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Safe for noromos and shippers alike. CATEGORY: SH, little Mulder angst ARCHIVE: Gossamer and Spookys are fine. Everyone else, just drop me a line, okay? SUMMARY: Mulder's midlife crisis. DISCLAIMER: If I owned them, I'd be getting sued by one of my stars right about now, so for the first time, I'm rather glad to say 'these aren't my own creations.' ************* "Do I look forty to you?" I glance up from my computer and look across the office. Mulder's sitting there, feet propped up on his desk, staring thoughtfully back at me. For a moment, I feel like maybe this is a hidden test, that perhaps he has a deeper meaning to his question. Something in me realizes he doesn't, so I suppress my smile and clear my throat calmly. "Mulder, you *aren't* forty." He rolls his eyes, taking his feet off the edge of the desk in one fluid movement, and leans toward me in anticipation of a discussion. I groan inwardly. "I know that, Scully. But a person doesn't have to *be* forty to *look* forty. So - do I look forty to you?" I can see this is important to him, although for the life of me, I can't figure out why, so I eye him critically. When we first started working together, he had this fire in his eyes, this fierce desire for knowledge. He hungered for the truth, lived for it, and it showed in his excitement of each new case, in his lanky frame. In everything that he did. I still see that fire, the thirst for the truth, but it's been fading fast for the past year, and it shows. He's still as gorgeous as ever, but he has a cynical edge to his philosophy. His eyes have hardened against the world. Laugh lines have become permanent, and I know its not possible, but I think his lips got poutier. Still... "No, Mulder, you don't look forty," I say finally. "How old do I look, then?" My eyes widen at his persistence. "What, you want an exact number?" I ask incredulously. "Yeah." I take a moment to evaluate him again, keeping in mind that my answer would make or break the rest of his week. "You look - you look your age," I say helplessly. I can't help it; he does. He frowns. Wrong answer, obviously. "I'm thirty-eight," he says, very slowly. I nod. Yes, I know that, Mulder. "That's two years away from forty." "Well, Jesus, Mulder, neither of us are twenty anymore." "So I look forty," he concludes, leaning back in his chair. I watch him for a minute, trying to figure out what the hell's brought this line of questioning on. Coming up empty, I shrug. "What brought this on, Mulder?" He sighs almost dramatically, not answering me. For a minute, I think he's just ended the conversation - he does that, sometimes - but then he speaks, shrugging a little. "You know today is Agent Bates' birthday." I shake my head. "No, I didn't." "Well, today is Agent Bates' birthday." I give him a look. "Anyway, he's turning forty-one, and --" "Bates is forty-one?" I interrupt. He's got to be kidding me. The guy looks like he's twenty-eight, no older than thirty. Mulder gives me a disapproving look. "Scully?" I wave him on. "Sorry." "So like, I was saying, he's forty-one today and - Scully, he looks younger than I do and he's older than me." I don't get it. "And?" He stares blankly at me. "And?" "And, as in, 'and what's your point?' So Bates is older than you are and looks ten years younger. Point?" "The point is that I look forty, Scully," he says, in an almost stern voice. For a split second, I can imagine my father holding my midterm in his hand, shaking his head as he told me I could do better than a B. I shake my head. He rolls his eyes at my apparent ignorance, and we pass the rest of the afternoon in quiet company. *** The phone rings just as I get in from work. I hurry over to pick it up, not bothering with salutations. "What is it, Mulder?" He launches right in. "If I told you I had in my hand, at this very moment, two tickets for a one-week trip to the Bahamas, what would you say?" "I'd say, 'what's the case this time?'" "Seriously." "*Do* you have two tickets for a one-week trip to the Bahamas in your hands, Mulder?" "Depends on what you'd say." "I'd say don't forget to tell Frohike to pack extra sunscreen." I can literally feel him rolling his eyes. "You take all the fun out of everything, Scully." "So - do you?" "No." I roll my own eyes. "Goodbye, Mulder." But somewhere, a little nagging voice in my head is telling me that he may just be crazy enough to buy tickets for the Bahamas. *** The little grey alien starts singing happy birthday in a voice not dissimilar to Barbra Streisand to Mulder, who looks quite proud of himself for some reason. I look at the birthday cake, worried someone might smudge the race car design I had the caterer put on it. Suddenly, the alien's voice changes and instead of the pleasant timbre comes a loud, beeping noise, and - I jerk awake, sitting straight up in bed, the remnants of my dream still floating around me. It takes me a moment to remember my surroundings, but when I do, I realize that its my phone that was trilling, not the alien. I reach over, fumbling in the darkness for my cell. I flip it open and mumble groggily into it. "Yeah. Scully." "Scully?" The blaring music strikes me first, then Mulder's loud voice repeating my name. "Hey, Scully, you there?" "What the hell time is it, Mulder?" I demand, my face half muffled into my pillow. "It's, uh - it's two thirty-seven. Why?" "What. Do you want." "I was wondering if you could - pick me up?" My head lifts up off of the pillow, concern pushing