From: Dreamland525@aol.com
Date: 11 Feb 2000 18:11:37 -0800
Subject: Midnight Interlude (1/1)

From: Dreamland525@aol.com

TITLE: Midnight Interlude
AUTHOR: Dreamland525@aol.com
SUMMARY: Scully comforts Mulder in his darkest hour
CATEGORY: VA, MSR
ARCHIVE: Anywhere, please give credit where its due
RATING: PG-13 (language warning)
SPOILERS: Sein Und Zeit (mid episode), small one for Triangle
DISCLAIMER: They aren't mine.  Not even David.  Everyone knows who they belong
to.  Don't sue.

	XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

	In sleep, he resembles the twelve year old boy who never grew up.

	Lines that, since I've known him, have become permanently etched onto his
forehead are all but invisible; and where in waking hours there are angles, now
there is only softness.  The gentle curves of his chin against the pillow, of
his nose and his brow, furrowed in sleep as though he contemplates the
mysteries of the universe even while dreaming.

	He sleeps, and he is beautiful to me.

	Beautiful because of the innocence he somehow manages to subconsciously
retain, the innocence which manifests itself only when he is unguarded and
vulnerable and wandering the land of dreams.  Blissfully unaware, for a short
time, of all the pain he has known.

	If sleep lets him forget this anguish, I think, then let him sleep forever.

	But it is not to be.  He is waking, now, as I watch.  One eye opens, then the
other, and he focuses on me in blurry confusion.  My heart clenches as I wait
for the inevitible recognition, when his quick mind does a recap of the last
twenty-four hours. 

	I know the instant he remembers.  His eyes widen and his hand, which I've been
holding since sleep overtook him several hours ago, clenches involuntarily
around mine.  The sweetly sorrowful boy of twelve dissolves before my eyes, and
he is suddenly, painfully, the thirty-nine year old man who has just lost all
the family he had left in the world.

	"Scully," he rasps, swallowing hard.

	"Sshh.."  My other hand reaches out to touch his face, and I smooth his hair
back in an attempt to soothe him.  "Try to go back to sleep, Mulder.  It's
still night time."

	"Can't.."  He swallows again, and struggles to a sitting position, supporting
his weight with an arm braced against the sofa.  His hair is mussed and he
blinks sleep from eyes, but they are wide with the horror of what he has
remembered.   

	"Yes you can.  It's all right.  I'm here.  I'll be right here."

	My words do nothing to deter him.  He lets go of my hand and untangles himself
from the blanket I draped over him sometime during the night.  Then he stands,
looming above me in the heavy shadows of his apartment, and moves toward the
bathroom.  He is almost like an apparition, the gray cloth of his t-shirt
catching the dim blue glow of his fish tank as he moves past.  And then he
disappears into the inky darkness. 

	I sigh in resignation and lean my head against the back of the sofa, seeking
comfort in the warmth and lingering scent of his cologne that I find there.  I
allow my eyes to slip shut for a moment; I am exhausted.  The past few days
have been an emotional roller coaster the likes of which I've never been on. 
The case of the missing little girl and all of its possible outcomes, a good
percentage of which are frighteningly bleak, followed by the sudden suicide of
Teena Mulder, have wrought a great deal of angst in both of us.  I must battle
my own grief and at the same time keep the object of that sorrow, my partner,
from slipping away into darkness which is beginning to encompass him.  He is
teetoring, right there on the proverbial brink, and tonight I can't help but
feel that I am the only thing keeping him from falling.

	It's terrifying, because once he starts falling, he will never ever stop.  And
I cannot let go of him.  No matter how much he tries to persuade me.

	I owe him that much.

	He stumbles back down the hall several minutes later, groping his way back to
the couch and sinking down beside me.  His hand finds mine, and like a reflex,
I curl my fingers around it and bring it to my heart.  "You still need sleep,"
I tell him softly, and he nods.

	"So do you," he says.

