From: "Debbie Hewett" Date: Fri, 3 Mar 2000 11:41:02 -0800 Subject: *NEW* The Kingdom of Sleep by XFactory Source: xff SUMMARY: Apology should always be policy between these two. CATEGORY: S, MSR-smut... Pure mind candy, plain and simple RATING: I don't know how to rate these things. Is it Restricted? NC-17? I don't know... SPOILERS: Everything up to and including "Closure" ARCHIVE: Go for it. FEEDBACK: Pretty please! DISCLAIMER: This story is based on the franchise owned and operated by Chris Carter, FOX, and 1013. Since they seem queasy about the whole sex thing, I'm gonna have some fun. Special thanks to the usual suspects - Debbie Hewett for editing and miscellaneous nervous author care, BeckyD for beta-ing and making me laugh about the dining room furniture, Hindy for talking with me about writing, the IT guys at NOW for ignoring my illicit surfing, Scott for everything, Moby, Massive Attack, Sleater-Kinney, and Sonic Youth for spiritual inspiration. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX The Kingdom of Sleep An X-Files Tale by Terri Monture xfactore@interlog.com "kisses are a better fate than wisdom" -- e.e. cummings 1:22 am. The glowing red digits of her bedside clock are the eyes of the night. There is a slight clicking sound when the numerals change every minute; the sound is like a bullet sliding into the chamber of the gun, the gun that says each hour she is awake is one more hour in the morning which will feel like gunpowder in her brain. 1:23 a.m. 1:24 am. 1:25 am. This is her third night of sleeplessness. Insomnia has become a nation state in its own right. It has set up a bureaucracy, treasury, national defense. Insomnia even has its very own bureau of investigation, bustling through her jangled nervous system, rousting the layabouts that want to sleep, deporting them across the vast and uncharted territory to where sleep dwells, and she is not allowed to visit. Scully turns her head and stares towards the window. Muted shadows and shapes play behind the drapes. There is the distant swish of tires on pavement, the dull roar of traffic from the far-off Beltway. She can hear the faint sound of people having a conversation from somewhere down the street. It is 1:26 am. "Goddammit." She says the word aloud, savouring its sharp syllables in the quiet room. There is an insistent ache between her shoulder blades; her eyes burn, her throat is parched. Her bones feel heavy, weighed down as if they have turned to stone deep inside her. The air in her bedroom feels hot and bereft of oxygen The sheets on her bed are lank and close, sticking to her pajamas. She wants to take off her clothes. Maybe that would help. 1:27 am. Scully rolls over again. 1:28 am. Back into the same position she was in a minute ago. Sleep will not come to her. She groans. Not again. It is not possible that she cannot sleep. She is weary, bone-weary, exhausted beyond the last shred of her endurance, and yet sleep will not come. Felonious magicians and snake handling preachers have strolled through the last two months of her life. And now Mulder is across town, probably wide awake, grieving the death of his mother and the absolute, final and terrible loss of his sister, pulling away from her to deal with it on his own. This self-imposed solitude has always been Scully's privilege, and now she finds she is jealous of his turning away, wanting to insinuate herself in his healing. This, she realizes, is what really keeps her awake. The fact that he is close at hand and yet so very far away. The fact that she wants to go to him, and that there is nothing stopping her but her own fear. She is a new stranger in a strange new land. Mulder kissed her on New Year's Eve. The world didn't end but it did wobble dangerously on its axis. And until the terrible events of five days ago, Mulder had been shamelessly flirting with her, and, she confesses, she was equally shameless in flirting back. Quips and sly quibbles, innuendo parried back and forth like swordplay. Always his hand on the small of her back, guiding her, touching her through the wool of her sensible suits. His hazel eyes sparkle and shine when he looks into hers, his black suede voice goes all soft and serious and teasing. And now she can't sleep. She thinks of other things. Things that he could do to her, things she could do to him. Things they could do together. He has insinuated himself into her thoughts, taken up residence in her room, securing the place he has won for himself in her heart. This is what is wrong with her. She wants what she may not have. 1:29 am. 1:30 am. She wants to go to him. She dares not. She is in a place now where she could not be responsible for her own actions, especially when it comes to him. Restless fragments of thought prowl through her consciousness. In that dark blue space where dreams are born, Mulder comes to visit, bending over her bed, whispering hot words across her fevered skin. Scully cannot stop now. She imagines his hands on her, over her, across her prone body, trailing languidly from the curve of her hip, over belly and the peak of her breast, back down again between the smooth flesh of her thighs -- She pulls the pillow over her head. "Go away!" Dream Mulder laughs throatily in the dark. He would, too. He would laugh with pleasure and excitement and then he would lean towards her and his body would be strong and he would