Room 312
by Maureen B. Ocks (

Disclaimer:  Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and all other familiar X
Files characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and
FOX.  No copyright infringement intended.

Archive -- Sure, as long as my name stays with it.
Spoilers:  Through the movie with a U.S. Season 6 rumor.
Keywords:  Scully musings/stream of consciousness

I wrote a vignette and got some really nice feedback.  Thank
you all.  Several folks wondered what Scully was thinking while
Mulder was musing in "Pocatello".  This is my try at Scullyfic. 
"Pocatello" isn't required reading for this.  

PG13 for language

AmeriTel Inn, Room 312
Pocatello, Idaho

I loved that suit.

It survived a frogstorm in New Hampshire, an all-night flight to
Alaska, an FBI hearing to get my job back, a trip to get Mulder
back from an Iowa hospital, a trip to get Mulder back from
Paterson's planned hell, my first trip to the oncologist, several
blood tests and MRIs, a trip home from the hospital, a run
through the Michigan mud, Texas vampires, still more Mulder-
madness in a Midwestern suburb and the fiery death of the X-
Files office.  It also survived hundreds of changes from business
suit to scrubs in a variety of morgue scrub rooms, business suit
to packed pajamas in seedy hotels, business suit to sweater and
jeans in my apartment.

I loved that suit.

And it is covered with cow manure.

Mulder and I are in about the most depressing place we've ever
been and that is saying something.  Our new assignment,
Domestic Terrorism, has us here in Pocatello capturing one
Jimmy John Davis who tried to buy anthrax with -- get this -- a
secured Visa card he got from watching Joe Bob Briggs on
TNT.  He used his AOL account to make
this transaction over the internet.

I have no idea what Jimmy John was going to do with his
planned purchase.  Here's a scary thought -- lethal chemicals in
the hands of a man who found ninth grade so interesting that he
did it twice.

Mulder was in rare form.  He doesn't suffer fools gladly.  If
Jimmy John tripled his IQ, he'd be a low end fool.  Mulder
asked Jimmy John if he knew how to pronounce anthrax
because it was Beavis's favorite band.  That was one of his
gentler questions.

Mulder figured out where Jimmy John kept his hidden anthrax
stash.  He figured out the one place the "big city F. B. of I
Agents" -- Jimmy John called us that in his confession --
wouldn't think to look.  I don't even want to know why Mulder
thought a barn stall with a large cow would be a great hiding
place, but he knew.

As I sat in the car making flight plans back to DC, Mulder
worked on getting our awful smelling suits home.  After we put
them in garbage bags he charmed out of housekeeping, he
planned to Fed Ex them to the Hoover Building.  

Oh, and he put his old office number on the address slip, "Force
of habit Scully".  

I can just see it now -- Jeffrey Spender weighing which is
worse, this hideous smelling box sitting in his badly lit, poorly
ventilated basement office or walking it to Mulder's and my
rather large new office on the 4th floor.  Hmmm...boggles the

Despite his one true moment of enjoyment today, at Spender's
expense, Mulder hates this.  His Pennsylvania pleas for a rural
life without modern conveniences aside, Mulder is lost without
taxis, bright streetlights and four lane highways.  There is
nothing like seeing a true "city boy" in wingtips and what had to
be a $600.00 suit walking around in a barn.  

Mulder's aliens would have been more at home here.

Mulder also hates Domestic Terrorism.  His "hunch" in Texas
which saved a building full of people belatedly brought us to the
attention of the FBI brass.  After they decided we wouldn't
hang for finding the right building, we became Domestic
Terrorism's Wonderteam.  The FBI couldn't transfer the two
agents who saved 500 lives to a quiet basement division -- no
we're back on the bureau's fast track.

And Spender, who Mulder probably hates most of all, has the
one thing that means anything to him, the X Files.

I take that back.  I've learned there are things that means more
to Mulder.  

He's being a good boy -- OK, a good boy for Mulder -- lately. 
We are racking up the success stories, we are playing well with
the locals and we are building a bank account of favors.

We're playing the game so we can win.  

And we will win, because losing is unthinkable.

Lately things have opened up between Mulder and me.  A blast
from his past, Diana, made me reassess what Mulder was to me. 