	It is times like these that bring out the pure selflessness of his character. 
I squeeze his hand.  "I'll make you a deal," I say quietly.  "I'll go to sleep
as soon as you do."

	He makes a rueful noise which might be a laugh.  "I don't think I can sleep
any more tonight, Scully," he says honestly. 

	He has had a little over four hours of sleep, according to the last time I
checked my watch.  And I have no idea if he'd been sleeping much at all during
the first days of the La Pierre case.  I've been with him for seven years, and
I realize by now that catching the perpetrator is the only thing Mulder focuses
on during these types of cases, and he will turn a blind eye to everything else
-- even his health and his state of mind.  And now, with his mother...  I will
not let that happen again. 

	"Mulder,"  I coax.  "Just try.  Please."  I tighten my grip on his hand. 
"It'll help."

	There is a long pause.

	"If I go to sleep," his hoarse whisper fills the silence, "morning will come
even sooner."

	My heart is aching for him.  I can't even imagine what it must be like, to
have all your family gone.  To lose your mother.  The woman who gave birth to
you, who raised you, who supported you in everything you did.  The woman who
would love you unconditionally, no matter who you were or what you became.

	But Mulder's mother is dead.  Tragically, it would seem.  This man has endured
so much in his lifetime, so fucking much, and his pain saps a little of his
life away with each passing day.  No wonder he doesn't want to sleep.  No
wonder he doesn't want to see the morning.

	I wrap my arms around him and lay my head against his chest, and I comfort him
under the pretense of being comforted.  His arms go around me hesitantly at
first, but then he hugs me tightly, burying his face in my shoulder.  "Oh, God,
Scully."  A shudder runs through his body.  "She's gone, Scully.  She's really
gone."

	I say nothing.  What could I possibly say to ease his pain?  There are no
words for this.  There are only gestures, trivial though they may seem in the
face of such a tragedy.

	I lift my face and seek out his eyes in the darkness.  They are pools of
black, but I know instinctively that he is watching me.  I regard him solemnly,
then take a breath and touch my lips to his forehead.  His skin is warm and
soft and dry, and he smells earthy and sweet at the same time.  I press my
mouth there for a long moment, letting him know that I am here.  And that I am
staying.  For as long as he needs me.

	Forever.

	At last I pull away, planting a soft kiss on his cheek and another at the
corner of his mouth before laying my head against his chest again.  I listen to
the slow, steady beat of his heart.  It is something we take so for granted,
the heartbeat.  It signifies life.  Its absence is utterly alien to us, because
for as long as we live, we feel it inside; a steady reassurance in the back of
our minds.  A cadence that hints at immortality.

	Alive.  Alive.  Alive.

	Mrs. Mulder's heart no longer beats within her.  The circumstances of this we
may never know for sure, but she has gone, to some different place, a place
others like myself - people whose hearts still measure the minutes - can only
guess at.  I hope with everything that I am that she is in a good place, that
she has finally found peace beyond mortality.

	And I pray that she knows even now how very much her son loves her.  Because
he does - his grief is so strong at her loss that it is a physical entity,
shrouding him in desolation and pain that he feels he must face alone.  He
loves so deeply, and that is his curse.  That will be his downfall.

	His heart is too easy to trust, too easy to shatter.

	Yet still it beats.  And tonight, it beats for me.

	I am his salvation.

	"Did you know..."  his breath is heavy, damp against my forehead; his voice
low and tinged with remorse.  "Did you know...that two years before I was born,
my mom gave birth to another child?"  His hand has begun stroking slowly over
my shoulder and down to the small of my back.  He rubs it in slow, soothing
circles.  "I had a brother, Scully.  Once upon a time.  His name was
James...after my mom's father."

	I rear back in slight surprise, and seek his eyes with my own.  "No, Mulder, I
didn't know that."  

	"He died before I was born.  I never knew him."

	"I'm so sorry..."  I place my hand gingerly to his stubble-covered cheek, and
he leans into my touch, his lashes fluttering.

