Title: The Cycles Series: Lucid Dreaming (1/4)

Author: prufrock's love

Classification: S, MSR, UST, Mulder POV 

Rating: R

Summary: Life and love with a brilliant man and an 
uncompromising woman 

Archive: link to:
http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/cycles.html
                                      
Distribution: Do what you like with it.

Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue.   

                    *****
The Cycles Series: Lucid Dreaming  
by prufrock's love


Any other time, nothing was as inspiring as my partner nude on
the other side of a door; only a hollow piece of pressed-board
with a cheap lock and a vinyl shower curtain between us.  I've
seen Scully damp, and it's quite a memorable experience,
especially when she's unconscious and can't fight back.  She's
all luminous pale skin, wet-blood hair, and huge blue eyes.  A man
could get lost for weeks in those bedroom eyes.  And pink
nipples.  Perfect, round milky breasts with perky, untouched
nipples that would fit exactly into my hands.  As someone who
generally prefers brunettes, those are probably the first rose-
colored ones I've ever seen without paying a cover charge or buying
the video.  Even a glimpse of the silhouette of an erect nipple
through her silk blouses makes me I forget to breathe.  If I had
a block of marble, a chisel, and any artistic talent, I could carve
a statue of her that would put Venus to shame.  Yes, Wet-
Scully can certainly inspire a man.     
     
Of course, right that second, I didn't give a damn.  All I wanted is
Dry-Scully dressed and in the car thirty minutes ago.  Actually,
I wanted Dry-Scully holding a scalpel over a burnt corpse
thirty minutes ago, but I've given up on that hope.
 
"God damn it - where are you, Scully?"

Silence, so I pounded on the flimsy bathroom door again. 
"Tell me where you are so I can tell the detective when we'll
be there."  The shower was running, but I knew she could hear
me - she was just ignoring me. 

Bitch. 

This was her fault; her fault that we're late.  

Who the hell needs a shower in the middle of the day?  How
much time can it take to wash someone so small?  Hurry the
fuck up.

"Scully, either tell me or I'm coming in to check!"  I meant it. 
Naked or not, it's not like my allocation of crap for the day
had been any less than Scully's.  The detective was on the
phone, waiting.  I'd told him we'd be there in ten minutes an
hour ago.  I went to get Scully and she was asleep in her room
and she was so cute lying there and I wanted to watch her for a
while before I woke her and...

And I watched her sleep for thirty-five minutes.  

Maybe us being late wasn't entirely Scully's fault.

"Left leg," came an annoyed female voice at me through the
steam. "Get out, Mulder."

"Shaving or washing?"  That was a difference of six minutes.

"Shaving.  Now GET OUT!"

Shaving left leg meant twenty minutes.  Another few minutes
to finish that lovely leg and rinse off, five for makeup, eight for
hair, and a few to dress.  Twenty minutes.  

Annoyed voice probably meant PMS.  Usually she just told me
where she was in her standard "get ready" routine so I'd stop
bothering her.  Yep - twenty-six days - right on time.  

Legs getting shaved at four in the afternoon either meant she
was out of clean stockings or she thought the detective was
cute.  The detective was a large lesbian named Jamie, so that
narrowed my choices.

We'd been partners for a long, long time.  After roughly two
thousand mornings of pacing while she got ready, I had the
routine down pat. 

I had lots of routines with Scully that never changed.

Replacing the receiver on the cradle, I went back to expedite
her progress.  Robe was on, make-up was proceeding.  Given
the amount of green and silver containers spilled out over the
hotel dresser, Dana Scully must be personally supporting the
Clinique counter.

I pulled a random suit and a blouse out of the closet and went
searching for her shoes.  Don't glare at me, Scully- you're just
going to change into scrubs are soon as we get to the morgue,
anyway.  Everything you own is black; it's not like I have to
color-coordinate.  

WHAT?  What the hell were you glaring at me for?  I'm not the
one that was making us late!

"Scully, do you want Detective White to find you attractive or
not? Because unless you've switched to women, you could
skip the shaving and the mascara and save us a few minutes."
               
A silver cylinder came flying at my head and I dodged.  "So, is
that a yes, you're going to hurry or a yes, you've switched to
women?"   

Is that what Scully means about me not quitting while I'm
ahead? 

"GET OUT!  You have your own room - GO THERE!  I will
be ready WHEN I AM READY.  It's not like the body is
going to get any deader!"  
 
Out of self-preservation, I fled to the hall.  I didn't want to go
to my own room.  There was no one in -my- room- that was
why I was in -her- room.  I compromised by sulking in the
armchair beside the elevator until she pranced out.  Experience
warned me not to accuse her of prancing at that point, so I
meekly followed her through the lobby.  At least I got to watch
her ass swaying in front of me.  Scully looked back and
caught me leering - bad move.  I surrendered the car keys
silently and made myself as small a target as possible in the
passenger seat as she squealed out of the hotel parking lot
toward the city morgue.
                     
               **********

I caught myself gesturing with my fork and I knew Scully
hated that.  I set it back on my empty plate and continued, "In
the literature, this type of phenomena is often associated with
pubescent girls.  Poltergeists, channeling, levitation,
possessions, telekinesis, spirit manifestations - all tend to occur
around pre-teen females.  There are theories that the sudden
surge of hormones attracts or focuses paranormal energy.  I
think our suspect is able to control combustion in much the
same manner.  That this is a new ability she's not able to
manipulate very well, yet.  This would account for the
randomness of the fires."   

Scully was pushing her food around her plate, staring at it,
disinterested.  She must really feel like shit if she wasn't
arguing with me.  Speaking of hormone surges...

"Scully, you're still not eating."  I was, after all, a trained
observer.

She glared at me and stabbed an innocent piece of chicken. 
The look on her face as she chewed indicated she would have
preferred a mouthful of crickets.  Scully swallowed with some
effort and shifted in her seat.  Uncle Sam was paying for a ten-
dollar dinner salad so she could eat three bites, each of which I
had personally willed into her.

I had the much-too-perky waitress bring me a box and started
shoveling her salad into it.  Scully took offense, since she was
still pretending to eat it.  "You'll feel better in a few hours and
then you'll be hungry.  Pay the check and let's go."  

I got a withering look for my concern.  God, she was tough to
figure out sometimes.

I watched her at the register, tiredly explaining the "separate
check" concept to the seventeen year-old clerk.  If I were
allowed to touch receipts, I would have offered to help, but
our policy was very strict: Scully handled the travel expense
account and I did all the other bureau paperwork.  Oh, except
for workman's comp and health insurance forms - Skinner had
requested Scully do those after claims for 'fell on ass while
chasing alien' were refused for a fifth time.  She always
managed to come up with 'contusions and lacerations incurred
during pursuit and subsequent altercation with unidentified
suspect' or something else equally vague that translated into
'fell on ass while chasing alien,' but make the bureaucrats
happy.  

"You want to stop by a drug store?" I asked as I held the diner
door for her, the cold winter wind billowing in as the bell
jingled.  We'd passed a Wal-mart, a K-mart, and a Rite-aid on
the way back to the hotel yesterday.  Or grocery stores - there
was a Kroger, a Win... I was getting a raised eyebrow, so I
hastened to cover my well-insured ass.  "For more stockings? 
Or some Tylenol?  Are you coming down with something,
Scully?"  Yeah - that was good.  No mention of tampons.  For
a medical doctor, Scully was awful touchy about having people
find out her body worked the same way as every other
woman's on the planet.  Well, almost the same way. 

She shook her head from side to side, staring at the snow covering
the toes of her high heels, and handed me the keys.  I was 
pulling out of the parking lot when I slammed on the brakes, 
throwing out an arm to keep Scully from colliding with the dash.  
My forearm caught her across the chest and she flinched more than she
should have.  Breasts were tender.      

"Shit!  Sorry.  We forgot your salad on the table."  I started to
shift the rental car into reverse.

"Just go, Mulder.  Left here, then right at light, then straight
until you see the Marriott."  

Good - it wasn't snowing when we left this afternoon, and this
would be a bad time to get lost.  Photographic memory doesn't
work so well when it's dark and snowing.  Scully
unconsciously wrapped her right hand around her waist,
holding herself because there was no one else to look to for
comfort.

I shoved the car back into drive, then reached over and took
her hand.  Dwarfed in the big seat, Scully rested her head
against the bottom of the headrest and left her small, deft hand
in mine as I drove.
                **********

In theory, she was supposed to be transcribing her autopsy
notes, but Scully was pacing.  I couldn't hear typing and I
could hear walking, so she was pacing on the other side of the
wall.  No, she didn't want to go for a swim.  No, she didn't
want to run or work out.  No, she didn't want to watch TV. 
Go away, Mulder.  Scully preferred to be miserable alone. 
She'd taken a hot bath, gone to the bathroom three times, and
now, at one in the morning, she was back to pacing.

I hated to hear Scully suffer, and this was worse than usual. 
Something was wrong.  Pulling my shirt back on, I made a trip
to the vending machine, then padded in my pajama bottoms
and sock feet to her room.

"Go away, Mulder!"  Scully's language skills were somewhat
limited during PMS.  She mainly stuck to "Go away, Mulder,"
"Shut up, Mulder," "Sit down, Mulder," and "Stop that,
Mulder." 

I ignored her and opened the door - she'd forgotten to even
lock it.  Scully was in jeans and a t-shirt and wearing a path
from the window to the bathroom and back in her ice-box of a
motel room.  She glared at me as I flopped on her bed, but
didn't say anything else.  Just try to make me move, Scully.

I'd won the tug of war a few months ago when she decided to
remove me by bodily force from her apartment after yelling
didn't work, and she had been more resigned after that, like
she was stuck with me in her life whether she liked it or not.  I
might not be able to charm her, but I can wear her down.  I'd
been surprised at how far my tiny partner had been able to drag
me across her rug.  I squirmed and laughed until she actually
got near the door, and then I'd shifted my weight suddenly so
she'd fallen on top of me.  Scully rolled off immediately,
ignoring my juvenile jokes and looking flustered.  After that,
she just grabbed my cell phone and threw it out in the hall
when she wanted me to leave.  Since my phone was still in my
dress pants, I was safe.

She was sweating and pale - this was bad.  It reminded me of
watching my old dog pace when she was about to have
puppies, the same look of silent, determined pain in her eyes. 
Scully sat down at her laptop and stared at it determinedly. 
She didn't actually type.   

At that point, I didn't feel the need for delicacy.  Of course, I
seldom felt the need for delicacy.

"Did you forget your meds at home?"  I wasn't supposed to
know about the prescription-strength whatevers she
occasionally took for cramps.  I earned another look.  "Drop
the act, Scully.  We're both adults.  I swear I've been around
grown women once or twice before."  

More than once or twice, actually.  One-thousand and sixty-
eight times, to be exact, with one-thousand and sixty-two of
those times that I'm fairly proud of.  Most of those encounters
are skewed between my last years as an undergrad and my first
two years at the Bureau and spanned twenty-two women that I
admitted to and four that I didn't.  Seventeen Caucasian
brunettes, two blondes for variety - one real, one Japanese
exchange student, one Native American bartender with a belly-
button ring, one African-American dancer with legs up to her
neck, two Jewish girls to make my mother happy in college,
one vampire, and whatever the hell you would call Phoebe. 
Three-hundred and twelve times in the two years I spent with
Diana, one-hundred seventy-eight times with Phoebe, most of
which involved begging on my part, and four hundred and
nineteen with a girl I dated as an undergrad - I was twenty-one
years old then.  

Never been with a redhead, though.

That's by ethnic background and any distinguishing features. 
Nineteen women in the US, two in Canada, and five in Europe -
that includes the girl in the Loire Valley that taught me a few
things besides bedroom French.  I didn't think Scully spoke
French.

I could also do it by breast size, place, position, or first names. 
Four Michelles, two Dianas, six Christines or some derivative
thereof, two Sarahs, three Annes - Ann, Anna, Hannah, one
Phoebe, and a few whose names I didn't quite catch or was so
bombed I didn't remember.  Never been with a Dana, though.   

What were Scully and I talking about?

She rolled her head back to stare at the ceiling.  "I didn't know
we'd be here a week.  Anyway, I'm early."  

Period.  Redhead.  Never been with a redhead.  Focus, Mulder.

"No, you're right on time."  Oh, that was not a smart thing to
say.  Screw it.  

Ha!  Screw it.  How Freudian.  

Those were not nice thoughts about my partner.  

It had been a long time, okay?

I shrugged.  "You put red dots on the days in your datebook. 
Four red dots every twenty-nine days, Scully - it doesn't take a
genius."  

She sighed, but didn't reach for her gun, so she was probably
going to allow me to live.  "Why don't you write a scrip and
I'll go get it filled?"

"At one in the morning?  There's no way I'm paying what
those drugstores cost."  

"I'll pay for it - write the prescription, Scully."  I was already
getting up.

Scully looked defeated.  "It will stop in a little bit, Mulder. 
There's no need for you to go out in the snow."

"No, you'd rather suffer."  I was fighting a losing battle and I
knew it.  Scully hated pills as much as I did.  I'd only ever seen
her take them on one, two... three, four...  Oh, hell - I don't
care.  

Not knowing what else to do, I pulled her over on the spare
bed beside me and maneuvered so she was sitting between my
legs at a professional distance, such as it was.  She came
willingly - my massages were legendary.  At least I can do
something that brings Scully pleasure.  Give me half a chance
and I can do more.

Stop it, Mulder. 

Carefully exploring the muscles of her shoulders and neck,
trying to figure out how hard to squeeze, I marveled at how
small she felt under my hands.  My fingers found the taunt
tendon on the right side of her neck and I heard a soft moan. 
I had to shift my hips further back from her.  Partner or no
partner, she was a beautiful woman and I loved her.  For us,
this was as good as it gets.

Never been with a redhead.

