TITLE:   NIGHT VISITOR
AUTHOR:  NESSIE
E-MAIL:  ZCAPR59@UCL.AC.UK
RATING:  NC-17
DISCLAIMER:  Characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen
Productions and Fox Broadcasting.

Date written: 31st August 1997
Classification: VR
Keywords: MSR
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

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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 <g>) 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.. <eg>

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Night Visitor II: Darkness Never Dares
Spoilers: Anasazi

Summary: Scully's dream returns.
8th September 1997

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~





I'm back.



I continue my relentless habit of visiting Scully as she

rests. This, my vigil-- is like an addiction. I can't stop.



Call it a bad addiction; I know that it's wrong-- so wrong-

but I've become dependent on it. It's my time of peace that

is refuge among the hideous and unthinkable occurrences that

make up my day-to-day experience.

Our experience.



It's her time of peace too, the only time when she lets her

guard down. The only time when she can. Her relaxed state of

slumber is a reassurance to me, for at least her dreams are

untarnished. She appears to be unclaimed by the demons that

all too often corrupt my sleep.



Occasionally the night will pass me by without interference,

but all too often I wake up and they've got me in their

grip. They chased me, I fled, they caught me and invaded my

mind. Awakening is my only escape.

And when I do, I'm still running. I wear nothing but my

boxers but still a thin film of moisture sheens my body. I'm

flushed; my hair is damp with sweat and I turn to perch on

the edge of the sofa, my head dropping between my knees as I

clutch handfuls of my own hair.



My breathing is labored; the pulsing in my chest has

quickened from the knowledge that the nightmare is not

confined to sleep.





I look at how much she's endured. As much as me; probably

more, and yet she shows no sign of it as I stand in her

bedroom doorway and watch her in slumber.



I am a psychologist, but the mind of my partner remains an

enigma to me. How does she push them away like that? Why

does she retain so much control when faced with the web of

horrors that surround and entangle us both? I wish I knew. I

wish I knew why she looks so peaceful now while I'm the one

that's kicking and screaming from the inside out.





Once again the light leaks through her door. I'm back,

Scully.

Forgive me.



I relinquish my posture in her doorway and pad across the

hollow darkness that is separating me from her. My boots

have been removed and silently placed in her living room. A

lesson learned from the time when I trod a little too loudly

and almost woke her.





This isn't the Scully I know. Or she thinks that I don't

know this Scully. Does she even know this side of herself?

Does she have any clue how fragile she looks in her state of

unconsciousness? I wonder if anybody has ever told her that.



Perhaps her mom told her when she was a little girl. Or a

former lover- Willis, maybe- was the one to let her know

that she's a beautiful sleeper. Surely somebody must have

noticed.

Maybe I will tell her one day if the chance arises.



She looks vulnerable but I know she's not. Scully, my

partner, is the bravest person I know. She must see

something that I don't because she's always putting herself

on the line, not just for our work but for me. I'm

infinitely grateful to the woman who continues to save me.





I step closer, narrowing the gap between us but not sitting.

I feel restless tonight.

Like addiction, I can never get enough. Each time leaves me

wanting; I come back for more. Every visit fills a void in

me that cannot be occupied by anything else. And when I

leave, that void grows. I need more. My need grows and I

want to stay longer; I disallow my eyes to drift away from

her, touch her a little more to fill the chasm that her

absence has created.



I slept a couple hours tonight but, like so many other

nights, I was catapulted to awakening. I knew where I could

find my peace.



Her presence has subdued my fears. I feel safe.



Do I?



I thought that being with her would protect me from my own

insanity. In that sense, it has. But-- oh god-- seeing her

like this is pushing my mind so far from my fears, so

distant-- that I'm falling over the edge at the opposite end

of the scale.



It's a strange mix. She's calming me yet she's arousing me.

Beats me how she does it without so much as a flicker of an

eyelid.



I realize that she probably keeps her gun close by. What

would Scully's immediate reaction be to find somebody in her

apartment in the dead of night? I instantly know the answer

to that question. It's not a pleasant one, but at the same

time it sends the spark of a thrill through me.



