Fringe Series
The Fringe series was first posted early in 2001. Now that I think about that, the world was a different place back then. I'd always had ideas about what might have happened to Mulder, Scully and Kate, but the first photos of Bearded!Mulder really got me off the stick on writing a sequel. The order of the stories is: Fringe, Hearth and Haven. The Sequel is "My Life as a Puzzle" and it's told from Kate's point of view as she struggles to understand just who her parents are.
TITLE: Fringe (1 of 1)
AUTHOR: msk1024
DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully and Skinner belong to 1013,
Chris Carter, and to the X-Files.
SPOILER WARNING: Vague spoilers for season 8
CONTENT:Angst, and lots of it.
CLASSIFICATION: Story.
SUMMARY: I wonder if Mulder has found someplace
warm to sleep, and if he's had a hot supper. I pray that
no one hurts him, and that he has a good coat.
AUTHOR NOTE: At long, long (seven and a half years)
long last, a sequel to the Fringe series is on the way. To
refresh memories on where we left Mulder, Scully and
Kate, here we go with the original series. This is part
one in a three part series.
Fringe (1 of 1)
He's out there again, under the awning of the restaurant across
the street. He's shivering in the light of a streetlamp, and I try
to decide if he seems a little less unkempt tonight. I haven't seen
him cleanshaven in a long time. Tonight, his face is washed, his
hair a bit less tangled. This gives me a tiny jolt of hope, but I
caution myself to be realistic.
He looks up at this window, as he has done so many nights before.
There are no curtains, and this shade is never drawn. I keep a
lamp lit nearby, so the window will always have a welcoming,
warm glow. On nights when he's watching, I make sure I pass
by the window as often as possible, sometimes carrying Kate in
my arms. I don't wave at him or even try to meet his eye. I
learned long ago that would cause him to bolt down the street,
shaking his head, his long arms wrapped around his middle.
The owner of the restaurant never chases him away, and I'm
deeply touched by that small kindness. The staff remembers him
from the days of designer suits and beautiful overcoats, from lazy
dinners and hands held under the table. I know for a fact that
they've become terribly careless with their trash, throwing out
entire loaves of fresh, crusty bread and overstuffed sandwiches.
His hair is longer than it was back then, almost to his shoulders.
I think he's combed it tonight; it's shiny under the streetlight,
and I can see the tracks the comb's teeth have left. He must be
eating better these days, too. His eyes don't have such a hollow
look.
I think, sometimes, of moving to the country, wondering if a busy
city is the best place to raise a child. This apartment had seemed
cavernous when I moved in so many years ago, but a child and
her inevitable paraphernalia have made it feel cramped. Still, I
could never move. The idea of Mulder standing under that
awning looking up at an apartment where I no longer live is
just too sad.
His gaze never leaves the window, and I toy with the idea of
gathering Kate up out of her crib to parade her back and forth.
I decide against it, as she was fussy tonight and hard to get to
sleep. Instead, I shrug out of my sweater, and wearing just my
camisole, stand in the circle of lamplight. I remain very still,
hoping my shoulders look warm and smooth to him.
His face looks so beautiful, his lips slightly parted. I realize
that I've been staring down, looking directly into his eyes,
and I bite the inside of my cheek, worrying that my
carelessness will send him loping down the street. I'm
amazed when his eyes stay locked on mine and his feet stay
rooted to the pavement. He looks at me for long minutes
until he breaks into a smile so wonderful, I have to grip
the windowsill to keep from crumbling.
With a slight nod, he sets off down the sidewalk at a leisurely
pace, and I find myself sobbing and laughing and wondering
what the hell it all means.
I wipe the tears from my face with the back of my hand as I
step away from the window. Stretching out on the bed, I
enjoy the quiet of a sleeping child, and my mind drifts back
more than two years. I remember Mulder, terror in his eyes,
as he trembled in a hospital room in Gaithersburg, Maryland.
He'd been found wandering the streets, muttering that "they"
were after him.
He was covered with bruises and a horrifying maze of half-healed
scars. They were the only clues we had to what had happened
to him. I don't know how much he remembered, because he
wouldn't or couldn't talk about it. Motionless in his hospital bed,
he lay curled on his side, his eyes unfocused and his face a mask
of fear. It broke my heart to see him flinch from even the
lightest touch. I'd missed him for so long, and now, I couldn't
even put my arms around him or stroke his face.
It became obvious that the damage to his mind was not healing at
the same rate as that to his body. Mulder would eat if we put food
in front of him, and bathe himself when we led him to the shower.
He responded with apathy if we spoke to him, but never reached
out, never initiated. I fought back tears, remembering that this
was the most expressive individual I had ever known, who now
answered questions with one syllable responses.
