Light Sleepers by Dasha K. (1/1)

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Summary: Scully searches for a peaceful night.
Rating: PG-13 for some disturbing imagery
Classification: SA
Keywords: UST baby, UST
Spoilers: Tithonus
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, but to the
guy who won't let them have sex.
Feedback: Please! dashak@aol.com


To Meg and Vee, for personal inspiration . . .



As I creep alongside the brick buildings, my heels tap on
the wet pavement. At this hour, in this rain, the street
is nearly deserted, the only sound the honking of a car
horn somewhere off in the distance. I shiver and pull the
collar of my trench coat closer to my face, trying not to
step in the puddles gathered on the sidewalk.

The street is empty, but I continue walking and search for
signs of life. Or death.

And then I feel it, smell it really, just out of my reach.
Goosebumps break out across my skin as I head toward the
irresistible force.

I never thought it would be this lonely.

I notice two college guys, briskly walking along in their
preppy-boy rain gear. Hungrily, I scan their faces, but
they are the proper flesh tones, flushed in the chilly air.
Without a second glance, I pass them by. They aren't what
I'm searching for.

It's close, I can tell. Instinct tells me to turn into an
alley to my right, passing dumpsters overflowing with the
stinking refuse of a Chinese restaurant.

My heart beats faster and faster, reminding me that I'm
still alive. If this life counts as living.

The alley is dark and riddled with more puddles but I see
him at the blind end, slumped against the crumbling bricks.
It's odd, but I swear I can see in the dark at times like
this.

He's on the ground, his head resting against the wall. His
eyes are open but he's still, the only motion his hands,
trembling slightly in his lap. That and the slow trickle of
dark blood down the side of his face from the hole at his
temple. Pale, so pale, rendered in the monochromatic tones
of my vision, eyes ashen and sunk deep in their sockets.

His eyes lift slightly and lock on mine. Sometimes these
moments are so intimate I can hardly bear it; I can look
into his eyes and I just know everything. Know his
regrets, his fears, his most secret desires. A lifetime
compressed into one glance, flooding my brain for the
briefest moment and then it passes.

I know what I have to do.

Unbuttoning my coat, I reach for the Nikon around my neck
and switch on the flash. My ears fill with the whining of
the flash mechanism and I lift the camera to my face,
waiting.

The man against the wall emits a strangled moan. I think
he knows what this means.

I sense footsteps behind me and feel the dark presence.
He's arrived for my subject.

My hands start shaking as I place my index finger on the
button. It's time.

The breath trails out of the man and he manages to lift his
chin and open his mouth.

Let it go, I silently beg him. Just let go. Release.

Instead, he says one word, one simple word, comprised of
two gasping syllables.

"Scully."

The camera tumbles out of my hands and wildly swings around
my neck on its strap.

He said my name.

The pull is now coming at me from two directions. The urge
to passively observe and learn, and the other urge to
intervene. Somewhere in the back of my brain I remember
once taking an oath to heal.

The dark presence stands off to the side, patiently
waiting.

"No," I whisper and I kneel before the man, icy water
soaking through my coat and pants.

The man's eyes lift to me again and I notice the tenderness
lingering in their depths. "Scully," he repeats, more
faintly this time.

Recognition floods me. Oh, I know you . . .

My hand finds his, damp and chilly and I squeeze. "Don't
look," I whisper in his ear. "Close your eyes, Mulder . .
. "



Okay, it's okay, just my bed, just my apartment, no alley,
no puddles, no death, just my bed . . .

The dream is always the same. I've had this dream every
night for the last four nights since returning from New
York. Every time I wake up, in a light sweat and flailing
at the bedding.

No, I'm not sleeping well. I know, yes, I know that
nightmares are a common side effect of narcotic withdrawal,
but it doesn't make it easier.

I pull on my bathrobe against the winter chill of the
bedroom and slowly make my way to the bathroom. It annoys
me greatly that I can't move swiftly right now, that
everything I do has to be done at a slow, measured pace,
but the lingering pain forces me to obey.

At the mirror above the sink I blink at my image, not
liking what I see. Pale, too pale after almost two weeks
of inactivity and indoor life. Purple shadows my eyes from
disjointed and nightmare-filled nights. My hair is a
disheveled mess and I grab the hairbrush and gingerly rake
it through my hair, wincing at how painful it still is to
lift my arms.

It seems that the last years have been one recovery process
after the other. First the abduction, then the cancer,
then the burns from the bridge, the whole experience in
Antarctica and now a gunshot wound.

