Waiting For Agent Right  
By: Kel
Feedback: ckelll@hotmail.com
Website: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Realm/9374/

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully aren't mine, unless you count the action
figures. In which case I own Mulder, Scully, the alien, and that poor
firefighter.

Rating: PG
Keywords: MS Friendship, drunkfic

Category: Story, humor

Thanks: To Erin and Trelawney for the beta-reading. Their comments are
so good that I'm frequently forced to steal them verbatim.

Summary: Killing time in an anonymous airport. Mulder wants a toaster.

Spoilers: Set in the first season. Definite spoiler for Travelers.
Little one for Tooms, and some minor foreshadowing for Tempus Fugit.




Waiting for Agent Right
1 of 2


"It's sad, Mulder. We're stuck in the world's ugliest airport, perhaps
forever, and you don't even care!" Scully closed her laptop with a slap
and set it on the floor by her feet.

Sprawled back in the upholstered chair--this was the first class lounge,
after all--Mulder looked downright comfortable.

"That's the difference between us, Scully," he said. "I'm in harmony
with my environment, at peace with myself."

"No, Mulder, you're blotto." She eyed him critically, and he raised his
plastic wine glass in an ironic salute.

"The great Chuang-Tzu taught that the wise traveler views delay as
opportunity, and accepts what hospitality he is offered," Mulder
intoned. "It is the foolish traveler who asks for Diet Coke when free
champagne is at hand."

Mulder had availed himself of so many refills that the leggy,
raven-haired hostess had thought he was flirting with her. And the
other hostess, a jealous blonde, had presented Mulder with his own
bottle.

None of the other stranded travelers had been entrusted with that much
alcohol, Scully noted. She'd had to walk over to the bar herself to get
a refill on her Diet Coke.

"Chuang-Tzu never said that," she snapped.

"Why, Scully! I had no idea you were a student of Chinese philosophy,"
Mulder exclaimed.

Gotcha, turkey, Scully thought.

"Preservation of the natural order was the central tenet of Chuang-Tzu's
philosophy," she pronounced. "Perhaps you failed to grasp that aspect,
Mr. Oxford education."

Mulder didn't appear properly chastened.

"Look, they brought out more munchies," he said excitedly. His posture
had deteriorated to where he was practically supine. "Bring me some?"

The airline was rolling out their heavy artillery to keep their
passengers happy. The first-class lounge was filled to capacity with a
decidedly coach clientele.

"Bring you some? I beg your pardon." Occasionally Mulder did or said
something that goaded Scully to remind him he was not her supervisor. 
"Why should I be responsible for serving you refreshments?"

"'Cause, uh, I don't think I can walk," he said.

"Wonderful, Mulder. There's nothing more charming than an armed man in
an airport drunk on cheap champagne." She tilted her head in a tic of
disapproval and returned to her soft drink.

Mulder forced himself to sit up.

"Have you ever had champagne, Scully?" he inquired.

"Of course," she answered warily. She didn't like the way the
conversation was turning to focus on her.

"I wasn't sure," he said. "In some ways you seem almost... cloistered."
He whispered the word and mugged at her.

"Cloistered," she repeated, staring him down without a trace of
a reaction. "Cloistered. You know, Mulder, I've heard your devotion to
the X-Files described as 'monastic.'"

He looked shocked.

"I happen to lead a very full life. In every way," he asserted,
straightening his shoulders and puffing out his chest.

"Right. Which is why you're so content to hang out in an airport,"
Scully commented smugly, twirling the straw in her cup.

Mulder absorbed the barb with a wry smile.

"It's a shame you don't like champagne, because this is excellent," he
said.

"I never said I don't like champagne. I simply take a dim view of
public inebriation, especially for federal officers on duty," she said.

"On duty? Oh, sorry, Scully, I didn't notice that your meter was
running." Mulder snorted at his own humor. "Anyway, I know the real
reason you don't want a drink."

Scully rolled her eyes.

"Is this another observation about my cloistered life?"

Mulder shook his head.

"You're too embarrassed to ask for champagne," he said earnestly. "You
think I'd laugh when they carded you."

She cracked a smile. He'd been needling her all day, and now he was
trying to make amends with his idea of a compliment, she thought.

