Final Gift for memories_child
Title: Seeds of Pursuit
Author: TLynn
Rating: PG
Summary: A young Fox Mulder is missing his sister on Christmas.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never have been, never will be.
Written for memories_child for xf_santa 2011.
Fox Mulder wasn’t sure about a lot of things anymore. He didn’t know what to believe and didn’t know what the future held. It was a place of mental unrest and emotional exhaustion and there was little he could do to alleviate his feelings of guilt, uncertainty, and most of all, the constant stream of questions that bombarded his mind, making his nights restless.
Facts and documentation. He’d begun to rely on them. Facts were constant and they were certain. Documentation supported facts and could be filed away and referenced whenever needed. He didn’t know a lot of things and until he could find the answers he sought, but found he took comfort in keeping track of the things he did know.
He sat at his desk and pulled out a small pad of lined paper and a pencil from the top drawer. His eyes scanned the list and he silently counted the numbers that comprised it. He picked up the pencil and placed its dulled tip on the first available blank line towards the bottom of the page.
28.
He wrote the number carefully, legibly. He silently counted how many lines were left. Only six. He’d have to start another page soon, he noted to himself.
It had been twenty-eight days, which was four weeks, which was nearly a whole month. It was also Christmas morning. And she was still gone. Samantha had always loved Christmas, had preferred it over Chanukah because of the lights and the tree. His parents didn’t put up a tree this year, his mother didn’t hang any decorations or plan a Christmas party with the neighbors.
He opened his desk drawer again and pulled out a small wrapped box. Inside of it was a small plastic cowgirl figurine he’d bought at the drug store before with fifty cents of his own money. He’d wrapped it himself, too, with wrapping paper he found mixed in with the Christmas decorations out in the garage. It had been sitting in his desk for two weeks now, waiting for her to return to open it. Buying it was an act of faith, but now that Christmas was here and Samantha was not, he felt a little foolish and was glad he hadn’t told his parents about it.
“Fox!” He heard his mother’s voice calling for him from the kitchen and he decided to ignore her.
An undercurrent of anger vibrated through the house most days, he’d noticed. His parents had been fighting a lot before Samantha disappeared, but now they hardly spoke. Even throughout the various interviews with the police and the state department, Fox noticed the hardly looked at each other.
His mother hardly slept any more. She never talked about it, liked to pretend everything was business as usual during the light of day, but he knew she was up most nights. He knew this because he was as well, wide awake in his bed and listening to the muffled sounds of the television coming from the living room. He tried to ask her about it once, but she largely ignored his questioning and changed the subject immediately. She also didn’t want to talk about how mad she was at his father, but that was evident simply from the cold stares she’d direct at him every time he moved or dared to open his mouth. Fox decided his mother blamed her husband for Samantha being gone, but he couldn’t figure out why. In turn, Fox decided he was mad at his mother.
His father simply seemed to be mad at the world, but that was something Fox could at least partially understand. Still, he felt like Samantha’s disappearance had turned their father into someone he couldn’t talk to, someone who wouldn’t talk to him, and someone who would rather sit and stare at walls than give his son a hug. Fox was mad at his father, too.
There was something they weren’t telling him, that much he knew. They were looking for Samantha, but it all seemed like a big show to him, that they weren’t really expecting to find her. That made him mad, too. At least there were people looking for her still, out searching. Posters with her face were plastered all over town and he caught a glimpse of her face on a TV news report before his mother had turned it off, tears in her eyes. The neighbors whispered to each other when they saw him, shook their heads with looks of pity all over their faces.
He couldn’t remember what happened that night. He remembered her screaming, he remembered calling out for her, a bright light, and board game pieces being scattered all over the living room floor. But that’s all. His parents didn’t ask him to try to remember, but the police did. He couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he was jerked from his sleep by the sound of her screaming. Fox was mad at himself most of all.
