TITLE: Daughter of Mine 3: Dandelions and Roses
AUTHOR: bellefleur
EMAIL ADDRESS: bellefleur1013@yahoo.com
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: sure
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: V
SPOILERS: Season 5 (takes place sometime after Emily but 
before Diana, in 1998)
DISCLAIMER: Not mine; they belong to CC, FOX, etc.
SUMMARY: "This is what it was like to have a father."

Notes: This is the third part in a series.  Parts 1 and 2 
can be found at Ephemeral or my website: 
http://www.geocities.com/bellefleur1013/daughter_toc.html

Thanks to Mims for the beta, and to xangel for the helpful 
feedback.  Any remaining glitches are my own.

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* * * * *

It was a dismal day for early summer.  School was over a 
week ago, and of course it had been teasingly warm and 
sunny throughout finals.  This morning, the clouds were 
back with a vengeance, although the rain that turned the 
potholes out front into small lakes had abated for the time 
being.

Ginny sat at the living room window, watching as the 
occasional car would go by and chase the two little puddle-
jumpers in yellow slickers back into their yard.  When a 
blue Ford Taurus slowed in front of her house, she 
recognized it immediately.  She got up and grabbed her 
sweater and purse as the vehicle turned into the driveway.  

"He's here.  I'm going now," Ginny called toward the 
kitchen, not waiting for a response.  

The driver's door was already open, but she hurried onto 
the porch before Mulder could make it that far.  He stopped 
at the end of the walkway when he saw her coming.  There 
was a question in his eyes, which he verbalized as soon as 
she came near.  "Shouldn't I go in and say something to 
your grandparents?"

"No, that's okay."  She knew he didn't really want to talk 
to them, and they were equally wary of him.  No one had 
been completely open with her about the relationship 
between the three of them back when Fox was dating her mom, 
but she could feel the tension from each of them at the 
mere mention of one another's names.  It was a miracle that 
her grandparents thought his badge was reason enough to 
trust him with her safety; she didn't feel like risking 
that freedom by letting them all sit down together and pick 
a fight.

Ginny made a beeline for the car, hoping he would accept 
her statement without protest and follow along.  When she 
stepped beyond him, she saw that the front seat was already 
occupied, by his partner.  Scully's eyes met Ginny's 
through the glass, and the door opened.

"You can have the front seat," Scully said, one foot 
already on the pavement.

"Don't worry about it."  Ginny didn't want to waste any 
time getting in.  She was about to reach for the rear door 
behind Scully but saw a large bouquet of flowers on the 
seat, so she went around to the other side.  To her relief, 
Mulder was only a step behind her.  He reached to open the 
door for her before she could get to it.  But when she 
looked up to thank him, she found his gaze fixed on the 
house.

Ginny's grandfather stood on the threshold, not quite 
outside, but not quite in.  His arms were crossed over his 
chest, and she worried for a minute he might come out and 
stop her.  She looked back to Mulder, wondering what he 
would do.  He simply nodded toward her grandfather, slowly 
and respectfully.  Apparently that was good enough, because 
her grandfather nodded back.  

Sighing in relief, Ginny got into the car as quickly as 
possible.  They soon pulled away from the house, without 
incident, but she did notice her grandfather standing in 
the doorway until the car was out of sight.

"Ginny, I hope you don't mind that I came along."

Ginny turned from watching out the back window to see 
Scully pivoted toward her.

"No, I don't mind.  Fox told me you might join us."

Ginny didn't miss her slight wince at Fox's name, the same 
as Scully had done previously.  But really, Ginny wasn't 
sure what else she was supposed to call him.  "Dad" was 
just too...weird, and "Mulder" was too formal.  Besides, 
"Fox" is how her mom had referred to him in the letter 
she'd left, and her grandparents used his first name too, 
although they usually said "Fox Mulder," or tried to avoid 
his name altogether.

When no more passed between them, Scully shifted away to 
look out the front.  Ginny noted the tailored black suit, a 
matching set with the one Fox was wearing, even though it 
was a Saturday.  It reminded her too much of the funeral.  
But, it was the same way the two were dressed the last time 
she had seen them, so maybe they had come straight from 
work.  She preferred to believe that explanation; the other 
resurrected feelings she was trying to avoid.

