TITLE: "While you are sleeping" 
AUTHOR: Kirsten Kerkhof * kirsten_xf@yahoo.com 
RATING: G 
CLASSIFICATION: Mulder/Scully Friendship. NoRoMo safe I 
suppose 
CATEGORY: S V 
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. 
SPOILERS: Home 
FEEDBACK: Pretty please with sugar on? A Mulder to taste for 
those of you who write back. 
SUMMARY: It's 2 a.m. during a stake-out and Scully has fallen 
asleep next to Mulder whilst sitting in their car. Mulder thinks. 
NOTE: There's no dialogue in here whatsoever. Let's say I 
wanted to try that for a change ... The title doesn't refer to the 
movie starring Sandra Bullock. This is just a coincidence.

XxXxX 
"While you are sleeping"
XxXxX 
 
   You're sitting next to me in the car. In the 
passenger's seat. And you're asleep. 
   We're on a stake-out, some deranged criminal - 
aren't they all? - is supposed to be hiding in that house over there 
and considering it's our case, we have to sit here all night, 
probably for nothing. 
   I look at you, your red hair falling over my 
shoulder. It's a nice contrast with the grey colour of my suit 
jacket. Your eyes are closed and I can no longer see their startling 
blue colour, but it doesn't matter. Because I know it's there. 
   Your face is oddly relaxed. I don't get a chance to 
see you like this very often, you normally think a lot which draws 
little lines over your forehead. But now your face is very relaxed, I 
like it. 
   I look out of the car again. We're supposed to 
catch the killer, I don't think they'd appreciate it when I'd tell 
them I spent the entire night looking at you instead of the house 
about forty yards down the road. And I know for certain that you 
wouldn't appreciate it either. 
   Still it's rather hard for me not to look at you. 
Looking as relaxed as that, you once again make it very tempting 
to tell you that I love you. I do love you, but I don't think I'll ever 
get the opportunity to tell you. I really shouldn't. It hurts though ... 
   I sigh. The killer, if he's in there at all and not 
around killing even more children, is most likely fast asleep. Just 
like you. He's probably not even remotely aware of the fact that 
outside his house two FBI agents are wasting a good night's sleep 
waiting for him to come out of his house in the middle of the 
night. Hell, I wish we could just go home, even though I'd 
probably not sleep anyway. But you would be able to sleep in a 
better place than in this car, your head leaning on my shoulder. 
Though right now I don't really mind that. 
   I look at the stars. They're beautiful. I've always 
liked stars, must have been one of the reasons why I started to 
believe. I've never given up wondering if Samantha's out there, 
too. You don't believe, I know. But that's no problem anymore. I 
know you can't allow yourself to believe, you've been raised pretty 
pragmatically and your career as a medical doctor - momentarily 
trying to forget that you're also a forensic pathologist - doesn't 
offer you much encouragement to believe in things like 
extraterrestrial life either. 
   But it's a fact that I claim to believe in more 
things than I actually do believe in. You've taught me that, to look 
at the rational truth that goes alongside the fictional truth. I have 
to admit that I didn't always liked the cold shower it turned out to 
be, but you're usually right. In fact you always are. 
   I feel your head shifting on my shoulder and you 
frown a little. You're saying something, but I can't really 
understand what it is you're saying, even though I think I know 
what your dream is all about. 
   You're having a hard time with this case. It affects 
you as a woman. The children this killer killed were horrifyingly 
mutilated. It made me feel sick, but I could see it did something 
more to you. You felt it inwardly, in a way I will never be able to 
feel because I'm not a woman. And I wished that I could feel it, 
for some sick reason I wished then that I could feel it. 
   When we were dealing with that case in Home, 
the one with the Peacock baby I saw this emotion for one of the 
first times. Then we kind of talked about it, but mostly I joked. I 
usually do that, I'm not terribly good at expressing my feelings. 
But neither are you. And sometimes I wonder what would happen 
if ever some fairy - or evil spirit - would make us totally different, 
just for one day. If it would make us confess to each other what we 
think and feel ... I hardly dare think about it. Would we still be 
friends? 
