Sleepers by Danielle Leigh oldviolin7@aol.com Summary: Sleeping Beauty is a fairytale. This is not.* Rating: R Thanks to Jesemie's Evil twin for secondary summary, intro and a fine beta. Thanks to Ford Luxem for a great beta. Dedication: For Anna. *"Okay, this _is_ a fairy tale. But don't look for the Disney songs . . ." "This fairy tale is the color of blood, fresh and rusted; it's the haunting scent of Spring flowers coupled cruelly with Autumn's falling-leaf must; it sounds like the reverent voice of a man tending at his best friend's bedside, reading words he knows she may not hear. This is a fairy tale with the terrible weight of sadness and love, loss that cannot grieve, and a grim future. It is not, however, without small smiles, and there may be something golden in that world, if only in the landscape." -- by Jesemie's Evil Twin *********** Sleepers *********** The soldier on guard is asleep. Mulder kicks his boot heel, not so gently, and the disheveled man starts awake, flinches, and cowers slightly. He is young. Mid-twenties, maybe. Irish Catholic, loyal through and through. It is an honest mistake. The job is monotonous. No one really expects uninvited visitors, here and now, at this late date. These facts could be construed as mitigating circumstances. And Mulder is feeling vaguely generous tonight. "Don't let it happen again," he says quietly and passes through the electronically controlled glass doors. The young guard nods automatically, his head bobbing ridiculously in relief, astute enough to keep his mouth shut. Beyond the glass doors there are steel ones. He displays his badge tiredly for the security camera. The entire ritual tires him tonight. A second later with a gust of stale air the doors open and he walks down the white hallway, heels of his dress shoes clicking loudly on the linoleum. A few nurses do various duties, as always, weave around him like professional ghosts, careful to give Mulder space. He ignores them. Once he reaches her room he places his long, dark cashmere coat on the rocking chair. He gently takes down the silver guard rail so he can sit on the edge of the bed. He brushes back her red hair from her face. Her hair is the brightest and most intense color in this white, dead room. It stands out angrily against skin which has not been touched by the sun in over two years. "Hi, Scully. It's me." He takes her hand, running his thumb over the cool skin of the back of it. "It's November, already. It just turned cold – you know. The air is still crisp...the liveliness hasn't been bleached out of it yet. There is something about November in DC. I went down to the mall yesterday. Walked down along the Potomac to the Lincoln Memorial. It's beautiful, Scully." His voice is carefully steady as he talks, far too controlled for his commentary. And as usual during these conversations she does not respond. Yet he finds them as comforting as if she did. To see her chest rise and fall, without aid -- mechanical assistance. Her eyes sometimes are open, half-lidded and dull. He hates those times. He prefers not to see her brilliant blue eyes vapid and distant. With her eyes are shut, he can believe that she is merely asleep. "I brought Rebecca to read. I almost bought Eliot at the bookstore, but I figured poetry wasn't your style. A nice wicked ghost story is what you straight-laced military girls like, right?" "I thought we *all* enjoyed a good a ghost story." Mulder glances up, not surprised to see the smoking man relaxed by the door, a file in his hand. "Now isn't a good time," Mulder says, returning his attention to Scully. He closes his hand around hers tightly waiting for any tell-tale signs of movement. Never does it occur to him that there will come a time when he will cease his waiting. That eventually defeat will claim his spirit and his partner's life. Patience has finally been won by Fox Mulder, but only at the greatest cost. "Now is the perfect time. I never see you unless I catch you here." Mulder smiles slightly at a white wall. He can hear the silent reprimand in the older man's voice. ‘Son, it is time to join the living.' Not yet. Not quite yet. "Am I really caught?" "Can I give you the lowdown?" It is almost -- kind. The way the old man bows to his will in these small, trivial matters. "Leave the file. I'll get to it tonight, all right?" The smoking man nods, and turns to leave. "Before you go," Mulder says, adjusting the bed sheets around Scully's body, "could you get a blanket? She's cold." A minute later the smoking man returns with a nice cotton blanket and watches from the door as Mulder carefully drapes it on his former partner and settles in to read. The smoking man is only graced with one line, read in that rich, dry, subtle voice, "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again," before he takes his leave. ************* He didn't arrive home until late the next day. He has't slept in over 40 hours, and his existence is starting to take on a grainy, film quality that casts everything in a dream-like light. For a second Mulder is not certain if he is actually seeing the smoking man outside his apartment building, standing in the shadows of dusk. But he draws closer and the older man turns toward him, a cigarette held limply in his hand, smoke