be hard and soft all at the same time and she would lie back and open herself, fling her legs wide for him and it would be so very fine -- "Oh, fuck off." Silk pajamas rustle as she flings back the duvet and sits up. There is no help for this. Maybe a hot bath -- no. Sometime ago she promised herself things would change between them, that the moment had come and she would go to him and things would be different. She has been unable to force her hand. Circumstances and plain old fear have prevented her from setting in motion her heart's desire. Now she is frozen, unable to move one way or another. She wants to go forward but does not know how. All of those things that ordinary people say to each other to propel a relationship forward -- she does not know what she should do or say. Scully sighs and stretches. Bone and muscle all along the length of her spine grind together. All she wants to do is sleep and it will not come for her. Perhaps she should venture out. There is a whole world outside, an entire culture that comes alive after midnight, one that she has not experienced. She could get up, put on a pair of black flared pants, a tight sweater, those chunky-heeled boots she bought in a rare impulsive mood and her black suede coat and go to a smoky jazz bar, hear pain and anguish translated by the keening tones of a saxophone. Or she could go lose herself on a dance floor somewhere, the pounding bass obliterating all thought. Scully snorts at her own whimsy. As if she ever would. Angry with herself now, she stalks out of her bedroom. She has hit upon the very point that has her trapped on the horns of her own dilemma. She is resistant to change, she has to examine everything, she has to test it under the bright glaring lights of rationality. And the passions of the heart, she is coming to realize, resist attempts to be analyzed. Scully paces her apartment with slow, deliberate steps. Here is where they found Melissa's body. Here is where Donnie Pfaster overcame her, here is where she shot him. Over there is the couch where the man she thought was Mulder but was really Eddie Van Blundht wanted to kiss her, and she would have let him thinking it was her partner. Here is the doorway where she found Mulder, disoriented and covered with his father's blood, the night he came to her and an abyss of uncertainty opened beneath her feet... She has loved Mulder for over seven years now. She had come to this revelation a long time ago but pushed it away, submerged it into a dark place along with every other nightmare experience she had undergone. Except that it is not a nightmare. It is love, light and ecstatic and it speaks with the tongues of angels. She is so afraid of it, of the depths of this unmistakable feeling and fact, yet it consumes her every waking moment, rendering her incapable of sleep, incapable of action. And so she is paralyzed, clinging to all those things that keep her sane. She is unbending, unyielding, and remote. She refuses to allow herself to feel, to let him into the place where he could claim her. She believes secretly that to do that would be to come completely undone. But Mulder needs you now. It is a small voice in the back of her mind, pleading to be listened to and understood. Now, when he is in anguish, when his guilt and his grief are too much to be borne, this is when he needs you the most. And you are too afraid, too rigid, too unemotional to go to him -- Scully stops pacing, frozen in the wake of this revelation. She was cruel to him. Once again her rigid rationality overcame all of her compassion and she was horrible and unyielding with him, refusing to see his pain, refusing to help him, going back to Washington when he needed her -- The tears slide noiselessly down her cheek. Damn you, Dana Katherine Scully, the voice whispers bitterly, relentlessly. Damn you for being so heartless. Especially since he would never be this callous towards you. Unintentionally careless, perhaps, but never intentionally cruel, the way you have been. Her inner voice speaks the truth and she knows it. Back in her bedroom, she flings off her pajamas and throws on some clothes, grabbing the first things that come to hand. The soft green sweater she wore at his bedside in Alaska. No time for a bra, just a black cotton thong. A pair of black jeans flung over the back of a chair. She grabs her car keys and slides her feet into a pair of stacked heel Hush Puppies, knowing her feet will be cold, unwilling to stop her forward motion long enough to put on socks. Slamming the locked door behind her, she refuses to pause long enough for rationality to overcome her. She is tired of the rational and wants to surrender to instinct. She is fleeing it to go to him, and in this moment becomes unfettered, free of her own pride. The night air is damp and chilly, her breath frosting in the air before her. She jogs to her parking spot, slides into the car, starts it up and squeals into the road. She has to be fast, to break the speed limit, because she is afraid that if she slows down, she will turn around and go back to her house, burying her head beneath her pillow, surrendering to another sleepless night. Number 42. Her heart pounds in her chest, her breath shallow, the adrenaline rush from fear souring her stomach. She hesitates, decides if he doesn't answer, she will use her key. Her fingers are chilled to the