Title - Static Reflections
Author - Mary Parker
Email - paelitopen@yahoo.com
Webpage - http://www.geocities.com/paelitopen
Disclaimer - Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and their unborn all belong to CC, 1013, and Fox, as do Doggett and Reyes. I wish they were mine. I'd never do this to them. *sniff*
Distribution - Sure. Tell me where and keep my name/email on it.
A/N - This is my first foray into the world of character death. A little feedback would be nice. Feed the Muse, y'know. She's always hungry.
You stand by his headstone, staring at the bleak words etched into the grey marble. Fox William Mulder, 1961-2000. Your mind, unbidden, offers memories of the day you first saw the headstone in a crate at the Bureau. Even more unwelcome is the flashback to his funeral. You flung the first handful on dirt onto the gleaming casket. No one contested your right; by then Skinner was the only one there to see, and he was mourning as deeply as you were. He understood, and joined you in tossing earth into the grave. They gave you the flag, now framed and hanging in the office. You think next of you own headstone and wonder if it will someday be placed next to his. Side by side, as you should be. Partners even in death. A morbid thought. You would give almost anything to have him back as your life partner.
Your fingers slip to the cross at your throat, but it's gone. Brought sharply out of memory, you squeeze the tiny fingers that grip your hand. She wore the cross today; you fastened the clasp around her neck as you dressed her this morning. She seemed fascinated by it as you showed her in the mirror, and planted a baby kiss on your cheek as you looked for him in her. She has his unruly hair, though it is dark red like your sister's was, his mercurial eyes, his lower lip, and even at nearly three, something of his intuition. You put the cross on her today as a sort of protection from that intuition, asking God to watch over her. She has not seen the horrors of death as you have. She knows only that her father is a name on a rock and a favorite subject for bedtime stories. You will keep it that way for a while, well practiced at keeping parts of secrets. Even after all this time, you have not become inured to the things you see and know. How could she ever possibly be ready for the Truth? But someday, you will have to explain, and she will have to understand.
She looks up at you with his brilliant smile, and you scoop her into your arms. She wraps her chubby arms around your neck and lays her head on your shoulder, carefully clinging to the bouquet you brought to decorate his grave. It looks so barren otherwise. He would understand, if he were alive, your need to come here and leave posthumous birthday bouquets to decorate the small plot of land that, besides the daughter he has never seen, is all he has to show for his nearly forty years .
He would have done the same for you.
You convince her to relinquish the flowers and then you rethink your request and let her place them at the base of the grim marker. She deposits them with surprising decorum, never one to be bribed into good behavior, and allows herself to be picked up again. She is bundled up against the chill in the October air and beginning to be sleepy. For one brief moment, you wish you'd come out here alone, but you banish the thought. She should be here, keeping a vigil she doesn't yet understand for a father she didn't know. He deserves as much. It is her right and privilege to honor his memory. This and her stories and a few pictures are all she will ever have of him. Once you are gone, only she will know the Truth. The burden is on you now to teach her to respect and honor that Truth and the people that fought for it.
She yawns and snuggles into your shoulder, unconcerned with your plans for her future education. You step forward carefully as you pull the letter from your pocket, trying not to wake her. It has been a busy day for her, playing in the nursery all morning and making this trip with you now. You cut her naptime short for this pilgrimage. But you do not regret it. It doesn't matter if she is asleep for this, your most private ritual.
You wedge the envelope between the prongs of the letter holder you stuck in the ground over three years ago. No one has disturbed it, fortunately. Today you could not spare the time to find another. Before she was born you would sit out here for long hours, talking to him. You told him about Doggett and Skinner and how it was the three of you against the Bureau, with Reyes taking a middle ground mediator stance. You described to him how it felt when the baby kicked. You let your tears soak the earth you had helped cast over his casket as you told him how you missed him. Only when he was gone could you allow yourself to explain that you loved him. That you had loved him for years. You didn't have to say why you couldn't have told him. He would have understood without a word being spoken.
You knew he'd loved you. You had always known. But it was always too dangerous, or the time or the situation or maybe the moon phase wasn't right. Or - you admit it now although you didn't then - you were afraid. And then it was too late, but as you sat by his grave running out of words, you felt forgiven. Cleansed. Blessed. You said a few "Hail Mulders," smiling wryly at the bittersweet memory, followed it with a more church-sanctioned prayer, and came back often. After she was born, it limited your visits considerably, but you still managed to come out on his birthday, carrying her along. Now you find yourself returning more frequently, craving comfort and wishing for support. Your work is taking time from her and it seems like every time you blink, she's older. You wish he was here to share her growing up, but nothing can bring him back now.
She stirs on your shoulder and you turn reluctantly to leave. Mustn't let her get chilled. But you'll be back soon, the two of you if possible. His family, making sure he's not forgotten, not just one in the rows of unremarkable headstones. You'll have another letter for him, everything you used to say to him put down on paper so you can bring her and still have your talk with him. You'll be back, you vow to the engraved letters that spell out his name, before you turn to carry her to the car.
Maybe even tomorrow.