"You can taste mine," he offered.

"No. Thank you," she said, selecting a magazine from the table to the
side of her chair. "Look, Mulder, I'm sorry I said anything. Enjoy your
champagne." She assumed her "ignore Mulder" position, with the magazine
as her shield.

Scully never bought this magazine, but she would peruse it whenever it
crossed her path. Now she tried to interest herself in an update on the
new technology in bubble baths and aromatherapy.

Who wrote this stuff, Scully wondered. Did anyone really talk like
that? Maybe she could contribute an article, something about the special
needs of FBI agents...

"Can I read it when you're done?" Mulder's voice was whiny with
boredom. He'd been staring at the cover, waiting for her to notice him.

Scully lowered the magazine and met his eyes. They'd been working
together almost a year, and the awkwardness and mistrust of the early
months was gone.

"Mulder, they run an article like this every month, and it's always the
same six tips and the same secret spot," she said. She had to give him
credit, though. At least he'd stopped studying the cover girl's
cleavage long enough to read the copy.

"Not that one. Look. 'Stuck in a Time Warp?' Lost time, Scully!"

She closed the magazine to look.

"It says, 'Stuck in a FASHION Time Warp,'" she corrected him.

Mulder sniffed his lack of interest, but then he seemed to change his
mind.

"Scully, you could use a new look," he said.

Ouch. Scully had never been confident in the area of wardrobe or
hairstyle. Men had it so easy. Mulder, in particular, always looked
great. The bastard.

"*You* could use a new tie," she retorted feebly.

Their eyes met until Mulder turned away.

"I could use a new toaster," he mumbled.

Not for a moment did she interpret the shift in topic as the result of
drunken meandering. He hadn't meant to hurt her feelings, and he was
deliberately backing off.

"They're not that expensive," she said, following his lead to a safer
subject. "The top-of-the-line toaster oven is around a hundred bucks,
and it'll even bake potatoes or frozen dinners."

"I don't want another toaster oven. They always burst into flames,"
Mulder said.

She would have to tell him about cleaning his toaster oven, Scully
decided. She would wait until he wasn't shitfaced.

"Okay, regular toaster. Let's see," she said. Reaching into the pocket
of her trench coast, she drew out a strip of paper. "Here's a
four-slice toaster for forty-five dollars."

Mulder was impressed and delighted.

"How about a microwave?" he asked.

Scully consulted her list.

"Well, here's one for two-ninety-nine, but I don't think you'd want
something that big," she said.

"A Glock thirty-two C?" he queried.

"What?"

"I tried one at the range and I like the feel," Mulder explained.

"I'm sorry, but they don't sell firearms at House-to-Home," she
answered.

"That's the inventory from House-to-Home? I thought you knew the price
of everything," he said with disappointment.

"Sorry. Marie Wilson registered with Ikea and House-to-Home. It's bad
luck to give knives and guns as wedding gifts," Scully deadpanned.

"Marie Wilson from telemarketing fraud? She made a list of what she
wants?" He perked up.

"That's not how it's done, Mulder. She just told me where she was
registered," she explained.

"And you bought her a toaster?" Mulder asked.

"I bought her some place settings," Scully said. "Why are you so
interested?"

"This is a goldmine!" His eyes glowed with greed. "I'm going to
register."

For once there was no need to challenge him. As Mulder had pointed out,
they were off the clock, and manic Mulder could be very entertaining.
Scully put down her soda, took the champagne from his hand, and downed
it.

"I think you're onto something," she announced. "Every year someone
forces me to buy a hideous gown and a food processor, while I'm stuck
using a Mr. Coffee that doesn't even have a timer."

The part about the Mr. Coffee was true, but in fact, Marie Wilson was
the first person in ages who had conscripted Scully as a bridesmaid.

"Then it's settled," Mulder said. "We're getting married."

"What, you and me?" Scully laughed. "Where did that come from?"

"I want a toaster," he pouted.

So unfair, Scully sighed. He was drunk, silly, disheveled, and whining,
yet he was still terminally adorable.

"I'll buy you a toaster," she said soothingly.

"Screw the toaster," Mulder declared. "I want a microwave, too."

Toaster, microwave... Mulder didn't have a clue. The tyranny of the
bride went so much further than that.

