From: pecan@hotmail.com   
      
   Title: Welcome to my nightmare   
      
   Author: Poormulder   
      
   Rated: Strong R for some bad words, strong imagery and   
   occasional violence.   
      
   Category: MT, Mulder Angst, Scully comfort.   
      
      
      
   Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and the other characters   
   belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen, and Fox Studios.   
   Mo money made; no copyright infringement intended.   
      
      
      
   Author's Note: Rising to Mulder's Refuge Challenge for   
   October, Welcome to my nightmare. Winner   
      
    Welcome to my nightmare   
      
      
      
   Mulder awoke with a start, his head in a vice.   
   He looked at his alarm clock with sleepy eyes.   
   Good Lord, it was only half past four. AM.  He   
   dragged a shaky hand through his hair, then over   
   his face.  He was soaked with sweat as he tried   
   to get control of his erratic breathing.  The   
   nightmare, which had awakened him, had been   
   particularly vivid; the images still like bursting   
   novas in his brain.  He knew that he wouldn't fall   
   asleep again before morning. Not after having revived   
   such atrocities in his mind.   
      
   The psychologist in him knew the reason for this   
   nightmare. Their last case had been particularly   
   painful and harrowing, a series of Child murders,   
   small girls.  They had been violated before dying   
   in terrible suffering.  He and Scully had ended up   
   capturing the murderer, but they had been both   
   deeply affected by this dreadful case. Scully   
   had chosen to take a few days of rest; she had   
   left to go trekking in the Rockies with her   
   brother Charlie.  Mulder had been upset that   
   she had not wished to speak with him about the   
   past few days, and they separated two days earlier,   
   hearts still too heavy to face such atrocities.   
   She'd wished for a real break from the FBI, the   
   murders and the rapes, with him even. Just for   
   a few days, she said. She'd even left her cell   
   phone at home.   
      
   Normally, he would have called in the middle of   
   the night, and she could have spoken to him with   
   her sweet voice, rational tones and calmed his   
   fears about his nightmare.  But he was alone today,   
   with his anguish, this feeling of abject loneliness,   
   which weighed down on him so much.   
      
   He'd had a fever the day before and his aching head   
   had make him suffer all day.  The migraine was so strong   
   that he had left the office before five, staggering under   
   the pain, which stabbed him behind the eyes like an evil   
   force. He returned strait home to his apartment, staggering   
   and dumping himself onto his old couch, before awaking a few   
   hours later, shivering and nauseous.  The remainder of the   
   evening had been spent between his bed and the bathroom,   
   where he'd sporadically vomited up the meager lunch he'd   
   managed to get down a few hours earlier.   
      
   He had ended up sinking into a heavy sleep, which left him   
   even more exhausted.  He rose with difficulty, with stiff   
   hesitant steps, and fetched himself a large glass of water   
   in the kitchen.  He glanced squinting towards the street   
   still plunged in the half-light.  In spite of his state,   
   he knew that the only means of finding peace was sporting   
   his trainers and running a few miles.  The endorphins   
   hopefully would enable him to clarify his spirit disturbed   
   by the nightmare and prevent him falling asleep again   
   a few hours. At least that was his plan. It was going   
   to be a long weekend.   
      
   The first minutes were painful, but his toned legs soon   
   fell into their usual rhythm, and he progressed easily   
   through the deserted and dark city.  His breath was   
   shorter than normal, sweat rolled down his face and   
   soaked in a vee on his tee shirt but he was relaxing   
   already. The still hot air of the summer night burned   
   his lungs, distilling oxygen and pumping it like caffeine   
   through his tired muscles.   
      
   He entered the park, which bordered the avenue and the   
   dew-wet grass, and the woodsy scent of predawn washed   
   over his senses in a beneficial way.  He slowed down   
   his pace but suddenly black flies appeared in front   
   of his glazed eyes and sweaty eyelids.  A powerful   
   dizzy spell made him fall to his knees and he could   
   hear nothing except the raging roar of blood crashing   
   against his eardrums. He breathed too quickly in an   
   attempt to drive away the giddiness, which pinned   
   him to the ground, but he felt himself loose his   
   battle for consciences, his jaw scraped the ground   
   with a dull thud and he went limp in the fresh grass.   
      
   *********   
      
   When he regained consciousness, the sun had made   
   its appearance, the heat blasting his face did   
   little to curb the wave of dizziness and pain   
   as he groaned and shifted his head. The world   
   in front of him was predominantly green. And damp.   
   He cautiously looked around, and then felt for and   
   glanced at his watch where the figures danced in   
   front of his eyes. Pulling himself up experimentally   
   slowly, he managed to rise up on wobbly legs.   
   A wave of nausea assailed him like summer storm.   
   Swallowing against the taste of bile in his mouth,   
   he made a new attempt to stand fully, forcing himself   
   to take some steps.  The park was still deserted at   
   this early hour, and he knew that he would be unlikely   
   to find a Good Samaritan to help him should he collapse   
   again.   
      
   Staggering out of the park and onto the still empty   
   street, he dug around in the pocket of his pants,   
   uncomfortably dampened by his snooze on the park   
   lawn and sought his wallet. His fingers came up   
   empty and he groaned.  Convinced he must have lost   
   it in the park, he retraced his course back where he   
   had regained consciousness, but there was no trace   
   of his wallet. He swore loudly, startling some early   
   morning birds pecking at the ground. Exhausted, he   
   called a taxi, and after some finagling and using   
   his FBI credentials to prove he was good for payment,   
   he gratefully found himself back at Hegel place.   
   He vanished into his building to get some money,   
   and then came back down to reimburse the taxi driver.   
      
   Back in his apartment, the bathroom's mirror mocked   
   him with the face of an exhausted man; bloodshot eyes   
   encircled by large gray rings, a stranger's face marked   
   by fever and fatigue.  His tee shirt was soaked with   
   sweat, and locks of hair stuck limply to his wet face.   
   What a stud.  He shook his head, stripped quickly and   
   slipped under the shower.  The tepid water released his   
   tired muscles and he remained there under the pounding   
   spray a long time, hoping that the shower and his   
   exhaustion from running would finally enable him to   
   find the rest he needed so much and fight off whatever   
   bug had laid him this low. The water quickly grew cold   
   and he left the shower still shivering.  It was still   
   only 7am in the morning.   
      
      
      
   **********   
      
      
   The rude intrusion of fist blows bashing repeatedly against   
   his front door finally had him emerging from his near   
   comatose sleep.  He roused quickly, groping for clothing   
   despite the shitty way he still felt, adrenaline momentarily   
   quashing the pain as he threw on his pants and ambled towards   
   the door. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, and   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)