Wayback Machine *JUL* NOV *DEC* Previous capture 17 Next capture *2003* 2004 *2005* *10 captures* 14 Dec 00 - 11 Aug 07 sparklines Close Help TITLE: Only In Dream AUTHOR: JLB CLASSIFICATION: MSR RATING: PG-13 SPOILERS: "all things," "Brand X," and while this is not a post "Requiem" story per se, it should be read with the events of that story in mind FEEDBACK: please. Amory20@aol.com SUMMARY: mulder tries to come to terms with the latest events in his life. DISCLAIMER: i don't own them. CC and 1013 all the way. AUTHOR'S NOTE: i'm thinking of making this into a little series to cover the space between "all things" and "Requiem." personally, i am extremely curious about what was going on between M&S during that time. so let me know what you think... should i keep going? big thanks to Sister Zooey for convincing me that there was something here to salvage and making me laugh when all else failed -- you're funnier than "The Kids in the Hall." even Bruce. Only In Dream by JLB Sometime after seven, Mulder finally gets around to taking off his jacket. For close to two hours, he's sat in this nondescript hotel room, still in his wrinkled suit, and done nothing. Absolutely nothing, unless he counts staring at the faded wallpaper and watermarked ceiling as activity. Instead, he has sat rigidly against the headboard of his hotel bed, and tried to stop the dreamlike images that seem to be stuck on a perpetual loop in his mind. It would be one thing if they were simply dreams, if they were just flights of fantasy his mind had decided to take after years of quiet longing. He has a feeling that those kinds of dreams would be easily banished; he's always managed to control them in the past. But now the hazy images flooding his mind are small pieces of reality, memories of actual physical events, so unbelievable -- inconceivable almost -- that they've taken on the fuzzy, soft quality of dreams. And they come so quickly, so insistently that he couldn't even stop them long enough to loosen his tie or unbutton his shirt. It isn't that he didn't feel it, his clothing tight around him. He did, noting it with the same detached eye he had applied to this last case. But when he tried to motivate himself to move, a shadow would cross the wall, a small sound would filter in from the hallway, and the dreams would start again, stronger and more persistent than before. To say he feels ineffectual would be an understatement. He is furious with himself and furious with Scully and furious with New York City, which, with all its stimuli and distractions, refuses to let him forget. Mulder remembers all of it -- every painfully vivid detail -- even as he finally forces himself to remove his jacket. His slow, hesitant movements make him feel clumsy and awkward, but the stale heat of his room has become too much to bear. The air is so heavy that Mulder imagines he can see it, thick and gray, as it swirls through the room. He moves his hand through the space in front of him to see if his fingers leave streaks, surprised when his fingertips return clean, no dusty film marring the skin. When he's finally had enough of sitting still, of waiting for something to happen, Mulder drags himself from the bed to the window, where he turns the air conditioning vent on high. Pushing the curtains aside, he looks down at the city spread beneath him. With sharp, cold air blowing in his face, he watches the cars as they sit in traffic, horns blaring and sirens wailing. Twelve stories up and everything looks so small and remote. New York always affects him this way, makes him feel disconnected, disembodied. Strangely enough, that feeling doesn't bother him now. Because he knows that he's felt too much lately, been too aware. And its left him paralyzed, unable to think clearly. He fears that his work has suffered, knowing deep down that he's been off his mark on their last couple of cases. If he could just focus, reign in his thoughts as he has carefully done all these years, maybe he could prevent the landslide. Maybe not. For weeks now, he's been waiting for things to fall back into place, though he's suspected from the start -- since that unreal night in his apartment -- that something had shifted permanently. He knows now that he will never be the same man he was before, that he will never be able look at Scully the same way again, and that together, they have become something more, something strange and new and frightening. Uncontrollable. Thoughtlessly, he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and begins to fold back his sleeves, going through the motions mechanically, hardly realizing that he's moving. A tug on his tie allows him to breathe more easily and he tries to force himself to think about the case they closed only three hours ago, the reason they're in New York, the reason he and Scully are together right now at all. If he stops to consider it objectively, it was the perfect case for him right now. Only three weeks out of the hospital, only four days removed from needing an inhaler to breathe, his voice still slightly hoarse from the effects of those beetles, a relaxed, relatively simple case was the best way to ease back into work. What he failed to see -- perhaps chose not to see -- was that the lack of a challenge would lead to boredom, would leave room for too many distractions. He thought work would save him, and had simply hoped for the best. So he's here in New York even though Scully doesn't think he should be out in the field just yet. She wanted him to stay in the office for another few days, but he couldn't deal with the mindless paperwork any longer, couldn't stare at those four basement walls for another full day. In the end, she didn't force him, just sighed quietly as he pleaded his case, nodded noncommittally as Skinner agreed to send them both to New York to look into a disappearance -- a case with no sinister undertones, no connections to global conspiracies. Just a standard case with a few too many questions, a case they were uniquely qualified to investigate. He knows why she wanted to keep him in DC He still remembers the look on her face when he woke up in that hospital bed, struggling for breath. She remembers it too, he knows. And now, with everything that has changed between them, she won't turn her head so easily, won't allow him to take chances with his health. Mulder understands perfectly -- has probably felt the same thing where Scully is concerned -- but now he resents her for it somehow, wishes she would trust him the same way she always has, back off and let him make his own decisions without her soft sighs and blank eyes making him feel guilty. Right now, at this very moment, she's next door, just a wall between them. Theoretically anyway. If he wanted to, he could go and knock on her door, wait nervously in the hallway like some flustered schoolboy. And if he did, she would answer hesitantly, knowing before opening the door exactly who would be on the other side. She'd probably already be dressed in her pajamas, some sedately colored satin tailored as though for men. Its strange, but she's been putting on her pajamas earlier and earlier these days. He doesn't think she's been getting more sleep, so he wonders what it means. Whatever her reasoning, it disturbs him -- the fact that she always seems ready for bed. He wants to see her dressed for work, in her smart black suits and three inch Italian heels. That Scully he knows how to deal with. Now, anything else seems to confuse him. Thinking of Scully, he realizes, with a sudden clarity that makes him weak, that he has spent the entire evening listening for her footsteps in the hallway, imagining her outside his door in dreamy blue satin, with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. He's been daydreaming too damn much lately. Its all he can do to force the image from his mind, banishing it to parts unknown. He knows he needs something to concentrate on -- work would be the obvious choice, if this case hadn't bored him quite so much. Standing in front of the window, the dark curtains hanging heavily against his back, all he can concentrate on is the pain, the dull, throbbing ache that seems to twist itself through his entire body. But it isn't the labored feel of breathing or the ache in his lungs that consumes him. Even the scratchiness of his throat barely registers. Instead, when he closes his eyes, its the soft, cool feel of his bedroom sheets that stings him. Its the whisper-soft touch of Scully's fingers against his thighs, the warm, wet slide of her mouth across his chest, the bright heat of her body that reduces him to a state of near agony. He closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose, but nothing will make it fade. When it first happened, he tried to convince himself that he could simply push it from his mind, and separate what they'd done from their work. Skinner called from North Carolina, needing their help, their expertise, and Mulder was determined to slip back into his well-practiced role. For so long, work had been everything for him -- the focus of his singled-minded passion. It had been a habit so long nurtured that even making love to Scully, being inside her, couldn't break him of it. Maybe it was the urgency of the case, he realizes now. The idea that Skinner needed their help. Because now, in this modest New York hotel room, he can't bring himself to think of work, of missing persons or murder victims. Or maybe it was all that down time -- the trouble with those beetles earning him a five day hospital stay, and another eight days of sick leave from the Bureau, during which Scully refused to send files his way, even paperwork of any kind. He couldn't believe it himself, but he would have killed for an expense report to fill out or one of those biannual departmental reviews to prepare. But Scully had been adamant -- he was to rest. There was nothing to do but sit around his apartment, and as soon as the internet and his video collection lost their appeal -- more quickly than he would have imagined -- his mind zeroed in on his night with Scully. He would wander aimlessly around his small apartment, inevitably ending up in the doorway of his bedroom, where he'd try to work up the courage to look at