bone, her knuckles feel scraped raw as she knocks on the door, trying not to be too loud, but enough that he will hear if he is awake -- "Scully," Mulder rasps, disbelieving and blinking in the brighter light of the hallway. He looks so tired and disconsolate, and in that moment her heart swells and breaks for him, all over again. He is wearing the same clothing she saw on him two days ago. "What are you doing here?" There is an infinite sadness now in his face and he looks worn, ground down by the weight of his sorrow. She is frozen, unable to answer him. It is late and she hasn't slept in three days and suddenly her mind struggles to regain control, telling her she is making the most colossal of mistakes, but he is looking her in the eyes, and the wordless thing that lives between them, that makes everything all right, flares into existence and she is lost to him. "I -- I had to see you," she whispers, her voice small and feeble, a bird with a broken wing. "I'm sorry it's so late -- I can't sleep -- I just needed..." She swallows, her voice suddenly drying up in her throat. I just needed to see you, she tells him with her eyes, knowing he will understand and welcome her inside. This is how he will forgive her -- wordlessly and mutely, with only the special communication that exists between them as the instrument of redemption. Mulder sighs and there is a sea of desolation in the small sound. "Oh, Scully..." He closes his eyes but opens the door to her, letting her come into his apartment. She walks past of him, her senses keenly aware of his presence and scent, and she tries not to betray the trembling his nearness has evoked in her. Boxes are piled everywhere; she has to negotiate a path through them into his living room. She turns to look at him, and he immediately reads the question in her eyes. "I spent the day at my mother's house," Mulder says, his pain and bone-deep exhaustion evident in his voice. "I boxed up some stuff that I want to keep... I'm selling the rest." His voice cracks, his control beginning to crumble. "But I don't know what I should keep..." His shoulders are slumped; there is defeat and sadness in his posture. Scully closes her eyes against his pain. "Mulder, I would have gone with you, to help -- all you had to do was ask me," she whispers, her voice wobbly and uncertain. He shakes his head. "I had to do it by myself. It was the last thing I could do for her." Her lips are dry and parched, she licks them and clears her throat. "Mulder, are you okay?" She wishes she had better words for him, that would help him ease his pain, but she has none. "Well, I'm hardly getting over it, if that's what you mean..." His dry chuckle is like the sound of leaves in autumn. Scully cannot bear to see his misery any longer and immediately goes to him, not caring about repercussions or distance or any of the other senseless reasons she keeps herself away from him. She seeks only to comfort Mulder, in the last and best way she knows how. She pulls him into her embrace, transmitting to him all the things she wants to say but somehow cannot. If there was a way of crawling inside him, to let him know exactly how she feels about him, she would do that, but to speak it aloud - this she cannot do. Not yet. The dimly lit shadows play across his eyes, and he closes them, burying his face her hair. She can feel his breathing, the beating of his heart; here in this room there is only the two of them, united as always against terrible conspiracy and the inevitable sorrow of its aftermath. Her fingers play through his shaggy hair, across his muscled back; her breathing meshes with his and she finds a stillness, a place of serenity that exists only in this moment, with this man. Now she feels he can hear her, so she pulls back slightly, turning his chin so he will open his eyes to look at her. "Mulder, I'm so sorry," she whispers. "I know I've told you that before, but I really am. I treated you badly when all you needed was for me to be there, and I left you. I'm sorry. I won't do that again." He manages a broken-sounding chuckle. "Scully, why are you apologizing? You did what you had to do. It's all I've ever needed from you - for you to be you." The tears well in her eyes, she cannot help it. In his attempt to soothe her, he has only cut her to the quick of how insecure she is. "I - I thought you - that you needed -- " She pulls away from him. "I better go," she says, unable to avoid the tremble in her voice. "I don't know why I bothered you. I'm sorry. I've not been able to sleep, and I think the stress is making me a little crazy..." She is babbling uncontrollably and knows it, but she is already edging toward the door, wanting nothing more than to flee, to leave before things become more broken than they already are. "Wait, Scully -" Mulder's hand is on her arm, tightly now, and startled she looks up at him. There is confusion, and wanting, and a deep visceral ache in his eyes that telegraphs itself to her, straight to her heart. "Don't go," he pleads. "I need you all the time. I just don't know how to tell you." Scully is frozen, unable to register surprise, unable to move. She has known this all along, but now she recognizes the truth of this statement, that he does need her, and she him. She stares down at his hand on her arm, thinking of her earlier passing wanton daydream, and cannot suppress the shiver that