LeaveAMessage.html

Leave A Message

By Amanda Finch and Tim Scott
ChaelysQ@aol.com and TScott2533@aol.com

Web sites:
www.geocities.com/Area51/Chamber/7335/ficlist.html and
www.geocities.com/timmscott.geo
Category: Humor, Rated PG-13 for Language
Spoilers: Minute for Fire, Fearful Symmetry, Never Again, How
the Ghosts Stole Christmas; Bigger spoilers for: 3 of a Kind
Summary: Our favorite agents' terrible, horrible, no-good, very
bad day or "When Good Pranks Go Bad". (Check your local
FOX listings.)
Disclaimer: Neither of us is blonde or sun-damaged enough to
be Chris Carter.
Archive: Gossamer , Ephemeral, Spookys and ATXC, yes.
Everyone else, ask please.

Note:
Tim: Okay, let's get one thing straight right from the beginning -- this was
Not
My Fault. There I was, *minding my own business*, when she IMed me and we
started to shoot the breeze. A story idea resulted. I figured it would
make a cute little April Fool's story, maybe ten or fifteen pages tops. But
noooooo. Every time we IMed after that the story got bigger. And longer.
Soon there was a cast of thousands. I told her: "Amanda," I said, "this is
turning into The Story That Ate Cleveland. You've got to cut this out and
finish the bleedin' story." <sigh> Anyway. After racking up a horrendous
phone bill we eventually had what you're about to experience. The only
excuse I can give is that she's funnier than hell and it's hard to cut
"funny". So I hope you enjoy it.

Amanda: <snorts> Oh, it's at least *half* his fault. And that cat thing?
<nods> You don't think that came out of MY head, do you?

+++++
"She's gonna kick our asses..."
-- Frohike, 3 OF A KIND
+++++

04/01/2000
9:15am

The minute he heard the phrase "vampire alligators" he
should've known to pack more underwear.

But nooo. He'd been too busy patiently listening to Scully's
arguments. Blah blah blah. Hard to pay attention to
underwear.

Now all he could think about was the fact that he'd been
immersed in brackish water for most of three days. No sooner
would he change clothes than there'd be another alligator attack.
Then he got trapped in that cave. The underwater cave. The
alligators' underwater cave with the two dead bodies in it. Parts
of himself that he didn't even want to consider were still pruny.
Forget dishpan hands; he had dishpan *body*.

Frankly, he'd been as skeptical as Scully. But her scientific
detachment allowed her the luxury of standing back, arching
that eyebrow and declaring This Week's Strangeness unworthy
of her attention. The minute Mulder heard the Louisiana sheriff
talking about bloodthirsty 'gators in the bayou, though...

It wasn't necessary to keep the glow of enthusiam to himself
anymore. She just knew. It was almost like watching the gates
rise at the Kentucky Derby to see how fast Scully's protests
would come racing out. <...and she's *off*!> After seven years
of this shit he'd learned to just sit back and enjoy it.

"How would an alligator find the carotid artery, Mulder?" was
followed by "I fail to see how this is a Bureau matter.", which
almost immediately led to "You don't think you're going to get a
302 for this, do you?", which gave way to "I stood inside an
elephant once, okay? I am *not* autopsying an alligator!" ,
"What are you laughing at?" just before she stomped out the
door.

Granted, it wasn't so funny now, on Delta Airlines Flight 0405,
crammed into seat 25D with the window on one side and Dylan,
the Three-Foot Snot Factory on the other. Never mind that he
hadn't gotten his 6 AM wake-up call. Never mind the last-
minute discovery that he had no dry shorts to wear. Or the
inexplicable hour-long flight delay. His BVDs were soggy, his
sleeve had snot all over it and his head was pounding. If he
hadn't once been force-fed a liquified E.B.E. through chicken
wire, Mulder might have said this was hell.

To prove his point, his soaked underwear chose that precise
moment to ride up. "Goddammit," he muttered, shifting in his
seat.

Dylan's mother shot him a justifiable look of disapproval.
Mulder mumbled, "Sorry." Then to Dylan, who chattered on,
oblivious to his exposure to swear words, "Sorry about that."

Mulder paused to wonder if no underwear might be better than
wet underwear.

As the woman with the Delta Airlines cardigan passed their
seats, Mulder raised his hand casually to get her attention as
she passed by. Apparently, the casual approach wasn't
working. "Stewardess!"

That got her. She stopped dead in the aisle, and he suddenly
found himself the focus of sharp, back-lit blue eyes. "Try again."

It was the English accent that prompted his double take. Shades
of Phoebe Green, repulsive and annoyingly erotic at the same
time. <Out! Out, damned Brit!> "Excuse me?"

She smiled, icily patient, and he got a nagging sense of
deja' vu. "Not stewardess. Try again."

He skeptically tilted his head towards her. "Uh... Ma'am?"

"No. We're called flight attendants now, sir."

Dylan came *this* close to being introduced to another swear
word. Mulder waved his hand. "Whatever. Can I get a Zip-loc
bag?"

Was that a pitying look she was giving him? "A Zip-loc bag,
sir?"

"Yes," he answered slowly. "It's a little plastic receptacle with a
top that seals?" <...but that's not important right now.>

She only smiled wider, pushing her brown hair behind her ears
as if to hear him better. "So you want a Zip-loc bag or a
Tupperware container?"

Dylan narrowly escaped an early enrollment in Birds and Bees
101. Mulder leaned forward earnestly, hauling out his clearest
enunciation. "A Zip-loc bag. With the yellow-and-blue-makes-
green seal? Perhaps you've seen them on the telly?"

Dylan's mother and the stewardess gave him matching
raised eyebrows. Mulder snorted wearily and stared out the
window at a rear-view of the wing, wondering if Scully had
been giving Eyebrow Seminars on the side.

She reached into her cart and produced a Zip-loc bag, looking
entirely too pleased with herself. The bag was held between
two manicured fingers. Mulder murmured sounds of gratitude,
reaching eagerly for it. She pulled it out of reach. "Don't I know
you?"

He sighed, almost laughing in frustration. "Can I just have the
bag?"

"You weren't in England back in the early 80s, were you?" Her
blue eyes shone as her lilt distracted him.

Madly, he tried to remember her, to no avail. One last ditch
save at pride and evasion: "I'm with the FBI. I travel a lot. Can
I have the bag now?"

Nope, she wasn't buying it. "There you are. Compliments of
Delta Airlines."

His eyes flicked from her to the unlit "occupied" light at the
front of the coach cabin. Apologetically climbing over Dylan
and his mother <there's a tactical exercise they should've taught
us at the Academy>, he stepped into the aisle. He made the
mistake of looking over his shoulder just as she smirked
knowingly at his ass.

Oh, *happy* day. His walk toward the restroom evolved into a
march under her salacious scrutiny.

The airline bathroom wasn't made for comfort, much less for
maneuverability. Getting out of his jeans very nearly killed
him. As he pondered just how that obituary would read, he
caught sight of himself in the mirror. He turned sideways long
enough to self-consciously suck in his gut <when did I get a
gut>, someone rattled the handle. "Taken!" Pushing the
underwear down in one practiced move, he got the wet boxers
away from his skin. He spent half a moment reveling in the
sensation, then stuffed them in the bag. On the way back up he
knighted himself on the door's coat hook.

