From: jenbird72@verizon.net   
      
   DISCLAIMERS: Good gravy, hasn't the statute of limitations run   
   out yet?   
   SPOILERS: Orison   
   RATING: PG   
   CATEGORY: S/A, no keywords   
   ARCHIVE: I'm sending to Ephemeral, and via there to Gossamer.   
   Everyone else, please ask first.   
   SUMMARY: "There all the things are waxen neat, and set in decorous   
   lines."   
      
   COMMENTS: Last week I dragged my big ol' storage tub of X-Files   
   tapes out of the closet and watched a few episodes. God, I miss   
   that show! When it was good, I mean. Back in the days when the   
   "monster of the week" was Pusher or Donnie Pfaster, instead of a   
   banana slug or Burt Reynolds. Remember that? Ah, good times.   
      
   Thanks to Michelle Kiefer for a great beta, and to Kestabrook for   
   the recommendation.   
      
   Send me feedback, or I'll run you a cold bath:   
   jenbird72@verizon.net   
      
      
   "Her mind lives in a quiet room,   
   A narrow room, and tall,   
   With pretty lamps to quench the gloom   
   And mottoes on the wall.   
      
   There all the things are waxen neat   
   And set in decorous lines;   
   And there are posies, round and sweet,   
   And little, straightened vines.   
      
   Her mind lives tidily, apart   
   From cold and noise and pain,   
   And bolts the door against her heart,   
   Out wailing in the rain."   
      
   -Dorothy Parker, "Interior"   
      
      
      
   WAXEN NEAT   
   By: Jennifer Maurer    
      
   A week has passed since you shot and killed Donnie Pfaster, and   
   you can't take it anymore: you beg Mulder to go back to work.   
   You've been staying at his apartment since what you'll refer to   
   only as "the incident," and he hasn't let you out of his sight,   
   except to go to the bathroom; even then, you suspect, he's   
   hovering right outside the door, although you haven't caught him   
   at it. Yet.   
      
   "Mulder, go," you coax him, "There's no reason why both of us   
   should sit at home waiting for OPR's decision. You know you're   
   dying to get back."   
      
   "Not without you, Scully."   
      
   But in some ways he is, you can tell. The first two or three days   
   he was chivalry itself, letting you pick everything from what to   
   eat to what to watch on TV. He dabbed antibiotic ointment on the   
   cuts on your back, pestered the police every day to be done with   
   your apartment, and even took you shopping for a few things you'd   
   forgotten to bring with you when you left.   
      
   Mulder has gradually settled back into a more normal level of   
   interaction, good-naturedly squabbling over wanting to watch ESPN   
   and couldn't we eat something besides Chinese or Italian tonight,   
   Scully, please?   
      
   Still, all the niceness is starting to get to you. You appreciate   
   it, but feel, sometimes, that you don't quite deserve it.   
      
   Mulder's never this nice unless something terrible has happened,   
   which it obviously has. But you want to start moving on, put it   
   behind you. A part of that is things going back to normal. Or at   
   least as normal as they can be, until OPR and Karen Kosseff clear   
   you for duty again. If you can't be back in the field, watching   
   Mulder go back is the next best thing, you decide.   
      
   "I don't want to leave you alone," he says. "I'm still worried   
   about you."   
      
   "I'll be fine," you reassure him, "And I promise I will call you   
   if I need you."   
      
   This promise from you, unheard of in your entire time with   
   Mulder, is what finally gets him out the door the next morning.   
   He stops with one hand on the doorknob and looks back at you.   
   You're on the couch with a cup of coffee; you smile at him, and   
   make a little shooing motion with your hand. The smile, you can   
   see, is further reassurance to him, and he returns it before he   
   goes.   
      
   You're sick of the morning shows by now, and they're not nearly   
   as much fun without Mulder around to make amusing comments. You   
   attempt a quiet, lazy morning sipping coffee over the paper, but   
   the rustling pages sound too loud in the quiet apartment, and the   
   ink stains on your fingers reminds you of things you'd rather not   
   think about just now. You finish the pot of coffee just to have   
   something to do, although you know that much caffeine is only   
   going to make you jumpy now and irritable later.   
      
   It's the act of folding the paper back together that gives you   
   the idea: you're going to clean Mulder's apartment. God knows it   
   could use it. A cursory check of the cabinets under his kitchen   
   and bathroom sinks confirms your suspicions: Mulder keeps very   
   little in the way of cleaning supplies around. You're slightly   
   amazed he even has a vacuum cleaner. You rub your hands together   
   and think: this might even be fun. He'll certainly be surprised.   
      
   You're making a list of supplies when the phone rings. Three   
   guesses who it is.   
      
   "I think I should come home. There's too big a risk of me getting   
   into trouble, being here by myself."   
      
   "I'm sure enough stuff has piled up on your desk to keep you   
   occupied. Besides, I was just about to go out, myself."   
      
   "You were?" Mulder sounds inordinately pleased at this. "Where?"   
      
   "I'm just running a few errands. Nothing exciting."   
      
   "Scully, listen, whatever you need, I can pick up for you on my   
   way home."   
      
   "Mulder, it's about time I went somewhere other than a review   
   board or therapist's appointment. I can do this."   
      
   "Okay. I guess I'll see you tonight, then."   
      
   "Yes, you will. Behave yourself."   
      
   You hang up on Mulder's whine of "that's no fun" and finish your   
   list. You feel slightly ridiculous at how much this idea has   
   lifted your spirits, but you're actually looking forward to   
   cleaning this place up and seeing Mulder's surprise when he gets   
   home. He's done so much for you. This is one small thing you can   
   do in return. You actually like to clean, in a way; setting   
   things back in order, scrubbing them until they shine has always   
   soothed you. Melissa thought you were nuts, but you thought your   
   father, with his love of Navy rules, understood.   
      
   You want to get out and about. Drive your car. Go to the   
   supermarket. Things normal people do. You can't be an FBI agent   
   for now, and while you've never been much of a domestic type, it   
   seems to be your only other option of keeping busy. So off you   
   go.   
      
   You return with three bags of supplies, including laundry   
   detergent to wash the sheets on Mulder's bed, where you've been   
   sleeping for the past week. Mulder insisted he prefers the couch,   
   but now you're determined to give him back his bed with clean,   
   sweet-smelling sheets. For years you've been in the habit of   
   changing your own sheets right before you go out of town on a   
   case, so you have fresh ones to come home to. It's a wonderful   
   feeling, sliding into your own clean, soft bed after days of   
   lumpy hotel mattresses and scratchy hotel sheets.   
      
   Mulder should experience this feeling, you decide.   
      
   You strip the bed and take his sheets, along with a few random   
   other bits of clothing scattered around the room, down to the   
   basement laundry room. Back upstairs, you roll up your sleeves,   
   snap on a pair of rubber gloves, and dive in.   
      
   The next few hours pass in a haze of scrubbing, polishing, and   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)