|
Title: Pitter-pat
Pitter-pat, pitter-pat. She sits there in the heavy warmth of down, listening to the rain tap persistently against the window. She feels her heart beat in time. Pitter-pat, pitter-pat. She rubs her stomach, something she does without thinking anymore. Her mind turns briefly over the thought of the soundless pitter-pat of another tiny heart beating deep inside her own body and the pitter-pat of footsteps yet to be taken. She has caught herself at work with her hand making comforting little circles on her abdomen, but doesn't think anyone has noticed. It seemed for so long that she was under a microscope, every action and reaction scrutinized and catalogued. Now, she feels all but forgotten. It does not bother her at all. She doesn't take well to pity, anyway. Or sympathy. Not that she thinks she deserves it. He is not dead. She can't stomach it when someone treats her like he is. It's better if they just forget about her. So long as they don't forget about him. Pitter-pat, pitter-pat. She tucks the shirt tighter around her, willing it to feel like an embrace. But it has been too long, and his smell is gone from the cottony fibers-- vanished away like the man himself. She shouldn't have worn it so much, she knows. She knows. She shouldn't have slept in it so many lonely nights. It was a poor substitute at best, a miserable testament to her broken heart at worst. She should have rationed it more carefully, not squandered it on tears that only made its once familiar masculine scent fade into a desperate memory. Pitter-pat, pitter-pat. The rain makes her think of a night so long ago. A night when he spouted alien theories to her incredulous ears. Water dripped down their laughing faces as she stood there, so secure in her ignorance. She smiles at the memory for a fleeting second, but it fades when she remembers that it was that same place where he was stolen from her so many years later. Mulder. As much as she misses hearing his name, she miss saying it. But forcing it past the perpetual lump in her throat is agonizing. "Mulder." It squeaks out of her in a voice so strained she doesn't even recognize it as her own. She buries her head in the pillow next to hers. He wasn't even here enough for her to call it his, but in her heart, she will, just the same. Her pulse pounds in her ears, the rest of the world blocked out by her flannel-covered shield. Pitter-pat, pitter-pat. She thinks of the blood coursing through her veins, the pressure; she thinks of the release of it all. If she knew he wasn't coming home ... she tries to steer herself away from that dark, self-indulging place inside her. There is the baby to think of. Her little savior. Her little piece of him. Pitter-pat, pitter-pat. A muffled sound her conscious self doesn't recognize makes her move the dampened pillow from her face. It rings again and she lifts the receiver. "Hello?" There is only static-- and clicking that makes the agent in her jump to conclusions of mechanical bugs and unwanted surveillance. She sits up fully in her bed. "Hello....?!" she demands. Again there is nothing, but she stays with her ear pressed tightly to the phone. The rain pounds harder against her window now. It has suddenly become just as impatient as she. And then, through the bristling static of the line, she finally hears it. The fingers of her free hand come to cover her quivering lips. Her heart holds still in her chest. "Scully... ? Scully, it's me." ... Pitter-pat, pitter-pat.
|