From: Silver Fox Date: 13 Jul 1998 01:06:35 GMT Subject: NEW-- Forgotten 1/1 VA Pre-XF Title: "Forgotten" Author: Kathleen Brown Rating: PG-13? Classification: VA Pre-XF Distribution: Go for it, Gossamer. I love you guys. Spoilers: Anasazi. Summary: A long-forgotten childhood "vacation" leads Fox to cross paths with someone from his future. Disclaimer: Fox Mulder isn't mine, but if anyone's willing to give... Notes: Equinox tells me that Anasazi played while I was gone this weekend. The perfect time for me to send out my little V-fun. :) I just love crushing little Fox's hopes and dreams. At least I have one less story to go into withdrawl over while I'm gone. *~*~*~*~* Forgotten *~*~*~*~* Farmington, New Mexico. July, 1978. Angrily folding his arms across his chest, Fox Mulder watched his father drive out of sight. He squinted against the hot summer sun, all ready feeling himself baking, a trickle of sweat running down his side. He brushed the dust out of his hair and looked around, finding, for now, only a run down motel in this one-horse ghost town. He walked across the street, searching back in his mind for the address his father had given him. 114 Elm Street. *I hope the city planners didn't strain themselves with that one.* Fox guessed there wasn't an Elm within fifty miles of here. He also couldn't understand why he couldn't just stay home on the Vineyard. He was almost seventeen years old, he didn't need a baby- sitter, didn't need anybody to take care of him (he'd been taking care of himself for years, as far as he was concerned). His mother was with family (her family, family which Fox hadn't seen or heard from for years), but why couldn't Fox stay on the Vineyard by himself? He'd posed the question to his father and only gotten a cold silence in reply. This morning Fox had finally stopped fighting, tossed identical pairs of jeans together with his gray T-shirts, not caring what his father thought about his clothes, not caring about anything but the fact he didn't want to go to New Mexico; Not when this was his last real summer at home. Next year would be too caught up in college preparations and tearful good-byes. Fox didn't get to enjoy his freedom, but in his life, where was the change? Always ruled over by his father's iron fist, living in fear, living in seclusion, his books his only companions. Fox walked through the small town, sweating hard, hardly noticing the people watching from their porches, enjoying a cool beer on a hot day. Indian blood, he noticed. Something within him stirred in respect, reminding him of the long-held respect for these people. Curiosity from a long time ago, awakened with his name, earning him the shameful distinction as an "Indian Lover" in his history class, as if he wasn't enough of an outcast. Fox was more ashamed of his shame than his nickname, given after a sudden outburst during the Civil War, proclaiming his disgust for someone who once said that the natives got all they deserved. Fox couldn't begin to comprehend the logic. He had argued, what if the Germans came in and took over America, destroying homes and families, taking the lives of innocent people. 'It could never happen', they argued. His response was one of 'What _if_?'. Still their minds couldn't follow. They insisted that it had been different. We 'made their lives better'. Fox couldn't begin to imagine a world where he was not allowed to live in his home, where he was not allowed to learn his way, to speak his language, to wear his same worn clothes, to practice whatever religion it was he wanted. Forced to believe in a God he couldn't comprehend. Fox didn't see how stealing a people's world could be anything but the rape of a culture. Fox stumbled wearily down Elm street, surprised at how quickly the sun had sapped him of his energy. This was not the same sun that watched over the Vineyard, giving all the trees their life, tanning his skin a soft brown, drying the sand upon his body as he laid on the beach. This sun burned his skin an angry red and propelled the wind as it whipped harsh desert sand across his face. Fox ached for water without the cool tangy breeze of the ocean and suppressed a shiver as his sweat trickled down, back between his shoulderblades. Squinting painfully, his vision blurred, Fox turned towards a house he guessed was marked with the right numbers. He quietly took in the plain facade and the short covered porch, aching for home, his parents' big house with the wraparound porch and the potted plants, the railing wide enough to stretch out and nap on. Gathering his courage, Fox knocked softly on the door, starting when a man in his mid-fifties stood where the wooden paneling had just been. He had a strong Indian face and dark hair hung long down his back. Fox gasped softly, then