Sweet Dreams
by Polly

Email:  polly122456@yahoo.com
Classification:  Post episode, Frohike POV
Rating:  PG-13 for a few bad words and thoughts
Spoilers:  Dreamland I and II

Disclaimer:  Not mine; all XF characters belong to 
1013 Productions

Notes:  Written for the After The Fact Dreamland II 
Challenge

Archive:  If you want it, it's yours
Feedback:  Welcome and appreciated

Summary:  The Case of the Mysteriously Appearing 
Waterbed


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I came awake with a jolt wondering who had stuffed 
cotton in my mouth and up my nose.  Then I started 
asking myself the important questions:  Exactly how 
much did I have to drink?  Why do I do this to myself 
when Byers and Langly go out of town?  How did I get 
home?  And how the hell did a canary get in here?

I pried one crusty eyelid open just enough to read 
the digital display on the clock beside the sofa. 
2:42 a.m.  Jesus.  I raised my head a bit and 
something exploded behind my eyes.  Bad idea.

But that damned canary wouldn't quit. I opened my 
eyes, drifting somewhere between awake and asleep, 
and felt a faint vibration under my cheek. The 
muddled recesses of my brain finally processed the 
fact that it was not a canary chirping in my ear but 
my cell phone, tucked away in the pocket of my 
leather vest that I was using as a pillow.  I fumbled 
for it in the darkness, and somehow managed to hit 
the talk button.

"Mmmm ... 'lo?"

"Get over here.  *Now*."  *click*

I pushed the end button and closed my eyes again.  It 
would be pretty easy to convince myself it was just a 
dream and slip back into blissful unconsciousness, 
but the niggling wouldn't stop.  Decision made, I 
rolled into a sitting position quickly before I lost 
my nerve. I clicked on the lamp and pushed the Caller 
ID button on the phone.

Even through the drunken haze I was pretty sure I 
recognized the voice; the phone number just confirmed 
it.  I know it almost as well as I know my own.  
Temples pounding and stomach rolling, I stood up and 
headed for the bathroom.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Forty-five minutes, three Tylenol, and one cold 
shower later I was in Alexandria, standing in front 
of Apartment 42.  I probably shouldn't have driven, 
but I reasoned there wouldn't be much traffic at this 
hour and the cold water and chilly night air had done 
their part to sober me up quite a bit.  It still 
bothered me more than I wanted to admit that I 
couldn't remember how I got home from the bar.  The 
little cantina where I go to drown my sorrows is only 
three blocks from our place. You'd have to be pretty 
wasted not to remember three blocks.

I rapped on the door and scrubbed at the stubble on 
my cheek.  I didn't go on these benders very often 
any more.  Maybe this memory loss was a wake up call 
that my bender days should be over.

The door swung open to reveal the source of my other 
unwelcome wake up call of the morning.  For some 
reason, he looked royally pissed.  Well, that made 
two of us.

"This damn well better be good, Mulder."

"Funny.  I was gonna say the exact same thing to 
you."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

He pulled the door all the way open with one hand and 
made a grand sweeping gesture with the other.  I 
stepped across the threshold and took a quick look 
around.  Even in the soft lamplight I could tell the 
apartment looked different somehow, and my stuffy 
nose detected a hint of Pine Sol hanging in the air.

"About time you hired a cleaning lady," I said, but 
there was no answer, just a scowl that nearly curled 
my toes.

I shook my head and was reminded that the Tylenol 
hadn't completely obliterated my hangover.  My 
patience had run out.  "Look, Mulder," I barked, "You 
woke me out of a sound stupor.  I've had too much 
tequila and too little sleep to play games tonight.  
What the hell do you want?"

His eyes were shooting daggers at me.  "I'll show you 
what I want."  He walked toward the door that opened 
up into what would normally be a bedroom and pushed 
it open, another sweep of his arm to beckon me 
through.  

To say this room looked different than the last time 
I'd seen it would be an understatement.  It used to 
be a not-very-organized - and that's being kind - 
repository for his files, his research, and his skin 
magazines - all Mulder's passions.  Now, to put it 
bluntly, it was a passion pit; every guy's vision of 
Seduction Central.

King size bed with mirrored canopy, leopard skin 
sheets and throw pillows.  New ultra-modern furniture 
and lamps that cast a soft glow around the room.  
Electric sex.  Big screen TV, new stereo with 
gigantic speakers on either side of the bed.  
Discriminating artwork.  Fresh flowers on the dresser 
and lots and lots of candles.  A luxurious white rug 
on the floor.  All that was missing was the 
fireplace.

