From: Msk1024@aol.com Date: Thu, 3 Feb 2000 20:23:54 EST Subject: xfc: NEW Dream House by Michelle Kiefer (V) (01 of 01) Source: xfc From: Msk1024@aol.com TITLE: Dream House AUTHOR: Michelle Kiefer E-MAIL ADDRESS: MSK1024@AOL.COM DISTRIBUTION: Archive if you like--just tell me where. DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to 1013, Chris Carter, and to the X-Files. SPOILER WARNING: Small references to End Game, Arcadia RATING: PG-13 CONTENT: MSR, MT CLASSIFICATION: V COMMENTS: Takes place 7th season. Ignores Orison to some extent. See author's notes at end for acknowledgments. Visit my website for more stories: http://members.aol.com/msrsmut/MichelleKiefer.htm Dream House (01 of 01) by Michelle Kiefer "Try and take his mind off the pain," the doctor says. "Distract him if you can." I want to yell, "Easier said than done, you idiot," but, of course, I don't. I nod and glance back at the door to Mulder's hospital room. Trying to distract someone with a mind as complex and active as Mulder's is harder than getting an order straight on the first try at a fast food drive-thru. "We're still analyzing the toxin to which Agent Mulder was exposed, but his respiration is too depressed to chance much in the way of pain relief. We're monitoring his condition, and we should know more in a few hours," he says, as he checks the pager that must have vibrated a signal at his belt. "He's stable for now, but I don't need to tell you that he is far from out of the woods, Agent Scully." He hurries off down the hall, leaving me to marvel at Mulder's ability to get himself hospitalized. The case had the potential for danger; but then all our cases have that powderkeg quality that makes work on the X-Files a real challenge. Rumors of strange, late night activity at an abandoned pharmaceutical warehouse prompted our investigation. Mulder's penchant for sticking his ungloved fingers in strange substances was our ticket for this exciting evening. Maybe this will teach him to slap on the latex first, but I'm not holding my breath. Well, maybe I am holding my breath, but it is out of sheer panic. Within minutes of handling the red goo that covered the inside of a crate in the warehouse, Mulder was rolling on the floor and writhing in pain. He was admitted to Georgetown Memorial Hospital with a diagnosis of exposure to an unknown toxin and symptoms of severe joint pain and muscle spasms. The doctors must draw straws when they see us coming, to see who has to treat the latest medical crisis. They are stumped again, and I get the impression that this really annoys them. Doctors like to have all the answers, and Mulder and I pose questions they were never trained to cope with in medical school. The lights are low in Mulder's room when I return; I think the brightness hurts his eyes. I can see him clearly enough to make out the fine sheen of perspiration on his face. Shadows under his eyes speak of pain, and his breathing is shallow and labored. I brush the soft hair back from his forehead, and he grimaces at the slight pressure of my fingertips. I feel tears prick at my eyes as I realize that my touch will cause him more pain. Words do not come easily where Mulder is concerned, and I so often use gentle touches to offer comfort. I wonder how I will be able to connect with him and help him get through this long, painful night. "Another fine mess I've gotten you into, hey Ollie?" he rasps. "Bet that normal life is looking better and better." "Well, Stanley, you sure know how to find the messes," I agree as I offer Mulder a few ice chips from the cup on the bedside tray. He shrugs slightly and cries out softly from the pain this action causes him. "Besides, normal life isn't all it's cracked up to be." "Yeah, maybe. But don't you long sometimes for the 9 to 5, minivan in the driveway, Arcadia Falls kind of life?" he asks as he stares up at the ceiling. "Could you ever see us in that kind of life?" "No, Mulder, I couldn't." An expression of such sadness settles on his face that I slip my hand into his, chancing the pain my touch might cause him. "Mulder, I could never see us in that kind of sterile, cookie-cutter existence. Face it, you would never be happy in a house that wasn't old enough to be haunted." He smiles a little at the concept. "I thought you didn't believe in ghosts." "I didn't say the house would have a ghost, just be old enough to have the potential. No, I see us as