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... ----------------------------------------------------------------- -- ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ jsmichel@io.org "J'm'en fous pas mal..." - Edith Piaf ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++