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  This author's e-mail address has changed to: xanaduxf@yahoo.com
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***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references
in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter,
and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it.

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The Voice
by shannono
shannono@iname.com

Story (with a slight paranormal bouquet), some Angst (mainly in 
the form of minor MulderTorture), UST-to-Romance, Scully first 
person

Rated PG

Very minor spoilers through "Dreamland I"

Summary: Scully dreams Mulder's voice ... or does she?

Author's notes: So, Mulder calls Scully's name in his sleep, does
he? I may not be the only one to take *that* little tidbit and run
with it, but I believe this one's a bit of a different view.

(Additional note: Can anyone tell I've challenged myself to write
*some* kind of follow-up to every episode? <g>)

Thanks and apologies: To the greatest beta out there, Stacey --
sorry for leaving you off the posted version! <g>

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The Voice
by shannono

==========
"Understand the voice within / And feel the change already beginning ..."
-- "The Voice," the Moody Blues
==========

//Scully.//

The voice is too soft to be real, but too clear to be imagined. I come 
awake instantly, lifting myself carefully up on one elbow and glancing
around the bare motel room, listening carefully.

Nothing.

Still moving slowly, as if fearful of disturbing the very air around
me, I slide from the bed and pad across the floor to the closed door 
separating my room from his. I lean in closely, my ear tilted toward
the hard surface, and strain to hear.

I can pick up the sound of his breathing, deep and steady. This 
comforts me; I know he is at least in no immediate danger.

But I know I heard him call my name.

The sleep has mostly cleared from my mind by now, and I realize 
what I heard couldn't have been him calling to me from the next 
room. No, his voice came from near me. From very close by, as if
he'd been crouched by the bed and had spoken to wake me gently.

But he's not here, and there's no sign he ever was.

A dream. It must have been a dream. I don't remember anything
about it, other than that one soft-spoken word, and I feel no fear 
or ... other distress.

In fact, I feel wonderfully rested and relaxed, as if I've had the
best sleep in my life. Or, at least, in recent memory.

But I'm not really ready to get up for the day. As I cross back to
the bed, I check the clock -- 3:30 a.m. Still three hours until my
alarm goes off, and the way things have gone lately, I'd better take
all the sleep I can when I can. I never know when I'll be dragged 
out of bed for another midnight adventure.

Never let it be said that life with Mulder is boring.

==========

//Scully.//

My eyes open to darkness. I am still alone in my room, and I turn
over to check the clock -- 4:45. I've been asleep only an hour, 
barely enough time to dream at all.

And what are the odds of having the same dream twice in the same
night?

I lie awake for a while, listening to my own breathing. I still feel 
well-rested and sleepy at the same time, but actually getting back
to sleep is harder this time. My mind won't let me ignore the voice
inside my head -- the one calling my name and sounding so much
like Mulder.

I can't figure out what's going on. I've woken up worried about
Mulder for no apparent reason before and dealt with it well, 
considering I'm not much for believing in premonitions. When it
happens, he's usually either in the next hotel room or on the other
side of the car, and the other times, I simply concoct some excuse
to call and check on him.

I can only clearly remember once when I fell asleep worrying about
Mulder and then dreamed of him. It was when he had gone missing
in New Mexico. I knew he was dead; there was no other possible 
outcome.

But I didn't want to believe it -- no; I was afraid to believe it.

Sleep was a long time in coming that night. I tried every method that
had ever worked and a few that hadn't, from warm milk to soothing 
music to boring reading. I even dug out my most dry college textbook,
a guaranteed snoozer. Nothing.

Finally, sometime in the wee hours, I dozed off. The dream apparently
came almost immediately. It began with Mulder's voice, speaking
gently and soothingly over a backdrop of blackness and stars. Then,
gradually, his face came into focus, his eyes clear and soft, as he 
assured me that he would be back -- and warned me of the danger which
faced me.

I'll never forget the exact words he said: "I have returned from the
dead to continue with you, but I fear that this danger is now close 
at hand -- that I may be too late."

I jolted awake, sitting straight up in bed, my heart pounding. When
I recovered enough to look at the clock, I realized I'd slept less 
than twenty minutes, yet I felt energized, almost euphoric. A little
nagging voice inside my head was telling me that it was precisely the
lack of sleep that had brought about my revitalization, but, still ...
I clung to it. That dream was my one hope in the blackness that 
surrounded me.
 
And I believed his warning.

He did come back. And I told him, not in so many words, about the
dream, or the vision, or whatever it was. I told him I knew he wasn't
dead, and he didn't press me for details.
 
I think he knew without having to ask.

But this -- this is different. There's no major stress factor at the 
moment, unless you call this bogus assignment we're on stressful.
Boring, maybe, but not particularly stressful.

And we've changed since then. We're still changing. Our partnership,
our relationship -- everything is different now, and all because of
one little minute of total honesty outside his apartment four months
ago.

At this point, I don't really know if I'm hearing him call for me, or 
if my own mind is conjuring up his voice. Do I need *that* much for 
him to reach out to me?

