TITLE: Three O'clock
AUTHOR: JLB
CLASSIFICATION: V, A, MSR
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: nothing specific, but this should be read with "SUZ/Closure" 
in mind... i'm going to place the timeline at sometime after those eps,
but let's pretend we didn't see anything after that, okay?
SUMMARY: sleeping and waking
ARCHIVE: sure, but if it's the first time, drop me a note.
FEEDBACK: oh boy, please!  Amory20@aol.com
DISCLAIMER: not mine. never mine.  CC, 1013 and FOX always.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: for the sake of this story, i'm going to jump on the
"they've been doing it for a while" bandwagon. this is basically my
short little take on that, with mulder angst added on for good measure.
incidentally, i've been battling the most horrific writer's block of late
so i'd appreciate whatever feedback i can get. :)  

i'd like to thank sister zooey for keeping me interested in the whole
fan fic thing, and listening to all my insane ramblings for hours on
end. <g>  you know, you're probably the only person who will appreciate
the quote below and the whole idea of mulder, scully, and f.s.f. all together
as much as i do.  no mulderthigh though... can you believe it? <g>  


Three O'Clock (1/1) by JLB



....in the real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the 
morning, day after day.
                                     -- F. Scott Fitzgerald



It happens each morning like clockwork.

With little reason or warning, he wakes at precisely three-fifteen
every morning.  Or he has been for the last three weeks.  He's used
to insomnia, accustomed to taking hours to fall asleep but that
hasn't been the problem of late.  Now, he falls asleep easily, like
a child after a long day on the playground, succumbing to the 
fatigue by ten o'clock, eleven at the latest. 

He can fall asleep now.

He just can't stay asleep.

It's beginning to make him crazy.  He wonders if there's a reason
for it, some deep, mystical cause he's missing entirely.  There
has to be something to it, the sudden change in his sleep 
deprivation ritual.  He just can't place his finger on it.

Regardless, he's become resigned to it.  A week ago, he moved
a chair beside the window in his bedroom, so he can sit quietly
and study the sky, or the empty street below, or the other 
apartment buildings across the way.  If this trend has 
started a month or so ago, he would have just gotten up for
the day, turned the lights on, found something mindless on
television to watch.  Not anymore.   Now he stays silent, 
tries to keep the apartment as quiet as possible.

He sits in the uncomfortable wooden chair, clad only in
his pajama bottoms.  The apartment feels stifling to him.
Just early March but they're supposed to hit the seventies
in DC this week.  It's crazy, he thinks, and he's not sure
he understands it exactly.  He could ask Scully about it in
the morning, and she'd carefully explain global warming
or the hole in the ozone, but he still wouldn't accept it
as something so clinical and easy.  

Whatever the reason, it makes him sad that they don't 
have a real winter anymore, that the seasons seem to 
rush along to get to the heat.  He always feels so 
lethargic and bored when it's warm, his entire
body slowed by the muggy haze.  If only it could
hold off for a couple of weeks... he could deal with
it in a couple of weeks. 

He toys with the drawstring on his pants, wrapping it 
around his finger until the skin turns ashy white in 
the dim light.  It's so quiet, and he hasn't spoken in so 
long that it feels like he couldn't now even if he wanted
to, even if he had something to say, if there was someone
to listen.

Outside his window, the sky is a dark, faded blue.  A smokey,
almost-black blue, but clear, so he can spot several stars
twinkling brightly through the smudged glass.  When he
was a boy, he had a telescope set up in his room, and he'd
study the stars for hours sometimes, confused that they 
never got much larger even through the lens of a high-powered
telescope.  They were still so tiny, just pinpricks of light in
the darkness, but so sharp and white.

As he sits in his dark, quiet bedroom, perched beside the window,
a rhyme comes back to him.

star light, star bright
first star i see tonight
i wish i may, i wish i might
have this wish i wish tonight

To his surprise, he finds himself softly whispering the words aloud,
closing his eyes in concentration as he composes his wishes, colors
it in and gives it shape.

Behind him, suddenly, there is a quiet rustling, almost like the sheets
on his bed are being blown by a breeze.  He looks over his shoulder at
the bed, where the blankets are indeed moving though there is no 
draft in the apartment.  He can just make out the flash of red hair,
darkened to an almost blood-like shade in the dim light, painted 
across his pale blue pillowcases.  A small sighing noise breaks the
silence, and he watches, mesmerized, as a hand moves out from
beneath the sheets to brush the blood-red hair back.
"Mulder?"  Her voice is roughened by sleep, and it thrills him.

"Right here, Scully."

