He Dreams As She Sleeps
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, The X-Files and all its characters belong
to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and Fox Network. We are NOT making
any money out of this experience. In summary, no copyright infringiment is
intended. These characters I've written about also belong to David Duchovny
and Gillian Anderson, who gave them life, who gave them soul.
AUTHOR: P.Daza
EMAIL ADDRESS: xfile@skyinet.net
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT:
SPOILER WARNING: None
RATING: PG
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, The X-Files and all its characters belong
to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and Fox Network. We are NOT making
any money out of this experience. In summary, no copyright infringiment is
intended. These characters I've written about also belong to David Duchovny
and Gillian Anderson, who gave them life, who gave them soul.
-----------------------------------------------
Never has he appreciated her so much. Never has he realized how much he valued
and cherished her friendship as he does now.
Coming back from Florida, as they rode at the back of Agent Twiddle Dum and
Twiddle Dee's car, she fell asleep on his good and uninjured shoulder and he
felt a tenderness for the trusting woman slumbering at his side who, just a
few hours before that, had kept him safe from the evils that lurked in the
darkness of the forest.
When they get back to Washington, he brings her bag up to her apartment,
instead of dropping her off at the front of her building like he usually does.
Not since her cancer went into full remission has he wanted, NEEDED to show
affection, chivalry, tactility, tenderness and all the mushy stuff he so often
avoided. Because he wants her to know without him having to say that he's glad
she's back at his side.
Up at her apartment, she says nothing of his uncommon chivalry. Perhaps months
before she would have reprimanded him for treating her not as an equal, or
bluntly told him his pity wasn't necessary or welcome. That in spite of her
cancer, she was still capable of functioning. That she didn't need to be
treated like an invalid.
But she says nothing, instead gracing him with a smile of thanks, and an
invitation to dinner. Normally, he would have said no thanks. Normally, he
would assume that it was pity that instigated the invitation.
He says yes of course, because things are different. But being who he is, his
yes must be iced with humor, sexual innuendo and a charm exclusive only to
him. She chuckles delicately just as she shoves a Tupperware full of food into
his arms and orders him to heat it in the microwave.
In a span of two weeks, he has come to crave that smile. It's the same smile
she graced him when they were in the car on their way to the convention. It's
the smile that says I-find-your-wit-so-damn-charming, we're-in-this-together,
and just-a-little-more-partner. It's a look that placates the impatient little
boy in him, and the look that assures and comforts as well.
They set the table in companionable silence. She observes him through the
corner of her eye, noting that he knows where all her things are, and that he
works with efficiency and diligence. From time to time, their hands brush
against each other. Sometimes, his chest grazes her back, or their shoulders
bump, ever so slightly. Neither feels violated at the close contact. Their
personal space is as much the other's as it is theirs. But lately, she has
noted, he has been venturing in much more often now. Not that she's
complaining. Why should she, when she enjoys it and relishes it. It's yet
another benefit she would have missed if she had slipped away into the
darkness. Just as she would miss his smile full of quirk and mischief, and his
never-ending brilliance.
The microwave pings and interrupts her reverie. He strides to it and pulls out
their food and sets it on the table, bending low and sniffing at the aromas
before he sits down - only to jump up again and pull out her chair. She raises
an eyebrow at him inquisitively, expecting a snappy comeback but all he does
is shrug and grin before sitting down again.
He wolfs down the food as any man would, but she suspects nothing of what
scurries across his mind. How he feels honored that he shares this meal with
her, and that so many more meals can be shared again because she is here, in
front of him, alive. Alive, well, strong and still a part of his life. A
reminder to him of how precious she has become to him, and that nothing, as
long as his heart still beats and his soul exists will take her away.
They talk about life and death, their childhood, their beliefs and convictions
over a soda, and then wine when the soda runs out. It is nothing they don't
already know. But there is something exhilarating about being able to do it
AGAIN, after what they've been through.
Something magical.
Something cosmic.
They wash the dishes together, she soaps, he dries. Playfully, she flicks soap
suds at him, and he cracks his dishtowel within centimeters of her. They laugh
like children but stop before they explode into fits of giggles and decide to
watch TV.
Side by side they sit on her sofa. She offers him the remote, he politely
declines. She flips through the channels and settles on the Discovery Channel,
knowing that his restless mind would enjoy it.
Sure enough, his eyes glaze over and he becomes entranced with the site of
elephants mating in Africa. She, on the other hand, although interested, is
just too tired from all the travelling and hullabaloo to keep her eyes open.
It never occurs to her to send him home.
She leans her head back against the sofa, but it nods off to his shoulder. He
looks down at her, eyes closing, and unhesitatingly extends his arm and gently
pulls her head into his lap. He thanks his genes that his arms are long as he
manages to pull a small blanket from behind the sofa and spreads it out on her
sleeping form. His hand covers hers that is over her belly and decides it
would be more comfortable between her palm and waist.
When her breathing becomes deeper, he will rise quietly and gently, like a
thief in the night, and carry her to her bed. He will pull the covers under
her chin, making sure she's nice and toasty under there, and tuck a wayward
strand of hair behind her ear. Next, he will stand by the side of her bed and
watch her sleeping form, then scan the room for anything else he can do to
insure a comfortable repose. The curtains will leave their bindings, so that
not a ray of sunlight can come in, and the alarm clock will be switched off.
Lastly, he will kneel by the side of her bed and watch her porcelain-white
skin, now flushed with a tinge of pink because she is healthy for a full
minute, before kissing her gently on her forehead. His large hand will be
cupping her chin, and he will smile when she smiles as her subconscious feels
his warm breath on her skin.
He will leave the room because he must. He is not her lover, just her partner.
There will be a little reluctance - he wishes he had the right to feel more -
and shut the door behind him, then switch off the TV and a few of her lights.
When he gets back to his own apartment, he will remove his shirt and jeans and
lies down in his couch and say a little prayer. He will ask the forces above
to give him sweet dreams tonight, and the forces, albeit a little prankish,
bequeath him with monsters, mobs and mad scientists before bestowing him with
her in his arms, in a dance with Dana Scully.
--------------
The End
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