"Holy Mother of God."  I sucked in a breath and 
walked around to the side of the bed, watched as the 
vibration sent gentle waves rippling from head to 
foot.  "Who's your new decorator?  Hugh Hefner?"

He stood near the door, arms folded across his chest, 
still glowering at me.  My head was throbbing, but I 
was determined to get to the bottom of this 
hostility.  "Don't think I'm unappreciative of this 
little preview of you new shagadelic pad, Agent 
Powers, but is there a point to all this?"

He started to speak, then bit his lip and nodded 
toward the bed, the glare even more deadly.  I stared 
at him for a moment, looked back at the bed, and then 
back at him.

"Ummm ... I'm flattered, Mulder.  Really.  But I 
don't swing that way."

That did it.

"Are you gonna stand there and pretend you don't know 
anything about this?"  He cocked his head and arched 
an eyebrow, but his voice was controlled.  No need to 
wake the neighbors.

"About what?"

"About what?" he repeated.  He made a wild gesture 
with both hands.  "About this ... this ... this ..."

"Coitus chamber?"

"A-ha!" He pointed at me and brought his hands to his 
hips.  "I knew it!"

"What, you think *I* did this?"

"You or one of the other two stooges."

I laughed like a demon.  "Trust me, Mulder.  If we 
had the kind of cake it took to put together a 
fornication station like this, we wouldn't waste it 
on you.  We'd put it somewhere it was likely to get a 
little action."

He folded his arms across his chest again and looked 
around the room.  "You guys didn't do this?"

I shook my head.  "Not guilty, I assure you."  While 
he mulled over my admission of innocence I climbed on 
the bed and stretched out.  Oh, man.  This was just 
the cure for my aching head.

"Well, what do you suppose happened to all my stuff?"

Only Mulder could receive the gift of a room like 
this and be thinking about his displaced minutiae.  
"Have you checked the closet?" I asked.

"No."  He took a tentative step and stopped, 
seemingly afraid to venture further into the room.  
But after a few moments, he gathered up his resolve, 
walked confidently to the closet, and pulled back the 
shutter-style doors.

Inside, boxes were stacked in an orderly fashion from 
floor to hanging rod, as well as on the shelf above, 
each container labeled with a list of its contents.  
He stood and stared, and I just laughed.  "What a 
lucky bastard you are, Mulder.  Your Fairy Godmother 
is not only an expert on love lairs, she's also a 
neat freak."

He shook his head and shoved his hands in his 
pockets, then turned to face me.  "If you didn't do 
this, who did?"

The rolling waves were very soothing.  "Maybe it's a 
gift from old Smokey or one of his cronies."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

I propped myself up on my elbows.  I'd meant it as a 
joke, but he was biting his lip again, his brow was 
furrowed, and that little vein beside his eye was 
pulsing just a bit.  "Yeah, that would be one of his 
typical strong-arm tactics - redecorating your 
bedroom.  What's his motivation?  He wants you better 
rested so you'll prove to be a more formidable 
adversary?  I don't think so."

"You're slipping, Frohike.  It would be just his 
style to put a surveillance camera in the mirror 
hoping for a sex scandal.  Lots of compromising 
photos."

I snorted.  "Of what?  You and your hand?"  He looked 
mortally wounded.  "On second thought, you could be 
right.  Maybe that is his plan - provide you with 
Fox's Den of Iniquity to get your mind off 
colonization and focused on headier pursuits, no pun 
intended."

He was uncharacteristically silent.  "Look, if you're 
really so worried about where it came from," I said, 
"why don't you ask the super?  He'd probably know 
about any deliveries."

"Can't," he replied.  "Water beds aren't permitted in 
this building.  It's in the lease.  If he knew about 
it, he wouldn't have allowed it to be delivered."

I stretched out on the bed again, adjusting the 
pillow under my head.  "Then I say don't look a gift 
horse in the mouth."

"That's what the Trojans said."

"Look, if it makes you feel any better, Byers and 
Langly will be home tomorrow."  I glanced at my 
watch.  "I mean later today.  We'll go over 
everything with a fine tooth comb.  If there's 
cameras or microphones in here, we'll find them."

He didn't seem convinced.  I needed to get his mind 
off his enemies bearing gifts before he brooded 
himself into a frenzy.  "In the meantime ..." I 
patted the empty spot beside me.  "C'mon, Mulder.  
Catch a wave, you'll be sittin' on top of the world.  
Cowabunga and all that jazz. At the very least, if 
there *is* a camera up there, we'll give Cancer Man a 
cheap thrill."

