Dreams by Araxdelan (my attempted remedy for insomnia) The large bed is covered in crisp, cotton sheets. The room is filled with soft, soothing light. Not the harsh, nullifying orange of a streetlamp, but the soft, pale light of a new moon. The room is cheerfully messy, with clothes strewn about the floor, and open books lying face down, saving places. The occupants of the bed are ruffled, oblivious in sleep. As the spring winds defy forecast, and bring in surprisingly warm air, they kick the sheets off, the fabric tangling around their bare legs. Two mounds of hair lie next to each other; close enough to intermingle at places. One dark brown; almost black. The other light, golden; a chestnut mane. Krycek rests behind Mulder, his arm pulling the other man nearer, even in sleep. Mulder accepts the embrace, his unconscience encouraging the gesture. He presses closer into the chest behind him. Gently holds the arm around his neck. In these moments, the men have no pain; no memories. The moment is pure in it's innocence. Precious sleep, shared, and a loving that words will always fail to express. End