Night Camp

Title: Night Camp
Author: J.S. Michel ([email protected])
Web: www.geocities.com/js_michel
Category: S
Spoilers: season 2
Date: 28 Apr 1995 07:03:45 -0400

This story was published in "Property of the FBI" Volume 4,
Pseudonym Press, May 1995.  Reprinted here with permission.

Characters property of Chris Carter and TenThirteen Productions, 
and used without permission.  No infringement intended.  
Feedback to: [email protected]

-----------------------------------------------------------------

                    *** Night Camp ***

          Dana crawled through the opening and plopped down onto 
her sleeping bag.  Too tired to remove her boots, she let her 
feet hang out of the open tent flap while she tried to regain the 
energy to undress.  

          As she lay motionless she could hear the sounds of her 
partner shuffling around next door.  In typical Fox Mulder 
behavior he'd conscientiously packed two tents, most likely 
thinking it proper to replicate their usual motel arrangement.  
As a camping setup the separate tents struck Dana as amusingly 
formal; it wasn't as if they'd never shared sleeping 
accommodations in a pinch...  Still, she knew he'd intended it as 
a gesture of respect and so she'd resisted the temptation to 
comment on it; teasing him about it might somehow embarrass him, 
she suspected.

          Of course, still in typical Fox Mulder behavior, he'd 
gone and pitched his tent practically on top of hers, probably 
worried that something would crawl out of the woods and grab her 
during the night. His protectiveness was touching but misguided; 
given Mulder's track record, if anybody needed protection it 
would likely be him.  

          "Better zip up, Scully, or the mosquitoes'll have a 
field day in your tent tonight," he called casually through the 
thin nylon barrier.

          Dana groaned and forced herself up.  How did he know 
her tent flap was open? she wondered.  But he was right, she had 
better close up.  She removed her boots and hurriedly zipped the 
tent flap shut, hoping she'd gotten to it in time.  She quickly 
changed from jeans to sweatpants and crawled gratefully into her 
sleeping bag, then reached to turn off the lantern by her head.

          "G'night, Mulder," she called out softly.  A faint glow 
through the blue nylon wall told her his light was still on.  

          "Night, Scully.  Sleep well."

               *              *              *              

          Dana woke to darkness and the light sound of rain.  
With relief she recalled that they'd stored all their food and 
gear inside the Jeep.  

          A glance confirmed her suspicion that Mulder hadn't 
gone to bed yet.  She snuggled back down into the warmth of the 
sleeping bag.  Doesn't that man ever give it a rest? she wondered 
as she felt herself drifting back to sleep.

          The sound of the droplets spattering on the tent was a 
soothing one.  She'd always loved this feeling, when camping in 
the rain:  warm and dry and comfortably safe.  Conscious of 
nature's potential, but not ruled by it. 

               *              *              *              

          Dana felt a drop land on her cheek.  Her face felt wet.  
Her head felt cold and wet, and a hazy dream about a waterfall 
began to fade from memory.  She sleepily poked her hand out of 
the sleeping bag to wipe away the wetness, then woke with a start 
as she realized the exterior of the sleeping bag was also wet.  
She squirmed out of the bag and reached for the lantern, fumbling 
in the dark for a few seconds before she managed to turn it on.

          Water was seeping in through the sloped nylon ceiling, 
dripping from the seams and running in rivulets down the sides of 
the walls.  Her sleeping bag was glistening in the lamplight, 
though apparently its water repellency was preventing the 
moisture from seeping through.  She noticed that small pools of 
water were beginning to accumulate on the floor of the tent.

          Moving quickly, she pulled on her boots -- ugh, they 
also were wet -- and began rolling up the soggy sleeping bag as 
best she could.

          "Mulder," she called out as she gathered her things and 
stuffed them into her knapsack.  She didn't want to startle him, 
but had to raise her voice considerably over the sound of the 
pouring rain.

          "Scully?" His answer came so quickly he must've still 
been awake, she realized.  She could hear the concern in his 
voice.