"Son of a --! " The rest was lost in an inarticulate howl as he
rubbed his shoulder. Cursing indiscriminately now, he
*carefully* tucked himself out of harm's way. Taking his shoes
off had been fairly easy. Putting them back on was a bitch. As
he retrieved the boxers, he thought that maybe requesting a
transparent bag hadn't been among his brightest ideas. Right
up there with investigating vampire alligators.

Tucking the bag under his arm, he walked down the aisle again,
trying to remember which overhead compartment held his
carry-on. "I can do this in three moves," he muttered under
his breath. "Open the overhead, open the side pocket of the bag
and toss them --"

England's most recent ambassador chose that moment to sidle
up behind him. "Now I remember you, *Fox*," she murmured
as she discreetly palmed his ass.

The underwear hit the floor. <Oh, that was *smooth*.>

Mulder suddenly remembered why he'd been banished to right
field.

They both stared at the floor. To his horror, she bent to retrieve
them. The brief respite he took in her deep cleavage was
familiar somehow, and he racked his brains for the exact
memory. He was willing to bet he hadn't met her for tea.
Well, not *just* for tea.

Studying his bagged underwear in amused revulsion, she
laughed into her fingers. "Oh, my. The in-flight movie wasn't
*that* scary, was it?"

He gave up and peered at her name tag. "It's a long story...
Claire. One I have no intention of telling you." He tried not to
panic at the misplaced memories. She was closing in fast, her
perfume activating his baser desires. "I need a drink. Or three."

"I think I might remember what you like." She tossed the baggie
back to him with a wink. "Catch."

It took him three grabs to get them to her enormous amusement.
Shaking his head, he cursed the moment he thought it might be
safe to come out of the bathroom.

As he returned to his seat, Dylan and his mother were trying to
get out. She had the implements of a diaper change in one
hand, and his little fingers clasped in the other. Mulder met the
kid's eyes with newfound sympathy and fell into his seat.

"Got your poison," Claire said, proffering the small vodka bottle,
cold orange juice and short plastic cup like a bribe. She did
remember what he liked. Dammit, why couldn't he
remember her? Was he really that much of a pig in college?
Well, yes, but a pig with a better memory than this. Mulder
nervously reached for his wallet, "How much?"

"I won't tell if you won't."

He lowered the tray table and deposited the containers onto it.
"I'll pay for the second one. It's been that kind of day. Days,
actually."

"I've got four hours in the Capitol before my next flight out."
She leaned onto the empty aisle seat. "Any way I could coax the
story out of you?"

He smirked. "You'd have to get me drunker than this."

"Oh, I doubt that," she parried back. "How *does* a girl
blow four hours on a Saturday in D.C.?"

Mulder smirked. "Well, the first thing that comes to mind is --"
Something about what she said hit him. He put the orange juice
back down. "Did you just say Saturday?"

She nodded.

Saturday. As in the day he'd asked Scully to be in the office at
nine. He checked his watch. Forty minutes ago. Oh, she was
going to *kill* him, and slowly. Mulder dropped his face into
his hands.

Claire excused herself with a final, teasing smile as he pulled his
jacket from under his butt and rooted around unsuccessfully for
the cell phone. Of course. It was in the overhead, because he
couldn't use it until they landed. He studied the air phone set
into the back of the middle seat and pulled out his Mastercard.
This was going to cost him, in more ways than one. Anticipating
that he would need the drink before he made the call, he
prepared it. He dialed hesitantly, scrambling frantically for a
plausible excuse for his lateness.

One ring... two rings and --

"You've reached the office of Fox Mulder. I'm not here right
now. Please hold for a list of options. This conversation may be
recorded to provide evidence of a vast government conspiracy."

<That's *my* voice!>

Confused, he shook his head. Last time he checked, they had
the same boring, computer-generated voicemail message as
every other --

"If you are a shadowy informant who desires a clandestine
meeting to drop vague clues which will eventually lead to a
horrible, sudden death -- press 1."

He already had his top three suspects.

"If you're a genetic mutant or know of one -- press 2."

Though he wasn't sure if Frohike counted for a whole suspect.

"If you're calling about a paranormal incident such as
telekinesis, clairvoyance, or precognition -- press 3."

At least the Gunmen didn't have a sample of him saying
'paramasturbatory'...

"If you're calling about a supernatural phenomenon such as
vampirism, zombies, lycanthropy or demons -- press 4."

So this was how they lured Scully to Vegas. Niiiice.

"If you have information leading to the arrest and/or conviction
of David Copperfield -- press 5." Mulder snorted. Okay, that
one was funny.

"If you're a time traveler coming back from the future to prevent
an event from occurring -- press 6. On the other hand, if you are
then you probably already have and this won't be necessary.
Never mind."

He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at in
disbelief before putting it back again.

" -- experienced missing time -- press 7."

Mulder wondered if he still had that footage of Frohike on New
Year's eve waking up in the Cher wig and sequined jacket after
Langly found him passed out in the hotel foyer.

"If you have proof of the existence of an Extra-terrestrial
Biological Entity or happen to be one -- press 8."

Bastards.

"If you think there's a --"

Scully's voice cut in.

" -- perfectly logical explanation for all of this -- "

His voice again. "Press 9."

What started out as a shocked chortle quickly degenerated into
malicious snickering. Dylan and his mother both regarded
Mulder with a bit of worry. Oh. Oh, this was *priceless.* They
should be commended. Right after he kicked their asses.

Then came the next option.

"If you're our Assistant Director, don't call us. We'll call *you*.
Right after we're through having sex on this desk, sir."

It was the day Dylan learned the F-word.

Dana Scully's residence
9:27 AM

Scully woke up thinking of second chances and first
impressions. Well, that and a chicken chimichanga that was
never meant to be.

Phillip had seemed nice enough. He'd divorced five years ago.
"Young love should wait a few years," he mumbled through
some nachos. His two-story house "with a gorgeous view of
the Potomac" was paid for, along with the terribly obvious silver
Lexus he'd picked her up in. He'd just moved to Georgetown a
few months before, the third partner listed at the law firm
where he worked ("and second listed when Fortemeyer kicks
it") and specialized in malpractice.

"I was a little concerned about, you know, you being a doctor,"
he told her between bites, in his Yale-polished voice. "But
your mother says you only work with the contested relatives of
my clients, so that's cool."

She had to laugh at that. Of course, he had to remind her that it
was her mother who had set all of this in motion. His every
suave, blue-eyed move reminded her that her mother found
this trait eminently attractive in a son-in-law. Every time he
said just the right thing, that little voice intervened to say "as
approved date-worthy by your mother!"

It wasn't *his* fault, assuredly. But once she'd imagined him
naked and covered with a patina of post-coital sweat, it was too
late. "The afterglow, as approved by your mother!" She was
simultaneously pale and blushing. That was when she noticed
he was kind of pale, too.

"Dana," he began queasily, wiping at his mouth. "Did you ever
get up from the table and think, 'all might not have been right
with those fajitas'?"

