TITLE: Sleepwalker (1 of 2) AUTHOR: Liz Owens E-MAIL ADDRESS: cantwaltz@aol.com FEEDBACK: Proudly hung on the refrigerator by cantwaltz@aol.com DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer and the usual atxc haunts. Anywhere else, just let me know where it's going and leave my name and such attached. SPOILER WARNING: "Duane Barry"/"Ascension" RATING: NC-17 CLASSIFICATION: R KEYWORDS: M, S, MSR DISCLAIMER: No, Mulder and Scully aren't mine--they belong to CC, the fine folks at Fox, and 1013 Productions. "Never for money, always for love...." But I'd like to meet them for pancakes sometime. SUMMARY: Scully takes a little stroll. AUTHOR'S NOTES: Just a little fun before I get back to the angst. And I have to say quite honestly that I wasn't able to find out that much about adult sleepwalking, so forgive my mistakes. Also, I am remembering Stowe, Vermont with what is probably more love than accuracy. But the church and the cemetery are real places, and the Von Trapps really do live there. You can visit my other stories at http://members.aol.com/CantWaltz. This one is for Roxane, who keeps me on deadline. Sleepwalker (1 of 2) "Sleep is when all the unsorted stuff comes flying out as from a dustbin upset in a high wind." - William Golding When the connecting door between our rooms opens and I see Scully standing there, I think, Thank God she's not trying to jump into an empty pool again. She wears silky black pajamas--or at least I think they're black. They are soot-dark in the blue light coming from the TV in my room. I can see a flash of ivory skin--her bare feet--as she walks toward me. Her breasts sway gently under the satin fabric, and I feel my cock go iron hard in the space of a few heartbeats. And again I think, Thank God. Thank God she's asleep. I try to keep a level head, to distract myself from the throb in my shorts. So I recount the facts. I know that sleepwalking--somnambulating--is a psychological disorder common in children, but rare in adults. When adults do sleepwalk, it is sometimes the sign of mental illness. I discount that one quickly. A more likely explanation is stress. Remove the stressor and the symptom will disappear. So, Scully, what's on your mind? I watch in fascination as she goes to the closet and takes out my suitcase. She unzips it, throws back the lid. Carefully, she removes my suits and shirts from the hangers and folds them into the bag. Then she pulls the case across the floor and begins opening drawers. The rest of my clothes, the hotel stationery, even the fucking Gideon Bible and the TV remote--they all go into the bag. Then she fastens the suitcase and carries it into her room, placing it just *so* next to the window. She comes back into my room and sits primly in a chair, as if she's waiting. Waiting for what? A minute goes by. Two. Five. Then her eyes begin to close. Her head bobs, then her chin meets her chest. It's over, for now. With a sigh, I get up and go over to her, the urge to pass my hand over the back of her skull very strong. That sweep of tousled auburn hair is a temptation, as always. But I resist, rewarding myself by sliding one arm under her knees and another behind her shoulders. I scoop her up against my chest, enjoying the feel of her limp, satin-clad body against mine. Like all the pleasures in my life, it is short-lived. In a minute, I am sliding her onto her bed and tucking the covers up around her sharp little chin. She mumbles something and snuggles more deeply under the blankets, tossing one arm over her head. "I'm glad *you* can sleep," I mutter as I try to fit six feet of me onto five feet of hotel sofa. No way I'm leaving her alone now. I honestly thought that last night was an aberration. A terrifying one, to be sure, but an anomaly. I mean, this place is the fucking "Sound of Music." Literally. The Von Trapp family settled here after their escape from Austria and opened an inn just up the road. Northern Vermont is one of the most peaceful places I've ever seen. Mountains, meadows, moose. Slap a big body of water down in the midst of all this wilderness and it's exactly the kind of place I could envision Scully--someday--hanging her shingle and dispensing Band-Aids and lollipops for the rest of her life. Drive 45 minutes in one direction and you can eat yourself sick at the Ben and Jerry's ice cream factory. A couple of hours to the north is Montreal and all its cosmopolitan attractions. Skiing in the winter, golf in the summer, and the most perfect night sky you can imagine. Stowe is New England at its finest. This resort is a cut above the usual place we end up staying. There are acres of pristine grass, the kind you think only exists in your childhood memories, thick and plush and perfect for spreading out a blanket and a picnic lunch. Nice amenities, too--an indoor pool, a Jacuzzi big enough to do laps in, an exercise room, and an enormous outdoor pool. Which, it being the end of September, has already been drained for the winter. We ate dinner in her room last night, Scully pecking away on her laptop as she nibbled at a salad. I remember stealing leaf after leaf of lettuce until she threatened my hand with her fork. She seemed normal, sniping at my more implausible (she says, ridiculous) theories like she always does. I think I suggest half the things I do just to get a rise out of her. I like to fight with Scully. Not fight-fight, but debate. Squabble. I like to see how long it takes from the time the sentence leaves my mouth until that little eyebrow quirks at me. She says more with one little gesture than most people can in a lifetime. Anyway, we ate. Discussed the case. Three murders in this tiny town in the last month, all the bodies found in the postage-stamp-sized cemetery behind the white clapboard non-denominational church that dominates the main street of Stowe. Add the appearance of mysterious lights in said cemetery--which has not been used since before the Civil War--and