Cluescrew
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Rated: PG-13, for language
Classification: SH, Implied MSR, hint of slash
Disclaimer: Not mine, will never be.
Spoilers: Through "Three Words"

Summary: A clueless cleaning crew at work.


Cluescrew


"Keep those half-gloved fingers to yourself, got
it?" the Big Guy growls at me as he turns the
key in the lock of number 42.  "*And* your mouth
shut."

Moi? my eyebrow asks, one hand to my chest in
mock horror.

Mulder's door swings open as he adds, "Yes you,
little man.  We don't know what we're liable to
find in here.  I don't want Mulder's private
life splashed all over the front page of that
rag you publish."

Giving him an elbow in the gut, I shove my way
through the door, offended beyond belief. 
Thumbs in my belt loops, I turn back to level
Mr. Walter S. Skinner with my best glare.  "Cool
it, amigo.  If you knew me at all, you'd know
I'd never do that to a friend."

The door slams shut behind old Baldy and he
drops Scully's keys into his coat pocket. 
"Look, Melvin -"

"The name is Frohike, punk-ass. *Mister* Frohike
to you."

"*Mister* Frohike," he continues, sighing as his
voice loses a bit of its edge, "Mulder is
getting sprung soon.  We wouldn't even be here
if Scully hadn't called asking for this favor. 
Just remember who we're doing this for, okay?"
This is a man not used to groveling for
anything, and I'm surprised at the way he backs
down immediately at my bristling.

Then again, we both know neither of us could
ever deny her anything.  And if it means we have
to put up with each other for an hour or two
while we do a "Hazel" on the apartment, then so
be it.  We can't disappoint the woman we love.

Yeah, I know the Big Guy has some feelings for
her.  Not like I do, naturally.  No one loves
her like I do - especially not Mulder.  The
woman is a goddess to me.  Everything that is
good and fine in this miserable world.  Would I
ever presume to make advances?  Hell no.  She's
too good for me.  I prefer to worship from afar,
as is her due.

Just like Skinner.  Except I think he's in awe
simply because she inspires it in her peers.  A
man like this ex-Marine has had to live through
things no man should ever have to witness.  He
knows Scully has done the same and he admires
her for it.  The fact that she's a woman doubles
his respect for her.  The fact that she's a
beautiful woman triples her appeal and most of
all, the fact that she's a *pregnant* woman
multiplies his concern tenfold.

She told him she hadn't set foot in Mulder's
apartment since a couple of days after he
disappeared.  I can understand her reticence;
dealing with death can be devastating, can force
a weakness into a body once thought
invulnerable.  Acceptance of death brings
lethargic limbs and a hollow heart.  Avoidance
of memories, of smells, sights and sounds, is
natural.

To Scully, Mulder's apartment must have brought
on a blinding, deafening, *numbing* paralysis of
the soul.  He was - *is* - a tornado of emotion. 
And this empty apartment, the shell that
contained all he was?  It must have been like
trying to embrace a friend without form.

Poetic all of a sudden, aren't I?  Just the
thought of her brings out the best in me.

"Frohike, get busy." Skinner's voice snaps at me
from the fishtank.  Suddenly, I find a net full
of dead fish thrust under my nose.  "You start
at the other end, I'll take this one.  Flush
this before you clean the toilet."

"Hey -"

"Just do it," he barks, leaving me with the
swollen bodies as he makes tracks to the
kitchen.

Great.  I get the bathroom and bedroom.  There's
something kind of icky about going through a
guy's shitter, not to mention his boudoir.  I
keep telling myself, this is Mulder.  I've
gotten drunk with this guy.  Belched, farted and
drooled over porn with this guy.  What could I
find that could possibly surprise me?

A pair of Scully's underwear?  Leftover from
when she bunked with him after Pfaster's attack?

"I'm on it," I shout, my sneakers sliding in the
dust on the floor in my haste to get to the
bathroom.


**********


I had no choice but to bring the little troll in
on the job.  Scully called me earlier with the
news that Mulder is amazing his doctor with his
recovery.  Not overly excited, but the betraying
tremor in the word 'home' told me all I needed
to know.  In the next instant, she asked a favor
of me.  Disguised in a logical recitation of the
hazards of dust, mold and all sorts of
refrigerator bacteria on a man newly returned
from the dead, her plea for my assistance boiled
down to one request.

