TITLE: Let It Be
AUTHOR: Kestabrook
EMAIL: Kestabrook@aol.com
DISTRIBUTION: Archive if you'd like; just
please let me know where.
SPOILERS: Sein Und Zeit (Assumes knowledge
of Talitha Cumi/Herrenvolk, Paper Hearts,
and Amor Fati)
RATING: PG-13 (For mild expletives)
CONTENT: M/A; S/A; MSR (hinted)
CLASSIFICATION: V (Missing scenes)
SUMMARY: Scully told Skinner that Mulder
had had a hard night. This vignette
attempts to show that that's true.
DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to Chris
Carter and the X-Files' gang.
DEDICATION: To Laine, Clarissa,
Laura, Nicola, Jenbird, Michelle, and all
my Crystalship sisters for wonderful
friendship and encouragement.
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS: Titles are always a
pain, but the Beatles were on the radio as
this story formed, and I never ignore the
Beatles. Also, this vignette ends a five
month writer's block, so be gentle with
it, please! 
FEEDBACK: I love it if it's positive or
helpful. 

Let It Be
by Kestabrook

I kiss the back of his neck again, letting
my lips pause there only briefly. The
violence of his sobbing shakes his body so
that I wonder if he even feels my touch.

He holds me as if clutching me is the only
thing that keeps him from the abyss of
total despair. He tiptoes perilously on
that edge already, and I know that I alone
hold him back. I clutch him, too, feeling
the wracking throbs of emotion which shake 
him anew and torture his mind with guilty 
memories and newfound information too
tragic to envelop.

My Mulder. His mother dead. His father,
too. And sister forever, it seems,
missing. A man alone and in need of
comfort, of companionship that only I can
give. I am, after all, his partner of
seven years, and the person who knows him
best. The person he trusts most. I know
these things, and so does he. And tonight
he clings to me with that knowledge.

Mulder makes a sound, a soulful cry that
is buried against my chest. My arms, as if
instinctively, tighten around him. He has
not moved for many minutes, but he has
whispered unintelligibly, has allowed a
few audible sobs to penetrate the ominous
quiet of the apartment. With my hand I
caress his fine hair, sifting it through
my fingers slowly, hoping the touch will
reach him, will let him know I share this
pain.

And I do. I have felt this despair
before--for my own father, for my own
sister. And I grieved for them--but with
my family. I found that despite my grief,
others needed my help more, and in giving
that consolation, I made my own mourning
somewhat more bearable. I sat with my
mother for long hours after those deaths.
I heard her cries; I comforted her. And
even though my brothers and I no longer
get along as we once did, they shared
those losses with me. They were there. And
the deaths of my father and Missy were
things about which we could talk, could
commiserate.

But Mulder has no one. Both his parents
are now gone. It is not clear if his
sister will ever return. What can it feel
like to have no one left? No one else at
the door, wondering how he's coping with
the loss of his mother.

His sobbing has not diminished. This
doesn't seem to be my Mulder. My Mulder is
the one who hides his feelings from
others. The one who keeps people and overt 
emotions at several arms' length. In the
seven years I have partnered with him,
I've never seen him cry like this. Cry,
yes. But so heavily? I have seen him turn
away to hide tears when he stood over the
remains of a child he thought to be
Samantha. I have seen him cry at his
mother's bedside as she lay in a coma. But
never were those tears so lengthy. Now I
see him so broken, so devastated by the
news of his mother's death. And I can't
blame him.

My knees are beginning to cramp, and I
realize I must change positions. He may
not know it, but Mulder also needs to move
before his back breaks. "Mulder?" I
whisper. I kiss his neck once more when no
answer comes. "Mulder, let's move to the
couch. We'll be more comfortable." I wait,
futilely hoping for a sarcastic or lewd
remark, something that will show me the
real Mulder is within this shaking body in
my arms, but no wisecrack comes. I fail to 
discern even a nod.