"Screw the microwave. I want to force Marie Wilson to buy an apricot
gown with puffed sleeves and a yellow sunhat," Scully said.

Mulder slid forward in his chair, and then he was on the floor. And
then he was on one knee, in front of her.

"Dana Scully, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?" he asked.

The room burst into applause.

"Mulder, get up!" Scully whispered urgently.

"Marry me, Dana!" Mulder roared.

"Mulder," she said warningly.

"Oh, have a heart, honey," an old lady urged her.

"I don't care about your past," Mulder declared.

"Stop it!" she hissed.

"I don't care where you've been or what you've done," he whispered.

All eyes were on them.

"I don't care that you stuff your bra and wax your upper lip," he
continued, just a little louder.

Scully leaned forward and spoke directly into his ear:

"Are you absolutely determined to make a spectacle of yourself?"

"She said yes!" He leapt to his feet, punching both fists into the air
triumphantly. "Scully, do you know what this means to me?"

"Yes, darling, I do," she said in a strained tone. "Now sit down,
please, honey."

"Toast!" Mulder cried.

Scully wondered when Mulder's broken toaster had started to take over
his life. Across the lounge, another drunk stood up to answer Mulder's
call.

"Here's to you, buddy! Your troubles are just beginning!" he
proclaimed, brandishing his glass. "Drinks for everyone! On me!"

"Shut up, you old fool," hissed the drunkard's wife. "Everyone knows the
airline is paying for it."

Scully was sure that the whole nosy crowd would have been cut off by now
if they'd been in the main lounge, but this was first class. The two
hostesses indeed produced more bubbly.

Good, she thought. I'll drink until I can appreciate the humor in the
situation.

Mulder was hanging over the back of his chair to discuss power tools
with some friends he'd recently acquired and Scully was smiling bravely
and sipping her champagne when a young woman carrying a Minolta
approached her.

"I hope I'm not being too forward, but I snapped a few pictures. If you
don't mind giving me your address, I can send them to you," she offered.

Scully wasn't in the habit of giving her address out to strangers.
Depending on the circumstances, she'd use a fake address from the
witness protection program or else The Lone Gunmen. This time her own
name and address seemed like the safest choice.

"Dana Scully," the volunteer photographer repeated. "Are you going to
change your name after you're married?"

Yeah, thought Scully grumpily. I'll even make my parents call me
Mulder.

"I haven't decided yet," she answered, and the woman nodded and
retreated to her seat. Scully poured herself another glass of
champagne, drained it, and filled the glass again.

Mulder turned around.

"Black and Decker," he said solemnly.

Scully smiled, because that seemed very funny. The champagne was
working.

"Except it's really GE, you know," he continued. "And they own NBC."

"Ah," she replied. "The industrial-electronic-entertainment complex."

"Exactly," he confirmed in a demented whisper. "Still, they make a mean
toaster."

"I have an idea." She leaned toward him. "Instead of a wedding cake,
we can have a big pile of toast." She grinned goofily.

"That's stupid," he said, tapping his index finger on the table for
emphasis. "I want a cake."

"I had no idea you were so traditional," Scully said.

"I like cake," Mulder said. "I didn't have a cake last time."

"Last time?" Scully asked in surprise.

"Yeah. Used goods, Scully. This time I'm gonna do it right," he said
earnestly.

Unprepared for serious conversation let alone major revelations, Scully
said nothing.

"I didn't even get a toaster," Mulder continued mournfully.

"Are you sure you want to tell me about this?" Scully asked.

"I think you should know before we get married," he said very seriously.

Fortunately, Mulder didn't drink very often, Scully reflected. Perhaps
he should give it up entirely.

"We can talk about it when you're... more yourself," Scully offered
tactfully.

"She was wrong, Scully." He shook his head sadly.

"Hey! What kind of cake would you like?"

"Work full time, clean the house, and spread 'em on demand," Mulder
said.

"Mulder! Cake!" Scully had to find something to distract him.

"She *wanted* to work, at least she said she did," Mulder said glumly,
"and I know I never told her to clean the house."

"Mulder!" She snapped her fingers in his face.

"Hey!" He jerked back his head and grabbed her wrist, grinning
playfully.

