TITLE: Sleuthing (a.k.a. Snooping II)
AUTHOR: Susanne Barringer
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net
ARCHIVE: Anywhere else okay with these headers attached.
CATEGORY: S
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully UST
SPOILERS: none
RATING: PG-13 for some language and thoughts
SUMMARY: While Scully's away, Mulder will play.
DISCLAIMER: Characters borrowed from Chris Carter, 1013,
and Fox. No money being made; no infringement intended.
______________
This is the long-delayed sequel to "Snooping,” although it can more
or less stand alone. I've been promising it for months. Better late
than never?
Thanks to Ten for beta reading and for the inspiration to finally get
this thing written.
______________
Sleuthing
by Susanne Barringer
I slip the key into the lock and let myself in to Scully's apartment.
She is spending the week at her brother Charlie's. Her niece is
being christened, and they have chosen Scully to be Godmother. In
my personal opinion, they could not have made a better choice. If
there's any such thing as a fairy godmother in this crazy world,
Scully is it.
Scully has asked me to water her plants while she's away. She
knows I can't keep my own plants alive, so I'm surprised she trusts
me with hers. She probably shouldn't have. I was supposed to
come by mid-week to do the watering, but today is Saturday. As a
matter of fact, Scully is taking tonight's red-eye flight from
California and will be back at 6:30 tomorrow morning. Nothing
like waiting until the last minute. I figure as long as the plants are
moist, she'll never know the difference. I'm not sure why I waited
so long. I guess because I miss her. I miss her so much that
anything I see that reminds me of her makes sadness swell in my
throat. I saw no point in torturing myself excessively.
As I enter the apartment I take a quick look around just to make
sure everything's okay. Scully's apartment is always impeccably
neat, to the point of unreal. Every table and flat surface has just the
right balance of knick-knacks or floral arrangements or something
that looks like it came straight out of one of those home design
magazines. There isn't a piece of mail lying around anywhere, no
magazine more than two months old, not even a remote control.
Everything is tucked away into its own spot, not a thing out of
place. It's unnerving actually. I never quite feel comfortable here.
I'm always afraid I'm going to knock something out of balance or
put something back in the wrong place. I know Scully wouldn't
mind, but it still makes me self-conscious.
Scully's home has a floral smell. I think it's gardenia but then I
wouldn't recognize a gardenia from a carnation, so what would I
know? The place is spic-and-span clean as well. That doesn't
surprise me. It's the lack of junk lying around that always impresses
me. I guess she's not a pack-rat like I am. I keep everything,
especially if it has anything to do with her. She'd freak if she knew
I had every note she ever wrote me, every card she ever sent. I
don't know why I do that. I just like to have them. They're like
evidence, evidence that she really exists, that she is part of my life,
that she has come to be so much a part of me that I think more
often in terms of "we" then "I." I have some kind of desperate need
to hold onto that proof. For whom? I honestly think it's just proof
for me. Sometimes I still can't believe she exists at all, that she's
not simply a figment of my needy imagination.
I make my way to the kitchen where Scully has left the watering
can out on the counter. Underneath is a note written on pink
stationary. I pick it up to read her neatly curved scrawl.
"Hi Mulder! Thanks for taking care of my place while I'm gone.
Plants--three in the living room, two in my bedroom, one in the
bathroom. Please don't water the fake one next to the TV this
time!" This sentence is followed by a smiley face which pretty
much shocks the hell out of me. Scully doesn't generally write in
smiley faces. Of course, I did ruin her expensive silk fern last time I
came over to water her plants. The note continues. "Make
yourself at home while you're here. There's tea in the fridge.
Here's the number where I can be reached if something comes up . .
. I'll see you soon!"
I'm amazed Scully left her brother's number. Usually when she goes
out of town she's pretty adamant about me not contacting her at all.
In fact, she's usually demands it. That used to bother me; I thought
maybe she was getting sick of me. I've since come to realize that
she just needs a little break every now and then. Just because I
could live the rest of my life in her presence and never get tired of
her doesn't mean that the same goes for her. It's probably a good
thing that I didn't come by earlier in the week because I know that I
wouldn't have been able to stop myself from calling her just once,
even though the number is supposed to be only for emergencies.
