TITLE: Snooping AUTHOR: Susanne Barringer EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net ARCHIVE: Anywhere okay with these headers attached. CLASSIFICATION: S KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully UST RATING: PG for some mild and/or suggestive language SUMMARY: If you had an hour alone in Mulder's apartment, what would you do? DISCLAIMER: I borrowed the characters from Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox; I'm not using them for profit, etc., etc., etc. ____________ Snooping by Susanne Barringer I'm just about to knock on Mulder's door when my cell phone rings. "Scully, it's me. Are you already on your way over?" "Yeah, Mulder, I'm standing at your door." "Damn, I thought I could catch you. Look, I got held up here at the courthouse. I'm gonna be late. Just let yourself in and make yourself at home." "How long, Mulder?" "I think it'll probably be about an hour. Sorry Scully." "No big deal. I'll just watch a movie or something," I tease. "Uh, those videos aren't mine." "Oh, right. I forgot. I'll see you later, Mulder." I do as Mulder instructed and let myself in. I sit on his leather sofa and search through the magazines on the coffee table. Nothing interesting. Leaning back, I look around to see if Mulder has changed anything. As usual, he hasn't. I'm not here all that often, but the place always feels very homey to me. I more or less know where everything is, at least the important stuff, although I've never really looked closely at the organized madness that is Mulder's home. He isn't a slob, but there is definitely a LOT of stuff crammed into his tiny apartment. I know Mulder though, and I know he knows exactly where everything is. I get up and walk to the kitchen to get something to drink. At the least, I know there will be iced tea in the refrigerator. I open the door to find that's about the only thing there is. There are fifteen cans of Lipton iced tea with lemon, a loaf of bread that looks a year old, some leftover takeout something or other, a six-pack of beer with five bottles left, and some dried up grapes. Good thing I'm not hungry. I grab a can of tea, hunt down a clean glass and open the freezer to get some ice. Of the five ice cube trays in the freezer, four of them are completely empty and the fifth has only two cubes. Just what exactly is the point of freezing empty ice trays? I use the two remaining cubes, then fill all the trays as a favor to Mulder. I doubt he'll even notice. I lean back against the counter and survey the kitchen. I'm rarely here in Mulder's apartment by myself, and when I am it's usually because he's missing or in the hospital or some other horrible thing. It's kind of interesting to be here alone and not be sick with worry about him. It gives me some time to look around. Not snoop. Just look around. Out of some perverse need, I open all of Mulder's kitchen cabinets and inspect them. Most of them aren't even half full, and the contents are nothing to write home about. Cans of soup, macaroni and cheese, tomato sauce, pasta. Pretty much the staples of a good bachelor pad. Except for the bags of sunflower seeds. Those are distinctly Mulder. He must buy them by the case. Mulder's apartment has a smell that I haven't yet been able to pinpoint. It's like a combination of leftovers and sweat and aftershave and leather and Lysol and him. I like the way Mulder's apartment smells. It is not a dirty smell. Although his place is crowded and untidy, it is clean. I have not failed to notice the way the sink is always scrubbed, the carpet vacuumed, the counters wiped clean. Unlike many bachelor pads I have known, it has seen disinfectant within the last month. I take my glass of tea, barely iced, and return to the living room to check up on Mulder's fish. Several of them look different than the ones I saw last time I was here. I wonder how often he has to buy new fish because they die from neglect. The gold angel fish he named after me is still alive and well. That's right, Mulder, you'd better not kill that one! I still remember the day he showed me this fish. He had told me in the office that he got a new fish and named it Scully. Somehow, that didn't really thrill me all that much. I don't especially like fish. The next time I was here, I asked. "Which one's Scully, Mulder?" I asked, peering into the tank. I fully expected he would point me toward one of the bottom-feeders, or, even worse, one of those slimy things hiding behind the rocks. "The pretty one," he said and did indeed point to the most beautiful fish in the tank. To be honest, it made me sort of teary-eyed, but I didn't let Mulder know it. Sentimental over a stupid fish. Pathetic. I watch that fish now, and it really is lovely. It's a golden color, with touches of red, and it has extra long top and bottom fins that ripple and move in the water. Is this the way you think of me Mulder? Graceful and elegant and beautiful? Scully's long fins are so thin that the light shines through them. Actually, it almost looks a bit too fragile, like that mean looking black fish could finish it off in two bites. I grab the fish food and dump just a couple of flakes into the tank for the mean fish to eat; I don't think it would be a good omen for Scully to become a snack. I turn to the mess that is Mulder's desk. There are papers and folders piled up everywhere. At the back of the mess is a picture Mulder has had there for ages of him and Samantha. Next to it is a nicely framed picture of him and me. The first time I saw it there, I was surprised, but now I'm in the habit of actually looking for it. I pick up the photo and study it closely. It's a picture of us in profile, standing facing each other, our heads close. It looks like Mulder is leaning in to tell me something. I have no memory of this picture being taken, but it was obviously at a crime scene. We're dressed in our FBI best, and there are two police cars in the background. I suspect the photographer snapped it at a moment when Mulder was telling me aliens were responsible or something like that, because there's definitely a skeptical look on my face. That's probably why Mulder likes it so much. I replace the picture, then sit at Mulder's desk and look over the top of his computer out the window. I try to imagine him sitting here, thinking. It's so hard to get inside Mulder's head. I wonder what he does in his free time. I contemplate turning on his computer, but that seems a bit too invasive, so I reach for a desk drawer. Yeah, like that's any different. A little voice inside my head says "Do it." Okay, I will. It's not snooping. Not really. I could be looking for a pen. I open the drawer and peer in. There are just a lot of papers piled up, looks like bills and credit card receipts. I close the drawer and reach for the top drawer on the other side. This one's more organized, general desk materials. Underneath a legal pad, I find a stack of pictures. On top is a picture of me, not exactly looking my best either. I sort through the stack. Every one is a picture of me or a picture of the two of us. Where does he get these? I don't think I have a single photo of the two of us together, or even of him. Most of these photos look like they've been taken at crime scenes. He must have befriended some of the crime scene photographers because they don't generally as a rule snap photos of the living people at the scene, only the dead ones. Geez, here's one of me poking at a decapitated corpse, blood everywhere. Lovely, Mulder. Why would you even *want* this photo? I toss the pile back in the drawer, making sure they're in the same order as I found them. I pick through the rest of the stuff, but there's nothing very interesting. I pull open another one of the drawers in the desk. Now that I've taken the plunge, what's a few more? A photo album, some old programs from plays and concerts, a few letters, nothing interesting. Underneath the photo album, though, I find a card, an unsent one, still nestled under the flap of the envelope as if straight from the store. What