Title - I Hate You

Author- Raven (Marci is okay too. Lots of Ravens out there)

Rating - R (Just to be on the safe side for some language)

Category – SRH, I guess. There’s some angsty bits too.

Spoilers – Um, really vague ones for “Pilot,” “Fire,” and “Humbug.” Also, you can assume this takes place between “Clyde Bruckman” and “Quagmire,” or that Queequeg has been resurrected. Doesn’t matter much.

Keywords – Um, humor, MSR (But not real ooky! They’re not like, “Oh Fox! I adore you!” “Oh Dana! I must have you”)

Summary - Mulder and Scully have an evening mixed up with evil neighbors, gravity, German wenches, and some umbrella-toting penguins. Beware.

Archive - OK, as long as the name stays with it. Also, I’d like to be E-mailed just so I know where my babies end up.

Feedback – Ohpleaseohpleaseohplease. [email protected]

Disclaimer – As many of you are aware, Chris Carter owns these characters. I do not, which is why stories like this have never made it anywhere past fanfic, even though I’m not really a shipper. I wrote another story, but it’s a sad one. I gave myself sniffles. Chris Carter is a nice man though. I don’t think he’d sue a college student. Ever. Yay Chris Carter! And now, moving along….

Scully regarded the dog’s face, his head cocked appealingly to the side and ridiculously fluffy tail wagging frantically. “Come here, puppy,” she said trying to force lightness into her tone. Queequeg knew better. His mistress had used that tone in the past, shortly before immersing his wriggling form into a vat of soapy water. Just as Scully lunged for the creature, he dashed of the couch, yelping furiously.

“Dammit, Queequeg!” she swore in irritation. She rose from the couch, and left her robe upon it. The lacrosse shorts, several sizes too big, slipped to her hips where they had been rolled several times in a futile attempt to thwart gravity and hung about three or four inches longer than a pair of underwear. A sweatshirt that had lost its neck and waist to a pair of scissors and been emblazoned with a biohazard logo completed the ensemble. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, makeup-less face beneath a messy mop of a ponytail, and groaned. She continued to cajole the dog.

“Queequeg, if you come out, mommy will give you a hamburger. And canned ravioli.” The dog resisted temptation and remained cloistered in his hiding place. Growling in irritation, Scully procured a broom and began whapping at various objects in the apartment. “Queeeeee-queeeeeeeeg… come out, come out wherever you are,” she crooned in a falsetto. She heard a rattling sound from the depths of her bedroom. “I swear to god, animal. If you’re in the crawl space again…” she left her unfinished threat hanging in the air to strike fear in the creature’s fuzzy heart. The lacrosse shorts were beginning to succumb to the laws of physics, and she hitched them up roughly, giving herself a very un-Scullylike wedgie. Shouldering her broom grimly, she assaulted the wall with it, entreating the dog to emerge. A responding bang emanated from the wall adjoining the neighbor’s apartment.

“Quiet down in there, you degenerates. Move the damn bed away from the wall.” Scully’s face flushed violently. They thought she was…

“Sorry,” she said contritely. “My dog’s in the crawl space.”

“You can come up with a better one than that!” She muttered indignantly to herself and rewarded the offending neighbor with another resounding whack on the wall. There were garbled noises and then the sound of footsteps. She smiled in satisfaction. She had defended her territory. After giving a last few halfhearted thumps on the wall, she turned her attentions to the bed. As she was about to crouch and peer into the darkness beneath it, she heard knocking on her door. “Damned neighbors. They can knock all night. I’m not banging anymore.” She turned huffily to the bed and lowered herself down on all fours to gaze under it.

“If you come out right now, I won’t kill you,” she offered by way of incentive. She slid farther under the bed, probing its recesses with the broom handle. As she did so, she felt the wayward shorts lodge themselves back into a zone of Extreme Discomfort. She sighed. The broom handle finally met with resistance and she again tried to coax the little monster forth. “Come on. Let’s call a truce. What’s it gonna take?”

“I’ll call a truce if you wear that outfit to work,” came Mulder’s deadpan. She sat up sharply on her knees, cracking her head on the bedframe. “Jesus Christ, Mulder, are you trying to scare me to death? Ever heard of knocking?”

“I did knock. I knocked for a while. In fact, I almost left when you didn’t answer and then I let myself in and the I heard all that banging coming from your bedroom and your robe on the couch and then…” he trailed of breathlessly.

She rubbed her aching head and unrolled the shorts twice, watching disappointment flash across Mulder’s leer. “You’re a pig. What do you want?”

The leer resurfaced. “Well, Scully. Like I said. You should wear that to the office sometime.”

Even from two feet off the floor, clad in pajamas, and wielding a broom, Agent Scully could cast a withering glare. She delivered it to Mulder and he blinked his impassive face startled.

“That, Agent Scully, is a particularly nasty look. You ought to have that thing patented.” He crouched beside her on the floor, noting to himself that the severed collar allowed him a rather picturesque vista. He kept this information to himself. Scully shifted and the landscape became more mountainous. Mulder chewed the inside of his cheek in pleasant agitation. A wad of fur rocketed from under the bed and buried itself happily in Mulder’s lap. It began pulling vigorously at Mulder’s black sweater, dislodging it from his belted jeans. He stared at it with contempt. “Genetically mutated dustbunny, Scully?” he queried innocently. She dealt him another look and waved the broom menacingly at his person. He feigned terror and shielded himself with the still writhing Queequeg.

“You wouldn’t hurt a woman with a baby, would ya, officer?” he wavered in a falsetto to rival Scully’s own. Scully surrendered and cracked a smile.

“Give me my dog. Now why are you at my house making obscene innuendoes and wearing enough hair gel to render yourself waterproof?” Mulder appeared hurt.

“I worked hard for this stylin’ do, my sarcastic friend. I am making obscene innuendoes because you are wearing small shorts. I am here in the first place because it is a Saturday night and I wanted to see if you’d care to join me for a night of debauched revelry, namely the consumption of fermented products.” He ended this speech with a plaintive grin, the one he used in defense to her Ice Stare of Death.