Even now, just knowing that I can contact her, even if I shouldn't,
makes me miss her less. A little less anyway.
I open a cupboard to find a glass for the iced tea I might as well
drink. She's kind enough to stock her fridge for me, it's the least I
can do. I don't know my way around her kitchen very much; she
never actually allows me in here, always shooing me out whenever
she's cooking or cleaning up. I choose the wrong cupboard and try
another. As expected, they're neatly organized. The second door I
open reveals two bags of sunflower seeds. I know they're not for
her. She must keep them on supply for me. The thoughtfulness
makes me smile and I pick one up and prepare to open it. Then I
have an image of Scully returning home to find empty sunflower
shells scattered all over, and I decide not to stress her out that way.
Third cabinet's the charm. I take a glass, get ice out of the freezer,
and pour myself some tea.
I decide I might as well take care of the business first, so after
downing my tea, I rinse the glass and leave it in the sink, just so
she'll know for sure that I was here. After filling the watering can, I
work my way around the living room, hitting the real plants and
remembering to avoid the fake ones. Scully will be proud to see
that I got it right this time. I wouldn't want to blow any second
chance she ever gives me. And she's given me plenty.
I pause at the table near the window, the one with her family
pictures lined up like an army. All neatly framed, there are photos
of her parents, grandparents, several of Melissa, her brothers'
families. And there's one of me too. The first time I saw it there I
almost cried. Seriously. The fact that she would include me with
her family damn near turned me into a blubbering idiot.
The picture is an old one, from our first year working together. I
think it was taken at some retirement party. I remember Skinner's
assistant brought it down to me and Scully asked if she could have
it. She told me once it's the only picture of me she has. I have a
whole stack of photos of us, but I had to call in a few favors to get
them on the sly. I also have one drop-dead gorgeous photo of
Scully that her mother sent me last Christmas. God bless Mrs.
Scully. I keep it hidden and look at it during weeks like this, when
she's gone. And sometimes when she isn't.
I leave the living room for the bathroom, water the small hanging
basket in the window and hope that I'm not drowning it. I've never
known how much to water plants, which probably explains why I
don't have any. Scully's bathroom is white and clean. The towels
match the wallpaper perfectly, and even the knick-knacks and
pictures are color coordinated. I notice the toiletries, in Scully's
favorite scent, marching along the edge of the tub. I have a set of
those in my medicine cabinet. I bought them once in some sort of
fantasy that maybe someday she would need them. Maybe someday
she would be at my place needing a shower or a bath, and I would
surprise her with her favorite shower gel or lotion or whatever it is
that women use. I never knew the name of it. I just walked into
one of those bath shops and smelled every flavor until I found the
one that smelled like her. White Musk it was called. White Musk.
It sounds pretty erotic, actually. I bought a bottle of massage oil in
the same scent. Why, I'm not sure. I just did. I think I spend half
my life in some kind of dream world.
Having finished my responsibilities in the bathroom, I make my way
to water the two plants in Scully's bedroom. As neat as every other
room in her house, everything is in its place. Books are lined up on
the shelves, their spines aligned perfectly. I check them out--lots of
medical journals, a few novels by Jane Austen and George Eliot,
several contemporary novels with which I am not familiar. On the
bottom shelf are Scully's journals. I've known for a long time that
she keeps a journal. She talks about it sometimes in passing. If
there's anything I should not do, it is pick up one of those journals
and read it. It's not only wrong, but I'm probably better off not
knowing what she writes about me. Still, my eye is drawn to the
one marked "1993" on the spine, the year we started working
together. Just one peek. That's it. I swear. I set down the
watering can and remove the book carefully, opening it to the first
page. It seems Scully started this book the day she was assigned to
the X-Files, for the first entry has the proper date. I gag my
screaming conscience and start to read.
