Summary: Scully's thoughts in a first person POV
Author's Webpage: http://www.geocities.com/mulderz_girl
Author's note: This story takes place before Mulder and Scully ever "got
together", if they even did get together (I'm taking "all things" and
"Requiem" into account ;-) )
I can't sleep. Under normal circumstances, I would be in dreamland
seconds after my head came into contact with the pillow. Tonight,
however, is an unfortunate stray from my involuntary routine. There
isn't anything in particular which is bothering me... It's more of a
compilation of various thoughts on the previous day's events, which
seemed to be wracking the interior of my grey matter.
I let out an irritated sigh as I roll onto my back. My mind is swirling
with questions. <i>"Why did Skinner assign us such a tough case? . Why
must Mulder always be so insistent on following dead leads? . Why did he
give me that look today?"</i> I breathe heavily and roll to my stomach.
I rest my chin on the pillow. <i>"Why is he always right?"</i>
I allow a rather unimpressed groan to escape my throat as I place my
feet on the carpeted floor beside my bed. I fumble for the light-switch
on my bedside table, knocking a glass full of water to the floor in the
process. Fortunately the carpet had saved the glass from splintering.
I bend to the glass with an outstretched hand, and misinterpret the
distance between my forehead and the bedside table. "Ow!" I yelp, as I
press a hand to my head.
"Okay. okay. I'm fine." I mutter aloud, as I brace myself to stand. I'm
not sure to whom I am speaking, but that had never stopped me from
reassuring myself before. My thoughts turn back to Mulder. He would find
this situation so funny. Here I am, his normally self-reliant, collected
partner, clumsily knocking things to the floor and causing myself bodily
harm. Moreover, here I am reassuring <i>myself</i> of the fact that
I pace to the kitchen, trying to concentrate on my footsteps, instead of
the dull throbbing which is emanating from the skin of my forehead. I
half blindly open the freezer door in search of ice with which to reduce
That figures. No ice.
I begin to move articles of food out of my way in search of something,
anything, to cool the pain of my head. My eyes focus on a tube of frozen
cookie dough. That sounds incredibly good right about now. I contemplate
removing the tube from my freezer and eating it raw, when a sudden
pound of my forehead reminds me of the actual reason why I am standing
infront of an open freezer.
My eyes scrutinize the rather empty interior. I can see pork chops, ice
cream and a bag frozen peas. Frozen peas. That will do. I grasp the bag
and realize, perhaps just a little too late, that the ice formulating on
the outside of the package is very, very cold. Inadvertently, the bag
slips out of my hand, landing on no other than my baby toe.
The pain sends me reeling. My toe throbs in rhythm with my forehead, as
I grasp my foot in my hand and settle down to the floor. I lie there for
a split second, silently chastising myself over the stupidity of the
Suddenly, my thoughts stray from the intensity of my pain, as I am
interrupted by the ringing of the phone.
After a few seconds I stand. I hobble over to the phone, which,
fortunately, is no more than three steps away. Still, it takes me at
least three rings before I reach the receiver. I lift it off its stand,
and raise it to my mouth, which involuntarily releases a sharp sigh.
He doesn't miss a beat. "Did I wake you?" He pauses slightly and,
cutting off my response, adds "How did you know it was me?"
I glance at the glowing green numbers on my microwave, and respond "Who
else would be phoning at 3:47 a.m.?"
I hear a pause on the other end. I wonder whether or not he is
contemplating a witty retort. If he has one, he decides to keep it to
himself, as he eventually avoids my response entirely.
"Scully, you know that case we're working on?"
I sigh openly. "Yes."
"I think I have a new lead."
Of course he does. Of course he thinks to call and tell me about it at
three-thirty in the morning. I put on my best uninterested visage. I
hope he can sense it through my response. "Mmm hmm."
I realize that in talking to him I have momentarily forgotten the pain
of my foot. It returns with a vengeance when I mistakenly stub it on the
underside of the chair in which I am attempting to sit.
I stifle an outcry and manage with a restrained "Ouch!"
I hear Mulder's voice on the other end. "Scully, are you okay?"
I speak through clenched teeth. "Yeah. I'm fine."
Hearing confirmation of my well being, he continues with his previous
line of thought. "Well, about the case. can I come over?" That is one of
the things about Mulder which I so dearly admire. he always heads
straight to the point. I laugh in spite of myself.
"What?" he demands. He sounds a little offended.
"Never mind." I could imagine Mulder being one of those pushy, clingy
kids whom I never wanted to befriend. The kind who always invited
themselves over to your house, stayed for dinner, and were generally
difficult to get rid of.
"Well?" he inquires.
"Yeah, I guess."
"Okay Scully, I'll be there soon."
