From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Thu, 18 May 2000 02:55:25 -0500
Subject: Waiting for the Rest to Come by april leigh
Source: direct

Reply To: aprilleigh50@hotmail.com


Title: Waiting for the Rest to Come
Author: april leigh
Rating: PG
Category: A, MSR
Spoilers: Detour; Orison; Closure
Timeline: takes place a few weeks after the events of 
Closure
Archive: Anywhere automatic, Spookies- yes.  
Everywhere else- just let me know so I can visit
Disclaimer: Ha! If they were mine, you would be 
watching this, not reading it.
Feedback: always a good thing, e-mail: 
aprilleigh50@hotmail.com
Website: other stories by me can be found at: 
http://members.xoom.com/aprileigh/
Summary: "I don't touch him. I knew that I wouldn't. 
I used to be embarrassed when these impulses rose up 
in me, and proud when I could shove them back down, 
but not anymore. Now I'm only sad. Sad because I'm 
afraid that I'll always be able to shove, when all I 
want to do is pull. Pull him into me."


*       *       *       *       *       *
Mulder sleeps these days.

Not that he hadn't slept before; it's just that I 
never really saw it.

There was that one time in the Florida forest, where 
he managed to pass out in my lap, despite my singing, 
but that hardly counted. He did sleep, but there was 
no rest that night.

There is an important difference between the two.

In all of our years together, it was always me who 
drifted off on the planes, on the stakeouts, on the 
drives across the country. But I didn't sleep that 
night. That night I stayed awake for him; I told him 
that I would keep watch, and that he needed his 
sleep. I know that he believed me, he trusted me to 
stay awake, but he still couldn't let himself rest. 
He knew that there was something out there that 
night, and he didn't want to risk not being ready for 
it.

How could I resent him for that?

But now, now things are different. He doesn't need to 
stay awake anymore. Whatever he'd experienced in 
those woods that night in California had been enough 
to bring him peace. He told me that he'd seen his 
sister that night, and whether I believe him or not, 
I know that he was speaking the truth when he told me 
he was free. I had seen that undeniable truth within 
him. A part of him knew that he didn't need to stay 
awake now. That during his unconscious hours, 
Samantha could not slip through his fingers.

But even as I explain this to myself, I can't help 
but resent him.

It was never me he was looking for.

I push that thought away.

I feel guilty for having these thoughts. I should be 
happy for him. Happy that he's found this kind of 
peace, this rest. But when I look at Mulder these 
days, I'm not sure what I am seeing. He isn't the 
same man that I have known all of these years. 
Something inside of him has changed, and that makes 
me afraid. Now he is the one who sleeps, and it is I 
who can not.

Things have become unbalanced and I feel like I'm 
about to tip over if I don't watch my step.

I don't know what will happen now, but I know that I 
don't want to watch my step anymore; I just want to 
watch him.

It started on the plane ride back from California. We 
were both eager to leave and we did not complain 
about the late flight. The plane was quiet and half 
empty, and I was looking forward to sleeping through 
the flight. He took the aisle, as was his custom, and 
I took the window. The seat between us remained 
empty.

That plane ride was the last time I really slept. My 
head propped up against the window with a too small, 
too flat pillow, and my jacket as a blanket. That was 
the last time I was a able to escape the waking 
world.

I don't know what woke me mid flight. When 
consciousness began filtering in, there was nothing 
that drew my attention. The plane was subdued and the 
flight smooth.

It took me longer than it should have to notice 
Mulder's head in my lap. He'd found a pillow of his 
own and had placed it between his head and the top of 
my thighs. He lay on his back, head in my lap, legs 
in the aisle, asleep. I remember being surprised by 
this fact. He was asleep. And he was resting. He was 
comfortable as he lay in my lap. Comfortable. Strange 
that such a normal word could fit him.

Those isolated times that I've had to waken him, I 
never had to grip his shoulder or speak loudly into 
his ear to bring him back into the conscious world. 
Those few times he woke so quickly and easy that my 
mere presence was all it took.

I always took some kind of comfort in that fact.

