First-person, Scully's POV.

Author's Note: I don't know if a real train could make it from Chicago to Washington, D.C. in 13 hours or not. In actuality it would probably take a bit longer, but that was the timespan I needed for the purpose of my story.


"Oh, shoot," Mulder says, as he hits the disconnect
button of his cell phone.

"What?" I ask him. We're still in Richie's hospital
room, talking with him, Henry and Richie's mother.

"I just called the airport. All flights are grounded
until sometime after daybreak tomorrow due to this
snowstorm."

"Is that a problem?" Henry asks.

"Considering that our boss has threatened to have my
hide if we miss the departmental meeting tomorrow, I'd say that it qualifies as a problem," Mulder agrees.

"What time is the meeting?" Henry.

"Ten in the morning," Mulder says with a sigh.

"There's an express passenger train that leaves
Chicago at eight tonight," Henry says. "It arrives in
Washington at nine tomorrow morning."

"How do you know?" I ask him.

"I used to work in the train yard," Henry reminds me
with a smile. "I still have friends - well, one friend - who works at the depot. Let me call and see if I can get you on."

Mulder shrugs and hands Henry the phone. Henry dials,
speaks for a few minutes, then disconnects and smiles
at us. "My luck's holding; there was one double
stateroom left. Your tickets will be waiting at the
window. It's after six now, so you'd better get
going."

Mulder and I nod, make our goodbyes to Henry, Richie
and his mother, then catch a cab. We swing by the
hotel just long enough to check out and grab our
suitcases and make it to the train station with only a few minutes to spare. The train is actually in motion before the porter leads us to our compartment. It's not until we've actually closed the door that the reality of the situation hits me. Mulder and I will both be sleeping here, in a room barely big enough for the two of us to turn around without bumping into each other.

"Did you want to get some dinner?" Mulder asks me.

"Not unless you're hungry," I say with a yawn. "We
barely got any sleep last night. Unlike you, I can't
go for a long time without it."

"Well, I'd hate for you to have to go without it," he
says with a teasing smile. "Would you prefer to be on
top or bottom, Scully?"

"What?!?"

"The bunks," he says with a grin. "Did you want the
top one or the bottom one?"

"I, um, I think it would be easier if I were on top.
Since I'm so much smaller than you are."

"Those were my thoughts exactly, Scully," Mulder says
with a smile. "That it would be. . .easier. . .with
you on top. Since you're so small and I'm so. . .big."

Oh stop smirking, Mulder! Yes, I get the innuendo.
Anybody over the age of eleven would. All those
remarks about top or bottom and you being big.
Unfortunately, Mulder has me over a barrel. If I
respond in any way to the sexual connotation of his
words, he'll accuse ME of being the one with a dirty
mind!

"Shut up, Mulder," I say. Then I grab my overnight bag and go into the even-tinier compartment that serves as the bathroom. I manage to brush my teeth and put on my sleep shirt. Except for the fact that my feet and legs are bare, the long-sleeved, knee-length garment covers as much of my body as my dress did. I've long since learned never to pack anything suggestive on our business trips. Mulder has this habit of bursting into my hotel rooms unannounced through our connecting doors.

When I come out, Mulder looks at me and smiles.

"What?" I ask.

"You look like a Christmas tree, with your green
nightie and your red hair. It's funny, people always
talk about redheads wearing green, but we've been
together six years and I think this is the first time
I've ever seen you wear that color."

I sigh. "That's why I don't wear it, Mulder. It's too
cliché. Besides, between the fact that we're Irish and the fact that I'm a redhead, Mom dressed me in so much green when I was a little girl that I got sick of it."

"Why'd you buy the nightgown, then?"

"It's a sleep shirt, not a nightgown, Mulder. And I
didn't buy it. It was a Christmas gift."

"From your Mom?"

"No."

Mulder gets this stricken look on his face at that,
and it takes me a moment to figure out why. Then it
hits me. He's. . .well, jealous might be too intense a word to use, but he's definitely concerned. I can see he's trying to figure out who else knows me well
enough to be buying me sleepwear. For just one tiny
second, I savor the feeling. After Fowley, Phoebe and
a couple of other bimbos I've had to put up with over
the years, it's nice for him to be the worried one for once. But I don't really enjoy it. I don't want to hurt him and game-playing has never been my forte.

"It was a gift from Bill and Tara," I explain gently.

Mulder's face relaxes into a smile and the teasing
glint dances in his eyes again. "Next time I see Bill
Junior, I'll have to compliment him on his excellent
taste in sleepwear."

I roll my eyes and say "Shut up, Mulder" again. For
good measure I swat him lightly on the arm. He winces
and I immediately realize my mistake.

"Oh God, Mulder, I'm sorry! I hit you right where the
bullet grazed you, didn't I?"

He nods but murmurs, "It's okay, Scully."

"Let me take a look at it," I say and begin
unbuttoning his shirt. I like this blue shirt; it's a
nice change from the white ones he almost always wears during working hours.

"I'm fine, Scully."

I smile at him. "That's my line, Mulder. Trust me, I'm a doctor. I just want to make sure  it didn't start bleeding again."

"You sure you don't just want to *PLAY* doctor,
Scully?"

"Mulder," I say sternly.

"I know. Shut up. Right?"

"Right," I agree.

Once I get the blue shirt unbuttoned, I slide it off
his shoulders and toss it on the end of the lower
bunk. Then I tug his white T-shirt off, as well. I
touch his biceps lightly, striving to maintain some
sort of clinical detachment when my hormones are
screaming for me to turn the examination into a
caress. "I think you'll live," I tell him briskly.
"But I really am sorry for hitting you right there."

"Why don't you kiss it and make it better?" he
suggests.

For once, my heart wins the race over my mind in
telling my body what to do and I drop a quick kiss on
his upper arm. When he gawks at me in astonishment, I
take an opportunity to stretch up on my tiptoes and
drop another kiss on his forehead. Then I scurry up
into the top bunk and pull the covers around me before the combination of "shirtless Mulder" and
"nightgown-wearing Scully" leads to. . .what it could
lead to.

"Good night, Mulder," I say.

"I'm just going to duck into the bathroom for a
minute," he says. "Then I'll turn off the lights."

"Fine," I say.

A few minutes later, he emerges from the bathroom
wearing nothing but a pair of those undershorts he
favors. The ones that aren't quite boxers and aren't
quite briefs. Unfortunately, he flips the lights off
before I can get more than a glimpse.

Mulder lies down in the bunk beneath me. I hear him
try to get comfortable, then he reaches up and slaps
the side of my bunk. That "unspoken communication" of
ours must have kicked in, because I realize
immediately what he wants. I slide my hand down into
his. He gives it a gentle squeeze, then kisses my
knuckles softly. He did that once before, I remember.
When I was in the hospital. He squeezes my hand a
second time then slowly lets his fingers relinquish
mine.

"Good night, Scully," he says softly.

"'Night, Mulder" I murmur sleepily.

Although I was the one complaining of being tired,
he's actually the one who falls asleep first. I can
tell by the change in his breathing. He doesn't snore, exactly, but his breathing is slower and slightly louder when he sleeps. I let the sound of his breathing and the rhythm of the train lull me to
sleep.