Title - Mulder Being Stupid, or, The Cabana Boy in Scully's Closet
Author - Cyra (ccontryman@ups.edu)
Rating - R or NC-17
Classification - SRA
Spoilers - Milagro
Keywords - Mulder/Scully romance.
Summary - Sometimes, Mulder is a real genuis.  When it comes
to Scully, however...
Disclaimer - Yeah, I don't own them.  Whatever.
Archive - please, anywhere.  Just let me know.
Author's notes - Okay, so Mulder probably isn't this dumb.
But guys can be pretty silly sometimes.  As can girls, but
we won't go there.
I am planning a sequel to this story, but I'm pretty stumped,
so it may be a while.  Be patient. :)

***

*Who is he?*

The thought tormented Mulder.  Day and night, he pondered, 
wondered, picked through his memory for a clue.  Scully was 
no help at all.  She acted as she always had, not even a 
little quieter for her experience, while Mulder racked his 
brain for the answer.

Who had Padgett meant when he said, "Agent Scully is already 
in love?"

It began to affect his work, which was an X-File unto 
itself.  Something that could take Fox Mulder's attention 
away from his work?  But Scully could do it,  every time.

It all began innocently enough.  He had been looking through 
her address book for the phone number of a source - one of 
the *official* ones whose numbers they could afford to have 
lying around - and he saw the name "Ambrose Figueroa."  Who 
in the hell was Ambose Figueroa?  What the hell kind of name 
was Ambrose Figueroa?  Was he some sort of a spicy Latin 
lover that she kept on the side?  Did he come to her 
apartment in the middle of the night and play the cabana 
boy?

Okay, so this was getting ridiculous.  Little green men 
didn't foster even half the paranoia that Ambrose did.  But 
Mulder, even as he recognized this, didn't hesitate to scour 
her address book and check out each and every male name that 
he didn't recognize.

None of them panned out.  Academy friends who had since 
married - somehow he didn't think that Scully was a 
homewrecker - old seamen who had served under her father, a 
couple of neurosurgeons.  Knowing Scully's track record with 
neuros, he didn't think she'd go for one of them.

She was good.  Not a trace of cabana boy's identity - even 
Ambrose turned out to be a father of three with a balding 
head.  And so, with a kind of helpless compulsion, Mulder 
proceeded to systematically invade his partner's privacy in 
search of the bastard's name.

He got into the habit of checking out her internet bookmarks 
and her last page visited when she went to the ladies room.  
They were usually medical reference pages or internet 
bargain basements - she had a thing for scented candles.

As soon as he figured out her email password - it took him 
three days, when it finally occurred to him to use "Emily" - 
he started to check her email.  Still no luck.  Daily 
messages from her mother, Charlie, and the obligatory 
professional newsletters and replies.  

Mulder was going out of his mind.  He had to know who the 
guy was so that he could kill him.  Remove his reason for 
pursuing Scully and then start systematically extracting his 
sensory organs... *stop it!*

Ordinarily, Mulder went about life with at least a modicum 
of good sense.  I mean, sure, he chased little gray men and 
theorized about fat-sucking vampires, but he could recognize 
the difference between a BLT and a Reticulan.  And usually, 
he was able to control his feelings for his cute little 
partner.  It had become a necessity after that day in the 
hallway, when she had gotten too close and been burned by 
the destructive fire that was Fox Mulder's life.  He 
couldn't let anyone know how much he loved her.

But he had to know who she was in love with.  It was eating 
him up.  It was stripping him of his sanity, or what was 
left of it.

Finally, one day, he had dropped by her apartment to work on 
a case - *yeah, right, Mulder,* he thought as he slipped his 
key into her lock - and found her not home.  But the lights 
were on and a candle was burning, so he figured he could 
wait.  And while he waited, what was wrong with looking 
through her video collection...her bookshelf...under her 
bed...the bottom drawer of her bureau...bingo!

It was her sock drawer.  As much as he would have loved to 
check out the others and solve the old nylons-or-stockings 
mystery, he found a little cloth-bound book underneath a 
pair of gray argyles and knew he'd hit the mother lode.  
Placing himself strategically so that he could see the front 
door but she couldn't see him, he hunkered down on the floor 
and began flipping through pages.

