Little Boy Blue
Rating: R (language/slight sexual references)
Keywords: Angst, MSR-sort of
Spoilers: Up to Season 9 is game
Archiving: Be my guest.
Disclaimer: News flash! I don't own any of the characters mentioned herein...sigh.
Authors Notes: 1. I miss the X Files. 2. I miss Mulder's passion and wonder. 3. This is dedicated to Jemirah, she makes my wild ramblings not so-well-rambling. *g* Thank you.
Summary: "Son, you look like you're going through some hard times. And every once in a while you gotta accept a little help."
Little Boy Blue
It was almost time. He could feel it.
He walks to the end of the room and pulls back the ugly brown drape.
Yes, it would be soon.
He knows it, can almost physically sense it, the same way he can feel the cold that is creeping through the edges of the window pane. Frost clings thick to the glass like tiny snow drifts in the corners. Absently he uses his fingernail to carve a heart into the icy landscape.
He remembers once doing the same thing to the soft skin of her back. She'd giggled as he'd traced 'I Love You' with the featheriest of touches.
His eyes darken when he remembers finding the trace of red the laser had missed.
And just like that he recalls the city he's lost the most in. His nails dig in, scratching out the ice-etched heart.
He should have known better than to seek refuge in that wretched city of all places.
He left in May and now in December, when most people are celebrating the holidays with family and friends, he's just getting through each day.
He's traveled across the country hundreds of times; usually she was by his side. She wasn't always happy about it, but she was there.
But he's tired of moving, of running.
When he left, he'd thought maybe he could teach. Access to whatever false ID and credentials he would need was easily remedied. He'd moved every 3 days from May to July. By then his funds had dwindled and needed to be replenished somehow.
* * * * *
A small town with a community college in Arizona needed a Mythology instructor; Professor Kent Searcher accepted. He gathered the text books he needed, read them cover to cover and had his class syllabus prepared in three days. He found it ironic that he was looking forward to using some of the knowledge he'd worked a lifetime to achieve.
Surprisingly, he was content teaching the students--some of them so willing to believe--who didn't need solid scientific evidence.
The students sensed it the moment their professor's mood changed, his animated speech breaking off in mid-sentence.
He cleared his throat and bowed his head, asking them to please study quietly until the end of class. He removed his glasses and sat, thumbs digging into the corners of his eyes.
The motion hadn't been casual enough that they'd missed his reddened eyes and several wayward tears.
He got word the last week in September; They were coming.
* * * * *
He'd left with 8 bags in May. By October, when Mark Hunter took a job coaching High School Basketball, there were only 4. Two of those remained in the trunk of the car.
Six weeks later he accepted a dinner invitation from the 8th grade English teacher. He was lonely and longed for some one on one adult conversation.
She was attractive, though her beauty paled in comparison to the one he still loved. The one he still dreamed about every night he closed his eyes.
He arrived at 7. She smiled and ushered him into the living room. He made himself comfortable on the couch while she excused herself for a moment. He was shocked when she returned and placed a baby into his arms, "Could you hold him while I check the oven?" He nodded dumbly.
How could he forget she'd told him about her 6-month-old son?
She returned to find him openly weeping, even as her son slept on, oblivious. He stood, handed her the baby and left.
* * * * *
Finally a bright spot on the horizon. He was needed.
At home. He was going home.
A mad dash.
He was chased between boxcars and engines.
A missed chance.
A petite figure stood on the platform, watching the train with him depart.
He ran to his car, eyes burning, tears clouding his vision. He was somewhere in Ohio when exhaustion overcame him and he drove the car into a ditch.
* * * * *
He was found unconscious and taken to the local clinic.
The mechanic who towed the car offered him a job in exchange for the repairs necessary to get his vehicle back on the road. Mr. Guthrie didn't even mind that he didn't have any automotive experience short of putting the key in the ignition. He just said, "Son, you look like you're going through some hard times. And every once in a while you gotta accept a little help."
He became a wiz at tire rotation, fixing flats and oil changes.
He heard the explosion as he was walking to the garage one day. Guthrie's Repair Shop was a ball of flames; black smoke clouds floated up from the building. He ran back to the bed and breakfast, threw as much as he could into one bag and left town in the truck Mr. Guthrie had loaned him.
He'd abandoned the truck 2 hours later.
