TITLE: Tenancy Tendencies

AUTHOR: jeri

E-MAIL: ggal1116@yahoo.com

RATING: PG-13 (language)

CATEGORY: VRA

KEYWORDS: MSR, ScullyAngst, Scully POV

SPOILERS: straight on thru Requiem

ARCHIVE: Gossamer ok, everyone else ask me!

FINISHED: May 20, 2000



SUMMARY: Scully ponders her past and future through 

her living arrangements. 



**DISCLAIMER: I guess Chris owns 'em for one more 

year...I'm only 80 percent convinced that this 8th 

season is a good idea. It was only 60, but then 

David signed for half the eps, so that helped. Evan 

Walsh is a real human being who has absolutely no 

idea that he's in this piece of fanfic.



^*^*^



July 9, 2000



I got the call yesterday. I have one week to 

decide. One week to determine how my life will 

go on. *If* my life will go on.



I really didn't think I'd have to think about this. 

I took it for granted that it would always be there. 

As long as it exists, there's hope.



But now I may have my one bit of hope ripped from 

me. Evan Walsh, the source of my despair, has 

informed me that he's stopped receiving checks, 

and in a week, he's going to start accepting them 

from someone else.



Oh yeah. Evan Walsh is Mulder's landlord.



So, I stand in Mulder's apartment now, looking over 

the organized clutter that defined -- defines -- 

his life, trying desperately to figure out what 

fuck I'm supposed to do.



Well, first I should breathe. This isn't Mr. Walsh's 

fault. It isn't Skinner's fault, and it isn't even 

our fault, for a change. We both expected him to 

come home, especially since I sent a babysitter 

for him. And even when I heard the news, this wasn't 

the first problem that popped into my head. No, I 

was a *bit* preoccupied.



The Bureau can be a bureaucratic pain in the ass 

when it comes to benefits sometimes, but other 

times it makes more sense than anyone could possibly 

imagine. There's a program designed especially for 

single, mobile, apartment-renting agents like Mulder 

and me. It allows for monthly rent to be taken 

directly out of our paychecks, and automatically 

deposited to our landlords by the due date. This 

way, we don't have to worry about being caught out 

of town and away from our bank when the next 

payment is up.



Well, we get our paychecks every two weeks, and 

so even though Mulder had been gone for eight days, 

he still had a paycheck two weeks ago. But now, 

since he's officially AWOL, and not working, he 

doesn't get paid. The Bureau notified Mr. Walsh 

of this development, and he immediately called me, 

since I'm listed as next of kin.



Apparently, the lease runs out this month.



However, if I can get the next payment and security 

deposit in to him within a week, he'll extend the 

lease for another year.



And therein lies the problem. If I send the money, 

I'm locked in for a whole year, and I don't know 

if I can afford that.



If everything goes the way has in the past, that 

won't matter. Mulder will be back soon, and he 

can pay his own damn rent. But I can't be sure 

that this is going to turn out like before. They 

may perform horrible tests on him, and he may, 

like his sister, seek death as his only escape.



No. That's not going to happen. He knows I'd kill 

him if he died.



But back to my present predicament. I could handle 

two rents for a month or two, I know that. After 

Antarctica, Mulder and I set up a joint account 

with an online bank. There's about two thousand 

dollars in it, and that should just about cover 

the deposit and two months' rent. But after 

that...there's no way I can do it. And I don't 

have access to his personal bank account, either.



So, the way I see it, I have two choices: A) I 

tell Mr. Walsh not to expect the payment and find 

a storage facility that I can afford to hold as 

much of Mulder's stuff as possible, or B) give 

*my* landlord my two month's notice and just move 

in here.



Plan B isn't as outrageous as it seems. I used to 

adore my place. It was the one place that was 

always separate from work, from Mulder. Even after 

Eugene Tooms and Duane Barry invaded this space, 

I managed to claim it back. I exorcised those demons, 

and my apartment was safe again.



But lately, it's become less of a home, and more 

of a place to sleep and pick up mail. I hadn't 

really noticed, though, until Phillip Padgett. I 

mean, the crazy bastard moved next door to Mulder 

so he could stalk *me* better! I realized just how 

much time I'd been spending at Mulder's since the 

summer. Of course, I found nothing wrong with that, 

so I did nothing to change it.