you've got an X-File. So I said. Scully, naturally, was not on the same page. "Ghost lights?" she said to me, her eyebrow at full attention. "Think lantern lights, flashlights. Even torches. Come on, Mulder." "Scully, you have the report of the state police right in front of you. All three officers saw the lights. And clearly state that there was no one in the cemetery but the three of them." She just looked at me. "Mulder, you're not going to give up on this theory, are you?" she asked finally. I made the mistake of grinning at her. I swear I saw my life flash before my eyes. Then she shook her head, powered off her computer, and ordered me out of the room. "I'm going to bed. I've been up since before dawn." "And I haven't?" Mistake number two. I saw her hand flex and steeled myself for a right hook. Instead, she pushed at my shoulder until I turned around, then she "helped" me through the connecting door. "Good *night,* Mulder," she said in that "I can't believe you've wasted my time like this" voice she gets sometimes. I must be a sick man, because that tone turns me on in about two seconds flat. Maybe it's that I want so badly to prove her wrong. Or maybe it's that I just want her so badly. I decided to go for a swim before I went to bed. Not so much for the exercise, but to take my mind off the thin panel of wood that separated my bed from hers. I've become the master of distraction as our years together have gone on. Cold showers, swims, jogs. None of them are perfect, but they each have their own advantages. By the time I finished doing my laps, I was pleasantly relaxed. I showered and pulled on some clothes, then began the hike across the lawn to my room. As I walked past the outdoor pool, I noticed a small figure coming toward me across the dew-damp grass. "Scully, I thought you were going to bed," I said. She strolled past me as if I didn't exist. I got angry. Almost angry enough to keep going, to let her wallow in whatever pissy mood she'd worked herself into. I even took a couple of steps before it hit me. She had been wearing pajamas. I spun around and followed her, catching up easily. "Scully, is everything all right?" I asked. No reaction. Not even to brush me aside like an annoying insect. We reached the edge of the pool. I was about to grab her arm to keep her from falling in when she stopped suddenly. I watched, enthralled by the bizarre pantomime playing out in front of me. Her arms began to move strangely, her hands moving up and down in front of her. Then she bent down and smoothed her hands over the pebbled surface of the pool deck, finally sitting down where she had placed her hands, dangling her legs over the edge of the empty pool. At the deep end. She moved one hand and plunged it into the space where the water should be, then opened her fingers and stared at her hand. She did this twice more, then placed her hands behind her and braced herself on her arms, turning her face up to the sky and squeezing her eyes shut. I squatted down beside her and spoke in her ear. Nada. Shit. It took a minute, but I finally realized what she was doing. She was sleepwalking. Or, in this case, sleep-sunbathing. In the dark. In her pajamas. At an empty pool. God, even like this, she was so *Scully.* She'd brought an imaginary towel to sit on, had shaken it out of its "folds" and had arranged it in the perfect spot, then tested the temperature of the "water." As I looked at her, she took up an invisible tube of sunblock and spread it on her arms, legs, and chest, then leaned back to lay down on the "towel." I am not a praying man, but I found myself chanting, "please don't dive, please don't dive" over and over. Thankfully, sleepwalking episodes are short. As I crouched beside her, waiting, she slipped into a natural sleep. I picked her up carefully, then turned to retrieve the towel--and felt like a complete ass. She'd left the outside door to her room ajar. I put her on the bed and then checked the room to make sure no one had come in while she was on her little odyssey. Once I was satisfied we were alone, I turned back to her. She was out cold. Like tonight, I tucked her in. And I sat with her for an hour, to make sure she wasn't going wandering again, before I went back to my own room. This morning, I was exhausted. She was bright-eyed and rested. I didn't know quite how to tell her about what happened last night, and she didn't seem to remember a thing. We spent a chunk of the day in Burlington, where she performed an autopsy on the third victim while I interviewed the three state police officers who had seen the lights. Of course, once I started pushing, they backpedaled. They saw something, but they couldn't be certain that there were no people there. Great. Fucking great. Scully had "autopsy face" when I met her at the medical examiner's office. She looked tired and sad, but with an odd touch of satisfaction. I know that a part of her hates working in death, but she also knows that, in the end, her work will help to preserve life. That's what keeps her going. I had a brief fantasy in which I offer to rub her feet. But the end of my twisted scenario involved me holding a steak to one blackened eye, so I let it go and drove us back to Stowe instead. When we arrived in town, instead of making a left and heading up the mountain road, I kept going straight. "Mulder, that was our turnoff," she said. "I know." Her hands twitched in her lap. "We're going back to the cemetery again." "Don't worry, Scully, I'll get you home before dark. I just wanted to map out in my mind where Dudley Doright and his buddies were standing when they saw the lights." "Mulder...oh, fine. Can we at least stop and get some coffee first? I'm dead on my feet." "Interesting choice of words for a woman going to a graveyard." "Can you please be serious for a minute? There is no reason for us to be here, Mulder. There are no ghost lights. I don't understand why you persist...in.... Mulder, stop laughing." "Scully, you have no idea the joy you bring to my life." I was being honest, but she thought that I was making fun of her. I could feel the waves of hurt coming off of her even as I pulled the car up to the front of the big storefront that served as bookstore and coffeehouse. "Latte?" I asked, hoping the moment would blow over. She silently held out a five dollar bill. "You get the next one," I told her, waving the money aside. "Be right back." Dammit, dammit, God-fucking-dammit. I do this all the time, and I don't even know it until the words are out of my mouth and it's too late to do anything about it. And I never know how to make amends, so I don't do anything, which probably makes it all worse. Women...women are just *difficult.