The doctors could do no more for Mulder's body and suggested
we find a residential facility to deal with his damaged mind.
Deep in my heart, I feared this would be the worst thing we
could do for Mulder. I knew, somehow, that locking him up
would send him deeper into whatever dark place he lived now.
It was maybe the biggest decision of my life, made at a time
when I was the most vulnerable. Pregnant with a child that
Mulder wasn't even able to acknowledge, I'd spent months
worrying about him and trying to think like him. Now, I didn't
now how to reach the man who sat before me, staring at the
floor, hands hanging loose between his knees.
So, I made the decision to bring him home with me. He'd need
therapy, of course, but I thought it would be more effective on
an outpatient basis. Skinner cautiously agreed, but I know he
had tremendous reservations. The doctors thought I was a fool.
I still don't know if it was the right thing to do.
For two weeks, he drifted around my apartment like a broken
ghost, silently fingering the baby blankets and stretchies I'd
bought. Maybe he was afraid he would end up hurting the
baby. Maybe he thought "they" would find him in my spare
bedroom. I doubt that I'll ever know the reason he did it, but
one night, he slipped out of the apartment and disappeared.
Skinner and I searched, unable to get much help from the
authorities. Mulder hadn't proven himself to be a danger to
anyone, and he hadn't committed any crime. He had simply
walked away from everyone he knew, and people did that
every day.
A man fitting Mulder's description had been seen at the
Zacchaeus Soup Kitchen on G Street. The place smelled
like a high school cafeteria, the air filled with the signature
scent of large amounts of overcooked food. The quiet man
who greeted us identified Mulder from a photo. He reluctantly
spoke with us, perhaps protective of Mulder's privacy.
Frustrated as I was at the lack of cooperation, on some level,
I was deeply moved that this man wouldn't breach the one
thing Mulder had left.
Mulder had joined the population of homeless in the DC area,
sleeping in men's shelters and God only knows where else.
Skinner had gotten close enough to him one day, to determine,
at least, that he wasn't hurt or sick. Late that night, I'd
answered the doorbell to find Skinner filling the doorway,
misery and guilt plain on his face.
He'd been unable to persuade Mulder to come home, and that
failure was tearing him up. I had my own load of guilt over
Mulder's loss, and I awkwardly embraced Skinner, my
huge belly between us. After a few seconds, I broke away
and put on a pot of coffee.
Skinner told me that Mulder reminded him of the vets who had
come back from Viet Nam, so overwhelmed by the experience
that they felt comfortable nowhere but on the street. I found
myself thinking about how long it had been since that war had
ended and began to cry, which only upset Skinner more.
Kate arrived, healthy and beautiful, and I missed her father
more at the moment of her birth than I ever had before. My
heart seemed to twist in my breast as I watched the proud
daddies arrive every evening to see their newborns. I cried
silently in my room, hoping not to attract the attention of the
nurses or my mother; their pity would have been one more
thing to bear.
The day after Kate was born, one of the nurses reported a
strange, unkempt man peering through the nursery window.
He seemed to fixate on Kate, and the nurse had become alarmed.
My mouth went dry. I struggled to get out of bed while the
nurse fluttered around in concern. By the time I shuffled down
the hall, the man had disappeared. I burst into tears, leaning
against the wall, too exhausted to keep my emotions back.
I mark the passage of days by how much Kate has grown,
wondering if her father will ever be a part of her life. My
fear is that he will always be on the fringe, looking through
the window as life goes on without him. Will he stand at
the back of a darkened auditorium someday, watching a
small ballerina that he has never met? Will he cheer
silently at the edge of the field, just close enough to make
out the faces of the little soccer players?
I keep a careful watch on the weather, worrying when the
temperature dips below freezing. I wonder if Mulder has
found someplace warm to sleep, and if he's had a hot supper.
I pray that no one hurts him, and that he has a good coat.
I know he watches me when I walk with Kate in the park.
How ironic that I walk a little slower and linger a while at
the playground so my "stalker" can get his fill. One mild
day, I purposefully left Kate's little cap behind on a park
bench. Of course, I couldn't look back to see if Mulder
picked it up, or if someone else took it.
When I was ten and Melissa was almost thirteen, we
found a cat in our backyard. It was a truly bedraggled
creature, missing fur in spots, limping badly. Bill said that
some boys had tortured it, and I was consumed with pity
for the mangy creature. Mom had agreed to let me take
the cat to the vet, providing I could catch it, but the poor
thing was so skittish I couldn't get near it.
I ended up with scratches all over my arms from my efforts
as I tried to catch the cat that crouched in the pricker bushes.
