TITLE: To Owe You Everything (PG-13)
AUTHOR: Mickey
E-MAIL : gnrgirl@hotmail.com
DISTRIBUTION: Ephemeral, Gossamer; OK.
Also at my site (http://www.geocities.com/michellestandish).
Everyone else - bag it, tag it, tell me where it is (you know the drill).
SPOILER: Through Season 7
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: Vignette
KEYWORDS: Implied MSR
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I've finally slept a few hours, and this piece
reflects my newly refreshed mood. It's a little dark, I suppose, but
happy in its own right.
SUMMARY : Scully thinks about things sometime during the end of
Season Seven and the start of Season Eight.
XXXXXXX
There are some things you hang onto, no matter how much they hurt.
Like the last time you saw your grandfather and the harsh words you
exchanged. Or the time you were stood up at your junior prom. Or
when you found an injured bird in the woods, and it died in your old
shoebox. The things you hang onto, from the simplest nonsensical to
the most tradgic, are the things that shape your lives. They define
you, your passions, your regrets, your every action. They are as
inescapable as they are painful. And despite the pain, no matter how
much it may seem, deep down inside you cling to them like a greedy
child after the pinata bursts. Pain creates hope for better times. Pain
gives you reason to go on. Pain is life. Life is pain. The two words
are intrinsic to each others meaning; they are as inseparable as they
are identical. You can't have life without pain.
My biggest pain was, for the longest time, the death of my father. I
had a graced childhood, no real pain. My childhood was as close to
the typical Cleaver family as possible for a military family. I was loved
by my parents, I never outstepped the bounds of their rules. My older
brother teased me, my sister doted on me, and I had a little brother to
dress up and play with. I didn't know my father that well, and perhaps
that was for the best. He was a harsh man, his inborn gentleness
toughened by his lifelong service to the American Armed Forces. No,
perhaps harsh is too strong a word to singly define the man that sired
me. He was distant, yes. He was unfazable in his principals, and ruled
our home with a steady hand. But these same qualities that made my
friends fear him, were the ones that made me love him.
When Bill, my older brother, slipped a toad beneath my sheets, my
father made him apologize to me and sent him to bed without supper.
(I have since realized that Bill was just trying to get Father to pay
attention to him) My father didn't play favorites. The time I dumped
bugs in Bill's shampoo, I recieved the same punishment as my brother
did before me; no changes, no lax in the rules for a girl. And I loved
him for it. Not at the time, of course, but once I grew up, I realized
everything he did for me.
When he died, a part of me died. The part that I reserved for dear
old Ahab was one of the larger sections of my heart, and his loss
was felt deeply within me.
And when my grief was shed, I looked through the haze to see the
unflinching gaze of my mother, ever understanding, ever loving. Calm
and collected, she kept her grief from us as much as she could, and let
us, her "babies", lean on her shoulder.
When my sister died, from a bullet meant for me, Mom was there again,
but this time I had someone else to help me through my woe, my best
friend. He let me cry, let me hit him, let me blame him for her death and
never said a word in his defense, as much as he should have. He was
there for me then, as he was there for me whenever I needed it. He was
my strong point, my touchstone, my rock, whatever you want to call it.
He was simply there, and it was more than I ever expected.
I came to depend on him and his crackpot take to every case. I would
relish the first few minutes of every case. When he tossed a thin
manilla folder at me, ordering me silently to glance at the photos nearly
always contained within. When he asked me what I thought
happened, with that little smirk on his perfect lips, all the while keeping
back that one final fact, that last clue, to spring on me once I'd made
the expected conclusion. And then he would tell me, eyes aflame with
the passion I knew he felt about his work and could only hoped he felt
about me. Spilling forth from his mouth that theory would come, the
one I braced myself for, the one I would laughingly tease him about,
the one I, eventually, came to accept as the truth. I even came to intuit
what his latest hypothesis would be. Hell, I gave him those theories on
occasion.
Not that I would ever admit to him that I agreed with him. My
acceptance of his ideas came grudgingly, no matter how much faith I
put in them. It was pure habit, to be honest. I felt I had to keep trying
to disprove him to keep him motivated, keep him interested.
Somewhere along the line, I fell in love with him. When I first met him,
perhaps? No, not then. Though the glasses perched upon his nose,
and said nose buried admidst slides did more than a little for the initial
attraction I felt. Was it when he told me about his sister, unshed tears
glistening in his eyes? No, not then. Though the sight further
endeared me to him. Was it when he held me in the cancer ward? No,
not then. I just fell in love with him, everything about him. His quirks,
his fetishes . . . him.
