CHAPTER FOUR A:

Mulder Manor
Beverly Hills, Los Angeles
11 March 1985
Monday

He was almost done deciding whether to bring his blue- green pajamas or his green- red boxers (a Christmas gift from Byers, obviously) for their Vegas trip when there was a knock on his door. Absentmindedly, he yelled for the person to enter. Mulder laid the boxers across his bed, beside the pajamas. He stood back and studied it like an artist about to paint the masterpiece of the century.

"Mulder." The thick British accent could always cut through his diverted attention like a hot knife through frozen butter. His neck snapped a few bones when he strained to look at her, surprised that she actually knocked on his door this time for she usually would just barge in. Don't ask him – she had caught him on the bed sleeping soundly with drool on his pillow, fresh from the bathroom with only a towel around his endowment, and last but certainly not the least, standing naked searching for his briefs. During those three spectacular encounters, Scully never did bat an eyelash. She only looked at him straight in the eye and barked at him whatever it was that she needed. She also left him as if she had seen grown men naked every damn day of her life.

Scully must have been AT LEAST spooked by the last encounter if she took some time to knock today.

"Yes, what is it, Scully?"Mulder pressed his fingers lightly on his neck where he felt his bones were strained.

Scully reached for her back and scratched an invisible itch. "What time is our flight?"

He tried to hide the sigh that was halfway up his throat. Rule # 1: Never ever show this woman that she annoyed you. Rule # 2: Keep her in your good graces and she would keep you in hers.

"Within the next five hours, Scully. Have you packed yet?" Rule # 3: Be good-natured to her.

She shuffled her dirty-white rubber shoes on the red carpet. The perfect little ribbons on top of them caught his eyes. "No, not yet."

Go figure these women. The first minute they would be all too hot to handle and the next minute they would be frightened little lambs who want to chant the Our Father.

"Is there something you want me to know, Scully?" he made sure to articulate each word as if he was talking to a child. Seeing that it registered fairly well with her, Mulder went back to deciding between his pajamas and boxers. He placed a finger over his chin, a favorite position of his when he was thinking.

"Yes."

That was too crispy for his liking and Mulder jerked his head from his wardrobe. He went back to her face … her pale face and angry blue eyes.

Uh oh.

"I want you to know that I don't have enough clothes to go to Vegas. And I am not moving here until I have the kind of clothes I want to wear in Vegas."

Shit. Butt ugly shit.

They were already booked in five hours! Why was she telling him this just today?

"Scully," he carefully started, finding his head in his hands. Difficult women were also difficult to diffuse, goddammitt. "Please tell me why you're telling me this RIGHT NOW." He couldn't help but shout out the last words. He was getting frustrated with her I-need-something-RIGHT-now-boo!-happy-halloween-hope-you'll-be-traumatized-for-the-rest-of-your-life tricks.

"Because you didn't tell me that we were really set for Vegas until today!" she reasoned out, jabbing an accusing finger in his direction. Mulder wearily dragged his head from his hand and stared at her finger. It was in the middle of his oversized nose, so close to his eyes that he could barely focus on it.

Okay, so it was also his fault. So he surprised her. So he had his own Boo!-happy-halloween! tricks. It was not illegal, was it?

"I'll buy you a whole fucking wardrobe in Vegas, Scully; PLEASE pack what you have there right now," he pleaded with a precision that would make his father – God rest his soul – proud.

Scully's blue eyes brightened at the thought of shopping.

Shopping?

He never ever went shopping with women – not even Emily – and he was not starting now. Definitely, he was not starting this now for her!

"Thank you, Mulder!" She skipped out of his room, ballerina-like in grace. Before she completely vanished, she peeked back in, saying: "Take the boxers! They're super cute!"

He had no choice but to accompany her … she was signed to Warner Brothers and officially, since his bosses sort of forced him to, he was her keeper. He needed to take care of her until the movie was over. He needed to make sure that she got the best kind of publicity. He needed to make sure that she was satisfied with all that Warner Brothers had to offer. Fuck. He should not have let them see her dance in the first place. Before he knew it, his bosses already had individual Spunks dancing in their eyes as he shook their hands to seal the deal.

The contract did not say that he had to accompany a twenty-year-old woman to every damn living mall in Vegas.

A light bulb lit in Mulder's head. Of course!

He grabbed the phone extension before he could talk himself out of it.

And then, dropped it.

What the fuck did Scully tell him?

The Doggetts were the weirdest couple he had ever seen. And the tightest too, he had to add that. There was nothing wrong with their physical pairing - actually, they looked perfect for each other. John Doggett had the strut of a professional gentleman: shoulders were always upright and his smile always tight. He held his wife's hand wherever and whenever they went, and yeah, of course, he would never let her out of his view. Monica Reyes- Doggett, for Mulder, was another story. She was as complicated as Scully; probably a little lower on the difficulty level, but difficult as well. She jabbered too much, joked around too much, and cried too much.

