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From: Paige Caldwell
Title: Dream Within a Dream
Author: Paige Caldwell
Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com
Classification: MSR, X, S
Rating: R
Spoilers: Through "One Son"
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. No infringement is
intended.
Summary: Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?
Author's Notes: My many thanks to Kimberly at Clinique's Hidden Gems whose
kind support and encouragement is the true "gem" in my book.
Archive: Please do, just drop me a line to tell me where.
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow -
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe
"What is the true significance of dreams?"
Oh God...he's about to launch into another incessant, banal
narration, Scully thought grimly, as she gingerly rubbed the side
of her temple with her index finger.
The threatened dissertation could not have come at a worst
time. She was battling a tension headache, the type that stole
up the neck and toyed around in one's head until it settled into
it's prime location. It had found hers. She reached up to flip
the visor down to shield her strained eyes from the late
afternoon sun.
They were weaving their way through the Virginia countryside
on their way back to D.C. Mulder had taken one of his infamous
shortcuts that seemed to lead nowhere fast. A small grimace
formed on her lips as they passed the first intersection in
miles. That was, of course, if a dirt road marked "Bob's Road"
could qualify as an intersection.
They were lost. She was sure of it.
She edged closer towards the car door as he droned on,
trying to shut out the sound of his words, the sound of him...
"Why are dreams so easily dismissed as useless imaginings of
subconscious mind?" Mulder considered, tapping his finger on the
steering wheel, as if he was in tempo with the beat of his own
thoughts. "In some instances, they are precognitive, a
foreshadowing of events to come. Like deja'vu, a sensation
realized, but not fully accepted. Too mysterious and threatening
to be taken seriously. Yet, if you take away the mystery, dreams
are instructive."
Who gives a shit? Scully exhaled slowly as she closed her
eyes.
Mulder paused, as if he was allowing a discrete amount of
time for her to respond. When she didn't, he shifted his opinion
into overdrive as his foot accelerated on the gas pedal. Her
hand instinctively fell down to clutch the door as the road
curved to the right.
"It's almost like one's mind is unconsciously sifting and
sorting through possibilities that aren't constrained by rational
thought. Dreams battle for our attention, Scully. If we only
paid a bit closer attention, I think we'd learn alot from them."
You should pay a bit closer attention to your driving, her
mind jeered back.
Her left eye cracked open to peer over at her partner. He
was restless today. Since they had lost the X-files, his moods
spiraled like the colors of a dark hued kaleidoscope. From bored
to sullen to a frenzied agitation. It was unnerving. Her
complacency only seemed to goad him more. He either wanted her
to feel as miserable as he did, or he sought intellectual
stimulation from the only source left available to him. Whatever
the reason, his shifting demeanor was driving her crazy. One
minute, she was left with the impression that he vaguely
tolerated her. The next, she was the primary focus of his
attention, a soon-to-be casualty of ludicrous rhetoric that made
her jaw ache from grinding her teeth.
No wonder she had tension headaches.
Scully squirmed uncomfortably in the passenger seat. The
pull of the car on the narrow curve of the road made her uneasy.
"Slow down," she cautioned.
"I'm not even going the speed limit," Mulder protested.
There was an unmistaken edge to his voice.
She opened her mouth to speak, but changed her mind and
closed it. She knew better.
"Do you dream, Scully?"
"Nope."
"Sure you do," He was not to be deterred by her abruptness.
"What does that prudent, compartmentalized brain of yours dream
of by night?"
That's right...tempt me with insults, she thought in
annoyance.
She twisted around in her seat to search for her purse.
"Come on, Scully, if you tell me yours, I'll tell you mine."
His innuendo fell flat on her ears.
"One little dream, Scully. Surely not a high price to pay
to gain entrance into the inner circle of my psyche?"
As if I'm interested in the ravings of a madman, she mused
as she rummaged through her purse.
"Out with it." His voice was demanding.
"Okay, fine," she finally answered. "At this moment, I'm
dreaming of a cold glass of water and two Advil."
Her fingers closed around the bottle of pills. For a moment
she debated swallowing them dry. It wasn't a pleasant thought.
Mulder's took his eyes off the road to glance at her. She
saw the rancor in his eyes, as if he perceived her need for pain
medication as a personal attack. His response was equally
biting.
"Well, we're about to pass a nice, clear lake, if you don't
mind lapping..."
"Mulder, watch out!" she cried suddenly.
