Title:  Excuse Me, or Montezuma's Revenge
Authors: Swenglish & Karoshi
Category: HA
Ratings: PG-13 for language and graphic description of violent bowel
movements.
Keywords: Humor, Angst, Bathroom
Feedback: See survey at end of story	
Archive: Gossamer and ATXC okay, others please contact authors
.
Summary: This story is in bad taste containing tasteless references to
Mulder's bathroom habits.  If you are easily offended by bathroom
jargon, DO NOT READ any further. 

Authors Notes:  Swenglish and I were talking on line one day when she
commented on Mulder's bathroom habits (crudely, I might add).  Feeling
it my duty as an American, I informed her that in the good old USA, we
did not discuss such things.  In fact, in the USA, we do not fart or
talk about our need to vomit or excrete waste (at least not in my
little repressed suburb). Our conversation continued over many weeks
and after much discussion on the toilet habits of Swedes vs.
Americans, this story was born.  It is a tasteless and disgusting
cultural exchange. There, don't say we didn't warn you.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox. Who am I
to argue with God?


Excuse Me, or Montezuma's Revenge
by Karoshi and Swenglish
***********************************

Monday, 8:15am

My mother was not an overly affectionate woman.  She did however teach
me manners.  Cover my mouth when I cough, always hold the door open
for a lady, don't burp in public and, above all, a gentleman does not
discuss his bathroom habits.  A polite 'excuse me' is the only
explanation needed.  Those needing more detail were overly inquisitive
and, therefore, rude.  

All my life I've lived by these rules.  For the most part they've
served me well.  People seem to appreciate the fact that I don't made
lewd, disgusting noises in public.  The fact that I don't share my
saliva during cold season wins me bonus points with my co-workers.
Women seem to enjoy the chivalrous gesture of door holding, lord knows
it's won me more than one phone number tucked ever so carefully into
my trouser pocket.  My body's occasional need to expel waste is
something I share with as few people as possible.  When I am nauseous
and feel a need to vomit, I keep it to myself.  Few people really want
to know the details.  When ill, I take great pains to not discuss the
symptoms associated with my lower half.  As my mother would say, "it's
rude, Fox.  No one wants to hear about your bowels!"  I was five at
the time.  I didn't know what a bowel was.  By seven, I was wiser.  My
mother might not have tucked me in at night or soothed my fevered
brow, but she taught me the basics.  Thanks, Mom.

I never thought one of these fundamental rules would be so difficult
to follow.  I am, after all, an adult male in my late thirties. It
never occurred to me as I reached to answer the ringing phone that
today would mark the beginning of the end of my finely-tuned manners. 

"Mulder," I answer, my fingers stretching towards the bag of sunflower
seeds on my desk.

"Fox, how are you?" a cheerful voice asks.  

I recognize the voice as that of a woman I respect, yet fear, Scully's
mom --  Margaret Scully.  She is a lovely woman, a caring and generous
mother.  But, behind that smile is a woman who always gets her way.
Usually she does it with great charm and humor, but she was not above
iron-fisted orders.  "Scully's not here, Mrs. Scully," I inform,
ignoring her polite question.  Few people really answer such an
inquiry honestly.  

"Actually, Fox, I was calling to talk to you."

I could feel my eyebrows rise, me, what does she want to talk to me
about?  I straighten in my chair.  "What can I do for you, Mrs.
Scully?"  

"Well, Fox, you know Dana's nine year service anniversary is coming
up?" she reminds.

My eyes scan the office in panic, eidetic memory or not, I didn't
know.  In fact, I don't think I ever knew her service date.  After
all, what does one do on such a date except count the years left until
retirement.  Seeing little choice, I lie, badly, "oh yeah, that's
coming up - - soon."

Mrs. Scully kindly ignores my stumbling retort.  "I'm planning a
surprise party, Fox, and I need your help."

I stifle the groan that rises in my throat.  A party, a party to
celebrate her years at the FBI?  I had been with the bureau for almost
16 years now and the idea of celebrating that fact has never occurred
to me.  I respond reluctantly, "I guess I can ask around, pull a list
of her friends together." Now, just between you and me,  I'm not sure
exactly how I can do this as I don't really know all the people Scully
would want at this party.  But, never one to back down from a
challenge-

Mrs. Scully recovers easily, "that's sweet, Fox, but actually Walter
is taking care of that."

"Walt - " I stop when I realize she means Assistant Director Walter
Skinner.  Well, it's nice to know I'm not the only one this woman can
manipulate.  "Oh, okay," I answer, my relief obvious, "what do you
want me to do?"  I swear at times like this I am a complete social
blank.  What does she want, hors d'oeuvres, wine, collecting money for
a gift?  

"I want it to be a surprise, Fox.  I'm counting on you to get her to
my house next Saturday night," she states simply.

Except there is nothing simple about this.  I have stood before
committees and disclosed detail of a potential alien invasion.  I have
on several occasions convinced Skinner of the existence of sewer
monsters and managers who turn into big bugs.  Scully though seldom
believes me.  What excuse can I use to get her to her mother's house?

The woman was psychic,  "tell her you need to stop by and pick up the
running shoes you left here last time you were sick."

I felt my brow furrow, "I didn't leave my running shoes at your
house."  I know this because I was wearing them when I ran at top
speed away from her house.  One more Scully thermometer or bowl of
vegetable soup and I would have become one of those monsters I have
become so expert at catching.

She sighs loudly, "Fox, I didn't say you left your running shoes at my
house."  She was speaking slowly as if to a stupid child.  "I said to
tell Dana that you have to pick up the running shoes you left at my
house."

Understanding dawns, she wants me to lie.  This I understand.  "Okay,
Mrs. Scully, what time do you want me to have her there?"  Silently, I
want to add, and what the heck do you get someone for nine years of
service at the FBI?

Mrs. Scully's voice softens knowing she has finally succeeded in
getting what she needs from me.  "Have her here by 7:00pm, Fox.
Remember," she warns, "it's a surprise."

"It'll be our secret," I tease lightly, much more relaxed now that I
know the plan.

The office door opens, Scully enters.  I feel myself pale -- caught.
I am nothing if not quick thinking.  Lowering my voice, I whisper
huskily, "thanks for last night, Christine."

Mrs. Scully giggles on the other end of the phone, "she just walked
in, didn't she?"

"Uh huh," I purr.  Phoebe taught me how to purr years ago.  I used to
be quite good at it.  Now it just makes me want to cough.

Scully slips off her jacket and sits down at her desk.  Her expression
clearly reflects her disbelief at my conversation.  Why was it so hard
for this woman to believe that I could be having mind-numbing sex with
someone other than himself?

"See you on Saturday, Fox," Mrs. Scully says just before disconnecting
the line.

I cast a quick glance towards Scully, she appears deeply engrossed in
the stack of reports I left on her desk earlier this morning.  