How can I explain it so you would understand? How can I explain the
connection we have? I don't think words can accurately describe what
exists between us. It just is. I love him, and miraculously, remarkably,
he loves me back.
Or should I say loved?
I swipe a tear from my cheek, its wetness creating a glistening path
along the curve of my cheek, the cheek he would caress so
tenderly . . .
Deep breath.
It's just too hard to think of this man in the past tense. It can't be real,
it couldn't have happened. He was too vital to die like this. There is too
much left for him to discover. There are too many things left here on
earth for him to leave it forever. There are too many people that need
him. The Gunmen need him to give them "theories stanger than ours".
Skinner needs him so he can get his ass kicked once in a while. The
world needed him to find the truth. I needed him to continue living.
And my child . . . my child needs its father.
But all we have left are memories. Bittersweet moments in time that slip
between our fingers without impunity. I grasp at these memories with
every bit of willpower that I retain. And still, those memories are
fading. I can't remember the exact timber of his voice; I have to listen
the tape from his answering machine to recall the inflection of his
voice. I can't remember what it feels like to have him hold my body
close to his in the dead of the night. I can't remember the last thing
he said to me. I can't remember his face.
His face. The same image that kept me up for hours on end is slowly
being irradicated from my mind. And I can't stop it, no matter how
hard I try.
Still, there is one memory that remains. One moment, forever etched
into my memory, that I can't forget, even though it troubles me to
brood on it.
Our last time together, nearly eight months ago, on that bed in
Oregon. We didn't even . . . we simply slept, too emotionally and
physically fatigued for more than the sweet respite sleep lent us. I
remember waking up early in the morning, his arm wrapped firm across
my waist. His hand, and this is the part that causes me to sob
incessantly at night, his palm was splayed against my stomach, fingers
unconciously caressing my adbomen. I can see myself in my mind,
smiling down on that hand, adding my own hand to his, dragging
myself closer to him and falling back asleep.
It was the closest he would ever come to his child.
And no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I want that single
memory to be blotted from my mind, it persists in maiming my
thoughts. And yet, I'm glad I have that to keep me warm at night.
I shall need it on the many, many cold nights I have ahead.
AUTHOR: Mickey
E-MAIL : gnrgirl@hotmail.com
DISTRIBUTION: Ephemeral, Gossamer; OK.
Also at my site (http://www.geocities.com/michellestandish).
Everyone else - bag it, tag it, tell me where it is (you know the drill).
SPOILER: Through Season 7
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: Vignette
KEYWORDS: Implied MSR
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I've finally slept a few hours, and this piece
reflects my newly refreshed mood. It's a little dark, I suppose, but
happy in its own right.
SUMMARY : Scully thinks about things sometime during the end of
Season Seven and the start of Season Eight.
XXXXXXX
There are some things you hang onto, no matter how much they hurt.
Like the last time you saw your grandfather and the harsh words you
exchanged. Or the time you were stood up at your junior prom. Or
when you found an injured bird in the woods, and it died in your old
shoebox. The things you hang onto, from the simplest nonsensical to
the most tradgic, are the things that shape your lives. They define
you, your passions, your regrets, your every action. They are as
inescapable as they are painful. And despite the pain, no matter how
much it may seem, deep down inside you cling to them like a greedy
child after the pinata bursts. Pain creates hope for better times. Pain
gives you reason to go on. Pain is life. Life is pain. The two words
are intrinsic to each others meaning; they are as inseparable as they
are identical. You can't have life without pain.
My biggest pain was, for the longest time, the death of my father. I
had a graced childhood, no real pain. My childhood was as close to
the typical Cleaver family as possible for a military family. I was loved
by my parents, I never outstepped the bounds of their rules. My older
brother teased me, my sister doted on me, and I had a little brother to
dress up and play with. I didn't know my father that well, and perhaps
that was for the best. He was a harsh man, his inborn gentleness
toughened by his lifelong service to the American Armed Forces. No,
perhaps harsh is too strong a word to singly define the man that sired
me. He was distant, yes. He was unfazable in his principals, and ruled
our home with a steady hand. But these same qualities that made my
friends fear him, were the ones that made me love him.
When Bill, my older brother, slipped a toad beneath my sheets, my
father made him apologize to me and sent him to bed without supper.
