Chapter Text
London, England
Late December 1922
He sighed as he stood in the ballroom, his leg aching, though he tried not to show it. Music swelled as people began to dance, laughter and conversation filling the room. He cleared his throat and glanced around, trying to find a clear path to avoid anyone as he attempted to go outside for some air.
“Fox!” His mother said as he turned, smiling at him, a glass of deep red wine in her hand. “Why are you standing here all alone?” She handed him her glass, reaching up to adjust his tie. He sighed and allowed her to fuss, even as he wished that she would just let him be.
“There. That’s better.” She patted his chest and he gave her what he hoped was a happy smile, though he knew how forced it felt. She took back her glass of wine, raised her eyebrows, and asked again. “Why are you here on your own?”
“No particular reason. I was uh…” He took a deep breath and shrugged his shoulders.
“Fox.” She shook her head at him and he let out his breath.
“I’m sorry, Mother.” He nodded and she sighed.
“Have you danced with anyone tonight?”
“No.”
“Fox… there are many women waiting for you to simply ask them.”
“I know.” He gave her another strained smile, their conversation not a new one.
Taking his arm, she raised an eyebrow as she waited for him to take a step. He did so, limping a bit as he grimaced. A few steps, and it was somewhat better, the limp less pronounced.
“Hello,” his mother said kindly to people as they passed and he smiled pleasantly, though he had no desire to speak to any of them. She steered them toward a cluster of women and he gritted his teeth.
A pretty woman with short blonde hair, in a dark green dress, smiled at him and he sighed through his nose, smiling as he knew was expected of him. She clasped her hands together as the other women around her stopped their chatter and looked toward him and his mother.
“Good evening, Mrs. Mulder. This is simply a lovely party.”
“Aren’t you just the sweetest,” his mother said. “You know Fox, of course. Fox, you know Ruby Andrews.”
“Yes. Good evening, Miss Andrews.” He bowed slightly, raising his eyes to the blonde woman.
“Mr. Mulder,” she said, the dimple in her cheek showing when she smiled.
"Fox was just telling me he was looking for a dance partner.” He forced a smile and nodded, not looking at his mother, but felt her squeezing his arm tightly.
“Yes, I was. Miss Andrews, would you be so kind as to escort me to the dance floor?”
“It would be my pleasure,” she agreed with a smile and he nodded.
“I will leave you here then, Mother. I’m sure you all will find something to discuss.” He kissed his mother’s cheek and then crooked his arm to Ruby. She slid her hand into it, allowing him to guide her away from the group.
He felt the familiar nervousness that came when he was alone with a woman, especially one of his mothers choosing. It always felt forced and uncomfortable.
“How are you, Mr. Mulder?” Ruby asked and he shook his head.
“Please, not that. Mr. Mulder sounds as though you’re speaking to my father.” Ruby laughed and he smiled, a little less strained than earlier.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you, I wasn’t sure what was proper anymore.”
“Miss Andrews-”
“Ruby, please… Fox.”
“Ruby.” He smiled at her and she smiled back. “I need to inform you, I’m not quite as skilled at dancing as I once was. My injuries-”
“Do they hurt terribly?” She looked at him with her wide green eyes and he wished he could run away. Run quickly and escape.
“Uhh, they come and go. If I stand still for too long, my leg can begin to ache.”
“Well then, let’s not remain still,” she said, turning and smiling as a waltz began.
He held her, his heart racing, knowing he would undoubtedly make a mess of the dance. He only hoped to not embarrass her as he led her around the dance floor, not wanting others to laugh at her or speak of her unpleasantly. His leg stuck once or twice, but she smiled and said nothing, waiting patiently for him to catch up to the music.
When the music stopped and people clapped for the musicians, he breathed a sigh of relief as he felt sweat beading on his forehead. He really needed to get out of the room.
“Thank you for the dance, Ruby. If you’ll kindly excuse me,” he said with another little bow and she smiled, although her eyes seemed sad.
“Of course. Thank you.” He smiled and without a glance around, knowing his mother was most likely watching him, he walked away and out of the room.
He passed people outside, bundled up against the cold, and he nodded but did not stop to speak to anyone. He felt he could not breathe and wanted to be away from people before he made a spectacle of himself.
Down the outside stairs and around the corner, he slipped back inside the house and hurried up the backstairs to his bedroom. Closing the door and locking it, he pulled his tie free and took off his jacket, tossing both onto the bed. He walked to his balcony and opened the door, breathing in the cold night air.
Taking deep lungfuls of air, he unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt and closed his eyes. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he shook his head and gritted his teeth.
“God,” he whispered, opening his eyes, feeling off balance as he gripped the railing and took more deep breaths. Shuddering, he stumbled back into the bedroom, crashing into a chair before he sat heavily into it, his heart racing as he closed his eyes.
Calm down. Just breathe.
In through his nose and out his mouth, he concentrated on the feel of the air filling his lungs, the room slowing and then no longer spinning. Opening his eyes, he let out a shaky breath and ran a hand down his face.
