Author: Folieadeux
Rating: None
Category: Vignette, MA
Distribution: Okay. Keep headers in tact and drop me a note.
Spoilers: This takes place directly after Sein Und Zeit so
anything related to Teena Mulder
Feedback: Hell yeah.
Summary: "..something lives only as long as the last person who
remembers it." ~Albert Hosteen
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sadly, no money made. Mulder is David's.
Note: Thanks much to Phantagrae who kindly beta'd this and made
sure my lousy punctuation (or lack thereof) didn't get in the way
of my idea. Thank-you to Wench Teejay, my weekly geeky good time.
:Skinner kisses:

xXx

CYCLONE
by Folieadeux


"You are the memory, Fox. It lives in you." - Bill Mulder


GREENWICH, CONNECTICUT

He stood on the step staring at her front door, his eyes settled
on the brass doorknob. A speck of bright light bounced off the
gleaming metal, casting a tiny orb onto the toe of his shoe. He
moved his toe slightly watching the spot dip and swerve. Forcing
his eyes forward, he stared at the brass plate and knocker. His
reflection bounced back at him with a fractured expression. He
smiled ruefully at the irony of it. His chest expanded slowly as
he pulled his shoulders back and forced his lungs to fill with
air. He wondered briefly if she did that - filled her lungs with
poison in defiance of her fear.

He promptly pushed the thought away and slid his key in the lock.
Turning the deadbolt quickly, he pushed his way inside. He paused
on the threshold as the warm familiar air of her house wafted by
him, mixing with the outside air, forming an invisible cyclone
around him. Closing the door behind him, he slid off his jacket
and laid it on the hall bench. He'd promised himself that he
would not take too much time doing this, that he would be quick
and efficient, without unnecessary emotions. Just like she'd do
it, like she had done it when it had been her turn.

He sat in the hallway, his back propped against the wall,
watching her. It was late spring and the yearly housecleaning was
in full force. The scene was misleading in its normalcy. A woman
in an apron and a freshly washed house dress ripping sheets from
a little girl's twin bed, shaking puffs of dust in the air that
floated in the sunshine before disappearing to wherever those
particles went. Her jaw was set tight and her face was
determined. Only twin paths of tears betrayed her calm exterior.

He kept silent, a skill he was beginning to hone as the weeks
wore on and his sister didn't return. Every day the house grew
more and more silent while they all pretended. What they were
pretending was something he had yet to figure out.

Pulling a handwritten list from the back pocket of his jeans he
unfolded the tasks before him. The paper was worn and soft in his
hands - the scribbles covering it reflected the jumbled uneven
thoughts of the last week. In an effort to organize himself he
had underlined the tasks he felt were most important.

DO HARDEST FIRST

Making his way to the dining room, he spied the large stack of
flattened boxes Rosemary had been gathering in anticipation of
his visit. Rosemary Reed was his mother's neighbor and come to
find out, closest friend. Her clear friendly voice on his
answering machine had been a bit of a shock. He knew little of
his mother's daily life, probably about as much as she knew of
his. They preferred it that way, it kept things tidy. Just the
way she liked it.

He returned Rosemary's call and gratefully accepted her offer to
help tie up some loose ends. She phoned any acquaintances to
inform them of his mother's death, a task he had dreaded and had
been all too happy to parcel out.

They had lost contact with any family on his father's side after
the divorce and Teena Mulder rarely spoke about any of her own
family. The Mulder clan were not big family reunion types. The
idea of them sitting around a big table with a host of relatives
was not something he could begin to picture. He flashed on the
idea of his family tree - a withered spindly group of roots -
wound down to a single knotty finger. The notion that it would
end with him was moderately comforting on good days, and
overwhelming on bad ones.

Grabbing some boxes and a roll of tape, Mulder made his way to
his mother's room. He tried not to notice the scattered remnants
of the police investigation as he passed through her house. The
idea of her house filled with people she didn't know caused a
reaction in him he hadn't expected. How many times had he
callously strolled through someone's house as they lay on the
kitchen floor? Certainly more then he cared to remember.