“Mulder, I have to wash my dog. I have to dust and do laundry and try to figure out what sort of psychological anomaly would compel a strict vegetarian to consume raw beef until he ruptured his stomach, spilling all sorts of things into his peritoneal and abdominal cavities, giving himself septicemia and massive internal bleeding.” She took a deep breath and gripped the dog a bit more firmly, causing its already limp tail to droop further.

Mulder cocked his head and regarded her in the same quizzical manner as Queequeg. Scully laughed in spite of herself. “Stop that. You look like my dog.”

He wagged an admonishing finger. “With one very important difference. Young Queequeg here is extremely filthy and rumpled. I am extremely clean and nattily attired, you will notice. Please allow me the pleasure of your enchanting, if somewhat cruel, company.” He folded his hands neatly on his lap and smiled peacefully.

Cruel? Scully arched an eyebrow superciliously but did not remark. She had been awfully condescending and scathing lately. He was infuriating and smug, but still…. She pondered a moment further, and then decided that the cleaning could wait. She never did anything anymore, and here was a perfect opportunity to have what could prove to be a nice evening. Queequeg could revel in his grime a while longer and, as for the corpse, the odds were he would still be dead tomorrow. Or Monday, if she allowed herself the luxury of a hangover. “Okay, Mulder. I’ll go. Just help me up so I can go change.” Mulder wisely bit his tongue on the subject of her attire.

Scully released the dog, which promptly fled into the crawl space. She was secretly happy that the evil neighbors would be further assaulted with incessant thumping. Let them think what they wanted. She balanced on her toes and Mulder stood, extending a hand down to her. She grasped it and her hauled her up quickly. No sooner did her knees unbend than the devious shorts finally plummeted to the Earth, loosened by the unrolling process. They both froze.

Scully’s doubts about the possibility of spontaneous human combustion were rapidly abating. Her cheeks felt hot enough to melt lead, and were growing hotter as time passed. She was desperately thankful for the fact that she had opted to stick underwear under her shorts, but this was all. She finally regained control of her motor functions. “Mulder…I’m, uh, I’m gonna go change now.” She stood there a moment longer, her synapses having shorted on the way to her legs.

The leer had emerged once more, threatening to extend the boundaries of his face. “Gee, Scully, this is a side of you I’ve never seen before.” He made a quick, cursory sweep with those hazel eyes.

“Actually, this is several sides I’ve never seen of you before. Except that time in Oregon…” he finished, musingly.

Scully willed him to die on the spot. Fox Mulder was not going to get the best of her. She tugged her shorts up and stalked haughtily to the living room to retrieve her robe. “Well, Mulder. You know where the bathroom is. Just wipe up anything that gets on the floor.” She had the pleasure of seeing him blush, although he negated the effect by chuckling slightly. He followed her into the living room and sat on her couch, a model of decorum.

“I will be right back. Behave.” She stalked back into her bedroom, robe swirling about her small, confident frame. Mulder watched her receding form appreciatively and shook his head in amusement.

Scully entered her bedroom and shut the door quietly behind her. She slouched against the wall, grateful for her temporary sanctuary wherein she could compose herself. So Mulder had seen her in her underwear. So what? He had before. Of course, their relationship had been different then. And she had thought her nose was going to explode or something. She ran cold fingers through her disheveled hair and resolved to put it out of her mind, wishing only that she had seen Mulder in an equally compromising situation. For reasons of fairness only. Nothing else. Thy shalt not covet thy partner’s body. She sighed in resignation and then moved to her closet, opening the doors. A display of clothes, neatly pressed and arranged by color and style greeted her. She shoved her suits off to the side and considered her casual apparel with mild disapproval. Basic colors, sensible fabrics. Her suits had been purchased with specific intents, such as “outfit to make Skinner fell lenient,” and “outfit to make my legs look longer.” She was shamefully wanting in the “outfit to go drinking with Mulder” genre.

Scanning the denizens of the closet with resentment, she opted for a pair of slim fitting khakis and a somewhat tight black mock-turtleneck sweater over a white spaghetti tank, ordinarily reserved for under suits only, to minimize itching.. She sat before the closet and yanked on a pair of stretchy black boots with low heels. Scully rose from the floor and surveyed herself in the mirror. She tugged at the curls emerging from her ordinarily sleek hair and then surrendered, taming them with a black headband. A quick swipe of sheer, berry lipstick and she headed into the living room, feeling like a sorority girl. “Hey,” she greeted Mulder, who was watching a large pink cat on the television and brushing fur off of his impeccable black sweater and loose-fitting jeans. His eyebrows rose.

“Scully. You look nice. Different, but nice.” He patted the couch next to him. Scully paused warily for a moment and then acquiesced to the gesture. She perched delicately at the edge of the couch, fingers clasped over her knees. Without realizing it, she had situated herself upon the remote. The channel changed from “Eek the Cat” to the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. Mulder quickly moved to the edge as well, watching attentively. Scully snorted in disgust and turned the TV off. Mulder slumped back, chagrined.

“Come on, Mulder. Let’s go.” She stood up and took his much larger hands in her own, pulling him from his lazy nest among her pillows. She left her jacket, as it was a warm night, and they headed out.

Upon reaching the pavement, Mulder began flailing his arms in a manner usually reserved for air traffic controllers or birds during mating season. Scully barely suppressed her laughter behind her hand. “This is guaranteed to get us a cab. They can’t miss me,” he informed her solemnly, launching into what appeared to be a slo-mo version of the “YMCA.” Scully crossed her arms across her chest, tapping her foot and checking her watch with great impatience. Several cabs sped by, causing Mulder to voice his perplexity.

“Mulder, they probably think you’re suffering from Tourette’s. You’re scaring them.” She stepped primly to the curb and raised two fingers. Her actions were promptly rewarded. She favored Mulder with a superior gaze. He followed her sulkily into the back, rubbing what was probably a strained shoulder.

“Fine, Scully. I’ll allow you your glory in this arena. But things will be changing once we hit the bar.” Scully settled back into her seat.

“Where are we going, by the way?” she inquired. Mulder grinned evilly.

