TITLE: Hold Me (1/1) AUTHOR: Shoshana EMAIL ADDRESS: shoshana1013@excite.com DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Gossamer, Spooky's site, Xemplary, etc. SPOILER WARNING: Seventh season episodes through Orison. RATING: PG CONTENT STATEMENT: MSR CLASSIFICATION: VRA KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully Romance SUMMARY: Post ep for Orison. Sequel to "Comfort." DISCLAIMER: These characters do not belong to me. NOTE: Thanks to my great beta readers Char, Meg and Teresa! Hold Me By Shoshana He awoke to Scully's angry, frustrated grunts, sounds of terror as she battled an intruder in her dream. She was thrashing around, held captive by the sheet above her. She had managed to throw her blanket to one side while they slept, inches apart from one another. The sheet remained and had become twisted around her torso, locking her in place. Her wrists moved in unison, as though she were trying to loosen what bound them. Mulder watched her, spellbound, paralyzed with indecision. Not because he'd never woken her from a nightmare before. He'd done that on a regular basis for several years after her abduction, rushing to her bedside to soothe her with soft words and bear hugs. The comfort he gave her at those times was mostly welcome. A few times she'd been so embarrassed by her cries in the night that she'd rejected his efforts, flying off to the bathroom as soon as she had her wits about her. Often, after such an incident, she'd emerge from the john and cross over to his room, to let him know she was okay, to let him know she appreciated him, but wasn't in any mood to be coddled that night. Tonight, he was torn between the desire to hold her in his arms, and the apprehension he felt about waking her. Would it help her to relive the events of yesterday during REM sleep? To experience them again, take them to their logical conclusion? She was obviously acting out the whole horrifying scenario; he even sensed that she had escaped her closet now, was hiding stealthily beneath her bed. She made little sound, her body poised to crawl for her gun. He wouldn't have recognized this change in demeanor if he hadn't read the report she gave to the local cops. He'd demanded no details from her last night. And she'd revealed very little to him, glossing over her violent encounter with Pfaster. He'd hovered in the background when the EMTs took care of her. He knew the extent of her injuries and had excused himself from the bedroom when they'd removed her top completely. The female EMT had taken care of her, preserving some modicum of dignity in the shambles of her apartment. Later, much later, he'd glanced at the report while she packed her overnight bag. The cops had already interviewed him thoroughly and were curious, but not unreceptive, when he asked to see her account of the invasion. They could have refused him access, but his status as a Federal Agent and his relationship to the victim assuaged any reservations. He knew she'd told the story as clearly, as succinctly, as she could. He knew how strong she was, how quickly she'd morphed into Dana Scully, Federal Agent. They needed a statement, and she had provided one, calmly, coolly. Her interviewers were probably impressed by her composure. The escaped convict had tried to beat the living shit out of her. Yet, she related her story to them in precise detail, patiently waiting while they scribbled as fast as they could. She'd even had the option of relating the tale to them tomorrow, but she'd declined that, preferring to tell them while the facts were fresh in her mind. Mulder knew better. He was the only one who could sense she was still in shock, still wrestling with her fear, even as her attacker lay dead in the Coroner's van. She'd always tried to do the right thing, always tried to be a straight arrow. And the right thing at that moment had been cooperating with the police, telling them all she knew so they could process the crime scene, her own apartment. So that they could get in and out as efficiently as possible, so that she could have her life back, so that she could erase this monster from her mind forever. That wasn't to be. She was having her first of many nightmares to come. Should he wake her? Or should he allow her to become an avenging angel once again, if only in her dreams? She wasn't crying out. She was disturbingly quiet now. He knew what she was doing in her dream, even from the sketchy details he'd gathered from the report. She had pulled herself across the floor of her bedroom, through broken glass, through splintered wood chips, through the broken remnants of her nice, orderly life. The moment she retrieved her gun, that was the moment she was free. She could fight back. It wasn't a contest of physical strength anymore. She had defended herself fiercely, utilized every trick she'd learned from the Academy, from almost eight years in the field. He had been bigger and stronger than her. But he was a demented, insane man, and he hadn't anticipated her rage, her utter fury, as she escaped her bonds and evened the playing field. Mulder wasn't even sure if she'd seen or heard him when she emerged from the bedroom. She'd shot to kill, not to injure. There was probably no doubt in her mind what would happen if she allowed Pfaster to subdue her again. She couldn't, wouldn't let it happen. She wouldn't become his next victim, and she would make damn sure no more women would suffer at his hands. No jail could contain him; he would continue to terrorize women as long he drew breath on this earth. She would never be safe, never be sure he wasn't waiting behind her bathroom door every time she came home. She couldn't live with that, and that's why she shot him. In the morning Mulder would try to talk to her, make that clear to her. That she hadn't been driven by some demonic force to kill in cold blood. That she hadn't been manipulated by some dark minion of Satan. She was simply a woman defending herself, her body, her home, her peace of mind. He had tried to get through to her yesterday. He'd argued it out with her politely, civilly. No more. She would hear him out today. He wouldn't mince words; moderation got him nowhere yesterday. Of course, he thought this now, but he knew damn well he would hesitate to speak so harshly later. He