He spoke to his mother as he climbed the stairs to her room. He
found himself doing it all the time now, performing these one
sided conversations in his head, or whispered aloud when he was
alone, like now. It had occurred to him that he spoke to her now
more than when she was alive. Another avenue of thought he would
try to avoid.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry strangers were in your house. I'm
sorry I wasn't here first."

Entering her room felt like standing next to her. Every
possession setting off bittersweet land mines in his brain. The
intimacy overwhelmed him, and he made his way to her bed and sat
down. Dropping his items on the floor, he laid back, legs
dangling uncomfortably over the side.

"Mom, are you sure you don't want anything else?" Mulder looked
around the summer house, its corners still crowded with the
clutter of past vacations: beach balls, water wings, brightly
colored beach towels. Standing in the middle of the living room,
holding a large box in his arms, he stared at his mother in
disbelief.

Taking a quick look around, Teena Mulder's face remained blank, a
barely perceptible tightness around her mouth. "I'm sure."

"Why don't you think about it for a few days, Mom? Don't decide
now."

"Fox" she turned to face him, her voice steady, "I will never set
foot in this house again."

He believed her.

Shaking himself from his reverie, he sat upright and got busy
taping boxes together. He moved quickly through her
dresser drawers putting clothes in boxes without stopping to look
at them. Taping them up, he marked each one as he finished and
stacked them in the hallway. He made several more trips to the
dining room for more boxes before the room began to look empty.

PACK WHAT YOU WANT TO KEEP

Grabbing more boxes, he made his way to the living room. The
drapes were pulled and it was shady and cool, small slices of
sunshine peeking through gaps here and there. He avoided opening
the drapes and instead turned on the several lamps scattered
around the room.

Turning to the book shelves, he brushed his fingertips over the
titles. The bindings were beginning to gather dust, something his
mother would hate. Many of the titles were familiar to him,
remains of an interrupted childhood. Encyclopedia Britannica: a
sixth grade prize for selling the most raffle tickets for a
school event he could no longer remember. The Time Life books his
dad bought him for his birthday when he turned twelve. Pulling
out the most worn of the group, he brought it to his face and
breathed in the fake leather smell.

"Sam, quit bothering your brother and let him open his presents."
Bill Mulder's voice meant business and the little girl sat down
swiftly, an annoyed look on her face. Folding her arms across her
chest, she swung one foot rapidly back and forth under her chair.
"Come on, Fox. Hurry up." Samantha whined.

Giving his sister a devilish glare, Fox Mulder deliberately
slowed his movements until the wrapping paper ripped in
millimeter increments. "Is this fast enough?"

"Mom!"

"Fox, stop teasing your sister and act your age." Teena Mulder
stood with her hands on her hips, frowning at her son.

"Yes, ma'am." Fox quickly opened the rest of his present and
stared in shock at the books. Pulling out one book, he gazed at
the colored picture of the Apollo spacecraft on the cover.
Standing promptly, he made his way to where his father sat and
gave him a quick, happy hug. "Thanks, Dad."

"You're welcome, Son."

Mulder slowly opened the well-worn book and read the inscription,
still visible so many lifetimes later. "Fox, Happy Birthday.
Love, Mom & Dad". Little did they know how fast everything would
change after that day. Except that his father must have known by
then; must have been planning for the future even while he sat
eating birthday cake with his family. Mulder stared blankly at
the bookshelves, letting the enormity of that idea flow over and
through him.

"Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy
birthday, dear Fox! Happy birthday to you! And many
more..."

Abruptly scooping up the rest of the Time Life books, Mulder
placed them in the box. He told himself he would not do this and
here he was, rendered dazed by a nearly thirty-year-old book.
Pulling himself upright, he took an expansive breath and cleared
his head. Looking through the rest of the bookshelf, he put three
books into his box and packed the rest in boxes for Goodwill.
Feeling mildly proud of himself, he took his half-full box and
moved on to the next bookshelf.

