A (sort-of) voyeur fic, written for the Fandominium Voyeur fic challenge. Features Mulder, William, Reyes and the Gunmen
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Archive: Ephemeral, Gossamer; the usual suspects. I’d appreciate a note telling me where it goes. Please keep intact with my name and email address on it.
A (sort-of) voyeur fic, written for the Fandominium Voyeur fic challenge. It’s late, but Tali said I could do it!
Rating: Squeaky clean
Keywords: Mulder, William, Reyes, Gunmen.
Episode referred to: William
Category: challenge fic, vignette, angst. Elements: Someone watching Mulder. Little or no dialogue.
I look back at it amid the rain
For the very last time; for my sand is sinking,
And I shall traverse old love’s domain
Never again — Thomas Hardy
In the Dream, Mulder walked through the night calling his son. His voice was strong, his gait resolute. Denim hugged his legs, the muscles bunching under his clothes as he walked. His eyes flashed green and gold as he searched.
In the Dream, Dana walked resolutely into the distance, her back to Mulder, her shoulders bowed.
Mulder watched Scully move away, then turned and walked on, on through cities, William’s name echoing off stone canyons. He walked through thick forests, along rocky shorelines, William’s name lost in birdsong and surf.
The nights gave way to day, then days faded to nights and always Mulder walked, movements strong, back straight, calling and searching.
Finally, in the odd manner of dreams, Monica knew he had been searching for three months when he stopped atop a hill and stared down. Before him, a desert shimmered in the sun. She tried to stop him, to make him wait so she could go with him, tried to press a canteen into his hands. He ignored the mirage he believed her to be, and set out alone into the blistering desert, calling for William.
Sunlight shone on his thick dark hair, gilding the strands, burnishing his skin, deepening the creases in his face. His steps faltered as the heated land leached life and hope from him.
Monica stood and watched him, calling for help in a voice that would not be heard. Every night, in her dream Mulder stumbled across great expanses of sand and stone, then finally, his search was over. Fox stared down at his child. He swayed on weakened legs, gasping, William’s name a harsh whisper.
William’s face was lax, as though asleep, but no breath moved in the small body. Mulder face was smooth as stone, his eyes empty. Monica tried to call Scully back to help him, to help her, but Scully was beyond the horizon by now. She called for John, for Walter, for the Gunmen, but no one came. She wondered if any sound could escape the echoing silence she was trapped in.
Mulder turned and faced in the direction that Scully had gone, then he dropped to his knees and cradled his son against his chest. Scratchy whispers broke the silence as Mulder sang: “Michael rowed the boat ashore…” and the wind swelled.
Every time, Monica reached for Mulder, shook him and tried to make him get up. Mulder never responded and each time after one last breathy “hallelujah” his voice faded away and he curled up on the hard ground, his body shielding his son’s from the unforgiving desert wind and sand.
She tried to brush the sand away, but the faster she brushed, the faster the wind blew. She tried harder and the wind howled. Sand scoured her skin, blasted the figures on the ground, covered their faces.
When the wind ceased its assault a hard silence descended. She was suddenly alone, staring at the place where father and son had lain.
It had been the same every time she had the dream. Until last night. Last night when she called for help Frohike appeared, Langly and Byers behind him, watching the desert, standing guard.
“Don’t wait too long,” he warned. He placed something in her hand.
Suddenly the desert was gone. Instead of being surrounded by sand and stone, they were in a room filled with dark furniture and warm light.
Monica looked down at her empty hands then spun around, to ask Frohike what he had given her but the Gunmen had faded away.
She turned back to the tableau in front of her. Mulder was on his feet, whole and strong. His skin was smooth, white teeth flashed in his face, as laughing, he swung a cranky red-faced boy around in his arms. Finally mollified, the boy giggled and snuggled up against his father’s broad chest, then Will’s eyes closed, lips puckering as he sucked his thumb.
Tears streamed down her face as she watched her friend kiss his child and place him in a crib. Mulder clasped his sleepy son’s hand and then smiled as the mobile above the crib spun lazily.
She woke, her hand going to her face to wipe away the tears. For the first time, tears bathed her face with hope instead of burning them with grief.
Monica had been the recipient of prescient dreams her whole life. She had been near despair at the strength of this one. She couldn’t find Mulder to talk to him about it. Couldn’t bear to tell Dana and while he’d come a long way, John still didn’t believe her most of the time. For some reason, she didn’t want to tell Skinner.
But Frohike. . . why hadn’t she thought of him before? Frohike had always been there to help Mulder. She reached for the phone, daring to hope the Gunman could help him again.