From the side of road, a deer darted in front of the path of
the car. Mulder slammed the brakes and jerked the wheel to avoid
a head on collision. He battled for control of the car as it
spun off the road. The tires screeched loudly as the car plunged
down the slope of the embankment. Low lying branches and bushes
whipped against the windshield as the car careened through the
underbrush. His arm flew up to shield her as the front end of
the car grazed the side of a tree.
Did she lose consciousness? She wasn't sure. As her vision
cleared, she found staring at her hands which were lying limply
in her lap. It was then that she felt the car slip. The impact
against the tree had spun the car around, continuing it backwards
down the incline towards the lake.
"Oh my God," she cried out. She felt the back end of the
car rise up for a split second as it entered the water.
"Oh my God..."
She was seized by overwhelming panic. Her hands flew to the
dashboard as the car lurched to one side then another as it began
to submerge under the water. Her fingers fumbled with the latch
of her safety belt. The collision had locked it tightly against
her chest. It refused to give an inch, pinning her in her seat.
She was trapped.
"Mulder!" she screamed, turning towards him. He was slumped
forwards, his head resting against the steering wheel.
He was unconscious. Straining against the iron grip of the
seat belt, she pulled him back. It was then that she saw the
blood. His blood. Smeared over the steering wheel, coursing
down the side of his face from a laceration that sliced across
his hairline.
"Mulder!" Scully shook him roughly, sheer terror outweighing
her concern for him. He remained limp, the collar of his shirt
turning crimson as it absorbed his blood. Her hand instinctively
applied pressure to the cut as her eyes scanned the interior of
the car. Water was gushing in from the bottom and streaming down
the insides of both doors.
As the water flooded around her legs, she tugged again at
the seat belt. When it refused to budge, she opened the glove
compartment to search for anything that might pry it open.
Nothing...there was nothing.
As the cold water reached her waist, she began to violently
writhe against the unyielding restraint.
"Please, God, please...." her breath came out in short,
contorted breaths. She was beginning to hyperventilate. The air
was swiftly becoming dank and oppressive. Her vision became
distorted, almost dazed as she stared out the window at what was
to become their watery grave.
"Mulder," she whimpered then. Her trembling hand closed
around his. Already the touch of his skin was cold. She jerked
her hand back. Had the water chilled him or... Her fingers
quickly closed around his wrist, searching for a pulse. When she
was unable to find one, she began to sob.
"No..."
It was at that point that she woke from the dream.
Thrashing wildly in her bed, she had managed to twist the sheets
around her legs, imprisoning herself. For a moment, she froze,
paralyzed by the terrified images and the frantic beating of her
heart.
A dream. A nightmare...the worst she had experienced in a
long time. It was the type of dream that competed with reality,
so detailed and lucid that it still lingered in her mind. She
was not a stranger to dreams, both good and bad, but this one had
been different. It had been devoid of nonsensical features or
rapid transition that were typical of her dreams.
She disentangled herself from the sheets and swung her legs
off the side of the bed. Cupping her throbbing head, she exhaled
slowly. It was then that she noticed that the silk pajamas she
wore were damp and clinging to her skin.
A cold sweat, she rationalized quickly. Nothing more.
Scully staggered from the bed to the bathroom. She flipped
on the light and opened the vanity mirror in search of her bottle
of Advil. Her bare feet shifted against the icy tile as she
grappled with the safety lid. As her thumb pressed the arrows
together, she swore under her breath.
Shit, of all times for the cap to refuse to budge.
Irritated, she slammed the vanity shut. It was then that
she saw his reflection in the mirror.
Bleeding. He was staring at her, his eyes dark and
terrified. Blood seeped down both sides of his face.
"Mulder," she cried out in alarm, whirling around.
He wasn't there.
The bottle of Advil dropped from her hands. As it hit the
floor, the lid popped off and spilled pills across the tiles.
Scully shivered involuntarily as she lowered herself to the
floor. She wasn't superstitious, but the haunting image of his
face completely unnerved her. She retrieved the pills and tossed
them into the waste basket. Taking two from the bottle, she
leaned over the sink and cupped her hand under the faucet.
"Well, we're about to pass a nice, clear lake, if you don't
mind lapping..."
She stared at the water in her hand as it began to trickle
through her fingers. This is crazy, she thought, forcing the
pills into her mouth. As she tried to gulp them down, she choked
on the water which had somehow threaded into her lungs.