But he didn't wake up this time; even as I shifted in 
my seat attempting to find a more comfortable 
position for both of us. He did not wake and I did 
not have the heart to forcibly rouse him, especially 
when he shifted and turned his body toward me. His 
right arm moved to curl around my waist and his face 
actually nuzzled my abdomen.

I think that it was at that moment my rest fled me.

That was the first time I could just look at him, 
really look at him, without fear of him looking back.

I know how he looks at me. I love it.

It also frightens me.

I spent the rest of the flight staring at him. I 
never could bring myself to touch him though. To run 
my fingers through this short hair, to trace the 
outline of his face, his lips. I never could. I am a 
coward. Although I would never admit that out loud.


I am staring at him now, but he does not notice. He's 
sprawled across the cheap bedspread of my motel bed. 
A report lies on his chest, half read.

I was in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, when he 
knocked on my door. "Scully? You have the results 
from the tox screen?" he did not wait for a response 
before opening the motel door with his copy of the 
key. I'd tightened my robe around me self consciously 
and peeked out the bathroom door. "Yeah, it's over on 
the table, right next to the laptop." I tilted my 
head in that direction and he entered the room all 
the way, closing the door behind him.

He found the report, called out a "Thanks," and I 
heard him shuffle through the papers. I returned to 
the bathroom to finish washing my face. When I exited 
less than five minutes later, he was sound asleep.


He does this now, falling asleep almost at random. 
For the first few weeks I'd been worried about his 
behavior. A change of sleeping habits was a classic 
symptom of depression. I'd even casually broached the 
subject with him. He'd laughed at my concern, though 
not unkindly. "What are you talking about Scully? 
I've never felt better." He looked at me then, really 
looked at me, and I believed him. He was ok. For the 
first time in a long time he really was ok. I felt 
ridiculous for bring the subject up.

Then his gaze became uncomfortable, I could not bare 
it and I had to look away. "Speaking of sleep 
Scully... it looks like you could use some yourself." 
I wished then that I hadn't brought the subject up.

"Thank you," I replied, my mouth twisting into what I 
hoped was a sardonic grin, "you look nice too."

My light tone did not fool him. "No, I'm not saying 
it to be mean... Are you having those dreams again? 
Pfaster?" he offered, concern in his voice.

I could have just said yes. It was a believable out; 
he would never know. "No. It's not the dreams."

"Then what is it? Do you know?" But he turned away 
from me as he asked this. He swiveled the chair 
around to reach into the filing cabinet. His voice 
sounded far away, even though he was only a few feet 
away. When I did not answer right away, he looked 
back at me. He raised his eyebrows, indicating that 
he was waiting for an answer.

"No." I lie. I let the lie come into my eyes. I beg 
him to ask for more. I beg him to dig deeper. If he 
did, I would tell him.

He saw it. I know that he did. I saw the flicker of 
recognition pass over his face. But he didn't ask. 
Damn him. "Maybe you should try some warm milk." He 
turned his attention back to the filing cabinet. "It 
never worked for me, but who knows?"

If he had asked further, I would not have told him. 
It was a good thing that he did not ask.


I am cold suddenly, and I move to the thermostat and 
adjust it until I hear the heater kick in and feel 
the hot air rush in from the vents. That night in the 
forest I remember being cold. But not as cold as I am 
now.  I pull my robe tighter around myself, redoing 
the knot. I am tight inside, the springs so tightly 
bound that I feel as if I'm going to burst.

I so want to burst.

I will not look at him, I say to myself. I will let 
him sleep for a few more minutes while I finalize my 
report. We're going home tomorrow morning and if I 
didn't finish the report tonight, I'll just have to 
finish later at the office.

It is a sorry state of my life when I don't even 
believe the lies I tell myself.

I can not concentrate with him here. He distracts me. 
I'm not used this quiet, this stillness between us in 
this room now. Over the years I have grown used to 
the noises he makes, the rapping of his pencil 
against his desk, the soft cracking of sunflower 
seeds between his teeth; the constant shifting of his 
long body trying to discover a comfortable way to 
place it. How can he be so still? How can he sleep so 
soundly that I have to stand right next to him to 
make sure he is still breathing?

