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  SLEEPING by CiCi Lean
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  She is not sleeping.

  Fox Mulder knew that. They'd told him as much when she had entered the 
  hospital, pale and still. It's happened at last, she is no longer conscious or 
  aware. Give up and cut your losses now, my friend, for she is no longer awake.

  And she isn't sleeping.

  But even so, even on that first dark night, Mulder decided to read to her. 
  Picking up anything within his reach, and giving her his voice, making sure 
  that some part of her would know that he was beside her, on that night and for 
  as long as it might take.

  Because he knew that she would eventually hear him.

  Because she isn't sleeping.

  So then, for the first two weeks, he'd read the newspapers to her. Short 
  pieces on foreign wars, local stories, and sometimes, long editorials about 
  the disintegration of public morals. Later, when that was done, he'd read 
  aloud from a new novel he'd always wanted to finish, but never had the time to 
  before. But now, after three long, silent months, he'd grown tired of 
  newspapers, run out of novels and was left with only ancient books, some of 
  them schoolbooks, that had lain on the back of his shelves, gathering dust for 
  years.

  So it was then, one morning, on the way to Scully's hospital bedside, he'd 
  picked one up and started to read. It was in Italian, and though he stumbled 
  on the words, he understood them well enough.

  "Per me si va ne la citta dolente."

  //Through me you enter the city of sorrows//

  Thus he'd begun and continued, first through the dark woods and into the ninth 
  circle, and even though he'd finally read through to Hell and back, there was 
  still no response.

  But yet, he continued to read.

  *Oh, you're reading to her?*

  Well, that does her no good, the cruelest of the nurses had told him. She 
  can't hear you, she can't feel you, she's dead, dead this world, at least. The 
  machine is what beats now, the rhythms that you see belong to it, not her. The 
  air that flows, comes through these tubes, these man-made things and you have 
  no control over them.

  You're wasting your time, she said.

  But, yet, he continued to read.

  Because I believe she can hear.

  I believe there are places, where not voices, but the rhythms of hearts are 
  heard and understood. That there are dark places, where she sees me, not the 
  outlines of my face or body, but where the contours of my soul are clearly 
  visible. It's in that place, where she is now, that she sees, and hears, and 
  feels, every breath of my soul, every movement of my words, and every touch of 
  my thoughts, and again, it's in that place, where she is peaceful and waiting.
  Waiting to hear. Waiting to feel.

  Because she is not sleeping.

  So I will continue to read.

  Because I want to believe.

  By the hundredth day, Fox Mulder still hadn't given up hope. He sat there, his 
  life slowly passing by, but he didn't care. And on that morning, the hundredth 
  sunrise, he held the great sonnets in his hands and their words made their 
  promise to him. That they would give him back anything that he may have lost, 
  any time passed, and any words unspoken.

  He opened the book and began.

  "Had I no eyes, but ears, " he started, but was forced to stop.

  Because a voice was answering him. Finishing the sentence he'd begun.
  "...my ears would love."

  Mulder didn't look up from the page, from the black letters that lay against 
  the white paper. His senses were finally playing tricks on him, but even they 
  wouldn't stop him from reading, reading to the woman who lay still, but not 
  sleeping, before him.

  "If I were deaf thy outward parts would move," he continued.

  "...each part in me that were but sensible."

  There it was again, that voice. He knew it, knew it very well, but he also 
  knew that the senses can play devilish tricks.

  Or, perhaps, it was the Devil playing tricks on his senses.

  But still he read. "Though neither eyes nor ears,"

  "...to hear, nor see" replied the voice.

  And now, a part of him wondered whether to look up, to see if the voice he'd 
  heard was the one he'd imagined in every dream he'd had for the past three 
  months, waking or sleeping. A part of him was afraid, wondering if he had lost 
  his mind at last, hearing voices that didn't exist. But then, what about my 
  voice? Does my voice exist for her? I believe she can hear me, but what about 
  her voice?

  So his eyes held to the book, but his heart began to raise its eyes.

  "Yet I should be in love..." he whispered, waiting
.
  "By touching thee." replied Scully, her voice strong and sweet besides him.
  When Mulder heard this, he looked up, and saw eyes that were open, clear and 
  beautiful before him. It was Scully, and he knew, even after all this time, 
  that she could hear, could see and could feel.

  Because she was no longer sleeping.

  And Fox Mulder slowly drew the red ribbon into the book and folded its pages 
  shut.

  **************
  fini
  cicilean@yahoo.com