TITLE: Only In Dream
AUTHOR: JLB
CLASSIFICATION: MSR
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: "all things," "Brand X," and while this is not a post "Requiem" story per se, it should be read with the events of that story in mind
FEEDBACK: please. Amory20@aol.com
SUMMARY: Mulder tries to come to terms with the latest events in his life.
DISCLAIMER: i don't own them. CC and 1013 all the way.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: i'm thinking of making this into a little series to cover the space between "all things" and "Requiem." personally, i am extremely curious about what was going on between M&S during that time. so let me know what you think... should i keep going? big thanks to Sister Zooey for convincing me that there was something here to salvage and making me laugh when all else failed -- you're funnier than "The Kids in the Hall." even Bruce.

Only In Dream
by JLB

Sometime after seven, Mulder finally gets around to taking off his jacket. For close to two hours, he's sat in this nondescript hotel room, still in his wrinkled suit, and done nothing. Absolutely nothing, unless he counts staring at the faded wallpaper and watermarked ceiling as activity. Instead, he has sat rigidly against the headboard of his hotel bed, and tried to stop the dreamlike images that seem to be stuck on a perpetual loop in his mind. It would be one thing if they were simply dreams, if they were just flights of fantasy his mind had decided to take after years of quiet longing. He has a feeling that those kinds of dreams would be easily banished; he's always managed to control them in the past. But now the hazy images flooding his mind are small pieces of reality, memories of actual physical events, so unbelievable -- inconceivable almost -- that they've taken on the fuzzy, soft quality of dreams.

And they come so quickly, so insistently that he couldn't even stop them long enough to loosen his tie or unbutton his shirt. It isn't that he didn't feel it, his clothing tight around him. He did, noting it with the same detached eye he had applied to this last case. But when he tried to motivate himself to move, a shadow would cross the wall, a small sound would filter in from the hallway, and the dreams would start again, stronger and more persistent than before. To say he feels ineffectual would be an understatement. He is furious with himself and furious with Scully and furious with New York City, which, with all its stimuli and distractions, refuses to let him forget. Mulder remembers all of it -- every painfully vivid detail -- even as he finally forces himself to remove his jacket. His slow, hesitant movements make him feel clumsy and awkward, but the stale heat of his room has become too much to bear.

The air is so heavy that Mulder imagines he can see it, thick and gray, as it swirls through the room. He moves his hand through the space in front of him to see if his fingers leave streaks, surprised when his fingertips return clean, no dusty film marring the skin. When he's finally had enough of sitting still, of waiting for something to happen, Mulder drags himself from the bed to the window, where he turns the air conditioning vent on high. Pushing the curtains aside, he looks down at the city spread beneath him. With sharp, cold air blowing in his face, he watches the cars as they sit in traffic, horns blaring and sirens wailing. Twelve stories up and everything looks so small and remote.

New York always affects him this way, makes him feel disconnected, disembodied. Strangely enough, that feeling doesn't bother him now. Because he knows that he's felt too much lately, been too aware. And its left him paralyzed, unable to think clearly. He fears that his work has suffered, knowing deep down that he's been off his mark on their last couple of cases. If he could just focus, reign in his thoughts as he has carefully done all these years, maybe he could prevent the landslide. Maybe not. For weeks now, he's been waiting for things to fall back into place, though he's suspected from the start -- since that unreal night in his apartment -- that something had shifted permanently. He knows now that he will never be the same man he was before, that he will never be able look at Scully the same way again, and that together, they have become something more, something strange and new and frightening. Uncontrollable.

Thoughtlessly, he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and begins to fold back his sleeves, going through the motions mechanically, hardly realizing that he's moving. A tug on his tie allows him to breathe more easily and he tries to force himself to think about the case they closed only three hours ago, the reason they're in New York, the reason he and Scully are together right now at all. If he stops to consider it objectively, it was the perfect case for him right now. Only three weeks out of the hospital, only four days removed from needing an inhaler to breathe, his voice still slightly hoarse from the effects of those beetles, a relaxed, relatively simple case was the best way to ease back into work. What he failed to see -- perhaps chose not to see -- was that the lack of a challenge would lead to boredom, would leave room for too many distractions.

He thought work would save him, and had simply hoped for the best. So he's here in New York even though Scully doesn't think he should be out in the field just yet. She wanted him to stay in the office for another few days, but he couldn't deal with the mindless paperwork any longer, couldn't stare at those four basement walls for another full day. In the end, she didn't force him, just sighed quietly as he pleaded his case, nodded noncommittally as Skinner agreed to send them both to New York to look into a disappearance -- a case with no sinister undertones, no connections to global conspiracies. Just a standard case with a few too many questions, a case they were uniquely qualified to investigate.

