TITLE: Longest Night
AUTHOR: aRcaDIaNFall$
FEEDBACK: arcadianfalls@yahoo.com.au
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: Sein Und Zeit
CLASSIFICATION: A, MSF/MSR (open to interpretation)
SUMMARY: Scully helps Mulder through the night after his mother's
death.
AUTHORS NOTE: Yet another post (well, technically *mid*) -ep. I've got
to stop catching the last five minutes of repeats on FOX...
--> http://www.geocities.com/arcadianfalls/


Longest Night
by aRcaDIaNFall$


He sits, head in his hands. Though there's barely two feet between us I
feel as though I could be across the other side of the room. It's so
still, so silent. He hasn't said a word since the tears dried up,
except to mutter thanks as I handed him a mug of coffee. He hasn't
touched it.

So quiet. I gaze at him, wanting to break the stillness, but afraid
that such an action will cause another outburst, an avalanche of all
that grief and anger and loss he's teetering on the brink of. It's
dark. It's getting darker.

I draw a breath. "Mulder?"

No response, though he's trembling. Delayed shock. I rise silently,
tugging the blanket from the back of the couch and lightly draping it
over him, so cautious, as if to just touch him will cause him to
crumple. I can't bear the thought of causing him any more pain.

"Mulder?"

He tugs the blanket closer around him, but I see in his eyes that he's
barely with me. Where is he, I wonder. How many years and miles away?

"Fox."

That gets his attention. He slowly lifts his head, gazing at me with
dark eyes. He's still not with it. He looks dazed, like a puppy hit by
a car, not understanding why it can no longer move its hind legs.

His lips start to move but no words come out. Then, still dazed, he
turns away. I feel as though my world is moving in slow motion. It's
nightmarish.

He's still trembling. I slide closer and gently lay one hand on his
knee, one on his back. "Why don't you lie down?"

He looks up at me again, with dumb confusion. "It's still early,
Scully."

"Yeah, I know it is." I rub his back through his t-shirt. "Then how
about a shower, or a bath?"

He seems to wake up a little, ducking his head, his face in his hands.
Still shivering, he starts to move restlessly. "No. I don't want that."

My heart aches with empathy for him. I move my hand to his hair,
wanting to comfort him, needing him to know how loved he is. He leans
against me, right into me, with his head on my breast. I'm a little
surprised by his action, but keep my hand on his hair, the other on his
back, rubbing. I'm here.

He draws his feet up under him. He's balled up, a child hiding in his
mother's arms. He starts to cry again. First, I feel the tears soaking
my shirt, warm and wet. Then the whimpering, choked sobs. I close my
eyes as I listen, and I lower my head atop his, my arms stretched
around him, trying to envelope him, to hold him and take his pain away,
to help him make it through the night.

Our first hour.





He paces, silent. He's trembling again, this time with a sort of
nervous agitation, as though he's waiting. What is he waiting for? For
somebody to knock on the door and announce that we'd made a mistake,
that his mother had been murdered for what she knew, that everything
he'd thought was true after all? Or is he simply still waiting for her
to walk through the door, declaring her own death a hoax, some fake to
get her out of the picture, to weaken him?

"You should eat something."

I know the suggestion is ludicruous even as I voice it. The doctor in
me can't resist. I care for this man. I want to help him.

"I can't."

I nod, acknowledging it.

Our second hour.




He's sitting again. Planted himself in the armchair. To keep his space,
I guess. I don't know what he expects me to do. I'm not giving up on
him.
Puckered frown on his forehead, his expression one of pained
concentration as he rubs at his stubble. He plays with his lower lip,
rocking back and forth a little. He pulls at threads on the Navajo rug.
He picks up a book from his coffee table, flicking through it blindly
before putting it down again, straightening the pile. He stares at the
carpet.

"Mulder?"

He seems almost surprised, as if he's forgotten I'm there, he's been so
self-absorbed. "Scully.."

"Yeah." My question remains unasked - Do you want to talk about it?

His gaze returns to the floor, his fingers play with the hem of his
t-shirt.

Our third hour.




"I feel lost." It's the first he's spoken in almost forty minutes. I've
been silent, too.

I don't speak, just wait for him to go on.

He shakes his head, pained frown on his forehead. "I just don't know
what I'm supposed to know or do or believe any more, Scully. I was so
sure about the truth, but it changes, and something else becomes truth,
there's nothing immutable about it after all..."

"Not everything changes. Your mom loved you, Mulder. You must know
that. That never changed. Love doesn't. Not real love."

