Sent: Saturday, September 23, 2000
Title: New Millennium: Get Lucky
Author: Vickie Moseley
Summary: Continuation of the New Millennium series. Mulder has a run of
bad luck.
Spoiler: Goldberg Variation
Category: H, MSR-married, some MT
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Well, since the new season as outlined on the official site
isn't even looking like the X Files, I think we get free reign on the whole
last seven seasons. Try and stop us, we're bigger than you. But we still
don't make money off this.
Archive: Yes
Thank you to Ten for putting up with my lapses, Susan for putting up with
my ranting and Dawn for putting up with my whining. I love you all.
Comments: The rest of these cherished stories are archived on Ten's site.
Please come read all of them, but they can stand alone.
http://tenxffic.tripod.com
New Millennium: Get Lucky
By Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
"In light of your recent string of injuries, I'm prescribing complete bed
rest for a few days, Mr. Mulder. We need to give that spasm a chance to
calm down. And I'd suggest you and your wife practice a little abstinence
for awhile. You should be good to go in a week or two."
Just using The Word was bad enough, but did the smug bastard have to raise
his voice to emphasize 'abstinence'? I don't think Scully has ever
attained that particular color of red in her cheeks. It definitely clashes
with her hair.
"I'll make sure he behaves, Dr. Parsons," she says, and has the audacity to
look so Catholic-school-girl-innocent at the man. Like I was the wolf and
she was Little Red Riding Hood in this little ER drama!
Why the hell not. I mean, the way my luck has been going . . . But that
is the point, isn't it? My luck is in the toilet and whether my loving
wife wants to believe it or not, spending three or four days in bed is
probably the best thing for me. I'll just pull the covers up over my head
and not come out until the bad luck streak has past me by. Yeah, add some
Flexeril and Tylenol with codeine and I'll be a happy camper.
When I reach over to shake the good doctor's hand, I pull my back again and
can't stifle the moan that results.
"Mulder, would you please quit being such a baby! It's a sprained muscle.
Not even that bad, actually."
I shoot her a look that has to convey my total disbelief that she is trying
to downplay my agony.
"And besides," she adds with a totally lurid grin, "our business was
finished, for the most part."
If I could just get off this gurney . . . her ass would me mine!
She knows it, and she's out of that curtained cubicle before I can even
draw a breath to start my tirade. Not that I would, in front of half a
dozen witnesses, every single one of them already pretty certain how I got
in my current predicament. But I could definitely think of some kind of
witty comeback that would bring her to her knees . . .
Her knees. Maybe, if she'd been on her knees, this whole incident . . .?
Nah, I still would have strained my back. It's the luck thing, I'm sure of
it.
A gray-haired nurse, whose tag proclaims her name is Rose, enters the
cubicle with my discharge papers and a wheelchair. She has my Grandmother
Mulder's smile and I smile back, if just in honor of the sweet woman's
memory. Grandma Mulder, a gentle, sainted woman who used to make me
apricot cookies that melted in my mouth. Rose pats my hand and helps me as
I gingerly negotiate my way off the gurney and over to the wheelchair.
"Your wife went to get the car and pull it up to the door, Mr. Mulder. You
just rest easy, I'll take good care of you till we get you on your way home."
Yeah, Rose is a sweetie, I can tell. She shushes a couple of chattering
nurses' aides as we make our way out of the ER and toward the double doors
leading to freedom. We wait in peaceful silence, watching for Scully to
pull the car up under the awning. I notice Rose is fidgeting silently, as
if she has something to say. Go ahead, Rose, say it.
"Mr. Mulder, ordinarily I'd never pry, but I have five bucks riding on
this. Exactly what page of the Karma Sutra were you and your wife trying
for when you hurt yourself?"
Grandmother Mulder my ass! Thankfully, Scully pulls up at that exact
moment. I am sorely tempted, as my gentle wife hoists me into the front
seat of our car, to lean out the window and smile my answer to Rose. I'm
betting that five and another one just like it she never would have guessed
our position was strictly 'missionary', thank you very much.
The ride home is silent. I don't even try to start a conversation because
I know Scully is sitting there, waiting to shoot down any theory I have the
nerve to present. But I have the whole ride to remember exactly how I came
to this point, the numerous circumstances that led me to the here and now.
It all started in Chicago.
I like Chicago. Well, not that I have that much reason to like it, but
it's never been on my list of 'hellholes' that I can recall. Farmington,
New Mexico; Deadhorse, Alaska; Raleigh, North Carolina; those are places
you'd be hard pressed to find me of my own accord. But then, come to think
of it, I did end up under involuntary 24-hour psychiatric evaluation the
last time I visited the Windy City. Maybe I should rework my list. But
all in all, I got no sense of dread when I picked up the plane tickets, no
feelings of eminent doom.
