From: msk1024@aol.com Date: Sat, 30 Dec 2000 12:40:46 EST Subject: xfc: NEW~~ Fringe (1 of 1) by Michelle Kiefer Source: xfc TITLE: Fringe (1 of 1) AUTHOR: Michelle Kiefer E-MAIL ADDRESS: MSK1024@AOL.COM DISTRIBUTION: Archive if you like, just tell me where. 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. COMMENTS: Please visit my other stories at: http://members.aol.com/msrsmut/MichelleKiefer.htm Maintained by the wonderful Jennifer, who recently gave the site a facelift. Come see her handiwork. Thanks always to Kestabrook, for friendship, support and beta talent. 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 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 was obvious that his mind had suffered far more than his body, and the physical damage healed quickly. He 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 did the "episiotomy shuffle" 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. And I'll leave the lamp lit. End. (1 of 1)