Night
by Leigh Alexander
leigh_xf@geocities.com

First posted: February 27th, 1997

RATING: PG
CATEGORY: VRA
SPOILERS: None
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully romance
SUMMARY: Dreams in the night for a couple who've just made
love for the first time.

DISCLAIMERS:
1) Dana and Fox belong to Chris and Ten Thirteen Productions
and the other Fox. Absolutely *no* copyright infringement is
intended - I'm not doing this for money, I'm doing it for
love. I *love* these characters, I wouldn't want to hurt
them! :)
2) OK to archive, but if it's going anywhere other than
Gossamer, please drop me a line just so I can keep track.
3) Feel free to distribute and discuss this, as long as my
name and addy remain attached.

INTRO:

This is just a short one that I'm a bit nervous about, so any
feedback would be much appreciated. It *is* MSR, but I still
encourage you to give it a go even if you don't normally go
for that sort of thing, as I feel it really could be anyone,
not just Mulder and Scully.

This is a revised version of the story that was posted to M&S
a few days ago. Thanks to everyone on that list who was so
encouraging. I really appreciate it and the feedback I got
has helped me enormously.

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Night
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Bodies sleep. Breathing slows. Eyelids flutter. Lips murmur.

In the deep dark night anything seems possible. Through their
dreams, people soar into worlds beyond reality. Beyond the
infinite. Where colours, words, noises, objects... Where
everything takes on a thicker significance. What was
innocuous in the day becomes weighted with meaning in sleep.
Thin wisps of memories twine themselves in minds across the
city. Layer upon layer upon layer. Creeping in and creating
heavy thoughts in the absence of light.

The nation's capital sleeps.

The tourists who infiltrated the city during the day
instantly vanish the moment the sun's fingers began to
gradually retract. Oozing back into their expensive hotel
rooms, or their mangy hostel accommodation. Pulling the door
shut and sheltering from the danger posed by one of the
country's most dangerous cities. Enveloping themselves in the
protection of their surroundings; their family, their
friends, their neighbours - creating a world within a world.
While the world without lives on.

But now its people are gripped by the universal pacifier.
Tinny laughter echoes around the now-empty monuments that
stud the city. Lincoln bears witness to this rising memory as
it circles around him, filling his head with light-hearted
frivolity. The energy cannot be muffled, despite the
completeness of night. It snaps and sparkles, glancing
against stagnation with a disrespectful blow. Teasing and
jostling. Pushing its way through the city, the people, the
night. Into dreams.

As clocks continue to creep inexorably towards the scissoring
brightness of day, two bodies lie submerged in sleep. The
window to their room is open and drifts of air slide in
surreptitiously, careful not to disturb anything in their
wake. The man lies on his back, his face directed towards the
ceiling, his eyes dancing jerkily under his closed lids. The
woman lies beside him. She is on her side, her back nearly
touching his arm but not completely. Her hair is spread
behind her with a few solitary wisps clinging to his shoulder
like a delicate cobweb. Last night - this night - they made
love for the first time.

Like the uncrushable remnants of daytime joys, their
lovemaking clings to this room like a heavy scent. Each time
they draw breath, they swallow the memory in, like a fish
breathing water. It tempers their dreams, bleeding its way in
to the malleable unconscious and taking shape in their night-
time thoughts in disparate and disjointed forms. A warm
enveloping blanket. An ocean within their body. The soft
susurration that weaves its way rhythmically through the
dreams. The kiss spirals and contorts, becoming all kisses. A
mother's kiss. A sister's kiss. A brother's kiss. A father's
kiss. Until it resettles and possesses. Taking hold with all-
knowing authority. What was chaste ceases to be so. It is a
lover's kiss. Only. Always.

Entering through those jumping lids of the man, plunging into
the dense smoke that encircles his dreaming, it is possible
to see the familiar images as they unfold. So familiar are
they to him, they have worn a groove in his imagination. No
effort is required to call up the picture of the young girl -
her hair permanently in twin braids, snaking their way down
the length of her back - although it is rare for her to be in
the same position as last time. Her eyes do not change. They
are stuck to him and follow his every movement unblinkingly.
They flash accusations at him wordlessly while her hands
continue the benign task of laying out the pieces of a board
game. He drinks in her gaze, storing it within the deepest
pit inside of him where it can be called upon when needed. To
twist and turn inside of him. To take his breath and rob his
senses.

But now the dream changes. The eyes grow larger - not just
the irises, but the whole shape of the eye expands and
stretches. The colour is sucked away until they are the
sickly pale of albinos. Then slowly, a blueness seeps in like
paint infiltrating water. And when he pulls his focus back
and regards his sister's face it is no longer her. And yet,
she has not completely disappeared. She has not been
replaced, she has been remodelled. Although the blue eyes are
now framed by chin-length pale red hair, it is still Samantha
who looks out at him. The only window of expression - the
eyes - still glare at him with unspoken allegations. They
argue vividly with him and now he feels his own eyes flaring
in response.

