Bold of him to assume that Dana Scully has ever had any real idea of what she wants.
She sits considering it for a moment, silent, the envelope feeling heavy in her hands. Is this-- could it be the answer to the question, not of why she's here, but why her elder self is here, and not in Farr's Corner? Hidden away in a locked box in a closet. That, she has to admit, feels about right.
With a sharp breath, she makes her decision-- opens the envelope, pours out a small stack of photos. She spreads them out across the bed, not quite managing to smother a soft, sad gasp. Of all the things she expected--
There's a little girl, and ironically this time she makes the connection immediately that this must be her daughter. Seventeen years is a long time-- but that doesn't make it any less of a surprise; after everything, after the cancer, she wouldn't have thought her body could bear children.
She looks just like Melissa, she thinks. An unmistakable Scully with fat little cheeks and bright hair. And she can't even enjoy the rushing well of awe and affection, because beside the photograph is a memorial card.
"Oh my God," she whispers, punched in the gut. Her hand is shaking as she reaches for the sonogram. How horribly unfair, to only learn this when it's too late.
She can't-- she screws her eyes shut, tries to hold back a sob.
no subject
She sits considering it for a moment, silent, the envelope feeling heavy in her hands. Is this-- could it be the answer to the question, not of why she's here, but why her elder self is here, and not in Farr's Corner? Hidden away in a locked box in a closet. That, she has to admit, feels about right.
With a sharp breath, she makes her decision-- opens the envelope, pours out a small stack of photos. She spreads them out across the bed, not quite managing to smother a soft, sad gasp. Of all the things she expected--
There's a little girl, and ironically this time she makes the connection immediately that this must be her daughter. Seventeen years is a long time-- but that doesn't make it any less of a surprise; after everything, after the cancer, she wouldn't have thought her body could bear children.
She looks just like Melissa, she thinks. An unmistakable Scully with fat little cheeks and bright hair. And she can't even enjoy the rushing well of awe and affection, because beside the photograph is a memorial card.
"Oh my God," she whispers, punched in the gut. Her hand is shaking as she reaches for the sonogram. How horribly unfair, to only learn this when it's too late.
She can't-- she screws her eyes shut, tries to hold back a sob.