So maybe the problem lay not so much in the first impression,
but in the last one. In this case, the fact that she drove Phillip
home in his Lexus, stopping twice so he could experience a bit
of abdominal catharsis. Her insistence that he needed to see a
doctor (preferably one who worked with live subjects) was
repeatedly dismissed. "I'm too sick to represent myself," he
joked weakly before the third time she had to stop the car,
which turned out to be false alarm. Because there were certain
things she just didn't want to be associated with the next
morning, and certain situations she didn't want to hear herself
confess later, she tucked him into bed, left the keys to the Lexus
on the bedside table and caught a cab back to her apartment.

She realized in the cab that she liked him. Quite a bit. Then her
mother's voice intervened again, telling her that "Phillip can't
have kids either." Her smile darkened as the driver
maneuvered haphazardly through downtown D.C. traffic. By
all means, let that measure of shared incompetence leave her no
choice. <Get me to the church on time, driver.>

At some point on that cab ride, she realized that maybe all
hadn't been right with her chimichanga either. Being a
pathologist this long hadn't been for naught. She had a
cast iron vault for a stomach. As she hastily overtipped the
driver, she wondered if she could hold it back at least until she
got out of the elevator.

Eventually when she felt empty enough, from all exits, she took
two tablespoons of a foul-tasting anti-nausea medicine and two
sleeping pills.

And now -- she checked the bedside clock -- 10 hours later, she
felt like she was bagged on the table and ready for the Y-
incision.

She wondered if Phillip was up. A doctorly follow-up call
would be the nice thing to do. His number was still on the Post-
It note inside her Day Runner.

Sounding tired, but not asleep, he answered. "Yeah?"

"Phillip? Dana. How are you feeling?"

An uneasy laugh rumbled from the other end. "Huh. Yeah. I'm
okay. Good thing this happened on a Friday night. I get to
spend the weekend recuperating."

Saturday. She was frozen in a flare of irritation. "Saturday?"

"Yeah." Another uneasy silence that she couldn't figure out.
"Listen, Dana? Where have you been all morning?"

Looking at the rumpled bedcovers, puzzled, she said, "In bed. I
took some sleeping pills. I just thought I'd call you, make sure
you weren't a future appointment of mine." Phillip didn't
laugh. "Why?"

"Huh," he said again. "No reason. Left a couple of messages on
your answering machine. You can check them later."

The sleeping pills were strong, but the phone had rung without
her knowing? "Oh, you must've called my cell phone. I have it
locked in the car so we wouldn't be... interrupted by anyone."

"No. It was your home phone," he replied shortly. "Listen,
Dana, either your mother gave me the wrong idea about you, or
you the wrong idea about me."

<What'd she do *this* time?> Dana threw the covers off and
started pacing with the cordless. "Meaning?"

"Just... you know. I had fun. You had fun. That's all we have
to tell our mothers."

The pacing stopped. "What in the hell are you talking about?"

"Please. Don't make a big deal of this. I, uh, I've got your
number. You've got mine. I'll talk to you later, maybe."

"Phillip?" She plugged her other ear, which enabled her to hear
the dial tone much better.

She put the phone back on the charger, as if to divorce herself
from the entire curious situation. Had her mother been
blabbing about the tattoo again or something? That was the last
General Foods International Coffee bonding moment *she'd*
ever voluntarily participate in. And, so what? It was a tattoo!
Who did she have to kill to get her to believe she hadn't
committed any carnal sins in Ed Jerse's apartment? And it was
nobody else's business anyway.

Stalking through her living room, she added it all up. Never
mind that her really nice date had blown up in her face in some
mysterious way. It was Saturday, and Mulder had asked her
to come to the office to meet him when he got back from his
half-assed Louisiana thing. He'd probably called her cell
enough to drain the battery by now. Dammit.

She stood in the middle of her bedroom, hands on hips.
There had to be some way to blame this on Mulder.

The messages light was blinking on her answering machine.
She blew the bangs out of her face in exasperation and speed-
dialed the office. Or thought she had. After a couple of rings, a
familiar tune filled her ear.

She very nearly hurt herself laughing.

C'mon, Mulder had a firmer grasp of self-preservation than to
put something like *that* on his...

Well, okay. She conceded the point, still too shocked to laugh.
This time, she hit speed-dial for the office. *Menu* options?
What in the hell did Mulder think he was doing? What kind of
idiot would -- Oh no.

Vegas.

She contemplated the blinking message light on her answering
machine again with new fear. When she turned the machine
over in her hands, she realized someone had turned the ringer
off on the phone.

"You have five new messages."

When she pushed 'play', Phillip's leery voice filled the
apartment. "Oookay. Well. That's interesting. I'll call you later
then." An afterthought as he said, dubiously, "Dana."

What in the...?

Two. Phillip again. "Sorry. I just had to call and make sure
that's really saying what I think it's saying. You know, I'm no
prude, but I feel that's really inappropriate, especially
considering your line of work."

A sheen of cold sweat broke out on Scully's forehead.

Three. "Oh, *heavens*, Dana. Is that what I think it was? When
Phillip's mother told me, I was sure he was... you have some
serious explaining to do, young lady! I don't even know what
to say!"

Her mother. Hell. Damn damn damn. Big burning lakes of
brimstone.

Four. A slow, patient tone. "Dana. I do consider this a cry for
help, and I want you to feel free to talk to me whenever you --"

She went bone white. Father McCue. She fast-forwarded.

Five. Her mother again, sobbing hard as if her errant daughter
had just spun her head around and covered her in pea soup.
"That's just sick, Dana. What in the hell is the matter with
you?"

Calmly, stoically, she lifted the tape cover and played the
answering machine message. Over her usual greeting played
the mating grunts and groans of humans and animals alike.
And Meg Ryan's famous faked orgasm, in its entirety, delivered
the caller to the beep.

The fires on the brimstone went a bit higher.

-==o==-
+++++
LEAVE A MESSAGE
by Amanda Finch and Tim Scott
Disclaimers, etc. with 1/4
+++++

Washington Dulles International
Dulles Lounge
10:23 AM

"So there I was, right? I've got two of these alligators..." Mulder
stopped in mid-slur to drain the rest of his drink. "I mean,
regardless of whether they were vampiric or not, they're
alligators, right? Anyway, this sheriff..." He shook his head
with silent laughter. "He's running alongside the bayou,
slipping and sliding. He's got this..." Putting his hands three
feet apart for scale, Mulder continued, "... stick. Just a stick.
He's... " Mulder made whacking gestures. "...*Hitting* the
alligators with it right on their... what do you call 'em? Snouts?
And do you know what he says to me?"

Claire shook her head as she winsomely gestured to the
bartender for another Long Island iced tea.

"'You stay here! I'll get help!'" Mulder was laughing so hard, he
didn't notice his empty glass was now full again. "So I'm stuck
in this cave, for a... well, after four hours down there, my watch
stopped working. But it had to be like a day and a half --"

"You poor thing!" Claire murmured.

"So I've got the alligators... who could decide to come back in
there at any moment, and two of their victims -- very dead,
those two."

"That sounds absolutely awful! I can't believe they expected
you to take that kind of case alone."

"Well, it was -- I wanted the case. I went down there to take it. I
just got a little more than I bargained for."

"Don't you have a partner or something?"

"Who? Scully?"

He jumped as his cell phone rang shrilly on the table. "That's
her now, I'll betcha."

"Her?" Claire asked, undeniably interested. "Scully?"