* I'm a psychologist, for Christ's sake, and I still don't get what they are all about. I could spout meaningful claptrap until the cows come home, but I still wouldn't come close to capturing their dynamic essence. I know Scully better than anyone on earth, and I can honestly say that she knows more about me than I do about her. She's still a mystery to me, deep as the ocean and as familiar as my own hand. I could wake up next to her every day for the next century, share every meal and every breath, and I'd still be as lost as I am at this moment. But I try. I do. So I bought her a latte and a chocolate chip cookie and came back to the car. She was gone. I looked up at the spire of the church and guessed that she had gone ahead to the cemetery. She was there, all right, crouched down next to a spare row of curved slate tombstones. She was tracing the eroded carving with her fingers, and I got the feeling that I was intruding on something intensely private. Then she heard my steps on the stairs that led down the hill into the churchyard and the moment passed. I handed her the paper cup and the cookie. Her soft lips curved as she took my peace offering. "Thanks," she said quietly. The place called for quiet. "I think the officers were over there, Mulder," she said, pointing to a spot near the stairs. I followed her directions and groaned. In my line of vision were half-a-dozen houses and the metal towers that held the lights of a baseball field. "Several completely plausible explanations for the lights," she murmured. "But it's still daylight, Scully," I said quickly. "What if we..." "Come back after sunset? Mulder, I--" she caught herself, then looked at me innocently. Right. "How much more joy would I bring to your life if I agree to this, Mulder?" Damn. I love this woman. "You have no idea, Scully." She broke the cookie in two and handed me half. "All right," she said. And so we spent two miserable, cold hours sitting in a dark corner of the cemetery. All we saw were two raccoons--who seemed to feel that we were intruding on their personal love nest--a possum and a stray cat. Big whoop. So I drove us back to the inn and we went to our rooms. To sleep, so I thought. Until I saw her standing in my doorway. I try to fit my frame on the sofa in her room and finally find a position that doesn't threaten to break any major bones. I watch her sleep for a while, until I am certain that she isn't taking any more little trips. Then I do something she will yell at me about tomorrow. I go into my room, leaving the door partially open so that I can see her. And I call her mother. Once I convince her that Scully is fine, I quiz her about Scully's childhood. At the end of the conversation, I hang up the phone and hover in the doorway, watching Scully's small, still figure, all but hidden under the pile of bedclothes. Well, well. Who'da thunk it? Little Dana had been a sleepwalker. There had been a period of time that the family had moved four times in two years. After the third move, she started getting up and packing her belongings in her sleep. She had even rearranged the furniture, until her mother hit upon the idea of moving the furniture into the same place as the last house. Remove the stressor, you remove the symptom. Twenty-odd years ago, her family had settled in one spot for three years and the sleepwalking stopped. So, what was it about this place that was so upsetting to her? Main Street USA at Disneyland is more unnerving than Stowe, Vermont. I pace her room with my flashlight in my hand, looking for something that will give me a clue. All I find are some touristy brochures provided by the hotel. A box of maple candy--now, when did she have time to buy *that*? A Boston Globe. Nothing that screamed "clue." Dammit, Scully. Tell me what's going on in your head. What's strong enough, deep enough, to make you do this? All right. Let's think about what she's done. One: she went out to the pool, thinking she was sunbathing. Easy enough--a subconscious wish that she was here for fun, not work. Or maybe that she'd rather be on vacation in some warm, sunny place. "Me, too," I whisper to her. I think about rubbing sunblock on her pale shoulders, down her back, under the straps of her bathing suit.... Porn has *nothing* on the images in my head. Back to business. Two: she packs *my* clothes, not her own, but takes the bag into her room. Logically: she wants to go home. She thinks this is a waste of time. And if I pack up, it means that it's time to return to D.C. and we can leave this case to the state police. And if she has control of my belongings, we will wrap this up that much more quickly. Illogically, irrationally: she wants me in her room. Her bed. That stupid fucking connecting door open at all hours, nothing between the two of us but the sweat on our skin. "In your dreams, Mulder," I mutter. I'm better off wishing for the Cubs to win the World Series. In four straight perfect games. The odds are better. Aren't they? * * * She's eating pancakes when I tell her. Now, admittedly, these are Scully pancakes. Whole wheat, all natural, probably organic-no-yolk-goat's-milk pancakes. But they're soaked in real maple syrup. That's my