It's the pleasant buzz that's to be had from watching

someone when they don't realize that you're there. And of

doing something you know you shouldn't. I don't mean to

invade on her privacy or do anything to anger her, but

there's something so wonderfully heart-stopping about the

side of Scully that is never consciously shown to me. I

always want to know the truth, and this is no exception.



Scully, pure Scully, makes my blood run faster. Combine that

with the thrill of a mind-altering experience that I

shouldn't be undergoing and I'm soaring, the river crashing

through my veins and surging towards my groin. My senses are

coming alive. My fingers are trembling so badly that I don't

dare to reach for her yet.



It's not fair to her. I won't do it again.



But I do.



Because there's more than the thrill. There's something so

potent in these moments that breaks down the flush of

excitement brought on by the circumstances.



I close my eyes and inhale deeply. The scent of her invades

me and calms the racing muscle in my chest. Tugs on it a

little as my eyes open once again and I truly see the woman

before me. I take up my residence in the chair by her bed. I

wonder for a moment if she knows I visit her at night and

purposefully places that chair by the bedside for my

comfort.



She wouldn't need to. I could spend all night with my knees

to the floor by her bed and be equally happy.



I slept in her bed once. I don't remember it too well

because I was sick; one of the infinite occasions when she

has looked out for me and taken care of me when I was at my

lowest point. They drugged me; I acted like a complete

bastard towards her, and she forgave me. More than that, she

let me into her apartment and took care of me, giving me her

bed for the night while she took the sofa. And I still acted

a jerk after that.

I never learn.



Through the intoxicated haze, I have memories of Scully

cooling my face with a damp cloth, telling me it'd all be

okay as her fingers made quick work of the buttons of my

shirt, unclothing me to leave nothing but my boxers before I

drifted into unconsciousness.

Did she watch me after that?

Would I know if she did?



No more than she's aware of me now.



I like to think I'm taking care of her while I sit by her.

Like my way of paying back for all the time she's watched

over me. I'd love to believe that I could sit here all night

every night and be her guardian angel, but I realize the

reverse is more of a truth as I look upon her and think of

how much of myself I owe to the angel that lies before me.



Her skin is aglow with the same white as her slightly

rumpled sheets. It is only now that I notice her bed linen

is more unsettled than usual, and I wonder if she's been

having the nightmares too. If she has, it doesn't show on

her face. I find myself beginning to envy her copious stream

of undisturbed nights.

She seems to sense that; it's as though she feels the

anguish that's inside me too, for comfort radiates from her

in waves. Her blissful serenity is starting to invade me,

easing off the trembling of my fingertips to a tiny quiver.



I reach out to touch her, like I always do, feeling the

texture of her and wondering if it will feel the same way

that it did the last time I was here.



It bothers me to detect traces of moisture that remain on

her skin and in her hair-- it's not a hot night. It reminds

me too much of my restless nights and I wonder whether she's

been feeling ill lately or if it really was the dreams.



I push away a strand of hair that ventured across her

forehead leaving her face bare and exposed.



I run one finger from my right hand down the side of her

face, past the temple and along the corner of her jaw. I

pause on her chin before completing my outline of her face,

somehow finding myself able to marvel at its shape.

My finger repeats its path in reverse, only the faintest of

touches, as if to learn the way she feels so that I know my

way around like a veteran next time I venture onto this

territory.



She's so still; I wonder at whether she has stopped

breathing. I barely have the chance to worry for she lets

out a reassuring sigh and shifts when my finger is removed

from her face. She rolls her head on the pillow to face away

from me, and then she turns back again.



Her eyes are open when she faces me once more. She's

accusing me. She's demanding answers.

For a horrifying moment, I see the vision of her wrath at

finding me here, my brain creating within me the belief that

I've been found out.

And then the image is gone. I emit my own sigh of relief,

and I smile. She's asleep as soundly as any healthy human

could be.



My hands go out to cup her face, one on each side of her

jaw. Softly; so as not to disturb her or interrupt her

sleep.



A small sound comes from her; a hum from low in her throat.

It happened when my thumbs started to play over the surface

of her immaculate skin. Maybe it was a moan, a sigh, a word

uttered in whatever dream she was having.



Her head's moving again. She's restless under my hands.

God.. it's almost painful to watch. Why am I doing this to

her? This time she turns right into my hand, dry lips

pressed unthinkingly against my palm.

