Classification: Big-time Scully-angst, MSR, 2nd person POV, vignette
Spoilers: Season 9, specifically ‘William’
Archive: If you want it, it’s yours. Please just let me know so I can come visit.
Feedback: I love it.
Thanks: To my beta, Robin, for her detailed eye and endless words of encouragment. And to Circe, for giving my fic a home.
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Your isolation, though self-inflicted, is deafening in its silence. You rejected all advances, whether they be out of love, friendship, or concern. You saw the pain on their faces. You saw their pity. You wanted nothing more than to let them wrap you in their arms and take away some of the pain.
But you wouldn’t, you won’t, allow yourself the luxury.
Your self-loathing is all-consuming. Your guilt weighs heavily on your being, so much so that you find it difficult to even sit up. You know that they would support you, tell you you had no choice and that they understood. As extreme, and even horrifying, as it was, they would tell you that you made the right decision.
What the fuck did they know.
The ache in your heart is so real, your chest physically hurts. You never were one to wallow in self-pity, but tonight your grief is so palpable, there is no other choice, no other alternative than to give into it, to let it run its course. You have never felt so keenly the absence of your lover until this very night. But simultaneously, you are relieved, even grateful, that he isn’t there to see your failure. What would shine in his eyes as he looked upon you? Anger? Hatred? You are positive those are accurate conjectures.
After all, how could he possibly understand the decision to give away his son, like an unwanted puppy who was becoming too much work.
The rational side of you knows how absurd an analogy that is, but that rational side of you is hidden deep in the recesses of your mind, no competition for the vast array of alternate emotions that are struggling for reign. Like a passenger on a sunken ocean-liner, you suddenly find yourself swimming alone in cold, black sea, no sign of a life preserver in sight. You want to stop your fight to stay afloat; it would be so much easier to stop thrashing your limbs and succumb to the greater force.
But something won’t allow you to.
You reach up and finger the charm that hangs around your neck, its shape and feel so familiar. You want to believe it has power. You want to believe it’s that power that is keeping you barely afloat. You once did. You once wrapped your fingers around it and drew strength from it. No matter what the situation was, you knew God was watching and that He would take care of you, if only you believed.
But now you question that faith that you once carried with you like a second skin. What sort of God would allow such pain to ensue in the mind, body, and soul of one of His children? You once believed that He would never give you more than you can handle. It is now apparent that He has misjudged your strength, miscalculated your faith, and such a mistake will cost Him.
In one fluid motion, you pull at the golden cross and rip it off of your body. The clasp snaps open easily, almost as if it were waiting for its freedom. You hold it up in front of your tear- streaked face and stare. You want it to speak to you as it once did, you want it to bathe you in its healing powers. But it does nothing of the sort. As you look at it now, it is quiet, a mere piece of jewelry meant to do nothing more that accent.
You feel the anger rise in you again and without another thought, you pitch the small piece of metal acroos the room and hope you never lay eyes on it again.
Tears fall freely, silently, down your face again. You are still powerless to stop them, so you do what you can. You lay your head down and fall asleep on your living room couch.
* * * *
A soft knock wakes you from your fitful sleep. New light tells you it’s early morning, easily six o’clock. You’re positive it’s your mother on the other side of the door, her forehead creased in worry over her youngest daughter’s situation. You figure she is also carrying breakfast, or at the very least, makings of breakfast, in her arms, unaware that your stomach is in so many knots, it is difficult to keep even your saliva down without upset.
You rise. Your body silently protests the new position, your muscles stiff from a night on the sofa. Your mind fleetingly wonders how the hell Mulder always slept on a couch and could actually be comfortable. You run your hands over your hair in an attempt to smooth down the strands that are undoubtedly standing in the air and sticking to the side of your face. You glance down and realize that you are still in your clothes from the day and night before and grumble to yourself; the sight of the rumpled clothing will do nothing more than make your mother worry even more than she already was.
“I’ll be right there, Mom,” you call out.
You reach the door and pull it open. Your mouth, open in prepration to assure your mother that you are okay, closes in surprise. There is no one there. You hesitantly stick your head out into the hallway and look in both directions, but find that the hallways are empty and carry no signs of life. Your mind races with the possibilities, wondering if a threat of danger may suddenly present itself, somehow knowing you are at the weakest point of your existence.
Your breath hitches when you see the envelope.
Your name is written on it and your heart beats with such force that you truly wonder if it will beat out of your chest. You recognize the penmanship immediately; his scrawl is as familiar to you as your own. Could he possibly know what you did? Your body begins to shake as you bend down and retrieve the thin message. Your hands are trembling and you consider, just for a moment, not opening it at all. But, of course, you do.
‘I’m thinking about you. I’m thinking about William. I’m always thinking about you. I’m always thinking about William. Soon, Scully, because I can’t handle just thinking anymore. Soon, and we’ll face it together, because you know, as do I, that we are stronger together. Don’t give up on your faith, Scully. I need it. William needs it. Please kiss my son for me and tell him that I love him. I love you, too, Scully. I always have.’
You didn’t think you had any more tears to cry, but are proven wrong as several drops land on the paper you hold on your hands. The fibers of that paper absorb the wet intrusion easily and you quickly move it aside before any of the words, letters, or even strokes become ruined. You step back inside the apartment and quietly close the door again, reading and re-reading the words until you have them memorized in your soul.
You take a step to return to the couch when your bare foot lands on something cold. You lift your foot and look down, discovering the necklace you mentally and physically discarded the night before.
‘Don’t give up on your faith, Scully. I need it. William needs it.’
You read his words again. How could such a coincidence have occured? How could he have known?
You sink to your knees and pick up the fallen icon. You reach down and pick up your beliefs.
You put the envelope and paper down, freeing both hands to bring the chain to your neck. You fasten the clasp back around your neck and feel the coolness of the metal against your heated skin. You take in the weight of its meaning with lidded eyes and draw on the strength it was meant to give.
You believe. You believe, not because he wants you to, but because you always did.
He just reminded you.
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