the bed. He had sta rted sleeping on the couch again because it was impossible to look at the mess of sheets and pillows in his bedroom, and reconcile what had happened there with what he knew of Scully, what had happened since. It was torture, pure and simple, and the thoughts plagued him even as their plane took off for New York. Of course, they hadn't discussed it. It was almost a relief when he woke the next morning to find her already gone. He could imagine the awkwardness that would have resulted, the tense conversation complete with averted eyes and fingers twisted in the sheets. And there was nothing for him to say anyway -- he loved her, had loved her for so long, and she knew it. He knew she knew it. And she loved him. He knew that as well. There are some things Scully says with her eyes alone, with a sad, wistful smile and the gentle squeeze of his fingers. Words have always seemed unnecessary between them, especially now when he doesn't know what she wants, what she envisions as their future. When he doesn't know what he is able to give her. In a perfect world, Mulder thinks, good sex would solve all their problems, make it all simple and easy. Unfortunately, he and Scully live in the real world, where sex, however good, has only made their situation that much harder to navigate. Because he knows now that her lipstick has the slightest hint of sweetness underneath its initial waxy taste, that the skin at her hips is so sensitive, the slightest brush of his fingertips makes her twist against the sheets, that when she sucks on the skin above his collar bone, the blunt ends of her hair brush across his chest, tickling him in the gentlest way. Because all of it feels better than he could have imagined, better than any dream, any porn-induced fantasy. Because he remembers that when he met her in the office the morning after, there was so much tenderness in her eyes -- and a strange kind of heat, almost impatient -- as she listened to him discuss an article he'd read on Voo Doo. For a single moment, he wondered what it would be like to lock the office door, press her against the cool wood, and feel her melt against him as she had in his bed just hours before. Then the phone rang, and there was a report to be filed, and he remembered who he was -- Special Agent Fox Mulder. Its who he still is, he tells himself. No matter how distracted he gets, he can't allow himself to forget that. The traffic below his window has thinned out, and as he watches the individual cars pass slowly through the street, he presses his hand against the window, his fingers smudging the glass -- five misshapen fingerprints against the gray New York sky. He likes the feel of cool, smooth glass against his skin. Anything that isn't warm and soft and pliant. Maybe they should take a vacation. They could take a few days, away from the Bureau, from conspiracies and aliens and mutants, and figure things out. Maybe he wouldn't feel so guilty if there wasn't actual work to be done. That night in his apartment, the rest of the world seemed very far away, and Scully had honestly seemed happy, so Mulder knows that its possible. What bothers him, makes his stomach turn slightly, is the suspicion that it wouldn't take very much to make Scully happy, that she would settle for a few hours of his time, here and there, when he's willing to give them. That isn't right, and even though he knows it, Mulder can't do a thing to change. So he silently watches the traffic, the small dots that are people hailing their cabs, running for the subway, rushing home. Quietly living their lives, which mostly include details like picking up dinner on the way home from the office, making sure the dog gets his flea bath tonight, checking over little Danny's math homework, taking the laundry to the cleaners in time for Fridays party. Mulder watches, feeling very much like an alien, someone so far removed from these activities that he doesn't understand them, can't make sense of them. This is the precise moment that Scully chooses to knock on his door. She knocks so softly, faintly that he almost wonders if its simply a product of his imagination -- wishful thinking altering his perception of reality, impairing his sensory functions. There is another knock, though, and he realizes Scully is truly on the other side of his door. Briefly, he contemplates ignoring her. Scully might believe that in his weakened condition, he needed a nap. She'd probably even be happy, pleased that he had finally heeded her medical advice. But before he can commit to avoiding her, she knocks a third time, still softly but with an insistence that makes it impossible for Mulder to ignore her. He opens the door, and watches in what feels like slow motion as Scully lifts her head from a thorough examination of the hallway carpeting. She isn't in her pajamas, he notes with relief. She's the Scully he knows so well, still dressed in her white blouse with tiny pearl buttons and the black trousers from her suit. She has taken her shoes off, however, and her stocking feet press softly into the plush carpeting. This amuses him for some reason -- the idea that she walked from her room to his without her shoes. He imagines Scully hurrying the three feet or so to his door, so that no one would catch her in the hallway without the benefit of her heels, panicking as Mulder took his time to come to the door. He smiles as he looks at her, patiently waiting on his doorstep. "Hey Scully." His voice is still a bit hoarse, and to his own ears, he sounds strangled. "Hi Mulder. Can I come in?" She smiles, quickly and a bit shyly, but then most of her smiles seem shy, self-conscious. "Sure." He moves out of the way so she can brush past him, and holds his arm out in invitation. It's a silly thing to do, he realizes, and he quickly drops the arm, running his hand through his hair instead. Part of him panics as he shuts the door. What if she wants to talk? What is she wants to question him, ask his intentions? He's tried to answer the questions himself, make himself understand, but he is still so conflicted, confused. He'd like to make love to her again, in the same slow, careful way he did that night in his bed. But beyond that, he doesn't know. Sometimes it scares him to think too far ahead. When he turns back to the room, though, Mulder notices that she has her laptop and notebook with her. She wants to work. It's fine with him, a safe outlet for all his restless energy. Scully will motivate him to work, strangely enough, so he can forget about what she looked like beneath him, flushed and panting. When Scully is discussing witness accounts and post mortem exams, Mulder almost believes that nothing has changed between them. "I was going to go over my autopsy notes," she says, her back to him. "And I thought that you probably had some questions, so it would save time if we just looked at them together." She turns, her eyes meeting his hesitantly. "Good idea, Scully." For several seconds, they continue to watch each other silently, both fidgeting and searching for something to say. Mulder looks away first, turning his attention to the painting above his bed, a garishly colored scene of a horse galloping across a meadow. He wonders if someone had the guts to sign their name to it, and squints to see if he can make out a signature. "Were you planning on taking a nap?" Scully's voice startles him, and when he turns back to her, she too is staring in the direction of the bed, where the covers are turned down, and the pillows are strewn about carelessly. "No. I was just resting my eyes for a bit," he tells her. "I'm kind of wired actually." Scully nods, moving to the corner table where she deposits her laptop and notebook. "I would think you'd be worn out," she says, pulling out a chair. "I'm not entirely convinced you were ready to come back to work just yet." He watches as she starts up the computer, staring intently at the screen, almost actively avoiding looking at him. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear -- a nervous habit, he has learned over the years -- and fusses with the binding of her notebook. Jesus, he thinks to himself, just because you've been in my bed, Scully, just because I made you come and called your name when you did the same for me, now we don't know how to talk to one another any more. Is it worth it? How do we get back on track? He slowly makes his way to the table, convinced that any sudden movements will scare her from the room. She's busily typing now, ignoring him almost. "Come on, Scully," he laughs. "I think even an invalid could have handled this case. What did I do? I questioned a handful of witnesses, watched you slice and dice, then sat back as you explained that Mr. Galvin died entirely of natural causes. Piece of cake." He winks at her as he sits down, feeling strangely self-conscious but trying to behave normally, act like himself. "Are you having trouble breathing?" she asks quickly. She stops typing and studies him carefully, her mouth drawn in a tight line. He pats his chest and forces a smile. "Free and easy." "Any more cigarette cravings?" There is no accusation in her tone, just concern which makes him slightly uncomfortable. But his fears are allayed for the moment. Scully, it would seem, is just as unsure as he is. The evening will consist of nothing but paperwork and small talk, maybe a shared meal or a trip to the soda machine across from the elevators. By eleven p.m., he predicts, Scully will be ensconced in her room, getting ready to go to sleep while he lies on his own floral bedspread, flipping through television channels in search of ESPN. And after a night of work, his mind will be focused again. He'll start mentally thumbing through the filing cabinet in his head, earmarking the cases he's interested in pursuing, piecing together his preliminary theories. He already has a case in mind. His questions about he and Scully, about their night together, will wait until they get back to D.C., when he has a free moment and some space to think. Maybe they can take that vacation... She's looking at him intently, waiting for a response. Something in her eyes, dark and wide and patient, makes him shiver. "I'm staying on the straight and narrow, Scully," he