He placed the notepad and pencil back into the desk drawer. Then, he inched his chair back from the desk and kneeled down until he was eye level with the surface, chin resting on fingers that gripped the edge. His eyes drifted from piece to piece, always falling upon the space that was missing its blue scout. He’d combed the living room for all the pieces of the game after she was taken, most of them having been scattered during the event and in the aftermath. He’d found all but that one blue scout.
He could remember exactly where each of their game pieces had been on the board and had taken great care to recreate it and continue playing very slowly. One move per day, alternating between his and her side of the board. He thought it would be a nice surprise for her if she came back soon and maybe they could finish the game. It was one of her favorites, even if she hardly ever won. She’d always run to their parents and accuse him of cheating, but he was always able to beat her because she always used the same strategy. He was never fooled by her cluster of bombs and always knew to look for her flag in the opposite direction. His mother took him aside once and told him to let her win sometimes, and he always grudgingly agreed, but never did as he was told. He’d let her win this game if she came back.
“Fox!” he heard his mother’s voice again, this time a little closer in proximity to his bedroom.
He didn’t know what to expect for the day. It was Christmas, usually a morning of pancakes and hot chocolate and presents and arguing with his sister over who got the better gift. He wondered is his parents got him anything, if there would be any breakfast waiting for him on the other end of those calls. He didn’t want gifts this year and couldn’t have cared less about pancakes. He just wanted Samantha back.
“Fox!” his mother yelled, appearing in his doorway. “Didn’t you hear me calling you? Come eat your breakfast.”
“Where’s Dad?” he asked. “I heard him leave earlier.”
“Your father is working,” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Now, Fox,” she said as she turned and walked back down the hall. “Your eggs are getting cold.”
He quickly pulled out the paper and pencil again and flipped to the second page of the pad. That page held another list, one equally as long as the one recording the length of Samantha’s absence.
Dad working, left house at 6 in the morning, he wrote.
Every line of the list said that same thing. He didn’t know what it all meant. But he’d find out. One day.
* * *
end
Author: TLynn
Rating: PG
Summary: A young Fox Mulder is missing his sister on Christmas.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never have been, never will be.
Written for memories_child for xf_santa 2011.
Fox Mulder wasn’t sure about a lot of things anymore. He didn’t know what to believe and didn’t know what the future held. It was a place of mental unrest and emotional exhaustion and there was little he could do to alleviate his feelings of guilt, uncertainty, and most of all, the constant stream of questions that bombarded his mind, making his nights restless.
Facts and documentation. He’d begun to rely on them. Facts were constant and they were certain. Documentation supported facts and could be filed away and referenced whenever needed. He didn’t know a lot of things and until he could find the answers he sought, but found he took comfort in keeping track of the things he did know.
He sat at his desk and pulled out a small pad of lined paper and a pencil from the top drawer. His eyes scanned the list and he silently counted the numbers that comprised it. He picked up the pencil and placed its dulled tip on the first available blank line towards the bottom of the page.
28.
He wrote the number carefully, legibly. He silently counted how many lines were left. Only six. He’d have to start another page soon, he noted to himself.
It had been twenty-eight days, which was four weeks, which was nearly a whole month. It was also Christmas morning. And she was still gone. Samantha had always loved Christmas, had preferred it over Chanukah because of the lights and the tree. His parents didn’t put up a tree this year, his mother didn’t hang any decorations or plan a Christmas party with the neighbors.
He opened his desk drawer again and pulled out a small wrapped box. Inside of it was a small plastic cowgirl figurine he’d bought at the drug store before with fifty cents of his own money. He’d wrapped it himself, too, with wrapping paper he found mixed in with the Christmas decorations out in the garage. It had been sitting in his desk for two weeks now, waiting for her to return to open it. Buying it was an act of faith, but now that Christmas was here and Samantha was not, he felt a little foolish and was glad he hadn’t told his parents about it.