shrank back in embarrassment, knowing this person would never understand the young reasoning behind the reaction. He hung his head, not wanting to disrespect the man, falling back into the rituals of meeting that his father had, on more than one occasion, beaten into him. Fox spoke softly, consciously trying not to mumble, but failing due to the intensity of his shyness. Fox didn't want to reach this man, for fear he might reach Fox. "My name is Fox Mulder." The man reached out his hand to touch Fox's hair. Curious, Fox lifted his head, and the man pulled back before he actually touched the boy. "My name is Albert Hosteen." Fox nodded softly, carefully remembering the name. He noticed a young man inside the house, a few years older than him, perhaps in his early twenties. Before him, Albert reached out and took Fox's forearm in his hand, making no mention of the fact it curled completely around. He only shook his head sadly at the red cast to Fox's still-sensitive skin. He gently lured the boy inside. Fox was unsure, but he entered anyway. Anything was better than staying outside with no water. Hosteen closed the door behind himself, and Fox was shocked by the coolness of the house, especially with the lack of an air conditioner. No one, especially not anyone living here, would have an air conditioner and open windows. Fox lifted his face to gaze once upon at Hosteen, smiling uneasily. Hosteen led Fox into the kitchen, indicating he sit. Fox complied as the older man filled a water glass. "Your father should be back this evening. It was urgent he get here, you understand." Fox nodded and drank greedily. "We want you to be comfortable here. This business of your father's may take several weeks." Hosteen sat diagonal to Fox, at the head of the table. Fox was surprised. He wasn't scared of this man like he was scared of his father. He swallowed hard and tried to speak through the lump the water formed in his throat. "Weeks?" Hosteen nodded, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "He didn't tell you?" Fox shook his head. "I only heard about this a few nights ago. Dad didn't tell me anything." "Are you sure?" Fox nodded, annoyance stirring within him. "I'd remember if he had told me." Hosteen shook his head and Fox could see genuine disgust in the man's expression. Comfortable with the knowledge that this man seemed to care about him, Fox relaxed. It was only then that he noticed the cold breeze on his neck, the chill of an oscillating fan as it turned his sweat into icy prickles upon his skin. He shook, suddenly very cold. Rapidly growing frightened. He didn't understand the motivation behind this, but was comforted when Albert saw the near- panic in his eyes. Hosteen stood and helped Fox to his feet, carefully grabbing him as he sore legs buckled. Fox wanted to cry, feeling guilty and ashamed. "I'm sorry. I'm not used to this. I just wanted to go home." Hosteen nodded and walked Fox into the back of the house, giving him his independence when he pulled gently away, but not moving from his side. "It's a long trip. You must be exhausted." "First we had to take the ferry off the Vineyard, then we drove to Boston. Flew to Santa Fe and we've been driving for four hours." Fox realized he sounded like he was about to cry. His voice grew calmer, but weary. "I'm so tired." "It's been a very long day, and it's only six o'clock." Fox looked at the man, puzzled a moment, before it dawned on him. Time zones. It would be around nine or ten on the Vineyard. Once again, Fox felt intensely homesick. Mr. Hosteen led Fox into a sparsely decorated bedroom, smiling as the young man immediately dove for the twin bed. "Get some rest. Have you eaten?" Fox shook his head, wincing. "I haven't eaten all day. I don't do well traveling." The old man could respect that, quietly walking back towards the hallway. "Bathroom's down the hall and if you need anything, don't be afraid to ask, Fox." The boy nodded softly, gratitude evident on his face. "Thank you, Mr. Hosteen." The man smiled and closed the door. Fox let his head hang in exhaustion. He was ashamed of himself for what he had done, for breaking down, nearly crying. He was this man's guest. Did he now think that he would be baby-sitting the younger Mulder? Fox shook his head and silenced his mind, all thoughts turning to sleep. He slid out of his sweaty gray shirt, pulled off his dusty blue jeans, and slid between the soft, unfamiliar sheets. It was cool here, and Fox dropped off immediately. *~*~*~*~* The young man sat quietly on the back steps, watching silently, disconnected, as the old man and his son, Andrew, tended to the chickens and rabbits penned in their yard. Andrew Hosteen watched Fox Mulder quietly. He saw the boy's exhaustion, his painful seclusion from