Title: A Mild Situation

Author: Blue Lightnin'

Category: Humor, on the verge of PWP, but not quite :)

Rating: PG, for a teensy bit of violent material. It's pretty clean.

Summary: The man formally known as "Mr. X" isn't dead; he's living in the suburbs.

Disclaimer: Chris Carter owns all, but since he's apparently done with Mr. X, I doubt he'd object to me playing with him for a while.

Notes-- There just aren't enough stories about Mr. X! I had to write one, even if it's short and has no plot. IMHO, X is the coolest character to grace the X-Files, and he deserves far more glory than he's getting.





"Phyllis, where did you put my dark socks?"

Reginald Berkeley pawed through the dresser drawer, a thoughtful frown plastered to his dark face.

Phyllis Berkeley entered the room, struggling to put a large gold earring through her earlobe. "I only washed the white ones. Do you have to have dark socks, Reggie? I mean, it's not as if people are going to notice anyway."

Reginald looked up at his wife and sighed. "Well, I would prefer to wear dark socks with a dark tuxedo."

"Honey, no one is going to care." Smiling slightly at her husband, Phyllis wrapped her arms around his large form. "Believe me. Now, get your socks on and lets go. We're going to be late."

Yawning, Reginald selected a pair of nice socks. White is better than red, he thought to himself as he put them on. Maybe Phyllis was right. The opera house was dimly lit anyway, and he highly doubted anyone would care even if they did see. It was just that his mother always had been very insistent about certain matters, and the color of his socks happened to be one of the topics. But Mother was across the country in San Diego, and probably too old now to care about his color choices, or even notice them.

Reginald had managed to get one shoe on when the doorbell chimed throughout the house. Who could that be, he asked himself? It was nearly ten o'clock, and they weren't expecting any visitors.

"Honey, are you going to get that?" Reginald called to his wife. A muffled voice answered him.

"I'm in the bathroom. Reggie, go see who it is, won't you?"

The man hastily tied up the other shoe, and walked down the stair toward the front door. The bell chimed again, more persistent sounding this time. Reginald twisted the knob, pulled the door, and nearly gasped at what he saw. Of course, though, he refused to betray his eternally cool exterior.

"Agent Mulder? Just how the hell did you find my house?"

The tall, lanky man stared back at him with wide eyes. "I thought you were dead."

Reginald sighed. He'd thought he would never see Fox Mulder again, but apparently, he had been mistaken. He'd never liked the man. Well, he did admire his perseverance, but that didn't help Reginald to actually want to be around him. The agent was just plain obnoxious.

"In a sense I am dead, Agent Mulder, and I am very happy being dead. Now, if you'll excuse me..." he began to close the door, but Mulder stopped it with his body. "I need your help."

Trying his best to keep calm, Reginald opened the door again. "Perhaps you don't understand, Mr. Mulder, I don't do that anymore. I am retired."

The agent began to laugh, but the other stared at him seriously. "Does that amuse you?"

"Retire?" Mulder snorted. "You always seemed so involved in your work."

"Maybe I should clear something up for you, Agent Mulder. When I got shot in the hallway, your hallway, I didn't much care for it. When I survived that near fatal gunshot wound, I essentially had two choices; retire, or get shot again. Which would you choose?"

"I need your help," Mulder insisted, as if he had not been listening at all.

"Mr. Mulder," Reginald began warningly, "I may be retired, but I still have a gun."

"I bet I have a bigger one."

Reginald jumped. Those words had not come out of Mulder. They had come from behind. Slowly, he turned around.

"Alex Krycek." Reginald regarded the man with a cold stare. "So. You've found me. Congratulations."

Raising his gun a little, Krycek smirked. "Actually, Mulder found you. I just followed him."

Berkley didn't risk a look back at Mulder, but could hear the sound of intense breathing coming from that direction. He wondered if the man had brought his gun. It was most likely that he had. This was Mulder, after all.

"Sweetheart, who is it?" The sound of Phyllis's footsteps on the stairs caused Krycek's head to turn slightly. Knowing full well that this was an incredibly lucky opportunity, Reginald lunged forward, pinning his would-be assassin to the floor. Mulder, wasting no time at all, ran over to join him, wrestling Krycek's weapon from his hand.

"Honey? What's going on here?" Reginald looked up to see his wife standing perplexed at the foot of the stairs. He fumbled for words while watching Mulder handcuff the furiously swearing Krycek.

"Uh...honey, it's just..." Berkley stuttered.

"Fox Mulder, F.B.I.," offered the tall man, pulling out his ID. "We've been after this guy for years."

Phyllis put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, my goodness! What was he doing here?"

But Mulder was already in the process of roughly shoving the angry looking Krycek out the door. Reginald calmly shut the door behind them.

"Not every night that something like that happens," he remarked coolly. Phyllis continued to stare wide-eyed at her husband.

"Oh my God."

It's not going to be long before that bastard gets free and comes back, thought Reginald grimly. He'd worked with Alex Krycek once or twice in the past, and had never much cared for him. The man just had about five dozen bad habits, not to mention bad taste in hairstyles. One thing that Reginald Berkeley could never stand was people who couldn't comb their hair properly, and who chose untalented stylists. Back then, Alex had been merely a petty assassin, but now as Reginald understood, had climbed his way up the Syndicate ladder. Not an easy task.

Mulder was another matter. He'd definitely be back as well, maybe even with that annoying little Scully-woman. Reginald shuddered. There was no way he was going to put up with another persistent, whiny agent.

Perhaps this would be a good time to visit his mother. For a long, long time.

END