Sleep comes so easy to him now, and I am envious. He 
is asleep again, making up for all of those hours 
lost. The nightmares have moved on, freeing him. This 
is not the first time that I have found him like 
this. Normally I wake him up and send him on his way. 
But this time I can't. I simply can not. I need to 
see him
like this. I want to remember what rest can be like.

I find that I like watching him sleep. The freedom to 
stare at him openly is a privilege that I have fully 
come to embrace. Standing next to him, looking down 
on his slack face, I am surprised how soft he looks. 
The lines on his face are smoothed out, his 
expression one of relaxation. Is this how I look when 
I sleep? Somehow I doubt it.

I want to touch him. I want to touch his face to find 
where the lines have gone. Where do they go when he 
sleeps? Can I send mine there as well?

I don't touch him. I knew that I wouldn't. I used to 
be embarrassed when these impulses rose up in me, and 
proud when I could shove them back down, but not 
anymore. Now I'm only sad. Sad because I'm afraid 
that I'll always be able to shove, when all I want to 
do is pull.

Pull him into me.

But I don't want to think about that.

I kneel beside the bed and rest my chin on top of the 
spread. It itches, irritates the delicate skin, and I 
bring my arms up and place my chin where they cross.

His head is only inches from mine. An odd thrill runs 
through my body then. What if he woke now? What would 
I do? What excuse could I come up with to explain 
what I am doing?

I have no answers but I remain where I am. I want him 
to wake.

He is facing me, and I tilt my head so that we are on 
the same plain, eyes and lips even. I feel his breath 
against my face and I inhale, filling my lungs with 
him.

He opens his eyes.

I'm caught.

Thank God.

I don't look away and I can see that surprises him; 
it surprises myself.

I wait for him to say something-- anything, but he 
doesn't. His face remains slack, and at first I think 
that he is not yet quite awake. Then I move my eyes 
to meet his and I see that he is very much awake.

Neither of us speaks still. All I can hear is the 
rush of air through the vents. The heater is running, 
but I am not warm yet.

He closes his eyes. A minute passes and I begin to 
think that he has fallen back asleep. This 
disappoints me. Is that all?

"Are you going to sleep?" He finally speaks, finally 
gives in to the silence. 'I win.' I think inanely, as 
if this were a contest. Though, at times did feels 
like it is.

"I can't." I say simply. There is nothing more to 
add.

His eyes open again and he rapidly sits up. I lean 
away from him, startled by this sudden movement. I 
watch as the papers slide of his chest and slowly, 
too slowly drift to the floor. When I look back at 
him, his eyes are still on the report.

Why didn't either one of us try to catch the 
fluttering papers?

He turns to me and studies my face. "You should be 
tired." He knows I'm not sleeping. He's known this 
for weeks. The makeup can't hide the circles under my 
eyes; no amount of coffee can perk up my weary step, 
but this is the first time he's mentioned it since 
that day in the office. Why did he ignore it? Didn't 
he understand that I needed to have him see this, to 
have him mention it, to have me face this reality?

I'm glad he ignored it.

"I am." Again, nothing more to add. I am tired. I am 
exhausted. But sleep hides from me. Rest hides from 
me.

He looks away, back to the bed, and nods slightly, 
thinking. He moves again, this time standing. I am 
still kneeling on the floor. He is towering above me 
and I can not move.

He reaches a hand down to me and I am able to bring 
my own up to meet his. He helps me stand. We are 
standing next to each other, his heat radiating off 
of him and I feel warm for the first time that night. 
He meets my gaze, and without breaking it, reaches 
past me to top of the spread. "You should go to bed."

He never looks away from me and all that I can think 
about is the way his body curves over and around me, 
and how close his face is to mine. I could do 
something, something completely irresponsible. This 
is my chance. Is this the reason I can not sleep? Am 
I waiting for this?

He wants me to. I want to.

I do nothing. And neither one of us is surprised.

Both of us are sad.

The sheets now pulled back, he straightens. "You need 
to rest," he repeats as he reaches for my waist, for 
the tie on my robe, and loosens the knot. He gently 
peels the robe from my shoulders and arms. He twists 
his body to one side and carefully lays my robe 
across a chair near the bed.