The harder I pursued, the farther the cat retreated, until I
gave up, frustrated tears streaming down my face. I watched,
amazed, as Melissa walked to the edge of the bushes and sat
cross-legged on the lawn. Even as a child, she had a sense of
peace around her and a deep connection to nature.
Melissa sat, still as marble, eyes closed, and waited serenely
until almost an hour later, when the cat drew close to her. It
limped across the lawn and rubbed its battered little head
against her knee. I've thought of that cat a lot these last years.
I wish with all my heart that I could ask my sister if I've done
the right thing. Finally, I fall asleep, praying as I do every
night that Mulder stay safe.
Days go by, filled with work and Kate, but the evenings are
spent at my bedroom window. Mulder stands under the
awning every night, and every night he meets my gaze
and doesn't bolt. Without fail, he smiles at me as he turns
to walk away.
Tonight, though, is different. As it has been all week, Mulder's
hair is neatly combed and tonight his clothes look clean and
pressed. He looks up into my eyes for what seems like an
hour before he smiles, but tonight, instead of turning to
walk down the sidewalk, he crosses the street.
I know he is coming here, and I'm more nervous than I was
on my first date. I scramble around the apartment, picking
up toys and clothes and one tiny sneaker. When the doorbell
rings, I can feel my heart pound, and I don't have the presence
of mind to put down the armful of Kate's stuff.
I pull open the door and stand face to face with Mulder for
the first time in so many years. I know I ought to greet him,
but the words won't come. He smiles down at me and I can
see a hint of the man I knew.
"Can I come in?" he asks, and his voice sounds wonderful and
warm. I nod, still unable to speak. I step back so he can enter.
He looks around with eyes that seem hungry for every detail.
I dump my armload onto a chair and drink in Mulder. Up close,
I can see more lines on his face than I remember. They etch
the corners of his eyes, and there is a scar on his jaw that wasn't
there before.
"Are you hungry?" I ask. He shakes his head and smiles again.
I want to throw my arms around him and hug him hard enough
to crack ribs. I want to kiss his cheeks and eyelids and jaw and
lips and taste his skin with my tongue. I want to unbutton his
shirt and push it off his shoulders so I can slide my palms over
his chest. Instead, I keep my hands firmly clasped together.
"Let's sit down," I say, as I lead him to the couch. He sits and
then bobs up quickly, reaching behind him to pick up Kate's
other sneaker. The hands that cradle the shoe are calloused
and rough, and I wonder how they got that way. He sits back
down and a look of awe crosses his face.
"So tiny," he marvels.
"Do you want to see her?" I ask. "I could get her up."
"No, I don't want you to wake her," he says, and I wonder if
he is afraid to meet her. He continues to hold the sneaker,
and I think I can see tears in his eyes.
"How are you, Mulder?" I decide to chance a little direct
contact and reach for his hand. He lets me warm his cold
fingers between my hands and I try to swallow past the
lump in my throat.
"I have a job, Scully," he says with calm pride. "I refinish
furniture at a second hand shop. They let me rent a room
behind the store."
Well, that explains the condition of Mulder's hands. I try
to picture him sanding tables and find it rather easy to
imagine him at the work.
"I'll bet you're good at it."
"I enjoy it. There is something gratifying in reclaiming
a wreck."
I can't help the tears that roll down my cheeks now.
I hope he isn't put off by them. I want him to keep
talking, drowning me in the sound of his voice. He
squeezes my hand, and I feel my heart race.
"Mommy, I waked up," Kate says sleepily from the doorway.
She has become adept at climbing out of her crib, much to
my unease. The plastic feet of her yellow blanket sleeper
make scratching sounds as she shuffles over.
"I can see that," I chuckle as I scoop her up, her warm
weight comforting me. Kate sucks her fingers and eyes
Mulder with surprising calm, considering how unusual it is
for her to find a strange man in Mommy's living room.
Well, he always had a way with kids.
"Kate, this is Mulder."
"Hi," Kate says shyly, offering her glistening hand to
Mulder. He takes her tiny, slippery fingers in his big
calloused hand, and I see tears gather along his lower
lashes.
"Hi Kate," he says quietly. He continues to hold her
hand, his eyes never leaving her flushed little face.
Finally, he lifts his eyes to mine and smiles. "Thank
you for this---for allowing me in."
"You're welcome here anytime you want. Listen, why
don't you come for dinner tomorrow?" I hold my
breath, hoping I haven't scared him off. Kate pulls
her hand from Mulder and returns her fingers to her
mouth, turning her face into my shoulder and relaxing
back into sleep.
Mulder smiles at his sleeping child and turns his face
back to me. "I'd like that. Hey, I better get going."
