Chapter Text
You got to have an arm to play right field. He tells himself that every day during the summer, but a part of him knows his father is right, they have him out there because he hasn’t proven himself to the team, shown them what a Mulder is made of.
So he chokes up on the bat, taps his feet in rhythm with his inner mantra, ‘Hips before hands, hips before hands,’ and squints against the glint of the Vineyard sun off Ricky Peterman’s glasses. He twists into the swing and feels the vibration through the wood. Before the crack of bat against leather fills his ears, he’s speeding down the green, bending to a 45 degree angle as he rounds first.
Flapping pigtails catch the corner of his vision and his grin spreads further as four Mulder legs eat up the earth. Fox is deaf to the cries from the outfield, doesn’t register the meaning of the rushing shapes consolidating to a small sphere as he moves – and crashes into Hank on second. He doesn’t listen to the words as he watches his sister jump up and down with her friend.
He brought Samantha home and that was enough.