When his mother...passed away earlier this year, 

that was the first night we slept together. As in 

sleeping in the same bed, at the same time. Since 

the start of the New Year, I'd staked out his 

couch several times, and once in a while he'd 

insist on taking the couch himself. By February, 

it was almost getting routine: I'd come over right 

after work on Friday, we'd watch some dopey movie 

(with beer, if it was an "occasion"), and I'd stay 

through the weekend. Then I'd leave mid-Sunday, 

stop for a late afternoon Mass, and see him in 

the office on Monday.



But once we finished the LaPierre case and closed 

the case on Samantha, I left his apartment even 

less. Even now, I still haven't gotten around to 

fixing my bedroom's closet door after Donnie 

Pfaster tore up that apartment.



I did spend about a week straight at my apartment 

after that stupid, Goddamn episode with Spender. 

I know I made a complete ass of myself, I didn't 

need two days of Mulder's silence to tell me that. 

He wasn't mad at me, really; he knew he'd done 

equally stupid things in the past. But he was 

still hurt by it. We both realized we needed some 

space, so I reluctantly went back to Georgetown. 

Then we had that God-awful stakeout, which in 

retrospect was good; by the time he was called 

away to Vermont, we were pretty much back to our 

latest definition of normal. When he got back, I 

repacked my most essential possessions and headed 

back to my home in Alexandria.



My legs are starting to cramp, and I realize I'm 

still standing in the living room. I take a glance 

at my watch, noting with a bit of surprise that 

it's almost eleven. I've been standing here for 

two hours almost. With a sigh, I move into the 

bedroom, rolling my neck around to get the kinks 

out.



The bed looks terribly lonely tonight. Only my 

side is messed up, unlike the usual disorder we 

leave it in. It's so strange, sleeping alone again. 

I've found myself waking up constantly since he 

left, always with a chill along my back. I feel 

tears come to my eyes. 



It's not like we'd been making love for a really 

long time or anything. It would have been just over 

three months, but since he's been gone for almost a 

month now...




But we'd agreed that first night, after I poured 

my heart out to him about Daniel, that taking that 

step would be tantamount to creating an Eleventh 

Commandment: Thou shall stay as one forever. It 

was above and beyond the commitment marriage vows 

held; any betrayal would come at the ultimate cost, 

and there could be no chance of forgiveness.



His absence now is not a betrayal. Of that I am 

positive.



I strip off my clothes and sink into bed. I stare 

up at the ceiling, and I remember that I still must 

make a decision.



As much as this is home to me now, I can't help 

but see the equally sensible reasons behind giving 

this up. What if, God forbid, he doesn't come back? 

Or what if he comes back changed? If I were to give 

up my apartment, where would I go if he didn't want 

me...us...here with him? I know, if that were to 

happen, and I just put all this in storage, he'd 

have no problem finding a new home, far away from 

this one. Should that happen, I would be devastated, 

but his rejection would be a betrayal, and I know 

I'd have to let him go.



And if he were never to return, how could I live 

here in this constant reminder of him? Surely I'd 

go mad with heartache and the stress of not knowing. 

Like I won't have enough of a reminder with me.



My eyes are beginning to droop, and I know I won't 

be awake much longer. I want to make this decision 

tonight, so I have plenty of time to get the money.



I roll over on my side, facing away from the window 

like always. The glowing numbers on the clock taunt 

me, changing deliberately slowly, dragging out 

the night.



And then I see it. The way the light catches the 

tiny imperfections in the wood of the nightstand. 

I reach out to trace the pattern with my fingertips, 

fondly remembering the rainy afternoon when he 

insisted on carving our initials into something. 

To break in his newest Swiss Army knife, he claimed. 

I knew for a fact that the knife was at least four 

years old, but I played along, letting him guide 

my hand as we cut into the wood:



#11 - M + S = 4ever



Below that is the worst attempt at a heart that 

ever existed, but we laughed because we knew what 

we meant.



I sigh. I've been letting myself get carried away 

with my tendency for what-iffing. As I run my 

fingers over the message again, I tell myself that 

he is coming home. I will find him. And we'll pick 

up where we left off, but not like nothing has 

happened. No, we can't do that. I smile softly, 

brushing my hand over my abdomen.



Tomorrow, I'll give the Bureau my new address.



THE END



^*^*^



4 out of 5 doctors say expressing your enjoyment 

of a fanfic to its author increases your life 

expectancy 23-23.8 years. The other doctor was 

killed by Cancerman before we could ask him.



jeri quinne, president, xpab (x-philes against bees)

Gain membership by writing to: ggal1116@yahoo.com