Author - Mary Parker
Email - paelitopen@yahoo.com
Webpage - http://www.geocities.com/paelitopen
Disclaimer - Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and their unborn all belong to CC, 1013, and Fox, as do Doggett and Reyes. I wish they were mine. I'd never do this to them. *sniff*
Distribution - Sure. Tell me where and keep my name/email on it.
A/N - This is my first foray into the world of character death. A little feedback would be nice. Feed the Muse, y'know. She's always hungry.
You stand by his headstone, staring at the bleak words etched into the grey marble. Fox William Mulder, 1961-2000. Your mind, unbidden, offers memories of the day you first saw the headstone in a crate at the Bureau. Even more unwelcome is the flashback to his funeral. You flung the first handful on dirt onto the gleaming casket. No one contested your right; by then Skinner was the only one there to see, and he was mourning as deeply as you were. He understood, and joined you in tossing earth into the grave. They gave you the flag, now framed and hanging in the office. You think next of you own headstone and wonder if it will someday be placed next to his. Side by side, as you should be. Partners even in death. A morbid thought. You would give almost anything to have him back as your life partner.
Your fingers slip to the cross at your throat, but it's gone. Brought sharply out of memory, you squeeze the tiny fingers that grip your hand. She wore the cross today; you fastened the clasp around her neck as you dressed her this morning. She seemed fascinated by it as you showed her in the mirror, and planted a baby kiss on your cheek as you looked for him in her. She has his unruly hair, though it is dark red like your sister's was, his mercurial eyes, his lower lip, and even at nearly three, something of his intuition. You put the cross on her today as a sort of protection from that intuition, asking God to watch over her. She has not seen the horrors of death as you have. She knows only that her father is a name on a rock and a favorite subject for bedtime stories. You will keep it that way for a while, well practiced at keeping parts of secrets. Even after all this time, you have not become inured to the things you see and know. How could she ever possibly be ready for the Truth? But someday, you will have to explain, and she will have to understand.
She looks up at you with his brilliant smile, and you scoop her into your arms. She wraps her chubby arms around your neck and lays her head on your shoulder, carefully clinging to the bouquet you brought to decorate his grave. It looks so barren otherwise. He would understand, if he were alive, your need to come here and leave posthumous birthday bouquets to decorate the small plot of land that, besides the daughter he has never seen, is all he has to show for his nearly forty years .
He would have done the same for you.
You convince her to relinquish the flowers and then you rethink your request and let her place them at the base of the grim marker. She deposits them with surprising decorum, never one to be bribed into good behavior, and allows herself to be picked up again. She is bundled up against the chill in the October air and beginning to be sleepy. For one brief moment, you wish you'd come out here alone, but you banish the thought. She should be here, keeping a vigil she doesn't yet understand for a father she didn't know. He deserves as much. It is her right and privilege to honor his memory. This and her stories and a few pictures are all she will ever have of him. Once you are gone, only she will know the Truth. The burden is on you now to teach her to respect and honor that Truth and the people that fought for it.
She yawns and snuggles into your shoulder, unconcerned with your plans for her future education. You step forward carefully as you pull the letter from your pocket, trying not to wake her. It has been a busy day for her, playing in the nursery all morning and making this trip with you now. You cut her naptime short for this pilgrimage. But you do not regret it. It doesn't matter if she is asleep for this, your most private ritual.
You wedge the envelope between the prongs of the letter holder you stuck in the ground over three years ago. No one has disturbed it, fortunately. Today you could not spare the time to find another. Before she was born you would sit out here for long hours, talking to him. You told him about Doggett and Skinner and how it was the three of you against the Bureau, with Reyes taking a middle ground mediator stance. You described to him how it felt when the baby kicked. You let your tears soak the earth you had helped cast over his casket as you told him how you missed him. Only when he was gone could you allow yourself to explain that you loved him. That you had loved him for years. You didn't have to say why you couldn't have told him. He would have understood without a word being spoken.
You knew he'd loved you. You had always known. But it was always too dangerous, or the time or the situation or maybe the moon phase wasn't right. Or - you admit it now although you didn't then - you were afraid. And then it was too late, but as you sat by his grave running out of words, you felt forgiven. Cleansed. Blessed. You said a few "Hail Mulders," smiling wryly at the bittersweet memory, followed it with a more church-sanctioned prayer, and came back often. After she was born, it limited your visits considerably, but you still managed to come out on his birthday, carrying her along. Now you find yourself returning more frequently, craving comfort and wishing for support. Your work is taking time from her and it seems like every time you blink, she's older. You wish he was here to share her growing up, but nothing can bring him back now.
She stirs on your shoulder and you turn reluctantly to leave. Mustn't let her get chilled. But you'll be back soon, the two of you if possible. His family, making sure he's not forgotten, not just one in the rows of unremarkable headstones. You'll have another letter for him, everything you used to say to him put down on paper so you can bring her and still have your talk with him. You'll be back, you vow to the engraved letters that spell out his name, before you turn to carry her to the car.
Maybe even tomorrow.