wracks through her at the thought of his hands on other more intimate places of her body. There is nothing more to say. There is only room for action, for progress forward, for escape velocity. Scully moves toward him, her reality centered on the ripe fruit that is his lower lip. Like a hummingbird she flutters forward, her heart beating, her entire soul straining towards his, in starlight and beyond. She wants him. Mulder does not move as her mouth touches his, his breath suspended. He does not believe, and with everything in her, she wills him to. And suddenly his arms come around her, crush her with enough force to startle the breath from her body, and she breathes into him, and everything is in him. Mulder's mouth is warm and wet and she feels it open beneath hers, and there is hunger and desperation there, and with her tongue she gives him solace and the hope that spring brings after a long cold winter. He moans beneath her kiss, his body shifting, his arms taut with restless and barely restrained desire. Scully presses her body against him, letting him know that she feels it too, that she welcomes him, that she needs him, that she surrenders to him. There is no hesitation, no diffidence left in her. Scully has crossed the line without looking back, pulled Mulder behind her. The fleeting thought occurs to her that here their usual roles are reversed, that she is the one plunging fearlessly into the unknown and that he is wordlessly trying to rationalize it, but she refuses to let him demur. Someone has to take the upper hand in this tumultuous plunge into the carnal, and she has instinctively known that she would be the one to do it. In this decision she is pragmatic because now is the right time. He needs her more than he will ever be able to voice, and she will be there in all ways for him. Scully takes one of his shaking hands and draws it beneath her sweater to her warm breast and he rubs his palm over the nipple, the ensuing sensation strong enough for her to breathe sharply inward, surprised at her body's reaction. It has been waiting for this, waiting for his hand. It has wanted him longer than her mind has been willing to acknowledge, and now there is a flood of warm wetness between her legs, and she feels from him the sudden hardness and swelling at his groin. There is only one place left to go, one final destination in the journey they had begun together, all those years ago. "Now, Mulder," she whispers in his ear, her voice smoky with the fire they have started. "Take me. Here." He needs no further encouragement. With a low moan caught deep in his throat he presses her into the depths of the leather sofa, his body covering hers, his weight welcome and heavy, and his legs are caught between her thighs and she parts them willingly, wantonly. She squirms beneath him, pulling off her sweater, sending it sailing away into the shadows in the corner of the room, and he follows with his own grey tee shirt. Mulder presses a rain of fiery kisses up and down her neck, across her chest, between her breasts, takes the firm nipples into his mouth, and she cannot get enough of him, grabbing little handfuls of his muscles all up and down the length of his body, kneading and rubbing and touching. For the first time his entire body is hers to explore, to discover, to help herself to the banquet of his flesh. With her mouth and her hands, she devours him whole. Scully is dizzy with need, half-crazed with longing. "Oh God Mulder, now," she whimpers, unable to believe that the banshee cry she hears in her mind is her own desire. They have gone from zero to one hundred and fifty in three seconds and she would have it no other way. She fumbles with the waistband of her pants, groans in frustration. They are too hard to get undone and she is in such a hurry. With a muffled curse Mulder raises up and pulls them off her, buttons popping, the zipper making a rasping sound of protest and he kicks them away along with his own jeans. There is only his firm bronze skin between her and her black thong, and she purrs as he slides his thumbs under the smooth microfiber band that encircles her hips, dragging them deftly down her thighs. Scully lifts her hips helplessly towards him and cannot suppress the sigh that escapes her lips as his dark head dips toward her sopping wet centre. Now the universe pivots slowly and celestially on the point where he laps her with his tongue. By turns her body burns and freezes and she dissolves only to explode again. Mulder's tongue is talented and he applies it to her with the same single-minded purpose that he brings to his investigations, and soon she is whimpering and thrashing her hips wildly, turning her head to bury her screams in the smooth leather of the sofa. The pleasure bursts through her body, once, twice, three times before he releases her, staring up through the moist tangle between her thighs with such a fierce look of hunger that she collapses back into the sofa. "Scully I can't wait much longer," he confesses, his voice a harsh rasp of black leather, but she is already nudging him forward, and guiding his stiff cock with an eager hand helps him plunge deep into the core of her body. His groan of pure pleasure melts in her ear. He thrusts with a ferocity that he cannot prevent but her body is ready and she meets him with her muscles tuned to his and with arms and legs