TITLE: Bed of Stars AUTHOR: JLB RATING: PG-13 SPOILERS: all things, HAD SUMMARY: sequel to "Only In Dream" -- Scully's turn FEEDBACK: of course... Amory20@aol.com DISCLAIMER: not mine, definitely not mine. CC,1013,and FOX all the way. *For Sister Zooey, who continues to entertain and inspire me.* Bed of Stars by JLB When they reach the heavy wooden door, with its intricately carved moldings and gleaming brass knob, she suddenly realizes that they have held hands the entire evening. Since she found Mulder on the movie set, pouting like a disappointed child, their hands have been entwined. His long, slim fingers remained wrapped tightly around hers for hours, with the exception of a couple of bathroom breaks and when movements like drinking and eating made it necessary. It was a thoughtless, natural touch, almost taken for granted beneath the colored lights and palm trees of Los Angeles. Even when their palms became sweaty and warm, they held on, Mulder slowly stroking his thumb against the back of her hand like he'd done it a hundred times before. The very idea makes her want to laugh. Never in all their years together have they ever acted so intimately -- even that case last year when they posed as a married couple and they were supposed to feign intimacy. She has never felt so open with him before, so carefree and easy. It's been strange but in the most wonderful way. She doesn't understand it though, can't figure out what it is that has allowed them to behave this way with one another. Why now, she wants to ask Mulder. Why here? Just a month or so ago, she slept with him -- that's how she chooses to classify it, sleeping with him, because it denotes the intimacy she knows they shared without being too flowery, too poetic, but also without sliding into clinical, safe terms -- and she imagines that could be enough to change things. But they haven't slept together, literally or figuratively, since and they've only kissed twice --one tense night in a New York hotel room, and then again yesterday in the rental car on the way to hotel, when Mulder leaned across the car to get a map from the glove compartment and their lips met, almost accidentally, awkwardly, a thin strand of saliva connecting them as they drew apart. They slept together --she spent four wonderfully strange hours in Mulder's bed --but they have still been so guarded with one another, unsure and tentative. What has changed, Scully wants to know. What has made this surreal evening in Hollywood on the Bureau's buck possible? Truth be told, she's been in her own good mood tonight. The movie, with all its ridiculousness and bad jokes, embarrassed her, sure, but she found it easy to laugh off, knowing Federman had gotten them so wrong that there was no point in worrying herself about it. Mulder, on the other hand, took it personally. Finding him sulking on the movie lot, she couldn't help laughing a bit -- he can be so predictable sometimes -- but she found herself making it her mission to cheer him up. Fortunately, it hadn't taken much work. A little wine, a little food, a little hand holding and Mulder was new man. But now, as Mulder slides his hand out of hers to find his key card, she needs to know why he's so comfortable with her, why he can touch her so easily, happily. She wishes she could just ask him, but even with alcohol still warming her stomach, still fuzzying her brain slightly, she doesn't have the courage. It could simply be Hollywood, the frivolous, sparkling facade it seems to paste over everything. She and Mulder had gotten caught up in it themselves. For the first time in years, she got dressed for what was essentially a date, donning her smart black dress, expensive stockings, new heels. She'd even put on the damn sparkly hair band she'd bought on a whim, and done her make-up with extra care. She had wanted to impress, feeling like a teenager going on her first date. And there was Mulder, sitting beside her all evening in his tuxedo, looking suave and distinguished even as the flush of embarrassment crept up his face, even as he sunk deeper and deeper in his seat with each outrageous plot twist. No matter how outraged Mulder became, he sat beside her looking as he belonged amidst the movie stars and models. Scully couldn't help but notice. Is that what is making the difference, she wonders. Fancy clothes, bright lights, expensive champagne, and a little satin hair band? She can't believe it's taken so little. "Let me show you inside," Mulder says, flashing her a goofy smile. He slides his access card into the slot, and Scully watches the tiny green light flash. Pushing the door back, Mulder guides her inside. They've decided to continue their evening in Mulder's room because he has a corner suite. Scully has a standard hotel room, although quite a bit more extravagant than she's become accustomed to over the years. Perhaps if she had been kinder, more accommodating with