Blanket Tales By Mary Kleinsmith (Buc252@aol.com) Rating: PG Category: Post-ep, MSR, MT Spoilers: all things, Anasazi/Blessing Way Disclaimer: These characters belong to Chris Carter and 1013 productions. Notes: Written for Mulder's Refuge's Post-Ep Challenge for June with After-the-Fact also in mind. Blanket Tales By Mary Kleinsmith (Buc252@aol.com) The sounds are the first things to strike me, definitely not the environment in which I'm accustomed to awakening, I realize. They come into aural focus slowly: The bubble of a fish tank, the hiss of baseboard heat, the hum as the refrigerator comes on, somehow different than my own, or perhaps only closer. The sounds are quickly relegated to the background as other elements register on my senses. The smell of after shave, dust, and leather; the after-taste of tea on my tongue, and the scratch of a wool blanket on my skin. Wool blanket . . . Wool blanket? I sit up suddenly, the typical grogginess of sleep leaving me abruptly. I'm slouched on Mulder's couch, covered in an Indian-style blanket where I must have fallen asleep. The last thing I remember is talking with Mulder, and something about the paths we take in life. I must have dozed off right in the middle of his sentence, I realize, feeling slightly embarrassed. The teacups are gone, the coffee table empty except for where my legs are resting. Glancing at my watch, I realize that it's a little after midnight, and I'm wide awake. And I'm not the only one, I think as I listen to the water running in Mulder's bathroom. The sound not of a shower, but of a sink. I tip my head back and relax for awhile, just taking in my surroundings as I imagine I hear the scrape of a razor on his cheeks. It's a luxury I'm not afforded very often in Mulder's apartment. Usually, when I'm here, it's work on which we're concentrating or, possibly, I'm coming to his aid in one way or another. On neither occasion do I have the privilege to observe the tiny apartment my partner calls home. What I see is eclecticism at its best. Monet and Matisse hang on the wall beside movie posters. On the video rack, Biker Babes from Mars is sandwiched between Citizen Kane and The Ten Commandments; I briefly wonder what he uses for a cataloguing system. His fish tank is immaculate, as are the book shelves above them, but his desk is a cluttered mess. If I didn't know better, I'd say two different people lived here. My eyes return to my lap, taking in the blanket with which I'd been covered. Even this is so unlike the man I know my partner to be. The intricate pattern is stitched, not painted or otherwise applied, giving the impression of an authentic hand-made blanket. "Penny for your thoughts," I hear in an almost whisper from my left. Standing there, in a pair of ridiculous-looking yellow pajama bottoms and his favorite gray T-shirt is, naturally, my partner. "Love the pj's, Mulder," I say with a grin. They, also, are out of character, but thin enough to keep my interest. "You've domesticated me," he says, sitting down beside me. I notice his feet are bare, and his cheeks, as I imagined, are smooth. "I think we'd have to be domestic partners before that could happen," I say, half in jest, but I can't ignore his soft answer. "Say the word, Scully." We're quiet for a moment - to be honest, I don't know what to say. Finally, he takes me off the hook. "I really wanted to know, you know? What were you thinking about just now?" "You, to be honest." He looks surprised, although I don't know why. If I can't think about him when I'm surrounded by him, when can I? "This blanket is so unlike you. Where did it come from?" He takes the large piece of artwork from my hands gently, like cradling a small child or a warm towel just out of the dryer. His eyes are hooded, but he's not speaking. "Mulder, you're starting to worry me," I simply say after a few minutes. He just needs a nudge to get him started again. "We've never really talked about my time with Albert Hosteen, have we, Scully?" I wonder if this is the Indian connection, but I don't want to push too much. "You told me all I needed to know," I say, wondering what it was he's left out all these years. "I told you all you needed to know as my partner. Now, I think you deserve to know it all. As my friend." His friend. I like the sound of that, and it gives me the hope that we'll have something more one day. Maybe one day soon. "I'm listening." "I was never sure what happened out there in the desert. Albert said that they came out to the quarry because the buzzards were circling, but I don't remember any of that. When they found me, I was buried under the rubble. Said it was a miracle I was still alive at all. But I was close. So close. . ." He trails off, perhaps at the wonder that he survived, but I'm not sure. "But you alive." "Yes. Barely. The Hosteens took me back, and Albert used some ancient Indian medicine to treat me." "Meaning what exactly?" I ask for clarification. "Roots? Herbs?" "More like chants, symbolism, and holy people." I can't help but let out a single guffaw before he turns to me with serious eyes. "It's real. I experienced it." He takes my hand and I have to fight the compulsion to pull away. We've been dancing this game for so long, I'm never sure when I can touch him any more. "I'm sorry." He grins slightly. "After all I'd been through, I was ready to leave it all behind. I didn't to live, despite having you here waiting for me. It had just gotten too painful. There was one