interests me is that it's one of those mushy, poetic cards with the pastel drawings on the front portraying mountains under a bright sun. I pick it up. "You and me against the world," it says on the front. Who is this for? I open it to read the inside. "It seems like the world is always against us. But every challenge that we survive, every threat that we overcome, reminds me of how strong we are together, and how much you mean to me. Happy Birthday." The card isn't signed, nor is it addressed, but I have no doubt that Mulder bought it for me. When? My birthday is more than three months away. Mulder rarely remembers my birthday, and I don't think I've ever gotten a card from him except on Halloween. Did he buy it a long time ago and decide not to give it to me? Or has he recently purchased it with the idea of my next birthday? I hope it's the latter. I want this card. I want it to come from Mulder. It's so sweet, and true, and the thought that Mulder would think of me in such a way makes me smile. I read the card again, commit it to memory just in case he never gets up the guts to give it to me, and carefully replace it back in the drawer the way I found it along with all the other stuff I've pulled out. I think about looking through the old photo album, but time is limited and there are still a couple of rooms to go. Okay, so *now* I'm officially snooping. I walk over to the bookshelf near the television and study the videos that aren't Mulder's. One thing about Mulder's porn obsession is that he doesn't hide it. The videos are lined up neatly on the shelf. I can't believe they're even in alphabetical order. There are three that have "redhead" in the title, which I find somewhat disconcerting. Most of them have some kind of science-fiction or alien premise, although there's one about FBI agents. I pull it out and look at the cover. Two women (one a redhead), with fishnet stockings, short skirts, and blouses unbuttoned to the navel, are holding guns on what appears to be a suspect--a well-built, tanned man with a prominent bulge in his pants and long Fabio-like hair. I'll have to ask to borrow this one sometime, just to see Mulder's reaction. On the shelf underneath the porn is a small collection of Mulder's other movies. Of course, he has all of Hitchcock, "E.T." and "Close Encounters of the Third Kind." There is also a small group of classics, mostly Audrey Hepburn films. You have a thing for Audrey, Mulder? I'm shocked to find, snuggled way at the back of the shelf, three Disney films: "Beauty and the Beast," "Snow White," and "Cinderella." So, Mulder is a romantic after all. I leave the living room and move into the bathroom. I've been in here before, of course. Like everything else in Mulder's home, it's cluttered but clean. I'm tempted to open the medicine cabinet, but for some reason, a person's medicine cabinet has always seemed off limits to me. The little voice inside my head, though, thinks otherwise. "Do it!" I take a deep breath and open the door. It squeaks so loudly I think Mulder can hear it all the way down at the courthouse. Mental note: don't ever open it when he's here. The first thing that catches my eye are some small travel-sized bottles of shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, and lotion. What floors me is that they are in my favorite scent--white musk. For a second, I have a horrifying vision of Mulder enjoying bathing in women's toiletries, but then I notice that none of them are open. Are these for me, Mulder? Are you thinking someday I might be here and need to take a shower? Or did you have other possibilities in mind? The thoughtfulness touches me, no matter what the reasoning. That Mulder would do this, let alone even know what my favorites are, strikes me as something personal, something that says more than his words ever could. I replace the bottle of shower gel I had picked up to examine and quickly notice the three-pack of condoms. Of course, I open the box to count them. Who wouldn't? Three. The expiration date was over six months ago. How long has it been, Mulder? I sort through the rest of the top shelf to find the usual medicine-cabinet kinds of things: bandaids, antibiotic cream, a gigantic bottle of Tylenol, a thermometer. The remaining shelves contain decidedly masculine things: about a half dozen plastic razors, shaving creme, deodorant, nose-hair clippers, and Preparation-H. Hmm, that was really more than I needed to know. I try to see everything without actually touching any of it and accidentally moving something out of position. Yes, call me paranoid. Finding nothing else worth note, I close the cabinet door and exit the bathroom. Next stop, the bedroom. As often as I've been in Mulder's place, I've never been in his bedroom. I'm not sure he's even in here all that much. Compared to the living room, it's noticeably less cluttered and looks quite a bit more empty. I head for the giant bookshelf in the corner and start at the bottom. Oooooo, yearbooks! Jackpot! I select the first one on the shelf, 1976. Freshman Mulder. Should be interesting. I flip to the M's. Fox William Mulder. Oh, poor Mulder. He got hit hard with that awkwardness that characterizes fourteen year old boys. Braces, horrible haircut, just a general ugly duckling. I flip through the book noticing there aren't very many autographs. He must not have had many friends. I don't want to use up too much time looking through all of the yearbooks, so I put down 1976 and skip to 1979. There. There's the Mulder I know and love. He's breathtakingly handsome in his senior shot--long hair, gorgeous eyes, although he looks slightly uncomfortable in the suit and tie. Some things never change. His senior listing says, "JV and Varsity Basketball, Honor Society, Chess Club, Student Council." Student Council? That's weird. The book is packed full of autographs; he must have become more popular since he was a freshman geek. I skim through a few of the notes inside the front cover. They're all from girls, and they all address him as "Foxy." No wonder he hates his name. Almost every one of them includes her phone number as well. Mulder the heartbreaker. Who would've guessed? The messages are all more or less filled with the drivel yearbooks usually are. "Let's keep in touch," "Friends forever," "Stay sweet." I can't help but wonder which ones Mulder was close to, which were his true friends. I flip through the book looking for other pictures of Mulder that might clue me in. Basketball team. God, he looks pretty hot in those dorky tight shorts basketball players used to wear before the baggy ones became the norm. They cling to his lean, lanky body perfectly. Very nice! No wonder he was so popular with the girls. I notice a candid shot of him with a cheerleader. They're both smiling happily. Girlfriend?? I don't have time to investigate further but I make a mental note of the page number. I'll have to check it out some other time. I slide the yearbook back into place and quickly skim the book titles on the shelves above. They represent the type of assortment one might expect from Mulder--lots of sci-fi, alien investigations, the Kama Sutra, a large dose of classic literature and a mixture of best sellers. He seems to like Tom Clancy. I'll have to remember that at Christmas. Well, the nightstand is calling. Three drawers, right next to the bed. That should be revealing. I don't even hesitate. It's funny how the more one snoops, the less guilty one feels about it. I pull open the first drawer to find a picture of myself staring up at me. I am wearing my long green velvet gown, hair curled and piled on top of my head, basically dressed to kill. I remember this picture. It was taken two Christmases ago at my mother's house. The question is, how the hell did Mulder get it? I flip over to the back where there is a written note in a very familiar hand. "Fox. I thought you might like this picture of Dana. Merry Christmas." I'm going to kill my mother! Other than the picture, there is nothing unexpected here. Some over-the-counter sleeping pills, two