   You're sleeping peacefully again. You've always 
been able to sleep wherever you thought you were able to sleep. 
Even when strictly speaking you were not supposed to sleep. Like 
now. Right now you ought to be awake, there's a reason why 
agents always work in pairs. But I won't wake you up. Since we 
started this case you haven't slept well. You tried to hide it, and 
you did a pretty good job, too. Your problem must be that by now 
I know you too well. You fooled the other agents and local law 
officers we dealt with in search of this killer, but I could see you're 
having nightmares and they keep you up at night. And I know 
how that feels. 
   I don't think you're being plagued by nightmares 
right now. I wonder whether you're dreaming at all, you're very 
tranquil. Slowly your head starts to drop from my shoulder and 
you shift so you can sleep. I'm amazed by the reflexes the human 
body has built in. After all, this movement was not something you 
did consciously, it just happened. Mother Nature is capable of 
some pretty amazing things, I have to say! 
   Mother Nature ... I recall telling you that I never 
saw you as a mother before, remember? Back there in Home ... 
I'm sure you remember that, you gave me a look that I haven't 
been able to decipher just yet. The same look you shot me when 
you left my motel room to go to your own room and I wished you 
good-night, "Mom". I smile. I hope for you that you'll have 
children one day. I think you'll be a great mother. I know you'll be 
a great mother. Your children will be very lucky, you can give 
them the love they need and deserve. You have parents who 
taught you how to love your children. Sometimes I sort of envy 
you, your parents loved you and your brothers and sister so much. 
But for some undefinable reason I feel loved, too, your mother is a 
miracle, you know that? Yes, I think you do, you're devoted to 
your mother. And to your father. It must be great to love ones 
parents so much ... And somehow your mother manages to make 
me feel like I'm one of her sons as well. God, I wish I were! 
Maybe then I wouldn't have turned out the way I did. 
   A few weeks ago I went to visit your mother. You 
don't know that, I haven't told you and neither has she. We talked. 
About life, about work, about various things that are easier to 
digest. And she showed me some photos of you, when you were 
just a kid. You're probably going to shoot me if you ever find out I 
know you had braces as a child ... I always wondered how Nature 
could have produced such a beautiful symmetry. But quite 
honestly I don't know how She managed to make you as beautiful 
as you are. You're beautiful, you know that? I know you'd 
probably try to point out all kinds of things about you that don't 
agree with the rules supermodels seem to have set, things you 
would call 'flaws'. And for one thing, you are indeed pretty small 
... But I don't care. I mean, what would I need a Pamela Anderson 
look-alike for? I know you think I prefer tall, leggy blondes, but in 
truth I don't. Not anymore. Not since I met you. 
   Mm-mm, I'm indeed in love, no doubt about it. 
   No movement on the streets apart from that 
homeless man who was sleeping over there, but now he has 
obviously woken up. He's walking away and I kind of pity him. He 
must be on his way to get more alcohol. Or drugs. Poor fellow. I 
know I'll never touch those, I've seen what happened to my father, 
I don't want to end up like that. I feel sorry for him, too ... I think 
he must have had a very hard life. You don't know it, but I've kind 
of stopped hating him. I don't love him, I can't love him, not after 
all he's done, but yet ... I miss you, Samantha. Please tell me 
where you are ... Are you okay? 
   I feel you stir again and right now Nature fails to 
produce the right reflexes and your head drops off my shoulder, 
into my lap. You half wake up and you open your eyes and look at 
me. I smile, but I don't think you're actually seeing me for you 
moan softly, close your eyes and fall asleep again, obviously 
content with your new position. You've curled up on the seat, it 
doesn't look very comfortable and I hope we don't have to walk or 
run much tomorrow, because I can assure you your muscles will 
be pretty stiff. 
   I softly stroke your hair. After you've died you 
ought to donate that hair, too, you know. I wonder where this 
whacked-out thought comes from. Well, everybody thinks I am 
spooky, after all, why not think spooky, too? 
