Cluescrew by Mish mish_rose@yahoo.com Rated: PG-13, for language Classification: SH, Implied MSR, hint of slash Disclaimer: Not mine, will never be. Spoilers: Through "Three Words" Summary: A clueless cleaning crew at work. Cluescrew "Keep those half-gloved fingers to yourself, got it?" the Big Guy growls at me as he turns the key in the lock of number 42. "*And* your mouth shut." Moi? my eyebrow asks, one hand to my chest in mock horror. Mulder's door swings open as he adds, "Yes you, little man. We don't know what we're liable to find in here. I don't want Mulder's private life splashed all over the front page of that rag you publish." Giving him an elbow in the gut, I shove my way through the door, offended beyond belief. Thumbs in my belt loops, I turn back to level Mr. Walter S. Skinner with my best glare. "Cool it, amigo. If you knew me at all, you'd know I'd never do that to a friend." The door slams shut behind old Baldy and he drops Scully's keys into his coat pocket. "Look, Melvin -" "The name is Frohike, punk-ass. *Mister* Frohike to you." "*Mister* Frohike," he continues, sighing as his voice loses a bit of its edge, "Mulder is getting sprung soon. We wouldn't even be here if Scully hadn't called asking for this favor. Just remember who we're doing this for, okay?" This is a man not used to groveling for anything, and I'm surprised at the way he backs down immediately at my bristling. Then again, we both know neither of us could ever deny her anything. And if it means we have to put up with each other for an hour or two while we do a "Hazel" on the apartment, then so be it. We can't disappoint the woman we love. Yeah, I know the Big Guy has some feelings for her. Not like I do, naturally. No one loves her like I do - especially not Mulder. The woman is a goddess to me. Everything that is good and fine in this miserable world. Would I ever presume to make advances? Hell no. She's too good for me. I prefer to worship from afar, as is her due. Just like Skinner. Except I think he's in awe simply because she inspires it in her peers. A man like this ex-Marine has had to live through things no man should ever have to witness. He knows Scully has done the same and he admires her for it. The fact that she's a woman doubles his respect for her. The fact that she's a beautiful woman triples her appeal and most of all, the fact that she's a *pregnant* woman multiplies his concern tenfold. She told him she hadn't set foot in Mulder's apartment since a couple of days after he disappeared. I can understand her reticence; dealing with death can be devastating, can force a weakness into a body once thought invulnerable. Acceptance of death brings lethargic limbs and a hollow heart. Avoidance of memories, of smells, sights and sounds, is natural. To Scully, Mulder's apartment must have brought on a blinding, deafening, *numbing* paralysis of the soul. He was - *is* - a tornado of emotion. And this empty apartment, the shell that contained all he was? It must have been like trying to embrace a friend without form. Poetic all of a sudden, aren't I? Just the thought of her brings out the best in me. "Frohike, get busy." Skinner's voice snaps at me from the fishtank. Suddenly, I find a net full of dead fish thrust under my nose. "You start at the other end, I'll take this one. Flush this before you clean the toilet." "Hey -" "Just do it," he barks, leaving me with the swollen bodies as he makes tracks to the kitchen. Great. I get the bathroom and bedroom. There's something kind of icky about going through a guy's shitter, not to mention his boudoir. I keep telling myself, this is Mulder. I've gotten drunk with this guy. Belched, farted and drooled over porn with this guy. What could I find that could possibly surprise me? A pair of Scully's underwear? Leftover from when she bunked with him after Pfaster's attack? "I'm on it," I shout, my sneakers sliding in the dust on the floor in my haste to get to the bathroom. ********** I had no choice but to bring the little troll in on the job. Scully called me earlier with the news that Mulder is amazing his doctor with his recovery. Not overly excited, but the betraying tremor in the word 'home' told me all I needed to know. In the next instant, she asked a favor of me. Disguised in a logical recitation of the hazards of dust, mold and all sorts of refrigerator bacteria on a man newly returned from the dead, her plea for my assistance boiled down to one request. Clean up the apartment. From what she implied, it was going to be a monumental task. And I damn well needed help, hence the phone call to Frohike. Especially since I'd been in there a few times after he disappeared to feed his fish and found it abysmal. After the funeral, I hadn't gone back at all. The unpleasant smell of dead fish mixed with rotten food tells me maybe I should have come back at least once. It's a good thing she thought of this. I know if I'd just risen