Coughing, sputtering, she grasped the side of the sink and
spat out the Advil. Her eyes glazed over with hot tears as she
gagged spasmodically, the acid of her empty stomach rising to
scald her throat. Pressing a hand towel to her mouth, she
stumbled back to her bed where she curled up in agony until the
nausea passed.
God, this was awful. Was she getting sick? Not only would
it explain the piercing headache, but also the harrowing dream.
She glanced at the clock. It was a little past four a.m. She
was scheduled to perform an autopsy later that morning on a case
that Mulder had stuck his big nose into. Without authorization
from Kersch, without consulting her, he had maneuvered them into
another agent's investigation. A inquiry into a mysterious death
that could possibly be linked to the paranormal.
A moment later, Scully was dialing his number from the phone
on her nightstand. The autopsy would have to wait. She didn't
care that she was going to wake him. It would serve him right
for volunteering her services in the first place.
A metallic recording filled her ears.
"We're sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in
service at this time."
She ran a hand through her hair. Redialing, she paused when
the message played again.
Typical. So typical of him. Probably forgot to pay his
phone bill this month.
By eight a.m., Scully was standing outside his apartment,
pounding on the door. In her left hand was her cell phone which
she had rhythmically dialed over the last hour in an attempt to
reach him. Her level of discomfort had magnified to an acute
state of trepidation. She needed to see him, to hear his voice,
even if it meant suffering a round of his derisive needling when
he realized how paranoid she had become.
When Mulder answered the door, he was still half asleep.
Clad in sweat pants and a t-shirt, he stared at her in numbed
confusion. Passing his hand over his eyes, he cleared his throat
and asked in a grumbling voice,
"Dr. Scully, what are you doing here?"
"You turned off your cell phone, Mulder," she accused.
"Yeah..." he shrugged indifferently.
"I've been trying to call you for hours," advised Scully.
"And, it seems that your home number has been disconnected."
"It has?" Mulder scratched his forehead. "Wait. I don't
remember giving you my home telephone number. In fact, I know I
didn't. Nor, did I give you my address."
"What?"
"Fox," a distinct female voice could be heard behind him.
"Who is it?"
"It's the forensic pathologist I was telling you about,"
Mulder called back. "The one who agreed to do the autopsy for
us."
Scully staggered back a few steps. A cry of anguish and
indignation surged through her, booming in her mind but
fortunately falling silent against her lips. The only noise that
came from her was a barely discernable gasp as she stared at him
in disbelief.
They were lovers. Her worst nightmare was unfolding before
her eyes.
"And, I thought the days of doctors making house calls were
long past..." Diana Fowley smiled as she joined Mulder at the
door.
Scully caught a quick glance at Fowley, her tall, slender
body outlined in a black satin robe. How appropriate, she
reflected with sudden cynicism. A black widow spider, spinning
her gossamer web of lies, luring her prey with promises of
rekindled love and shared convictions.
Scully quickly averted her gaze so they would not see the
humiliation that filled her eyes with tears. She blinked them
back in a desperate attempt to compose herself.
"Fox, don't just stand there," Fowley admonished him gently.
"Invite Dr. Scully in. I'll pour her a cup of coffee and the
three of us can discuss the pending autopsy."
The three of us...a triangle that she had no intention of
participating in. As Fowley moved away from the door, Scully's
eyes flew up to Mulders. He stood there, nonchalantly, as if the
startling discovery should have be no revelation at all. With
one look, she knew her eyes revealed the depth of her reaction.
Disbelief, revulsion and finally, heartbreak. His eyes flinched,
then met hers again with an abstract curiosity.
Without a word, she backed away from the door and turned to
leave.
"Dr. Scully..." Mulder called after her.
She did not stop. At the end of the hall, she punched the
elevator button. She found herself panting, laboring to breathe
under a weight so heavy that it crushed her chest. For a moment,
she thought she was going to pass out. Her hands flew out to the
wall to brace herself.
"Dr. Scully," Mulder was behind her, reaching out to touch
her arm. "Are you alright?"
His touch was like ice. She wrenched her arm away, pinning
her clenched fist against her waist. Anger sizzled through her.
She inhaled sharply, expanding her lungs and filling them with
air.
"Find someone else to do your autopsy, Mulder."
"But, you agreed..."
"And, why you're at it, find yourself a new partner."
"Why would I do that? Diana's been with me for years."
"I'm sure she has," sneered Scully.
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Mulder.