"Today I met my new partner. Fox Mulder. What a jerk. He's so
arrogant and obnoxious. I had my qualms about what was asked of
me, to debunk this man's work, but now that I've met him I think
I'm going to enjoy every minute of it. He's a total nutcase, all that
crap about UFO's and abductions, making fun of my science. I
know he was thinking it won't take too long to get rid of me. We
start our first case tomorrow. I plan to give him a run for his
money. I can't wait to take the jerk down a few rungs."
I shut the book with a snap. I knew I shouldn't have looked. I
don't want to know what Scully really thinks of me. I'm not hurt;
I'm well aware that she doesn't think I'm a jerk anymore. At least
I'm pretty sure. Still, reading this stuff is just pushing my luck, not
to mention unforgivable.
I replace the journal carefully, making sure it's lined up with the
others. As I stand and turn to leave the room, I note the closet.
Scully's closet doors are always closed. I don't think I've ever seen
what's inside any of them. That makes me suspicious. Perhaps her
apartment is so perfectly organized because everything's crammed
in the closets. The more I look at the bedroom closet, shut up tight
like it's holding a million secrets, the more my suspicion becomes a
sure thing. Still, I have to see for myself.
I pull open the door, only to find that I am wrong. I couldn't have
been more wrong, in fact. The closet is perfect, clothes organized
by type, all the plastic hangers the same color. They even look like
they're spaced equally apart. Shoeboxes are labeled with tags--
black pumps, black pumps with bows, brown boots, brown stacked
heel. I'll be damned, they're even in alphabetical order. And I
thought I was obsessive.
If it's not the closet, it must be the drawers. I suffer only a slight
twinge of guilt as I step out of the closet and reach for the top
dresser drawer. Guilt, schmilt. The woman fascinates me. I need
to find the mess. There has to be one somewhere around here.
I pull open the drawer to find a pile of panties staring back up at
me. Neatly folded, every one of them. I shift them around a bit just
to check out all the colors. I know that's weird. Most of them are
cotton ones in solid colors, the practical kind, but there are a few
silky ones tucked away at the back. Special occasions, Scully? I
wonder if she ever wears those lacy ones to work. I decide I'd
better not spend too long in here. I'm not especially turned on by a
pile of panties, but the minute I start thinking of Scully in them, I
know I'm in trouble.
The next drawer turns out to be even more astonishing. Lacy, silky
things. Teddies, camisoles, negligees, whatever you call them.
Sexy, that's what I'd call them. Sexy as hell. I am shocked that
Scully owns such things. I think of them as things owned only by
the women in my movies, not real women, especially not women
like Scully. I generally try not to think of her as a woman who has
sexual desires and needs. Yes, I know that makes me sound like
some kind of chauvinistic remnant from the nineteenth century, but
it's easier that way. If I thought about her sexual needs and desires,
I'd never get any work done.
I want to touch one of these racy outfits, to pull one out and look
at it, but they're all so perfectly folded, tissue paper carefully filling
in the gaps between the piles. I know I'll never be able to get them
back the way they are. The last thing I need is Scully suspecting
I've been going through her lingerie drawers. She's an FBI Agent
and a damn good investigator. She would notice, I'm sure of it.
Somehow the call is too hard to ignore, however, and I decide I'll
just look at one. One out-of-place item won't look too suspicious.
I choose carefully, weighing the options, and finally pick the black
one with the ribbons down the front. I lift it carefully by the
shoulder straps and watch as it unfolds before my eyes. A whistle
passes my lips as I think about Scully wearing this thing. The
ribbons are the only thing holding the front closed--a few quick tugs
and she would be out of it in a jiffy. The lace-trimmed legs are cut
practically up to the waist. It has a snap crotch. Jesus. Un-
fucking-believable. She wears this? It's hard to stop the image of
Scully in this thing from invading my weak brain. I press my nose
into the fabric briefly, catching a slight scent of that White Musk
stuff. It hasn't been too long since she wore this. I'm not sure I
want to know the details. I stare at it a little longer, imagining
Scully's body filling out its curves. Jesus Christ. That's all I really
have to say on the matter.
