Thank You For Shopping at K-Mart By Brandon D. Ray DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere is fine, so long as my name stays on it and no money changes hands. SPOILER STATEMENT: Arcadia RATING: PG CONTENT STATEMENT: M/S UST. Bill jr/Tara romance CLASSIFICATION: VRH SUMMARY: Fill-in-the-blank for Arcadia. You gotta figure that the FBI evidence room wouldn't have been able to provide Moose and Squirrel with quite *everything* they needed for playing house together, right? THANKS: To Brynna, Robbie and Shannon, for the beta read. DISCLAIMER: In my dreams... Thank You For Shopping at K-Mart by Brandon D. Ray Have you ever had one of those days when nothing goes right? Of course you have; we all have. And for me, this has been one of those days. It all started at a few minutes after five this morning, when Matthew woke me up with his crying. Didn't wake Bill up -- no, of course not. Not my favorite swabbie. Never mind that this man can go from a sound sleep to manning his battle station in full combat gear in something under 30 seconds -- the sound of his own son crying just doesn't seem to penetrate his psyche. Bastard. So I laid in bed listening to Matthew cry for just a minute or two, in the vain hope that this time, just maybe, Bill would bestir himself and take care of the problem. But he didn't, and so I finally threw the covers off, climbed out of bed and padded down the hall. It didn't take me long to figure out that the problem was an ear infection. I've seen so many of those in the past fourteen months that diagnosing them has gotten to be pretty much second nature. So I dosed him with Tylenol and called and left a message on Dr. Larew's voicemail. They don't even make me bring him in for this anymore; I knew she'd call in a prescription for Amoxicillin as soon as the K-Mart pharmacy opened at nine. Matthew and I then proceeded to walk the halls for awhile. It's the only thing that seems to help in the early stages; I discovered when he was only two months old that trying to get him to lie down is not just futile -- it actually seems to make him cry harder. And so when he has an ear infection we spend a lot of time walking the halls. Eventually it was 7:30, and my dear, sweet, infuriating husband came stumbling down the stairs in his pajamas, his face a study in puzzlement over not having detected the smell of coffee and bacon. I informed him in words of one syllable what the problem was, and he wisely retreated to the kitchen to find his own breakfast. I should have known better than to leave Bill unattended. I've been married to this man for more than ten years, and I *know* what kind of trouble he can get into when left to his own devices. So there's really no excuse for the dismay I felt when he emerged from the kitchen ten minutes later, a frosted chocolate Pop Tart in one hand and his cell phone in the other. "Great news, honey!" he said. "I just called Captain Rawlings, and he said I don't have to come in until ten today. So I can stay home and help you with Matthew." Thank you, Jesus. Thank you so very, very much. Let me explain something. When Matthew was first born, I would have jumped at such an offer. In fact, I *did* jump at it, the first two times he made it. I even jumped at it the third time, against my better judgment. And it was an unmitigated disaster. Bill Scully and sick children simply do not mix. My mother insists that this is a more general rule, and applies to all fathers, but I lack the empirical evidence to evaluate this claim, so I'll just stick to what I know: Bill + sick baby = trouble. It's not that he doesn't try, and I certainly don't mean to suggest that he doesn't care. My husband really is a loving, compassionate man, and he *always* means well. But he seems to have the knack for doing or saying just the wrong thing at just the wrong time. I still have nightmares about the time Matthew had the flu, and I left him alone with Bill, just for half an hour .... But what could I do? I couldn't very well order him out of the house -- not after he'd gone to the trouble of calling his C.O. and asking for the morning off. And so I smiled a tired smile, and thanked him, and I even took the calculated risk of allowing him to walk Matthew for a few minutes while I took a short nap on the sofa. Finally it was nine o'clock, and time to go pick up Matthew's prescription. Of course, the normal, logical thing to do would have been for one of us to stay home with Matthew while the other ran to K-Mart. Unfortunately, that would have entailed either leaving Bill and Matthew alone together -- a sure recipe for disaster -- or sending Bill out on the errand. And since we moved off-base last fall the timing just wouldn't work out; there was no way Bill could get to K-Mart, pick up the script, drop it back at the house, and still get to work by ten. Which explains why the three of us are pulling into the K-Mart parking lot at 9:15 on an otherwise lovely Tuesday morning in February -- because, of course, this has to be the week the Cavalier is in the shop, leaving us with only one vehicle. Neil Simon would love this. Bill finds a parking space fairly close to the main entrance and parks the car. We then proceed to wrestle Matthew and all his assorted paraphernalia out of the car, a procedure only slightly less complex than preparing a battlecruiser for combat operations, and make