tells her, managing a smile. "I'm afraid of what you might do to me otherwise." She huffs quietly, the beginning of a laugh, then shakes her head, as if he's a child who's done something to amuse her -- something cute and utterly harmless. "That's good to know." She smiles without looking at him, her attention turned once again to the computer screen. "Let's get started." Mulder watches as she pulls up her notes, then listens to her detailed explanations and observations. He has always been enthralled with the workings of her mind, the careful, thorough way she approaches everything. Just like that night in his apartment, Mulder thinks, after telling him about Daniel. She was the same way in his bed -- serious, intent, and so passionate. He shakes the thought from his head, focusing instead on cardiac arrest and blood alcohol levels. He even manages to ask some intelligent questions as they discuss the case. There isn't even the hint of argument, just simple conversation. It feels good and right to him -- the way they are supposed to function together. And it's that rightness that gives him the courage to act, to take a deep breath and not think so hard about consequences as Scully begins to shut down her computer. Because he knows that they can't ignore what's happened between them forever. "Hey Scully, guess who called me the other day..." He pulls her notebook in front of him so he can rip a piece of paper from it. He may have found the guts to talk to her about this, but he's still nervous and needs to do something to make him appear casual. Carefully, he begins folding the paper into an airplane. "I have no idea, Mulder. E.T. maybe?" She smiles wryly, pleased with herself, and Mulder rolls his eyes. "Nooo, Scully," he sighs dramatically. "Wayne Federman. That producer friend of Skinner's... the one who followed us around on the Cardinal O'Fallon case... the one who's making a movie with characters loosely based on you and I... Any of this ringing a bell?" He has the paper shaped into a perfect airplane, and runs it through the air a few times before he aims it for the curtains. It falls before it can make it a foot. Scully has the decency not to laugh, though she does roll her eyes and sigh herself, but Mulder imagines that is a reaction to Federman's call and not his paper airplane flying technique. "What did he want now? Does Tea Leoni need more coaching for her big running in heels scene?" Her voice takes on a slightly haughty tone, which makes Mulder smile. "Not that I'm aware of. He was calling to invite us to the premiere in L.A. It's in a couple of weeks, and apparently, Skinner is already planning on being there," he says slowly, trying to gauge her reaction. "Federman said we shouldn't have any trouble getting time off from work." Scully shakes her head ruefully. "But the real question is..." she says, smirking. "...do we want to see this thing? I don't have a good feeling about it at all." She rolls her head against her shoulders slowly, then brings a hand up her neck to massage the muscles there. She's probably stiff from her autopsy this morning, he thinks, watching her fingers flex against her skin. "But aren't you curious to see how it all turned out?" Mulder asks, bending slightly to pick up his paper airplane. "I think we should go. Who knows? It might even be amusing." "Amusing? I don't think so..." She straightens up, and smiles, a little insanely Mulder thinks. "But if you want to go, Mulder... I've got your back." He nods, and smiles. Some down time with Scully. They can talk then. They can make their decisions beneath palm trees, in front of the bright Pacific Ocean. And they can laugh together at Federman's warped take on their jobs, their life with the FBI. Until then they will work. Stay focused and do what needs to be done. He'll save his dreams for Los Angeles. He watches her as she moves in her seat, rolling her head against her shoulders again, trying to work out the knots. Her eyes are half-closed, but still bright and her lips are wet, shining in the dim light. Even her fingertips seem lit, the crystal clear polish on her nails sparkling as her fingers trail across her neck. Wordlessly, he drops his paper airplane and moves behind her chair. He tries not to think as he pushes her hands from her neck, and begins to massage her shoulders himself. It takes exactly one deep, almost painful breath on Mulder's part before Scully laughs nervously -- breathlessly, his traitorous mind hurries to supply. She squirms in her chair as he begins to carefully press his fingers into her muscles, and he shivers in response. "Thanks," Scully says, almost whispering. "That autopsy was long." He nods even though he knows she can't see him. Slowly, he works his fingertips beneath the collar of her blouse, touching her without the thin layer of cotton between them. For some reason, he is surprised by how warm her skin is -- the air conditioning is on high, and Scully always seems to complain about the cold. It's a relief now that she can't see his face, the somber, nervous expression that he knows he must be wearing. His body is out of control -- he doesn't think he made a conscious decision to touch Scully. He can't remember the thought process that lead to his hands resting heavily against her warm back. Yet, here he is, feeling Scully's hair tickling softly against his wrist, teasing him almost. "Mulder..." she sighs quietly. "I think you've been holding out on me." She keeps her tone light, but there's a nervous edge that seems too serious to him, her voice catching at the end as he presses against a particularly tight muscle. She sounds flustered, affected, and he tries to lean over so he can see her face. Her head is bent forward though, her hair hanging like a curtain around her face, and all he can make out is the tip of nose. The small, rounded end of her nose, slightly flushed a soft pink, is his undoing. He wants to kiss that tiny bit of skin, stroke it with his finger. No -- he wants to kiss her, those glorious, full lips, the smoothly curved skin beneath her ear, the tight skin above her collar bone. Before he allows himself to contemplate any other parts of her body, he stops, his hands stilling on her shoulders. She senses his unease, reading him perfectly as she always seems to, and straightens up, coughing slightly. He can feel the air in the room again, surrounding them, heavy and dark like fog. His hands drop from her shoulders, and he stands behind her motionless. "Thanks," she mumbles, her head still bent forward. His chest aches when he takes a breath now, and he closes his eyes. Just get past this moment, he tells himself. Get it together, watch her move to the door, then take a shower and crawl into bed -- do that, and everything will be fine. He repeats the word over and over again in his head -- fine, fine, fine, fine -- until it becomes incoherent, a nonsensical word he can't decipher. Scully lets out a deep breath, breaking the silence with a subtlety only she could manage. Finally Mulder is able to move again, and he wanders over to the window, his breath coming in heavy pants. The sky has darkened considerably since earlier this evening, a hazy purple now, but the street below is still clogged with cars and people. A man is on the street corner playing an instrument, a guitar Mulder assumes. He imagines the tiny figure singing mournful folk rock, like Simon and Garfunkel. Kathy's Song, he decides. ....there but for the grace of you go i... "Mulder..." Scully begins anxiously, and he hears her getting up from her chair and approaching him. He doesn't turn to look at her, afraid of what he'll see in her eyes. "I'm okay, Scully. Don't worry about--" "Are you short of breath? I knew it was too soon for you to be out in the field." She lays a hand on his bicep, so lightly he wonders if he's imagining it, but then her fingers curl around his arm and gently squeeze, urging him to turn around. Even though he's tried to keep a safe distance between them all evening, even though he's worried for weeks about being distracted by Scully, it angers him that she can reduce everything to the question of his health, that she isn't willing to tend to his other wounds. But neither of them is comfortable with that, he supposes. He turns to her, not bothering to hide his disappointment. Her eyes are wide, a little wet, as he takes her hand in his and presses it to his chest, against his heart. He knows she'll feel its beat, a little rapid but strong and steady. "I seem to be in fine working order," he says without humor. "What's your medical opinion?" "Mulder..." She looks down at her feet, her hand still pressed to his chest, and he studies her feet as well, pale pink toes beneath sheer stockings, pushing into the worn mauve carpeting. When she looks up, her eyes are dark and shimmering, catching the light. Mulder watches her lower lip tremble slightly as she cocks her head to the side, almost as if she's trying to find a new perspective of him, a new view of this man she's known for seven years now. He can't really blame her. Jesus, he wants so badly to fix this. He wants so badly to find the right words, a way to describe what they're both feeling and what to do about it. "It's different now, Scully. I know how confusing it is," he whispers, moving his hands to her face, gently running his thumbs over her cheeks. "But we're still the same. We are the same people we've always been. Nothing can change that." She nods slowly, keeping her eyes on him, even as he begins to move in towards her. And then his lips are sliding against hers, like second nature, and their tongues come together, warm and wet, and his chest begins to ache ag ain. Scully's hands rest gently against his waist, moving slowly along his belt -- back and forth, back and forth, never straying from the strip of black leather. The pressure of her fingers is so light but he feels it intensely, the edge of his belt seeming to cut through the stiff material of his shirt, all the way through to his skin. The combination of pleasure and pain makes him dizzy, weak. When they stop to take a breath, Mulder is still hunched over, so Scully rests her face against his shoulder, and he can feel her panting breaths through