"See you soon," I finish in my most seductive voice. I hear a snort
from the other side of the room. When I look up though Scully's face
is hidden behind several pages. I hang up the phone slowly and reach
for the nearest file. My devious mind already planning exactly how I
will manipulate her into visiting her mom's house.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

Thursday evening - 8:10pm

God, it's been a long day! Only ten minutes, Mulder, ten more minutes
and you can lay down on that couch of yours and not get up till
morning. I begin flipping through the titles of my film collection
wondering what video would lull me into a quiet, non-violent,
dream-filled slumber. Just yesterday I received the monthly special in
the mail titled Head-onistic Dreams. Not the most creative plot, but
it would probably meet my needs.  

The car swerves as I release the wheel with my right hand to cover my
mouth as I yawn. Immediately regaining control, I almost hit the car
in front of me when I see the sign.

		Burritos as BIG as your HEAD!

I glance into my rear view mirror and mentally calculate the weight
and size of my own head. "No," I mumble in disbelief, "even I don't
believe that one." Still, it's a case I can solve in five minutes and
I am hungry. I make a quick U-turn and return to the small Mexican
fast food restaurant. Pulling up to the drive up window, I order, "a
Burrito as BIG as my HEAD, some nachos and a large iced tea."

The person who lives in the box confirms my order, "a brito, some
headcheese, mmmphump and a small iced tea."

I hate these machines. I sometimes picture that this is how the
Consortium will eventually take over the world. We will all be in
lines at fast food restaurants attempting to order lunch using these
mindless devices. At the same time many of us will be trying to call
somewhere and be locked into an endless voice response system which
will continually ask me to spell my name. Admit it, the asterisk looks
far more like an X than the 9 key. Sighing heavily, I respond, "hold
the headcheese and make that iced tea a large."

"Total is $5.94 (strange how they can say that clearly), pull around,"
the voice in the box orders.

At the window I hand over my cash and reach for the bag, "hot sauce,"
I remind politely.

The pimpled face boy tosses a few packets of extra hot into a bag the
size of an army duffel. I'm impressed, could it be this burrito is
truly the size of my head? Mumbling my thanks, I place the bag
carefully on the seat beside me and drive home all the while eyeing
the bag with great curiosity.

Once home, I quickly feed my fish and then attack the bag. Clearing
the coffee table of all debris, I lay out my feast. With great
reverence, I remove the burrito from the bag. Hefting the full weight
of it in my right hand, my respect grows -- at least seven pounds! The
girth of it was massive and although it was not quite as big as my
head, I thought rather smugly, it was close. Lathering it liberally in
hot sauce, I take my first bite.  

"Hmmm," I murmur as the combination of spicy beef, refried beans and
sour cream explode in my mouth. Grabbing a napkin, I quickly wipe away
the extra sauce that runs down my chin. In truth, it is delicious; I
haven't had anything this tasty in a while. Pizzas are getting old and
Chinese food takes way too long to get here. I lean back into the
well-worn comfort of my sofa and let go of a loud belch. God, I love
living alone. I risk another bite then grab my iced tea as the hot
sauce burns down my throat. Eyes watering, nose running, I sigh my
contentment. I think I just found a new Thursday night date.

Forty minutes later freshly showered and dressed in only my boxers and
tee shirt, I snuggle under the blanket on my couch. The movie appears
to be the same scene filmed, by my last count, at least eight times.
Unless you actually participate, there is nothing terribly erotic
about watching another man get a blowjob. The burrito, less than half
eaten, lays on the table congealing in it's own grease. My stomach
gurgles noisily and I grimace at the slight cramping. Why do I have
the feeling I was going to be sorry I ate that thing tomorrow? Early
as it was, I was feeling a bit tired. Too much paperwork and food in
one day were causing my eyes to slowly close. Five minutes later, I
was out like a light.

Friday Morning - 7:23am

I walk slowly into my office, still feeling the three and one half
pounds of that Mexican monstrosity shifting in my stomach. I know I'm
going to be spending some time this afternoon in the men's room
regretting my dinner selection -- it is unavoidable. Falling back
heavily in my chair, I log on to my computer and check e-mail. 

As I'm reading through the day's news, Scully enters. Dressed in her
standard black pantsuit, she greets cheerily, "morning, Mulder, what's
on our agenda today?"

My eyebrow raise, oh great, on a day when all I can do is sit in this
chair, she's raring to go. "Well," I offer, "there's an interesting
situation in Columbus, Ohio whereas ghost cars have been spotted
attempting to merge into traffic."

"I've been to Columbus, Mulder, those people just don't know how to
merge. Remember when that last guy actually stopped in front of us?" 

She was right; Ohio drivers do not know how to merge. "I know, Scully,
but I think this is actually legit, several people have been hurt
trying to avoid the cars?"

She frowned, "I don't mean to sound condescending, Mulder. It just
doesn't seem like a good enough reason to go to Columbus."

I nod  -- she has a point. Besides the party is this weekend and Mrs.
Scully will kill me if I take Scully out of town on a case. My lower
back is sore and my body has become one solid, throbbing ache.
Nodding, I suggest, "why don't we get status on Monday and decide then
if it's worth our efforts."

Uh oh, I could tell by the look in her eyes something was up. Forehead
creased into the famous Dr. Scully frown, she leans toward me and
asks, "Mulder, are you all right?" 

Obviously I have been far too reasonable in my response. A cramp hits
me hard; I need to leave the confined space of the office. I need a
restroom. Standing quickly, I straighten my tie and head for the door,
"excuse me, Scully, I need to just, uh," looking down at my hands I
realize they have ink stains on them from the old paper I'd been
handling. I hold them up as though they explain everything and mumble,
"wash my hands, have to go wash my hands." Hastily, I leave the office
and make my way to the restroom.  

As luck would have it, it is empty. I quickly enter the stall furthest
from the door and, well, uh, sat. Almost ten minutes later and at
least as many promises to God to never touch Mexican food again, I
exit the stall and wash my hands. "Damn that stuff goes right through
you," I complain loudly.  

A toilet flushes in one of the stalls. Damn, I thought I was alone. I
turn as Colton walks out and snaps, "thanks for sharing, Mulder." The
asshole rinses his hands, sans soap, and dries them on his pants leg
as he walks out. My mother would have made him stand in front of that
sink for a good ten minutes cleaning every piece of skin. Clucking my
distaste, I dry my hands quickly and walk weakly back to the office.
It is becoming more and more obvious that the Burrito as BIG as my
HEAD idea was a bad one.

Friday - 2:30pm

All right, this isn't funny. Every ten minutes I have to find a reason
to send Scully out of the office and then wave file folders around in
an effort to reduce the odor. The last time I told her to go to
archives and find whatever information she could on Ford vehicles. I
embellished a bit and told her that the vehicles being spotted in
Columbus all appeared to be manufactured by Ford. She saw no
connection, but did not feel compelled to argue. It almost seemed as
if she wanted to leave the room. A few times I have had to leave to,
well, you know. My head hurts and every muscle protests loudly any
movement I attempt. On top of it, the temperature in the office is
fluctuating between being too hot or too cold. 

To Scully's credit, after the first "how are you," she backs off. She
senses, as only a woman raised by a good family would, that I was
having some stomach problems. As a doctor she wanted to ask. As my
partner and a female raised with good manners, she hesitated. A wave
of nausea unlike anything else I had experienced today washed over me
and it took everything I had to stand and walk calmly towards the
door.