He knows why she wanted to keep him in DC He still remembers the look on her face when he woke up in that hospital bed, struggling for breath. She remembers it too, he knows. And now, with everything that has changed between them, she won't turn her head so easily, won't allow him to take chances with his health. Mulder understands perfectly -- has probably felt the same thing where Scully is concerned -- but now he resents her for it somehow, wishes she would trust him the same way she always has, back off and let him make his own decisions without her soft sighs and blank eyes making him feel guilty.

Right now, at this very moment, she's next door, just a wall between them. Theoretically anyway. If he wanted to, he could go and knock on her door, wait nervously in the hallway like some flustered schoolboy. And if he did, she would answer hesitantly, knowing before opening the door exactly who would be on the other side. She'd probably already be dressed in her pajamas, some sedately colored satin tailored as though for men. Its strange, but she's been putting on her pajamas earlier and earlier these days. He doesn't think she's been getting more sleep, so he wonders what it means. Whatever her reasoning, it disturbs him -- the fact that she always seems ready for bed. He wants to see her dressed for work, in her smart black suits and three inch Italian heels. That Scully he knows how to deal with.

Now, anything else seems to confuse him. Thinking of Scully, he realizes, with a sudden clarity that makes him weak, that he has spent the entire evening listening for her footsteps in the hallway, imagining her outside his door in dreamy blue satin, with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. He's been daydreaming too damn much lately. Its all he can do to force the image from his mind, banishing it to parts unknown. He knows he needs something to concentrate on -- work would be the obvious choice, if this case hadn't bored him quite so much.

Standing in front of the window, the dark curtains hanging heavily against his back, all he can concentrate on is the pain, the dull, throbbing ache that seems to twist itself through his entire body. But it isn't the labored feel of breathing or the ache in his lungs that consumes him. Even the scratchiness of his throat barely registers. Instead, when he closes his eyes, its the soft, cool feel of his bedroom sheets that stings him. Its the whisper-soft touch of Scully's fingers against his thighs, the warm, wet slide of her mouth across his chest, the bright heat of her body that reduces him to a state of near agony. He closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose, but nothing will make it fade. When it first happened, he tried to convince himself that he could simply push it from his mind, and separate what they'd done from their work.

Skinner called from North Carolina, needing their help, their expertise, and Mulder was determined to slip back into his well-practiced role. For so long, work had been everything for him -- the focus of his singled-minded passion. It had been a habit so long nurtured that even making love to Scully, being inside her, couldn't break him of it. Maybe it was the urgency of the case, he realizes now. The idea that Skinner needed their help. Because now, in this modest New York hotel room, he can't bring himself to think of work, of missing persons or murder victims. Or maybe it was all that down time -- the trouble with those beetles earning him a five day hospital stay, and another eight days of sick leave from the Bureau, during which Scully refused to send files his way, even paperwork of any kind.

He couldn't believe it himself, but he would have killed for an expense report to fill out or one of those biannual departmental reviews to prepare. But Scully had been adamant -- he was to rest. There was nothing to do but sit around his apartment, and as soon as the internet and his video collection lost their appeal -- more quickly than he would have imagined -- his mind zeroed in on his night with Scully. He would wander aimlessly around his small apartment, inevitably ending up in the doorway of his bedroom, where he'd try to work up the courage to look at the bed. He had sta rted sleeping on the couch again because it was impossible to look at the mess of sheets and pillows in his bedroom, and reconcile what had happened there with what he knew of Scully, what had happened since.

It was torture, pure and simple, and the thoughts plagued him even as their plane took off for New York. Of course, they hadn't discussed it. It was almost a relief when he woke the next morning to find her already gone. He could imagine the awkwardness that would have resulted, the tense conversation complete with averted eyes and fingers twisted in the sheets. And there was nothing for him to say anyway -- he loved her, had loved her for so long, and she knew it. He knew she knew it. And she loved him. He knew that as well. There are some things Scully says with her eyes alone, with a sad, wistful smile and the gentle squeeze of his fingers. Words have always seemed unnecessary between them, especially now when he doesn't know what she wants, what she envisions as their future. When he doesn't know what he is able to give her.