"Hey," she answered. She gave a little tug and he released her hand.

"Where are we going for our honeymoon?" Mulder asked. "And don't say
Hawaii."

He was happy again.

"Well, Marie and Todd are going to France," Scully said.

"France?" Mulder shook his head. "Not for us, Scully. Look what
happened to Jean-Paul Marat." 

"St. Thomas?" Scully suggested. "Barbados? Greece? The Poconos?"
Mulder kept shaking his head, and Scully took it as a challenge. What
was Mulder's idea of the perfect honeymoon destination? "Roswell?
Memphis? Las Vegas? Scranton? Tripoli? Chernobyl?"

"Scully, picture this. Rolling hills, winding roads, honest,
hard-working country folk." His hands described smooth curves in the
air to illustrate.

"Sounds nice," Scully said.

"Cooperstown. It's perfect."

"Cooperstown, New York?" she asked.

"Cooperstown." He nodded emphatically.

"I take it we're going to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame," Scully
concluded.

"Oh, sure. But that's only part of it," Mulder said.

"There's more?" she asked.

"Yeah. Oh, yeah." He was bouncing a little. "Scully, have you ever
tipped a cow?"

Her face took on that open-mouthed stare that meant she was biting back
her initial reaction. Finally she answered him in a neutral tone.

"My older brother used to do that. He found it very amusing."

"He did?" Mulder asked, frowning.

"He wasn't exactly an animal lover," Scully replied.

Mulder gave her a pleading look and then he sighed.

"Okay. Vegas it is," he said.

"Fine," she said approvingly. Mulder was considerably more open to
correction when he was drunk, Scully thought. She would have to
remember that.

Mulder sprang out of his seat with unexpected agility.

"I'll see if we can get a flight," he said.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait a minute." Scully had to stand up to grab him
by the arms and push him back into the chair.

"What's the problem? You're the one who suggested Vegas."

He was actually slurring his words now.

"Let's review, Mulder, shall we? We were going to get married so that
you could get a toaster, right?" Scully spent hours each week trying to
reorient Mulder to reality. This was the first time she'd had to
reorient him to fantasy.

"And a microwave," Mulder added.

"And a microwave," Scully confirmed. "Now, if we elope to Las Vegas..."

"Oh," Mulder said, drawing out the syllable. "No toaster."

"That's right, Mulder. No toaster."

He sank back in his seat, but then his face lit up again.

"Scully, why didn't I think of this before? *You* have a toaster!"

"Mulder--"

"You do, Scully, don't you?" He nodded his head as he questioned her,
as if that would force her to give the answer he wanted.

"I'm sorry, Mulder. It's a toaster oven," she told him solemnly.

"Damn," he said. "Spontaneous combustion."

He picked up the champagne bottle from the table and held it on his lap.

He was quiet for the moment, but he had a sullen, dissatisfied
expression that warned Scully of further disturbances ahead.

"Mulder?" She spoke gently. "I'm going to get you some of those
munchies. Okay? Mulder?"

He nodded, still pouting.

The airline was still trying to ply their stranded passengers with food
and drink. Scully was faced with an embarrassment of choices and she
realized how little she knew about her partner's dietary habits.

Well, he wasn't wild about liverwurst, so she skipped the pate. She
filled a plate with some cubes of cheese, crackers, shrimp puffs, and
melon balls and carried it back to him.

"Thanks, Scully," he said. "Oh-ho. Cheesy comestibles." He began to
stuff himself efficiently.

"Want some?" he managed to ask her with his mouth full.

She shook her head, watching as he crammed in morsel after morsel,
finally chasing it all down with a large draught of champagne. At least
he used a glass.

When he jumped to his feet and ran toward the exit, Scully was sure he
was racing to the men's room. He stopped in the doorway and turned
around.

"Scully, come on," he called urgently.

I am not taking him to the bathroom, she swore to herself, but she
hurried after him so she could deliver the message discreetly.

"You're on your own," she whispered harshly.

Taken aback, he all but stuttered.

"You don't want to help?" he asked. "You want me to surprise you?"

"I don't care how much you had to drink. I want you to pull yourself
together and take care of... whatever it is that you need to do," she
told him.