I want to plead with him to stay and talk, to let me hold
him in my arms, but I know we have to do this at his
comfort level. I've waited for him for two years---I can
wait as long as he needs me to.
He stands stiffly and walks to the door. I follow, Kate
heavy in my arms. "Is six o'clock okay?" I ask.
"I'll be back," he says quietly. He leans down to kiss
Kate's silky curls. He lifts his head slightly, and touches
my lips in a gentle kiss. With a smile, he pulls the door
shut behind him.
I blink back tears, a knot of pain and worry releasing in
my breast. I hurry through the rooms, careful not to
wake my child, and stand in the yellow lamplight
watching Mulder cross the street. He turns and looks
up when he gets to the other side, and with a wave of
his hand, he walks away.
"I'll be here," I whisper.
End. (1 of 1)
TITLE: Hearth
AUTHOR: msk1024
EMAIL: msk@yahoo.com
DISTRIBUTION: Archive if you like, just tell me where.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to 1013,
Chris Carter, and to the X-Files.
SPOILER WARNING: Vague spoilers for season 8
CONTENT:Angst, and lots of it.
CLASSIFICATION: Story. This is a continuation of "Fringe,"
which you probably need to read to understand this story.
AUTHOR NOTE: At long, long (seven and a half years)
long last, a sequel to the Fringe series is on the way. To
refresh memories on where we left Mulder, Scully and
Kate, here we go with the original series. Hearth is part
two in a three part series.
Hearth
Low-key--that's the watchword for this evening. Low-key.
Non-threatening. Relaxed. Of course, all this planning for a
calm dinner is having the opposite effect on me. I don't think
I've felt this nervous since I took my driver's test in high
school. I've changed clothes four times, trying to strike the
right note between special and casual. I finally settled on
slacks and a soft wool sweater. It's been a long time since
I aspired to wearing more than shoes that match and clothes
free of baby food stains.
After much internal debate, I decided to cook something
simple and homey, a dish that Mulder loved. So I stir the
marinara sauce, bubbling in a pot on the stove. I spoon
up a tiny bit for a taste-I can't decide if it needs more salt.
Looking at the clock on the wall, I fidget with the cross at
my throat. Mulder will be here in less than fifteen minutes.
I uncover a second pot on the stove; steam rises from the
boiling water in a hair frizzing cloud. Pushing my rapidly
curling hair back from my face, I hope I don't end up looking
like Little Orphan Annie by the time Mulder arrives. I drop
a sheaf of uncooked spaghetti into the pot; the strands curve
as the hot water softens them.
At her little table in the corner of the kitchen, Kate cooks a
pretend meal, vigorously clanging her own pots and spoons.
Today was my "work from home" day, but I never got to
the autopsy notes I was supposed to review.
Except for her six or seven minute nap this afternoon, Kate
spent the day glued to my right leg like an appendage. Maybe
she sensed the tension that had me double espresso wired
all day. Only now does she allow a few feet to separate us,
though she keeps a watchful eye on me in case I make a break
for it.
The doorbell startles me, and I drop the spoon into the sauce.
Kate shadows me to the door, where I take a deep breath and
open it wide. Holding a plastic-wrapped bunch of flowers,
Mulder looks as nervous as I feel. "Am I early?" he asks.
"You're right on time," I say. Kate peeks out from behind
my leg at Mulder, and he smiles at her.
"I remembered that you liked these," he says, handing me
the flowers. My eyes mist over as I remember Holy Cross's
Oncology Section and the first flowers he ever gave me. A
thousand years gone by. He shrugs out of his coat and lays
it on the chair near the door.
"They're beautiful. Come in the kitchen while I put them
in some water." I hope my voice doesn't betray the tears
I feel welling up. If I don't control myself, I'm afraid he'll
be out the door like a shot.
I stretch to reach the vase I keep on the top shelf of the
cabinet, and Mulder steps behind me. He smells of soap
and toothpaste, and I feel almost dizzy at his closeness.
"Let me get that," he says as he moves around me, his arm
brushing mine. He reaches up easily, and his hand closes
on the large vase. I watch the muscles move in his back
as he stretches and find myself oddly moved. "This one
okay?"
"It's fine," I say as he hands the beveled crystal container
to me. His rough hands brush mine. I busy myself filling
the vase with water and arranging the flowers. Kate
continues to trail me like a puppy, causing me to worry
that I'm going to step on her.
Mulder seems to fascinate her though, as she sneaks
looks from behind my legs. Since she was only awake
for a few minutes while he was here, I don't know if she
remembers him from last night. He stands very still, which
is apparently the right approach as Kate eases away from
me, if only by inches.
