From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Tue, 7 Mar 2000 03:26:51 -0600
Subject: Sleep by Jacqui Carling-Rodgers
Source: direct

Reply To: jaymceer@netscape.net


Title: Sleep
Author: Jacqui Carling-Rodgers
Posting date: March 7, 2000
Feedback: Would I stoop so low as to beg? You bet! This is my first fanfic, so please be kind. I'm at jaymceer@netscape.net
Archive: Anywhere, please let me know, because I'd like to visit.
Disclaimer: CC the surfer god once came to our city (Gold Coast, Quensland, Australia) to catch some waves, so that means I have some ownership of the X-Files too, doesn't it ;-)
Dedication: First up to my darling husband Duncan; my beta reader Angel who is one for her advice and to the fanfic writers who have kept me enthralled as a reader.
Summary: Have you ever had one of those days? Scully has.
Category: Scully POV

SLEEP
By Jacqui Carling-Rodgers

I am tired. 

Achingly tired. Gone far beyond exhaustion to feel a weight that settles
deep within my marrow. 

I am tired in body, mind and spirit. I am rambling. At my front door. 

Staring idiotically at the keys I hold in my hand forgetting which one
opens the door to my apartment. 

Finally, each groove of the key ratchets noisily into the lock, then the
door is open. All I have to do is put myself on the other side of it, lock
it and to try to create a sanctuary here that I had almost forgotten
existed. 

Sometimes this doesn't feel like home to me. My apartment now is just
somewhere to replenish my overnight bag, to occasionally rest my head
before resetting the answering machine to follow Mulder on whatever mad
case he's stumbled on for us this day. 

Not that I resent that. After all, the X-Files is what I do. I'm good at
it. No, I don't mean the 'mad' bit either. It's just.... I'm tired

I have long gotten over any broad career ambitions to change the world, to
change the FBI. I find the work I do challenge enough. It constantly puts
my science to the test, stretches me and what I know and frequently, what
I do not understand. 

But now I am tired. Too stretched, too care-worn. I need rest. 

And Mulder doesn't know. 

My unfailing conscientiousness made me wait until our latest case was
over. This morning all that remained was to write the case reports and the
fill in all the forms which tend to accumulate in our line of work. 

I remember this morning...Mulder is bored. 

He has finished and filed his case report and I am almost at the end of
mine. Sheaves of paper, expense forms mainly, litter his desk but he
chooses to ignore them in favour of tossing pencils high in the air,
trying to get the points stuck in the ceiling
 tiles. The once white tiles now have small grey puncture marks
concentrated in the area above his desk. 

I say his name to draw his attention and he stops his pencil toss in
mid-pitch. 

"Is this annoying you?" he asks and I am not sure if I said that it did he
wouldn't continue anyway. I shake my head and open my mouth only to find I
have no voice. 

He continues to look at me intently and I force my brain into action
before he prompts for an answer. 

"I want to take a couple of days of. I mean it's quiet and everything we
have to do can wait until Friday, if that's okay..." 

My voice fades under his increasingly scrutiny and I look away from him,
down at my hands sitting primly on top of the desk. 

"Is everything okay?" 

I look back up only to find myself frozen in the spotlight of his gaze. 

"Sure, um, fine," is the only thing I can stammer before I again look away
from him. Coward. I press print on my computer. 

Still he says nothing and the silence is deafening. 

"I just need to get out of my head for a couple of days. Y'know, clear the
cobwebs, sleep. I just feel a bit tired." 

I can't work up the courage to look at him. Damn it, this man knows me so
well and he can tell instantly when I'm hedging the truth. I have never
lied to him, unless you count omission to be the same as lying. All it
would take for me to tell him everythi ng is a look and a small caress. I
love him. 

And I can't do that now. I know the weight of the burden he carries not
only for the X-Files and the loss of his sister but also for me and losses
I've suffered. He blames himself and nothing I can say to him will change
that. 

