From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 5 Jun 2002 22:51:28 -0000
Subject: Exemption (1/1) (sequel to "Routine") by Samantha L. Caldwell
Source: direct

Reply To: sister_spooky@hotmail.com


Title: Exemption (1/1)
Author: Samantha L. Caldwell
Rating: PG
Category: SRA, AU
Keywords: Mulder/Scully something. The rest is open for
interpretation.
Spoilers: Well, if you haven't seen Existence you won't know 
who William is... other than that, none. This is set somewhere 
between Existence and the present day (mid Season 9)

Summary: A connection is made... (sequel to "Routine")

Disclaimer: Their biological father was abusive, so I'm 
adopting them.

Feedback: will be worshiped. I'm really
unsure about this one, so a little encouragement would be *so*
very appreciated! sister_spooky@hotmail.com

Archive: Sure, wherever, just please keep my name and e-
mail, and
it'd be nice if you'd let me know.

Author's Notes:

I'm telling you right away, this is one of those stories that will
make absolutely no sense if you haven't read Part 1. You can
find it at Gossamer or Ephemeral (for now), but spare yourself
some confusion and don't read this one until you've covered
the last. <g>

A huge thank you to Laura for taking the time to do some
fabulous beta reading and offering some much needed              
encouragement. Also, thanks to Meghan for reading it over
and helping me work out the kinks.



Routine Part 2

"Exemption"


There are things in life we take for granted. Simple things,
things so important and so vital that we cannot live without
them, and yet, we never acknowledge them as being of any
real value. Things like being able to feel. To appreciate this
simple pleasure is to know what it is like to stand in the middle
of the pouring rain and not be able to feel the water on your
shoulders or it's cool wetness sliding down your face. To
appreciate this wonder is to know what it is like to kiss the
face of the woman you love and not be able to feel her soft
skin under your lips. To appreciate this basic sense is to know
what it is like to stroke the furls of strawberry-tinged hair on
the crown of your infant son's head and not be able to feel it's
downy softness.

I know what it is like.

What I don't know is why.

Why can't I feel them? Why can't I touch her? Why am I here
if I can't get through to them... if I can't show them I haven't
left them? I don't understand this. I don't understand any of
this.

I spend my days following Scully around the house. I stand
beside her as she prepares William's bottles. I sit with her
when she has her morning coffee. I recite fairytales with her as
she reads to William before his afternoon nap, my whispered
words a nameless echo of her own. I am always close, never
more than an arm's length away, but never, never touching. To
touch them, to have my hands pass through their solid weight
like I am only air, is something I can't bear.

But I watch them, always.

I am an intruder, perhaps. I watch them without their
knowledge, without their consent. But I belong here. I can't
leave them, of that I am certain. I couldn't leave them if I tried.
I wouldn't know how. How does one escape death?

I have been here, in this place, in this suspended reality, for
almost a month. I am torn between gratitude and anguish. On   
one hand, I want to be here and am completely grateful that I
am able to be near my family, even in death. On the other
hand, I hate this place. I hate the unbearable longing being
here and not being able to interact with them creates in me. I
hate being stuck here, being imprisoned. I hate this putrid
loneliness I can't get rid of, born from being the sole inhabitant
of a world that is simply a window to a place I used to live.

I cannot decide if I am in heaven or hell.

For days after I first arrived, I believed that the world I drifted
through was only half real, a shaky reflection of the place I'd
once lived. But as I spent more time in my new reality I
discovered that it wasn't the world that had changed.

It was me.

I was different. I was only half real. I was only a shaky
reflection of what I'd once been.

I don't know what I am now. It doesn't really matter. The
man I was would have been fascinated with this state of limbo
I seem to be in. He would have analyzed it, investigated it. He
would have been captivated by the sheer proximity of the
answers and the truth he'd searched for, truth about death,
truth about everything.

I am not that man. My quest in life was to find the truth about
a government conspiracy. I don't know what my quest is
now... but I believe it has something to do with Scully. I think
I'm supposed to connect with her, get through to her, let her
know I'm still around. Maybe my job is to bring her some
comfort. She hasn't been the same person since my death.
She's been unhappy. All I want for her is to have a good life
with our son, and if connecting with her, if letting her know I'm
okay can give her the strength to move on, then I will do
whatever it takes to make that happen.

Scully's been doing better lately, I think. She doesn't cry at
the drop of a hat like she did at the very beginning- that was
hard to watch. The Scully I knew never cried, and when she
did, it was because the world was ending. She's different,
now, and... it's my fault.

