Don't Want to Close my Eyes

Rose G

All characters the property of Chris Carter, 10-13 productions.

One-shot, Mulder and Skinner talking, no real date.

'Are you going to wake him up, Scully?'

Special Agent Scully turned across to face Assistant Director Skinner and shook her head. 'Let him sleep 'til we get home.'

'It's lunchtime, though. He won't have eaten.'

Scully smiled down at the man sleeping beside her, taking up all four of the seats that she'd booked for him. His head was pillowed against her right side, think hair tickling her through her blouse. 'You haven't travelled with Mulder before, have you?'

'No, thank God. Does he always run that late?' Ten minutes before the plane left, Mulder had been trying to find his luggage.

She nodded. 'He isn't the easiest to travel with, is he? He gets travel sick, so he doesn't eat on planes. Anyway, he needs the sleep.'

Skinner regarded the pair silently for a while. 'You know him well, don't you?'

'Not that well, sir. I'm not sleeping with him or anything. I just care for him, I guess.'

Skinner agreed with her; then finished his meal in silence. Being stuck in a small plane with Mulder and Scully for hours, after the political wrangling involved in getting them out of Canada wasn't his idea of a good time. Mulder though, when he was asleep and not baiting Skinner or trying to get himself killed, was an agreeable companion. Scully's insights into her partner's character were eye-opening, as well. It wasn't that Skinner disliked dealing with Mulder or even disliked the man; it was, he knew, that Mulder frightened him because he saw so much of himself reflected in Mulder's actions.

He broke the silence half an hour later. 'Does he always sleep on planes?'

'Anytime when he's travelling for a long time. He doesn't sleep well at home, or when he's on his own. When we're together or some-one's with him – it's different. He feels safe so he sleeps.'

'Your partner is a very complicated man, isn't he?'

Scully didn't answer immediately; she eased Mulder's jacket off, as sweat was forming on his face. 'He is. He's so brave, but he has nightmares. He can look at almost anything without getting ill but he gets sick from travelling. Once, he got a cold and I had to go and look after him at home, but he's come into work with bullet wounds. So much to him.'

Skinner hadn't listened to the rest of the list. 'Is that why he can't sleep? Nightmares?'

'I don't know.' Scully was annoyed; she hadn't meant to mention this. 'He wakes up screaming sometimes, and it's like he doesn't even recognise me if I'm there. It's as if all the fear that he doesn't admit to during the day gets to him in the night or something.'

I know. Oh, God, Mulder, you as well. I never saw it in you. Why couldn't I see it? Fox…I'm so sorry. He knew that the colour drained out of his face; thoughts of his anger at not seeing Mulder's problems were being replaced by the horrors of his own mind – the pictures of Vietnam. Dead men, his own victims, his friends dying, a bullet slamming into my side. No breath, everything black and shaking. And that light, a light beyond everything where it should have been dark. Scully's touch on his arm made him jump.

'Sir? Are you alright, Sir?'

'What? Oh, yes.' He rubbed at his eyes. 'I'm fine.'

Scully looked at him before he could turn away; looked into the eyes of a man haunted by his past. She understood that he shared something with Mulder – knowledge, far too intimate, of death and grief. 'I see.'

Silence descended again, only broken by the rasp of Mulder's breathing. In sleep, he looked so innocent and weak that Skinner longed to protect him as he had failed to do for his squad.

Mulder was dreaming. Not of a place, or a time, but shadows and guns and men with their faces wreathed in smoke. Alien corpses, rotting globs of semi-liquid flesh clinging to him in a stifling boxcar. A man with blood and bile trickling down his throat, boys calling lightening, 'Watch your back, Mr. Mulder.' Men falling and dying as his actions shook Washington, Langley and the others weeping for Thinker, Deep Throat buying Mulder's life with his.

The images were clearer now – too clear. Aliens again, Sammy and Scully, loosing his friends. A cry escaped him, choking.

Scully's face filled with concern; she shook his shoulder gently. 'Mulder. Hey, Fox, wake up.'

Skinner looked disbelieving. 'You just killed him Fox.'

She nodded, then shook Mulder again, wincing as he called out Samantha's name in the despairing tones of a young boy. 'I hate seeing him like this when he's asleep. It isn't fair.'

Mulder jerked awake suddenly, sitting bolt upright. His dark eyes locked with Scully's, then flicked across to Skinner. 'Sorry, sir.' The rapid thud of his heart was almost audible.