Normally though, for a succeeding bystander, Monica was pretty (there you go, jealous Doggett). Her brunette locks framed her tan face like a perfect triangle (what was great was that she never teased her hair like most women around her and that despite the changing times, she had preferred it straight and neat, thank you)and that face of hers was always vacillating between calm and giddy. John's not bad too, and if you put them together and presto! Couple perfection! There was only one problem...
Mulder just thought that ever since John married Monica, he suddenly became reserved, wait, not even reserved, more like obsessed. He kept his wife's picture in his wallet (John never, ever kept a woman's picture in his wallet - not even his mom's), and when they worked late on one particular shooting, the guy always called home "to check up on Monica" every damn hour.

During those days, Mulder was still with Diana. He never called home every hour. Diana waited for him like the obedient wife he thought she should be.

He also used to party hard, as if he never transitioned from college frat boy to studio executive. But after John's marriage, when he had asked John if he wanted some scotch for the ride, John shook his head and muttered a small "thank you, Monica needs me at home" crap that killed Mulder. Monica must have had voodooed his best party animal man.
Never really understanding the chemistry between the couple and why his best party animal man had become best husband- man, Mulder felt a lot guilty eventually when he realized that the reason why Monica "jabbered a lot, joked a lot, and cried a lot" (not too much, he was exaggerating) was because she was 3 weeks pregnant.

Way before the pregnancy, when Mulder swallowed both enough pride and beer to ask John why he was so devoted to his wife, John smiled at him like a weirdo and answered, "Because were married." Duh.

He never quit while he was ahead, all right. So he inquired again. John's eyes narrowed, before telling him: "Someday, you're going to find someone you'll be devoted to, Mulder. Someone who'll kick your drinking crap out of your butt." Then, he made that Doggett- scowl. "Diana's not the one, I bet yah." That was exactly three months before his divorce. The bet caused him $1000. Devoted. Yeah right. That was straight right out of his fucking pocket. Rich as he was, he did not pay for that $1000 in one sitting. He was pricking his wounded pride open each time he handed John a dollar.

He made Scully busy herself with some chocolate-whipped donuts while he was craning his neck all around the Las Vegas airport, searching for John and Monica. Mulder made sure that Scully had her legs on top of their suitcases as he walked around the whole lot.

What was weirder about the couple was that they usually did not see you – you would have to see them first. It was embedded- like a really sticky flytrap -in everyone's mind that the two sometimes got lost within their own realm that they would forget that there was still a world churning hard bricks around them.

Around him, backpackers were stalking every single corner of the airport, waiting for their flights to be called. A sandy Australian vacationer made a good pillow out his thick black bag, turning his head towards the transparent glass of the airport to avoid embarrassing himself from those passing by. As if he would not get enough embarrassment from the ones boarding or disembarking the planes. Mulder chuckled. Humans interested him that way. He did not study psychology in Oxford for goddamn nothing.

He caught a reflection of spiky buzz- cut brown hair and an iron- flat brunette through a random lady's compact kit – it was easy to spot someone who had flat hair when the world's women are wearing their hair curly, big, and teased. He hurried towards them at once. A flat- out face- consuming grin found his face as he sighted the Doggetts, hand- in- hand, across the arrival area. John was comfortable with his usual slacks and knitted sweater that was three times larger than his normal size, while Monica was glowing in a ruffled maternity dress. She was also three times larger than the last time he saw her.

"Hey John!" Mulder shouted, making about twenty unknown faces turn towards him. He forgot - this country was full of 'Johns.' Accelerating towards his friends to make sure that no one approached him out of curiosity, he shook John's hand firmly before taking him into a brief hug. He did the same with Monica, planting a small kiss on her red cheek.

"Monica!" He gestured towards her large belly. Monica proudly placed her two hands on it. "John's becoming a miracle- maker these days, huh?"

She grinned. "Yes. He's been feeding me too much protein. He said it's good for our baby, mi amigo."

Monica Doggett was born and raised in New Mexico, so she sometimes broke through her language- barrier and spoke Spanish accidentally - truth be told, she spoke it most of the time. She did seem a lot nicer when she spoke the language, making her otherwise sharp voice all soft and womanly. He once decided that it was the reason why John was so into his wife... si senor. He might be juvenile when it came to figuring this out, but Mulder had this vast belief that Spanish women were hot. Yeah, literally hot.
Not Monica, of course. Christ and Jesus. He would hang himself upside down before he would consider this woman before him to be hot.

