TITLE: Waking In Fere (1/1)
AUTHOR: Zephathah
E-MAIL ADDRESS: zephathah@yahoo.com
RATING: PG
CATEGORY: V
KEYWORDS: M/S friendship, UST (at my beta's insistence :)
SPOILERS: nada
SUMMARY: Scully wakes up to find Mulder in her bed.
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere (lemme know, tho?)
DISCLAIMER: No sirree, they don't belong to me.
FEEDBACK: Would make my day. Send to zephathah@yahoo.com
NOTES: This is a sequel to Breathing In Time.
No, 'Fere' isn't a typo - c'mon, give that dictionary a
workout!
Many thanks to my beta reader and virtual guru, Shoshana.
Waking In Fere
by Zephathah
Something in the air lets me know I've overslept. The quality of
light seeping through my eyelids, the slightly warmer temperature of
mid-morning, the completely rested feeling that means I've slept more
than my usual six or seven hours. I know I should get up. But I feel
so *good*; cozy and comfortable and safe from the world. I don't want
to think about the hectic day I'm sure is waiting for me.
I was so tired last night that I fell asleep almost before my head hit
the pillow, and my sleep was deep and dreamless. Right now, in my
current state of half-awake, half-asleep, I want nothing more than to
fall right back down that well of unconsciousness. But the irritating
voice of responsibility is fully awake and nagging me to get my ass in
gear. I would groan if it wasn't so much effort.
Instead, I try to burrow deeper into my pillow and hide under the
covers. It's when I press my face more firmly into the pillow that I
realize my pillow is not, in fact, a pillow.
I refuse to face the day by opening my eyes, so I feel around a bit
with my nose.
No, this is definitely *not* a pillow.
It feels suspiciously like someone's shoulder. I've slept on enough
shoulders to tell the difference between that and a pillow. But as
far as I know, I haven't been sleeping on anyone's shoulder lately. I
think I'd remember such a thing. Besides, with my life, who's
shoulder would I possibly sleep on? Mulder's?
... MULDER'S??
I take a quick sniff of the shoulder-cum-pillow under my head to
confirm my suspicions. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Dana Scully has
been sleeping on Fox Mulder's shoulder. Her partner's shoulder. Her
partner's *bare* shoulder. Which also happens to be very warm, very
soft, and really quite comfortable.
I'm sure an explanation for this will come to me momentarily. I
clearly recall going to bed alone last night. Mulder does *not* make
any appearance in that memory. How, then, did he end up in my bed?
Or, wait, am *I* in *his* bed?
No, couldn't be-
Mulder shifts in his sleep, and my thoughts freeze in their tracks
before speeding down another path. Is he waking up? Is he already
awake? Does he know I'm awake?
No, I don't think he's aware yet. His breathing is slow and steady,
with a light snore every once in a while.
Breathing.
Now I remember... I - we - are in *my* bed, because in the middle of
the night Mulder came in to check on my breathing, and he fell asleep
on the bed. I have a fuzzy recollection of tugging down the covers so
he could warm up by getting under them. Of course, men never seem to
get as cold as I tend to. But he'd probably had one of his nightmares
before coming in here, and he looked so vulnerable, lying there half-
naked.
Oh God. He is only *half*-naked, right?
My hand subtly wanders from where it's been resting on his ribcage
downward toward his waist. I hit the soft waistband of his pants and
can't decide whether I'm relieved or disappointed. My brain kicks in,
and I realize I can feel soft flannel against the smoothness of my
legs.
So we've established the parameters of the situation. I am lying
fully clothed (well, pajama-ed) in bed with my half-clothed partner,
who apparently had a humdinger of a nightmare, one that most likely
involved me being dead, abducted, or the subject of some sort of
general nastiness.
He used to mostly dream about Samantha. Now the worst ones are
always about me.
But at least he's sleeping soundly now.
Even as I think that, though, I feel him start to stir. I finally
open my eyes and prop myself up on my elbow to watch him as he wakes.
His arm squeezes me, tightening around my waist to draw me closer to
him, and I gasp as his hip presses between my legs. My eyes close at
the sudden intensity of the sensation, and when I open them, Mulder's
looking at me with a guilty and slightly bashful expression on his
face.
"Sorry," he mumbles with a weak smile.
"No problem." Recovering, I shrug and give him a wicked little grin.
"What do you think I'd find if I took a look under the covers?"
He actually looks embarrassed, and I almost have to laugh out loud. I
put my hand on his chest and rest my head on it.
"So, Mulder, what brings you to my bed this fine morning?"
Oh dear, now he's blushing and stammering and avoiding my eyes. I
lift my head and slap my hand against his chest to grab his focus; I'm
gratified by how quickly his eyes snap to attention.
"Mulder, it's ok. I'm not upset," I tell him sternly.
He looks away for a moment, then gives me another squeeze - a light
one, this time. "Thank you," he says seriously.
"Hey, that's what partners are for," I say with a smile, hoping to
lighten his mood.
He snorts and replies, "Somehow I don't think letting your partner
crawl into your bed after a nightmare is listed as an official duty of
a Special Agent."
"Since when do we go by the book?" I ask with a raised eyebrow. I'm
surprised he brought up the nightmare; he doesn't usually want to talk
about having them. Reaching up to touch his morning stubble, I take a
chance and ask, "Do you want to tell me about it?"
He stares at me for a moment, his face a blank mask. I wonder if
he'll answer, but then he puts the back of his hand below my ribs and
holds it there for a moment before saying, "You couldn't breathe." He
pauses, finding the words to explain the dream to me.