“Driver, could we go to De Cup, please?” The driver nodded almost imperceptibly and made a harrowing left turn. Mulder’s shoulder had a resulting close encounter with the window. “Ow!” he yelped. “Great cabbie, Scully. Apparently a recent graduate of the Saddaam Hussein School for Hostile and Reckless Drivers.”

Scully rubbed her temples. “De Cup, Mulder?” she said dryly. He could almost hear her eyes rolling. “Cute name. Very classy. Place for Hooters’ rejects?” Mulder clucked his tongue.

“Scully, Scully. So quick to judge. Get your mind out of the gutter. A cup is merely a vessel to hold fluids and other materials. The ‘De’ is just for an exotic flare.” Nicely done, Mulder, he thought. He smiled fondly, thinking of the materials held in the cups of the redheaded waitress last time he had been there.

“Whatever, Mulder. Just try not to be a raging pervert. I am extremely stressed right now and I’d hate to have to kill you.” She resumed her temple massage with renewed vigor. “Is there an ATM near there? I hadn’t planned for a night on the town.” Mulder patted his jacket.

“It’s all on me, my good woman. And no protesting, or I will sing songs from ‘Annie’ all night by way of tribute to those flaming red curls. And I must warn you, my singing abilities are rivaled only by my exquisite taste in film.” He finished with a smirk, and Scully snickered.

“All right. But I must inform that we persons of Irish descent can hold our liquor. This may impinge on your film budget.”

He smiled and they sat in companionable silence for a bit until the cab swerved sharply along the curb, threatening the territory of a fire hydrant. Scully hurriedly exited the vehicle while Mulder paid the cabbie. The automobile then tore off down the road, leaving skid marks and foul-smelling blue smoke in its wake. Scully grimaced and fanned her nose. “Yuck,” she commented. Mulder took her by the elbow.

“This way, please,” he said politely. She glanced upwards and saw a garish sign depicting a buxom German lass holding two beer steins. The words “De Cup” were written across her immense chest in large, Gothic lettering. Scully’s eyes rolled again.

“Dana,” he began in a whiny, nasal, mockery of a mother’s voice, “If you keep making that face, it’ll get stuck that way.” She grinned wickedly.

“It only happens around you, Fox,” she said pointedly, putting particular emphasis on his detested first name.

“Watch it there, firecracker,” he intoned deeply. They entered the pub, which was decorated in a style best described as “extreme Bavarian tackiness motif.” A waitress similar in appearance to the girl on the sign led them to a booth shaped like a sleigh. A large, disembodied reindeer face loomed above Mulder’s head. Beside it was a large, stuffed grizzly bear in what Scully interpreted to be a menacing position. “I’ll totally be back in just a few to, like, take your orders,” supplied the waitress in a vapid, dulcet tone before frisking off in her dirndl. Scully opened the menu, glancing in irritation at the cover with the chesty blonde, and regarded its contents with gustatory dissatisfaction.

“Mulder, I don’t believe that most of this food is conducive to the human digestion tract,” she observed distastefully. “Look at this garbage. Bratwurst, sausage, kielbasa, stuffed cabbage. Mmm…this looks good. Stewed sauerkraut with liver and sour cream. Is there anything here that doesn’t come encased in something else’s intestines?” Mulder grinned.

“This is good, filling food, Agent Scully. Sticks to your ribs.” He patted his lean torso fondly. “I think it sticks to your gastrointestinal tract for about six months too. Is that possible, Doc?” he asked wryly. Scully muttered something about intestinal adhesion proteins, then continued down the list of foodstuffs and remained unable to decide.

The waitress returned, shifting coyly from foot to foot. “Are you ready yet?” she asked. Mulder nodded.

“I’m gonna go for the schweinekniestucke mit sauerkraut und kartoffelosse. I’ll have a Beck’s with that. Scully?” Her nose was wrinkled and her eyes held disgust. Using rudimentary knowledge of German, she had translated Mulder’s order into “pigs’ knuckles with sauerkraut and potato dumplings.”

“I’m just gonna have the, uh, Rhein lachs vom grill.” Good old broiled salmon. Mulder grinned cockily.

“And what sort of unimaginative white wine will you be having with that, Frauline?” She oozed contempt from her pores.

“I’ll have a black and tan, please.”

“That’ll, like, be out soon. Do you, like, want your drinks now or whatever?” They nodded, and she scampered towards the bar.

“Black and tan, Scully. Excellent choice. I figured you only drank Vin de la Boring.”

“Hilarious, Mulder. Absolutely hilarious. Actually, I’m more of a tequila girl. We should’ve gone somewhere Mexican.” Tequila? His demure red-haired partner drank tequila? This news was intriguing to Mulder.

“Do you eat the little worm? It’s supposed to be a very…surreal experience. But then you’re just a bug-munchin’ fool, arencha?”

“I didn’t eat that bug. I was just trying to make a good impression.”

“Only ‘The Enigma’ would be impressed by such behavior, my friend.”

“I think he was.”

Their banter died off as the beers arrived, accompanied by a flirtatious curtsey in Mulder’s general direction. Scully scowled disapprovingly from behind her mug. He lifted his glass and motioned for her to do the same.

“A toast,” he began solemnly. Scully prepared herself for a drawn out tribute to an eternal search for the truth (it was Out There) and a general hope for the safe return of Samantha. Instead, he continued with “Here’s to the breezes that blow through the trees-es, lifting the skirts and exposing the knees-es. Here’s to the snatch, so down the hatch.” He took a gusty swig. She stared at him; jaw unhinged and eyes dangerously close to falling out of the sockets.

“That is unbelievably foul and distasteful, Mulder. Wherever did you hear such stuff?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Oxford, Scully darling,” he replied in a haughty English timbre. “We lads do love to party.” Scully shook her head in forfeiture.

“Just when I think I’ve polished you enough for public appearances, you reassure me that you’re still the same old Mulder.”