rising. Mulder stops for a moment and stands, watching him. After a second he tightens his shoulders, braces himself, takes a deep breath and joins him, walking by his side – a place the universe has always saved for him whether he has known it or not. "I just finished an assignment," Mulder says carefully, willing a fine edge of hysteria away. He is tired. He can not go on like this. "I know. That isn't why I'm here." They stop now and stare at each other. The smoking man's pale blue eyes search his face – looking for what? Mulder wonders. "Then *why* are you here?" "I debated, you know. How long I should wait...I don't think I can watch you go through this – again." Slowly – so damned slowly – light peaks over the mountain top of Mulder's mind. He feels a funny jump in his throat and takes a deep breath. Counts to ten for good measure. "The latest drug therapy? It's worked," he states matter-of-factly. "We think so." Mulder stares at him. "Did it," he grinds out quietly, "work. Or did it not?" "The EEG has confirmed activity in the brain. Her vitals are returning to normal. She's waking up. Slowly, but we believe it is for real this time." The smoking man almost looks apologetic. "And how would we know if it wasn't? Real." "We won't know," the other man answers frankly. "You know that. She could be fine for a month or a year. Or a week." Mulder closes his eyes, bracing a sudden wave of dizziness. He can't. He can't hope again...can he? "Fox," the older man says. "She's waking up." He just shakes his head. No. No, she isn't. "Yes, son." ************* She looks confused. Lost. Dazed, she reaches for his hand, clutching his arm tightly. "Mul-darrr?" She slurs. She struggles to open her eyes, but they are swollen and refuse to cooperate entirely. He takes her hands in his and tenderly brings her fingers up to his lips for a kiss. "Scully. I'm right here. Everything is fine. You're fine." She reaches up, her hand unsteady until she touches his cheek. "It's me, Scully. Mulder." "Mulder," she manages, her voice hoarse. "W-w-," she struggles painfully, unable to get the words out. He quickly takes a squeeze bottle and squirts a little water in her mouth. And she immediately chokes on it. "No," she gasps, choking not on water but on laughter. "*Not* water." "Shhhh," he says, and gently, carefully, blots where it had dribbled from her mouth. "Where are we?" she enunciates clearly. Her eyes are unfocused, the lids swollen; water dripping on her chin; hair disheveled, thin and greasy. It is also entirely possible that he has never found her so beautiful as he does at this moment. "It's a long story," Mulder says, stroking her forehead. Once she will never know entirely. Scully closes her eyes. "Aren't you," she manages painfully, "the secret squirrel." "That's me," he agrees. He brings her hand to his lips again, this time kissing her wrist just where the pulse is. Her movement is what makes her beautiful, he marvels. No one moves like Scully. He realizes now that he could watch her for hours – doing simple things like cleaning dishes, or typing on her laptop with her legs crossed on a hotel bed. And now he has the chance to. "I'm tired, Mulder." Scully's eyes open slightly, staring at him seriously and a little dully. "Sleep then. But you have to promise to wake up." She smiles slightly and falls asleep almost immediately. He covers her with his coat and gets up slowly to close the door and turn off the lights. Carefully, he climbs into the bed with her, lying on top of the sheets. He manages to wrap his arms around her, moving his body uncomfortably into a space far too small for a man his size. He replaces the silver guard rail to its upright position and huddles around her body, willing her to absorb his warmth. ************ The hardest part is telling her about the two years. Mulder avoids her eyes and instead starts unpacking clothes he has recovered from storage. Today she is sitting up, a limp pillow supporting her back, eyes open – alert and calm blue seas. Her hair has been washed by the nurses and is slightly curly and healthy looking. Her white arms glow from the unnatural light and her hands are folded neatly in her lap. In all things Scully looks rested, serious and above all -- in control. "I thought you'd like a robe," he blathers, hanging it up in the closet. She nods. "Yes. Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you, Mulder," she says softly. Her voice is quiet and tender. But it is absent of forgiveness. She can not forgive yet when she does not know the depths of his crimes, but can only guess at them. Mulder takes his time hanging the robe up, carefully tying the sash at the waist. I would forgive you, Scully, he thinks. Even if I didn't know what you had done, I would forgive you. But then he is forced to weigh the evidence she is being presented with. No mother by her bedside. No brothers. No flowers from the three stooges. No Skinner, no FBI. No doctors fussing over her, taking her pulse, checking her temperature. Only him. Only her partner by her side. As always. He turns around, finally, and they stare at each other. "Do I have to ask, Mulder?" He knows that he can not allow her to ask. He knows that it will have to come freely from him. It can't be an excuse or an apology. Only an explanation. He sits down in the rocking chair he had shipped from his summer home. "You're alive, Scully. You are in front of me, breathing, your brain functioning. I gave up the bureau so I could see it happen. I gave up working in the light." "And what did I give up? What did you give up for me?" She stares at him without blinking. "Nothing but a family you couldn't endure anymore, and a job that had lost all meaning." She sucks in a breath. "And what makes you think you had the right to give up any of that for me? All of it - your life as well as mine." "You were vegetative, Scully. You would have been kept at a hospital – this way I could control what happened to you. I bought time and safety so that you could return." Sharply, her head shakes. "Those things you so casually brush aside, Mulder. My job and my family – almost everything I lived for. The reasons I got up in the morning and worked myself sick for. Without those things what am I *returning* for?" He grips the arms of the chair. "Me. The other thing you lived for Scully." ‘Almost everything' is not nearly the entirety of Dana Scully's life. Not nearly, maybe not even mostly. "It's not enough," she whispers. Her eyes brighten, but no tears fall. "It just isn't enough." ************ Mulder and the smoking man meet for lunch the day before he is to take Scully home. How funny those words sound, even to himself. He doesn't dare say them, for fear of making it another false promise, like so many other promises that have become invalid once he dares to speak them. They discuss Mulder's leave of absence. They both know time is running short. No one has the ability to count down the time that is left – it hasn't gotten *that* bad yet, but neither is the new consortium made of fools. They know the gift of time. How hard the old man had to fight for this ridiculous request Mulder doesn't know, but he is aware it is owed to him. To Scully. The road to recovery will be a hard one and Mulder has no intention of letting anything distract him from it. "So they signed off on it?" The smoking man smiles through an exhale of smoke. "Of course they did. They need a man of my talents – and as you well know, yours." "I'm not coming back," he says quietly. "If I can help it." "And what will you do after her recovery?" Mulder shrugs and pushes his plate away. "That bridge is a while off yet." "Not so far, I think. She is still young, and strong." "Unlike me?" Mulder says, smiling slightly. "Unlike you," the other man agrees. Then his expression shifts and he frowns tiredly at Mulder. "You realize that she will move on once she has recovered? That you can offer her nothing but a passage way to something else?" Mulder shifts in his seat. He hates it when the smoking man is so perceptive, especially about someone he has a relationship with that he has no intention of sharing. With anybody. "I'm going search for something else to offer her." But what a pale farce that will be. He has nothing she could possibly want. Nothing to capture her imagination now that he is off the X-files. Nothing to reign in her respect now that he has given in. Given up. And nothing to snare her love with now that is not worth the effort. The older man smiles. "I think I was wrong. That *is* a delusion of the young." "I don't think I qualify anymore." The delusion part on the other hand – "You're still young. Trust me." Mulder laughs loudly. "You know what? I do," he marvels. "I really do." Offended by the slightly mocking tone of his companion, the older man stiffens a little. Mulder plays with his water glass a little, dabbling his fingers in and then pressing them to his forehead, trying to make sense of the uncomfortable silence. "Before I forget or just lose the good grace to say it, thank you. I need to be with her now – at any cost. And this might save me some – hassle." Their eyes lock in an ironic glance at the concept of the ‘hassle' the consortium is capable of when displeased. "Go be with her now. I'll take care of everything," the smoking man says easily as he stubs his cigarette out. They both understand he doesn't just mean the check. Mulder gives him a slight nod and pushes back from the table. He forgets him before he even leaves the restaurant. ************ He arrives breathless the next day at the basement of the facility, almost running past the young guard. In her room, Scully is being fussed over. A nurse is carefully packing the few items that have accumulated in the two years Scully was asleep and the two weeks she has been conscious. There are a few books, left by Mulder. There are clothes he has retrieved from storage. A pretty silk robe that she refused to wear for some reason. Instead she asked Mulder for old, ratty sweat pants and shirts she had long since retired during her late twenties. Mulder, who remembered a Scully who couldn't stand being anything but dressed to the nines, is a little nonplused by the sudden turn around. Scully is slouching in a wheelchair, wearing navy blue sweat pants and an old flannel shirt, her eyes red. Mulder smiles a little at her, but she ignores him like the nurse. "Ready to go?" She shrugs, not looking at him. "Whatever." Ah. A guy could get a swelled head from that enthusiasm. He thanks the nurse and