Wayne Federman when he was researching his movie, she would have gotten a deluxe suite as well. But it doesn't really matter since Mulder is willing to share his. The door closes behind him with a loud thud, and Mulder, while not drunk, seems a bit unsteady, slumping back against the door. When he looks at her, his eyes are unfocused and glassy but he manages to turn on the lights with a quick flick of his wrist. "This room is something, huh?" He gestures quickly at the lavishly furnished living room, with its mini bar, full entertainment center, fire place -- certainly nice than Mulder's apartment. From where she stands, Scully can see the door to the bedroom, opened halfway almost in invitation. There is a wave of silver light coming from the other side of the door. She swears she can see it rising and falling. "It's the least Federman could do after that crap we had to sit through," Mulder grumbles, but with a hint of a smile, and she can tell he is sulking now just to make her laugh. "I imagine you're very comfortable here," Scully says, slowly making her way through the suite. She removes her jacket, tossing it over the arm of the sofa. Mulder trails after her, keeping a safe distance, but smiling in the most charming way. He is so tentative yet eager -- she wants to smooth the hair back from his face and guide him to her breast, take his hands and place them on her hips, anything to alleviate the tension. But she doesn't. She stops in front of the bedroom, studies the space where the gray carpeting of the living room gives way to the plush navy of the bedroom. It's a seamless transition, and she wonders about it in the way only someone who is slightly tipsy can. When she looks up finally, Mulder is directly in front of her, staring down at the floor just as she had been. He starts to say something, his lips pursing slightly, but he cuts himself off with a cough. So they stand there in the doorway to the bedroom, silent, both fidgeting -- Scully smoothing her hair behind her ears, Mulder kicking the thick carpeting with the tip of his shiny shoe. Too much champagne, she thinks. Or maybe not enough. "Hey," Mulder says suddenly, his eyes brightening. "You really should check out the view from the bedroom. It's breathtaking..." He smiles playfully, taking Scully's hand in his again, tugging her across the threshold. She knows it is just a flimsy excuse. And she suspects that he knows that. But he wants her to play along, so she does, following him into the dark bedroom with a smile. "Why not?" she says, unnecessarily, as they slowly walk toward the bed. "I'm a sucker for scenic views." He stops, turning back to her with a boyish smile that makes his eyes close halfway. She feels her heart begin to speed up, beating out an erratic rhythm against her chest. He moves again, leading her up to the bed. When she looks down at it, Scully sees that the bed is covered with a gray, velvety spread, and in the dark, it seems to shine, glow against the bland walls. She finally looks up, and watches, mesmerized, as Mulder slowly backs away from her. She thinks that maybe he's going to turn the lights on, but he just takes several strides away from her, and stops, looking at her intensely. It kills her but she begins to blush, and ducks her head for cover. She couldn't find the window in this room right now if the fate of the planet depended on it. "Hey Scully," he says, taking a step toward her again. "Do you happen to remember my theory on zombies?" Now that he's closer, she can see that his eyes are glazed over. From alcohol or lust or nerves, she doesn't know. But they are so glossy and dark, like marble. Slowly he reaches up and pulls his bow tie off, tossing it behind him. In the dark, Scully watches the scrap of black fabric flutter slowly to the ground, like a large piece of confetti, just as Mulder begins to moves forward again, backing her up against the bed. "Vaguely, Mulder. Want to refresh my memory?" She smiles as he moves closer, the sleeve of his jacket brushing against her arm. "You know..." He reaches out slowly, and smoothes a finger along the neckline of her dress. "The whole eating, drinking, dancing... " he trails off purposefully, and grins down at her, not showing any teeth but clearly amused. "Do you think it applies to live people who've just been out of circulation for a while?" She smiles, and huffs quietly, not allowing the giggle to escape her. Tilting her head, she pretends to consider the question as she plays with a button on his jacket. "I think we should do a little experimenting, just to test the theory out," he says, smiling. "I know what a thorough investigator you are." He looks past her briefly, at the bed. She smiles, feeling a laugh begin to rise inside her. "Gee, Mulder ... I remember eating that chocolate mousse, and I remember drinking the vintage champagne, but I can't seem to recall any dancing...so I couldn't