I decide that I've probably just crossed the line. I know something
now that I shouldn't know, and it's something I'm not ever going to
be able to burn out of my brain. Ever. Before things really get out
of hand, I try to fold up the item the way I found it. Close, but not
quite, so I pull some tissue paper over the top so it won't be so
noticeable, then I pray like crazy that Scully trusts me enough to
presume I would never go through her drawers. Misplaced trust,
obviously, as is now more than evident.
I should quit now. I know I should, but there are still a few
unexplored places, a few untouched belongings. God forbid I
should let anything escape me. Truly pathetic, this snooping.
Scully would kill me if she knew. She would never do such a thing
to me--she has respect for privacy. Too bad her partner doesn't
have the same virtue.
I briefly look through a couple more of the dresser drawers, but
they're filled with just regular clothes, folded crisply and piled in
neat stacks. The nightstands are the only place left in the bedroom
that I haven't been. I go for the one on the right first. I pull open
the top drawer to find the holy grail. It's her junk drawer, and junk
is an understatement. The drawer is a mess. Emery boards, empty
boxes, cheap costume jewelry, one glove, spools of thread, loose
buttons, nail polish--all tossed about like some kind of salad. I have
discovered the secret, the one place in her house that is totally
unorganized. It's almost a relief to know that she isn't perfect after
all, that there is a corner of her brain that is a total slob. It makes
me laugh out loud, this mass of confusion. The drawer below it is
exactly the same. Bless you, Scully, for allowing me this tiny bit of
vindication. Since I can go through these drawers without worry
about upsetting the obsessive order, I do, only to find that there's
not a thing of interest in either one of them. A true junk drawer.
Just junk.
I decide to try the other nightstand too, just to see if it mirrors this
one. It doesn't. The top drawer is, like everything else in the
house, impeccably organized. A few magazines she must read
before going to sleep, a Stephen King novel (I got her hooked on
that!), some hand lotion, sleeping pills. In the bottom drawer, the
first thing that catches my eye is the vibrator. That shouldn't
disturb me, but it does. Actually, what really disturbs me is that
there are two of them. One of them is what you might call "full-
sized," the other smaller, like pocket-sized. Or travel-sized. God,
does she bring it with her when we're on trips? When she's in the
room next to me?
I don't know why the idea of Scully having vibrators ruffles me. I
certainly am not one to judge and, truth be known, I'm way more
happy to find a couple of vibrators than a big box of condoms with
half of them missing. I guess it makes me feel lonely, to know that
she's lonely too. Of course, maybe she prefers it that way. I sit on
the bed and stare at them awhile, feeling guilty as hell about it and
forcing myself to not think about her actually using one of them.
Both vibrators are in plastic cases, which is probably good because
I'm pretty sure if they weren't I'd be picking one up to hold it in my
hands and that could become a really uncomfortable situation really
fast. I'm a pervert when it comes right down to it. I shut the
drawer fast before I do something I'd regret.
I book it out of her bedroom and take a seat on the sofa to get my
head straight again. This is really pitiful, getting off on a woman's
personal belongings while she's out of town. I am reminded once
again how much I miss her on the rare occasions when she's gone.
I know she's coming back, but there's always that little doubt
niggling at the back of my mind that I might never see her again. It
would kill me.
I'm so tempted to sleep here tonight, to be here early in the morning
when she rolls home from the airport. That way, I wouldn't have to
wait until Monday to see her. As tempting as it is, however, I
know I can't do it. First of all, it would look really pathetic.
Secondly, Scully would probably be annoyed, particularly if she
found me curled up with her lingerie and a vibrator, which is, I'm
afraid, what would happen if I spent the whole night here.
Go home, Mulder. I know that is for the best. I can call her
tomorrow afternoon under the premise of making sure she got
home okay, and then this loneliness that aches inside me will be
appeased, at least for awhile. I get up, double-check to make sure
everything is in the right place, then carefully lock the door behind
me, feeling like I'm leaving my whole life behind.
*****
I wake at 6:52 a.m. with a start, in that way that happens when
your sleeping mind recalls something important you forgot to do. I
realize with a revolting lurch of the heart that I left the watering can
next to the bookcase and the closet door wide open. Fuck.
END
_________
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