Clean up the apartment.  From what she implied,
it was going to be a monumental task.  And I
damn well needed help, hence the phone call to
Frohike.  Especially since I'd been in there a
few times after he disappeared to feed his fish
and found it abysmal.  After the funeral, I
hadn't gone back at all.  The unpleasant smell
of dead fish mixed with rotten food tells me
maybe I should have come back at least once.

It's a good thing she thought of this.  I know
if I'd just risen from the dead, I sure as hell
wouldn't want to walk into an apartment that
smells like I did a couple of days ago.

It's nine now.  If we're lucky, we can finish by
midnight and I can catch a few hours sleep. 
Looking into the refrigerator, I amend that
thought.  From the grayish fungus I see
protruding from the lid of a small container,
it's going to take nothing short of full-body
decon to sanitize this place.

I snag a garbage bag from the pantry, then shrug
off my overcoat before throwing it over a
kitchen chair, eyeing the moldy fridge with
distaste.  Yogurt - since when did Mulder eat
yogurt? - months-old Chinese takeout, and a very
wilted, blackened salad-like substance in a
clear plastic container all go into the bag. 
However, the twin six packs of beer stays, as
does the unopened bottle of wine.  Hmm... nice
vintage.  Never would have thought Mulder was
the type.

What the hell - the wine is still good, but the
beer is probably flatter than a pancake.  He has
no business drinking alcohol in his condition,
anyway.  He'll never miss it.

Not bad.  Cold and strong.  A man's gotta have
refreshment while tackling a dirty job.

Under the kitchen sink is an array of cleansers,
and I immediately put them to good use, as I
give the fridge a thorough scrubbing with hot,
soapy water.  It's spotless by the time I'm
finished.  Next comes the floor.

Then I realize I haven't heard a peep from
Frohike, which raises inner alarms.  No telling
what he's into in there.  "Frohike?" I call out,
putting enough of a threat into my voice to make
him answer right away.

A muffled thump, then, "Yeah?"

We're not here for chit-chat, so I make it short
and simple, ignoring that dubious sound.  I'll
know soon enough, as I command, "Status report."


**********


Mmm.  Even under the bleachy smell of cleanser,
there's something here that twitches my nose
most pleasantly.  The closer I get to the
cabinet under the sink, the stronger the smell. 
Dare I investigate?

Damned right I dare. I'm a reporter, after all.

"Frohike?"

Shit!  The door slips out of my fingers, nearly
taking off a fingernail as it ricochets back
into place on spring hinges.  Of course, it
makes a noise that sounds like an explosion to
my ears.  Did he hear that?  "Yeah?"

Apparently not, as he yells, "Status report."

Asshole.  What does he think I'm doing in here,
anyway?  Picking my nose?  Jerking off?
*Snooping*?

"Tub's done." Or as done as it's ever gonna be,
in my opinion.  "Toilet is almost done and sink
is next."  Toilet will be done as soon as I
flush the blue stuff, anyway.  It's soaked
enough, and I can't find a toilet brush.

A sudden, looming presence at my side startles
me.  Skinner crowds me into the side of the tub
to peer over my shoulder.  "Did you even lay a
finger on it?" he sneers.

Affronted, I point at the can on the counter. 
"I followed the instructions.  Spray on, rinse
off.  Clean."

He picks up the spray bottle and bites out, 
"This is for soap scum on the tile, Frohike."
Reaching under the sink, he produces a can with
several smiling bubbles on the front.  "Spray
this on and scrub." He looks down his nose at
the toilet and nods. "And don't think you're
gonna get away with that, either.  Scrub it,
mister."

Grabbing the can from his beefy hand, I hold it
up to his face.  "See that?" I point out the
skull and crossbones.  "Fingers that have hacked
into the Defense Department do not handle toxic
chemicals without protection."

He storms off, only to return a few seconds
later.  The *thwap* of his palm on the counter
echoes in the bathroom.  "Always be prepared,"
he smirks.

I pick up the latex gloves and give him a raised
brow.

