Date: Wed, 17 Mar 1999 21:29:22 -0000
From: "Laura J Valentine"
Subject: Fwd: REP/REV: Seeds 1/1 [PG]
This is a completely rewritten version of my story "Seeds", which barely
propagated. I failed to save a copy, and propagation out of
cyrus.andrew.cmu.edu was so incredibly poor that even cs.cmu.edu didn't get a
copy. So I had to rewrite. Oh, joy. This is being posted from my DejaNews
account, which I hope has better propagation.
Author: Laura Jacquez Valentine
Title: Seeds
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Through Two Fathers/One Son
Summary: Bill Mulder reflects on his relationship with his son. Pre-XF.
Disclaimer: CC. FOX. 1013. Not LJV.
-----
I lean back in my chair and crack a sunflower seed between my teeth.
Working late, again. The relentless march of the conspiracy, driving me
onward. Driving all of us, like cattle. I stand up and walk over to the
couch on the other side of the room, taking my sunflower seeds with me.
I crack a seed between my teeth, and wait for the inevitable.
Fox was staying with me for the summer, before heading to Oxford in the fall.
I don't blame him for going so far away. I'm amazed he stayed as long as he
did. I spent several years convinced Teena would call me and tell me he was
gone, that she didn't know where he was. That he'd disappeared.
As the boy he was disappeared the night Samantha was taken.
I'd been the one to find him. My son, unconscious, my gun by his hand. He'd
tried, but he'd had no chance against...against whatever the hell they are.
When he woke up, the only thing he knew was that Samantha was gone. It was
the only thing he could remember.
But the nightmares started that night, and they've never stopped. And he's
grown more and more distant from Teena and from me.
I crack a seed between my teeth, and wait for the inevitable.
I remember what he was like. I remember him playing catch with me, teasing
Samantha, the screaming tantrums he'd thrown when he was grounded for fighting
at school. He'd been an outgoing boy; now he was withdrawn. I've seen him
smile only three times since that night.
I can't shake the conviction that it's all my fault. That I should tell him,
let him know what's happening, and why.
I'm reasonably sure that bastard Spender would kill us both if I did. That
man kills as easily and naturally as he breathes.
I crack a seed between my teeth, and wait.
There. From down the hall. The soft creak of bedsprings, a low moan. I
close my eyes. It's started. I wait for the inevitable.
After a few minutes, it comes. "SAM!" And the bounce of bedsprings,
settling under his weight. I used to go to him when the nightmares came,
when Teena and I were still married. He would roll away from me, trying to
hide the tears.
So now I wait, knowing that he's crying. Knowing that in a few minutes he'll
get up and go to the bathroom, take a shower, and go back to his room, where
he'll read until dawn.
I crack a seed between my teeth, and then another. I know he can hear them.
He sleeps with his door open. He'll look in on his way back from the shower,
checking to make sure I'm really here.
I crack a seed between my teeth. The sound comforts me. Maybe it
comforts him.
I hear the pad of his feet on the carpet, and then the shower running. I
curse myself under my breath for doing this to him.
And then he's in the doorway, wearing a pair of my old sweats, water still
dripping from his hair. "Hey," he says. "You're up late."
"Working."
"You do that a lot."
I hold out the bag of sunflower seeds, not knowing what to say.
"Thanks." He pours some into his hand and sits down next to me on the couch.
"I dreamed about her again."
"I know."
"I still can't remember what happened."
"I know that, Fox."
He ran a hand through his hair, which was streaked by the summer sun. "I'm
sorry, Dad."
"It wasn't your fault," I respond automatically, but I can see that he doesn't
believe me. That he not only blames himself, but that he thinks I blame him.
Maybe I do.
Maybe I want him to figure out this whole mess. Maybe I think he should have
done it by now.
Although that's an unreasonable expectation to have of a seventeen-year-old.
"It's not your fault," I repeat, and this time even I can hear how hollow
those words are.
"Yeah," he says, stirring the seeds in his palm.
I stand up, touch his shoulder, ruffle his hair. "I'm going to bed. You can
stay up if you want."
He nods, and I leave the room.
I hear him crack a seed between his teeth, waiting for the dawn.
---
The End.
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