takes charge of the wheelchair, watching Scully's shoulders tense while slumped at the same time, and he knows that she hates this with a passion. Being dependent upon anybody is hell for her. That much he knows. "I had them set up the weight machines on the veranda," he tells her as they begin the long trek to the elevators. He can only see her hair from his position, glinting from the unnatural light in the hall. "To begin physical therapy." "Fun," she says in a low voice. "Tell me, do I have my own bedroom or do you decide that *too*?" "You have your own room, of course," he says mildly. Or at least mildly for him. The guard nods respectfully at Mulder when they pass and Scully mutters under her breath "Sieg Heil." Mulder flinches, but can't think of anything to say. When they ascend to the first floor in the elevator, Mulder wheels her into the hall of an ER of a Washington hospital. Shocked, Scully turns around to stare at her former partner. He only shrugs and wheels her swiftly down the hall now, not wanting any complications. "What if I screamed right now, what would happen?" Scully asks, her eyes following an unconscious man being wheeled on a stretcher and the security guard accompanying him. "I spend the rest of my life in jail," Mulder says without thinking. Shit. "Oh," she replies, her voice small. Oh, he thinks. Yup, the whole damn thing is pretty ‘oh', isn't it? They pass through the automatic doors without incident. The car is parked illegally in the ambulance zone and Mulder quickly moves to get Scully, himself, and the chair the hell out of here. He notices the way she shivers and he curses himself for not remembering a coat. Scully, on the other hand, can't seem to take her eyes off the gold and red trees surrounding the ambulance loading bay. "Jesus," she says without much energy. Mulder remembers suddenly that she first lost consciousness in early spring. Carefully, although not skillfully, he picks her up and places her in the passenger seat. Her face is expressionless and she neither helps him or resists his efforts. He crouches next to her side of the car, touches her cheek and she closes her eyes and lets him for a moment. A short moment that is broken when she carefully retreats into the seat, turns straight ahead, stares out at the windshield, and waits for him to close the door. He stands and closes the door softly. Mulder then stuffs the wheelchair in the trunk and runs around to his side of the car – is it possible the thought of driving again with Scully excites him? By the time he has reached the driver side, she has already found her medical file in the backseat. Mulder had extracted the file - with, admittedly, some probably important holes in the record - which catalogued the past two years. "Scully," he says. "I didn't want you to see that yet --" She shoots a sharp reprimand. "So when would you have given it to me? Breakfast tomorrow? Over wine during dinner?" "I was thinking dessert," he says, angry enough that he has been caught off guard to play her game. "But now that you mention it, what is better than a nice Chardonnay --" This time she interrupts him with a sharp gasp of shock. Scully shakes her head and her eyes fill at the same time a strangled laugh pours from her pale lips. Mulder cranes his neck to see what she is looking at. "Oh, fuck me," he says dully. Scully rips the document declaring her legally dead from the file and holds it up. "I think we should frame it." She smiles at him even as tears burn in her eyes. "As my accomplishment for the past two years." He simply starts the car. The steering wheel is spongy and malleable in his hands and he wonders how hard it would be to squeeze blood from it. He feels capable of it, certainly. "If I had to do it all over again – I would. In a second. Just for the chance for you to be here now, hating me. And I wish I could be sorrier about that Scully. But this is who I am. You've known that. You know that – even now." Her jaw moves and a tear slips down her cheek. She wipes it away, impatiently. "Could you please get me a pair of sunglasses from the gift shop, Mulder?" A watery smile appears on her face. "I haven't been outside in so long – the sun is really bothering me." The glass in the car is tinted – specifically for this purpose. Another tear falls near the same path as the previous one and Scully is staring determinedly at her hands in spite of it all. His heart races at even the *thought* of leaving her alone for a moment but he just nods. "Should take me about five minutes," he suggests casually, turning off the car. "That would be fine," she whispers, her voice grateful. A slight pause and then he takes a deep breath, exits the car, making sure it is locked and walks quickly into the hospital. When he returns – ten terrible minutes later – her eyes are redder, although her cheeks are dry. She is staring straight ahead. He gives her the sunglasses. She mutters a thank you, and puts them on immediately. Time for the second attempt. "Ready to go home?" he asks. "Yup. Take ‘er away, Mr. Mulder." "Yes, Miss Scully," he says with a smile. Her lips smile back at him a little, but because of the sunglasses he can't tell if it reaches her eyes. He would like to believe it does. ************* The Beginning.