Scully's Greatest Hits (1/1) by Aurora Vere CATEGORY - VH, VR, H ARCHIVE - oh yeah, baby. Gossamer, ATXC, anywhere. Just let me know where it's off to. RATING - R SPOILERS - El Mundo Gira and Detour, both of which revealed to us that Scully was better off keeping her day job :P KEYWORDS - M/S UST, *heavy* on the UST, with soap and shaving cream and all kinds of goodies :) SUMMARY - Have you ever wondered what Scully does in the shower? DISCLAIMER - Chris, you *want* to write this scene. I just beat you to it. You can still use it though; I'll take a free trip to the set to see it filmed. That's all I ask. Thanks to Sabine for her gracious beta work. You're the best! --------- "...Now YOU can relive those glory days with Tife-Lime's 'Greatest Hits of the 70s and 80s', featuring digitally remastered songs never before seen on those *other* compilations..." Oh God. I'm gonna be sick. Ten o'clock on a Friday night, and nothing is on the tube except for those goddamn sitcoms and infomercials trying to save my consumer-hungry soul with a bunch of shit they think I need to make my life complete. No HBO, not even late night, soft-porn Cinemax. Nothing but basic cable. I suppose I asked for it, booking us rooms at the worst and only motel and sign of civilization in Beulah, Arkansas. What the hell do these people do for kicks around here? "...You'll get Barry Manilow, Stevie Nicks, songs from the top-grossing movies, all on one seven-volume set of CDs or cassettes..." I can't take this anymore. Sayonara, Tife-Lime. The TV flickers in protest, just for a minute, delivering its last and final sales pitch of $11.95 per compact disc of eternal listening pleasure. And then nothing. This has got to be Hell, or some higher circle of it. Or maybe it's Limbo, where nothing happens at all and people merely exist in their day-to-day circle of close relations and their bi-weekly pilgrimages to Wal-Mart. Trouble is, there isn't even a Wal-Mart in this bumfuck town. Whatever. Scully's done with the autopsy and we're out of here in the morning. Home might be equally as boring, but at least I've got HBO. Maybe I'll listen to her tape, examine her findings. That just might put me to sleep. Somehow I find the motivation to get up from the bed and saunter over to the makeshift desk I've made on top of my chest of drawers. There it is, the mini-cassette player, waiting for me, beckoning to me to reveal whatever secrets its owner uncovered. "Case number 22826," I hear her say in that detached, scientific tone of voice I've grown to enjoy. It almost sounds sultry, sexy in a way I can't even comprehend. Not the usual, everyday sexy most guys would go for, but the regal, intimidating, unattainable sexy that twists my little senses into a million knots. I don't know how she does it, but she does. And she has. "Victim is white, male, age 40." Victim is white, male, age 38, and completely turned on by the sound of her voice. Christ, that's morbid. "Estimated time of death: 2:15 am, Tuesday morning, October 12. Cause of death is as of yet undetermined, based on a cursory external examination. A thorough internal exam should prove more effective in determining exact cause and nature of death." Internal. I'm listening. Just keep talking. "I'll begin with the Y-incision." Slice and dice, baby. "Hm-hm-hm-hmmmm-hm-hm-hm-hmmmm....." What the...? Did someone just say something? Nah. It's gotta be my imagination. "Hm-hm-hmmm-hm-hm-hmmm...." That wasn't my imagination. Someone's humming. Scully. What the hell is she doing over there? This calls for investigation. Slowly, silently I tiptoe over to the crack in the door, our Great Divide, and I hear the hiss of running water. She's in the shower. Easy, boy. Heel. "...If you like peeeeeing in a clahhset..." What? That *wasn't* what I heard, was it? "...in a cahhht or the rainnnn..." What the hell is that noise? The radio? The TV? No. It sounds too drab. Boring. Must be one of those stupid, pointless self-empowerment tapes I caught her listening to last week. Sure sounds like one. What a godawful monotone. But who would empower someone to pee in a closet? "If you're naahhht into yohhhga...if you haave half a brain..." That's not a tape. That is live and in person Scully, saying something in the shower. What the hell is she saying? Reciting her top ten autopsy findings? And why is she drawing out every syllable, sustaining them? I need to get closer. "If you like making love at midnight...in the dunes on the Cape...then I'm the love that you've looked for...write to meeee and escape...." Holy shit. She's singing the Piņa Colada song. She *remembers* the Piņa Colada song? Christ, how old are we? "If you like Piņa Coladas...getting caught in the rain.." Oh, so *that's* what she was