For the first time this evening, a hint of a smile.  
"No, that's okay.  You can sleep there, though.  I 
think you'd better stay here for what's left of the 
night.  You look like hell."

I studied my reflection in the mirror above.  "I 
*feel* like hell.  It's a set." I scraped my hand 
over my chin.  "I guess I got a little carried away 
tonight, trying to get the worm out of the bottle.  
Not to mention that I got rousted out of bed at 3 
a.m. by an obscene phone call."

He looked at the floor.  "Sorry.  I thought ... well, 
sorry."

"It's okay," I replied.  "I probably would have done 
the same if the shoe was on the other foot. C'mon, 
Mulder, seriously.  This bed is sweet.  You gotta 
give it a try."

"No thanks, I'll pass."  He crossed his arms tightly 
against his chest again, then quickly blurted it out.  
"I ... I get seasick."

I sat up and happily discovered my headache was 
nearly gone.  "A waterbed's not like a boat," I told 
him.  "The movement's more subtle, like your mama 
rockin' you to sleep in her arms.  You won't get 
sick."  I could see the wheels turning.  "And if you 
do, I promise to hold your hair while you puke."

My attempt at humor was lost, as he continued to 
stare blankly at the bed.  "Come on, Mulder.  Give it 
a try.  You might like it."  He considered for a 
moment longer, then raised an eyebrow.  "Don't worry, 
your virtue is safe with me."

He took one step closer to the bed and placed his 
palms flat on the mattress, testing the waters, so to 
speak.  He stayed that way for what seemed like an 
eternity, then tentatively lifted one knee to rest on 
the comforter, letting his body get used to the 
motion.  A few more minutes passed and he turned 
around and sat, then slowly stretched out his lanky 
frame until he was flat on his back. At first he 
looked terrified, his arms tense on each side, his 
fingers splayed out seeking some false sense of 
balance.  But gradually, he seemed to relax, so I 
settled back on the pillow on my side of the bed.

"But, Mulder, if something *should* happen, I'll 
still respect you in the morning."

At last a chuckle and he relaxed a little more.

"So how'd things go in Nevada?" I asked, suddenly 
remembering why Mulder had been out of town in the 
first place.

"Waste of my frequent flier miles," he said.  "We got 
stopped out on the highway a couple miles shy of 
Groom Lake.  Didn't even get close to Dreamland."

"Dreamland."  I laughed.  "You know, that would make 
a pretty good name for this bed."

"Oh, it needs a name now?"

"Of course."  I checked out my shit-eating grin in 
the mirror.  The mixture of Tylenol and alcohol must 
finally be kicking in.  "All this talk of sex 
scandals and Trojans has got me thinking.  You know 
how you should christen this worthy vessel, Mulder?  
With the very tasty Agent Scully."

"Yeah, right.  Just today, Scully was saying she'd 
like to settle down and live a normal life - you 
know, house in the suburbs, picket fence, kids, dog.  
If I invited her in here, I doubt that 'normal' would 
be the first word that popped into her head."

"That's just another excuse in your long line of 
excuses," I mused.  "Besides, just because she wants 
what most people consider a 'normal' existence 
doesn't mean that applies to all things.  In my 
experience, 'normal' in the bedroom is highly 
overrated.  Agent Scully might just welcome a walk on 
the wild side."

He frowned, but I forged ahead.  "You've put Scully 
up on this puritanical pedestal, but I'd bet her base 
desires aren't so different from yours."

"What would you know about Scully's base desires?"

"A lot more than you, that's for sure.  I wouldn't 
have wasted six years dicking around when it's been 
pretty obvious for a while now how the two of you 
feel about each other."  I didn't have to turn and 
face him - I could see his reactions in the mirror 
canopy.  "This might come as a shock to you, Mulder, 
but you're not immediately likeable.  However, you do 
have a knack for growing on people.  You grew on us, 
and trust me, you've grown on Scully.  She could have 
left you a long time ago, but she's still here.  You 
invite her over here to share this bed and I 
guarantee you that Mr. Webster will have to redefine 
'normal' in his dictionary."

He absently tugged at a loose thread on the 
comforter. "You make it sound so simple."

"It *is* simple.  You and Scully make it complicated.  
It doesn't have to be.  But one of you has to take 
the first step. You come clean with Scully about how 
you feel, I guarantee you'll be pleasantly surprised 
at her reaction."

He laced his fingers across his chest and took a deep 
breath.  "I did tell her that I loved her."  His 
voice was nearly a whisper.  "Let's just say the 
response was less than enthusiastic."