books of erotic stories, one Stephen King novel, a bottle of massage oil. Okay, the bottle of massage oil is not exactly expected, but not surprising either. I pick it up to look at it. It's not opened. I turn it over to see what scent it is. White musk?!? Whoa. My stomach lurches. It could be a total coincidence, but then what is it Mulder says about coincidences? Why *do* they feel so contrived? I slam the drawer shut and open the next drawer. A couple of magazines with naked women on the cover. I really don't want to contemplate why the pages look so well thumbed through. A few scarves, gloves, winter hats. Third drawer down, empty. I've never known anyone to have a completely empty drawer in their house, especially someone with as much crap as Mulder. Well, that foray proved interesting. Standing, I notice the closet door is wide open, so there's no need to feel guilty about having a peek there. Suits and dress shirts are lined up systematically, though there's a pile of dirty clothes strewn carelessly about the bottom. On the top shelf, shoe boxes are lined up neatly. And labeled. Letters from Mom. Other letters. Cards 1970-80. Cards 1980-90. Cards 1990- . God, is he obsessive or what? Credit card bills. Phone bills. Car repair bills. Bank statements. Tax receipts. And, the last one, far on the right in the dark recesses of the closet: Scully. Why the hell is there a box with my name on it? Why am I catalogued, classified, and so easily referenced? Well, I have to know, and I don't need a little voice this time to tell me to do it. Sometimes being short is truly a curse, and this is one of those times. I'm on my tiptoes stretching as far as I can, and I can't even get a finger on the box marked Scully. Damn. I look around for something solid to stand on and end up grabbing "The Encyclopedia of Alien Abductions" which is, surprisingly, quite a bit thicker than one might expect. It's thick enough, anyway, for me to get a hold of the box and bring it down. I sit on Mulder's bed and hesitate before opening the box. What could possibly be in here? My curiosity knocks the stuffing out of my hesitation, and I open the box. There is a stack of greeting cards I've sent Mulder over the years--birthdays, Christmas, Halloween. And underneath those, what looks like every note I have ever written him. He keeps these??? I feel like I'm looking in the secret box of some junior high schooler with a huge crush. I read a few of the notes; they're just basic "I'll be back at 3:00" kind of notes, nothing spectacular. I'm stunned that Mulder would keep them all. Why? I shift the pile of notes around a little, trying to see if there's anything else in the box. There's an envelope on the bottom, sealed. I reach in and pull it out. When I turn it over, my heart jumps. "In the event of my death, please deliver to Special Agent Dana K. Scully, Federal Bureau of Investigation." God, Mulder, you actually plan ahead like that? You've actually thought about dying long enough to write me whatever's in this envelope? It's clearly a letter. I can see the handwriting, though not enough to know what it says. As curious as I am about what Mulder could possibly write for me to read after his death, I don't ever want to find out. That thought kills my curiosity, and I quickly replace the envelope where I found it, put all the notes and cards back, and reposition the lid carefully on top. With a start, I realize tears are flowing down my cheeks. Just seeing those words in print, "in the event of my death," has raised horrific images I don't want to deal with. I don't want to think about Mulder dying before me. I don't want to think about anyone ever having to put that letter into my hands. Without Mulder, I'm not even sure I'd survive long enough for that to happen. I replace the box in the closet, pick up the encyclopedia off the floor, return it to the bookshelf, and walk back into the living room. The fun has disappeared from my investigations. I don't want to know anymore. I sit on the sofa and get a "Paranormal Studies Monthly" off the coffee table, but I'm too disturbed to read. Then, I hear a key click in the lock. "Scully?" "Yeah, Mulder, I'm here." Mulder opens the door wider and steps in, dropping his briefcase on the hall floor and heading toward me on the sofa. For some reason relief floods over me upon seeing him, and I jump up as he approaches. "Hi, Mulder." "Hi." He looks at me strangely. Must have been something in my tone of voice. I step forward and give him a hug. "I'm glad to see you," I say, not really sure where all this is coming from, but needing to feel his arms around me. "Sure, Scully. Me too," he says, but his tone is curious, confused, probably because we just saw each other a few hours ago. He thinks I'm nuts, but I don't care. "Are you okay, Scully?" "Yep, fine," I announce, stepping back from the reassurance of his arms. I feel incredibly lucky. "So, where're we going for dinner?" END _____________ Feedback to: sbarringer@usa.net All my fanfic is available at my webpage: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/2442 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 _________ feedback always appreciated: sbarringer@usa.net All my fanfic available at: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/2442 TITLE: Scrimmage (Snooping III) AUTHOR: Susanne Barringer EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net ARCHIVE: Anywhere okay with these headers attached. CATEGORY: SRH(?) KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully Romance SPOILERS: none RATING: PG-13 SUMMARY: Third story in the "Snooping" series. Mulder and Scully face off; who will be the first to crack and confess about snooping through the other's belongings? DISCLAIMER: Characters borrowed from Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox. No infringement intended. This story is a sequel to "Snooping" and "Sleuthing." I tried to make it a stand-alone, but I don't think it really works if you haven't read the others. Both stories are available on Ephemeral or from my webpage: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/2442 Thanks to Ten and Sue for beta-reading, and to Sue again for making me get this thing done. ________ Scrimmage by Susanne Barringer I knock gently on the door, not really sure I want to go through with this. Scully has asked me over to dinner to thank me for taking care of her plants while she was away. I can't help but suspect something is afoot. I tried to right the wrong yesterday morning when I woke up and realized I had left behind evidence of my snooping. I rushed out of my apartment, calculating on the way to Scully's place the time it would take for her to debark, wait for her luggage, walk to the parking garage, exit the airport, and drive home in light Sunday morning traffic. Even given the minutes that had already passed, I thought there was a chance I could get there in time. I simply had to a) drive to her house; b) move the watering can, which I left standing like a beacon in front of the shelf that holds her private journals; c) close the closet door I'd forgotten in my desperate need to snoop a little more; and d) get the hell out of there before she got home. Despite all my careful calculations, I found I was wrong. I've never been good in math anyway. I passed by Scully's building just in time to see her letting herself into the front door of her building. I knew I was snagged and there was nothing I could do about it. At first I thought that maybe she wouldn't notice. Then I realized, it's Scully, she'll notice. I also tried to convince myself that maybe she wouldn't jump to the worst possible conclusion. Maybe she'd be tired from her flight and wouldn't think too much about it. But I had a sinking feeling I was kidding myself. I waited all day for the inevitable phone call, but it didn't come. Sometimes Scully calls me when she gets back into town; sometimes she doesn't. I expected it this time, the questions, the accusations. Zilch. I went to bed wondering if maybe I was going to