"I'm an FBI agent, you idiot."

"Ahhh," I murmur, relishing every word of my
reply.  "Clean up any dead bees lately, Walter?"

A red tide of anger creeps up his face and I bet
he cracks a few teeth as his jaw locks in place. 
Before he can explode in my face, I add,
"Amazing what a 'rag' can uncover, isn't it,
Assistant Director?"

"Mulder -"

"Didn't tell me a God damned thing," I quickly
correct his assumption, adding, "Let's just say
I have a nose for news.  Especially when - in a
morose stupor - a good friend of mine cries in
his beer about his ineptitude at saving the life
of his partner while another unnamed friend is
getting himself into some deep shit.  Speaking
of..." I lean closer to that deflating chest,
sniffing.  The sweet smell that's been tickling
my nose is suddenly gone, replaced by something
definitely more masculine. "All right, Skinman. 
Give."

"Are you saying I smell like shit?" he growls,
back in form.

"That smell sure ain't coming from the candles
around the tub, Baldy." Candles?  For a second,
I'm distracted, then I decide that wasn't the
smell.  I'd much rather give Baldy an imaginary
wedgie.  Off his angry stare, I explain, "I'm
saying you smell like beer.  And unless you want
your bee husbandry to make front page news, I
suggest you share, Sticky Fingers."

We're in a standoff for a second or two, then
his stony face relaxes into a begrudging grin. 
"In the kitchen, Grumpy.  Help yourself."  He
turns and chuckles his way back to work as I
follow.

A truce is born.  Well, sort of.  As I pop the
top on my own bottle and pause in the kitchen
door I say, "And don't call me Grumpy, you
shiny-headed sonofabitch."

"Would you rather 'Cocksucker'?" He's still
laughing, the bastard.

"Not if you want next week's headline to read
'FBI AD New Spokesperson for Mr. Bubble'."  At
his gorilla gape, I mirror his smart-ass grin of
moments ago.  "That was just too fucking good
for Mulder to keep to himself, Walter."

Melvin Frohike.  Winner and still champion.  The
ghosts of Mulder's fish applaud my saunter to
the bathroom.


**********


Little bastard.  It's been a half-hour since he
dropped that bombshell and I'm still speechless. 
Good thing I have something to keep my hands
occupied, or I'd strangle the pint-sized snoop.

Kitchen finally clean and smelling more like
Comet than vomit, I move to the living room,
picking up Mulder's collection of odds and ends
in an effort to restore the place to some order. 

Newspaper clippings dot the landscape, most of
them pertaining to their last cases as partners. 
A headline of that bank job they got caught in
the middle of peeks out of the couch cushions
and I quickly stuff it into a desk drawer,
spying other tidbits lost in the leather and
pillows.  A chewed-up pencil surfaces, as well
as a few paperclips and a crumpled directive
from me regarding our trip to LA for the movie
premiere.

I finish its destruction and toss it into the
bag I hauled out from the kitchen.  If I *never*
hear about that movie again, it'll be too soon. 
Richard Gere, my ass.  I bet Federman is still
laughing behind my back on that one.  He sure
got what he wanted from me by licking both
cheeks with that forked tongue.

At least the movie tanked and never made it
beyond the dollar cinemas.  And I'll take AD
over AP any day.  Last I heard, Federman was
cleaning the studio's toilets.

Wait a minute.  Toilets, couch crap.  Toilets,
fridge rot.  Toilets... shit.

Seems AD is no better than AP after all.


**********


Heh heh.  Wonder if old Walt could use a box of
condoms?  Never been opened, looks like.  But
they're at least two years out of date.  Gotta
say this discovery doesn't surprise me.  Mulder
attracts the ladies like bees to honey, but
damned if he ever does a thing about it.

I stuff the box back into the medicine cabinet
and give the mirror a quick swipe with Windex. 
The ammonia smell overpowers the faint odor
that's been making my nose itch since I came in
here.  And I'm *not* going to chance the cabinet
under the sink again.  Just my luck, it's almost
time for another fucking 'status report'.

All done.  It's time for the bedroom.  After I
get another beer.


