The Gossamer Project Author - Title - Date - Spoilers - Crossovers - X-Files - Adventures - Stories - Vignettes Other stories by Alanna From: Emmalanna Date: 16 Dec 1998 06:04:34 GMT Subject: Anno Orbitus (1/1) by Alanna DISCLAIMER: The characters herein are the property of Fox Broadcasting and 1013 Productions. The situations into which I have placed them are of my own creation. CATEGORY: VA RATINGS: PG-13 for language ARCHIVAL: Gossamer, please. SPOILERS: Mild ones for The Ghosts who Stole Christmas, Christmas Carol/Emily SUMMARY: The forgotten ones. AUTHOR'S NOTES: While The Ghosts who Stole Christmas was certainly enjoyable, it left me quite troubled, especially regarding Scully's emotional state on the anniversary of what happened in San Diego. This is my attempt to confront some of the issues which Chris Carter chose not to touch. ANNO ORBITAS By Alanna +++++ Devastation at last Finally we meet After all of these years Out here on the street I had a feeling you would Make yourself known You came along Just to claim your place on the throne And I have been overthrown "Mockingbirds", Grant Lee Buffalo +++++ Four. Four years old. Four years plus twelve months. Christmas is the season for giving. For Santas' laps and "Baby's First Christmas" ornaments and fighting other parents for the latest toy craze. For wrapping paper festooned with candy canes and dancing gingerbread men. I wrapped my gifts in plain red paper this year. A breadmaker for Mom, leatherbound day planners for my brothers, a day at a spa for their wives, and a gaggle of stuffed toys for the nephews. An engraved compass for Mulder, so that he might always find his way home. And, stuffed in the bottom of my closet, a porcelain doll for Emily. The only package wrapped in bright paper, with snowmen grinning merrily. And for myself, a very large bottle of Drambuie I stopped bothering to mix with coffee an hour ago. Everyone pretends I'm just fine. Hell, I do too. Or maybe they honestly believe nothing's wrong. I suppose that technically, nothing IS wrong. The internalization of pain is certainly nothing new for me. Who would know? Mulder knows. He keeps watching me, as if I might suddenly ignite and melt into a lake before him. He insisted on staying with me this evening, Boxing Day, and I didn't bother to argue with him. Doesn't he know? Scully doesn't melt. But Dana just might tonight. He hasn't said a word since I discarded the pot of coffee. I'm glad. I don't want to hear his awkward platitudes right now. He thinks he's keeping me from being lonely, but his presence doesn't make a goddamned bit of difference. Or maybe it does. Who the hell knows? We've been here before, though it's usually me who's tiptoeing around, trying to crack his shell. I'm not used to being the needy one. I don't like it. Even though all rational thought left my mind some time ago, the whiskey is making me philosophical, like a college philosophy student the night before finals. But instead of making me feel young, it's only making me feel old. I'm thirty-five years old, and what do I have to show for my life? Dead father. Dead sister. Dead daughter. And then there's Mulder. Who is he? He's not dead. Yet. I'm not dead. Yet. Fuck this. Will every Christmas be like this? I think, as I move my fingers along the golden bracelet Mulder had given me and take another sip of the Drambuie, my throat long-numbed to its searing effects. Will I sit in a nursing home when I'm eighty - provided I live that long - and mourn for everything I lost or never had at all? And Mulder's still silent. Something propels me up off the sofa and into my bedroom. My drunkenness doesn't betray me as I walk with a steady gait, but the edges of my mind are fuzzy. I make my way to the closet and open the door, then bend down and take the heavy box in hand. I stare at it for a long, long moment. The snowmen seem to dance in my slightly hazy vision, as if they might leap off the box and smother me with their icy flesh. Or perhaps my mind is lost. I return to the living room, my white-knuckled hands gripping the parcel. Mulder is still sitting on the sofa, watching me with barely-disguised concern and fear in his eyes. I know he thinks I might become one of those snowmen, or have already become one. I stand before him and hand him the box. He seems taken aback, but takes it from my grasp. I nod my head slightly, indicating that he should open it. His eyes skim over the wrapping, then he notices the gift tag taped to the top of the box. It reads, "To: Emily. From: Dana." He flinches as if slapped. "Scully-" Mulder begins, but I cut him off with a stare. I don't want to hear his words of comfort right now. I just want him to open the fucking package. I can't open it myself. It's a gift. It needs to be opened by someone else. With visibly trembling hands, Mulder carefully removes the paper, not making a single tear, so unlike the glee with which he opened my gift to him a few nights ago. Solemnity has smothered our lives this evening. The box is beautiful - a classical golden Florentine design so inappropriate for little girls, but so enamored by their mothers. He runs his fingers along the rim, then I can hear him catch his breath as he removes the lid. Inside, nestled in a bed of soft velvet, lies a porcelain doll. Her cheeks are painted peach, her eyes are painted blue, and ringlets of strawberry blonde acrylic hair surround her like a halo. She is such a beautiful doll, but at that moment she looks unbearably ugly. Mulder looks up at me, and I can see tears shining in his eyes. I don't want him to cry, dammit, but I know he will. That is who he is - sensitive and caring when I cannot allow myself to be. We stare at the doll together as rain begins to beat against the windowpanes. I refuse to cry, so the heavens weep for me. Finally, I cannot bear the porcelain beauty of the doll anymore. My life isn't perfect and I can't stand to see the doll's childish perfection. I lean down and take the box from his hands. He doesn't resist, his fingers easily curling from around the box. I hold it up to me and stare at it for a very long moment, then remove the doll from its velvet coffin. And, with a quick contraction of my biceps, I dash the doll to the floor. She shatters into a million pieces against the hard wood, creating a cacophany of breaking clay which sounds like a child's wails. I expect Mulder to rise to his feet, to draw me close and try to smother me with his body. But he simply sits there, afraid to touch me. And I'm afraid to be touched. I would melt. +++++ END (1/1) Please send feedback to emmalanna@aol.com +++++alannabaker+++++ http://alanna.net "i'm a fountain of blood in the shape of a girl" -- bjork. The Gossamer Project Author - Title - Date - Spoilers - Crossovers - X-Files - Adventures - Stories - Vignettes Other stories by Alanna / Please let us know if the site is not working properly. Do not archive stories elsewhere without permission from the author(s). See the Gossamer policies for more information. /