I brush my teeth to get the awful sleep taste out of my
mouth and immediately feel much better. Three caplets of
Advil go down my throat and I pretend I don't see the
bottle of painkillers lurking in the cabinet. I'm not
going to take any, even if painkillers would sink me into a
thick blanket of dreamless sleep. I refuse to be chained
to anything.

Sighing, I realize the futility of going back to sleep. I
want tea. Tea and sympathy, really, but for now the tea
will have to do. I creep into the kitchen and fumble for
the teakettle in the dark, not willing to wake the figure
lightly snoring on my couch.

Mulder is a light sleeper, too.

He never asked, simply installed himself on my couch after
we returned from New York. It's strange, you'd think I
would have questioned his presumptuous actions, asserted my
ability to take care of myself. But the truth is that this
time I do need him.

You can't imagine how difficult it is to admit that.

But I have needed him. Whether or not I like it, my body
is weak and I need some help. With my mother felled by a
case of the winter flu, that leaves only Mulder to fetch
and carry, drive me to physical therapy, pick up movies at
Blockbuster and cook the bland and mushy things my stomach
can tolerate. Mulder doesn't complain and I try not to be
overly grateful.

He's trying hard not to get in my way too much, to not
offend my need for inner privacy.

The kettle begins whistling and I frantically switch off
the gas. I hear a rustling on the couch and cross my
fingers that Mulder hasn't woken up. Too late, I spot the
dark shadow of his head peeping over the edge of the couch.
Shit.

"Scully?" he slurs in a sleep-drunk voice. "Everything
okay?"

"Sorry I woke you. I'm making tea."

Another rustle and he sits up. "Trouble sleeping?

I pour the water into my favorite violet Fiestaware mug and
add a Darjeeling tea bag. In the cupboard I search for the
bear-shaped bottle of honey and find it hiding behind the
couscous. "It's hard to sleep when I've mostly been lying
around all day."

"You'll be running around like usual soon, Scully."

"I know." I shrug. "It's just frustrating not having the
energy I'm used to." I hold up my mug of tea. "As long as
you're up now, can I get you some?"

Mulder leans over and switches on one of the table lamps.
"Tea would be great."

After fixing a second mug, I shuffle over to the couch and
set the cups down on the coffee table. "Welcome to my
bed," Mulder says, smiling and I shoot him one of my
customary looks, part of the give-and-take we've perfected
over our years together. I think I'd be disappointed if he
didn't offer those comments on a regular basis.

It's bizarre to have him sitting next to me, healthy and
intact. I'm having a hard time shaking off the images of
my dream, the life bleeding out of Mulder.

Slowly I sink into the couch cushions. I lift my cup of
tea and take a sip of the hot, fragrant liquid. "When does
it get better?" I ask him.

He doesn't need to ask what I mean. "My leg still hurts
sometimes when it's damp, this kind of itchy twinge. I
like to think of it as a reminder of my mortality."

I turn and look at him. That word again.

Mulder scoots closer to me and I resist the urge to push
him away. He takes my hand and softly squeezes, eyes dark
gray and serious. "Scully, you don't think . . ?"

I shake my head. "No, I don't. Despite all the evidence, I
don't even know if I believe that Fellig was . . ." I let
the words trail off.

Mulder fills them in. "Immortal. It's a difficult concept
to grasp, to believe in."

My mouth twitches as I remember werewolves, shapeshifters,
demons and ghosts. "I didn't take his place," I whisper,
more to reassure myself than him.

He squeezes again. "No. No, you didn't."

I know this fact to be true, not just intellectually, but
from some unnamed place in my soul. I am not immortal. I
know this, but it doesn't banish the stark images from my
dream, Mulder, in black and white, beseeching me with his
eyes. Something in my subconscious fears the idea of such
a life.

Leaning back into the pillows, I shut my eyes. "It's so
lonely . . ."

"What's lonely?"

"Fellig's face was so blank and empty, Mulder. He hadn't
connected with another human being in so long, he was a
husk of a man shambling down the street stalking death."

"Do you think it would have to be like that, living
forever?"

I shrug, swallowing more tea. "We'll never know, Mulder.
We're mortal."

"Does that scare you?"

"I'm not afraid to die." There was a night in the hospital
when I was so sick with cancer that I felt it, death
waiting in the corner to take me. Instead of fighting it,
I welcomed it with every cell of my exhausted body.
Something drove death away from my bed that night and I
remained. "But I don't want to go before I've done certain
things."

Mulder turns my face to his with a gentle push of his
fingers. "What do you want to do, Scully?"

