Thank You For Shopping at K-Mart
By Brandon D. Ray
publius@avalon.net
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere is fine, so long as my name stays on
it and no money changes hands.
FEEDBACK: Go ahead; knock yourself out.
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
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