Partner -- yep; friend -- the best; the only man who ever truly
respected me for my mind, my skills and my abilities -- we have
a winner.  

My Father adored me, but thought joining the FBI was a bad
decision, a waste of all he and Mom invested in me and colored
every thing we ever shared after that.  Bill loves me, but thinks
everything I've done since Dad died was Mulder's idea.  Both
thought I failed them but couched their disappointment and
disrespect in wanting the best for me.  Mulder never dreams I'll
fail and know my success -- our success -- is the best for me.

Diana also made me reassess what I was to Mulder.  An anchor
weighing him down, a guaranteed no when he needed a yes, a
noose around his neck.

Well, not that bad.  But Diana thought like him, had his
background, worked with him before I did and they shared
something more.  I thought maybe he wanted all of that back,
tiring of working too hard for what was easy for him
professionally and Hannah Hooters in "There's Something
Inside of Mary" personally.

Mulder's startling hallway confession after I threw in my papers
is still the strangest thing that has happened to me in the six
years and that is also saying something.

I made him a whole person.  

Jesus Mulder, where did that come from?  

Actually, I should have seen that coming.  Weeks earlier he told
me I was his one in five billion. It was manipulative but oddly
heartfelt.  Before that, he wanted to tell me his role in an FBI
sting, but Skinner said no.  Mulder was for full disclosure and
sharing with me.  


Mulder uses the word trust the way most men use the word
love.  Rarely.  And yet, he's told me I'm the only one he trusts. I
keep him honest.  

God, honest -- I'll be honest.  

I mean more to Mulder than anything.  He fought my mother
and my sister because he knew I would survive and because
leaving was not an option.    He traded his sister for me because
he needed me and thought he could have his cake and eat it too. 
He traded the DAT tape so I could be with my sister because of
all people he knew what it was like to lose one.  He almost
traded his sanity and his future to help me beat cancer because
again, leaving was not an option.

As for me, honestly, nobody has respected, engaged, infuriated,
challenged, pleased, educated, annoyed or fascinated me more
than Mulder.  I taught Mulder as I learned from him.  I showed
him proof based on science -- something I love -- and he
showed me the stars, the heavens and the possibilities out there,
something he yearns for.

He called me one night -- oddly enough leading to another case
with manure a few years ago -- and mentioned I wasn't one to
stare at the skies and think about life out there.  Well, I wasn't
when I met him, but I find myself doing it more now.  Not
necessarily because I think there are things "out there", but
because of the beauty and tranquility that is there.  Mulder
showed me that.

And I realize I've shown Mulder things.  Before the hearing
where he implicated Blevins, he said that I would stop him from
doing the wrong thing.  Not that I'd stop him, just stop him
from making a mistake.  

That was the voice I should have listened to when I saw Mulder
with Diana.  

That was the voice I should have listened to as a ran from his
apartment after Dallas.

That is the voice that speaks to me now because Mulder's spent
the last year letting me in.

Or letting me in, Mulder style.  I brought wine and cheese to his
room one night, hoping to have a nice long conversation with
him.  He ran off into the woods with me at his side.

One night later, he's hurt, I'm trying to light a fire and we're
having conversations about death, life and Betty Rubble's
breasts.  I figured something out that night as Mulder slept and
I sang "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall".  Mulder and I don't do
normal conversation well but put us in an odd place with danger
all around and we're a pair of Chatty Cathys.

So now I'm here and Mulder is two rooms down.  If I had wine
and cheese I'd bring it to him but I don't think accounting wants
to hear why Mulder and I were in the Idaho woods looking for
mothmen's Northwestern cousins.  

I want to talk with him soon though.  Talk about the near-miss
kiss and that after we've checked for bugs -- both bees and
listening devices -- I'd like to try again.  I'd like to talk like we
do when its life and death when its just life and life.  Finally, I'd
like to tell him that despite the hell we've been through over the
last few years, I wouldn't change a thing.  

Even the flukeman thing.

Looking, and unfortunately smelling, my suit in the Glad trash
bag, I remember one last thing about this blue Donna Karan. 
Of all things Mulder and I have been through, the oddest thing
of all happened in that suit.  A strangely shy Mulder asked me
to dance one night when I wore that suit. 

I should have retired it there and then -- it was the best day that
suit ever had.


Feedback would be greatly appreciated