girl. For a minute, I think she is going to choke. But then she takes a large swallow of milk and composes herself. "Twice?" she asks. I nod and feign an interest in the slice of cantaloupe on my plate. "Damn." She puts down her fork angrily. It takes me a second to realize it's herself she is mad at, not me. Then she touches my hand where it rests on the table. "Thanks. I'm glad it was you who found me, and not some maintenance man. Once--once I fell asleep on the lawn and a neighbor boy found me. I was mortified." "So much for that crush he had on you, eh?" A ghost of a smile played across her lips. "Something like that." I twine my fingers with hers. "Scully, is there something bothering you? Anything at all? You know you can tell me." "Aside from the fact that I don't think that this case is an X-File? No." She's lying to me. I don't know why. I'm not even convinced that she knows she's lying. But I see her eyes drop to the table for just an instant before they meet mine. "Scully, I promise you that I'll still have a crush on you if you tell me." She pulls her hand away and stabs her fork into the stack of pancakes. "Eat your breakfast, Mulder. The sooner we can get this case wrapped up, the better." I eat the cantaloupe. And I hate cantaloupe. Another day chasing leads. Nothing. I'm sick of coming up empty-handed. And Scully's patience is wearing thin. She is as professional as ever, of course. But she sighs more often, stares off into space, looks at her watch constantly. I want to shake her one minute, wrap her in cotton the next. Then, shortly after dark, a break. A man is discovered lurking in the vicinity of the cemetery. The state police take him in for questioning, but he is so drunk that we can't get anything out of him. The sergeant pulls me aside. "We're gonna have to let Junior here sober up. But it looks good--there's some promising fiber evidence, and the guy has a pile of Coleman lanterns in his trunk. I think we found your lights." We've just been dismissed. I can read it in his body language, his tone of voice. "Great," is all I say. I suppose I should be happy. We can go back to D.C. tomorrow and everything will return to normal. Except...except that we still don't know what's making Scully trip the light fantastic when she should be dreaming her little G-woman dreams. We're both quiet as she drives us back to the inn. I follow her down the hallway to our rooms, watch as she opens her door. She flicks on the light, looks at the acre of bed. And she hesitates. Damn. I put a hand on her shoulder, shocked to feel her quaking under my palm. "Scully?" I whisper. She seems to gain strength under my touch. "I'm--I'm going to get ready for bed. I'll call you before I--OK?" "Sure." I let her shut the door, then go to my own room. I take a quick shower, pull on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, brush my teeth. Then I sit on the edge of the bed. And wait. A few minutes later, there is a tap on the connecting door, then it swings open. Tonight her pajamas are pearl gray. She is luminous, even with damp strands of hair curling around her scrubbed face. "Sorry it took so long. I called about travel arrangements. The earliest flight I can get is at five pm, via Boston." "Who knew a ski resort would be so popular when there's no snow?" She shrugs. "Something about a storm in the Atlantic. Anyway...." She looks over her shoulder. "I'm going to bed." I nod. She steps back from the doorway. "Will you...." "Want me to stretch out on the couch?" She nods, then looks down at the floor. I think she's ashamed of showing this weakness. At least, of showing it to me. I want to tell her that it doesn't matter, that we all have our moments. But something on her face keeps me quiet. Instead, I grab the extra pillow and blanket out of the closet. I'm not going to make a production out of this. Still silent, she gets under the covers. Once I've arranged myself on the sofa, she shuts off the lamp. For a few minutes, there is no sound but our breathing. Then: "Mulder?" I turn sideways. "What?" "Thanks." "Any time, Scully." I really don't expect anything to happen tonight. She knows I'm watching over her. But in less than an hour, she's out of bed. She begins to move everything that's portable in front of the window. Lamps, suitcase, bedding. Like she's trying to keep something from coming inside. When she's finished, she takes her gun and her phone--dammit, why didn't I think about her weapon?--and sits on the edge of the bed. Waiting for the monster to creep in from the night and steal her away. But this time, she's ready. Oh, God. Steal her away. She's waiting for him. Trying to change history. But if she can't, she's got the phone. So she can call me. Does she think that this time I'll be there? In her mind, Duane Barry is out there. Waiting for her, waiting to take her to the place where they steal her memories and her babies. I feel like I'm going to vomit. I get up slowly, ease the weapon out of her reach. I sit at her feet, waiting for proper sleep to take hold of her. It takes almost fifteen minutes. She is eerily motionless until the end, when she melts into a boneless heap. I manage to catch her before she hits the floor and lay her back on the bed. I hate to do this. But I have to. * * * I touch her shoulder, call her name. She is instantly awake, bolt upright, eyes wide. "What? What is it?" "Shh," I say, easing my blanket around her shivering shoulders. "It's OK, Scully. It's over now." She looks at me blankly, as though she's forgotten why I'm here. Then she pulls back with a hiss of disappointment. "It happened again, didn't it?" When I don't answer, she looks around the room and sees the pile in front of the curtains. "What did I do--try to climb out the window?" "I--I actually think that you were trying to keep something from coming in, Scully. Some*one*." "Who?" I don't know how to answer her. I slide off the bed and switch on the hallway