saying. I was beginning to think she had some secret fetish. "...Hm hm hmmmmm hm hm hmmm hmmmmm...hm hm hmmmmm hm hm hmmmm..." I feel the laugh rising from my abdomen and fight like hell to keep it in. God, she's terrible. Somebody get the cane. "...If you like making love at middddnight..." She stops 'singing', and answers herself in that goddamn sexy voice again. Except this time it's all sex, 100% concentrate. No imitation flavors, no additives or preservatives. "*I'm* the love that you've looked for, baby. Yes, I am. Come to me and escape. I *luhhhhve* making *luhhhhhve* at midnight..." Um, could you run that by me one more time? On second thought, don't. Don't get me worked up over here. Don't do it, Scully, just keep singing. Please just keep singing and keep my libido down to a minimum. "You like that, don't you?" What the hell...? Is she talking to me? "You luhhhhve making love at midnight too." She can't be talking to me. She can't even *see* me. "We'd luhhhve making love at midnight together, you and me, on the dunes of the Cape, or on a desk, or in some seedy motel room....come with meeee...." Oh, jeez. Oh God. I think I just ruined my new silk boxers. Dammit, Scully, why do you have to say things like that within earshot of poor, innocent, unsuspecting men? Someone needs to stand up and fight for all the sexually frustrated, romantically inept, platonic pretenders to the throne of Prince Charming in the universe of all that is Woman. And look who's doing it now. Dammit, Spooky, this is not the time to get hard. Not now. Not ever, not when she's unaware of it. Wait for it. Save it. Don't.... "...What the hell; might as well enjoy the desert island for a while," I hear her say. "Let's do another song for me and all the other star-crossed lovers in the audience." She's humming again. I find myself leaning into the Great Divide, absorbing her space, smelling the sweet perfume of her shampoo as I imagine her lathering every strand of that lush auburn hair. Christ, she's not making this any easier. But I have to get closer. Quietly I open the door enough to allow myself access, and tiptoe into the adjoining room. It smells so good in here. Shampoo, Herbal Essence, maybe. I think that's what I saw when she borrowed my shower on the last assignment, when hers had no hot water. That's definitely what I smelled. I wonder if that's all it takes to get a woman excited, to get *her* orgasmic like those women on TV.... Shit. Fuck. No, no fuck. That's the problem. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I should just cross the Great Divide again and retreat into familiar territory. Safe territory. Come on, Mulder, you know you're curious. Stay a while. Smell the Herbal Essence. "Hmmm hmmm hm hmmmmmm hmmmmm...." Goddamn, what that woman can do with just humming. I don't even want to go where my mind is taking me. Let's look around, distract ourselves for a minute. She's already laid out her evening wear on the bed. I think I'll investigate that instead. Blue satin PJs, no frills, nothing fancy, just blue satin PJs. I wonder if she owns anything other than PJs. My mind starts wandering and suddenly my hands have moved to pick up the material, gently rubbing it between palm and finger. Soft and smooth. Christ, that's heaven. Smells like her, too, I realize, like honeysuckle rose and languid musk. Musk that would triple in power if I smelled between her.... Goddamn it, Mulder, get a hold of yourself. She's RIGHT THERE. And the door's open. "....Hmmhmhmhmmmhmmmm...." Fine. But I'm not letting go of the PJs. I hear her humming something again, some tune that's right on my tongue, but one I can't make out for the life of me. I know this song. I know this song; it came out about the same time as that damn Piņa Colada song. What the hell is it? Come on, Scully, help me out here. Oh man. She's singing again, in that god-awful monotone. "...at the Copa...Copacabana..." You've got to be kidding me. "...the hottest spot north of Havana..." Barry Manilow? What the hell's she been smoking? I feel another laugh coming on, a huge spasm rippling my abdomen, and I know I'll be hard pressed to fight this one. Part of it comes out in a barely masked sniggle, erupting through my nose like I'd guzzled a gallon of Budweiser. If she keeps this up, I can't hold out. There's only so much laughter a man can hide before letting it rip. She's belting now, yelling loudly without any variation in pitch. Holy shit, she's awful. "Mewwwwzik and paaaaassion were alllllways in fashion at the Cohhhhpaaaahhh...." I find myself wincing. "....They fell in luhhhhvvvve..." Jesus Christ, Scully, I can't hold it back any longer. I'm letting it rip. When was the last time I laughed this hard? When? I have no fucking clue. I