Title: Struggling
Category: X-Files XRA
Author: Singing Violin (Pearl on Ephemeral/Gossamer)
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: The X-Files characters and universe are not mine.
Summary: What happens after the screen goes black in "My Struggle II"?
Archiving: Anywhere, just let me know.
Suddenly Scully felt a weight on the bed, and small arms reaching around in an attempt to embrace her from the side.
"Mommy, don't cry," said a high-pitched voice.
Raising her head, she looked over to see a little girl...a familiar little girl, with a chubby face, strawberry blonde bangs and shoulder-length hair, and big blue eyes, which were looking dolefully up at Dana.
"Emily?" she whispered, disbelieving.
"I know how to make you feel better," the little girl offered. She then puffed out her cheeks to make the 'Mr. Potato Head' face Mulder had shown Emily so many years ago when he had first met her. Scully was momentarily stunned into silence, remembering.
"Who taught you that?" she finally asked when she found her tongue.
"Daddy," the little girl answered sadly. "Don't you remember?"
In response, Scully raised her hand to her mouth once more and choked back a sob.
"I miss him," sighed Emily wistfully.
"Me too, Sweetheart," Scully found herself replying as she put her arm around the little girl and held her close, rubbing her little arm.
"Grandma told me to come and bring you some soup," the little girl explained, snuggling into her. "I put it down over there," she said, pointing to the nightstand, "when I saw you crying. I think I might have spilled a little."
Despite everything in her mind telling her that this apparition wasn't what she thought it was, Scully felt compelled to play along, for the girl's sake—she simply didn't have it in her to be brusque or rude in response to the sincerity exuded by the innocent child—or what positively appeared to be.
"It's okay," she told the girl. "We'll clean it up."
With that, she released the child and reached over towards the soup. Briefly, she considered whether she ought to refuse the offering, as it might be drugged or otherwise inadvisable to consume, but her stomach grumbled, and she knew she would have to eat something if she wanted to regain her strength and escape from wherever she was.
As she lifted the bowl and grabbed a tissue to wipe up the small spill, the familiar scent reached her nostrils, absolutely compelling her to take a bite. And when she finally did taste it, the flavor filled her with comfort and nostalgia: it was, in fact, the soup her mother always made her when she was sick.
In the back of her mind, she still worried that something was amiss, but with the affectionate child at her side, looking positively gleeful to see her mother eating, and with the hearty soup that had healed her on many an occasion slipping down her throat, she allowed herself just a moment of simple pleasure while she contemplated her next move.