from the dead, I sure as hell wouldn't want to walk into an apartment that smells like I did a couple of days ago. It's nine now. If we're lucky, we can finish by midnight and I can catch a few hours sleep. Looking into the refrigerator, I amend that thought. From the grayish fungus I see protruding from the lid of a small container, it's going to take nothing short of full-body decon to sanitize this place. I snag a garbage bag from the pantry, then shrug off my overcoat before throwing it over a kitchen chair, eyeing the moldy fridge with distaste. Yogurt - since when did Mulder eat yogurt? - months-old Chinese takeout, and a very wilted, blackened salad-like substance in a clear plastic container all go into the bag. However, the twin six packs of beer stays, as does the unopened bottle of wine. Hmm... nice vintage. Never would have thought Mulder was the type. What the hell - the wine is still good, but the beer is probably flatter than a pancake. He has no business drinking alcohol in his condition, anyway. He'll never miss it. Not bad. Cold and strong. A man's gotta have refreshment while tackling a dirty job. Under the kitchen sink is an array of cleansers, and I immediately put them to good use, as I give the fridge a thorough scrubbing with hot, soapy water. It's spotless by the time I'm finished. Next comes the floor. Then I realize I haven't heard a peep from Frohike, which raises inner alarms. No telling what he's into in there. "Frohike?" I call out, putting enough of a threat into my voice to make him answer right away. A muffled thump, then, "Yeah?" We're not here for chit-chat, so I make it short and simple, ignoring that dubious sound. I'll know soon enough, as I command, "Status report." ********** Mmm. Even under the bleachy smell of cleanser, there's something here that twitches my nose most pleasantly. The closer I get to the cabinet under the sink, the stronger the smell. Dare I investigate? Damned right I dare. I'm a reporter, after all. "Frohike?" Shit! The door slips out of my fingers, nearly taking off a fingernail as it ricochets back into place on spring hinges. Of course, it makes a noise that sounds like an explosion to my ears. Did he hear that? "Yeah?" Apparently not, as he yells, "Status report." Asshole. What does he think I'm doing in here, anyway? Picking my nose? Jerking off? *Snooping*? "Tub's done." Or as done as it's ever gonna be, in my opinion. "Toilet is almost done and sink is next." Toilet will be done as soon as I flush the blue stuff, anyway. It's soaked enough, and I can't find a toilet brush. A sudden, looming presence at my side startles me. Skinner crowds me into the side of the tub to peer over my shoulder. "Did you even lay a finger on it?" he sneers. Affronted, I point at the can on the counter. "I followed the instructions. Spray on, rinse off. Clean." He picks up the spray bottle and bites out, "This is for soap scum on the tile, Frohike." Reaching under the sink, he produces a can with several smiling bubbles on the front. "Spray this on and scrub." He looks down his nose at the toilet and nods. "And don't think you're gonna get away with that, either. Scrub it, mister." Grabbing the can from his beefy hand, I hold it up to his face. "See that?" I point out the skull and crossbones. "Fingers that have hacked into the Defense Department do not handle toxic chemicals without protection." He storms off, only to return a few seconds later. The *thwap* of his palm on the counter echoes in the bathroom. "Always be prepared," he smirks. I pick up the latex gloves and give him a raised brow. "I'm an FBI agent, you idiot." "Ahhh," I murmur, relishing every word of my reply. "Clean up any dead bees lately, Walter?" A red tide of anger creeps up his face and I bet he cracks a few teeth as his jaw locks in place. Before he can explode in my face, I add, "Amazing what a 'rag' can uncover, isn't it, Assistant Director?" "Mulder -" "Didn't tell me a God damned thing," I quickly correct his assumption, adding, "Let's just say I have a nose for news. Especially when - in a morose stupor - a good friend of mine cries in his beer about his ineptitude at saving the life of his partner while another unnamed friend is getting himself into some deep shit. Speaking of..." I lean closer to that deflating chest, sniffing. The sweet smell that's been tickling my nose is suddenly gone, replaced by something definitely more masculine. "All right, Skinman. Give." "Are you saying I smell like shit?" he growls, back in form. "That smell sure ain't coming from the candles around the tub, Baldy." Candles? For a second, I'm distracted, then I decide that wasn't the smell. I'd much rather give Baldy an imaginary wedgie. Off his angry stare, I explain, "I'm saying you smell like beer. And unless you want your bee husbandry to make front page news, I suggest you share, Sticky Fingers." We're in a standoff for a second or two, then his stony face