our way into the store. And of course, the prescription isn't ready yet. Why did I even think it would be? I'm sure Dr. Larew called it in right away -- the pharmacist even admitted as much. But the insurance company's computer link is down this morning, and so they're having to verify all the claims manually, and so -- "Tell you what, honey," my sailor boy pipes up. "I'll just slide over to the toy section for a few minutes; there's some stuff I've been wanting to check out anyway. I'll be right back." And before I can utter a word of protest, he's gone. By "toys" of course, he doesn't mean the latest Power Rangers action figures -- he's talking about the consumer electronics section. Hopefully he doesn't have his credit cards with him this morning -- but at least I'll know where to find him when I want him. Now Matthew is crying again, so I park his stroller in an out of the way spot and lift him out of it, and we start walking again. And eventually we find ourselves in housewares. Don't ask me when I got to be this domestic. I didn't used to be like this; I used to consider myself a liberated woman. I still do, really. It's just that ever since Matthew came I never seem to have *time* to be anything other than a mother and a wife -- and usually in that order, dammit. A year and a half ago I would have been over in the electronics section with Bill, happily checking out the new laptops and trying to persuade him to buy more RAM for my PowerMac. But now here I am, looking over the selection of bread machines .... "Tara?" I blink in surprise at the familiar voice coming from behind me. Matthew happens to be asleep on my shoulder at the moment, so I suppress the urge to spin around, opting to turn slowly instead -- and yes, it's really her. "Dana?" I feel my eyebrows scurrying up my forehead. "What are *you* doing here?" # # # Oh, Jesus. Sometimes I just don't know when to keep my mouth shut. I'm here at this K-Mart in a San Diego suburb. Mulder has wandered off to God knows where, leaving me with a shopping cart full of miscellaneous this and that which we're going to need for this assignment at the Falls at Arcadia. I've actually got just about everything I need, and I round the corner into housewares in pursuit of a toaster -- and who should I see standing there with her back to me but my sister-in-law. "Tara?" Her name is out of my mouth before I have time to think. There is a reason I didn't call my brother and his wife before Mulder and I left Washington; we're supposed to be undercover. Rob and Laura Petrie, of course -- and I *am* going to get you for those names, Agent Mulder -- are not in any way related to or acquainted with Bill and Tara Scully. I want to run and hide, but it's too late; she's already turning around .... "Dana?" I see her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "What are *you* doing here?" An excellent question, sister mine. But even as I'm trying to formulate a truthful answer which will nevertheless preserve the confidentiality of our investigation I see her gaze drift downwards -- and then she freezes, and her eyes bug out. Automatically my own gaze drops, and I realize that she's staring at my hands where they grip the shopping cart. For a moment I can't quite figure out what has drawn her attention .... Oh my God .... I look back up at my sister-in-law just as she looks back up at me, and her eyes are big and round as saucers. A thousand thoughts whirl through my mind, and suddenly I know why people believe that a drowning man sees his life flash before his eyes. I just don't know what to say. I've never been undercover before, and I'm not sure how I'm supposed to handle this situation. That's not quite true, of course: I know *exactly* how I should have handled it. As soon as I saw Tara standing there I should have wheeled my cart around and gone somewhere else. But I didn't. Instead I did the worst possible thing, and spoke to her, and now my brother's wife is standing there with my nephew sleeping on her shoulder, and she's staring at me and wondering why I'm wearing a wedding ring and pushing a shopping cart full of household items, and every second that trickles by is making the whole thing look worse and worse .... And the only satisfaction I can find in the situation is the sure knowledge that somehow, some way, this has got to be Mulder's fault, and that eventually I'll get the chance to make him pay. Finally, I just shrug. "A case, Tara," I say, hating myself for how weak and pathetic my voice sounds. "We're on a case. Undercover." She continues to stare at me for just another moment, and I hold my breath. Come on, Tara, I think, help me out with this. I *know* it looks like something out of an episode of *Moonlighting*, but .... "Okay, Dana," she says finally, and I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that I won't have to account to my brother for this little incident. And then she glances at her watch and shakes her head and mutters, "Dammit, Bill, you said you'd only be gone for a few minutes." Now it's *my* turn to have my eyes bug out. # # # For a moment I don't understand why Dana suddenly has a panicked look on her face -- and then I get it. "Dana?" I ask. "Fox is here, isn't he?" She nods slowly, and I add, "Where?" She continues to stare at me, and abruptly I feel a cold chill run down my spine, and then we speak in unison: "Consumer