I shift so that I can stand long enough to
move to his couch. I do not let go of him;
instead, I gently pull him with me. He
slides obediently onto the leather, no
spirit left within him to contradict my
movements. On the couch, we hold each
other as before--he leans so that I still
cradle his head against my chest, and his
arms still surround me. My tears flow into
the cotton of his gray T-shirt. Yes, my
tears flow, too. I cry for his mother, for
the loss of her, but mostly I cry because
this man now suffers so badly. 

After I told him the news of his mother's
death, Mulder maintained his outer calm,
his outer aloofness. Even while
investigating at his mother's house, or
making the necessary arrangements for her
interment, he kept his feelings in check.
In typical fashion, his only response was
the taking of deep breaths, the closing of
his eyes and mouth, the tipping back of
his head as if holding all threats to his
cool exterior back, postponing their
arrival till he could dispense with them
in private. That's where Mulder and I are
so much alike--well, one of the ways. We
deal with our sorrows, but we deal with
them alone. He's used to it. So am I. But
tonight...tonight they have to be shared.

"Scully..." his voice croaks.

I slowly smooth one hand over his taut
back, waiting for him to say more. Again,
my lips rest against the skin of his neck,
and I let them stay there. 

"Scully," he repeats. "Oh God, Scully."
And fresh sobs shake him.

"I know," I say softly. "It's okay,
Mulder; let it out."

"She was trying to tell me som..." He now
grips my upper arm, his fingers
desperately seeking the fabric of my
jacket as a stronghold against his latest
wave of anguish. He lifts his head only
slightly as he sharply takes in breath.

I see his silhouette in the desk's light.
His mouth opens in a silent scream, his
eyes clenched tightly, tears still
slipping out from beneath his eyelids. His
hands come away from their hold on me to
cover his eyes, his face, to hide his
grief from me. He is gasping for breaths
now, so beset by the total break down of
his emotions. I do not let go of him. My
right hand stays on his back, and my left
softly caresses the side of his head. 

"Damn her," he manages. "Why didn't she
tell me--why? Damn her."

I'm not sure what he means, and maybe he
isn't either. As I'd stood over the corpse
of Teena Mulder before I started her
autopsy, I had also wondered why she
hadn't told her son--about her illness,
about the truth of the disappearance of
his sister. I'd thought of my own mother
and her openness, her apparent and
abundant love. The differences between the
two women were stark. 

When I first met Mulder's mother, we were
in a cemetery--at her husband's funeral.
How very strange to have first seen her
there, and then to have last seen her in
the morgue. She'd been polite that day,
but aloof; happy to hear what I'd had to
say, but not exactly welcoming. I could
see similarities between her and her son,
but in retrospect now, and certainly in
years since, I could see that her outer
shell had been much harder than Mulder's.
And for the millionth time, I wondered how
he had turned out as he had. With parents
who did all but shun him, how had Mulder
turned into such a caring, dogged
detective? Was it his closeness to
Samantha that had shaped him? 

He shifts now so that he turns from me.
His hands still covering his face, he
leans forward over his knees, his weeping
gasps audible. My hand stays on his back,
rubbing with the intense love I feel for
this man. I hear him mutter "Why?" several
times, and I repeat my earlier
consolation, "She did it to take away your
pain." But I'm not sure I believe that
either. Wouldn't she have alleviated much
of his pain if she'd told him the truth
many years ago? She could have; I'm sure
of it. Couldn't she have warned him of her
illness? Would it have been too much to 
have told her son that she was sick--to
have prepared him for her death instead of
allowing the actual event to blindside 
him? I see him now, still sobbing
uncontrollably, and I remember the
afternoon's autopsy, the pallid woman
silenced by death. And I hate her. I
remember her own coldness to the son who
loved her, and I loathe her. 