"All right." He clapped his hand on her shoulder, nodded crisply, and
strode away.

She had misread him, she realized. He wasn't dashing to the bathroom.
Scully found herself in the ridiculous position of tailing him after
sending him off on his own. She had to double back to grab her laptop
and Mulder's carry-on, and when she left the lounge, he was nowhere in
sight. She jogged off toward the main concourse until she recognized his
lanky form in the distance.

She could have caught up to him when he stopped at a newstand for a bag
of sunflower seeds, but she ducked out of sight and waited until he
moved on.

She followed at a distance and groaned when she realized where he was
going.

Ursula's Unmentionables.

Whoever had decided to place a branch of this lingerie chain in the
airport had tapped into an eager market. Far from home was the easiest
place to buy naughty nighties.

Scully hid behind a rack of queen-sized peignoirs. Unless Mulder was
shopping for himself, he wouldn't be browsing through this section.

Mulder walked up and down the aisles, sometimes passing near enough that
Scully could hear him whistling.

Oh my God. "Like a Virgin." Scully couldn't control her giggles, but
she clamped her hand over her mouth and did her best.

Mulder pawed through the garments impatiently. When a hot-pink negligee
slipped off the hanger, he picked it up from the floor and tossed it
over the top of the rack.

"Can I help you?" asked the salesclerk who appeared at Mulder's elbow to
repair the damage and protect the rest of the stock.

"Yeah," Scully heard him answer. "This stuff is for pigs. I gotta find
something for... um.... well, she's not a pig, okay?"

"Of course," the clerk assured him. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well... maybe something white?" Mulder said. "With, um...." Mulder's
gestures were incomprehensible to Scully, but the saleswoman seemed to
get the idea.

"White isn't always a flattering color," she suggested mildly. "Perhaps
a light lavender?"

"I wanted white," Mulder said. He looked furtively to the right and the
left, and then he whispered. "Sort of see-through."

One of the reasons Scully was so serious all the time was her laugh.
Scully had a distinctive, hooting, braying laugh. Between Mulder's
antics and her own champagne-buzz, Scully had to put down the laptop so
she could hold both her hands over her mouth.

"Do you know her size?" asked the clerk. Mulder's behavior didn't faze
her in the least, Scully noticed. Now there was a tough job.

"Thirty-two C," Mulder announced confidently.

Scully's jaw dropped and she stopped laughing. Thirty-two C? Well,
sometimes. Depending on the particular garment and the time of the
month. But how the hell did Mulder know that?

"She told you she was a thirty-two C?" asked the clerk skeptically.

Mulder shook his head and made an exasperated grunting noise.

"Damn, no. That's the Glock," he sighed. "I don't know her size. Kind
of..." Again he gestured with his hands, cupping them in front of his
chest to illustrate.

"And how tall is she?" asked the clerk, who seemed confident of making a
sale.

"Oh, hell, she's..." Again words failed him, and he used his hand,
flattened now, to indicate a height somewhere below his shoulder.

"I think I have something you'll like," the clerk said, leading him away
from Scully's hiding place. Scully kept her eyes on them, but she could
no longer make out the conversation.

The clerk's first suggestion was a major flop. Mulder's face showed
total disgust and disdain. She picked out another ensemble, but his
reaction was the same.

Scully couldn't hear what the clerk said next or Mulder's answer, but
apparently some of the other shoppers could, and Mulder had earned
himself an audience. Scully took advantage of the diversion to move
closer to the action.

"I'm not looking for PJ's with little bunnies on them, I just want
something that wouldn't embarrass a goddamn whore on Bourbon Street,"
Mulder was saying.

A big-bellied man in seersucker appointed himself to teach Mulder some
manners. Or perhaps it was the bee-hived woman on his arm who had
appointed him.

"Now, look here, sir," the man said. "Just because you don't like the
merchandise doesn't give you the right to insult the patrons or use foul
language in front of my wife."

Mulder bowed his head repentantly.

"I'm sorry if I offended you or your wife," he said. "I have nothing
against whores, nothing at all. Please accept my apology."

The seersucker man glanced at his wife, who nodded at him.

"You can take him, Fred, honey. Look how drunk he is," she said.

The clerk interposed herself between Mulder and the seersucker man.