“I insist that you stop admonishing me and drink that beer.” Resisting her temptation to sneer, Scully obligingly to a deep draught of her beer, swallowing at least an inch of liquid from the oversized glass. She set it down heavily before her and smiled at Mulder, who looked amazed, impressed, and…amused? He began to laugh.

“What? What is it?” she said plaintively. “You’re a hell of a drinker, Scully, but you’ve got a mustache. There’s foam smeared across your face.” She reached for her purse, and realized that she had left it hanging under her coat.

“I don’t have my mirror. Where is it?” He extended a napkin tentatively.

“May I?” Ever the gentleman.

“Please.” He delicately wiped her face with the corner, eyebrows furrowing as he did so.

“Got it. You look better now. You don’t look like quite the lush you are.” Scully swatted at him benignly, and then refocused her attention to the mug, taking deep sips in rapid succession. Mulder followed suit and they were nearly finished when the food arrived.

Mulder’s plate was oozing with grease, smelled of grease, and left a greasy residue on the waitress’s fingers. Scully grimaced at the sight of it, and then looked approvingly at her own food. Mulder dug in with gusto as the waitress took the mugs, returning with two full ones. She set them down, handing Scully a Beck’s and Mulder the prettily layered black and tan, before wandering away again. “Oops,” said Mulder, licking his long fingers. “Good help is so hard to find these days. Here, give me that. We’ll trade.” They lifted their respective beers, Mulder grasping the Beck’s handle. Scully leaned forward, (her chest brushing the table, observed Mulder) and reached for hers. However, the Fates being in a wicked mood, the glass slipped from Mulder’s greasy digits and splashed over her sweater.

“Mulder!” she gasped in surprise and irritation. He looked appalled.

“I’m sorry, Scully. Oh here, let me help.” He reached over with a napkin, not noticing the blob of lard on it, and smeared it down her sweater, making it even worse. She groaned.

“Here, let me,” she sighed in exasperation. It was not to be. The beer and the pig knuckles had combined by some evil alchemy into a gelatinous, foul-smelling wad. Pausing, she remembered the tank top underneath. But it had only been to keep the sweater from itching. The thing was far too tight, particularly when one was having dinner with a business associate. She repeated that phrase over, convincing herself that it was true. She gave up, and began to remove the sticky clothing. Mulder froze, sauerkraut hanging from his lip, eyes wide.

“Scully? You have something on under there?”

“Yes, Mulder.” Wearily.

“Damn.” She dealt him another withering gaze, but it was countered by the-lost-puppy-in the-rain-and-in-need-of-shelter-eyes. She pulled the soggy mess over her head, praying that the beer hadn’t soaked through and rendered her only remaining garment translucent. It had not. Scully felt very exposed in the tight, low cut shirt. Very exposed indeed. She was appreciative that it was not cold. A wolf whistle shattered her introspection.

“I still have some beer left…” he said, tilting his glass towards her suggestively. Privately, Mulder was left breathless by the sight of Scully attired so. Her face was flushed with embarrassment, her hair hung in a skein of tangled curls, and her lean, muscular body was encased in a body-skimming shirt that made him gulp. Her eyes were drawn into thin slits, flashing dangerously.

“Mulder, if you can’t behave like a civilized person, I’m getting a cab and leaving. In the first place, it’s not that big a deal, and in the second place, it’s all your fault in the first place for spilling beer on me.” Mulder mulled over the complexities of female logic, and then gave up.

“You’re right, Scully. I’m sorry. I’ll behave like a perfect gentleman,” he offered graciously. Scully was mollified.

“It’s okay. I overreacted. I’m just a little stressed is all. Come on. Let’s eat.” They ate in silence, occasionally ordering drinks. Scully, although refusing to admit it, was feeling extremely intoxicated after the downing of a Killian’s Irish Red, her third drink of the night. She saw the vague outline of a second Mulder beside the first and giggled quietly to herself. She then realized that she, Dana Scully M.D., Special Agent at the Federal Bureau of Investigation and all around good girl, was drunk. Not tipsy, not buzzed, but rip-roaring smashed. She groaned for the hundredth time that evening, her heavy head resting in her hands. Mulder tapped her bare shoulder.

“Helloooo? Anyone in there?” She looked up, grinning sheepishly and eyes bleary. She was prepared to make a detailed rationale for her condition when she noticed that Mulder was clearly more drunk than she.

“Gee, Mulder,” she began, slightly slurred. “You look awful.” Another giggle. Giggle? Mulder was taken aback. He may not have been in full control of his faculties, but he did know that Scully did not get drunk and giggle in cheesy bars wearing a skimpy tank top on frequent occasions. He resolved to enjoy it.

“Well thank you Shcully. That’sh nishe to hear. You don’t look sho hot yourshelf. Your hair’sh all over the plashe and your mashcara ish everywhere too.” He said so, at least. Secretly he still thought she looked quite nice, but he did not dare try testing the limits of her fine Irish temper. She smiled amiably as Mulder watched. However, a look of dawning horror was crossing her pretty features.

“Scuuully? What ish it? Whash wrong?” She shook her head, trying to form words.

“Skinner…is here. With Colton. Skinner and Colton are here and we’re drunk. Oh my god, Mulder. This is so baaaaadddd.” She stretched out the last word for about ten seconds, slightly muffled by her salmon. “We gotta get out of here. My career, oh god, they’ll never respect me again.” The urgency of her voice was rendered almost comical by the mashed potatoes hanging from her cheek. A goofy smile played across Mulder’s face. He waved congenially at the two men walking in. Scully shot daggers at him.

“Mulder!” she hissed, smacking his arm. He continued waving.

“Live a li’l , Shcully. ‘Sokay. Hi Shkinner. Shir.” Skinner regarded him with mild amusement and surprise.

“Hello Mulder, Scully.” The latter was trying vainly to make herself presentable, despite her watery eyes, disheveled outfit, and potato-y countenance.

“Director Skimmer. Skinner. Forget it,” she wailed. returning to her salmon for solace. “Go ahead and just fire me.” Mulder was trying to figure out if Skinner and Colton had been cloned. They were appearing in triplicate before him. This seemed bad. And now Scully had become hysterical. Colton regarded both of them smugly, and Skinner seemed to be on the verge of a smirk.