get away with it after all. Things looked promising today as well. Eight hours in the office together and she didn't say a word about it, didn't seem annoyed or anything out of the ordinary. Then, she surprised me by asking me to come for dinner. That was when I began to suspect something was up. Scully finally opens the door and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or terrified. She smiles at me, though, as if it's just another of our get- togethers. The thing is, we rarely get together quite like this. I enter the apartment and she actually reaches up behind me to help me pull off my jacket. Scully never takes my coat. I'm screwed. She tells me to take a seat on the sofa, then she sits next to me, looking brilliantly beautiful in a sweater and jeans. I can't help but wonder if she's wearing one of those sexy things underneath that sweater, which leads to a return of my damned imagination toying with that black teddy I found, which leads to a wave of heat passing through me, just what I don't need at this moment. If I'm going to get chewed out, it would be much more polite if I didn't have a hard-on at the time. "Dinner's going to be about another half hour," she says, "I just put the casserole in the oven." "That's fine," I say, surprised at how nervous I sound. She's being just a touch too nice, a touch too accommodating. Or maybe I'm just paranoid. It only takes a few seconds before she says the magic words. "Thanks for taking care of my plants, Mulder. I really appreciate it." I watch her eyes, her face. Not a sign of sarcasm, not a note of accusation. She sounds sincere. "Any time, Scully." I swallow hard to keep my voice from cracking. Scully studies me carefully, and for a second I'm sure she knows, then the look passes and she smiles radiantly at me. This is torture. "Um, Scully, I just thought I'd mention that while I was here, I saw a roach." I'm constructing the cover story on the fly, having just at this moment rejected the three possibilities I had planned ahead of time. Like this one's any better. "A roach?" "Yeah, one of those big mothers. It ran across your bedroom floor. Of course, I didn't want to just leave it, so I killed it for you." "How gallant of you, Mulder. Thanks. I hate those things." I know she's being slightly sarcastic, but I'm not sure if it's because she's stringing me along or she's simply making fun of my story. Now I just have to clarify a bit to close the case once and for all. "Yeah, I know. Anyway, it ran under the closet door, and that's where I found it. In the closet. That's where I killed it." Christ, I'm babbling. Could I have made that any more obvious? "In the closet?" she arches a killer eyebrow at me. "I see." "Yeah, I just didn't want you to think I was snooping or anything." I realize as the words cross my lips that I just went too far. If she had a seed of doubt, I just fertilized it. Damn it. "Why would I think you were snooping, Mulder?" She asks it in voice of innocence and curiosity, but I sense a smidgen of underlying sarcasm, just the slightest note. I blew it. I was free and clear and now I'm going to get nailed. "No reason, I just thought, well, that you wouldn't appreciate me going through your closet." "No, I wouldn't." The delivery is deadly serious. She knows. There is a long excruciating moment of silence. Scully looks at me, smiling, looking for all the world like a woman who is thrilled by my chivalrous killing of a roach. Then the kill shot. "What were you looking for?" Fuck. "I told you, Scully. A roach. It ran into your closet." I fiddle with the corners of the couch cushion, not really sure what I should do to make myself sound more sincere. "And you were looking for a roach when you went through the rest of my apartment too?" Oh boy, that woman sure can spot a con a mile away. How did she find out? Did she dust for prints for God's sake? I never should have played it this way. "How did you know?" I figure I might as well take the heat now. No sense in playing games. In some ways I'm glad to be rid of the secret which has been weighing on my conscience. I have, after all, seriously stepped over the line. "I didn't. But now I do." She flashes me a smile of triumph. I can't believe I just fell for the oldest trick in the book. Sucker. Scully looks at me, her smile fading quickly. I see something building in her eyes, something I don't like. I don't see it often, but having experienced it before I can never forget it. Scully's anger is lethal. Suddenly, she stands up. She grabs me by the hand and drags me off the sofa and into the bedroom. If I didn't know better, I'd think I'm about to get laid, but that couldn't possibly be. Not when she's angry like this. Actually, probably not ever. When we get to the bedroom, she drops my hand and heads for the closet, pulling the door open. Then she moves to the dresser and yanks every drawer wide open, followed by the nightstands. "There you go, Mulder. You can see everything. Is that what you wanted? Huh? What the hell did you think you were looking for?" Her eyes are flashing murderous threats, her hands on her hips. She's pissed. I can think of nothing to say, the innuendo that flashes through my brain luckily falling silent across my lips. This is definitely not the right time for it. "C'mon, Mulder." She pushes me toward the dresser. "Have a look. Go ahead." I resist the physical shoving she's giving me, pulling away from her hands. "Scully, cut it out. It wasn't like that. I was just curious." "About what? What did you think you would find? Secrets? Did you think I was hoarding mementos of you? All the cards you've ever sent me? All the notes you've ever written me?" She stops suddenly, her sentence falling off into silence. Hold on. Back the train up. "What did you just say?" She turns away from me and mumbles something that sounds like "Nothing." I walk around her so that we're facing again. "Scully, what the hell did that mean? How did you know I keep all your notes?" She looks flustered, confused. "I didn't. I was just making up an example." Scully can't lie, especially to me, and as I see the blush creep over her cheeks I know for sure she's lying. The fact that her anger has deflated as quickly as her words is another clear signal that she's just let a pretty huge cat out of the bag. "Scully!" I don't intend to shout but there's a note of desperation to my voice. Could she have gone through my belongings as well? How the hell did she find that box with her notes? It was in my closet for God's sake, not just lying around. She heaves a heavy sigh, then looks me straight in the eye. "When you were late one day and I was waiting for you, I kind of looked around." Her brows are knitted in concentration, like there's something intense going on in that analytical brain of hers. "I was looking for a pen," she adds. "A pen? In the closet?" That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Far more lame than my "I was chasing a roach" story. "No, I just sort of ended up there. Looking in the closet." "You little hypocrite!" I'm torn between righteous indignation and outright laughter. "You didn't have any problem nosing through my personal belongings, but it's cause for execution if I go through a few drawers?" She shrugs her shoulders. "Well, yeah, somehow that's different," she says thoughtfully. And then she starts to laugh, and I am laughing too. This is funny, after all. Sort of. I momentarily panic. What else did she find? I run through a catalogue of my belongings, my secrets. It's not like I willingly keep secrets from Scully. There are just things I prefer she not know about, things that have to do with her. Suddenly she is serious. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I really am. I know I shouldn't have done it. I just wondered, you know? I just wondered what you do at home, what you keep, what things you put away. I don't really know you. Not really. I don't know what you're like when you're not with me." I put my hands on her shoulders to show I understand, that we are in the same boat, always in the same boat, rocking like crazy but never actually tipping over. "I know, Scully. I know exactly what you mean. I just started looking through your things because I felt like I was learning about you, things that you would never tell me, that I could only uncover through evidence." "The truth is out there?" She laughs quietly, shaking her head in admission of our silliness, then she rests her forehead on my chest in affection. I wrap my arms around her and stand still, just sort of enjoying this rather perverse and unexpected moment in our history. Then Scully lifts her head and meets my eye. "Why do you have bottles of White Musk shampoo and stuff?" she asks suddenly, her mood turning just as suddenly from kidding to not-kidding. Yes, the truth is out there, but this is one truth I'd rather not face. I drop my arms from around her shoulders and take a step back, wondering if there's any possible way to get out of this awkward situation. "Uh, I don't know. I just have them. I like the scent?" It comes out as a question. She nods but says nothing. I am powerless to resist that look, that incredible look she gets when she's just waiting for me to spill something. "Okay, the truth is I bought them for you. Just in case . . . I don't know . . . just in case you were ever staying at my house or something and needed a shower. I thought it would be nice. It smells like you," I add, against my better judgment. "And the White Musk massage oil?" Boy, she really did snoop. "Wait, let me guess. Just in case I was ever at your house and *needed* a massage?" she asks quite seriously, but the smile tugging at her mouth gives her away. "Yeah, something like that." "Well, you never know, I guess," she says, shrugging her shoulders. She steps past me and closes the nightstand drawers which have been lying open all this time. I must say, I'm surprised at her comment. I'm usually the one with the snappy innuendoes. I suddenly feel extremely daring, still riding high on the adrenaline rush of our scrimmage and its subsequent teasing. I step around her and move toward the open dresser, pulling out the black teddy that I had found and examined during my sleuthing. "Just make sure you're wearing this when you come over for that massage," I tease, dangling it between us. "MULDER!" she reaches out and snatches it from me, hiding it behind her back. She looks amused, humored, with just a surface of annoyance that goes no deeper than the smile she can't quite control. "I cannot believe you went through my lingerie drawers!" "I was looking for a pen," I deadpan, echoing her earlier excuse. "And don't even TRY to tell me you didn't at least peek in my underwear drawers." She rolls her eyes in annoyance but then surprises me by laughing. Then, I watch something amazing cross her face, something brazen and wild. "I have one of these in green too," she says softly, pulling the black teddy from behind her back to look at it. "Just like it, but cut a little lower." She motions with her free hand to a point down between her breasts. Way down. Jesus Christ. I'm not sure what to say. I'm pretty sure anything I say will ruin this moment, this unbelievable moment in which, if I'm not crazy, I believe Scully is flirting with me. More than flirting. She's . . . What the hell is she doing? She just stands there looking at me, waiting for me to say something, I'm sure. There isn't a single word in my brain. Not one. I'm unable to speak. I try though, and what comes out is embarrassing. A sigh with, God help me, a moan. I just fucking moaned, or groaned, or something. Whatever it was, it just revealed my hand, which is, in fact, not exactly the body part I'm most afraid of revealing at the moment. My mind is inundated with images: Scully in my bathtub, Scully using her vibrator, Scully in that negligee at my apartment waiting for her massage. It's image overload and I am in deep, deep trouble. "Mulder?" I hear her voice, tiny and soft but cutting through the thick fog of desire that has surrounded me. "What are you thinking about?" she asks, placing her warm hand on my arm. I'm honestly not sure if she knows what she's asking. And if she does, well, things are about to take a fast and furious turn toward the unbelievable. "Nothing," I say, but it comes out more like a croak. I make a beeline for the doorway. I need to get out of this room, the bedroom. There's nothing but trouble in here. I feel Scully right behind me as I head for the living room. "Mulder?" she says, her voice quiet and unsure. I turn to look at her. Her face is a mixture of confusion and concern. And expectancy. She looks expectant. God help me. The realization settles across me, knocking my heart into a faster rhythm. There's only one thing to do. I take a deep breath and head straight for the front door. Yes, I'm a coward. I'm not taking any chances. I must be misreading her. Better safe than sorry. And she'd make sure I was very sorry, I have no doubt. I reach the door, then turn around to see that she has not followed me any further. "It's late. I'd better go," I hear myself say even though a voice in my head reminds me that it can't be any later than 7:30 and that we haven't even eaten yet. Idiot. She says nothing. That expectant face falls into what looks like disappointment. I must be wrong; I have to be wrong. I open the door, step out without looking back, then close the door behind me, gently, but somehow the sound of it is eerily final. The separation between us, a physical one now, gives me a desperately needed moment to think. I stand outside Scully's door and take a few deep breaths, trying to figure out what just happened. I decide to analyze it rationally. Was Scully coming on to me? Then her hand touching between her breasts, leaving a slight indentation in her sweater, a little dimple in the fabric. She had looked down at her finger, pointing to the imaginary décolletage, then she looked up at me without raising her face, her eyes turned up in a Bette Davis way that almost made me keel over. The whole thing was sexy as hell, and definitely not Scully. She had to have been coming on to me. On the other hand, "Scully" and "coming on" in the same sentence seems insane. She doesn't come on to people. She definitely doesn't come on to me. Not that she isn't capable, because she sure as hell is, but she just doesn't. The images swirl around in my brain. , indentation of sweater, begging eyes, expectant look. She WAS expectant. I didn't dream that. I didn't. Oh my God, Scully was coming on to me. Ninety percent sure I'm right, and knowing that if it turns out to be the other ten percent I'll be eating lead, I knock loudly on the door. Actually, I think I pound on the door, although I meant to knock patiently. In any case, the sound of it echoes through the hallway. I almost knock and run like my friends and I used to do when we were kids. Scully answers within seconds, though, leaving me no time to flee again. "Hi," she says with a smile. I'll be damned, she looks expectant. I'm ninety-five percent sure now. I clear my throat so my voice will be clear and not that croaky thing that's characterized everything I've said to her in the last ten minutes. "I'd like to see the green one." END __________ feedback to: sbarringer@usa.net (and yes, there is a plan for a fourth part, eventually). All my fanfic available at: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/2442 From: "Susanne Barringer" Date: Sun, 24 Oct 1999 16:34:08 -0400 Subject: Stripped (1/1) by Susanne Barringer Source: direct TITLE: Stripped (Snooping IV) AUTHOR: Susanne Barringer EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net ARCHIVE: Gossamer - this version instead of the list version. Anywhere okay with these headers attached. CLASSIFICATION: SR KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully Romance, Smut RATING: NC-17 SPOILERS: none SUMMARY: Part IV of the Snooping series. Mulder and Scully take snooping to a new level. ;) DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013, Fox. No infringement