TITLE: Hearth 
AUTHOR: Michelle Kiefer 
E-MAIL ADDRESS: MSK1024@AOL.COM 
DISTRIBUTION: Archive if you like, just tell me where.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully 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. This is a continuation of "Fringe," 
which you probably need to read to understand this story.
It can be found here

SUMMARY: He'd lived his life in the cold for such a long time. 
What allowed him to draw near the hearth, to warm himself, 
even if for just a little while.

COMMENTS:I'm more grateful than words can say to Dlynn and 
January for beta reading and support.

~*~*~

Low-key--that's the watchword for this evening. Low-key. 
Non-threatening. Relaxed. Of course, all this planning for a calm 
dinner is having the opposite effect on me. I don't think I've felt 
this nervous since I took my driver's test in high school. I've changed 
clothes four times, trying to strike the right note between special and 
casual. I finally settled on slacks and a soft wool sweater. It's been a 
long time since I aspired to wearing more than shoes that match and 
clothes free of baby food stains. 

After much internal debate, I decided to cook something simple and 
homey, a dish that Mulder loved. So I stir the marinara sauce, bubbling 
in a pot on the stove. I spoon up a tiny bit for a taste-I can't decide if
it needs more salt. Looking at the clock on the wall, I fidget with the 
cross at my throat. Mulder will be here in less than fifteen minutes. 

I uncover a second pot on the stove; steam rises from the boiling 
water in a hair frizzing cloud. Pushing my rapidly curling hair back
from my face, I hope I don't end up looking like Little Orphan Annie 
by the time Mulder arrives. I drop a sheaf of uncooked spaghetti
into the pot; the strands curve as the hot water softens them. 

At her little table in the corner of the kitchen, Kate cooks a pretend 
meal, vigorously clanging her own pots and spoons. Today 
was my "work from home" day, but I never got to the autopsy 
notes I was supposed to review. 

Except for her six or seven minute nap this afternoon, Kate spent 
the day glued to my right leg like an extra appendage. Maybe she 
sensed the tension that had me double espresso wired all day. Only 
now does she allow a few feet to separate us, though she keeps a 
watchful eye on me in case I make a break for it. 

The doorbell startles me, and I drop the spoon into the sauce. Kate 
shadows me to the door, where I take a deep breath and open it wide.
Holding a plastic-wrapped bunch of flowers, Mulder looks as nervous 
as I feel. "Am I early?" he asks.

"You're right on time," I say. Kate peeks out from behind my leg at 
Mulder, and he smiles at her. 

"I remembered that you liked these," he says, handing me the
flowers. My eyes mist over as I remember Holy Cross's Oncology
Section and the first flowers he ever gave me. A thousand years gone 
by. He shrugs out of his coat and lays it on the chair near the door.

"They're beautiful. Come in the kitchen while I put them in some 
water." I hope my voice doesn't betray the tears I feel welling up. 
If I don't control myself, I'm afraid he'll be out the door like a shot.

I stretch to reach the vase I keep on the top shelf of the cabinet, 
and Mulder steps behind me. He smells of soap and toothpaste,
and I feel almost dizzy at his closeness.

"Let me get that," he says as he moves around me, his arm 
brushing mine. He reaches up easily, and his hand closes on the
large vase. I watch the muscles move in his back as he stretches
and find myself oddly moved. "This one okay?"

"It's fine," I say as he hands the beveled crystal container to me. 
His rough hands brush mine. I busy myself filling the vase with 
water and arranging the flowers. Kate continues to trail me like a 
puppy, causing me to worry that I'm going to step on her.

Mulder seems to fascinate her though, as she sneaks looks from 
behind my legs. Since she was only awake for a few minutes while he
was here, I don't know if she remembers him from last night. He
stands very still, which is apparently the right approach as Kate eases 
away from me, if only by inches.

Mulder wears a soft, dark blue shirt and faded jeans. They don't look 
new, probably bought at a second hand store. Only Mulder could look 
that good in hand-me-down clothes. I try to remember if I ever told 
him how much I love that color on him. I would never have mentioned 
it during the years before we became lovers for fear of tipping my hand.

How foolish to have spent that much energy hiding such an obvious truth. 
 
Now, I look at this man--so gentle, so beautiful, before me--and feel like
weeping for lost time. If I don't do something, I'm going to embarrass 
myself. I decide to put dinner on the table.

"Kate, Mommy's going to cook now. Why don't you cook too?"
I've gotten Kate into the habit of pretend cooking at her little table when
I have to work with hot food. Peeking over her shoulder at Mulder, she 
trots to her workstation and noisily stirs her invisible soup.

