My goodness, I never realized how much Scully angst I write. This one's an experiment in second person - I was inspired by Zaedah's ForNever to give it a try, but I've never really written anything like this before. Also, this is the first thing I've written and posted in a single day, and I'm nervous about all the mistakes I imagine there are. Many appologies for any errors and bits that don't make sense.
No spoilers.
Disclaimer: As much as I love Scully, I don't own her. That would be slavery. Although, I really wouldn't mind owning Mulder.. ;-)
You straighten your jacket and study your reflection in the mirror. Another dark pantsuit, twins with yesterday's outfit, and triplets with your clothes from the day before. Practical and anonymous – less practical with the addition of much needed two-inch heels. You can't run with the big boys if you're shorter than the average girl. It's hard to intimidate from below.
Tall shiny shoes, pointed. Pressed black pants with a perfect crease down the front - ironing is free with the dry cleaning. A conservative grey shirt and stiff black coat.
You frown at the image, and it frowns back, surprising you with its imposing force, exacerbated by the surrounding darkness. You try to remember the last time your wore something colorful, something fun. You remember reading somewhere that bright colors make you cheerful, and you remember believing it. Life always seemed better from behind a pink dress. But you'd also read that dark colors showed sophistication, and you'd rather be sophisticated than cheerful.
Your hair – if dark was sophisticated, your hair was the epitome of juvenility. Frizzy and stubbornly vivid, it stole the bleakness from your clothing, and you wonder if that's a good thing. Because of your hair you don't wear jewelry. The hair is quite enough bright for a sophisticated look.
Everyone knows red hair goes grey early. You run your hands through it briefly, finding strands that don't match. Maybe you should dye it. Blonde. Brown, with blonde highlights. Black.
Ruffling your hair you realize it smells like nothing. Well, you knew that. The bottles in the shower were chosen for their lack of scent, for the sophisticated nothingness they bring. You skip the ample body care aisles of the drugstore in favor of the dull selection in the grocery, since you pass that section anyways on your way to the frozen food. Microwave dinners are as far from sophisticated as you can get, so you suppose it's good no one sees that particular aspect of you.
The grocery has makeup, too. Lipstick that's not too red and subtle eye shadow to complete your refined look. No showy cherries and emeralds for you – and there, you're back to colors again. But walking into the bullpen with come-get-me lips strikes you as a bad idea.
On an impulse, you rifle through the makeup you own. Bland, boring things made for making a girl pretty without changing anything. You're a practical woman, but sometimes you want to change things. Sometimes you want to wear that come-get-me lipstick with dramatic eyes and leave your hair dangling in its natural curls instead of ironing it into a forced tameness. Sometimes you want to wear orange and blue and red instead of a monotonous line of dismal sophistication.
One look at the clock drives all thought of appearance out of your mind. You have a job to get to where what you look like matters a lot less than how you perform. People's lives hang in the balance as you stand here deliberating about hair.
As you reach out to turn the door knob, you study your nails briefly. Unpainted.
Sophistication sucks.
No, I don't think Scully's shallow. I think she's a girl who never gets to be a girl - I'm not at all girly but come on, who doesn't want a little of it sometimes? She's allowed her moments.
I love you all! And I'd love you even more if you sent feeback! You know you want to. Mulder wants you to. Oh, look, he's giving you his puppy-dog face. How can you say no to that?
:D