It had been four years since the war ended and yet at times it felt like no time had passed at all. Some days he could nearly fool himself that it had not been him, but a character he had read about in a story who had spent days and nights in freezing muddy trenches or war torn buildings. It was not he who had seen and heard men dying, calling out for their mothers with their last breath.
He could sometimes push it away, keep it from surfacing, and at other times it felt as though he were right in the middle of it again. It happened without warning and he was unable to stop it. He could be in a crowded room or on his own and he would begin to sweat, his heart pounding erratically, his breathing hard and labored.
He had been to doctors for his physical injuries- his thigh, where a blade had ripped open his flesh, and his shoulder where a bullet had gone clean through. Describing the pain that continued to linger as the doctor listened intently, making notes in his file, he would then tentatively discuss his feelings of panic and nightmares. The doctor would stop him from speaking as he shook his head, telling him he only needed to hear of physical ailments.
A painkiller was given to him to alleviate his aches and as beneficial as it was, it also made him exceedingly sleepy, unable to function during the day. He took them at night, but not as often as he should have for his pain. His dreams, while medicated, were odd and the heavy feeling persisted throughout the next day.
When he had been taken to the field hospital after he had been stabbed, he had been given morphine for the pain and it kept him blissfully unaware of the extent of his injury. He had been told after he was past the worst of it, that twice they believed they would lose him. His wound had become infected and amputation had been discussed as his fever continued to climb.
But then his fever had broken, the infection plateaued and became manageable. It had been a slow recovery, but one he was thankful for every day.
He had seen men lose a limb in battle, the sight of it causing him to retch. Men in the hospital, their bandages bloody as it covered the missing limb, had once again turned his stomach. To lose an appendage in such a horrid way, and then suffer the future repercussions, it made him shudder at the thought.
After spending weeks in the field hospital, he had traveled home, the injury to his leg deeming him unfit for duty. Within two weeks, he had contracted pneumonia and was in the hospital again for nearly a month.
Weak and thin, once he had been home, his recovery from both his leg and the pneumonia had taken time, his mother fussing over him all the while. Sleeping most of the days away, he woke only to eat and drink.
After that, he fell easily to sickness. A cough or cold quickly became something more severe. He spent a lot of time in and out of hospitals, sometimes wishing he had died, as his body had shaken violently from chills or ached from fever. But then when it would pass and he had been on the mend, he chastised himself for such horrible and selfish thoughts.
Once he had gained his strength, sicknesses no longer a constant plague, his mother began discussing a celebratory dinner party for his return and recovery. He had rejected the idea, telling her it was not necessary, but she had insisted, his fathers opinion of the idea quelled with a look from her.
A dinner party had been planned and executed, one in which he felt incredibly out of place. Discussion had revolved heavily around the war and he listened to those who did not fight, had not seen any battle, give their opinions on how it should have gone. He had to excuse himself, anger rising inside of him, not caring what his mother would say to him later.
Since that dinner party, there had been many more. He had become tolerant of them, but often slipped out before they were officially over, his mothers looks and words the next day a small price to pay over his need to escape the stifling room.
He had never been one who enjoyed parties. Too many people fanning about, all watching one another, looking for tidbits of gossip. He hated the formalities, the stiffness and uncomfortableness of the evenings. The women were always too heavily perfumed, too giggly, and too intent on gaining his attention for him to find any happiness in them.
Though he knew the parties were enjoyed by nearly everyone but him, he knew his mother also had other reasons for them, one which he had suspected and was confirmed when she announced at breakfast one morning that another party was being planned.
“It’s time you settled down and married, Fox. There are many women who have been left behind and there is a surplus of young women from which to choose.”
“Mother,” Fox had scoffed and she raised her eyebrows in question. “They have lost-”
“I am aware of what they have lost. Their betrothed will not be coming home and many would welcome the chance to marry. To not be a burden to their family.”
“You make it sound so romantic,” he had muttered with a shake of his head.
“There is no longer time for romance,” she had stated firmly and he lowered his eyes to the table with a heavy sigh. “There are many women who will gladly welcome your attention and a proposal. A comfort where there may not be another.” He had lifted his eyes to hers and for a second he had seen her falter under his gaze. “I do not want you to be alone.”
She had said the last sentence so quietly, he had been unable to remain angry with her, but nor had he easily acquiesced to her demands.
Parties had continued, dinners and dancing where he had many partners, but no courting or engagement had come of it. He felt no attachment to any of the women, finding them more nerve wracking than anything else, causing him to slip away, trying to catch his breath, his leg throbbing.
He was better off on his own.
Taking a deep breath, he stood up from the chair and began to undress, not calling for Connor, his valet, still needing time to himself. Laying his clothes neatly on the chair, he walked into his bathroom and turned on the water in the bathtub.
When it was full, he removed his underclothes and stepped inside carefully, sinking down into the warm water. Relaxing back, he closed his eyes and tried to block out his thoughts, wanting to calm down, needing to calm down.