straining, throws back her head as he convulses and pours his seed into her, calling her name, telling her she is the psalm that comforts his soul. Mulder trembles and clasps her so closely to him that the surface lines of her skin blur and blend with his. He buries his face in her shoulder, and she recognizes from the tremors quaking through his body and her own that something phenomenal has happened between them, pivotal and shattering, a paradigm shift. "God, Scully," he whispers into her hair. "That was..." She twists her head to look at him. "Pretty good, I'd say," she says lightly. Her body is still undergoing small seismic quakes and she wants to enjoy it. She cannot stop smiling and hums unconsciously deep in her throat as she burrows into the hollow beneath his chin. "Sorry I was so fast," Mulder murmurs. He is stroking her hip lightly and she shivers in the contrast of hot and cold as his warm hand passes over her and the cool air of the room blows across her skin. "It couldn't have been much fun for you." "Think of it as a trial run," Scully suggests, trying to get closer to him, seeking his warmth and his scent. He smells like her now and it is very nice, like vanilla and musk and warm clean clothing. She can smell his special Mulder scent, an earthy, slightly spicy tinge in her hair, on her hands, all around her chest. She sniffs happily and buries her face in his hair. She can feel his smile against her shoulder. "Are you planning to do this again?" "As often as possible," she replies, running her hands across the smooth expanse of his muscular back. Scully enjoys the feel of him against her, his slightly furred chest and legs, his hard belly, his knobby knees and the firm curve of his pectoral muscles. She smiles her own contentment and nuzzles against him, suddenly drowsy and comfortable. Mulder is kissing her again, and she meets his mouth gladly, with love and trust, on equal footing with him, standing the same level as his heart. He is her partner now in the truest sense of the word. Everything has changed, shifted into a rightness that brings a frisson of dread, but somehow she is unafraid as long as she is with him. Time passes and the night drains away beneath a blur of kisses, nibbles, screams and sighs. She finds herself face down on his bed, her rump in the air as he enters her from behind, breathing her name across her back in a damp exhalation of lust and love. She grabs fistfuls of sheets and stuffs his pillow into her mouth to prevent the scream that builds as he pumps into her and then collapses against her back, empty and panting, and she laughs and laughs, her joy unable to find any other expression but this. Her thighs are damp and sticky but she spreads herself wide for him, leaning against the headboard, and he kneels before her, his hips thrusting and his eyes holding hers with a gaze so frankly carnal she blushes. And then she slides forward and he is on his back and she is on top, holding his wrists down above his head as she grinds herself into a ripe red zone of pleasure where the only thing in existence is Mulder. His bed has become the entire world. At last she is spent and Mulder topples beside her, his breathing ragged and rapid. She reaches for him but he shakes his head. "No more, Scully, please, I don't think I can --" but she silences him with the softest and most tender of kisses, floating against his mouth like a bee tasting the sweetest nectar, and she wraps her arms around him and yawns. Suddenly she is asleep, as fast as that. She vaguely understands that Mulder is pulling the sheet up around them both and that dawn is breaking in the east, blue-grey shadows forming themselves out of darkness in his room. In the kingdom of sleep she has kissed the frog and found herself enchanted by a prince. In the real world, she and Mulder have become lovers. Even in sleep she cannot prevent herself from smiling. Scully half-awakens at one point to hear birds singing sweetly in soft sunlight in the trees outside his apartment window, and Mulder is entering her again softly, gingerly, holding her like she is the finest-made china in the entire universe. She moans because she is so sore, but she welcomes him anyway, allows him entry to rock gently in the cradle of her thighs. She feels his tears trickle down her face and neck, and she reaches up to wipe them away. In his shadowed hazel eyes there is a profound emotion, love and gratitude and trust and respect and suffering all wrapped up into one laser-bright glance, and she holds his gaze as her hands hold his hips while he pushes his hard cock inside her. Mulder is still in mourning, but she understands that this is where his healing begins, in the taut lines of her neck muscles as she tosses her head back in ecstasy, in the pool of sweat at the curve of her back, in the careless outward flinging of her arm across his bed and her legs folded across his backside. This is how he knows he is still alive, carrying the legacy of his family in his heart, and she travels beside him, carrying everything else. Together they rule the kingdom of sleep and walk towards their dark destiny, hand in hand. The End XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Terri Monture "You can say what you want to say/You can do what you want to do/Find out who you really are/and don't pay any attention to me" -- It's Not Funny Anymore/HUSKER DU