his shirt. He brings a hand up to the back of her head, stroking her hair carefully, and they breathe together for several long seconds. "It's okay," he tells her, moving to kiss forehead. She nods against his lips, her hair tickling him slightly. "We're fine... We'll be fine." It's lame, he knows, sounding so much like an empty promise. But that's all he can offer her right now. They've been through worse together and survived. They'll get through this. Even if there is so much more at stake -- their work, their friendship, their love. He refuses to sacrifice any of them, and he hopes that she can understand. "It's late," she says suddenly. She pulls back slightly, her hands still on his waist. "You should get some sleep." It's not her professional voice, not Dr. Scully's no nonsense tone. There is warmth and affection and hesitance, combining in the most charming way, making her voice soft and deep. "Yeah. You too." He strokes her cheeks, matching her serious expression. "Good night, Scully." Finally he pulls away from her, retreating so his back rests against the cool glass of the window. She nods, then slowly turns to retrieve her things from the table. He watches her brisk, efficient movements, feeling shaky and unsteady on his feet. When she reaches the door, she turns back, smiling gently. "Sweet dreams, Mulder." The door closes with a soft thud behind her before he can respond. For several minutes, he stares at the door, almost expecting her to return, to throw the door open and tumble onto the bed with him. And for a moment, that's the only thing he wants -- to undress her, feel her, be inside her. He doesn't care about how sloppy his thinking has become, how distracted he's been. He just wants her. But he stands still long enough, and the mood breaks, and Mulder is in control again. His mind quickly silences his body, all its nagging desires -- there is no Scully, only work. He already knows the case he will pursue when he gets back to D.C. In his office, on the second tier of his inbox, he reminds himself, there is a file about a missing little boy, gone for eight months now. The local authorities are assuming he's dead, but his parents refuse to give up on him. Neither will Mulder. That is what he does. He turns out the lights, and climbs into bed without removing his clothes. Mentally making a list of the leads he needs to follow up on when he returns to the basement, he feels himself relax. He'll go over the case until he wears himself out, and manages to fall asleep. Then, maybe, he'll dream about Los Angeles, about Scully in some silky dress for the premiere, about making love to her in one of those giant marble bathtubs, bubbles sloshing in waves to the floor -- all the things he shouldn't make time for in real life. That's the wonderful thing about Hollywood, he thinks. It has nothing to do with real life. He lies stiffly on his back, keeping his body rigid. He can't fall asleep until he's gone over the details of that little boys disappearance one more time. His dreams will have to wait until he's asleep. the end. feedback is adored at Amory20@aol.com URL: http://members.aol.com/amory20/page/index.htm 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. feedback is adored at Amory20@aol.com URL: http://members.aol.com/amory20/page/index.htm TITLE: Beyond Wishing AUTHOR: JLB CLASSIFICATION: MSR RATING: PG-13/R SPOILERS: general season 7, Je Souhaite FEEDBACK: please -- Amory20@aol.com DISCLAIMER: not mine. property of CC, 1013, and FOX. SUMMARY: sequel to "Bed of Stars" -- Mulder and Scully do some late night talking. you could technically read this without prior knowledge of the series, but then you'd be missing out... * for sister zooey, who is the cat's pajamas as far as i'm concerned * Beyond Wishing by JLB When it's late, and his apartment is covered in strange gray shadows, Mulder can't stand silence. It only seems to accentuate the drabness of his apartment, how dark and dusty his home is, and leave him feeling a strange loneliness that even the most promising X-File can't fully drive off. He always needs some kind of audible distraction to keep him company -- the television or a CD, the buzzing of the fan or the clanging of the radiator. If he manages to fall asleep, it's always with some small, comforting noise in the background -- any sound that lets him forget he's alone. But tonight, his small apartment is absolutely quiet and still. If he concentrates hard enough, he can actually hear the silence, the soft, noiseless hum that seems to make the walls vibrate, the windows rattle, the sheets on his bed whisper against his skin. Tonight, as much as it bothers him, Mulder is trying to keep quiet. It's also warmer than usual, and even the thin cotton sheets tangled at his feet are too heavy. If he could just put the fan on and position it so the air would fall directly across his body, he might be able to fall asleep. But he can't -- too much noise, too much motion involved. To make matters worse, his stomach is rumbling, loud and persistent. All he's eaten tonight is a bowl of popcorn -- hardly a substantial meal, especially without any butter, as per Scully's request -- and now he is starving. Hidden somewhere in the back of a kitchen cabinet is a Twinkie, he remembers, and suddenly his mind is filled with visions of processed sponge cake and sickeningly sweet cream filling. But they package it in those damn cellophane wrappers that make so much noise when torn open. He knows the sharp ripping sound would carry into the bedroom, even from the kitchen. Maybe he could take it into the bathroom, and turn the faucet on so the water would drown out the sound. But then the roar of the sink would ... Jesus, all this subterfuge for a fucking Twinkie. It's not worth it. He's even afraid of moving, afraid that the mattress would ripple beneath him, groan and creak under his shifting weight. It was a big enough risk to turn on the bedside lamp, which he did only after he was certain that the shade was angled so only a thin shaft of light fell across his side of the bed. With the minimal light, he can at least read the BSU's latest statistical report on serial killers, the only reading material within reach from his spot in bed. He would have read it eventually, so now is just as good a time as any. Even if Scully is tangled in the sheets beside him, sleeping soundly. It is so inappropriate that he almost laughs out loud. Scully is next him, wearing nothing but his faded blue comforter, making the soft, tiny sighing sounds of sleep, and Mulder is reading about escalating ax murderers. He takes a quick look at her as she lies on her stomach, hands tucked beneath the flat pillow, all the smooth, pale skin of her back exposed with the sheets twisted at her waist. She is still and beautiful, like some grand, carefully carved sculpture, and he wishes she could stay there in his bed -- just like that -- indefinitely. Wishes... he never stopped to think about them much. But these last few days, he's done nothing but contemplate a multitude of impossible desires. Now Mulder wants to stop, wants to block them out. The genie is long gone -- he has to stop all this wishing, even if it is only in his own head. Eventually he forces himself to turn away from Scully, convinced she'll feel him watching even as she sleeps and wake up, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. He turns back to the report, shifting carefully on the mattress. If he stays still, keeps his body rigid so that not even a single hair strays into the six inch safety zone between he and Scully, Mulder can almost ignore that she is beside him. And he must ignore her, really, because if he doesn't, he'll do one of two stupid, selfish things. Either he'll start making noise -- turn on the fan, blast the television, slam the bathroom door, bounce up and down on the mattress -- and wake Scully. Then he'll maintain a strained, uncomfortable silence until she leaves, quickly and quietly before a word is said, before he has to touch her. Or --and perhaps even worse -- Mulder will reach across the bed and gently trace the sleek ridge of her spine, cover her shoulders with warm, wet kisses until she slowly wakes, and he can turn her on her back, sinking into her again without a second thought. These days, he's been leaning towards option two more and more. He's been feeling disturbingly primitive and possessive where Scully is concerned. If he could, Mulder realizes with disgust, he would shut her away from the rest of the world, lock her in this dark bedroom so he could be the only one to see her soft smile, hear her all too infrequent laughter, touch her perfect, smooth skin -- he wants to be the only person who knows her, the only one who really understands her and all her moods. But, deep down, he knows it's also because he wants to keep her safe, because he wants to leave all the monsters at his apartment door and keep Scully alive and healthy for as long as he lives. He wishes he could do that. She would kick his caveman ass if she knew, fume about how she is perfectly capable of taking care of herself, that she isn't some frail damsel in distress who needs a man to protect her. His feelings are inappropriate, maybe sexist -- he knows that -- but he can't help it. Isn't that how it is when you love someone, Mulder wonders. How can it be wrong to value Scully's life the way he does? He sighs loudly, forgetting for a moment where he is, then wants to kick himself for shattering the perfect silence of his bedroom with that rough sound. Quickly, he checks on Scully, who of course is now shifting restlessly against the mattress, her breathing shallow again. She turns slightly, facing him. Her breast is exposed, covered in shadow except for the tip which seems to catch a bit of the dim light. His eyes are drawn to it, unfailingly, and he almost forgets to breathe. This is only their third night together, so he hasn't really had the time to study her body. And it's one thing to see her body while he's making love to her, another thing entirely to just look at her, glance at her soft curves casually like this, as if her full breasts are just part of the scenery that makes up his bedroom, something he sees all the time and can