There are moments that the words don't reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable
She can't sleep. Doesn't sleep, not anymore.
He's sound asleep in her bed—she doesn't know when she got used to him sleeping in her bed—but she gets up softly so she doesn't disturb him and goes to the couch, like she has the past night, and the night before.
Her Bible is sitting on the coffee table, closed like it's been the past night, and the night before.
She can't bring herself to look at it, can't bring herself to put her cross necklace back on, not since Emily wore it, not since she wants to stop believing. God will never forgive her, she can barely forgive herself.
She should have saved her. Dammit, she should have been able to save her. What's the use of being a doctor if she can't save her own daughter?
Hell, what was the use of being a mother?
"What if you could treat her?"
I wouldn't."
Is that decision going to haunt her for the rest of her life? How long is she going to look in the mirror and only see her mistakes? Her failures? The fact Emily was conceived at all, even for something so selfish and awful and cruel, like some twisted, screwed-up miracle?
She knows she did the right thing.
(Did she do the right thing?)
If she'd let her live, if she'd tried to save her, if—
What hurts most is she feels like she's lost her only chance. Her chance at something like normalcy, something like a family.
God, it's a wonder she could even bring herself to hold Matthew in the church. Couldn't stand to see the pitying looks on Bill's face, on her mother's face. The knowledge that all of them have, that she will never, ever have something like this. She knows, they all know, there will be no trying again, no next time, and she tries her hardest not to feel defeated, not to feel like she's lesser somehow.
Rationally, scientifically, she knows she isn't.
"This child was not meant to be."
(Try telling that to her stupid, stupid heart.)
She takes the cross in her hands, runs the chain through her fingers, makes wishes and what ifs on it like she's a girl.
If I had let her live—
If I hadn't been abducted—
She closes her eyes, almost prays, then stops herself. Instead, she finds herself thinking of the German she took in college.
Allein. Alone.
Funny, it sounds more like align.
But she doesn't feel aligned with anyone, she doesn't know anyone who's on her side. She can barely bring herself to talk to Mulder, can barely bring herself to pick up the phone when it rings. Skinner even gave her a few days off and she feels pathetic for needing them. What does she need time off for, to grieve? Grieve a child created for an experiment she only knew for a few days?
She clutches the cross to her chest and sobs.
Do you like it uptown?
It's quiet uptown.
It was easy to convince her to go back to Washington with him after the funeral, surprisingly easy to take her home to her apartment where it's quiet, easier still to find an excuse to stay. What's been hard is watching her slip away from him, though she puts on a brave face, Scully.
He knows she's sitting on the couch, try hard as she does not to wake him. He knows she goes and sits there every night and she does not open her Bible and she does not cry, and in the morning when he wakes up they don't acknowledge that she's still there.
He doesn't know what to do, hasn't known what to say to her since the funeral. He's always been good at cheering up Scully, always been good at taking her mind off things.
But he can't take her mind off this.
The only thing he could think to do at the funeral was bring flowers. Carnations and baby's breath and things that meant something.
(Emily's death should have meant something. Something more than stopping a group of men from experimenting on a child.)
Scully's child should not have been evidence.
That moment he walked in, and she was kneeling on the floor, playing with Emily—
He wants to give her that. That's the life she deserves, wants. Needs.
"I can't let this be her life."
He doesn't want this to be Scully's life-chasing the unknown with him, sleepless nights in hotel rooms and monsters and ghosts that some days he's not sure are real.
He had the cure. A cure. In his hands, and maybe he could have given her the happiness they both deserved.
If anyone needs forgiveness, it's him.
"I can protect her too."
"Yeah but who's gonna protect you?"
All he's ever done, all he's ever tried to do, is protect her. Keep her safe. He knows she's capable, knows she could probably take him if she needed to, but still.
He's already lost Samantha, already come close to losing Scully. He doesn't want to again.
Her back is to him. This is the first time he's come in while she's on the couch, hasn't wanted to disturb her otherwise.
But tonight feels different. Tonight feels like he should.
Forgiveness—can you imagine?
"I was going to love her," she whispers to him. "I could have loved her."
He sits down, takes her hand. "You did. You would have been a great mother, Scully."
She nods. He doesn't know if she believes him.
"You could…" he clears his throat. "We could talk about it, you know. You don't have to go through this alone."
"Mulder…"
"I mean it," he says. "I'm not going to let you go through this alone, okay? I—"
I don't want to lose you, he thinks, but doesn't say it.
She leans her head on his shoulder after a minute.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought I was protecting you."
Maybe all she's tried to do is protect him, too. Maybe that's all they can do.
"That you found her and had a chance to love her, maybe she was meant for that too."
"She found me."
"So you could save her."
He knows it'll take her time. She knows it will, too, but maybe if Mulder's here—
She takes her head from his shoulder, and he takes the cross from her fingers, looks at it. She knows he doesn't understand, but it's nice that he's here.
He hands her necklace back to her, kisses her forehead. She takes the cross back, takes it up, like a burden. Like a reminder.
And she takes his hand, and wordlessly, she asks for forgiveness.