TITLE: Friday AUTHOR: aRcaDIaNFall$ FEEDBACK: arcadianfalls@yahoo.com.au RATING: PG SPOILERS: none CLASSIFICATION: V, UST, maybe H SUMMARY: Scully's in a bad mood and finding Mulder's presence intolerable. AUTHORS NOTE: Don't ask me what my obsession with Scully's intolerances is at the moment. Guess I'm powered by suppressed frustration or something. See, it reaches deep into my childhood... *g* --> http://www.geocities.com/arcadianfalls/ Friday by aRcaDIaNFall$ He keeps tapping his pencil against the desk. His chair squeaks as he swivels it from side to side. He keeps tapping the one key on the keyboard as he scrolls down the page; click, click, click. Click, click, click. He reads aloud from the computer screen, muttering under his breath. I swear I can even hear his watch ticking. Okay, so I'm a little oversensitised. It's been a lousy week. Long days, a case going nowhere, we've been arguing over every stupid little point, and all I want is time to myself for a long hot bath and a longer sleep. I'm not feeling very tolerant right now. And if I have to listen to Mulder and his little cacophony for much longer, so help me - He sniffs. He sniffs again, like a five year old with a runny nose. Then again. The hairs on the back of my neck rise up and a cold shudder runs over me, the sort of chill you get when somebody scratches fingernails on a chalkboard, followed by a quick anger. I rise from my desk, grab my box of tissues, stomp the three steps to his desk and slam it down. He only looks up at me in innocent surprise. "Oh. Thanks." I glare at him, fists clenched, not trusting myself to respond. I return to my seat, picking up the file I was perusing, and try to focus. Tap. Click. Squeak. Mutter. Sniff. I just can't block him out. I stand from my chair so violently it spins on its wheels and skitters across the floor a couple of feet. "Can you keep it down?" I demand. "Keep what down?" he asks innocently. I'm precariously close to throwing something big and heavy at his head. I muster all the control I can, knowing of only one way that Mulder will live to see another day in this cramped, airless office. "I'm going home," I announce coldly, and I turn to start gathering my things. He's bewildered. "It's not even four!" "It's Friday and I've had enough. I'll see you Monday." And I take off out the door without looking back. I'm tapping my fingers. I'm glancing at the clock every minute. I'm fanning myself with the book I've spent half an hour trying to read. I'm flicking through the TV channels, trying to find something bearable to watch. I'm bored. I've had my long hot bath, bubbles and all, despite it being still mid-afternoon. Beethoven is playing, very softly, in the CD player. I've put on pajamas and woolly socks and curled up on the couch with a big rug and comfy cushions and a classic - what spoke of bedtime reading more than Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice'? - and even made myself hot chocolate with sprinklings of cinnamon and marshmallows. I stopped short of lighting a fire - it is, after all, still early October. I've stretched out, wallowed in the comfort, enjoyed the tranquility, the beautiful freedom of having nowhere to be and nothing to do until Monday morning, welcomed the thought of finally having the time to catch up on everything and have a life beyond the x-files. Boy, am I bored. I look at the clock. It's five-thirty on a Friday night and I'm alone at home in pajamas reading Jane Austen. Where did I go so wrong? I toss back the rug and spring to my feet, almost offbalancing the mug of hot chocolate sitting precariously on the edge of the coffee table. I know what I'll do. I'll call Mom, see if she has any plans for the evening. Maybe I can go over for dinner. Maybe she could come here. I think she wonders if I still know how to cook. I grab up the phone and press her speed-dial number, energised by the idea. What can I cook? I'll have to go get ingredients. Not a problem. I've got to get out of these pajamas some time. It's engaged. I hang up and toss it down on the kitchen table, going in search of recipe books. Might as well get dinner started while I wait. I ring five times in the next forty minutes. Engaged every time. I know she's home, at least, but I'm starting to feel a little silly. I dial a sixth time and, again, it's engaged. I sit back and look miserably at the risotto in the saucepan on the stove. Guess Mom's not coming to dinner. So what now? I want company, want ordinary conversation over an ordinary meal. But who? I have no friends left close enough for such a spur of the moment invitation. They all have lives, husbands and children to feed and watch TV with and put to bed. We might as well live on different planets. I pull the risotto off the stove and stare at it some more, as if it is somehow going to give me an answer. Then I sigh, throwing myself back on the couch, pulling the rug over me and burying my face in the pillow, tired and annoyed and disappointed. In one word, miserable. "Hey, Scully?" I jump, startled, reaching for a weapon before I realise it's Mulder. Grrrrr. The last person I want to see. "What?" I grumble. "I didn't mean to wake you..." I stand, straightening up. Turned out I had all the ingredients for dinner and I didn't have to go to the shops. I'm still in my pajamas and woolly socks. I'm going to kill him for turning up here without warning. "I wasn't asleep," I answer, crossing my arms. "I just wanted to know if you brought the Johannasburg file home with you by accident. I couldn't find it in the office." His eyes have wandered and he pounces on the