Mulder wears a soft, dark blue shirt and faded jeans. They
don't look new, probably bought at a second hand store.
Only Mulder could look that good in hand-me-down clothes.
I try to remember if I ever told him how much I love that
color on him. I would never have mentioned it during the
years before we became lovers for fear of tipping my hand.
How foolish to have spent that much energy hiding such
an obvious truth.
Now, I look at this man--so gentle, so beautiful, before
me--and feel like weeping for lost time. If I don't do
something, I'm going to embarrass myself. I decide to
put dinner on the table.
"Kate, Mommy's going to cook now. Why don't you cook
too?" I've gotten Kate into the habit of pretend cooking
at her little table when I have to work with hot food.
Peeking over her shoulder at Mulder, she trots to her
workstation and noisily stirs her invisible soup.
I'd set the kitchen table earlier with everyday dishes
and woven cloth napkins. After draining the spaghetti
and spooning sauce over the noodles, it takes me only
a few minutes to get our meal onto the table. Spaghetti,
salad and crusty bread. I've placed wineglasses on our
placemats, but I look to Mulder before pouring. He nods
his assent and I pour red wine for both of us.
"Dinner's ready," I announce. I cross the kitchen to scoop
up Kate and put her in her high chair. I prepare a bowl
of spaghetti for Kate, breaking the strands of pasta with
a fork. Mulder waits patiently while I get Kate settled,
and finally we sit down to dinner.
Mulder is quiet for a moment, and I almost wonder if
he's praying. That would never have crossed my mind
in days gone by, but I realize I don't really know the man
who sits before me. He is Mulder and yet he's not.
He eats his spaghetti carefully, almost as if he's afraid of
being clumsy. Then and now, Mulder could never be
clumsy. He moves with a casual grace, twirling the strands
of pasta around the tines of his fork. Unable to take my
eyes off Mulder's generous mouth, I can barely taste my
own food.
"This is great. I can't remember the last time I had
spaghetti that wasn't cooked in mass quantities."
Mulder's smile is wistful.
"Not quite the same?" I ask. I have a million questions
about the last two years running through my head, but
I have no idea how to ask them.
"It loses something in the translation when you eat off a
styrofoam tray with a plastic spork. Hearing the wino next
to you belch doesn't add to the ambiance." His smile turns
wry as he takes a great deal of care buttering a slice of bread.
"How did you get from there to here, Mulder?" I ask, my
voice sounding small. I wonder what changed for him. He'd
lived his life in the cold for such a long time. What allowed
him to draw near the hearth, to warm himself, even if just
for a little while?
"I could say that I took the bus, but I suspect that isn't the
answer you were going for." I can hear the old Mulder in
his flippant comment. He studies the wine in his glass, and
I realize how hard it is for him to share this. "There's a priest
that works down at the soup kitchen. I think you may have
met him once. He told me a very pregnant woman and a
big bald man were looking for me a long time ago. He
would talk to me at dinner from time to time, as he did
with a lot of the guys. Guess he felt he had a better chance
of getting our attention when we had a full stomach."
"Sounds like he knows what he's doing," I say, my throat
tight with the memory of that terrible time. Kate fusses
and reaches for something on the table. I offer her bits
of shredded carrot from my salad, but she pushes them
away.
"Finally, I guess Father Dan asked the right question. He
asked me what kept me living on the street. He said there
were a million reasons why people ended up on the street,
but what really mattered was what kept them there. I
guess he could tell that he'd made me think because the next
thing I knew, he was handing me the address to the second
hand store and telling me to ask for Frank Calloway."
"Frank taught you how to refinish furniture?" I ask as I
break off a piece of bread for Kate. This does the trick,
and Kate happily gnaws on the crust.
"Yeah. He's a good guy. I'm one in a long line of bums that
Frank has tried to rehabilitate."
"Mulder-" I start before I realize I don't know what to say.
"I am what I am, Scully." There is no bitterness there, and
that makes me sadder than anything. "It's okay. Listen, I
don't want to ruin dinner."
My food seems to have lost all flavor and I push the pasta
strands into interesting swirls. I look up to see Mulder
watching me, his expression guarded. Kate has tired of
her bread crust, and it sails over the edge of the high
chair tray.
Kate is not one to worry about table manners. Frustrated
with the progress she makes wielding her spoon, she drops
it with a clatter. She resorts to a far more practical method
of spaghetti eating, conveying handfuls of slippery pasta
to her rosebud mouth.
"She didn't inherit THAT from me," Mulder says, and I
almost choke on my food. My soul rejoices to know the
man can still make me laugh.
