,
his voice as soft as his silky hair. She can
smell his Johnson&Johnson shampoo and his
sparkly blue toothpaste, and his clean baby
scent underneath. He's still only a baby, she
thinks, hugging him harder. Only a baby.

When tears start to prick at her eyes, she
knows it's time to leave. This is his fourth
day of school and he needs a positive attitude
from her, not a negative one. He's five years
old and he's ready to take this step in life.
She knows this, rationally, but she can't help
feeling guilty about leaving him here. It's as
though she's abandoning him.

"I'll be back at 3:30," she tells him, also
whispering. "Then we'll go home and watch
'Rugrats' together. And when Mul...daddy gets
home we can all go out to dinner. Sound like
a plan?"

She pulls away slightly to see his eyes,
worried this will go the way it has for the
past three mornings, with a miserable Will
slinking off into the school. Sweet relief
sweeps through her when she finds him smiling.

"I love you, mommy," he says, wrapping his
arms around her neck and delivering a sloppy
kiss on her cheekbone.

"I love you too, honey."

Scully watches him walk through the crowds of
kids to the front door. When he reaches it, he
turns to give her a brief wave. For a moment,
her pangs of sorrow are replaced with those of
sheer joy.

But when she gets in the car and starts it
up, all she can think about is the sound of
Will's sniffles. Her eyes cloud with tears
again, the car stalling.

This isn't anything like abandonment, she
thinks, trying to reassure herself.

But she can't help it--she starts crying
anyway, just as she has for the past three
mornings. Unlike most mothers, she knows how
it feels to abandon her child. She knows
exactly how it feels.

Her tears are cool and refreshing, a salty
balm sliding down her cheeks, pooling in the
crevice above her chin. Tears are a luxury
item she can finally afford.

Oh, she does know she's being irrational,
sitting in a school parking lot at 9:00 in
the morning, silently weeping. She knows it
but she doesn't care. The world is not going
to explode if she takes two minutes to sort
out her feelings. She knows this now--she
knows she is no longer Atlas, bearing the
weight of the world. Maybe she never was.

She lets the tears run their course before
she wipes them away, then redoes her make-up
in the rear-view mirror. It doesn't take
long--she wears less these days. Isn't that
strange? Less make-up in her forties than she
wore in her thirties. But she finds she really
doesn't need as much false colour.

When Scully starts driving she winds down
her window a little, letting in the mild
autumn breeze. The old trees lining the
streets are fiery at this time of year, with
crimson leaves swirling from them in flurries.
Leaf by leaf, the trees are shedding their
old life, so that new greenery can unfurl
in spring.

Scully breathes deeply, taking in the crisp
air with its earthy scent of leaves banked
on the sidewalk.

She loves fall. Yesterday she took a walk with
her family at dusk, holding Mulder's hand and
watching Will crunch through drifts of dry
leaves. Mulder pointed out the constellations
as they formed in the darkening sky.

Scully smiles, remembering. She reaches for
the radio, but then decides against it.
Music would spoil her mood.

--------------------

Liked it? Hated it? Do you think I'm spooky?
Feed me back: apollostemple@yahoo.com