TITLE: Juice
AUTHOR: Lysandra
E-MAIL: Lysandra@mediaone.net / Lysandra31@aol.com
DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer and Spookys, yes.  Anyone else: please inform me
before archiving.  Please use this version rather than the older one, which
was written under another name.  There are also slight revisions to the
story itself.
SPOILER WARNING: Sein Und Zeit.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATION: VA, Mulderangst, M/S friendship
SUMMARY: "He looked like a child; a child who needed to feel warm and safe
and loved."  Missing scene from SUZ.
DISCLAIMER: "The X-Files" belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions,
and Twentieth Century Fox.  But I have a 1954 Superman lunchbox.
Originally posted: February 7, 2000.


** Juice **


I could feel Mulder calming down, though he continued to cling to me
tightly.  We stayed like that, very still, for a few minutes, until he
abruptly pulled away from my embrace.

"Scully," he whispered, not looking at me, "you should go home now."

He had to be kidding; he had to know I wouldn't leave him alone, not like
this.

"Why don't I make us some tea," I said matter-of-factly.

"I don't want any tea," Mulder said with a hint of bitterness.

"What would you like?"

He was silent for a moment, and I could almost hear him biting back his
retort: 'I'd like you to leave me alone.'

Almost.  Instead, he quietly said, "Juice."

I rose and went about the business of making myself a cup of tea.  While the
water was boiling, I poured a glass of orange juice, then poured it down the
drain when I saw the date on the carton.

I peered around the cabinet to check on Mulder, and the sight nearly broke
my heart.  He looked completely hopeless.  He sat with his elbows on his
knees and his face buried in his hands, his posture indicative of the defeat
he obviously felt.

I checked the refrigerator again, and was relieved to find a bottle of grape
juice with an expiration date a week away.  I rinsed the glass and filled it
with juice, and walked over to set it in front of Mulder.  He looked down at
the glass and nodded slightly, closing his eyes again as if even the dim
light was causing him pain.

He didn't move when I sat down next to him; he stayed inside himself, and I
imagine he was slightly offended by my presence.  Every time I'd been to his
apartment recently, I was the bearer of bad news.  The last time was to
inform him that Diana Fowley had been killed; tonight I came to tell him
that his mother's death was, indeed, a suicide.

We've had far too many of those moments, Mulder and I.  We've each lost two
immediate family members since we started working together seven years ago.
He is now without a family, Samantha notwithstanding.  Even in the unlikely
case that she is alive, the chances of her remembering a lot about him are
slight.  I may have lost my father and sister, but I am still part of a
family.  Mulder, however, has nobody.

Nobody but me.

I spoke softly.  "You asked me to perform the autopsy on your mother because
I'm your friend; because you trust me ... let me be your friend now,
Mulder."

He didn't respond, didn't even lift his head, and just as I was about to say
something else, anything else, the tea kettle whistled.

"Go get your tea, Scully," he hissed through his laced fingers.

It wasn't really him, I reminded myself as I chose my tea, purposely opting
for something with caffeine from his small selection.  I didn't really want
to be awake -- performing the autopsy on Mulder's mother wore me out both
physically and mentally -- but I wouldn't let myself fall asleep, however
much I might have wanted to curl up in the corner of his couch.

I wouldn't be sleeping unless Mulder did the same.  I knew it was going to
be a long night, in any case.

It had already been a horrible day.  I cut Mrs. Mulder open, against my
better judgment but without a real choice.  I was the only one he trusted to
do it.  So I cut his mother open, and with each incision, I came a little
closer to the truth -- the truth I knew would hurt him, the truth I knew he
wasn't going to want to hear.

I know him, and he knows me.  We know each other's buttons, each other's
strengths and weaknesses.  He knew I wouldn't leave; I knew he didn't really
want me to go.  He knew I'd be strong for him; I knew he'd resent me for it.
And on and on.

Having again seated myself next to him on his couch, I found myself
mirroring his pose, leaning my elbows on my knees and rubbing my eyes with
the heels of my hands.  I could feel his mind at work, unable to stop
thinking, as always.

Looking over at him, I saw his walls crumbling again.  Tears fell silently
and he took a deep shivery breath.  He looked like a child; a child who
needed to feel warm and safe and loved.  A child who needed his mother.

I couldn't help myself.  I reached over and stroked the back of his neck,
digging my fingers into his hair.  I don't know if Mulder's mother ever did
this for him, but mine did; she still would if I needed her to.  Mulder
didn't protest.

His silent sobs intensified, but I knew him, knew he'd swat my hand away 
if he didn't want me touching him.  He knew I needed to do this; I knew 
he needed me to be his family.
 
A saying came to me just then: 'You can choose your friends, but you can't
choose your family.'  Mulder and I are both to each other.  Friends *and*
family.  We were thrown together, and our experiences have made us family
whether we wanted to be or not.  And of our own volition we are friends.
Mulder is the friend I always needed and the partner I trust with my life.
To him I'm a sister, a partner, a friend; last night, a mother.

He needed to be mothered, and that was one thing I could do for him; I 
could rub his back, and whisper words of compassion.  "I know, I know..."
I found myself repeating.  And he didn't contradict me.  Because I do 
know.

I couldn't keep him from feeling heartsick, but I could soothe his ache 
by being there.  By being his friend.  By being his family.

I could do that.

= End =

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Feedback is something you can do.
Lysandra31@aol.com or Lysandra@mediaone.net

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