TITLE: Bereft (1/1) AUTHOR: Dawn EMAIL: sunrise83@comcast.net SPOILERS: Sein Un Zeit RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: S, A KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully UST SUMMARY: Bereft - lacking something needed, wanted, or expected. A glimpse into part of Mulder's difficult night. DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner belong to Chris Carter and 1013 productions. If Chris wouldn't leave such tempting blanks, I wouldn't be here filling 'em. Bereft By Dawn Though armed with science, logic, and common sense, in the end she simply held him. Mulder's tears, hot and hard as bullets, scalded the sensitive flesh of Scully's neck and traced a path of fire through her already raw emotions. His chest vibrated with violent sobs that rose from a dark place she'd only glimpsed occasionally, but never with such clarity. His arms clutched her to his body with the frantic desperation of a drowning man, and despite a crushing sense of inadequacy, she tried to grant him the little she could. "It's okay," she murmured, laying her cheek against the crown of his head and rocking gently back and forth. "It's all right, Mulder, let it out. Let it all out." The storm of his weeping eventually tapered off to an occasional shudder and hitch of breath, reducing Mulder to a limp tangle of long limbs -- a sharp contrast to the muscles in Scully's back, stretched to the breaking point and thrumming with tension. She ran her fingers soothingly through damp, spiky hair and ducked her head to peer into his eyes. "Hey, partner. How about moving to the couch? You look like you could use some sleep." The waning light cast a shadowy mask over Mulder's features, but the abrupt clench of muscle was unmistakable. He jerked backward, breaking the circle of her arms as he lurched to his feet. "I can't do that, Scully! Not now. I...I have to think, to figure things out." Pacing now, he prowled around the room, aimlessly picking up and replacing objects without really seeing them. A cut-glass paperweight from the desk. His favorite text on alien abductions from the bookshelf. The worn basketball perched on a corner of the coffee table. Lifted, fingered absently, and discarded, until something in Mulder's hands halted the incessant motion and he went very still. Scully rose from her chair, wincing when she saw that a photo was the catalyst for the abrupt switch from agitation to immobility. THE photo. "Why did she do it, Scully?" His index finger traced his sister's impish grin. Raising impossibly green eyes to her face, his bewilderment was but a thin veneer atop other, far more complex emotions. Scully pressed her lips together, searching for a response. Mulder's question could be interpreted so many ways. Why did his mother kill herself? Why did she destroy of her children's photos? Why did she leave the cryptic message on his answering machine? Given Mulder's fragility she was loath to seek clarification. Instead, she captured one hand and tugged him over to the couch. He sat on the edge of the cushions, elbows braced on knees and head cradled in his hands. Withdrawing from her in an attempt to maintain a tenuous grasp on his grief. Scully kept her voice low and soothing as she sought to navigate an emotional minefield. "Mulder, when people are upset…confused, they often behave uncharacteristically -- even irrationally. Your mother had received devastating news. It must have been a terrible shock." Mulder remained silent and, she thought, unresponsive. Until a flicker of movement caught her eye, and she recognized the almost imperceptible shake of his head. "No." He dragged his palms down his face and glared at her over his shoulder. More vehemently. "NO, Scully." At the sight of her puzzled frown he hunched his shoulders and stared at the floor. "Don't you see? This isn't uncharacteristic behavior, not if you take a closer look. She was never there for me in life, damn it. Why should her death be any different?" Scully gaped at his rigid back, speechless. Mulder was his mother's staunchest defender -- making excuses for holidays spent alone, pointing to her fragile health when she failed to show up at his hospital bedside in North Carolina. And Alaska. And Tennessee. In Scully's opinion, Teena Mulder had been an emotionally cool and distant mother; and Mulder, like many children raised in a less than nurturing environment, overly solicitous and protective where she was concerned. He'd never openly criticized his mother in her presence. Never. "Mulder." She laid her hand on the taut muscles between his shoulder blades. "I know how much you're hurting right now, but you shouldn't interpret this as a rejection. She..." He evaded her touch, launched himself to his feet, and resumed pacing, hands plunged deep into his pockets. "Then why don't you tell me how I'm supposed to interpret it, Scully? She *burned* all her pictures of us! And then she... she.... And she didn't even leave