**********


A couple of beer bottle caps and a few rose
petals later, the couch cushions rest upon a
spotless frame.  Admittedly, at this moment, I
may be no higher up on the grunt scale than
Federman, but I'm still damned good at whatever
I do.  

Frohike shuffles past me, only to return with
another beer as he disappears into the bedroom. 
Hell, if he can do it, so can I.

This one tastes better than the last.  I guzzle
it like water, feeling a pleasant buzz set up in
my gut.  Always made yard work go faster, so why
not housework?

I toss away all the magazines scattered about,
uncaring if they're something Mulder might miss. 
He's got so much shit in this place; what's a
missing 'Celebrity Skin' or 'UFO Monthly'? 
Besides, from the dates on them, he let the
subscriptions run out over a year ago.  Chances
are, he found something else to occupy his mind.

Oh, shit.  I think I just found out what it was. 
Tucked away under his coffee table is a book. 
Nice, leather covered, the initials FWM embossed
in gold at the bottom corner.  It looks
suspiciously like -

Fuck.  A journal.  And I just *had* to open it.

I'm not a nosy person by nature, and would never
think to invade anyone's privacy by reading
their innermost thoughts.  But the name 'Scully'
jumps out at me.  Many times, in fact.

For a moment, I close my eyes, mentally
summoning the will to just shut the damned thing
and put it away.  Shove it between Asimov and
Sagan on his bookshelf, elevating it to its
rightful place among the stars.

Instead, I finish off my beer and sit on the
newly-cleaned couch, ignoring the accusing
emptiness of the fish tank.  Shit.

The final page begins:

"'Caddyshack.'  I'm a moron, it's true.  Rented
'Dr. Zhivago' just in case. Beer - check. 
Popcorn - check.  Been so long since I've had to
consider date strategy, I have no idea what this
woman would like.  Roses?  Chocolate?  Have both
just in case.  Damn.  I should have gone the
usual route of dating *before* sex.  But when
have I ever followed the norm?

Scully would have a field day at my expense, if
she knew how I was sitting here sweating the
details.  But of course, she's the *last* person
I could ever tell about this.  And granted, it's
not like we've really talked about what's been
happening between us since the in vitro didn't
work..."

What the -? 


**********


All right.  I know I'm a slob, but this is
ridiculous. Clothes scattered everywhere - how
does he tell what's clean and what's not?  Well,
neither can I.  A quick search of his closet
finds a dry cleaning bag and I just start
stuffing things inside.  Socks, underwear (I
sure as hell am not washing his underwear),
jeans, very expensive suits.  I'll get Walt to
drop these at the cleaners on the corner.

Eyeing the bed linens, I decide those have to
go, too.  They look clean enough, but months of
microscopic dust have accumulated in their
creases, I'm sure.  A patch of blue/gray peeks
out from under a pillow and I free it
impatiently.  Jesus.  This shirt costs more than
my whole wardrobe.  What does he do?  Get
undressed *after* he gets in bed?

One corner of the sheet frees easily, but
naturally, the opposite is stubborn.  Leaning
over the bed, I give a yank, then freeze at the
smell.

Oh - kay.  This is *not* what tweaked my nose in
the bathroom.  Oh yeah, it's totally different.

Granted, it's been longer than I care to think
about since *that* perfume has graced *my*
sheets, but it's an odor you never forget.  And
obviously, one that lingers months after the
fact.

And I ain't talking toe-cheese.


**********


Yes, I knew she'd tried in vitro fertilization. 
Quite by accident, after our HR department
attached a few very personal forms to some of my
inter-departmental mail.  Seems she was covering
all the bases, in case her insurance balked at
the treatments.  And naturally, the form for
hardship removal of retirement funds has to be
very detailed.  With a scathing memo to our HR
director about her section's lax work ethic, I
discreetly forwarded the forms back to them,
circumventing my secretary.  What Scully did was
nobody's business, and it was a damned good
thing those forms didn't end up in less savory
hands.  I wished her silent luck and worried
every time she got herself into a scrape.  And
yes, the thought crossed my mind many times that
she'd probably asked Mulder to father her child. 
But I was never sure, and didn't want to let on
that I knew what she was doing by asking, or
even hinting at my concern for her.