follow through with the rest of it in good conscience..." Scully likes teasing him, playing with him like this. It feels strangely natural to be here in the dark with him, steps away from bed, close enough to feel the warmth of his body. But again she wonders why it hasn't been like this between them for the past month, wonders what has changed so suddenly tonight. Because being here with him now, it all seems unquestionably easy, right -- what has changed? Mulder laughs quietly, a low rumble in his chest that she can almost feel herself. He guides her hands so they rest on his shoulders, drops his to her waist, and pulls her tightly against his body. He spins them around at the foot of the bed, moving his body slowly and purposefully against hers. "Well, there we go...we've danced. On to stage four..." he says, smiling down at her. They stop moving but he keeps her pressed against him. His hands slowly slide down from her waist, across her backside -- hesitantly, like a prom date testing his limits before he gets shut down. "Mul-derr... there was no music," she sighs. "I don't think that counts." She pouts, for effect, trying not to worry that she looks foolish. He tips his head back, groaning in frustration. "Okay, fine. Fine. You want music..." They remain still for a moment, and Mulder appears to be deep in thought. There is a CD player in the other room, beside the television, so she waits for Mulder to dance them out of the bedroom, into the bright lights of the living room. But he doesn't. He begins his slow, careful grinding against her body again, then softly starts to hum. She can't make out the tune at first, laughing against Mulder's shoulder. "Oh, that doesn't count either, Mulder. It doesn't count..." She tries to catch her breath as she looks up at him. He continues to make his strange purring sound, but shakes his head at her impatiently. Then he begins to sing, flatly and absolutely off key. "The warden threw a party at the county jail...the prison band was there and they began to wail...the band was jumpin' and the joint began to swing...you should have heard those knocked out jailbirds sing...let's rock, everybody, let's rock...everybody in the whole cell block was dancin' to the jail house rock..." Scully laughs again, shaking hard against Mulder, and his singing trails off, dissolving into laughter of his own. "Elvis just rolled over in his grave," she tells him mock-seriously, finally biting back the laughter. "It's clear that you've learned nothing with me these last seven years. The King is alive and well, Scully." He dips her then, unexpectedly but gracefully, and she gasps. "Regardless, that was music. So that constitutes dancing. Now, according to my theory, that leaves just one thing..." She feels his warm breath on her neck as they straighten up, and his fingers move to the zipper on her dress, rolling it between his fingers but not pulling it down. "Cheater," she whispers breathlessly. Heat and anxiety flutter through her as he begins to kiss the skin beneath her ear. She expects to find him smiling when he raises his head to look at her. Instead she is met with one of the most serious, thoughtful gazes she can remember receiving from him -- the last time he looked at her in this way was that night, a month ago, in his apartment. "This is okay, right?" he asks solemnly, while his fingers still play with her zipper, inching it down a fraction. She understands the seriousness with which he approaches this situation but she is surprised to hear him asking, speaking to her. That was the remarkable thing about their first night together -- aside from quiet sighs and groans, they were utterly silent. He said her name, called it out loudly at one point, but he never asked her if it was okay, never stopped to question her -- he had trusted her decision. She wonders why he has to ask now. Her smile fades as she plays with the hair at the back of his neck. There is nothing to say, so she simply nods, licking her lip quickly. His eyes soften, and he nods too. Then, without another moment of hesitation, he pulls her zipper down all the way, the halves of her dress separating, so he can slip his hands inside -- they are almost unbearably warm against her back. He turns them again, so she is against the bed, then slowly slides the dress off her shoulders, looking her in the eyes as the black fabric falls away. Even in the dark room, she is fidgety, uneasy about standing before him in nothing but her underwear, however black and lacy it may be. He bends and softly kisses her shoulder, her eyes drifting shut in response. "I remember this," he says quietly, and her eyes open instantly at the sound of his voice. They ease back onto the bed together, and the moment his body covers hers -- all its warm, solid weight -- she can't believe that she's waited over a month to do this again, that she's spent more than thirty days in such close