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 thing 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 <jenbird72@verizon.net>





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 


tidying. You fill Mulder's bookcase back up with books and 


magazines he has left scattered on every flat surface. You dust 


corners that probably haven't seen the light of day since you 


started working with him. You put his kitchen in spotless order 


and then go back to the basement to bring up an armload of warm 


linen, fresh from the dryer, and make his bed with military 


neatness. You examine his shirts, decided you don't have time to 


hunt down his iron, if he has one, and tackle his bathroom 


instead. 





By the time you've finished, using your last ounce of elbow 


grease against the soap scum in his tub, you are exhausted but 


also satisfied with a job well done. As you watch the last of the 


rinse water swirl down the drain, you realize that it's the 


longest you've gone without thinking about Donnie Pfaster...and 


that for once in the past week, leaning over a tub did not 


terrify you.





Your back, still not healed from your beating at Pfaster's hands, 


screams in pain as you rise from your knees and try to straighten 


up. How long were you down there, scrubbing the grime from 


Mulder's bachelor tub? You're not sure, but your back says it was 


too long. A brief twinge of fear shadows your satisfaction. 


Spending the whole day cleaning suddenly seems less like planning 


a surprise for Mulder and a little more like an obsession someone 


such as Donnie Pfaster might have.





<No!>





Your last task is to put Mulder's new stash of cleaning supplies 


neatly away. He may never touch them again, but at least they'll 


be there should some of your influence rub off on him. You 


hobble, still bent over, to his couch and settle back with a long 


sigh, a heating pad tucked behind your lower back. You take a 


deep breath, enjoying the lemon smell of furniture polish, with 


just a hint of bleach wafting in from the bathroom. These are the 


smells of your own home, of all the homes you grew up in, and on 


that comfort you drift off to sleep. 





You dream of countless moving days as a child, helping your 


mother and sister pack and unpack, over and over. In the dream 


you all work hard, but your body doesn't hurt. You could do this 


all day, tidying and sorting and making each new place feel like 


home.





You hear your mother calling to you from somewhere in the house, 


but she doesn't call you by your first name. 





"Scully. Scully?"





You drag your eyelids open, turn your head towards the sound. 


It's Mulder, kneeling down next to the couch, looking at you with 


concern.





"Hey, did you see what I did?" you ask with a sleepy smile.





"Scully, I've been trying to call you. Why didn't you pick up?"





"Oh. I guess I fell asleep. What time is it?"





"After six. I just got in. I was calling to see what you wanted 


to do about dinner."





Still smiling, you hum in contentment and pat Mulder's arm. This 


"old married couple" routine that you've fallen into is rather 


alarming to your sense of independence, but a comfort just the 


same.





With popping knees Mulder hauls himself up off the floor and sits 


down on the edge of the couch next to you. You scoot closer to 


the back to make more room for him.





"It's hot," he says in puzzlement, putting his hand down between 


your bodies. "Why is it so hot?"





"It's what? Oh, the heating pad. I have it under my back."





You shift again and you can feel the heat stinging the cuts on 


your shoulders. You grasp Mulder's shoulder and haul yourself up 


into a sitting position, click off the heating pad, and let it 


slide off the couch onto the floor. You lean against Mulder 


companionably. In the twilit apartment, still shaking off sleep, 


it seems a perfectly natural thing to do.





"Your back bothering you that much?" Mulder asks, drawing gentle 


circles on it with his fingertips.





"Not because of..." you make a vague gesture over your shoulder 


meant to indicate the cuts from the mirror. "I had a busy day 


today. Didn't you notice?"





He looks around.





"Notice what?"





"Here, you need the lights to appreciate the full effect." Before 


Mulder can stop you, you swing your legs around him and get to 


your feet. You shuffle over to the desk lamp and switch it on.





"Ta da."





"Ta...da?" Mulder echoes, still not seeing it. 





"Mulder, come on. Take a deep breath...anything smell different?"





Mulder complies. 





"It's kind of...oh, you cleaned up a bit, huh?" he asks.





"'A bit'? Mulder, I scrubbed this place from top to bottom."





As soon as the words are out of your mouth you wish you could 


take them back. Mulder's hesitant look, a combination of 


uneasiness and pleasure, only reinforces that feeling. You're 


thinking he's not sure whether to be flattered you went to all 


this trouble for him, or seriously concerned about your state of 


mind.





"I even cleaned the...bathroom," you finish in a whisper, and 


stare at your feet. Why the hell did this ever seem like a good 


idea? You feel like the worst kind of fool now -- a sad, pathetic 


one. You open your mouth to try and lighten the moment with a 


weak joke, but Mulder beats you to it with some false happiness 


of his own.





"Aw, Scully, I'm sorry. I should have noticed right off the bat. 