(I have since realized that Bill was just trying to get Father to pay
attention to him) My father didn't play favorites. The time I dumped
bugs in Bill's shampoo, I recieved the same punishment as my brother
did before me; no changes, no lax in the rules for a girl. And I loved
him for it. Not at the time, of course, but once I grew up, I realized
everything he did for me.
When he died, a part of me died. The part that I reserved for dear
old Ahab was one of the larger sections of my heart, and his loss
was felt deeply within me.
And when my grief was shed, I looked through the haze to see the
unflinching gaze of my mother, ever understanding, ever loving. Calm
and collected, she kept her grief from us as much as she could, and let
us, her "babies", lean on her shoulder.
When my sister died, from a bullet meant for me, Mom was there again,
but this time I had someone else to help me through my woe, my best
friend. He let me cry, let me hit him, let me blame him for her death and
never said a word in his defense, as much as he should have. He was
there for me then, as he was there for me whenever I needed it. He was
my strong point, my touchstone, my rock, whatever you want to call it.
He was simply there, and it was more than I ever expected.
I came to depend on him and his crackpot take to every case. I would
relish the first few minutes of every case. When he tossed a thin
manilla folder at me, ordering me silently to glance at the photos nearly
always contained within. When he asked me what I thought
happened, with that little smirk on his perfect lips, all the while keeping
back that one final fact, that last clue, to spring on me once I'd made
the expected conclusion. And then he would tell me, eyes aflame with
the passion I knew he felt about his work and could only hoped he felt
about me. Spilling forth from his mouth that theory would come, the
one I braced myself for, the one I would laughingly tease him about,
the one I, eventually, came to accept as the truth. I even came to intuit
what his latest hypothesis would be. Hell, I gave him those theories on
occasion.
Not that I would ever admit to him that I agreed with him. My
acceptance of his ideas came grudgingly, no matter how much faith I
put in them. It was pure habit, to be honest. I felt I had to keep trying
to disprove him to keep him motivated, keep him interested.
Somewhere along the line, I fell in love with him. When I first met him,
perhaps? No, not then. Though the glasses perched upon his nose,
and said nose buried admidst slides did more than a little for the initial
attraction I felt. Was it when he told me about his sister, unshed tears
glistening in his eyes? No, not then. Though the sight further
endeared me to him. Was it when he held me in the cancer ward? No,
not then. I just fell in love with him, everything about him. His quirks,
his fetishes . . . him.
How can I explain it so you would understand? How can I explain the
connection we have? I don't think words can accurately describe what
exists between us. It just is. I love him, and miraculously, remarkably,
he loves me back.
Or should I say loved?
I swipe a tear from my cheek, its wetness creating a glistening path
along the curve of my cheek, the cheek he would caress so
tenderly . . .
Deep breath.
It's just too hard to think of this man in the past tense. It can't be real,
it couldn't have happened. He was too vital to die like this. There is too
much left for him to discover. There are too many things left here on
earth for him to leave it forever. There are too many people that need
him. The Gunmen need him to give them "theories stanger than ours".
Skinner needs him so he can get his ass kicked once in a while. The
world needed him to find the truth. I needed him to continue living.
And my child . . . my child needs its father.
But all we have left are memories. Bittersweet moments in time that slip
between our fingers without impunity. I grasp at these memories with
every bit of willpower that I retain. And still, those memories are
fading. I can't remember the exact timber of his voice; I have to listen
the tape from his answering machine to recall the inflection of his
voice. I can't remember what it feels like to have him hold my body
close to his in the dead of the night. I can't remember the last thing
he said to me. I can't remember his face.
His face. The same image that kept me up for hours on end is slowly
being irradicated from my mind. And I can't stop it, no matter how
hard I try.
Still, there is one memory that remains. One moment, forever etched
into my memory, that I can't forget, even though it troubles me to
brood on it.
Our last time together, nearly eight months ago, on that bed in
Oregon. We didn't even . . . we simply slept, too emotionally and
physically fatigued for more than the sweet respite sleep lent us. I
remember waking up early in the morning, his arm wrapped firm across
my waist. His hand, and this is the part that causes me to sob
incessantly at night, his palm was splayed against my stomach, fingers
unconciously caressing my adbomen. I can see myself in my mind,
smiling down on that hand, adding my own hand to his, dragging
myself closer to him and falling back asleep.
It was the closest he would ever come to his child.
And no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I want that single
memory to be blotted from my mind, it persists in maiming my
thoughts. And yet, I'm glad I have that to keep me warm at night.
I shall need it on the many, many cold nights I have ahead.