saucepan. "Dinner?" "Mine." He peers closer. "You're going to eat all that?" "Yes," I fib quickly, too embarrassed by the truth. He gazes at me, a little puzzled. "Okay." A grumble. At first I think it's the traffic outside, but I hear it again and realise its origins. Mulder is grinning sheepishly. "I didn't get any lunch." I won't. No way. That's my dinner and I'd rather eat all of it than have to sit through a whole meal with you, Mulder, because I know you'll only drive me crazy and with the zero-tolerance mood I'm in right now you might even wind up injured. But I do. "You want to stay for dinner?" He looks surprised, even suspicious, and I regret having asked. I gesture quickly. "Fine, forget about it." "Hey -" he protests. "I want to. I'm just a little afraid you're going to try and poison me or something." He grins. It's supposed to be a joke. I'm not laughing. "You've been just about ready to hack my head off all day," he explains, quieter. "I figured that you're kinda sick of me at the moment and the last thing you want is me hanging around." He's completely right. I am sick to death of the man who works obsessively and against all logic. I'll scream if I have to spend another minute in the presence of that man - I can handle only so much of him every week. But that's not all and only what Mulder is. It's only a part of him. "If you can behave yourself and not even think about work, I guess I can put up with you through one meal," I say coolly. He's intrigued by me; a little hurt, a little amused, but largely just curious. He sits obediently at the table, watching as I dish up the steaming risotto, waiting until I've taken a first spoonful to dig into his own. Conversation is slow to start. He keeps glancing at me almost nervously, as if afraid I'll stand up, throw his plate in his face and order him out. Feeling more than a little guilty for being such a bitch all day - what *had* gotten into me? - I start some gentle conversation. Things start to warm up. It takes a little while, hours in fact, but we get to talking. Even after the risotto is gone we just sit at the table together, talking politics, sports, movies. He's not entirely relaxed, though, even after I bring out a bottle of wine I found in the pantry and we work our way to the bottom of it. I'm getting a little tipsy myself, I think. I'm smiling at him an awful lot. But he's smiling back, and that makes it all worthwhile. "This has been a lousy week," he announces, a change of topic. He plays with his empty wine glass. It's late. "Is that why you were - well, you know, ready to kill me?" "Pretty much," I confess, a little ashamed of my behaviour. We grin at each other sheepishly. So long inhibitions. "You said you'd 'had enough' of me," he reminds me, pouting a little, evidently hurt. "You kept tapping your pencil," I defended myself. "And sniffing, and squeaking your chair, and - well, you were getting on my nerves." "Because I was tapping my pencil?" Again, the hurt pout. I tried to explain. "The plodding, rhythmic Mulder-noises... I was tired and they got on my nerves." Silence. A long silence. He stares at me thoughtfully. "I know one you won't hate." "One what?" "A 'Mulder-noise'." He pushes his chair back from the table and stands, beckoning me closer. I obediently join him across the other side of the table, curious. He grabs my arm and tugs. "Closer." I shuffle closer to him, so that we're only a few inches apart. I'm about to speak when he cups the back of my head in his hand and draws me against him, gently pressing the side of my face against his chest. Bah-buhm, bah-buhm, bah-buhm. His heartbeat. I listen in guilty awe. It's not the first time I've heard a heartbeat, not by far, but to be standing there, listening to Mulder's, knowing I'm the reason it's beating that little bit faster than average... "You're right," I murmur into his chest. "This has been a lousy week." "But?" "No buts. There's no guarantees next week won't be twice as bad. But will you do something for me, Mulder?" "Anything." "Next time I look like you're getting on my nerves, just hold me close and let me hear the real you, okay?" "Absolutely," he promises. His heart echoes the promise. Bah-buhm, bah-buhm, bah-buhm. I pull away from him and start to tidy up the dinner dishes, piling them in the sink. Mulder stands back, watching as I quickly clear things away, switch off the CD player that's been on all evening, switch off the lights. "I'm going to bed," I announce quietly. He's disappointed, but he nods. "Okay. I'll see you -" My turn for the innocent, hurt pout. "You're not coming?" His eyebrows shoot up and he looks at me suspiciously. "Scully, tonight's not a night I want to try to get into your pants..." "Closest you'll get to that is sharing the bed, buddy. That's all I'm offering." He looks sheepish. "Oh." I reach out to take his hand and kiss the knuckles, giving him a gentle tug and a grin. "For tonight, at least." He starts to sniffle again as I'm climbing into bed. I feel my hackles go up as I listen and start to doubt my offer. My stomach knots as I hear him tapping socked toes of one foot on the floor as he removes his other shoe. He's whistling, very quietly, probably not even aware that he's doing it. I clench my fists. He pulls but the covers but glances at me before climbing in beside me. One look at my face and he stops. The tapping stops. The whistling stops. The sniffling stops. He smiles sheepishly and climbs into the bed beside me, pulling me close. I snuggle up against him, resting my head on his chest, tuning into his heartbeat. Bah-buhm, bah-buhm, bah-buhm. I let out a sigh. Peace. fin.