He tore open the padded envelope in the elevator going up to his apartment.
The information was correct. Life was good. Dropping the tag and s-hook back in
the envelope, he sifted through the rest of his mail. Bills mostly, phone,
cable, Internet, Amex, a statement from 'Glory's House of Heaven.'
So intent was he on the sales flyers in that one that he never noticed the
slight scratches around the new deadbolt to his apartment. He made it halfway
into his living room before noticing a leather-clad thug sitting in the chair
in front of his computer pointing a very large gun at him and holding a tiny
gray-striped kitten in his lap.
"Hey, Mulder," said the thug.
"What the hell do you want, Krycek?" spat Agent Mulder, dropping his mail on
the floor and reaching into his suit coat for his gun.
"Don't, Mulder," said the thug, cocking the Glock in his hand. "I'm not here
to kill you, but if you make me shoot you, I'll make sure it hurts really bad."
Mulder froze, swore and repeated, "What the hell do you want, Krycek?"
Alex Krycek ignored the question, asking his own, "Nice cat, Mulder. Where'd
you get him? And what happened to his leg?" The little green-eyed fluff ball
was three-legged.
"Fuck you, Krycek," Mulder glared.
"Play nice, now. You answer my questions, and I'll answer yours."
"You first then," Mulder sneered. So much for things looking up.
"Fine," Krycek sighed, rising from the chair and awkwardly depositing the
kitten behind him with his stiff left hand. "On the floor, Mulder. Face down,
hands behind you. You know the drill."
"What? You don't trust me?" Mulder said in mock amazement.
Krycek's tone was both patient and deadly. "You're quick and you're mean and
you like to hit. And as hard as I know you'll find this to believe, except in
some pretty special circumstances, I don't like pain. So front and center, Fox.
Assume the position."
Mulder's mind touched lightly then quickly veered away from any conjecture
of "special circumstances," and his cock did a little hop, skip and jump. He
moved to obey as Krycek neared him aiming the large Glock pointedly at the
meaty part of Mulder's left thigh.
"Good boy," Krycek murmured in his husky low voice, putting a knee and all
his weight onto the small of Mulder's back. He quickly cuffed the prone agent,
and then not so quickly located Mulder's guns. Krycek took the guns, unloaded
them both and tossed them in one direction and the clips in another. He then
very thoroughly and 'way too slowly for Mulder's comfort, frisked him for any
other weapons, taking particular pains to rub up the inside of Mulder's legs
and up onto his ass.
"Having fun?" Mulder asked, twisting his head back to glare at Krycek.
"Oh, yeah," the rogue agent whispered, green eyes glittering. He cupped
Mulder's balls, giving them just enough of a squeeze to elicit a yelp, then
grabbed Mulder's waistband and hauled him upright and onto the couch. "There,"
he said with some satisfaction, "Comfy?"
"Oh, yeah," Mulder parroted back. "I just love it when you break into my
apartment and handcuff me, Krycek." As soon as the words left his mouth, Mulder
wished them back.
"Oooh, Mulder," Krycek breathed at him, leaning in close. "I'll remember you
said that." The words were more caress than threat, but Mulder shivered as if
there were a knife at his throat, hazel eyes locked on Krycek's jade ones.
A tiny, indignant "mew" broke the impasse and they both looked over at the
chair, where Mulder's cat had had enough of being left out of the fun the two
agents seemed to be having. He tottered on the edge of the chair, wiggling butt
high in the air as he gathered his nerve for the jump down, finally plunging
into a perfect four-point landing: three feet and a chin.
The kitten looked like a tiny, fuzzy drunkard, teetering across the floor
toward the couch, bristly tail held straight up.
"What's his name?" asked Krycek.
"He doesn't have one," replied Mulder tersely.
"You haven't named him?" said Krycek incredulously. "Why not?"
"He's a cat, Krycek. It's not like he'd come when he's called."