"If you don't leave this store right now I'm calling security," she told
Mulder.

"Hey, cut me some slack, I'm getting married," Mulder said, as if this
explained everything.

The store manager picked up the phone, and the clerk turned to address
the seersucker man.

"We don't allow altercations on the premises. You'll have to settle
your differences outside," she said.

"Like that's the answer to everything!" Mulder protested. "Beat the
crap out of Mulder."

Scully had to intervene. She pushed her way into the center of the
crowd.

"Mulder! Come with me," she said sternly.

"Boy, am I glad to see you," Mulder said happily. "They want to beat me
up." His wave indicated everyone in the store, which was probably
accurate at this point.

"Let's go," Scully said. Just get him out of here, she thought. No
point in offering apologies or explanations.

"Let 'em go, Fred," Mrs. Seersucker advised her husband. "She'll take
care of him, I guarantee it."

Mulder smirked at her, threw his arm over Scully's shoulder, and
sashayed toward the door.

"Are you going to take care of me?" he asked Scully in a low, husky
voice.

"I am going to take you back to the first-class lounge where you can
shut up and sit down," she said.

"Short honeymoon," he sniffed.

"Mulder, we need to go over this again. This whole wedding thing, you
know it's not for real, don't you?"

It had started out as a game, a way to pass the time, but somehow Mulder
had sold himself on his own invention. He has to get a life, Scully
thought.

"We need a ring," Mulder said. "That will make it real for you. Hey,
do you know where Bauer got that ring for Wilson?"

"Where?" Scully asked. The women of the FBI had spent a great deal of
time marveling at Marie Wilson's two-karat diamond and wondering how
Todd could afford it.

Mulder yawned, and Scully realized he was leaning on her.

"Where did Todd Bauer get that ring?" she asked.

"RICO. OC seized it, and Bauer put in a bid at the auction." Mulder
yawned again. "Oh, don't tell her, okay?"

"Kind of tacky," Scully said. 

"Big time," he agreed. "We'll get yours from a jeweler."

"Come on, buddy, back to the lounge," Scully reminded him. He gave her
shoulder a squeeze and shuffled along beside her for about a hundred
feet, until something distracted him.

"Look, Scully, there's a jewelry store right here," he said.

"Oh, Mulder," she sighed. Next time they were delayed like this she
would sedate him, she decided.

"Can't hurt to look," he said. The arm that had been leaning on her for
support was now propelling her into the shop.

Mulder released her once they were inside, and after he'd surveyed the
display cases he folded his arms and took a step backward.

"Pick something," he said. "Or pick a few things. I want to get some
ideas about what you like."

"Don't you think we should check on our flight again?" she suggested.
He gave her an indulgent half-smile before he answered.

"Sure, Scully, go ahead. I'll meet you in the passenger lounge."

"You said we just came in here to look," she reminded him. "We're not
buying anything here."

"Not your ring, anyway," Mulder said. "I do have some class."

"Please, Mulder, let's just go back to the lounge," she begged him.

"I want to buy you something," he said simply. "What would you like?"

Scully viewed the depth of Mulder's delusion with growing alarm.

"Concentrate," she told him. "Focus. We're not getting married. We
have never even dated. We are FBI partners."

"Killjoy," he said nastily. " Pick something or I'll embarrass the hell
out of you. You know I'm capable."

"Fine. A keychain." Now that she understood he'd simply been playing a
game, she felt stupid and, oddly enough, rejected.

Mulder rapped on the glass of the display case to summon the
salesperson, an elegant woman in black.

"I'd like an expensive but impersonal keychain," he announced. "My
companion abhors emotion and affection."

"Why, thank you, Mulder," Scully rasped at him. "Thank you for not
embarrassing me."

The saleswoman set a tray upon the counter. Mulder held up a silver
oblong and showed it to Scully.

"There's room for an inscription. 'In recognition of our FBI
partnership, period.' Is that impersonal enough for you?"

Scully glared at him, marched herself up to the counter, and shoved him
aside.

"I'll take this one," she said. It was a braided copper ring unsuitable
for engraving.

"Wrap it up," Mulder said gruffly, slapping a credit card onto the cash
register.