Scully frowned, "where are you going, Mulder?"

"I have something I need to give to Kersh," I answer, picturing the
man's face as I vomit my contempt all over his desk. "Excuse me,
Scully." 

"What - ?"

I don't allow her to finish, just rush from the room towards the
handicapped restroom down the hall. This was a single door that housed
only a single set of facilities allowing the user complete privacy. I
know as a healthy man I am not supposed to use this room, but there is
nothing worse than puking your guts surrounded by your co-workers. All
kinds of rumors spread from coming to work drunk to scuffs on my knees
jokes (like I haven't been hearing that one for years).  I reach for
the door and, thank God, it's unlocked and the room is empty. Letting
myself in, I quickly lock the door behind me, propel myself towards
the porcelain throne and scuff my suit pants while vomiting the few
remains in my stomach into the toilet. Chills quickly follow as I rest
my cheek on the cool rim. Finally, I push myself up against the tiled
wall, wrap my arms around myself and moan. My overactive imagination
keeps presenting me with visions of those heads locked in a cabinet in
that chicken town so many years ago. Was it possible the burrito was
made with real heads? The bile rises in my throat and I throw myself
over the basin again and hang on for dear life as the little that was
left in my stomach decides to make an exit.  

Watching the water flush down the sides of the bowl, I make a
decision. I have to go home. I have to go home now. All my concerns
about the Consortium shit storm seemed unimportant in light of my
current condition. Shit storm, cripes, after today, that X-File is
solved. Now that I really know what a shit storm is, I can see how
completely successful their plan will be. Civilization has no chance.

Pulling myself off my knees, I again find myself leaning against the
sink and washing my hands. Looking into the mirror, I gaze into the
eyes of one miserable son of a bitch. They are bloodshot and huge bags
hang beneath them. My mouth tastes disgusting and I reach over and
rinse it as best I can, hand cupping water under the faucet. My hair
had begun to react to gravity. It stands straight up having been
forced to do so as I hang my head over the toilet or grip it in agony
as my insides insist on coming out for a look. Christ, I looked better
in the Antarctica!  

As I wander back to our office, I try to come up with an excuse.
Scully watches me carefully as I enter the room. I walk to my desk and
begin tinkering with a pencil nervously. "Scully, I believe there's an
Amish community not far from Columbus," I offer.

Confusion clouds her face, "could be, Mulder, but what does that have
to do with this case?"

Damn, she's good. I have no idea what it has to do with the case. I
improvise, "Amish people are known for their dislike of modern
technology, perhaps they are calling the spirits of these ghost Fords
in an effort to minimize some of the traffic flow." I swear I have no
idea what any of what I just said means. Another flash of heat almost
forces me to my knees.  Instead, I walk to the wall and grab my coat.
She is looking at me in complete disbelief again.  I'm used to it by
now.

 "Mulder, where the hell are you going?" she demands, thoroughly
annoyed at what must look to her like another attempt to ditch her.

I'm feeling a bit panicked as my body decides it must soon discharge
gas, "I'm going to go meet an Amish friend of mine at the mall." The
coat is on; I'm almost free. Just to be safe, I lean my back against
the wall. If worse comes to worse, I will attempt to muffle it.

She looks around as though in search of a Candid Camera man. Pursing
her lips she repeats my words, "you're going to the MALL to meet your
AMISH friend?"

My stomach muscles grip tightly, in my head I am chanting, "must
control death gas, must control death gas."

As though this would explain all, I nod and reach for my briefcase;
"they allow horses, Scully." 

With only a few steps to go, her voice stops me, "what about tomorrow,
Mulder?"

I stop and poke my head back in the door. Is it possible she knows?
"Tomorrow?"

Patience is not one of Scully's strong suits, "tomorrow, Mulder," she
snaps. "We are supposed to meet here and clean out the file cabinets.
Do you still want to do that?"

Jeez, I forgot. This was how I was going to get her to go with me to
her mothers. As always, I quickly recover, "no, uh, tomorrow we still
need to do that because you know Skinner would..." I stop, even I can
hear how ridiculous it sounds. Deep breath, Mulder. "I'll see you here
at 10:00am sharp, Scully." With that said, I leave, grateful for the
empty hallway that allows me to mark a trail with my scent with no
guilt.

>>>

ELEVATOR

I step into the elevator and press my floor. The only other occupant
is the spineless Spender. Any other time I would have waited for the
next car, but my stomach has temporarily settled and I need to get
home as quickly as possible. I lean back against the wall already
feeling the cold beads of sweat break out on my brow.  

Spender looks me up and down and finally announces with a satisfied
grin, "you look like shit, Mulder."

I feel the bubbles begin to boil in my stomach and clench my cheeks
together tightly in an effort to control myself. Whether I respect
Spender or not, a polite person does not do such things in an enclosed
space.

Spender, noting my discomfort, adds snidely, "what's the matter,
Mulder? Have you taken one too many reamings up the ass?"

I look up and know my floor will be next. Smiling maliciously, I force
my body to relax and set it free to do what it needs to do. The smell
fills the car quickly and Spender, always prepared, reaches for his
handkerchief and puts it over his face. I shake my head, tsk, tsking
the whole time, "Oh, excuse me, Spender.  Surely the smell doesn't
bother you. Your work has been shit for years." The elevator door
opens and I exit quickly. I turn and shove the man, who is attempting
to flee, back into the car and hit the button. After all my efforts, I
want him to enjoy Eau de Mulder for a few more minutes. 

>>>

MULDER'S CAR

As I ease into my car, my whole body relaxes. The familiar comfort of
the driver's seat, contoured through several years of driving, hugs my
sore ass perfectly. Since the windows are closed, I allow a loud,
pain-filled gasp to escape my lips. This I follow up with an equally
loud expulsion of gas. Now, I don't know if this is true, but why when
other people fart, the smell is intolerable. Yet when I fart, and I'm
alone, well while not pleasant, it does not carry the same bite. After
a moment, I start the car, turn the radio up loud, roll down the
window a crack and begin my drive home. For obvious reasons, I speed.

Pulling into a parking space less than a block from my apartment, I
grab my bag and climb wearily from the car. Okay, maybe my shit does
stink. The ride home has actually made me even more nauseous. I
stumble towards my apartment wanting to do nothing more than turn up
the heat, wrap myself in a warm blanket and make like an Indian chief
sitting on my own personal throne.

>>>

FIVE MINUTES LATER-

Alex Krycek opened his eyes slowly, the afternoon sun demanding his
attention. Confused, he struggled to remember where he was and how
he'd gotten there. Ah, now he remembered! He sat up carefully in the
back seat of Mulder's car. He was supposed to kidnap Mulder and bring
him to CSM for questioning. Mulder must have been onto him because as
soon as he entered the car, Krycek remembered a horrible stench that
had caused him to grab at his throat and dig his face into the rough
floor carpet. Seconds later, lacking oxygen, he passed out.

Groggily, he pushed open the car door and climbed out. On trembling
knees, he walked towards the main thoroughfare and hailed a taxi.
Kidnapping Mulder would have to wait; first he needed to see a doctor.
Climbing in to the taxi, he ordered, "get me to the nearest clinic."