Let me go take a look at the bathroom."





You don't follow him as he walks off down the hall. You just keep 


staring at your feet, tears stinging your eyes. You will yourself 


not to let them fall. By the time Mulder comes back into the 


living room, your eyes are dry again, your lips pressed into a 


thin line. 





"Damn. Not only can I see my face in the mirror, but in the tile, 


too. You do good work, Scully."





"Don't patronize me," you mutter, still not looking at him.





"I'm not. Everything looks great. You obviously put a lot of 


effort into this, and I appreciate that."





"Don't talk to me like that!"





"Like what?"





"Like...that!" you say, waving your hands at him, angry that 


you're unable to find the words for what you mean. "Like you feel 


sorry for me. Like I'm some sad recluse and you're throwing me a 


crumb of praise for some stupid housework."





Mulder crosses the room to stand before you and put gentle hands 


on your shoulders. When you still refuse to look up at him, he 


slides his fingers under your chin and tips your head up. You 


tense and back away from him, not out of anger, but because his 


gesture reminds you too much of another time when he did this 


very same thing...





The first time you encountered Donnie Pfaster.





God, you're sick of thinking about that bastard.





"Scully, don't.." Mulder says, reaching for you again. This time 


you resist the urge to flee. Mulder slides his hands down your 


arms to clasp your hands in his own.





"Don't think I'm not grateful for all the work you've done around 


here," he says, ducking his head to try and catch your gaze; you 


reluctantly peep up at him through your eyelashes. "Because I am. 


This place hasn't looked so good in years."





At this last statement, a corner of your mouth quirks up in the 


beginning of a smile; Mulder notices and relaxes visibly.





"It's just that...I'm concerned about the reasons why you felt 


you needed to do this."





"I *wanted* to do it. I wanted to do something nice for you. To 


say thank you for...letting me stay here."





"Scully, you don't have to thank me for that. For any of it."





"I know. But I still wanted to. I needed to do something 


*useful*, Mulder, and this was the only thing I could think of."





You look him full in the face now; in your tone is a plea for him 


to understand. Mulder looks like he wants to say something more 


for a moment, then sighs and lets it go, dropping your hands as 


well.





"How about Thai for dinner?" is all he says.





The evening eventually falls into the same pattern as the others: 


dinner, TV, some inconsequential talk, then bed. No talk of 


Pfaster or the OPR hearing or your uncertain status as an FBI 


agent. Tonight, however, you insist on taking the couch, and send 


Mulder off to his own bed. If he notices the clean sheets, he 


doesn't comment on it.





The next morning finds Mulder at home again; you give him a look, 


but he just makes some vague comment about "working from home 


today." He does in fact fire up his laptop and make every 


appearance of working, but you know he's really there to keep an 


eye on you. You sit quietly and flip through the TV channels, 


determined to appear as normal as possible. The thought makes you 


smother a smile. Mulder probably wouldn't know normal if it 


walked up and bit him on the ass. Sitting around doing nothing 


all day isn't normal for you, either, but apparently it's what 


Mulder expects of you right now.





That afternoon, your cell phone rings; it's the Georgetown 


police, calling to tell you that your apartment has finally been 


released as a crime scene. You have mixed emotions about this: as 


comforting as it's been to stay with Mulder, you miss being in 


your own surroundings. On the other hand, the thought of facing 


the mess your struggle with Pfaster left behind makes you feel so 


weary. Part of you is ready to rush in and start another clean-up 


job; the rest of you would like nothing better than to hang with 


Mulder at his place for, say, the rest of your life. You thank 


the detective, hang up, and turn to Mulder, who of course has 


been watching you the whole time.





"That was the police. They're done with my apartment. I can go 


home whenever I'm ready."





"Are you ready, Scully?"





Maybe he expects you to want to leave right this minute. Another 


day of doing nothing much has left you lethargic, though, and 


your back still hurts from cleaning Mulder's apartment yesterday.





"Maybe tomorrow," you say, turning back to the TV. You can feel 


Mulder's eyes on you for a long time, but you won't look at him. 


Finally he turns back to his work.





The next day, Mulder goes back to the office, and expects you to 


ride with him, but not to work. You have an appointment with 


Karen Kosseff, another session of mandatory counseling. Your 


appointment isn't until the afternoon, though, and Mulder is 


leaving much earlier than that.





"Why don't you ride in with me, sit in the office and keep me 


company until your appointment," he suggests.





He means well, but the suggestion is a slap in the face. You're 


good for nothing but "keeping company" right now; you can't do 


any real work. You contemplate what your future could be like if 


OPR determines that you're not to fit to work for the FBI ever 


again. You can't spend the rest of your career, or what's left of 


it, sitting in the basement keeping Mulder company. Yet right now 


you can think of nothing else you'd rather do, if you can't work, 


than to watch him. Work vicariously thought him, you might say.