"Thank you," said Scully icily. "Thank you for the gift." She offered
him a handshake.

"You're welcome." He shook her hand and jerked his head toward the
door. Even drunk and surly, Scully noted, he couldn't make himself
precede a lady out of a room.

He had beautiful manners, most of the time. Positively courtly.

She had reached the doorway and Mulder was a step behind her when he
turned and called back to the saleswoman.

"We're really using it for a nipple ring," he said.

=====

She didn't literally want to kill him. She knew that because when he
started choking on his sunflower seeds, she took the bag away from him.

Scully watched him as he coughed and choked. It wasn't a rare
occurrence, really. Half the time he'd continue to eat while the tears
rolled down his face and he gasped for breath.

"How tragic," she pronounced. "To lose my betrothed before we take our
vows."

It was the first thing she'd said to him since their return to the
waiting area. The crowd had thinned out.

Mulder swiveled away from her in his chair and continued to sputter and
gag.

Okay, so short of killing him, how could she make him a better traveling
companion? Something to stop him from putting things in his mouth or
wandering away.

She was about to ask Mulder if he'd seen "Silence of the Lambs," when he
leaned forward and stuck three fingers down his throat.

Scully gave a vowel-less gasp of disgust as Mulder withdrew his hand,
extracting half a shell.

He flicked it onto a small plate already overflowing with sunflower seed
shells. He used a paper napkin first to dry his fingers and then to blow
his nose.

"Ugh. That scratches the hell out of your throat," Mulder commented.
"So, are you going to wear white?"

Scully stood up very deliberately.

"I'm going to talk to the customer service manager. If they can't fly
us out of here within the next hour, they're finding us a hotel. A good
hotel. On their dime," she asserted.

"She wants me," Mulder announced confidently to no one in particular.

==========

"It's a ten A.M. flight, and I'll have a limo pick you up from your
hotel," said Mr. Huxley.

Huxley was "the supervisor." The first airline rep had been less than
useless, offering nothing more than excuses and apologies. Scully had
kept her cool and asked to speak to the supervisor.

Her request had produced this magnificent specimen. He had nodded
impatiently as his underling explained why Scully couldn't have a room
or a flight, and then he'd taken over the other man's cubicle and
everything had fallen into place.

His charcoal suit had to be custom-made--nothing off the rack would have
done justice to his physique.

"Thank you," said Scully.

"Have you ever stayed at the Braithwaite before?" he asked. "The Racine
Room is famous for their Oysters Florentine."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Scully. Stand up, she told herself. Go
back to the lounge, get Mulder, and take him to the world-class
Braithwaite Hotel, which sounded fabulous. Oh, and figure out a plan to
keep Mulder away from the minibar.

"Even FBI agents have to eat, right?" Huxley asked.

He had a nice smile, Scully noticed. Friendly but a little
mischievious.

"That is true," Scully answered.

"The Braithwaite has a certain elegance, but for raw energy, I'd
recommend the waterfront," Mr. Huxley said. "Fine old buildings,
galleries, bookshops. Whatever kind of music you like, whatever
cuisine, you can find it there. The architecture alone is worth a
visit."

Huxley had light brown hair, almost blond.

"I'll have to come back when I have more time," Scully said, and finally
she did stand up. She decided his hair was highlighted.

"It's not that late," Huxley said. "And I feel terrible about the way
you've been inconvenienced."

"You've been most helpful, Mr. Huxley," Scully said. Maybe he was a
little too smooth, she thought, but definitely a cutie.

"You know, I travel a great deal. Perhaps--" Huxley was interrupted by
Mulder's greeting.

"Honey? Are you there?"

Mulder sauntered around the barrier that defined the cubicle, and Scully
knew with total certainty that he'd been standing there, hidden,
listening.

Plan A: Explain to Huxley that she was traveling with a lunatic.

With a sigh and a smile, Scully chose plan B.

"I'm right here, Mulder," she said. "Mr. Huxley has everything
straightened out."

"That's wonderful, sweetheart," Mulder said, wrapping an arm around her
waist as he extended his hand to Huxley. "Thanks for taking care of
her."

"Quite all right," said Huxley through gritted teeth. Scully could tell
that most of his wrath was aimed at her.