          "It's okay, Mulder, stay there," she called, hastily 
reassuring him.  "My tent is leaking.  I'm going to bring my 
stuff over before it gets soaked."

          While she spoke she heard the unzipping of his tent 
flap,  and the next thing she knew he was tugging at the zipper 
of her own tent.  She heard him fumble with the flap for a long 
time as she hurriedly collected her things.  Finally he worked 
the zipper free and poked his head in, and she could see by his 
hair that he was already drenched.  

          "Whoah, did you call the plumber?"  Water dripped down 
from his hair into his eyes as he assessed the damage.

          "Mulder --" she frowned, then abruptly changed her mind 
and shoved the roughly bundled sleeping bag at him.  "Here, take 
this," she ordered.  "I'll be there in a second."  

          She could scold him later for coming out in the rain 
and getting himself wet as well.  Arguing about it now would only 
delay things and soak him further.

          Mulder's head disappeared from the opening, as did her 
sleeping bag.  Dana jammed the last remaining items into her 
knapsack, grabbed the lantern and followed him out into the 
downpour.

          Within seconds she was scrambling into his tent.  She 
set down her pack and the lantern, then began removing her boots 
to avoid tracking mud.  Mulder was already closing up the tent 
flaps and she shifted to get out of his way.  He finished zipping 
down the opening and sat back, looking at her with a grin.  They 
were both soaked.  Dana noticed now that he hadn't bothered to 
put on his boots, that he'd run out in his socks.

          She looked around the tent, at the reports strewn 
everywhere.  He'd obviously still been up reviewing the case.  
They'd been here for three days now, questionning campers about a 
man who'd gone missing after strange lights had been reported 
over the lake.  They'd come up with next to nothing, and she knew 
Mulder was frustrated at the thought of leaving without learning 
anything at all.

          "Sorry 'bout the mess; it's the maid's day off."  He 
crawled around to collect the scattered papers, dripping water 
onto them as he did so.  He stacked them into the far corner of 
the tent and began rummaging through his duffel bag, producing 
two towels; he tossed one to her.  She caught it gratefully and 
began drying off her face and hair as best she could.  Mulder 
followed suit.  She could see now that he was considerably more 
drenched than she was; he had stood outside her tent in the 
downpour for close to a minute while working the flap open.

          Now was the time for the lecture, Dana decided.

          "Mulder, why in the world did you come out?  Look at 
yourself, you're soaking."  

          He didn't seem to hear her.  For several moments he 
continued rubbing his head vigorously with the towel, effectively 
shielding himself from her reproach.  Finally he peered out from 
under the towel with a sheepish shrug; he didn't say anything, 
and it occurred to her that he probably couldn't think of a 
sensible answer.

          She sighed.  He sniffed and draped the towel around his 
neck, using a corner to wipe rainwater from his eyes.  His 
sweatshirt was soaked; his jeans looked equally drenched and the 
left leg was muddy -- as if he'd slipped and fallen, which wasn't 
unlikely considering Mulder; his damp hair was a mess from the 
towelling he'd subjected it to; his once-white gym socks were 
covered with mud.  No wonder he was always getting hurt, the way 
he jumped into things without thinking.

          Still, part of her recognized that he had rushed over 
out of concern for her.  He was worried about you, Dana.  Don't 
give him a hard time.

          "You could've at least put on your boots, Mulder." she 
chided more gently.  "You --" she paused, shaking her head.  
"Look at your socks, you're tracking mud everywhere."  

          He looked down at his mud-caked socks, as if noticing 
them for the first time, then reached wordlessly to pull them 
off.  He rolled the offending items into wet, muddy wads before 
tossing them into the corner where the boots were.

          "Better?"  He sniffed again; then he rubbed the back of 
his head with the edge of the towel and glanced up good-
naturedly, giving her that disarming look she knew so well.  
Suddenly she was struggling not to smile.

          How does he do that? she wondered.  She looked away 
from those hazel eyes and changed the subject.  "Well, looks like 
we're reduced to one tent, at least for tonight." 

          Mulder shifted to his knees, his head brushing the low 
ceiling of the tent.