In a perfect world, Mulder thinks, good sex would solve all their problems, make it all simple and easy. Unfortunately, he and Scully live in the real world, where sex, however good, has only made their situation that much harder to navigate. Because he knows now that her lipstick has the slightest hint of sweetness underneath its initial waxy taste, that the skin at her hips is so sensitive, the slightest brush of his fingertips makes her twist against the sheets, that when she sucks on the skin above his collar bone, the blunt ends of her hair brush across his chest, tickling him in the gentlest way. Because all of it feels better than he could have imagined, better than any dream, any porn-induced fantasy. Because he remembers that when he met her in the office the morning after, there was so much tenderness in her eyes -- and a strange kind of heat, almost impatient -- as she listened to him discuss an article he'd read on Voo Doo.

For a single moment, he wondered what it would be like to lock the office door, press her against the cool wood, and feel her melt against him as she had in his bed just hours before. Then the phone rang, and there was a report to be filed, and he remembered who he was -- Special Agent Fox Mulder. Its who he still is, he tells himself. No matter how distracted he gets, he can't allow himself to forget that.

The traffic below his window has thinned out, and as he watches the individual cars pass slowly through the street, he presses his hand against the window, his fingers smudging the glass -- five misshapen fingerprints against the gray New York sky. He likes the feel of cool, smooth glass against his skin. Anything that isn't warm and soft and pliant. Maybe they should take a vacation. They could take a few days, away from the Bureau, from conspiracies and aliens and mutants, and figure things out. Maybe he wouldn't feel so guilty if there wasn't actual work to be done. That night in his apartment, the rest of the world seemed very far away, and Scully had honestly seemed happy, so Mulder knows that its possible.

What bothers him, makes his stomach turn slightly, is the suspicion that it wouldn't take very much to make Scully happy, that she would settle for a few hours of his time, here and there, when he's willing to give them. That isn't right, and even though he knows it, Mulder can't do a thing to change. So he silently watches the traffic, the small dots that are people hailing their cabs, running for the subway, rushing home. Quietly living their lives, which mostly include details like picking up dinner on the way home from the office, making sure the dog gets his flea bath tonight, checking over little Danny's math homework, taking the laundry to the cleaners in time for Fridays party.

Mulder watches, feeling very much like an alien, someone so far removed from these activities that he doesn't understand them, can't make sense of them. This is the precise moment that Scully chooses to knock on his door. She knocks so softly, faintly that he almost wonders if its simply a product of his imagination -- wishful thinking altering his perception of reality, impairing his sensory functions. There is another knock, though, and he realizes Scully is truly on the other side of his door. Briefly, he contemplates ignoring her. Scully might believe that in his weakened condition, he needed a nap. She'd probably even be happy, pleased that he had finally heeded her medical advice. But before he can commit to avoiding her, she knocks a third time, still softly but with an insistence that makes it impossible for Mulder to ignore her.

He opens the door, and watches in what feels like slow motion as Scully lifts her head from a thorough examination of the hallway carpeting. She isn't in her pajamas, he notes with relief. She's the Scully he knows so well, still dressed in her white blouse with tiny pearl buttons and the black trousers from her suit. She has taken her shoes off, however, and her stocking feet press softly into the plush carpeting. This amuses him for some reason -- the idea that she walked from her room to his without her shoes. He imagines Scully hurrying the three feet or so to his door, so that no one would catch her in the hallway without the benefit of her heels, panicking as Mulder took his time to come to the door. He smiles as he looks at her, patiently waiting on his doorstep.

"Hey Scully." His voice is still a bit hoarse, and to his own ears, he sounds strangled.

"Hi Mulder. Can I come in?" She smiles, quickly and a bit shyly, but then most of her smiles seem shy, self-conscious.

"Sure." He moves out of the way so she can brush past him, and holds his arm out in invitation. It's a silly thing to do, he realizes, and he quickly drops the arm, running his hand through his hair instead. Part of him panics as he shuts the door. What if she wants to talk? What is she wants to question him, ask his intentions? He's tried to answer the questions himself, make himself understand, but he is still so conflicted, confused. He'd like to make love to her again, in the same slow, careful way he did that night in his bed. But beyond that, he doesn't know. Sometimes it scares him to think too far ahead.

When he turns back to the room, though, Mulder notices that she has her laptop and notebook with her. She wants to work. It's fine with him, a safe outlet for all his restless energy. Scully will motivate him to work, strangely enough, so he can forget about what she looked like beneath him, flushed and panting. When Scully is discussing witness accounts and post mortem exams, Mulder almost believes that nothing has changed between them.

"I was going to go over my autopsy notes," she says, her back to him. "And I thought that you probably had some questions, so it would save time if we just looked at them together." She turns, her eyes meeting his hesitantly.

"Good idea, Scully."

continued in pt. 2