by Justin Glasser
While asleep, the human body maintains a core temperature slightly lower than the standard 98.6 in order to conserve fuel. A kind of mini-hibernation. Should environmental conditions complicate the maintenance of this temperature, the body has two options: to wake up, or to gravitate toward some external source of heat.
Apparently, Mulder has chosen the latter.
Time passes differently in the woods at night. Small things move all around us, pass by me close enough for me to touch, should I care to reach out. If I could without waking him. At times I think I could see the stars move in their relentless paths if my eyes could focus for long enough, but I don't try.
I focus instead on my partner who has injured himself (been injured) yet again. He resisted when I pulled him into my personal orbit, fearing, perhaps, what we both fear. He no longer resists. He's wrapped around me, head against my abdomen, arms curled around my waist, legs drawn up underneath my knees so that we are a puzzle, no, origami, two sheets of paper folded up into one figure. His weight on me is heavy and inexorable and comforting.
He didn't want to stay awake. I heard that in his voice, an undercurrent so small it might have been a trickle, a drip, or self-pity and exhaustion. It was all right.
I often take care of Mulder. It's probably in my job description by now, after the salary and the firearms requirement. What the description doesn't include is my love for this job, the clean rush of strength and competence I feel running my hand over the pillowed synthetic fiber of his jacket. I wanted to stay awake.
I wanted to stay awake so that he didn't have to, so that he could rest securely for once, knowing that whatever tried to get him tonight would have to go through me first. Mulder believes I am invincible.
I let him, because I know he is not.
I sit in the dark forest and watch as the moon comes out. Faint light glimmers on the leaves, on the edges of the brush, on my hand where it rests near his cheek. I imagine that I can hear owls passing silently overhead, planets careening through galaxies, insects trundling on branches far above me. I am not like them. I am held down, weighted, bound to the earth by an unbreakable tie that doesn't make me feel trapped, but anchored. Connected.
In his sleep, Mulder sighs, and his hand tightens on my jacket.
*****end*****