The driver, an overweight Hispanic man, choked on the odor emanating
from the back of his cab. "Where the hell did you come from, the
sewer?"

Krycek reached down and grabbed the collar of his leather jacket. It
reeked of crap, "God damnit, it's ruined," Alex cursed. The jacket had
been his for years. Soft and supple, it fit perfectly. Mulder had
pulled a lot of shit over the years, but there was no way he was
getting away with this violation of his personal property. He leaned
his head out the car door and sucked in the sweet, gasoline-scented
air. When he was capable of taking a deep breath again, Mulder was
definitely going to be sorry.

>>>

MULDER'S APARTMENT
FRIDAY - 9:15pm

I spend the rest of the evening with either my head or my ass perched
over the toilet. I lay on the floor in the bathroom, a towel wrapped
around my shaking shoulders. Regardless of how high I turn up the
heat, it doesn't seem to kick in. The dress pants I wore earlier lay
in a heap underneath the sink. I sit on the cool tile floor in my
boxers, unbuttoned work shirt and black socks wondering what the
paramedics were going to think of my mess. I struggle to sit, grabbing
my boxers as they slipped from around my waist. They hang loosely. It
is no exaggeration when I say I've lost at least five pounds since
this morning. I push myself into a sitting position and lean wearily
against the wall. Reaching to the sink, my fingers find the bottle of
pink stuff. I swallow greedily. Grimacing, my tongue wriggles its
distaste at the horrible, chalky substance coating the inside of my
mouth. Still, it seems to be working. I've gone almost an hour without
being sick. I close my eyes against the sudden fullness and pushed my
lower lip out in total despair. I want Keith Jackson's mom.  

Once, when I was ten, I slept over at Keith Jackson's house. We spent
the evening in a childish competition, who could eat the most hot
dogs. By 11:00pm, we were both doubled over in pain. His mom gave us
each a large dose of the pink stuff and Keith, luckier than I, fell
into an exhausted slumber. I lay awake on the cot, whimpering in pain.
Mrs. Jackson, hearing my cries, came into the room and gathered me up
in her arms. She held me for hours, cooing soft, comforting words. She
promised me I'd feel better in the morning. I remember snuggling into
her lap and, sometime in the early morning, falling asleep. The next
day, when I opened my eyes, she was hovering over me, a soft smile on
her face. Ruffling my hair, she teased, "there, there, Fox. I told you
that you'd feel better in the morning."  Pulled back to the present, I
feel the tears fall down my face. If Mrs. Jackson wasn't 25 years
older than me, I'd be on the phone right now proposing.

Wiping the tears from my face, I force myself to stand. On my feet now
I steady myself on the sink, head swimming. At the same time my
stomach growls and I realize I am kind of hungry. I shuffle my way to
the kitchen being careful to stride in a way that puts the least
pressure on my cheeks rubbing together. This last sixteen hours has
given new meaning to the word pain in the ass. I had never before
realized what a horrible insult this was. I open the refrigerator and
study the meager contents. Pizza from Sunday, Chinese food from
Wednesday. Popping open the lid of the pizza box, I notice a green
growth. Looks like Chinese wins by default. I take out the container,
pop it in the microwave for two minutes and voila, dinner is served.
Later, sitting on the sofa with a full stomach,  I feel myself begin
to doze. With any luck, I'd seen the last of that burrito.

>>>

SATURDAY MORNING - 9:37AM 

I awake with a start, the contents of my stomach a natural alarm
clock. Lurching off the couch, I rush towards the bathroom silently
cursing all ethnic foods. Falling to my knees in front of the bowl, I
close my eyes and violently expel the Sweet and Sour chicken from the
night before. "Ohhhh God, no more!" I beg. I pull the towel off the
nearest rack and rest my face in its soft depths. "Please, God, I'll
be good," I bargain. Obviously someone is listening because I can hear
the soft tinkle of bells. Angels, my blurry mind attempts to explain.
The angels are coming for you, Mulder. Another minute passes, but
still no angels although the little bell continues to ring. It's at
this point I realize I am a complete moron and that the angel bells
are actually being caused by my cell phone. Reaching into the pocket
of the suit jacket laying next to the dress pants, I grab the small
object. Flipping it open, I rasp, "Mulder."

A distinct pause before Margaret Scully's voice asks, "Fox, are you
all right?"

I straighten without knowing why. "Yeah, um, I'm fine, fine," I
assure.

"Are you at work, Fox?"

I search desperately for a clock knowing I will not find one. "Not
yet, Mrs. Scully. Did you need something?"

"I just wanted to remind you about tonight.  Do you think you'll have
any problem getting her here?"

At that exact moment, a strong cramp hits my stomach. If this was even
close to labor, I'd demand a caesarian!  Thanking the God I had
earlier cursed for portable phones, I position myself to sit atop the
toilet. I keep the towel grasped tightly in my hand just in case I
need to muffle any sounds. "No, Mrs. Scully, everything will be fine.
You can count on me."

I hear the smile in her voice and pray she does not hear the bathroom
sound effects. Feeling another cramp beginning to grow, I decide the
best thing to do is get this woman off the phone. After all, this is
Scully's mother and I am sitting on a toilet. "Uh, excuse me, Mrs.
Scully, I really have to - " I double over in pain, "run." With that I
click off and, not to be crass, but - have the runs. When through, I
reach for the pink stuff and down the rest of the bottle. Within a few
minutes, I am feeling much better. 

It's only now that I notice my watch on the sink, grabbing it I note
that time as 10:04am. "Damn, I'm late!" Rushing as fast as my
trembling legs will take me, I shower, throw on some khakis and a
sweater and head for the office. 

SATURDAY - Late Afternoon

I slam the last file drawer shut with a sigh of relief. Although I am
feeling extremely weak and tired, I have had to make no extra trips to
the restroom. My stomach, empty of everything except a few sunflower
seeds and some flat ginger ale, has been kind to me today. My head,
well that's another story. It's hard to believe that a burrito the
size of my head could actually give me a headache the size of that
satanic burrito. Next time I go to the place I'm going to go inside,
as I am quite sure CSM must manage the place in his off-hours. Many
have tried to kill me before, but that burrito has come closer than
they all have. I grin in spite of myself imagining the eulogy Scully
would have been forced to deliver.

 "Fox Mulder -- I always thought he was full of shit, but who knew it
would actually kill him?" With that she would shrug her shoulders and
exit the podium.

I giggle, tender stomach protesting only slightly.

"What's funny, Mulder," asks Scully in that flat, emotionless voice I
know so well.  

I flash her my most innocent look made even more effective by my
bloodshot eyes. She smiles in spite of herself. "Uh, Scully, we're
still going to your mom's house, right?"

She frowns, "are you sure you're feeling up to it, Mulder? You haven't
seemed yourself."

I straighten my shoulders and push out my chest slightly, "I'm fine,
Scully. Besides maybe your mom will serve some of that wonderful
vegetable soup." I say this simply to please her because I know how
happy she gets when she thinks I'm going to eat healthy.

Her eyes harden, "if you liked it so much how come you tossed it in
her houseplant last time we were there."