Some time passed, and she never showed up in my
office asking for eventual maternity leave.  But
as I sobbed out my guilt by her bedside months
later, I felt as if the world - while not
completely right... after all, Mulder was
missing - had given her one little break.  She
was pregnant.  I didn't ask how, because I
didn't have to.  Her wheeling and dealing with
HR had paid off - the in vitro fertilization had
worked.

Or so I thought, until now.


**********

Before I prepare myself, I throw back the
comforter.  Just as I knew it would, my stomach
plummets to my knees at the sight.

A little voice pops up in my head, suspiciously
similar in tone and timber to Donna Reed.

"Now, Melvin... a little stain remover should
take that *right* up!"

Like I've been sucker punched, I stagger back,
clutching the wrinkled shirt to my chest.  Shut
the fuck up, Donna.  Mulder's been... and with
*her*....

Nah.  They would have told us if they were doing
the nasty.  Surely if that kid she's carrying
was Mulder's, she'd have said so?  I mean, the
kid would have been entitled to his estate,
which I know for a fact was substantial.  And it
didn't take much poking around after we found
out she was pregnant to learn of the in vitro
fertilization attempt.  So it worked, we
figured.

Nah.  He told us about Phoebe.  And Diana.  And
even that vampire chick he slept with in LA.  He
knows this would top them all.

Which is why he didn't....

Oh Jesus, it all makes sense.  Looking back at
how the bathroom was, it makes total sense.

I run back to the bathroom and each sign slams
into me, reinforcing my conclusion.  Candles in
the corners of the tub, the wicks black.  The
extra toothbrush in the holder.  The snatches of
lighter, longer hair that cling to the paper
towels in the wastebasket.

This time, I don't hesitate to open that
cabinet.

Oh, God.  Like picking up the finest piece of
lead crystal, I bring the ornate round box to my
chest.  Grabbing the dove that adorns its clear
cover between my thumb and forefinger, I open it
like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, the
powder puff tickling my nose.  It's her.

Just as it's the essence of her that clings to
the shirt I still hold in the crook of my elbow.

I feel like crying.


**********


The remote feels like lead in my fingers.  From
the corner of my eye, I see Frohike back into
the living room.  He looks like someone punched
him in the gut.  About like I feel.

Off his stupefied stare, I nod at the new six-
pack on the coffee table.  "Take a load off,
Melvin."

Without saying a word, he falls to the couch
beside me and reaches for a beer.  In a flash,
he has it open and has downed half in one gulp
before sagging back, staring into space.

"So," I begin, taking my fury out on the remote. 
The VCR whirrs to life and I press play
absently.  "What tipped *you* off?  Lipstick on
the collar?"

"Huh?" Blank confusion colors his face as he
turns my way.

Nodding at his strangling grasp of the shirt, I
say, "Nice color.  A bit of advice, though - if
you're gonna steal Mulder's things, go for the
porn.  I have a feeling he won't be needing it
anymore."

It sails across the room as if it suddenly
branded his chest with fire.  "I'm a God damned
reporter, you know."

As if on cue, the TV screen blips into white,
romantic tones.  Omar Sharif caresses Julie
Christie as the music swells and the scene fades
discreetly.

"And I'm an FBI agent," I commiserate.  "Still
doesn't mean we had a fucking clue."

We finish off our bottles simultaneously and
reach for another.  He glances at the journal
I've left open, taking a moment to read what
I've already seen.  "This doesn't mean a thing,
you know," he says around a loud belch.  "No
where does it actually say the baby... I know
for a fact she tried in vitro -" He colors,
breaking off as he realizes what he's revealed.

I could accuse him and those geeky friends of
his of doing something highly illegal, involving
hacking into medical records - which I suspect
is how he knows about the in vitro attempt - but
I don't.  Instead, I snarl, "What do you need? 
Someone to draw you a picture?  Mulder wrote
that it didn't work!  And she's *pregnant*, you
idiot.  Apparently Mother Nature found a way."

I lean back like he does, and we both kick up
our feet onto the coffee table as he counters,
"I don't care if they... doesn't mean it's his."