It was such a simple case. I figured it would be a cinch. And even Scully
was ready to close her notebook and write the report after my little free
fall through Maggie Lupone's kitchen floor. But no, I just couldn't let it
go that Henry Weems had the most incredible luck I'd ever seen. I just had
to know how it came about, what was the reason behind it. I guess if I
really wanted to be a bastard about it, I'd blame the whole thing on
Scully. If she hadn't spent the last 6 and a half years drilling me with
the necessity for evidence and scientific reasoning, I would have chalked
it all up to a really cool story and we'd have been home by sunset. But
noooooo, I had to stick around and find out what was going on. And, as the
case went on, why so much bad luck seemed to come so close on the heels of
the good.
I should have changed my clothes and came home when she wanted us to.
I couldn't begrudge her the ending we got, though. It was such a happy
ending, and we get so damned few of those. Standing in the hospital
hallway, watching Richie smile at his toy, watching Maggie with the look of
relief on her face, it was worth all the little problems I'd encountered.
And the smile my wife gave me as we got into the cab for the airport, the
little whispered "wait till I get you home, G-man, you deserve a reward for
the day," was all the encouragement I needed.
I should have seen it coming.
First of all, we never, and I repeat with a resounding NEVER, manage to get
a flight out of any metropolitan statistical area on the same day we wish
to leave. But, as luck would have it, when Scully tried for a flight out
that very evening after we'd finished the mountain of paperwork that was
required of the death of a very wanted mobster, she got one. And not just
a crammed-in-at-the-last-minute stand-by. No, this was an honest to God
reservation that included, be still my heart, honey roasted peanuts instead
of those dry as desert dust pretzels, back to DC. If the winds were with
us, we'd be home well before Leno.
Then, out of the blue, our Assistant Director called to inform us that he'd
be in meetings for the next three days and we might as well wait till he
got back to turn in our report. For that matter, in light of the
successful nature of our latest case, he generously pointed out that we
were both due some well deserved down time and should consider it 'an
order' to knock off a day or two of our accumulated comp time.
But the piece d'resistance, the one little twist that should have had me
shivering with psychic premonition was the mood of my wife. She started
the day fairly serious, with all the paperwork a cranium-busted mobster
entails. But by the end of the day, she was downright giddy. She was
giggling! But best of all, she was flirting to beat the band.
For seven long years, we existed in a universe of innuendo. I would make a
ribald comment, Scully would do her damnedest not to react and that's the
way we were. But then, suddenly, after our rather hasty wedding, I'm not
the only one making comments. She pulls on my tie when she wants me to do
something I would never consider. She lifts her eyebrow and cocks her head
when suggesting that if we hurry, we could be home by tonight. And when
she does those little things, it goes straight to my . . . heart.
At O'Hare International, she was practically sitting in my lap! She was
rubbing my calf with her three inch heels and all I could think about was
how many pairs of panty hose she has in the top drawer of our dresser,
because I was ready to rip a big hole in the pair she had on. And then she
did that . . . thing. She leaned over me, dragged herself across me,
actually, then sat back up, licked her lips and said "Mind if we order in
tonight?"
That is a sure clue that neither one of us will be in the kitchen to
prepare a meal. More than likely, we won't come up for air until the
delivery kid knocks on the door. She loves watching me scramble for my
pants while I'm yelling "I'm coming, I'm coming," all the while she's
snickering and saying "not yet, but soon, not yet, but soon" to my near
naked backside.
It was a fun ride home. At one point, I sorely considered seeing if my
straight as a ruler partner would consider joining the 'Mile High Club'.
But then, I decided, it was more fun to flirt with her, knowing that we had
this really great bed back at our apartment and three days to do whatever
we wanted.
The really crazy part was, we've never flirted with each other in public
before. Well, not like we did on that plane. What she was doing in the
terminal with my leg and her foot was nothing to what she later did when my
tray table was down and pulled forward and her hand magically found its way
to my lap.
I don't think it's legal to have that much fun on a plane.
Now, I'm not saying that Richie's recovery caused my muscle spasm. That
would be going off the deep end. But somehow, that young boy receiving
that mobster's liver played a part in the cause and effect that pulled my
back muscle right at the moment of intense . . . ah . . . marital bliss.
It was the start, the first drop of the steel ball in the chute. The
flight, Skinner's call and Scully's mood were like little wheels and gears
that were switched off and on by the ball rolling past. But then, we got
to the first domino drop. There was a glitch at Dulles and the computer at
the long term lot wasn't working, so we got our car out for free. It might
seem like a little thing to most people, but the Bureau has gotten really
sticky about reimbursing for long term parking, stating that government
travelers should take public transportation when leaving for undetermined
lengths of time. In other words, I'm out about $300 a year in long term
parking costs because of our many travels.
I think that was it. I think that was the final stretch of chute that led
directly to my pulled back. It was the luckiest thing to happen to me
right before the bad luck hit. Let that be a lesson. Don't know how I can
explain that to anyone, but never, never accept free parking. It will only
come back and bite you in the ass. Literally.