As the phone rang again, he shushed her. "Say her name a third
time, and you might just invoke her." His grin felt wide and
drunken. "Scully."

It rang again. No Scully. He laughed deliriously. "It didn't
work."

She handed him the phone indulgently. "Maybe you should
answer it."

Of course. He lifted it to his ear. "Scully?" Nothing. He snorted
to himself and made a failed attempt at drunken charm. "I
forgot to hit the button."

"Maybe you shouldn't have any more, Fox."

He tried again. "Scully?"

"No," Skinner answered frostily.

Mulder snapped to with a sudden change of posture. "Sir, I can
explain --!"

"Of course you can," he interrupted derisively. "Where have
you been, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder shrugged at Claire by way of explanation. "Out of cell
phone range, sir."

"I noticed that. Where did you spend this out of range time?
I'm looking through my copies of approved travel vouchers
here --"

A universal dilemma: Did he look cool for the girl? Or try his
best not to get his ear van Goghed by his boss?

"-- and I don't see a 302 with your name on it."

"Uh, that would be because you didn't sign one. Sir."

"No?" The man's oxygen had been replaced by pure derision.
"Really?"

"Sir, I was in Louisiana."

"Mardi Gras, Agent Mulder?"

"A little early for that, sir."

"A woman? You eloped, maybe?"

"No, sir. Not why I went."

"You had one of those dark nights of the soul, perhaps? Maybe
you went down there to be dangerous for a few nights, come
close to losing your life or your sanity -- what's left of it -- and
then return to your normal life, a bit shaken, but better for the
experience?"

Mulder snorted before he could stop himself. <What does he
take me for?> "Well I *am* a bit shaken, sir, but no. I left to
investigate a case. I knew you wouldn't sign the 302, so I just
put in for some vacation days --"

"When?" Skinner growled.

Someone pressed a 'mute' button on Claire and the bar around
him, leaving him alone with his boss' voice. "Well, I retro-
file these --"

"When?"

"-- because I didn't know how long it was going to --"

"*When*?"

"I'm filing them this morning, sir. I've done that before and you
didn't --"

"What kind of case? Some conspiracy cover-up going on down
there? The lives of men, women and children jeopardized by
government corruption? A downed UFO or maybe --"

"Alligators, sir." For a long moment, there was only silence on
the line. "Sir?"

"Alligators."

"Uhh." Mulder cleared his throat. "Vampire... alligators."

<Oh, *much better*.>

The other end of the line fell dangerously silent. "Vampire
alligators."

"Yes, sir."

The ticking stopped, and the man exploded, "I can't even be
proud of you on an *unofficial* level! Don't you have the
decency to even --" he sputtered "-- to *pretend* to lie? I want to
let you in on something, Agent Mulder. While you were saving
the world one bayou backwater at a time, we were thinking
inside the box down here at headquarters. A meeting was
called among the ADs to delegate responsibility for a high-level
kidnapping case. Now, according to my roll call, there was no
reason for you to have been out of cell phone range. So I called
your office."

"Over a speakerphone."

"In front of *my* supervisors. Can you guess what happened
next, Agent Mulder?"

"Well I --"

Skinner was on a roll. "Never mind the good words I had to
throw into the ring for them to even *consider* you for this case,
but then I hear your bit of Bureau comedy -- "

"I didn't do that, sir! It --"

"You pick *now* to start lying? Now?! Do you have *any* idea
of how... for lack of a better word, I have to say it was
embarrassing. Not only does it look like I can't command my
own complement of agents, but it looks like I'm not even trying!
Guess how many OPR sessions have been scheduled for me
since that incident?"

He weakly grinned at Claire, who unconvincingly smiled in
return. "I wouldn't know --"

"Indulge me with a guess, Agent Mulder."

"Uh... more than one, sir?"

"More than *two*, Agent! At the first one, Cassidy gets to rip
me a new asshole. At the second one, I'm expected to deliver a
verdict on whether or not your... illustrious career with the
Bureau should continue. I understand the nature of your quest
here, or I thought I did, but you must admit, your track record
looks like absolute shit on paper."

Mulder had a very bad feeling that Skinner wasn't going to fire
him. "I'm sensing an ultimatum of sorts, sir."

"Let me cut to the chase, then. I have a niece. Her name's
Virginia. She arrives tonight for a three-day visit and she'll
want to be entertained. She'll need a native guide. An escort.
Museums, monuments. The whole nine yards."

"Sir... you can't mean... shouldn't you be the one to...?"

"The very thought makes me incontinent. What do you think I'll
decide about your career during that second OPR meeting if I'm
feeling incontinent, Agent Mulder?"

"Sir -- " Swallowing something that sounded unmistakably like
a whine, he began again. "This is blackmail!"

"Incorrect, Agent Mulder. Blackmail is against the law.
This is coercion, which is perfectly legal."

"Sir --"

"Virginia. And don't call her Ginny. Pisses her off. You don't
want to piss her off, Mulder. Trust me on that. I e-mailed you
the address. You'll be picking her up at six o'clock tonight."

"Sir --"

"And I'd like you to be in my office within the next two hours."

Mulder saw his weekend, magically vanishing. "Can't we
discuss this at the OPR --?"

"I want to glare at you for a few minutes."

Mulder rolled his eyes in frustration. "Is that really going to do
anybody any good?"

"I know *I'll* enjoy it."

Mulder sighed. "Yes, sir." Ending the call and slapping the
phone down on the table, he thought of ordering another drink.
Then it occurred to him he'd have to call Scully to come and
pick him up as it was. No good. He pushed the glass away.

Claire was smiling a little nervously. "I heard incontinence and
coercion. Which precedes which?"

"It's the FBI. They're both ongoing," he said wearily.

For a brief second, he remembered her. Then, it faded again.
They'd already shared their polite goodbyes before he realized
she was gone. It's not like she could've provided any protection,
anyway.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered, and dialed her cell phone.

Mulder's apartment
10:23 AM

Scully was surprisingly placid when Mulder told her he
needed a ride home from the airport. Even when he told her
why, she remained calm.

After he nearly took a header off the airport escalator, she was
definitely annoyed. But only after an impromptu Breathalyzer
test into the palm of his hand was he convinced that he'd need a
ride to Skinner's office, too. And some Altoids.

That was when she called him a very bad name. When he asked
if she kissed her mother with that mouth, she gave him a look
that could've fused sand.

Mulder imagined her in the parking lot now, seconds away
from leaning on the horn. He slid across the floor in his socks
for a moment, reacquainting himself with the joy of dry
underwear, snorting at the unintentional Risky Business
homage that resulted.

<Don't fall and bust your head open. It would make her too
happy.>

The elevator bumped down to the parking level. She had the
car idling in the fire zone with all the windows down.
"Ahhh!" He sighed in exaggerated relief as he dropped into the
passenger seat. "How do I look?"

Silently, she shook her head and pulled away from the curb,
giving his green rugby shirt and jeans a critical once-over.
"You're wearing that?"

Mulder affected a Lee Marvin slur. "Am I not properly
accessorized, Miss Rivers?"

"It's a meeting with Skinner," she reminded him, crossly
surveying the heavy traffic.

"It's not a meeting, per se." He waited for her eyebrow cue. "He
just wants to... glare at me for a few minutes."

"'Glare at you'?"

"He said it would make him feel better."

