From: Diana Williams Date: 15 Jul 1998 22:59:17 GMT Subject: NEW: Moments in Time: Morning (1/4) Title: Moments in Time: Morning (1/4) Author: Diana Williams Email address: diwillia@mindspring.com Rating: PG (No language or sex; references to adult sexuality). Category: MSV Spoilers: None; this could have occured at any time, with a passing reference to the movie. Author's Note: Formerly posted as a stand-alone piece, "Morning" Summary: A mood piece in which Our Favorite Duo look at the morning and each other from their individual viewpoints. Morning - Him I lie awake in the early morning darkness. I have always awakened suddenly in the night, going from asleep to awake in an instant with my heart racing against unseen danger. Before, I would struggle to escape back into oblivion, pound my pillow and curse, vainly seeking a more comfortable position before giving up and turning on the TV, the videos, to drug myself back to sleep. Now I have learned to savor these early mornings, all too infrequent intervals of tranquility in an existence that is, by any definition, bizarre. I lie here, staring up at the ceiling, my thoughts lazily drifting from memories of yesterday to plans for the upcoming day. I am a deep well of contentment, filled to overflowing. Watch it, Spooky, I think lazily. If you're not careful, you could start behaving like a normal human being. Her back is warm against my side, her head on my shoulder. My lover, my calm center, my only link to sanity in this insane world. I breathe in the intoxicating scent of her hair - if they could bottle that scent they would make a mint - and wait for the miracle. Unlike me, she awakens slowly, in waves, like the tide pushing a piece of driftwood to shore. The first wave washes over her and she turns over, stretching like a cat, her whole body arched against my side before she drifts back into sleep. I savor the feel of her skin next to mine, her soft breasts pressed against my side. She is smiling in her sleep, a soft smile that tells me that her dreams are pleasant. I hope that I am in them although, given the strangeness that surrounds me, that would probably qualify them as nightmares. A second wave: her head rubs against my shoulder like a kitten and she turns her face down into my skin as if to block out the light, shifting her body so that her leg is across mine. I worry that she can't breathe like that but the even rise and fall of her chest reassures me. Her leg is another matter: Houston, we have a problem. I concentrate on taking deep breaths and thinking of other things which is admittedly difficult but my options are limited: we have a deal that I will let her sleep and a cold shower is out unless I get out of bed. I wouldn't move for the world. Third wave: she rolls over on her back, out of my arms, and I mutter a heartfelt thanks to her God. The problem is not resolved, but this makes it easier to ignore. I roll up on one elbow to study her face. I love the little freckles on her nose; she hates them and covers them with makeup during the day. In repose, she looks so young and vulnerable and incredibly beautiful, but I can also see the pain and suffering etched on her face. Marks there because of me. Another reason I prefer not to believe in Heaven and Hell: my Heaven is here with her, and if there is a Hell I am destined to spend a lot of time there because of what I've put her through. Fourth wave - no, just a minor ripple. She sighs in her sleep and moistens her lips. The sight of her tongue and the memory of what it has done stirs something within me and in no way helps my problem. Down, boy. Wake up, my darling, or it's the showers for me. Now the fourth and final wave. She stretches again, groaning, and her eyes flutter open. She sees me looking down at her and the miracle occurs. The first time, the hundredth time, it doesn't matter. Her eyes light up and a smile as bright as the dawning sky crosses her face. For me. Only for me. I know that I am grinning like an idiot back at her. " 'Morning, Mulder," she murmurs. "Good morning, Scully." And it is. It definitely is. Morning - Her He is asleep again, sprawled on the bed, sleeping with the same total abandon that he gives to everything, sated and sedated with Nature's greatest sleeping pill. On switch, off switch, no middle settings. My personal tornado, my stinging fly, my lover. Why does that term come so hard for me - last on my mental list, almost whispered by my brain? I'm sure that it's first on his, easily thought and easily said, though no less deeply felt. Is it because he leads with his heart and I lead with my head? Because he prefers to jump in and I naturally stand back and observe? I am doing that now. I slipped out of bed to draw the curtains so that the light won't wake him, and now I stand watching him from across the room. He looks so vulnerable when he's asleep, his powerful brain put on pause for awhile, his searching eyes closed behind those incredible lashes. The shape of his mouth does something severely clinical to the base of my spine; the scars on his body and his temple make me want to weep. He is starting to mutter in his sleep, in dreams haunted by his personal devils, his hands searching. "Scully?" His half-asleep voice is like a small child's seeking reassurance, someone to send away the boogie-men. I slip back into bed and take him back in my arms, settling his head on my breast. "Shh, I'm here. Go back to sleep." He falls back into sleep, his hand clutching mine, his breathing and heart-rate slowing again. Sleep, Mulder. I will be here. I will keep the demons away. Title: Moments in Time: Afternoon (2/4) Afternoon - Her "Favorite *classic* movie? And it has to be a black-and-white." We are lying in front of the fire in a rustic lodge, a big step up from the normal flea-bags we are required to use and we wouldn't be staying here, either, if it wasn't the focus