"How do you know that was real love?"

"You were her son. Even the worst parents, they love their kids, and
their kids love them, even if they hate them too."

"I hated her. I hated her because of all the fights and because of the
secrets. And I still hate her, for giving up."

"She had a terminal illness, Mulder. It was a fight she couldn't win."

"You had a terminal illness too, Scully. You didn't give up and we beat
it. Mom shouldn't have given up. She could have beaten it. She could be
here, still..."

Sobs again. I move over to him, kneeling before him, and touch his
calves, resting my head on his thighs. I'm tired, too. This will be a
long night.

His hand falls to my hair, fingers trembling as he caresses. The
apartment is well and truly dark now. He switched all the lights off,
one by one, about half an hour ago. I stare into the darkness, feeling
his whole body trembling. I wonder if he even realises.


Our fourth hour.





He's angry again. He's pushed me away from him and he's pacing,
bouncing his basketball restlessly. It hits something on the floor and
rebounds at a skewed angle, knocking his still-full mug of cold coffee
off the coffee table. Frustrated, he grabs the ball and kicks it at his
fishtank. It hits the glass and we hear the crack, see the crazy zigzag
lines that spread to all corners like a spider spreading its legs. The
pieces hang there for a second. The glass creaks as water starts to
dribble through the cracks, then the water explodes through, sending
glass flying. There's a huge puddle on the floor, glass everywhere, and
the fish lie frantically flapping their tails, gasping for air. Mulder
just stands there, stunned.

I run to the kitchen, grabbing the first thing I see, a small saucepan.
I scoop up some of the puddled water and actually pick up the slimy
squirming fish between thumb and forefinger, one by one, to drop it in
the half-filled saucepan. Mulder just keeps on standing there, and
somehow that only makes me more desperate to keep the fish alive. It
may not seem like much, but I don't even want to think what losing even
one of them tonight would do to him.

I return to the kitchen, gently filling the saucepan almost to the
brim. The fish seem okay, though maybe a little stunned. They start to
swim around in their new, dark quarters, exploring the tiny space. One
of them nears the surface and, remembering their jumping habits, I look
around for something to cover the saucepan with. The best I can come up
with is a plastic sieve but it does for now. I balance it on top, then,
remembering the puddle on the floor, grab a mop and a handful of dirty
towels from Mulder's hamper, piling them on the floor to soak up the
water. He's still just standing there.

"There's glass, Scully..." he mutters, warning me. He starts to move
forward but I stop him. He won't be much use in the state he's in.

"I've got this, Mulder. Can you grab me some newspaper or something I
can wrap the glass in? And a bucket?"

He nods, chewing on his lower lip. He looks like a kid woken in the
middle of the night, confused, a little scared.

He fetches the bucket and one by one I toss the sodden towels in it. I
don't think that the water has soaked through to the apartment below
but the floorboards will be stained. The rug will be stained from the
coffee, too, I think as I toss a towel over that.

Most of the glass is in big pieces. Some shards are still in the frame
of the fishtank and I pad my hand with a towel to knock them out. The
last thing we need is for one of us to get cut.

I pick the pieces up cautiously, laying them on the newspapers Mulder
has spread out. I hunt through cupboards for the vaccum cleaner to suck
up all the tiny specks of glass and pebbles and weed that had been
caught up in rushing water.

I empty the cleaner bag, toss it and the wrapped glass shards into a
plastic garbage bag, tie it closed and put it to the side. He still
stands, watching.


His coffee mug was chipped but not broken. I take it and my own into
the kitchen and rinse it out, glancing at the fish. They're still
swimming. Thank God.


Back in the living room. He's put himself down on the couch, hunched
over, blanket drawn around himself.

"I think your fish will be okay."

He nods. "Thanks."

Our fifth hour.




After midnight. He's switched the TV on and is flicking channels,
restless. He needs to get some sleep. We both do. Sleep will pass the
following hours. He'll never survive the night otherwise.

I reach to take the remote from his hand, silently switching the TV
off. I offer him my hand. "Come on."

He obeys, letting me lead him into his bedroom. It's pitch black and I
turn on the light. He winces at the sudden brightness, hand to his
face. His eyes are bloodshot, his face haggard, his hair in all
directions. 

I pull back the covers for him and push him down onto the bed. He
kicked off his shoes earlier, somewhere.
He stretches out, his dark eyes on me as I pull the covers back up over
him. I feel like a mother tucking her child in for the night.

