First person, Mulder's POV.

I'm tired, but it's a good tired. Not the
artificially induced exhaustion of the drugs I was
being fed at the hospital.

"Mulder, are you okay?" Scully asks gently. I watch
closely to make sure her lips are moving. The
telepathy is begining to fade somewhat, but several
times today she has already caught me answering
questions she hasn't yet asked. She doesn't
particularly  care for it.

Telepathy, I'm learning, can't be turned on and off
like a faucet. It's pretty much like the sense of
hearing. You have to make an effort to tune things
out. Sort of like working in a crowded office where
you have to concentrate on your own computer screen
and ignore the conversations eddying around you. Which I can do, pretty well, except that every once in a while Scully emits the psychic equivalent of a scream.

First, while I was in the hospital, it was "Are you
okay? Please be okay! Mulder, I'm here. We can fight
this, but I need you to help me."  Later, when I first began to recover, it was "You're okay! I'm so happy!" This was accompanied by that radiant smile I have to nearly die to get from her. The one I first saw all those years ago in an Alaskan hospital. Today, it's just been the same four words over and over at frequent intervals. Four words I didn't think I'd ever hear from and, techically speaking, still haven't. "I love you, Mulder." Except sometimes she varies it slightly by thinking, "I love you, Fox."

"I'm just tired, Scully."

She nods and we walk into her apartment. "Come on,
Mulder," she says, tugging gently on my hand. We enter the bedroom and she pulls down the covers. I strip down to my boxer-briefs and tumble gladly into bed.

"You know, Scully, sometime we're going to have to
try sharing this bedroom when neither of us is near
death," I quip.

"Mulder, shut up," she says vocally. But that's not
what her thoughts are saying. It's like trying to
watch TV and listen to the radio at the same time. Her voice tells me to shut up, but her mind answers, "Yes, Mulder. Sometime soon. But not tonight. We're both too tired. All I want to do is lie beside you, hold you, know that you're safe in my arms."

"Okay," I answer.

Scully strips down to a tank top and panties, then
climbs in beside me. "Go to sleep, Mulder," she says,
and this time there is no dissonance. Mentally, as
well as vocally, she expresses her desire for me to
rest.

I relax my breathing, calmed by her presence. I try
not to listen to her thoughts, I really do. It's an
invasion of privacy. But as we both grow sleepy, my
control slips and her thoughts come tumbling into my
mind.

"Good. He's asleep. Now I can snuggle up to him."
This thought is followed immediately by action. Scully moves closer, slides one arm up across my back and over my chest and slips one of her legs between both of mine. She buries her nose in the hair at the nape of my neck and nuzzles me with a contented sigh. I fight the urge to entwine my fingers with the ones now gently caressing my chest. If I do that, she'll know I'm still awake. Through the thin cotton of her top, I can feel her breasts pressing against my back. I'm enjoying this immensely, but Scully's right. We are too tired to take things any further.

Later, we share a dream. It's her dream; it
originates deep within her subconscious, but flows
effortlessly into my mind as we sleep. We're at the
beach with our children. A little girl about five or
six, who looks almost exactly like Samantha did at
that age. Thank you, Scully, I mentally murmur. Thank
you for dreaming us a daughter who looks like the
little sister I lost so long ago. Then - and I swear I can almost hear Scully laughing at this - we have a
little boy about two. He looks like nothing so much as miniature version of Bill Junior.

I wake up when Scully does. Her thoughts are
murmuring softly into my mind. "He looks younger when
he sleeps. More like the man I first met all those
years ago. I love you so much, Mulder. I wish you'd
wake up and kiss me."

I roll over so that we are facing each other, then
put one of my hands to her face. I kiss her lips
gently then say, "I love you so much, too, Scully."
 Suddenly, I find myself flat on my back and Scully
sitting up on the other side of the bed, clutching a
pillow, her blue eyes sparking flames. "WHAT did you
say?" she demands.

"I said I love you, Scully," I repeat, refusing to
back down.

"No you didn't! ," she hollers. "You said "I love you
so much, too, Scully!" You were ANSWERING me! Damn it, Mulder, you were reading my mind, weren't you? You promised you wouldn't!"

Sheesh! Guess I've just been caught redhanded. "I'm
not doing it on purpose, Scully. Sometimes it's hard
to control. Especially when we're both half-asleep."

"What else?" she demands.

"Huh?"

"What other thoughts of mine have you been
eavesdropping on?"

"Um, in the hospital, you kept telling me to get
well. To come out of the coma and help you fight. That you were there for me. Scully, I think you WANTED me to hear you! You were. . .it's like the telepathic equivalent of screaming."

She nods slowly. "I did want you to hear me. I was
saying the same things verbally."

"Afterwards, when I finally came out, you were. . .I
can't even explain it, Scully. You were too happy to
form coherent sentences. It's like there were stars
exploding inside your mind."

She nods again. "I was happy you were better. Very
happy."

Okay, good. Hold onto that thought, Scully. Remember,
you're *HAPPY* that I'm alive! You don't want to shoot me.

"What else?" she repeats, but her voice is softer
this time.

"Um, most of yesterday. . .honestly, Scully, I was
trying not to listen in on your thoughts. But it's
like trying not to eavesdrop on somebody else's
conversation in the bullpen. You can do it, but not
when the other person starts screaming."

"What was I quote screaming unquote?"

"Er, what you just said, I mean thought, a minute
ago. Except sometimes you were calling me Fox. I
didn't know you ever did that, Scully."

"They're *MY* thoughts, Mulder! I can call you
whatever I want!"

"I know. It's okay."

"Anything else?" she inquires.

"Okay, this one is really, REALLY not my fault,
Scully. Because I was asleep and had no control over
it. But, um, I got to share your dream last night."

"What dream?"

"You don't remember?"

"Not really. I mean sort of, vaguely. It was a happy
dream. Your memory's better than mine, though. What
was it about?"

"Scully, I'm not sure. . ."

"Mulder, if the dream was mine, I have a right to
know about it!"

"We were at the beach with the kids."

"What kids?"

I take a deep breath and hope she continues to
remember that she's happy I'm alive. "OUR kids,
Scully. A little girl who looked like Samantha and a
little boy who - and this is not a nice thing to do to me, Scully - a little boy who looks like Bill Junior!"

She laughs softly at that . "Well, I can't help the
images my subconscious comes up with, Mulder. She
looks like Samantha because I'm used to looking at
that picture you have in the office of you and
Samantha when you were kids. And he looks like Bill
because the only little boy I know really well is my
nephew Matthew."

Scully's not sitting up on the other side of the bed,
clutching a pillow for dear life anymore. During the
course of the conversation, she gradually loosened her hold on the pillow and eventually put it back in its place. Now she's lying down again, with one arm curved up over her head.

"Scully, you're doing it again," I inform her.

"Doing what, Mulder?" she asks. She's not mad
anymore. She's smiling at me.

"The psychic version of yelling at the top of your
lungs."

"Really?" she asks, lifting her eyebrow in a
skeptical manner. "What am I thinking?"

I scoot closer, so that I am leaning over her. Our
noses are almost touching as I gaze into her eyes.
"You're thinking," I whisper, "that you want," I move
my face lower, "me to do," I brush her lips lightly
with mine, "this."  As our lips meet there are stars
exploding in Scully's mind again. Or maybe they're in
my mind this time. Or maybe - probably - in both of
ours.