From: Amory20@aol.com Date: Wed, 5 Jul 2000 22:51:42 EDT Subject: New: Only In Dream by JLB (1 of 2) Source: xff 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." continued in pt. 2 Only In Dream by JLB (amory20@aol.com) pt. 2 of 2 disclaimers, etc. in pt 1 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