That prompted a smirk. "Can I be next?"

"As soon as he's done." Mulder caught her eye, grimacing
apologetically. "After that, it's gonna cost you."

Was that a smile? "You could quit the Bureau and retire on the
proceeds." Mulder clutched his chest. She glanced at him
briefly and went back to watching the road. "Do I want to know
why this glaring session couldn't have waited until Monday?"

He sighed wearily. "Remember how you said once that it
wasn't Skinner's leniency that kept me out of trouble, but the
fact that my protocol violations hadn't occurred in the right
combination?"

She looked smug. "I've said it more than once."

"Well... I rang three cherries on the slots this time." He leaned
his arm on the door and let the wind thread through his fingers.
"I don't suppose you've called the office recently?"

"I have, actually."

"I didn't do that to the voicemail."

"I know you didn't," she replied, a little pale. She answered his
inquisitive stare by producing her cell phone from the console.
"Dial my apartment."

He regarded her warily. "What?"

"Dial my apartment and let it ring three times. Be advised that
if you laugh, I'll tell Skinner that you *did* put that on the
voicemail."

He raised the Nokia's antenna thoughtfully. "This implies that if
I don't laugh, you'll tell him the truth."

"Very astute. You should be an FBI agent," she intoned drolly.
"Now call."

Steeling himelf with his best Joe Friday deadpan, Mulder
listened. When he recognized the hoots of mating wildebeestes,
he bit his tongue. By the time the Meg Ryan bit kicked in, he
was tasting blood. Throat constricting painfully, for fear of
violating the deal, he handed the phone back.

Scully was scrutinizing his face closely. "Good."

But she let him suffer for a moment. "Suppose I knew
something that would make the urge to laugh go away."

He held it in for a moment longer, curious. She gave the phone
back. "Now call *your* apartment."

Haltingly, he dialed his number.

An upbeat and naggingly familiar tune filled his ear. Wham!
Yet another flashback of the 80s. The immediacy of recognizing
what he was hearing was somehow worse than vampire
alligators, wet underpants and drunkenness combined.

"Leave a message before you go-go,
Don't leave me hangin' on like a yo-yo,
Leave a message before you go-go,
I'm out of the closet toniiiight -- "

Numbly, he pushed END.

Scully's face was at its stoic best. "I'll laugh if you will."

"I don't feel like laughing," he muttered. "I feel like committing
a triple homicide." He didn't let go of the phone. "Why would
they do this?"

She shrugged. "Because it's April Fool's day? And they're the
Gunmen?"

"It's not April F--" Checking his watch, he stopped. "Okay. But
that doesn't explain this."

"Mulder!" Her huff of exasperation and quick stomp to the
brakes coincided, sending his knees into the front of the glove
compartment. "Is it a rule that your theories always have to
come out of left field?"

Preoccupied, he put on his seatbelt and wondered what she had
just asked him. "In seven years, have the Gunmen ever played
an April Fool's prank on either of us?"

"No, but does that preclude the possibi--?"

He waved a dismissing hand. "I'm not disagreeing that it's a
prank, Scully. My point is, they don't *do* pranks. They're very
careful, especially since the that IRS audit came down on them
in January and they had to start pretending they were technical
suport specialists for IBM. What this sounds like is revenge."

Scully's eyes got wide. "I can't believe I'm having this
conversation."

"You know what I did back in 1990?"

She cut her glance his way. "Besides making a poor career
decision? No."

"I saw a picture of Langly's then-girlfriend and thought she was
a man."

That got her attention. "Come again?"

He continued reluctantly. "Allegedly, I was supposed to know
that someone named Bobbie who looked rather rugged was a
female. Never mind that it was an unfortunate mistake. It
pissed Langly off bigtime. He decided to share it with her, and
she in turn pressed them to make me suffer for it."

"What happened?"

His reluctance grew. "They got into my apartment and sprayed
some kind of slow-acting hallucinogen on my sunflower seeds.
If I'd known, I could've adjusted my instincts accordingly.
But I didn't, my paranoia was augmented by the drugs and I
just thought I was going crazy or --" Shaking his head out
of the daze, Mulder frowned. "Long story short, I was
housesitting for Bill Patterson, watering his plants, feeding his
pets. A truck backfired outside, scared the shit out of me and I
shot his cat."

What began as a laugh for Scully became a full roar of hysterics
in less than a minute. Twin streaks of mascara-darkened tears
stained her cheeks. At one point, Mulder feared he'd have to
take the wheel before she killed them both.

Finally, the din died down to giggles, punctuated now and then
with a random snort.

"*You* can laugh," Mulder deadpanned. "Pasty Cline's feline
namesake didn't find it so amusing. Anyway, they got into my
apartment again later that night while I was still tripping the
light horrific. They wouldn't give me a counter-drug until I said
that Bobbie was a paragon of female beauty. I was warned that
if I avenged... Patsy, I'd live to regret it."

Wiping at her face with a tissue, she managed to gasp between
chortles, "Is there a moral to this story, Mulder?"

"Besides 'don't fuck with the Gunmen'?" He sank down in the
seat. "I just learned that they have more weapons at their
disposal in that kind of fight than I do. I wisely chose to
surrender before they kicked my ass. Nobody wins at a game of
chicken. We've had a truce since then. That's why this is sort of
happening out of the blue."

Suddenly, Scully stopped laughing. "Oh God."

"What?"

"I don't know if it means anything..." Clearing her throat, she
explained. "But after that Vegas thing, I decided to get even..."

-==o==-
+++++
LEAVE A MESSAGE
by Amanda Finch & Tim Scott
Disclaimers, etc. w. 1/4
+++++

Edgar J. Hoover Building
11:31 AM

As the eldest of the Scully offspring, it was Bill Junior's duty to
serve as a bad example. It was a rank that none of the other
Scully children aspired to, especially after Bill Junior's prom
night.

Bill the younger had decided to filch his father's keys to
Miramar Naval base's lushly decorated VIP quarters. No San
Diego liquor store would balk at delivering a keg to the
mahogany-panelled banquet hall. Unfortunately for them, a
civic-minded rating picked that particular night to burn the
midnight oil. He discovered a couple of MacArthur High's finest
doing something lewd and unspeakable to a photograph of the
base's commander, Vice Admiral Clayton Banks.

Shit, meet fan.

"Scully, is this relevant to any -- ?

"Yes. It would be if you shut up."

"Fine."

Bill Scully the Elder chose not to leave his wife's side in his
warm bed in the wee small hours of the morning. When the
Shore Patrol called, he acted with the decisiveness and precision
of the Annapolis graduate that he was. "A night in the brig will
be good for him, Chief. And don't forget the body cavity
search." For a week, the younger Bill remained incarcerated.
Finally, in desperation, he requested his father's presence.

"Come on, Dad! I had no right to betray your trust, but this is
embarrassing! For you, for all of us!"

Through the bars, his father had bared his teeth with smile that
could not be mistaken for friendly or diplomatic. "Yeah?"

One very polished and clean portrait of the Vice Admiral later,
all was right with the Scully family and the world (in that order)
once more. It only took Bill Junior four days to regain the
ability to walk upright.

Dana learned that revenge was important, deserving of its own
commandment: Thou Shalt Get Even.