She's woken before to find him at the window, but every time it's
the same.  She is confused as she rubs her eyes and stretches,
unable to find him immediately.  She seems to forget that his
post is at the window now, silent and unmoving.

"Are you okay?" she asks quietly.  He turns fully so he can watch
her sit up in bed, adjust her t-shirt so it falls properly.  She's 
wearing one of his undershirts, and the thing is so adorably big
that the fabric tends to get twisted as she rolls around in bed 
at night.

"I'm fine.  I just couldn't sleep."  He sighs and turns back to the
window.  The star he wished on twinkles slightly, almost like
it's winking at him.

She wasn't supposed to stay with him tonight.  She told him as
they left work that she had things to take care of at her apartment --
plants that needed to be watered, groceries that needed to be 
purchased, laundry that needed washing.  He hadn't objected or pleaded
with her, just nodded solemnly and told her to do what she had to.  Now
he wonders if he was playing her, if he needed her to stay so badly
but couldn't say the words, couldn't bare to ask any more of her.  After
eight years, he knows how to push all her buttons.  Especially now.

So she came up with him, just to get some clothes she'd left there,
a tube of lipstick she swore was in his bathroom somewhere though
neither of them could find it.  And as she searched through the chaotic
contents of his medicine cabinet, he trapped her against the sink, 
needing for just a moment to feel her body against his.  The reaction
was immediate -- she melted against him, warm and soft, and they 
stumbled into the bedroom, where he made love to her for what felt like 
hours.  An amazingly timeless block of time when all the noise in his head
stopped, all the tension in his muscles was released, all the corners of
his apartment seemed alive and warm, not dark and cold and dusty.

When he was inside her, it seemed possible that he'd sleep through
the night.  He believed, tried to forget.

Now, in bed, she's folding the blankets back, carefully smoothing the
fabric, and he knows that it means she's thinking.  Worrying
for him.

"We could get you a prescription for something, Mulder," she 
says simply.  "You can't keep this up and still expect to work."

What amazes him is the total lack of condescension in her tone.
She's not speaking to him as his doctor right now.  She's his 
wife, his girlfriend, his lover -- he doesn't know what to
call her but he knows what it feels like, what it means.

"I've done this before, Scully.  My body is used to sleep
deprivation," he tells her. "I've practically made it an
art form."

Every night, she tells him that he has to do something 
about this, and every night, he refuses to admit it's a
problem.  It's something he has to deal with, a burden
he must carry.  He understands that, and wishes Scully
would too.

"Mulder, I worry about you," she says, stating the 
obvious.  He hears her rising from the bed, her bare 
feet padding across the carpet to reach him.

She lays her hands on his shoulders, kneading them gently
as he closes his eyes and leans his head back against her
body.  Her touch can heal -- of that he is certain.  He wonders
if this is because she is a doctor, or if she became a doctor
because her hands could do this.  It's one of those puzzles.

"You've been through so much in the past few weeks.  Maybe
you just need to talk about it," she says gently, cautiously,
while her fingers press into his muscles perfectly, in exactly
the right way.  All pleasure, no pain.  

"I don't want to talk about it."

"It doesn't have to be with me," she says softly.  "You could--"

"Scully, if I don't want to do it with you, then I won't do it
with anyone."

She doesn't respond.  He opens his eyes, and watches her 
reflection in the dirty glass.  She looks tired, eyes 
half-opened as she stares blankly at the sky.  

"It could be your apartment," she whispers.  "Too many 
bad memories... we could stay at my place."

"I think your apartment has the market corner on bad 
memories, Scully."  He smiles sadly, and brings a hand
up to squeeze her fingers.  

"But I'm sleeping through the night," she says firmly.  
"We need to worry about you."

He turns to look at her.

We -- as if they were one unit, one indivisible organism 
that did all its living, breathing, thinking together.  Jesus,
what would he be without her?  Would he be sleeping at all?

"I'll be okay, Scully.  I just need some time."  He attempts
a reassuring smile, but it never quite makes it to his eyes.  

She doesn't say anything, but comes around to face him, 
blocking the window in front of him.  Slowly, she moves
between his knees, nudging them apart, and kneels in front
of him.  Her hands slide across his thighs, and he feels her
tracing the plaid pattern of his pajamas with a gentle
finger.  Through the soft cotton, he still feels her warm
skin, scorching him despite the fabric.

"I'll be here," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.  
"If you're sleeping... if you're not sleeping.  Hell, I'll stay
even if you steal all the blankets."

He laughs softly as he brushes a hand through her hair.  If
he had known that they were going to be this comfortable
and easy together, he would have kissed her years ago, he 
would have invited her into his bed months ago.  