	"No, it's...it's ok.  It was a long time ago.  Since neither of my parents
talked about him that much - especially my dad - my only connection to him came
from the few pictures that Mom kept."  He laughs a little.  "He didn't look
anything like me.  Or Sam, either.  We looked," he pauses, then corrects
himself firmly, "*look*, like our father, and James...James looked like Mom. 
Blond hair, blue eyes.  Mom once said that he loved the ocean.  He could lay on
the beach in her arms for hours, and just listen to the sound of waves crashing
on the shore.  She said he never cried...she was in for a shock when Sam and I
came along."

	Unbidden, the image of a young, blond-haired Teena Mulder walking barefoot on
the beach with a tiny infant in her arms enters my mind.  It is a hard thing to
conceptualize; to me, Mulder's mother has always been, and will always remain,
the pale, white-haired, strong-willed woman of her later years.

	"How did he die, Mulder?" I ask quietly, realizing he has been waiting for
some sort of response.

	I feel the muscles work beneath my hand as he swallows.  "He had...a weak
heart.  The doctors didn't expect him to live past the delivery room."  He
pauses.  "He lived to be eight months old.  Guess they didn't realize how
stubborn the Mulder's can be, huh?"
	
	I smile sadly, and lean my head against his shoulder, holding him.

	"I just keep thinking..."  His voice is raspy now with unshed tears.  "If
James were still alive, if he'd lived, maybe I wouldn't feel so alone.  Maybe I
wouldn't feel like an orphan, like...I have no ties to anyone."

	"You're not alone, Mulder."  My voice is quiet but steadfast.  He needs to
understand this.

	"I know, I..." his voice breaks, and he gathers me even more closely to him. 
I feel hot tears trickle down my neck.  "Thank God for you, Scully.  Thank God
for you..."  The fact that he does not believe in such a Supreme Being matters
little.  I know how much Mulder cares for me, and that he is acknowledging it
in such a way, in his darkest hour, fills me with both pain and affirmation.

	I feel tears well up in my own eyes, and I blink them back hastily.  "I'll
never let you be alone," I whisper.

	He sobs quietly into my shoulder, gripping me so tightly I can barely breathe.
 I don't care.  He needs this.  He needs to cry, and hurt, and feel, and then
so help me God, he will heal.  Because I will make sure that he does.  And I
have never been so determined in my life.

	"It'll be okay, Mulder," I whisper, smoothing his hair.  "Just let it out. 
Let it all out.  It'll be okay..."

	"No, no,..."  he draws in a sharp breath and his hands clench my forearms
almost painfully.  "God, so much I didn't tell her...so much I didn't share
with her, my own mother...and now its too late, its *too* *fucking* *late*..."

	"She knows you loved her, Mulder," I tell him, suddenly certain of this,
lifting my head to look him in the eye and speaking with a ferocity borne only
of personal experience.  "That's what is important.  That's the *only* thing
that is important."

	"I know...I just..."  He fumbles helplessly, his hands twisting and knotting
my shirt in desperation.  "I just keep seeing her, the way she looked the last
time I saw her...I had no idea that would be the last time...if I'd known..."
he trails off, his tumultuous thought remaining unspoken, and pulls away
suddenly, breath hitching as he wipes clumsily at his eyes.  "I'm sorry. 
Sorry..."  

	He is trying to smile now, covering his embarrassment at having let go.  "God,
I drenched your shirt...I'm sorry..."

	"Mulder."  I place a finger to his lips before he can apologize further, and
regard him seriously.  "You have nothing to be sorry about, Mulder.  Nothing." 


	He closes his eyes slowly as I run my finger down his lips to his chin before
removing it.  The token humor has faded from his face, and he looks sad, almost
wistful, with the tears drying on his cheeks.  I see a lone one clinging to his
lashes, and I lift my hand to brush it away.

	Mulder takes a deep breath.  "I need to tell you something."