It contained mostly gardening and travel books. His mother never
traveled, but she loved to look at picture books of other
countries. As far as he knew, she had never been anywhere but
Oxford, to visit him once when he was at school. She had stayed a
week and seemed to enjoy herself. She spent hours walking in the
gardens throughout the campus. He'd been so proud of himself that
trip. Proud of his ability to make her happy, to share this new
part of himself with her. He had tried to get her to stay longer,
to extend her trip another week, but she had refused. She told
him that the trip was already perfect and that extending it was
not necessary.

Spotting a picture book on sailboats, Mulder thumbed through the
pages, seeing if it might be something Scully would like. He had
not told her he was doing this today. She'd be frustrated with
him for not telling her, she'd want to help him if she could. But
he wasn't ready for her to be here just yet. There was too much
of his mother here still, too much mist and haze, too much
something...something intangible.

He'd always been sensitive about his mother around Scully. He
felt a need to protect her from Scully's level gaze, that gaze
that saw everything and said nothing. His enormous love for his
mother was matched only by his rage with her, combined with a
need to protect her from further pain. Scully's relationship with
her own mother was the antithesis of his and he was sensitive to
the disparity.

The sound of the doorbell disrupted his thoughts and jerked him
back to the present. Tossing the sailboat book into his box, he
made his way to the front door. Expecting to see Rosemary, he was
surprised to find a young man carrying a box of groceries.

"Grocery delivery," the boy said.

"Excuse me?"

"I have Mrs. Mulder's weekly grocery delivery. Is she here?"

Mulder stood dumbly, his hand still on the doorknob, unsure how
to proceed.

"Right. Well, I'm her son, and I'm sorry, but my mother passed -
she died last week. I...I didn't realize she had groceries
delivered..." Mulder's voice faded and he forced himself to quit
speaking.

"Oh," the young man said. He looked down at his feet, then up at
Mulder. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do if this happens."

Mulder just stared at the kid - thinking how unsure he was
himself of what you were supposed to do when this happened.

"Did you know my mother?" he finally asked.

"No, no, not really. She seemed like a nice lady, though. Do you
mind if I put these boxes down? I need to call my boss - I'm not
sure if there's something I'm supposed to do."

"Something you're supposed to do?" Mulder had no idea what the
kid could be talking about. Surely they weren't going to charge
him for her groceries?

"You know, like paperwork or something..."

Mulder pulled out his wallet and placed a card on top of one of
the boxes, "I'll tell you what, if there's something that needs
to be done - which I doubt - why don't you tell your boss to call
that number. Okay?"

The kid looked at the card, spotting the large "F.B.I." almost
immediately (they usually did) and looked back at Mulder, a light
in his eyes. "Hey, your mom told me about you. Said you were
important, you know, said you worked for the F.B.I."

Suddenly he felt like sitting down. It was too bright outside,
this boy was too pleasant, his voice too loud. "Yeah, yeah,
that's me. Thanks, call if you..." Mulder shut the door on the
too bright figure. Turning around, he braced his back against the
door and found himself slowly sinking to the floor.

"Oh, Mom." He exhaled softly as his body folded onto itself.
Pulling up his legs, he rested his arms on his knees and laid his
head back against the door. He was sure he wouldn't be able to
cry like this again, that he was all cried out, but here it was,
the familiar burn in his sinuses and the rush of slippery saliva
flooding his mouth.

Why didn't she tell him? Why didn't she hold on just a little bit
longer? Why wouldn't she ever let him help her? The usual barrage
of "what-ifs" that his mind seemed never to tire asking engulfed
him and he cried. He cried for the cruelty of his mother's life,
for the future that stretched out before him without her. No more
chances, no more answers, no more questions. No more anything,
just packing of boxes and disassembling of a life that seemed
pointless and cruel. Who would remember them? Who would remember
her? He'd never totally seen her, charted her depths or
understood her, and now she was disappearing in front of his very
eyes--into boxes and charity shops, and now her groceries were
stopping and soon she would be gone. Vanished. Like she never
existed.


THE END