"Get real, Melvin."  From the pasty look of his
face, he's making himself sick with all sorts of
imagined scenes of his beloved - yeah, it's not
hard to tell he adores her - doing the naked
pretzel with Mulder.  Must be quite a shock. 
Me?  Frankly, I'm just surprised as hell they
hadn't been boffing each other for years.  It's
the paternity of that child, how it came to be,
that I'm curious about.

"Have you asked her?" he prods.

"About what?  Seems to me we know they were
involved."

"I'm not talking about -" He gulps and lowers
his voice, as if the word chokes him. "Sex." 
Yep, the revelation floored him.  "I'm talking
about who the hell fathered that baby."

He knows as well as I that Scully wasn't
supposed to be able to conceive, and that the
forces at work in all our lives are capable of
anything.  I say nothing, giving him a nod of
agreement on that bone of contention.

His eyes narrow.  "We need confirmation."

"This is not something you can just come out and
ask," I reply, dozens of questions whirling in
my alcohol-soaked brain.  How the hell *did* she
get pregnant, considering she was supposed to be
barren?  Did Mulder know before we left for
Oregon?  Why the fuck did he go, then?

The point is, he wouldn't have gone.  And she
knew it.  Or she had no clue she was pregnant. 
Another reason to believe that baby was made the
old-fashioned way.  Surprise, surprise.

"I agree," Frohike says.

"Agree to what?" What did I just say?

He laughs, tipping his beer in my direction. 
"Have another, Walt.  We need to come up with
some strategy - without coming right out and
asking, you know."

"It's none of our God damned business."

"Says who?"

"Says me.  Leave it alone."

He must sense the indecision in my voice,
because he practically purrs, "I'm not
suggesting we infringe upon their privacy,
Walt."  He has the grace to flush at my raised
brow.  "But I'm damned well going to drop a hint
or two.  See if they take the bait.  That's all
I'm saying.  You can't tell me you're not
curious." He gives the still-open journal a
pointed look.

With my foot, I slam it shut, knowing he's got
me.  "It goes no further than me and you, got
it?"

He takes the empty bottle from my numb fingers
and hands me another, this one open and ready. 
Tapping his beer against mine, he replies, "If I
find out, I tell you.  If you find out you tell
me.  And it goes with us to the grave."

Sighing, I lift my beer and before I know it,
we're clinking the open bottles together in a
toast to our cluelessness.  And our drunken
resolve to get to the bottom of this.  Of
course, tomorrow I'll tell him to fuck off.  I
love riling the little guy.

Against my wishes, I feel a smile curl my lips. 
My hand goes up of its own accord, swiping at
the white stuff on his nose.  "As do other
things, Powder Boy."

He must be just as drunk as I am, because he
doesn't even flinch when I touch him.  He just
smiles in return, nabbing a rose petal that
somehow stuck to my shirt.  "My lips are sealed,
partner."

"Frohike?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut the hell up and give me another beer."


**********


"Ahem."

Hey, where are my lips?  Oh yeah.  Wrinkling my
nose, I test them out in a yawn.  Yep, still
there.

"Hey."

Shut up, Langly.  Can't you see I'm trying to
catch a few winks, here?  I snuggle closer to my
pillow and ignore him.

"Hey!  You two get a room - Mulder's comin'
home!"  A boot kicks my leg.

"Ughhh."

A grunt feathers over my ear.  Cracking one eye
open, I peer down.

At my leg, wrapped over one twice its size.  At
my arm, ballooning up and down as it lies upon a
beefy, breathing chest.  Oh shit.

At a pair of narrowed eyes, peering at me from
behind glasses mirroring the red fury of his
face.  A face just inches from my own.

Like a lightning bolt, we separate, ending up
grounded at opposite ends of the coffee table. 
Doggett - damn his eyes - stands in front of the
TV, hands on hips.  "You two have a reason for
trystin' on Mulder's couch?" He reaches behind
him to kill the blank blue screen.

Skinner, bless him, assumes an imposing posture
almost immediately.  "Agent Doggett," he nods. 
"What's your purpose here?"  He kicks at the
journal at his feet, shoving it under the coffee
table.  Smart man.

John Doggett wilts a bit under that stare. 
"Agent Scully's been trying to reach you, sir. 
Mulder's being released this morning."

