Title: Oxford Blues
Synopsis: Infatuation, Mulder-style. Not a spoof of the film.
Rated: PG
Author's Note: Sorry about the title. *big groan*. In all
honesty, I began writing this story (and chose the
title) before I realized it was *her* in that film (yes
I saw it, but years ago). This just turned out to be
one of those eerie coincidences which rather stunned me
when I found out, but I kept the title anyways.
Just be grateful I scrapped an earlier draft in which
Mulder, having just arrived at Oxford, steals a boat
and rows across the Thames in an effort to impress Lady
Vic-- ... er... never mind. :-|
X-Files characters are property of Chris Carter, TenThirteen
Productions, and FOX. No infringement intended.
jsmichel@io.org
95.03.30
* * * *
******** Oxford Blues ********
-- Autumn, circa 1980 --
Jeannine looked up from her coffee and saw him enter the pub,
just as he had done nearly every day this term. As usual he
chose the corner booth, the one with the window looking onto the
park.
Jeannine knew the routine by heart. He would order a drink, then
pull a book from his bag and prop himself againt the wall, his
long legs stretched out on the wooden seat, one knee bent to
support the open book. And then he would wait, passing the time
by alternately reading, watching the clock, and staring out the
window. Waiting for her. Phoebe Green.
Occasionally, rarely, she would show up soon after he arrived.
But usually he ended up waiting, sometimes an hour or more. On
those days he would order a second drink, even when the first one
was barely touched; he probably didn't want to anger the
management, though the pub was seldom crowded.
Often Phoebe wouldn't show up at all. After a time, he would
call the waitress over and order something to eat. Jeannine had
noticed that he ordered something different nearly every day, yet
he never looked at a menu; he must have memorized it at some
point in the past, she'd decided.
He was in her psychology class. Didn't speak up as often as many
of the other students, but when he did he usually had some
strangely unique perspective on whatever theory was being
discussed, some idea so bizarre, so offbeat that even the
professor occasionally seemed unsure of how to respond. But he
excelled in his academic work, and the professor held no grudge.
He was quietly, modestly brilliant. Fox Mulder.
And he certainly was a Fox, this tall, sleepy-eyed american boy
who had gotten to Oxford on some prestigious scholarships. If it
weren't for his paleness she would've guessed that, with a name
like Fox, he was originally from California. Those crazy
americans; always needed to be different. Possibly his parents
had been hippies; Jeannine imagined he had a sister named...
Starlight. Or maybe Moonbeam. Something spacey. Anyways, he
went by "Mulder".
He was a runner. She'd watched him at the track. Smart *and*
athletic. And the sweetest smile she'd ever seen, though he
didn't display it much. There was a perpetual sadness about him,
visible in the way his shoulders sagged, the way his hair fell
into those eyes, the way the muscle in his jaw tensed and jumped.
No, Fox Mulder rarely smiled, but when he did his entire face lit
up, dispelling some of the sadness for a brief moment. Jeannine
had seen that smile, witnessed it whenever Phoebe Green showed up
and slipped into the seat across from him and he put the book
away.
But more often than not he sat alone, reading, watching, waiting.
Checking the clock and hoping. Until the inevitable moment when
his hope gave out and he ordered something to eat. Then Jeannine
would watch his mouth tighten as he put the book down on the
table and poked indifferently at the food.
But he always returned the next day.
* * * *
-- Winter --
Jeannine moved around the crowded room, trying to convince
herself to leave. There was an economics test in the morning
which she needed to do well on, she told herself; the last one
had been a disaster and she really should be back in her dorm
room, reviewing her notes.
But she knew she wouldn't be leaving yet: Fox Mulder stood
alone, propped up against the wall, beer in hand.
She'd seen him arrive with Phoebe a few hours ago. He'd been
happy then, his eyes crinkling in that rare way Jeannine loved to
see. Jeannine had been talking with some friends, but out of the
corner of her eye she'd secretly watched Fox Mulder and Phoebe
Green dance, watched how he held her close, his face in her
hair, his eyes closed contentedly, peacefully. And she'd watched
them kiss, unhurriedly, Phoebe's fingers playing with the hair at
the nape of his neck, his hands moving slowly over her bare
shoulders, sliding to her waist, caressing the back pockets of
her jeans. Then Phoebe had whispered something which brought
that ephemeral smile to Fox Mulder's face.
Phoebe had vanished now, as had the smile. Jeannine hadn't
witnessed the disappearance of either, but now there remained
only a sad-faced, slightly drunk Fox Mulder.
Don't! Jeannine's conscience screamed at her, but she continued
towards him anyhow. She had tried everything. Had sat beside
him in class; brushed passed him in the hall; stared at him in
the pub; gone to watch him at the track... He just didn't notice.
His concentration was too intense, focussed on the book, or on
the psychology lecture, or on the running. Or on Phoebe, who did
nothing but make him miserable for all but a few brief moments.
"Mulder?" Jeannine struggled to be heard above the music,
smiling at him in her best imagine-meeting-you-here expression.
He stared at her blankly for a moment and she began to panic,
afraid he was already too drunk to even remember who she was.
But then she saw recognition in his eyes, and relaxed.
"Hi. Um. Jeannine, right? Psychology." His voice carried
better than hers over the noise. His speech was slightly slurred
though, and he stayed against the wall, leaning to keep his
balance.