I am appalled that this woman would suggest such a thing, "Scully, I
did no such thing."

Skepticism obvious, she answers, "right, Mulder, and next time you
don't do such a thing make sure the plant isn't made of silk."

"Silk, it looked real!" I argue before realizing I'd been busted.  

She snickers. "What say we call it a day and head out to pick up those
beloved shoes of yours?"

I check my watch, yeah, if we leave now and throw in a stop for gas,
we'll get there just on time. To Scully, I simply nod and agree,
"let's roll, Red."

"Mulder!" she warns.

Guiltily, I correct, "sorry, let's roll, Scully."  

>>>

MULDER'S CAR:

I actually knew twenty minutes ago that the burrito beast was back.
God, how could Mexican cuisine be so powerful! Was it possible there
was more to this sickness? I could feel the sweat drip down the back
of my neck. Stomach and cheeks clenched, I begin reading each roadside
sign with a singular concentration. The chanting in my head is back,
'must find gas station. Must find gas station.' A fresh breeze blows
into the car as Scully opens her window, but says nothing.

Up ahead I see a sign for one of those 24-hour mini-marts.
Improvising, I announce with forced cheer, "you know, I forgot to pick
up something for your mom. Let's pull in here and see what we can
find."

Now I know you won't believe this, but it's true. She is speechless; I
have actually caused Dana Scully to be speechless. I pull in quickly,
toss a twenty-dollar bill her way and ask her to pump some gas while I
run inside.  

Scully regains her vocal skills, although just barely. "What the hell
do you think you'll find for MY MOTHER in there?" she sputters.

I'm not going to make it. Only my skills as a visionary keep me from
having a terrible accident. The thought of having to explain it to
Scully afterwards is enough to maintain my current position for
another moment. "Scully, they have cheese wedges," I explain and jog
towards the store.  

Once inside I rush towards the restroom and just barely catch the door
before it closes. There was no way I was going to wait in line for a
key! If necessary I would have used my badge to gain access - Kersh be
damned! 

Twenty minutes later I emerge from the station, a wheel of Brie under
my arm, chewing on pink, chalky tablets. From the look she is sending
me, she is not pleased.  "Mulder," she announces, "how about if I
drive?"

I can feel my pulse increase as the panic begins to infiltrate every
pore on my body. There is no way I am asking Dana Scully to stop the
car if I have to use a restroom. That would be way too much like our
family vacations when I was a kid. Gripping the car keys tightly, I
reply tersely, "thanks for offering, Scully, but I think I'd rather."

I hear, but don't actually witness her sigh. In truth, I'm too afraid
to look at her. Lowering myself gently into the seat, I quickly start
the car and continue on our journey.

"You must really love those shoes, Mulder," she grumbles. I ignore
her, we have miles to go and I have a feeling I'm going to need all my
strength.

>>>

Three more stops, including one on the side of the road where I had
her absolutely convinced I'd seen a flying saucer way back behind
those trees, and 90 minutes later, we arrive at her mother's home. At
this point I am feeling a bit dizzy and my headache is pounding in
time to the last song on the radio inappropriately titled, 'Hurts So
Good!" What the fuck did Mellencamp know about this kind of pain
anyway! The hot flashes were back and I seriously considered just
checking into a little motel and crying my eyes out. "Why don't you go
ahead in, Scully. I'll get your mom's stuff out of the trunk," I offer
courteously. I keep my voice purposely low, the recent bruising of my
throat making it difficult to speak.

Scully frowns, then shakes her head, "you do that, Mulder. I know Mom
will love the Brie and the alien-shaped air freshener, oh and let's
not forget those moccasin slippers." She was pissed. I know a lot of
women think we men aren't sensitive to their emotions, but not Fox
Mulder. Uh, uh, I definitely know when my redheaded partner is pissed
at me and it looks like tonight is my lucky night. Women, when they
want to shop they whine about how you never want to spend time with
them. Watch out though when a man wants to shop. The least Scully
could have done was shown a little interest, those moccasins set me
back $16.95!

I hear her stomping up her mother's front steps. They should all be in
there, after all we are over an hour late. As I hear the door close
and the SURPRISE shouts, I allow my body to relax and lean heavily on
the back of the car. The trunk is open and I have to say I have never
seen such a comfortable sight in my life. I'm not sure how long I
stood staring at this virtual haven, but it must have been awhile
because suddenly I feel the presence of a strong hand on my shoulder.

"Mulder, Scully sent me out to help you with some things," Skinner
offered, a relaxed smile on his face. He must not have eaten the soup
yet.

I was having a little difficulty focusing and if not for the lamppost
light reflecting off his glasses, I might not have recognized him.
Swaying slightly, I feel his grip on me tighten. Now, I've never been
with another man, well like that before, but I've got to tell you that
right now Walter Skinner is looking like a big old teddy bear to me.
All I wanted to do was step into those strong arms and allow him to
completely engulf me.  

"Mulder, are you all right?" Skinner's voice is hesitant.  Does he
suspect?

My head snaps up, "uh, yes, sir. Just a little tired from the drive."
Grabbing only Scully's package from the trunk, I slam it shut and
begin to walk towards the house.

I let myself in quietly not wanting to interrupt the party mood.
Taking a tentative step up the stairs in search of a bathroom, her
voice forces me to pause. "Fox Mulder, where do you think you're
going?" Mrs. Scully asked, her arms outstretched.  

Oh God, please don't let her hug me. She always throws an extra
squeeze in and right now, I just don't think my stomach can take it.
She reaches out, pulls me into her arms and whispers, "a little late,
Fox, but a fine job. Thank you."

I am warmed by her praise or is it the fever? In any case, I give her
a little squeeze back and then advise politely, "excuse me for a
moment, Mrs. Scully - long ride." .

She steps back and studies me in the way that moms have studied their
children for years. Her hand begins to reach towards my forehead. I
swear it must run in the family. I step back quickly and rush up the
stairs. The cramps have begun again and although I can't imagine that
there is anything left in me, my body disagrees. I grab the doorknob
to the upstairs bathroom and turn. But it doesn't move and in that
instant I pray. I pray that the person in there will get the FUCK OUT
so I can get IN NOW!!!!!  Deep breaths, Mulder, deep breaths.

I hear the flush and then the running of water. God damn, unless you
peed on them, don't wash them, I scream inwardly. Hurry up. I'm
considering knocking when the door opens and I am face to face with
the stern, homely visage of Bill Scully. How he and Scully come from
the same gene pool, I do not know. This is one ugly bastard. "Bill," I
clip politely attempting to sidestep him and move into the restroom.

He sneers, "hey, Mulder, the whole family is here tonight. You'll have
your pick who to get killed next."

I feel all the blood drain from my face and vaguely feel my legs begin
to give. That was a low blow even for Bill. "You know, Bill, what is
it about you that just makes me want to blow my fucking brains out." I
pull my gun from its holster and snap the safety off before looking up
again. "Excuse me, Bill, I need to use the restroom."  I pause before
closing the door, "tell Scully, thanks for everything."

"B-b-but---," he stammers. I match his earlier sneer, close the door
in his face and turn the lock. Within a few seconds I am again perched
above a porcelain bowl, this time with my face buried in a fluffy dark
green towel that smelled like sunshine. Visions of Mrs. Jackson again
dance before my eyes. I had no idea before this situation that I'd had
such a crush on the woman. Was it possible she was the beginning of my
attraction to strong, caring women? Perhaps I purposely put myself in
danger in order to recapture, if only for a moment, the feeling I had
in Mrs. Jackson's arms. Hell, I thought as another cramp hit me, if I
spend much more time on the toilet I'm never going to need therapy
again.  

MRS. SCULLY'S LIVING ROOM - 30 MINUTES LATER:

The wall and I are having an intimate relationship. It is supportive
and quiet and I trust in its ability to keep me in an upright
position.

 I watch as the partygoers swirl around me with a somewhat surreal
quality. In a bizarre way, I am actually hypnotized by them. Their
mouths are moving and I hear the low hum of conversation, but for the
life of me, I cannot understand a word of it. I'm wondering how much
longer I have to stay before I can politely excuse myself and leave.
After all, the Lone Gunmen can always give Scully a ride back into
town.

"Boy, you're a real party animal, Mulder," Frohike announces loudly.  

I feel myself flinch at the interruption. Ordinarily I love these
guys, but tonight, well tonight I have a headache. Pulling myself off
the wall, I attempt a weak grin, "sorry, guys, I'm a bit tired
tonight. In fact, I wanted to ask you a favor, Frohike."

The small man eyes me suspiciously, my favors are known for their
originality. "Uh, I may slip out early and I was wondering if you
could drive Scully home?"

All three are looking at me strangely. Probably wondering if this is
another attempt on my part to ditch Scully. "C'mon guys, look around,
Spooky Mulder doesn't do anniversary parties."  Strangely enough my
own words made me feel suddenly very sad. No, Spooky Mulder definitely
doesn't do parties, especially parties with relatives. I feel the
twitch in the side of my cheek as I suppress the need to shed a few
tears. What the hell is the matter with me? I am falling apart over a
burrito!  

Langly places his face inches from my own. Noting my bloodshot,
unfocused eyes, he asks, "are you trippin' Mulder?"

I deny vehemently, "no, I am not tripping. Look, just never mind." The
dizziness was suddenly back and my mouth was horribly dry. I need to
get some air. Pointing dramatically towards the window behind them, I
shout, "look, there's Elvis!" and slip out the side door. The three
men nearly trampled each other as they rush to get a closer look.

>>>

MRS. SCULLY'S BACKYARD:

Ah, the air is much cooler out here except for that smell, what the
hell is that smell? I realize, too late, that I am standing near the
back of the yard, leaning on a fence that surrounds the Scully trash.
Hard to believe Scully trash could stink this bad, but there it was. I
gag and stumble further back into the yard. Leaning heavily on a tree,
I spit bile from my throat before sliding down to the ground and
resting. I look up at the stars and wonder if I was taken now, would
they be able to cure my stomach problems? And if the answer is yes,
would I fight my own abduction? A shadow blocks my view.  

Alex Krycek, wearing a new black leather jacket, stands before me.
Before I realize his intent, his boot slams into my gut taking me to
new levels of pain and discomfort. I gasp and struggle to inhale.

"That was for my jacket you foul smelling son of a bitch!" he shouts.

Instinctively, I smell my own pits -- they are fine. Okay, my breath
has probably seen better days, but I really feel as though Krycek's
latest insult is a bit unfair. I force myself to stand watching him
carefully. I stumble and, without thought, lean my hand against his
prosthesis for support. Soft, buttery leather meets my fingers. I
can't help but remark, "nice jacket, Krycek."

I feel his hand around my throat, "shut the fuck up, Mulder!" He then
begins yanking my arm roughly; "you're coming with me."  

Now in the past Krycek has never been kind about my travelling
comfort. The kick in my gut hasn't helped much and I can already feel
the gas beginning to build. If he puts me in a trunk, I am a goner. I
nod and pretend to consent. A few steps ahead of him, I reach slowly
for my gun and then, turning quickly, slam it into the side of his
head. He slumps at my feet, unconscious. I hear the back door open and
quickly kick Krycek into the nearby bushes. Margaret Scully's voice
calls out, "Fox, we're toasting Dana and cutting the cake, what are
you doing out there?"  

"Coming, Mrs. Scully," I answer and limp slowly back into the house.

>>>

"Speak, speak," the crowd cheers.

Scully blushes prettily. She holds up her hands for quiet and begins.
"First I would like to thank my Mom for this wonderful party." She
reaches out her arm and her Mom proudly joins her. "Next, I'd like to
thank all of you," her eyes travel from face to face, "for taking the
time out of your busy lives and celebrating this day with me." Her
eyes continue their search until they finally land on me although I am
doing my best to hide behind the curtains. "And last, but definitely
not least, I'd like to thank my partner and friend, Fox Mulder." There
were mixed murmurs around the room. I'm the kind of guy people love or
hate. I nod self-consciously and raise my untouched glass of champagne
to her, hoping she is done. If I wasn't sick before, the sweet tone of
the room will soon be sending me back into the bathroom with my gun.
Unfortunately, she is not through. Laughing aloud she goes on to tell
all how I stopped all the way here, pretending to be sick in order to
ensure we did not arrive at the party too early. There was not a dry
eye in the house as she finished off with the alien in the woods
story.  

Now, I know that if I was feeling better I might see the humor in this
moment. For the life of me, I can't. At that moment I promise myself
an exit within thirty minutes. In any event, she finally does finish,
"you are my very best friend, Mulder, and I'm so happy to have a
partner as caring and honest as you." I look around and note a few
people wiping a stray tear from their eye. Okay so it was a moving
speech, speaking of moving my bowels were again calling my name.
First, I have to get past this toast. Along with everyone else, I take
a sip of champagne. As the liquid enters my mouth it becomes clear any
attempt on my part to swallow it will be a mistake. Swirling the fluid
casually, I survey the area quickly, my eyes coming to rest on a
nearby potted plant. Another glance around confirms I am in the clear.
I lean over and spit the champagne into the dirt. It is only now that
I realize it's another one of those God damned silk plants. "Fuck," I
mumble, "Mrs. Scully is never going to invite me here again."

Scully, having missed by fountain display, surprises me with a hug. I
step back quickly not wanting her to feel my skin. Even I know I'm not
healthy. Clammy and cool, I really need to go home and go to bed.
"Hey, partner, thanks for helping Mom with this, I know she
appreciates it."

I nod and smile politely not trusting my voice. It's a mistake; the
second Scully hand of the evening is making its way to my forehead.
With an exaggerated movement, I grab at my waist pretending that my
pager just went off. Feigning my reaction, I lean in and whisper,
"Scully, either I'm extremely attracted to you at this moment, or I've
just been paged." My fingers gesture the need to use a phone and I
quickly exit the room. Too bad, because had I remained, I might have
seen Skinner, Scully, Mrs. Scully and the Lone Gunmen going into a
huddle. In fact, if I had really thought about it, I don't have a
pager and both Scully and Skinner know this to be a fact. Regardless,
I just want to be alone in my misery. The all too familiar symptoms
were returning and I rush up the stairs to the small restroom. Twenty
minutes later I am still there, the bruising Krycek's boot has left
making my task more difficult than ever. Suddenly I hear a knock. Now
I don't know about you, but I was raised to not give details about my
bathroom habits. Unfortunately the simple act of telling someone you
need another, oh, 15 minutes or so, pretty much tells people what the
problem is. Voice muffled in hopes no one will recognize it, I answer,
"I'm in here."