“Agents, I am not going to fire either of you. Just see to it that your respective conditions are ameliorated by Monday. Mulder, I think you need to call a cab. Scully, I think you need a shower.” Mulder was patting Scully’s shoulder, as the last comment had upset her anew. Skinner turned sharply on his heel, Colton in tow. Just before he began walking, Colton turned to Mulder.

“Hey Mr. and Mrs. Spooky,” he said snidely. Mulder stuck out his tongue.

“Veeeeery clever. Remove head from shphincter before talking.” He turned to Scully who was sniffling on a bed of asparagus.

“Shcully, forget him. Pricksh like him aren’t worth both’ring yourshelf overrr. Let’sh blow this pop shtand.” Mulder smiled persuasively and rose, then stooping to pull Scully to her feet. She wobbled, knees buckling beneath her. She clutched his shoulder, arms scrabbling at his shirt and her sweater smacking into his head. He grasped her waist firmly, left a fifty on the table, and the two of them stumbled out into the steamy night. From his table, a faint smile played on Skinner’s lips as he spoke to Colton about a body that had turned up in a Dumpster.

Scully was leaning against a wall, doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down her face. “Mulder, Skinner saw us drunk. And it’s so funny, because, because, because, because, because….” she trailed off in paroxysms of laughter.

“Becaushe of the wonderful thingsh he doesh?” suggested Mulder innocently. Scully began to develop a bluish cast from a lack of oxygen.

“Let’sh feed the fishies. I like fish. You eat fish. I guessh that meansh you like them too, huh Shcully?” A demented shriek of laughter passed her lips.

“I hate you!” she whimpered. “My face hurts.”

“It’sh been killing me all night. Ba-dum ching.” Triumphant grin as the giggles bubbled forth. They flopped on the wide rim around the fountain, watching globular orange fish swim by. Mulder swished his hands in the water, trying to clean them a bit. He flicked water at Scully, to see what she would do. She shoved him.

“Ow! I almosht fell in. Take it eashy on a drunk guy, G woman.” She patted his abused shoulder.

“I’m sorry Mulder. But you got me all wet.” A wicked smile crossed his mouth. Scully stared him down. “You even think about touching that line and I’ll kill you.”

His mouth popped shut like one of the fish. Damn, he thought. She wasn’t as drunk as hoped for. Scully was leaning over the fountain, summoning the ugly fish to her demesnes. “Here fishy fishy fishy. Heeeeeere fishy fishy fishy,” The fish remained unresponsive, as fish are wont to do. “Oooh! A frog.” She swiped at it, missing by a mile due to poor depth perception in her alcohol soaked haze. She tried again. “Look Mulder! I almost caught that frog and I’m gonna Auuggghhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!” A splash broke the stillness, dousing Mulder with scungy water.

“Shcully? Wheeeeere are yoooouuu?” An arm snaked from below, clawing his sleeve.

“I’m here, damn your eyes. Help me up.” He grasped her arm and tugged her forth, leaving her torso draped over the rim, hair soaked and breath rapid. He studied her. The tank top, serving little purpose originally, did even less to cover her trim form now. It was utterly see-through and even clingy-er than before. She was wearing a white bra underneath, but it too was soaked. And, judging by the looks of things, Scully was pretty…cold. Sighing in humiliation and relinquishment, she pulled herself into a sitting position and regarded Mulder.

“Let’s just get a cab and forget this happened, okay? You’ll go to your house, I’ll go to my house, and I’ll see you on Monday.” He sniffled.

“My car’sh at your houshe, Shcully,” he said lamely. Another sigh.

“Well you’re obviously too drunk to drive. You can stay on my couch til you sober up.” Scully was feeling more in control after her chilly dunking. Mulder nodded, humbled.

“Okay. That’sh very nishe of you. I’m shorry to be shuch a bozzer.” She patted him fondly, dripping water onto his already soggy shoes.

“Come on, let’s get a cab.” She raised her two slender fingers again, the cab scuttling to the curb beside them. She opened the door, teetering only a little, and shoved Mulder’s rangy frame in. He hunched in the corner, staring bleakly at his pretty friend, noting that she still looked elegant despite the evening’s mishaps.

“You’re drying off,” he observed.

“I know. I feel all that junk congealing to me. Bleah.”

“You know, Shcully, you’re even resherved when you’re drunk. Now that’sh shomething.” He settled back, stretching his long legs before him.

“Georgetown,” said Scully suddenly, and gave the driver her address. Mulder seemed to have run dry of commentary, and dozed peaceably. Scully regarded him amicably, smiled, and watched the passing scenery. The cab swerved abruptly and halted at her curb. Mulder opened his eyes and blinked several times in confusion. He then remembered where he was and withdrew his wallet, tossing a ten over the seat. The driver snorted contemptuously and sped off, barely giving Mulder time to scramble to the sidewalk.

“Jesus,” he said. “Who gives these people their licenses?” Scully took his hand, leading him up the steps and through the door. He made it in with little trouble.

“Well, Mulder, it’s nice to see that your slurring has abated,” Scully offered as she opened the door to her apartment. Muffled growling wafted from the kitchen. “Queequeg?” she called. More growling. She walked in to the kitchen and found the little beast rifling through the overturned garbage can, his face buried in a pile of partially decomposed tuna, ketchup, and a withered stalk of celery, long past its prime. He was munching happily.

“Ew,” commented Mulder. The dog hopped over to him. Neither Scully nor Mulder could figure out Queequeg’s fondness for a man who tolerated him at best. Scully stood, arms akimbo, and glared at the dog.

“I can’t leave you alone for a few hours without getting in trouble. This is ridiculous.” She turned around and sat on her living room couch, Mulder in tow. Queequeg trotted obediently behind. Mulder deposited his shoes on the floor and folded his legs up into a yoga position. The dog, overcome with love, jumped up and nuzzled into his lap.

“You smell terrible,” said Mulder, and patted Queequeg’s furry ears.

“Glaarph,” said Queequeg, and vomited on Mulder’s nice jeans. Scully turned an interesting shade of red, completely chagrined.