"You want another bath?"  Red hair shook "no" as she leaned
her head forward and left so I had better access to that tendon. 
Running my thumb over it, I tried to remember what the
options were.  "Tylenol?"  No.  "Stretch?"  No.  "Orgasm?" 
That earned me yet another look.  Right, Catholic guilt.  Never
mind.  "Heating pad?"

"Don't have one." Well, I was making progress.  She'd said
something besides "Shut up, Mulder."  

"Stomach or back?"   

"Stomach."

"I have an idea.  Come here, Scully."  I scooted back towards
the headboard and pulled her after me.  I felt her body go
tense, moving into fight or flight mode.  "Relax.  I'm
harmless."  

That was a lie, but that wasn't what was on my mind at the
moment.  Much.

I shoved a few pillows behind me and drew Scully back against
my chest, enjoying her weight against me.  It had been too long
since I had held a woman like this - a conscious one, at least -
but Scully was worth waiting for.  She moved with me,
trusting my word, but she was still breathing too fast. If I
wanted to seduce her, I could do a better job than this.  Her
standards must be pretty low.  Good to know.

I gently bent her forward to rub her shoulders again so she'd
relax.  An anatomy textbook I'd looked at once floated
through my mind, listing the muscles of the shoulders and
neck.  The hair dye isle at the supermarket when I'd tried to
figure out what color matched Scully's hair perfectly -
something to do on a boring Sunday afternoon.  The
differences between this hotel room and the eighty-three other
Marriotts I'd stayed in since we'd become partners.  That was
counting each separate Marriott as one, even if we'd stayed
there more than once.  If I counted the actual number of
Marriott rooms I'd been in that would be... well, it would be
more.  Focus, Mulder.  Stop drifting off into genius land.  All
this was interesting information, but it didn't make Scully feel
any better.      

"Oh, God, you're good at this."  She took a deep breath, her
shoulders rising.  "Mulder, please just say you've read too
many Stephen King books so we can go home?"

"Huh?"  One-hundred fifty-seven different Marriott rooms. 

Never been with a redhead.

"The case- your theory is right out of Carrie or Firestarter. 
Just admit you're wrong so we can go home."

I moved up to work the back of her head and earned myself
another moan.  I wondered how her face would looked when
she moaned - um - from above.  "Scully, I truly believe there
are people that can control fire."  I was thinking of a certain
case with a certain British ex whose name would kill the mood. 
Social skills weren't my strong suit, but I at least knew not to
ever say that name around Scully.  She was as possessive as I
was.  Not that Scully needed to worry about competing with
Phoebe - they weren't even in the same category.  

Phoebe Green was a boy's fantasy, Dana Scully was a man's. 
And I have put away my childish things.

Never been with a redhead.

ALL RIGHT!  Enough already!  Never been with a redhead,
not going to be with one tonight.

"We can all control fire, Mulder.  All it takes is a lighter and
some gasoline.  Look, the girl likes to hurt animals and she was
a bedwetter.  In a decade, you'll get to profile her as a serial
killer.  Let's go home, Mulder."

I pulled her back against me, wrapping my arms around her
small shoulders.  She reclosed her eyes and surrendered her
head to my shoulder.  God, she was wonderful.  God, I was
selfish.    

"We'll go home tomorrow."   I'm still not saying I'm wrong. 
The girl CAN control fire.

I made the small cellophane-wrapped package I'd palmed
appear in front of her face, rattling it to get her attention. 
"Want some candy, little girl?"  Her eyes lit up as she tore the
wrapper off the package of Oreos and fed me one, stuffing
another into her mouth.  Adorable.

As much as I reveled in holding her, it wasn't actually what I'd
intended and it wasn't helping her cramps.  I leaned back
against the headboard, still chewing, taking Scully with me. 
Amazing how well we moved together.  "Scully, you trust me? 
I want to make you feel better."  She nodded, eating another
cookie, only half-listening to me.  I was betting she wasn't
going to give me another one.

Scully was occupied with her final Oreo, cheeks stuffed full
like a squirrel, and didn't notice my fingers unfastening her
zipper. The button on her jeans was already invitingly undone.

"Mulder, stop!" With a half-eaten cookie in one hand and the
wrapper in the other, she tried to pull my hands off her,
shocked.

"It's okay, Scully, that's not what I had in mind.  Another time. 
Just relax."     

"Look, Mulder, I don't know WHAT you have in mind, but
this is not going to happen.  It's not something I take lightly
and certainly not something we should take lightly together."

"Chill out, g-woman, but it's good to know you're interested. 
Maybe next month."  

Folding the front of her jeans open, I placed my warm hands
on her bare abdomen, imitating the heating pad currently
sitting in her bathroom closet.  Scully was holding her breath. 

"Better?"

"Mulder, this is awfully intimate.  I'm don't think it's
appropriate for us..."

"Scully, I think it would be completely appropriate for us and
there's no one else I'm more interested in being intimate with -
but one more time, that's not what I had in mind.  Not
tonight."   

"You really feel that way?"  Her head was back against my
shoulder.  I felt her breathe again.

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."  I couldn't believe I'd
even said it.  Or that she was still there.  I shifted my hands and
closed my eyes, feeling that all things were right with the
world, at least in one rented bed on one Marriott hotel room in
Pennsylvania.  One-hundred fifty-eight rooms.

My bliss was interrupted by Scully, shifting again.  She was
still in pain.

"Why does this still happen, Scully?"

"What, Mulder?"

"Why do you still get your period?" 

It had to be the most personal discussion I'd ever had with her
and I'd wondered for a long time.  Hell, it was the most
personal discussion I'd had with any woman.  One that didn't
involve a per-minute rate, anyway. 

"The hormones are still there.  Everything still works, just no
ovum.  Just like taking birth control pills."  
          
That made sense.  Diana had taken birth control pills and that
didn't stop her from turning into Alpha-bitch every twenty-
eight days.  Unlike Scully, Diana had milked it for all it was
worth.

"So, if you wanted them, could you have children?  Through
the miracles of science? " 

I was skating on thin ice, but I wanted to know.  How much
damage had THEY done?  How much had she lost because of
me?  There was a difference between not having children that
were genetically hers and not being able to bear children at all. 
I saw the way she looked at pregnant women.  And looked
away quickly whenever I caught her staring at them.

"Me or we?"

Oh, a moment of truth.  Well, I'd started it.  Big breath. 
"Yes."

"Yes.  Why?"

"Just curious.  Close your eyes, Scully.  We're going to take a
trip."

                **********

"Where we going, Mulder?" She was still leaning back against
me, pillowed on my chest.

I started in the practiced, melodic tone I had learned years ago,
"We're walking down a hill, into a green valley to the ocean..."

She was struggling to sit up.  "Oh, no, Mulder.  You're not
hypnotizing me.  No more repressed memory nightmares."  

I didn't know she had nightmares.  Maybe if I slept with her at
night...

Never been with a redhead.

For Christ's sake!  Give it a rest.

"No, not deep hypnosis.  Just to relax - like a daydream.  You'll
be awake the entire time and you can stop whenever you want. 
No memories, I promise.  Promise, Scully."

She turned her head to study me, trailing hair over my face.  I
planted a light kiss on her cheek before she looked back,
dropping her head back against me.  That was a big step.  

"What's in this valley, Mulder?"

I smiled and closed my eyes again.  My voice was soft and
slow, lulling her:

"You're standing on the top of the hill, looking down at a
secluded, sacred valley that leads to the ocean.  Take a deep
breath and smell the grass and the flowers.  The breeze is
blowing, feel it against your skin.  If you listen carefully, you
can hear the water of the ocean lapping at the shore."

"Can I go out on the ocean, Mulder?"

"Scully, shut up and breathe in the damn flowers.  You can't
hear the ocean if you're yapping.  Anyway... you're standing at
the top of the hill, gazing down.  The ocean looks so far away. 
So beautiful, but so distant.  Turn your head and look beside
you, Scully.  Suddenly, I am standing with you and neither of
us is alone any longer.  We watch each other, uncertain
strangers.  We take in the measure of the other and realize we
have both lost our way in the hills.  Because there is no one
else to trust, together, we take the first slow, cautious steps on
the path.  

We walk side-by-side, together, but not touching.  You and I
are following the same path, but each for our own reasons.  As
we walk, we learn each other's souls and minds.  We begin to
trust the other to stand guard over our solitude until we each
reach our own haven.  Before, we each walked alone, shielding
ourselves with self-reliance.  But the path we have chosen it
too steep, too difficult to walk alone.  To continue, we must
hold hands - clinging to each other for safety."

Scully placed her hand over mine on her stomach and I
covered it with my left hand.  I felt her relax into me and her
breathing slow.  She would be asleep in no time.  

"We're holding hands, walking together.  We've taken the first
brave steps, going toward the valley.  Feel your hand in mine,
safe and warm.  Walk with me, taking another step down the
slippery slope.  You're feeling more and more relaxed, at
peace.  The breeze blows your skirt against your legs as we
take another step together into the valley.  Suddenly, you falter
and I cannot catch you.  I have to wait until you find your way
back to me before I can continue on the path, because I can't
go on without you - I can't find my way.  Once we are side-by-
side again, we hold on to each other even more tightly, no
longer whole without the other.

There are so many paths through the hills, but this one is right
for us.  Somewhere along our journey, there is no turning
back.  Our goals becomes intertwined, your quest is mine.  If
one of us leaves the path, the other is there to pull them back
to the truth.  Feel your hand in mine and know that you are
safe and you are loved.  No matter how dark the valley, I will
never leave you alone.

We are closer to the ocean now.  We catch glimpses of it - of
what can be.  There's an apple tree, and you can smell the
apples ripe in the summer sun.  You slow and feel the wind's
breath blow over your face and the sun's heat on your skin. 
The sensation is almost frightening in its intensity, but I'm with
you and you are not afraid.  Take another step and feel the
cool grass under you, tickling your skin.  There is no hurry, we
can stop anytime you want and wait until you are ready.  I'll
never fall behind or rush ahead without you on this path. 
When it's right, take another step with me, descending down
the path, listening to the wet waves beginning to lap against
the shore, enticing us.  

We're almost there now, so close.  Our path winds slowly
through the fields, not always in a straight line, but always in
the right direction. Breathe out the last of your doubts, your
fears.  One more step, one final leap of faith, and we come
through the valley together.  You're with me and you are full. 
How are you doing, Scully?"  My lips were inches from a
tempting earlobe, whispering to her.  

"Okay," she breathed softly.

"That's fine.  Everything we feel here is right.  We wondered
sometimes if we'd ever find our way, and now that we're here,
we pause a moment in wonder that we ever found this
together.  We lie back on a blanket underneath a tree..."

"Apple tree, Mul'er?"

"No, not the apple tree.  With all those ripe apples, there might
be wasps.  We're underneath a huge oak tree.  It must be two-
hundred years old and it shelters us like a gentle giant, standing
ageless against the world, a silent witness to time.  We
surrender to our place in the collective unconscious and join
the cycle of nature.  You're lying with me, my hand are on
your belly, caressing your skin.  Trust me to care for you as
you relax, looking up to the immense sky.  Usually, you are my
anchor while I soar, but this time, let me hold you while your
Heaven unfolds.  The sky is the most perfect super-intelligent
shade of blue and the clouds are spun white cotton candy
against it.  The leaves are blowing, green like limes rolled in
glitter.  My body supports yours as you breathe in again and
smell the ocean air, like salty sweat flowing down between
breasts. Your every sense is pleasurable - it surrounds you, and
surrounded by your happiness, I am satisfied.  My arms are
around you and you are at peace."   
 
My fingers trailed over her velvet skin, across her scar and
moving across the trail of transparent hair that formed a line of
promises downwards.  I pressed a warm palm against it,
continuing:

"This place is so beautiful.  So perfect and safe.  No one else
can ever touch us here.  Lay under the tree with me, feeling the
softness of your body against the hardness of mine.  We're so
different, but our differences blur together until there is no
boundary where one ends and the other begins.  My soul
murmurs into yours - there is no needs for our lips to trouble
themselves with words.  I breathe in as you breathe out;
communing with each other's bodies, our minds already old
acquaintances.  We are becoming one, you and I.  The tides
are coming in, kissing you gently, then covering us deeper and
deeper together.  Stay with me in the waves.  Feel the wet sand
rub over you like a thousand tongues.  Eventually, your feet
can't touch the bottom anymore, but mine can.  Take that final
step, Scully, and let me hold you.  Keep you safe in the tides. 
Relax and let yourself become part of something greater as the
waves wash over you, then over the both of us as we surrender
to them.  Eventually the tides carry us back to the shore and
we find sleep together underneath the ancient tree.  

My hands run over your fair skin, over your stomach in awe. 
You can feel the warmth inside of you now, the promise of
creating another life.  Blood of our blood and flesh of our
flesh.  This is what is right, our child safe in you and
you safe in my arms.  The two of us are already one, soon to
be a trinity.  We waited so long, wanted each other so much. 
In each other's arms, we are finally complete, our long journey
over."

I opened my eyes nervously to check on my partner.  I'd said
more than I intended, gotten carried away in my own lucid
dream.  That was too much to unload on her all at once.  

Apple trees and oak trees don't grow on the beach, anyway.

At least it was a nice fantasy, not the one about the backseat of
our many rental Ford Tauruses.

Scully's eyes were closed, her chest rising and falling
peacefully with each deep breath.  I pushed a lock of hair off of
her face and she didn't move.  Clairol Caribbean Sunset or
either L'Oreal Reddish Blonde or Light Reddish Blonde - it's
hard for me to tell.  If she was ever interested - Scully was a
natural redhead.  Antarctic.  Shower in quarantine. 

She's sound asleep.  

My love.

I held her until my back ached and my legs went numb.  As
dawn broke, I gently laid her over on a pillow and untangled
myself from her.  Ignoring the thousands of pins pricking my
feet, I folded the bedspread over her, rolled the knob between
my fingers to turn off the lamp and silently slipped away.