The doors to the elevator opened. Scully stormed inside and
smacked the first floor button. Before she could stop him, Mulder
squeezed his body through the closing door. He flipped a switch
which jerked the elevator to a stop, trapping them inside.
"I think I deserve an explanation," he demanded.
"The only thing you deserve is my contempt," snapped Scully
as she reached out for the button on the panel.
"Wait," Mulder warned her, his fingers closing around her
wrist. They were like a vice, cold and unflinching. "You agreed
to help me, Dr. Scully. Every other pathologist at the Bureau
scoffs at the X-files. You're the only one who has been willing
to give me the benefit of doubt."
"Right now you should be grateful that I'm not giving you
the back of my hand," Scully retorted. "To think that you
qualify me as nothing other than some accommodating pathologist,
that you are capable of dismissing everything that we've been
through and everything that we've meant to each other."
He looked puzzled.
How dare he look puzzled.
"Okay," he drew out the word as if he was attempting to
comprehend the meaning of her last remark. "You're going to have
to help me out on this one."
"Not this time, Mulder. Not any more." She condemned him.
"It stops here. It stops now."
"Why are acting like I've somehow betrayed you?"
"Because you have."
"Are you implying that you and I had some type of personal
relationship?"
His look of genuine surprise was the worst betrayal of all.
"If you have to ask that question then I guess we didn't."
She tried not to sound as devastated as she felt.
"But, you thought we did," Mulder paused and studied her
face closely. "Has something happened to you, Dr. Scully? Have
you suffered some type of recent trauma that might have distorted
your memory?"
"No," she stopped suddenly, remembering the horrifying
dream. She shook her head emphatically, repeating to herself.
"No."
"I think one of us has rewritten history here." Mulder
hinted.
Oh my God...
Scully's eyes froze on him as she began to sift and sort
through possibilities that were no longer constrained by rational
thought.
"Mulder, when you look at me, who do you see?"
"I see Dana Scully, a forensic pathologist with the Bureau.
A very astute and discerning scientist, although unappreciated by
her peers and largely ignored. That's what drew me to you in the
first place. To offer you a chance the distinction you deserved.
And, you agreed. You've assisted Diana and I on a number of our
cases in the past."
"You and Fowley..." her voice broke at the mere mention of
the woman. "Look, I don't know what's going on here, This is
more than bizarre. It's...it's like a bad dream that I can't wake
up from."
Scully circled the elevator, debating alternatives that were
no longer fantastic but plausible.
"She must have done something to you, Mulder. Given you
something to make you forget..."
"Listen, I know someone who might be able to help you."
"I think not," Scully bristled at his offer. "I'm not the
one who is delusional."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because unlike you, my prudent, compartmentalized mind is
not the type to take flights of fancy."
"I hate to offend you, Dr. Scully, but I think one of those
compartments has sprung a leak."
Suddenly, the elevator lunged forward and began its descent
to the first floor. Startled, Scully grabbed his arm and began
to shake it.
"Mulder," she cried out urgently.
"What it is?" He leaned his head forward so that it was
inches away from her face.
"I..." Scully started to speak. For a moment, she was
overwhelmed by a flooding panic, as if the four walls of the
elevator were closing in on her. She was suffocating. Gasping
uncontrollably, she stumbled back from him. When her back hit
the wall of the elevator, she twisted around and groped along it
with her hands, seeking an escape.
"Scully..." She could hear his voice, but could not answer.
Suddenly, the elevator door opened. The light from the
hallway flashed inside, slicing through her terror. She pushed
towards it, squirming away from hands that tried to restrain her,
refusing to listen to the voice that kept repeating her name.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand -
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep - while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God? can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Back at her apartment, Scully slammed the door and tried to
strip off her jacket. It was pasted to her shirt. She was
soaked from the steady rain that had followed her home. She
tugged at the sleeves, tried wriggling her right shoulder loose,
but could not free herself from it.
Proof. She needed proof. Not only for him, but for
herself.
She ignored the discomfort of her sodden clothes and clammy,
goosebumped flesh as she crossed over to her computer. She
flipped on the monitor and booted the hard drive. Her finger
impatiently tapped the mouse as she waited for the program
manager to appear on the screen.
Proof. She had years of proof. A chronology of field notes
and reports that evidenced not only her role in the X-files, but
their partnership. She knew it would be simpler to make a round
of telephone calls to Skinner, the Gunmen and a number of others
who could validate that Mulder's memory had been distorted. For
now, she was reluctant to involve anyone else. Past experiences
had taught her to be circumspect.