I'd set the kitchen table earlier with everyday dishes and woven 
cloth napkins. After draining the spaghetti and spooning sauce 
over the noodles, it takes me only a few minutes to get our meal 
onto the table. Spaghetti, salad and crusty bread. I've placed
wineglasses on our placemats, but I look to Mulder before pouring. 
He nods his assent and I pour red wine for both of us.

"Dinner's ready," I announce. I cross the kitchen to scoop up Kate 
and put her in her high chair. I prepare a bowl of spaghetti for Kate,
breaking the strands of pasta with a fork. Mulder waits patiently
while I get Kate settled, and finally we sit down to dinner.

Mulder is quiet for a moment, and I almost wonder if he's praying. 
That would never have crossed my mind in days gone by, but
I realize I don't really know the man who sits before me. He
is Mulder and yet he's not. 

He eats his spaghetti carefully, almost as if he's afraid of being 
clumsy. Then and now, Mulder could never be clumsy. He moves
with a casual grace, twirling the strands of pasta around the tines
of his fork. Unable to take my eyes off Mulder's generous mouth,
I can barely taste my own food.

"This is great. I can't remember the last time I had spaghetti that
wasn't cooked in mass quantities." Mulder's smile is wistful.

"Not quite the same?" I ask. I have a million questions about the 
last two years running through my head, but I have no idea how 
to ask them. 

"It loses something in the translation when you eat off a styrofoam
tray with a plastic spork. Hearing the wino next to you belch doesn't 
add to the ambiance." His smile turns wry as he takes a great deal of
care buttering a slice of bread.

"How did you get from there to here, Mulder?" I ask, my voice
sounding small. I wonder what changed for him. He'd lived his
life in the cold for such a long time. What allowed him to draw near 
the hearth, to warm himself, even if just for a little while?

"I could say that I took the bus, but I suspect that isn't the answer 
you were going for." I can hear the old Mulder in his flippant 
comment. He studies the wine in his glass, and I realize how hard
it is for him to share this. "There's a priest that works down at the 
soup kitchen. I think you may have met him once. He told me a 
very pregnant woman and a big bald man were looking for me a 
long time ago. He would talk to me at dinner from time to time, as
he did with a lot of the guys. Guess he felt he had a better chance of 
getting our attention when we had a full stomach." 

"Sounds like he knows what he's doing," I say, my throat 
tight with the memory of that terrible time. Kate fusses and
reaches for something on the table. I offer her bits of carrot
from my salad, but she pushes them away.

"Finally, I guess Father Dan asked the right question. He asked 
me what kept me living on the street. He said there were a million 
reasons why people ended up on the street, but what really mattered 
was what kept them there. I guess he could tell that he'd made me 
think because the next thing I knew, he was handing me the address 
to the second hand store and telling me to ask for Frank Calloway."

"Frank taught you how to refinish furniture?" I ask as I break off
a piece of bread for Kate. This does the trick, and Kate happily
gnaws on the crust.

"Yeah. He's a good guy. I'm one in a long line of bums that
Frank has tried to rehabilitate."

"Mulder-" I start before I realize I don't know what to say.

"I am what I am, Scully." There is no bitterness there, and that
makes me sadder than anything. "It's okay. Listen, I don't want to
ruin dinner." 

My food seems to have lost all flavor and I push the pasta strands 
into interesting swirls. I look up to see Mulder watching me,
his expression guarded. Kate has tired of her bread crust, and it 
sails over the edge of the high chair tray.

Kate is not one to worry about table manners. Frustrated with the
progress she makes wielding her spoon, she drops it with a clatter. 
She resorts to a far more practical method of spaghetti eating, 
conveying handfuls of slippery pasta to her rosebud mouth.

"She didn't inherit THAT from me," Mulder says, and I almost 
choke on my food. My soul rejoices to know the man can 
still make me laugh.

"Oh Kate, we're going to have to hose you off," I say as Kate 
finishes her dinner. She claps sticky, red hands and laughs at
the squelchy sound they make. "I better clean her off before the 
tomato sauce gives her a rash."

"She's got your fair skin," Mulder observes as I lift her out of 
the high chair. I hold my messy child at arm's length and carry
her into the kitchen. Mulder tries to wipe her face and hands
with paper towels, laughing as Kate giggles and kicks her feet. 
"The spaghetti is all down her neck."

"I'm going to clean up the table later. I'd better get Kate into the
bathtub," I say as Mulder still attempts to dig pasta out of the
neckline of Kate's shirt. 

Not really giving him a choice, I hand Kate to Mulder. He follows 
me to the bathroom, holding her away from his body. I'm not sure 
if he's trying to protect his clothes or if he isn't comfortable handling 
a child. Kate wriggles in his hands, twisting back to look at Mulder.
 
I run bath water, gather towels, and together we peel Kate's clothes off.
 
I kneel on the tile floor and we lower the squirming child into the 
water. Kate loves the bath, rather like her mother, and she splashes 
and squeals as I lather her up. The sweet scent of baby soap fills 
the room.

"Mommy, duckies," she says, pointing to the mesh bag that
holds bath toys. Mulder lifts the toy sack from it's hook and 
empties the cups and rubber ducks into the water. He kneels
next to me, shoulder to shoulder, and unbuttons the cuffs of his
shirt. As he folds back the sleeves, a wave of memory crashes 
over me, and I remember a thousand days spent sneaking peaks 
at Mulder's bare arms.

A very ugly scar slices across one golden forearm. I'm sure 
I've never seen the disfigurement before. It's at least three inches 
long, and it looks as though it was never stitched and therefore
healed badly. I can't take my eyes off of it, even as I become aware 
of Mulder's self-consciousness. He tugs the blue material down 
to cover the mark. 

Kate plays with her bath toys, laughing and pouring water
from one cup to another. Her voice pipes high in the tile bath,
echoing against the walls. I feel Mulder stiffen next to me, his 
knuckles as white as the edge of the tub he grips. His breath
hitches, and he doesn't seem to be able to draw air into his lungs. I 
look at him. His face is so pale, I'm afraid he might pass out. 

His eyelids don't blink; he stares straight ahead as though he might 
bore a hole through the tile with the intensity of his look. Mulder 
doesn't appear to register anything around him--Kate's squeals, my 
concerned gaze, the water that drenches his arms from his daughter's 
boisterous splashing. He's in his own world--somewhere that I 
can't go and some place that I can't see. Probably some place that 
I don't want to see. 

"Mulder?" I say, laying a hand on his shoulder. I can feel him
trembling. He shrugs my hand away and pushes himself to his 
feet, stumbling out of the bathroom.

His sudden retreat startles Kate, and she begins to cry. I hurriedly
finish the bath, Kate wriggling under my hands while I rinse her hair. 
My heart is torn, but I can't leave her alone in the tub. Bundling Kate 
into a towel, I swallow my tears. Her fussing has begun to wind down 
as the long day without a real nap takes it's toll.

Kate is halfheartedly whining as I dry her skin and wrestle her into a 
sleeper. I try to work the front zipper, but my hands are shaking. I lay
her in the crib and she immediately finds the pacifier that waits there 
for her. Her pediatrician thinks she should get used to sleeping without 
it, but then again, he doesn't have to get her to bed every night. 

My heart pounds in my ears as I race to the bedroom window. I peer 
through the glass, searching the street for the shape of Mulder's body, 
the gleam of his teeth in the low light. He's not there.

Oh God, he's not there.

"Turn around, Scully."

~*~*~

His voice startles me, and I swing around to find him sitting on the
chair in the corner of my room. The sight of him, barely discernible 
in the dim moonlight, floods me with memories of a night long ago 
when Mulder waited for me in the same shadows. A night that had 
been filled with desperation and pain.

"I was afraid that you'd left." I come around to sit on the end of the bed. 
"What happened back in the bathroom, Mulder?"

"I just had to get out of there," he says, scrubbing his hands over his 
face. He rises out of the chair as if he can't sit still a moment longer
and crosses to the window. Mulder looks down as I have so many nights. 
His face, in profile, is etched with sadness. "So this is what you saw 
every night."

"I saw a man I missed very much. I saw someone who was in pain--
a man I couldn't help. Mulder, why did you run out of the room before?"

"I suddenly remembered I had to be somewhere else." He smiles at me,
and I think even he is unconvinced by his offhand humor. His smile
fades. "Sometimes the compulsion to run just comes over me. It 
doesn't happen as often now. It used to overwhelm me---heart 
pounding, unable to breathe, so scared and anxious I didn't know what
to do. The good news is that I don't scream anymore."

"And something set it off back there?"

Mulder shrugs as he turns to face me. "It's usually a sound that triggers
it. I just never know what is going to set it off: car alarms, ambulance 
sirens. Even the chirp of a cell phone---pretty funny, huh? A cell phone 
sending me into a screaming fit." 