“Oh Mulder! I’m so sorry. Let me get a rag.”

“This is karma for the beer incident, huh?” He examined his soiled attire with displeasure. “Scully, don’t take this the wrong way, but I can I just take these off? They’re really wicked smelling.” Well Dana, thought Scully to herself, looks like you got your wish. Mulder’s pretty compromised at the moment. She feigned annoyance.

“I suppose. I’ll wash them for you. Give them here.” He quickly slithered from the dirty pants, handing them to Scully. His eyes were cast downwards, and could that be…no, a blush? Mulder was blushing. “Cute penguins, Mulder. I didn’t know you were into such festive skivvies.” He looked down at the parade of umbrella toting penguins that marched across his red boxers.

“They were from my mom this joyous holiday season.”

“What’d you do wrong? I thought only naughty little boys got clothes as gifts.” After that cryptic remark, she retreated to wash Mulder’s jeans.

“I’ve been pretty naughty, Agent Scully. Want to help me make sure I get more presents like that this year?” he called after her.

“Mulder, you better watch it, or you’ll be getting a lump of coal from me this year.” He grinned, enjoying the teasing banter as always. She returned to find Mulder sprawled across her couch, penguins proudly displayed.

“So, FBI woman, now that you have me drunk on your couch in my underwear, are you gonna have your way with me?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Mulder, if I had my way, we’d be asleep in our respective beds right now. But since that won’t be happening, I’m going to go shower this muck off of me. I’ll be back in a minute. We don’t get the Playboy channel here, but maybe ‘Baywatch’ is on or something. Happy hunting.” He laughed slightly and checked the channels to see if ‘Baywatch’ was really on.

Scully shut her bathroom door and turned on the hot water. She stepped in, enjoying the tingling of it down her spine. Moistening her loofah, she lathered it with rich jasmine-scented soap and began scrubbing the pond water from her pores.

On the couch, Mulder was having trouble getting the various remotes to work with one another. At the moment, the screen was flickering back and forth between Julia Child and static. He heard the water turn off in the shower. “Scully?” he called. “ Are you decent?”

Scully heard her name as she stepped from the shower. “Yeah?” she called back. Dammit. She had left her bathrobe in her room. She emerged fully, looking for her towel.

“Okay,” she heard Mulder respond.

“’Okay’ what?” she began to ask, but it was too late. Mulder opened the door and stood there, dumfounded. “Mulder! What in the hell?”

“Oops.” He fled from the crime scene, slamming the door behind him. Scully wrapped herself in a lush towel and retrieved her bathrobe, shaking with anger as she put it on. She went into the living room, blue eyes stormy and pale cheeks flaming.

“What in the hell did you think you were doing just now?” Mulder hung his head.

“I said ‘Scully are you decent?’ and you said ‘yeah’ so I thought you were. Decent, I mean.”

“Mulder, I heard you say my name, so I said ‘yeah’ to see what you wanted.”

He twiddled his thumbs anxiously. “I’m sorry. I guess you’re pretty mad. I’ll just go and call a cab, and I’ll get my stuff tomorrow sometime.” She nodded tersely. Mulder shuffled to the door, looking so pathetic that it hurt to watch. He looked up, eyes limpid. “Bye, Scully. I’m really sorry.” He wandered out into the hall, looking ridiculous in a black sweater with penguin boxer shorts and no shoes.

Scully sighed. It was an honest mistake. She couldn’t kick him out like this. “Mulder, get your ass back here. You’re not leaving like that.” He stuck his posterior through her doorway, wiggling it.

“Here’s my ass, as per request.” A wry grin tugged at her mouth, and she shook her head.

“Let’s have all of you back, okay?” He ambled in, looking like he had just swallowed the proverbial canary.

“Been a rather revealing night, huh?”

“Touché, Mulder. Touché.” She sat on her plump couch cushions, and patted the seat next to her. “Come on, Mulder. I’m not tired for a change. We’ll watch T.V.”

Instead of taking the seat offered, Mulder sat smushed on half of a cushion at the far end of the couch, careful to avoid invading Scully’s personal space. She noticed his actions and was touched by his contrition, chastising her self for losing her temper so quickly.

“Mulder, it’s okay. You can make yourself comfortable.” He nodded gratefully and resumed his sprawled position, stretching on his back until his tousled hair brushed Scully’s daintily crossed right thigh. She regarded him with amusement.

“Thanks. I’m comfortable now.” He wriggled slightly, the cushions conforming to his body. Scully took the remote and hit the power button, causing the screen to crackle to life. She flicked through several channels absentmindedly and then settled on “Mission: Impossible” for the sake of Tom Cruise’s arms. Not that she’d admit it.

“Our jobs are never that fun, Scully. We don’t get exploding gum. Or partners like that,” he added as Emmanuelle Béart slithered across the screen. “I got a hot-tempered redhead.” His tone was good-natured, but Scully quickly changed the channel anyhow, and left it on “Saturday Night Live.”

“You’re very good with that remote,” remarked Mulder in admiration.

“What?”

“The remote, Scully. That’s what I was going to ask you in the bathroom. I couldn’t get the cable box to work right.”

“I understand that you spend a lot of time in front of the television, Mulder. How is it that you couldn’t operate mine?” He shrugged.

“Mine usually stays on one channel. And as you pointed out, you don’t get that channel.”

“You had it working fine earlier,” she said pointedly.

“I wasn’t drunk earlier,” he countered just as pointedly, defending himself against her implication that the remote had been a ruse to walk in on her.

“Well, that’s true. You were pretty lit.” Mulder was the picture of outraged innocence.

“Me!? Look who’s talking. Lush.” She chucked a pillow at his head.

“I sobered up real fast, Mulder,” she said defensively. He snorted.

“That’s because you were so toasted you called our boss ‘Skimmer’ and fell into a fountain. That’d sober me up real fast too.” Scully retrieved her pillow and creamed him with it again. His hands flew to his face and he howled in mock agony.

“Woman!” he said vehemently, “Don’t make me exact vengeance upon you.” Her chin jutted forward defiantly.

