Notes: I'm not obsessed. Really I'm not! I just enjoy imagining every MulderAngst scene to the minutest detail. Just be glad I didn't write it all down! Half of the original bizarre version involves a depressed purple rat named Shapiro.
Notes on the notes: Sorry, I know it's weird, but it's also 2:15 in the morning and I just finished finals so I am out of school for the summer and therefore in Weird mode. I really do have a purple stuffed rat named Shapiro.
Notes on the Notes on the Notes: (written before uploading on FF.net) I am no longer in denial. I now fully accept the fact that I am obsessed and crazy. But I'm enjoying the hell out of it!!!
As he sat by his mother's side, Fox Mulder fought the tears that threatened to spill over at any moment. He took her hand, then pressed it to his cheek in a loving gesture he had rarely been graced with during Teena Mulder's waking hours. Her hand was so soft, so familiar. The threat of never hearing her voice again was overpowering. He bowed his head, tears flooding his cheeks at last.
For many moments he dared not move. He caressed her hand gently as he held it to his face and let his tears wash over the aging fingers. "Mom…" he murmured between ragged half-suppressed sobs. "Please…. Come back…"
But no dark eyes fluttered open in answer to his plea. No quiet voice rose to sooth his sorrow, or whisper words of mother's love. Fox looked down and understood-he had never hoped she would answer. The tears fell harder then, when he realized his helplessness. It frightened him.
"Mom, I'm scared," he cried so softly he could barely hear his own voice. He squeezed her hand in an attempt to communicate, knowing that she could not reply. He watched her face through tear-blurred eyes until he could not stand to see her so weak, so powerless. This was not the strong woman who had cared for him-or tried to. So he turned his eyes from her, released her hand, stood, and paced the room. He desperately tried to gain control of his emotions, but another glance towards his mother's limp body tore down his defenses. He sat by her side once more, his face buried in a white handkerchief, and wept freely until he could shed no more tears for his own sake or hers.
Finally he could look at her without feeling a sob rise in his throat. He knew she would tell him to be strong. He blew his nose and stood again, hesitant to leave her.
"I don't want to leave you, mom," he sniffed, "But there's something I have to do… There are answers I still need to find." In his mind, he knew her answer. He could almost hear her telling him to go and do what needed to be done. He touched her cheek one last time, then turned and stepped out the door…