simply take for granted. Scully blinks, her eyes slowly opening, focusing, trying to make sense of her surroundings. He knows the exact moment that she becomes fully aware, her eyes going wide and alert she pulls the sheet up from her waist to cover her breasts. "What time is it?" she asks, her voice rough with sleep. No preliminaries -- just "what time is it?" He doesn't know what he expects her to say, though. "Oh Mulder, thank you for rocking my world..." as she swoons back against the pillows? He wouldn't even be able to laugh at that; it would be too disturbing, outrageously out of character and uncomfortable. He'd like her to say something more though -- even if he doesn't know what that more is -- so Mulder toys with ignoring her. But when he notices how nervous she seems, how unsure and uneasy, he turns to check the clock. "Two thirty-eight," he says quietly, almost afraid to hear his own voice. "And all is well." He doesn't know if he's trying to convince her or himself, but either way, his words sound flat and unconvincing. Scully sits up against the headboard, her elbow brushing his arm as she moves. The frayed bed sheet strains against her breasts, and he forces himself to look away. "Damn, it's almost three," she says quickly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep. I meant to..." He smiles at her as softly as he can manage. "Hey, Scully, it's all right. If anything, I'll take it as a compliment." To Mulder's amusement, he can just make out the blush on her cheeks in the shadows. She smiles shyly, self-consciously smoothing her hair behind her ears, and he watches as she looks carefully around the room, sees her take in the trail of discarded clothing that leads to the bed. When she hesitantly looks over at Mulder, it's his boxers that seem to hold her interest, almost as if she feels more uncomfortable because he's put his shorts back on and she's wearing a sheet. "I should get going. It's late," she says finally, trying to untangle the mess of sheets. Her voice is low, careful -- that deep tone that always makes him a little nervous. As he watches Scully move cautiously under the sheets, Mulder is struck by the uncontrollable urge to ask her to stay. He knows all the reasons he shouldn't, all the reasons he's shied away from being with her like this, but he's spent the last couple of days contemplating his heart's desires, deliberating over how to use his three once-in-a-lifetime wishes. It frightened him to realize that Scully was at the center of so many of them. He wants to keep her safe. He wants to make her happy. He wants to keep her warm and sleepy in his bed, where he can protect her, watch over her, hold her. And he doesn't need a genie now to grant his wish. He only has to ask. "You don't have to go, Scully," he says simply, turning to face her, the BSU's report still draped across his knees. "Like you said, it's late." He tries to appear casual, playing with the plastic binding of the report like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "Mulder, we have to work in the morning." She gingerly slides to edge of the bed, trying to figure out how to make a graceful exit, searching for her lacy underthings amidst the clutter of his bedroom floor. He knows that she doesn't really want to go -- her voice is soft, lacking all of its usual strength and conviction. She thinks that he wants her to go, maybe even that she should. But it certainly isn't what she wants. "You've got a bag in your car, right?" he asks, trying not to sound desperate, trying not to sound disinterested -- it's a fine balance. "I'll just set the alarm earlier so we both have time to shower." He reaches for the alarm clock, cursing under his breath as he accidentally flips through five a.m. He doesn't usually have such a hard time setting the alarm. "I don't want to impose," Scully says distantly, and when Mulder looks up at her -- head bent, lips slightly parted, fingers playing with the sheets -- he is suddenly reminded of the sad look in her eyes when they sat in an LA hotel room and tried to make sense of their relationship. He wishes he could make this right. Jesus, he should have when he had the chance, when he had a thousand years worth of magic on his side. But Scully's theory on world peace probably applies to this as well -- it's something they must struggle through without the aid of wishes. "Impose?" He sighs, shaking his head. "Just stay, Scully." She lets out a deep breath, then slowly lies down again, rolling on her side to face him. When she's settled, she smiles softly, and reaches out to pull on the report in Mulder's lap so she can see the cover page. "What are you reading, Mulder?" "BSU's new stats. Just a little light bedtime reading." He smoothes his hand across the thick paper cover, tracing the embossed lettering. Scully shakes her head, smiling, then stretches a bit. He hears her joints pop slightly, making sharp cracking sounds, and he winces in sympathy. "So is it official?" he asks, when she finishes stretching and he can't stop himself from looking at her any longer. She smiles thinly, panicked, as if she expects him to ask something troubling, serious. He spits his next words out as quickly as he can. "Did you hate 'Caddy Shack'?" Her smile deepens to one of indulgence. "I think I'll stand behind my earlier assessment. It is a total guy movie." She toys with the corner of the report in Mulder's lap. "But it was fun to watch you watch it." Her smiles transforms again, into something more knowing, more secretive, and he feels himself get warmer. "What does that mean?" He huffs quietly, not certain if he should be offended, flattered or amused. "And the gopher was cute," she says, ignoring him. "Or the groundhog. Whatever it was." She smiles coyly, sultry and full of promise, and Mulder suddenly realizes the damage Scully could do with her arsenal of smiles if she put her mind to it. He should have paid more attention to her smiles over the years, however infrequent they might have been. He could have learned something. He sighs and shakes his head. "Well, you sat through the entire thing with a minimum of snide comments. That's something." He can't help smirking as he reaches over to run his fingers through her hair. She is still beneath his touch, but her scalp feels so warm, and it takes him a moment to pull away. He comes back to himself, and awkwardly moves his hand to his knee. He can feel Scully watching him, feel her eyes tracing over the bones in his hand, maybe listing them to herself as she fiddles with the sheet. "Are you ever going to tell me what your final wish was?" Scully asks, trying to feign disinterest but her voice catches at the end, hinting at her curiosity. He likes the fact that she wants to get his secret out of him, that he has something to hold over her. It is immature, silly, but he is pleased nonetheless. "How do you know I didn't wish for this?" He can't resist reaching out and running his hand over the soft cotton at her hip. "I don't think anyone could fault me." Scully blushes again, looking down at Mulder's hand moving slowly across her thigh. He watches too, surprised by how large his hand looks against the sheet, against her body. "I think you know that you didn't need to ask a genie," she says softly, lightly, but there is a seriousness in the way her voice trembles, and his hand freezes, a bit of the cotton sheet pinched between his fingers. He knows she's looking away from him now too. It's as if she's let some carefully guarded secret escape and wishes she could turn back time. So he tries to move time forward for her, tries to gloss over what's been said. "What would you wish for, Scully?" he asks, gently squeezing her hip. "If you believed in genies and magic carpets and all that..." He smiles and looks over at her, but she is staring up at the ceiling, as if there is something interesting written there. "I don't know, Mulder. I haven't really considered it." Her tongue darts out quickly as she finishes, and her lips shine in the darkness, wet and slightly parted. It takes everything in him not to reach out and touch her mouth, slide across the bed and kiss her. "Come on, Scully. When you were a kid, you didn't wish on stars or candles on a birthday cake? You never threw a penny into a wishing well and asked for your heart's desire?" He watches her closely now, unable to look away. She sighs, sounding slightly exasperated. "Sure I did. But back then all I wanted was a puppy... maybe a pony in my more extravagant moments." She turns to him, cocking her head. "I don't really have the need for a pony these days... or even a puppy for that matter." He glares at her for a moment, teasingly, wanting her to play along for just a moment. Now he absolutely has to know what she'd wish for, what sorts of things the ever so sensible Agent Scully would ask a thousand year old genie for. He needs to know... "Mul-derr..." she almost whines, and he smiles in spite of himself. "Fine... Health, happiness. Longer legs maybe." She lays her hand over his on her hip, tracing his fingers, softly rubbing against his nails. "I'm serious, Scully. If you could have anything, do anything... what would you want?" He drops the BSU report to the floor, and slides closer to her in bed. "Because I think you already have great legs," he whispers beside her ear, and she shivers, he notes with pride. When she smiles then, he is too distracted by it to notice her movement. But suddenly he feels her foot hesitantly rub against his. He looks down at her tiny, pale foot sliding up and over his calf. The contrast between their bodies -- in color, size, even texture -- strikes him as beautiful, strange but right. It's mesmerizing, her foot gliding over his leg in a soft back and fourth motion, and he almost doesn't hear her when she finally answers him. "I don't want to think about it, Mulder," she says quietly. "I don't want to think about all the things I want but can't have. I just want to... I want to enjoy my life as it is." She looks up at him, checking to make sure he understands, then whispers, "No wishes for something more. No regrets." She smiles, her eyes so soft and dark, and he can't help but see the sadness in her. She is the strongest person he