Rating: PG-13; a couple of bad words
Feedback: Welcome and greatly appreciated
Category: Mulder POV, MSR, Humor, Post-Ep
Spoilers: Takes place after the events of "Chimera"
(Season 7); references to several other episodes
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Chris Carter
and 1013 Productions
Archive: Be my guest
Notes: Written for Haven's 500 Words of PMSing
Challenge (and it's only 859 words too long!) Thanks
to Peg's Girl for the quick beta
Summary: Mulder deals with PMS as only Mulder can
* * * * * *
Like every self-respecting, red-blooded American
bachelor, I have a little black book. But mine is
not a "little black book" in the widely understood
definition of that term.
I use my little black book to mark the passage of
time. Rows and rows of dates written in my neat
block print - one entry every 28 days or so. Some
might call it perverse. I call it an exercise in
self-preservation. When you spend every day with a
woman who has a gun and a scalpel and knows how to
use both, it's imperative that you have an early
warning system in place.
When Scully and I became partners seven years ago, I
had forgotten what it was like to be around an adult
female on a full-time basis. I never considered how
"that time of the month," as my mother used to call
it, might affect our working relationship.
The first few months of our partnership, I was
blissfully unaware. I suppose I was still sulking
about being saddled with a partner I didn't want,
forced to not only defend my theories but to find
proof that would satisfy her scientific mind.
Then one day I was hit full force with the wrath of
Dana Scully - usually reserved for murderers and
mutants, not Mulders. While I tried to figure out
what I'd done to deserve it, she stormed off to the
ladies room for the third time in an hour, and then
it hit me. Elementary, my dear Watson - the culprit
in the strange case of Dr. Scully and Ms. Hyde was
none other than PMS. (They don't pay me the big
bucks for nothin'.)
I felt my theory was sound, but the enigmatic Agent
Scully taught me the importance of collecting solid
evidence, so I found a small notebook in the desk
drawer and made my first entry. Sure enough, 28 days
later, it was a repeat performance: irritability,
fatigue, frequent trips to the bathroom, and
grumbling about her tight skirt even as she consumed
two brownies and handfuls of M&M's from a bag she
kept in her desk drawer.
And thus my little black book was born. There are a
few gaps, but by far it's the most accurate record
keeping I've ever done. It's become a vital
resource, reminding me of the days that I need to
watch my step and my mouth in order to protect my
I did tempt fate once. I threw caution to the wind
and under the guise of "liberated male" met the enemy
"Scully, did you know there's a theory that in the
days before electricity, all women had their
menstrual cycles at the same time because their
bodies were influenced by levels of moonlight? And
the reason women's cycles are different now is
because there's artificial light everywhere?"
"Mulder, did *you* know that I find these charming
little anecdotes you seem to pull out of your ass
I never tried that again.
Another time I forgot to consult my little black book
before we left for a case out of town. Thus, I was
totally unprepared for the week I spent getting
chewed out by Scully and watching her drool all over
a bucktoothed sheriff. Scully remembers it
differently, of course (including the part about the
buckteeth). When I suggested her behavior in Texas
was a direct result of PMS, she agreed.
PMS, she said, stood for "Putting up with Mulder's
After that, my little black book was just like my
American Express Card - I never left home without it.
Luckily, Scully thought my little black book was
exactly what single men *usually* use little black
books for, so until recently, I've never had to hide
it when I made my notations.
"Another sexual conquest, Mulder?" she'd say as I
checked my calendar and made an entry.
"Mmmmm, three-and-a-half stars," I'd reply. "Lost a
half-star for wearing pantyhose instead of thigh
She'd shake her head and mutter, "Mulder, you're
sick," then turn back to her work.
But she started wearing thigh highs soon afterward.
She made sure I noticed.
Scully and I have been in a physical relationship for
awhile now. On the fifth or sixth sleepover, as I
lingered somewhere between the arms of Dana Scully
and Morpheus, that sultry, sexy voice that she
reserves for the bedroom whispered in my ear: "So is
your little black book retired now?"
"Not retired," I replied dreamily. "I burned it."
A lie, of course. Given our new relationship, my
book is more important now than it ever was
(especially since I figured out that there's also a
positive side to PMS like increased sex drive and
more intense orgasms). But I have to be discreet.
If Scully ever finds out what I've really been doing
with my little black book for all these years, she'll
rip it to shreds and then rip me a new one.
The lights of Washington twinkled below as my plane
prepared to touch down at Reagan National. I felt a
twinge in my shoulder as I pulled the seatbelt around
my waist - I was tired from the case in Vermont and
more than a little sore from being tossed around like
a rag doll by a jealous suburban housewife turned
monster. All I wanted to do was get home, wrap my
arms around Scully, and let her soothing touch mend
my battered body.
It was then that I remembered our last discussion in
the seedy Southeast apartment building before I left
for Vermont, and her cranky, whiny telephone calls
over the last few days. I pulled the book from my
jacket pocket and checked the date. Yep. More than
likely, I would soon be face to face with a beast
woman of a different kind.
I passed the gift shop on my way out of the airport
and couldn't resist stopping to check out what
treasure was behind the handwritten sign that read
"75% Off." It was meant to be a tactic to delay the
inevitable; but there in the bargain bin, I found the
perfect peace offering.
A short Metro ride later I rapped on her door
lightly, then used my key. No time like the present
to see if my theory was correct, so I cracked the
door just enough to poke my head through. As sweetly
as possible I called out, "Honey, I'm home!"
"Call me 'honey' one more time, Mulder, and you'll be
peeing through a catheter."
Once I remarked to Scully that I was right something
like 98.9 percent of the time. Make that 99.
I removed the key from the lock, dropped my suitcase
by the door, and watched her emerge from the bedroom,
already dressed in her satin pajamas. I smiled as
she stopped in front of me and placed her bare feet
atop my shiny wingtips. Even with the added height,
she still had to stand on tiptoe to lock her arms
around my neck.
"What kept you?" she asked, then pulled my lips to
hers, her tongue exploring vigorously as her teeth
grazed my lower lip. Did I mention the increased sex
When she let me up for air, I answered her question.
"I stopped to buy you a present."
I pulled the gift from behind my back and her eyes
lit up. Within seconds, the box I had selected from
the bargain bin of Easter candy was open and the
chocolate rabbit inside had been expertly de-eared.
"Mulder," she said as she seductively sucked each
fingertip between those cherry red lips, "I've had a
craving for chocolate all day. How did you know?"
I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close,
prepared to reciprocate her earlier greeting with
equal gusto, when the little black book in my jacket
pocket pressed against my heart. A sudden wave of
guilt swept over me. Should I come clean? Tell her
how I'd been deceiving her all along? Drop to my
knees and beg her understanding and forgiveness? I
made my decision, looked deep into her eyes, and gave
her my reply:
"I just knew."
* * * * * *
If you're interested, my other stories can be found here: