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

_____________

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