intended. NOTE: This is the last story in a series composed of "Snooping," "Sleuthing," and "Scrimmage" all of which are available at my web page: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/2442 This is intended to be part of the series, but if you're in it just for the smut (not that there's anything wrong with that), you can probably understand enough of this to get the gist. THANKS to the readers on whom I foisted this story in its rough stages so that they could reassure me it was okay--Sue, Kristen, Alanna, and Sharon. More thanks to Sue for pretty much making the whole thing work, to Kristen for suggesting many of the ideas, to Alanna for her ability to spot smut logistics problems, and to Sharon for general smut inspiration. ________ Stripped by Susanne Barringer I have no idea what possessed me on this particular night to decide to toy with Mulder's desire for me. Six years together and a thousand innuendoes tossed my way and I chose tonight to follow through. I don't know what it is, just something about the idea of him nosing through my things while I wasn't there, touching my belongings, stroking my lingerie--it all turns me on. Okay, not at first. At first I was absolutely livid. Yes, that's hypocritical because I had few qualms at all about making myself at home in his closet, drawers, and bathroom. All I know is, I came home and saw the closet door open and hit the roof. The watering can he left behind didn't help matters any. It was just sitting there in a place where he wouldn't have left it under any naturally occurring circumstance, tucked away in the corner next to my bookshelf. There isn't a plant within eight feet of that spot, no reason at all for him to be over there unless he was looking at things he shouldn't. I rejected my first impulse, however, to call him up and ream him a new asshole. No, he needed to suffer. He needed that guilt to fester for a little while, agonize over the knowledge that he had left behind clues, stress out over the idea that I might or might not have figured it out. By then I was so angry that I totally forgot that I had done the exact same thing to him. That seemed so different anyway, so far away from *him* going through *my* stuff, that I don't think I even made the connection. Then, at some point during our confrontation in my bedroom, it all became erotic. We were standing there, facing off, and I unintentionally let my own guilt slip. Something about that moment, about the two of us both willing to cross the line in order to find out more about each other, told me everything I needed to know, everything I had wondered about, regarding what Mulder and I really mean to each other. So, I said that thing about having a green teddy just like the black one he'd found, and Mulder freaked and took off. I guess it was stupid of me, but I honestly am shocked that he reacted quite that way, although part of me suspects that he's still standing outside the door trying to decide what to do. I confused the poor man, but he'll be back. I think. I don't even want to contemplate what it says about our relationship that we have to snoop through each other's belongings in order to feel like we really know each other. That is pathetic. But, when I went through Mulder's things and found that he kept all my notes, that he had photos of me stashed away like treasure, that he had bought massage oil with me in mind, well, I did know something then that I hadn't before. Which is exactly what brought us to this moment. As if on cue, there's a pounding at the door. I take a deep breath and realize this is it. He wouldn't come back unless he'd worked it all out in his mind, and my impulsive decision to take a chance is about to pay off. "Hi," I say, trying to be clear that it's okay that he came back. More than okay judging by my heart pounding and the dizziness I'm battling. He clears his throat and looks at me intensely. "I'd like to see the green one." His voice is controlled, strong, and he sounds a hundred times more confident than he did before, which only serves to send desire soaring through my body. Dear God, it really is going to happen. As it turns out, I'm already wearing the green one, the green teddy. I don't know why, exactly. There's no way I could have predicted that my intention to totally fry Mulder for his lack of respect for my privacy was going to end up this way, but I wore the green one anyway. Sometimes having something like that on is good for the attitude. Cosmo would approve, I think, of the lingerie I wear under my power suits. Mulder stands and waits, a look of panic suddenly crossing his face, and I realize while I'm standing here assessing my wardrobe choice, he's thinking I'm about to slam the door in his face. "I'm wearing it," I say quickly and the change I see in his expression drives the breath right out of me. He grabs me by the upper arms, pushing me backwards into the apartment. Then, without taking his eyes or hands off me, he kicks the door shut behind us. I do believe I have created a monster. His lips are on mine so fast that by the time I register that part, his hands are already grabbing my ass and pulling me toward him. He keeps pushing me backwards until my calves slam up against the coffee table and I hear magazines fall to the floor. Part of me wants to stop and pick them up, no matter how crazy that sounds, but then Mulder has pulled away and he's looking at me in a way I have never seen before and I think I'm about to detonate. As Mulder kisses me again, his hands wander over places I never thought they'd be. I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck and press myself against him so that I can feel him and I do my own wandering over the landscape of his lips, tongue, teeth. The magazines are forgotten until he steps on one, which slides across the carpet, sending him sprawling onto the sofa, then to the floor. He drags me with him and I end up on top of him. One of his legs is still resting at an awkward angle across the sofa and the other is pinned under the coffee table which is now lying on its side. He bursts out laughing, the shaking of it full in his chest which I feel against my breasts, against the lacy fabric of the green one. "Geez, Scully, your apartment is a mess," he says with a smile, attempting to untangle himself from the clutter. "Are you okay?" I ask, as he rubs the back of his head, his face a grimace of pain. I have a momentary flash of Mulder getting knocked out or breaking his leg before we get to the good part. Somehow that would seem entirely appropriate to our relationship. "Yeah, I just knocked my head on the table," he says. I bend down to plant a light kiss on his lips, and he reaches up to pull my head down, pressing up hard against my mouth. His tongue strokes against mine and I run my fingers through his hair and my mind drifts off to places unknown and uncharted. I am settled across his hips and as he struggles to get his leg free from under the coffee table I feel the hardness of his erection move against my thigh and I wonder how we've ended up like this so quickly after six years of pretending we never would. We're crammed between the sofa and the tipped-over coffee table and any major movement on either of our parts is likely to get one of us skewered through the head with a coffee table leg. I reluctantly pull myself up and off of Mulder to take us somewhere more comfortable and less dangerous before things get to the point where stopping becomes impossible. I take Mulder's hand and pull him to his feet, then turn toward the bedroom, picking my way around all the stuff from the coffee table now scattered across the floor. This is our second trip to the bedroom tonight, but this one couldn't feel any more different. Mulder's arm is around my waist and he pulls me tight against his side as we walk and this time our journey is all about passion instead of anger. The bedroom is lit only by the light from the living room and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but I feel Mulder's eyes on