	I cover his hand with my own.  "I'm listening."

	"I need you to know...how much it means to me that you're here.  With me. 
Tonight.  You've always been here, always, but it's like I'm just realizing..."
 He falls silent for a moment.  "I just...I feel... Scully, that you're
anchoring me...that without you I'd just blow away, turn to dust...and when I
can't be strong, you...you are my strength. You keep me...from losing my mind.
God..." He grimaces, opening his eyes at last and studying our hands where they
are joined on his lap.  "I'm sorry, I'm not making much sense."

	"I understand, Mulder.  I do."  I understand because its the same for me, only
I've never had the courage to admit it.  Mulder has opened his heart to me
twice now, yet only in moments such as this, moments when emotions run high and
defenses are down.  What a pair we make.

	"I love you," he says, very quietly.

	I sit very still, trying to decide how exactly he wants me to take that simple
declaration.  After a long moment he tries to remove his hand from mine, to
pull away, but I won't let him.

	"You do," I finally say, not quite a statement, not quite a question.  I have
always known this, haven't I?

	Perhaps.

	"Yes," he says in a low tone.  "Yes, I do."

	He's very emotional tonight, but I've known Mulder long enough to realize that
he wouldn't blurt that out if he didn't mean it, not even under the greatest
duress.

	I can't find words that would do justice.  I lean forward and lay my head
against his chest once more.  His heart rate is slightly accelerated, but I
don't know if that's a result of his subsiding tears or his sudden admission of
feelings that he's obviously been at war with for a long time.  "Mulder," I
say, simply.  "You pick a hell of a time to tell me this.  Although..." my
voice wavers, and I struggle to gain control of my emotions.  "Although I'm
more tempted to believe you when you're not drugged and in a hospital bed."

	He chuffs a laugh into my hair, pulling me gently against him.  "Sorry,
Scully, I've...never been very good at this sort of thing."

	I smile against his t-shirt.  Tell me something I don't know, Mulder.  

	After a moment I feel him tense.

	"Do you..." he hesitates, "feel the same?"

	A peaceful sort of inevitability washes over me.  Now is the time for honesty.
 No more walls.  No more lies.  "Yes."  No going back.

	He slumps slightly, in relief I imagine.  

	"Okay," he says.  "That's good, that's...definitely good."

	"Yeah," I say, unable to suppress a tiny grin.

	He blows out his breath.  "Wow."

	I smile and pull back, gathering the courage to look into his eyes.  "Wow,
what?" I ask, knowing perfectly well what he means but liking this conversation
too much to let it go.

	I see a flash of white, and I realize in a burst of joy that he's smiling back
at me.  An honest-to-god, genuine smile.  "Just 'wow', Scully...I'll articulate
later."  And for an instant, the old Mulder has returned, momentarily stripped
of the guilt and pain he so often wears like a second skin.

	*Later.*  

	He has made me a promise.

	I slide up the couch and lay down, tugging him with me.  "Sleep, Mulder," I
whisper, smiling gently.  "Let's go to sleep."

	He heaves a long sigh, then nods and rests his head on the pillow beside mine.
 One hand reaches down and pulls the blankets up around us, and I wrap my arms
around his middle and press my face to his chest, once again inhaling his
unique, heady scent.

	"Goodnight, Scully," he murmurs into my hair.

	"Goodnight, Mulder."

	He moves around restlessly for a few moments, then settles down, at last
letting out a deep sigh and beginning to softly snore.

	Right before I feel exhaustion overtake my own body, I lift my head to gaze at
his face, illuminated by the pale moonlight through the window.  There are tear
tracks on his cheeks, and he is tender, youthful as before, but something is
different this time.

	This time, in his sleep, he is wearing the smallest of smiles.  A promise of
things to come, of better and happier times in our future together.  We will
get through this, that smile says.  Together, we will get through this.  Not
tomorrow.  Not the next day.  But someday soon.

	Our time is coming.