"Thanks, Mulder, but no. I was thinking I might go home for 


awhile before I see Karen."





He is instantly full of concern again; is that pity you see in 


there, too?





"Why don't you wait, and we'll go over together after work. I 


don't want you to try and do all that yourself."





Do "all that." Clean up that mess, you think. He doesn't want you 


to clean it up by yourself. The mess that you made. 





"I just want to take a look around," you tell him, "See what 


needs to be done. I won't be long. After my appointment, maybe we 


can grab a late lunch."





The invitation, another uncharacteristic gesture on your part, 


once again seems to reassure him. You may not be handling this 


quite the way he'd like, but at least you're not completely 


shutting yourself off from him, either. Mulder agrees to your 


plan, and leaves for work.





You stay seated on his couch for another hour after he's gone, 


your fists tightly clenched to keep your hands from shaking. You 


can do this. It's your own apartment, for God's sake. Nobody, 


least of all Donnie Pfaster, is going to drive you out of it. 


It's your home, and you want to go home. So you're going.





You pull up in front of your building, glad that it's the middle 


of the day and most of your neighbors won't be home. You don't 


feel quite up to facing either their expressions of sympathy or 


suggestions that you move out of the building; you're not sure 


which to expect. 





You walk inside and take the elevator to your floor, trying not 


to remember that the last person to make this trip was Pfaster. 





No, it was Mulder, when he came to save you and you shot Pfaster 


right in front of Mulder's eyes.





<What made me pull the trigger?>





<You mean, what if it was God?>





<I mean, what if it wasn't?>





You're wrong again, you realize, when you see the yellow crime 


scene tape across your door. The last to make this walk would 


have been the police and paramedics. You had no memory of Mulder 


calling them, but suddenly they were swarming your apartment, 


asking questions that you couldn't begin to answer. 





What were you doing all that time, before they arrived? Just 


standing there, watching Pfaster bleed out in front of you?





You can't remember, now that you think about it.





You're still standing outside your door, growing angry at your 


own hesitancy. This is not some sort of sacred or profane place. 


It was briefly a crime scene, and now it is your home again. Your 


home. 





You reach out with a hand that trembles only a little to rip the 


tape from the door and fit your keys into the locks.





The door swings wide and your first thought is, this is what 


Mulder must have seen. He was here, by the door. Pfaster was over 


there, behind the couch. You were nowhere in sight, not at first. 





Pfaster turned to watch as you came down the hall towards him. 





Mulder's voice, though the haze: "Did he hurt you?" 





Pfaster's eyes hidden in shadow, just two black pools in his 


face. 





You wondered if he would change forms again. You *wanted* him to 


change so Mulder would see it, too: this man, if you could call 


him that, was more than a man. 





He was evil. He needed to be destroyed. 





In that instant you knew, somehow, what he had bragged to 


Reverend Orison: "You cannot kill me."





"*I* can," you thought. And you did.





"Go back to hell!" you shout to the empty apartment, as you 


shouted it to Pfaster when he had you pinned to the floor. You 


slam the door shut behind you.





You take your coat off very slowly, to give yourself time to 


collect yourself before you begin your walking tour of the wreck 


of your home. You hang it on the coat rack, take a deep breath, 


and turn around to face it.





It's just as bad as you remembered it. Worse, maybe.





Right in front of you is a large bloodstain that marks the spot 


where Donnie Pfaster fell. Where he died. You hadn't really 


thought about that until this moment: that monster died in your 


home.





The rug is probably going to be a total loss.





You can't take your eyes off the stain as you inch off to your 


left, making your way to the kitchen. Finally you tear your gaze 


away and look around. No damage here; in fact, nothing much is 


different, except for the fingerprint dust all over the counter. 


You read in the police report what Pfaster had laid out on the 


counter, with surgical precision: poultry shears, knives, plastic 


bags filled with ice. 





Ice to keep your severed fingers cold.





Mulder tried to stop you from reading the police report, but you 


insisted. Now you wonder why it was so important. You didn't need 


to read the report of what had gone on here. You lived it. You 


can see it all still.





Giving the bloodstain a wide berth, you make your way down the 


hall, stopping in the bathroom on your left. The candles were 


blown out days ago, but the bathroom still reeks of their mingled 


odors. You slowly gather up all the candles in the room and drop 


them into the trash, one by one. Pfaster was careful; there's not 


a drop of spilled wax, that you can see. 





You resolutely push away the thought that Pfaster apparently 


liked things neat, just as you do.





The tub is half-full of water, the bubbles long gone flat. You 


know, without even testing the water, that it will be ice cold. 