Years of yelling and railing at Scully hadn't gotten me very far. 
Better to wrap softly on her door and whisper my secrets to
her.  Entrance had been granted tonight.  When it was right, I
might find her gates unlocked again, even slightly ajar, so we
could take another step in our journey together.  One day, she
would be ready.   And I would wait for her, never leaving her
behind on this path.               

Maybe next month.        

Goodnight, Scully.  

                   *****

End- The Cycles Series: Lucid Dreaming  

Title: The Cycles Series: Paradoxical Sleep                   

Author: prufrock's love

Classification: S, MSR, UST, Scully POV.  No angst- I swear. 
Nice & shippy.

Rating: R  

Summary: Life and love with a brilliant man - Mulder and
Scully try to move forward and stay safe at the same time. 
Continues the story begun in The Cycles Series: Lucid
Dreaming, but stands alone as well.  
 
                    *****

The Cycles Series: Paradoxical Sleep  
prufrock's love


Mulder looks too damn chipper.  This is his fault and he must
suffer.

He thinks whoever speaks first after we fight is admitting fault. 
Screw him - one of us has to be an adult.  And we can't not
speak all the way back to DC, although we've done it before.

"Mulder, I'd like to adopt some new policies for the X-files
division," I tells him, scratching the backs of my thighs in a
way my mother would have said was very unladylike.  I don't
recall my mother ever sleeping under a pine tree in nylons,
either.

"We already have The Big Book of Boring Bureau Conduct,
Scully.  Which part are you proposing revisions to?  The
fraternization in hotel rooms clause on page 223 or intimate
relationships with superiors on 176?"

He's not just making up those page numbers.  Mulder got tired
of Skinner asking him if he was aware of Bureau policy, so he
memorized the manual.  Every section, every page number. 
Actually, he just read it for the first time.  He only got to quote
it twice before Skinner wised up and stopped asking, but I
looked it up after our ass-chewings and Mulder had recited it
word-for-word both times.   

"I was thinking since we're the only two agents assigned to
this section, we should develop policies specifically relevant to
us.  God - turn left here!"  Mulder slammed on the brakes and I
braced myself as he made a hard left onto a four-lane road,
afraid to argue.  Photographic memory doesn't work in the
dark.

"Please continue, Agent Scully," he leers.  Thin ice, Mulder; 
you're on very thin ice.

"Well, firstly, I think you should never, ever be allowed to read
a map again.  All map-reading duties should be designated to
X-files agents with actual navigational skills."  That can find
their way out of twenty square miles of woods within two
days, I thought, but didn't add.  Mulder was good enough at
guilt without me painting on another layer.  Well, maybe just a
light spackling.  

"Motion seconded by the agent that has eaten nothing but half
a Snickers bar in thirty-nine hours."

"Good.  Motion carries."  I reply.  Maybe I won't have to
rescue your sorry ass as often.   

"My ass is NOT sorry, Scully.  I saw you checking it out this
morning."  Wisely, he does not take his eyes off the dark road
as he speaks.  I don't think I said that out loud, but maybe I
did.  "Next motion?"

"Second, cases involving hikes in forests on the whim of
Special Agent Fox Mulder should be avoided like the plague. 
If the safety or freedom of the American people is directly
threatened, all efforts should be made to avoid actually
entering said forest.  If entry into forest is deemed necessary by
BOTH agents AND their follicly-challenged superior, and
confusion regarding the most direct exit route should arise, as
it has on - let's see - FOUR occasions now, the agent wearing
the more sensible shoes must carry the other agent out of said
forest piggyback."

"That was not a whim, Scully - those looked a whole lot like
shallow graves to me.  This could solve twelve documented
cases of unexplained disappearances in that area between 1990
and the present - attributable to a serial killer who decided to
send the FBI a map.  I thought you'd gloat that we found
graves instead of flying saucers, Scully.  The first
disappearance involved three teenage boys on a camping trip in
July of 1990.  Joseph Allen Taylor, age 13, Michael Lee
Taylor, age 15, and . . ."

"Put a sock in it, Mulder.  There is a motion on the floor."  
Yes, he could recite the whole case file from memory.  It's not
impressive when you've heard him do it for seven years.  He's
only yapping because he knows he's in deep shit, anyway.

"All right - motion seconded, but without the Skinner-approval
part.  No more woods.  No more pine needles in my shorts, no
more not brushing my teeth for two days, no more missing
South Park."  

"Here, Mulder!  Right, then right again at the light and we'll be
back at the motel."  Mulder parks in front of the motel rooms
we rented three days ago and spent one night in.  The ratty
motel room.  Joy.  Beats huddling under a tree.  Barely.

"Any further demands now that we have reached civilization?"
he asked, locking the doors of the rental car and stretching. 
His shirt was untucked and I could see the path of dark hair
running down his flat stomach when he raised his arms.  

Focus, Dana. 

"How about, Article Three - when one or more agents has
PMS, such agent should not be forced to stay in motel rooms
in Arkansas with questionable janitorial services and under-
code plumbing."  

"Scully, first, Article Three is about not taking Bureau cars for
personal use, and second, they were the only motel rooms for
fifty miles, and third, if you don't like your room, you can
always give it up and sleep with me.  Oh, and fourth, you don't
officially have PMS until tomorrow." 

"Mulder, I have a gun."  How did my menstrual cycle become
public property?

"Yeah, and PMS, I know.  Look, go shower and I'll forage for
food.  You need chocolate?"  

"Lots of it.  What are my options this late?"  I couldn't
remember what we passed on the way in.

"McDonalds - chocolate milkshake or sundae, Wendy's frosty,
Taco Bell chocolate taco thing, but you didn't eat that last
time, or the obligatory Applebee's - you like the diet chocolate
brownie sundae."

"Applebee's, Mulder.  Bring your own spoon and I'll share. 
Maybe."  Mulder was following me into the room, hands
shoved deep in his empty pockets.  That probably meant he
needed money.  What did he do with the mad money I allotted
him when we left DC?  How does a man spend fifty bucks in
the woods?  "Just call them and give them my credit card
number - I'm not giving you the card again.  The Visa, not
Discover- that's maxed out."  

Oh, shit, I wish I hadn't said that.

"At 18%, on a balance of two thousand, over one year, you'll
be paying..."

"Gun and PMS, Mulder.  Food.  Chocolate.  Visa.  Go," I
summarize, praising God as I take off my heels.  How does he
know my credit card limit?  You tell the man something once
in seven years and he remembers it for life.  Can't ever
remember to hit an ATM machine before we leave for
Booneyville, but he remembered that.

"You want actual food or just desserts?"  

"No, pick something with lettuce and have them box it up for
appearance's sake."  

I unceremoniously peeled off my thigh-highs, trying not to
moan in front of Mulder.  We'd been fighting over how to
divide my travel pack of Kleenex for two days; whose need for
paper products was more urgent - I'm not feeling overly
modest.  The thigh-highs get as far as my bloody feet before I
realized they're stuck to my blisters. My partner, Mr.
Squeamish, winces as I determinedly jerks the nylon out of the
oozing scabs.

"God, Scully."  Oh - woo me with your eloquence, Mulder.

"What did you think a fifteen-mile hike in heels was going to
do to my feet!" 

Oh, I didn't mean to yell.  Sorry, Mulder.  Just tired and dirty
and hungry and cranky, Mulder.  Bring me food and I'll be
better, Mulder.   

Mulder calls the restaurant to place the order and rattles off my
credit card number, knowing no waiter is going to run a charge
through without a card once they get a look at Mulder's nasty
slacks and two-day-old stubble.  I think it's kind of cute, but
then again, I know how much blue chip stock he owns.

And Mulder is gone, that not-so-sorry ass gliding under his
battered pants as he walks away.  I ponder, for the thousandth
time, how such a beautiful, brilliant man can be so - dense.  

Needy.  

Infuriating.  

Self-centered.  

Each descriptor is punctuated by an item of my clothing hitting
the floor of his room.  I turn on the shower, feeling an almost
orgasmic excitement at the idea of washing in something
besides a creek and ice cold water.  Sani-wipes will only get
you so clean, especially if you have to share them with your
suddenly fastidious partner.  Well, he had the candy bar.  I
would have traded sexual favors for that Snickers, but women
that haven't bathed in two days probably don't have much
exchange value.  
 
Mulder found the way in with his precious map, even found the
shallow graves - he just couldn't find the way out.   I finally got
a look at the map, but maps don't help if you have no idea
where you are and no points of reference.  Even if our cell
phones weren't either dead or locked in the car, what were we
going to say - come get us, we're next to the big-ass tree?  No,
no, the other big-ass tree.  The pine one.

Once it got too dark to see, we were stuck.  Another night
huddled together, Mulder making cracks about getting naked
in sleeping bags.  No singing.  No bugs.  Lots of pine needles. 
The plan was to walk out at dawn.  Well, we walked.  

And walked.  

And walked.  

The trees all looked alike, so we followed the creek.  Creek
doubled back.  What the hell kind of creek flows in a circle? 
After much debate, it was decided that I was walking due west
into the sunset - Mulder the Indian guide could do whatever the
hell he wanted.  Twenty minutes and maybe half an agonizing
mile later, we were back to the rental car, still not speaking.  I
don't know who was the bigger fool - Mulder for getting us
lost or me for following him.

I asked Mulder how he did it, early in our partnership when I
was still a little in awe of him - how he remembers some things
but not others.  Photographic memory, right, but what exactly
went on behind those smoky eyes.  How could he know so
many things and yet be completely oblivious to others?   Did
he think in pictures?  Or was it like a video tape that he could
replay whenever he wanted?  Did he remember everything - every 
detail, or just highlights?  Mulder's explanation was that
he could "just see it in my head."  When I pushed for a better
answer, he'd said he'd never been any other way - how would
he know if it was different from the way I remembered things? 
That made sense.
 
It used to intimidate me.  Then, once I realized Mulder didn't
do it to show off, it intrigued me.  After this long, it's just nice
to never worry about writing down the odometer reading when
we used a Bureau car or searching through a case file for an
address.   As long as Mulder is around, I just asked. 

And Mulder was always around.
 
I have also learned, mostly the hard way, what Mulder's mind
cannot do.  Navigate, obviously.  Has he ever been wrong -
about driving, anyway?  Damn right, he'd been wrong.  I'm
shocked he found his way down to the office every day.  He
also made a lousy doctor and mechanic, and again, I could
speak from experience on both counts.             

Then there are the things which might be mental disabilities or
they might be things he does just to irritate me.  Can't seem to
fill out Bureau paperwork correctly.  Can't wash dishes
without breaking them.  Can't keep his mouth shut.  Can't quit
when he's ahead.  Or behind.  Can sink a half-court shot, but
can't hit the trash can.  Or the toilet.

Can't ever quite manage to kiss me again.  

Especially not with his tongue.  Mon langue.

No, this is not the time to think about that. Women who have
been wearing the same undies for two days should not be
thinking about romantic entanglement with their genius
partners.

I'm being peed on.  This was not an improvement on Sani-
wipes.

The showerhead looks exactly like a penis and the water flow
is about same force and temperature.  

Find a robe, pad to the office to ask for a wrench.  Yes, Jim
Earl Bob Bubba, Junior, it's for my husband to fix the shower -
I wouldn't dream of touching it myself.  Can't operate a
wrench and a uterus at the same time.  Just for that, I
SHOULD let Mulder take a shot at the showerhead.  No,
Skinner will have a stroke if the FBI had to pay for another
motel room.  That cow thing used up a lot of latitude with him. 

Twenty minutes later I've dismantled and reassembled
everything I can reach and there is no improvement.  Shit. 
Dribble, dribble, dribble.  It's not even warm enough to make
satisfying steam.  I was rinsing the last of the shampoo out of
my hair one drop at a time when Mulder pounded on the
bathroom door announcing his hunting and gathering
expedition was successful.  He had slain the Wooly Mammoth
and was serving it on a hard roll with fries.  Speaking of
wooly...  I let my brownie sundae melt long enough to shave
my underarms and make a quick stab - literally, at my legs.  I
may not be totally clean, but I will not be fuzzy.  

Stepping out, I discovered the maid has taken all the real
towels and left Mulder what look like worn white dishtowels. 
I poked my head out, still dripping, and interrupted Mulder
wolfing down his sandwich.  

"Mulder, go see if there are any towels in my room."  

Mulder said something with a full mouth that translated to
there not being any since the bathroom doesn't work and I
should just use his.  Using his towels?  What a shocking idea
since I'm IN HIS BATHROOM.  I would never have
considered that!  Thank God I have a genius for a partner - I
might have stood dripping in that nasty bathroom for the next
decade, not knowing what to do.

Tired.  I am very tired and hungry.  

I hid behind the door and held my dishtowels up for him to see. 
"I don't want to have to pack a soaking wet robe all the way
home," I explain.

Want to come lick me dry, Mulder?

Bad Dana.  Bad, bad, Dana.

Mulder took the towels from me without comment.  I figured
he was going to the office to get more, so I was getting the
wrench for him to return when I heard him dumping my purse
out on his bed.  God Damn it, Mulder!  Social skills are not his
strong suit.

"Hey, Scully, you forgot to pack tampons."  I'm just going to
ignore that.  There's best friends with no secrets and then
there's things that are none of his damn business.  Social skills,
Mulder. 

I looked out again to assess the damage and Mulder was
proudly holding up the two towels he's safety-pinned together
into one decent-sized one.  

I smiled at him in spite of myself.  

You can't help by love the man.  You can't live with him, but
you can't help but love him.  

I dried off as well as possible and wrapped the towel around
me so the pins run modestly down the side of my hip.  Drying
my hair, I hear Mulder knock again and told him to open the
door.  He'd brought my pajamas and tells me he found the
tampons in my suitcase, so not to worry.  I just turned back
around and continued to ignore him until he closed the door
with slightly too much force.  Sorry, we are not discussing my
period again.  No cramps yet - but I'll keep him posted.  He'd
been way to curious about that lately.  