The knock was repeated, this time more insistently. "Fuck, fuck,
fuck," I moan. I finish as best I can, adjust my pants and wash my
hands. For good measure, I rinse my face with cool water and pinch my
cheeks in an attempt to get some color in them. The knock comes again,
this time accompanied by a voice.

"Mulder, let me in," Skinner's voice demands.

All right, I know I said I felt a slight attraction to this man when,
but I'm not ready for this level of commitment yet. Yanking the door
open angrily, I respond, "all right, all right, it's all yours, sir."


Skinner grabs my arm and propels me into Scully's old bedroom. He's a
big man and another time I might actually be flattered, but right now
I'm feeling a bit scared and, because I'm moving just a little too
fast - I grasp the back of a desk chair for support, swallowing hard
in an attempt not to vomit. Too late, I realize as I grab at the small
trash bin and retch. There's little left in my stomach and with each
attack, sharp pains roll over my body. I'm on my knees now. I don't
think I can ever recall having so little control over my own body. I
wait a few moments before I dare to look up. A cool cloth is pushed
into my hands and I gratefully sink my face into it. I let another
minute pass before I feel brave enough to stand up and turn around
sure I'll find Scully and Skinner behind me.  

Turning, I gasp and fall back against the desk. They are all here,
Scully, Skinner, Mrs. Scully, Langly, Byers and Frohike! "Hey, guys, I
think the party is downstairs," I joke. Okay, it's a lame joke, but
it's the best I could come up with under the circumstances.

Skinner steps forward, "Mulder, what's going on?"

"Must have been something I ate," I explain weakly.

"I resent that, Fox," Mrs. Scully interjects. "Besides I've been
watching you all evening and you haven't eaten a thing."

I feel my cheeks (on my face) burn with embarrassment. I really don't
want to discuss this; I just want to go home. Before I can control it,
I feel my lower lip begin to quiver. I bite it immediately.

Langly steps forward, "Mulder, it looks to me like you got some bad
stuff. Have you pissed anyone off lately?"

I step backwards, past the desk and up against the wall. Clumsily, I
bump my bruised side against the corner. Inhaling loudly, I stifle the
groan that threatens. I could see by their worried expressions that I
have again ruined the evening. "I'm fine, Langly, just a little under
the weather." That was my mother's favorite excuse, just a little
under the weather.

"What's wrong with your side, Mulder?" Skinner asks calmly.  

Now is it me or is this turning more and more into an inquisition?
"I-uh-Krycek kicked me," I admit. After all, there was nothing
disgusting about getting kicked.  

Scully gasped, "Krycek!  My God, he's delirious! Mulder, what other
symptoms have you been experiencing?"

I look behind me anxiously. A door connects to the hallway bathroom.
If I could get through that door, I could then rush out the other
door. From there I would dash down the stairs, get into my car and
drive home FAST. Byers must be reading my mind, he steps in front of
the door - - FUCK!

For reasons I cannot fathom, I begin to hyperventilate. My eyes
continue to scan the room. Why won't they just leave me alone? 

Scully sends a signal to her mother and, as one, they each grab one of
my arms. Several steps away from the bed I realize their intent and
pull away. A rush of adrenaline has given me the power of several men
and I walk towards the door, my intentions obvious. Skinner steps in
front of me. "Answer Scully's question, Mulder. What other symptoms
are you experiencing? How do we know you haven't been drugged or
poisoned?"

Completely frustrated, I try to push past him. It's like trying to
move a boulder. I feel my temper flare, but once before I lost it with
Skinner and found myself pressed up against a wall in a very
uncomfortable position. I shake my head stubbornly and take one last
shot, "I'm feeling a little queasy," I admit reluctantly. "I really
need to go home." Then, my natural genius kicking in, I add, "if you
let me go home now you can all go back to the party. There's cake," I
tempt.

Scully takes the lead. "Mulder, it's obvious that over the last
several days you've been feeling a bit," she coughs politely, "off."

I look everywhere but at her.  My rage is building. I'm trying to
control it, but I can feel the anger grow. Anger at all of them for
making me talk about this. I know what Mom said, but God damnit, I've
just about had it. Through clenched teeth, I explain nastily, "listen,
I don't think it's necessary to discuss all the details. Now, I am
going home and I am going home now! With that I turn and walk directly
into Mrs. Scully.

"Fox Mulder, I will not have you speaking to my daughter like that.
It's obvious you're not feeling well, we are only trying to help."
Then, voice lowered, she asks, "it's your tummy, isn't it?"

SNAP! There it was the sound of the final straw breaking the camel's
back. Loudly, I proclaim, "you want to know, you want to know how I
feel? I ate a burrito, a freaking burrito - as big as my head." I
gesture with my hands the actual size. "The next day I rotated between
my head and my ass perched over the toilet. But then I was hungry and
I ate the leftover Chinese," I pause and cast them all my sternest
look, "don't eat old Chinese food. Bad, it's bad!" I rub my hands over
my aching forehead. "I'm tired, dizzy, and feel like, pardon the pun,
CRAP. I want to go home." Then, sniffling loudly, I add, "I want
Keith's mom." At that the room begins to sway and I stretch out my
arms to make it stop. I feel hands reach out for me and within moments
I'm laying flat on my back. I like it here, I think I'm going to stay.

>>>

NEXT DAY: 2:15pm

I awaken slowly and revel in the feel of soft, cool sheets on my bare
skin. The down comforter literally hugs me and I wonder if this is
what it feels like to sleep on a cloud. When I was small, Samantha and
I used to lay on our backs in the yard and watch the clouds. We didn't
do anything as mundane as look for shapes. No, we imagined what it
would be like to jump from cloud to cloud and the sky became a
wonderful playground for us. I smile at the memory, turn onto my side
and scrunch my face into the fluffy pillow. It's only now that I
realize this is not my bed, not my pillow. My pillows and sheets don't
smell this good, aren't this soft. I open my eyes carefully. The
headache is still with me although not as extreme. My stomach is
feeling a bit fragile, but stable. I feel - - confused. I feel --
naked! Scully chooses this moment to enter the room.  

"Finally awake, Mulder. How do you feel?" she asks, a smile in her
voice.

I squirm uncomfortably under the blanket, well not uncomfortably,
actually it feels kind of good. I'm just not completely comfortable
being naked in Scully's mom's house. "Scully," I whisper, "I'm naked."

Her mouth twitches and her eyes flicker away from me. Tucking her hair
behind her ear, she nods, "we thought it might be a good way to keep
you in bed."

I glance cautiously towards the door before offering, "it might work
if I wasn't alone."

She giggles. "Mulder, let's get serious for a minute, okay?"

I nod; a serious Scully is nothing to fool around with.