"Oh Kate, we're going to have to hose you off," I say as Kate
finishes her dinner. She claps sticky, red hands and laughs
at the squelchy sound they make. "I better clean her off
before the tomato sauce gives her a rash."
"She's got your fair skin," Mulder observes as I lift her out
of the high chair. I hold my messy child at arm's length and
carry her into the kitchen. Mulder tries to wipe her face and
hands with paper towels, laughing as Kate giggles and kicks
her feet. "The spaghetti is all down her neck."
"I'm going to clean up the table later. I'd better get Kate into
the bathtub," I say as Mulder still attempts to dig pasta out
of the neckline of Kate's shirt.
Not really giving him a choice, I hand Kate to Mulder. He
follows me to the bathroom, holding her away from his body.
I'm not sure if he's trying to protect his clothes or if he isn't
comfortable handling a child. Kate wriggles in his hands,
twisting back to look at Mulder.
I run bath water, gather towels, and together we peel Kate's
clothes off.
I kneel on the tile floor and we lower the squirming child into
the water. Kate loves the bath, rather like her mother, and
she splashes and squeals as I lather her up. The sweet scent
of baby soap fills the room.
"Mommy, duckies," she says, pointing to the mesh bag that
holds bath toys. Mulder lifts the toy sack from it's hook and
empties the cups and rubber ducks into the water. He kneels
next to me, shoulder to shoulder, and unbuttons the cuffs of
his shirt. As he folds back the sleeves, a wave of memory
crashes over me, and I remember a thousand days spent
sneaking peaks at Mulder's bare arms.
A very ugly scar slices across one golden forearm. I'm sure
I've never seen the disfigurement before. It's at least three
inches long, and it looks as though it was never stitched and
therefore healed badly. I can't take my eyes off of it, even
as I become aware of Mulder's self-consciousness. He tugs
the blue material down to cover the mark.
Kate plays with her bath toys, laughing and pouring water
from one cup to another. Her voice pipes high in the tile bath,
echoing against the walls. I feel Mulder stiffen next to me, his
knuckles as white as the edge of the tub he grips. His breath
hitches, and he doesn't seem to be able to draw air into his
lungs. I look at him. His face is so pale, I'm afraid he might
pass out.
His eyelids don't blink; he stares straight ahead as though
he might bore a hole through the tile with the intensity of
his look. Mulder doesn't appear to register anything around
him--Kate's squeals, my concerned gaze, the water that
drenches his arms from his daughter's boisterous splashing.
He's in his own world. . .somewhere that I can't go and some
place that I can't see. Probably some place that I don't want
to see.
"Mulder?" I say, laying a hand on his shoulder. I can feel him
trembling. He shrugs my hand away and pushes himself to
his feet, stumbling out of the bathroom.
His sudden retreat startles Kate, and she begins to cry. I
hurriedly finish the bath, Kate wriggling under my hands
while I rinse her hair. My heart is torn, but I can't leave
her alone in the tub. Bundling Kate into a towel, I swallow
my tears. Her fussing has begun to wind down as the long
day without a real nap takes it's toll.
Kate is halfheartedly whining as I dry her skin and wrestle
her into a sleeper. I try to work the front zipper, but my
hands are shaking. I lay her in the crib and she immediately
finds the pacifier that waits there for her. Her pediatrician
thinks she should get used to sleeping without it, but then
again, he doesn't have to get her to bed every night.
My heart pounds in my ears as I race to the bedroom window.
I peer through the glass, searching the street for the shape
of Mulder's body, the gleam of his teeth in the low light. He's
not there.
Oh God, he's not there.
"Turn around, Scully."
His voice startles me, and I swing around to find him sitting
on the chair in the corner of my room. The sight of him, barely
discernible in the dim moonlight, floods me with memories of a
night long ago when Mulder waited for me in the same shadows.
A night that had been filled with desperation and pain.
"I was afraid that you'd left." I come around to sit on the end
of the bed. "What happened back in the bathroom, Mulder?"
"I just had to get out of there," he says, scrubbing his hands
over his face. He rises out of the chair as if he can't sit still a
moment longer and crosses to the window. Mulder looks down
as I have so many nights. His face, in profile, is etched with
sadness. "So this is what you saw every night."
"I saw a man I missed very much. I saw someone who was in
pain--a man I couldn't help. Mulder, why did you run out of
the room before?"
"I suddenly remembered I had to be somewhere else." He smiles
at me, and I think even he is unconvinced by his offhand humor.
His smile fades. "Sometimes the compulsion to run just comes
over me. It doesn't happen as often now. It used to overwhelm
me---heart pounding, unable to breathe, so scared and anxious
I didn't know what to do. The good news is that I don't scream
anymore."