She still follows her routine, as I do mine. Every night she tells
me she loves me, says it right out loud as if she knows I'm
sitting next to her, except she doesn't know. Then she falls
asleep and I get to kiss her, in the way I've practiced over and
over that isn't really kissing because my lips just barely graze
over her skin and I can't feel a thing because... because I can't
feel a thing. But it's something. Sometimes I think it's the only
thing keeping me sane. Other times I know it is.

Often, I watch her sleep all night, trying to remember the life
we used to have. The years of chasing monsters and hunting
conspiracies seem long, long ago, like a childhood forgotten in
the frantic throes of age. I remember every moment with
Scully, every smile she ever threw my way, every brush of her
knee against my own on a crowded airplane. Everything else,
every other memory is hidden behind a thick haze I can't seem
to penetrate. It's out of focus and unimportant, like the
backdrop to an old film. Sometimes I'm able to grasp at
fleeting images and instances of my life; a bald man in a suit
with glasses and a deep voice, the smell of cigarette smoke,
the sound of a young girl screaming my first name over and
over in terror. None of them make sense. I don't know how
they fit together. Scully would know.... if only I could ask her.

The only other clear memories I have are of our son. I
remember the first time I saw him- all wrinkly and newborn-
pink, the first time I held him- a warm, wriggling, solid weight
against my chest. I miss this nearly as much as I miss Scully. I
miss my son.

Some nights I leave Scully's bed after she has fallen asleep and
slip into William's nursery. He's a good baby- he's slept
straight through every night since I've been gone, and I'm
thankful for that. The last thing Scully needs is a colicky infant.
She needs to sleep.

I never touch him. I've never tried, save for the few times I've
been unable to resist reaching out towards his head of copper-
colored peach fuzz. Its almost the same color as Scully's
hair... maybe a little darker. Usually, I sit in the rocking chair
Scully puts him to sleep in, memories of the scant handful of
times I rocked in it with my newborn son in my arms
resurfacing. I wish I could make it rock now... it would do a
lot to soothe my anxious nighttime musings.

On nights when I'm most lonely, I simply stand beside the crib
and look down on the sleeping infant within. I wish I could
think of it as watching over him, protecting him while he
sleeps, like a guardian angle or something cockamamie like
that. It would be a ridiculous joke, though. I couldn't protect
him from anything. I am helpless. I am nothing.

I will never get the chance to be a father to my son. This little
boy will never know his own father... and I can't stand that.
He's just a baby, he doesn't know me. He won't remember
me.

I know Scully will do everything she can to make sure William
knows *about* me. She'll show him pictures, she'll tell him
stories. She'll make him look in the mirror and point out all the
little ways he looks like me. She'll show him his nose and tell
him exactly where it came from. She'll show him his lips and
tell him where they came from, too. Scully will tell William all
about me.

But he still won't know me.

He won't know the right way to throw a fastball because I
won't be there to show him. He won't know how to roll up his
shirt sleeves without wrinkling the fabric because I won't be
around to teach him.

He won't know that I love him.

Tonight is one of those nights. One of those lonely nights when
the apartment seems darker and the stillness seems quieter and
I just cannot quell the need to be near my baby. So I stand
here, leaning over the sides of the oak railings of his crib, and
measure his small, even breaths while my mind- or whatever
death has left of my mind, churns over my situation, my quest,
my not-life. William sleeps sweetly on beneath my gaze,
fluttery little coos punctuating each exhale in the baby
equivalent of snoring. He is on his stomach, one tiny hand lying
lazily at his side while the other lies against his soft cheek,
chubby fingers furled idly.

I want to pick him up.

With this ferocious urge a particular memory passes through
my consciousness, of a time when I did pick him up, when I
could hold him. I want to be back there so severely I would
do just about anything to turn back time. I would give my soul
for one more moment like the one that exists in my memory.


It was late at night. The bedroom was dark and I was sleepy
and warm with Scully curled up against my back, her hot
breath fluttering gently over my shoulder and her cold toes
tucked under my legs. The last thing I wanted was to move,
but I could hear William whimpering softly on the baby
monitor and I knew he would start to cry if I didn't get up.

Reluctantly, I abandoned the comfort of my warm bed and my
warm partner. The apartment was cold, freezing, and I groped
around in the dark for my robe. I pulled it on hastily when I
found it, but it was tight and strange and it felt wrong- it was
Scully's robe, but I kept it on anyway. I hoped I wouldn't
stretch it out.

I stumbled, half-asleep through the living room, absently noting
that we'd forgotten to shut off the television. It played on mute,
lonely and forgotten in the ruffling, awkward newness of
William's bedtime routine, shooting increments of blue light
into sharp shadows and quiet corners.

