Work Text:
Summer, 2011. Virginia
The attic is hot and dusty, and strongly resembles the state of his old bedroom at Hegal Place, when sleeping on the worn, leather sofa was preferable to tackling the stacks of boxes and papers that filled the room for floor to ceiling. Dust motes dance in the shaft of sunlight spilling through skylight, and he stifles another sneeze as he brushes the dust from his worn, faded jeans.
He has become accustomed to these facets of domestic life - little chores that he deliberately puts off, just for the fun of having Scully make up one of her ‘Honey Do’ lists on the weekend. This time, his mission was to ‘Please, do something about that mess in the attic!” So, here he was, on a bright, Saturday afternoon, neatly arranging the accumulated clutter of their cohabitation into some semblance of order. Scully’s at the hospital until Monday, and he misses her, but the work takes his mind off the loneliness he always feels when she is gone. When he’s finished, he will take a long, hot shower, drink a cold beer and watch baseball for the rest of the day. It’s a good life, and he is content. Mostly.
One last item hides in the corner. It’s a large, blue Rubbermaid tub, and one he is certain he didn’t pack. He pulls it toward him, crouches down and removes the lid. Inside the container, there are a few small, neatly folded items. Some of them, he recognizes, although it seems like a lifetime ago when he last saw them. He remembers an afternoon at Scully’s apartment, helping her fold the pieces of the layette set that she’d insisted upon washing in Dreft before placing them in the baby’s dresser. Once the shock of returning from the dead, only to find that he was weeks away from becoming a father had worn off, he’d taken great joy and pleasure in preparing the nursery for the impending arrival of their little miracle. In his mind, the two words that have plagued him for more than a decade begin a fresh assault: “If only…”
He runs his fingers over the onesies, the tiny socks, the terrycloth hooded towels, and all the accoutrements that had once belonged to his son. There are garments in neutral colors; buttery yellows and soft greens, that had been given as gifts before the child had been born, when Scully had insisted upon keeping her unborn baby’s sex a secret. There were also items in various shades of blue, including a soft, hand-knitted cap in the exact shade of William’s eyes. And Scully’s. He brings it to his nose, and inhales the faint scent of baby lotion and soap. He returns it to the container, and finds that there are other items tucked away inside. He picks up a bundle of greeting cards, neatly tied with a navy blue ribbon. He carefully unties the ribbon, and opens one of the cards. It’s a birthday card, addressed to William in Scully’s handwriting. There are cards for every year of their son’s life. Every birthday that he celebrated as someone else’s son. And there are journals, many of them. He is hesitant, at first to take a peek. But, like he did that night, so many years ago, when Scully was sitting vigil at Penny Northern’s bedside, he picks up one of the journals and and thumbs through the entries. Some are pages long, some, only a sentence or two. But, she’s written something every day. Not a day of William’s life has gone by in which his mother hasn’t thought of him, written to him, told him that she loves him. He replaces the journal, returns the lid to the container, and slides it back into the corner. He slowly sinks to the dusty floor and weeps. Something within him breaks. This is the beginning.