me as I turn to face him. I shiver with the knowledge of what is about to occur and how much, all of a sudden, I need it. Mulder steps toward me, his eyes darker than the darkness, but I move back away from his touch, grab the bottom of my sweater and peel it off to reveal the infamous green one. "You said you wanted to see it," I say, and my voice is deeper than I've ever heard before and I wonder if maybe it isn't coming up right out of the place that is burning in my center. The green teddy is, as I promised, cut low. Very low. So low that Mulder's eyes grow wide in amazement at the rounded cups holding my breasts up and apart, the neckline plunging down between them practically to the floor. "Fuck," he says with awe, which one wouldn't expect to be possible with that word, but something about it sends my mind reeling and I lose all sense of myself. "Yes," I answer, "That's the plan." I'm not quite sure where I'm getting these lines from because not only have I never talked like this but I've never particularly wanted to talk like this, but the effect is worth it as I watch Mulder sway on his feet and I worry once again that he's going to pass out on me. "Let me see it all," he says in a rough voice that reaches out and touches me between the legs, sparking a fire that sucks in my breath and makes it impossible for me to even think about playing games any longer and I realize that the conquest has begun and I have no desire to fight, so I reach down for the button on my jeans. We're only five minutes into this thing and already I'm shedding my clothes, not only willingly but in a hurry, and a thought dances at the back of my consciousness that in the past under these circumstances I've held onto my clothes as long as humanly possible as a barrier, as a way to give myself last minute opportunities to change my mind and back away, but now I'm in such a hurry to get my jeans off that I fall to sit on the bed so I can work faster, grasping the cuffs one by one to pull as hard as I can and get them the hell off. All I know is I want Mulder to see me, I want him to look at me dressed like this, I want his eyes all over me and I never until this moment knew how much clothes were a pain in the ass and it has, after all, been six years so I don't think I need to worry about any last minute changes of mind on my part and he damn well better not change his mind either but judging by the way he just stepped beside me to stroke my back as I wrestle with my jeans and if the bulge in his pants is hard evidence, so to speak, I don't think I have anything to worry about. When I finally stand up I realize that the small piece of fabric between my legs isn't nearly enough to hold the wet desire that I feel, and, in fact, there isn't enough fabric in the world to stop this, and Mulder's eyes take me in from top to bottom, all of me, wearing the goddamned green one that started all this, the green one I picked out with just this scenario in mind but not even remotely in mind as a real possibility, and then he looks up at me and he smiles and I melt into the puddle of wetness running through the center of my body, up up up up into my brain, my mouth, my lips, all of which I want on him now and I wonder how I've gotten to this point where I have totally lost my mind. But Mulder is looking at me like I'm a chocolate cheesecake and by God that's perfectly okay with me, and I think for a moment that perhaps I should be wearing a sign around my neck that says "Eat me," like in Alice in Wonderland and I think that Lewis Carroll would probably be rolling over in his grave at this particular usage of his story but then I remember that the evidence shows he was pretty much a pervert, in thought if not deed, so he just might think it was funny after all and that makes me laugh out loud and Mulder looks at me curiously and wonders what I am laughing about like some kind of Mad Hatter and oh shit the casserole is still in the oven but let the damn thing burn to a crisp because I'm not leaving this spot as long as I'm chocolate cheesecake and that makes me laugh again. I feel like I have laughed more tonight than I have in the last thousand years, and I have to wonder where these thoughts are coming from and what has happened to suddenly make me so insane and so not in control of my thoughts or feelings or the scorching heat between my legs or the trembling that Mulder's gaze is causing or the feeling that I absolutely must be fucked and I wish he would hurry up and eat me--I mean touch me--and touch me over and over and over until the cows come home or at least until I do and then Mulder looks up from studying my body and looks into my eyes and I see the cows coming home in a big way, and I know then that I could laugh for the next thousand years out of sheer joy at this moment and all of my thoughts zoom around in my brain and I can't really catch any of them and I end up saying only one word. "Mulder." And then he is pressed against me and his lips are all over me and his hand is between my legs and now I feel like I'm the one who is going to pass out because I have no breath, no thought, no nothing and there's all that zooming in my head but then for some reason I remember that this teddy has a snap crotch and for a moment I am embarrassed about how trashy that seems, but then I see Mulder's face when his hands fumble across it and I see in that moment that he just might love me more than he ever has and I hope to God it's not just because I have a snap crotch although I know him better than that so I decide the snap crotch is probably just a bonus added to my other fine qualities and he wastes no time unsnapping in any case and my knees give way when his hand comes totally onto me, warm and steady between my legs, and he has to actually catch me in his arms to keep me from slipping to the floor in a heap of need. And I feel myself in his strong arms and want to bawl my eyes out at how strong he has always been and how much I wish he didn't always have to be, but right now his tongue is battling desperately with mine and his hand is stroking me where I used to be snapped and I figure I'll worry about that another time, and he carries me to the bed and sets me down gently, so gently like crystal or porcelain or something equally fragile, and I so do not want to be fragile right now because I want to be taken rough and hard like this is the first and last time ever, though I say a quick prayer that it is really only the former and not the latter. And God his lips are hot against my neck, my shoulders, the part of my breasts rising above the teddy and his hand is still there and it hasn't moved away and if it does I think I might have to scream bloody murder, but no, he is not stopping and he is grinding his fingers into me in a way that can only be called phenomenal and I think about zooming cows and Alice in Wonderland and it all gets mixed up in my brain with the thought that all his clothes are still on and it's not going to work very well that way at least from my own experience. So I squirm away from that miraculous hand of his and kneel in front of him and grab his shirt and pull it up and Mulder laughs through his shirt which gets hung up below his ears, just like I am laughing, enough for a thousand years, and he undoes his button and fly while I complete the shirt removal and I can't help but grab him just as his jeans slide below his hips because he is so fucking beautiful and I want to know what he feels and tastes like and I touch him and revel in the softness and shape and gorgeous magnificence and I think of Alice again and "Eat me" and I figure that I don't really actually need that kind of invitation. Mulder is kneeling on the bed still trying to work his pants and boxers completely down below his hips but I stay on my knees and lean down to take him in my mouth like I am praying at some sort of shrine which I am in a way and I figure that to wait any longer is to deny myself what I really want which is ridiculous since he is kneeling right here in front