Baby toys hid in secret caches- having rolled beneath the sofa,
or resting just under the coffee table, escaping the wrath of
saliva-drenched-maulings and chubby-finger-deaths. These
toys didn't exist in the darkness of my early morning stupor,
until I stepped on one in my shuffling haste to reach my sniffling
son. It squeaked and I cringed, kicking the offending obstacle
under the table. Squeaky toy reunions ensued, I'm sure.

I shuffled into the baby's room without further crisis, crossing
my fingers and hoping that the nettling squeak didn't wake the
woman I'd left sleeping in the bedroom. I leaned over the crib
railing to gauge the severity of my son's whimpers. His little
face had begun to twist into a scowl and his chubby fists were
clenched tightly around his blanket. With the practiced skill of
a mother hen I scooped the infant into my arms before he
could emit any unwelcome sounds.

"Okay little guy," I cooed in a whisper, balancing William so
that he was lying against my shoulder. "What's this all about?"

The tense expression left his face at the sound of my voice, his
body relaxing to lie pliant and slack against me. His soft, warm
head slowly nestled its way into my neck and I felt baby
slobber trickle onto my skin. It was strangely endearing.

"That's it," I turned my head into my son, taking in his sweet
baby-powder-and-warm-milk smell and letting his fine, soft
hair tickle my nose. "You just wanted your Daddy."

A little gurgle was his only response, and the nursery fell quiet.
It was almost surreal for me to be standing in a room filled
with bunnies and stars, swaying gently back and forth while
holding a tiny person in the middle of the night. It was also
rather wonderful. William's solid warmth was comforting in the
still, shadowed silence, his pajamas soft against my hand as I
rubbed easy circles over his back.

"Is he awake?" A hushed and drowsy voice asked from the
doorway.

"Not anymore," I whispered as Scully entered the nursery.
She reached out to stroke the baby's cheek with a sleepy
smile, then moved to finger the collar of the terrycloth robe I
was wearing.

"I was looking for this," she chuckled softly. She looked sweet
and lovely bathed in the moonlight streaming in from the
window- all rumpled pajamas and flyaway bed-head and half-
lidded, blinking blue eyes.

"Sorry, I grabbed it by accident. You want it back?" I
smoothly lifted the sleeping baby from my shoulder and placed
him back in his crib.

"It's okay," she placed a small, warm hand on my forearm and
grinned at me.

"What?" I tried to raise an eyebrow and copy her patented
expression of suspicion, and failed, settling for a smirk.

"Nothing," she shook her head, leaning over the crib railing as
I had done earlier, to look down at our son. "It's just... you...
you are..."

"An idiot?" I spread my arms so she could appreciate just
how stupid I looked wearing her robe.

She shook her head again, smiling. "...wonderful with
William."

I shrugged, happy, and said simply, "He's my son."

She nodded and took my hand and led me back to the
bedroom, where we burrowed under the covers and slept.


A soft snuffling sound tears me from my reverie. I almost
expect to find tears falling over my own cheeks until I
remember that I cannot cry. I am not real.

Instead I look down at William. He is stirring in his sleep,
grunting, his little fists clutching his blanket in agitation. I'm
floored for a minute. He's going to wake up, I can tell. This
has never happened- he's always slept through the night since
I've been gone.

He must be dreaming. I wonder if he dreams of me? I wonder
if... I wonder if he even remembers me?

"Please remember me..." the sudden plea falls from my lips. I
feel the lonely bitterness rise up inside of me and I crouch
down so that I can be face to face with my son. I stare at his
tiny features through the bars. "William, I'm your father. Know
me."

Without warning his eyes snap open and I am confronted with
the cornflower-blue stare of my child.

Shocked, I jump back. William's bottom lip starts to tremble,
he sniffles and grunts softly, threatening tears.

My shaking hands grip the railing of his crib as I am flooded
with hope and fear.

"William?" I ask softly. He blinks and I watch, startled, as his
eyes focus on my face. He grunts again, his little nose crinkling.
Something snaps inside me and before he can cry out I begin
to sing the only song that I can find drifting through my
thoughts.

"Jeremiah was a bullfrog, was a good friend of mine. Never
understood a single word he said, but I helped him drink his
wine..."

The baby's face relaxes, just as it did that night when I held
him, and his grunts of agitation cease. His eyes lock on my
face as I warble the old song.

I go through the entire thing three times, and he falls back to
sleep with a soft sigh. By this time I am trembling so badly I
would be shaking the crib if I were really touching it. I don't
understand this feeling. I haven't felt it since I was alive, but it
feels like.... it feels like hope.

I smile at the beautiful sensation, and suddenly, I remember. I
remember loud sirens and cold pavement and warm blood
under my back. I remember Scully's tears falling onto my face.
I
remember her strong, determined voice ordering the
paramedics to let her through. I remember what she said, how
she pleaded to me as she gripped my broken body...."Mulder,
c'mon. You can't leave now. William needs a father... he
needs you... Mulder...."

Slowly, I step away from the crib and my sleeping son, and
sink into the rocking chair in the corner.

Maybe... maybe I was wrong. Maybe I'm not here to connect
with Scully at all....

~*~*~*~*~

On a sunny, clear April morning a mother brings her three year
old son into a park with wooden benches and hot dog stands
and picturesque green fields. She is pretty and relaxed in faded
jeans, strands of red hair peeking out from beneath a baseball
cap, a bat, a mitt, and a baseball clutched in one hand, the
other holding onto her young boy's hand. He is bounding into
a field in size 2 sneakers, dragging her along, giggling in
excitement. His hair is a shade or two darker than his
mother's, but his eyes are the same piercing blue.

He is very bright for his age, his mother knows. He can
already read short picture books and write his entire name. He
can recite countless stories she's told him over the years,
about his father and the work they used to do. He also has a
sense of reasoning she has never seen in a young boy.
Sometimes he surprises even her with his innocent
understanding. But between that intuitive intelligence and sharp
common sense, there is a measure of something in the child
that could only be called strangeness. Something that she had
always attributed, with a smile, to his father.

She'd first noticed the child's odd habits when he was only a
baby. He would wave his hands and laugh or smile at times
when no one was playing with him. He also had the tendency
to focus on nothing but air, which worried her as she thought
he was having seizures, but after a battery of tests the doctors
found nothing wrong.

When he'd begun to talk, she found he had the habit of talking
to himself for hours at a time. As his language progressed the
habit had also, and she shrugged it off as the boy's having an
imaginary friend. When he began to call his imaginary friend
"Daddy" she took him to a psychiatrist who said her son was
"a creative, imaginative boy who feels the void of his father
and has created an imaginary idea of him for comfort and
companionship." She was told the illusion would fade over
time, that it was perfectly normal for a child who'd lost a
parent at a young age, that she needed only to wait it out.

She is still waiting.

"Okay Will, do you want to bat first or pitch?" The mother
asks the boy.

"Pitch!" He grins and grabs the ball, throwing it up in the air
and catching it.

"Hey, wow, you're already pretty good," she exclaims, taking
the bat and crouching down to her son's level. "I bet you'll be
one of the best players on your little league team this summer."

He takes a few steps back from his mother and nods
enthusiastically, pretending to wind up and throw as he's seen
the "pros" do on TV, lifting his leg and narrowing his eyes, but
keeping the ball safe in his little hand. "Daddy showed me that
if-,"

"Hey now, Will, you remember what we talked about last
week, don't you? About your dad?" She bites her lip
nervously. She doesn't want to go through it again.

The boy nods, his face falling marginally.

"Good boy," she grins, feeling bad. She decides to distract
him. "You ready to make the first pitch?"

He nods again, gripping the ball a little tighter as she lifts the
bat, then takes a practice swing.

"No Mommy," the child laughs at her sloppy stance, shaking
his head. "Hips before hands."

She stops, the wooden bat falling from her hands and hitting
the grass with a dull thud. She feels her heart begin to pound
against her rib cage, and tries to stop the tears from clouding
her eyes.

"Wha- what did you say?"

He realizes he has said something wrong, and she watches as
the boy looks up and to the side, seeking help from something
she just doesn't see.

"Sorry, Mommy." His voice is small.

"Oh, William," she closes the space between them and pulls
him close, burying her nose in his soft hair. "Don't be sorry.
Just tell me- where did you hear that, 'hips before hands'?
Who told you that?"

He shakes his head. He doesn't want to disappoint her.

"It's okay honey, you can say it," she urges softly, her voice
trembling slightly despite her careful control.

The relief shows on the boy's face as he reaches up to pat his
mother's cheek and says softly: "Daddy told me."

Unable to keep the tears from spilling out onto her cheeks, she
hugs her son to her chest. She looks over his shoulder at the
fields of green grass, and for the first time allows herself to join
her son in staring at nothing as she let's the name "Mulder..."
slip from her lips in gentle supplication.

Finis

~*~*~*~



Did ya like it? Even a little?
Let me know at sister_spooky@hotmail.com
I'd love to hear what you thought.

~Samantha