Summary: Scully tells Mulder to go to sleep. Rating: G Category: V/MA/UST Distribution: Anywhere as long as my name stays attached Spoilers: None (well, actually, a small "Detour" reference) This is a self-imposed writing exercise. No story, just some pathos and exhaustion ... I based this on the pop culture end-of-the-millenium heroes created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement of copyright intended, et cetera ad nauseum. Thanks to Debbie Hewett, my beloved slave-driving editor. Inspiration for the Muse: "To Mother You" by Sinead O'Connor from the Gospel Oak ep. copyright 1997. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Grey Sky An X-Files Tale by Terri Monture xfactore@inforamp.net Grey sky, grey day. The sound of rain, splattering, drumming, pattering on the windows, the car roof, dripping from eavestroughs, splashing out of puddles. The parking lot he looks at is a lake made of wet asphalt. He wants to go home. He is tired. He closes his eyes and rubs them. And sees -- The scarlet flash of blood pooling beneath the wet corpse, a cold grey tangle of naked limbs, sprawled face down on the pavement. A glistening red microriver trickling slowly in the direction of the sewer drain -- His eyelids snap open. He leans his forehead against the smooth cool glass. The motel room is too small, crowded with his ghosts. He can hear them whispering, conspiring in the corners. He wants to run away, to leave, to go anywhere and nowhere all at once. He wishes the sun would come out. His heart feels empty, his mind blank to everything but visions of senseless death and decaying flesh. He can still smell the rank odour of freshly spilled blood. He knows he should sleep. He can't remember when last he slept for more than two hours at a time. He can feel each individual vertebra in his back, each length of muscle paining him when he has to move. He knows his mind, that steadily clicking camera of memory, is starting to fail him. He feels grittiness behind his eyelids and the sour taste of fatigue in his mouth. He needs to sleep. He can't allow himself the luxury when there is so much work to be done. Not when a killer walks freely through the rain-darkened streets. A gusting of wind blows silver sheets of rain across the darkening parking lot. Soon it will be night and the lights will come on, but the darkness will still be there. He knows he needs to get to work. He can only stand there. He is tired. He cannot think of anything he would rather do less than bury himself alive in the case they have come here to this nameless town to solve. He does not want to entomb himself beneath the dry statistics of death. Ligature marks. Death by exsanguination. The dispassionate record of knife wounds, each of the bruises to be counted and catalogued. The brutal evidence of psychotic anger. The violently horrific rape, the position of the body left like so much garbage in the dirty alleyway. He slumps against the cool pane of glass, idly counts the strands of cobwebs in the corners of the window. A gust of wind blows sheets of rain against the window, the smattering sound like angel footprints. He remembers the rain in the Vineyard, the October rains that poured ceaselessly for days. He wants to go home. He wants his mother. Odd thought, that. He hasn't wanted his mother in a long time. He remembers her arms around his neck, her soft scent, her sweet whisper of comfort and love in his ear. He remembers what she was like before the shouting, the tears, the Valium prescriptions that he would find littering the wastebaskets. She was strong and tall and beautiful. She could do anything. She could keep him safe, keep the monsters away. Until the monsters came for Samantha. A shudder runs through his body, leaving him cold and clammy in its wake. Then the monsters were always under the bed, in the closets. At an age when he should have grown beyond them, they lingered in his head. He has thought about it before, late at night when the TV blares soundlessly in shades of blue and white and grey. He has come to understand that his dark talent, his gift for profiling is merely the recognition that the monsters live in him. This comprehension gives him the skills to hunt for them in other people. He just wishes he didn't have to do it anymore. It's not a nice way to live. He knows he has to get to work. He sighs heavily. One little two little three little serial killers ... leaving their signatures behind the way a predator does its spoor ... A rap on the door. He tries to answer, can't form the words. His tiredness is a wall too high to climb over. The door opens. A flash of copper and Scully's bright head. Mulder? It takes every ounce of will left in him to turn so that he can look at her. She carries a load of files in her arms like a schoolgirl. She wears a navy pantsuit and a quizzical expression twisting her amazing rosebud lips. She is too beautiful. He looks at the floor. He can't keep his eyes from her for very long, though. He is addicted, he needs his fix. He looks up at her. Puzzlement flashes in those brilliant grey-blue eyes. She sets the files on the cheap imitation oak dresser and crosses to stand in front of him, close enough that he can smell her fragrance and look into her eyes. A flash of fear. He is too weak to resist her. He wants her and even finds his traitorous hands reaching towards her ... Mulder -- what's wrong? Her cool dry hand is on his forehead and a frown creases her brow. What's the matter? He shakes his head, mute. She is touching him. Heat radiates from that point where her hand rests feather-light against his skin. You don't have a fever -- are you sick? Not unless you call being faint with lust and