knows -- no surprise there. And he isn't surprised by the depth of her love for him -- in awe of it maybe, but not shocked. He is surprised, however, by his reaction to her declaration, confused by the fact that he wants to shake her and say, "Are you crazy, Scully? What the hell is wrong with you? You deserve so much more." He doesn't say anything though. He simply pulls her to him, so they both lie on their sides, and kisses her forehead. As if that could possibly convey what he feels for her. He is nothing if not inadequate. "Mulder, we have to get up in three hours," she says, laughing nervously as his kisses become wetter, warmer. "We really should get some sleep." Her hands move in loose circles on his back, and he gets the impression that she isn't really that tired. "More like two hours," he mumbles as he moves his lips from her forehead to her cheek, down to her jaw, across her throat. He has to show her now, has to let her know that as hesitant as he may be, he appreciates the gift he's been given, all the wishes she's granted him with her own magic. Prying the sheet from her body, he reaches for her breast, slowly and gently -- he's always careful with Scully -- and she sighs, a deep, breathy sound, as his mouth finds hers. It is as if they've been kissing each other for years -- they are so in tune with one another, perfectly in synch. And when they kiss like this, he knows she is his, that no one will ever touch her like this again. He can even believe for the moment that he will be able to keep her safe. She rolls to her back, and he covers her instantly, trying to work his shorts over his hips without taking his lips from hers. She tries to help him, pushing at the material ineffectually, distracted as Mulder nips at her lower lip. He stops for a moment, just to look at her -- eyes half-closed and sleepy looking, lips wet and swollen -- and tries to find the words to tell her what he's feeling. He needs to tell her, though he'll probably regret it later. "Scully, I..." She rocks her hips under him slowly and deliberately, covering his lips with her fingers. She shakes her head, pressing herself up against him firmly, and he forgets what it was he was going to say. He closes his eyes, trying to slow his breathing, and settles himself between her thighs. As he pushes inside her, Mulder hears her moan "Oh God" under her breath, and he pauses, feeling some kind of divine inspiration, intervention, bliss -- nothing else can explain what he's feeling. He will keep her safe, he promises himself, as her nails lightly scratch at his back. He will do everything in his power to make sure no harm comes to her. There is no room for failure, Mulder knows, as he feels her hot breath against his neck, her broken voice moaning softly beside his ear. When she comes for him, her legs tight around his hips, Mulder wishes for a thousand more moments like this, a thousand more quiet nights in his bed with Scully warm and tight all around him. He knows there is no genie to hear him, to take note of his petition and make it happen. But maybe Scully will hear him, will listen to the way he calls out her name at that moment -- the two syllables dragged out in agony -- feel the way his hips pound against hers, remember his sweaty, slick skin rubbing against hers. She'll know what it means, what he's asking. When he finally has control of his arms and legs again, Mulder drags himself off her, rolling onto the mattress beside her. He watches her try to slow her breathing, her eyes closed, damp hair sticking to her forehead, and his heart beat speeds up again. Forcing himself to turn away, he lays his arm across his eyes, and tries to calm down. He feels her pulling the sheets across them, feels her warm body as she settles herself next to him. "It's really hot in here, isn't it?" Scully asks, her voice sounding scratchy and rough, like she has a sore throat. "Yeah. Want me to turn on the fan?" He's still panting, but starts moving to the edge of the bed even before she responds. "If you don't mind," she says, and even though his back is to her, he can feel her watching him as he plugs in the fan and turns it on. "Thanks, Mulder." He smiles as he crawls back into bed, the air already feeling less stale as the fan begins to work its magic. As he adjusts the sheets, he checks the clock, and mentally cringes. "Only an hour and forty-five minutes now," he informs Scully, reaching to turn off the bedside lamp. "You're going to have to drag me out of bed when that alarm goes off," she says, yawning. She turns on her side so she's facing him, but not touching him. He can feel the sparks coming off her body, and he tells himself that it's simply static electricity, nothing more magical than that despite how it might feel. "I'm not quite sure how you'd explain showing up to work in nothing but a sheet to Skinner, but I'd love to see you try." "Good night, Mulder," she says firmly but with a touch of amusement. "See you in an hour and forty." He slides over to kiss her mouth softly, surprising them both. Her eyes open, wide and dark, and her tongue slides over her lips where his just touched. He closes his eyes, not certain he'll fall asleep but willing to give it a try. Even with his eyes shut, their bodies not touching, he can feel Scully beside him, warm and safe. It's not what he wished for when it counted, but right now, it's all he wants. Scully becomes still beside him, and he listens to her breathing, the soft, steady rhythm, as it mingles with the buzzing of the fan. He falls asleep, still listening to the sounds of his bedroom. the end. feedback is adored at Amory20@aol.com URL: http://members.aol.com/amory20/page/index.html TITLE: Interior Sounds AUTHOR: JLB CLASSIFICATION: MSR RATING: PG-13 SPOILERS: this is a pre-"requiem" story, so you should keep the events of that ep in mind. if you haven't seen it, though, i think you'll still enjoy this, and you won't be spoiled in any significant way. :) i've played with the timeline in this series, i know. there's really only about a month or so between "all things" and "requiem" while i've probably stretched it out to two or so months. FEEDBACK: yes, please. Amory20@aol.com DISCLAIMER: i don't own them. if i did, i'd treat them a lot better than CC, 1013, and FOX. SUMMARY: sequel to "Beyond Wishing" -- final story in series * thank you to michelle for her input and wise advice. and as always, thank you to sister zooey for her friendship and insight. * Interior Sounds by JLB When late afternoon rolls around, Scully decides to go down to Mulder's office. Through some small miracle, she has managed to finish the mountain of paperwork that has covered her desk for almost a week -- before five o'clock to boot. Now she needs a break, a reward for making it through almost an entire Monday, with its endless forms and weak coffee and annoying paper cuts. At this time of the day, Scully is feeling worn around the edges, tired and more than a little bored, and she hopes that a conversation with Mulder will energize her. Their contact this morning was brief. Just a quick, shared muffin at Mulder's cluttered desk as they discussed the day's agenda. It's silly, but she was disappointed when they agreed that it was best to separate for the day -- they had individual tasks to attend to, and it would be best to just get them done. She wanted Mulder to talk her into goofing off, taking it easy, keeping him company as he pretended to work in between his paper airplane construction and bouncing his basketball. Now, she knows it was for the best -- she never would have finished her work with Mulder in the room; she knows that much. But she suspects that even with an empty office and total silence, Mulder didn't complete his reports. He's probably already pondering their next case, researching sea monsters or trolls with his usual childlike glee. She's hoping he will be able to drive off the exhaustion and boredom that's been threatening to overtake her all day. Mulder, with his boyish enthusiasm and boundless energy and that bright glean in his eyes. She just hopes he isn't brooding down in his dark office -- his attitudes are contagious much of the time, and Scully feels cranky enough on her own. Lately, his moods have become even more important; they are her barometer now. And for the last week or so, he's been surprisingly relaxed, easy and natural. Not blissful -- she would never expect that -- but content. She can't help wondering if it has something to do with that cynical genie they encountered a couple of weeks ago, if the fact that he wouldn't share his third wish means that he used it to even things out between them. In the end, Scully doesn't believe that. Certainly it would have backfired by now -- they would have become mutes or wound up with third eyes knowing their luck. Not that she believes in all that genie nonsense. Or maybe she does. She can't remember right now because she's so tired. No, it must be something he's worked out himself, Scully decides in the elevator on her way down -- something within him that has allowed for the change. It is a beautiful thing to see, and even if it didn't affect her directly, she would still appreciate the soft smile he's offered her lately, the calm greenish eyes that track her movements with gentle interest. When Scully finally reaches the basement, Mulder is at his desk, a newspaper open in front of him and a piece of licorice hanging from his mouth. The candy is bright red -- cherry or strawberry flavored. Maybe a Twizzler, she thinks as she stands just outside the doorway and watches in fascination as he tugs on the red strand with long fingers, breaking a piece off in his mouth. Silently, she observes the rhythmic movements of his jaw as he chews, his tongue sweeping across his lips when he's finished. The licorice enters his mouth again, but when he pulls it out a moment, it's the same length, just wet and nibbled at the end where he gnawed on it, almost as if he were teething. Then, in a blur, it's back between his perfect, smooth lips, and he's ripping at it again, tearing the candy without looking up from the newspaper. Finally, he notices her, looking toward the doorway, a small bit of licorice still dangling from his mouth. When