the old farmhouse in Fredericksburg type, or maybe the row house in Georgetown type." If the amused look on his face is any indication, I have piqued Mulder's interest. "I vote for the row house in Georgetown," he says. "Shorter commute." Mulder tries to shift to a more comfortable position in bed and bites back a curse as he is hit by a wave of pain. I want so badly to stroke his firm, tanned arm in comfort, but I know this will only cause more pain, and that frustrates me. "Row house in Georgetown suits me fine," I offer. "Don't have to switch dry cleaners." This sparks a smile from Mulder. He knows how important a good dry cleaner is in our line of work. "Do I get to keep my couch?" he asks, and suddenly I know how I'm going to engage his mind. "Sure, we'll put your couch in the library. It'll really be a study, but the realtor called it the 'library,' and it sounded impressive." I see the gleam in his eye and continue. "The walls will have built-in bookcases, and we'll put the general paranormal books in one section and the alien abduction books in another. There'll be a fireplace with a pickled oak mantle, and we'll have two big wingback chairs facing it. Oh, you want to know where the couch will go?" He nods carefully, trying not to provoke a muscle spasm. "The couch will face the oak entertainment system." "Entertainment system?" he asks, visions of DVD players dancing in his eyes. "State of the art, Mulder. State of the art." I make a sweeping gesture with my hand. I am really enjoying this now. "We'll spend Saturday nights watching movies and eating take-out pizza from Filomena's." Actually, we've spent more than a few Saturday nights over a half veggie/half pepperoni pie from 'Mena's. I usually steal slices of pepperoni off Mulder's half when he is engrossed in what is on television, but I'm pretty sure he is on to me. "What else?" he asks, his voice tight and dry. I stand to offer him a sip of water through a bendable straw. "Tell me about another room." "Okay, hmm. The kitchen will be a dream--copper pots hanging from exposed beams in the ceiling, cherrywood cabinets, and one of those ranges with a glass top. We'll cook together." He looks dubious at this. "Can we have one of those refrigerators that you can get ice water through the door?" I can't believe how much he is buying into this fantasy. I begin to wonder what Mulder hopes for in some distant future. I also wonder from where this Better Homes and Garden vision I am spinning comes. "Sure, and we can have a garbage disposal in the sink and everything." I smile inwardly, thinking of reruns with Rob and Laura and disposal mishaps. The nurse appears to check Mulder's vitals and to take another blood sample, causing him no small pain with her ministrations. As she makes notes on his chart, I ask her if the results are back from the tests and if Mulder can have the next dose of pain medication. I restrain myself from smacking her when she answers, "Not yet" and "Too soon" respectively to my questions. Mulder's eyes are tearing from the pain, and I gently dab at the skin around them with a tissue. I dim the light that the nurse had turned up. "Go on...tell me about another room." His voice sounds hoarse. The words "freezer burn" pop unbidden to my mind. I think it is time for the big guns. "Okay...the bedroom has a walk-in closet with built in shelves and drawers. There is an overstuffed club chair and ottoman with a crocheted shawl laid across them. But the best part...the best part, Mulder, is the four poster bed." His gaze is locked on my face, and I know where I want to go with this. "The bed is covered with handmade quilts. Now, the important thing is that it has a nice strong headboard, because Sunday mornings we like to lean back against about two dozen pillows and read the Sunday paper." He closes his eyes, and a look of such pleasure creeps over his features. I lean in close and lower my voice. "We argue over whose turn it is to bring in the paper and who made the coffee last, and I almost always win. Now, I think it's because I unfasten the top buttons of my pajamas before I turn over to debate the issue. You probably think that isn't fighting fair, Mulder, but when the stakes are this high, you use all your weapons." I'm not sure when this little fantasy went from This Old House to Sex in the City, but I can't seem to drag it back to the safe rooms. I don't think I want to. We've been drifting ever closer to the water's edge for years. Maybe it's time to jump into the deep end. "Mulder, our favorite room in the house isn't the bedroom." He looks faintly disappointed at this. "It's not the kitchen or the study or the formal living room either." I sit so far forward in my chair that my lips are inches away from his ear. "No, Mulder, our favorite room is the master bath." He breaks into a grin, and I have to laugh. "The master bath captures all the old-fashioned charm and blends it with the most luxurious of modern fixtures. The first thing you notice is the absolutely enormous tub--truly big enough for two." I let this sink in for a moment. "When we get home from work after a long, hard week, we need to unwind. Do you want to know how we do that?" This question is purely rhetorical, and I move on. "We soak in that beautiful, big tub, Mulder, in pine scented water, with soft music playing. We sip wine with just the light from the candles that sit on the antique pie safe that holds our towels. We sit with my back against your chest, and I lean my head back against your shoulder." I close my eyes and picture the steaming, green tinted water and try to imagine the feel of that well-muscled chest against the smooth skin of my back. "The water just barely covers my breasts, and your hands play over them like keys on a piano. Soon, your hands drift under the water and cause me to squirm back a little, which sets off a kind of chain reaction..." I break off, and his eyes fly open, and I can't help smiling like a fool. I rise and lean forward to press a gentle kiss to those amazing lips. Unfortunately, Nurse Diesel chooses this moment to bring Mulder's pain meds which she injects through the IV. She tells us that his lab results show improvement and that the toxin seems to be diminishing in Mulder's system. The medication takes effect as evidenced by the loopy grin Mulder offers me. "You gonna fish...finish the story, G Woman?" he asks as his eyes drift shut and his breathing evens out. "Not tonight, Sleeping Beauty," I whisper and plant another kiss to his warm, full lips. I leave the now gently snoring Mulder and try to find the doctor. Hours later, after a consult with Mulder's still stumped doctor and a trip home to freshen up, I return to Mulder's room. I also stopped by Mulder's apartment to fill a duffel bag with a few necessities. He is much improved and sits up a bit in bed; it pleases me to note that his eyes no longer have pain shadows. He greets me with the most wonderful of Mulder smiles, teeth and all. "Well, Mulder, your bloodwork shows the toxin is just about out of your system. The tests on the toxin sample came back--big surprise--inconclusive data." "I feel better...just achy." He is moving more easily now, levering himself a bit higher in bed. His smile fades, and he looks down at the open weave of the thermal blanket covering him. "Scully, about last night...last night was amazing, but I really hope that wasn't just a bedtime story." "I have four words for you, Mulder," I say as I reach into the duffel bag to produce a sheaf of newspaper. "Sunday Real Estate Supplement." His grin is back, prompting me to continue. "If your question is, 'are we buying a town house in Georgetown this month?'...well, the answer would be no." I sit on the side of the bed, hip to hip with Mulder and hand him the paper. "But we can dream, can't we, Mulder? We can look at the advertisements and calculate how much it would cost and how expensive renovations would be, and we can figure how much we need to save. You can grumble when I buy a new pair of shoes and say I've just added two weeks onto the wait. Of course, I'll say, new shoes are worth the wait." He brings his hands around to span my waist, and I follow his arms up to hold on to his shoulders. "Mulder, I don't know if it will take two years or ten, but we can always dream." End "Dream House" (01 of 01) Authors notes: The Ethan Allen Catalog came this week, and if you are obsessed enough, you can find inspiration anywhere, including those silly telephone commercials with Sela Ward. Big thanks to Kestabrook for wonderful beta and loving support, and to Susan Proto and January for good advice and encouragement. Finally, I want to thank Jennifer for making me a website of my very own and encouraging me to walk on the wild side. Okay, this is just a tiptoe on the wild side, but you have to start somewhere.