Date sent: Mon, 30 Jun 1997 11:54:10 -0700 From: Allison Baxter Subject: "Doctoring Mulder" Title: "Doctoring Mulder" Author: A.Baxter Rating: PG Classification: S, MSR Spoilers: None Keywords: ? Summary: A little piece about what happens during all those nights that Mulder shows up at Scully's after running off in search of the truth. Doctoring Mulder Doctoring him is a routine that I have come to know all too well. He goes and has his adventures and comes back scraped and bruised, emotionally and physically, and I bite my tongue to hold back words of admonishment for not taking me with him. I don't want to risk pushing him away to somewhere where he will find another kind of comfort that I am not ready to give, so I always accept him with open arms. I don't have the heart to turn him away...or maybe, I have too much of his heart to let him go. At any rate, I have come to dislike that he hurts himself by leaving, but I immensely enjoy taking care of him afterward. He shows up at my appartment at any hour of the day or night, usually on a Sunday, back from a weekend excursion into the unknown. He looks at me with those pained eyes, even though he knows that he doesn't have to plead to be let in to my house or my heart. He knows he doesn't have to, but he seems to want to, to show me what he is feeling in that one greeting gaze. He silently walks in my door, and I turn to get the things to heal him and to make him comfortable here. I collect the first aid kit, a blanket, his spare grey sweat pants and white t-shirt that he keeps here for just such occasions as this, and I return to him as quickly as I can. He needs me right now, and that is something that I don't want to be away from for long. By the time I return he is stripped to his boxers only, and I try to ignore his frame. I cover his shivering body with the blanket, to cool me just as much as to warm him. He knows to sit still as I kneel in an otherwise lewd, but now innocent, position in between his knees to check his head for injuries. As soon as my hand touches his face to feel for damages he closes his eyes, and when he is feeling especially needy he even leans into my touch as if it was a lover's caress instead of a medical examination. I take longer than usual to assess his condition during these vulnerable moments than I normally would. He knows, and I'm sure he appreciates it. When I'm sure that he doesn't need a hospital or any further medical attention, I take his hand to lead him to bed. I cover him and he thanks me for taking care of him. Once he even kissed my hand before letting it go, and the memory of that still makes me smile when I choose to think of it. I read by the light of a soft lamp until he falls asleep next to me; sometimes it takes longer than others. When he is resting, I turn off the light and relax, certain that he is alright. Sleep comes but he is still in my thoughts. There have been mornings after this routine of ours when I have woken up alone, with no evidence of his prescence here the night before except a fresh pot of coffee brewing, his careful way of saying thank you one more time. But scattered sparsely in between the mornings of solitude, there have been sunrises when I wake wrapped tightly in his arms, taken into his embrace in the fit of some haunting dream so he could have something to hold on to. When he wakes up from these nights, he always looks right into my eyes and shows me his soul, and then kisses my forehead before getting up to get dressed. He never goes on about "Sorry for waking you last night," or "It won't happen again." There are no apologies, because, egotistical as it may seem, he knows that this is just as much as a comfort for me as it is for him. He leaves soon after waking on these mornings, and we head to the office to settle into another familiar pattern. Our routines, which have taken so long to be perfected, are the consistency that we need in our world of constant change and uncertainty that we work with every day. Familiarity, truly cultivated, can breed love. He is the most familiar thing in my life.