light, then walk over to the dresser, sifting through the small pile of brochures still there from the night before. "Mulder? Who?" I start to put the brochures back, then the last one catches my eye. Oh, Jesus. Is this it? I hand it to her. She looks at it, then at me. I think she sees the apology written on my face as I open my mouth, but she is the one who speaks. "Duane Barry." I nod. She stares at the photo on the front of the flier. It's an idyllic scene--a mountain, snow, a ski lift. Not a chair lift. Cable cars. "You saw this the first night we were here, didn't you?" She traces the picture with her finger. "Yes." A single tear falls onto the glossy paper. "I--Mulder, there's no reason.... Damn." She tosses the paper aside and goes over to the window and begins putting everything back where it belongs. I follow her lead, and in a few minutes the room is set to rights. I wait for her to tell me what she's thinking. But time goes by and she says nothing. I hover in the doorway between our rooms, watching her as she perches in an armchair. Please, I think. Talk to me, Scully. Don't let this be one more time that you don't want me to protect you. I don't think I can take it. It's late, hushed. Crickets sing outside the window. We should be finding peace, not tearing ourselves up over events five years behind us. I lean against the door frame. She plays with her hair. The clocks tick and the earth turns. I don't want another morning to come with this wound still open, with both of us still bleeding. I lived through it once, and I can't live through it again. I can't ask her to relive it, either. But isn't that what I'm doing by standing here, waiting? When she speaks, I'm startled. "The only memories I have of the first part of my abduction are *your* memories, Mulder. I read every word of my case file. A dozen times, twenty. Hoping that your words, the pictures, would make some sense to me. Trigger something. But there was nothing to trigger. So, when I dream about it, I--this is going to sound-- Anyway, I dream I'm in a cable car. Bound and gagged. And you try to climb into the car to rescue me." She stops. Oh, sweet Jesus. "But I don't save you, do I, Scully?" She clutches the hem of her pajama top in her fists. "You fall. Every time. I sit there and watch you fall. And then I know I'm going to die, and it doesn't really matter." She shakes her head. "I haven't had that dream in a long time." "Until this week." She nods slightly, her knuckles white. "I know that's not how it happened. I've seen the photo of me in the tr-trunk of his car. Like I said, it sounds--" She stands abruptly. "Thanks for listening." *Thanks* for *listening*? I watch her crawl back under the covers. See her look at me, puzzled. And why not? After all, I was just *dismissed,* for the second time today. So, Scully, I should just take my toys and go home and we can forget that a fucking *picture* had the power to do this to you? Get up in the morning and play like it never happened? Uh-uh. No fucking way. I want to yell at her, I do. Crack her out of that shell she lives in. Knock that look out of her eyes with a few choice words. But I can't do it. 99 percent of the time, I think she's about six feet tall and strong as iron. But this is a one-percent moment. She's small, tired, cold. Just a woman, trying to keep going for one more day with the weight of an extraordinarily difficult life on her slim shoulders. For a second, I can see a hairline fracture in her shell. And I am stunned by how much I want to crawl in there with her. Remove the stressor, remove the symptom, I remind myself. So, how do I do that? I pad across the carpet and turn off the light, then come back to the bed. "Scully...what if we could replace the bad memory with a good one?" I wonder aloud. She's suspicious. "How are we going to do that?" I sit down on the bed next to her. This bed is enormous--I feel like I'm a mile away from her. Just as well. I even shouldn't be this close to her, not with my emotions running so high. But I am not a sensible man. I stretch out next to her--not touching her--and rest my head on my elbow. "Mulder, what are you doing?" she asks. "Thinking." "Thinking. Well, could you *think* somewhere else? I'd like to get some *real* sleep." I don't move. She finally rolls onto her side so that she is facing away from me. "Any day now, Mulder," she murmurs. But I won't be rushed. I sense that she is waiting, too. Finally I find the words. "It's a perfect fall day, Scully. Imagine it. Blue sky, puffy clouds. You're in a beautiful place--mountains, trees. The height of the fall colors." "Here." Thank God she's participating. "And you want to steal an afternoon for yourself. You have no place to be, nothing to do. So you pack yourself a lunch and drive up toward the highest place you can find because that will have the best view." "Am I alone?" "Only if you want to be." She puffs out a breath. "No, I don't want to be," she says finally. I wonder who she's chosen as her companion. "All right. You and your friend drive up to the foot of Mt. Mansfield. It's the highest point in the state. You can see for miles on a day like this. But to really appreciate the view, you need to go higher. And the only way to the top is via the cable cars. "So, the two of you--" "Us," she says. I feel like she's given me a gift. I clear my throat. "So, the two of *us* buy tickets. No one else is here, Scully. Just you and me. And we have our own car. It's small, but that's fine. We get in." She rolls onto her back, stretches out her hand. It brushes against my body and I suck in a breath. I know she hears it, but I'm sure she doesn't know what effect her touch has on me. I take what she offers, holding the back of her hand against my ribs. "And then what?" she asks. "We start up the mountain. The car rocks--it's a steep angle--but you're not afraid." "Yes, I am," she says in a small voice. If I ever questioned whether or