others, his soft, sorrowful eyes. He had heard the boy stirring in the night, watched him. The boy lay dreaming, then awoke, paralyzed. Andrew watched as his body slowly came into awareness, watched the boy's chest heave in the night. Fox slipped out of his bed and walked across the room, unsteady on his feet, walking to the window to stare at the moon. Andrew went back to sleep, unable to bear the boy's quiet dignity. Andrew felt that way now, overpowered by the young man's silent strength, the way he carried himself. Pain bowed his shoulders, but a small amount of pride slipped into those careful steps. Andrew's father had told him that the boy was fighting a battle against his father, and that the boy was winning, growing independent of the old man. That this fight was what gave the boy his reason for living, his strength to succeed. Fox laid his head against the pillar which supported the beginning of the stairs' banister and the end of the porch railing. His eyes slid closed and he breathed deeply, falling into an impromptu nap. The boy was tired. Andrew couldn't blame him. The boy got no exercise other than a long run before sunrise, did nothing but ravage his father's books. He soaked up knowledge in a way Andrew couldn't even begin to comprehend and seemed to spend hours contemplating the words. Both young men looked up at Albert's soft call. Fox woke at the sound of his name, Andrew started at the sudden break in the quiet. Albert watched Fox wake, watched the boy wipe tears from his eyes. He was merely exhausted, not distressed. The old man beckoned Fox over, smiling as he made his shy way toward him. Such a calm boy, but too nervous for his own good. Albert lifted one of the rabbits out of the cage and placed it in the boy's hands while he returned to feed the animals. Fox stared at the small creature with something close to awe in his eyes, and also something Andrew could easily discern as love. He smiled. The boy had found a companion, perhaps not human, perhaps not the popular choice, but a companion nonetheless. Fox slowly dropped into a crouch, let the animal onto the ground. It sat still a moment, twitching in fear, but laid it's ears back under Fox's soft fingertip. The boy smiled. "Fox!" Everyone stilled. Fox's eyes closed slowly. He hung his head, suddenly weary, and turned to his father, who stood tall and foreboding on the back steps. Beside him Fox recognized the man from home, the tall, thin, ferret-faced man. It had been a while. Before Sam's disappearance, at least. Fox hung his head in shame. Andrew bent down to pick up the small rabbit as it fearfully hopped by. Andrew's father stepped toward Mr. Mulder. "Bill." "Albert. What's going on?" "I put Fox to work." "He's not working. He's sitting around staring off like he usually does." "He's tired. I don't think he's well." "He's always like this. Just ignore it. Put him to work like any other boy. He needs to learn how to be an adult. It's about time, too." "Where will you be?" "The Base." "When will you be back?" "Tomorrow. I left Fox's bag on the porch." He turned and left. Fox walked slowly toward the back steps, not lifting his head to face a soul. Albert slowly creeped up behind him, waiting. Fox began to collapse, his knees buckling, his hands thrown out to break his fall, when Albert and Andrew grabbed him and gently laid him on the ground. Fox looked at them both, utterly grateful, but simply too tired to thank them. Fox Mulder awoke in his bed, between cool white sheets. He felt kind hands on his forehead, brushing away his hair with a wet cloth. His soft brown eyes fluttered open and he saw Albert Hosteen carefully ministering to him. He swallowed painfully, then lifted his head to reach for the glass Hosteen offered him. After a moment he laid back exhausted, watching the old man. "What happened?" Hosteen took the cloth from the boy's forehead, rewetting it in a bowl nearby. "You haven't been eating. You're tired. You're not used to the sun here. It can be tough on a person like you." "Like me?" Fox closed his eyes for a long moment, listening. "Sensitive. Your father was right. You tired easily, Fox?" He opened his eyes, nodded slightly. "You can feel things other people can't. Your mind is too strong for your body. You're too young. You'll always be too young for some of the things you feel." "I don't feel anything." "You may not think you do. You've never been anyone else, you wouldn't remember what it's like. You know things, Fox. You may not realize it, but you do. You'll realize it soon." Fox carefully watched the old man. "Where is my Dad?" "He's at the Base." "Where is that?" "Not far. A few miles from here." "Why is he there?" "You'll find out." "You know, don't you?" Fox sat up in his bed, his head spinning, woozy. "I