Emerging, I attack my melted brownie before even opening my
salad.  Priorities.  Mulder did good.  I offer him a spoonful of
chocolate sauce and he says "no," never looking away from the
local news.  He just turned down something with no nutritional
value and a chance to stare down my pajama top while I fed
him.  The sports report isn't even on.  Something's wrong.

I ask.  Mulder says "nothing" with his pouty face.  I suppress
the urge to whack him up side the head and tell him to act like a
grown-up.  We are not discussing my period, Mulder - get over
it.  I persist and Mulder lapses into silence, stuffing the last of
his French fries into his face.  Enough is enough.  Time to fight
dirty.  

I stand in front of the news, turning the volume down as the
baseball scores come on.  Mulder has a choice between trying
to wrestle me out of the way or cooperating.  I lost the last
wrestling match, but I had a good time doing it.  I could go for
a rematch.

"You take that pajama top off for me, Scully and we can talk
about it."  

Now that's a little crass, even for Mulder.  And what's this
"for me" stuff?   I hold my arms out, effectively blocking
whether or not the - whatever team it is in blue that he likes -
won.

"There are scratches on your back!  NOW MOVE, Scully!"

"There are what?"  I'm to stunned to move.  Screw you
baseball scores, Mulder.  It's not like they won't be in every
paper tomorrow morning.  Mulder repeats it very slowly so I
can understand every word.

"There are scratch marks on your back."  I'm getting his blank
face - which means he's very ticked off.  He flops back against
the headboard, ignoring my mother's don't-put-your-shoes-on-
the-bed rule and glaring at me.

"And your point is?"  Don't piss me off even more, Mulder. 
Chocolate only buys you so much tolerance.  

"No point.  Just noting."  

No, I think I know what your point is, partner.   

"I've been in the damn woods since yesterday morning - with
you.  What the hell do you think I've been doing?"

I just get a shrug and more of Mulder's blank face. 

I consider just letting him wonder.  He deserves it for being so
childish.  Of course, I also know how I would react if he
walked in one morning with a hickey.  

We're both about as secure as fourteen-year-olds.  I'm tired of
playing this game.  

Fuck you, Fox Mulder.

I stand with my back to Mulder and unbutton my top, letting it
drop down over my shoulders to my mid-back.  I hear Mulder
catch his breath behind me.  Serves him right.  The scratch
marks Mulder saw when I got out of the shower have, of
course, vanished.  

"My skin marks easily, Mulder.  We spent last night sleeping
on pine needles - I was itchy.  Those scratches were from my
fingernails - no one else's."

Mulder doesn't say a word, so I just stand there, not believing
I'm half dressed and fully conscious in his motel room.  I have
no idea how this happened.  One minute I was pissed off, the
next I was half-naked.  I think I got a tattoo the same way.

Drop the top.  Drop the top.  He'll never ask.  Just do it.  Mon
langue.

It's like paradoxical sleep - my brain is wide awake and going a
million miles an hour, but my body won't react.  Drop the top. 
I imagine the sound the silk will make as it crumples on the
rough carpet.

"I want to see the tattoo."  

One of Mulder's shape shifters must have taken over my body,
because I let my top slip a little more so it hangs from my arms
and bares the snake in the small of my back.  A constant
reminder of the last man I slept with.  I stand with the light
from the TV playing against my breasts, feeling very bare and
oddly, penitent, as though it should be a scarlet "A."  

I can hear the hum of the TV, a dog barking, and the dim roar
from the interstate in the silence.  The grimy, matted carpet
under my bare feet.  I don't hear the sound of silk falling on
carpet, no matter how hard I try.  I just can't.  I can feel my
shoulders trembling, but I can't move - either to dress or
undress.

I hear Mulder's baritone voice, soft, "Put your shirt back on,
Scully."  He has to know how upset I am.  Finally I shrug my
top back up and wrap it around me, shaking in spite of myself.  

No, that did not just happen.  

I hear Mulder stand up from the bed, but he doesn't approach
me.  He won't.  He clears his throat.  "I'm sorry, Scully.  I
shouldn't have asked you to do that.  And I should never have
assumed.  I was being childish and I'm sorry."  

When I turn around, Mulder is restless, looking for something
to do.   

"Why don't you go shower?  Go get peed on while I call
everyone and report in?"

That satisfies Mulder's need for an activity and a topic besides
our sexual tension. 

"Peed on?"

"Shower isn't working very well.  I already tried to fix it, so
just tolerate it.  No fiddling."

"Great.  Is there even hot water?"

"Golden shower, Mulder."  He's probably shocked I know that
term.  Mulder grabs his pajama bottoms and our mutual towel. 
Before closing the bathroom door, he turns back.

"It's beautiful, Scully."  

"Hot is hot and cold is cold now.  I fixed them," I respond. 
Sudden leaps are Mulder's strength, not mine.  I need some
time.

The laminate door closes and I spend the next fifteen minutes
listening to Mulder comment on the bathroom facilities with
language that would have made my father proud.  

I leave a voice mail for Skinner, reporting we're alive and
within budget.  The Gunmen all have to say "hi" to me, with
Frohike alone costing me five dollars on my calling card.  My
last call is to Mom, who has no idea I've spent the last two
days lost in the woods, been scratching in semi-public, or just
stood half-nude in front of Mulder.  

I'm getting the isn't-it-time-you-settled-down and how-is-that-
nice-partner-of-yours-Dana-honey speech when Mulder
emerges freshly shaved in his pajama bottoms, probably
unaware of how much I appreciate his chest.  Mom should just
put this lecture on tape and I could replay it once a week and
save us both the long-distance charges.  It's always the same
conversation, but I'm not making my standard responses in
front of Mulder.

"Listen, Mom, Mulder is ready for bed and he wants me to get
off the phone."  Mom ends the conversation at light speed,
even forgetting to nag me to go to mass or to drive carefully.

"That's not a nice thing to do to your mother, Scully."

"She sends you her love and kisses."  I am tired, Mulder.  I
have too much to think about, Mulder.  Go away, Mulder.

"Well, I never turn down a Scully woman's love and kisses." 
Nice and glib.  That's my boy.
     
Thanks, Mulder.

Mulder reclaims the remote - I'm betting the kind of people
that usually stay in this room are more concerned about the
remote and the pay-per-view channels than the shower.  Yuck. 
For my benefit, he switches it to Leno.  Mulder is a Letterman
Fan - he always tells me the top ten list the next morning; that's
the only good part anyway.

After so many years together, we have our routine.  Our rituals
that keep us safe.  Our mutual secrets.  I know Mulder better
than any other human being on Earth, and yet, I don't.  After
his sudden interest in my ovaries last month, I'd been giving
that some thought.  It's hard to imagine Mulder interested in
anything near a normal life, but he obviously is.  

And he's interested in it with me.

I curl up on top of the bedspread on the other bed, staring
blankly at the monologue, not really hearing it.  God, I never
thought I'd be so thankful for a bed this uncomfortable.  I'm
dozing when I hear Mulder switch off the lights and turn up
the air-conditioner.  He's assuming I'm going to spend the
night in his room, since there's no way Mulder's going to bed
for another several hours.  

Staying with him would be a nice change from him invading
my space.  He doesn't ever ask, because I would tell him no. 
Mulder just arrives about the time I'm ready for bed, finds a
flat, reasonably soft surface, and refuses to budge.  Mr.
Insomniac doesn't actually sleep - he just lies there and watches
me sleep.  Wakes me if he thinks I'm having a bad dream. 
After he woke me five times in one night, I instructed him -
loudly - not to interfere unless I actually screamed.   So Mulder
just watches me in my sleep.  Every damn night.  It's actually
kind of comforting; I just hope he's not over there masturbating.  

Drawers scrape open as Mulder searches for a spare blanket. 
He covers me up, sitting beside me briefly on the bed, lightly
scratching my back.  "Are we completely dysfunctional,
Scully?"

"Mulder?" I mumble.  Why can't we have these discussions
when we're both fully awake?

"I mean, are we so completely screwed up that we've
forgotten how to be normal human beings?  That we're only
honest with each other during life-threatening events?"

Oh, I'm awake now.  

I actually have an answer for this one.  Glad I've had twenty-
some days to work on it.

"Mulder, who were the Kings of England during the Hundred
Years War?"

"Well, it was actually 116 years.  Starting in 1337 would have
been Edward III, Richard II, Henry IV, Henry V, and then
Henry VI - who was insane, by the way.  You want England
tonight, Scully?"  

I have no idea if that's right or not, but it probably is.  Mulder
puts me to sleep lately by reciting the entire political history of
any country I chose.  Sometimes, if I really can't sleep, he does
it in French.  Very sexy.  

At least I think he's doing political history.  I distinctly heard a
"je t'aime" last week when he was supposed to be telling my
about the Russian revolution.  I listened closer after that and
caught "belle"- beautiful, "rouge"- red, "femme"- female, and 
"embrasser"- to embrace, kiss.  Either Mulder was telling me
something entirely different and just saying "Czar" and
"Anastasia" every so often, or he knew some pretty intimate
details about the Russian aristocracy's bedroom habits.  

"Langue" is tongue.  I'm certain there was no mention of
tongues in my World History class in college.  Kind of makes a
girl damp all over.  Mon langue.  My tongue.  Mulder's tongue.

What were Mulder and I talking about?

"Scully - England?"

Oh - I was making a point to Mulder.  Didn't have anything to
do with tongues.  Focus, Dana.
 
"In Greek mythology, who are Zeus' parents?"

"Youngest son of Cronus and Rhea, but Zeus was screwing
around with everyone on the Mount Olympus, so don't ask me
to do his kids unless you're really interested."  Mulder
snuggles down in his own bed, facing me in the dark, assuming
we're playing quiz bowl.

Don't say "screwing," Mulder.  Please.  

"What did our last case cost the FBI?"  I handle the money,
but Mulder saw the totals on the registers.  His response is a
little slower this time, but he still answers with no difficulty.

"236.98 for the hotel rooms, 268 even per ticket round-trip,
6.32 for breakfast, 18 even for dinner, 6.32 for breakfast-
we're so boring, 4.12 for my late lunch.  Did you eat lunch in
the morgue, Scully?"

I tell him "no" and ask him another question before he can
continue.  I know he can do it, I'm just making a point.  

Mon langue.  My tongue.

"How many times have you seen me nude?"  Now it's
Mulder's turn to be wide awake.

"Um.  Um, shower in quarantine.  Antarctic.  And I guess
tonight counts.  Three."

"Name every birthmark or scar I have, Mulder."

"What is this game, Scully?  I though you just wanted me to
bore you to sleep.  Can't I just do all the justices ever on the
Supreme Court instead?  That puts you out every time."

That would put a corpse to sleep, Mulder.  

"Could you do it, Mulder?  Name every mark you've ever seen
on me?"

"Yeah, I guess I could, but I don't think it's really appropriate."

"Okay - what's my favorite color, Mulder?"  

"I don't know.  Statistically, I would guess black, but I bet
that's not it."

"I don't know yours, either.  What's my favorite book- the one
that always makes me cry?"

"Scully, I don't know.  Does this have a point or are we just
playing twenty questions?"

"I don't know yours, either.  Who was the first boy I ever slept
with?"

"How the HELL would I know that?"

"That's just it, Mulder.  We both don't know.  We're still not
sure it's okay to ask."

Mulder doesn't respond.   

There is silence again in the dark, dingy room - the sound of
relationships changing, of doors to souls opening.  I don't
know why, but the mental image of my leaving a garden gate
ajar so Mulder can slip through fills my mind.  

Post-hypnotic suggestion or not, I have my first personal
question:

"What's it like to be able to think like you can?  To have
everything come so easy?"  

Asking him to explain anything without slides is asking for a
LONG answer, so I adjust the lumpy pillow and prepare to be
lulled by a lecture on neuroscience.

"It's lonely, mostly.  I realized about first grade that I could do
things the other kids couldn't and that they didn't like me
because of it.  That's never really changed.  Not in thirty years. 
People think it's a neat party trick until I know something they
should, but don't.  Big damn deal - I can remember when every
movie in town is showing but I can't find the car in the parking
lot.  People don't understand that and I can't make them
understand.  Except for other social misfits, I've never had
many friends, and it shows.  Women... most women, get
intimidated real quick.  My boss hates me, but he can't fire me
because I was born with a few extra brain cells linked together. 
I can keep my mouth shut and have friends that don't really
know me or I can be me and be lonely.  So I'm lonely."

I'm listening, intrigued.  I always assumed he spent so much
time alone by choice.  I'll sleep on it and get back to him.  
"Always thought you jus' didn' like us much."

"No, Scully.  I like you... all plenty.  Just don't always know
what to say to you...all."

Cute.  Good start.  Tomorrow, we can talk about favorite
colors.  Mine's green.  Night, Mulder.

"Hey, Scully?"

"Um?"  I'm too sleepy to move my lips.  Mon langue.

"Crime and Punishment."

"Um."  I guess that's his favorite, since I've never read it.

"Blue, followed by gray."

"Um."  Favorite colors.  Now what are we going to talk about
on the plane ride home?

"Mole on your upper lip that you cover up, on the front of
your right shoulder, the small of your back, and the inside of
your left knee.  Miscellaneous scars on both knees, gunshot
wound on lower abdomen, something that looks like maybe an
appendix scar, and the one on the back of your neck.  One
sexy tattoo."

"Um hum." Right.  You're skipping ahead, Mulder.   

"Brandy Simpson, first grade - got her a Valentine's card. 
Hannah Allen, junior year of high school, after prom - not a
good memory.  Michelle White, my junior year in college -
broke my heart to leave my 'Chelle when I went to Oxford. 
We wrote and saw each other when I was home for a while,
and then I met, well, you-know-who.  Then my partner."  

"Um?"

"First crush, first girl I slept with, first real love, last real love."

