• 1-Never a Good Sign

Never a Good Sign

By Piper Sargassopan>

Disclaimer: Not mine, never was. Thank CC and the gang for these

characters.

A/N: This one’s for Sallie, who really deserves elegant prose

and well-formulated plot lines. But I hope this brings a smile

to your face nonetheless, Mama.

To everyone else: Don’t hate me. <g>

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Ow!” Scully exclaimed.

“Oh. Sorry, Scully,” Mulder mumbled and shifted his elbow so it

wasn’t pinning her hair to the mattress.

The night was not getting any better.

Oh, it all started out pleasant enough. The pair decided to dive

into the annual holiday festivities at the Hoover Building as a

way to lift their spirits after a particularly nasty case. Well,

maybe dive and decided wasn’t quite accurate -- perhaps a
little

less visibly peeved about being dragged to it by their superior

was more like it. They couldn’t be forced, of course. But their

attendance was -- how did Skinner put it? -- “strongly

suggested.”

Mulder whined about it later in the privacy of their office.

Scully kept her irritation to hef, cf, cringing inwardly in

anticipation of what promised to be an inside glimpse of the

depths of hell. They decided to forgo the annoyance of finding

dates and go together to make the most of a bad situation.

“Safety in numbers,” Mulder had said. “Besides, no woman outside

these walls would understand the oddity that is these office

parties.” Scully privately agreed.

It turned out Scully’s fears weren’t unfounded; this was,

indeed, a glimpse of hell. With tinsel.

Bob-From-Accounting (isn’t there at least one in every office?)

took it upon himself to lavish his version of Christmas cheer on

an unsuspecting Scully the moment she entered the crowd. “Agent

Scully,” he murmured in her ear from behind, catching her

completely off-guard. His breath was hot and smelled

suspiciously of Limburger cheese. She spun to face him, appalled

by his utter gall. “Looks like we’re both under the mistletoe.”

He waggled his eyebrows. It was not a pretty sight.

She looked up and confirmed that, yes, they were both under the

mistletoe. Not that this was such a unique feat; there seemed to

be pieces of the hated foliage hanging everywhere. Irrelevantly,

she wondered if this was someone’s idiotic idea of improving

office relations.

Whatever the case, Scully didn’t have a chance to tell him to

take a hike before a loud slap sounded in the room and a

stinging sensation warmed her derriere. Bob-From-Accounting

grinned unapologeticaat hat her.

The little bastard just slapped her ass!

Flushed red from anger, Scully yanked him down to eye level by

his ridiculous reindeer tie with the flashing red nose and told

him under no uncertain terms just what would happen to the

reproductive portion of his anatomy if he ever dared do that

again. Bob-O had the grace to pale and took his leave as soon as

Scully released him, rubbing at his now-chafed neck as he went.

Mulder, of course, had missed the entire exchange, having found

the buffet table.

Glaring around the room in an effort to ward off any other

would-be Don Juans, Scully searched the large space for a table

to retreat to. Preferably one located in a corner, away from all

the hoopla. She ended up settling for one close to the exit. But

not close enough.

Two things became apparent to her as she sat waiting for Mulder

to extract himself from the shiny chafing dishes of food. One:

her colleagues and alcohol do not mix. Two: Ginger Rossdale from

Transportation was likely going to achieve her goal of bedding

every available field agent under fifty in the building before

the New Year tonight. Seriously. There was a pool going.

“Did you leave anything for the others?” Scully asked with a

quirked eyebrow, gesturing at the mountain Mulder just placed on

the table. He beamed at her in answer and she shook her head.

This was the part where she nagged him about his atrocious

eating habits (honestly, cinnamon rolls and spaghetti?) and he

returned by looking wounded and whined that all she ate was

rabbit food. Somehow, the usual exchange held no appeal tonight.

Thank Bob, she thought with venom and murmured another slur

on his parentage.

“Huh?” Mulder asked with his mouth full and eyes wide in

confusion. She sighed. It was pointless getting into it.

“Nothing,” Scully replied and snagged a cinnamon roll off his

plate. She took a larger bite than necessary out of the warm

sweet bread. He smiled around his overstuffed mouth and nodded

his approval.