"Mulder, your symptoms indicate Salmonella. I checked with the health
department and, sure enough, that Mexican restaurant was reported for
several violations. A burrito as big as your head, what were you
thinking, Mulder?"

"Well, it wasn't really as big as my head," I defend weakly.

Scully hides her smile, "I don't think anything could be that big,
Mulder."

Only slightly offended, I ease myself up into a sitting position,
pulling the blanket up over my chest as Scully fluffs my pillows. I
must admit, this is kind of nice. "Scully, this is nice, but I think I
should go home now."

"Soon, Mulder, I promise. First, you are going to eat something very
light and take these pills." She held up the bottle as if to emphasize
the seriousness of her instructions. "As long as the symptoms don't
flare up again, I'll drive you home tomorrow. How does that sound?"

"Everything sounded okay until you said tomorrow. I want to go home
now, Scully," I whined.

"Who's Keith Jackson and what have you got going with his mother?" 

"What about Mrs.Jackson?" I ask, wondering if I've been talking in my
sleep.

"Just curious, you mumbled her name a few times.  Never her first
name, just Mrs. Jackson."

I'm suddenly very tired and the thought of going back to sleep in this
fluffy cloud of a bed is very appealing. Still, what if I have to use
the restroom? I can't walk around here naked. "Scully, can I get some
sweatpants or something?" 

She reached into the nightstand next to the bed and pulled out my
boxers. "Mom just dropped them off," she informed, "still warm from
the dryer."

I snatch them from her, "Scully, a lady doesn't talk of such things."

"You know, Mulder, if you weren't so closed mouthed about how
uncomfortable you were, you wouldn't have had to suffer so much. I am,
after all, a doctor," she adds smugly.

"Scully, people don't talk about stuff like this, it's rude."

"Who says?" she challenged.

"My Mom," I defended.

"Your Mom is full of shit, Mulder," Scully informed politely.

I snorted, "well you know, Scully, like Mother, like son."

She groaned, "that's terrible, Mulder."

"Hey, I'm sick," I justify lamely.

Just then the door opens and Mrs. Scully walks in with a tray. She
smiles so sweetly at me, I cannot resist. After all, I single handedly
ruined her party last night and yet she still wants to take care of
me. "Mrs. Scully, I'm so sorry."

"Now we'll have none of that Fox." Setting the tray on the table next
to the bed, she asks, "do you feel up to eating something."

My eyes freeze on the bowl. I really appreciate this woman, but if
that's vegetable soup, clothes or not, I'm out of here. "Uh, I don't
know," I mumble evasively.

Scully, understanding my dilemma, steps up behind her Mom and checks
out the soup. "Mulder, it's your favorite, canned chicken noodle."

My nose twitches, "canned?" I ask hopefully.

"Campbell's," Mrs. Scully confirms.

"Well, I am a little hungry," I admit reluctantly.

"I would imagine so, Agent Mulder," a deep voice agrees from the door.


"Walter, good to see you again so soon," Mrs. Scully welcomes. "Dana
and I will leave the two of you alone to visit. Make sure he eats,"
she warns as they walk out the door.

Skinner pulls a chair up next to the bed and sits down. "You need any
help with that tray?"

Mrs. Scully moved the tray over my lap before she left. "No, it seems
to be pretty secure," I answer quietly, still humiliated by my
performance of the night before.

"Quite a show, Agent Mulder," Skinner comments. "Why didn't you just
ask me to get Scully to her Moms?"

I sip a spoonful of soup, too much salt, it was perfect. "Mrs. Scully
asked me to do it. You're right though, I should have called you."

"Well, it's over now," Skinner answers reasonably. "How are you
feeling today, Mulder?"

I shrug.

"Any more stomach pains, vomiting?"

"Sir, I'm eating here!"

"Mulder, haven't you figured out yet that nothing is sacred between
partners and good friends."

I nod; I can see the logic in his and Scully's words. Maybe if I
hadn't been raised with such impeccable manners I wouldn't have a
wheel of Brie cheese stinking up my trunk right now.

"Sir, can I ask you a question?"

Skinner nods.

"Who undressed me last night?"

He's grinning, is that a good sign? "Well, to be honest, Frohike and I
had that honor."

"Oh," I squeak, "well I appreciate it, sir. The thought of Mrs. Scully
- " I shudder.

"Well, Scully and her Mom did give you a sponge bath."

I now know what a deer in the headlights feels like. Visions of my
naked body being wiped down by Scully and her Mom flash through my
mind. My humiliation is complete.

"Next time just tell someone you're sick, okay, Mulder." Skinner
suggests.

I sink into the pillows, no longer hungry. "Okay," I whisper, shock
beginning to take its toll.  

Skinner must have removed the tray because the next thing I know I am
curled up on my side, comfortably surrounded by sweet smelling sheets.
Yes, next time, I would tell them. Sorry, Mom.

>>>

LOCATION UNKNOWN

CSM accepted the sealed white envelope silently. Once the courier was
gone, he opened it wondering what his new assignment would bring. A
receipt from Suzanne's Leather Emporium was enclosed. The receipt
confirmed the purchase of a men's black leather jacket - - cost,
$452.95. Confused, he turned it over and found a short note.

	My leather jacket was destroyed during my last assignment. Please
add
  	compensation for the coat to my next pay drop.

  	Alex



TWO WEEKS LATER:

Mrs. Jackson was enjoying her retirement. The kids were grown and all
had done well. Keith, while not married, seemed happy in his job as a
Software Consultant. Glancing out the window, she noted the bright
sunshine, a walk. Yes, she would go for a walk. The ringing of her
doorbell interrupted her plans. Wondering who would stop by so early
in the day, she peeked out the window and was surprised to find a
florist truck. Opening the door, her excitement obvious, she was
greeted by two dozen yellow roses.

"Are you Mrs. Jackson?" the delivery boy asked.

"Yes," she responded, awed by the beauty of the flowers. Her husband
had not sent her flowers in years!

"Sign here, ma'am."

She signed the form and gave the boy a dollar. Gathering up the
flowers in both hands, she rushed into the kitchen and placed them
carefully on her table. The card, where was the card? She found it
quickly and opened it. The sender of the flowers would have been
pleased at her radiant smile.  

		Mrs. Jackson,

		I don't think I ever thanked you properly
		for the night you held me in your arms.  If
		you were a single woman, Mrs. Jackson,
		I'd have delivered these personally.

		Gratefully Yours,

		Fox Mulder

She giggled the whole time she arranged the flowers thinking of the
lovely young boy with the soulful green eyes and sweet grin. Such a
sweet boy, so full of curiosity and mischief. She placed the flowers
on the entryway table; her husband could not possibly miss them. The
card she arranged prominently next to the vase. Nothing wrong with
keeping the old man on his toes, she thought wickedly.  Thanks, Fox.



Author's Feedback to:

karoshi12@ameritech.net
swenglish@ebox.tninet.se


If you have a moment-

1. Did you like the story in spite of the toilet reference?
2. Do you believe the authors are in need of therapy or, at a minimum,
some etiquette classes?
3. What was your favorite Mulder excuse?
4. Have you ever eaten a burrito as big as your head?