I smile, eyes closed.  "Mul'er, come 'ere an' cuddle up with me
an' shut up so I can go ta sleep." 

Now I can smell ripe apples and hear the ocean, for some
reason.  

"You want me to lay down with you so you can sleep or shut
up so you can sleep?"

"Um hum."  

"Hey, Scully?" Mulder asks, wrapping himself around me, chin
settling on top of my head.  Like we've done this a thousand
times before.
     
"Um?"

"If we started renting only one motel room instead of two,
averaging 100 nights a year in a motel with an average rate of
$70, we would save the FBI..."

"G'night, Mul'er." Shut up and hold me, Mulder.

"Goodnight, Scully."


                   *****
End: The Cycles Series: Paradoxical Sleep  
 

Title: The Cycles Series: Slow Waves  
 
Author: prufrock's love

Classification: S, MSR, UST, Mulder POV.  No angst- I
swear.  Nice & shippy.  

Rating: R  

Summary: Life and love with a brilliant man - friends stroll the
misty sidewalk toward lovers.  Continues the story begun in
The Cycles Series: Lucid Dreaming and Paradoxical Sleep, but
stands alone as well.  
 
 
                  ***** 

The Cycles Series: Slow Waves
by prufrock's love 


One would think that after all this time, I would be better at
getting blood out of my clothing.  I've washed and dried my
pajama bottoms at the laundromat twice today and it still
won't come out.  I searched the Internet on Scully's laptop and
DoItYourself.com says to soak blood stains in cold water or
use hydrogen peroxide, which I don't have.  So I'm soaking in
the hotel bathroom sink.  
     
And soaking.  

And soaking. 

Scully's going to freak out if I come to bed tonight in my
boxers and I didn't pack anything else.

And soaking.

I guess I could go to Bloomingdale's and buy some pajama
bottoms before I meet Scully for dinner.  That would involve
going uptown and back in rush hour.  No way.

And soaking.

Internet says rub with mild balanced detergent soap.  How the
hell do I know if soap is balanced or not?  I'm using Scully's
don't-ever-touch-this-Mulder face soap in the green case. 
Hopefully, it exfoliates AND gets out blood.

And soaking.

The next step is bleach, and things never turn out well when
you mix me and bleach.  I have a whole drawer full of car rags
that were once clothes I tried to bleach clean.  I can see these
bottoms making a nice rag for buffing off Turtle wax.

This is Scully's fault and she must suffer.  Hell, it's even her
blood.  

We were doing our ritual out-of-town-cramp-relief ritual - I
suppose three times is a ritual- last night and I woke up to
smears of dark blood on the front of my pajama bottoms.  I
don't know what Scully was doing to me in my sleep, but I'm
sorry I missed it.  

Scully told me to tell people I lost my virginity.  

That's not funny.  

They're my favorite pajama bottoms.

I figured Scully would know how to get blood out, so I hung
around and took notes.  She threw her panties away - that's not
fair.  And she called housekeeping to change the sheets.  Then
she left to slice and dice three bodies while I developed
dishpan hands.

As stupid as I feel, this domesticity is nice.  Better than nice. 
Blissful.  Amazing.  Fantastic. Incredible.  Wondrous. 
Glorious.  Sensational.  

Right.

I woke up with Dana Scully's menstrual blood on my crotch. 
There are so many reasons to be deliriously happy about that. 
Well worth sacrificing an old pair of pajamas.     
     
We're definitely moving towards - well, something - but we're
moving together.  I've learned you have to push Scully a little-
push her slightly out of her comfort zone before she'll willingly
move.  You have to reach over and take her hand to establish
that hand holding is appropriate.  Grab her and kiss her
goodnight first so it becomes routine.  Rent one hotel room
instead of two, since we've only used one anyway for the last
month.  

That was a big shove for Scully - acknowledging we were
going to go to bed together each night and making it known to
the world.  Or, at least, to Accounting.  

Mulder and Scully sleep in the same bed at night.  

Forever, as far as I'm concerned.

Maybe it was too big a push, because she's been pretty cool to
me since we checked in.  She just needs a little time.  No
pressure.  We're sharing the same room at the Marriott - one
hundred and fifty-nine now - and we sleep in the same bed. 
Actually, Scully sleeps in the bed and I cling to the edge.  How
someone that tiny can take up an entire king-sized bed, I don't
know, but she does.  If I want any mattress space of my own, I
have to be either under or over part of Scully - which isn't such
a bad thing and probably explains the blood stains.

I'm in no big hurry for sex.  That's a lie, but there's a grain of
truth in it.  I'm in no hurry to push Scully any further.  I get to
curl up next to her at night, keeping the nightmares away.  I
get to hold her in my arms and kiss her goodnight.  And good
morning.  We have this weird game of twenty questions going
on in our slow exploration of each other's lives and souls. 
Tonight is Scully's turn to ask.  I am as at peace as I've ever
been in my life.  

This is right.

I leave my bottoms to soak and walk with the crowds to meet
Scully for dinner, following the directions she wrote down for
me in childishly-simple terms and wondering what question
she'll come up with tonight.  We started out easy, taking turns -
favorite authors, songs, memories.  Things we should have
already talked about in the last seven years and never got
around to while we were chasing monsters.  Now the
questions are getting harder, deeper.  What I would change
about my childhood.  Her first serious boyfriend.  My biggest
regret.  My question yesterday was how much she blamed me
for all the crappy things that have happened to her - cancer,
sterility, her sister, etc.  Yes, Scully - on a scale of 1 to 10, 10
being the highest, how much do you blame me?  

2

3 if it's Melissa's birthday or she sees a baby.  Fair enough.

I think we can live with 3.

No place else on Earth smells quite like Manhattan.  Not
Broadway or the tourist traps that always smell like piss, but
the area around the top of Soho where we're meeting for
dinner.  It smells - busy.  Lots of people going places.  Lots of
energy and ideas.  The air almost crackles with it.  It's a place
where anything can happen and often does.

Scully is already there, sitting at a table outside, eating
something with a spoon and watching for me with those
expectant bedroom eyes. The evening is clear, a good evening
for love.  

What a sap.

Manhattan always gets to me.  Manhattan and the Loire
Valley.  Scully isn't in the Loire Valley, though.  And Scully
shaves every place she should.  Maybe I can give her French
lessons.

"What the hell is that?" I ask her, staring at the bowl of orange
goo she's eating with crackers.  Melted orange sherbet?  Even
in Soho, that was bizarre.

"Cantaloupe soup," Scully tells me, offering a spoonful.  

No, I don't think so, but thank you for sharing, dear.  
                    
How did Scully come up with this place anyway?  A thousand
great places in Manhattan to eat on the government's dime and
she finds the one with fruit soup.  And lots of things with
sprouts.  

I finally find something on the menu that sounds recognizable
and even brave a taste of Scully's soup.  It tastes like someone
put cantaloupes in a blender.  Not bad, but not food, either.
We're finishing dinner, which also wasn't bad but wasn't real
food either, when Manhattan damp gave way to New York
drizzle.  No umbrella, so we walk hand-in-hand in the slow
waves of light rain back to the hotel.  It's not far, and there's
nothing quite as romantic as New York City at night.

Sap.
                                   
"Hey, Scully?"

"Yes, Mulder?"  She is pretending to be very serious.

"We're walking the streets of Soho in the rain."

"I'm not howling, Mulder."

"I didn't expect you to." I reply, enjoying the night.  

The up-and-coming designers show their clothes in huge glass
windows, backlit in the darkness as Scully points out things
she likes.  It's amazing how much we resemble a normal
couple going for a walk in the rain after dinner and before bed. 
The drizzle hits the warm sidewalks and raises the smell of
three million people, all going somewhere purposefully.  I'm
going somewhere too, and I'm going with Scully. 

"Mulder - why do you like me?"  Scully asks as we walk
through the lobby of our hotel.

"Is that your question for tonight?"

Scully nods affirmatively, not pressuring me for an immediate
answer.  That's good, because I want some time with this one. 
Like many things about Scully and I, this isn't as simple a
question as it appears.

Why do I like Dana Scully?  As a woman, she's not physically
or even personality-wise the type of woman I have been with
in the past.  Not tall or brunette or exotic.  Not brooding or
unpredictable or demanding.  Not demonstrative with her
affections or lavish with her praise, which my insecure teenage
self desperately needed some days.  

Why do I like Dana Scully?  She's not easy.  Not mentally or
socially or sexually or professionally.  You have to work at
Scully, which is good, because I love a challenge.  I love a
chase.  But Scully doesn't run.  She stays right beside me and
makes me keep working.  No, Scully is incredibly damn hard. 

Why do I like Dana Scully?  She doesn't see the world the
same way I see it.  She doesn't believe what I believe.  Her
world is black and white and reproducible in a laboratory.  She
thinks in a straight line, with point A flowing smoothly and
logically into point B, not in a thousand directions at once and
that means we get on each other's nerves.  
     
Why do I like Dana Scully?  I can hear my mother in my ear,
whispering that this girl isn't "our kind."  Have your fun, Fox,
but she's not one of us.  Don't ever forget that.  My mother
wouldn't have meant Jewish - which I could give a damn about. 
No, Mom was the master of social stigma.  Except for her
mind and her looks, Scully hasn't ever had anything handed to
her in her life, and I have.  Intelligence, wealth, privileges,
education, connections - I got them all for free.   I never had to
fight the way Scully had to, and I don't always understand her
actions because of that.

There are so many reasons why I shouldn't like Dana Scully.

And none of them mean a damn thing.

It's late and I know Scully's tired - she worked today while I
goofed off.  She also solved the case, which means we can go
home tomorrow.  Poisoning isn't an exciting explanation, but
it's a probable one for the deaths of three middle-aged men. 
Discovering they were all married to the same woman makes it
a little more interesting - that was my contribution.  Still think
wifey was trying to create zombie love slaves, but that's not a
pivotal point of the case. 

Scully is drying her damp hair before we go to bed.  She
probably showered at the morgue, because her hair smells like
almonds instead of like dead bodies as the dryer warms it. 
Almonds and vanilla and cleanness.  That could be her
shampoo, or that could be her.  

I'm not the expert yet.  Yet.  

I'm searching for something to sleep in.  My choices are
boxers or sweat pants, so I rinse off and go with sweat pants
and a t-shirt.  Alone, I sleep shirtless, but Scully has spent too
much time in morgues and keeps the room about sixty-two
degrees.  We had several discussions about the air conditioner
before I gave up and added layers.  Sleeping in sub-arctic
conditions also means she gets cold in the middle of the night
and cuddles up to me.  Sometimes, she's even willing to share
the covers.

I wrap myself around her, huddling for body heat.  She thinks
it's because I like her- right now it's more to avoid frostbite. 
How Pfaster got turned on by this, I'll never know.  Then the
warmth of her hips and smooth shoulders contrasts with my
goose-bumps and I decide I would sleep in an igloo as long as
I got to sleep with her. 

I'm a sap - I can only blame it on Manhattan.
          
Well, maybe I can blame it on my partner.

"Okay, I'm ready to answer, Scully."

Scully curls a little tighter into her ball and my body follows
hers, a moth to a flame.

"Why I like Dana Scully, by Fox Mulder."  It sounds like I'm
giving a report in front if the class.  

"I like Dana Scully because she argues with me.  Because she
keeps me guessing and she makes me work at life.  Because
Dana Scully's damn rigidness complements my impulsiveness
and we blend together into a perfect team.  Because she relies
on my strengths and compensates for my weaknesses in a way
that can only be described as visceral.  Because I've spent
almost every day with her for years and every day I discover
something new in Dana Scully.  Because I've never gotten
tired of talking with her or of fighting the good fight with her. 
I like Dana Scully because she is a good person.  She's kind
and giving and honest without being weak.  She defends me
even when she knows I'm wrong.  She can read a map, make a
campfire, fix plumbing, put in sutures, and color coordinate - all
of which are useful abilities to have around.  

To summarize, I like Dana Scully because she is a good
person, because she has many skills that I lack, and because
she treats me very well.  That is why I like Dana Scully."

I wait for Scully's reaction, which comes in the form of a soft
laugh.  I knew she was expecting eloquence.  Sorry, partner - I
do eloquence better when you're unconscious or there's high
drama.  
       
"That's it?"

"Yep, Scully, that's it.  You asked why I liked you and I
answered."  I settle down for the night, even though I know
this conversation is far from over.

"Boy, you really know how to woo a girl, Mulder."  

"Is the stoic, scientific, Agent Scully suggesting she'd like a
little romance?"  I can feel myself losing mattress space and
blanket privileges.

"I spend all day working up to asking you that question and
you come up with a fifth-grade essay on the merits of Dana
Scully?  Where did all that you're my touchstone, one-in-five-
billion, you make me a whole person crap go?"

"Then you should have asked me why I love you."  

I have rendered Scully speechless.  I am so proud of myself.

"And you're getting your period - I only have so many good
lines and I'm saving them to use in another three-to-four
days."

You know, she's right.  I just can't quit when I'm ahead.

I wait for Scully to get pissed.  She's very still for a second,
then she flips over quickly and I brace for the punch I know is
coming.  Instead, I lose my pillow and get a few frustrated
smacks with it.  It's the typical Marriot too-soft pillow, so it
doesn't even sting, but I cower anyway.  What a way to tell
Scully I love her.  I deserve a good pounding.

Instead, I hear Scully laughing.  Real laughing.  Not giggling,
not polite ha ha's.  Real, from the heart, I am so happy, this is
such a stupid situation, laughter.  

What a woman.

Finally, she settles down and flops back on the bed beside me,
still smiling, auburn hair spilling on the pillow around her face. 
She rolls on her right side and I blend myself into her,
assuming our usual position.  It makes me so happy that Scully
and I have a "usual position" in bed.  I'm looking forward to
exploring other positions - in three-to-four days. 

Never been with a redhead.

"You want to hear it again, Scully?"