proximity to Mulder without touching him like this. It's insane, she thinks. But she blocks the thought out, focused entirely on Mulder moving against her. She smiles up at him, all flushed and sweaty, as she unbuckles his belt. ***** Two and a half hours later, in the middle of the night, they sit together on the sofa, both wearing fluffy white hotel robes. Hers is ridiculously large, the sleeves so long she had to fold them back twice. One size fits all -- yeah right, she thinks. Maybe if you're Mulder, who sits on the edge of the couch looking casual and comfortable in his white terry cloth, the blue embroidered hotel logo lying perfectly against his right breast. He looks like he stepped out of a print ad, the robe falling open in all the right places -- a bit at the top so the soft hair of his chest is exposed, and again just above his knees, the inside of thighs barely visible. The television is on, tuned to some classic movie network. Mulder is happily watching "Dial M For Murder," and eating butterfly shrimp. He insisted they order room service, declaring that if the Bureau was footing the bill they should live it up. He ordered his fried shrimp and a couple of bottles of expensive micro brew, making a tssking sound when Scully decided all she wanted was a Waldorf salad and a Diet Coke. "We're on vacation, Scully. Live a little," he said, smiling as he dialed the front desk. She realized then what had happened. Why they had been so free with one another. It was simply a time out of time. At least as far as Mulder was concerned. That was why it all had seemed so easy, almost normal. In the king sized hotel bed, Mulder was as careful and serious with her as he had been in his own. But they smiled so much more, actually laughed while moving across the sheets together. He spent a good thirty minutes simply searching for her ticklish spots, laughing deeply when he reached a target. He could be like that with her here, in California, on vacation. It could never happen in DC. The funny thing is that she understands Mulder's reason, and part of her respects and admires Mulder's dedication to his work, his selfless pursuit of the truth. She doesn't want their work to be affected any more than he does -- it's too important to her. But another part of her thinks he is just being selfish, ignoring that there are two people involved. She dreams about calling him on it, knowing she'll never act on the desire. As Mulder reaches for another shrimp, Scully studies him. She stares at the dark hair on his legs, gleaming against his golden skin, and she wants to ask him how he's managed to get so tan in only April. She marvels at his clear, bright eyes, and wants to ask him how he can look so rested when he gets so little sleep. She wants to ask him what he does when he's alone in his apartment, how often he watches his videos, if he's told the Gunmen about that night in his apartment. She wants to ask him why he made love to her the way he did tonight. But she doesn't say a word. She simply sits back against the arm of the sofa, and watches him. "Now *this* is a movie," Mulder says, dipping a piece of shrimp in sauce. She turns to the television where Grace Kelly is rather ineffectively fighting off strangulation. But Grace's struggle for life doesn't hold the same interest as Mulder does, so Scully turns back to him. As he brings the shrimp to his mouth, a drop of sauce falls on his knee. He absently swipes at the spot with his finger, licking the reddish dressing from his skin. When he looks over at her unexpectedly, she blushes. Her cheeks burn hotter when she sees he isn't smiling, that his expression is utterly blank. "I know what you're thinking, Scully," he tells her. "You don't even have to say it." Her stomach flips, and she grips the fabric of her robe tightly in her fist. Sure, she wants her answers, but she doesn't want to actually sit through the conversation. Mulder slides forward on the sofa, playing with the expensive hotel China, spinning the plate around on the surface of the glass coffee table. It makes her dizzy, watching it go round and round, but she'd rather get a headache than look Mulder in the eye. He gently pushes the plate in her direction. She looks up at him quickly. Smiling, he says, "Of course, you can have a shrimp. I'm all about sharing." He waves one of the strange golden shellfish in her front of her, the grease making his fingers shine. She watches without responding, wishing she could smile, play along. "I told you to indulge," he says, dropping the shrimp back on the plate. "But you had to order that plate of leaves and twigs. Skinner can just shove the bill up--" "Mulder, my food is fine." They both turn to look at her salad, which sits virutally untouched on the table. Grace Kelly screams, a perfectly feigned expression of terror, and Mulder briefly turns his attention to the television before focusing on Scully again, with