Chapter 4: Death by Paperwork
Summary:
Friday night.
This is chapter 4 of a longer piece that will travel into MSR territory. I guess its 4th season…
Disclaimer:
My cousin tells me that I'm crazy. Brett tells me I should write more. Copyright laws tell me that the X-Files are not mine.
A/N: Please read and review. I am a real person (I think). Oh, and tell me if the character interaction is plausible.
xxx
4:48 PM Friday Afternoon
2 Days Prior
Basement Office
"You look comatose."
Mulder slowly lifted his head from his desk to glance over to see his red-haired partner trying to suppress a smirk. It was Friday and her playful side had obviously come out to join the brain dead. He issued a weary chuckle and retorted.
"No, Scully. Don't be fooled. I just play comatose to get your attention." Straightening up and removing the paper clip that had implanted itself to the side of his cheek as he slept, he continued, "Inside this cataleptic shell lays a man deeply invested in his paperwork. I am absolutely invigorated at the prospect of a weekend buried under a mountain of files."
Stifling a yawn, Mulder eyed the pile of papers with the same amount of affection he reserved for pedophiles, sociopaths, and men in black.
Scully looked down, biting back a smile, and reached for the power button on her computer.
"Well Mulder, as its Friday, and I've just spent a week doing mind numbing expense reports while you chased down irrevocably illegitimate leads and enthusiastically operated in denial concerning the backed up documents you owe the requisition office—"
"Hey, hey. First of all, Scully, those leads were not illegitimate..."
Ahh, he knew that would get the eyebrow.
"Sightings of ephemeral beings in old tenements are not unprecedented. Do you know how many people died there during the depression? The Hoovervilles in DC stretched for miles. And the witnesses all described the classic signs of a spiritual encounter. The drop—"
"Witnesses?…Come on, Mulder. If you're referring to who I think you're referring to—"
"Are you discriminating her veracity simply because of her profession?"
"Mulder," the exasperated warning tone was out, "She was a hooker. She was homeless. And she had needle scars on her arms. If I stuffed you in a back alley and shot you up, I'm sure you would have sexual encounters with spiritual entities as well…"
"Well, Destiny called."
"Mulder, if that's your destiny, I think you need to rethink your life."
"No, no, no. Her name was Destiny."
"You've got to be kidding."
"Nope." A big grin spread across his features. "But I will admit that I realize she wasn't a trustworthy source."
"Alas, divine intervention."
Mulder watched as Scully filed the last couple of folders in her bag and put on her trench coat. Issuing him a startling grin, he knew that he might reconsider the prospect of divine intervention as a probable occurrence in his life. He chuckled.
With a smirk she picked up her bag and walked over towards his desk. Leaning forward she said conspiratorially, "Well, then partner, I have a suggestion for your predicament. Either suffer this weekend, or endure the wrath of Skinner bright and early Monday morning."
He groaned putting his face in his hands. "I'd prefer that Kimberly not discover I scream like a woman."
"Well, then I'd say your weekend is set."
Turning her back to him, and heading for the door, Mulder couldn't help but feel that his torturous weekend would only be exacerbated by her absence.
"Hey, Scully."
She turned around and rearranged her bag on her shoulder.
"Yes?"
"What do ya say that before my torture officially begins at 12:00 Saturday morning, we go get dinner?. I heard Villa Mosconi makes a mean garlic pesto. I might as well smell bad if I'm going to be marinating in my despai. Maybe Rocco's afterwards?" He waggled his eyebrows. "For desert."
"Sorry, I would, but I am expected at my Mother's tonight at 8. Obligatory weekend over. She wants company at her block party. She's been dropping endless hints about the 'wonderful Mr. Pratchett, the corporate lawyer who move in down the block'. I know she's motivated by love, but I can't help but feel that she enjoys torture."
"Well, at least you don't have to worry about him having a soul."
"Maybe that's what your hooker saw by the tenement buildings."
"Possibly."
Each syllable of the word was drawn out.
"Well, have a good time, Scully. Maybe next week."
"I'll call tomorrow to make sure you aren't planning a ritualistic suicide on a flaming effigy of requisition forms."
"Don't give me ideas."
With that, she surprised him with another flash of teeth, issued a final farewell and closed the office door behind her.
Mulder looked back at his papers, already anticipating her call, ignorant of the fact that it would never come.