I glance around my apartment. It's a little too untidy for my liking. Oh
well. Mulder is probably too caught up in his case to even notice. I
gaze down at my clothing. I had managed to throw a robe over my silk
pajama set. My hair is messy and tangled. I can feel it.
Oh well. What does he expect? I'm not a movie star. As much as I wish, I
do not roll out of bed with my makeup done and my hair in perfect
To prevent myself from further accidental injury, I convince myself to
remain seated until Mulder arrives. However, I defy my wishes a minute
subsequent to forming them, when a grumble of my stomach wills me to the
I open it, seizing the tube of cookie dough. I tear the package open
with my teeth, as I grasp a spoon from the cutlery drawer. I manage this
round trip - from my chair to the freezer and back - without causing
additional bodily harm. I foolishly pride myself on this realization.
I attempt to dig a spoonful of the frozen chocolate-chip dough. This
proves to be a more difficult task than I had originally perceived. All
I manage to extract from the mass are a few ice crystals. I reason that
further excavation attempts would most likely only warp my spoon. On
that account, I resolve to place the packet in the microwave, which,
hopefully, will leave the dough more malleable.
I press the "Time Cook" button, followed by "2" and "0". I stand close
by, watching the package undergo the radiation process, incase the
plastic decided to melt or anything else would incite a similar
"Beep! Beep! Beep!" The microwave sounds with its annoying tone. The
words "ENJOY YOUR MEAL" flash across the screen as I press the door
eject button, and remove the package.
I hear a knock at the front door, so I pace to the entrance of my
apartment, and turn the knob. Mulder stands in the doorway. He has a
folder in his hand. He nods a hello and gives a genuine smile. I smile
I notice that his gaze has dropped to my hand. I suddenly remember that
I am still holding the tube of frozen cookie dough. I catch his gaze. He
raises his eyebrows in question, a slight smile on his lips.
"I was. uh. just about to bake cookies." I stutter. Thankfully, I left
the spoon the kitchen. I do not wish to explain to him the fact that I
was about to delve into a package of raw cookie dough at four in the
"At four in the morning?" he inquires.
I am caught off guard. "Huh?" I falter stupidly.
He frowns slightly. "Bake cookies," he says. "You were going to bake
cookies at four in the morning?"
"Oh! Yeah." I feel moronic for not being able to come up with any other
explanation. Avoiding his questioning gaze, I turn and walk to the
kitchen. He follows me in.
He places his folder on the table. "Do you want any help?" he asks.
"Baking cookies." he adds quickly, as not to cause me additional
confusion, I suppose.
I turn to face him. "Sure." I respond.
He nods briskly. "Do you have any."
"Cookie sheets?" I finish his sentence for him, hoping to have recovered
from my initial sluggishness.
"Yeah." He says.
"Yeah." I answer, pulling one from the drawer behind me. I hand it to
Mulder. He eyes it, twirling it in his hands. It takes him almost
dropping it before he opts to place it on the table, beside his folder.
I pull a knife from a block on the counter and begin slicing the
now-moldable cookie dough. Mulder watches me. I silently pray that, in
my current clumsy stupor, I will not slice off a finger.
I keep my eyes on what I am doing, as I inquire: "Mulder, do you want to
grease the pan for me?" I don't leave him leeway to respond before
adding, "There should be a container of margarine in the fridge."
He obeys. Baking cookies with Mulder at four in the morning. This is
definitely a first. I turn to face him as he omits a slight chuckle.
"What?" I ask.
"He looks back at me. Oh, I was just thinking, Scully."
Of course he was. "About?" I ask, inadvertently sounding seemingly
He shakes his head slightly. "Baking cookies with my partner at four in
the morning. That's definitely a first."
"Yeah." I respond simply. I realize that this is the primary difference
between Mulder and I. He voices his thoughts, while, more often than
not, I keep mine to myself. I have been noticing lately the startling
similarities between our two lines of thinking.
There is a pause for a second, before Mulder speaks. I can sense him
staring at me, and I know he is about to ask me something. He is very
predictable. I think. Maybe, just in spending so much time with him, I
have a deeper understanding of his psyche. I come to the realization
that most people would not label Fox Mulder as "predictable".
I stop slicing the dough, but I do not turn to face him. "Yes?"
He pauses for a brief moment, then shakes his head as he speaks a word
or two under his breath. "Um. how long do cookies take to bake?"
I pick up my knife and continue slicing at the remaining slab. "Not
long. Ten minutes, maybe." <i>That wasn't what you were going to ask
me.</i> I think that thought almost instinctively. I analyze what I have
just surmised. I realize that I could not even venture a guess at what
it was that he was initially inclined on asking me. However, I could
sense that what he did ask me, was not what he had wanted to say.