I can't help the strangled sound that was formed in my

throat but originated somewhere lower, when her tongue slips

out to moisten those lips, touching briefly against my skin.



I draw my hands away from her, resisting the magnetic

attraction between her skin and mine, when I realize that

she's starting to get the better of my self control again.

I want to leave her in the pure and undisturbed state in

which I found her.



I stand and begin to leave.



Maybe I will sleep tonight. Dreamlessly. I feel as though I

might.



Thank you, Scully. Thank you for taking care of me.



I always thank her before I go. Even if it's only whispered;

even if I only say the words in my mind and she never

actually hears them, I have thanked her. I really should do

that more often when she's awake so that she hears me. I

should be thanking Scully for a lot of things.



On an impulse of guilt and so much more, I bend over her and

run my fingers once more through her still-damp hair.

Call it paranoia, but I raise my head to glance around the

bedroom before I softly press my lips against her forehead,

lingering for longer than I should.



I wonder at whether it's a coincidence that she stirs each

time I touch her, or if she's really responding to me.



My boots are slipped back onto my feet before I switch off

the lamp in the living room and I leave her once more.



XXXXXXXXXXXX

end part 1

XXXXXXXXXXXX







~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Night Visitor II: Darkness never dares (2/2)

by Nessie

8th September 1997

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



There is an island in my mind that provides refuge amid the

quagmire that threatens me.



When I work, when I am with Mulder, I have to swim the murky

waters. We both do. If it wasn't for the dry land that I

keep aside for my spare moments, I'd have drowned by now.



I don't know how Mulder's stayed afloat all these years

because no matter how much I urge him to swim for shore, he

rarely does. If at all. He insists on doing it to himself,

relentlessly fighting the fight against something in his

head that I'm only beginning to understand.



Tonight I was in the bottomless waters, struggling to swim

away from whatever lurked beneath the surface. Nightmares

were consuming me, something was devouring me. I tried to

get away from them but every muscle in my body had seized up

and I couldn't make it to the land.

And that was when my dream changed to Mulder. Mulder and I.



It is strange how the Mulder in my dreams is so relaxed,

almost an entirely different person. He smiles, is not

afraid to reach out to me. And when I look in his eyes, we

exchange unabated affection. Something we rarely do without

reserve.

Maybe I dream of Mulder this way because this is the Mulder

of my dreams. This is how I would like to see him; this is

the man he should have been.



But tonight I sense a change. It's not so much the look on

his face, as it is the way he hovers around me before taking

his seat as usual.



Uneasiness? Guilt? Fear? They're the emotions I pick up from

Mulder in normal life, so it intrigues me to no end that

this dream is so characteristic, set apart from the others.



Like my other dreams, the darkness lies in wait just a few

feet from me, but the difference is that Mulder stands on

the periphery. His body is turned slightly so that the

darkness beyond and the light around me meet in stark

contrast to outline his troubled features.



His eyes are fixed on me. I'm in whiteness, he's half-shaded

and I wonder for a moment whether he'll step towards me or

allow the shadows to swallow him.

Or perhaps if he steps towards me, he'll bring the darkness

with him and engulf me too.



I wonder for a moment before he finally steps towards me,

padding silently as usual. The darkness remains at a

distance. I imagine that it draws back even further from us,

that the proximity of our bodies is a positive thing,

contributing to our protective surrounding.



These are concepts, theories, that I would not for a second

believe in wakefulness; but there is something so altered

about the dream state that I believe in its symbolism.



I believe in the bond between Mulder and myself; I feel it

in these dreams and know it in my heart. And I believe that

there is evil in the world; after all we've been through I

can hardly deny that.



My dreams open doors in my mind that I keep locked most of

the time; allowing me thoughts that I know Mulder or Missy

would love to hear me admit to.



Mulder regards me curiously, as if deep in thought. About

what, I don't know-- but it looks as if I'm involved in them

somehow. His expression eases off a little as he nears me.



I would love for this to be real. For Mulder to approach me

and instantly feel comfort, confiding his fears in me and

letting me in.

But this is so close to the way Mulder really is; he still

looks tense. He has that paranoid expression that says

'someone is out to get me'. It almost seems as if I belong

in his fears.