All I can do is show him instead. 


Keep the grief of losing my sister, the loss of Emily and of children who
will never be, my near fatal cancer away from him as much as possible.
Show him I am strong, he can rely on me and I won't fail him. But that is
hard now in my state of mind which i s full of thoughts which take voice
at the same time. I know now how unbearable it must have been for Mulder
to have heard the cacophony of voices when he was affected by the alien
rubbing. I think I am almost mad myself. 

The printer stops and I separate the three copies. Since the fire in this
office two years ago, a copy for the files and one to Skinner is no longer
enough. I also take one home with me. 

Still he says nothing, but the squeak of his office chair tells me that he
turned to observe me further. 

"Is there something you want to tell me?" he murmurs softly, but the sound
of his voice makes me jump all the same. 

I turn to face him. 

"No, I'm fine." 

I can see the muscle working in his jaw. He hates that automatic response.
Mulder has come believe it means the opposite. He stands over me and takes
my face into his hands so I can no longer hide from him. As he can read me
so clearly, I can read him, so
 I look into his hazel eyes to see the relentless search, reading every
line on my face, the dark circles under my eyes, my listlessness. 

"Is there something I should know?" he asks more firmly while at the same
time drawing his fingers gently across my temples. There. I see it. His
mind as open to me as my own. He fears for my health, that my cancer has
returned. I stop the restless moveme nt of his fingers with my own. 

"No, really," I hasten to reassure him, "I had a complete medical just
last month and I have a clean bill of health. All I need is to catch up on
a good night's sleep, or two." 

I tilt my head up so Mulder can see it my eyes to show to him that I am
not hiding anything and I see a slight nod which absolves me from his
subtle interrogation. 

But my answer is not the truth. My tiredness goes beyond the physical.
Even 10 hours sleep a night gives me no rest so today I fight a battle
alone to restore some equilibrium to my soul. 

I leave work early and head to the gym. Nothing this time will betray me.
A physically exhausted body will go a long way to forcing my mind to
quiet. 

Relentless dance music through my headphones, playing just a little too
loud for comfort is my companion as I burn up the miles on the treadmill.
I run harder than my usual comfortable jog, stopping only when the 40
minute timer beeps and flashes to get m y attention. Still with head
phones on I tackle the punching bag, pounding in time to the music
ignoring my usual pattern of personalising the inoffensive lump of canvas. 

Today it is not CGB Spender or Diana Fowley who I swing at, nor is it any
number of the nameless conspirators who would deceive, inveigle and
obfuscate. Today this is simple a red bag and my fight is about me,
punching until I can feel biceps and triceps protest from the strain to a
beat in excess of 120 a minute. 

So now I stand in my kitchen, conscious of every movement. My body telling
me I should replenish the fuel I mercilessly extracted from it. 

There is nothing in the fridge. I haven't been grocery shopping in weeks.
There hardly seemed a need when breakfast is a hastily grabbed bagel from
the bakery just down from the J Edgar Hoover building. As for lunch and
dinner, well... that could be anywh ere in the country where the FBI has
jurisdiction. 

The only thing I can see is an unopened bottle of champagne. Real
champagne. Expensive French champagne. Oh, yes from my last birthday. A
gift from my brother Charlie. The fact that it sits there unopened a year
later shows you how much I have to celebrat e... Now Dana, that's maudlin. 

But it does go so well with chocolate-coated chocolate cream cookies, the
only other edible thing in my refrigerator. 

Veuve Cliquot... Mrs Cliquot the widow... the merry widow... well,
arguably a whole lot merrier than me...

I stare intently at the bubbles as they unhurriedly make their way to the
top of the flute. If I were a champagne what would I be? 

Ah, yes La Spinster Scully, a very dry sort, very little body, few
bubbles, most of the life extracted out. Not meant for keeping...Unloved. 