You can't bring yourself to reach down in that water to pull the 


plug from the drain, so you leave it alone. 





Leaving the bathroom, you continue down the hall to your bedroom. 


The door has been left wide open, and even before you enter the 


room you can see the mess. 





You stop in the doorway, staring at a thousand reflections of 


yourself in the shards of mirror that litter the floor. You 


shiver and cup your elbows in your hands, feeling the scabs from 


the cuts you sustained, crawling across the shards to try and 


reach your gun.





This is going to be the worst to clean up; you just know, no 


matter how many times you vacuum, you'll never get all the bits 


of glass. Inevitably, you'll find more when you step on them in 


your bare feet.





With slow, crunching steps, you make your way over to the 


bookcase in the corner. You reach down and pull it upright, 


letting the rest of the books spill out with the others already 


on the floor. You push it back against the wall.





After a moment, it falls down.





When you lift it again, you can see the problem; the frame has 


been bent, and the bookcase isn't stable enough to stand on its 


own. Deep down, you know this will have to be discarded, too, but 


still you stand it back up, pressing it tight into the corner as 


though the force of your will can keep it standing.





As soon as you let go, it falls again.





You reach down blindly and fling the bookcase back up against the 


wall with a bang. It crashes back down, leaving dents and chips 


in the wall from your furious effort to make it stand.





You can't do this, you think, as you turn and flee the bedroom. 


There's too much. You'll never get this place cleaned up. You 


don't even know where to start.





Back in the living room, you stop short, having almost stepped in 


the bloodstain. This is a problem with a simple solution: scrub 


the stain out. You decide the chaos of your bedroom can wait for 


later. You'll do this one thing now, and the rest can wait for 


another day.





Unlike Mulder, you are well stocked with cleaning supplies, and 


you take out a brush and the carpet cleaner. You have one of 


those small machines that will steam stains out of carpet, but 


this feels like a job that should be done by hand. 





Atonement, maybe.





You spray the stain with cleanser, using the entire bottle in the 


process. What was a blotch of sticky brown is now a cloud of 


white foam. As you let the cleanser soak into the carpet, you 


again entertain the though of just rolling up the rug and 


throwing it away. Your stubborn streak refuses to let you give up 


without a fight, however, and so after the prescribed amount of 


time, you go down on your knees and start scrubbing.





It's not a short or simple process, cleaning such a large stain 


that has set for so long. You scrub in neat circles, watching the 


rusty stain fade to pink under your brush. The steady rhythm you 


keep allows your mind to wander, going over thoughts you have 


worked to avoid this past week.





That instant you knew Pfaster was in your closet, you threw 


yourself against the door but he was too fast and strong for you.





The horror that you felt when he whispered, "I'm going to run you 


a bath," was so overwhelming that all you could do was scream.





You saw your gun under the bed through the crack under your 


closet door, tantalizingly close. 





Your heart beat furiously as you crawled across broken glass for 


it. 





You wondered what Pfaster was doing now: had your bath filled, 


was he coming for you, would he get there before you were free of 


your bonds? 





He came into the bedroom and you froze, but he kept going, back 


into the bathroom. 





Then the music stopped and you knew your time was at hand, knew 


the struggle had narrowed to a fine point of good versus evil. 


Only one of you was going to survive this fight, and it sure as 


hell wasn't going to be Donnie Pfaster.





"Scully!"





You scream, fly up off your knees and over backwards, scrambling 


away. You can't stop screaming. 





You wonder if you ever really stopped, even after it was all 


over. 





"Scully, it's me! It's Mulder! Scully!"





It really is Mulder; he's down on the floor next to you now, 


prying your arms away from your head so you can see him. You 


stare at him, unable to speak, your screams trailing off into 


panting. He doesn't say anything more, just gathers you into his 


arms. You keep your arms crossed against your chest, unable to 


reach out and hold him back.





"How did -- how did you find me?" you stammer when you finally 


get your breath back.





<His mother used to own the house. Willed it to the sisters.>





"Karen Kosseff called me when you didn't keep your appointment. I 


came right over when you didn't answer the phone."





You never even heard it ringing.





"Are you all right?"





You just shake your head. You can't get any words out.





"What happened here, Scully?" he asks. You pull away from him 


enough to look over his shoulder at the bloodstain. 





"I came home to clean up this mess," you whisper. There seems to 


be nothing more to say. You look down at your hands; blood is 


caked under your fingernails.





Mulder cups your face in his hands and raises your eyes to meet 


his. This time you don't pull away. Instead you finally let the 


tears come, and wrap your arms around Mulder to cry into his 


shoulder.








~*End*~





So, how'd I do? Feedback me: jenbird72@verizon.net