of me, and it is standing there in all its full glory, and I really think I've never seen a man quite so perfect and if this isn't perfect then nothing can or will be so I might as well take a taste of sweet perfection and keep on praying. So I wrap my lips around his cock and take the length of him onto my tongue and tease him by tracing circles around him and then I draw him into my throat and then tease him some more and Mulder's hands stop their attempt at disrobing and fall onto my hair and he groans low and deep like he first did when I told him my green one was cut to there and I feel the vibration run through his cock and across my tongue which totally amazes me and is there anything in the world that feels better than this? Well, yes, as it turns out there is because Mulder leans forward over my back and curls his arm over my ass and his hand comes between my legs and his fingers find their place again and he begins stroking me in goddamn just the right way and with his cock in my mouth I feel like I am brimming, which reminds me of coffee for some reason and I imagine Mulder's cock tasting like dark coffee, strong and potent and with a definite kick and I taste the salty cream of the single drop of semen released in anticipation, coffee with milk, and god almighty the cows are coming home after all. And then his fingers reach inside me, deep inside where it is stormy and hot and I feel them touch my soul and there are lights and sirens and chocolate cheesecake and I feel the ocean surging and I'm not sure where I am but there is pressure and pain right where there should always be and all through me and I sense I am screaming but maybe that's the sirens and Mulder is huge and blistering in my throat and his fingers are stroking me inside and everything converges into a dark tunnel with bright lights in the middle and fire, heat, inferno spreading through my body and fuck fuck fuck. Then he pulls his hand away and pulls his cock from me and there is a rush of cold into the inferno and the taste of him lingers in my mouth like strong coffee, then flesh and movement and I am straddling him as he kneels and he tugs down on the teddy so my breasts are exposed and his mouth is rough and burning, teeth scraping my nipples and then his cock is right where I want it and I feel it just there and I press down hard to take him inside because I can't stand another minute of this and the sirens are way too loud or maybe that's the cows. And now he is hard inside of me like steel fire and I move down to take him as far into me as heaven and there are something like five or nine thrusts but I have no idea how to count anymore because I am coming with him inside of me, the whole thing seeming like it must be a dream because just a few seconds ago I was coming some other different way but this one works just as well and I grab his bare shoulders and ride him all the way and I hear voices, mine and his, clamoring over the rush of something in my head that sounds like a volcano, but, no, I feel like a volcano and the lava-heat runs through all of me and my muscles ache and I am slamming against him, his cock so damn hard and deep and he is slamming up against me and holy shit I hear him shout something but I know only my cries echoing through my body and between my legs and between his legs and the coffee-cream heat of his ejaculation deeper than the ocean inside of me and I feel my soul laugh and a thousand years pass in an instant. ***** When my thoughts clear and I am able to see again, I see him, his warm eyes staring at me and loving me and looking like he is in shock. I am, as I thought, sitting on his lap, although how we got this way I have no idea. But he is inside me, and that part is right, and the logistics of it are unimportant. He shifts to pull out and I think I want to object but I'm too exhausted to decide. His jeans are still pulled down only to mid-thigh, and he lifts me off of him and moves to a sitting position so he can remove them and his boxers. I feel silly for not having allowed him to do that earlier, but at some point I lost common sense, pretty early on I believe. I'm not sure I've even had one coherent thought since we entered the bedroom. Mulder tosses his pants and boxers to the floor then pulls me down next to him. He helps me remove the green teddy, which has bunched around my waist, so that we are both, at last, naked. He presses his long body against mine and I tuck my head below his chin and stare at the small tuft of hair that grows just in the center of his collarbone. Neither of us says a word for the longest time; there really isn't much to say after all and I am perfectly content to wait. "Do you know what I found when I went looking through your things, Scully?" he asks finally, his words falling like cotton balls into my hair. "What did you find?" It seems like ages ago that we had this conversation, but it was just tonight, not even a few hours ago. It seems like that was another person, another lifetime, another relationship entirely. "Your junk drawer," he says softly, and for some reason I am not totally mortified as I should be. "That one little piece of you that defies order and restraint. It was like proof that you could let go." "You think I'm too restrained?" I ask. "Scully, your shoes are in alphabetical order!" he says, tilting my chin up to look me in the eyes. "Yeah, well, no one's supposed to know that," I reply, knowing full well that there is something ridiculous about alphabetizing shoes. "So, is that what you were looking for? Proof that I could be unrestrained?" I ask, thinking how odd it is that he didn't know I was capable of that, even though I never particularly wanted him to know. "I think so, but I didn't know it at the time." "I think you found it tonight," I say, laughing and tightening my arms around him. There wasn't an ounce of restraint in what just happened between us, that's for damn sure. "Yeah, I guess I did," he replies, kissing me lightly. "Excellent snooping, Agent Mulder." And I laugh again because it feels so good to laugh, it has felt good all night, it feels like maybe the thing that has been missing for so long. Restraint be damned. Mulder pulls back and watches me laugh, then grins at me. He kisses me again, his lips brushing mine with the slightest of touches. It is a totally new experience after the desperate groping of the evening. "Do you know what I found when I snooped though your things?" I ask him, turning serious again for what I'm about to say. "What?" His eyes are dark as he looks at me, his hands stroke my arms and shoulders. "Proof that you loved me." He looks at me intently, honestly. "Is that what you were looking for, Scully?" "I think so," I answer, repeating his words to me, "but I didn't know it at the time." "I guess you found what you were looking for tonight too, then," he says smiling at me in a way that makes the heat rise between my legs again, and I start to think that maybe another round is in order. "We're damn good investigators," I say, impressed. "I don't know about you, Agent Scully, but I could use a little bit more evidence." He rolls onto his back to pull me on top of him and runs his fingers in feathery circular motions down my spine in a way that sends my blood pounding and I start to feel my thoughts squishing together again like waxy stars under a scorching sun and I begin to wonder if I will ever be sane again, not that it matters, because this kind of insanity is perfectly fine with me. "Evidence is good," I say, grabbing his bottom lip between mine and tasting it slowly and carefully like I have wanted to do for years but forgot to do earlier because I was distracted by other things. "Much better than crazy theories." Mulder says nothing, just gives in to my kisses, and my thoughts start to swirl in spiraling gusts of pleasure and heat as I feel the insanity beginning all over again. END ____________ Feedback? Please? sbarringer@usa.net All my fanfic available at: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/2442