By Jess Archibald
larchiba@unixg.ubc.ca
 

Date: 6 May 1996 06:24:43 GMT
 

  Hi, everyone!  I've been busy working on Conspiracy but this one just
had to be written.  Thanks to Char and the M&S group for support and
laughs.  You guys are the best!

Disclaimer:  By now we all know who owns what.  CC and 10-13 own most
everything and it's all used without permission, but I mean well.  Story
belongs to me.

Time span:  Mid second season.  The premise of the story was mentioned
very briefly in the Far Away Nearby and this is a comedy piece . . .

------------------------------

T h e  X - F i l e s
MIS-FILED
by Jess Archibald
larchiba@unixg.ubc.ca

-------------------------------

J. Edgar Hoover Building
8:28 p.m.

   Fox Mulder was running late.
   Not that this was something new for him, but he had intended to be gone
nearly two hours ago and here he was, still slogging through a mound of
paper work.
 Scully had been doing autopsies today, she was long gone,
vanishing out the door shortly after four thirty after filling the last
of her reports.  She had given Mulder a bright smile when she departed,
knowing full well he was going to be busy for the next little while.  He
had considered pulling rank, since he was the senior agent and demanding
her help with the paper work but had relented, deciding to play the
martyr while he could.
   Next time he wasn't going to be so stupid.
   "Right," he mumbled, facing his computer screen and filling out
the electronic form for the last field report.  "Conclusions based on the
evidence rendered by the field agents . . . "  He trialed off, the words
on the screen blurring together.  This was the last report and it had to
be on Skinner's desk before he arrived tomorrow morning.  If he could
just get this last one done . . .
   Deciding that coffee would be just what he needed, Mulder got up
and ventured out of the office to the coffee machine located on the next
floor.  The one in his office would have done perfectly well, but he
needed to stretch his legs.  By the time he got back, the fax machine had
delivered another message.
   With a groan, he crossed over to read it, hoping it wasn't
another request for more paperwork, while at the same time excited that
it might be a new case.
   It was neither.
  Addressed for Scully, Mulder saw the sender and decided that he'd
better read it to make sure it was suitable for her viewing.  Far be it
from him to screen her messages, but considering this was from Frohike,
he thought it best.  The little Lone Gunman could hide across town, but
it was Mulder who would have to face down the wrath of Dana Katherine
Scully, Special Agent and M.D. who knew more ways to use a scapel than
Mulder knew snappy retorts.
   A few lines in, he had to put down the coffe cup to keep from
spilling its contents.  Frohike had been a busy boy and had composed a
lengthy letter professing his love for Mulder's partner.  It was a fun
read, as long as you weren't the object of his affections.  The laughter
was just what Mulder needed to inspire him to finish his report.  And he
was definitely going to shred this before Scully saw it.
 Going back to his desk, he put the letter on his desk and went
back to finishing his report.  Nearly an hour later he was done, printing
out the file and straightening it on his desk, putting the papers down
for a second to find a report cover, buried deep in the recesses of his
desk.  After he dug one out, he swept all the papers into an organized
pile and slipped them into the cover.  Turning out the lights and
grabbing his jacket, he left the office to drop it off on Skinner's desk
and go home.
 Nights like these it would be better to just crash in the
office . . .

********************************

6:43 a.m.

 Walter Skinner liked to arrive to work early.
 It gave him a chance to catch up on what had gone on over night
and to prepare himself for the day ahead.  It was what made him such a
good agent and had earned him the promotion to Assistant Director.
 Sitting in the middle of his blotter was a precisely arranged
report from Agent Mulder, detailing the latest of his exploits in the
field.
 Skinner could hardly restrain his enthusaism.
 With a sigh he opened it and started reading.
 The case concerned the disappearance of zoo animals and the death
of a federal employee at the hands -- or rather feet -- of an invisible
elephant.
   By the time he reached the last page, Skinner was shaking his
head with disbelief.  Mulder's theories of artificial insemination at the
hands of aliens was perposturous at best, delusional at worst, but there
was always something about these cases . . .
 Skinner had to do a double take when he reached the last page.
 "What the hell?"

**********************************

7:15 a.m.

 Dana Scully tossed her briefcase onto her desk and frowned at
the remains of her office.  Mulder had had another marathon session of
paper work and for a moment she felt a wave of guilt for leaving him to
it.  But that moment faded, replaced by a tiny smile.  He hadn't asked
her to stay . . .
   But still it was too  much like picking up after her godson.
There were sunflower seed husks all over the place and his desk was
defying the laws of gravity with the amount of junk sitting on it.
  She was about to start cleaning up when her phone rang.
 "Scully."
  "AD Skinner wants to see you and Agent Mulder right away," came
the pert voice of Skinner's secretary.
 "Mulder's not here yet -- "
 "Well then, you'd better come on up here, Agent Scully."
 She repressed a sigh.  "I'll be right there."