I lay a hand on his forehead, then caress his hair, smoothing it down.
He's so vulnerable, so needy. I can't hide how protective I feel. 
I bend to kiss his forehead, then turn to leave. But he catches my
hand. "Scully..."

I turn back. "Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you too, Mulder," I answer softly. I free my hand. "I'll be out
on the couch if you need anything. Try to get some sleep." 

Our sixth hour.




Something wakes me. I kick back the blanket and stand, suddenly
apprehensive. I make my way quickly into Mulder's bedroom, flicking on
the light. He's gone, the rumpled bedcovers thrown back.
"Mulder?" I run to check the bathroom, but it's empty too. I go
throughout the whole apartment, lighting up every room as I search for
him. But he's nowhere. He's gone. His sneakers, discarded earlier, are
gone. So is his jacket, though he left his cell phone behind. Damnit,
Mulder...

I hear a car outside and go to the window. I can still see not only my
car but his as well, parked in the street below. Has he gone for a run,
maybe? Or gotten a cab somewhere? Why would he do that?

I glance around the apartment, uncertain. Should I just wait here til
he returns? Go out looking for him? Go home? No, I can't do that. I
won't give up on him.

It's going to be cold out. I grab one of Mulder's bomber jackets and
pull it on. It's far too big but it's soft and warm. I inhale his scent
as I hunch over to do up my shoes and almost cry. Damnit Mulder, you
don't need to do this...

I lock his apartment after me and head downstairs, checking hallways as
I go, not knowing where he could have been heading. 


I find him on the front steps, out in the biting wind. His head is in
his hands, his keys dropped beside him on the cold concrete.

I kneel beside him, a hand on his back. "What are you doing out here?"

"I had to get out of the apartment." His voice is muffled, his face
still buried in his hands. I reach for his hands, trying to get him to
look at me. His skin is icy.

I rub the nape of his neck. "I want you to come back in with me. Out of
the cold."

"I want to be out here..." he protests. 

"You're freezing. Come inside and get warm."

"Scully -"

"Stop punishing yourself, Mulder."

He looks up at me, bleary eyed, then he turns away, eyes squeezed shut,
hands to his head as if he has a migraine.

"Okay," he agrees finally, voice choked. I put my arms around his
waist, helping him up. We return to his apartment in silence.

Our seventh hour.





He's asleep again. Tangled in the blankets, face buried in the pillows.
I sit beside the bed on a hard-backed chair, too tired to be
uncomfortable. But I don't want to sleep, in case he wakes up again.

I yawn, my eyelids heavy. I should get up, try to shake some life into
myself, but in the stillness, just listening to his breathing, I can't
muster up the energy to move. I just watch him, wondering what's going
through his head as he sleeps, if he's dreaming. Is he thinking of his
sister? Of his mother? Of Amber-Lynn LaPierre? 

I close my eyes and I pray that his dreams are gentle.

Our eighth hour.




I'm woken again. This time, there is no panic or urgency. Rather, I'm
roused by his gentle touch, his soft whispers. I sleepily open my eyes
as I feel myself being lifted up in his arms like a child, then laid
gently on the bed.

"M-..." That's all I get out, still heavy with sleep, already dropping
off again. I feel the mattress sag as he climbs onto the bed beside me,
sliding his arms around me and pulling me close like a favourite
teddy-bear. Silently, he nuzzles against my shoulder, kisses my neck.

Almost asleep, I wrap my hands over his. It's okay. Hold me as long as
you want.

His fingers relax their grip. His breathing settles. I can feel his
breath on the back of my neck. I can feel his heartbeat. I wonder if he
can feel mine.

Sleep, Mulder. We'll make it through til morning.

Our ninth hour.






A knock. I open my eyes, for a moment forgetting the night's events,
just pleasantly surprised to find his arms around me. Then I remember.
My heart sinks. I lie still, searching for strength.

The knocking is persistent. I extricate myself from his grip and slide
out from under the covers, straightening my clothes, running my fingers
through his hair. It's probably Skinner at the door. Some new break in
the case he wants Mulder's help in. But he'll have to wait. I'm not
going to so much as wake him up. He needs his rest. He needs time.

I pause at the bedroom door, glancing back at him. His arms are still
outstretched. The covers are rumpled and twisted. There's smudges of my
mascara on the pillow. 

The sun is up outside, filtering through the blinds. I feel faint
relief at the sight. It's morning. 

He stirs, but he doesn't wake. I sigh, watching him, knowing this is
far from over. We've made it through the night. Now we just have to
face the day.


fin.