"And something set it off back there?"
Mulder shrugs as he turns to face me. "It's usually a sound that
triggers it. I just never know what is going to set it off: car
alarms, ambulance sirens. Even the chirp of a cell
phone--pretty funny, huh? A cell phone sending me into
a screaming fit."
I hold out my hand to Mulder, beckoning him to my side. He
hesitates, and I'm afraid he won't come, but finally he sits next to
me on the bed. I take his hand between mine and press my face
in Mulder's shoulder.
"I'm so sorry." My voice muffles against Mulder's shirt. I can feel
his free hand stroking my hair. "I wish I knew how to help you."
Mulder gathers me in an embrace. I slip my arms around him, a
little alarmed that I can feel his ribs so distinctly. He tightens
his hold, and his hands begin to move over my body. I can feel
the need in his touch, and it frightens me a little.
Mulder's hands travel up my arms to rest on either side of my
face. There is an expression in his eyes that I remember from
the times we walked on the razor edge of despair. His lips cover
mine, his kiss a hungry thing. My hands tangle in Mulder's long
hair, desperate in my own need to touch and be touched.
Mulder's body tenses like an electrical current passed through
it, and his breathing becomes ragged against my mouth. He grips
my upper arms and roughly pushes me away from him. The look
in his eyes is so dark, so full of pain that I want to squeeze my
eyes shut and turn away. Perhaps it is shock that keeps me from
doing just that; I cannot look away.
"No one can help me. I'll only pull you and Kate down with me."
His voice sounds choked and bitter. "I was wrong to come here."
He is gone before I can make my body move again. I hear the
front door close with a finality that echoes through the apartment.
I rise on shaky legs and stagger to the window just in time to see
Mulder's desperate retreat.
I crawl through the next days: three, four, I can hardly tell. The
pain of the last two years seems mild compared to this emptiness.
No matter how lonely I was during that time, Mulder was always
on the edge of my life, just visible out of the corner of my eye.
This time, I feel that he is gone from me. Though I sit by the
window every night, he never comes to stand under the
streetlamp.
I rouse myself only to care for Kate. Her cheerful shouts pull me
from my bed and I stumble, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, to
feed and dress and do what needs to be done. A sensitive child,
she pats my face and announces solemnly, "Mommy sad."
I dream, one night, that Mulder and I drive along a featureless
Midwestern highway, arguing about a case. I don't know what
we are fighting about, but I don't give an inch. I return point
for point, until Mulder turns to me and asks, "You never give
up, do you?"
I wake up with a jolt, the question echoing in my head. I know
immediately what I must do. I remember a time when cancer
almost paralyzed me with fear. Mulder forced me to move past
my terror and do what needed to be done. I want desperately to
return that favor, but I'll have to find him first.
It's dark out when I head to the kitchen. Kate is still burrowed
under her blankets, a warm bundle. My hands shake a little as
I pour myself some coffee and sit at the table with a pad and
pencil. I list every detail I can remember from Mulder's dinner
conversation and haul out the phone book to begin a rather low
tech investigation.
Hours later, Kate spends the day with my mother, and I'm on my
way to Frank's Furniture. I find a cramped little storefront,
sandwiched among chic little eateries and upscale shops. Frank
has probably been here since they first set the stones in the
pavement.
The store smells a bit musty, and Frank has a serious clutter
problem, but there are some remarkable pieces on display. I
inspect a small chest of drawers as I wait for Frank to finish
with a customer. I slide my hand over the smooth wood and
wonder if Mulder worked on this piece. Finally, the customer
moves away to study a maple rocking chair, and I make my
move.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for Fox Mulder," I say, trying not to
sound like an FBI agent. Frank scrutinizes my face, trying to
decide if I present any threat to Mulder. "He's not in any
trouble, sir."
"In the back," he says gruffly, gesturing to an open doorway.
"Down the hall, on the left."
I walk down a short hall, past a calendar dated 1977, featuring
a bare-breasted woman with Farrah Fawcett hair. I spy
Mulder through the open door, but he doesn't hear my
approach over the chuff, chuff of his sandpaper.
I drink in the sight of him as he moves a sanding block over
the surface of a farmhouse table. His long hair is tied back, out
of his face while he works. He looks so thin to me, but his upper
body is beautifully defined, probably from manual labor. His
jeans hang low on slim hips, the denim decorated with wood
stains. A once white t-shirt bears streaks of rust and brown
and a layer of sawdust. The shirt rides up with his motions
revealing golden skin and I'm breathless at the sight of him.
So long neglected, I feel the warmth of arousal rise again.
"You should wear a face mask," I say, resting my back against
the doorway's threshold.