I have performed many autopsies, probably
uncountable numbers of them. With each
one, I know I cannot consider the fact
that a soul once inhabited the body on
which I must work. In med school, the less
evolved students referred to autopsies as
"slice and dice-oramas," but I could never
be that detached, that disrespectful. I
had to deal with the corpses as specimens.
I still do. But there have always been
occasions when my mind has wandered, and I
have gazed at the still face before me,
wondering what thoughts or memories are
forever hidden away in that lifeless gray
matter, what hopes or fears are forever
encased in a mind that no longer
functions.

And then I think of the secrets with which
Teena Mulder must have lived, must have
died. The secrets which she may have
wanted to tell, but couldn't for fear of
worse things happening. Her husband had
died for those secrets, hadn't he? As had
my sister. If I could have prevented
Missy's death by keeping quiet, wouldn't I
have done so? Had Mulder's mother felt the
same threats? Had she, in her refusal to
confess to him, saved his life or saved
him irrevocable pain? My hatred for Teena
Mulder dwindles, and I am left with an
emptiness for mother and son--a pity that
knows no bounds, no end.

I become aware of the silent, darkened 
apartment around us and shiver in its
indifference. My eyes, brimming with tears
I now manage to hold back, wander to a
light that attracts them, and I watch 
Mulder's fish as they, too, indifferently
glide back and forth in their tank. I
realize they are Mulder's remaining family
for the time being. I realize that they
are life, and that he has them here
because of that. They are one part of his
existence that has so far been untouched,
unthreatened. I wonder if he talks to them
in the hours of solitude he has here. I
wonder what stories these fish could tell
me of my partner.

Mulder rises, bowed. He takes baby steps
as he moves from behind the coffee table.
I hunch forward, waiting for a cue to join
him, wanting to know where he intends to
go, needing to be there if I can help. His
hands continue to cover his face; his body
continues to tremble. I hear him again
repeat "Why?" 

I start to answer, but then he swiftly
sags, sinking to his knees. He doubles
over them, his head only inches from the
floor. He sinks lower and touches his
forehead to the wood. Again, he does this,
and again, letting each touch become a
hit, harder and harder. I see and hear the
pounding. And before he can hurt himself,
I quickly leave my seat, going to him and
joining him on the floor. As his forehead
once again lowers to smash onto the hard
wood, I grab his shoulders and push back.
He fights my attempts to stop him, and his
forehead hits the floor again.

"Mulder." My voice leaves no doubt that I
am serious; I will not let him hurt
himself. But he doesn't yield to it.
Again, he lets his head crash onto the
wood. "Damn it, Mulder! Stop!" I put my
weight into my hold on him, and though he
doesn't sit up, he does pause. I push him
upright. I cover his hands with my own,
gently tug his fingers away from his eyes,
hold them in my own, and then urge his
hands from his face. 

His eyes are still closed tightly. He
doesn't want to look at me, maybe doesn't
feel that I can see inside him this way.
But I can. I know him. His lips are
parted, quieter sobs coming from between
them. His breathing is ragged, and his
entire being seems depleted of all
strength. Though on his knees before me,
he appears to be held up only by a wisp of
energy. He lets me hold his hands, unable
or unwilling to break away from my grasp.
I pull them to my own lips and kiss his
fingers. I pull myself to him and kiss his
forehead, stopping after several moments,
and then pulling him to me, embracing him
once again. His sobbing has stopped,
replaced by shivering which shakes him now
in even more violent spasms. He is in
emotional shock, and I hold him more
tightly, trying to warm him until I can
get him off the floor and into a blanket. 

"I need--" His voice is naked, quiet. His
mouth is against my shouder; he closes it
when words fail him.

"What, Mulder?" I ask gently. "What do you
need?" 

"To die." 

My own eyes squeeze closed against those
words. "No," I tell him quietly. "You
don't need that."

He nods. "Yes. What I did to her. I didn't
call her back. I didn't help her...I--"

"She didn't tell you she needed help. She
didn't specify why she wanted you to call
her. Mulder, you can't blame yourself for
this."

"You don't understand, Scully. It's my
fault. Maybe my searching for Samantha,
maybe all of that caused her to--to--"

"To kill herself? Mulder, I told you why
she did that. You can't let it eat away at
you like this. It won't do any good. It
won't bring her back. She did this to take
away *your* pain, not to cause more." I
tell him this, but I hope I am more
persuasive to him than I am to myself.

"She was trying to tell me..."

"No."

"I caused her so much trouble, Scully. I
did this to her."

I begin to stand, and I urge him to his
feet. He follows my lead, and I turn him
toward his bedroom. "I want you to lie
down for a while, Mulder. I want you to
sleep. Things will look better to you in
the morning..." I drift off, wondering how
many times my own mother has told me that
in the last thirty-five years. 

"I don't want to go to bed," he mutters.
"I can't..."

I remember that for weeks after my father
died, when I was home I slept on my living
room couch in front of the television. In
those days, I left the TV on throughout
the night. Infomercials. Plenty of them.
Best friends to a grieving or worried
mind. I'd needed the light and the noise;
it had kept me away from my own mournful
thoughts. I look at Mulder and know he's
in no shape to be alone in that bedroom. 

"Then lie down on the couch, okay? You
need to rest, Mulder, and to get warm.
Come on." I guide him toward the sofa,
taking my arms from him just long enough
to grab the blanket he keeps near the end
of it and to toss it open over the
leather. I hold one end of it up so he can
slip beneath it. He does as I ask, and I
gently push him down onto the pillow. He
manages to lift his feet, and I tuck the
blanket over them and around his body. He
lays on his side, his puffy, bloodshot
eyes staring ahead of him at nothing. 

"Can I get you something?" I ask, noticing
that my voice doesn't even make him blink.
I think something to help him sleep would
be good, but I'm not about to suggest it.
When he doesn't respond, I see that
despite the blanket, he still shakes. I
sit beside him on a bit of couch that he
doesn't cover. I rub his covered arm and
shoulder, even his left hip and thigh. The
trembling continues, though, beneath my
hands. I stop for a moment and take off my
jacket, laying it over his torso, and then
I continue rubbing. 

He seems exhausted now and distant, and I
let my fingers begin a slow, intense
stroking of his hair, his back, and his
shoulder. Slowly, his eyelids droop and
finally close, and his ragged breathing
smooths into a steady rhythm. I continue
to touch him. I need to stay connected to
let him know that he is not alone. To let
him know I'm there.

Eventually, I settle for intertwining my
fingers with his, and I lower myself to
sit sideways on the floor between the
couch and coffee table. I lay my head
against the seat cushion, close enough to
Mulder to feel his breath ruffle my hair.
I want to stay here because if he stirs,
it will wake me. I don't yet trust him to
be alone. 

The events of the last few days and the
emotional toll of the autopsy finally take
their toll on me, and I, too,  feel myself
drift into sleep.

X     X     X

I awake to the shattering of glass.
Groggily, I lift my head, checking the
couch to find that Mulder has left it
without my knowing. I get to my feet, 
pausing to stretch, shaking out muscles
that have been cramped for too long.  

"Damn it!! Damn her!! No!!"

His shouting comes from the kitchen. I
check my watch as I run toward him. Hours
have passed; we are nearing dawn. That
fact relieves me a bit, but not by much.

In the kitchen, I find him in mid-throw--
his target, the opposite wall; his "ball,"
a juice glass. It smacks against the
cupboard and shatters, pieces ricocheting 
back toward us. I duck, evading a piece
driving for my head. I stand up again,
long enough to see Mulder grab another
glass from the cupboard behind him. His
eyes are wild, his hair mussed. His face
is pale and hard. He is not yet aware that
I am present. His earlier shock has
blossomed into a hysteria I need to calm.

On the floor at his feet are shards from a
glass he has apparently dropped--perhaps
this is what started his current
destructive rage. A puddle of water
surrounds the clear glass pieces, and I
notice now that water still runs from the
sink’s tap.
 
Mulder's arm cocks back again, and another
glass shatters its way off the further
wall and to the floor. I hear its pieces 
crunch beneath my shoes as I stand before
him and try to read his manic expression. 

"That's it, Mulder," I tell him sternly. 
"Eventually, some of this pain will fade.
You'll go on living afterward, and you'll
need something to drink from, won't you?"
I reach behind him to turn off the faucet.
"What can I get you?"

His eyes meet mine, and I can read horror
and shame and hatred and apology in his
gaze. He has come to his anger stage of
grief quickly. His expression softens
somewhat as he begins to recognize me, and
his left hand comes up to rub his
forehead.

"Water," he mumbles. "I wanted a drink."

I move to his right and find an untouched 
glass. After filling it with cold water, I
give it to him and notice now that his
hands are shaking. Like a mother with a
child, I keep hold of the glass as he
lifts it to his lips. I steady his hand,
and he doesn't resist. He drinks slowly
and long, apparently savoring the chill of
the water and its wetness in his dry
mouth. When he is finished, he allows me
to take the glass, and I put it in the
sink, then turn back to find that he has
moved to the floor to clean up the shards
with his bare hands. 

"Mulder, you might better sweep. I'll get
the broom--"

"No. I want to do it this way." He already
has a handful and is moving toward the 
waste basket with it. "She gave me these
glasses. They're old. A wedding present
when she and my father got married. After
the divorce, she..."

He doesn't need to say the rest; I know
the story. Teena Mulder would have chosen
to avoid being reminded of anything from
her marriage, except for her children. And
I wonder if she even wanted that.

I grab paper towels and soak up some of
the water on the floor. I gingerly pick up
the shards from the puddle and place them
on the paper towel, and I meet him at the
waste basket on his second trip. 

"I don't want them anymore, Scully. The
glasses. I'll throw the others out."

I take his hand and squeeze it gently.
"Wait a few days to do that, will you,
Mulder? There are a few glasses from the
set left. You might feel differently with
time."

He wants to protest, but instead, his
haggard gaze drops to our hands, and he
returns the squeeze in answer. For the
first time in hours, I feel as if he will
make it through this tragedy intact. As if
my Mulder will return.

"Do you want anything, Scully? There's
some milk in the fridge. I think it's
still good."

I shake my head and lead him from the
kitchen, his hand still in mine.

He makes it as far as his dining room
table, then sinks into one of the chairs.
With his free hand, he pats the spot to
his left, and I join him, resting my arms
on the wooden surface.

"I don't know..." He suddenly finds it
difficult to look at me. "I am glad
you...thanks for..."

"Hey, no 'thank you' necessary. You're my
friend."

"Deeper than that," he mutters. He takes a
deep breath and exhales shakily. "Without
you, Scully...I couldn't take it...I--"

I reach over and lift his chin, making his
eyes meet mine again. "Mulder, how many
times have we talked about the trust we
share? We're each other's touchstones,
aren't we?"

He nods, and there is nearly the ghost of
a smile on his lips. But I see the grief's 
shadow in his eyes. Has he thought again
about his mother? Is he contrasting what
he and I share to the total lack of such
warmth in his own family? 

His hand comes away from mine, and again,
he covers his face. "I can't forgive her,
Scully."

My gaze scans the dining room. What can I
say to him when I'm not sure I've forgiven
Teena Mulder either? "In time maybe you
will. It's hard right now. But she didn't
want to suffer anymore, Mulder...not
physically, not--"

"No, I don't mean that." His voice seems
raw, and I nearly go to get him more
water. "I mean about my sister," he rasps.
"About Samantha."

One hand comes away from his face, and his
fist smashes to the table. "She denied me
any access to the truth. I'll never know.
She took the secrets with her."

I can say nothing in reply; I am guilty of
the same thoughts. 

"And I was too stubborn, too obsessed to
call her. My own damn fault. What a lousy
son, huh?" He shakes his head. "If I'd
only called. Maybe...maybe she would have
told me--"

"Maybe. Maybe not. You don't know that,
Mulder, and you can't continue to beat
yourself up over it. What's done is done.
Don't forget you're on a case. Your work
is important to you. The lives of other
people--saving them, helping them--is
important to you." He seems untouched by
my words, and I find that my own anger
threatens to erupt. "Mulder, your mom had
twenty-seven years to tell you secrets.
You gave her plenty of chances to do so.
She knew what pain and danger the
disappearance of and search for your
sister has caused you, and she let you
keep searching. Don't be so quick to blame
yourself now because you didn't return one
phone call."

He slowly lifts his gaze to mine, and I
think for a moment that he's about to tell
me to mind my own business. But instead he
nods, slowly, almost imperceptibly. 

"Maybe her own guilt took her to this
step," I offer. 

Nearly whispering, he asks, "You mean
about her part in what happened to
Samantha?"

I shrug. "If she had one. But Mulder,
there's no way of knowing right now. And
someday I'm sure you'll find Samantha or
find what happened to her. I know you, and
you won't give up. Your mother's death is
a set-back and a very unpleasant one. But
your life will go on. You know that."

He sighs heavily and looks at his upturned
palms. "What do I do now, Scully?"

I cover those palms with my hands again
and pull him to his feet. "You go to bed.
There's still time for you to sleep, and
you need to do that."

"No, I mean about my mom. About my
sister."

I lead him toward his bedroom, considering
my next words as I go. In the darkened
room, I pull back a quilt and nudge him
onto the sheets beneath. I gently push him
down to the pillows and pull the coverlet
over him. 

"Scully?"

He still wants an answer. And I give him
the best one I have. "You just let it be,
Mulder," I finally tell him. "That's all
you can do--for now."

In typical Mulder fashion, he closes his
eyes and leans his head back into the
pillow as he digests my advice. I turn to
leave his bedroom, feeling quite sure that
he'll do nothing to hurt himself now. He
is ready to absorb the sadness, to regain
his cool exterior when day begins.

"Scully?"

I pivot to him, surprised by his voice.
"Yeah, Mulder?"

"Aren't you tired?"

I shrug again. "Yeah, I guess. I'm going
to grab a nap on your couch."

"Stay. Please?"

He indicates the place on the bed beside
him, and he lifts the quilt to give me
access. I look into his sad eyes, his
drained face, and see desire--for nothing
but company. I find I have no intention of
not giving it to him. I gingerly slide
onto the bed and feel him gently lay the
coverlet over me. Only the light from the
doorway to the living room filters into
the bedroom, and I feel exhaustion creep
upon me as I know it already has upon him.
And to my right, I feel the bed shake ever
so slightly. 

I turn on my side long enough to urge
Mulder to face me. As he does, I catch
sight in the halflight of new tears
glistening on his cheeks. As I return to
my back, I pull his head to my chest  and
cradle it, stroking and kissing his hair.
"Let it out, Mulder," I whisper. "Let it
be."

His arm finds its way to my waist, and
with gentle pressure, he holds me. His
tears resume, and I feel their wetness
soaking through my blouse. My own tears
also flow again, sliding from my face and
into my hair. Our crying is quiet, but we
grieve together. 

Gradually, his tears subside, and sleep
overwhelms him. It does me, too. 

I wake when I suddenly hear knocking at
the outer door. I grimace. Then in muted
anger, I disentangle myself from Mulder's
arms, trying desperately not to wake him,
but his eyes are open and questioning.

"Stay here," I tell him. "I'll take care
of it." 

Though a few hours have passed, it seems
as if we have slept only minutes. I can
only guess what the new day will bring as
I tiptoe reluctantly to the door. 

X     X     X 
End "Let It Be"