          "Well, I can sleep in the Jeep," he began.  "You stay 
here."

          For a moment she thought he was kidding, but then she 
saw him reaching for his boots.

          She kept her tone neutral, though the realization that 
he was serious was almost disturbing.  "Mulder, what are you 
talking about?  You're not going to spend the night in the Jeep."

          "No, this is my fault.  I rented the gear.  I should've 
checked the tents before we left."  He began putting on his 
boots.  "I'll be okay.  I'm not all that tired anyways, I'll 
probably do some more reading."

          This was crazy.  Suddenly Dana was overwhelmingly 
relieved that it was her tent that had leaked and not Mulder's.  
She could see now that if the reverse had happened, he probably 
would've quietly packed up his stuff and gone to spend the night 
in the Jeep, and she wouldn't have known a thing about it until 
morning.

          "Mulder..."  It was almost funny.  Almost.  "The Jeep 
is packed with gear, and you're not going to be able to get 
comfortable on that front seat.  Besides, look at you.  You're -- 
you're soaked, and even if you change now, it's pouring out 
there...  You'll get wet again just *getting* to the Jeep from 
here."  

          "It's okay, Scully.  I'll change in the Jeep, there's 
some dry stuff there."  He was lacing up his boots.  He didn't 
even have any socks on, she remembered.  He glanced up at her, 
nodding reassuringly, then looked down to fiddle with a knot in 
one of the laces.

          She scanned his expression, trying to figure out what 
was going through his mind.  What was this about?  His stubborn 
overprotectiveness?  His way of taking the blame for a stupid 
defective tent?  Old-fashioned chivalry?  Or did he actually 
think, after everything they'd been through together, that she'd 
be uncomfortable or embarrassed to share a tent with him?  

          She had no idea, and it bothered her almost to the 
point of anger.  Sometimes Mulder seemed so familiar to her she 
could predict not only his words but even his expression, his 
gestures, the intonation of his voice.  Then, out of the blue, he 
would do something so unexpected she couldn't even begin to guess 
what he was thinking.  

          One thing she was sure he knew, however, was that there 
was no way Dana Scully could lounge about the relative luxury of 
a tent while her partner spent the night in a cramped Jeep 
fighting for leg room with bags of food and a Coleman stove.  

          "Mulder," she began in the most reasonable tone she 
could muster, "this is a three-person tent.  You're *not* 
sleeping in the Jeep."  She paused briefly.  He was still 
struggling with the knot in his lace.  

          "I wouldn't even let Frohike spend the night in that 
Jeep," she added in a lighter tone.  She was glad to see him 
smile at that, though he didn't look up from his boot.  

          "Besides, Mulder," she tried again, "I've *seen* you in 
your underwear before, and somehow I managed to survive the 
experience."

          He didn't stop tugging at the lace, but the change in 
his expression told her that he was coming to grips with... with 
whatever it was that had been concerning him.  

          Finally he looked up, a twinkle in his eye, and Dana 
hardly had to be psychic to guess what he was thinking.  She 
supressed an embarrassed smile at the memory of her dramatic 
entrance into his Oregon motel room, a lifetime ago it seemed, 
when *he'd* seen *her* in her underwear.

          "Come on, let's change into something dry," she said, 
turning away from him and opening her backpack.  There was a 
brief pause; then she heard him removing his boots.

          With a sigh of relief she pulled a pair of track pants 
and a sweatshirt from her bag.  God, he could be so stubborn 
sometimes...

          She turned her back to him and began pulling off her 
wet sweatshirt.  No reason to be bashful, not with Mulder, and 
especially not after the lecture she'd just given him.  And 
besides, though it hardly mattered, she knew Mulder well enough 
to guess that he had discreetly turned away as soon as he'd seen 
her begin to undress.

          There was the unmistakable sound of a Levi's zipper and 
a general shuffling behind her: apparently he was undressing as 
well.  Dana quickly finished changing but didn't turn around; his 
shuffling noises hadn't yet subsided, and she busied herself by 
checking her laptop to ensure it hadn't gotten wet.

          Mulder grunted behind her, and she resisted the urge to 
sneak a peek.

          "You okay, Mulder?" 

          "Yeah, I'm -- unh -- fine."  He sounded out of breath.  
"Just -- just give me a minute."  There was a strange scrambling 
sound.

          "You sure?"  No answer, just another grunt and more 
scrambling.  What in the world was he doing?  She waited, but the 
odd-sounding commotion continued.  Finally curiosity got the best 
of her and she glanced over her shoulder.  

          Her eyebrows shot up in amusement.

          He was lying on his sleeping bag in his T-shirt and 
shorts, wriggling in a hurried attempt to wrestle off his soppy 
jeans.  He'd gotten them halfway to his knees, but now the wet 
material simply refused to cooperate and he struggled in a 
frustrated effort to remove them.

          He stopped and looked up, suddenly aware that she was 
watching him, and Dana saw a weak, embarrassed grin replace the 
look of frustration.  He clumsily tugged at the waterlogged 
jeans, to no avail.

          "They're... stuck," he explained pathetically.

          She had to bite the inside of her cheek in an effort 
not to laugh.

          "Talk about a Kodak moment," she commented, struggling 
to keep control of her voice.  She saw him cringe at her remark; 
then he tugged again in frustration, trying to force the wet 
jeans off.  She could almost swear he was actually blushing, 
something she'd rarely seen him do.

          Mulder flopped around for a moment or two longer, then 
lay back with an exhausted sigh, suddenly beyond caring, the 
jeans still stuck just above his knees.  He brought his hands up 
over his face and through his already mussed-up hair.

          "I give up," he mumbled weakly, pressing his palms to 
his eyes.  "Could you -- could you just grab the bottom and 
pull?"  

          Dana tilted her head in amusement, watching him as she 
considered his request.  After a few seconds he peeked out behind  
his hands to see what was keeping her.

          "Oh come on, Scully, I'm stuck," he pleaded when he saw 
her expression.  

          He was still blushing, and she could tell by his eyes 
that he was genuinely embarrassed at the absurdity of it all.  
She crawled over to him and grabbed a fistful of wet pant leg in 
each hand.  

          "It's a good thing you didn't try to change in the 
Jeep, Mulder.  You probably would've impaled yourself on the gear 
shift."

          "Yeah well, at least I would've perished unseen with my 
dignity intact," he grumbled as she began to tug at the soppy 
jeans.  

          The jeans finally came free after a few minutes of 
laborious struggle.  Mulder got to his knees as Dana handed him 
the tangled bundle of denim.  She saw him trying to work up an 
appropriate level of indignation, and she desperately pursed her 
lips to keep from laughing.

          "Thanks," he managed grumpily, avoiding her amused 
gaze, though she could see the laughter in his eyes.  He crawled 
over to his duffel bag and pulled out a dry pair of sweatpants, 
his lower lip extended in a slight pout.  

          Dana silently watched him pull on the sweatpants, aware 
that any attempt to speak might risk a burst of laughter.  His 
feigned expression of humiliation alone was dangerously close to 
setting her off.

          There was nobody else in the world who could affect her 
quite like Mulder could.  For the sake of her pride, as well as 
her sanity, she rarely reacted to his distinct brand of humor; 
yet for all of her outward aloofness she enjoyed it immensely.  
These days she frequently found herself missing his lighter side, 
missing the carefree Fox Mulder she'd seen so much more of when 
they'd first been assigned together.  Recently he'd had very 
little reason to be lighthearted.

          God, he can be so much fun when he wants to, she 
reflected fondly.  I wonder if he realizes how much fun he is to 
be around?

          He probably didn't.  He was always so hard on himself.

          She watched him distractedly as he stripped off his T-
shirt and rummaged through the duffel bag.  His back was lean and 
fit, a swimmer's build, the pale skin slightly goosebumped in the 
cool night air.

          He turned his head and caught her eye, his pout turning 
into a faint grin; she met his gaze for an instant then looked 
away, busying herself with the damp sleeping bag.  Time for 
sleep, Dana. 

          She unrolled her bag next to Mulder's and crawled in, 
noting with relief that it was dry inside.  

          "G'night, Mulder."  He had donned a grey jersey and a 
faded blue work shirt, and was draping his soaked jeans over the 
duffel bag to dry.  Dana closed her eyes, snuggling into her 
sleeping bag.

          "Night, Scully.  Sorry about your tent," he apologized.  
All pretense at grumpiness was gone from his tone.

          "I'd say it was well worth it," she mumbled innocently, 
eyes closed.  "Sorry about your dignity, though."  

          She opened an eye, saw him smiling at her just before 
he conjured up his embarrassed pout.

          "I think I'll survive," he answered in a wounded tone.

          Then the mock embarrassment left his features and he 
frowned, remembering something.  "Is your sleeping bag wet?"

          "No, it's fine," she assured him.  What would you 
suggest if it wasn't? she wondered curiously.  She hurriedly 
dismissed the thought.

          He appeared skeptical.  "Looks wet.  Let me see," he 
insisted, crawling over.

          "It's fine, Mulder, really."  But she could tell he 
wasn't going to be satisfied until she'd proven it to him.  She 
unzipped and, feeling slightly ridiculous, allowed Mulder to run 
his hand along the inner lining of her sleeping bag.

          If this were any other guy, she thought, any other guy 
at all, I'd think he was using this as an excuse to come on to 
me.  

          But it wasn't an excuse.  This was Mulder, and she had 
no doubt he was sincere in his concern.  Mulder sat back, 
satisfied that her sleeping bag was acceptably dry.

          "Okay?" she challenged mildly, her mouth pursed in 
amusement.

          He gave a sheepish nod.  "I'm gonna read a bit longer,
that all right?" 

          She nodded.  By now she knew better than to chastise 
him for staying up half the night.  

          "G'night, Mulder."

          "Night Scully."

          She watched Mulder lean over to turn one lantern off 
and dim the second.  Then he sat crosslegged on his sleeping bag 
and began reviewing the nearly useless reports they'd gathered on 
their current case.

          Dana rolled over, turning her back to the dim light.  
She lay awake for a long time, eyes closed but unable to fall 
asleep.  Her mind replayed a vision of Mulder rushing out into 
the downpour in his socks; he worried too much, she decided.  As 
if his own life wasn't enough to worry about.  

          And she still had no clue as to what that sleeping-in-
the-Jeep nonsense had been all about.

          She listened to him riffle quietly through the papers.  
She knew he was frustrated, reluctant to give up on this case;  
she could hear him scribbling notes to himself as he pored over 
the details, hoping to find something they might have missed.  

          Eventually, much later, she heard him put the papers 
away with a sigh and crawl into his sleeping bag.  He turned off 
the light.  She listened to the pelting of the rain, feeling 
herself drifting off at last.

          Then Dana felt a light touch on her hair, so hesitant 
she'd first thought she was imagining it.  But no, it was there, 
a warm, soft touch.

          She lay very still, knowing he believed she was asleep.  
The gentle touch lingered briefly, then was gone, the entire 
moment lasting no longer than a few seconds.  

          She heard a quiet shuffle as he settled himself into 
his sleeping bag; then he was still.  

          Outside the rain continued to beat relentlessly against 
the tent, but inside she felt warm and dry and comfortably safe.  
Conscious of nature's potential.  But not ruled by it.

----------------------
J.S. Michel 
April 1995

In dubious memory of the Senior camping trip of 1981, where I 
encountered first-hand the difficulties involved in removing wet 
jeans while in the cramped confines of a tent.  Ah mais zut 
alors!

Comments, criticisms, grammar lessons always welcome and 
appreciated.  As a hopelessly illiterate comp sci major and a 
self-conscious non-native-speaker of english, I do keep a 
(donated) copy of "The Elements of Style" on my bookshelf but, as 
Arthur Plotnik so eloquently states in his "Elements of Editing", 
"a little Strunk and White is a dangerous thing."  :)

J.S. Michel 
www.geocities.com/js_michel