Pursuits
Not a single thing had moved in the house. There were no shattered windows, no upturned objects, no turned on lights, no sound. Nothing. Samantha Mulder had disappeared without a trace.
The police didn’t need to say it, because everyone else already was. They’re back. It was torture, because no one seemed to care about the tragedy that had just occurred. They cared only that the town would once be great again; that the sightings would be prominent and the reporters would come flocking back.
When he returned home, the police had already searched the house. There wasn’t a fingerprint, a ransom note, a sign or proof that Samantha was alive or a sliver of hope that she would ever come home. And they didn’t keep looking, because to them, their answer wasn’t on the ground anymore. It wasn’t in Samantha’s belongings or in trace evidence. It was in the sky.
Mulder felt sick. She was thirteen years old, finishing her eighth grade year. He should’ve been there, should’ve protected her. She would’ve been home, asleep, if only he hadn’t went to Frohike’s house.
Fox Mulder didn’t classify himself as the type to cry. But as Bill and Teena answered questions with such vibrance, such excitement, he cried. He cried because no one else would cry for Samantha. They were rejoicing because the belief was back.
The blame for Samantha’s disappearance was a lot of weight to carry for a 17 year old, but Mulder shouldered it because no one else would.The light in his parent’s eyes said the game is back on, and it sickened him that they thought of it as just another day at the office. They were so damn excited. Grief was under there somewhere, but it was sheltered by unfaltering belief.
He hated them. He hated them and their quest.
Because to them, it didn’t matter where she was, or if she was alive. It didn’t even matter who had taken her. They cared about what had taken her. In one horrible moment, Mulder realized that they cared more about the existence of extraterrestrial life than their daughter. Samantha, who collected rocks and had her friends over on Thursdays.
Samantha, who argued over TV shows with Mulder. Samantha, who did not deserve to be part of some fucked-up science experiment.
Mulder went to his room, locked himself in the bathroom, and threw up twice. He cried and cried and began to understand the metaphor of shaking like a leaf: fragile, weightless, the absence of autonomy to where he was going to end up.
Head rested against the wall, he felt detached from his body. Disassociation made his body cold, and his torso light. Anchored to his body, he tried to return, shouting loud and louder. He tried to cut the chains, to set himself free from a mortal form.
His fault. His fault.
The real Fox wasn’t down there, covered in tears and sweat, he was floating above the roof. He was searching for his sister in the skies. That was the only place she would be found.
Mulder realized, frozen and shaking on the cold tile floor, that he would do anything to have his sister back. He would sacrifice everything if it meant to have her home.
----------------------
Dana Scully wasn’t drunk, but she was tipsy. The world was blurred at the edges, and everything was a little hazy. Except for Monica. The dark-haired girl threw the bottle back for another swig.
Monica. The name was sweet, but there was an ache behind it. It was the softest love Scully had ever known in 17 years, and it was fading with every sunset. Every day that passed was one day closer.
She took the bottle from Monica’s hand and took a long drink, forcing the burn into the back of her throat. She felt sick, from alcohol and heat and some version of grief. It was pre-grief, preparing herself for loss she knew was coming.
Monica took her hand. “Are you okay?”
Scully felt incredibly unsteady, with a thousand words to say that made her throat tighten and her breathing speed up. I love you. I Love You. What was coming next in her life was unavoidable, but all the logic she put to it didn’t make it less painful.
She leaned forward and pressed her lips against Monica’s, hoping to silence her mind. What greeted her was warm but fleeting. Soft but fading. She ran her fingers through Scully’s hair, and it felt as if the moment was desaturating around Scully. She was the only permanent thing there.
Monica pulled back, feeling tears on her cheeks. “Dana, what’s wrong?”
“Do you know I’ve loved you since I was fifteen?” The room was crushing around her, the air strangling her. Who the hell was she without Monica? The past two years meant nothing if Monica was already moving on, it was just wasted time. Every time Scully had stared up at her ceiling and felt butterflies meant nothing.
“This is about me leaving, isn’t it?”
Scully nodded. Suddenly her lungs weren’t breathing air anymore. She felt like she was drowning just thinking about it. Senior year alone. Wasn’t it supposed to be different? Wasn’t it supposed to be the year of perfect couples and perfect prom?
“I can’t imagine existing in this town without you. You keep me sane.”
Scully’s mom and the freakshow of believers around were only held at bay because of Monica. Her cool head, her peaceful soul. But she was leaving to somewhere better. That's what Scully wanted to believe.
She took Scully’s chin in her hand, staring into her eyes. “I love you. Endlessly.”
Scully steadied herself and stood up, letting go of Monica’s hand. “I have to go.” Despite Monica’s objection, she grabbed her sweatshirt.
“It’s okay. We’ll talk about this later. Melissa can drive me home. It’s okay.” Every word was an assurance, a promise. But Scully knew that she was lying, because it was so so far from okay.
As the door shut in her face, Monica took a breath and reminded herself of her goals, steadying her beliefs. Everything would be okay.
With shaky hands Scully dialed Melissa’s phone, listening to three rings before she picked up. “Hello?”
“Hey. It’s me. Can you come pick me up?”
“I thought you were staying the night at Monica’s?”
“Please just come get me.”
Moments passed and Melissa took a breath. “Of course. I’ll be there in five minutes.” She hung up the phone, and sat on the curb. Her white converse were scuffed and dirty with red dirt. Everything about her was red, her hair, the sunset, the stains on her shoes.
She took a deep breath, wiping away the tears. She was sure she looked a fright with smudged eyeliner and red-rimmed eyes. Sobering up, Scully brushed her hair out of her eyes. Being alone seemed impossible, but she had done it before. She was brave enough.
And as she looked up at the stars, she reminded herself that in the opinion of most astronomers, she was never alone.