He didn't know if the man who'd taken a complete stranger under his wing was alive or dead as he boarded a bus headed east.
Just one more thing to weigh heavily on his mind.
As the bus ate the highway miles, he fell into a fitful sleep, realizing; each time They found him was sooner than the last.
* * * * *
Donovan Seeker left the grocery store where he worked as a stock boy... man, went to his dingy efficiency apartment and changed into his jogging gear.
Even the snow of mid-December didn't slow his pace. His normal route took him within 5 blocks of the Liberty Bell, but this night he traveled a new path.
He ran until he spotted the shop. He turned 180 degrees, saw the bar across the street and made his way in.
Dirty, dark and smoky.
A place for adulterers, drug dealers, prostitutes... and whores.
The kind of place she shouldn't have been in... but had.
Anger lashed through him. He turned, slammed the door open.
Ran, ran, ran.
Legs pumped. Heart pounded.
What should have been ancient history wasn't. It just wasn't.
He made it back to the apartment, unlocked and opened the door with a forceful bang against the wall. He stripped quickly, climbed into the shower.
Hot, hot water. Scrub, scrub. Harder. Faster.
He tried to get rid of the images, the anger.
Finally he shut the water off. Dried off, calmer than before. A car door slammed, he made his way to the window.
They were coming.
He grabbed his jacket, his wallet. Reached into the pocket quickly and felt the softness of his one memento. He heard them coming down the hall. Out of time, he opened the window and crawled out onto the fire escape. The old window slammed, catching his jacket sleeve.
They kicked the door in, searched the room. A leather jacket was hanging from the window. They looked down and saw him disappearing around the corner.
They smiled, knowing they would succeed soon.
* * * * *
He's left his frosty window.
Reclining on the bed he lets his insecurities and anger reign.
Why is he the one running? Why aren't they together?
Instead he's the one alone. He's the one unemployed and surprised at being depressed over getting laid off from a janitor's job.
At least she still has....
While he has nothing, nothing at all.
Maybe she's moved on, has another man, another lover. Someone to help raise their son.
Their son. HIS son. A son he should be able to see dressed in a little Santa outfit tonight, Christmas Eve. And then after he's asleep, the naughty elf could come out and play. He could urge mommy to get naked and on her hands and knees in front of the Christmas tree, while they play 'drive the sleigh'.
Maybe it's Doggett. He'd sure managed to fill in nicely in the work place. Maybe he's warming the sheets too.
He knows it isn't him, and hasn't been since before William. So few times really; when was William conceived? He hopes it was after they'd shared a beer and movie date together. A happy, comfortable moment in their lives. He hates thinking she was already pregnant and feeding liquor to the tiny person growing inside of her.
He remembers the day he left with such clarity.
* * * * *
William was unusually alert and fussy for a newborn. Could he sense he might never see his father again? Scully started crying and he'd taken the baby into the bedroom, stretching out on the bed with him. Still shirtless after his shower, he held his son against his skin. His large hands held his precious package with tenderness and awe.
He began to sing, softly, his voice full of emotion.
Scully came into the room just in time to hear him choke out, 'he learned to walk while I was away'. She stifled a sob and left them alone.
William quieted, listening intently to his father's voice singing a heartfelt rendition of 'Cat's in the Cradle', he'd finally dropped off to sleep.
After placing William safe and sound in his cradle. Mulder finished dressing and went into the living room. Scully sat on the couch, quiet, subdued. They avoided looking at each other. He picked up his bags and was almost out the door before Scully was in his arms. She wanted to make love, she didn't care that she'd just given birth. Kissing her lips and brushing her tears away with his thumbs, he gently declined.
Two hours later, on the road to nowhere, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the only thing he had of William's. He brought it to his nose and inhaled the sweet baby smell, felt the soft yarn tickling his skin. Swearing to himself to never, never lose it.
* * * * *
But he did.
In fucking Philadelphia.
He lost the only physical connection he had to his son. Such an insignificant thing really, just the warming cap he'd worn during his short hospital stay, but it'd meant everything to him to have something that had actually touched his son.
There hadn't been time for pictures.
He goes to the window again, sees his reflection and the tears streaming down his face. He has nothing to remember his son by, while she has it all.
He wonders how long it takes for love to turn to hate. He wonders how much longer it will be for him....
And if he'll run the next time They come for him.