Story: Un Done (Knock Over Sequel) Author: GVB Spoilers: None Rating: Mild smutty mind candy. Disclaimer: Don't own them. Want no money belonging to you, C. Carter, and got none either so if you sue me, all you'll get is a sock full of buttons! *No vampires or F.B.I. Agents were hurt in the making of this story. Summary: Sleeping Mulder. Friendly intruder.'Nuff said. xxxxxxxxxx *** That scared me. That whispering voice in the middle of the night, telling me about "him". I know who she had meant and at first I thought it was Diana Fowley who had called and then realized the ludicrousness of that. She wouldn't call me. Certainly not in the middle of the night. Besides, she wouldn't have whispered and she absolutely would not not have whispered anything to me about Mulder. But it scared me. I've received calls like that before though, thank god, not often. They have always, in each case, involved Mulder and they have always, in each case, turned out to be bad news. It took me about three minutes to pull on some jeans, a sweater, grab my keys. 'cell and wallet and I was out the door. I thought of calling him but if he was in trouble, and that's what this phone call had hinted... "you ought to let him know what he means to you before it's too late"... _Before it's too late_. Four frightening words and they made my foot a lead brick on the accelerator pedal.... If he was in trouble, it wasn't a good idea to call ahead and warn whoever was there who was causing the trouble. Mulder's apartment was dark when I arrived. That's sometimes a bad thing where Mulder is concerned. Mr. Insomnia usually had the T.V. on all night and I could see no picture tube flickering on the wall over his couch. After listening at his door for a moment, I used my key very, very quietly and entered. Mulder was not on his couch. So he couldn't be sleeping. He only slept in a bed when we were on the road. At home, it was the couch in front of a television screen. Some people would think it weird. But I know him. After six and a half years, I ought to. And I've spent some time on that couch myself, waiting for any word on him, when he was gone and we wondered if he would turn up dead. It's a comfortable couch, and the T.V. gave me some company that night. I understood Mulder a little better after that. The goldfish are pretty but they don't make enough noise. A T.V. is almost like having someone talking to you. It saved my sanity that night. And then Skinner... But that was then and this is now. Mulder's apartment was dark with just a few silver streaks of moonlight pouring in from the street. The lamplight added to the shadows of the room. One filled with pictures and solid books piled high. All those things that could fall so easily. Things that can crush, bruise. Breakable things too. My feet were soundless across his wooden floor and down the hall to his carpeted bedroom. The landlord still hadn't replace his carpet, I noticed, after his flood. Mulder would not be in his bedroom, because his water bed (still surprises me to know he even owned one), had sprung a bad leak and as far as I knew he hadn't replaced the bladder. I turned the brass knob. For all it's run-down, crusty shell, this old building of Mulder's had charm. Hardwood floors, tarnished brass knobs. Some apartments here even had silver ceiling fixtures. (My place was modern from top to toe. Clean, aligned, controlled and dust free. I liked it. But I liked these brass knobs too). Giving it a tiny push, slowly the door to his bedroom swung wide. I lowered my gun. You're correct. After a phone call like that, I never, ever, enter Mulder's apartment without first drawing my gun. There was no need. He was here, I would recognized that wonderful profile anywhere. Someone had said that about him once. "That wonderful profile". That comment had encouraged me to start looking at him a great deal the next while. I didn't let him catch me doing so but, even though I'd known it of course, I had to admit, finally say it to myself in my head, that - yes - Mulder did have a wonderful profile. A well put together, very handsome man. I tucked my gun in the back of my jeans waist band and leaned against the door jamb in silent relief. He was here and safe and he was, unbelievably, incredibly, sleeping in a bed. His bed. _His_ bed that he must have bought. A bed with a normal matress inside a waterbed frame. Mulder, lying down. Mulder, undressed and under the sheets. Mulder. Sleeping. I hadn't seen like that that since the artic, back when he was doing the very same thing but on the edge of death. I remember vividly the bruises around his eyes and nose and lips. I remember the whine of the respirator, the anticeptic smell of his recovery room. What a contrast, here. Dark, warm, smelling of wood oil and clothes. Mulder's bedroom. Masculine. For a woman, filled with mysteries. I loved seeing him like this. Safe. Peaceful and sleeping like a baby. I loved seeing this. * As the night has sucked almost all light from his bedroom, finding him like this has somehow drained him of mystery and has, in strange counter, also transformed him into human mystery at its finest: a naked skinned, eyes closed, blank to the outside world, serenely sleeping Mulder. A stranger I have never met. A gorgeous man I don't know at all. The mystery is not only those parts that are still buried in him, and which I hope will stay hidden until it's time for me to discover their nature. That is for the future. That time will come when I can, at my leisure, delve into and explore every last bit of him. Finally learn almost all there is to know. The mystery is also, (that the shadows in here has solved for