longing sick. But of course he doesn't say this. He cannot speak. He has forgotten how. I'm -- I'm so tired, Scully. He forces himself to say the words and finds that his voice has turned into a croak. The frog bedazzled by the beautiful princess. He stares at her mouth, wondering if he will turn into a prince if she kisses him. Her frown deepens into worry. Haven't you been sleeping? He cannot lie to her, but neither can he answer. He looks at his feet. His shoes are muddy and there is a smear of what looks like dried blood against the instep of his right foot. Revulsion shudders through him but he is too tired to do anything, to kick off the offending shoe. She crosses her arms across her chest and regards him. You need to sleep. Her voice is stern but she is betrayed by the concern in her eyes. I have to work. The words burst out of him before he can forestall them. He knows he needs to sleep but the dreams will be worse. They always are. She shakes her head. Not tonight. You're going to sleep and that's final. His humour and fatigue get the best of him, the words escaping before he can call them back. Will you sleep with me? Her eyebrow arches into her hairline and the steely look of bemusement is his answer. You're too tired to be any fun. Scully can give as good as she gets. He sways on his feet and she takes his arm and leads him to the bed, making him sit down. But she doesn't move her hand away from him immediately. Instead she reaches up to stroke his temple, close to his ear. Relax, Mulder. The shiver that races down his body is impossible to hide. She knows this and moves her warmth closer so that a line of fire, where she rests her body against his, roars into flame. All of his consciousness flashes into that space. Her hand moves, leaves his face to rest on his back. She makes a fist and digs it into the burning spot of cramped muscle between his shoulder blades. He cannot help it and groans in pleasure. Her response is a crafty smile as she increases the pressure. His muscles start to loosen beneath the steady pounding of her fist. He gives himself up to the small miracle of her intimate touch. All thought flees his mind, all of his work angst and exhaustion drains away to be replaced by pure animal sensation. A hyperawareness of her breath against his shoulder, of the exquisite pain of his muscles grinding into his spine pours into him, a warm elixir of relaxation seeping into his veins. For a moment at least he finds a peace of place, a time where all effort and anxiety is suspended. His head drops foreward, his shoulders slump. Hey Scully ... ever thought about becoming a masseuse? The pay's probably a lot better than what the government gives you. He can sense her mouth curving upward into a smile. Bet the hours suck, though. He yelps as her hands find an exceptionally painful spot. Can't -- can't be any worse than these. You'd probably even get overtime. I didn't know masseuses were entitled to overtime. It's in their contract. How come you know so much about the massage industry? He shrugs. I don't. I'm just guessing. I wouldn't want to wear the uniform, though. There is no uniform. Exactly. I bet you'd look nice, though. In your dreams, Mulder. Yeah, Scully. You are. He turns his head slightly to look at her. That was taking a bigger risk than he had actually intended. She is smiling, that secret Mona Lisa smile that he does see in his dreams. And was that a wink? It's only raining water, Mulder. Not sleeping bags. She thumps his back with a sound final blow and gets off the bed. He watches as she pulls the covers back, plumps the pillow. She comes back to him and reaches out, removes his tie for him. She frowns fleetingly, a tiny crease of concentration appearing on her brow as her breath tickles his nose, her fingers deft and quick. He holds himself very still, afraid to move, not wanting the moment to pass. He finds this small gesture unbelievably erotic and is thankful for the exhaustion that dampens the inevitable response. Kick off your shoes. You're going to sleep. Her tone of voice leaves no room for refusal. He responds automatically, crawls into the crisp coolness of the sheets. I'm hungry. A whining note creeps into his voice but he doesn't care. We'll order a pizza later. Go to sleep. He burrows his head into the pillow. She has crossed to the window and now closes the blinds. He can see only her outline in the darkened room, but feels her eyes on him, as luminous as a cat's. Scully? What? Will you stay with me? Mulder ... There are monsters out there, Scully. It's too hard to keep them away anymore. The confession doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would. Her sigh is barely audible. He waits, breath held, willing his heart to cease beating while she makes up her mind. A slight movement and the bed dips suddenly from the weight of a body. His breath catches in his throat, his heart flutters then beats so strongly within his chest he is afraid it will burst from his body, skittering across the cool white sheets to come to rest in her small hands. Would she then carefully hold on to his heart or would she discard it without a second thought, bloody stains all over the sheets? She burrows close to him like a small mammal seeking shelter, her head pressed against his shoulder. He can feel the warmth of her breath alongside his throat and her gentle fingers brush his cheek. He expels his breath in a silent sigh of relief. That is his answer. She will hold his heart, shielding it and keeping it safe. Shhh. Her voice is a velvet whisper in the darkness. I'll keep the monsters away, Mulder. The grey sky fades into blackness. Now, and at last, he can allow himself to sleep. The End.