he's finished chewing, Mulder smiles sheepishly. "Hey Scully." He watches her carefully as she enters the office. This is the one thing that hasn't changed in the wake of Mulder's new found calm. Since that first night in his apartment, since those first hours spent in his bed, he's looked at her so much more seriously, almost sadly if she thinks about it. He doesn't joke with her as much, doesn't tease her as often. He is so terribly respectful and careful with her that she feels like she's made of glass, that if he looks at her the wrong way -- too long, too little -- she'll break apart. Nothing left but sharp, smooth pieces, dark in color and impossible to fuse back together. It doesn't help matters that she's felt so run down lately, that fatigue has settled in and taken up residence. Several times this past week, she's been so exhausted come noon time that she's contemplated a cat nap at her desk, only stopping herself because she was afraid Mulder would catch her drooling on an expense report. Too many long nights finishing reports, too many greasy pizza dinners, too many late nights indulging Mulder, listening to his theories, watching his silly movies, making love to him with fierce concentration -- it's all taken its toll, though she wouldn't change a moment of it. So Scully smiles back, surprised by how easy it is to smile at him in that moment. Along with the exhaustion, a certain peace has found her as well this last week or so -- something she caught from Mulder no doubt. Despite the wonder of it, how foreign it is, she is pleased with how simple everything seems, how easy it is to breathe again, how easy it can be to talk to Mulder, to smile at him and let him see whatever is brimming in her eyes, no hiding or backing down. She wishes she could call up that feeling at will. Mulder clears his throat, and she moves closer. "Twizzler?" he asks, holding out the bag to her. She moves slowly, purposefully approaching his desk, and takes a piece. As she nibbles carefully on the candy, Scully feels him watching her again. She lowers her head shyly, pushing the hair behind her ear, feeling very much like a sixteen year old with her first boyfriend. "I've got bad news and more bad news. Which would you like to hear first?" Mulder says flatly, leaning back in his chair with a fresh Twizzler hanging provocatively from his mouth. "Not much of a choice, is it?" she asks, smiling gently. "I'll take bad news number one." "We're being audited. The X-Files, I mean." He bites the candy aggressively, ripping it in half, and Scully shivers -- Mulder is the only person she knows who could make eating an innocent piece of candy such a noteworthy activity. "It seems that some of the brass think our expenses are a bit extravagant. They don't appear to understand that fighting a global conspiracy of alien beings hoping to colonize the planet is a costly endeavor." He doesn't smile but that smart ass smirk of his makes a quick appearance and she revels in the sight of it. "Few do." She smiles, and finishes her Twizzler -- she can feel him watching her as she chews. "We'll be fine, Mulder. If they haven't shut us down yet, they're certainly not going to do it over a few questionable expenses." "A few? You're being kind, Scully. You know how many cell phones I've lost in the past six months alone. It's not a pretty figure." He picks up a strand of licorice but doesn't chew it, simply lets it flop back and forth in his hand. "What's the other bad news?" She takes another Twizzler, her hand brushing Mulder's, where it rests on top of the bag. "Uh uh," he says teasingly. "You didn't say please." He smiles that beautiful, smug smiles she's missed lately. She smirks, but takes the candy without saying a word. Mulder watches her, almost as if she's a suspect he's sizing up. "The other bad news?" she asks again, trying to get the conversation back on track. He scoots his chair closer to the desk, closer to her, and unexpectedly plays with the hem of her blazer. It's nothing special, something he would have done two months ago, but there seems to be so much subtext now, so many possibilities. "I still haven't found your earring. I've looked everywhere, Scully, but I'm afraid it's a lost cause." Mulder lowers his voice to a deep whisper, as if he's afraid someone might overhear. He avoids her eyes, choosing to watch his fingers play with the woolen material of her suit, his skin gleaming gold against the black fabric. "A lost cause? I thought you didn't believe in such things." Her tone is serious, though she has to force back a grin, and Mulder smiles quickly, still not looking up. "You know, some time in the future, I'll probably be lying on my couch, minding my own business, and get stabbed in the ass by the damned thing." He tugs on the edge of her blazer for emphasis. "Maybe." She huffs, not quite laughing, but her smile is unmistakable. "You think that's funny?" He looks up at her finally, almost daring her to respond with his grin. "It's an amusing thought, yes." "So the truth is out. Dana Scully is a sadist. The things you learn..." He trails off, his voice deep and smoky. There's another flicker of that old Mulder, pre-sex Mulder as she's come to dub him. The guy who made crude comments and tried to make her blush at every turn. She's not sure if she misses that. The intense, serious way that he looks at her now is so thrilling, she almost can't stand it. The way he touches her now, so purposeful and intent -- it might not be a bad tradeoff. "So do we need to prepare for this audit? Are you going to ask me to organize seven years' worth of receipts?" She smiles at him, almost indulgently. He looks up, and tugs on the hem of her jacket again, the top button pulling open. "No..." he says slowly. "But I am going to ask you to take a walk with me. I need some fresh air." She is confused as she watches him rise from behind his desk. Mulder never needs fresh air or sunshine or walks in the park. He could hold up in this dark, musty basement for days, provided there was a steady supply of coffee, sunflower seeds, and paranormal reading material. But she straightens up, ready to follow him. "Okay," she says suspiciously, watching him tug on his jacket. He looks relaxed, though a little sleepy maybe, his eyes only half-open. Mulder holds his arm out in front of him, indicating Scully should go first, and she waits in the hallway as he turns off the lights. ******* It's almost four thirty when they get outside, and the streets are starting to fill up with people leaving their offices, getting ready to head home. The sky is that bright, smooth blue Scully loves, and she dreams for a moment of finding a spot in the sun to lie down and take a nap. Maybe Mulder would let her use his lap as a pillow, and wake her before her cheeks burn apple-red. This was his idea, after all, so he should take responsibility. But Scully doesn't ask. She takes a deep breath of cool air instead, figuring Mulder has something up his sleeve, some reason for this afternoon stroll, and she's willing to let him have his way. Mulder hasn't spoken since leaving the basement, silently walking beside her with his hands in his pockets. His pace seems to have slowed, so it's easier for her to keep up with him today, but since they've gotten outside, he's been quiet and subdued, and she is slightly worried. Looking up at him, she sees the sunlight glinting off his sunglasses, and doesn't realize that he's looking back at her until he smiles, soft and easy. She wants to turn away, but smiles instead, raising a hand to shield her eyes. Her shoes make a sharp pounding sound as they strike the warm pavement. The rhythm lulls her a bit, and her thoughts become fuzzy and indistinct. As they reach the lawn, Mulder stops to remove the package of Twizzlers from his jacket pocket. There are only three pieces left, and he holds one out to Scully before chewing on one himself. As she brings the licorice to her mouth, she can't help but smile at Mulder, who casually stands on the glittering pavement. He doesn't seem bothered by her scrutiny, his sunglasses making him seem cool and aloof despite the Twizzler hanging from his mouth like a limp cigarette. "So, what's this all about?" Scully asks, as they settle themselves on a partially shaded bench. "Why are we out here soaking up rays instead of downstairs arguing over those files you have piled a mile high on your desk?" She looks straight ahead, out across the grass. "Scully..." Mulder says admonishingly. "We don't argue. We discuss passionately." He leans closer so he can elbow her gently. "Semantics, Mulder. Stop avoiding the question. What are we doing out here?" "Fresh air, remember?" She glares at him, and he has the good sense to look contrite. "What would you say if I told you I was concerned about this audit?" His voice is low, serious, and he looks down at his lap, playing with the almost empty Twizzler package. Her brow creases in confusion, in surprise, and she looks at him, carefully, intently, trying to figure out what is going on in his head, what he's torturing himself over now. "I think I'd say, 'Mulder, this isn't anything to worry about. It's just an audit.'" She speaks almost without conscious thought, her voice sounding thick and strange -- foreign. "Why would you be concerned?" He laughs darkly, and pats her knee. "They're always looking for an excuse, Scully. I don't think it will bother them if it's something as mundane as exorbitant motel bills." She turns toward him, losing some of the shade, but able to see him better. With those damn sunglasses on, Scully can't see his eyes. Reaching over, she gently removes them, folding the glasses carefully and placing them in her lap. He is passive through the entire thing, watching her actions almost disinterestedly. His eyes, when she finally can see them, are dark, almost unreadable. "Mulder, we've been here before. More times that I can count," she says without humor. "Don't worry. It's going to be fine." She lays a hand on his arm, the thick material scratching against her fingers. "I'm not worried about the audit exactly." He takes the final Twizzler out of the wrapper, and lays it on his knee. "I can handle some narrow minded bureaucrats." "I don't