"When's the due date?" Mulder turned to John, who was beaming proudly at his wife.

"This May, probably. That's if the little critter's finally gets rid of his shyness." John reached over to pat his wife's shoulder. Monica nodded.

"So, where's this girl you were talking about?" Monica asked. Mulder directed them towards where Scully was.

He did some quick explaining as to where he found this woman and why he hired her. John was part of the movie's main project, actually: he was Mulder's Assistant Director. But he had been out of the whole picture while his wife was pregnant and probably will be out until everything had settled down. John promised his assistance once the movie started, but by that time, Mulder still needed to hire another AD for the opening preparations.

"She must be good if the studio execs drooled over her like that," John noted, assisting his wife against the tide of people coming in for the departure area.

"Yeah, she is," Mulder agreed, pushing through an overweight teenager gobbling up a jumbo cheese hotdog. "She's a bit heavy on the attitude, I might add."

"You said that the tres mosqueteros have christened her as 'Spunk,'" Monica mentioned, her tongue softening during the last statement. She should soften up. She was the appointed member of the board who would accompany his 'Spunk' around Vegas to shop for new clothes. In lieu of this, he had made another hand-shaking deal with the feisty redhead: Be nicest to the couple … and nice to him.

He was expecting her to introduce herself as 'Dana' again.

When they reached the exact station where he had left Scully, she was still there, her eyes scanning the whole airport, reminding Mulder of two blue headlights that had been left on overnight by a car owner. When she spotted the three approaching people, she cordially rose to her feet, easing out the wrinkles on her denim jumper (as if there could ever be wrinkles on denim, anyway). She also straightened her light blue headband. Mulder was happier about his decision to call Monica about the wardrobe problem - she did look like a crumpled up teenage, he had to admit now.

Mulder stood amongst the three. "Scully, this is John Doggett and his wife, Monica."

Scully politely shook John's hand first, and then Monica's. The woman was staring at the redhead with fondness.

"Usted es hermoso, mi dama roja," she whispered to Scully. Spunk looked at Mulder quizzically. Mulder did not also understand what Monica said, so he turned to John.

"She said that you are beautiful, my red lady." The man's arm went around his wife's shoulders. Scully laughed, trying to hide the crimson tide that threatened to overtake her face. Mulder had the distinct impression that this lady was not told she was beautiful very often. She should be: because no matter how many times harder than the rock her head was, it was not something arguable: she was truly beautiful.

Monica smiled. "I wish my baby would resemble you." She placed a hand atop her round stomach. "Where are you from, mi dama roja?" It was now official: mi dama roja is Monica's personal nickname for Scully. His was "mi amigo." John's was "mi amor." Her bratty little brother was given the pensive title of "mi mierda"- that's "my shit" in English.

Scully glanced sideways at Mulder. What was she looking at him for? All of his brain cells were devoid of Scully info and he was not keen on filling it in.

"From Wales."

"Ah, Welsh!" Monica gleefully repeated. Mulder's brow furrowed. Really? Welsh? He never knew that. His knowledge of Scully consisted of the fact that she could dance and she was giving him hell in his own home.

"Ble chan Cymru , 'm 'n frowngoch Spunk?" Monica produced from her tongue with a 2% accuracy rate.

What the fuck? Monica spoke Welsh? Since when?!

Mulder sharply criticized Doggett with his eyes. The man offered him a shrug as an explanation and some sords that barely registered in his brain: "Monica spent a

whole year studying languages in Yale."

Wonderful, Mulder's brain screamed. Let's all dance and do the Chippendale. It's legal: they were in Vegas.

Scully was more than happy right now. She had found someone who could understand her own language, someone who she could talk to without any barriers. With an octave of a full- pledged British, she said: "Milford Haven. Daleithiau chan daleithiau."

For all Mulder knew, they were talking about how to stuff his body into the closet tonight. It was no secret from him that Monica had a limited range of liking for him. Let it be said that they did not really hit it off. He liked the woman and he knew that she liked him too, but it wasn't a glorious kind of liking. It's more civil, because John was his friend and she was his wife.

Behind him, Monica called "John ha jodido arriba amigo"- that was "John's fucked up friend."How did he know? He had heard her mutter that under her breath a few times before. How was he sure that she was referring to him? He was the only one there. How did he find out what it meant in English? He asked John during lunch that day. He choked on his food.

Mulder cleared his throat, snapping the two women from their same language- bliss. "Good. Now you two can get along well."

Monica was glowing, obviously happy to help Scully and even more happier that she could show off her "whole year of studying languages" skill to them. Personally, he had heard three languages in one whole day. He was getting dizzy. What he needed right now was some chilled scotch and light beer as his chaser. Yeah. He could already feel the tingle of the alcohol down his throat.