heavy, clouded eyes. "Then what's the problem, Scully?" He hangs his head immediately after asking, and she knows he hopes -- maybe expects -- her to dodge the question. "I don't know, Mulder," she sighs, toying with the knot on her robe. "I think maybe I'm just confused." When she looks up at him, he's nodding with closed eyes. He rests his head against the back of the sofa, covering his face with his hands. She can hear his heavy breathing, and wants to grab his hands and pull them away, force him to look at her. "You have every reason to be confused," he says quietly, his voice muffled slightly beneath his hands. He sits up straight, moving toward her on the couch. His warm, slightly greasy hand rests heavily against her knee. He cups it, squeezing gently but she refuses to look at him now. "Do you want to help me understand?" she asks. "I'm not sure that I can, Scully." "Can't or won't? There is a difference, Mulder." She tries not to sound bitter or angry because that isn't exactly what she's feeling. She's hurt, but the evening has been perfect in so many ways, and she doesn't want to break the mood. His hand moves in circles on her knee. There is a bit of sauce under one of his fingernails, and she concentrates on that small trace of red as his fingers smooth over her skin. "Scully..." He uses his other hand to tilt her chin up so she's looking at him. "I don't know what to say. I thought you had fun tonight." "Yes, I had a good time." Her unspoken "but" lingers in the air between them. Mulder sighs quietly, and suddenly Scully feels guilty, as if she's hurt him somehow --and in such an unnecessary way -- so she reaches out and lays her hand on his thigh, rubbing her fingers against the rough terrycloth covering his skin. He doesn't react -- his position on the couch not changing, his hand still moving softly against her knee but coughs quietly. She senses that he's trying to work up the courage to say something meaningful, provide some kind of explanation. "I've been distracted lately," he tells her in a low, steady voice. "And I haven't liked it, Scully. I've felt... " His hand, the one not fused to her knee, combs restlessly through his hair, and he lets out a ragged sigh, one of the exhaustion, frustration, sadness. She nods, unsure of how to respond, how to react even. He looks up at her when he realizes she's nodding, and he pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her cheek as he withdraws. She smiles sadly -- it's all she can manage. "Scully, I've felt so much this last month. So much. But I can't just turn my back on who I've been for the last ten years," he says. "I don't want you to either. And I'm afraid... I'm afraid for both of us." He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, gnawing on it almost, and she worries that he'll draw blood. "I understand," she says softly, and she does. She understands what he's saying perfectly. As vague and opaque as he's being, she understands. She isn't angry or resentful. She loves the Mulder she's known all these years, and she won't lose him for anything. He smiles at her, crookedly, his eyes dark and sleepy. She doesn't move as he slowly takes her hand from his thigh, holding it in his. "Understand this, Scully," he says firmly. "I will never let you get hurt. I won't allow it to happen. Don't doubt that." He pouts slightly, and without thinking, she runs her thumb against his full lower lip. She feels her chin tremble, but she fights it off, forcing a smile. "Same goes for you, buddy." Her thumb strokes across the line of his jaw, its sandpaper roughness scratching her skin. Mulder smiles back at her. "Come here, Scully." He pulls her against him so her head rests on his shoulder, and he strokes her arm lightly, though she feels his warm hand through her robe. His lips touch her forehead, and she can feel the puff of his breath rustling her hair. When he leans forward, she watches him take a piece of shrimp from the plate and submerge it in sauce. "Here have some," he says, bringing the fish to her lips. She nibbles on the peace offering delicately, unable to make eye contact with him. "I'm not hungry anymore," she tells him. "I think I should go to sleep." "Okay. All right." He pulls back, so she can move out of his arms. Rising, she watches Mulder play with the plates, almost as if he's trying to distract himself so he won't notice when she leaves for her room. When he risks a look at her, she smiles, bright and bubbly -- like a starlet maybe -- and reaches out for him. "Let's go to sleep," she says as he takes her hand with wide-eyes. He smiles shyly, hesitating momentarily in getting off the sofa. "Come on, Mulder. Our vacation's not over yet." He snorts quietly -- a strangely endearing sound -- and grabs the sash at the back of her waist as he tags along after her. The bedroom is still dark, but they find their way to the bed without stumbling. the end.