Scully smoothed her wet auburn hair over her ears and
studied the screen. It was all there, sorted chronologically by
date. She began with the first entry in 1993. She leaned over
to her printer and turned it on.
Proof. Thank God she had prudently saved her reports and
compartmentalized them on her computer.
Suddenly, she blinked unsteadily and reached for her
glasses. Peering closer, she discovered an autopsy report or
rather notes on an autopsy that she had witnessed as a junior
pathologist with the Bureau. Training notes.
What the hell?
Training notes. The year 1993 was filled with training
notes. She weaved her way through the subsequent years, reading
each entry, following the chronology of her career.
Her career...her job as a forensic pathologist.
No aliens, no government conspiracies, no blood sucking
vampires, no ghosts, no flukeworms...
History had not been rewritten by Mulder, but by her. The
truth coldly glared at her from the computer screen. Page after
page of incessant, banal narration...of autopsies...of forensic
testing...the daily routine of her insipid life.
Had she imagined it all? Had her role in the X-files been a
long, continuous dream, a fantasy she played out in her mind to
compensate for a stagnant career and an overwhelming sense of
loneliness?
Oh my God...Oh my God....
What had happened to her that she had fallen victim to such
madness? Had it been some trauma? Some pathetic attempt on her
part to gloss over an existence that had become hopeless and full
of despair? Was it the cancer? Had it wreaked as much damage on
her mind as it had her body?
The cancer...it was there...in both worlds...the real one
and the make-believe...
Who was it that said that disease did not dull the senses,
but sharpen them?
She realized then what she had done. She had taken threads
of the truth and weaved a tapestry of a fictitious life. An
imaginary tale where she was the poignant heroine in a never
ending battle of good versus evil. She had created her hero in
the image of what she wanted him to be. Witty, audacious and
trusting only of her. A man who not only challenged her
intellect, but played her heartstrings like a virtuoso. No wonder
they had never consummated the relationship. It was the tension
that kept the story exciting.
Except now, the dream was closing in on her. The truth was
suffocating the illusion. She was drowning in the realization of
her own obscurity.
Scully wrenched her glasses off and threw them across the
computer table. She buried her face in her hands and began to
weep.
She woke to the sensation of being pushed up against a hard
substance. Her head was tilted back and her mouth open as she
gasped for air. She writhed against the pull of the water, making
small, spasmodic motions with her hands. Her nails grazed the
felt material of the roof of the car which was inches away from
her face.
She was dreaming again. It was to be the final chapter.
She knew that her mind was poised on the brink of insanity. The
only way to stop the madness was to asphyxiate it, once and for
all.
Slowly, she submerged her face into the dark pool. She felt
no fear. She would breathe in the water, allow it to pour down
her trachea and fill her lungs. The first phase of drowning was
painful, sharp enough to forever shake her from the dementia her
subconscious had created.
Suddenly, she felt a hand roughly yank at her seatbelt. It
tore at the restraint with such a force that even under water,
she was propelled towards the dashboard. Another hand joined the
first, tugging her across the driver's seat to where the door had
been kicked open.
Mulder. He was dragging her out of the car, pulling her
with him as he swam towards the surface of the lake.
No, her mind screamed in agony. It had to stop. He wasn't
rescuing her. He was condemning her to a fate worse than death,
imprisoning her within a dream that would never end.
Scully began to fight back. His grip around her waist
tightened. She opened her mouth to shriek only to have water
rush in. A sharp pain pierced through her lungs. It was more
excruciating than she imagined. How could a dream be so
physically painful? Her arms fell limply to her side as the
beating of her heart slowed. Her vision began to cloud over.
The pupils of her eyes dilated and fixed on the light that shone
above her through the murky, grey water.
She woke up on the floor of her livingroom. The lamp by her
sofa was not only bright, but as warm as the afternoon sun. She
tried to close her eyes. She was so weak that even this small
effort seemed impossible.
The feel of her carpet was gritty. She should really vacuum
it later.
Suddenly, he was there. Mulder. Leaning over her,
straddling her body, his hands rhythmically pumping her chest.
His lips pushed hers open. When he tried to force air into her,
she tried to spit it back. She wanted nothing to do with this
Mulder. The Mulder who belonged to someone else.
"Breathe, damn it," he bellowed. His clenched hands
pummeled so hard against her chest that she thought a rib might
crack.
"Don't you do this, Scully," he pleaded in a tight,
desperate voice. "Don't you leave me."