Shit!  The sheets!  Without a word, I go back
into the bedroom and strip the bed.  I don't
know where Mulder keeps the clean linens; he'll
just have to do that himself when he gets home. 
Stuffing them into the laundry bag, I take a
quick look around.  Reasonably clean.

By the time I make it back to the living room,
Skinner has picked up the empty beer bottles and
put them in the garbage bag.  Though Doggett can
clearly see what we've been doing here, he says
nothing.  I wouldn't either, if a higher-up was
toasting my ass with a look like that.

"Tell Agent Scully the apartment is ready,"
Skinner barks, shoving the garbage bag into
Doggett's hands.  "And get rid of this on your
way out."  He moves to the kitchen.

Hey - if he can do it, so can I.  Clearing my
throat, I approach the ex-cop, dropping the
laundry bag into his other hand.  "And drop this
at the cleaners on the corner.  Tell 'em to put
a rush on it."

Doggett gives me a glare, but doesn't dare
protest.  Instead, he turns back to my compadre,
who has exited the kitchen as he dons his coat. 
"Anything else, *sir*?"  He's mighty impudent to
a superior.  What bee went up his ass?

Skinner nods at the empty fishtank.  "Fill it
up.  At least three mollies."

"Four," I suggest.  "I think he had four."

"It was three."

"It was four."  Jesus, we're arguing like we're
an old married couple.

"*Three*." He turns to Doggett, his voice
slipping into a muted plea.  "Be quick about it,
John - I want it done before Mulder gets home."

"Sure thing."  Jaw tight, he flashes me a glare
before he leaves.

After an awkward moment of silence, I clear my
throat and make tracks for the hall.  "Gotta
run, G-man.  Stay cool."

"Frohike?"

I pause halfway to the stairwell.  "Yeah?"

He shuts the door behind him and pockets the
keys.  "Thanks for the help."  He turns for the
elevator.

Ooh, I bet that hurt.  "Anytime, SkinMan."

"And don't call me SkinMan."

It's not the wisest thing I've ever said, but I
can't resist.  "Sure thing... ya big lug. 
Goodbye kiss?"

For a second, I think he's gonna run down that
hall and punch my lights out.  Then his face
cracks into a grin.  "Fuck off." He turns, hands
in pockets.

"Hey, Walt?"

An impatient sigh colors his, "Yes, what now?"
as he turns in the open elevator.

"Remember - I tell you, you tell me.  Deal?"

"Once again, Frohike - fuck off."  The elevator
doors close on his grim face.

Bastard.

I take my time down the stairs, not wanting to
run into him again.  I'm almost out the front
door of the building when I melt back in,
catching a glimpse of my cleaning partner.

Giving John Doggett a pat on the back and a
toothy smile.  When a moment ago, he looked like
he was ready to eat Doggett's lunch.  Almost
hidden behind the cab of Doggett's truck, they
don't linger, breaking apart quickly before
Doggett leaves and Skinner walks to his car,
doing the same.

Holy shit.

This is - this is - ten times better than bees. 
A hundred times better than bubble baths.  A
zillion times better than whether or not Mulder
and Scully finally indulged in a game of 'hide
the salami'.

Skinner and Doggett.  Who'da thunk it?

Okay, so it's not like I caught them in a
liplock.  But I *am* a reporter, after all.  I
don't miss the obvious ones.


END

Many thanks to Musea, for delightful beta!  As
always, a pleasure to work with you, ladies.

This was written in response to the Haven Fic
Challenge, courtesy of Sybil and beduini.  I had
a great time doing it, and next time, I hope to
be challenged with Muldertoes. <g>

The elements are:

- not over 30k long

- Mulder, Scully or Skinner offering
constructive (!we mean that!) criticism 

- A Journal (preferably a blog) 

- Something slashy 

- Mulder's fishtank 

- A bridge, the game of bridge, or Omar  Sharif.
Your choice

So, the journal wasn't a blog.  And I think I
may be just a *tad* over 30k, but I couldn't
seem to pare it down!  The 'constructive
criticism' I included is very iffy.  But this is
the result - hope you enjoyed it!

Oh, and if you don't get the "Hazel" reference,
then you must be a whole lot younger than me. 
Be thankful. :)