The kitten had reached the couch and proceeded to climb up Mulder's
trousered leg. It was a slow process, and from Mulder's grimace, a painful one,
too.
"I don't believe you. I think you're just being mean. Why won't you tell me
his name?"
"You're insane, Krycek. You break into my apartment, threaten and handcuff
me, to ask me about my cat? It's no wonder the Consortium is trying to kill
you."
"They're not," he replied. "At least, not all of them. The Smoker'd still
like to deep-fry my balls, but then I feel the same about him. But he's not
calling the shots anymore like he thought he did before. I'll go to my grave
thankful for the knowledge that that cancerous old fuck's been just as
manipulated as manipulating."
"You want to explain that statement?"
Alex grinned. "No." He watched the kitten continue its climb up Mulder's
shirt, finally took pity on the grimacing agent and boosted the cat up to
Mulder's left shoulder, where it settled comfortably and proceeded to suckle
Mulder's earlobe, tiny claws kneading the base of Mulder's neck in a painful,
yet somehow erotic rhythm.
"Argh! Krycek, make it stop!" Mulder jerked his head away, but the kitten
was tenacious, nuzzling and kneading whatever was available. The purring and
sucking gave Mulder shuddering gooseflesh all the way down his back and beyond.
"Oh, I don't think so," Krycek said in his own imitation of a purr. "I think
he's got the right idea." Leaning in close, he gently teethed Mulder's other
lobe, hot breath sending spikes of something Mulder refused to name desire
straight into his groin.
Great! Mulder thought. I'm getting a hard on from Alex Krycek and
a stray cat! Can this week get any worse? "Stop it!" he said through
gritted teeth. Alex merely changed his light chewing to a definite sucking.
"Please!"
Krycek's low chuckle sent more spikes of arousal into Mulder's cock. "Well,"
he breathed into the tall agent's ear, "since you asked so nicely." With a
final slurp at Mulder's ear, Krycek sat back and reached over to the coffee
table for a file folder lying amidst a dozen other folders. "Here's why I'm
here. To give you this." He opened the folder on Mulder's lap, slowly turning
over a series of grisly 8 x 10 photographs. Each depicted a naked, mutilated
body; male and female, varying ages and races. There were nine of them.
"Dead people," Mulder commented dryly. "Lovely. What's my part?"
"You and the inestimable Dr. Scully will likely be assigned this case soon,
if Skinner's still as predictable as ever. Seemingly unrelated victims, same
MO, scattered over four states."
"Seemingly?"
"Yeah. What the file you'll be given won't say, either because the FBI
doesn't know or simply isn't saying, is that each victim is connected to a DOD
facility located in the Ute reservation at Four Corners."
"There aren't any Defense Department facilities on Indian reservations,
Krycek. At least try to make up a believable lie." He squirmed, trying to
dislodge the kitten from his ear without sending it flying to the floor.
"Anyway, what's your interest? And what do you mean about Skinner being
predictable?"
"Last question, Mulder, then it's my turn. Having you muck around in this
will piss off people I like to have pissed off. And that'll be Skinner's motive
as well. He's been told to keep you out of it. If he's true to form, he'll set
you down in the middle of it. So, where'd you get the cat?"
"I almost stepped on him one morning while I was jogging around the park.
He'd tangled with a dog or something, looked all chewed up, so I took him to a
vet. What are you doing?" Krycek was leaning close again, chin resting on
Mulder's shoulder, inhaling deeply.
"Smelling you."
"Well stop it."
"No." Krycek nuzzled him under his ear, sniffing. "I like the way you
smell." He sighed. "Always have."
"When did you start doing drugs, Krycek?" Alex bit him behind his ear, not
too softly, making Mulder yelp.
"What's the cat's name, Mulder?" he asked, ignoring Mulder's discomfort and
continuing his exploration of the scents and textures of Mulder's neck.
"He doesn't have one. How long are you planning to do that?"