Mulder regarded her from across the elevator the way a
goldfish might appraise a piranha. "And this touching
childhood anecdote is relevant how...?"

Obviously she would have to speak slowly. "I took a redeye
flight to Las Vegas because I thought you needed me, Mulder.
They used the trust I had in you against me. That made me
rather angry, especially since I was drugged shortly thereafter,
with hilarious consequences as I'm sure you've heard by now."

She had to give him credit. He was keeping his face safely
deadpan. Then again, maybe that was genuine. "Okay. You
were angry. So you decided that they needed to be taught a
lesson. I'm listening."

"You're using that patronizing hostage negotiatior tone,
Mulder."

"And I'll continue to use it until I'm safely out of the elevator."
He leaned closer. "What in the *hell* did you do?"

Scully shrugged. "I called in a favor that the chem tech in the
Forensics lab owed me. She created a compound that affected
the base pH levels in the human bladder."

"In English, Scully."

She ignored him. "One day when we were making our routine
quest for subversive information at their offices, I brought the
compound with me. While you were talking to them, I added
the compound to their beverages. The three were having Zima,
Jolt cola and Jack Daniels respectively." Privately she reveled at
the squeamish look in his hazel eyes. "It changed the color of
their urine. Hot pink, bright violet and lime green, though I
couldn't tell you who got which color."

"*That's* what you did?" Mulder chortled helplessly. "You
changed the color of their pee? They hit you with high-tech,
and you fought back with low-brow?" The smile threatened to
devour his usual blase' expression, burying his eyes and
flattening his nose. "That's too good. So what, they peed once,
it's a funny color, 'I'll get you for that, Dana Scully' and here we
are?"

"Give me some credit, Mulder. It lasted more than once."

His grin started to fade. "How many times?"

"The chem tech said it would last approximately a week or so,
along with the resulting impotence."

She couldn't knocked him over with her little finger. It was
tempting. Too tempting. He seemed to be carefully removing
the tip of his tongue from his esophagus.

"Impo.." His voice cracked a couple of octaves too high and he
carefully stepped back and applied more pressure to the
elevator key. "Impotence?"

"Only for a week."

"A *week*!"

"Or so."

"OR SO!!!" He began to pace the length of the elevator.

"Revenge, Mulder. As a psychologist, you know that it's a basic
human response to negative stimuli." She felt her eyes narrow
almost joyously. "As a former medical student, I know that
there are right ways to do it, and *better* ways to do it."

He rubbed his eyes frantically with one hand. "This is how it all
starts, Scully. Good intentions turn into bad intentions, cats die,
people piss purple and suddenly they can't get it up anymore!"

Mulder uncovered his eyes to see that four people were waiting
for him to leave the elevator. Two men, open-mouthed and
panic-stricken. Two women, grinning widely. Out of sight
behind them, Scully snapped a thumbs-up sign.

Pale, he pushed his way past them.

"Revenge," she continued. "You can't tell me that you don't
want to get them back."

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he followed two paces behind
her. "I don't. Honestly."

She stopped and he nearly ran into her. "Did you leave your
testes in the bayou or something?"

"Leave my testes out of this!" he ranted in disbelief. "Can you
say escalation, Scully? This is *escalating*!"

Like a ray of light, the perfect thing to do occurred to her. She
stepped back, got some momentum, and socked him in the
arm as hard as she could. Which, by the wounded look he
returned, was pretty damn hard. "OW!"

"It hurt, didn't it?"

"Hell, *yes*, it hurt! What did you do that for?"

Her grin was going to consume her entire body if she wasn't
careful. "Have you ever hit a girl?"

A wet gurgling sound came from his throat. "What kind of
question is that?"

"Have you?"

"No!" He rubbed his arm, still so offended that she thought his
eyebrows might freeze that way forever.

"You've never hit a woman?"

He stalked ahead of her a few steps. "Not unless they asked me
nicely..."

"I discovered something at an early age, Mulder. A bad
reputation is priceless. For example, my brother Bill and I. He
was known for starting the arguments and fights between us.
So, every once in awhile, just infrequently enough to get
awaywith it, I would hit him first. I'd start the argument. And
they never suspected me at all." She laughed ominously low.
"Do you know what this means?"

Mulder swallowed audibly. "No..."

So she launched back and hit him again. In the same spot as
before.

"Scully!" Grabbing his arm, he quickened his gait. "Stop that!"

And again. "Come on, Mulder. Don't you want revenge? Don't
you want to get me back?"

He had broken into a jog now. "Y -- No! Stop *doing* that!"

And yet again. "It's called vindication. It *feels* good!"

"It feels like a punch in the arm!" People in the offices they were
passing were starting to stare. He turned towards her, fists
raised in a guard posture against a woman a full foot shorter
and said into the sudden dead silence that fell, "This goes
against *all* my training as a mama's boy!"

As he bolted down the hall away from her, Dana Scully caught a
glimpse. A glimpse of the kind of serendipity that money
couldn't buy. Grinning, she hid.

It took Mulder a few moments to realize that he'd hit a wall and
was lying on the floor. It took a few more moments for him to
come to the conclusion that lying on one's back in the middle of
a Bureau hallway was a Bad Thing. Though there were a
handful of women agents who may have been waiting for this
chance... but never mind that now. He opened his eyes,
surveying the damage.

Playing dead seemed like the best choice.

The Wall had been played by one Assistant Director Walter
Skinner. By his side, almost normal sized from where he'd
caromed off of his boss like a bug off a windshield, was Scully.

From his left, Kimberly poked her head out of the Assistant
Director's office. "Sir, do I need to call 9-1-1?"

Skinner patted himself down briefly. "Nah, he didn't hurt me."

An appropriate but completely fabricated crease of concern
adorned his partner's forehead. "Sir, why is Agent Mulder lying
on the floor?"

"Actually, Agent Scully, I was hoping you could shed a little
light on that."

Leaning forward with one hand on her knee, Scully
inconsiderately yanked at one of his eyelids. "Given the
position of Agent Mulder's body, I'm guessing he was testing
Newton's third Law of Motion."

"Maybe he *really* didn't want to be late for this meeting."

The beat of silence that followed went on long enough to lull
Mulder into a false sense of security. The minute he opened his
eyes, they both smiled.

"You're right," Skinner grunted. "Must have been the Newton
thing. This has completely ruined my glaring time."

"I'm sorry, Sir," Scully murmured sympathetically.

"He looks so comfortable," growled Skinner. "I *hate* that."

Even after the Assistant Director had walked back into his
office, Mulder remained horizontal. Fishing his cell phone out
of his pocket, he dialed.

She shook her head, amused. "What are you doing?"

Counting the rings, he raised his eyebrows mysteriously.

Scully tilted her head to one side. "Do you get good reception
that way?"

"Only with creative placement of aluminum foil."

"Mulder, I'm serious. Who are you calling?"

After three rings, Mulder's old VCU buddy, Glenn Fischer, had
apparently found his cell phone under several pounds of fast
food wrappers. Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, Mulder
replied, "You're not the only one who can call in a favor."

-==o==-
+++++
LEAVE A MESSAGE
by Amanda Finch and Tim Scott
Disclaimers, etc. with 1/4
+++++

D.C. Tac Squad van
1:02 PM

After nine years of relative peace and quiet, Mulder had called
in his marker.