Did you know that it is easier to get drunk on champagne, or any
carbonated alcoholic beverage, that it is on still wine or straight
spirits. That's because the carbon dioxide, being a gas, works its way
through the body faster, taking the alcohol with it . And after one and a
half glasses, being hungry and having had no food I have become a living
breathing science lesson. 

Hmmmm, not exaclty unfamiliar territory. 

 Damn it. Why have I started writing all of his down in my journal? Who
the would be interested in the ravings of a tipsy woman? And where the
hell are those chocolate cookies? 

I'm going to scribble this out. Maybe later. 

After wasting a perfectly good glass of Veuve Cliquot champagne over the
dining table, now being thirstily drunk by a tea towel, I have now decided
to dispense with a glass altogether and drink straight from the bottle.
After all what does it matter? Who
 cares? Who would even know? 

I'm going for a long soak in the bath while the spilled champagne keeps
company with the chocolate cookie crumbs on the table. 

My body sinks into the hot frothy water gratefully, turning my skin bright
pink. I've started to sweat but the still cold champagne is keeping my
insides temperate. 

Yes, it's working. My eye lids are starting to nail themselves shut.
Excellent. A triumph of the human body over the human mind. No thoughts
speeding around the Indianapolis 500 are going to keep me awake tonight. 

The phone. I haven't unplugged the phone and if I don't people will want
to call me when all want to do is sleep. I force my eyes to open and
=bang= Shit what was that! 

No, no, it's okay I've just kicked the empty champagne bottle stepping out
of the tub and it's rolled somewhere around here. 

One phone unplugged. And yes, like the good girl I am, I've made sure that
answering machine is still plugged in so I can still answer my dozens and
dozens of well wishers in the morning. My bedroom phone is unplugged too. 

So now I lay on top of the bed, my body still over heated to be under the
covers or to be bothered with clothes. 

Well, looky what I found in the second bedside drawer. I'd forgotten I had
one of those. It was a present from Missy when I left for college. She
said that no single girl should be without one and I have learned over the
years she was right. 

Mmmmm, champagne, chocolate and sex. It's almost like a real date... 


...No, I refuse to open my eyes. 

I don't think they would move of their own accord anyway and I'd still be
asleep now if it wasn't for the stratchy throat I fall victim to after
drinking a little more than is prudent. Now my breath catches in the back
of my throat making the irritation w orse. 

Dehydration, the most likely cause of hangovers. Excessive drinking
combined with sweat inducing activities leaves the body dehydrated. Most
hangovers could be stopped before they started you know if people drank
water or juice before going out and betwee n each alcoholic drink. 

And now I'm hot. Still with my eyes closed, I snake an arm out from
underneath the covers and push them until I can feel the cool air caress
my body. Now the rest of me doesn't want to move but my eye lids are small
enough to be forced by the rest of the body to open. 

It's 1pm and I've been asleep for... 15 hours. No wonder my body feels
inert. After lying on the one position for too many hours my muscles call
for attention. But my mind is quiet. The contradictory voices have been
stilled. 

I smile and draw a deeper breath. Despite a slight hangover. I feel
invigorated, renewed and hungry. 

Still fastening a robe, I walk into the bathroom to retrieve the errant
champagne bottle, but it's gone. So is the water I'd left in the tub. I
walk to the kitchen. A new tea towel is hung over the oven door. 

 And the dining table has been wiped clean. My journal is closed, neatly
placed on the side of the table, next to some mail that I never bothered
to open yesterday. 

In the centre of the table is one of my crystal vases filled with brightly
coloured gerberas. That wasn't there last night... Next to it is a bag and
a piece of paper. 

The bag contains fresh bagels. The piece of paper contains a note: 'Please
call me when you wake up, Mulder'. 

I smile as the revelation dawns. 

I know the weight of the burden he carries not only for the X-Files and
his sister but also for me and losses I've suffered. He loves me but
because of everything that has happened he can say nothing. 

All he can do is show me instead. 

 FINI