a note, an explanation! She took the coward's way out and just... just..." He slumped against the wall, forehead and palms pressed to plaster and eyes squeezed tightly shut. "I'm furious with her." He ground the words out between clenched teeth. "Isn't that pathetic? My mother just killed herself and I'm so pissed I could..." He whirled, scooped up the paperweight and hurled it to the floor where it shattered in a spectacular crash and shower of glass. Scully reached his side just as his fingers closed around a ceramic mug holding pens and pencils. One small but strong hand clamped onto his wrist and the other cupped his jaw, directing his wild-eyed gaze to the calm steel of her own. "Mulder. Stop." The fury drained out of him as abruptly as it had flared, leaving behind eyes like two open wounds. "My family is gone, Scully. She left me here, alone, and she didn't even bother to leave a note." He swiped impatiently at fresh tears with the back of his hand. "She was my mother. She should have had something--anything--to tell me." "Oh, Mulder." Scully's own voice was thick as she curled her fingers around his neck and guided his head to her shoulder. "She was my mother." He wept the words as she ran her thumb over soft skin and shushed him. "She should've had something to tell me." "Maybe she did, Mulder. Maybe she just couldn't find the words." Somehow she steered them back to the couch. Though more subdued than his earlier breakdown, Scully sensed Mulder's silent tears mourned more than his mother's passing. She left him long enough to fill a glass with cold water, pressing it into his trembling hands. For a long time they sat side by side, Mulder sipping and staring blankly into space with swollen, red-rimmed eyes. "I always thought that one day I'd bring Samantha home." His voice was very soft, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "After she was taken I'd lie in bed at night, listening to my parents fight, and picture in my mind what it would be like. I'd make her wait on the front porch while I went in and called Mom and Dad together, telling them I had a big surprise. They'd be puzzled, maybe even annoyed at first. But then I'd go get Sam and bring her into the room. Mom would pull her into a hug, just crying and calling her baby over and over again. And Dad would put his arm around my shoulders and tell me how proud he was, that he never doubted I'd find her. And everything would be right again." Mulder set his empty glass on the coffee table and reclined until his head rested on the back of the couch. "Some nights that dream was the only thing holding me together. I've kept it alive, my own personal quest for the Holy Grail, for twenty-five years." He chuffed a bitter little laugh. "A lot of people tried to kill that dream. I never thought my mother would be the one to succeed." Scully mirrored his position, her shoulder companionably brushing his. "Maybe it's time the dream stopped being about making other people happy, Mulder." She turned to study his profile. "Maybe it's time to dream a new dream. Could be that's what your mother was trying to tell you." His sucked his lower lip into his mouth as his eyes blurred with tears. "I don't think I know how." He curled toward her, mutely seeking the comfort of her arms. Scully wove her fingers through strands of dark hair, blinking hard. "You'll figure it out, Mulder. I'll help you." The whispered words were rough with feeling. "You're not alone; I'm here. I'll always be here." Mulder's fingers tightened until she was certain they would leave bruises, but she continued to pet his hair and utter soft sounds of reassurance. Scully had no idea how long she held him while his sobs slowly tapered off, his body grew heavy, and his grip went slack. Time turned fluid, no longer a constant, measurable commodity to be given consideration. All that mattered was the silk of hair beneath her fingertips, the steady puffs of breath warming her skin. Full darkness had descended, and the muted glow from the desk lamp caught the sparkle of moisture on Mulder's flushed cheek. With a gossamer touch of her thumb, Scully absently brought the tear to her lips. Salty. Bitter. The dark taste of mourning and grief. Unexpectedly, her own sorrow slammed down upon her with a crushing weight. Using the brutal autopsy instruments on the mother of her best friend. Watching the light in Mulder's eyes slowly die as she delivered the cruel truth. Hearing the desolation in his ragged sobs, powerless to take away his pain. Scully closed her eyes tightly but could no longer prevent her anguish from escaping. *We've tasted too many tears, Mulder. Our own, and each other's.* Inexplicably, the priest's words at her father's funeral echoed in her thoughts. *Sorrow and weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.* She had the feeling Mulder would find joy much slower to arrive. End Come visit my other stories at http://members.tripod.com/~dawnsunrise/index.html