through the walls of fatigue. "What? Why? Where are you?" "I'm at Joe's." "Who is Joe, Mulder?" "The bar, Scully!" he says, laughing a little. Oh. Of course. Of course. My eyes close, trying to block it out. "Are you drunk, Mulder?" "I-I don't think so." "You don't think so," I repeat, muttering. "Fine, fine. I'm on my way. Stay put." "Roger that," he says, and the line goes dead. *** I make my way down the deserted streets of DC, find the bar, and retrieve my partner. We drive to his apartment in silence. Well, me in silence, he humming something that sounds like it could be Elvis. I manage, somehow, to haul him to his feet, keep him standing on the elevator ride up, and open his door. I push him towards his bedroom, stepping back slightly as he lurches forward and falls half on the bed, half on the floor. His legs lay in a tangle on his carpet, his head buried into the mattress. After a pause, his shoulders start to shake, and for an instant, I think he's crying, that he's hurt himself. I hurry forward, only to realize he's laughing. Asshole. I pull him up, push him down, pull the covers up, and take off his shoes. "Go to sleep," I instruct tartly, closing the door half of the way behind me. Exhausted, I kick off my own shoes and make myself comfortable on his couch, vowing not to do this again, no matter what. *** The first thing I hear in the morning is Mulder groaning loudly in the next room. I open my eyes in time to see his bedroom door open, and my partner runs furiously across the room and disappears into the bathroom. I take my time getting up, arriving in the doorway just as he's finishing retching. "Morning, sunshine." "Don't. Talk." "Coffee?" "Shh," he insists. I take that as a yes, and move to the kitchen. By the time its ready, I find him sprawled on the couch, watching me as I walk towards him. He accepts the mug gratefully. "Is there a reason you decided to get piss drunk, Mulder, or was it just a spur of the moment thing?" I ask. "I don't remember clearly, but I think it was a spur of the moment thing," he says without missing a beat. "Why, Mulder?" "I wasn't drunk," he assures me. "You know how I am drunk. Was I drunk last night?" I arch an eyebrow, knowing that he's expecting it. I nod, conceding. "Fine. Partially inebriated. Why?" "I don't know," he mumbles. "Does this have something to do with looking forty?" I ask mildly, certain I'm right. "I found a grey hair." He says this so softly, I'm sure I didn't hear him right. I ask him to repeat it. "I found a grey hair," he says again, louder. I stare at him. "You found a grey hair, so you went to a bar?" He laughs. "It didn't sound so stupid last night." "Mulder, everyone gets grey hair." "Do you?" "It's part of getting older," I continue, pointedly ignoring his inquiry. "It's certainly nothing to get drunk over. Especially one hair." "Partially inebriated," he corrects, mumbling. After a moment, he looks up. "What time is it?" Does he ever stop? "Eight forty-six. Why?" I ask suspiciously. "I have an appointment." "Where?" Only Mulder could get dru - partially inebriated - and be able to shrug it off with a cup of coffee the morning after, just to make an appointment. "To have my hair cut." He's passing me on his way back to his bedroom when he says this. My mind flashes back to a day over a year ago, when we got back from Antarctica. I came into the office one day, passing by Mulder's desk. I remember wondering who was at his desk, when I stopped and doubled back. < What did you do to your hair? > < I cut it. Why? > < You cut your hair. > < I just thought it was time for a new style. If you're going for coffee, get me some too, okay? > He *butchered* his hair. It started to grow back by Christmas time, and my relief was overwhelming. Remembering all of this, I grab his arm. "I'll come with you." *** I manage to convince him to let me go back with him, and I carefully monitor each chop and every strand that falls to the floor. When he's done, he suggests we stop at Friendly's, and I agree, though apprehensive. The minute I open my mouth to place my order, he glares at me and shakes his head. "What?" I demand. "If you order one of those tofutti rice things, we're leaving." So I end up only partially content with my chocolate marshamellow, wondering how anyone can eat five scoops of ice cream. Only Mulder. I realize with a start that he's talking to me, and I refocus. "...down to this old malt shop every day, and I'd get five scoops of mint chocolate chip and Samantha would get one scoop of chocolate. The one day, she made me angry, did something I can't remember, but I got angry, and knocked the ice cream off of her cone." He laughs at the memory, and I feel my heart tug. "She started crying, and I ended up giving her two of my scoops." He shakes his head. "Then she was gone, and there weren't any more ice cream summers." His voice changes, a hint of sadness seeping in. But it's gone a moment later, and he grins at me. "But I would never steal your ice cream, Scully," he promises. I see a hint of the man he might have been, if his life hadn't been marred by tragedy. I saw this guy once before, on a baseball field six months ago. I'm seeing him again, eating ice cream and opening up for the first time in a long time about his childhood. Impulsively, I reach across the table and cover his hand with my own, making it a point to meet his eyes. "You don't look forty, Mulder," I tell him. "Not at all." the end. ************* http://members.tripod.com/~SueBridehead_2/fanfic.html