From: Subject: "Night Visitor" (1/2) by Nessie Date: Thu, 4 Sep 1997 21:51:14 +-100 **Apologies for the formatting (possibly there are unwanted symbols all over the message); I've done everything I can to prevent this and I'm sorry if it detracts from your enjoyment of the story, it p*sses me off too :-P but I'm sick of waiting to post this :) If you know how to prevent this problem (using MS exchange through Internet Mail) please let me know** Read on: Title: Night Visitor Author: Nessie E-mail: zcapr59@ucl.ac.uk Date written: 31st August 1997 Distribution: Please send to atxc and Gossamer. Thanks. Classification: VR Keywords: MSR Rating: R for sexual suggestion Spoilers/Timeline: Small One Breath spoilers. Could take place at any point after that Summary: Scully receives strange visits from Mulder Disclaimers: Mulder and Scully are owned by CC, 1013, Fox, DD, GA, Vince Gilligan and Darin Morgan. Not me. Author's notes: see the end of part 2 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Night Visitor (1/2) by Nessie XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX He features in my dreams a lot these days. More than anything else does; perhaps more than is natural. It's hardly surprising; we spend so many hours of the day working together, sitting side by side on a plane, trapped together in jeopardy on some case. Sometimes I rescue him; sometimes he saves me. We look out for each other; we have to, so we are constantly in each other's thoughts. I spend more time with Mulder than with anybody else, so I suppose it's logical that he should make an appearance in my mind as I sleep. Besides-- what else is there that I devote time to? I don't get out as much as I used to before we started our work together. Seems like my mind is in permanent Muldermode. In my dreams, I don't know where we are; there is no scenery or setting or anything but us. Just us. Why would there need to be anything outside of us? All I recall is darkness and light; the white light enveloping us in its purity and strength while pitch blackness-- darker than seems imaginable- hovers just beyond. Threatening, but never daring near us. It is the one time in my life when darkness never dares. I lie on my back; it reminds me of the time when I was gone and Ahab was urging me to return to Mulder. Except I wear my nightclothes in this dream; blue silk pajamas. And Mulder sits at my side-- wearing not his pajamas but what he seems to be always wearing when not on official business. Faded blue denims and an ash-gray teeshirt that hugs the planes of his chest to perfection. The workboots I love to see him wearing have been removed to expose his large but handsome feet. He holds my hand, wrapping his eternally-long fingers around mine in a grip that is gentle, yet I know if I tried to slip my hand from his, he would be reluctant to release me. But it's not as if I want to let go. I relish in the rare feel of our bodies touching, even in sleep. I feel as if Mulder and I can never make enough physical contact, for something that feels so good. It makes me feel safe; as if he really is there, keeping away the harm. Monsters and demons that I shouldn't believe in; that I *don't* believe in, yet I've had my enough intruders in this apartment to arouse more than a little fear in me. I keep my gun well-hidden by my bed. Visitors receive scrutiny through the spyhole in my front door before being allowed in. There's only so much that can be done. Still, I survive. The recurring dream is among my most vivid. I can almost genuinely feel his thumb drawing tiny circles on my palm as his fingertips rub soothingly back and forth across my knuckles. He lends me comfort. Sometimes he dares a trembling hand to outstretch and touch my hair. I don't know why he trembles. Why should Mulder fear me in my own dreams? I have no idea. He delights at the feel of my hair, I can tell by the tiny smile that graces his lips and the way his eyes close peacefully. As if he always harbored suspicions about the way my hair feels, and he was now being proved right. Mulder loves to be right. His fingers thread through the strands, finding their home and remaining buried there, stroking back and forth. His rhythm is slow, mesmerizing. I could die happy like this. My head turns restlessly so that my cheek lands in his palm. I adjust to a perfect fit between his hand and my face before looking up at him. I see happy hazel glinting back at me. I try to convey through my gaze, the affection I feel for this man. At this moment, and always. I want to say it; I want to say it now, how much he means; that I want us to stay this way for ever. It is a dream from which I never want to awaken, but I know I will. I want him to stay. My hand stirs from my side, to reach for his. To move it from my face and feel his warm palm upon my neck and my shoulder then allow him to feel the silk of my pajama top slide against the hairs on the back of his hand as he explores the skin beneath my clothing. I find myself wanting his hands on me, all over me. His lips. These are the urges that perhaps I'm in denial about in my waking state. But not in sleep. I want him, I would reach for him. But he fades. Just before I can grasp his wrist to guide his hand, he is going. Gone. My cheek misses his hand. Don't leave, Mulder. He leaves behind nothing but his name on my lips in what is but a dry whisper. I close my eyes and in my dream, I fall asleep. Sleep within sleep. Just before I drift off, I imagine I feel a finger sweeping lightly across my cheek, the ghost of a caress. After that, my sleep is dreamless. I wake alone. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX end part (1/2) Title: Night Visitor (2/2) Author: Nessie E-mail: zcapr59@ucl.ac.uk Date written: 31st August 1997 Distribution: Please send to Gossamer and atxc. Anywhere else, please let me know first. Keep both parts together and acknowledge Nessie as the author. Thanks! Classification: VR Keywords: MSR Rating: R for sexual suggestion Spoilers/Timeline: Small One Breath spoilers. Could take place at any point after that Summary: Mulder pays some strange visits to Scully Disclaimers: Mulder and Scully are owned by CC, 1013, Fox, DD, GA, Vince Gilligan and Darin Morgan. Not me. Author's notes: see the end of part 2 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Night Visitor (2/2) by Nessie XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Sometimes I don't know why I do it. When I look across the office at her the next day, I ask myself: why? Why the intrusion? Why the silent, contemplative observation? And why the touches? I only hear the answer called out from the inner recesses of my mind when I do it again. Those are questions that can only be answered in the circumstances about which they are asked. And there is no substitute for these special moments I spend with Scully. I wonder, if she knew I was here-- if she was awake, would she feel the same incredible emotion that I do in these sacred minutes? Watching her peaceful, vulnerable sleep is one of the few blessings in this life. It is not a privilege that was given to me-- I invited it upon myself. I could not resist... I know that I have no right to be here. If she was to wake now, I don't know how she'd react. Anger, maybe? You wouldn't think it of her to look at her now. I have allowed a thin beam of light to leak through from the living room so that I can see her. At the moment, her face is relaxed and a tiny smile is fixed on her small mouth. Right now, I want to kiss that smile, feel her happiness against me and share in whatever she is dreaming of. Whatever it is, I'd be better off than in my own nightmares. It would be so easy to lean forward and.. But perhaps I have no right. I wouldn't want to wake her. Why do I do it? Because I can. I have her apartment key- she gave me a copy on my birthday last year, smiling as she reminded me of the last time I kicked down her door, breaking the lock because there was no other way to get in and save her life. I had to laugh when she said that, recalling how I dropped by afterwards to see if she was doing okay. She was fine, but all I could do was grin sheepishly as she rebuked me for breaking her lock. It was only recently that I felt compelled to use it. Or, you could say, abuse it. I do feel guilty, like I'm keeping a secret that I can't trust her with. I feel that right up to the moment when I walk in and see her, and then I know I can trust her with anything. Touching her is my way of letting her know my secret. Subconsciously. Really, Mulder? If I tried explaining that to her, she'd call it crap. Right? I hold her hand. Her fingers are so much shorter than mine, but her hand is so slender. Hands like that on anybody else, I'd worry about holding on too tightly in case I crushed tiny child's bones. Scully's stronger. If my hand was crushing hers, she could snap from my grasp in a heartbeat and lock her fingers around my wrist, twisting my elbow to almost breaking point, her eyes gleaming and throwing a thousand challenges at me. A woman who fights back with equal force. But still, I don't hold tight. Putting aside her physical strength, I wouldn't want to wake her. Instead, my grip is loose. My fingers slide over her skin, constantly astounded by, and reveling in, its smooth texture. Wondering if it's just her hands that feel like this or her entire body. I have my suspicions. Loosing itself from her fingers, my hand is drawn towards the hair. I know how her hair feels. I'm always ready to welcome her into my arms just to feel her next to me as I comfort her or she comforts me or we comfort each other. The hair is an added bonus. On the rare occasions when she invites me to hold her, I'm always glad to touch her hair. Sometimes I feel it against my hand as I cradle her head. Sometimes I can bury my nose in its depths, inhaling the faint lemon scent as I try to whisper away her fears. I know the way it feels. It just seems as if I forget. I feel as if I need to keep reminding myself of its texture. Looking isn't enough; here is where I can find this particular truth. I allow myself a small smile and close my eyes for a while, absorbing the moment between us. I fear I may have disturbed her as her head turns restlessly. She sighs softly, doing nothing to calm the hardness that is growing in my lap. I can't help it. This is what she does to me. As she turns, her cheek drops easily into my hand, nestling against my palm. Feels incredible. Could live my whole life with Scully's face against my palm. Ha. If only life could be that simple. Sometimes I hate the cynic in me. I sit that way for a while, my arousal growing. I find it increasingly difficult to hold back from doing something that would hurt her and that I'd regret. And that's when I know it's time to leave. Go home, Mulder. To a painfully restrained choice between watching a video and taking a freezing cold shower, I regretfully remind myself. Her hand reaching for me only spurs me to get away from her. I move my hand and get up to leave. As I reach her bedroom door, I hear her. I wonder if I imagined it, if it was just a chance occurrence of breath or my ears playing tricks. How skeptical of me. But I'm sure she whispered my name. Oh god-- did I wake her? One look back at her quells that fear. She is still asleep; her eyes are closed. A small frown has crossed her face, making me wonder at what turn her dream has taken. The sound of my own name made me wonder that too. Her face relaxes when I cross the room once more, stroking the back of my index finger across her cheek before I leave. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX End part (2/2) XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I would love feedback. I'm thinking of continuing this in a sequel; I have an idea and I'll get writing if enough people are interested in reading it. So hit that reply button and tell me what you thought of this. Send your stuff to: zcapr59@ucl.ac.uk Author's notes: Wrote this on an incredibly long and boring Sunday morning shift in between visits from pesky customers coming in and wanting to buy stuff, would you believe? To my regular readers (I know I do have some ) who are probably wondering what happened to my sense of humour over the summer: it's at work a particularly difficult story at the moment, which is a sequel to one of my previous works. Be warned..