me) is that Mulder, though a crack agent, a brilliant interrogator, an instinctive and passionate searcher of truth and justice and loyal friend, is also merely a man. A man who requires sleep. Which sleep sometimes needs to take place on a soft matress, his fluid body covered in linen. It is a wonderful picture I'm seeing and it shatters the portraits I've over and over drawn about him in my mind. For all his macho jokes and charging head on into danger... ...he is vulnerable. He stirs but this does not encourage me to leave or even move from my spot by the door. My eyes cannot look away. This is too sensual, seeing him like this. Even though I'm invading his privacy. Even though I have no permission. Even though, I have looked and now I've seen him. A dozen times In the last five minutes and now my eyes take the same journey once more, beginning at his head. His hair is mussed and standing at attention, as if he went to bed with it wet. When the odor of salt and skin reaches my nostrils, I realize that he must have gone running a while before and had let the perspiration dry on him. This does not turn me off him. It's a physical aura I've come to associate with Mulder; an odor of energy expended; a body pushed to its limits and then some. It is Essence of Mulder. Not a fragrance but not a smell either. I follow the path of the bridge of his nose to his angled jaw, sculpted by God knows which lesser god; molded for the pleasure of others. Molded for me I like to think in my most Narcissismic moments. His chest rises and falls and the tiny rug of feathered hair between his nipples is backlit by the light from the window. His skin gleams underneath it and I want to touch it. I want to touch it so badly. I imagine that, in the near mindless passion of making love to him, that it must feel like down. That it was, again, put there for no one's fingers but my own. His chest dips to the stomach and its firm, flat surface, the hair thinning to a barely perceptible line before disappearing beneath the sheet that covers where I know it then widens to surround his private sex, their secret shapes in the dark food for imagination. I want this man. But instead of removing my hastily donned garments and climbing in beside him, I wander from the bedroom and into the living room, my previous adrenaline high giving way to the shakes. I'm tired and choose to sit on, not the couch, but his hard wooden desk chair, a place I've been before under circumstances not so different from now. Tonight is free of fear, however. Mulder is in this place with me, just in the next room, asleep and safe. No one is hunting him. He has not gotten himself so lost in his quest or someone else's that there is doubt of his returning. He is here with me, warm and well, if not as close as I'd like us to be. Just in the next room between the sheets and, for now, it is all I may own. It's so quiet. Peaceful. I take satisfaction from that. I love it when life affords him a few painless hours. I love Mulder rested and healthy. I love Mulder. There. I've thought it. I've undone that tiny knot in my head where I've kept those words tied up for so long. I had not spoken them to him but it is a small, first step. He did it, actually, untied that knot, some time ago. I had very little choice. He, by his very nature, loosened the professional ropes, the fasteners and buckles that stated we must never get too close. We are partners and nothing more. We are separate individuals and must maintain a distance. We are not allowed simple human feelings. We must not love each other. But that was impossible. All he did to free the first string was accept me. Everything about me, doubts, opinions and disbelief that had come right with the package. But he'd come to not mind those things and eventually disregarded my fierce adherence to conventional science because of the other thing that made up for it: I believed in _him_, if not his quest. I trusted him. I stood up for him, backed him up and put myself in danger, too, for him. I was a professional and at first that was why I risked myself, I stated privately. It was paer of my job after all. And then... "I wouldn't put myself on the line for anyone but you, Mulder." God, I remember saying those words. They came out of my mouth, independent and self-willed, and were spoken before I could stop them; like a cannon lit, the projectile fast and flying - Boom! What possessed me at the time? I've thought and thought. It was the day. _That_ day, _that_ case. Mulder knew this guy, Tooms, was going to kill again. He knew it and it was not just instinct or a gut feeling, there _was_ evidence. Some tough to believe evidence but I'd seen it. About Tooms, to this day I don't know what to believe exactly, only that he had been a dangerous and frightening individual and needed to be kept locked up and why couldn't they _see_ that? Why couldn't the judge have seen by his behavior that Eugene Tooms was psychotic? Why didn't the shrink see it, or anyone? As green as I had been to the world of the violent paranormal, even I saw it! But they were all blinded by their disbelief in Mulder. They didn't believe because it was Spooky Mulder. iI remember now how that had pissed me off. My eyes were open just a little bit more after that. To him too. And now other things in me have opened, the fasteners popped, the zippers to my darkest hiding places where I still retreat to when it's necessary, are sliiping down. In order to preserve professionalism and neutrality, I have stayed hidden. They have all been undone. Only one part remains shut to him. My mouth. My words. I can't bring myself to say them. I can't tell him I love