   I admire you. You're very strong and very 
independent. You're a pretty amazing woman. You thought you 
disappointed me today. Because I saw you almost breaking down 
when you had to do that autopsy on one of the little girls we found 
dead. Another victim of this beast. I asked you what was wrong, 
but you told me you were fine. Of course you were, you always are ... 
   Do you know that I've grown rather fond of you 
telling me "I'm fine, Mulder"? Okay, sometimes it drives me 
crazy, especially when you're all but fine and everybody can see it, 
but other times I'd rather hear those three words from you than 
the usual three words everyone in the Bureau thinks you say to 
me. Because I don't think I need to hear you say it. I know you 
love me, too. A bit differently from the way I love you perhaps, 
but if you didn't care about me you wouldn't have risked your 
career, your life, your sanity so often to get my ass out of the 
situations I always manage to get myself into. How you do it, I 
don't know, but I do know that you risk everything to save me. 
And I feel I owe you more than I can ever show you. You often 
apologise to me for things you do, but I don't want to hear any 
more apologies from you. You understand that? No more 
apologies! 
   You thought you disappointed me today. I could 
read it in your eyes, you were afraid I'd tell you so. But I hope you 
read the only thing my eyes told you, that I understood. I 
understand ... 
   I know you felt it deeply. That little girl was 
raped, tortured, murdered in the most disgusting ways possible. 
You had a very hard time doing the autopsy on this little girl. 
Because, with her red hair and her blue eyes, she looked like you. 
Despite her injuries she bore a striking resemblance to you and 
you knew it. I could see by the way you looked at the tiny corpse, 
the way you had to control your emotions, that you felt like you 
were doing an autopsy on yourself as a little girl. But you made it. 
Like you always do. 
   I admire you. 
   I realise I've stopped looking at the building 
everyone thinks the killer's most likely hiding in. What the heck, 
this guy escaped so often, do they really think he'll let himself get 
caught so easily after having escaped from everything but 
Alcatraz itself? 
   I wonder what we're supposed to write in the 
report on this case. We haven't got a single lead, nobody knows a 
bloody thing. This guy just laughs in our faces and meanwhile 
cheerfully continues killing little children. And leaves no clues on 
where he might have gone, who might be his next victims. On 
who he is. Because we don't even have a remote idea about his 
identity. Well, we know something, he's a black male, between 25 
and 40 years old, no striking features. I have to say, that gives us 
a lot of information to work with ...! He leaves no fingerprints, no 
shoe prints, nothing! Just one horribly slaughtered kid after 
another. 
   And your job is to examine the little corpses. And 
you hate it. 
   You love your job. Frankly I'm glad you are doing 
it, I've never been very good at dealing with corpses that have 
turned into one big pile of slimy goo of blood, bone, and tissue. It 
makes me sick. But you can handle it with admirable cool. 
Usually when I'm typing out a report I listen to your recording of 
the autopsy session as well. You voice-record your findings, you 
like it best that way. And it's very convenient, also for me, when I 
try to formulate a decent field-report, even though strictly 
speaking that's your job. Originally you were assigned to write 
field-reports on the validity of the X-Files. Pretty scary, I have to 
admit, because I didn't know what you'd write back then. But 
pretty soon I started writing my share of field-reports as well. And 
I use your autopsy recordings to help me, the cool, oddly detached 
voice helping me to keep a clear head. 
   Once I was listening to a recording and suddenly 
something struck me. So I rewound the tape and listened to it 
again, trying to find traces of emotions in your voice. And there 
weren't any. 
   You frightened me at that moment, you know. 
   But I know that when I listen to your recordings 
this time I will hear the emotions that are hidden behind the 
medical terms you are able to formulate without so much as 
batting an eye. Sometimes, when you're doing your very best Dr. 
Scully MD impersonation, I silently wonder whether there are any 
possibilities for subtitles. And then I smile at the thought. Do you 
realise that at least once every investigation you sound like you're 
quoting the Encyclopędia Brittannica? Don't worry, I won't hold 
it against you. In fact, I think it's quite adorable. You sound 
amazing when you're doing it. 