The entries were all short and undated, as if she wrote when 
she had a spare moment.  They were all about *him.*

*I looked at him today and had this incredibly vivid image 
of us on a beach at midnight, naked, covered with sand.  I 
shut it down before that particular image could take hold, 
but it kept coming back.*

Damn.  It *was* a cabana boy.

*His hands drive me crazy...his shoulders...his back.  What 
I wouldn't do to be able to run my hands all over those 
muscles, get some sort of a sense of how they would look 
looming over me as he took me.  Oh, God, I want him.*

Mulder paused.  Was Scully saying that this man wasn't her 
lover?  He was just some guy that she lusted after from 
afar?  He flipped ahead several pages.

*What would he say if he knew?  Some part of me thinks that 
he would kiss me and hold me and take me off to bed, and 
another thinks that he would be horrified, try to talk me 
out of it.  Or worse, pity me.  I can't take the risk.*

Jesus, Scully, what kind of an idiot would do something like 
that?

*I can't stop remembering that day at his building.  It 
almost happened.  He seemed to soften, and I thought for a 
split second that he was beginning to realize how much I 
loved him.  But no.  Reality always intervenes.  Still, I 
replay that moment over and over...the feel of his hands on 
my cheeks, his breath against my lips...*

He could remember something like that, too.  Except that it 
was him holding her close, not some phantom.  Not some 
schmuck who couldn't even recognize what a prize he was 
giving up.

*That bitch.*

Just two words.  He frowned, startled, and began riffling 
through the pages, looking for references to a woman.

*She's got him by the balls, I can feel it.  God, why can't 
he see that she's playing him for a fool?  My fantasies are 
beginning to revolve around breaking into her apartment and 
strangling her instead of breaking into his and ravishing 
him.  Oh, God, what if I do just that and find him with her? 
I won't be able to take it. I'll die.*

He was beginning to hate the woman himself, despite the fact 
that she seemed to be the biggest obstacle between Scully 
and cabana boy.  Funny... Scully being the other woman.  
What a moron this guy was.

*I'd die for him.  Why doesn't he see that?*

Because he's an idiot, Scully.

*I'm right here, waiting for him.  Every breath I take I 
think of him.  And he's oblivious.  Oh, God, what would he 
do if I just went for it?  I could go over to his apartment 
tonight, knock on the door and invite myself in.  I'll take 
a bottle of wine.  Get him drunk, maybe...no, I'd rather 
have all his facilities intact.  That's it - I'm going.  
Before I change my mind.*

That was the last entry in the book.  He touched the ink and 
it smeared under his fingers.  The thought that she was at 
this guy's house, trying to seduce him, was enough to tie 
Mulder into knots.

The door opened.

Mulder dove towards the bureau and stuffed the journal back 
inside.  Scully was entering the apartment. She was wearing 
a suit, but her briefcase was absent and she was 
carrying...a bottle of wine.

Lord help him.

She walked into the kitchen, and Mulder took his chance to 
dive under her bed.  If she caught him here...

She checked the answering machine, then gave a loud sigh 
when she found there were no messages.  "God, I am such an 
idiot," she muttered to herself, putting a hand to her 
forehead.  "Damn, damn, damn."

When she headed towards her bedroom, Mulder could swear his 
heart was beating loud enough for her to hear.  She went to 
her bureau and pulled out the diary, then flopped down on 
her bed.  For several minutes, there was only the sound of 
her pen scratching, and then she all but threw the book to 
the floor.  "I hate you," she whispered to herself.

Mulder hated him too.  If he found out who the bastard was, 
he'd be drinking his meals through a straw for the rest of 
his life.  He eyed the journal, which was lying just inches 
from his nose.  He shifted, wondering if she was in a 
position to see if he snagged it.

She sat up in bed and started stripping off her clothes.  
Mulder's eyes widened when her bra and underwear were flung 
into the corner.  He had always pegged Scully as one of 
those people who hung up their clothes mere seconds after 
taking them off.

The bed creaked - she was getting under the covers.  And 
then it continued to creak.  And then she sighed.

Oh, Lord in Heaven.  Scully was jacking off.

He had to get out of there.  He began to hear a rhythm to 
the creaks, and could imagine exactly what was going on up 
there.  Once, he heard an excruciating suction noise, and 
began to imagine just how wet she was.  Mulder was getting 
hard just listening to it.  Looking about desperately for an 
escape route, his eyes fell again on the journal.

