Chapter 9

She was dreaming.

She knew she was dreaming, and that fact made the beauty around her only so much sweeter: it wasn't real, so she was free to enjoy it without care, without worry, without even the need to identify or categorize it by any logical faculty of her mind.

Scully walked through the garden, relishing everything, taking her time.

She watched the pink birds that looked just like flowers flutter their feathers, and the sight filled her with wonder and joy. She leaned down and ran her palm along the yellow sand, the pebbles of which glittered with blue. The pebbles slid along her skin, warm and soft. A breeze played with her hair. The sun sparkled through the fountain spray like stars in the daylight. Scully looked up the path.

The vacation house stood as before: wide, open, clean and inviting. Its veranda wrapped around under the still golden light. Her heart sped up. If it was the same dream, Mulder would be on that veranda—not the real Mulder, but a fictitious resurrection of Mulder who looked, smelled, and felt like he was real. Scully felt embarrassed by her eagerness, and the longing to feel those lips on her neck again, but—if it was just a dream…what was the harm?

She walked up the path, and up the cedar steps onto the veranda.

He stood by the corner, just as before, in a gray t-shirt and jeans, just as before. He looked at her and turned to circle the house. Scully followed.

Again, the back view opened out onto a still, sparkling lake.

Scully walked up to the railing where the blossoming vines twirled around the columns. He stepped up behind her.

"It's a beautiful lake, isn't it?" he whispered.

Her breathing quickened. She knew what would come next. The anticipation alone sent toe-curling pleasure though her.

His arm wrapped around her waist.

She didn't protest or question this time; she knew this was just a dream—it wasn't real. She only worried that she would miss even a moment, wanting to register and feel everything. She only worried it would be over too soon.

His hand lingered on her stomach, caressing it, pulling her back against his chest. It was so warm, so like his. His fingertips brushed back her hair off her neck.

Scully held still, breathing fast, her heart pumping, her body aching from the want—the want of those lips that were about to descend onto her skin.

"Scully," he whispered.

She bit her lip, not wanting to answer—not wanting to interrupt. His breath was close, his lips a breath away from her neck.

"Scully," he whispered again.

He was so close to her. Her body groaned, wanting so badly.

"Scully,"

She shook her head. "No, wait—don't say anything. Wait—"

"Scully!" Mulder shook her shoulder.

She sat up on his motel bed. "Damn it, Mul—" The curse flew out of her, and she bit her lip, forcing it down.

Mulder stared at her with wide concerned eyes. "Jesus, are you alright?"

She could feel the blush hot on her face.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. A weird, almost comical, guilt rushed through her: the realization that she had been… fooling around with him… without his knowledge. It was a ridiculous indiscretion to prosecute, but that didn't change the fact that she could barely meet his gaze.

"Scully?" he leaned toward her. "What happens to you exactly when you're dreaming with that token under your pillow?"

She cleared her throat, pressing her palms to her burning cheeks. Jesus, had she done something—moaned, or… said something? She glanced at him sideways, checking his expression. Mulder only looked worried—scared even.

"I have… lucid dreams, Mulder," she said carefully.

He frowned. "You know that you're dreaming and can control it?"

She shifted. "I can't control it, but I know that I'm dreaming the whole time. And I'm… aware of everything—almost more aware than I am when I'm awake."

He nodded, still frowning. "What are the dreams of?"

She bit her lip. "A garden," she said. "Just a—very beautiful garden."

He glanced at her pillow, still seeming unconvinced. "What about the procedure? The cost of the dreams?"

That memory, if nothing else, cooled the rush on her cheeks. She swallowed. "It's a short nightmare. A man in green scrubs cut a string out of my stomach."

"What?" Mulder leaned closer, looking over her face with that same scared worry. "Lenaghan's driver?"

"Well, no," she slumped, confused. "It's just a dream, Mulder. It's not actually him."

Again, he seemed unconvinced. "Scully, are you alright? Are you feeling alright? Medically-speaking, would you say your vitals are… all good?" His voice hurried, so concerned still.

"Yes," she frowned. She was feeling rejuvenated and rested just as before. If anything, she was just a little irritated that dream ended so quickly—before she'd had a chance to feel his—"Why do you ask?" she asked to drag her mind off the memory of his lips drawing closer.

"You…Scully, you fell asleep two hours ago. I looked over, saw you sleeping, breathing slow, and I figured you were just catching up on your rest." Mulder glanced over her again. "I was on the phone, with the Julliard retirees, and when I finally turned back to check up on you just now, you—you were panting like you had a fever, and you'd raised your wrists up." Mulder bit his lip. "Just like the women in the crime-scene photos."

A chill ran down her spine. "I did what?"

"Your wrists—you had turned them up and held them beside you."

She shook her head. "That's—Mulder, that's probably nothing. People move in their sleep all the time."

"Right," he nodded and glanced at her pillow again. "Maybe, for the time being, while we're piecing this thing together, maybe you shouldn't use that token anymore."

He moved toward her pillow, and she lunged to grab the coin before he did. It was on reflex—a reflex, she realized, that was not unlike that of an addict seeing their drug removed from their presence. She faltered, clutching the tin coin. Mulder stared at her, surprised by her defensive reaction.

It couldn't be that, she assured herself: it couldn't be that she couldn't let the thing go. She just wanted a little more time with it—just a little bit more time.

"I won't use it," she nodded.

"Okay," he said carefully, watching her closely, "So why don't you let me hang onto it, Scully?"

She'd already slipped the token into her front pocket. "Yeah," she said. "Later… Tell me about the phone calls. Did you find out more about Lenaghan?"

He narrowed his eyes, studying her, gaging her. She could almost feel him thinking. She bit her lip.

"Actually," Mulder pulled away, "I found out a few interesting facts."

A sigh of relief all but slipped out of her: he was going to drop the matter of her keeping the token.

Mulder didn't quite sound like he'd let it go, but he didn't press either.

"Between the reminiscing of several of Lenaghan's former professors, I put together quite a bio of his school years. They all mentioned Janet, too."

"His fiancé? Where is she now?"

Mulder studied the notes, scratching his chin. His expression was somber. "Janet Clemons was a girl Maurice Lenaghan grew up with in Illinois—their families lived a block from each other. Janet and Maurice were best friends throughout childhood; they dated throughout high-school, and they moved to New York together. They attended separate colleges; Janet studied Fine Art at Pratt Institute. At that point, though, they were already engaged."

Scully scooted closer, peering at Mulder's notes.

"All the faculty members said one identical thing: Janet and Maurice were inseparable. They were together any and every time they could be. They opted out of campus housing and shared an apartment they paid for with part-time jobs. She painted, and he played the piano—they were an artistic duo, both highly regarded by their faculties." He paused.

"And? Where is Janet Clemons now?"

"She was diagnosed with leukemia at the age of twenty-one—out of the blue; the girl had been healthy and active her whole life, and the diagnosis came down like a curtain call. She fainted in class one morning, and couldn't find strength to move when she woke up. They rushed her to the hospital, and upon blood analysis, found her disease quite progressed.

"She succumbed within a year, Scully," Mulder sighed. "Died in May, right before her graduation ceremony."

Scully winced, her throat lurching.

"Lenaghan," Mulder went on, his voice bleak, "attempted suicide immediately after the funeral. He swallowed a large amount of Oxycontin he'd palmed off a drug-dealer, and was found unconscious in his bathtub by his landlord on a coincidental fire-alarm inspection which saved his life. Lenaghan had his stomach pumped and was on detox for two days. His parents couldn't be called because they had both died in a driving accident three years before that, and no other relative was available, so it was actually Professor Boyd who went to collect him from the hospital."

Mulder glanced at Scully as she hung onto every word.

"Mr. Boyd told me that Lenaghan woke up blind. The doctors couldn't make head or tail of it—couldn't understand how that could be a result of his overdose. Lenaghan, himself, Boyd insisted, seemed unperturbed—like he knew he was going to wake up blind. He refused his teacher's offer to drive him home, and left instead with a friend."

"A friend? Which friend?"

Mulder tapped the pad of notes against his knee. "An older man, according to Mr. Boyd, with short black hair. A man wearing green scrubs."