relaxes into a begrudging grin. "In the kitchen, Grumpy. Help yourself." He turns and chuckles his way back to work as I follow. A truce is born. Well, sort of. As I pop the top on my own bottle and pause in the kitchen door I say, "And don't call me Grumpy, you shiny-headed sonofabitch." "Would you rather 'Cocksucker'?" He's still laughing, the bastard. "Not if you want next week's headline to read 'FBI AD New Spokesperson for Mr. Bubble'." At his gorilla gape, I mirror his smart-ass grin of moments ago. "That was just too fucking good for Mulder to keep to himself, Walter." Melvin Frohike. Winner and still champion. The ghosts of Mulder's fish applaud my saunter to the bathroom. ********** Little bastard. It's been a half-hour since he dropped that bombshell and I'm still speechless. Good thing I have something to keep my hands occupied, or I'd strangle the pint-sized snoop. Kitchen finally clean and smelling more like Comet than vomit, I move to the living room, picking up Mulder's collection of odds and ends in an effort to restore the place to some order. Newspaper clippings dot the landscape, most of them pertaining to their last cases as partners. A headline of that bank job they got caught in the middle of peeks out of the couch cushions and I quickly stuff it into a desk drawer, spying other tidbits lost in the leather and pillows. A chewed-up pencil surfaces, as well as a few paperclips and a crumpled directive from me regarding our trip to LA for the movie premiere. I finish its destruction and toss it into the bag I hauled out from the kitchen. If I *never* hear about that movie again, it'll be too soon. Richard Gere, my ass. I bet Federman is still laughing behind my back on that one. He sure got what he wanted from me by licking both cheeks with that forked tongue. At least the movie tanked and never made it beyond the dollar cinemas. And I'll take AD over AP any day. Last I heard, Federman was cleaning the studio's toilets. Wait a minute. Toilets, couch crap. Toilets, fridge rot. Toilets... shit. Seems AD is no better than AP after all. ********** Heh heh. Wonder if old Walt could use a box of condoms? Never been opened, looks like. But they're at least two years out of date. Gotta say this discovery doesn't surprise me. Mulder attracts the ladies like bees to honey, but damned if he ever does a thing about it. I stuff the box back into the medicine cabinet and give the mirror a quick swipe with Windex. The ammonia smell overpowers the faint odor that's been making my nose itch since I came in here. And I'm *not* going to chance the cabinet under the sink again. Just my luck, it's almost time for another fucking 'status report'. All done. It's time for the bedroom. After I get another beer. ********** A couple of beer bottle caps and a few rose petals later, the couch cushions rest upon a spotless frame. Admittedly, at this moment, I may be no higher up on the grunt scale than Federman, but I'm still damned good at whatever I do. Frohike shuffles past me, only to return with another beer as he disappears into the bedroom. Hell, if he can do it, so can I. This one tastes better than the last. I guzzle it like water, feeling a pleasant buzz set up in my gut. Always made yard work go faster, so why not housework? I toss away all the magazines scattered about, uncaring if they're something Mulder might miss. He's got so much shit in this place; what's a missing 'Celebrity Skin' or 'UFO Monthly'? Besides, from the dates on them, he let the subscriptions run out over a year ago. Chances are, he found something else to occupy his mind. Oh, shit. I think I just found out what it was. Tucked away under his coffee table is a book. Nice, leather covered, the initials FWM embossed in gold at the bottom corner. It looks suspiciously like - Fuck. A journal. And I just *had* to open it. I'm not a nosy person by nature, and would never think to invade anyone's privacy by reading their innermost thoughts. But the name 'Scully' jumps out at me. Many times, in fact. For a moment, I close my eyes, mentally summoning the will to just shut the damned thing and put it away. Shove it between Asimov and Sagan on his bookshelf, elevating it to its rightful place among the stars. Instead, I finish off my beer and sit on the newly-cleaned couch, ignoring the accusing emptiness of the fish tank. Shit. The final page begins: "'Caddyshack.' I'm a moron, it's true. Rented 'Dr. Zhivago' just in case. Beer - check. Popcorn - check. Been so long since I've had to consider date strategy, I have no idea what this woman would like. Roses? Chocolate? Have both just in case. Damn. I should have gone the usual route of dating *before* sex. But when have I ever followed the norm? Scully would have a field day at my expense, if she knew how I was sitting here sweating the details. But of course, she's the *last* person I could ever tell about this. And granted, it's not like we've really talked