him and fear is the reason. What if taking that step topples what we have built? And what we've manufactured together has been done - believe me - atom by atom. It's my life now and that life is him. Suppose he isn't ready for more? When things get bad, he gets so emotional, he ventures a few gestures or touches that cross that line just barely. Or when he gets sick, he says things. Even things that I have _so_ wished to hear but cannot bring myself to repeat back to him. Things I was not prepared to hear I admit. Or words that I am afraid of. Death looms and Mulder becomes the vulnerable, open, ready to explode with passion Heart. And then when the danger to life and limb is over, he changes back into my partner. Mulder is a piece of work. Wonderful but a piece of work. When things are fine, he's mute. If the sky _isn't_ falling, he's afraid. I notice that his desk's bottom drawer is slightly ajar and, with only a tiny bit of guilt, I open it further. There's a photo album sitting there, the old fashioned kind with pictures put in on sticky pages overlaid with plastic. They are worn and yellowed and I find it suddenly open it in my lap. Without knowing why, I turn on the desk lamp for better illumination and begin turning those pages. As I look, the black and white photos of 1960 give way to the cheap colors of later years. Before my eyes, my partner is born and grows up. A tiny baby in his tired looking mother's arms. A hospital room. Proud first year picture in blue overalls and nearly toothless grin which makes me smile at the wonder of growth and the miracle that my six foot, one inch partner was ever that small. First day of kindergarten at three. Birthday party at age four, dad holding him up and smiling into the camera, proud as a man can be. Mulder has shared so little of his family with me. I met his mother twice, both times were awkward and the circumstances less than ideal. I never met the man Mulder called his father, though I believe I comprehended the type of man he had been. So much came through my partner's voice when he spoke of his dad but none of it endeared me to William Mulder. How could so gentle and loving a son have come from such a man who would blame his twelve year old boy for his eight year old daughter's abduction? I never met her either. But I see her now as I reach the later years in the photo album. She is impish, cute but not pretty. Not a girl who would have grown up to be beautiful. But intelligent, of that I have no doubt. Brains like that are genetic. I turn the page. A morose, inward looking boy of twelve looks back at the camera. He's sitting on the back porch of a place I recognized as the summer house, where "it" had happened. Where terrifying events were soon to strke this boy and changed his life and him forever. I come to the last picture and suck in my breath. It has blood stains on it, smeared where Mulder had obviously tried to wipe them off. A twelve year old Mulder, already tall and smiling in that arrogant way so many kids acquire at that age, leaning against a tree. His sister lying on the lawn in front of him, posing as if she were in her own mind an actress or a princess. The parents together, smiling for the unknown person behind the camera. And behind them, the man my partner and I have come to know as C.G.B. Spender. Cancer man. Smokey. And he's smiling too. Happy people on a picnic, was that the occasion? It's seems ludicrous. It is the last picture in the album and all of the faces in it are smeared with the rusty stain of blood. Sadly and tragically, it personifies them. After that Mulder Family Photo Album pages are blank. Samantha must have disappeared shortly after that picture was taken and I imagine the parents felt there was nothing left to celebrate. I guess not even their terrorized and grieving (yet intelligent, passionate determined, beautiful!) son was enough reason for them to hold on. My mind turns to the gown man sleeping in the next room and I am overcome with a wave of sadness. For all their imperfections, I am thankful for my own family. I still have most of them. I know for a fact I am loved. And in that regard, I know for certain Mulder has always questioned himself. But he is and I walk into his room again, the pictures of the tiny baby and the youth stained with blood give way to the relaxed, nude man, his body moving with the slow, rhythmic respirations of deep slumber, snoring just a little. He is loved. I loved him. I loved seeing him like this. So unlike the way I see him at the office or in the field, on the road, or anywhere where the masks must not completely slip away to reveal that we are just people who need each other. Who want each other. I want him. Professional, clinical, severely conservative Doctor Scully wants this man in every way it is possible to want another human being. Seeing him like this brings it starkly to my hungry mind and physically female make-up. Yes. His mind, his spirit, his soul, his sense of justice, his character, even his quirky humor, of course I admire and love all these things. I feel privileged to work with him. I am proud to be his partner and that others associate me at his side. Of course, I love these things. But I also love the parts of him that are strictly male and masculine and sexy and desirable. Those are the things I am seeing at this moment and those are the words I must, for now, keep to myself. But I can look. Tonight I privilege myself and look. I have always liked what I see. Mulder stirs and his breathing quickens, under his lids, his eyes are moving. He is dreaming and I wonder if the dream is good or bad. Because of the bedroom and because he is