Title:  Remember


Author:  Vickie Moseley


Spoiler:  SUZ/Closure


Summary:  Maggie returns a favor.


Category:  A.  a lot of A


Rating:  G


Disclaimer:  Chris, this obsession with platonic relationships is starting


to drag the show down.  Grow up, accept that relationships have to move


forward or they stagnate and let's get on with the rest of the season.


Till then, I'll have to do what I can to fix your mistakes.  But I won't


take money for it.  I wonder if you should.


Archive:  Yes, wherever, just keep my name attached


Comments:  love some


Thanks to Susan for this little surprise, Donna and Dawn.  Had to spring


this one on you, ladies.


Oh, an additional note.  You might not want to read this at work or


anywhere tissues are not readily available.





Remember


By Vickie Moseley


vmoseley@fgi.net





"Thank you for coming."





I look at the man before me, and my throat tightens up.  He looks like he's


aged years from the last time I laid eyes on him.  How long has it been?


Six months?  Nine?  But the creases at his eyes, the little flash of gray I


glimpse at his temple startle me.  I know time passes, but it shows so


plainly on his face.





"You thought I wouldn't come?" I tease, hoping to break a little of the


tension.





He shrugs, an upturn of his shoulder that is as masculine as it is


self-depreciating.  "It's a lot to ask," he replies.





"No more than I asked of you, once," I return and he nods, biting his lip.


He remembers that day as well as I do.





"I just . . . I mean, Scully, er, Dana, has done so much already and this .


. ."





I sigh, but not because I'm annoyed.  It's resignation I feel.  This is


something I've become quite expert in.  "I'm happy to help, Fox.  You know


that."





"I know, it's just . . . I was . . . overwhelmed," he admits and cast his


eyes to the floor as if in defeat.  "I just couldn't decide and it seemed


so important."





I nod.  I know exactly what he means.  It's the same reason I came to him


some five year ago.  The same reason I called him to this very shop, this


very room.  





"Have you narrowed the field?" I ask, deciding that one of us has to get


the ball rolling.  We can't stand here explaining our presence all day long.  





"Well, I liked this one, but I want them to be similar and it seems too old


for . . ."  His throat closes around the name he can't utter.  His hand


comes up to hide his eyes.  "I thought I was ready for this."





My hand reaches out of it's own accord and takes hold of his forearm.  "No


one is ever ready for this, Fox.  It's all right.  Take your time.  I don't


have anywhere else I need to be and neither do you.  Take all the time you


need."





He sniffles a little and reaches into his pocket to retrieve a clean white


cotton handkerchief.  I smile at the design.  I remember watching my


daughter pick it up as an afterthought one day last December.  She'd called


it a stocking stuffer.  She'd told me how he loses handkerchiefs almost as


often as he loses his cell phone and he refuses to use tissues.  





I realize my daughter should be here right now.  She's the one he needs.


And I wonder at her absence.





He takes in a deep breath and stuffs the handkerchief back in his pocket.


"I'm okay."





I smile up at him.  "I know you are, dear.  Now, let me see."





Before me are the same designs I remember reviewing some five years ago.


Some simple but elegant, others ornate but classic.  Flowers, carved in


stone.  Birds and butterflies caught in time, never to flutter, never to


move.  But always to stand guard, to remember.





One catches my eye.  Roses.  I let my finger trace the picture.  "I think


this one would be lovely for your mother," I tell him.





"I like that one, too.  But the other one?" he asks, uncertain.





I hate to bring up such a sore subject, but I have only the sketchiest of


details.  "How old do you think she was?"





He swallows and I see tears glitter in his eyes, but his voice is strong


when he answers me.  "She was fourteen.  Fourteen," his voice fades, but


doesn't quiver.





"This one," I say firmly, pointing to a stone with delicate morning glories


and hummingbirds.  "Young girls always love hummingbirds.  It's the way


they hover when they come to a flower."





"I remember Seals and Crofts," he says softly.  "Didn't they have a song


about Hummingbirds?"





I nod.  We were stationed in San Diego at the time, and I remember the song


quite well.  "Yes, they did," I affirm and that seems to seal his decision.





"I wanted to put something on the stone, but I don't want to sound too


corny.  I mean, I've spent some time in cemeteries and some of the stones .


. ." he shakes his head.





"Fox, nothing you would want to put would be 'corny'," I assure him.





He stares down at the picture of the stone, chewing on his lip.  "I want to


put, 'You are forever in our hearts'," he says and wipes at his eyes.  "But


I'm the only one left."





I can't stand it any longer.  He may not be my son, but he needs a mother


right now.  I put my arms around him, hugging him close to me.  





"No, you aren't, Fox.  You aren't the only one to keep Samantha in your


heart."





The end