"Got any beer?" Alex asked, changing tactics. He rose from the couch to go
scope out the refrigerator. "Move and I'll come shoot you in the knee," he
called from the kitchen. Mulder, bringing his cuffed hands down over his butt
to thread his legs through them so he'd at least have them in front of himself,
stopped, considered his options, then moved them back up over his butt, cursing
softly. "Does the Board of Health know about your refrigerator?" Krycek asked,
coming back empty-handed. He scooped Mulder's discarded mail off the floor and
brought it to the couch. "You're so pedestrian," he said, looking through the
Glory's House of Heaven invoice. "You don't even buy good sex toys."
"What'd you expect, edible lube?"
"Vibrating butt-plug at the very least. 'Dennis Does Denver'? Really,
Mulder. That wasn't even good satire."
"It's the director's cut," said a red-faced Mulder. "And anyway, it was for
a gift."
"Right. Oooh, what's this?" Krycek shook out the contents of the little
padded envelope, read the tag, looked at Mulder, read the tag again then sat
back away from the agent. "You sorry son of a bitch, Mulder. I don't know
whether to be pissed off or touched."
"It doesn't mean anything, Krycek," said Mulder through clenched teeth, face
flaming even redder than before.
"You name a three-legged stray cat 'Alex' and tell me it doesn't mean
anything. I oughta shoot you where you sit." Alex-the-thug seemed to be leaning
toward 'pissed.' He pulled out his gun for emphasis. Alex-the-cat, who'd become
dislodged from his perch during Mulder's abortive escape attempt, seemed bored
with the exchange. He hopped off the couch in another graceful leg and chin
landing to stalk a large, demonic looking dust bunny hiding under Mulder's TV
stand. Once that had been wrestled into submission, he took its place, lurking
under the stand, green eyes gleaming hotly from the dark. The two agents, past
and present, watched the kitten's antics for awhile until Mulder, sensing he
needed to say something, cleared his throat and began.
"It wasn't meant to be demeaning or anything, Krycek," he glanced over at
Alex who narrowed his eyes. He wasn't buying. "It's just that he's got green
eyes and no left... arm... it just seemed... appropriate... "
"You're not just a cocksucker, Mulder. You're a perverted cocksucker."
"Isn't that redundant, Krycek?" asked Mulder, appalled that smart alecky
words were coming out of his mouth under these circumstances but unable to stop
them. "I mean, a cocksucker by definition is a pervert, at least by the current
mores of a large portion of the population, not to mention all major religions
and many state laws." Krycek, eyes slit almost shut, was leaning slowly toward
Mulder, the huge Glock seeming to grow in his hand. Mulder's mouth, however,
would not close, no matter how hard he tried to make it. "There are even some
obscure federal statues, mostly pertaining to obscenity definitions, that list
fellatio as a perversion thereby making a person who performs fellatio a
pervert. Therefore," Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed; Krycek was very
close and pushing the Glock almost into Mulder's lap, "perverted cocksucker is
a redundancy."
Finally, the words stopped flowing. "You're going to pay, Mulder," Krycek
whispered directly into Mulder's ear.
Mulder turned to face Krycek and thought he could actually see himself in
the outlaw's crystalline green eyes. It was weird, like he was begging his own
reflection. "Please don't kill me," he whispered back, "because of a cat. You
can find better reasons to kill me than that, can't you?"
"Figured you'd go out fighting giants, eh Mulder? Not for some stupid reason
like pissing off a psychopath."
"You're not a psychopath, Krycek... uh... Alex... "
"Don't even start, asshole," said Krycek, incensed that Mulder would try and
cajole him with the use of his first name. "And you can stop hyperventilating."
This really was unfair; Mulder wasn't hyperventilating, merely gasping for
breath like one of his unfortunate fish after a long out-of-town assignment.