I don't know, and sleep is overtaking me again, so I'll leave the 
analysis for another day.

==========

//Scully.//

This is getting *really* old.

5:37 this time; only about a half-hour of sleep. It's like he -- or 
his voice, at least -- has some kind of radar for when I get good 
and sound asleep, like newborns seem to have with their mothers.

Now *there's* an apt analogy. Mulder can certainly be childlike at
times, and I tend to slip into a mothering mode entirely too often
where he's concerned.

I sigh as I slide from the bed again. This isn't going to work. I'm
going to have to go in there and check on him, or my mind isn't
going to let me sleep again. I slip on my robe as I approach the
door, hesitating only a moment before turning the knob and pulling
my side of the door open.

The door on his side sits open several inches, as is his custom. I
use mine for privacy whenever we have connecting rooms; he respects
that, but sees no such need for himself. He'd rather be that much 
closer to me, just in case something goes wrong.

He's *such* a pessimist.

I push the door open more fully and stick my head around the frame
to look at him in the bluish light from the muted television. He's
in sweatpants, shirtless, and sprawled across the bed among possibly
the most tangled mess of sheets, blankets, bedspread and pillows 
I've ever seen. And considering how many times I've seen him asleep
in motel beds over the past few years, that's saying a lot.

I watch him a few minutes, smiling slightly at the picture he makes.
His mouth hangs open a few inches, and he's snoring intermittently,
very softly. His face is completely relaxed -- in fact, his whole 
body is, one arm hanging so far off the mattress on this side that
it very nearly scrapes the floor.

I start to move back into my own room, but something stops me.
There's something niggling at the back of my brain, telling me to
go on over there and get a good look at him.

So I do. Moving silently, I step over to the side of the bed and
stare down at him. It takes a second for my mind to grasp the
significance, but suddenly I realize he's bathing in wetness.

Sweat.

I reach automatically for the bedside light, squinting for the few
seconds it takes my eyes to adjust. When I can see again, my
heart nearly stops.

The sheets are soaked, and even his sweatpants are mottled with
damp spots. Quickly, I place the back of my hand on his forehead,
and immediately snatch it away.

He's burning up.

I stand, frozen, for a long moment before my instincts kick in. I
dash back through the doors to my room, rummaging in my overnight
bag for my first aid kit. I grab it and rush back to his bedside,
pulling out the quick-reading ear canal thermometer I invested in
nearly two years ago.

I place the instrument in his ear, wait a few seconds for it to
beep, and pull it back out, staring at the digital display.

103.9.

"Holy shit," I murmur, in shock. Then I'm galvanized into action,
running to the bathroom to soak towels in cool water and bringing
them back to start bathing him to bring the fever down. He begins
to shiver almost immediately and comes half-awake, weakly fighting
my efforts.

"C-cold ..." he moans, and my heart constricts.

"Shhh, it's okay Mulder," I croon, grabbing the hand nearest me
as my other hand automatically continues wiping down his face and
chest. "You have a high fever, and I've got to get it down."

He calms somewhat, and then one more word escapes his lips:

"Scully."

It's the exact volume and intonation of the dream-voice I've been
hearing all night, and it takes my breath away. Could he have
been calling for me inside his fever-riddled mind?

Could I have actually heard his silent pleas?

No time for that now. He's somewhat conscious, and I need to see
if he can take some Tylenol and drink a little water to help get
the fever down.

"Mulder," I whisper, letting out a relieved breath as his eyelids
flutter open. His pupils are wide and his eyes a little glazed, 
but he's making a concerted effort to focus on my face.

"Mulder, do you think you can take some Tylenol?" I ask. I wait
for an answer, staring at him, and he finally half-nods. I squeeze
his hand and start to rise, but he grabs for me.

"Don' leave, Sc ... Scully," he nearly moans. "Need ... you ..."

His voice is sheer anguish, and I bite my bottom lip to keep my 
control. "I'm not leaving, Mulder," I soothe him, brushing the damp
hair back from his forehead. "I'm going into the bathroom to get 
some water. I'll be back in just a few seconds."

He looks at me wildly, his unfocused gaze roaming my face, but then
he calms slightly and half-nods again. Extracting my hand from his,
I hurry into the tiny bathroom and fill one of the motel's disposable
plastic cups with water. I return to the bedside, smiling at Mulder,
and am heartened when he at least tries to return my smile.

I get him to take the Tylenol and drink half the glass of water 
before he collapses back against the bed in exhaustion. His shivering
has eased, and he's starting to sweat again, his body fighting off 
whatever it is that's brought on this fever.

I know I need to think, to try to figure out the reason for his 
illness. But I can't get my brain out of neutral right now, as I 
watch him drift back into a restless sleep.

I reach for the bedspread that's hanging off the end of the bed and 
is, therefore, still mostly dry. Flipping it carefully to the softer
side, I pull it up over him. He shifts slightly as I smooth the
material it across his chest, and he says it again: "Scully."

This time, I can smile.

"I'm here, Mulder."