of our case. The place is deserted in the height of ski season because of a series of bizarre murders. At the moment, a blinding snowstorm has halted our active investigation. Earlier we were going over all the notes and evidence, trying to determine a profile that meets the patterns, but just now we are "decompressing" by playing a game that is a combination of "getting to know you" and "stump the band". He is grinning at me in triumph, thinking he has gotten me. Without hesitation, I say, "The Philadelphia Story." He gives me a "that's one for you" mark, then says curiously, "Why? Katherine Hepburn?" "Partly. I hadn't grown an inch since I was fourteen and had this *red* hair. And there she was - gorgeous, red-headed, tall, spunky - " "Spunky?" "It's a perfectly good word. Mulder, stop laughing!" "Okay, okay! Stop poking me! But she was in dozens of movies, so why that particular one?" I roll over on my stomach and stare into the fire for a long time. He says nothing but I know he will not give up - he never gives up. This isn't easy for me. It is not just some adolescent fancy; it means baring one of those secret areas of my soul. Something that is still painful to me. If he laughs, I will have to hurt him. "The other characters call her a goddess, a bronze statue, an ice princess, a perpetual spinster. But Jimmy Stewart looks into her and - and sees the real woman inside. I felt that he was talking to me...." I fall silent, wondering what on earth possessed me to babble on like this. The man beside me is quiet for a moment, then begins speaking. " 'There's a magnificence in you-' " Damn it! I should have known that he had that script filed away in that computer he calls a brain. I sit up and turn, murder in my heart. And stop. He was waiting for me to do just that, and his eyes lock on mine. Suddenly I cannot breathe; my whole world narrows down to a pair of green eyes and a voice. A voice speaking to me alone. " 'A magnificence that comes out of your eyes and your voice and the way you stand there and the way you walk. You're lit from within. You've got fires banked down within you - hearth fires and holocosts.' " I am shaking. " 'I don't seem to you made of bronze?' " " 'No, you're made of flesh and blood. That's the blank, unholy surprise of it. You're the golden girl, full of life and warmth and delight.' " He reached out to stroke my cheek softly. I know that tears are running down my cheeks; I am unable to stop them. " 'Why, what goes on? You've got tears in your eyes.' " "Mulder, shut up and kiss me." Afternoon - Him If anyone had told me years ago when I first met her that one day Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully would be making love to me in the highly public (if deserted) great room of a ski lodge, I would have laughed and said sure - if I drugged her first. And yet here we are, and said Special Agent Scully is making a very determined effort to do just that. Not that I'm putting up a fight. (Mental note: quote old movies to Scully more often.) And I realize for the first time, not just with my head but with my heart, how painful that label of "Ice Queen" has been to her all these years. And how damnably unfair. A man who controlls his emotions is called the strong, silent type; a woman is called frigid or an ice queen. She is certainly neither of those: hearthfires and holocosts, indeed. So why have I been able to see this while others don't? I think back to the first day we met, when she ventured into "Spooky's den". She had been determined to show me she was competent for the task and I had sailed into her, challenging her thinking. She had fired up, telling me to my face that if science hadn't given me the answers, maybe I wasn't asking the right questions. I liked that - not necessarily her words but the way she was not afraid to stand up to me and speak her mind. And, Lord, she hasn't stopped since! Another piece of the puzzle that is Dana Scully has fallen into place. Title: Moments in Time: Evening (3/4) Evening - Him "Mulder, are you cheating?" I look over at her with a look of total innocence. "Me? Cheat? Why, Scully! I am shocked that you would even suggest such a thing!" I gesture at the cards before us. "Pay up." We are at flea-bag motel number one million, by my count, waiting for lab reports to come back and killing time with a game of strip poker. Not exactly standard practice in the field, but this town is so small that the crickets go to bed at dark and watching paint dry is the highlight of the day. The motel doesn't even have TVs. She makes a face at me. "Oh, all right." As I watch in fascination, she pulls her arms inside her oversized-shirt, unfastens her bra, and extracts it without actually taking off the shirt. She dangles it above the table then drops it. I add it to my growing collection. By my calculation, she is down to panties and that shirt. I have lost my tie and shoes, winning three out of five. Scully is a shrewd player and it is not easy to beat her; I just have a knack for calculating probabilities. And an agenda in mind. Evening - Her There are times when Mulder is so completely transparent... We had both agreed when we became lovers as well as partners that we had to be as discreet as possible. And, with the exception of a snowy afternoon in a ski lodge, we had been. Never mind that Assistant Director Skinner "unofficially" knew - officially he knew nothing and the three of us planned to keep it that way. We have our separate motel rooms, visiting through the connecting door. When we can not have adjoining rooms we abstain rather than risk being caught sneaking in or out of each other's rooms. We refrain from overt displays of affection in public, restraining ourselves to a light touch, a hand on the back. So why are we playing strip poker? I knew we were in trouble when we checked in. No adjoining rooms. No TVs. No radio reception. *Green