Mulder startles with the violence of an earthquake, and I feel
my throat tighten with guilt. He twitches a bit with the
aftershock of my intrusion. His jaw tenses as he struggles
to regain his composure.
"Frank says the same thing. I can't stand anything over my
mouth." He looks down at his hands on the sanding block.
"You shouldn't have come here, Scully."
"Mulder, if our positions were reversed, would you give up
on me?"
He lays the sanding block down on the worktable behind him
and wipes the table down with a cloth, removing any left over
sandy grit. "I doubt that you'd ever allow yourself to be this
screwed up."
"You think you had some choice in what happened to you?
That you somehow lack the moral substance to get past this?
Mulder, you're the smartest, strongest person I know. And
the most stubborn. Maybe that's the whole problem. You've
been trying to get through this all by yourself." I step closer
to him. "Maybe you should let someone help you."
I take one dusty, work-roughened hand in mine. He won't meet
my eye, but I can see the myriad of emotions that pass over his
features. "Mulder, when you first were returned, I was afraid
to push you too far, concerned that I would send you over some
imagined edge. Maybe I was wrong to leave you to deal with
this all alone."
This gets his attention as he raises his eyes to mine. "No, they
would have put me away. I would have gone mad in an
institution. You did the right thing."
"Did I?" I feel tears slide down my cheeks. I trace the bones
in Mulder's wrist, following the tendons in his forearm up to
the cruel scar. "How did this happen?"
"Someone wanted my blanket. I didn't want to give it up."
His mouth twists in a rueful smile. "You said I was stubborn.
Hey, you shouldn't worry about this."
"Mulder, I don't want you to stay away. I need you."
"I'm not the man I was. I'm never going to be that person
again. To tell the truth, I barely remember him."
"You think I'm the same woman I was ten years ago?" I bring
his hand to my lips, kissing each callous, each little scrape.
"Every thing that happens in our lives changes us, molds us.
I loved that man, the one who wore suits and cracked wise.
But youknow what? I love this man too. I love this man who
fixes things and finds the strength to get up every morning.
I think I'm just predisposed to love you."
I finally have done what I've always dreamed of. I reduced
Fox Mulder to stunned silence. I reach up to cup the back of
his neck and draw his face down, placing a soft kiss on his lips.
"I can't force you to come back, Mulder. I love you. Just
remember, the light is always lit for you."
I leave then, pausing once to look back at Mulder. His head is
bowed, and his hands are gripping the edge of the farmhouse
table as though it's the only anchor keeping him moored.
I find my steps are easy, my heart at rest.
Days go by and my feelings of calm and peace give over to a
reluctant acceptance that the matter is out of my hands now.
Mulder will either come back to me, or not, but he is the only
one who can make that decision. Still, the days crawl by, and
the nights are awfully long.
Kate is a welcome diversion, noisy and cheerful and full of charm.
I can see her father in her more and more. We're building a
tower of blocks one evening, when the doorbell rings. I refuse
to work myself up into a little knot of hope, only to unravel if
my visitor is the landlord come to fix the drip in the bathroom
sink.
I square my shoulders against disappointment and peek
through the peephole. My heart pounds when I pull the
door open to see Mulder waiting, a large paper sack in his
hands. Kate squeals with joy, and I'm inordinately pleased
that she seems to recognize Mulder.
"Hi," he says, his hands nervously crinkling the paper bag.
"I thought a lot about what you said."
"Come on in," I say, as I close the door behind him. He looks
at Kate, who has gleefully upset our tower of blocks. If only
it were as easy to tear down walls. She's jumping up and down
in excitement, watching Mulder to see his reaction to her trick.
"Hey Kate, I brought you something," he says, crouching next
to her. His voice is warm honey as he sets the paper bag on the
floor. Kate understands the concepts of gifts quite well and
immediately presents herself. Mulder looks at me, flashing
the smile that always brought me to my knees. It works
literally on me this time as I hunch down, hip to hip with
Mulder.
He draws open the bag and pulls out a wooden cradle. Too
small for a real baby, it's the perfect size for a doll. The wood
is honey colored, the head and footboard heart-shaped. There
are flowers carved into the wood of the headboard; small leaves
and vines scroll around the sides.
Kate is delighted. Her fingers trace the flowers and she
instinctively knows what the cradle is for. She runs off to
find as many babies as she can carry in her chubby arms.
"You made this?" I ask, when I can speak again. "It's exquisite."
"I wish I'd been here to make one for Kate."
I lean forward to put my arms around him. Mulder's breath is
warm against my neck. We stay this way for a long time, kneeling
and holding each other, both of us crying.
"You're here now. That's all I care about."
End (part 1 of 1)