TITLE: Advent of Morning AUTHOR: PD DISCLAIMER: The X-Files belongs, apparently, to people who don't feel the need to ask me what *I* think. I offer my opinion anyway. CLASSIFICATION: V, missing scene, MSR SPOILERS: "all things" SUMMARY: Does fate or chance determine our choices? Is it still fate if we choose the other path? AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm percolating on something longer - maybe case file-y. This is brain Drano. (More at the end.) FEEDBACK: Would be enjoyed. syzygial@pacbell.net Advent of Morning By PD Dusty. The trail is dusty. And the blanket on her horse smells like a man. The clip clop of the animal's hooves and the creek babbling next to her soothe her weary bones. The sounds lull her in the saddle. She's been riding for years. Isn't it time to stop now? Dusty. It makes her want to sneeze. And the blanket slung over her shoulder smells like her man. And she stops and watches him from the porch, her arms filled with wood for the stove. He stands at the well, pumping cool water and washing the day from his bare torso. She wonders, has it been years? Has it really been years since she's seen him? Since she's touched him? Since she's kissed him? His lazy smile greets her as she steps toward him, wanting him, the wood forgotten. Has it really been years? She opens her eyes to the spectacular glow of Mulder's fish tank and shakes off the lingering, dusty images of Alan Ladd, Gary Cooper and apparently, Cowboy Mulder. She smiles and groans at her grumbling back as she sits up. The fish tank gives off a cozy glow, but it doesn't make the couch any more comfortable. Not enough to sleep on all night. She isn't quite sure how Mulder managed it all those years, but of course, he doesn't anymore. He got wise and semi-civilized and finally started sleeping in his bed again. She is quite sure it *is* cozy in there, and she smiles again despite the complaints of her back. She finds herself standing in his doorway, the dusty, scratchy blanket smelling faintly of him wrapped around her shoulders. She cocks her head this way and that, shuffling inch by inch into the room, watching him, admiring him. A lone foot peeks out from under his comforter and it twitches when she trails her finger down his instep. She smiles again. Or is she still? She sits at his hip and lets the blanket around her shoulders slip to the floor. The moon, full and bright outside Mulder's window, glows over his features. She marvels at how the moonlight enhances the definition in his arms, and shifting uncomfortably in her suit, wonders if his t-shirt is as soft as it looks. Her hand drifts out of her lap and lands lightly on his chest. Yes, it is soft, and his skin is warm underneath. Her eyes follow the path of her hand skimming back and forth over his chest, not quite touching him. She draws lazy ovals and eights around his pectorals. Each time he draws a breath, his chest and her hand meet in the middle. He sighs, and she shifts her gaze to his face where he watches her with sleepy amusement. The corner of his mouth curls in a smile and he closes his eyes. For a moment, she thinks he has gone back to sleep, but on another sigh, his eyes open and meet hers. "Hi," he says. Her hand stills and hovers over his chest. She releases a sigh of her own and allows her hand to rest there. It hurts nothing. "I didn't mean to wake you," she whispers. Mulder nods. She catches his glance each time she looks up from his chest. Even now, avoiding eye contact seems to be of the utmost importance. She is certain of that. But his chest is so warm and his t-shirt is so soft, and when he covers her hand with his, she sees her paths split and form their own worlds at their ends. She takes the one nearest her, lowers herself and rests her head on Mulder's chest. And it is warm and soft, just as it was before. Somewhat awkwardly, she draws her legs up onto the bed and presses against his side. She feels his other hand come to rest on her back, and he draws it back and forth, up and down in the curve of her lower back. She is uncomfortable, and she sits up to strip off her jacket. She hesitates only a moment before she pulls the comforter up over her and, hidden from the room, peels off her remaining clothes save her bra and panties. And like seeing the keys in the ignition just as the locked door closes, she instantly feels her near nakedness. She pulls the comforter up to her chin and darts her glance in his direction. "Sleep," she says. "I want to sleep." She closes her eyes and feels him shift next to her. When she turns to him, he has already stripped off his t-shirt. Scully looks up at him from her position on the bed. She is certain her eyes reflect her jumble of thoughts, even in the moonlight. "I just want to sleep," she says again. Mulder smiles at her and grasps her arms gently. He pulls her up so she is seated next to him, and the comforter falls around her waist. He carefully pulls his t-shirt over her head. "So do I," he says, smiling and smoothing stray strands of her hair. "Just sleep." Her discomfort melts into a sleepy smile. She slips her arms around him, tugs him closer, and their bodies meet in the middle. They lie doown together, and sleep takes them both. She awakens again that night to the sound of the tree outside tapping on the window, calling her attention to the brewing storm or maybe, just as simply, to the coming morning. It pulls her focus in the space between one tap and the next, and then, it is filed away as a memory and background noise. Her legs tangle with Mulder's as she lies tucked against his body. Her head on his shoulder, her arm curled around his chest, she tries to recall the last time she awoke feeling so at peace. And has she ever been so very aware of the paths laid out in front of her? She sees the paths before her, and she whispers to herself in the darkness. She takes the path closest to her, the one that only takes a step to get to. The one littered with signs that have beckoned to her before. Though she idly wonders if this is the right direction, her footing is sure and her resolve is firm. The choice is made. She smiles against the warm skin of his shoulder. "Mulder?" she whispers as the tree taps, taps on the window and then stops. She breathes his name and kneads at his skin, prodding him to join her in this new silence, on this new path. "Mulder, wake up." END AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know. Just in the nick of time with "all things" fic, huh? That's me. Scorching to the finish line dead last. :) Truth is, I wrote this right after "all things" aired, then dumped it for something else. I resurrected it because I needed to fiddle with a little MSR. I share my fiddling with you.