“That a challenge, Agent Mulder?”

“Hmm. Methinks the lady doth not protest too hell of a lot.” She tossed a pillow for the first volley, and all control was subsequently lost as they took strategic positions behind furniture, lobbing random pillows and cushions about the room. The couch was quickly denuded, as was Scully’s bed after Mulder had stockpiled her pillows and built unto himself and impenetrable fortress constructed of her bedspread and an end table.

Scully called a temporary cease-fire and emerged cautiously from behind her entertainment center. Mulder peered warily from beneath the table and crawled forth.

“Surrendering, you godless red?” he taunted.

“Nah, just gathering some provisions, soldier.” She strode to her kitchen and he followed her, brushing at the beads of sweat on his face. Scully tossed her robe into the living room from her counter, and then splashed cool water onto her hot face. She was wearing the same outfit she had been before, and when she stood on her toes to reach the cupboard, Mulder refrained from delivering another whistle at the sight of her taut belly. She pulled a bottle of wine from the depths of the cabinet.

“Great, Scully. Just what we need. More alcohol.”

“I was saving it. The end of a war seemed an opportune occasion.” As Mulder could not argue with her reasoning, he carried two wine glasses to the coffee table.

“What kind of wine is that, anyway?” he queried as she entered with the bottle.

“It’s a 1989 Rosemount Estate Shiraz,” she informed him reverently. His face held no sign of comprehension.

“Red,” she amended. He nodded in understanding.

“I like red,” he told her, a slight sensual edge beneath his tone. She ignored him and poured them each a glass. They sipped quietly, surveying the floor strewn with their mess. The relaxing calm was broken by a knock at the door.

“Coming!” Scully called, rising from her pillow on the floor and slipping her robe around her. She opened the door and there before her stood Walter Skinner. In her doorway. She could not possibly fathom what he was surmising of the scene before him.

Sheets, pillows, cushions, and her comforter littered the floor. Mulder, clad only in his shirt and preposterous boxers, was sprawled across several of them, drinking wine. She was damp and flushed, her hair in loose ringlets and sipping wine in her bathrobe. She cringed.

“Hello,” she said uncertainly. He nodded crisply. “Would you like to come in?” Skinner nodded again and stepped into the apartment.

“Who’s that, Scully?” yelled Mulder. “Tell them to go away. You haven’t begged me for mercy yet.” He waved a pillow to emphasize his point. Scully’s face now matched her hair perfectly.

“Hello, Mulder,” intoned Skinner deeply. Mulder shot up, giving himself a nasty head rush.

“Hello, sir,” he squeaked. “How nice to see you.” Skinner fixed him with a patronizing stare.

“I’m sure you’re delighted. I saw your car in front of Scully’s, and I wanted to make sure you both got back all right, considering the evening’s… events,” he finished diplomatically. Scully squirmed inwardly beneath his steely eyes. She didn’t even want to know what he was thinking.

“Can I offer you some wine or something sir?” she offered desperately. He shook his head and looked quickly at his watch.

“Thanks just the same, Scully, but I’d better be going. I’ll see you on Monday. Goodnight.” He cast one last look at Mulder before exiting. Scully pushed the door behind him and returned weakly to her cushion.

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” she murmured softly to herself as a mantra, rocking back and forth rhythmically. “I don’t believe that just happened.” Mulder scooted next to her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked in concern.

“Mulder, do you have any notion how this looked? You, me, the clothes, the pillows, the wine…” she trailed off miserably.

“I don’t get it,” he told her. She stared at him as though he had just sprouted horns.

“Are you insane?? It looks like, I mean, we were, you know.” He shrugged.

“Everyone thinks so anyhow. What’s the difference? It’s not like we did. And I don’t see why people thinking that bothers you so much anyways. You joke about stuff, like um, well, you know what I mean. Let’s give something to talk about, hm, Scully?” He jabbed her playfully with his elbow and sipped at his wine. Her eyes were huge.

“What did you just say?” her voice was a low hiss. He tried to backpedal furiously.

“I just mean that so what if people think so? We know we’re just friends.” His tone was wistful.

“Mulder, I worked very hard to get where I am. I broke my father’s heart doing this. And I am not going to let some jerky gossip mill cheapen my accomplishments.” Her chest was heaving with anger.

“Scully, I’m sorry,” he stammered.

“What is it with you, Mulder? You think everyone just wants to hop into bed with you? It’s not the case. I refuse to destroy our friendship over something that crude.” Her eyes were blazing with righteous fury.

“Scully, I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t mean we should just hop in the sack or whatever. I just meant, I don’t know.” His head dropped to his chest and he studied his hands intently as he twiddled his fingers. His next words were spoken softly, fragmented. “I…I think I’m in love with you Scully. I dunno, I love you. I know you don’t think of me that way. I don’t know much of anything anymore, but I know these things I’m telling you. I just…I need you. I wish you needed me too. I know you never have and I drive you crazy. I’m sorry. I meant that I love you, Scully, and I don’t know how to express that to you. I didn’t mean to insinuate it was just because everyone said we were…well, we were doing…whatever and I wanted to impress all those jerks who fantasize about you and…” he clapped his hands over his mouth to silence the unchecked rush of thoughts.

“What do you mean, you love me?” her voice was a tight whisper.

“I do. I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to, I mean, I never planned to fall for you like this and I did somehow and I woke up and I just knew, Scully. I just knew.”

“Well, you seem to know a lot more than you just gave yourself credit for. I’m not sleeping with you, Mulder. I never thought you’d sink to this. Get out of here. Your jeans are in the dryer. I’ll see you Monday.” Her arms were crossed, eyes drawn into slits, and back ramrod straight. She glared at him with wrath. He stumbled to her dryer, tripping over Queequeg. He pulled on his slightly damp jeans and then returned to the living room and found Scully with her narrow back to him. She was using one hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, the other on her hip. He pulled his shoes on.

“Scully,” he began.

“Get out,” her voice was strained.

“I, I’m sorry and…”

“Get out.” He walked to the door and trudged out.

