From: "Liz Owens" Date: Wednesday, May 24, 2000 1:44 AM Subject: Insomnia 3 A.M. by Liz Owens TITLE: Insomnia 3 A.M. AUTHOR: Liz Owens E-MAIL ADDRESS: cantwaltz@aol.com FEEDBACK: Proudly hung on the refrigerator DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer and the usual atxc haunts. Anywhere else, just let me know where it's going and leave my name and such attached. SPOILER WARNING: Post "Requiem." RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: V, A KEYWORDS: MSR DISCLAIMER: No, Mulder and Scully aren't mine--they belong to CC, the fine folks at Fox, and 1013 Productions. "Never for money, always for love...." But I'd do anything to help her find him. SUMMARY: A sleepless night in Alexandria. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a font fic, inspired by the font Insomnia 3AM. This font is by Dead Man Fonts and is available via Tucows at http://www.tucows.com. Thanks to Jori and Mojo for the quick Ebert...you are my heroes. You can visit my other stories at http://members.aol.com/cantwaltz. Insomnia 3 A.M. O, western wind, when wilt thou blow, The small rain down can rain? Christ! That my love were in my arms And I in my bed again. - Anonymous Alexandria, VA 3:08 a.m. The metal was solid, rough-edged, familiar. Although the label had fallen off long ago, she knew the key by touch alone. She had used it countless times *"Whenever he's away, I feed his fish."* but, tonight, her fingers shook as they inserted the key in the lock, turned, opened. The air was stale, too warm. Although he'd only been gone a few days, the rooms felt oddly empty, as though he'd *"I lost him..."* left months ago. But yet...his scent was in the air as well. Elusive, a mix of man and aftershave and fabric softener. A scent she hadn't realized she missed until the pale echo tickled her nose. She flicked on the lights, then shrugged off her long jacket--one she probably didn't need on such a balmy night--but she didn't know her own body these days. She was cold so much of the time *"I just want to get warm."* that she dressed more for winter than spring, layering her clothes and bedding in an effort to stave off the constant chill. But no amount of clothing could thaw that icy inner core of fear *I won't think about that now* that never seemed to leave her--a frostiness that had moved in the minute Mulder *I said, I won't think about that now.* had left for Oregon without her. She sighed and move to the window, switching on the air conditioner in an effort to take the staleness and heat from the air, knowing that her skin would be covered in goose flesh in no time. But she had things to do, and she knew the cool air would be better for her *the baby* as she completed these small tasks. She crossed to the answering machine and erased three hang-ups and a message from someone named Roscoe who wanted to know if Mulder was up for some hoops on Friday. Then she punched some numbers into the phone, waited for the confirmation beeps, and hung up. The Lone Gunmen were going to be screening all of his calls. The empty, dustless square on Mulder's desk showed that they had already been there to take possession of his computer. It was safer, they had told her, with them; after all, who knew who would *Krycek* try to glean secrets from the hard drive and his carefully archived email messages? Besides, they might find some clue as to Mulder's whereabouts *he's gone* in his extensive files. In the kitchen, she found a couple of glasses and an empty cereal bowl in the sink, a couple of plates in the dish rack. Silently, she rolled up her sleeves and quickly washed and dried the dishes, then put them away. After all, she thought, the place would be dusty enough *unlived-in* when *if* he returned; there was no reason for him to come home *please come home to me, Mulder* to a complete mess. She wiped down all the surfaces, even though she knew it would be just a few days before just as much dust reaccumulated. The living areas were in better shape, although they showed the same disuse as the kitchen. She stacked magazines and mail, putting aside a packet of bills to deal with later. Then she swiped the tables with a soft cloth sprayed with a lemon-scented polish. She refolded the blanket on the back of the sofa *"What if there was only one choice and all the other ones were wrong? And there were signs along the way to pay attention to?"* and plumped the pillows. Already the room felt better--touched by a human presence. Even if it wasn't his. The tears that burned her eyes were more an annoyance than anything. Her hormones *how can I be pregnant?* were driving her crazy. Even the cancer *"The truth will save you, Scully. I think it'll save both of us."