"Now that's love," he says, still laughing, gently squeezing 
the back of her neck.

Her eyes darken then, and her mouth slips into a serious 
pout.  She's thinking again, thinking about all the things
that he wishes she could forget sometimes, if only for 
a moment, tucked safe and warm in his bed.  

"I want to help you," she whispers, so earnest and focused
on him that he has to close his eyes.  

Earlier, after they pulled apart from one another and got
out of bed, she lead him to the shower, and washed him,
so gently and carefully that he had to lean against the 
tiled wall for support.  There was nothing sexual about
it, nothing exciting or arousing.  It was about comfort,
acceptance, and -- if he'd allow himself to admit it, to
to look at Scully and believe -- love.  

She got out of the shower before him, and when he went
into the bedroom, his pajamas were laid out across the 
foot of the bed, waiting for him.  He had to stop -- for 
a minute, he stood there, trembling in his small 
towel, staring at worn cotton pants at the edge of his 
bed.  He felt so stupid when Scully came back, dressed
in his t-shirt, and found him like that.  She stood
beside him for a moment, and stared along with him.  

Then she pushed a mug of tea into his hand, and said,
"I'm staying.  I remembered I have one clean suit left
in the car."  She smiled then, and disappeared into the 
hallway again.

So she wants to help him...  He almost laughs out loud.

"You are, Scully," he tells her, running his fingers over
her cheek -- the skin is so unbearably soft he almost can't
believe it.  "You're here."

She nods, her eyes slightly glassy.  He wonders if they can
feel anything alone anymore, if one of them could truly
experience a distinct emotion.  They seem to be connected
in some fierce, innate way that makes all pain shared, all
heartache mutual, every brief moment of joy shared.

It probably scares her, he thinks.  Deep down, it must frighten
her.  She probably sits at her desk sometimes, and worries
about how close they've become, that one day he'll absorb
her totally into who he is, what they are together.  It's not 
the same for him.  He'd willingly merge with her, drive 
himself so deeply inside of her that he could never be 
separate again.  He would welcome that.  He doesn't want 
to be apart from her anymore.  Especially now.

"Getting sleepy yet?" she asks, yawning, her chin now resting
on his knee.  She looks so young, no make-up, all freckles and 
smooth skin.

He smiles but doesn't respond, watching her eyes begin to slip
shut.  For a moment neither of them speak or move, and he thinks
she's fallen asleep.  The weight of her resting against him is 
comforting, and if given the opportunity, he would stay like this
until morning.  But her eyes quickly blink open, and her head jerks
up.

"Sorry," she says, pushing her hair behind her ears.  "I'm a little..."
She yawns again.

"Sleepy?" he asks teasingly.  "Yeah, I got that."

"You could keep me company."  Her voice takes on the slightest 
seductive edge, even as she tries to push herself to full alertness. 

"All my tossing and turning will keep you up," he says quietly,
cupping the back of head.

She doesn't move, doesn't say anything.  She simply stares at him
unflinchingly, wise blue eyes that refuse to be tricked, duped, babied.

"Scully..." he whispers as she rises in front of him.  "I don't..."

She moves closer to him, placing her arms around his neck, and he 
leans into her, wrapping his arms around her waist and laying his 
head her stomach, his cheek thrilling at the warmth of her body
even through the t-shirt.

Her fingers slowly rake through his hair, massage his scalp, and he 
feels himself relaxing again, all his muscles uncoiling with an almost
audible sound.  

"Mulder," she whispers, and her voice sounds more like a sound, low
and breathy.  "Come to bed."

He lifts his head to look up at her, and she meets his gaze easily, 
her eyes shining darkly as she stands in front of the window.  He
nods, almost imperceptibly, then, closing his eyes and breathing
in deeply.  When he finally stands, she's still waiting in front of
him, so small and thin.  He briefly considers picking her up, 
carrying her to bed like a hero from one of those tawdry romance
novels, but he decides against it, unsure if she'd appreciate it, 
if he's up to it right now.

Instead, she takes his hand in hers and leads him to the bed.
Throwing the blankets back, she crawls beneath them, and he
follows, easing into bed beside her.  The sheets are so cool 
and soft beneath him, and he smiles as she pulls him on top
of her, warm fingers tracing the muscles of his back, dipping
teasingly beneath the waistband of his pajamas.  He sighs, and
leans down to kiss her, gently, carefully.

When he pulls back, her eyes are so soft, a smokey blue that
makes them seem impossibly wide.  Her cheeks are flushed, 
and her lips are wet, shining insistently in the dark bedroom.
He can't remember her ever looking this beautiful, all the 
colors of her face soft and muted like a watercolor 
painting.