"Um.  Um hum."  She's stopped moving her lips; that means
she's ready to go to sleep.  I like that I know that.

"I love you."

"Ummmm."  A happy sound.

"Mu'ler?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Don' call me dear."  Wouldn't dream of it, dear.

"Yes, Scully?"  Dear. 

Dear, dear, dear.  Dear, duh, dear, dear.  Yes, dear.  No, dear. 
Coming, dear.  

Never been with a redhead, dear.   

"You get the stain outta your PJs?"

"Is that your question?  Because it's my turn now.  You're not
on until Friday"  She just ignored me.  She's good at that. 
"No.  I washed and dried the damn things twice and it still
won't come out."

"Won't come out once ya dry 'um."  Oh, that's the secret. 
Now she tells me.

"Guess I've ruined my favorite pajama bottoms, then."  Dear.
     
"Na- ya can still wear 'um."  Scully folded her hands under her
head like a sleeping child.

"I can?"  Scully has her oldest 'period panties' that she wears
in case of accidents; maybe I could have my period PJs.   We
could coordinate.

I swear it's Manhattan that does this to me.  We stay another
day and I'll be composing sonnets about her earlobes.      
     
"Course ya can.  Nobody but me's ever gonna see 'um."  

I love the finality in the way she says that.  No one but her.   

"Goodnight, Scully."  Dear.
                    
"Night, Mul'er."
                   *****


End: The Cycles Series: Slow Waves  

Title: The Cycles Series: Hypnogogic Hallucinations  

Author: prufrock's love

Classification: S, MSR, UST, Scully POV.  No angst- I swear. 
Nice & shippy.

Rating: R  

Summary: Life and love with a brilliant man - Continues the
story begun in The Cycles Series: Lucid Dreaming, Paradoxical
Sleep, and Slow Waves, but stands alone as well.  
 
 *****

The Cycles Series: Hypnogogic Hallucinations 
prufrock's love


We're going to die.

We're going to die and it's going to be Mulder's fault.

Bracing one foot against the center console of our rental car
and keeping a death grip on the plastic handle to the right of
my head, those words echoed in my brain.

We're going to die and we're going to die in Texas.  What a
way to go.

I'd look over at the speedometer, but I'm too afraid.  Mulder
must be doing eighty and people are still passing us like we're
standing still.  Except for the cars that mysteriously slammed
on their brakes and screeched to sudden stops in front of us on
the interstate.  

Hail Mary, mother of... of... of... Of what? 

Christ!  I'm going to die.  In Texas.  It just seems fated to
happen.

"Truck!" I scream helpfully.

Mulder swerves across three lanes of traffic and back into the
fast lane, his knuckles white on the wheel.  The big Chrysler
moves easily with the bumper-to-bumper traffic as though we
were playing Pole Position.  It's not that Mulder's not a good
driver; it's just an average rush hour in Houston.  

And he's probably a little distracted today.

Focus, Dana.  Imminent death, Dana.

I saw a poster in a steak house once about how to be a Texan
which included what would later become useful advice about
driving in Houston in rush hour: don't.   Driving in this city is a
full-contact sport, and Mulder and I aren't wearing our cups.

And I can now speak from experience.

Aren't we a happy camper today, Dana?

I suppress a guilty smile and sneak a peak at the odometer. 
Ninety.  We're doing ninety, three feet off of a Volkswagen's
ass and two feet in front of a MAC truck with cars six inches
away on either side of us.  

Oh, God - I'm going to die.

God!  That's it.  Hail Mary, mother of GOD... then what?

"Mulder?"  I ask hesitantly.

"What?" he barks.  Oh, that was friendly.  Loving.  Aren't you
supposed to be basking in the after-glow, Mulder?

"Mulder, I don't want you to think that I'm suddenly going to
start nagging you - about driving, anyway, because of what
happened last night.  I'm not that kind of person.  But I do
think..."

I have to stop to suck in my breath as a truck sitting about six
feet off the ground with a Confederate flag in the back window
merges in front of us, missing the front fender by maybe two
inches.  It has a bumper sticker of Calvin from Calvin and
Hobbes peeing on something.  I can see it clearly because it's
at eye level with me.  Calvin's peeing on a big "3."  I never had
any particular problems with that digit.

"Um, I think that...  And I don't want to sound shrewish at all
about this... but..."

Mulder brakes hard and swerves again and my stomach lurches
into the back of my throat.
     
"Scully, do you have a point?"  He doesn't take his eyes off the
road, for which I am grateful, but you'd think he's be a little
nicer to me.  After all...

"Mulder, can you slow the hell down?"  Shit!  That was
shrewish.  Sorry, Mulder.

"Sure, Scully.  Actually, why don't I just pull over right here
and let you drive?"

The engine could fall out of the car and we wouldn't be able to
stop in this traffic.  It's like a stampede, except all the cattle
have cell phones and cowboy hats.

"You don't have to be a smart ass.  If you have a problem with
what happened last night, you need to talk about it like an
adult, not take it out on me."  

Still sounded shrewish.

Mulder doesn't answer me, but he keeps a steady commentary
on the drivers around us.  The man in the "Fear This" green
jeep is labeled a redneck pig-fucker.  The black BMW is
instructed to do something not physically possible, as far as I
know.  The old woman in the Cadillac is a blue-haired cooze,
whatever a cooze is.  Mr. Old Money, Oxford alumni, star FBI
profiler has a vocabulary gleaned from years of porn videos,
phone-sex hotlines and chat rooms that can take your breath
away when he's pissed off.  And right now, he's pissed off.

God, I hope this car isn't bugged.
 
Mulder picks what is probably a random exit ramp and I
breathe a little easier.  I'd rather brave the housing projects
than get back on that interstate again - at least the gangs in the
projects will probably be less heavily armed than the drivers on
the interstate.  He's slowed down and is navigating like he
knows where he's going, but that doesn't mean anything. 
Mulder wore that same purposeful face when he raised the
hood of our rental car last week after it stalled out - that didn't
turn out well, either.

"Are we staying at the same place?"  I venture.

"Uh huh."  

"Do you remember the way?  We got lost last time."  I
generously say "we" instead of "you."

"And I'm taking the same route this time."  That was Mulder's
don't-question-me-woman voice.  I don't hear it very often,
and it better not be a new development because of last night. 
Sex does not suddenly give him imminent domain over me.

"Mulder, do you have a problem?"  Just because we're in
Bubba country doesn't mean you get to be an ass.  Well, to be
a bigger ass than usual.

"No, Scully - I'm sorry.  I'm just afraid we'll eat some idiot's
fender on this stupid jerk-off case.  I didn't mean to take it out
on you."  Now he sounds tired and remorseful.  He reaches
over and takes my hand, resting our intertwined fingers on his
thigh.

God, the man is beautiful.  I get a quick glance out of the
corner of his dark eyes and I melt.  Mulder forgiven.  Scully
PMSing.  Scully Sorry.  

"Oh.  OK.  I just though this might be about last night."

"Last night?"  Mulder glances at me, using the same voice and
expression as when he comes over and I announce that I have
pizza.  There's pizza?  Where's pizza?   

I nod.  It's not like he doesn't remember.             

"Uh, Scully?"

"Yea, Mulder?"

"What about last night?"

Oh, come on, Mulder.  I can't believe you want to tease me
about this.  

Hey, he actually found the hotel!  Good Mulder.

Actually, very good Mulder.

"Yeah, Mulder.  Last night.  You remember?"  Because I
remember, Mulder.

I remember not quite knowing how to take that final leap of
faith and become lovers.  More hesitance on my part than on
Mulder's, but it was still kind of weird.  I remember being
unsure about how to approach the situation.  Did we wine and
dine?  Violins and candlelight?   Attack each other like animals
in the living room floor?  Just get naked and go for it on his
desk?  We both wanted it to be special; we just weren't sure
how.  So we kept putting "it" off - doing everything but,
waiting for the right moment.  And the longer we put "it" off,
the weirder the situation got.

I remember falling asleep on Mulder's couch to an old movie
and Mulder leading me to bed long after midnight.  I remember
him pulling off my jeans and shirt in the darkness.  I remember
him kissing me lazily, exploring my mouth gently like a new
delicacy as we laid down on the cool sheets.  I remember
smooth, elegant hands running over me in awe, cupping my
breasts and pushing my legs carefully up and apart without my
ever really returning to consciousness.  I remember Mulder
touching me like he had only a few times before, finding where
to lightly caress to cause shudders.  I remember warm, soft lips
on my nipples and feeling the course hair of Mulder's stomach
and chest sliding over my skin.  A rough tongue exploring
where it never had before.  A hand on the back of my neck,
pulling my face up to meet his and tasting myself in his mouth. 
My head falling back, limp in my twilight state.  I remember no
hesitations.  Then the feeling of having my body gently, slowly
penetrated.  Knowing Mulder was being so, so careful.  A
slow, lazy, Sunday morning kind of lovemaking.  No words,
no sounds in the dark room except our breathing.  I remember
feeling nothing but safe and loved.  I remember warm, gentle
waves washing over me.  And then sleeping again without ever
really waking.  

Yes, Mulder.  I remember.

"I can't believe you're asking me if I remember that," Mulder
says casually, getting our bags out of the cavernous trunk. 
He's humming "Dueling Banjos" under his breath.  Cute, but
wrong state, Mulder.    

I get a nice, warm, fuzzy feeling as we check in until I realize
he hasn't actually said -what- he remembers.  Sex was - nice.  
Sweet.  Comfortable.  Like we'd done it a thousand times
before.    

I woke up with a smile.

Maybe Mulder didn't.  

Maybe Mulder was disappointed.  Maybe he thought I was
always that passive.  No, partner, I was half-asleep.  You want
full participation, you have to wait until I'm completely
conscious.  

Maybe he hadn't liked it.  It certainly wasn't earth shattering,
fingernails scraping, send-the-dogs-barking sex.  Maybe that
was what he expected.  I've seen some of the women he's been
with.

Oh, God.  

I will not cry.  I will not cry.  I will not cry.

This is silly.  I love Mulder and Mulder loves me.  

This is just PMS.  

Mulder was disappointed.

There seems to be some noise in our hotel room.  I locate the
sounds, which seem to be coming from Mulder's mouth.

"...walk to that seafood restaurant and work off some of this
nervous energy?"

Sure, Mulder.  It's not like you're interested in working off
energy any other way.

He at least still wants to hold my hand.  There's a kiss on the
forehead.  I must not be totally repulsive as a woman.  If he
had his way, Mulder would have every inch of our skin in
direct contact every second of the day - he's a little needy.   I
tolerate it until I've had as much loving togetherness as I can
stand and then I yell and send him for a long run.  He comes
back an hour later, having run himself into the ground and
given me time to recover.  I always have to apologize and
make nice after that - for a few hours, at least.  Mulder knows
this, so he always grins this shitty grin and puts on his running
shoes whenever I say the magic words: "Mulder - go away so I
can miss you."    
          
"You okay, Scully?"  No, I'm not okay, Mulder.  Go away so I
can curl into a ball and cry.

"I'm fine, Mulder."  

He's not buying it.  I get pulled into a doorway and a sympathy
lip lock.  I get wine ordered for me while I'm in the bathroom. 
I get footsies under the table.  

He's just trying to make me feel better.

No, he doesn't want to go to bed.  Big surprise.  

Fine.  We'll watch TV.  

Fine.  Go take a shower.

Fine.  I'll take a shower.

Fine.  Go get a soda.

Good to know there's no bomb, Mulder.  What are the odds of 
us encountering two rigged soda machines in one state?  No - I
was joking.  Rhetorical question.  I don't really want to know
what the odds are.   Well, it's a pretty slim chance, then.  Stop
taking the machines apart before we get thrown out of the
hotel.

Mulder has Oreos.  I would kill for Oreos.  Oh, God - and
Snickers.  

Give me a bite, Mulder.

Please.

Please, Mulder.

Come on, Mulder.

Give me a damn bite.

GIVE ME A GOD DAMN BITE!

"Not until you tell me what's wrong."

I refuse to jump for that candy bar like a monkey for a banana. 
I guess I'm going to have to confess.  There's no such thing as
being a woman of mystery around Mulder, anyway.  He
probably keeps a file on me - everything from haircuts to
toenails and all areas in between are fair game for his scrutiny. 
I wonder if he'd keep that filed under P for partner or O for
one in five billion.  Well, whether he likes it or not, now he can
keep it under L for lover.

"Mulder, about last night..."

"Scully, don't you ever ask me to do that again."  Mulder
props his feet up on my lap, hoping for a foot rub and
searching the cable.

I will not cry.  I will not cry.  I will not cry.

"As awful as it was, it did put me to sleep, though."  Now
Mulder's channel surfing.  The man is not the best listener. 
Social skills, Mulder.

You know, I always thought I could annoy a man enough to
keep him awake.

Sniff.

"Shit, they're showing it again.  What is this - the all "South
Pacific" channel?  'I'm as corny as Kansas in August..." 
Mulder sings one line along with the movie before he flips off
the TV and throws the remote in the floor.  "That's the same
part that finally did me in last night.  No more counting
Supreme Court justices - just turn on that damn movie and I'm
out like a light.  I could have gotten some sleep in the last
three decades if I had that on tape."

Huh?
 
"You didn't want to watch it again, did you, Scully?"  He
looks like I'm about to make him eat a bite of liver.

"Scully?"  

"Scully?"

Is your record stuck, Mulder?  

I blurted it out before I thought - strong evidence of PMS. 
"We had sex for the first time last night.  Aren't we supposed 
to be happier than this?"
     
Real mature, Dana.  Not needy at all.

Mulder was so shocked he gave me the Snickers. 

"Um, Scully?"

"Wha?"  I offered him the first bite with all the chocolate
coating and he chewed for a little bit.

"Um.  We didn' have sex las' night."  

