Date: 28 Aug 1998 16:55:39 GMTFrom: Zinniad <>
Subject: NEW: Sleeping Beauty 1/1Title - Sleeping BeautyAuthor - Anna McCarthy
Email- for now,  after Sept. 15th.
Rating - PGCategory - VA, USTSpoilers - PMP, FTF
(quite an alphabet soup I've got here...)
Archive- Anyone who'd like to. It would be nice if people other than
Gossamer would drop me a note, but it's not necessary.
Feedback- Please! This is my first story; any and all comments can only
help me improve. Constructive criticism will be treasured.
Disclaimer- Consider it disclaimed.
Dedication- To the wonderful, marvelous, fantastically amazing folks who read
this over ahead of time and offered such helpful suggestions. I grovel at your
feet. ;-)~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sleeping Beauty ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Does she know, I wonder?
Even after all these years, does she have any idea what she means to
me? Any idea what I see when I look at her?
I glance down at her now. Her face is so peaceful in sleep, unlined
and innocent. I find that I prefer it animated. I picture her in my
mind, her eyebrow arched and lips pursed in a typical expression of
affectionate exasperation.
Does she know how often I deliberately annoy her just to see thatexpression?
Her face remains calm, though, despite my imaginings. Pale eyelids
tipped with gold veil her blue eyes, and her hair is spread out around her
on the pillow. Have I ever told her how much I love her hair? I've never
really found redheads attractive, but the color is just so perfectly Scully.
I've tried to picture her as a blond or a brunette, but my imagination
refuses to cooperate.
I have a sudden mental picture of Scully standing on the roof of a
Texas office building. Hot and sweaty she may be, but she's giving me
a full, happy grin, and her hair is shining brightly in the sun...
The picture is accompanied by a nearly overpowering rush of emotion,
and I tuck the image and the feeling back into a corner of my heart. My
eyes skip down to where her hands lay, curled lightly against the
sheets. Her fingers are so small and capable... deft, that's the
word. They're the hands of a doctor, a surgeon, and God knows they've
worked their magic on me more times than I can count. Medically
speaking, of course. Another time I might pause to imagine what those
hands would feel like on an uninjured part of my body, but she looks
so vulnerable lying here right now that it would seem like a betrayal.
I carefully slip my hand around one of hers. I marvel at how large
and clumsy my hand looks in comparison, and I gently brush my thumb
across her knuckles. She doesn't stir.
My eyes skim over her body, and I stop to consider how thin she is.
Of course I've noticed that she's lost a lot of weight over the past
few years--even I am not that blind. It occurs to me, though, that
I've never really wondered why. Much of it is due to the cancer, but
she could easily have gained that back by now. Has she been having
trouble eating? God, I hope not. I know her sleep is often plagued by
nightmares, and I would hate to think that I've managed to ruin yet
another aspect of her life. I pause to offer a brief prayer to a
deity I'm not sure I even believe in, asking that the dreams she
dreams right now are pleasant. It's the least I can do.
I go back to considering her weight. If it's not because she can't
eat, then it must be out of vanity, right? If so, I wish she would
let herself go back to her normal weight. She's too thin now, and it
makes her seem brittle, fragile. I hate to think of her that way. If
there was any way to restore her to the woman she was when we first
met, physically and emotionally healthy, I'd do it in a millisecond.
That's just the story of my life though--always desperate to change
the past and no clue what to do with the present.
My gaze finds its way back up to her face. I notice that for once
the mole above her lips is uncovered. Why she usually hides it is
another mystery, and I'm amazed at how much I still don't understand
about this woman. A normal man would know these things about his
partner after six years, wouldn't he? I'm quickly distracted from that
thought, though, as my eyes shift yet again.
Her lips. Definitely a part of Scully I'd like to be better
acquainted with. I flash back to a certain moment in the hallway of
my apartment building. I haven't collected on that kiss yet, and I now
realize that I should have brought it up the day we got back from
Antarctica. Every day after that, it got easier to pretend that
nothing had ever happened. Oh, we were closer, of course, but once we
got back to work, our personal relationship took a backseat to the X-
files. I wonder if that was deliberate on her part, if she didn't
want our friendship to change into something else. I wonder if she
thinks I didn't want it to.
I wonder what would happen if I leaned down right now and kissed
those slightly parted lips of hers. Would my sleeping beauty awaken
with the kiss? Would she kiss me back, despite the fact that I'm no
Prince Charming?
Okay, so the secret's out: I, Fox Mulder, am a closet romantic. I
remember that case a while back, the one with the Great Mutato. It
ended, of course, with us taking him into custody and heading back to
Washington. When Izzy sent me his comic book rendering of the whole
mess, though, I told him that the ending wasn't good enough. My
vision included a Cher concert and a romantic dance. The monster gets
the girl. In more ways than one.
I try to think of a reason why I shouldn't kiss Scully, right here,
right now. I can think of none. So I do it. I lean down and press my
lips against hers very softly. My eyes drift shut, and I feel... love.
God, do I feel it. It's still not a feeling I'm completely accustomed to,
and it nearly overwhelms me now. Maybe I can breathe it into her, so
that it fills her the way it fills me, healing all our ills. Maybe then her
mouth will move beneath mine and she will kiss me back. Maybe...
Reluctantly, I stand back up, and I slowly open my eyes. I guess I'm
really not Prince Charming then, since the princess continues to
slumber. I love you Scully, and I hope you know that. I just wish itwere enough.
I hear footsteps in the hallway, and a moment later Mrs. Scully enters
the room. She supplies me with a cup of coffee and puts a hand on my shoulder.
"Any change?" she asks, still hopeful."No. No change."
And the beeping of the monitors echoes the pounding of the ache in my soul.End.
Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. Please, let me know what you