undressed, I am influenced by these things and wonder if in the dream he is having sex. I hope I am there with him and indulge in the hope that it is me who is under him there. That it is my body he is thrusting into and my legs that are wrapped around him. The picture starts becoming physical and I squirm a bit on the hard edge of the bed frame. Mulder stirs again and I know he is waking up. As much as I'd love to sit here and let him awaken to me looking down on him with lust, I don't. This is not the time and place. I can't let that last fastener that keeps me from him, sheltered and controlled, be un done. He's not ready. I'm not ready. So I hide behind the only thing available. His stuffed bedroom chair. I feel like an intruder now. Mulder does wake up. I see him, his profile, and he shakes the cobwebs from his brain and rubs a hand across his sweaty face. He sighs heavily and sits up, swinging his legs around to the floor, facing me. The sheets have fallen away. I love him and this is a side to him I have never seen. Not like this. Not when he's healthy and beautiful. Not when it's just him and me and the darkness - when it's perfect. My breath (before steady except for the excitement I felt at seeing him naked and him unaware that I am taking him in with my eyes and smelling his skin with each inhalation), is suddenly taken completely away when he stands and stretches. His hands are linked above his head and it is brought home to me how tall he is. How well toned he's kept himself all these years. He's so _male_. To a woman, the very word is thrilling. It is magnetic and sexual. It spawns images of muscle and skin, sinew and rushing blood. It makes us convulse in the spaces created for them, it makes us long to hear their low, throaty growls and feel their teeth on our nipples and their penises deep inside. It is a powerful and possessing word. And it is Mulder right now as his legs move, the thigh muscles elongating and then constricting, propelling him across the carpet, his cock and testicles, the most amazingly in my face sexual and touchable and perfect things, go with him. It is Mulder who walks to the closet where I see a pile of clothing he must have discarded hours before. How many, I wonder? Did he sleep long? Three hours? Two? And now, he is up, restless and aching to move. _Male_. It is his maleness speaking to him, I imagine. All women, a one time in their lives or another, wonder what it must be like to be male. What it must feel like to be respected without having to remind other to give that respect. To have one's opinions listened to with attention instead of mere tolerance. To fight your way tooth and nail to success and be thought of as Self Made instead of labeled A Bitch after achieving only moderate success by comparison. I have wondered, sometimes even wished for it, yet I am happy being what I am. Now that I have met and fallen in love with this exceptional male, I am delighted to be what I am. I am thrilled to be female when I stand beside him, or when we are camped out in the car for a whole night of surveillance. I love being a woman because I see what he is, and knowing this incredible man loves me and wants me.... It's the sexiest feeling I have ever experienced. It is a feeling I get every day now. I imagine he loves me, at least. Not only the love of heart but the love of physical release. I have imagined it many times myself. Fantasized. Hot, lurid, naked, writhing fantasies that I keep confined to my bedroom. Mulder picks up a pair of sweats from the floor and steps one long leg into them. Muscles ripple and his cock bounces under my eyes that don't leave an inch of him even for a second. Then the other leg and he pulls them up and over his physical attributes that make him Mulder and make me appreciate how perfectly masculine and desirable and simply sexy Mulder really is. He pulls a sleeveless sweater over his head and reaches for his abandoned sneakers. I'm watching my partner pull on his clothes! I'm watching him cover up all that naked skin and I'm aching for him now, right here, in his bedroom, like a little horny thief who has stolen his privacy. But just this once I don't care. Lewd thoughts are crashing through the wall I've made of my mind and cascading down my body, pooling in my vagina and I want him so badly, it's painful. I have to bite my lip to prevent a moan. I have to squeeze my eyes shut to block out his loveliness; his skin; his unbelievable erotic self; his sex. He is dressed. Mulder leaves the bedroom and me behind. Soon I hear the jangle of keys and then the door to his apartment open and shut. The click of a key in a deadbolt, the creaking turn of it. Him padding down the hall. He is going running and I know he won't be back for some time. I go to his bedroom window and watch him limber up outside on the step of his building. He's stretching his calf muscles, one leg, then the other. I watch him until he begins his run, down the sidewalk, until he crosses the empty street and starts through the park. A dangerous place to run. What if something happens to him? This could be my last vision of Mulder. If..._when_ he comes home, his apartment will be empty. I'm going home to mine. But soon that last barrier, my last knot, drawn so tight and snug across my heart, will be undone too. I still don't know who called me tonight. That phone call that scared me to death and brought me here. But I'm glad it came. Tomorrow is another day. I'll see Mulder at the office as usual. Soon, though, I promise myself, I will make myself see more of him. Soon, before it's too late, we'll both see everything we 'ought to. I keep my promises. ** END