Author's notes

This is a piece that was inspired by "Nice House", written by 's been a very long time since I've felt any need at all to revisit Mulder and Scully anywhere but on a dull Sunday night. Jssangel's piece jumped out at me and what follows is what I felt would happen next.

In fact, it's been so long since I've written any fanfic, I had to borrow Jssangel's story info outline:

Rating: G

Spoilers: Redrum

Classification: Vignette, Angst, Implied MSR

Archive: Anywhere.

Disclaimer: Yeah, like this vignette will hurt your income. snort! What's-his-name own's 'em, not me.

Summary: He may have a house, but I have a home.

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House and Home

"Nice house" I tell him as we head to my car.

"Hmm, thanks" Doggett grunts, apparently so wrapped in his thoughts of his friend's problem that my words slip past him.

We get in the car, Doggett at the wheel since he know where we're going, and I glance back at his house one more time. A house. Who'd have thought it? I guess that proves the old 'you can't judge a book...' and all that.

Settling back in the seat, my notebook open on my lap, I stare at the page before me; not seeing my notes but chewing on the idea of Doggett's house. Was there a Mrs. Doggett? Little Doggetts? Who owned the bike? Who hung the nice curtains? Picked the colors? Surely not Mr. Can't Crack a Smile to Save His Life. No, not him. Someone else.

Why do I care? So, the man has a house, big flippin' deal! So it's in the part of town I've always envisioned myself living in, nice curtains, wood floors and all. So what? It's just a house.

A nice house.

An empty house.

A nice, empty house.

Slowly, Scully let the last vestiges of injustice and fury she'd felt while standing in Doggett's doorway slide away. She almost felt sorry for him, former-Detective-now-Special-Agent John Dogget and his house. What price had he paid for his nice, empty house?

Remembering the almost painful cleanliness of Doggett's house, she compared that to her own place. To Mulder's place. To the clutter that seemed to follow both of them from his place to hers and back again. Clutter she hadn't the heart to clear. Ever. From either place.

Closing her eyes, she could see Mulder's bedroom; the closet door ajar, the quilt on the bed slightly askew. One well-worn sneaker turned sideways against it's partner, both piled near the bathroom door. Her sweater tossed on the chair near the window. Her place was the same.

Glancing across at Doggett's set features, she thought again of his pristine house; it's polished wood, potted plants and shiny windows. Not a hint of clutter anywhere. Sliding her hand slowly from the notebook in her lap to her abdomen, she stroked gently, softly, with her thumb, imagining she could feel the life growing within.

Soon, she thought, her clutter and Mulder's would have added to it the that which came with what they'd created together. Bags, bottles, shoes, shirts, toys. Spread everywhere. In a place they'd choose together. What price had they paid for their time, their place, together?

Closing her eyes, Scully relaxed and felt herself drift off. Let Doggett have his house; his nice, empty house, she thought.

I have...we have...a home. Well two actually. And soon, she was convinced, we'll make one together. Together, we three will make a home.