* had been easier to deal with than this emotional roller coaster. She felt like a stranger in her own skin. *stop thinking about it* She had lied to Skinner, she thought as she crossed into the bedroom. *"I'm feeling fine."* She wasn't fine. She was...ecstatic. Joyous. Exultant. Grief- stricken. Mournful. And terrified. Oh, no, let's not forget terrified. The stoicism that had taken her through cancer had gone into hiding as soon as the words "high-risk pregnancy" *miracle* had come from her gynecologist's mouth. In the short time she had been out of the hospital, she found herself following the doctor's advice scrupulously. Prenatal vitamins. Rest balanced with reasonable exercise. Good food. She found that she tired easily, but sleep continued to elude her. Or, at least it did in the middle of the night, when she watched the light creep slowly into the room until, after dawn, her body took over and shut down, taking the rest it *my baby* demanded. She smoothed the comforter into place, her sense of peace and order appreciating the softly colored blocks of fabric. The woman in her remembered the way the cloth felt against bare skin, *skin on skin* and she blinked back more tears. Ignoring them, she finished making the bed and picked up the pieces of clothing Mulder had scattered in his haste to pack for *Where are you, Mulder? How am I ever going to find you, when I don't know where to look?* Oregon. She ignored the bathroom. Despite her sudden need to clean, *nest* she had no desire to tackle a bachelor's bathroom in the middle of the night. Stepping back into the living area, her heels echoing on the wood floors, she was struck by how quiet *alone* it was in the apartment. No TV blaring, no basketball thudding, no soothing baritone voice mumbling. And she suddenly felt ridiculous...cleaning an apartment for a man who might never *please, God, help me find him* return. But something told her she needed to be ready...ready for whatever came. And even if it was something as simple as providing a place *a family* for him to come home to, she needed to do it. Her shoulders sagged in sudden fatigue, and she knew that she should go home and take care of herself. But first...she needed something. When she had fastened her necklace around Mulder's neck, she had given him a talisman...a piece of her *it was my love...why didn't I ever say the words?* to carry with him, to protect him. And now she needed a similar object. Even though his child slept under her heart, the baby was something she couldn't touch, hold, summon a memory from--at least not yet. *and maybe never--oh, please, let my baby be all right* She cast her eyes around the room, settling on his desk. Mulder was a born pack rat. There had to be something of him in the drawers. Fifteen minutes later, she shook her head in disbelief. Ticket stubs from sporting events dating back almost 10 years. Old family photos. A gold Waterman pen. Receipts and bank statements, phone numbers on matchbooks, enough sticky notes to supply a third world country. But nothing that was imbued with his spirit, his personality. Sighing, she tugged open the last drawer. Paused. And laughed, really laughed, for the first time in days. It was a lesson in the history of cellular technology. Phones bigger than her head and smaller than her palm, all in various states of disrepair. She picked up one slim phone and ran her thumb over the keypad...and was almost bowled over by the surprising fresh rush of grief as a thousand conversations replayed in her head. *"Mulder, it's me...."* *"Agent Scully, sorry to interrupt, but you have a call from a George Hale, says it's urgent."* *"Must be nice not having someone question your every move, poking holes in all your theories...." "Oh yeah, it's...it's great. I'm surprised I put up with you so long."* *"Scully, can I confess something to you?"* *"Thirteen fifty-six, thirteen fifty-four, thirteen fifty-two, thirteen fifty. You see a pattern emerging here, Scully?" "Mulder, I'm going to get you out of there."* *"You know, Scully, I was just thinking about Lazarus, Ed Wood, and those tofurkey-eating zombies. How come when people come back from the dead they always want to hurt the living?"* She choked back a sound that was half sob, half laugh. Seven years of those phone calls...in the middle of the night...in the middle of nowhere. There had been times when she had just wanted to shut him up...and now, she would give anything to hear that voice in her ear. Tucking the phone into her pocket, she closed the drawer. Then, picking up the mail and her coat, she went to the door. Her hand stilled on the knob and she turned for a last look. "I won't stop searching, Mulder," she whispered. And stepped into the night.