Title: Nice House

Author: Jssangel (Jssangel@aol.com)
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers:  Redrum
Classification: Vignette, Angst, Implied MSR
Archive: Gossamer is fine, anywhere else just ask.
Disclaimer:  I'm not the surfer with the leather couch fettish
Feedback is always nice.
Summary:  He has a house?


What?!!

He has a house?!

He has a back yard, and a bicycle, and a kitchen with food in it, and
windows that let in sunlight.

He also has a mysterious picture of a child in his wallet, and dark
wood trim along his baseboards and windows, and even a leather couch.
But somehow none of those things have prevented him from having a house.

He has a house.

I am repelled by it.  I covet it.  I want to break in and sneak around,
investigating his potted plants and sizing up his closet space.  I want
to demand to know where his family is.  It seems wrong that he has a
home like this with no wife, no child, no dog, even, to back it up.

I had a dog and I didn’t have a house.  I had a child and I didn’t have
a house.  Now I am having another child, though I am not a wife, and
all I have is two achingly empty apartments.

You have to have a family to deserve a house.  That’s the deal!  That’s
the reward!  That’s the way it is on naval bases all around the
country.  Bill didn’t get a house because he made Captain, Bill got a
house because he made Husband and Daddy.

I listen to a closet door open and close upstairs as he moves around.
How does he fill up all this space?  How does he fill those closets?
He isn’t a packrat.  He travels with a bag even smaller than mine,
drops first drafts of progress reports into the paper shredder without
a backward glance, and throws away ticket stubs.  How can his life be
so full that it has expanded to the corners of the closets in a two
story house?  How can my life be so empty that it can be compacted into
a single bag, always in the trunk of my car, packed and ready in case
the Gunmen tell me to run?

A wave of heat rushes over my body and  I’m suddenly furious.  My hand,
tucked in the pocket of my too-light fall jacket,  crumples the scrap
of paper  scribbled with his address.  God damn it!  I hate him!  I
hate him for being my partner, for not being Mulder, for taking up the
space that belongs to someone else!  And he’s probably a plant - from
the Consortium, or from Kersh, or from a fucking alien race, or maybe
even the IRS! - and he’s doing nothing but take up my time and distract
me and get in my way when I could be out searching if there wasn’t
someone dogging (ha!) my footsteps everywhere I go!...and  I hate his
fucking potted plants that are watered when they should be watered and
not just when I am there to rescue them from certain death, and I hate
his clean floors and neat desk and leather couch that hasn’t rubbed
against my back and caressed my cheek and smelled like Mulder even
though he’s gone and ...why does he have a home?!!  Why does he have
this, when I am so lost and desperate...and it probably isn’t even
bugged!...and no one has ever broken down the front door, or broken in,
or died in crack of gunfire and a river of blood...and -

and...

and...

And I’m panting - trying not shake with rage and envy and grief as I
stand next to John Dogget’s front door.  I hear him on the stairs, and
he is already speaking as he comes around the corner.  I think he is
talking about his friend, who has been arrested, and how  he doesn’t
trust the prison doctors, and he knows his friend was hurt....

I am composed by the time he reaches me.  He opens the door for me,
and stands aside to let me leave ahead of him.  I glance back as he
closes it, catching one last glimpse of the calmly ordered world inside
before he shuts it firmly and locks it carefully.  I think he must see
my intent look because he turns his casual glance into his usual
challenging stare, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“Yes?  What is it, Agent Scully?”

I turn and start down the steps towards my car.

“Nice house.”







Sent via Deja.com
http://www.deja.com/