don't *ever* think I've laughed this hard. Not in my adult life, at least. Oh, shit, I can't stop; it just keeps coming and coming like a really good orgasm and I can't stop it from leaking out of every bone in my body. It's just too damn funny. Dana Scully, Medical Doctor, Special Agent and Scientist Extraordinaire, belting monotonally to antiquated pop songs in the shower. I never thought I'd see the day. I probably wouldn't have believed it myself, if I hadn't had little glimpses of her musical ability before, with her painful renditions of West Side Story throughout the Chupacabra case. God, she just wouldn't shut up. It was annoying and side-splitting at the same time. But I couldn't laugh then. I had to keep it in. As bad as she sounds, I'm having the time of my life. "...They fell in luhhhhvvvve...." Suddenly she stops singing. What's next on the setlist? Bob Marley? "I'm in love," I hear her say softly, almost to herself. "I'm in love and a fat lotta good it does me. You hear that, people on the lawn?" Shit, she's flipped. I can barely keep from howling. "At least you're getting more action out there than I am." Come on, Mulder, suck it up and stop laughing. She's going to hear you, if she hasn't already. "Don't fall in love with a dreamer. Yes, that was mine too. I wrote that." Damn, what I wouldn't give for an extra tape right now in that mini-cassette recorder. The Gunmen would *love* this. Talk about some serious blackmail. "Yeah, thank you, thank you. As I was saying, I'm in love. Yes, I'm in love. I know, stop the presses. Dana's in love. She fell in love with a dreamer and hearts are breaking all over the world tonight." I bite my sleeve to contain myself. This is too good. "It's too bad he's not interested." What the...? "Or maybe he is. Anyway, it doesn't matter. What matters is that we want another song, don't we?" No we don't. Really. It's been funny and actually quite entertaining, but I'm beginning to worry about you, Scully. Isn't there some health risk associated with spending too long a time in the shower? "Thank you, thank you very much," I hear her murmur on the other side of that shower curtain. She almost sounds drunk. Quick booze check. Bottle of wine, beer can, stash of Jim Beam or Jack Daniels...? Nope. Nothing to indicate a booze binge, at least upon initial observation. Maybe she's just tired. Maybe she's *really* tired. Is that a giggle I hear? Christ, she's wigging out on me. Dana Scully is wigging out on me. Some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder has worked its way into her head and now she's playing pop diva behind a shower curtain. There has to be an explanation. I'm not going to hang around to find out though. If she catches me in here, it's all over. Everything. I rearrange the PJs just as I found them on the bed. Well, almost. I don't have that wrinkle-free technique she seems to have mastered. My stuff usually ends up on the floor, or a chair, if I'm lucky. But I don't have time to worry about that right now. I just need to get the hell out of here before I find myself castrated. And there she goes, singing again. "Wee'll go out to seaaa....and we'll perfect out chemistry.... by and by we'll defy....a little bit of gravityyyy...." Scully, you're getting worse. My ears are screaming here. "Afternoon delightssss....*cock* *tails* and moonlit nightsss.." Shit, did you have to stress that word? I feel it responding again. Dammit. "Aruba...Jamaica...oooo I wanna take you to Bermuda...Bahama.. cuhhhhm on pretty mama..." And then it shrivels. Somebody stop the ride. I wanna get off. It's either that or laugh up a lung. "...Key Largo...Montego...Baby why don't we go down to Kokomo... we'll get there fast and then we'll take it slow...thaaat's where we wanna go-oo-whoa..." Dana Scully, I now pronounce you clinically insane. "...Way down to Kokohhhmohhh...." And completely tone deaf. My ears refuse to listen any longer and my belly is rippling with barely controlled convulsive laughter. And finally she stops. Perfect timing. I hope that's your swan song for the evening. Why don't you stick to autopsy recordings? You won't get any complaints from me. No complaints at all. Then again, this hasn't been so bad. It's different. No, it's not different, it's awful. Positively awful. But therapeutic. I feel like a million bucks from the endorphins running around in me. Scully, I always knew you had healing powers. The water stops. Shit. Time to go. "You've all been great," I hear her slur, her words echoing on all four walls of the bathroom. "Thanks for coming out tonight." I find myself grinning. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. There'd better be a repeat performance, or at least an encore. I hope there's an encore.