not I had a heart left, I don't now. I just felt it crack wide open. "So." I steady my voice. "So, I hold your hand. And you can't be afraid for long, because you're the strongest person I know." She makes a strangled sound that I think is a half-laugh. "Mulder, you don't know me very well, do you?" How can she doubt herself? I caress her palm with my thumb. "I think I do. But you always manage to surprise me--and you just did. Scully, you--you're just extraordinary. Don't you know that?" She says nothing. The short distance between us becomes a gulf, and I won't accept that. I shift so that I can pull her into my arms. She doesn't resist, but she doesn't relax, either. Then I run my hand over her hair where her head fits against my shoulder, and her body dissolves against mine. I have to tell her what she should know already. "Did you ever meet someone, Scully, who was the person you wanted to be? Deep down, if you could change yourself? Someone who possessed all the characteristics you lacked?" "I think we all know someone like that, Mulder." A strand of hair has wrapped itself around one of my fingers. Soft, fragrant, silky. I unwind it reluctantly. "Would you be surprised if I told you that you were that person for me, Scully?" She doesn't say anything. I wait for the snappy retort for an eternity, and it never comes. I try to ignore the sting I start to feel as the silence stretches out. Then slim, cool fingers cup my cheek. "Thank you," she whispers, almost too softly to hear. A minute goes by, and the hand comes to rest on my chest, just beside my heart. Can she hear it, feel it, beating too fast? The night wraps around us, cocoons us, shelters us. Tomorrow doesn't exist, there is only now, our words, the careful touches we allow ourselves. It's delicious, seductive, almost masochistic to hold her like this and not to have her. "Are we playing true confessions, Mulder?" she asks finally, her voice low and liquid. "If you want to, Scully." "Well, sometimes...sometimes I wish I were more like *you.*" Her fingers begin to move slightly against my t-shirt--unconsciously, I'm certain. "Passionate, comfortable with my emotions. You haven't got a hesitant bone in your body." I don't point out that she's got a wild streak of her own. I can't without dredging up some painful memories. "But where's that gotten me, Scully?" "Where's being cautious gotten me?" I can't answer her again, because the answer is obvious. Somehow, we've come to a place where all we have is each other. Oh, she does have her family--a fierce, loving lion's den of a family--but they don't understand that where we've been, what we've done and seen has colored her perception of the world. And even though Scully and I have been down this long road together, we still describe the journey differently. Because, I realize now, our journeys have been different. But we somehow we always circle back to each other. Is it because we have built a need and a trust, or is it because we have nowhere else to go? In any case, here we are. Together-alone, separate but fused. Where does Scully end and I begin? She's so much a part of me now that sometimes I don't know. "I wish I had a good answer for you," I say at last. She stretches a little, and I feel my heart thud as her legs move against me. "I think it's enough that you want to give me a good answer, Mulder," she says quietly. I can feel the vibration of her voice against my chest, and my heart picks up speed. How many times have I held her in my arms just because I wanted to hold her, to touch her? Once, twice? Never? Is that wrong, or the way things should be? The air is pregnant with unanswered questions. Finally, she sighs and says, "So, Mulder, when we get to the top of the mountain, what happens?" I have an unexpected vision of the moment, sharp, Technicolor. "We walk over to an outlook point. I make you keep your eyes on the ground because I don't want your first glimpse to be spoiled. Then we stop, and I tell you to close your eyes. Are they closed, Scully?" "Mm-hmm." "I turn you around, like so." I help her roll over so that her back is to me, then I fit myself to her body. "And I stand behind you, wrap you in my trench coat with me so you're not cold. This is a perfect view, and I don't want anything to ruin the moment." I curve an arm over her midriff, splay my fingers wide. She shifts at my touch, and the sleek curve of her buttock slides against my groin. The erection I've been fighting all night finally wins. She has to know, and I am afraid she'll bolt. Instead she is still, so still. Brave girl. "Then, Scully, I tell you to open your eyes. Are they open now?" "Yes." "All the fall colors are spread out at our feet, as far as we can see. Red, orange, yellow, splashes of green and brown. The hills roll on forever, and I can tell that you are thinking that, if you just look hard enough, you'll see the ocean from here." She chuckles and I know I've hit the mark. "And then you lean back against me, Scully, and I think about how I could stand here with you until the sun goes down. But right now, all we want to do is look at the trees and have one perfect, happy moment." She tips her head back so that her hair brushes my collarbone. If I move my head, I could just.... "And when it gets dark, then what?" Grant me strength. "Then I'd take you down the mountain. We'd find a quiet place and I'd ply you with hot chocolate laced with a little schnapps to warm you up." I picture a tiny bit of frothy chocolate on her upper lip, imagine kissing it off. My body aches for her. Throbs. God, if I can't kiss her soon, I will die. I resign myself to death. "And then what?" she says. Am I imagining it, or does she sound breathless? She shifts her body against me again. I can feel her heartbeat under my hand. The sweat is cold on my forehead. "I think that's up to you, Scully," I say softly. "Isn't this your good memory? What would you like to happen next?" "Anything?" she