We got home and parked the car. No surprises there, we have assigned
parking. My wife was pulling at my tie before we even got out of the car.
My tie was off and my jacket was following quickly. I had the forethought,
from somewhere in the arousal induced fog of my brain, to remind her of our
luggage. My wife pulled my head down with a hand on the back of my neck,
stuck her tongue alllll the way down my throat and purred 'we'll get it
tomorrow'.
I wasn't sure if I thought there would be a tomorrow at that moment. All I
could think of was the here and now and how I was about to have sex with my
wife in the apartment hallway if she didn't get us all the way upstairs,
and fast.
The next few minutes were a complete blur. Keys rattling, door opening and
then slamming shut. Hands tearing starched white cotton and shimmering
powder blue silk off hot, sweaty skin. Shoes and then the belt buckle of a
pair of pants hitting hard surfaces. Groaning, lots of groaning. Then,
finally skin on skin and breath and mouths and tongues and dropping to hard
wood floor and more moaning and shifting and 'yes yes YES' and then . . .
bliss!
Followed almost immediately by pain! Excruciating pain exploding from my
lower back and forming a mushroom cloud of agony all the way up my spine.
All I was trying to do was keep from crushing my wife under my weight,
maybe roll over and snuggle on the floor, maybe get up and walk all the way
to our bedroom and rest up for next round. But no, I was not going
anywhere. All I could do was lay where gravity had rolled me and sob in
desolation.
She had the graciousness to call for the ambulance from our bedroom. Not
that it saved me any embarrassment. She tried, unsuccessfully, to slip a
pair of sweatpants on me, but it hurt too damned much so in the end, I was
tucked in with one of those bath sheets she likes so much. Damn things
could double as sheets on a twin bed, but in this particular instance, I
was happy for the extra material.
She's quick, I'll hand her that. Before the EMTs were at the door, she had
our clothes whisked into our bedroom, had changed into her jeans and that
pink sweater I love and even had her tennis shoes on and tied. Me, I just
lay there on the hard floor in that towel thing and hoped I could die from
embarrassment before the ride in the ambulance.
From the look on their faces, the EMTs knew exactly what had taken place.
Of course, they'd have to be olfactory challenged not to pick up the smell
of love-making that permeated the living room. But they didn't say a word.
They smirked at each other several times, but dutifully called base,
explained the situation and then, thank Scully's God and anybody else that
might be up there, gave me a nice old shot of muscle relaxer before heaving
my aching body up on that gurney.
"C'mon G-man. Let's get you upstairs and in bed." Her voice almost
startles me and I look up and see that we've made it back home. The drugs
have kicked in and I'm about ready to fall asleep right here in the car.
That would probably be very stupid, I figure quickly. Painful and stupid.
No, I have to get all the way upstairs to get to bed.
Our trip up to our apartment is much slower this time. For one, we take
the elevator, not the stairs two at a time. For another, no one is pulling
on anybody's clothing, with the possible exception of Scully tugging on the
surgical scrubs we had to borrow that I'm wearing, but that's just to keep
me upright and moving. And this time, when the keys jiggle, the door opens
and then shuts, the only things hitting the floor are my bare feet and her
dainty tennis shoes as I shuffle with her help into our bedroom.
I can't help the groan that escapes me as I lower myself to the mattress.
The drugs are good, but I'm not in a coma. I wish I was in a coma. It
wouldn't hurt so much, inside and out.
I feel the mattress bounce and a warmth surrounds my upper body. "I'm
sorry, Mulder. I'm sorry you fell on your butt through the floor. I'm
sorry you got grazed by that bullet. But most of all, I'm sorry I broke
you making love."
She says it so sweetly and with such sincerity that it could be considered
insulting when I start to giggle. She glares at me, but without my saying
a word, she understands and smiles first, then giggles along with me.
When we calm down and I'm about to drift off to sleep, she hugs me tighter.
"OK, Mulder. This time I'm willing to admit that you're a victim of plain
old bad luck. Now, are you happy?"
I'm in bed with my wife who loves me more than I've ever been loved before,
and relatively speaking, we're healthy, employed and have days to spend in
bed. Sure, but butt is still a little sore, my arm is a touch tender and my
back is just waiting for the codeine to wear off, but all in all, yeah, I'd
have to say I'm happy.
Abstinence? Not if my luck holds out.
The end.
Vickie
Let's get this straight for anyone who might be 'confused':
1. They did it more than once. They've been doing it a long time!
2. The baby is Mulder's! Scully's doctor LIED about her fertility!
3. Scully will HATE who ever they partner her with
4. The baby is NOT an alien and will not be abducted BEFORE it's born.
Now, any questions? Then go check out my site for further proof.
It's brought to you by the fabulous Shirley Smiley with graphics by the
extremely talented Shannara!
http://vickiemoseley.freeservers.com