doubt that." She smiles, but Mulder just chews tensely on his lip. "It's not their questions that I'm worried about. I'm worried about the questions I'll wind up asking myself." She can't help staring at him, watching the skin at the corner of his eyes wrinkle, the lines becoming deeper and more pronounced. He needs a haircut, she notes dimly -- his sideburns are slightly uneven. His lower lip is chapped a bit, and there are small tracks from his teeth where he chewed the dry skin. And still, he is beautiful, sitting beside her, staring directly up into the sun. "What sorts of questions?" she finally asks, reaching over to break off a piece of the Twizzler resting on Mulder's knee. She takes it without asking, eats it without thinking. Maybe she's hungrier than she realizes. "They'll do their nitpicking and prodding. Adding up the numbers, checking the figures, and I'll sit there, taking stock of the last seven years of my life, the things I've done, the choices I've made. Accounting..." "Mulder, you've done your best. What more can you ask?" She leans forward slightly, rubbing his knee. He watches her hand move in circles on his knee for a moment. "I appreciate the sentiment, Scully, but I don't think you're exactly objective." "I'm just telling you how I feel." She feels an irrational urge to cry, her eyes becoming watery and tight. Leaning back quickly, she stares up at the branches above her, the smooth, shiny leaves that obscure the sun. Maybe if she keeps her head tilted back, the tears won't be able to escape. She feels Mulder's knee brush hers as he angles his body toward her, and despite the risk, Scully lowers her head. As she removes her hand from his knee, she can see amazement blazing in his eyes, as if she's told him that she's found a spaceship in the courtyard of her apartment building. He is bewildered, and she has to look away again. "Look, Mulder ... in a couple of days, this will be over. It will all be settled and we can get back to normal." "I feel strangely settled now," he whispers, almost as if it's a revelation, and when she turns back to him, he's staring off in the distance, squinting against the sun at crowds of tourists. She feels his sunglasses resting against her thigh. "Maybe that's why I'm worried." He runs a hand through his hair, and shakes his head, like he can't believe what he's just said. Scully doesn't understand what he's getting at. She turns the words over in her mind, searching for subtext, trying to find the meaning, but nothing registers -- she's too tired to think straight. Her frustration and confusion come out as a quiet sigh. Mulder smiles weakly, his lower lip full and wet, and reaches over to rub her back. Scully is suddenly hit by a deep yawn, and her eyes close with the force of it. "You okay?" Mulder asks, his hand moving in circles on her back. "Yeah. I've just been tired all day." "Let me drive you home then." He checks his watch. "No one will care if we duck out twenty minutes early. The audit can wait until we're both perky and well-rested." "I'm fine, Mulder. If you want to talk--" "Scully, I know firsthand how cranky you get when you're sleep deprived." He smirks, and she desperately wants to lean over and kiss him. "Let's go." She watches as Mulder slowly stands up, then extends his hand to her, smiling softly when she places her hand in his. ***** In front of her building, the car engine idles for a moment before Scully can think of something to say. "Do you want to come up for a little while? I could make some tea." She speaks carefully, keeping any inflection out of her voice. She doesn't want him to get the wrong idea, to hear some kind of seductive invitation when she's really too tired to do anything but talk with him. Since April, he's only been in her apartment twice. Both times, it was only business that brought him across the threshold -- picking up or dropping off files. It doesn't mean anything, she knows. She hasn't gotten the impression that he's actively avoided her apartment -- there is no real reason why he would. He never really spent much time at her place anyway. But she'd like to get him inside now, sit down with him on her comfortable sofa, where they could just enjoy the silence together, sip cinnamon tea and forget about accountants and expense reports and profound self-imposed questions. "As much as I'd like to, I told the boys that I'd stop by tonight to look at a few of their new toys. My busy schedule and all." He plays with the steering wheel, his fingers stroking it in a way that seems vaguely sensual to her. "Besides, you need a nap. March yourself upstairs and get straight into bed," he says with mock authority, and she raises an eyebrow. "Seriously, Scully. Go get some rest. You've earned it." "I could say the same for you," she tells him, looking down at her lap. "I promise I'll be home by curfew." When she looks up, his eyes are bright and full of laughter. "I'll hold you to that, Mulder. Don't let Frohike talk you into an all-night film festival." She smiles, pleased with herself. "I use the word 'film' loosely, of course.'" He nods solemnly, playing the role of obedient little boy, all innocence and wide eyes. She laughs, quietly and quickly, and Mulder catches her. His eyes become soft, almost sleepy, and Scully tries to hide her reflexive yawn. "I'm my own man, Scully," Mulder says, turning forward again. "Don't you know that by now?" "The fact that you never listen to me would suggest that, yes." Snorting quietly, Mulder shakes his head. Scully watches him rub at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose then scrubbing his face with rough fingers. She is relieved for some reason when he stops. "I'll call you later," he says, leaning toward Scully slightly so he can run a hand over her hair. "Get some rest. I want to see you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow when we tackle this auditor." His hand against her scalp only seems to make her drowsier, his strong fingers massaging so carefully. She sighs softly, and her eyes slip shut. Suddenly she feels the front of Mulder's body -- warm and hard -- pressed against her side and his breath hot on her face. Then his lips are on hers, his mouth drawing hers open, and he is kissing her frantically, almost anxiously. All the sleepiness drains from her and she is aware, alert beyond reason, as she clutches at the shoulders of his suit jacket, digging her nails into the fabric as if she can tear through it until she reaches skin. They pull apart slowly, both of them breathing heavy in the air conditioned interior of the car. Mulder's lips are wet and impossibly swollen. She reaches out, almost without realizing it, and strokes them lightly, feeling their heat. His eyes are still shut as he tries to control his breathing. "Jesus," he mumbles under his breath, and Scully is stunned. Stunned that a kiss with her could astound a man who believes completely in extreme possibilities, who has seen so many amazing, extraordinary things. Her heart pounds against her chest and there is a dull throbbing behind her eyes, as if the sunlight is too strong, the glare from the windshield making it impossible to think clearly. Mulder lets out a deep breath, shaky and trembling, as he readjusts his seat belt. Scully feels him watching her, but she can't stop herself from raising a finger to her own lips, smoothing across them, surprised to discover that they're not burning, blistering. She looks over at him, and he is smiling tenderly, peacefully. "I should get going," he says quietly, and shifts in his seat, turning forward again. There is still a slight curve to his lips, she can tell, as he settles himself more comfortably behind the wheel. She blinks in an attempt to get her thoughts together. "Right." There is a moment of silence, of nothing but uneven breathing and fabric shifting. "I'll call you," Mulder tells her again as she opens the door, and slides her legs outside. She thinks about telling him to simply come back when he's finished with the Gunmen or maybe going over to his place to meet him when he comes home. But Scully just nods, bending to retrieve her briefcase. She is content to let things happen naturally, unfold as they are, without thinking or planning. She'll leave it up to Mulder, who watches her with soft, dark eyes, and that small, easy smile. As she closes the door, Mulder seems a little bit lost, watching her leave the car through the streaked window. But he smiles again briefly, and Scully sighs as she begins her walk to the steps of her building. Mulder will wait until she's safely inside. That is what he always does when he drops her off. Maybe he's afraid someone or something will jump out of the bushes and attack her on the front steps of her building. Maybe he's worried that she's forgotten her keys and won't be able to get inside. Scully doesn't care what his reasons are. It's enough that he does it. She enters the lobby and closes the door behind her, pulling back so she won't be seen from the street. Mulder sits in his car for another minute or so, his head bent slightly over the steering wheel. She wonders if he's thinking about coming in, blowing off the Gunmen and taking her up on her offer of tea. He's gone a moment later, pulling the car out smoothly and disappearing down the quiet street. Yawning, she heads up the stairs, to cinnamon tea and her soft bed and a few hours of sleep. Though it is always this way, she is struck by how quiet her apartment is when she closes the door behind her. It is almost entirely silent, except for the faint strains of music coming from the apartment next door. She makes her way through the rooms, listening to her shoes click against the floor, and completes her usual evening routine -- dropping her briefcase by her desk, laying her blazer over the arm of a chair, checking her machine for messages. When she kicks off her shoes, she settles down on the sofa, telling herself she'll rest for just a moment before she gets into bed for her nap. That is as far as she makes it, though, falling asleep quickly, her head resting on a throw pillow, the phone within reach on the coffee table. the end. feedback is adored at Amory20@aol.com URL: http://members.aol.com/amory20/page/index.htm