This war of silent and visceral words continues. Barbs fly
between them and yet there is no hatred, no anger. Only love.

With a gasp he is awake. His breathing is irregular, his
heart pounds. He squeezes and then releases the blanket that
has worked its way between his fingers. His face is sprinkled
with a light dew of sweat which he wipes away messily.

She is beside him. Her hand touches him gently on the thigh
while her lips murmur his name softly. When he finally lifts
his face to look at her, relief tumbles out of him in waves.
She is Scully. Only Scully. No other spirit haunts her body
when he is awake. He whispers an off-hand joke that falls
flat, crashing heavily on the covers between them. His name
emerges from her mouth again, only this time it admonishes
him lightly. She knows flippancy is his wall. It is the same
wall that she has built up with her silences, her refusal to
reveal herself. They know each other too well. And not well
enough.

After so many years of unnamed love they have now taken the
first steps on this path. The path that has constantly ducked
in and out of their lives. That they have skirted with a
grace of ever-trusting dancers. That they they have
occasionally found themselves precariously close to. Too
close. Much too close. The magical yellow-brick road. And
now, they are taking those steps towards the Wizard; seeking
answers to new and considerably more daring questions. Ahead
of them lies the most eventful journey of all. Lions and
tigers and bears. Oh my.

With the hand that isn't tentatively brushing his leg she
holds the sheet up against her body. Shielding herself from
exposure. Forgetting for a long moment the secrets they have
now shared. She feels vulnerable even now - here, lying in
her bed with the man she had thought she knew well. Now, at
this moment, he is a stranger. He is impulses and desires and
needs. He is a responsive body rather than a combative brain.
They have only just taken the first step on the golden path
and she is bathed in the beauty of what lies ahead and what
exists behind. The stability of the past pushes up against
her back, warming her, reminding her and most importantly,
reassuring her. Its support will always be there. She looks
ahead; the unknown of the future glints and gleams at her
with the captivating appeal of a rainbow. She moves forward.

Her lips press against his back with infinite care. The
journey will be slow; their steps will undoubtedly falter and
the route will vary with unexpected twists and deviations.
For the moment she is content to inch her way slowly along,
the tendrils of the past only slowly unravelling from inside
of her. Her mouth creeps along his back, both warming and
cooling him. He remains still. Absorbed. Appreciating her
touch if nothing more than for its truth. No artifice and no
dream can recreate this hypnotic sensation. And he has
dreamed it. Whether willingly or not, this woman has visited
him in his bed many nights in the past. She has taken many
forms, both concrete and imagined, but she has returned night
after night. Leaving him with the tight ache of need. She
would slide away from him in the same manner in which she
arrived - like a flash of nebulous cloud, wafting above him,
pouring into him. Her absence would leave him empty. Spent.

But now, her lips are real. They belong to her and only to
her. She is in front of him now - her eyes seek his with the
same raw passion that their bodies engaged in only a short
time ago. Her blueness claims him. Her gaze engulfs him with
its power. He is lost in her enchantment. The rope that he
clung to - their non-sexual union - has been sheared off and
now lies in ragged tatters behind them. Her hands do not
touch him, her lips are free from his body and yet she
seduces him. Sexually, sensually, emotionally,
intellectually. Wholly. He is enraptured and completely
enamoured. He cannot move; he is trapped in the blinding
glare of her love.

Hesitantly, she probes him. The dream? He shakes his head. It
was nothing. Her comprehension of his lie squeezes through
her eyes. Emotions wash through her and her face becomes a
dappled field of feelings that causes his own face to contort
in response. She knows that she has shown him too much. He
has entered her body, and now she cannot conceal herself from
him. But he does not feel the same. He who has decreed the
truth as his God. He who wants nothing more than to protect
her - oh yes, she knows the honest reasons behind his deceit
- he chooses to submerge the truth.

He wants to recapture the words that float between them. They
have potential those words. They can define and rupture, or
be withdrawn and heal. These words will be the first of many
bumps on the rough path that they are following. He has
tripped - the first of many falls - and she has righted him
with her recoil. I'm sorry, he says. Her eyes pulse with
light. I was dreaming about Samantha. And you. You were the
same person, and you were both taken away from me.

She soothes him. She is mother-father-sister-friend. And
last, she is lover. She opens herself to him and he is healed
by her all-encompassing embrace. They come together, and
separate. Yet they are one. Always one.

Hours later, sleep engulfs them. It swallows them whole and
protects them from the marauding monster of dreams. They are
wrapped in night.

~ THE END ~

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Thanks for reading. Comments are welcome.

leigh_xf@geocities.com