asks. "Anything," I answer. Her hand steals over mine, and she moves it to her mouth, pressing the most delicate of kisses to my palm. Twice, three times. Then she takes my hand and drops it behind her. I am bereft. Then she turns in my arms, faces me. Looks at me with in the dim light with so much trust that I could weep. She waits. And I know that the next move is mine. I can walk away, or I can stay. Stay and change my life, her life, what's become our life. I brush my lips across her forehead, intending to soften the blow, to tell her to get as far from me as she can. To save herself. I think she knows what's coming. I feel her start to withdraw. And I find that I can't let her go. I want this kiss. Just one. I bend my head, find the angle, then stop within a hairbreadth of her mouth. Clocks tick, the earth turns. The stars wheel overhead. And our eyes are open as I touch my lips to hers. Her mouth is soft, pliable, as I knew it would be. I slide my tongue between her lips, her teeth, and she gasps. Then she responds, like for like, and her tongue is in my mouth. We learn each other, how we taste, what we like. She doesn't hold back, nibbling at my lip, her nails digging into my back. Then the kiss ends, and we look at each other. I see wariness in her eyes. Excitement. Fear. All of my own feelings reflected back at me. I love satin. I love how the fabric flows around a woman, how it feels thick and slippery under my hands. My fingers explore the silky cloth, slipping over her back, her side. When my fingertips brush the side of one soft breast, she breathes in sharply. "Here?" I say, sweeping my fingers over the same spot. Her eyes close, her head lolling back. I shift her in my arms. "Or here?" I cup her breast in my hand. Warm flesh under cool fabric. It's perfect. She's perfect. She breathes more rapidly, her lips parted. "What about here?" My thumb finds her nipple under the fabric, and her body jerks in surprise. "Yes, there." One hand slides over my chest, finding my own small nipple. Her thumb nail rasps across it, and I gasp at the pleasure and the pain. "Here?" she asks. And I know she is with me, all the way. I feel the control shift off of my shoulders to balance between us. "Do something for me?" I ask. She nods. I look down at the buttons of her pajamas, then back at her. Her hand goes to the top button and slides it through the buttonhole. Then the next. And the next. When she is through, she looks at me. I place my hands over her, parting the cloth, baring her. Her nipples pucker in the cool air, her breasts milky-white and perfect. I'm sorry that my hands are callused, rough. But as I touch her, she cries out, and I understand that she does not want soft hands on her skin. Her hand slides beneath my cotton t-shirt, counts my ribs, tangles in my chest hair. Oh, Christ. I half-sit, tug the shirt over my head. Before I can lower my torso to the bed, her hands are on me. Stroking, kneading, needy. I can't rush this, as much as I want to be buried in her. I bend my head, take one perfect nipple in my mouth, laving it with my tongue, suckling greedily. Her fingers thread through my hair, her body arching against me. My cock rubs against her, my body sliding against the satin. I swear I can smell her desire. Her fingers hook the waistband of my sweats, tugging ineffectually. I ignore them as I find the other breast, covering the first with a rough palm. Mine, I think as I taste the saltiness of her damp skin. Our legs tangle, twist so that the stiff hotel sheets wind around us, trapping our feet. I kick them out of the way in frustration. She laughs, long and low. "Not...funny," I mutter. She kisses the hollow of my throat, lapping at the sweat pooling there. We've shifted enough that her hands have some purchase, and she slips them under the elastic at my waist and cups my ass. "Do something for me?" she asks. In a flash, the rest of my clothes hit the wall. I understand now why she wears satin to bed. It clings, slips, slides, pools, caresses. My hands catch on the fabric as I run my hands over her hips, help her slide her arms from the jacket. And I fall on her, feast on her breasts with my mouth, my teeth. I'm hungry for her, starving. I need to know what every inch of her tastes like. I've had six years to plan this moment and now that it's here, I don't intend to forget one fantasy. My tongue runs down her midriff, stopping only when I reach the waistband of her pajama bottoms. And then I kiss her through the fabric. She jerks when I find her navel, her skin twitching as I run my palms over her hipbones. She moans, a soft, utterly female sound. Our voices, reduced to incoherent gasps, mingle with the chirp of crickets. But when I reach the tops of her thighs, the cloth has become a sensual annoyance. I tug, she shimmies. And the satin puddles on the floor. I want to cover her, fill her. Make the ache in my soul and my dick disappear in one stroke. But then I look at her, really see her, and I pause. She's so small--slim hips and thighs, tiny waist. The only flaw is the smooth scar on her belly where that bastard Ritter shot her. But it only makes her more perfect in my eyes, more of a miracle. Every minute I have her is a gift, one I never expected to receive and will never be worthy of. I stroke the scar reverently and she flinches. Does she think I find it ugly? I touch my mouth to it, trying to draw out the pain. To give her that good memory she deserves. "Oh, God," she breathes. I can feel the heat of her; the scent of her fills my nostrils. My hand inches up her thigh, and I feel her legs part for me. One finger brushes her curls, searching delicately for what is still hidden from me. The bud between her thighs is swollen, tender. She is wet, ready for me to plunge inside her. But not yet. I tease her with my middle finger, dipping into her moisture to ease my caress. My finger circles, swirling around the nub until she bucks against my