"Scully..." he breathes out slowly.   "You..." He closes his eyes, 
and presses his face against her neck.

"Shhh..." she whispers, hands stilling on his back.  "Let's try to
get some sleep."

With his face in her neck, her hair tickles his nose.  She smells 
so clean, and warm -- if it's at all possible to smell warm.  When
she's beneath him like this, he is always surprised by how small
she is, that she feels like such a tiny, breakable thing, almost 
half his body covering all of hers.  But even more startling is
how easily she bears his weight, that she asks for it even.  It is 
an amazing thing to him.

"How about counting sheep?" she asks playfully, stroking his hair
as he settles his head against her breasts.

"Nah, too boring."  He smiles.  "Hmmm, maybe flukemen jumping into
the sewer," he suggests.  "There goes one, two.  Nope, this isn't working.
It's just creeping me out."

She huffs quietly, an almost laugh.  She's tracing abstract patterns on
his back now, using just the tips of her fingers, her nails lightly.  Again
not a sexual touch, but one meant to soothe, relax.  He imagines it might
be something her mother did for her as a child when she couldn't sleep.  
He smiles, even though he knows it won't work for him.  

"You go to sleep, Scully.  I'll be right behind you."  He tugs gently on the
hem of the undershirt she's wearing.  "Come on, roll over.  You know 
you won't fall asleep on your back."  

He moves off of her so she can roll onto her side, then slides into 
position beside her, on his side as well so they're facing one another,
faces so close on the pillow that their noses are almost touching.  He
can't resist rubbing his nose against hers in an eskimo kiss.  She smiles
with closed eyes and strokes his bicep.

He closes his eyes too and just feels her.  Nothing else.

"What do you do by the window?" she asks in a small, quiet voice.

He keeps his eyes shut, unable to look at her, and tries to think
of something harmless to tell her.  He thinks about the weather,
he wonders what he should wear to work in the morning, he goes
over the case files he's seen that day, he sings Doors songs in his
head, he thinks about places he'd like to take Scully, he wonders
how the Yankees will do without a solid number five starter -- but
those are the quick, fleeting things.  They don't fill up the hours,
and he's left to himself.

He doesn't want to explain that to her.  He doesn't want her to 
worry anymore than she already does.  But in the end, she 
expects the truth.  She deserves it.

"I look at the stars," he tells her.

His eyes are closed so he doesn't see her reaction, but she 
continues to stroke his arm.  

"What if you can't see them?"  Her voice shakes slightly, he
thinks, almost like it hurts her to speak.  

"I look anyway."

He opens his eyes finally, and Scully is watching him, so 
closely it would almost be unnerving but not with her,
not when it's her.  She nods then, her hair rasping against
the pillow, and smiles a trembly, fluttery smile.  So
sad, he thinks.  

It isn't supposed to be this way when they're together
like this.  It wasn't supposed to be this way.  He rubs 
her back, his fingers moving along the length of her 
spine gently.

"Good night, Scully."

She yawns, her nose wrinkling like a child's.  "We 
already said good night." 

"I'll say good night to you as many times as it takes."

She smiles again, but a full, easy smile that makes his 
stomach flip.

"Good night to you too then."  She moves slightly so 
she can kiss him -- a kiss that is almost too hot and
wet for three o'clock in the morning.  "Sweet dreams,
Mulder."  When she smiles this time, it's somewhere
between wicked and teasing.

"You are a cruel, cruel woman," he groans.  He pulls 
back slightly to look at her, pushes the hair from her
eyes.  "But sleep now..."

Her eyes slowly slip shut, that small, sly smile just 
about to fade on her lips.

Following her breathing, he knows the exact moment she
falls asleep.  He watches her chest rise and fall rhythmically,
but stops himself from placing his hand against her and feeling
it for himself.

He lifts his head to look at the clock -- almost four.  He's not
going to fall back asleep before the alarm goes off at six.  Scully
stirs slightly, and shifts her legs, pulling the blankets away from
him.  

He looks over his shoulder, at the window.  He can make a single
star from where he is, but he doesn't know if that's the one 
he wished on or not.  Maybe if he wishes every night from now
on, if he takes the time to do that, maybe it will take.  He's 
tried everything else so he figures he's got nothing to lose.

When he turns back to the bed, Scully is still blissfully 
asleep.  He settles in, watching her eyelids flutter.  

Only two hours to go.


the end

feedback is loved madly at amory20@aol.com
my other stories can be found at: 
http://members.aol.com/amory20/page/index.htm