Title:  The Best Type of Sleep(1/1)
Author:  Nikita
E-Mail: AmyAug06@aol.com
Rating:  PG
Category: Vignette, MSR
Spoilers:  None
Keywords:  None
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies
Archive: Go right ahead, just tell me where
Feedback:  I LIVE off of it!
Notes:  This has no ties to anything, just a little piece I came up with
while suffering from insomnia. It takes place at an over-crowded motel,
with Mulder and Scully forced to sleep in the same room. Enjoy!


I watch him sleep, so peaceful and pristine, his sculpted chest rising
and falling in perfect rhythm against the cotton sheets. I relish the thought of
lying here beside him, cuddled as close as I can without touching his
creamy-coca skin, marvelling at the way the silvery white moonbeams catch
on the fine bronze hairs that cover his toned arms.

It's hard not to revel in his beauty, the soft curve of his jaw, the way a
lock of his hair always falls recklessly across his forehead. He is a faultless
specimen of the human species, at least in my eyes.

I take this time, this moment of perfect tranquillity, to let my eyes roam
over his image. First to his hair, that exquisitely careless mop of silken
brown. God, if I were only to count the number of times I had to sit on my
hands to keep from running my fingers through it, that and brush away the
salty tears that stream all too often from those hazel orbs.

The eyes, that's what gets me every time. Those determined puppy-dog
eyes that crinkle just slightly in the corners when he flashes one of his rare,
beautiful smiles. And the soft, tender flesh of his cheeks. How it bruises
when struck but what chills it sends up my spine when my fingers come in
contact.


Something in his sleep startles him, and he turns restlessly next to me.
At first I gasp, afraid that his eyes will flutter open and catch me starring but
he only turns to face me, still as sound asleep as he can be.

Now my gaze turns towards his body, following the sinuous muscles
of his chest and along his arms and, heaven help me, his buttocks. How many
times have I prayed he would walk, just once, into work wearing a pair of his
form-fitting jeans! My eyes practically burn with even the slightest glance of
a visible curve of his body, blood rushing to my cheeks and causing violent
waves of heat to flush over my body.

I notice now that his foot has moved out from beneath the cover,
looking vulnerable and susceptible to any of the dangers that lurk beyond this
room. It is foolish, I know, a weak sentiment no matter what I might feel. But
there is a certain vulnerability to him now, a chaste naivetÈ, all of his fears
and anxieties exposed to whomever might be willing to search.


At last my eyes settle on his lips, the most handsome part of his
physique in my opinion. Such beautiful lips that spout such harsh words,
such a harsh reality. They mesmerise me sometimes, the way they move
when he speaks, the slight curve they get when he notices, the wonders that
they must be capable of, something my imagination can only begin to
conjure. As of yet, that is.

There is a change in the room, causing me to look up and into those
enigmatic hazel eyes. My muscles tense in nervousness, but my gaze doesn't
waver. Neither does his.

"Hi," I manage to say.

"Hi," he replies.

We continue to gaze into each other's eyes, neither speaking, but he
searching my face as if to say, I won't ask. I appreciate it, not planning to
intercede on his silent understanding, no matter how much I know the
curiosity is eating away at him."

"I dreamt of you," he says at last, offering no explanation of what it
may have been about. Instead he turns onto his back, closing his eyes
wistfully and giving me some clue to as to what it might have been about.

Somehow it surprises me and makes the longing grow all the more
strong. After all, he is who he is - my lust, my love, my all too strong reality.

The End, for now