The Tug of a Small Hand (X-Files, rated G)
A short seasonal piece, my first foray into X-Files fic. Be aware I have not finished the entire series, and this was started just after I'd seen the relevant episodes in S5. Un-beta'd but credit to
wendelah1 for pushing me to finish.
The Tug of a Small Hand
spoilers: X-Files Season 5, A Christmas Carol and Emily
Matthew Scully was born the day his cousin Emily died. He didn't know much about her except that she was dead, and that she had belonged to his Aunt Dana. He didn't know much about his aunt either, except that she was very cool. She wore suits instead of dresses and once Matt had even caught a glimpse of her gun. Having an aunt in the FBI gave him bragging rights at whatever school he happened to be attending at the time.
Matt had two younger sisters, which his Dad would tell him was the worst thing in the world and then wait for him to laugh, but he never did. He rather liked Liss and Jessie, and minded them for his mother without being asked. Still they were girls and closer in age to each other than to him, so he was left out of many of their intricate made-up games.
That was okay, because he had games of his own. When he was four years old, before Liss came home and the house was full of secrets, he had been playing out in the bare back yard of their San Diego base house when a little girl appeared out of nowhere. She was young, younger than he was, blond and silent with wide eyes that saw everything. He had been drawing at the redwood picnic table on the patio, crayons in a plastic cup weighing down loose sheets of notebook paper. He really preferred a pen for drawing, but his mother kept giving him crayons. It bothered him but not enough to pester his mother. She was tired these days and seldom smiled. He liked her best when she smiled.
The little girl sat down next to him and carefully picked a dark brown crayon from the cup. He stared at her for a moment, then shoved over a few sheets of paper. She started to draw, her small fingers gripping the wax stick in a tight fist.
Matt had never stopped drawing, from the time he could first keep hold of a crayon; characters from television shows and video games first, then illustrating his own stories after he learned his letters. He taught his sisters how to read before they started school; he liked to tell people things, show them how things were done. The little girl came only when he was alone, and somehow, eventually, he knew it was his cousin. At first he thought there had been a mistake, that Emily hadn't died at all, and he wondered if he should tell his mother or father, or his aunt. But Emily put one small hand in his, and held one finger up against her lips. Secrets were for sharing, but not with everyone.
As his birthday approached, and Christmas, that time of mystery and hope, his sisters huddled together with him, their heads touching as they shared their wishes. Aunt Dana was coming this year; he hadn't seen her for a long time. Whenever she came, she always went out with his mother, alone. His father would shake his head, and turn back to the game on TV, or his work, or playing with Matt or the girls. Last year Matt had finally figured it out. They were visiting Emily, not knowing she wasn't there.
When they returned from the cemetery, Matt was in his room playing with his new Nintendo DS, a birthday present from his parents. He'd gotten pretty far along in Leaf Green, scooping up wild Pokemon and training them for battle. Aunt Dana came in the room, her face was white but calm.
“Hey,” she said, taking as seat beside him on the narrow twin bed. She gave him one of her small smiles, the kind that showed in her eyes but barely lifted the corners of her mouth. Matthew stretched out his legs, which had been tucked up under his chin, and sidled up next to her, displaying the dual screens of his new toy.
“What's this?” she said, examining the display with unfeigned interest.
“Pokemon,” he said eagerly, and began to run through one of his favorite maps. His aunt paid more attention than his father did, and asked more intelligent questions than his mother did. Matt didn't stop talking until he noticed that Aunt Dana was looking out the window instead of at the game. She looked so sad he laid the game carefully down on his pillow and put his hand in hers. “You're missing Emily,” he said. Staring at her for a long moment, he finally added in a matter of fact manner. “She's always here, you know.”
Staring at him, Dana fingered the gold cross at her throat. “What do you mean?”
Matt fell silent, bound by secrets and the conflicting demands of family and friendship. He slid off the edge of the bed, and tightened his grasp. “You haven't seen the tree house Dad built us yet. Come on,” he urged, leaning forward against the weight of his aunt, pulling her towards the sunlight framing the door of his room. Emily would come if she wanted, and only if she wanted. But he could show his aunt the way.
Dana Scully looked down at her hand, smooth and cool and clean, nails trim and neatly polished. Matt's warm and slightly sticky fingers gripped hers, abundant life showing in the small scars, ragged cuticles and half-circles of dirt under his nails. She wondered how much Matt knew about Emily and what he meant by 'here'. Here in their thoughts, here in their hearts? Not there, in the empty grave she visited with Tara, where her grief was buried but not the child who was never meant to be. Dana allowed herself to be pulled upright by Matt's loving insistence. Holding tight she followed him out into the clear thin sunshine, comforted by the tug of a small hand.
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