Turing back to me, he places his hands on my 
shoulders and directs me to sit on the edge of the 
bed. He is standing directly in front of me. His 
hands have not left my shoulders, and I feel the 
index finger of his right hand trace light circles on 
my silk top. If I look straight ahead, my eye is 
level with the top
button of his jeans. I tilt my head back to meet his 
face. The light is behind him, and I can't read his 
expression. Can he read mine? I wonder what it says. 
Does it say too much? Too little?

Innumerable moments pass, and then he moves again. 
Leaning over me, I am guided onto my back.

But he does not follow.

Why doesn't he follow?

He straightens and reaches to the foot of the bed to 
pulls the covers over me. I am a child, needing to be 
tucked in, to be protected from the monsters out 
there. But I know that I will not rest tonight.

The bed is so cold.

He begins to leave my side and I somehow manage to 
raise my hand to his, stopping him. I want to say 
something, even as I grip his hand too tightly. He 
doesn't struggle against me, and I am thankful for 
that. I am too consumed with my own internal struggle 
to fight him as well.

I move my lips. I want to ask him so many questions. 
I want to ask him why he can sleep, and I can not. I 
want to tell him to stay. I want to tell him to love 
me. I want to tell him what I'm waiting for.

Nothing comes out. I watch our hands, mine gripping 
his tightly, his relaxed and taking it. Why doesn't 
he say something? Why can't he speak? Doesn't he know 
that this is as far as I can go?

I want to cry. But I can't.

I can't even pull his hand to bring him toward me. I 
can't even do that.

But I can let go.

Released from my hand, he moves to the door.

"Mulder." I want to say more. I want to say it all. 
But I am happy to have said just that.

He returns to me, but I can't say anything else. I 
can't. I want to, I have to. I can't.

I know that Mulder sees this in my eyes, but does 
nothing. I hate him for that.

I love him for that.

But he finally speaks. "Tell me why."

He says the one thing that I can't respond to. Tell 
him what? Tell him that I hate him for sleeping? That 
I covet his peace? That I want him to give me back my 
rest. Rest that I could always find but now I can 
not. That the one thing that keeps me from sleeping 
is him? Do I tell him these things? How can I?

I say nothing, and I feel my opportunity slip. I can 
not look at him

Disappointed, or perhaps frustrated he asks again, 
"Tell me. Tell me what you want."

Why did I stop him? Why did I start something that I 
can not finish? I know that I will not be able to say 
any more, say what I want.

And then something rises up out of me. "Stay. Sleep 
with me."

My words surprise him, they surprise me. Not because 
of their implication, an implication that I will not 
think of now, but because there are out there. I see 
the words, hanging in the thick air as if I nailed 
them in place.

He asks, "Why?"

Why? Why does he ask me this? Why must I explain? 
Can't he just accept what little I can give him?

No, he can not.

I love him for that.

"I think that this is what I've been waiting for." 
This is as far as I can go. I can say no more.

I don't know if he will understand. How could he? 
It's not as if I could tell him.

He has not responded to my comment, and I wonder if 
he ever will. He walks away from me again, but this 
time I do not have the courage to stop him. I spoke, 
and it brought me nothing.

He pauses at the doorway, and I close my eyes. I can 
not watch him leave. I hear the light switch being 
turned to the off position, but I don't hear the door 
opening.

Then I can hear him.

I open my eyes. The room is black. I hear him walk 
around the bed, and feel the vibration when his shin 
hits the edge. The other side of the bed dips down as 
he sits to remove his shoes. First one, then the 
other drops to the floor. I hear the change in his 
pockets clang against each other as he takes off his 
pants.

The spread is pulled back and the bed dips once more, 
and then he is next to me.

I have not moved, and I remain on my back. I can't 
move, so I wait for him to come to me.

Thank god he does.

He slides over and brings his arm across my chest. 
His hand grips my upper arm and he uses this leverage 
to pull me to him.

Warm. I am so warm. And comfortable.

I feel his lips against my cheek. One, then two light 
kisses. Then he speaks. The warm breath tickles my 
ear. "Sleep." He whispers. "Sleep."

He says nothing more, but it is enough.

I rest.

end
*       *       *       *       *       *