"I'm not going to kill you. And, if you hold real still," Krycek traced the
length of Mulder's now quiescent cock with the tip of the Glock, "I may not
even maim you." While Mulder was more frightened than he'd ever been in his
life, his cock seemed to find these events somewhat uplifting. Very uplifting
even, rising up to meet the steely hard Glock with a hardness all its own. "God
you're a slut, Mulder," Krycek said, noting the resistance against his gun. He
then fastened his teeth on the soft skin under Mulder's right ear, biting hard
enough to elicit an arched back and sharp "Ouch!" from Mulder.
"Stop!" Mulder cried, willing his body parts to pull away from Krycek's busy
ministrations even as they variously bared themselves for better access and
pushed into the pleasing hardness of Krycek's gun.
"Slut," Krycek repeated through a mouth filled with Mulder skin.
"No, argh!" Mulder protested as the Glock made its way down the length of
his cock, between his legs to pressure his balls. "Oh god," were the only
coherent words Mulder could say. The pain/pleasure on his balls along with
Krycek's chewing/biting/sucking on his neck lowered his IQ to close to zero,
leaving him with the thought that Alex Krycek was sending him to hell and that
at this rate, he couldn't wait to get there.
Krycek's teeth and tongue and lips moved down and around Mulder's throat,
sucking and licking, and occasionally biting hard, and Mulder would have been
hard pressed to state the date or name the president. He spread his legs,
giving the Glock better access and Krycek complied, running the gun along the
inside of Mulder's thighs, up around and into his testicles and pressing
through the gray Armani to his anus, making Mulder think He's going to fuck
me with his gun. And then just Please... fuck me with your gun...
Did he that out loud? Mulder didn't know, but Krycek chuckled, making
Mulder think that he did, making Mulder wish he were dead rather than having
said that... and wasn't that Krycek's point all along?
Mulder groaned and came in his pants, like a kid.
The Glock continued its caress over now sensitized skin, making Mulder
finally wail, "What do you want?"
"I want you to love me, but I'll settle for you being incredibly
embarrassed."
"Jesus," Mulder said and did the only thing possible: he blacked out.
When he came to moments later, Krycek was kneeling on the floor in front of
his TV, teasing the kitten out from under it. The little cat chased his
drumming fingers and Krycek grabbed him, cupping the little bundle of fur in
his good hand.
"Don't hurt him," Mulder said, alarmed.
Krycek turned and look at him, stunned. "What?"
"Don't hurt him," Mulder repeated. "Please." He was sated, embarrassed and
at a loss as to what to feel, except scared for the cat.
"Dammit, Mulder, what kind of monster do you think I am?" Krycek was
genuinely shocked. "I mean, get real! I'm a professional assassin. I don't kill
people's kittens!" Mulder just stared. "Fuck you." Krycek said finally, giving
the kitten a last caress and putting him down on the floor. He fished in his
jeans and pulled out the handcuff key. "Here," he said, tossing it toward the
couch. "I didn't lie. The file's legit."
Mulder closed his eyes and listened to his door closing. "Fuck," he said
softly. What just happened? And what had he just lost?
Fox Mulder intended to get to work early, before everyone else. That was his
plan. Get in, hide in the basement, leave after everyone else, avoid being
seen, make up a story Scully would buy... that was the plan. And like most
plans, it immediately went awry.
First, his car stalled, and then a 12-car pile up on the freeway delayed
Triple A. It was 7:49 by the time he pulled into the Hoover Building parking
lot, along with the majority of federal worker bees heading into their jobs.
Although Mulder walked briskly through the crowded corridors, making no eye
contact, dozens of other agents and clerical workers who normally ignored his
existence greeted him with grins and sickening good cheer.
Special Agent Fox Mulder and his large, livid hickey, was the talk of the
Hoover Building.
"Good morning, Mulder," Dana Scully said when Mulder finally made it to his
basement office. "You're late and Skinner wants to see us," she began,
swiveling in her chair to face him. "Right away," she stopped, staring at his
neck. "When did you start dating a 16-year-old?"