   Your lips are slightly parted and they seem to 
form words. You don't speak aloud though, so no chance for me to 
find out what you really think of my video collection, I guess. I 
look out of the window. Nothing. So I look back at you. Yep, 
positively beautiful. That's what you are. 
   I look at my watch. 3:18 a.m. God, what a waste 
of time! I sigh. After all, in a few hours Skinner will want us in 
the office for a long day of work. Like nothing happened. He'll be 
right about that last bit, nothing did happen. But he'll want results 
as well. And we have as many results as this street has any action. 
Which is nothing. We know zip, rien, nothing. So much for two 
weeks of investigating. 
   I'm surprised I'm not all that sleepy. Sometimes 
insomnia can be quite a good thing. But most of the times it isn't. 
You're lucky you're not a victim of this as well. You don't have 
many difficulties sleeping. In fact, you sleep quite a lot. You need 
it, I know. Yet you never complain when I call you in the middle 
of the night. I sometimes forget you sleep at night. When I'm 
working I tend to forget what time it is. And I don't always sleep 
at night. So I call you and after four or five rings you answer, your 
voice drowsy, but always attentive, expecting it's me on the phone. 
I sometimes wonder whether you wear the same night clothes at 
home as you wear on out-of-town cases. 
   Quite a nice life we have, I must say, always 
expecting it's the other when the phone rings. I know you think 
the same as I do, you answer too often with saying my name, 
speaking directly to me, to make it sound like a coincidence. 
Nope, we don't have a life, it's clear as crystal. We only have our 
work, the X-Files, the FBI. And each other. 
   Yes, just each other. There is a part of me that 
would love to make our relationship more than what it is right 
now, but frankly I'm scared. Because it's more than I expected, 
than I deserve already, and what if I ruin it? 
   I look at you and don't want to think about what 
the possible consequences of my desire for more might be. I love 
you, there's not a doubt about that. But what if ... 
   Your right hand is on my knee while your left 
hand is over the hand brake. I told you this was not the most 
comfortable position to sleep in, didn't I? I place my hand over 
your right hand and you turn the palm up. You hold my hand and 
you softly murmur my name. It's very sweet and it makes me feel 
very content. Right now I don't give a damn about what happens 
outside this car, the only thing that really matters to me is the fact 
that you really, truly trust me. I know you do. 
   I sigh. I've got to stay focused. After all somebody 
has to and I can't expect you to do it right now. But I don't want to 
do it anymore. Not tonight. Sometimes, when people hear I'm a 
Federal Agent, working for the FBI, they are impressed. They 
think we're  out there hunting criminals all day, all action and 
excitement. Do you have the same experience? I think so, I think 
you feel the same way, we often do. But it's all thanks to TV-
series and movies. They don't know a thing about long days of 
nothing but paper-work. Or midnight stake-outs. Yep, pretty 
romantic profession it is, being an FBI agent. Especially when 
your partner has fallen asleep on you. 
   Don't worry about it, Scully, it's all right. 
   Still nothing. Of course not. The killer is probably 
not even in that building. God knows where he is, I really don't 
have a clue. And I don't care very much either anymore. Boredom 
gets in the way. 
   I feel you're moving. You're waking up and you 
discover the rather unusual and unpartner-like position you're in. 
After all, you're not very keen on showing more than a 
professional relationship. So you try to sit up, back in your own 
seat. But lying across two seats, your head in my lap, your back 
curved to avoid the handle of the brake, it's bound to make you 
stiff. And you are. You have a pretty hard time getting back in 
your seat, also because you bump your head against the steering 
wheel. We're not lucky tonight, must be an omen for the rest of 
the investigation ... 
   You rub your eyes and stretch. You tuck a few 
strands of hair between your ear and look at your watch. Then you 
look at me questioningly. Anything? No, nothing, my look 
answers. Funny, the way we don't even need to speak anymore to 
tell each other the things we want to know. 
   I sigh and I open my mouth to tell you we've just 
wasted a good night's sleep on this, but then I see movement near 
the house we've been expected to watch all night. It's the guy 
we've been waiting for! 
   So whatever conversation we both had planned, 
it's lost in the action that follows. 
 
THE END