about what's been happening between us since the in vitro didn't work..." What the -? ********** All right. I know I'm a slob, but this is ridiculous. Clothes scattered everywhere - how does he tell what's clean and what's not? Well, neither can I. A quick search of his closet finds a dry cleaning bag and I just start stuffing things inside. Socks, underwear (I sure as hell am not washing his underwear), jeans, very expensive suits. I'll get Walt to drop these at the cleaners on the corner. Eyeing the bed linens, I decide those have to go, too. They look clean enough, but months of microscopic dust have accumulated in their creases, I'm sure. A patch of blue/gray peeks out from under a pillow and I free it impatiently. Jesus. This shirt costs more than my whole wardrobe. What does he do? Get undressed *after* he gets in bed? One corner of the sheet frees easily, but naturally, the opposite is stubborn. Leaning over the bed, I give a yank, then freeze at the smell. Oh - kay. This is *not* what tweaked my nose in the bathroom. Oh yeah, it's totally different. Granted, it's been longer than I care to think about since *that* perfume has graced *my* sheets, but it's an odor you never forget. And obviously, one that lingers months after the fact. And I ain't talking toe-cheese. ********** Yes, I knew she'd tried in vitro fertilization. Quite by accident, after our HR department attached a few very personal forms to some of my inter-departmental mail. Seems she was covering all the bases, in case her insurance balked at the treatments. And naturally, the form for hardship removal of retirement funds has to be very detailed. With a scathing memo to our HR director about her section's lax work ethic, I discreetly forwarded the forms back to them, circumventing my secretary. What Scully did was nobody's business, and it was a damned good thing those forms didn't end up in less savory hands. I wished her silent luck and worried every time she got herself into a scrape. And yes, the thought crossed my mind many times that she'd probably asked Mulder to father her child. But I was never sure, and didn't want to let on that I knew what she was doing by asking, or even hinting at my concern for her. Some time passed, and she never showed up in my office asking for eventual maternity leave. But as I sobbed out my guilt by her bedside months later, I felt as if the world - while not completely right... after all, Mulder was missing - had given her one little break. She was pregnant. I didn't ask how, because I didn't have to. Her wheeling and dealing with HR had paid off - the in vitro fertilization had worked. Or so I thought, until now. ********** Before I prepare myself, I throw back the comforter. Just as I knew it would, my stomach plummets to my knees at the sight. A little voice pops up in my head, suspiciously similar in tone and timber to Donna Reed. "Now, Melvin... a little stain remover should take that *right* up!" Like I've been sucker punched, I stagger back, clutching the wrinkled shirt to my chest. Shut the fuck up, Donna. Mulder's been... and with *her*.... Nah. They would have told us if they were doing the nasty. Surely if that kid she's carrying was Mulder's, she'd have said so? I mean, the kid would have been entitled to his estate, which I know for a fact was substantial. And it didn't take much poking around after we found out she was pregnant to learn of the in vitro fertilization attempt. So it worked, we figured. Nah. He told us about Phoebe. And Diana. And even that vampire chick he slept with in LA. He knows this would top them all. Which is why he didn't.... Oh Jesus, it all makes sense. Looking back at how the bathroom was, it makes total sense. I run back to the bathroom and each sign slams into me, reinforcing my conclusion. Candles in the corners of the tub, the wicks black. The extra toothbrush in the holder. The snatches of lighter, longer hair that cling to the paper towels in the wastebasket. This time, I don't hesitate to open that cabinet. Oh, God. Like picking up the finest piece of lead crystal, I bring the ornate round box to my chest. Grabbing the dove that adorns its clear cover between my thumb and forefinger, I open it like it holds the secrets of the universe. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, the powder puff tickling my nose. It's her. Just as it's the essence of her that clings to the shirt I still hold in the crook of my elbow. I feel like crying. ********** The remote feels like lead in my fingers. From the corner of my eye, I see Frohike back into the living room. He looks like someone punched him in the gut. About like I feel. Off his stupefied stare, I nod at the new six- pack on the coffee table. "Take a load off, Melvin." Without saying a word, he falls to the couch beside me and reaches for a beer. In a flash, he has it open and has downed half in one gulp before sagging back, staring into space. "So," I begin, taking my fury out on the remote. The VCR whirrs to life and I press play absently. "What tipped *you* off? Lipstick on the collar?" "Huh?" Blank confusion colors his face as he turns my way. Nodding at his strangling grasp of the shirt, I say, "Nice color. A bit of advice, though - if you're gonna steal Mulder's things, go for the porn. I have a feeling he won't be needing it anymore." It sails across the room as if it suddenly branded his chest with fire. "I'm a God damned reporter, you know." As if on cue, the TV screen blips into white, romantic tones. Omar Sharif caresses Julie Christie as the music swells and the scene fades discreetly. "And I'm an FBI agent," I commiserate. "Still doesn't mean we had a fucking clue." We finish off our bottles simultaneously and reach for another. He glances at the journal I've left open, taking a moment to read what I've already seen. "This doesn't mean a thing, you know," he says around a loud belch. "No where does it actually say the baby... I know for a fact she tried in vitro -" He colors, breaking off as he realizes what he's revealed. I could accuse him and those geeky friends of his of doing something highly illegal, involving hacking into medical records - which I suspect is how he knows about the in vitro attempt - but I don't. Instead, I snarl, "What do you need? Someone to draw you a picture? Mulder wrote that it didn't work! And she's *pregnant*, you idiot. Apparently Mother Nature found a way." I lean back like he does, and we both kick up our feet onto the coffee table as he counters, "I don't care if they... doesn't mean it's his." "Get real, Melvin." From the pasty look of his face, he's making himself sick with all sorts of imagined scenes of his beloved - yeah, it's not hard to tell he adores her - doing the naked pretzel with Mulder. Must be quite a shock. Me? Frankly, I'm just surprised as hell they hadn't been boffing each other for years. It's the paternity of that child, how it came to be, that I'm curious about. "Have you asked her?" he prods. "About what? Seems to me we know they were involved." "I'm not talking about -" He gulps and lowers his voice, as if the word chokes him. "Sex." Yep, the revelation floored him. "I'm talking about who the hell fathered that baby." He knows as well as I that Scully wasn't supposed to be able to conceive, and that the forces at work in all our lives are capable of anything. I say nothing, giving him a nod of agreement on that bone of contention. His eyes narrow. "We need confirmation." "This is not something you can just come out and ask," I reply, dozens of questions whirling in my alcohol-soaked brain. How the hell *did* she get pregnant, considering she was supposed to be barren? Did Mulder know before we left for Oregon? Why the fuck did he go, then? The point is, he wouldn't have gone. And she knew it. Or she had no clue she was pregnant. Another reason to believe that baby was made the old-fashioned way. Surprise, surprise. "I agree," Frohike says. "Agree to what?" What did I just say? He laughs, tipping his beer in my direction. "Have another, Walt. We need to come up with some strategy - without coming right out and asking, you know." "It's none of our God damned business." "Says who?" "Says me. Leave it alone." He must sense the indecision in my voice, because he practically purrs, "I'm not suggesting we infringe upon their privacy, Walt." He has the grace to flush at my raised brow. "But I'm damned well going to drop a hint or two. See if they take the bait. That's all I'm saying. You can't tell me you're not curious." He gives the still-open journal a pointed look. With my foot, I slam it shut, knowing he's got me. "It goes no further than me and you, got it?" He takes the empty bottle from my numb fingers and hands me another, this one open and ready. Tapping his beer against mine, he replies, "If I find out, I tell you. If you find out you tell me. And it goes with us to the grave." Sighing, I lift my beer and before I know it, we're clinking the open bottles together in a toast to our cluelessness. And our drunken resolve to get to the bottom of this. Of course, tomorrow I'll tell him to fuck off. I love riling the little guy. Against my wishes, I feel a smile curl my lips. My hand goes up of its own accord, swiping at the white stuff on his nose. "As do other things, Powder Boy." He must be just as drunk as I am, because he doesn't even flinch when I touch him. He just smiles in return, nabbing a rose petal that somehow stuck to my shirt. "My lips are sealed, partner." "Frohike?" "Yeah?" "Shut the hell up and give me another beer." ********** "Ahem." Hey, where are my lips? Oh yeah. Wrinkling my nose, I test them out in a yawn. Yep, still there. "Hey." Shut up, Langly. Can't you see I'm trying to catch a few winks, here? I snuggle closer to my pillow and ignore him. "Hey! You two get a room - Mulder's comin' home!" A boot kicks my leg. "Ughhh." A