It had been almost six months since her mother died, and 
she had only been back to the grave once since the funeral, 
with her grandparents on Mother's Day.  Did that make her a 
bad daughter, not visiting more often?  She just had a hard 
time feeling like her mother was really there.  Physically, 
maybe; but what was left of her mother's presence was 
scattered around their house, in pictures and plants and 
hand-me-down clothing.  In the ground was no more than an 
empty shell.  But Fox had wanted to visit, and so she 
figured she should go along.  

Ginny looked over at the flowers on the seat next to her.  
He had brought roses.  She couldn't remember the last time 
her mother had received roses from a man.  Actually, until 
her mom got sick, Ginny couldn't remember the last time she 
had received flowers at all.  But after, there were flowers 
all the time.  They were supposed to be bright and cheery, 
but now Ginny associated them with sickness and hospitals.  
Tests.  Surgeries.  Relapses.  

Then, finally, the hospital room moved into their home, and 
along with it came the flowers.  And they were always cut.  
Separated from the source of life so they were doomed to 
wither and die.  Just once, she wished, someone would've 
brought a potted plant.  But she might have come to hate 
that too, because it wouldn't be fair for the plant to 
survive when her mother couldn't.

The car hit a bump, and Ginny was grateful to be jolted 
from her morose thoughts.  

"Shit!" came from the front seat.  Ginny turned to see 
Scully holding an open water bottle in one hand, with 
moisture dripping down the other, and her head bent to 
inspect the front of her suit.

"Sorry," Mulder said.  "That pothole was the size of the 
Grand Canyon.  I couldn't avoid it."

Scully shook the water drops from her empty hand and 
started brushing at her jacket.  "Do you have any napkins 
or tissues in here?"

"I've got something," Ginny said.  She dug in her purse for 
the handkerchief she'd been carrying around since her 
birthday.  Thankful to finally have a use for it, she 
handed it up to Scully.  "Here."

Scully reached to take it and looked back at her in 
surprise when she realized what it was.  Ginny felt a 
little awkward and hastened to explain.  "I know it's kind 
of old-fashioned, but my grandma embroidered it for me.  So 
I just carry it around in my purse for, you know, 
whatever."

When Scully had finished wiping off the moisture, she 
folded the cloth over to inspect the delicately sewn 
design.  "It's beautiful.  My grandmother tried to teach me 
how to do this once, but I'm afraid I was more interested 
in catching frogs with my brothers.  Needlework is becoming 
a lost art."  She held the handkerchief closer and read the 
lettering.  "VSM.  Virginia S. Maloney.  What does the S 
stand for?"

For anyone else, that would be a simple question.  But not 
for Ginny.  Nothing in her life seemed simple anymore.  She 
looked toward Mulder and saw him watching her in the 
rearview mirror.  His eyes flicked back to the traffic, and 
she followed his gaze to look out the front window.  She 
could tell Scully was uncomfortable, realizing she'd stuck 
her foot in something.

Ginny finally answered, "Well, until a couple of months 
ago, I thought my middle name was Sue.  At least, that's 
what I had always been told."  Not really wanting to 
explain the rest of it, she reached for her purse again and 
pulled out a piece of paper folded into quarters.  It was a 
photocopy of her birth certificate.  Along with a letter 
from her mother, this had been in an envelope placed in the 
care of the estate lawyer, to be given to Ginny only upon 
her mother's death.  

These two pieces of paper were the sole explanation her 
mother had offered for why Ginny had grown up without a 
father, and why her father had been left in the dark for 
nearly two decades.  The letter--ripped apart, taped back 
together, and smudged with tears--now rested in Ginny's 
diary.  The copied certificate had traveled with her, proof 
to offer her father once she met him.  She didn't know why 
she still carried it around, except to remind herself who 
she was, which wasn't always so clear these days.  