***************************

7:26 a.m.

 Mulder breezed into the office, spied Scully's briefcase and was
immediately reminded of the note Frohike had sent.  Now where had he left
it?
 Going over to his desk, he searched the blotter and surrounding
area, at first slowly, then with increasing speed.  It wasn't there.
 Maybe Scully had found it and gone over to the Gunmen's offices
with her gun . . .
 No, too early in the morning for mayhem.
 Mentally going over his actions last night, he remembered putting
it on the desk, finishing his report, putting the papers down on top of
it and then collecting them . . .
 Oh no.
 The letter from Frohike had gotten mixed up with the field report.
 Dimly he wondered if he had time to get the file back but then
remembered that Skinner liked to come in to work early.  And Scully was
already here but not in the office . . .
 "I'm a dead man," he said to the empty air.
 As the office door flew open to admit his partner, he wondered if
she'd plead temporary insanity or justifable homicide at the murder trial.
 "Mulder . . . " she growled, coming in and damn near slamming the
door behind her.  "I was just in a meeting with AD Skinner."
   He put his desk between them.  "I can explain."
  She folded her arms across her chest.  "Let's hear it."
  "I . . . well . . . "  He gulped.
 "I see."
 "I'm sorry?" he offered weakly.
 "You'd better be."  She tossed the file at him and he caught it
with a slack hand.  "Skinner read the whole thing."
  "The *whole* thing?" he echoed in a tiny voice.
 "Yes.  In fact he proceeded to read excerpts from it until I
figured out what the hell was going on.  Thank-God Frohike didn't mention
names -- just anatomical positions."  At this her angry look faded,
replaced by a predatory smile.  "In fact Skinner thinks *you* wrote it."
 He blanched.  "You're kidding, right?"
   She shook her head and he couldn't understand why he had never
noticed her preverse streak before.
 "Did you set him straight?"
 "And tell him what?  Your paranoid friend thinks I'm God's gift
to short, bald lechs and writes love letters in his spare time and you
shuffle them in with offical reports?"
 He swallowed again, thinking that he might just be sick.
 Her malicious smile deepened.  "By the way, Mulder, you might be
interested to know that Skinner thinks that it was written with him in mind."
 With that she vanished out the door.
 "What?!  Scully, wait a minute!  Scully!"

*********************************

7:33 a.m.

 Scully went into the FBI cafeteria and ordered a coffee, sitting
down before she started to laugh.  The other agents looked over at the
petite redhead and shook their collective heads in puzzlement.
 The look on Mulder's face had almost been worth the initial
humliation she had felt when Skinner had shown her the letter.
 Almost.
 But still, she had explained the situation, apoligized profusely
and fled out the door with the file after Skinner had told her it was
Mulder who should be apologizing -- to her, not to the AD.  In fact, she
could swear that her boss had had a twinkle in his eye when she said
she'd take care of it . . .
 She wondered how long she should let Mulder stew, thinking that
Skinner believed the letter was meant for him and had originated from Mulder.
One or two days ought to do the trick.  He was probably down there right
now digging for a file that would take him far, far away from Washington.
 Taking a drink from her coffee cup, she nearly choked on her laughter.
 The look on his face had been priceless.
 
****************************

Offices of the Lone Gunmen
6:31 p.m.

 Frohike ducked when Mulder came in.
 Their grapevine was so extensive that the trio had already heard
all the details and Byers and Langly calmly pointed towards the little
man's hiding spot.
 Mulder nodded his thanks and nearly had to drag Frohike out from
under his computer console.
 "Fohike, we're got to talk.  No more letters sent to our office."
 "Give me Dana's home address and I'll send them there," the other
man tried valiantly.
 "Not a chance.  I value my life too much."
 Frohike nodded sagely.  "Right.  I understand.  No more letters."
   Mulder let go of him and left, too angry and at ends to stick around.
 Byers and Langly looked at the third part of their trio and shook
their heads in disgust.
 "You know, Frohike, maybe you should seek professional help,"
Langly suggested slyly.
 "I trust you've learned your lesson?" Byers asked.
 The little man smiled.  "Mulder didn't say anything about poems."
____________________________________

END

Forgive me, all, for subjecting you to this one.  I just finished all my
exams and had to do something with all that nervous energy.  I'll leave
now and go work on Conspiracy . . .
Comments, if there are any, to larchiba@unixg.ubc.ca
Jess