grunt feathers over my ear. Cracking one eye open, I peer down. At my leg, wrapped over one twice its size. At my arm, ballooning up and down as it lies upon a beefy, breathing chest. Oh shit. At a pair of narrowed eyes, peering at me from behind glasses mirroring the red fury of his face. A face just inches from my own. Like a lightning bolt, we separate, ending up grounded at opposite ends of the coffee table. Doggett - damn his eyes - stands in front of the TV, hands on hips. "You two have a reason for trystin' on Mulder's couch?" He reaches behind him to kill the blank blue screen. Skinner, bless him, assumes an imposing posture almost immediately. "Agent Doggett," he nods. "What's your purpose here?" He kicks at the journal at his feet, shoving it under the coffee table. Smart man. John Doggett wilts a bit under that stare. "Agent Scully's been trying to reach you, sir. Mulder's being released this morning." Shit! The sheets! Without a word, I go back into the bedroom and strip the bed. I don't know where Mulder keeps the clean linens; he'll just have to do that himself when he gets home. Stuffing them into the laundry bag, I take a quick look around. Reasonably clean. By the time I make it back to the living room, Skinner has picked up the empty beer bottles and put them in the garbage bag. Though Doggett can clearly see what we've been doing here, he says nothing. I wouldn't either, if a higher-up was toasting my ass with a look like that. "Tell Agent Scully the apartment is ready," Skinner barks, shoving the garbage bag into Doggett's hands. "And get rid of this on your way out." He moves to the kitchen. Hey - if he can do it, so can I. Clearing my throat, I approach the ex-cop, dropping the laundry bag into his other hand. "And drop this at the cleaners on the corner. Tell 'em to put a rush on it." Doggett gives me a glare, but doesn't dare protest. Instead, he turns back to my compadre, who has exited the kitchen as he dons his coat. "Anything else, *sir*?" He's mighty impudent to a superior. What bee went up his ass? Skinner nods at the empty fishtank. "Fill it up. At least three mollies." "Four," I suggest. "I think he had four." "It was three." "It was four." Jesus, we're arguing like we're an old married couple. "*Three*." He turns to Doggett, his voice slipping into a muted plea. "Be quick about it, John - I want it done before Mulder gets home." "Sure thing." Jaw tight, he flashes me a glare before he leaves. After an awkward moment of silence, I clear my throat and make tracks for the hall. "Gotta run, G-man. Stay cool." "Frohike?" I pause halfway to the stairwell. "Yeah?" He shuts the door behind him and pockets the keys. "Thanks for the help." He turns for the elevator. Ooh, I bet that hurt. "Anytime, SkinMan." "And don't call me SkinMan." It's not the wisest thing I've ever said, but I can't resist. "Sure thing... ya big lug. Goodbye kiss?" For a second, I think he's gonna run down that hall and punch my lights out. Then his face cracks into a grin. "Fuck off." He turns, hands in pockets. "Hey, Walt?" An impatient sigh colors his, "Yes, what now?" as he turns in the open elevator. "Remember - I tell you, you tell me. Deal?" "Once again, Frohike - fuck off." The elevator doors close on his grim face. Bastard. I take my time down the stairs, not wanting to run into him again. I'm almost out the front door of the building when I melt back in, catching a glimpse of my cleaning partner. Giving John Doggett a pat on the back and a toothy smile. When a moment ago, he looked like he was ready to eat Doggett's lunch. Almost hidden behind the cab of Doggett's truck, they don't linger, breaking apart quickly before Doggett leaves and Skinner walks to his car, doing the same. Holy shit. This is - this is - ten times better than bees. A hundred times better than bubble baths. A zillion times better than whether or not Mulder and Scully finally indulged in a game of 'hide the salami'. Skinner and Doggett. Who'da thunk it? Okay, so it's not like I caught them in a liplock. But I *am* a reporter, after all. I don't miss the obvious ones. END Many thanks to Musea, for delightful beta! As always, a pleasure to work with you, ladies. This was written in response to the Haven Fic Challenge, courtesy of Sybil and beduini. I had a great time doing it, and next time, I hope to be challenged with Muldertoes.The elements are: - not over 30k long - Mulder, Scully or Skinner offering constructive (!we mean that!) criticism - A Journal (preferably a blog) - Something slashy - Mulder's fishtank - A bridge, the game of bridge, or Omar Sharif. Your choice So, the journal wasn't a blog. And I think I may be just a *tad* over 30k, but I couldn't seem to pare it down! The 'constructive criticism' I included is very iffy. But this is the result - hope you enjoyed it! Oh, and if you don't get the "Hazel" reference, then you must be a whole lot younger than me. Be thankful. :)