At a stakeout for VCU, back in 1991, Mulder knocked Fischer
down and took a bullet for him. Technically. It grazed Mulder's
thigh and ruined a perfectly good pair of pants. Fischer, on the
other hand, hit the ground with his *jaw* (completely forgetting
his Academy defense training), requiring several thousand
dollars worth of dental reconstruction. The gunshot wound
might have been cheaper.

But the symbolic heroism of "taking a bullet" could overcome
minor details like that. The favor hadn't expired yet.

Well, Fischer's actual words had been, "If I do this for you, do
you promise you'll never bring up this ancient history bullshit
ever again?"

But a favor was a favor. Mulder would take what he could get.

Fischer and the four buddies he'd brought along were starting
to warm to the practical joke idea, enthusiastically decked out in
full SWAT gear. A morning of sprinkling Metamucil on each
other's powdered donuts had taken its toll, so to speak, and if
the five couldn't wisely take revenge on each other, getting
revenge for a fellow agent was the next best thing.

Six of them were crammed into the back of the tactical van that
was being piloted through the D.C. streets by a man who'd
apparently bribed his way out of Quantico's defensive driving
course. Agent Fischer stared soberly at Scully, asking, "How
well do you know your partner? I mean, really know him?"

Mulder laughed nervously and tried not to squirm. Crossing
her arms, aloof, taking seriously her position of Only Girl on the
Van, Scully weighed the question. "We took a compatibility
quiz in Cosmo once."

A collective chortle rose up. Someone asked, "Did you pass?"

Scully shook her head in mock regret. Raising his head, Mulder
defended, "It said I was a warm and passionate lover."

"Not *that* quiz," Scully pointed out. "The compatibility quiz
described you as a human porcupine -- "

The closest agent, Franklin, bent towards his ear. "Quizz*es*?
Plural?"

Mulder said from the corner of his mouth, "Shut up."

Taylor, directly across from him, smiled. "Are you a Cosmo
Boy, Mulder?"

Fischer came to his rescue if only out of professional
embarrassment, rearranging his girth to get more comfortable.
"Anyway. I'll set the scene for you, Agent Scully. Spooky here
was on his last leg, career-wise, with VCU, kept dipping into his
weird files instead of working on his assigned cases --"

"I'm familiar with the phenomenon," Scully interrupted dryly.

"He'd just finished working on this time traveler case or
something," Fischer continued. "Swore up and down that this
guy he'd spoken with in Nebraska had come from the *future*
to warn his present incarnation not to get on an airplane that
later malfunctions or something. This guy in Accounting -- "

<*This story.* > Mulder groaned inwardly, and started to panic.

" -- could do a dead-on Mulder impression. He could do
Christopher Walken, too -- the bug eyes, the crazy facial
expressions --"

"The *entire* watch speech from Pulp Fiction!" Jackson piped
up.

"Yeeeah!" Fischer and the guys remembered fondly.

Scully nudged them back to the subject. "The advantages of a
*linear* narrative have long been upheld -- "

Fischer shot her a half-hearted dirty look. "Oh, yeah... right. So
this guy in Accounting could mimic Spooky's voice, almost
exactly. We had him page Mulder into the cafeteria, right after
this time traveler case of his. And he walks in, about two
minutes later, white as a sheet -- "

Mulder buried his face in his hands for what felt like the
hundredth time that day.

"We fell out of our chairs laughing!" Fischer guffawed.

"Was this before or after he shot Patterson's cat?" Scully asked
brightly.

The laughter reached fever pitch. "The cat!"

"I forgot all about that!"

"Patsy!"

"Why don't you just haul out my baby pictures and be done
with it?" Mulder fumed.

The driver chose that moment to halt, crushing them all towards
the front of the cab. Scully pushed herself off Mulder. "Did he
stop or just run out of road?"

From the driver's seat, Jefferson yelled, "We're here! Now
what?"

Taylor pulled down the visor on his helmet. "We have a plan
right?"

"Of course we have a plan!" Fischer covered his mike with a
beefy hand and said in a low voice to Mulder, "Tell me there's a
plan, Spook."

Mulder nodded enthusiastically. Scully rolled her eyes and
checked her comm unit. "Why start now?"

Comm laughter filled Mulder's ear. "That mike is live, Scully."

"It is? Really?" She very ostentatiously checked it. "Why,
you're right, Mulder. I'll have to watch that, won't I?"

Mulder began to think that maybe Scully had a point about this
whole revenge thing. More chortling erupted from the armed
SWAT primates. Gathering them together, Mulder held up a
folded piece of paper. "This is your warrant to search and seize
the contents of a suspected drug lab."

Fischer snatched it out of his hand and read it before Mulder
could stop him. "This is a reimbursement request for..." He
cracked up. "You didn't expect Skinner to --

Mulder grabbed it back. "It isn't a reimbursement request. It's a
warrant. For a drug lab."

Monroe scratched his head. "I thought they were computer
geeks."

<How can a brain that small drive a body that large?> Looking
up at Agent Monroe's impressive bulk, Mulder said slowly,
"Yes, they *are*. They'll think you're cops who got the wrong
address on the warrant. They know they're innocent of *this*
charge, and that they can beat it. So they'll come out to laugh at
you. And that's when you grab them. Scully and I will wait
around the corner, where they can't see us."

"Not bad, Spook," Fischer praised. "That could actually work."

Scully snorted just loudly enough to be heard over the mike. "It
was bound to happen eventually."

Massasging the bridge of his nose, Mulder said, "Could we just
*go*, please?"

The SWAT guys disbanded to surround the area, leaving the
partners to watch the action on the van's video display. Casually
rubbing his chin, Mulder noted, "Taylor's single, you know."

Scully was intent on the monitor. "You have some reason for
telling me that, Mulder?"

He shrugged. "I saw you... checking him out. Just thought you
might be interested."

She spun to face him, hissing, "Mulder! That's a live mike!"

"It is? *Really*?" His apology was blatantly insincere. "Gee,
Scully, I'm sorry."

Before she could reply, SWAT had reached the door. They
turned back to the video display. Frohike had answered the
knocking with a loud "What?" and Fischer was telling the tale.

A spare vest hung on the open van door. Bored, Mulder tried it
on. Scully's disdain was barely masked. "What are you doing?"

He velcroed the front enclosure shut. "I wonder if I could get
this in a tweed."

"You know, Mulder," she leaned on the video display. "Seeing
you this way, I can't help but... have some unpartnerly
thoughts."

Her partner stood a bit straighter. "Really?"

She scoffed. "No."

Any second thoughts he might have had about getting even
with her disappeared like smoke in a high wind.

On the video display, the door was opening to reveal Larry,
Moe and Curly standing in order of height. Before Frohike
could open his mouth to speak, Fischer's gloved hand closed on
a wad of his furry vest. Scully primed the injector gun. "Let's
go."

Mulder let her have a head start. He didn't want *that* thing
behind him. As they rushed up the stairs they heard Langly on
the headset and in their ears.

"...guys think you're so goddamn smart! 'We can beat this, no
problem!' I told you! I *told* you! But does anybody listen to
me? Noooooo..."

Frohike's surly growl cut through the mike line. "Shut up!"