I hold out my hand to Mulder, beckoning him to my side. He hesitates, 
and I'm afraid he won't come, but finally he sits next to me on the
bed. I take his hand between mine and press my face in Mulder's
shoulder. 
 
"I'm so sorry." My voice muffles against Mulder's shirt. I can feel his 
free hand stroking my hair. "I wish I knew how to help you."

Mulder gathers me in an embrace. I slip my arms around him, a little 
alarmed that I can feel his ribs so distinctly. He tightens his hold, 
and his hands begin to move over my body. I can feel the need in his 
touch, and it frightens me a little. 

Mulder's hands travel up my arms to rest on either side of my face.
There is an expression in his eyes that I remember from the times
we walked on the razor edge of despair. His lips cover mine, his
kiss a hungry thing. My hands tangle in Mulder's long hair, 
desperate in my own need to touch and be touched.

Mulder's body tenses like an electrical current passed through it,
and his breathing becomes ragged against my mouth. He grips my
upper arms and roughly pushes me away from him. The look in
his eyes is so dark, so full of pain that I want to squeeze my eyes
shut and turn away. Perhaps it is shock that keeps me from doing 
just that; I cannot look away.

"No one can help me. I'll only pull you and Kate down with me."
His voice sounds choked and bitter. "I was wrong to come here."

He is gone before I can make my body move again. I hear the front
door close with a finality that echoes through the apartment. I rise
on shaky legs and stagger to the window just in time to see Mulder's
desperate retreat.

I crawl through the next days: three, four, I can hardly tell. The pain
of the last two years seems mild compared to this emptiness. No matter
how lonely I was during that time, Mulder was always on the edge of my 
life, just visible out of the corner of my eye. This time, I feel that he is 
gone from me. Though I sit by the window every night, he never comes to stand 
under the streetlamp.

I rouse myself only to care for Kate. Her cheerful shouts pull me from 
my bed and I stumble, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, to feed and dress
and do what needs to be done. A sensitive child, she pats my face and
announces solemnly, "Mommy sad."

I dream, one night, that Mulder and I drive along a featureless
Midwestern highway, arguing about a case. I don't know what we
are fighting about, but I don't give an inch. I return point for point,
until Mulder turns to me and asks, "You never give up, do you?" 

I wake up with a jolt, the question echoing in my head. I know 
immediately what I must do. I remember a time when cancer almost
paralyzed me with fear. Mulder forced me to move past my terror 
and do what needed to be done. I want desperately to return that favor, 
but I'll have to find him first.

It's dark out when I head to the kitchen. Kate is still burrowed under 
her blankets, a warm bundle. My hands shake a little as I pour myself 
some coffee and sit at the table with a pad and pencil. I list every detail 
I can remember from Mulder's dinner conversation and haul out the 
phone book to begin a rather low tech investigation. 

Hours later, Kate spends the day with my mother, and I'm on my
way to Frank's Furniture. I find a cramped little storefront, 
sandwiched among chic little eateries and upscale shops. Frank 
has probably been here since they first set the stones in the pavement. 

The store smells a bit musty, and Frank has a serious clutter problem, 
but there are some remarkable pieces on display. I inspect a small 
chest of drawers as I wait for Frank to finish with a customer. I slide 
my hand over the smooth wood and wonder if Mulder worked on this 
piece. Finally, the customer moves away to study a maple rocking chair,
and I make my move.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Fox Mulder," I say, trying not to sound
like an FBI agent. Frank scrutinizes my face, trying to decide if I
present any threat to Mulder. "He's not in any trouble, sir."

"In the back," he says gruffly, gesturing to an open doorway. "Down 
the hall, on the left." 

I walk down a short hall, past a calendar dated 1977, featuring a bare-
breasted woman with Farrah Fawcett hair. I spy Mulder through the
open door, but he doesn't hear my approach over the chuff, chuff of
his sandpaper. 

I drink in the sight of him as he moves a sanding block over the surface 
of a farmhouse table. His long hair is tied back, out of his face while he 
works. He looks so thin to me, but his upper body is beautifully defined, 
probably from manual labor. His jeans hang low on slim hips, the denim 
decorated with wood stains. A once white t-shirt bears streaks of rust and 
brown and a layer of sawdust. The shirt rides up with his motions revealing 
golden skin and I'm breathless at the sight of him. So long neglected, I feel 
the warmth of arousal rise again.

"You should wear a face mask," I say, resting my back against the
doorway's threshold. 

Mulder startles with the violence of an earthquake, and I feel my 
throat tighten with guilt. He twitches a bit with the aftershock of my 
intrusion. His jaw tenses as he struggles to regain his composure.