electronics." We proceed to violate several traffic laws as we make our way over to Consumer Electronics -- and thank God I didn't *quite* knock over that little old lady when I brushed by her in the toiletries aisle. I've got enough to discuss with Father McGraw when I go to confession this week. Finally we round the corner into the "toy section" -- and Bill is nowhere to be seen. But Fox is there, bent over some arcane piece of electronic gear, and I hear Dana breathe a sigh of relief as we approach him. "Mulder," she says, "have you seen -- " "Honey!" The smile he flashes at her approach is dazzling -- dazzling enough to cause a small niggling doubt to reemerge at Dana's claim that she and Fox are here on a case. Not that my sister-in-law would ever lie to me -- but there are lies, and then there are, well, lies .... "Scully," he goes on, "you have got to take a look at this!" He holds something up, and I realize that it's a small digital camcorder. His voice sounds just exactly like a little boy with a new G.I Joe -- in other words, it sounds just exactly like Bill's. Why in heaven do these two men have to hate each other? When they could be drinking beer, watching basketball and talking about us. Us? US?? I did *not* just think that. They're just here on a case, I remind myself. Undercover, that's what Dana said. Please Jesus, let them just be here on a case. "Isn't it cool?" Fox continues. "We could really use one of these." "Mulder," Dana replies -- and, yes, I've heard *that* tone of exasperated affection before, too. Usually coming from my own lips, and generally directed at my husband. Speaking of whom -- where the hell *is* Bill? "Oh, come on, honey," Fox replies, moving forward into Dana's personal space -- and I note with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that she is leaning slightly towards him as he does this. They even *look* like a couple, him in a pink polo shirt and Navy slacks, her in a twinset and soft skirt. They look -- the only word for this is 'intimate'. And God help all of us if Bill should happen to see this -- or anything remotely like it. "We really could use this," Fox goes on, in a soft, sing-songy tone of voice. "Documentation. You never know when --" "Hey, hon!" comes my husband's cheerful voice. "Got Matty's medicine already?" I close my eyes in despair. # # # This is not happening. It just is not happening. I'm standing here semi-enveloped in my partner's embrace, my face three inches from his, *wearing a wedding ring* -- and who should pop around the corner? My brother. And not Charlie -- not my "sure I'll cover for you while you sneak out to neck with your boyfriend when you're supposed to be doing homework" brother. No, it's Bill -- my "I'm telling that you had an extra cookie before dinner" brother. This has *got* to be a nightmare. I'm just standing here, and time is slowly dragging on -- and I just can't make myself move or speak or do anything. It's like the last few seconds before a car accident -- you've done everything you can to avoid it, and now it's going to happen anyway, and all you can do is hold on for dear life and hope that it's quick and clean. And then Matthew wakes up and starts to cry. Thank you, Jesus. # # # Salvation. I never thought I'd be so glad to hear my son in distress, but his timing here is perfect. Quick as a wink I haul Matthew off my shoulder and shove him into my husband's arms. As I believe I mentioned, this is not normally a preferred childcare strategy, but desperate times call for desperate measures. "Here," I say, before Bill can put in a word of protest. "You take him to the men's room and see if he needs changing. I'll go get the prescription and meet you at the front of the store; you're going to be late for work if we don't hurry." I turn Bill bodily -- yes, it is possible, especially when I take him by surprise -- and shove him gently but firmly in the direction of the restrooms. I can see from the set of his shoulders that he doesn't want to go, but Matthew's wails are rapidly attracting the attention of other shoppers, and if there is one thing William Scully hates more than Fox Mulder, it's being a public spectacle. For just a second I am torn. I really do need to pick up Matthew's prescription, and Bill really will be late for work if we don't get moving. But another part of me wants to stay just long enough to cross-examine Dana, and reassure myself that there really isn't anything going on here but an undercover FBI investigation. I really, truly, desperately want to reassure my husband that the little tableau he witnessed is meaningless, and that he doesn't have to worry about finding Fox Mulder sitting across from him at Thanksgiving Dinner for the next 50 years. And so I turn around -- -- just in time to see Fox bend down and lightly brush his lips across Dana's. She looks surprised -- maybe even a little shocked. But then she smiles, and gently strokes his forearm. And I turn right around again and head for the pharmacy. There are some things I just don't want to know, and this morning I have encountered several of them. And so as I stand in line waiting to pay for Matthew's prescription, I grab a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol. Something tells me I'm going to need it. Fini -- You may be a loser if .... you've ever had to fake an orgasm while masturbating. :p ==========================