She nodded. His brown hair was falling into his eyes again,
contrasting sharply with the paleness of his skin. He licked his
lips, then drained the rest of his beer as Jeannine racked her
brain furiously for something to say. She watched him gaze into
the plastic cup, as if he were noticing for the first time that
it was empty. God, he was beautiful. Phoebe Greene was insane.
* * * *
Fox Mulder had shuffled over with Jeannine to get another drink,
then followed her back to the safety of the wall. Soon she'd
suggested some fresh air, and he'd followed her numbly outside.
Like a sleepwalker, Jeannine thought.
The cool air felt good on her face, and she inhaled deeply. Fox
Mulder teetered a bit beside her before catching himself on the
rough stone of the building. He leaned back against the wall,
then slid down to a sitting position. Jeannine dropped down
beside him, moving close, scanning his expression. The fresh air
seemed to be doing him some good too, and he closed his eyes and
sighed.
Impulsively, before she could lose her nerve, she leaned towards
him and kissed him. She felt his jaw tense; she'd caught him
off-guard. But then he relaxed and let her kiss him. After a
moment he kissed back, almost politely; almost as if, despite his
drunken haze, he thought it might offend her if he didn't. Then
her hand slid to the back of his neck, and he responded more
earnestly, his hands moving to her waist, caressing her gently.
Jeannine's insides filled with a warm glow at the touch. Fox
Mulder's touch. After all these months of watching him, of
wanting him, here he was, touching her, kissing her. A bright
light exploded in her head and her mind flashed to her dorm room:
Dora was away until Saturday.
* * * *
Again he followed her wordlessly, and she wondered if this
docile behavior was the result of his drunken depression or
something else.
They kissed for a long time, sitting in the semi-darkness on her
bed. Her tongue touched his lower lip tentatively and she moved
her hands underneath his T-shirt, his warm skin feeling as soft
and smooth as she'd imagined it. His fingers brushed her hips,
her waist, exploring gently, sliding up towards her chest.
Then he hesitated, pulled back; he blinked as if he had suddenly
remembered something important. Confused, Jeannine sat back with
a sense of dread, watching his face. He squeezed his eyes shut,
opened them again. She watched him lick his lips, and a muscle
twitched in his jaw.
"I have a girlfriend," he said quietly.
Jeannine's heart sank to the floor. I know that! she wanted to
scream, suddenly angry at him. Damnit!
What was it about Phoebe that had him so mesmerized? What the
hell did he see in her, this girl who treated him like shit? He
was so sweet, and Phoebe Green treated him like shit. It was
pathetic.
"Oh," she said simply, and was silent for a long moment. Her
throat was burning and she wanted to cry, but she struggled to
keep her voice even.
"Your girlfriend -- why isn't she with you? Where is she?" she
continued coolly. It was a challenge, brutal, and the tears
welled up in her eyes. She hated herself for saying it, knew it
would hurt him, but it just might work -- maybe, just maybe, if
he could only see...
But she saw by the pained expression his face took on, by the
sagging of his shoulders, that it hadn't worked. He didn't know.
He couldn't see, refused to see, and she hadn't accomplished a
thing, except hurting him.
"I don't know. I don't where she went," he was saying, all the
life gone from his voice, his words slightly slurred.
Jeannine's throat knotted; she had deliberately hurt Fox Mulder,
the boy with the saddest eyes she'd ever encountered. How could
she have done that? She fought back tears, silently cursing
herself. Oh, God, she liked him so much... Why was he so messed
up?
He seemed suddenly drained, exhausted, and he slumped down onto
her pillow. The alcohol was taking over. His eyes, those sad,
sleepy eyes, began to droop, and she knew he'd soon be asleep on
her bed, probably wouldn't move until morning.
"Come on, Fox Mulder, get up," she ordered quietly. She blinked
back her tears. You can cry later, she told herself angrily.
Later. Not now.
She tugged hard on his hand, and just like before he got to his
feet, half-asleep but responding obediently. She didn't want him
spending the night on her bed, not now. She could imagine the
scene in the morning: a cute and disheveled Fox Mulder, hungover
but polite, quietly apologetic, embarrassed, looking guilty;
looking concerned, depending on what he did or didn't remember.
She'd never get through that without breaking down, she knew, and
if he saw her cry, if he guessed why she cried, she'd never be
able to look at him again, not in class, not anywhere.
Why did she have to like him so much?
She managed to get him down the hall to the common lounge. It
wasn't a rare occurrence for someone to be found there in the
morning, sprawled on the couch. And maybe he wouldn't remember
any of it, would simply wonder how he'd gotten there and go home
puzzled. Please, please, don't let him remember, she prayed.
* * * *
Apparently he didn't, or if he did he gave no sign.
She saw him again a few days later, alone in the pub with his
book and his untouched drinks. His mouth tightened as he put the
book down on the table, and he began poking indifferently at the
food he'd ordered from the menu in his head. Jeannine told
herself to leave, but she stayed, watching him from across the
room. Her throat tightened. God, he was beautiful. Sweet.
Athletic. And brilliant, too; smart in every way but one...
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jsmichel@io.org "J'm'en fous pas mal..."
- Edith Piaf
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(
geocities.com/earthworm1013)