"I don't want to talk about it," he told her tersely. "If Skinner's going to
send us after a serial killer in Colorado, I'm eating my gun."
"What serial killer?"
"This one," he replied, tossing Krycek's file on the desk.
"Mulder, that's the biggest damn hickey I've ever seen." She ignored the
file to take his chin in her hand, moving it to get a better look at the mark.
"Stop it, Scully," he ordered, trying to get away from her hands.
"No, sit down and let me look." She pulled at his collar, tracing the
bruise from the back of his right ear down as far as she could reach without
loosening his tie or undoing buttons. "How far down does this go? Is the skin
broken?"
"No," he said, ignoring the first question. He finally got her hands off his
neck and studiously avoided her eyes.
"So, who is she, Mulder?" Scully asked casually, finally taking up the file
he'd tossed down. She looked at him when he didn't answer, noting his red face.
"He?" Mulder's face flamed deeper. She sat back down, propped her feet up on an
open drawer and said, "Tell me."
"No," he groaned.
"Everything."
Mulder put his head down on the desk. "Shoot me, please," he said softly.
"What?"
"I said," he said louder, "please shoot me."
"Later. Talk."
So he did, head on the desk, not looking at her. When he finished, he pulled
a tentative glance in her direction. Her eyebrows were arched and her jaw was
clenched in what Mulder assumed was anger. "Alex Krycek?"
He nodded and closed his eyes.
"Our Alex Krycek? Murdering, traitorous rat bastard Alex Krycek?"
"Yes."
"Mulder," she began in her long-suffering "mom" tone of voice, "only you
would have a sworn enemy who gives him hickeys."
"It's not funny, Scully."
"I know it's not."
Her voice seemed strained now, so Mulder opened his eyes to determine the
cause. Scully's back was to him and it was shaking. "Fuck," he said softly, the
clenching wasn't anger so much as her trying not to laugh at him. The phone
rang, and since his partner seemed incapable of speech at the moment, Mulder
had no choice but to answer. It was Kimberly, Assistant Director Skinner's
assistant.
"AD Skinner wants to see you and Agent Scully now, Agent Mulder.
Now was 20 minutes ago."
"On our way." He hung up. "You're a mean woman, Scully," he said to his
partner's back. "Skinner's champing at the bit."
"Well, better the bit than your neck," she managed to choke out, trying hard
to stop her laughter.
Mulder groaned, getting a visual of Skinner leaning over him with a gun in
his crotch. A meeting with Skinner was never a good time. A meeting with
Skinner and this damned hickey was going to be excruciating. A meeting with
Skinner and the hickey and a hard on was unendurable. He stood, thinking
hard of flukemen, green bile and oiliens. "You said you'd shoot me," he told
Scully.
"Soon," she managed to gasp out, gulping down air in an effort to keep from
laughing.
"It's not funny," he muttered again, grabbing Krycek's file and
striding out of the office ahead of her, feeling a small bit of satisfaction in
hearing her rapidly clicking heels try and keep up with his purposely long
strides.
Mulder suffered through Kimberly's double take once the agents arrived in AD
Skinner's outer office but missed seeing her raise an eyebrow at Scully who was
stoically biting the insides of her cheeks in an attempt at self-control.
"Later," Scully mouthed at Kim.
Assistant Director Walter Skinner glowered at his tardy agents as they filed
into his office. He didn't like to be kept waiting. He especially didn't like
to be kept waiting by these two. Since they didn't seem to do anything else by
the book, he felt they could at least show him the courtesy of showing up to
his meetings on time.
"Slow start this morning, agents?" he asked from behind his imposingly neat
desk.
Scully merely gulped when he looked her way and, were those tears in her
eyes? Mulder cleared his throat, bringing the AD's eyes towards him. Skinner,
like everyone else in the Hoover Building this morning, did a double take at
the sight of Mulder's neck.
"Agent Mulder?"
"Sorry, Sir. I had a bit of car trouble and the freeway was backed up and...