I have a list, a long list I scribbled on a sheet of
notebook paper after my life was returned to me. It's
shoved somewhere in the bottom of a desk drawer, and I
could get it out and read it to him, but I'm too tired to
get up and go get it. Instead, I rely on my somewhat hazy
memory. "The usual things," I say, trying to decide which
items on the list to share with him. "You know, a list of
self-improvement items. But there were some selfish
things, too. I want to take some time off and travel
around Europe like I'm twenty again. To learn to sail and
love it as much as my father did. To learn to speak
Spanish or Italian. To have my mother show me how to
really make a Thanksgiving turkey."

"Those seem resonable."

I continue, taking a deep breath. "I want to tell the
people in my life that I really . . . care about . . . just
what they do mean to me."

Mulder's voice is mild. "Have you done that?"

I shake my head. "No, I haven't." I bow my head. "It
seems a simple thing to do, but when it comes down to it,
it's incredibly difficult. I'm not good at articulating
myself like that."

His mouth curves into a smile, perhaps one of recognition.
"You will when you feel ready."

But when will that day be? I sigh and finish the dregs of
the lukewarm tea, overly sweet from the honey that's
gathered in the bottom of the mug. "I only hope I'm ready
before it's too late."

His eyebrows rise. "Too late?"

I set the cup back down. "One of these days my luck is
going to run out." Or yours, I darkly think.

"No," Mulder says, shaking his head. "I sense you still
have a lot of luck saved up. I can see you as a skinny,
crotchety old lady, raising hell with your cane in the
nursing home."

I stifle a laugh, since it makes my side hurt too much.
"Only if you're there, too, pinching the behinds of the
pretty young nurses."

I like that idea almost too much.

Mulder yawns. I tousle the dark hair that stands on end
from his sleep on the couch. "I should let you go back to
sleep," I say.

"I'm not tired," he protests like a little boy being
ordered off to bed.

"At least it's Friday. Or actually, Saturday. No work for
you and no therapy for me." I get myself to my feet and
hand him the comforter, which has slipped to the floor.
"Maybe I'll watch one of the movies you brought."

"Watch `LA Confidential', you can't beat a movie with Kevin
Spacey in it."

I find the movie sitting on top of the mantel and start off
for my bedroom, where the VCR is. Something makes me turn
back around, where he's trying to find a comfortable
position for his long legs on the couch. I hesitate for a
moment, then offer, "Do you want to watch it with me?"

His face lights up. "Can we make popcorn?"

"I'm not picking hulls out of my bed for the next week," I
say and go off to my room, Mulder following me.

As I settle myself under the covers, Mulder pops the movie
in and sits down on the floor in front of the bed. I have
to inwardly laugh at his sense of propriety, his respect
for my boundaries, despite his lascivious comments.

"Mulder," I say, pulling the bedspread away from the other
side of the bed. "I don't bite." I point to the empty
spot.

A grin blooms on his face. "You promise?"

I nod. "I promise."

With endearing awkwardness he climbs in my bed and slips
under the covers, occupying the space that is always empty.
"Comfortable bed," he comments, propping himself up with
the pillow.

"You should try using one sometime, Mulder."

I grab the remote off the bedside and hit play.

Barely ten minutes into the movie my eyelids drop and I
drift off into the in-between place where I can still hear
the movie and Mulder's soft breathing, but I'm floating,
floating in a dark place of comfort.

The sound of the television flicking off makes me open my
eyes again. Mulder turns out the bedside lamp and settles
back down in bed, his back to me.

I'm just wafting away again when I hear Mulder roll over.
His voice cuts into the dense silence. "You asleep,
Scully?"

"No," I whisper.

He's silent for a moment and then, "Scully, when do you
think it'll be our time?"

In the dark, I smile. I reach for his hand and
instinctively, our fingers lace together.

I shut my eyes again. "I think it is our time, Mulder."

And then sleep pulls me under once more, to a place where I
don't dream, not once until morning.

End.


After so many stunning post-Tithonus stories, I really
hesitate to turn this one loose, but the muse is making me,
threatening to take away my ability to write smut.

Feedback is worshiped as a deity at my house. Dashak@aol.com

Many thanks to the most brilliant and insightful betas in
town: Alanna, Blueswirl and Plausible Deniability.

And I have to share one of the funniest beta comments I've
ever gotten-

<<"Scully?" he slurs in a sleep-drunk voice. "Everything
okay?">>

**How about " . . . slurs in a sleep-drunk, goddamn hella
mothafuckin' sexy voice." Just a suggestion. ;-D**

Thanks for making me fall out of my desk chair today, Blue!
You're a friend, indeed.