I stare at him.  He looks like Mulder.  Smells like him.  Talks
and moves like him.  I look very close, my face inches from
his.  Yes, it looks like Mulder, but this man found the hotel on
the first try.  Which Mulder impersonator are you?  Eddie Van
Blundht?  That alien bounty hunter Mulder raves about? 
Clone?  I poke him.
     
Mulder-clone gives me a weird look and pokes me back.

"Foreplay?" it asks.

"When's my birthday?"

"Uh..."

"My badge number?"

"Uh..."

"My bra size?"

"34B." Immediate response.  It's Mulder, all right.

"You're scaring me, Scully."

"I know when I have sex and I had sex last night."  

Mulder takes another bite and chews thoughtfully for a while,
lost in his own genius world.  "I'm not saying you didn't have
sex; I'm just saying we didn't have sex.  We can if you want,
though - let me get our cell phones.  What do you charge per
minute?"  I get that shitty grin.

Actually, that's pretty funny.

"Don't tease me, Mulder."

"Not teasing.  We can have sex right now - I don't think any
long distance charges even apply."

"Mulder - we had sex."

I get raised eyebrows, but no further arguments.  I finish the
last of the candy bar and start on the Oreos as Mulder
maneuvers me into our now-habitual cramp relief position. 
Oreos, warm hands on my stomach and a soft baritone voice
lulling me into a fantasy world.  I don't have cramps, Mulder. 
Not for another day or so.  This is just an excuse and you
know it.  

I'm obviously not complaining. 

Clipped voices float to me from the previous twenty-four hours
as I lay back into his arms: 
                         
You already eat, Mulder?  Yeah - me too.  You spending the
night?  I'll come to bed later- I want to watch this movie.  It's
a classic.  It's a caricature of itself, allegorical, Scully.  Fine -
I'm going to bed.  Night, Mulder.  Night, Scully.

Morning, dear.  Don't call me "dear."  Morning, Scully - you
want coffee?  You are a saint, Mulder.  You love me?  You're
so needy, Mulder.  Of course I love you, Mulder.  Hurry up,
we're late.  Skinner wants to see us, Scully.  This is such a
jerk-off case, Scully.  Are you bringing your laptop?  Should I
pack my swimsuit, Mulder?  I got us an afternoon flight - no
redeye this time.  Good - I hate to try to find the hotel in the
dark.  That stewardess is staring at you, Mulder.  They're
called flight attendants, and she's staring at you, Scully.  Yuck. 
Prude.  You want to wait for our bags while I go get a car? 
Okay - pick you up out front.     

He'd made no mention of it.  Went to bed and woke up
together like normal - well, like normal for us.  Maybe it didn't
happen.  

No, it happened.  Mulder's just teasing me.  He's embarrassed
or he thinks I might be angry it happened that way or whatever
guilt trip he's laying on himself this time.

But maybe it didn't.  I'm not sore.  But then, Mulder handles
me like I'm made of glass - I wouldn't be sore.  Semen? 
Maybe he used a condom.  

No, it happened.  That was no dream.

But maybe it didn't.  Maybe it was some sort of hypnogogic
hallucination driven by sexual tension and the power of
suggestion.  I could feel Mulder on top of me, inside of me. 
His skin against mine, his breath in my hair.   Hallucinations
can be that vivid and they're not that uncommon - hearing
voices and seeing fleeting images as one falls asleep.  

"Mulder, are you sure?"

What am I expecting him to say?  No, Scully - I'm not really
sure.  I get having sex with you confused with vegging on the
couch watching a movie.  Or with sleeping.  Let me see - oh,
yes - we did have sex.  Sex is the one without the remote
control, right?

All I get is a blank face and a chocolate kiss.

Mulder wraps himself around me in yet another anonymousness
rented bed, draping a long leg over both of mine, shielding me
against the world.  A cold nose burrows in my neck, tickling me,
and I laugh.

We must have the weirdest, most screwed up relationship in
the world and I wouldn't trade it for anything.  I love a man
that can't find his way out of a closet.  Can't remember to get
milk when I send him to the store, but manages to come back
with forty dollars worth of junk food.  How do you spend forty
dollars on junk food?  I love a man who uses my face soap
when he thinks I won't notice and could recite bible verses to
make my mother happy.  Has a dancing-baby-alien-in-a-diaper
screen saver and keeps the piles of mail his stock broker sends
him in a Nike shoe box labeled 'Crap from Ron.'

My Mulder.

I am drifting away in my own bliss when I feel Mulder stir
behind me.
                    
"Hey, Scully?"  Dear.

I can hear him mentally add that word after my name every
time he says it.   
 
"What, Mul'er"

"That thing - the thing that didn't happen last night - how would
you feel about it not happening again tonight?"

Smile.

"Night, Mul'er," I tell him as sleep comes.  I love it when I'm
right.

"Night, Scully."  Dear.

                  *****
                    
End: The Cycles Series: Hypnogogic Hallucinations  

Cycles: Rude Awakening (5/5)

Author: prufrock's love (prufrocks_love@yahoo.com)

Rating: R

Summary: Life and love with a brilliant man when the waters get a
little rough.  Continues the "Cycles" series - Lucid Dreaming,
Paradoxical Sleep, Hypnogogic Hallucinations, and Slow Waves,
but stands alone as well.

Spoilers: Though mid season 7  

Category: MSR, light sprinkle of angst

Distribution: However you like 

Feedback: No

Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue


                              *****
Rude Awakening
by prufrock's love

"Scully, are you trying to corner the market on being a bitch?"

That just slipped out before my lips could catch it, like it
overflowed and dripped down from my brain.  Or maybe I've been
possessed by a demon.  Either way, in about three seconds, I'm
going to be very, very sorry I said that word.

One.  Sink lower in the chair.  Hunch shoulders.  Prepare to die.

Two.   Did she bring her gun?   

Three.  Abandon hope, all ye who enter...

"Yes, Mulder - that's my goal in life.  Being as big a bitch as
possible and spending all my Friday nights with an unappreciative,
self-destructive, immature, egomaniacal -" 

"OKAY!  Okay. God, Scully.  It was just a joke."  

"It wasn't funny."  

Fine.  

Bitch.  

I turn back to my computer, trying to think of some way to make
this disaster of a day her fault.  Between our constant jabs at each
other, trying to create a report we could agree on about our
last case, and my little meeting with Skinner, I didn't have the
energy left to fight - no matter whose fault it was.

PMS.  She has to have PMS.  

Has it been that long already?  Have we really been lovers for
almost a month?  

Time flies.  Last week, we'd even worked up to sex during daylight
hours with both of us fully awake.  Quite a step for the
dysfunctional duo.

And apparently, this was the next level in the Mulder-Scully
relationship saga.

It's been quite a ride.  I get a nice warm feeling in my belly, so I
turn around to grin at Scully and catch her sniffing the laundry. 
Again.

"You just saw me wash those, Scully.  They're not going to smell
bad - you don't have to check every one of my t-shirts."  

That was mean; she's being nice enough to fold my laundry.  But I
didn't ask her to and I don't like the way she folds it.  Scully's
ignoring me and moving on to scratch-n-sniff the next item.

Bitch.

"Don't fold the towel like that.  Who taught you to fold towels in
thirds?"  Was she raised by wolves?  'Cause I had an X-File like
that.  No towels, though.

Where's my stapler?  I need to staple my mouth shut.  I've already
talked myself into sleeping alone tonight, I'm sure.  I needed to quit
before I started getting docked sex from next week.

The thrill was gone.

That was quick.
               
The lights go out suddenly and I realize that Scully has draped the
incorrectly folded towel over my head.   I pull it down over my
face, the still-warm terrycloth triggering one of my few happy
memories of my mother as the static electricity sparks off the end of
my nose.  Warm towels when Samantha and I came in from playing
in the snow.
               
"Towel, Mulder.  Singular.  You only have one."

"It's my favorite towel, dea-"

"Don't say it!"  I'm warned.

I'm sorry, dear.  I'm in a twelve-step recovery program.  I've
admitted I have no control.  Waited years to get to call her 'dear'
and now she won't let me.  Adorable bitch.

"- dearer to me than my sheets."  That was a good save.

I'm really pitiful.

"You only have one set of sheets, Mulder."  Scully takes the
favored towel off my lap and obligingly folds it into quarters like a
normal person, dropping it into the basket.

"And they're my fav-"

"I know - your favorite sheets.  Your favorite jeans, your favorite
shirt, pajama bottoms, side of the bed, position on the couch, brand
of toothpaste, coffee mug.  You've got a place and a routine for
everything, Mulder."

I feel a 'but' coming on.  Actually, I just noticed I can see the
outline of her nipples through my t-shirt, and I feel something else
coming on, but that's probably a fruitless quest.  

I don't remember giving her my t-shirt - she must have swiped it. 
Looks good on her.  I'm still not used to seeing Scully in anything
except suits or occasionally slacks, so I look up sometimes and
wonder who this woman is walking through my apartment in shorts
and my big shirts.  She has the nicest legs - fair and firm with
impossibly tiny ankles.  My shirt is so huge on her, it looks
like she's not wearing any shorts, but I'm sure she is.  

Or maybe she's not.  Maybe there nothing under there except -

Were we talking about something?

Butts.  Laundry.  Towels and PMS.

Scully looks sad.  Time to cuddle - purely for altruistic reasons, of
course.  Abandoning the other fruitless quest - balancing my
checking account, I turn off the computer and join her on the
couch, clicking the TV on.  I pick a pair of my jeans to fold and
realize that they're in the 'already folded' pile and I just couldn't tell.  

"Did I do those wrong too?"

"Not wrong - just different."  That was my attempt at gallantry for
the day.

"So how are you doing with different?"  Scully asks, curling up
beside me and taking a sip of my tepid tea.

I sense a deeper meaning there.  Who says I have no social skills?

Damn near everyone.

Anyway, the question.  How was I doing with different?  

I don't dare say I'm disappointed; that would crush her.  And it's not
really true.  Sex is great - when we're not fighting.  Scully is great -
when she's not bitching and putting things where I can't find them
because she thinks she's supposed to be Suzy-Q-homemaker all of a
sudden.  I had to stop and buy shoes on the way to work on
Tuesday because I couldn't find any of mine.  Interrogation of my
partner later that morning revealed she gotten tired of tripping over
them and put them in the coat closet.  Who puts dress shoes in the
coat closet?   Only tennis shoes, coats, and sports equipment go in
the coat closet.  Like I would ever look there, Scully.

How was different?  It's not quite what I imagined.  Amazingly few
fireworks and lots of uncomfortable as we tried to redraw our
boundary lines.  Was I supposed to call her if I went out to shoot
hoops on Saturdays?  Did I check her messages if I got to her
apartment before she did?  Did she get my mail - was porn still 
acceptable?  It was a joke between us before; why is Penthouse 
such a sin now?  And you can't cook, Scully; please don't try.

How, in one month, did our lives get so complicated?  We've been
great together for years and now, just because we had sex, we've
managed to screw up a perfectly good friendship.

I love her with all my heart - I just feel like I've traded my best
friend Scully in for my lover Scully.  And the twenty-two hours a
day when we're not having sex, that's a bad deal at the moment.

"Mulder?"

"I love you, Scully."  Like that solves everything.

"But?"  

You feel a 'but' coming on too, Scully?

God - how do I say this?

I don't.  I just change the channel.

"I think the crocodile guy is on, Scully.  Watching him wrestle
crocs in the Outback mud always makes me feel better about my
job.  Just when I think I can't fill out any more paperwork or sit
through another meeting with Skinner, I watch him rolling around
with a modern-day dinosaur in a pond full of croc shit, and I
suddenly like my career choice much better."

"How -did- your meeting with Skinner go?"

"The same as every meeting I have with Skinner goes."  Which
meant I didn't want to talk about it.  Now or ever.  Skinner needed
to mind his own damn business and keep that mind out of my
bed.

Yeah, that's why I brought it up.  Scully's not the only
passive-aggressive one.
     
I found the croc guy, so I hit 'mute' and do my very bad Aussie
impression for her amusement.  "Look-a-here, mates.  We've found
ourselves a great big fella asleep in the sun.  Watch while I
stick my thumb up this croc's ass - that should piss him off!"

I get a smile and a soft laugh for my efforts and Scully lets the
Skinner issue drop.

Good.   

Five baby crocodiles, a tour of the rain forest, Dennis Miller, and
Jay Leno later, Scully is still too quiet.  PMS.

"How you feeling, partner?"  'Cause my hands are nice and warm if
your belly hurts.

"I'm fine, Mulder."  She snuggles closer on the couch like she could
actually crawl inside my chest and escape real life for the night. 
"Just getting used to different."

"How are you doing with different, Scully?"

"I asked you first."  
     
You are evil, woman.  

"Maybe we should count to three and say it at the same time," I tell
her.

"That's your best therapeutic technique?  Not hypnosis, not
regression, not role playing.  Count to three and blurt is the best
you can do?"  

Stalling, Scully.

I let her stall.  

I've learned one thing for certain in the last month - Scully comes
when she's ready.  I thought I could push her - but not very far and
not about what she feels.  The more you try to hurry her, the
more she retreats - whether it's an orgasm or discussing our future
together.  You give Scully what she needs and you wait for her to
come to you.  It works better that way - otherwise she's like a turtle
with no legs - yell all you want, it's still right where you left it and
now it's unwilling to come out and play.

You play the game by Scully's rules or you don't play.

Unfortunately, I've gotten used to playing by my own rules in the
last decade.  That could be the crux of the problem.

No, the crux is that it's not a game and I'm better at playing games.

"Is this what you thought it would be, Mulder?" comes a soft voice
from my shoulder, auburn hair sliding over my shirt.  

"You're asking me if I'm disappointed?  How could I ever be
disappointed?"  

Stall.  

Stall.  

Maybe I can take her to bed and make love to her and push this out
of my head until tomorrow.  I lean down to kiss her neck and she
shrugs away.

Fine.

"Do you think we're making a mistake, Scully?"