wouldn't be here if you didn't know what was happening." He got no answer as the old man returned the cloth to his forehead. Fox ripped the cloth away and pounded his fist on the mattress. "What is he hiding from me?!" He quieted. "What is he trying to protect me from?" "I know you won't like the answer I'm giving you, Fox, but I'll tell you when you're older." "How old?" He recoiled. The boy wasn't fighting it. He just wanted to know. Albert was ready to tell him then and there, so impressed was he by the young Mulder's answer. Albert shook his head sadly. "I don't know. But it won't matter until I tell you. If I tell you now it would only destroy you." Fox watched him for a long moment. He slid lower between the sheets and laid his head upon the pillow, watching Hosteen with his sad, trusting eyes. *~*~*~*~* In a dark room, men are discussing business. "Does he know?" "I tell you, he doesn't know." "The man knows who he is. His importance to us." "Will he tell him?" "He won't tell him. Not if he values his life." "His, or the boy's?" "You wouldn't hurt him." "Wouldn't I?" "You haven't all ready." "Only because I know you can't be trusted." "I can be trusted!" "Prove it." "How?" "Let us do it." "But I'm telling you he doesn't _know_ anything." "Has he told you, Bill? Has he said anything to you about it?" "He hasn't told me anything in almost five years." "Then you don't _know_, do you?" "I think it should be done." "I do, too." "This is completely unnecessary. I'm telling you, he doesn't _know_ anything." "Then we won't be doing any harm." "There are risks with this sort of thing." "We'll be careful with him." "I don't like this." "Bring him here. Tonight. We'll do it then." "I don't want to do this." "But you're going to do it." "I won't be a part of this." *~*~*~*~* Fox pulled against the restraints. He heaved with all the might in his young body, pulling desperately against the leather straps. Tears mingled with the stinging eyedrops and ran down his cheeks in sticky trails. He sobbed and heaved against the gray men, screaming as their piercing needles went into his arms. Blood was taken and sedatives administered, body tissues, cells, and fluids were taken for research and further use. Fox screamed as their rubbery fingers touched him in uncomfortable places. Bright light glared in his eyes, he couldn't see his tormentors. All he saw were gray men. He shrank back in horror at the sight of them. When he was released he scrambled off the table and huddled in the corner, howling in fear. The gray men approached him and he continued his frantic shrieking, calling out for help from anyone who could hear him. He tucked his legs up close to his chest and covered his face with his hands, sobbing. A door opened and closed with a hydraulic hiss. The room cleared. Bill Mulder stared in horror at the men entering the room with him. "How could you do that to him?! He's in pain!" "He's just frightened. The tranquilizers should take effect soon." "He won't remember anything?" "Nothing." "Take him home, Bill. See that he gets some rest. He's been in an accident. He's okay, but he's been in the hospital for a few days with a concussion. He'll need to recuperate." "This isn't right. I won't be a party to this." "Listen to me." "You're killing him. You're trying to destroy him when you don't even know if he's a threat." "He's going into Oxford next fall. Psychology major. That's all we need to know." *~*~*~*~* Fox Mulder awoke in his bedroom, smiling through his headache at the comforting sounds of the sea not far from where he lay. He suddenly sank back in confusion. The last thing he remembered was driving with his father toward the ferry. Why was he so wonderfully comforted? He heard the ocean and the gulls every day. It's not like he'd been away recently. Fox turned his head looking for an explaination, noticing his father beside him. "Dad?" His father looked up, smiling, lifting his head out of his hands. "Fox. How are you feeling?" "My head hurts. What happened?" "There was a car accident. You were hurt and have been unconscious for three days." "What happened?" "I don't remember very well myself, Fox. But you're feeling all right?" Fox nodded absently, trying desperately to gather his thoughts into a coherent timeline. He then looked up, shocked to feel his father softly kiss his forehead. "Get some rest, Fox. You're still not well. I've got to get to work. Your mother will get you anything you need." He nodded and watched his father leave. Suddenly exhausted, Fox turned over in his bed and stared out the window, trying to figure out who the Indian man was, and why he had been so kind. The End. Copyright Kathleen Brown, July 10, 1998. Feedback will be used as a replacement for Prozac. And trust me... I need some....