He knew that reading about Scully's boyfriend was the 
equivalent to about ten cold showers, so, praying that she 
was in no condition to notice, his hand sneaked out and 
grabbed the book.

*He wasn't home.  God, I feel like such an idiot.  If he was 
out with her, and I find out about it tomorrow, I'm going to 
have to rip her jugular out through her throat.*

The entry ended with the letter M.  M?  What was that 
supposed to mean?  The letter ended in a jagged scrawl, as 
if she had been about to write something and changed her 
mind.  He tossed the book back to where it was, terrified 
that she'd notice.

She whispered something under his breath.

Mulder's attention, already caught, was suddenly on Full Red 
Alert.  Maybe she would say his name in her distracted 
state.  Then he could do some jugular-ripping of his own.

It was several minutes later, several minutes of intense 
discomfort on Mulder's part, when she finally came.  God, if 
she could do that herself, what would she be like 
when...Mulder shut that thought down and tried desperately 
to think different thoughts...Frohike's huevos rancheros 
....Morleys...Diana's dirty socks...that did it.  He opened 
his eyes, feeling a modicum of control.

"Mulder," she whispered.

Mulder almost hit his head on the bottom of her bed.  What?  
What was that?

"I love you, Mulder."

Total shutdown.  

She sighed and got out of bed.  First, she picked up the 
journal and tucked it back into her sock drawer.  Naked.  
Then she picked up her wool suit and smoothed it out, 
hanging it back up in her closet.  Naked.  Then she tossed 
her underwear into the hamper.  Naked.  Finally, she went 
back to the bureau and got out a pair of those big silk pjs 
that she was prone to sleep in.  Her nakedness disappeared 
under the aqua fabric, but the image was burned into 
Mulder's consciousness.  He had to remind himself to 
breathe.  

She picked up the phone and dialed quickly.  She waited 
several seconds, then began to speak.  "Mulder, I stopped by 
your apartment to show you the autopsy results, but you 
weren't home.  Give me a call if you want to talk about it 
before Monday."  She hung up the phone.

Confirmation.  Mulder screwed his eyes shut, now struggling 
not to hyperventilate.

Scully flopped back onto her bed.  "Bastard," she muttered.  
"Obsessive, selfish, sexy bastard.  I hate you."

Eventually, she reached over and turned out her bedside 
light.  It was nearly an hour later that she stopped 
shifting around and he began to hear a pattern to her deep 
breathing.  Thank God she was asleep.

Carefully, he crept out from under the bed.  Apprehensively, 
he peeked over the mattress to find her curled up into a 
ball, faced away from him.  Silently - or as silently as he 
could be after receiving such news - he sneaked out into the 
living room.

The bottle of wine was still on the counter.  He picked it 
up and found that it was one of his favorites.  She knew it, 
too.  That clinched it.  Oh, God, Scully had gone to see 
*him.*  Mulder.  The diary, everything was for him.  
Shaking, he lowered himself onto her couch.

He had no idea how long he sat there before he heard a 
movement.  "Mulder?"  Scully's sleepy, cautious voice asked.  
"Is that you?"

"Hi, Scully," he managed to get out.

"What are you doing here?"  She took a few steps towards him 
from her doorway.  "Is something wrong?"

"I...wanted to talk to you, but I didn't want to wake you 
up.  Sorry."

"How long have you been here?  God, I must have been near 
dead not to hear you open the door."

"Don't worry about it."

She must have sensed something different about him, because 
she came forward and sat down next to him.  Her sleepy 
Scully scent was nearly enough to kill him.  "Mulder, I know 
something's wrong.  Please tell me."

His mind was a blank.  Should he talk to her?  Tell her what 
he had done?  No, that was liable to bring on all the powers 
of hell.  She'd never forgive him.  He scrambled 
desperately.  "I just missed you."

"Mulder," she said with amusement, "I was over at your place 
earlier.  You can't have missed me that much if you've been 
out."

God, she was good.  He never would have had a clue.  He 
hadn't had a clue for years.  Her face was all honest 
concern and affection.  Except... there did seem to be a 
little glitter there.  Something he'd missed all this time.

"Mulder," she whispered, touching his hand with hers.  
"Please.  What's wrong?"

"I..." Oh, hell.  Just go with it.  "Love you.  That's all.  
I wanted to tell you."

Consummate actress that she was, she couldn't conceal a 
start.  "Mulder," she said sharply, "Have you been 
drinking?"

To be continued...