"Frank says the same thing. I can't stand anything over my mouth."
He looks down at his hands on the sanding block. "You shouldn't
have come here, Scully." 

"Mulder, if our positions were reversed, would you give up on me?"

He lays the sanding block down on the worktable behind him and
wipes the table down with a cloth, removing any left over sandy grit. 
"I doubt that you'd ever allow yourself to be this screwed up." 

"You think you had some choice in what happened to you? That 
you somehow lack the moral substance to get past this? Mulder, you're
the smartest, strongest person I know. And the most stubborn. Maybe
that's the whole problem. You've been trying to get through this all
by yourself." I step closer to him. "Maybe you should let someone 
help you."

I take one dusty, work-roughened hand in mine. He won't meet my eye, 
but I can see the myriad of emotions that pass over his features. "Mulder, 
when you first were returned, I was afraid to push you too far, concerned 
that I would send you over some imagined edge. Maybe I was wrong to 
leave you to deal with this all alone." 

This gets his attention as he raises his eyes to mine. "No, they would have
put me away. I would have gone mad in an institution. You did the right 
thing."

"Did I?" I feel tears slide down my cheeks. I trace the bones in 
Mulder's wrist, following the tendons in his forearm up to the cruel
scar. "How did this happen?"

"Someone wanted my blanket. I didn't want to give it up." His mouth
twists in a rueful smile. "You said I was stubborn. Hey, you shouldn't 
worry about this." 

"Mulder, I don't want you to stay away. I need you." 

"I'm not the man I was. I'm never going to be that person again. To
tell the truth, I barely remember him."

"You think I'm the same woman I was ten years ago?" I bring his 
hand to my lips, kissing each callous, each little scrape. "Every thing
that happens in our lives changes us, molds us. I loved that man, the 
one who wore suits and cracked wise. But you know what? I love 
this man too. I love this man who fixes things and finds the strength to
get up every morning. I think I'm just predisposed to love you."

I finally have done what I've always dreamed of. I reduced Fox Mulder
to stunned silence. I reach up to cup the back of his neck and draw his 
face down, placing a soft kiss on his lips. "I can't force you to come 
back, Mulder. I love you. Just remember, the light is always lit for you."

I leave then, pausing once to look back at Mulder. His head is bowed,
and his hands are gripping the edge of the farmhouse table as though it's
the only anchor keeping him moored. I find my steps are easy, my heart 
at rest.

Days go by and my feelings of calm and peace give over to a reluctant
acceptance that the matter is out of my hands now. Mulder will either
come back to me, or not, but he is the only one who can make that
decision. Still, the days crawl by, and the nights are awfully long.

Kate is a welcome diversion, noisy and cheerful and full of charm. I
can see her father in her more and more. We're building a tower of
blocks one evening, when the doorbell rings. I refuse to work myself
up into a little knot of hope, only to unravel if my visitor is the landlord
come to fix the drip in the bathroom sink.

I square my shoulders against disappointment and peek through the 
peephole. My heart pounds when I pull the door open to see Mulder
waiting, a large paper sack in his hands. Kate squeals with joy, and 
I'm inordinately pleased that she seems to recognize Mulder.

"Hi," he says, his hands nervously crinkling the paper bag. "I thought
a lot about what you said."

"Come on in," I say, as I close the door behind him. He looks at Kate, 
who has gleefully upset our tower of blocks. If only it were as easy to 
tear down walls. She's jumping up and down in excitement, watching 
Mulder to see his reaction to her trick. 

"Hey Kate, I brought you something," he says, crouching next to her.
His voice is warm honey as he sets the paper bag on the floor. Kate 
understands the concepts of gifts quite well and immediately presents 
herself. Mulder looks at me, flashing the smile that always brought 
me to my knees. It works literally on me this time as I hunch down, 
hip to hip with Mulder.

He draws open the bag and pulls out a wooden cradle. Too small for a 
real baby, it's the perfect size for a doll. The wood is honey colored,
the head and footboard heart-shaped. There are flowers carved into the
wood of the headboard; small leaves and vines scroll around the sides. 

Kate is delighted. Her fingers trace the flowers and she instinctively 
knows what the cradle is for. She runs off to find as many babies as she
can carry in her chubby arms.

"You made this?" I ask, when I can speak again. "It's exquisite." 

"I wish I'd been here to make one for Kate." 

I lean forward to put my arms around him. Mulder's breath is warm 
against my neck. We stay this way for a long time, kneeling and holding
each other, both of us crying. 

"You're here now. That's all I care about." 

End