" his voice trailed off as Skinner continued to stare at his neck.
The AD finally tore his eyes away from Mulder's hickey, cleared his own
throat and muttered something about maintenance. "There's a case that's come to
my attention that I'd like the two of you to look into," he said finally,
focusing on the only file marring his desk. "It's not an X-File, exactly, but
it's my feeling that your particular expertise could prove useful. Kimberly has
made the travel arrangements. You'll leave this afternoon for Denver. You can
get more details from the field office there, but in the meantime, the
information in this file should prove interesting." He opened his file then
turned it and pushed it toward his agents. The folder opened on the same grisly
photo that Mulder had first seen the night before. "This is the first," he
began.
"Of nine victims," Mulder finished for him, dropping his own folder on top
of Skinner's. "Over four states. All seemingly unrelated. No perceived pattern
or relation among the victims."
"Where'd you get that information Agent Mulder?"
"An anonymous source, Sir," Mulder replied, ignoring Scully's snort. "My
file," he indicated the folder he'd dropped on the AD's desk, "is likely
identical to yours. Except that mine traces each of the victims to the
Department of Defense. In particular, to a DOD facility on the Reservation at
Four Corners. Where a DOD facility should not exist."
Skinner sat back in his chair and seemed to grow larger. It wasn't that he
puffed out his chest or anything like that, he just seemed to get bigger until,
in Mulder's perception, he filled the room leaving very little space and almost
no air for his two recalcitrant agents.
"Mulder," Skinner's voice was very quiet, "that information requires a
clearance higher than mine. Where did it come from?"
"Sir, I... can't... Sir." Oh god! "Please don't ask." Mulder closed
his eyes.
Skinner looked at Scully, who was bent over, clutching her sides. "Agent
Scully!" he said alarmed, "Are you alright?" She shook her head, not looking
up.
"You have to tell him, Mulder," she said from her lap. "The man's a
dangerous criminal."
"Tell me what? Skinner looked from Scully's bent form to Mulder and back
again. "Who's she talking about?" he asked, louder.
"Tell him," she squeaked.
"I can't," Mulder said softly, eyes still closed.
"He needs to know," Scully raised her tear-stained face, took one look at
Mulder's closed eyes and collapsed back into her lap, unable now to keep her
laughter quiet.
Skinner was too nonplussed to be really angry, but he roared anyway, to good
effect. "What the hell is going on! Scully! Straighten up. This isn't
high school. Mulder, I want to know now where and from whom you got this
information. NOW! Agent Mulder!"
"Yes, Sir."
"Sorry, Sir. Excuse me, Sir." Scully fled the office, returning with a
handful of Kim's tissues, dabbing at her eyes. She carefully avoided looking at
her partner and Skinner knew it wouldn't take much to send her off again. He
couldn't believe it. Dr. Dana Scully, the Ice Queen of the FBI, had the
giggles.
"Agent Mulder," Skinner prompted.
"Sir?" Mulder at least had his eyes open.
Shit! They were going to make him play 20 Questions. Skinner felt the start
of a migraine tickling the back of his skull. "This file, Mulder. Where did you
get it."
"My apartment, Sir."
Skinner took a deep breath. "Was it alone in your apartment, Agent Mulder?
Or did it come attached to a person?"
"It was attached." Mulder's eyes were closed again.
"Good. We're getting somewhere. Who was that person?" Mulder mumbled
something. "What? I didn't hear you." Another mumble. God. The tickling turned
to pounding. "Scully? Do you know the name of this person?"
She nodded, and Skinner could see her nails digging deep into her hands. He
appreciated the effort at self-control at least. "Alex Krycek" she managed to
croak out.
This news stunned him. "Krycek?" He looked from one agent to the other. They
both nodded. "Krycek's back in Washington? This can't be good news."
"The Consortium hit is off," Mulder supplied, he hoped, helpfully.
"Okay, enough of this. I want the whole story, Mulder, and I want it from
the beginning."