death too many after Dad died, and Krycek got away. Somehow . . . wherever I was . . ." "What?" "It was peaceful there. Dark, floaty, and so many people I knew were there. People who'd gone on before. I thought I'd stay with them. But then, they spoke to me." "They wanted you to live," I deduce. "They wanted me to choose to live. Yes." His eyes are soft and sad. "I wanted to go with them. Even though Samantha wasn't there, I wanted peace. But I was needed here. In this world. So, I came back." "You make it sound so easy." "Well, it wasn't. It was torture. My body hurt all over, fever burned, I couldn't move a finger, let alone an entire limb. Once I decided I wanted to live, I had my doubts that I would. But I had to get back to you." I blush, realizing what he's sacrificed for me. The peace he's never had, the comfort he's never attained. "Finally," he continues, "I had rested enough, and I awoke." "And this was lying over you?" I handle the blanket, its preciousness clear to me now. But Mulder chuckles. "Not quite." And he chuckles again. "When I finally awoke, the only thing covering me was a bunch of tree branches. The leaves were . . . well, they were an interesting feeling," he grins. "That night, they moved me out of the hogan. It felt so odd to be carried, but I had the strength of a new-born kitten. Outside, under the full moon, they cleaned me up. Sort of a sacred sponge bath, if you can imagine that. And then they wrapped me in that blanket." He nods to the cloth I hold close to me, and I realize I'm not sure when he put it back into my lap. "So you brought it back with you. For nostalgia's sake." "Wrong again, Agent Scully." I'm frustrated that I seem to be coming to all the wrong conclusions tonight. "I progressed slowly, but faster than any modern medicine could have caused. But I fought, because I felt you were in danger. I knew it, and I couldn't let anything happen to you. As I healed and regained my strength, the blanket was always there to keep me warm and give me a sense of security. The last night before I headed back to what we egotistically call civilization, they held a special ceremony to end my healing chant. My 'Blessing Way'. They warned me that I'd only stay well if I ended the ceremony properly, and I'd seen just enough to know that I didn't want to cross their holy people." "What did you have to do? Not stand on your head and count to ten or anything like that, was it?" "No, nothing that difficult. But Albert warned me that I wasn't to work, bathe, or change clothes for four days." "Oh, pew," I laugh, pinching my nose melodramatically. "That's nothing. At the time he gave me these directives, that blanket was all I was wearing! Albert's son drove me cross country for days, going into gas stations and motels and stores when they'd never let me in dressed - or undressed - as I was." The image of Mulder traveling the country in nothing but a blanket makes me giggle. It's something I just can't envision, but wish I could. "I went to Mom's first. I'd stashed some clothes and an extra weapon at her place years ago, and I knew she'd let me borrow her car. Besides, I had to let her know I wasn't dead." I'm hurt for just a moment that he didn't have that concern for me, and it must show on my face because he abruptly takes my hands in his again. "I knew you'd be worried, too, but I believed that, somehow, you felt that I wasn't gone. I talked to you every night in my dreams. Mom told me that you said she shouldn't give up. Thank you for that." That makes me feel better, and I find I've sidled closer to him during our discussion. "You'll never believe this. . . Or, rather, you'll never believe that I believe this, but I heard you." "You did?" His tone is incredulous. "Once, I was awakened by a dream in the middle of the night. At the time, you were still declared dead, but you'd been speaking to me. Telling me you were coming back." Mulder laughs. "You mean you knew I'd show up here that day? When you were holding Skinner at gunpoint?" "Oh, don't remind me," I laugh as well. "I didn't know where or when exactly you'd show up, but I knew you would. If I hadn't been forewarned . . ." "If you hadn't?" He raises his eyebrows in question. "Let's just say the public display of affection would have gotten rave reviews," I smile. "I knew then that we'd be together forever. That by your side was where I belong." I'm embarrassed when I think back on the past week. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I guess I just lost sight of that for awhile." "Sometimes I forget that I have to share you with the rest of the world," he says. "It's hard for me to accept." "You may have to share me, Mulder, but I know now that you hold the biggest and most important parts of me. My heart, my soul . . ." I lean over towards him and capture his lips with my own, separating after a brief but intense kiss. The kiss I've been waiting seven years for. "And, if you agree, my body as well," I add. "Sounds like I get the best end of the deal," he smiles as I melt into his arms. Hours later, as we lay on his leather couch covered only by his Native American blanket, I can't think of anything else I need. I ponder inviting him to move to the relative roominess of his bed, but I realize that this blanket is part of him, just as much as the warm, pliant body under me, and being surrounded by him is something I wouldn't surrender for the world. Moving to the big bed can wait until closer to morning. The End.