Ginny handed the page to Scully, who took it reluctantly 
and then slowly unfolded it.  Once she had read it, she 
looked up at Mulder in surprise.  "Samantha?"

Crossing her arms, Ginny slumped back in her seat.  Let Fox 
explain it.  Besides, she wasn't really sure that she 
could.

Mulder pulled to a stop at the red light and turned to his 
partner.  "Deb had an older brother who died in a car 
accident, a few months after Sam was taken.  She and I 
didn't know each other at the time, since we went to 
different middle schools, but that was something we always 
felt we had in common--the loss of a sibling.  I think it 
was the defining moment in her life just as much as it was 
for me."

Scully was silent while she took this in.  When the car had 
started moving again, she said, "I guess she wanted Ginny 
to have something of her father's."

Mulder quipped, "Good thing you weren't a boy, Ginny, or 
you might have ended up with Fox for a middle name," but 
Ginny was too upset to smile.  So many lies.  If her mom 
wanted her to have something of her father's, why not her 
father himself?  

Ginny lamented that too much of her life had been consumed 
with anger.  As a child, she was angry at her father for 
abandoning them.  During the cancer, she watched the other 
patients with their spouses and was angry her mother had to 
die alone.  Then, when her mother finally started telling 
the truth about her father, Ginny was angry that the 
stories she'd been told all her life, about her father 
leaving a long time ago, weren't true.  In fact, he had 
never even been told she existed.  When she met Fox, she 
expected him to be angry along with her.  After all, he had 
every right to be.  But he hadn't been angry, merely 
haunted and sad.

Now, Ginny's anger was directed toward her grandparents.  
After she'd read her mother's letter, she realized they 
carried the real blame.  They were the ones who had 
insisted her father be left out of the picture.  She could 
never really understand why her mother had always bent so 
easily to their will.  Ginny remembered hearing the phrase 
"survivor's guilt" explained in psychology class, and she 
wondered if that was part of it.  The ghost of her long-
lost Uncle Richie was still very tangible in their family.

A motion drew Ginny's attention to the front seat, and she 
saw that Scully was reaching back to hand her the folded 
paper and damp handkerchief.  An apology was written all 
over Scully's face, and Ginny's resentment deflated a 
little.  She reached to take back the items and tried to 
smile in reassurance, although she wasn't sure her lips 
managed more than a slight twitch.  

Looking down at the embroidery, Ginny traced a finger over 
the fine lettering and complex designs.  Her grandmother 
had taken great care to make this, despite the arthritis in 
her hands.  Ginny's grandparents had suffered such loss, 
and they had sacrificed so much for her and her mother.  
She really couldn't blame them for wanting to hold on 
tightly to what they had left.

Ginny drew a deep breath and exhaled some of her rage.  She 
was so tired of being angry, and of being sad.  Sometimes 
she wished she didn't have to feel anymore.

"Ginny?"

At Mulder's voice, she looked up to see they had pulled 
into the cemetery.  "Left or right?" he asked.

"Right."  She was glad he had known how to get this far, 
since she couldn't have provided directions, but now that 
they were inside the park, he was depending on her to 
navigate.  

"Park by that tree, up there on the right," Ginny said.  
The three parking spaces in the little wayside lot were 
empty.  It was much quieter today than her last visit.  The 
only people to be seen were off in the distance, farther 
down the road that looped the grid of headstones.

Willing away her emotions, Ginny steeled herself and opened 
her door.  As Mulder stepped out of the car, she reached 
for the flowers, figuring it would be easiest if she handed 
them to him.  It wasn't until she turned to get out that 
she realized Scully's door was still shut.

Apparently Mulder had realized it about the same time.  He 
leaned into the car and said, "Scully?"  The question was 
casual and his face composed, but Ginny could read the 
anxiety in his eyes.  The seatbelt release and door handle 
clicked almost simultaneously, and Scully was already 
halfway out the door before Ginny could turn back to see 
her reaction.