hand. "Too much?" I whisper against her thigh. When she doesn't answer, I look up. She is propped on the pillows, the sheet bunched in her fists. "Not enough?" She nods, wetting her lips with her tongue. And then I know what she wants, is too shy to ask for. I slide between her legs and kiss her thigh, running my tongue over the baby-soft skin. Her curls tickle my nose for an instant before I take that first careful taste of her, finding the nub immediately. She is slick, salty, hot. I make a meal of her, sucking and stroking. Her hips move against my mouth, but I put a hand on her belly to steady her. I slide a finger inside her. Two. She is tight and pulsing around my hand as I work my fingers in and out, pulling almost out of her and then plunging back in. I can tell she's close. She's moaning, straining against my head and hands. I want to talk dirty to her, make her come just from my words. But my mouth is busy. I press my tongue harder against her clit, move faster, curve my fingers slightly as they fill her. "Oh, God!" she groans, the words ripped out of her throat. "Please, please, now, Mulder. Oh, please!" I jab my tongue against her, press my hand against the top of her mons. And under my palm, I can feel her orgasm begin. A sound, high and keening, comes from her, part scream, part sigh, as she bucks against me. The sound is repeated, softening and trailing off into incoherent pants and gaps. I've never heard sweeter music. Before she has stopped trembling, I slide up her body. I need to kiss her, to let her know what I'm feeling. Then I wonder, will she be repulsed, tasting herself on my lips? She cups my face in her hands, stroking my cheeks with her thumbs. "I love you," she whispers. "Love you." Maybe there is a God, after all. I lower my mouth to hers, sip tenderly. Beg for absolution with my lips, my body. And she gives it freely, cradling me with her thighs. My cock nudges against her, and I rock my hips once, twice. It's been five years. I don't know that I can wait much longer. But if she asked me to, I'd wait forever. Her eyes are wide, almost innocent. But her hands are sirens, slipping between our bodies to take me in her hand, measure the width and length. She gasps, then smiles. A tiny, Mona Lisa curve of the lips that makes me twitch against her fingers. "Don't make me wait," she whispers, then draws my mouth down to hers. I reach down, guide my cock carefully. I am afraid I'll hurt her, so I am slow, so slow, as I begin to enter her. She sucks in a breath, her eyelids drooping closed. "I'm sorry," I say, beginning to pull back. But her hands are on my buttocks, pulling me closer. "No. More." Her calves slide against my thighs as she locks her ankles behind my back. As she shifts, I slide into her, inch by blessed inch. She is tight, hot, wet. Her inner muscles caress as they tug, pulling me in deeper and deeper, until I am buried in her so far I don't think I could find my way out. And then I look at her face, see her eyes lock on mine. She is flushed, panting, her lips parted. Her hair is a wild halo around her head. And there is a light in her eyes--a proud, feminine feral gleam that makes me want to come now, as she pulses around me, without one thrust, one stroke. She sees the words start to form on my tongue, stops me with two soft fingers against my mouth. "Don't tell me," she whispers. "Show me." I take her mouth, stroking her with my tongue as I do with my body. I feel her heartbeat under my hands as I push her breasts together, licking and biting. And all the time I am thrusting into her, faster than I mean to, harder than I want to, but I can't help it. She eggs me on, her small hands everywhere, nails sharp on my ass, tips gentle against my balls. When she slips a hand between us, slides it between her thighs, I have a vision of her pleasuring herself, thinking of me on top of her, stretching and filling her. And I grasp her hips and slam into her half a dozen times before the orgasm surprises me. I call her name as I spill into her, the pleasure hot and sharp and eternal. When I surface, she is holding me, her hands gentle as they stroke my shoulders, my arms. I brush my mouth across hers, finding the tenderness and control that escaped me earlier. "I love you," I murmur, burying my face against her neck. "So much. And I--" "Shh," she says, stroking my hair. "No words. Just love me, Mulder." God help me, I do. * * * In the morning, we eat a quick breakfast and tie up the loose ends at the state police barracks. We dash through the airport, fly back to D.C. We don't talk about it, don't touch. But when no one is looking at us, I can feel her eyes on me. Pondering, considering. Remembering. She wears a little smile all day like a badge, and I feel like I reek with pride. We drive back from National, the silence heavy in the car. I go to her apartment first, park, and pull her bag from the trunk. We stand there in a light drizzle, our faces spangled with raindrops. She takes her suitcase and smiles that little smile again. "Aren't you forgetting something?" she asks. "What?" I ask stupidly, wanting to push her up against the car and lift her skirt and find the only home I know. "Your suitcase, Mulder," she says patiently. "Come on. It's raining." I hadn't noticed. Hours later, I emerge from sleep to see her standing motionless in the bedroom doorway. "Scully?" I whisper. Fuck. I had hoped we had resolved this whole sleepwalking issue. I start to pull aside the comforter. "Don't get up," she murmurs, coming into the room. "You're awake." She crawls in next to me, her feet cold. "I was just watching you sleep," she says. "It's the only time you're ever quiet." I bark in laughter. "Now I almost wish you were sleepwalking again, Scully. At least then you didn't sass me." She kisses my jaw. "Shut up, Mulder. If you're going to keep me awake, you need to find a better way." I fit her body to mine. "I can think of one. Maybe two." * * *