"I'll take care of this beautiful lady now, Mulder," Monica assured him. He didn't need any more assuring. He wanted that glass of chilling, sweaty scotch in his hands.

Suddenly, John thumped him hard on the back, almost making him fall onto the floor.

"We're all going to be fine, Monica. Mulder owes me some slots," John perked up. Mulder nodded in agreement. Payback time.

Before they went their separate ways, Monica leaned into John's ear and whispered some harsh words in Spanish: "Yo no lo quiero venida buscadora bebida, John. Usted es amigo es una influencia mala. Tenga cuidado conlo."

When they were already out of sight, Mulder hauled Spunk's backpack onto his shoulders. John carried the other two bags with his thick hands and they walked side- by- side quietly.

Mulder could not help it. He had to ask.

"What did... what did Monica tell you?"

John closed his eyes tight, as if he was in extreme pain. His friend could never, ever lie to him. Not in a million years. That wa why he found out about what Monica secretly called him - over choked pasta and spurted- out coke.

"She said... that she doesn't want me coming home drunk."

Mulder grimaced. He should forget about sharing that scotch. "And?"

"And that I should be careful of you. You are a bad influence."

Shit. Mierda.

"Am I?" Mulder wanted to know.

John shrugged, with that unique way he would do - he would lift his shoulders until they met his ear, then move them once forward and once backward an inch at a time, until they were completely descended.

Yes. Of course he was a bad influence. His friend never, ever lied to him. That shrug of his could have been Morse code for "you're a fucked up bad influence, Mulder."

"You want her to dance in the Folies Bergere?!" John shouted above the growing noise of the casino, scratching a part of his buzz- cut head.

Mulder sipped on his chilled scotch. He eyed the glistening cold beer tentatively, before deciding that he would be saving that for later. "Yeah! She's awesome, John! Whoever - whoever is managing the Folies Bergere this year would - not... attempt to say yes- I mean, no!" He goofily grinned at his friend. John sceptically whistled a low tune at his statements.

"I heard that the man in charge of co- producing the show this year is a Jerry Jayson," his friend mentioned, going back to his slot machine. He inserted a chip inside the humongous machinery, pulled on the trigger, and waited with his fingers merging together in anxiety. Mulder also stayed calm- until the results came out: banana, banana, and a coke. Miss. Again. For the night, John already spent $400 out of the $500 that Mulder owed him. He was going pretty fast.

John thumped on the machine, cursing it out loud in Spanish. He sure had learned a lot from Monica. Mulder wondered where she taught him that side of the Spanish dialect...

He quickly shook the dirty thought out of his head. He was getting dozed. Dirty thoughts in a clean mind meant getting dozed.

"You know Jerry Jayson?" Mulder raised his bottle of scotch in the air, watching it twinkle under the small fluorescent lights of the Four Queens. Beautiful, beautiful liquid euphoria.

Doggett drew out another golden chip from his pocket. He was contemplating on using it or not when he answered, "Yeah. He called me once, suggested some dancers for our upcoming project in Warner Brothers."

"And," Mulder continued, "You didn't tell me..."

"When he called, you already had Spunk." Doggett smirked at him, and pocketed the glistening chip. He stretched his legs before him, and since they were facing each other, the tips of his sandals touched the legs of Mulder's chair.

"We should go up to the hotel, Mulder. You have had enough," he warned, grabbing the scotch from his hands. It only made the director groan.

"Fuck you, John! Let me have that!" He flailed his arms above him, fingers clenching and unclenching. John still had the perfect 20/20 vision and consciousness, so he easily dodged the yielding hands of Fox Mulder.

Mulder swallowed hard, angered by his friend's interference with his nth glass of scotch. With one last gallop, he lunged from his chair and onto Doggett's, narrowly missing the hard surface of the slot machine. They landed on the floor hard, on top of each other.

The drunk man began to laugh. This was all ridiculous. Wrestling a fucking glass of scotch from his best party animal's hand wherein he still had his chaser right there on the table, waiting for him. Fuck him. He took Doggett by the collar and laughed.

But all that was in his friend's eyes were fear.

That was the last thing that Mulder took note of before he heard a large crash behind him, women screaming, and an indescribable pain digging his skull.

Then, black out.

END OF CHAPTER FOUR A

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Jeez, I was pretty gregarious back in the day, so I decided to split some chapters up. I realized that chapters that were too long were quite an eyesore here on FF.

I am currently taking advantage of my country's Easter Break and celebrating because I have officially written the Epilogue to Book II! I'm working my way back up to complete Book II and I am quite happy with this progress. Yes, Spunk lives and she shall be completed! Shall we celebrate this with a bit of R&R?