"She's a bit of a nympho, you know," Mulder explained. "A lot of guys
try to take advantage of her."

========


The wine steward resisted Scully's attempt to dismiss him by looking
over to Mulder for confirmation.

"Monsieur?" he inquired.

"No, thank you," Mulder told him. "You see, Madame is pregnant."

The sommelier expressed his delight by clucking to himself and leaning
down to pat Scully's tummy. Then, very wisely, he retreated.

Mulder paled.

"I didn't know he was going to do that," he said.

Scully had arrived at that level of anger where she couldn't trust
herself to speak, and so she did not.

"I went too far," Mulder said. "I know that."

He sounded worried, Scully realized with satisfaction. For the first
time in hours he didn't sound drunk, or as if he was pretending to be
drunk.

"I would have to agree," she said, her throat tight with resentment.
"You devoted an entire day to making me look and feel ridiculous."

"Scully, I didn't," he protested. "I was just, you know, goofing."

"Goofing? Is that what you call it?"

As angry as she was with Mulder, Scully was more furious with herself.
She hated feeling so manipulated and out of control, and she hated the
tears that were threatening to make her look even more absurd.

"Goofing. Fooling around. Don't you ever do that?" Mulder asked
hopefully. "Shit. I guess you don't." He bowed his head, holding a
hand over his eyes. "Would it help if I voluteered to take the pledge?
Swear off alcohol forever?"

"For all I care, Mulder, you can drink gasoline," Scully said. She
opened the oversized menu and pretended to study it. In fact she was
hiding her face in case she couldn't hold back the tears.

"Shit," said Mulder again. "You didn't enjoy any of it? Not even the
look on that snooty saleswoman when I told her about the nipple ring?
Scully?"

Scully lowered the menu and glared at him.

"I notice you didn't tell her it was a cock ring, Mulder. Perhaps that
would have been funny."

Mulder looked surprised.

"Why, Scully," he began. "I had no idea--okay, never mind. How about
the way that slimy airline guy backed off? That was pretty cool, wasn't
it?"

"Did it ever occur to you, Mulder, that perhaps I would have enjoyed his
company for the evening?" Scully asked.

Mulder laughed.

"Good one, Scully. That's why you were torturing the little maggot,
letting him ramble on and on but never taking the bait."

"He wasn't little, Mulder," Scully said. The rage had passed, and she
knew she wasn't going to cry.

"Big maggot," Mulder agreed.

"I'll tell you what was fun," Scully said. "Watching the mob at
Ursula's Unmentionables as they prepared to dismember you." She smiled
brightly.

Mulder looked down.

"That wasn't goofing," he said quietly. "That was an example of why I
don't drink very often."

So Mulder really did want to see her in something sheer and white. That
wasn't part of his act.

Scully filed the memory next to one labeled "Mulder's failed marriage."
Both went into a folder marked, "Too much information."

"And your toaster fetish. That wasn't goofing either, was it?" Scully
asked.

"The peanut butter's so much easier to spread when the bread is
toasted," Mulder explained.

Scully felt herself relax.

"I was thinking, Mulder. Perhaps we should put it right on the
invitations."

"Put what on the invitations?" Mulder asked.

"The groom requests a Black and Decker toaster and a Glock thirty-two
C," Scully said.

He gave a snort of laughter.

"What would you ask for?" He leaned back to wait for her reply.

She thought awhile.

"I want one of those home exercise systems," she said. "I hate when the
gym is crowded and you have to stand around and wait for a machine. And
I hate how those guys check you out."

"Yeah, me too," said Mulder. "We'll ask for one of those."

This is fun, Scully thought. Goofing with my partner.

"I was thinking of periwinkle and primrose," Scully said.

"For dinner?" Mulder asked. "What the hell are they?"

"Colors, Mulder. We have to choose our colors."

"That's easy. Orange and blue." He sipped his water, eyeing her over
the rim of the goblet as he waited for her reaction.

Scully thought for a moment.

"Okay. Perfect," she said. Mulder responded with both
eyebrows--clearly he'd been expecting more resistance.

"You're a Knicks fan, Scully? I'm proud of you," he said.

Scully smiled. She was picturing Marie Wilson in a big poofy gown with
a blue skirt and an orange bodice.



the end



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