knew that. But it gave him some solace to imagine the argument, to imagine what he might say. He would tone down the debate; he wouldn't come at her like an attack dog. But she had to know. She had to know he still saw her as good and beautiful and true. As a person of high ideals, a person who upheld the law. She needed to have faith in herself; she needed to be proud of her own actions. And he could make her believe in herself. She believed in him, and God knows that was difficult enough. He let out an involuntary snort at the thought and slipped out of his temporary fugue, directing his attention back to Scully's dream state. She was becoming agitated; perhaps she was stepping out of her bedroom door, her gun trained on Pfaster, her heart skipping beats as she made a split second decision to shoot. Had she seen her partner? She couldn't remember, she'd said. She couldn't see anything but her target, and she feared him, needed to stop him. And she did. Whatever her motivation, whatever she sensed when she came out of that bedroom, at least the fucker was dead now. At least he'd never come after her again. Scully's vocalizations had increased in volume, and he decided to wake her. He was inches from her, but he didn't want to alarm her. He called her name, keeping his distance, trying to break through the haze of her nightmare with the distinctive timbre of his own voice. After thirty seconds or so, her eyes snapped open, shock evident in her expression. She focused immediately on the man beside her, recognized him, but only vaguely remembered where she was. "Mulder?" she said. Her hands moved around, investigating her surroundings. She reached over with one hand, grabbing his in her own. "Mulder, he's dead, isn't he?" He felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach when he heard those words. Damn. He should have never tried to wake her. He should have let her dream Pfaster into damnation. "He's dead, Scully. He's really dead," he said solemnly. "I dreamed... I was killing him again..." she choked out, before tears filled her eyes. She was fighting them, trying to contain them. He'd had enough of restraint, had enough of respecting the boundaries between them. He untangled the sheet from around her waist and pulled her to his side of the bed. He cradled her in his arms tenderly, mindful of the many bruises covering her body. She came willingly, leaning into his chest, winding her arms around him. She sobbed quietly, letting it all out. She'd remained in complete control yesterday. She'd walked the walk, talked the talk. She didn't need to do that now, not with him. Not with the man she trusted, she loved so much. The man who had refused to slip underneath the covers with her last night. She laughed to herself, recounting to herself how many times he'd offered to get cozy with her, in motels, at Arcadia. And when she'd finally offered that to him, he was so damn chivalrous, so damn gallant, that he wouldn't dare take advantage of her. She'd had no intention of letting him do so; she just wanted him close last night. It was so Mulder that he'd stayed with her anyway, falling asleep on the bed beside her. She'd awakened briefly during the night and felt his hand in hers, seen his jaw slack with sleep. It had made her feel so safe, so cared for. Ironically, she'd known exactly where she was then. Unlike several minutes ago, when she woke from the awful vision of Pfaster in her gunsight. She was so happy Mulder hadn't left her side, that he was still here, to put her arms around, to smell and feel and love. Her tears were dissipating, and she shifted her position, moving her palm to his cheek. She saw the concern in his eyes, and she rubbed her thumb against the stubble on his chin. "I'm all right. I'm going to be all right. Please don't worry, Mulder," she whispered close to his face. He smiled against her hand, as her forefinger stroked his lower lip. His right hand combed through her hair, tidying it, then wrapped around the nape of her neck, massaging her gingerly. She closed her eyes, relishing the feel of his cool fingers on her feverish neck. Eyes still veiled shut, she explored his face with her hands, touching his cheeks, his brow, his nose. They were so close, she could feel his breath on her cheek. She opened her eyes, and in the dim morning light she watched him return her smile. "Come here, you," she murmured, nudging him toward her. Their lips met in a soft, solid kiss, much longer than their first. She shut her eyes, abandoning herself to the feel of his mouth on hers. She heard herself moan softly as his tongue suckled her lip, then found its way inside her. He groaned sonorously as their lips parted, and she felt him sitting back against the headboard, rearranging her in his lap. She opened her eyes and questioned him with the quirk of one eyebrow. "Not pooping out on me, are you?" His amusement was evident. So was the arousal in his sweatpants. He'd only shifted to make more room for it. "No, Scully. But... I'm really not sure how far this should go. You've been through a lot. I don't know if this is the best time." "Mulder, I'm not a child. And I'm not distressed anymore." She paused and put her hand over his open mouth. "But," he spouted as soon as she moved her hand away. "I'm not dreaming anymore... and this wouldn't be happening if I didn't want it to." She put both hands on his face and continued, "Let's lie down and take it slowly. We don't have to make love today, but I'd like you to hold me..." Her voice lowered and she whispered, "I *need* you to hold me." He closed his eyes briefly, opening them with an accompanying smile on his lips. "Okay," was all he said, before she slid off his lap and pulled the covers over the two of them. He enveloped her in his arms, and she snuggled close to his chest before urging his mouth to hers for another long kiss. Her hands then encompassed his waist, pulling him even closer, and she settled her head in the crook of his arm. His hand travelled lazily from her hip to the crown of her head and back again, then settled onto her lower back. It rested there, idly stroking the fleece of her top, until she was asleep in his arms. fin Please send feedback to: shoshana1013@excite.com Please visit my web page at http://members.tripod.com/shoshana1013/