Normally he reaches out to me with ease but tonight he is

reluctant to touch me. I keep my gaze on him, urging him on

with my eyes but he turns his head away. He can hardly bear

to look at me now that he stands close.



Is there some reason why he should turn away? Did I do

something to hurt him?



His eyes drop shut and he inhales, chest rising and making

obvious the tension in his firm shoulders. He remains that

way for a while and appears to calm a little before opening

his eyes again, releasing the breath that he has held for

longer than natural.



Gradually he is recovering from whatever has been bothering

him, and finally he drops to his knees at my side, his gaze

once again able to hold mine as our eyes interlock.



It's okay, Mulder. It's okay.



I'm here.



Reach out to me, let me help you. We look out for each

other, Mulder. Don't ever be afraid of that.



He's responding to my efforts to placate him completely. His

hands aren't shaking so badly, reduced to a tiny tremble as

he follows my instruction and draws his fingers across my

forehead and into my hair and I think he senses the sweat

from my earlier nightmare as a tiny frown crosses his face.



It's strange how real these dreams always are. They make

sense; they relate to one another. How odd that the

perspiration left over from one dream should worry Mulder in

the next.



Concerned, he pushes a stray lock of hair from my sodden

forehead and reassures me. Just as I reassured him. There

are times when even Mulder acknowledges that we need one

another's comfort and understanding.



I don't move a muscle, but keep my eyes trained on his face

as he studiously strokes one long finger around the outline

of my jaw, as if memorizing every last irregularity along

the bony ridge. And then he retraces his path in reverse.

I only exhale when he breaks the contact between us.



I feel our eye contact intensify, until I'm not just looking

into his eyes but into his soul and he can see into mine.

And he's damn scared.

We have connected but for a second when he shuts himself off

once more. He looks terrified.

The guilt has returned, rooting him to the spot. I think he

would move if he could, he'd leap up and run off into the

darkness, but he's frozen by his fear.



It's as if he feels he has no right to be in my dreams.



I continue to hold his gaze until he is calm once more. It's

as if he fell into the waters and I had to gently drag him

back to shore.



As if in gratitude, both of his hands now cup my face. His

slender thumbs draw circles on my cheeks so delicately that

it feels as if nothing but a breeze is passing me by.

It's the look in his eyes that betrays him and says so much

more to me. His touch is tender; his gaze holds that

tenderness and so much more.



I find my throat parched as his whispering caress sets off

tiny fires inside me. Warmth spreads inside my chest and

flows downward, making my stomach coil and uncoil,

culminating in the eruption of moisture between my thighs. I

moan, both a statement of my pleasure and a plea for him to

continue.



God. How could such a simple touch be so powerful?

I turn my head and press a small kiss into the palm of his

hand, urging his continuance.

He moves his hand away.



I don't know why he does it. It's my dream. Why does Mulder

tease me unmercifully in my own dream?



He bites down on his lower lip, making me wonder whether he

feels it too. As he stands to walk away, I see him straining

through his jeans and I know that I was right.



He leaves, whispering his thanks before he walks away.



He always thanks me before he goes.



I wonder at whether he'll walk off into the darkness. I hope

he doesn't.

He fades away before he even gets that far, leaving me

awaiting his return.



The dream slips away.



xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx



It's all wrong. Something is stopping me from continuing in

sleep after the dream is ended.



I'm sure I hear the click of my front door as I drift into

consciousness. Or did I dream it? Something doesn't feel

right. I can't place a finger on it, but I don't feel alone.

It's not a feeling of insecurity; I feel the same way I do

in my Mulder dreams.



My own logic chips in and tells me that I'm still halfway

inside that dream and I haven't completely left the thought

behind. I probably imagined the sound of the door. I roll

over and glance at the bedside clock; the time is 3:19 am.

My heart continues to pulse above its normal rate and I can

still feel the physical effects of my dream.



It's easy to convince my brain of a rational argument like

that; soon I'm reciting it over and over in my mind until I

fall asleep again.

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If I receive as much feedback for this as for part 1, I'll be very

happy indeed :) And it will be continued if there is still enough

interest in seeing further installments. Hit that reply button! Thanks

for reading,