I believe that this is the unfortunate basis for our relationship. Words
left unspoken. Usually, more often on my part than his, but the existent
basis nonetheless. It is unintentional. At least, this is what I will
myself to believe. Why do I do it? I keep so much from the person to
whom I am closest . I continue to distance myself. from the man I love.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head briskly. I had tried to stop
myself before I had even formulated those words inside my head. Why? Is
it fear of commitment? Or fear of simply being deserted?
I am suddenly startled as Mulder speaks. "Okay!" he exclaims
mock-excitedly and clasps his hands together. "The pan is all greased!"
"Good," I say "because, I have finished slicing the dough." I motion
with my head towards the spot at which I am standing. "Bring it over
He stands beside me, placing the cookie sheet on the counter. I can feel
the warmth of his body next to me. It feels unexpectedly welcoming.
I begin to place the cookie slices on the tray. Mulder mimics my lead.
It doesn't take long before the pan is filled. Mulder steps back as I
place the tray in the pre-heated oven, and close the door.
He watches intently for a moment before inquiring "Now what?"
I look up at him. "We wait."
He repeats my statement. "We wait. And watch?"
I nod. "Yes. Unless, of course, you like the taste of burnt cookies."
Mulder's eyes glow with a reminiscent tinge as he gazes upwards, fishing
a memory from the depths of his mind. He licks his lips involuntarily.
"Actually, when I was a kid, I always liked the burnt ones. Maybe it was
me, stuck in a childlike version of going against the crowds." He smiles
and continues. "Or, maybe I just liked the crispy texture. I can't seem
to recall which it was." He looks at me and we both smile. "Either way,
I always had to fight Samantha for the burnt ones. I think she just did
it to spite me."
I can't help but smile. Children of that age are so typically vexatious
and unintentionally cute. "Maybe she just wanted to be like her big
Mulder nods, honestly considering the thought. "She was quite a bit like
me. She was like. a little eight-year-old girl version of myself. Not so
farfetched, is it Scully?"
I chuckle slightly. "Well, I for one, like my cookies golden brown." I
try to concoct a quick reasoning behind it. "Mulder, were you one of
those children who stuck their marshmallow directly into a flame and
blew it out after the whole thing caught on fire?"
"Yep Scully, you got me down."
"Yeah? Well, I was one of those children who would find a glowing log
and slowly roast my marshmallow to a golden brown."
He pauses for a second and takes in a quick breath before asserting "It
could be a metaphor for our lives, Scully."
I look at him. "How so?"
"Well, I kind of rush into things. You are opposite in that you take it
slow and particular. You pay attention, and take into consideration,
every last detail. You never jump to conclusions. Everything is slow,
like the marshmallow roasting, in that it is justified and
second-guessed, quantified and qualified to the umpped-degree.
I rush into things. This is similar to the way I just kind of shove that
marshmallow into the fire. I'm not afraid to take chances. Compare this
to the fact that the marshmallow is now a ball of fire, and I'm watching
it burn. For me, there's no time to take it slow. I'm the type jump to
I raise my eyebrows as I gaze at him. "Wow, Mulder, that's an amazing
analogy. I never expected that my entire life could be summed up
according to the manner in which I roast my marshmallow."
He shrugs. "Well, they say that you learn something new everyday."
"That's true. But, you know what I've always wondered?"
He shifts his position. "What?"
"Who is 'they'?"
I chuckle. "The people. Those who coin these phrases. Where are they
Mulder gives me a bemused look, and adds quietly "That was a very
'un-Scully-like' thing to say."
I'm not sure whether to be offended or intrigued. I am soon saved from
any response, however, as I notice that the kitchen is beginning to fill
with smoke. I turn off the oven and open the door, removing the cookies.
Most are relatively dark in colour. I glance in Mulder's direction.
"Looks like you got your wish." I say, motioning towards the tray. He
I emit a bothered cough, and, waving smoke from my eyes, crack open a
window. Mulder stifles a laugh.
I sit down at the table. Mulder grabs a few cookies and sits down beside
me. He forges a concerned demeanor. "Not much of a pastry chef, are we
I roll my eyes. "Hey, don't lay the blame on me. You were supposed to be
watching them too." I remind him.
He takes a bite of a cookie. "I like 'em burnt, remember?"
I raise an eyebrow.
"Hey, how did you do that?" he suddenly asks. I need not question him as
to what he is speaking about, because his inquiry is soon accompanied by
his careless reaching out and tapping of my forehead.
"Ow!" I exclaim, as I gently caress the area. I opt for the cliched
explanation. "It's a long story."
Mulder, seemingly, does not take cliches at face value. He grins. "We
"What about the case?" I nod towards the folder he has brought. I am
suddenly more interested in the details than I had previously
anticipated that I would be.