"The whole story, Sir?"
"The whole story." Skinner turned to glare at Scully, who was starting to
giggle again. "And I want to know your part in this, too, Agent Scully."
"Oh, no, Sir." Scully said gleefully, spreading her hands out. "I have no
part in this. Oh, no. Not me, Sir. The first inkling I had about this... uh,
this situation was when Agent Mulder came into the office this morning,
late, with that... thing on his neck."
"Scully!" Mulder said warningly.
"Are you implying, Agent Scully, that that mark," he refused to call it a
hickey "on Agent Mulder's neck is pertinent to this conversation?"
"Oh, yes, Sir. Pertinent. Very. Sir."
"In what way?"
"Krycek did it, Sir."
"Krycek gave Mulder a hickey?!"
Scully nodded, "It wasn't his fault, Sir. He was handcuffed. Agent Mulder."
"Agent Mulder?"
"Yes, Sir," She said, blue eyes wide. "Mulder was handcuffed when he
received the hickey."
Skinner turned to Mulder. "Open your eyes. Let me get this straight: Alex
Krycek came by your apartment last night, entered, gave you this file
containing classified information, handcuffed you and then gave you a hickey?
Then what? He stayed for champagne and Brie?"
"No, Sir," Mulder said. "Not exactly. He was in my apartment when I came
home. He had a gun. He handcuffed me. Then he showed me the file."
"When did he give you the hickey?" Skinner wondered when the White Rabbit
would hop into his office.
"After he gave me the file, Sir."
"Why?"
"Why did he give me the hickey? Or why did he give me the file?"
"Let's start with why did he give you the file. And I don't suppose he told
you where he obtained it?"
"No, Sir. He said that it would piss off people he wanted pissed off if I
mucked around in this. He also said that we'd get assigned to this case soon if
you were running true to form because you would have been directed to keep us
out of it so you'd probably put us in the middle of it." Mulder took a breath.
"Just to piss off the same people Krycek said he wanted pissed off." Mulder
added: "He said you were predictable."
Scully winced.
Skinner sighed. It made a strange kind of sense. "I'm sorry, but I have to
know," he said to Mulder. "Why the hickey?"
"He did it to embarrass me," Mulder replied.
"Because?"
Mulder closed his eyes again. "He didn't like what I'd named my cat."
"It's named 'Alex,'" Scully supplied.
"You have a cat?"
"It's a stray."
"And you named it 'Alex'?" Forget the White Rabbit. Skinner felt like he'd
been smoking from a hookah.
"The cat's got green eyes and only three legs!" Mulder shouted. "It was a
joke! Okay?"
Skinner turned to Scully who merely tapped her left arm then turned back to
Mulder. "Okay." Enough. "Agents. Go to Denver. Catch the killer. Try not to get
involved with the military. And," he stood up, leaned over the desk for
emphasis; "I do not want to see any mention of this in any report
anywhere ever!" He glared at them until he received nods from both agents.
"Dismissed!"
They each picked up a file and fled.
"Mulder!" Skinner called to the tall agent. "If I may make a suggestion," he
said when Mulder turned back toward him, "Get better locks. And in the future,
try to avoid picking up strays."
Mulder blinked. "I always try, Sir."
"I know, Agent Mulder," Skinner said sadly, "I know."
end... Feedback: moco69@earthlink.net
Strays I
by moco
Special Agent Fox Mulder approached his apartment like a dying man seeking
absolution. It was the end of yet another very bad day. In fact, the whole
damn week had been awful, and it was still only Thursday. Mulder couldn't wait
for tomorrow. He imagined it: Friday evening, almost home with nothing to take
up his weekend but his newly acquired kitten, some rather exotic porn tapes and
the current edition of The Lone Gunman. Checking his mail, he took the
appearance of the cat ID tag he'd sent away for two weeks before as proof
positive that this hellacious week was almost over. Things were looking up.