Ginny climbed out and handed the bouquet to Mulder; she 
didn't wait for them as she set off for the grave.  Third 
row from the tree, five spaces down.  The headstone was set 
into the ground, so it was impossible to find without 
memorizing the location.  At her mother's burial, she had 
been at the end of the row, but one of the empty spaces had 
since been filled.  Ginny knew that the two plots in 
between were reserved for her grandparents.  She tried not 
to contemplate the imaginary rectangles in the grass as she 
moved past.  

Ginny's feet stopped next to the marker, just short of the 
space below which her mother was buried, as though a force 
field prevented her from standing directly on top of the 
grave.  Her eyes perused the familiar headstone: 

"Deborah Ann Maloney.  Beloved Daughter and Mother.  July 
5, 1961 - December 19, 1997." 

The grass surrounding the stone was neatly trimmed, except 
for a lone dandelion growing by the corner.  Ginny 
automatically crouched down to pluck it, knowing her 
grandmother would want the grave well-kept, but then she 
hesitated.  Should she be so hasty to kill something that 
was thriving, here in this place of death?  Two sets of 
dark shoes came into her peripheral vision, and she was 
reminded of the fragrant roses awaiting her mother.  Ginny 
quickly picked the yellow flower and stood up.

Mulder had stopped next to her, with Scully on his other 
side.  He gently touched Ginny's shoulder before leaning 
over and solemnly placing the bouquet on the grave.  
Straightening, he muttered, "She was too young." 

Ginny stared at the roses, an artful mixture of whites and 
pinks, topped with a hint of baby's breath.  What was it 
her grandfather had said at the funeral?  Something about 
Deborah being like a delicate rose, harvested in the height 
of her beauty, how she was a flower that now would never 
fade.

Ginny looked down at the yellow weed being twirled absently 
by her fingers.  In a day, or a week, the dandelion would 
grow back, while the roses would be withered and dried up.  
She didn't want her mother to be a rose; she wanted her to 
be a dandelion.

A drop of water splashed onto Ginny's hand, freezing her 
movements.  For a moment, she thought it was raining again, 
until she realized the drop had come from her.  She 
squeezed her eyes shut, but that only served to force out 
another tear.  She had promised herself she wouldn't cry.

Ginny reached for her purse, pulling out the still damp 
handkerchief.  After a brief consideration, she placed the 
dandelion inside the purse, propped up against the zipper.  
Her hands now freed, she wiped at the moist trails on her 
cheeks, grateful for the second time today that she had 
this cloth with her.  And then it occurred to her: maybe 
this is why her grandmother had given her the handkerchief.  
It was a token of wisdom passed down from someone who was 
intimately acquainted with grief.

The tears started to flow again, and Ginny sniffled, trying 
to hold them back.  She felt a large hand settle on her 
left shoulder, and Mulder's body moving closer on her 
right.  Involuntarily, she stiffened at the contact, and 
the pressure of his hand lifted slightly.  She wasn't used 
to being touched so much.  Her family was loving, but more 
sparing in their hugs.  Fox, she had noticed, was much more 
physical--not in a bad way; it would simply take some time 
for her to get comfortable with it.

The warmth at her side began to pull away, and 
unconsciously she leaned into it, eagerly seeking the 
comfort.  Mulder responded, no longer retreating but 
wrapping his arm more securely around her shoulders and 
drawing her close.  She gladly leaned her weight against 
his solid strength, letting him support her, and more than 
just physically. 

Ginny was hit with a revelation: this is what it was like 
to have a father.  *Oh, Mom,* she thought, heartbroken, *it 
could've been like this all along.*

There was no holding back the tears anymore, and Ginny 
stopped trying.  She didn't have the energy to suppress the 
emotions.  She wept, the steady streams soon petering out 
into hiccupping sobs.  Mulder turned her more fully into 
his embrace, bringing his other hand up to stroke her hair.  
She barely registered the soothing words he was whispering 
into her ear: "It's okay.  It's gonna be okay.  Just let it 
out."

It felt like forever before her stuttering breaths calmed 
and her tears dried up.  She felt Mulder's grip loosen, but 
she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze.  The 
handkerchief was still clutched in her hand, and she 
quickly moved to clean up her face.  She paused when 
Mulder's fingers brushed her cheek, tenderly pushing away 
damp strands of hair.