He stayed in the bathtub until the water was lukewarm, rising from it slowly, his leg throbbing like a heartbeat. The water drained from the bath with a gurgle as he dried and dressed. He considered ringing Thomas for a cup of tea and some toast, but decided against it, just wishing to sleep.
Tomorrow he must face his mothers words of disapproval and the thought of them left him exhausted.
_________________
Mid January 1923
The theater was not overly crowded as the lights dimmed and the newsreel began. Paying attention, he sat forward as the tomb of King Tutankhamun was shown to have been discovered. Men were grinning as they walked around and the narrator told of how Howard Carter had found steps leading to the tomb, chambers leading to many rooms inside.
Women walked past in a temple and his eyes scanned the screen as others waved and smiled, the news then moving to something else, something that did not hold his interest. He sat open mouthed as he felt his heart rate quicken, and not from nervousness, but excitement.
Sitting back in his seat, the film began, though his mind was not on it. He was in the hot desert of Egypt, standing beside Carter, trying to get a peek into the chambers.
“Wow,” he breathed, shaking his head and bending low as he stood up, not wanting to block the view of anyone. His brain was running rampantly as he left the movie hall, the woman selling tickets staring at him.
“Sir? Did you…”
“Not feeling well. Please excuse me.” He bowed his head at her and she smiled with a slight nod.
He left and walked into the cold winter air, pulling his coat tight around himself. He shook his head again, an old thrill propelling him forward, his limp barely perceptible. Stepping past people, he thought of the days he had spent digging up rocks and shells, imagining himself a great discoverer, one for the history books.
Days on the shore of filling baskets with his spoils, bringing them to his mother as she and his father had sat on chairs under umbrellas, all came washing over him anew. He had squatted with a small trowel and spade, the waves crashing as he dug and found smooth white rocks and shells abandoned by sea creatures.
Every item had been exclaimed over, his mother and father delighted with his findings. She would laugh and hold them up to the sun, smiling as crystals caught in the rays of light. Her eyes alight, he would smile at her before running back to the shoreline, intent on finding more.
“Our little archeologist,” he had heard his mother say and he had beamed with happiness.
He shook his head as he stopped walking, looking around before he crossed the street, laughing softly under his breath. So many questions filled his head and he needed to find the answers.
The house was empty when he arrived, save for the servants. He shook his head at Bonnie as she inquired if he would like any tea, smiling quickly as he made his way to the library. Closing the door and sitting at the desk, he took out a pen and paper and began to write a letter, laughing excitedly, his fingers fairly flying across the page.
15 January 1923
To whom it may concern,
My name is Fox William Mulder.
This morning I was attending my local film hall. A newsreel appeared first and I was on the edge of my seat at what I saw before me: the discovery of the tomb of King Tutankhamun.
Speechless would be the best word to describe my initial feelings. Thrilled and excited would be the next.
I left without watching the film and am at present in my library, writing a letter in hopes of learning more about the recent discovery.
Ancient Egypt has long since been a topic I have found intriguing. I spent days during my youth, poring over books about gods and goddesses, kings and their lives. I would rattle off the names I had learned and why they were worshiped or revered, much to my parents' dismay, I can assure you. I am not embarrassed to admit I was more than slightly obsessed.
I know there will probably be more information shared in newspapers in the coming days and weeks, but I know it will not equal that of news directly from the source. Any and all information that can be shared will be greatly appreciated.
I eagerly await your response.
Fox Mulder
He read the letter through and nodded. Smiling, his heart still racing with excitement, he folded it and placed it in an envelope. Rising from the desk, he left the house, realizing in his hasty arrival, he had not even removed his coat.
With a laugh, he hurried to the post office, intent on seeing the letter posted that day, his mind once again imagining the warm air of the desert as he shivered in the cold wind blowing about his hatless head.
_________________
The Museum of Egyptian Antiquities
Cairo, Egypt
Late February, 1923
Crowds were already gathering by mid morning, the museum seeing more steady visitors than it had in a very long time. With the news of the discovery of King Tutankhamun, people had become excited to learn more about the past.
Tours were given to groups of men, women, and children, whispering and pointing out items they found interesting.
Letters had begun to arrive. Some were from children sending their pocket money to help explorers find more “losted items,” and others were letters from older children excited to learn more. Then there were some from adults- journalists, scholars, and those who had fancied themselves budding archaeologists. Every letter was written with the excitement of adventure, yearning to be a part of the discovery, no matter the distance they were from it.
A pair of researchers were tasked with reading the letters and sending back a reply. They were to be perfunctory, concise, and sent off with haste to expand on the popularity of the moment.
One letter in particular grabbed the attention of a researcher and additional information was added when the response was written. Something about the letter had sparked an immediate kinship, though it could not be described to anyone including themselves.
The letter was sealed and addressed, but not placed in the pile to be taken the next day to the post office. It was held until it could be dropped off personally on the walk home later that evening, a feeling of unknown and unexplainable excitement felt as the letter was taken to begin its travel to Fox Mulder in London, England.