“Count?” he asked as soon as he’d swallowed.

Scully consulted her watch and groaned. “It’s only been fifteen

minutes.”

He muttered a curse and moodily dug back into his plate.

Concentrated as he was on the task at hand, he never saw Scully

stiffen.

Yes, Ginger Rossdale was on the prowl -- and was stalking toward

their table. “Agent Mulder,” she said in her annoying, simpering

tones and laid a familiar hand on his shoulder. Mulder turned

around and, Scully was satisfied to see, looked both surprised

and appalled. Ginger was Scully’s basic nightmare with her

runway-model legs and long, glossy chestnut hair. But she’d been

around the block -- several times. In fact, she’d been circling

that bad boy for years. It pleased Scully to no end that Mulder

was turned off by the woman practically sitting in his lap.>



Many tortured moments later, Ginger dropped her eyes

coquettishly and whispered into Mulder’s ear loud enough for

Scully to hear that she was going to “powder her nose.” Scully

snorted. Who the hell said that anymore? But the important thing

was that the phrase carried her out of Scully’s sight.

She grinned. “You’ve btargtargeted.”

Mulder pushed his plate away, appetite on indefinite hiatus.

“We’re wasting time talking about it, Scully. Let’s go.” He

stood up and rounded the table to her side.

She stifled a laugh. “Mulder, we can’t just go--“

“Scully, there’s a very real part of me that wants to cower in

the corner and cry for my mommy. That woman has fangs and I’m

afraid for my mortal soul. Now let’s go!”

She did laugh now, but complied. They were out of the room

before Ginger even knew they’d gone without her.

Thus, they’d found themselves at The Crow Bar (Don’t Caw, Come

In), which was the only nearby place open on Christmas Eve,

downing strawberry margaritas (her favorite) and Guinness drafts

(his favorite). “You can’t leave me after a traumatic experience

like that,” he’d insisted. So there they were.

One cheerful patron was kind enough to play “Christmas Comes But

Once a Year (Or Else We’d All Just Shoot Ourselves) on the juke

box. Scully decided she wasn’t quite drunk enough to appreciate

the biting sarcasm of that particular ditty yet and slid down

her stool to make a few selections of her own. Then she ordered

another margarita to wait out the remaining songs.

After the last strains of “Merry Christmas (Screw the Holidays)

faded, Scully’s first song began. By then, she was tipsy enough

to enjoy the irreverent musical stylings of the last artist and

tipped her head to the man she’d seen select them. She was

almost sad to hear them end.

“Who the hell played Elton John?” Mulder queried, revived from

his brooding examination of the beer mug in front of him. Scully

hopped down from her stool as soon as Sir Elton crooned the

words, “Blue jean baby. L.A. lady” and yanked drunkenly on

Mulder’s arm.

“I did. C’mon,” she slurred, “You owe me a dance, Partner.”

Mulder frowned. “Wha for?”

Scully rolled her eyes, as if the reason were obvious. “Your

girlfriend turned my stomach against my ci’mon roll with all

that ‘sgustingly blatant innuendo. I think the least you can do

is dance with me.”

< He He relented and they made their way to the dance floor, which

truth be told was nothing more than a small clearing between the

juke box and the jumble of scuffed tables in front of it. The

floor itself was coated with a questionable-looking layer of God

knew what.

The pair barely moved to the music, more hugging with a bit of a

sway than anything else. Of course, in their minds their dance

was of Fred-and-Gingerian proportions. Drunkenness is bliss.

Mulder lowered his mouth to coo in Scully’s ear, “I thought you

enjoyed innuendo.” The words slid richly down her spine in the

most pleasing way. It was nothing like Bob’s damp and rancid

attentions. She shivered. Surprised by her unexpected reaction,

he held her tighter and rested his chin on the top of her head.

Scully was never one to miss a great opportunity when it

presented itself. She snuggled into Mulder’s embrace and sighed

her content. “You look incredible tonight, Scully,” Mulder

whispered into her ear as the music began to swell. Never mind

that she was in her usual ‘uniform’ of a black skirt and white