“Bye,” he whispered, and she heard the soft click of the door behind her.

After it had closed, she crumpled to the floor. She wrapped her arms around her knees and thought to herself. Scully did not cry often and she did not cry now, despite the lump in her throat. Who the fuck did he think he was, saying crap like that to her? They had always had their rapid-fire innuendo laden exchanges, but they were always just teasing. But Mulder had crossed the line this time. And to say he loved her? As though that made it acceptable somehow? Mulder didn’t know what love was. He only knew need, and he needed her. He had said so.

She hated him. White-hot hatred that tore at her insides. He needed her rationale and arguments to keep himself from slipping into the abyss. And why, she asked her self, do you stick with him? Why no transfer requests, no sneaky reports back to Blevins or Skinner? Because we’re friends, she answered herself. Because we’re partners, like it or not. Because we trust each other. Because I’m proud of him.

And these reasons were good, and they were right, and they were also not the complete truth, her brain reminded her sneakily. Because I love him, it added smugly. She pushed the thought aside, but it crept back in, shoving the others away and forcing her to deal with it. So she did. She dealt with it by accepting and bursting into a hot stream of quiet tears that seared her cheeks with the unfamiliar texture. The blinding flash of the epiphany took her breath away. She hated herself for realizing it. She hated herself for coming to terms with emotions buried so deep she had forgotten them. And she hated Mulder for making her love him.

Sighing in resignation, she stood and tightened the belt around her waist. I can’t let him go like this. Not here, not now. After sniffling forcefully and wiping fruitlessly at her cheeks, she took her keys and walked out to the sidewalk. Mulder was leaning tipsily against his car, eating sunflower seeds.

“Hi,” she said, her voice no more than a breath. She took a step forward. Mulder regarded the sky as he spoke.

“Go away, Scully. I have nothing left to say. I have nothing to give you. Get out of here, and do better. You can find a better partner and a better friend.” He felt sick as he said the words, cracking a seed with his teeth.

“Mulder, please, I…” He shook his head, cutting her off, and spat a delicate arch of seeds into the night.

“It wasn’t fair of me to do that. You don’t have to have a social conscience about this, Doctor Scully. I won’t tell. Let’s just admit it. I fucked up.” He assaulted the seeds with ferocity. Her countenance stiffened.

“Fine Mulder. Fuck you. I should have known better than to come down here while you were wallowing in melodrama. Go to hell, Fox Mulder. I hate you.” Her voice wavered and the tears welled up again, making her angrier. “I hate you,” she said again. He looked at her.

“You’re crying.” It was somewhere between a question and a statement.

“I’m allowed.” She sniffled again and wiped her nose with her sleeve. He extended an arm and she backed up. “I meant what I said. I hate you Mulder. Don’t touch me. I will work with you. I will be civil to you. But I will always hate you.” Her voice had lost its venom now, and she merely repeated the phrase over and over, shoulders sagging in defeat. Mulder looked at her with sad eyes.

“You really hate me?” he asked, afraid of her answer. She looked up.

“Yes. I do.” He bit his lip and looked away.

“Fine, good, perfect. No worries this way. Absolute professionalism. Skinner ought to like that. They were right about you, Ice Queen. Nobody gets in, and if they do, they don’t get out alive.” He turned to go.

Scully’s eyes burned with outrage. She grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him to her and slapped him across the face. Hard. The stinging slap resonated and left marks on his cheek.

“How dare you say something like that to me? I’m sorry I’m not another one of your cheap British sluts, and I’m sorry that I have some dignity. But don’t you ever, ever, speak to me like that again. Go jerk off to one of your little videos, Mulder. Go call Phoebe and see if she’ll comfort you. Go do whatever you want with whomever you want, but don’t you dare forget whom you’re dealing with when it comes to me.” She moved to hit him again, but he grabbed both of her wrists in his hands. He stared into her face, and she found herself unable to look away long enough to even wipe away the tears that cascaded freely down her flushed face.

“I don’t want Phoebe, and I don’t want British sluts, or sluts of any variety. I want you, Scully. I meant what I said upstairs, and I know you don’t hate me. I’m not sure exactly how you feel, but it ain’t hatred. You’ve stuck around too long.” She struggled weakly against his grip, and then spoke.

“I do so,” she said sounding like a sulky little girl. “I meant what I said too. I hate you so much for so many things. I hate you because, because, because, because I…” Her voice trailed of into sobs and she pulled her arms free, pummeling his chest with her fists. He wrapped his arms around her.

“Because of the wonderful things I does?” he whispered into her hair. She struggled feebly, still hitting him occasionally.

“Because of this,” she said into his shoulder. “Because you can make me lose my control like this. That’s why I hate you.” He pressed his cheek to her soft curls.

“I know,” he said.

They stood there, intertwined for a while before Mulder took her by the shoulders and gently pushed her back. He held her chin between his thumb and forefinger, smiling adoringly into her face.

“So what should we do, Scully? I mean, with all this…um, stuff.” She looked at him evenly and shrugged slightly.

“I just feel like I’m losing myself when I’m with you Mulder. I feel like everything I hold sacred gets ripped out of my hands and there’s nothing I can do about it. It frightens me sometimes. That’s why I get so mad at you. I don’t deal well when I’m not sure what’s going to happen. I need to be in control.” He grinned cockily.

“How kinky. I had no idea.” She smiled wearily and smacked his arm absently.

“I’m serious. But I’ll get used to it. Sometimes it’s like a rush, being with you. It’s like being really, really high all the time.”

“High?! Scully, you don’t mean to tell me that you ever…”

His tone was feigned astonishment. She smirked. “I went to college too, you know. I learned some amazing uses for formaldehyde in med school.” He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, dropping a soft kiss on her forehead.

“I’ll tell you lots of things you want to hear, Agent Mulder.” He kissed her again.

From his car, Walter Skinner smiled a rare smile and watched them walk up the steps, arms twined about each other’s waists. He’d see to it they were not troubled by the repercussions of this evening’s events. He directed a brisk salute in their direction and drove off, the smile still playing broadly on his stern mouth.