Acres is the place to be* He would go nuts within 24 hours, I thought. To be fair, he lasted almost 36. At first there was the investigation to keep him occupied, but now we were waiting for reports to come back, for something to break. He had jogged - twice. He had gone over every detail of the case at least three times until I was ready to scream. He had paced around my room like a caged tiger until I wanted to throw something at him. He had *not* mentioned sex. "For God's Sake, Mulder," I said irritably. I, myself, was not thrilled to be stuck here in a place that looked like a set for "Children of the Corn". I shuddered. I have not been able to look at corn the same way since we found the hives. "Get a deck of cards - play solitaire or something." "There's no challenge in that," he complained, then a mischevious look came over him. "Want to play strip poker?" "Are you crazy, Mulder?" "Afraid I'll beat you?" A challenge. I look at him with speculative eyes. I know that he is counting on his incredible ability to calculate odds, but I used to play poker with my father and brothers; I think I can hold my own. And I know that he is thinking that the slow tease will naturally flow into lovemaking, without a debate of whether it would be wise or not. At this point I'd screw him in the parking lot if it would keep him *quiet* for five minutes afterwards. "All right." And it has been more fun than I thought, matching wits with him across the table, trying to read expressions on that deadpan face while carefully screening my own. "All right, Mulder, what have you got?" He grins and lays down his cards. "Full house. Read 'em and weep." I lay down mine. "Royal flush. Pay up, mister." Mulder reaches for his socks. "Uh-uh. The pants." Title: Moments in Time: Midnight (4/4) Midnight - Her Quietly, stealthily, he slips out of the bed, his eyes on my face to determine whether his movements have awakened me. I keep my eyes shut, my breathing shallow, and soon hear the soft click of the bedroom door. I sit up and listen carefully; there, the sound of the television. I relax, letting out a breath that I didn't even know I was holding. It is his old foe, insomnia, tonight. I lay back down, hugging my pillow, and try to go back to sleep. It could be worse. There are the nights when his inner restlessness drives him up and out, to walk or run through the dark streets. The nights when I lie shaking and staring into the dark, my ears straining for the sound of the key in the door, the sound that fills me with both intense relief and anger, then try to force my trembling muscles to be still so that he won't know. In the early days of our love, I would follow him into the living room with offers of a warm drink, a snack, a back rub, companionship, sex. He would accept or reject, but with a hint of irritation, and I would return to bed, hurt that my offers had been spurned. The days when I thought that my love was enough to comfort him. In the early days of our love, I would put on my robe and pace the hall, my anxious eyes on the clock, watching and waiting and praying for his return from those midnight runs. He would return and I would run to fling open the door at the sound of his key, alternately caressing or cursing. The days when I thought that my love was enough to save him. Until an older and wiser woman gave me the key to understanding this man on a stormy night when I had showed up on her doorstep, angry and hurt and determined to exact a little revenge for anxieties caused. Who showed me that loving does not mean owning. Who shared the pain of letting those we love exist outside our cotton coccoons. I had never realized how strong she was until that night, a woman who had sent husband and sons out upon a cruel sea and released daughters to a crueler world. And I learned that sometimes love means letting go. The soft sound of a door latch wakes me from drifting dreams even before the sound of a soft whisper. "Scully?" I turn over, yawning, and smile, holding out my hand. "Come back to bed, Mulder." Who says virtue is its own reward? Midnight - Him I study her sleeping face for a long moment, watching for any sign that my restlessness has disturbed her slumber. She lies dreaming, softly smiling, and I feel that I could watch her like this for an eternity. My warrior-maid, sleeping her enchanted sleep while the dragons and demons of the night pace outside her chamber. But I am the dragon here, not the hero, and I may not watch her sleep. I slip out of bed and quietly shut the door behind me. The demons are quiet tonight; they only flutter behind my eyes, waiting to be lulled back into unconsciousness by the mindless drone of the television. It could be worse; there are nights when they scream so loud that I must take them out of here, out into the streets lest they wake the sleeper, and run them into exhausted whispers. I have gotten better at silencing the demons. In the early days of our love, they would somehow reach beyond my head and trouble her, drawing her out of bed and into my troubled darkness. The demons would mock me: see, we are stronger than you, we can coax your woman to make offerings to our dark selves. Worse than that were the nights when the demons would make her scream and cry, when I stood helpless while the storm broke around and over me. And the blackest night of all, when I had returned from running the demons to find the apartment cold and empty. When I had collapsed in the hallway, feeling the cold steel pierce my heart. And then, out of the darkness, a gentle hand and a soft voice: "Come back to bed, Mulder." The demons are quiet enough now for me to hear her siren call. I turn off the television, stretch, and softly enter the bedroom. "Scully?" The warrior-maid awakens, smiles, and holds out her hand. And in her eyes I see the reflection, not of a dragon, but of a hero. "Come back to bed, Mulder."