|
Title: First Steps: II Technicolor Summary: It's all mundane, but he'll get used to it. After the past eight years, "mundane" is very welcome. He dreams of Roman numerals. III. William Mulder, his father, was the third. This baby will be William Mulder IV. Scully just turned thirty-seven. On his thirty-ninth birthday, he was lost in space. I X V dance in his dreams. Shades of indigo, cyan, pink. Canary yellow hope. He does not dream of his child's eyes. Only a week of being with him hasn't yet burned Will's face into his subconscious, familiar as the back of his hand. He is still an infant IV, the smallest font of all. Baby-sized now, but he will grow to fill an entire page someday. Slip-sliding around in dreams, he slithers into the Technicolor-bright spring afternoon two days ago when he drove his new family home from the airport. Delta flight 491 from Hartsfield International, a squirming mewling child alternately entertaining and annoying passengers who cooed at the baby but hastily slapped earphones on when Will exercised his bean-sized lungs. In his dreams he can stare at Scully as they drive. He watches them instead of traffic, her raised shirt brazen through the passenger window. He cannot see his sun -- son -- clearly in his dreams, as the baby's face burrows into mommy's chest. Will whimpers in time with the windshield wipers that clear away the faint dusting of pollen that accumulated on his birth-trip. The technicolor sunshine glints off the street as dad checks the road before them for traffic. When he glances back at Will, his son is now wearing a tiny red-and-blue Atlanta Braves cap. Pity his son for being born a Georgia boy. This did not happen, of course. In reality, Will slept in the car seat Skinner had procured from a woman at work. Scully stared at the window, on the verge of dozing, as they discussed things they needed to do to get her Apartment ready for the baby. It's all mundane, but he'll get used to it. After the past eight years, "mundane" is very welcome. His dream-mind slithers out of sleep. As eyes slowly open, daddy-lips part to breathe, then crick with resistance. He rubs them together, and finds a sticky/powdery residue. He licks them clean. His lips taste sweet. Opened eyes look down at the son curled on his chest. Baby lips that mirror his own purse and release. Dad reaches up to trace them, and finds a now-familiar white lipstick. He looks over at Scully. She smiles in her sleep. He wonders if her dreams are Technicolor too, or instead painted in shades of canary-yellow and baby-blue.
|