Knowing he was watching her, Ginny suddenly felt very self-
conscious.  She took half a step back, still unable to meet 
his eyes.  "I want to go back to the car."

"I left it unlocked," he answered.  "We'll be there in a 
minute."  His arms dropped away from her shoulders, and 
Ginny hurried off toward the parking area.

By the time she settled in the back seat, Ginny was feeling 
much more composed--composed and exhausted.  As soon as she 
got home, she would take a nice long nap and probably sleep 
like the--  No, not like the dead.  It was only the damn 
graveyard that had brought the metaphor to her mind.  She 
would make a point of trying never to use it again.

Longing to clear her thoughts, Ginny looked around for 
something to preoccupy her.  She hadn't dared to glance 
back toward the gravesite during her retreat, not wanting 
to know if they were watching her.  But now, from where she 
sat, she had a clear view of the pair clad in black.  
Observing them would allow a welcome reprieve from her 
self-absorption.

The partners' backs were mostly turned to her, since they 
stood facing the grave, but Ginny could see enough of their 
profiles to notice they were talking.  Mulder's head was 
bent, his focus toward the headstone, but Scully's eyes 
were fixed solely on his face.  Ginny had never been much 
of a lip reader, so she had no idea what they were saying, 
but even from this distance she could see the compassion on 
Scully's face.

The conversation shortly died out.  After a moment of 
stillness, Scully stepped closer and rested a hand on his 
upper arm, rubbing a little with her thumb.  Mulder looked 
down at her briefly, a sad smile on his face.  Her hand 
soon drifted down and away, but before it dropped 
completely, Mulder reached out with the arm she had been 
touching and took hold of her hand.  With only a glance at 
each other, both turned their focus back to the grave, 
standing close, silent.

Not for the first time, Ginny wondered what exactly the 
relationship was between these two.  Fox had referred to 
Scully as his partner and his friend, but whatever else she 
was to him, she was clearly his significant other.  

Throughout her childhood, Ginny had often imagined what it 
would be like if she ever met her father.  She harbored the 
occasional fantasy that he would come home to her and her 
mother, and the three of them would finally be a family.  
She had long since given that up, but even now, her mind 
would wander to ask "what if"--what if he had known he had 
a child?  Would they have stayed together?  Would he have 
been by her mother's side even in the end?

But there were other times she wanted something different, 
hoping that somewhere out there she had brothers and 
sisters, a father who was married and could provide a 
ready-made family for her to slip into.  All such delusions 
had been shattered when she finally met Fox Mulder, a man 
who had never married or tried to have kids.  But maybe 
there was still hope--Ginny looked at the partners' hands 
clutching each other tight, fingers entwined.

Now, watching these two together, Ginny realized things 
never could've worked out with her mother.  There was no 
room in Fox's life for any woman besides Dana Scully.  But 
Ginny wasn't bitter about that, not like she thought she 
might be.  Really, she was just glad at least one of her 
parents didn't have to be alone.  If Fox ever ended up in a 
hospital bed, like her mother had, Ginny knew exactly who 
would be by his side.

The couple turned then, as one, and made their way back to 
the car.  Their hands remained locked for the first few 
steps, but then the grip loosened and the two slowly 
drifted apart.  By the time they reached the car, Mulder 
was a full pace ahead, and Scully had wrapped her arms 
around her torso, as though fending off a cold breeze.  But 
the newly green leaves above her head hung lifeless, 
unstirred.

When Scully glanced toward the back seat, Ginny looked 
away, afraid to be caught staring, and turned her attention 
to the clouds framed by the side window.  The slate gray 
sky from earlier that morning had broken apart and yielded 
to puffs of white.  A beam of light cut through from the 
still hidden sun, illuminating a lone patch of grass across 
the field.  

Ginny felt the weight of the car shift, and two doors 
slammed shut.  The engine started; the car backed up and 
turned.  She pivoted in her seat.  Until the car pulled out 
of the cemetery, her focus remained glued to that patch of 
bright green.

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