From: calobee@gmail.com   
      
   Umbra Reverie by 6hoursgirl   
     Summary: Mulder and Scully find their son, setting off a series   
   of events that force them to confront some painful and   
   terrifying truths.   
     Disclaimer: I love 'em, but I don't own 'em.   
     Category: X   
     Sub-categories: R,A   
     Rating: R   
     Spoilers: I Want to Believe, Season 10   
     Keywords: Mulder/Scully   
     Content: Post-Series   
     Author's Note: I used to publish X-Files fanfic on my personal   
   website c. 1999, but this is my first attempt at something longer   
   than a short story, and published to a wider audience (read: I'm   
   a newb). I tried to stick as close to the original series' canon   
   as possible. I hope you enjoy, and thank you for reading.   
   #   
        FREMONT COUNTY, WYOMING   
        JUNE 18, 2005   
        8:27 A.M.   
        The little boy plays on the screen porch of a shabby   
   two-story house, reaching across a small pile of toys, engrossed   
   in a game of play-pretend. From inside the house, he can hear his   
   mom washing the breakfast dishes--the sounds of splashing water   
   and her humming along with the radio assure him everything is   
   right with the world. It's a bright, beautiful spring day, and in   
   this, the last moment of true peace in his life, he wants for   
   nothing.   
        He's pretending his cars are monster-trucks-turned-robots,   
   like in that cartoon, Transformers. His mom won't let him watch   
   it, she says it's too violent, but one time she fell asleep and   
   left the TV on, and he saw a few minutes. He wasn't scared,   
   though. He's a big boy now, he doesn't get scared; that's baby   
   stuff.   
        The robot cars engage in a battle against mutant dinosaur   
   invaders; the target, a well-loved green T-Rex. His yellow   
   Matchbox truck is Bumblebee, a fierce protector of good, and the   
   small metal toy thrums along the porch floor, aided by the boy's   
   soft engine noises. The T-Rex roars ferociously, bringing terror   
   down on Manhattan. The boy doesn't know what "Manhattan" is, but   
   he's heard about it on the news, and it sounds important.   
        A shadow crosses his face. He lets go of the toys, becoming   
   quiet and still, unnaturally so for a boy of three. He focuses on   
   the truck, and as he does so, the toy begins to quiver. His   
   eyes--a deep, crystal blue--bear down on the toy with startling   
   intensity. A frown of concentration creases his small face as the   
   car moves seemingly of its own volition, plastic wheels creaking   
   along the rough porch floor, gathering speed until it slams into   
   the side of the dinosaur toy, knocking it over.   
        A fleeting moment passes, and the shadow is gone. The boy   
   sits back on his heels, surveying his work, pleased. The robot   
   cars win; good prevails.   
        The screen door slams behind him as his father rushes out,   
   late for work. The little boy brightens and runs after him, down   
   the steps, leaping into his arms, laughing.   
        "Daddy! Wanna come!"   
        The man smiles and swoops his son into a hug. The boy buries   
   his face in his daddy's warm flannel shirt; it smells of smoke   
   from the old stove in their kitchen, and in later years, he will   
   take comfort from the scent of a wood fire, unconsciously   
   associating it with his father's love.   
        But the moment is fleeting. His daddy gently but firmly   
   unwraps the boy's arms from around his neck, puts him back down.   
        "Not this time, buddy. Daddy's late. I'll see you when I get   
   home."   
        He steps into the cab of the truck and closes the door with   
   a final thunk. The boy begins to cry and fuss with the kind of   
   visceral anger known only to small children--he stomps his foot   
   on the ground, fists curled into tight balls, yelling, "Nooooo!!   
   Dada! I want Dada!" His mama calls it "baby talk," and he's a big   
   boy now, too big for baby talk, but he doesn't care.   
        The tantrum continues in fits of sobbing and stomping as his   
   dad's truck backs slowly down the driveway, brakes creaking as   
   it pauses at the mouth, ready to pull onto the gravel road.   
        An idea presents itself. Some part of him knows this is a   
   Bad Idea, a Very Bad Idea, but curiosity wins out over common   
   sense. He focuses on the red Chevy through hot tears, stifling   
   hiccups. He concentrates again, but harder this time, hard enough   
   to make his small head ache, holding his breath until his lungs   
   scream for air. He's too young to articulate it, but there is a   
   powerful shift in the energy around him; he's drawing it into   
   himself, gathering it, using his small body like a magnifying   
   glass to direct the rays of the sun. His eyes narrow into slits   
   as he sends the energy outward.   
        Maybe, just maybe...maybe he can control his father's truck   
   the same way he controls his toys.   
        Maybe I can make him stay.   
        His father, oblivious to the boy's intent gaze, backs into   
   the road and waves a last, cheerful goodbye, and the boy's   
   shoulders slump forward as his daddy pulls away.   
        Dumb trick didn't work.   
        He kicks at the dirt with the toe of his scuffed Keds,   
   sending up a puff of dust as he turns to make his way back to the   
   house.   
        From the corner of his eye, he sees the cab of the departing   
   truck erupt in flames.   
        His head turns, eyes widening in curious, terrified awe,   
   tears already drying in salty rivulets on his cheeks. He wills   
   himself to run, but his feet remain frozen to the ground. The   
   flames rise up, up, up, dancing, drawing him in.   
        A distant scream jolts him out of his reverie.   
        That's my daddy. My Daddy is screaming.   
        This terrifies him, the thought of his father surrounded by   
   angry flames, and he runs for the house, yelling, "MA! Mama!" She   
   meets him at the door, confused, unaware her husband is moments   
   from his last breath.   
        "Mama! The truck...Daddy's in...FIRE," he chokes out between   
   sobs, but his mother doesn't understand.   
        Fire? She thinks. What fire? John just left for work, how   
   could--   
        There's a sickeningly loud explosion as the gas tank   
   ignites.   
        She runs out to the porch and down the steps, stumbling at   
   the bottom in a panic, but catching herself before she can fall,   
   just in time to see her husband's truck go up in a fireball. The   
   house shakes from the blast, windows cracking with the shockwave,   
   debris scattering itself across their neatly mowed lawn. A piece   
   of the truck's cab door flies into the air and descends with a   
   faint whistling noise before embedding itself in their push   
   mower.   
        I told him not to leave that out, she thinks, before reality   
   sinks its cold, dead fingers into her consciousness.   
        The boy stands in the doorway, tears streaming down his   
   cheeks as his mother falls to her knees on the earth, hands   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)