"You couldn't breathe," he finally repeats. "You were dying, and you
couldn't get any air. I couldn't touch you; all I could do was watch
you, struggling to breathe. And I knew if you stopped breathing..."
His voice trails off, but I know how the sentence ends. If I stopped
breathing, so would he.
I wonder at myself, that I shoulder this responsibility for both our
lives without complaint. That's what partners are for. Well, that's
what *I* am for, with Mulder.
I caress his cheek lightly with my fingers before sitting up in bed to
stretch, arms above my head. I can feel Mulder's eyes on my back.
Without turning around to look at him, I give him a slap on the leg
and tell him, "Come on, partner, it's time to get moving."
I'm pulling my legs out of the covers when I feel his hand on the
small of my back. Now I do turn around, with a question on my face.
"Thanks, Scully," he says solemnly. "Thanks for being my
partner."
"You're welcome." I match his intent tone, but then turn mock-stern.
"Now don't get maudlin on me, Mulder; we've got work to do."
He smiles at me, finally, his first real smile of the morning. "Yes,
ma'am."
********
It's been another long day, but tonight we stopped for dinner before
heading back to the motel. Mulder follows me into my room and enters
his through the adjoining door. The evening has been quiet.
Conversation was light over dinner; both of us were lost in our
thoughts. Despite the energy this case requires, it wasn't work that
was on my mind then, and it isn't work that's on my mind now, as I
shed my suit and pull on more comfortable clothing.
When I'd awakened this morning to find Mulder in my bed, I hadn't been
too concerned with the consequences of the situation. He needed me; I
was there for him. We've seen each other in every condition
conceivable, comforted each other, cared for each other. It's what we
do. We've been together for almost seven years now. The only people
still in my life who I've known longer than Mulder are my family
members - and I spend more time with Mulder than I ever spent with
anyone in my family.
To just say we work together doesn't cover it by half. The FBI chose
well with the term 'partner'. That's what we are - partners, not co-
workers. And we're also friends. But we still have to work together
every day. I'm getting a headache trying to untangle this. Where is
the line between our personal and professional lives?
I'm honest enough with myself - and I know Mulder well enough - to
admit that our feelings for each other are stronger and deeper than
between most FBI partners. How far can we go before it affects how we
work together? This morning- this morning felt good. I want to be
there for Mulder, however he needs me, in the same way I know he is
there for me. But sharing a bed with your partner is most definitely
*not* standard operating procedure.
How far do our feelings go? And what are we going to do about them?
I think Mulder would agree with me that a romantic, sexual
relationship is not what we need right now. Sometimes I want him so
badly it hurts - I'm not blind, and I've already as much admitted that
I love him. Then there's the matter of how long it's been since my
last sexual encounter that involved more than myself.
But our lives are not entirely our own - and there's more to the issue
than our feelings for each other. Neither of us would be happy
settling down to a 'normal' life, and neither of us is willing to risk
the partnership we have now.
So where does all this introspection leave me?
I still don't know.
Alright then, what do I know?
We work together.
We're partners.
We're friends.
We can be all of the above with no stress, no complications.
Then let's leave it there - partners and friends.
Where does this morning fit? Partners take care of each other;
friends can maybe go farther than that. Friends can be close. Very
close. Physically close. Therefore, there is no reason for this
morning to add any stress or complications to our lives.
Friends can hang out, spend quality time together, touch each other
without having to think about what it means.
Friends don't need to spend the evening sitting alone in their motel
rooms.
With this thought, I pull on my old Academy sweatshirt and head for
the adjoining door. I can hear the buzz of Mulder's television and
the cracking of sunflower seeds. I knock lightly on the door, then
push it open and lean in.
Mulder is stretched out on the bed, leaning against the headboard with
his arm behind a pillow, cushioning his head and shoulders. He looks
up when I enter.
"Scully? Is something wrong?"
Why does something have to be wrong? "No," I answer, shaking my head
as I walk to the bed and sit down next to him, using the other pillow
for my back. He's been watching a movie, and after a minute I
recognize it as 'The Blues Brothers'.
I know he's still looking at me, and I'm sure if I turn to face him
I'll see something rare and special - Mulder, at a loss for words.
But I don't turn. I smile my little Mona Lisa smile and keep my eyes
on the screen.
He recovers after a moment, and a little red bag of sunflower seeds
appears in my field of vision.
"Seed?" he offers politely.
"Sure." His hand jerks a little, as if he hadn't been expecting me to
take him up on it. I take some seeds out of the bag and make a pouch
out of the bottom of my sweatshirt to hold them.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the movie and eating our
sunflower seeds. I feel him gradually relax next to me, and when I
reach for more seeds he doesn't even flinch.
"Didn't know you were a fan of the classics, Scully," he says sometime
later, leaning up toward me companionably.
"It's my best friend from high school's fault. He had two golden
retrievers named Jake and Elwood."
He chuckles, a low, pleasant sound. "Sounds like a good man."
"I've always had good taste in best friends," I say, looking down at
him.
We consider each other, both smiling softly. I move over, and he
rests his head against my side as I put my arm around his other
shoulder.
The movie has a while to go, and it's been a tiring day. Maybe I'll
try to stay up for the whole thing and then go back to my own bed. Or
maybe I won't worry about it, and if I fall asleep in the middle,
well... at least I'll be close by when Mulder needs to check my
breathing.
fin
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