Looking the least like a crack dealer of the three, Byers
murmured, "I'm sure this is just a terrible misunderstanding and
we can clear this whole mess right up..."

"You shut up, too!"

Without breaking stride, Scully popped Byers in the neck with
the injector gun. Ever the gentleman, the dapper Gunman made
a surprised but polite gasp as he collapsed against two of the
SWAT troops.

"Byers!" Langly screeched. "They got Byers! Help!"

Frohike turned his blindfolded head towards one of the SWAT
men. "Will you gag him, please?"

Over the mike, Jackson concurred. "Yeah. Please!"

Langly writhed against the wall as Scully held his neck. "You
guys can't do this death squad shit! This is ..." The blond
Gunman's voice trailed off as the drug took effect. He fell
against her.

Frohike turned his head from side to side, listening carefully.
All he heard was the clicking approach of the high-heeled feet of
doom. "Uh-oh." He sniffed the air and terrible knowledge
flooded his face. "I *told* them it was a bad idea --!"

Scully put the needle to the side of his neck. Putting her lips
right next to his ear, whispered, "You were right," and pulled
the trigger.

Taylor shook his head in admiration at Mulder. "Your partner's
really sexy, in a scary kind of way." Mulder took a long, slow
step back.

Fischer looked from Mulder to Scully. "Okay, now what?"

Scully motioned to the bodies. "They've got a beat-up VW van
in the parking garage. Let's get them into it." The SWAT guys
slung arms, picked up the bodies and headed off down the
stairs. Scully turned to Mulder. "Coming?"

He nodded. "Sure. Just let me lock up." He closed the door,
carefully unlocking it, then jiggled the handle as though he were
checking to make sure the latch had caught. "Okay, let's go."

As they followed the pack train down the stairs, Mulder asked
his partner, "So what color are they going to pee this time?"

Scully whacked the butt of her pistol against the wall of the
stairwell in frustration. "Dammit! I still have some back in my
desk. I *knew* I forgot something!"

"Uh, Scully... I was just kidding."

She looked back over her shoulder at him. Her face said,
plainly: I wasn't. Mulder shook his head and resolved never to
accept any food or beverage from this woman's hands ever
again.

As they left the stairwell and entered the garage he said, "You
know, Scully, I'm seeing a whole new side of you. One I've long
suspected was there." He paused for a moment to consider his
own words. "Well, dreaded, actually."

A small smile tugged at the redhead's lips but she said nothing.
Instead she concentrated on supervising the arrangement of the
bodies in the van. When all was to her satisfaction she reached
into Byers' inside coat pocket for his pad and pencil. She wrote
a few lines, replaced the pencil and propped the pad up on the
dashboard where no one could miss it when they woke up.
Without another word she headed back to the SWAT vehicle,
enjoying her new status as Alpha Bitch.

The males all looked at each other for a moment. No one
wanted to make the first move. Finally it fell to Mulder, who
sighed and leaned in to read the note. When he stood back up
he blew out a breath and quoted: "Quit while you're behind,
boys."

They stood in silent respect for a moment, then turned to follow
Scully. Mulder made damn sure his mike was off before he
said, "It's a sad day when I'm the voice of reason in this outfit."

5:45pm
Hyatt Washington

Mulder strode through the lobby and punched for the elevator.
He wore his best blue Armani, determined to be the perfect
guide. If there was any chance at all of getting Skinner off his
ass he was determined to make the most of it.

He hummed an Elvis tune as the lift arose. For a day that began
so badly it was ending pretty well. He was back in civilization,
in clean and, more importantly, *dry* clothes. The Gunmen
were safely back in their cave, Scully's sudden thirst for
vengeance was now slaked, and his own efforts along those
lines were now in place.

It took time he couldn't really spare to disengage from Scully
and the SWAT boys. There was no help for it, though. He had
to be sure that there was no way she'd look back and figure it
out. It took over an hour, once he made it back to the Gunmen's
place, to figure out how to work the damn voice synthesizer.
Fortunately Byers had an organized mind and was a careful
workman. Following his tracks to the program file that
simulated Scully's voice was a snap.

The elevator door opened on the proper floor and Mulder
stopped to check himself in the mirror one last time before
moving up the hall to his destination. First impressions were
important. It wouldn't do for his zipper to be open when he met
Skinner's niece.

He grinned at his reflection.

A time-delayed "easter egg" now sat in the Gunmen's computer,
just waiting for the timer to run out. In two days each of the
guys on the SWAT team that had accompanied them tonight
would receive a call from "Scully" asking them on a date. And
the beauty of it was that it would come from the Gunmen's own
computer. If Scully tracked it back... well.

It's not like *he'd* started any of this. Mulder's conscience was
clear. So he strolled up to the proper door -- on time, even! --
and knocked.

A stunning woman opened the door. Long and lean and curves
in all the right places were displayed by a form-fitting blue
evening gown. Her dark brown hair was done up in some
complicated knot on top of her head, which put her elegant neck
on display. A neck that fairly begged to be nibbled...

Whoa, boy. Calm down. That's career suicide. That's you boss'
female relative. That's... that's...

The woman had a devastating smile beneath those warm brown
eyes. Wow. Mulder fervently hoped he wasn't drooling.
<Man, it's been longer than I thought!>

He held out his hand and said, in a voice of wonder, "*You're*
Virginia?"

The woman shook his hand as the other went to her mouth. A
gleam of humor danced in her eyes as she looked him up and
down. "Oh, my good lord. Walt wasn't kidding. You *must* be
Mulder."

Erk. Evidently some damage control was called for here. "Ah, I
don't know what your brother told you, Ms. Skinner, but I'd like
to be judged on my own merits."

She shook his hand firmly. "That's fair enough, Mr. Mulder.
Now just give me a second and I'll be ready." She stepped aside
and gestured him into the room. The place looked quietly
expensive, and Skinner's sister looked right at home here.
Apparently there was a lot more to the man than met the eye.

She finished inserting her earrings and came back to stand
before him. "How do I look?"

He smiled. "Enchanting. So. Where would you like to go first,
Virginia?"

She grinned. "Well, I was planning on dinner at La Luna
Rustica and then the opera. And it's Janice."

Mulder's smile slipped a little. "Excuse me?"

She shook her head at what was apparently one more display of
male cluelessness. He'd seen it on enough faces to recognize it.

"My name is Janice Skinner. My date is picking me up in the
lobby in five minutes. *You* are here for my daughter...", she
turned to face a doorway, "... who is dawdling again. Virginia!
The sitter is here!"

Blood drained from Mulder's face. He spluttered for a moment
as the lovely woman slipped past him and out the door. "Have
her in bed by eleven!" floated back to him from up the hall.

A small female figure -- Mulder's expert eye placed her at
around five feet tall -- emerged in the latest teen fashion. She
put her hands on her hips and said, "I wanna see EYES WIDE
SHUT."

And Mulder's time in Purgatory began.

-==o==-

We would like to thank Becky, Vehemently and Zippyweasel for their
beta-reading. Because one of us is a neurotic when it comes to writing (not to
mention any names, but Amanda), these beta readers had to be on call at the
strangest hours. We thank you warmly.

Many, many thanks to Becky and Jordan for archiving chores.

No cats were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

Feedback is a wonderful thing! All comments welcome at ChaelysQ@aol.com or
TScott2533@aol.com.