My mouth gaped open in spite of myself.  "When?  When 
did you tell her?"

"In Bermuda.  When I woke up in the hospital."  He 
sighed.  "I told her I loved her and she said 'Oh, 
brother'."

I let out a belly laugh that set the waterbed's waves 
rolling furiously.

He swallowed hard and looked as though he expected 
nausea to set in at any moment.  "It's not funny."

"The hell it isn't," I tried to stop laughing so the 
bed would stop rolling.  "Mulder, you were in and out 
of consciousness those first few hours in the 
hospital.  You told *all* of us that you loved us at 
least once.  You even tried to kiss Skinner on the 
forehead."

He sat up quickly.  "I did not!"

I smiled broadly and looked him in the eye.  "Oh, yes 
you did.  Anyway, given the circumstances, I think 
Scully's reaction was pretty understandable.  You try 
it again. Things'll be different."

"I don't know.  I think ..."

"That's the trouble with you, Mulder," I said, 
watching him in the mirror as he settled back on the 
bed.  "You think too much.  You gotta stop thinking 
and take action."

He considered my advice in silence, lacing his 
fingers over his chest again, crossing his legs at 
the ankles, and chewing on his bottom lip.  I took 
the lull in the conversation as an opportunity to 
consider the possibilities of the well-placed 
reflective surface above us.

"You know what I'm thinking, Mulder?" I asked, not 
waiting for an answer.  "I'm thinking that somebody's 
firm little ass would look mighty fine from this 
angle.  That is some rear view mirror up there."

"Don't talk about Scully that way, Frohike."

"Who says I was talkin' about Scully?"

He glanced over warily, I smiled sadistically, and we 
both looked up at our reflections.  "Take it from 
someone who's known you a long time, kiddo."  He 
realized he was about to get a lecture and closed his 
eyes. "Scully is the best thing that ever happened to 
you.  You know it, I know it, we all know it.  Tell 
her how you feel - and not when you're in some drug-
induced haze or when one or both of you is in the 
hospital recuperating from God-knows-what.  I'm not 
gonna stand on the sidelines forever, you know.  I've 
given you six years to make your move.  Your time is 
running out.  If you don't tell her soon, I'm gonna 
snatch her up and we'll use this bed as it was 
intended to be used.  You hear me, Mulder?  Mulder?  
Mulder!"

I raised up on one elbow to see if he was playing 
possum, but the steady rise and fall of his chest and 
the sound of a soft snore convinced me that the 
gentle waves had done their work.  His fingers slowly 
unknotted and his left hand dropped to his side, his 
right still rested on his chest.

"Seems like no matter who I take to bed, it always 
ends the same," I whispered.  I swung my legs around, 
careful to create as little motion as possible, 
waited for the turbulence to subside, then stood up.  
I was steadier on my feet than I was earlier, and my 
head was definitely clearer than when I first arrived 
at Mulder's door, but I'd already tempted fate once 
tonight and I wasn't going to do it again.  It was 
just dumb luck that I didn't get stopped on the way 
over here; no use risking a DUI when Mulder's couch 
had a vacancy.

He didn't stir as I loosened the knots on his Nikes 
and eased off his shoes and socks.  In this muted 
light he looked much younger than a man nearing 
middle age, all the world's worries that Mulder 
usually carried in his features smoothed away in 
slumber.  He looked peaceful, strong yet vulnerable.  
And I often imagined that he looked exactly like my 
own son would have looked if he'd had the chance to 
grow up.

I'd never told Mulder about the loss of my wife and 
son and I never would.  Hell, I'd never even told 
Byers and Langly.  If they'd known, they never would 
have left me alone today ... yesterday.  It happened 
a long time ago, and I'd buried the pain deep down, 
but once a year it floated to the surface.  Thank God 
for tequila - the only substance capable of washing 
it back to the depths where I wanted it to remain.

Mulder would probably be offended if he knew I 
sometimes think about him like a son, but he should 
be flattered.  If my own son had grown up to be half 
the man Mulder is, it would have made me extremely 
proud.  And I couldn't be prouder of Mulder if he 
were my own flesh and blood.

Except for his love life, of course. His love life 
needs serious work and I'm just the man to take on 
that challenge.  I don't know where this monstrosity 
came from, but something tells me if I can get the 
bed, Mulder, and Scully in the same place at the same 
time, things will take care of themselves.

I paused at the bedroom door for a moment and glanced 
back.  "Goodnight, kiddo," I whispered. "Sweet 
dreams."  I yawned, clicked off the light switch, and 
headed toward the living room where an empty leather 
sofa was calling my name.

THE END

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