Where is that damn stapler?  How could I say that to her?

And no matter what her answer is, I'm not going to get out of
discussing this.  I'm not letting Scully and I self-destruct because of
my pride.  Because of my issues.  I'd learned my lesson - it took
getting my heart ripped out, but I learned.

I wasn't twenty-five anymore - not even thirty-five, but I hope I'm a
better man because if it.   I'd learned to focus on the big picture and
work out the details later, if the picture was right. The details were
just a little difficult right now and I kept bumping into one tree after
another in my attempt to see the forest.  That doesn't mean I'm
giving up on the forest.

I'm not sure how to explain that to Scully.

I can start by explaining how I learned it.  Tell Scully how she
ended up in the basement with Spooky Mulder - how that position
became vacant.  Tell her how I ended up with the FBI after
accepting a teaching position at Oxford.  Tell her why, except for
one weak moment, there hasn't been another woman besides her for
years.  Because I was working on the details, Scully.

I take a deep breath and open my mouth, hoping the words will just
fall out on their own again.

"Did you know I was married, Scully?"  

There - I said it.  The world is still spinning.

She is very still beside me.  I think the Earth's orbit may be getting a
bit wobbly.  

"A long time ago - not now.  I thought I was madly in love when I
was at Oxford and I married a girl I barely knew, on a whim.  I was
mostly just lonely and insecure and she was there.  And my
father -hit- the roof when I told him.  My mother wouldn't even talk
to her when we flew home for a weekend - wouldn't let my wife in
the house."

I pause to catch my breath and organize this nightmare of a
memory.  I remember how excited I was when I called my parents
to tell them; I was so proud.  I had all these dreams.  I was going to
make this work - I wasn't going to make the same mistakes they'd
made and I said so.  My father told me I'd just made the worst
mistake of my life, which I guess meant losing Samantha had
dropped to second worst on his list.

"How could your parents be so judgmental?"

"They named me 'Fox,' Scully.  I grew up with Brandons and
Buffys and lots of clothes with alligators on them.  Judgment was
served at every meal like it was a food group; I just didn't find
it an appealing dish."  

I get a nod as Scully waits for me to continue, just listening as I
relive.  It's more than just the mental image; I remember the weight
of my backpack on my shoulder as I stood there, praying my eyes
were lying to me.  I can still feel the nausea, still hear my heart
thundering as I tried to catch my breath after coming home to find
my new bride on her hands and knees begging for more while some
pasty-faced punk still wearing his combat boots fucked her.   

"I came back to our flat early and found her with an old boyfriend
she'd never told me about.  We'd been married about two months. 
And I got drunk and called my mother who called my father who
called his lawyer who had the marriage annulled before I could
blink."

I do have a point, Scully - I'm not just playing 'This is Your Life.' 
It's just an effort to get the words out; being twenty-five years old
and having Daddy clean up my mess - with a really big check for
my ex and a long lecture about which types of girls were the
marrying kind and which weren't - was not one of my prouder
memories.

"I made a mistake.  I was impulsive and I was arrogant and I should
have just walked away and called it a learning experience.  I didn't,
though.  Within a month I started seeing her again.  It just
spiraled, Scully - like some nightmare game of truth or dare that I
always lost.  She would tell me exactly what I wanted to hear - that
she loved me, that she wanted to be with me forever, and
then she'd do something deliberately designed to hurt me."
 
Like screwing my friends, my professors, and my landlord.  Like
driving even more of a wedge between me and my parents.  Like
wrecking my car and maxing out my credit cards.  Like making
me feel like I deserved all of it. 

And every time, she'd come up with some excuse - usually about
how it was my fault, and we'd end up together again.  It kept up
until it was a running joke around campus - who was next in
line to fuck my wife.  It wasn't a joke to me; it was my marriage
they were laughing at and I didn't know what to do.  I still wore my
wedding band; she didn't.  I was faithful; she wasn't.  Two can play
at that game, but she didn't seem to care.  I cared, though.  I felt
like I was failing and that made me try even harder to make her
happy and feel worse when I failed.  It was a cycle.

"I left for England a kid madly in love with my college girlfriend
and came back a man with my self-respect shot all to hell, a degree,
and a meaningless wedding ring - all in three years.  I chose
Oxford to get away from my parents and I chose the FBI to get
away from her.  Two trips across the Atlantic, but I was still
running."

There's a question I know she'd like answered: yes, I would have
stayed and played her games, Scully, but she found someone else
about the time I graduated and she told me to get lost.  Told
me it was because I had been unfaithful to her, and you know, I
believed that it was my fault.  I thought one time with my old
college girlfriend when I was home for a visit gave her the right to
take a razor blade to my soul.  Right before graduation, too - that
was the icing on the cake.  I have no memory of getting my
doctorate because I was too bombed to remember.  When I
sobered up enough to think - and it took all summer - I took the
FBI up in their offer.   

"When I joined the FBI, I let them use me the same way my wife
had.  No one cared if I had nightmares, Scully.  No one cared if I
rubbed my skin raw trying to get rid of the smell of death. 
The smell of a thousand dead little girls.  No one cared about
anything except that I produced results.  That the profiles kept
coming.  I was self-destructing and I thought I deserved it."

Self-destructing, Mulder?  What a nice way to say an insomniac,
alcoholic, womanizing, arrogant, slightly delusional workaholic. 
Tell Scully about all the letters you wrote your wife that she never
answered.  Tell her about the DUI or the assault and battery
charges that Reggie talked them into dropping for the Bureau's
golden boy.  Tell her about all the faceless women in all the places
the FBI sent you as a profiler.  Tell her it's amazing you never got
anything worse than a bad cup of coffee the next morning - if you
stuck around that long, considering those woman were willing to
have sex with a man wearing a wedding band and not ask any
questions.  

It makes me squirm and want a shower to think about how I lived
that year.   

"That changed when I met Diana.  Frohike says he told you that
story.  I know you didn't like her, Scully, but I did.  I know she had
her faults, but she was good to me - the first person that
had been good to me in years.  She got me to settle down a little, to
stop drinking and working ninety-hour weeks... and..."  I needed to
be honest with Scully.  "...and to stop prowling for any woman that
could fill that void inside me for fifteen minutes.  Diana kept me
from mentally imploding, and I'll always be grateful to her for that."

Diana also insisted I stop wearing that stupid wedding ring before
she'd go to bed with me.  She stood on the banks of the Mississippi
river and watched me throw it in to the waves, swearing I
was over my wife.  We caught the open streetcar, pawing each
other all the way back to the hotel, and that was the last I saw of
the French Quarter sky for the weekend.  Ya gotta love The Big
Easy.

I bet Scully wouldn't appreciate my sharing that memory.

"Diana and I had been living together about a year when my ex
called me from London saying she was pregnant and her new lover
had dumped her.  I have no idea if that was ever true or not, but I
fell for it.  Again.  Maybe she just had it marked on her calendar for
that week: 'screw with Fox Mulder's life.'  I wired the money and
she called back to thank me, which I didn't anticipate.  Diana
answered the phone and then took the first overseas assignment the
FBI offered her.  I didn't blame her."

Scully hasn't moved, but I could hear her brain processing.  Yes,
this was my deep, dark secret, partner.  I was through the worst
part - now for the feature presentation.

"Our Federal Government, in its infinite wisdom, assigned me an
amazing new partner who had no intention of putting up with my
brooding, egotistical,  narcissistic shit and I fell hard and fast. 
I watched her work during the day and I fantasized about her at
night in my empty apartment or hotel room.  I memorized every
detail about her - how she moved as gracefully and efficiently as a
cat, how she smelled like soft, clean skin.  She just listened to my
wild theories, patched up my wounds, and generally kept me in line. 
But since she didn't treat me like crap, I thought I couldn't possibly
be in love with her.  This woman couldn't possibly love me,
anyway.  Not really.  This was a mother-figure thing, just like
Diana, and I knew, deep down, that I never really loved Diana. 
That I just used her."
 
I stop to check to see that Scully is still awake - she tends to fall
asleep in the middle of deep discussions.  I think it's an avoidance
technique; see - I learned a thing or two at Oxford.  Scully is awake
and still watching me intently, so I continue:

"Then my ex-wife shows up, wanting to play house for the night
once she realized how much I liked my partner.  Of course, she
forgets to tell me she's already sleeping with the man she's
supposed to be protecting - little details like that always slipped her
mind.  This is just another game to her - 'Screw with Mulder's Life,
level three - the bonus round.'  I wonder now if I actually would
have done it - gotten ensnared in her web all over again.  I don't
think so."

Liar!  You would have fucked yourself senseless and you know it.

"Anyway, I had one of my many near death experiences and awoke
to find my new partner taking care of me while my ex-wife stood
across the room looking annoyed that she wasn't getting her
way.  I think it was then that she left while you stayed.  You knew
what I was planning, but you still stood by me.  I figured I must
have some redeeming value.  You trusted me, and I'll be damned if
I ever let you down again - then or now.  The rest was just details."
  
"Phoebe?" Scully asks.

"Phoebe.  I told you it took me ten years to get over her.  It took
learning how to love my best friend, and I guess, myself."      

And finally getting my head out of my ass about Phoebe, but that
didn't sound as good.

I give her some time for that to sink in.  I see the thoughts behind
her eyes: Why hadn't I told her before?  Why was I telling her now?

That's the best I can do, Scully.  I hope you understand.    

"Why did you never tell me, Mulder?"  At least she's still speaking
to me.

"Because she never seriously crossed my mind again."     

Oh, Mulder; you Romeo.  Sweet talk your lover with stories about
your ex-wife.  

"Why now?  This would not be the night to propose to me."

Good to know.  She's not getting my point.

"I know what love is - I had to learn it the hard way and I have to
work at it, but I know.  I know what commitment is, too.  I know
what's worth sacrificing for.  I may not be very good at the
details of relationships, but I get the big picture now, Scully."

"So where am I in this picture?"

"Foreground."

I'm done talking now, Scully.  Can I be excused?

"I feel like I'm not doing anything right, Mulder."

Anytime Scully starts a sentence with "I feel," she's speaking from
the heart.

"So you think this was a mistake?"  I would like to grab those
words and shove them back in my mouth before she hears them. 
What do I want her to say?  I know it's a mistake.  I wanted laid,
so I pushed Scully too fast and now we're in over our heads.  

Again, she says nothing.

"Skinner had some unsolicited advice for me today.  He
recommended I give some serious thought to what implications my
actions could have on your career in the FBI if we don't live
happily ever after.  That we better be damn certain or you could
turn into the next Bureau joke."  

Just like Diana did, but I'll leave that unsaid.   

I add that to the stew of thoughts inside that red head and let it
simmer for a while.

"And what have you come up with, Mulder?" she asks in a very tiny
voice.

"That I miss you, Scully.  I've been so busy with my new lover that
I miss my best friend.  This woman that I've been seeing - she and I
think we have to merge every aspect of our lives immediately and
we're driving each other crazy.  She sets my air conditioner on
frostbite and puts produce in my refrigerator where the diet Pepsi is
supposed to be.  I fold her clothes wrong and she folds mine wrong. 
I bring her flowers she's allergic to and missqueeze her toothpaste. 
All we ever do these days is fight.  I'm not spending my life fighting
over who gets more space on the bathroom counter; that's not
something high on my list of priorities right now.  So, screw it - I'm
going back to my best friend."

I can feel Scully drifting away from me, although she hasn't moved.  

"But - Scully?  I'd like that new lover to come visit occasionally.  
Just until my best friend and I figure out how to live under the same
roof without killing each other.  Just until we work out the details. 
Are you okay with that?"

"What's going to happen to your lover when you work out
domestic bliss with your friend?"

"Hell - I'm dumping her and marrying my best friend."

I actually got a laugh out of Scully.  When I imagined saying that
word to her, I'd envisioned kneeling and candlelight, but this was
probably much more appropriate, given that it's us. 

"You ready for bed, Mulder?"

"Always.  Well, not always anymore; I -am- pushing forty.  Just a
second."  I blink three times.  "Okay, now I'm ready."

"No more leaving the toilet seat up, Mulder.  I'm going to start
making you go back and practice putting it down," she tells me as
she leads me to my bedroom.  "No more getting my soap all
hairy or drinking the juice right out of the container."  She knows
this is the time when I'll agree to just about anything.  Scully's
pulled off my shirt and is working on my jeans as she continues,
"All porn must be hidden when my mother comes over, and always
assume my mother is coming over.  You don't need to call me every
time you step out the front door when I'm not around, and
I like getting my own mail and messages because you tend to lose
things."  
     
Me?  Me get distracted and wandering off, forgetting what I was
supposed to be doing?  Me?

Speaking of distracted - Scully isn't wearing anything besides that
t-shirt now.  And, no, her period hasn't arrived yet, although I'm
planning on conducting a thorough investigation.  I'm still
fascinated that she's a natural redhead - never been with another
one.  Never plan to be, either. This one is about all I can handle.

What were we talking about?

Don't care.

Got the rest of my life to listen to her tell me what to do, and I'll
relish every minute of it.

I think the thrill is back.  I'm not going to be boring her to sleep this
evening.

I hope.  I think my sexual prowess is at least sufficient to annoy a
woman into staying awake. 

"Goodnight, Mulder."  

It's a ritual for us - it's okay to have sex any time we like as long as
we say 'goodnight' beforehand - that makes us a normal couple. 
We've said goodnight to each other in four different time zones,
thirteen different beds, once on the kitchen counter when I got up
one night to get a drink, three times on my couch, five times on
hers, and once almost on my desk until Scully insisted I stop
because we were at work.   

We had this part of our relationship down pat.

I pause naked over her, grinning.  I swear I'll put the toilet seat
down forever if you'll just let me do one thing, Scully.  Please.  You
know what I want.

PLEEEEASE!

"Okay, but only in bed, Mulder."

"Goodnight, dear."


The end: Cycles: Rude Awakening (5/5)