How could she leave someone who wasn't hers to begin with?
Was he sweating or was he crying? Whatever the liquid was,
it was dripping onto her face and coursing its way between her
numbed lips. The taste of it was salty and warm against her
tongue.
It was blood. His blood. He was staring down at her. His
eyes were dark and terrified, as blood trailed down both sides of
his face.
Suddenly, her mind recoiled and snapped back into place.
The dream within the dream was converged and melded into one
reality.
"It's almost like one's mind is unconsciously sifting and
sorting through possibilities that aren't constrained by rational
thought..."
Oh my God...
"Dreams battle for our attention, Scully. If we only paid a
bit closer attention, I think we'd learn alot from them."
Mulder, help me...the scream tore from her soul.
His mouth covered hers again. This time she inhaled his
breath, willed her lungs to receive the oxygen. She began to
choke. She struggled to expel the water from her airway. She
felt him turn her head to the side as the water surged from her
mouth and onto her livingroom rug.
No...not a rug and not her livingroom. She was laying on
the bank by the lake.
The lake she had almost drowned in.
"That's it, baby, breathe," she heard him encourage her.
Baby...he had called her baby. This had to be real. Even
in her wildest dreams, the closest term of endearment he had ever
used was her first name.
"Mulder..."
The dream was over.
Both were released from the hospital two days later. She,
with the discharge instructions of follow-up respiratory therapy
and he, with post-concussion and suture guidelines. He drove her
back to her apartment, carefully monitoring his speed, keeping
his eyes fixed on the road and applying the brakes way ahead of
every traffic light. When they arrived at her building, he
quickly came around to her door and opened it.
When was the last time he had done that?
Once inside her apartment, he stood by her door. He shifted
back and forth on his feet. The expression on his face confirmed
what she suspected. He did not wear guilt well.
"Mulder, come here." Scully beckoned him to her sofa. "Sit
down a minute."
"You want to talk," he said, nodding to himself. She saw
the dread in his hazel eyes and realized that he was expecting a
reprimand for what he perceived to be unforgivable carelessness.
She knew he blamed himself for the accident. She also knew that
he would immerse himself into a pool of self-condemnation, deeper
and more treacherous than the lake they had escaped. She did not
want that for him. She did not want that for them.
"I want to check your dressing," she told him calmly as he
sat down. She angled herself over him and gently peeled back the
tape which held the bandage.
Suddenly, her fingers froze against his forehead. Once
again, she was deluding herself, pretending to be concerned over
bandages when all she wanted was to touch him.
"No," she said, smoothing the tape back into place. "You're
dressing is fine. I don't need to check it."
"I don't understand," replied Mulder.
"I know," she nodded sympathetically. "I've become very
good at hiding my feelings. Even from myself."
"You're tired of me." Mulder clenched his teeth. There was
a flash of anguish in his eyes. "I've seen it coming for months.
You regret your decision to stay with the Bureau, to stay with
me."
"The only thing I regret is my complacency," Scully
responded as she sat down next to him.
"Your complacency?"
"Do you remember our conversation about dreams?" she asked.
"I remember babbling on about some ridiculous theory just
before I almost drowned us both."
"It wasn't ridiculous," she asserted, taking his hand into
her own. "Mulder, do you want to know what I dream about?"
His gaze dropped down to the fingers that twined around his.
"I dream of you," she murmured softly.
His eyes shot up to hers. In them, she saw doubt.
Proof. He needed proof. But, she was capable of it now.
As terrifying as the dream had been, it had released her. It had
flung open every door to her prudent and compartmentalized mind,
allowing feelings to rush forth and be spoken.
"I am in love with you," Scully admitted in a strong,
certain voice.
Mulder drew in his breath. He untangled his fingers from
hers so that both hands might cup her face. He drew her so close
that she could see the reflection of her eyes in his.
"I should have been the first one to say it." He gave her
an apologetic grin.
"Well, you can always be the first one to show it," she
suggested.
His mouth lowered to hers. His kiss was soft and warm,
just as she imagined it to be. When his lips parted hers, she
knew that her dreams would pale in comparison to this reality.
The last fragments of her imagination faded with each passing
moment, with each piece of clothing that floated to the floor.
As he lowered his body onto hers, she glanced into his face and
saw the vision she was waiting for.
The brooding, agitated look had forever passed from his
eyes.
Feedback is most graciously accepted. Please e-mail me at
paigecaldwell@hotmail.com.
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