Skinner's throat was dry; he run the words over again and again in his mind, unable to speak them. Sympathy? Mulder would reject that as much as he had once done. Soothing? That would only embarrass him more. Understanding? That would only be possible if he betrayed himself, mentioned the nightmares that had dogged him since he had gone to war.

As Skinner sat and agonised, Scully smiled reassuringly at her partner, touched his arm lightly. Mulder inclined his head to hers, to be met with the gentle contact of a hand against his cheek. 'Alright now, Mulder?'

'Thanks…Dana.' Then he pulled back slightly, and as far as Skinner could see, the incident need never have taken place. Except…How could I forget him crying out in his sleep, the one place where he should be safe? I thought he was so strong – he's as bad as me. Bullets and comrades, aliens and monsters – what's the difference when you're afraid?

Later that evening, once Scully had actually began to sort out the paperwork resulting from her partner's latest jaunt through federal boundaries, and Skinner had managed to calm down most of the people involved, he called Mulder up to his office.

'Sit down, Agent Mulder.'

The younger man sighed as he did so, although Skinner could see no sign of tiredness on his face. 'Thank you, sir.' None in his voice, either.

Skinner nodded to him, then rose and stepped around behind his chair, grasping the back of it as though it could protect him. As though he grasped a bayonet…He'd killed a man with a bayonet, run it through his heart and seen blood leap in time to a beat that was dying. He inhaled sharply.

'What did you want to see me for? I've already told you about that case.'

'It wasn't that.'

'Mulder narrowed his eyes and squinted at his boss. 'What is it, then?'

'What happened on the plane on the way home. The nightmares.'

'With respect, sir, that is none…'

Skinner stepped out from behind the chair, perched on the edge of the desk. 'So, what are yours like? All the same or changing? Do you know when you're going to have one, or do they just happen? How long can you remember them for?'

Mulder felt sweat springing on his brow. 'How do you know? You know what it's like?' The sweat was in his eyes now.

'I don't have to know what it's like. I can see you – I know.' Skinner pulled a trembling hand over his face. 'But – but I told you once. I went out to Vietnam – I killed men; I saw men die. I died myself for a time. Killing ever leave you, does it?'

Their eyes met, challenging, but it was Mulder who ducked out first. 'It isn't the killing – I can kill. It's the being scared of what's round the corner. It's the fear, sir.' His voice was shaky, dangerously near to tears.

Skinner stood up again, restless and uncomfortable. He wanted to pace, knew it would distract Mulder from his tale. What he was hearing was almost the opposite of his own story, something so alien to Skinner that he struggled to understand it. Being able to kill without revulsion was something he'd encountered only in his nightmares – and it was never on his part. 'How much fear, Mulder?'

'Fear is fear. It's too much…Too much. How can you quantify it?'

'Stop skirting the issue, please, Fox. If you've got a problem, there are people out there who can help you – if you talk to them.'

Mulder's voice rose. 'Why haven't you been to see them, then?'

'Because I'm not ill.'

'And I am?' Mulder sprang to his feet, raised one hand towards Skinner. 'Why am I ill? Because I can't sleep? Well, thousands of people have nightmares, and we don't all go running off to counsellors.' He couldn't help it; Skinner's invasion into his private life had put his hackles up, touched areas that were too sore to be touched. His fears, his griefs, were just that – his.'

Skinner seemed to realise that; he raised both hands pleadingly and stepped backwards. 'Hey, okay, Mulder. I didn't mean that you were ill.'

'Good, because there's nothing wrong with me. Some people worry about getting murdered or getting knocked down – I worry about things that aren't here or don't exist.'

'They shouldn't worry you.' Skinner couldn't understand being afraid of things he'd never seen, yet his heart went out to Mulder.

'I'm only human. And all normal humans have to be afraid of something, just to keep them safe. Next time you're in a place where it's be or be killed, you won't hesitate to kill because you know yourself what it's like to die. And next time I don't quite know what's there, I'll be safe because I'll get out.'

Mulder was sharp enough to realise that Skinner was trying to help, lucid enough to know that his answers were directed by revulsion and dread. 'I'll get out now.' He walked towards the door and was nearly outside when Skinner's parting shot reached him.

'You won't get out. The next time you fall asleep, they'll be waiting. And you'll be alone. I offered you a chance and you don't want to talk about it. I wish you well tonight.' And me, because I know what he'll be going though.

Mulder kept his face impassive, managed to conceal the hurt from that last too accurate jibe as he jogged out to his car and drove home. He craved – physically needed – the comfort of his home, his room.

Too afraid to let his eyes close, he drunk himself to sleep that night.

Skinner, hurt and afraid, did the same.