Odd Habits III
By RocketMan


Disclaimer: see part one

NOTES::::::READ THIS PLEASE::::

Due to the overwhelming amount of email I have received for this series, I am 
continuing. So, this is for all of you who have replied and asked or threatened 
for me to keep it going. Now, it isn't ever going to resolve, I hope you realize 
this ...


==========
"Must be fate, Mulder. Root Beer."
-- Scully, Tooms
==========

Okay.

So it really wasn't the files scattered on the floor that wouldn't let me fall 
asleep.

It must be something else.

Maybe him.

Yeah, it's definitely him.

I'll just turn over on my side and clutch the pillow to me a bit tighter, pull 
the covers up a bit more and pretend it just doesn't matter.

Except that it's now his turn.

His turn.

And that *matters*.

There must be a whole managerie of buterflies in my stomach, flickering down my 
legs, across my skin . . . 

I shake loose the covers and shiver, pushing everything away from me.

Nothing touching, nothing touching.

I think I just whimpered. How pitiful, how utterly idiotic to whimper because I 
can feel his hands where the sheets should be.

This is giving me the willies.

I stand and creep to the door, breathing.

Breathing.

I run and jump back in bed.

I can't do this. I can't do this at all.

I squeeze my eyes so tight I can see the rainbows of chemical color on my 
eyelids, the bright shots of dazzling yellow and red and green that scream to 
the darkness "I am not afraid."

I hear a click and the snick of my door opening.

Oh, no, I'm afraid.

I slam my eyes tighter, then try to relax.

Relax . . . hell, that's not happening.

I breathe, breathe, slow it down, breathe . . . breathe . . . breathe.

I have to calm.

My heart stops fluttering like bird wings and I don't hear anything anymore.

I thought . . .

Nothing.

Must be my overactive imagination -- overactive since he stuck his hands in my 
bath and imagination since I first *met* him.

COLD!!!!

His hands.

Oh . . . my . . . gosh . . .

What does he think he's doing?

Trailing his hands down my side like that, fignernails lightly skimming my 
exposed skin, as if he did it every day . . .

Every day . . .

I shiver despite the intense control I have over myself not to display a 
reaction and I hope he hasn't felt it.

No such luck.

A nose, cold and soft, the scout for his lips, his breath, to wind their way 
along my arm.

So agonizingly slow . . .

"Mulder . . ." My voice comes out breathless, stilted.

No response.

Just a tongue, flickering like those butterflies. A grin against my skin.

I open my eyes.

His are closed.

What?

"Mulder?"

I touch his chest and he reels away, falling to the floor.

Watching him sprawl there in a moment of confusion, I simply stare, then attempt 
to get down and help him.

"Mulder?"

He's blinking and looking around like he's got no clue where he is.

"Mulder . . ."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Scully. I must have been sleepwalking. Did I bother you too 
much?"

I just look at him.

"Excuse me?"

He shuffles his feet, looking apologetic. "I know. It doesn't happen very often, 
but once I ended up in my kitchen, eating a sandwich when I woke up."

Well, eating is the right word, but I'm no sandwich . . .

"I'm sorry it woke you up. Go back to sleep, Scully."

He turns and makes his way out, guiding himself expertly in the dark.

I can't tell if he really was sleepwalking or not . . .

Crawling into bed, I glance around. Shadows along the wall from the trees 
outside look like witches' claws and pointy hats. The soft shadows from 
furniture hide demons and monsters.

I shiver.

There's no way I'm falling asleep, not with the real life monster outside on my 
couch.

He **licked** me.


===== END PART III=====