“Fox!” He heard his mother’s voice calling for him from the kitchen and he decided to ignore her.
An undercurrent of anger vibrated through the house most days, he’d noticed. His parents had been fighting a lot before Samantha disappeared, but now they hardly spoke. Even throughout the various interviews with the police and the state department, Fox noticed the hardly looked at each other.
His mother hardly slept any more. She never talked about it, liked to pretend everything was business as usual during the light of day, but he knew she was up most nights. He knew this because he was as well, wide awake in his bed and listening to the muffled sounds of the television coming from the living room. He tried to ask her about it once, but she largely ignored his questioning and changed the subject immediately. She also didn’t want to talk about how mad she was at his father, but that was evident simply from the cold stares she’d direct at him every time he moved or dared to open his mouth. Fox decided his mother blamed her husband for Samantha being gone, but he couldn’t figure out why. In turn, Fox decided he was mad at his mother.
His father simply seemed to be mad at the world, but that was something Fox could at least partially understand. Still, he felt like Samantha’s disappearance had turned their father into someone he couldn’t talk to, someone who wouldn’t talk to him, and someone who would rather sit and stare at walls than give his son a hug. Fox was mad at his father, too.
There was something they weren’t telling him, that much he knew. They were looking for Samantha, but it all seemed like a big show to him, that they weren’t really expecting to find her. That made him mad, too. At least there were people looking for her still, out searching. Posters with her face were plastered all over town and he caught a glimpse of her face on a TV news report before his mother had turned it off, tears in her eyes. The neighbors whispered to each other when they saw him, shook their heads with looks of pity all over their faces.
He couldn’t remember what happened that night. He remembered her screaming, he remembered calling out for her, a bright light, and board game pieces being scattered all over the living room floor. But that’s all. His parents didn’t ask him to try to remember, but the police did. He couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he was jerked from his sleep by the sound of her screaming. Fox was mad at himself most of all.
He placed the notepad and pencil back into the desk drawer. Then, he inched his chair back from the desk and kneeled down until he was eye level with the surface, chin resting on fingers that gripped the edge. His eyes drifted from piece to piece, always falling upon the space that was missing its blue scout. He’d combed the living room for all the pieces of the game after she was taken, most of them having been scattered during the event and in the aftermath. He’d found all but that one blue scout.
He could remember exactly where each of their game pieces had been on the board and had taken great care to recreate it and continue playing very slowly. One move per day, alternating between his and her side of the board. He thought it would be a nice surprise for her if she came back soon and maybe they could finish the game. It was one of her favorites, even if she hardly ever won. She’d always run to their parents and accuse him of cheating, but he was always able to beat her because she always used the same strategy. He was never fooled by her cluster of bombs and always knew to look for her flag in the opposite direction. His mother took him aside once and told him to let her win sometimes, and he always grudgingly agreed, but never did as he was told. He’d let her win this game if she came back.
“Fox!” he heard his mother’s voice again, this time a little closer in proximity to his bedroom.
He didn’t know what to expect for the day. It was Christmas, usually a morning of pancakes and hot chocolate and presents and arguing with his sister over who got the better gift. He wondered is his parents got him anything, if there would be any breakfast waiting for him on the other end of those calls. He didn’t want gifts this year and couldn’t have cared less about pancakes. He just wanted Samantha back.
“Fox!” his mother yelled, appearing in his doorway. “Didn’t you hear me calling you? Come eat your breakfast.”
“Where’s Dad?” he asked. “I heard him leave earlier.”
“Your father is working,” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Now, Fox,” she said as she turned and walked back down the hall. “Your eggs are getting cold.”
He quickly pulled out the paper and pencil again and flipped to the second page of the pad. That page held another list, one equally as long as the one recording the length of Samantha’s absence.
Dad working, left house at 6 in the morning, he wrote.
Every line of the list said that same thing. He didn’t know what it all meant. But he’d find out. One day.
* * *
end