Another day in Virginia, precisely like the day that came before it. The grass needs mowing, but Mulder hasn't been in the mood to do it. The house could use cleaning, he could probably stand to shower - and eventually, he will. Whatever Scully might say about his habits, or what they might say about his mental state, the reality is that today's a rough one, and he's not in the mood to deal with any of it. Keeping tabs on the world is what he's up for, and that's what he does.
He's hunched over his laptop when a news article socks him in the gut.
Revealing his cell number isn't an appealing proposition, but it's quicker than driving into the city - especially if it turns out that he can no longer get into the Hoover Building on charm alone. He calls Skinner and gets his secretary and doesn't have any room to feel bad about how damn short he is with her. It's Mulder turns out to be the magic words to get him patched through, which is a real reversal of fortune, when you think about it.
"What the hell did you do to Scully?!" is his opening gambit, his voice loud and rough with worry, and he can nearly see Skinner pinching the bridge of his nose on the other end. "No, I'm not going to calm down -"
It goes on that way longer than he'd like to admit. Eventually, they agree to a meeting - the happy-hour special at a bar and grill in Alexandria. Mulder's willing to venture out there: it's close enough to be convenient for Skinner and Scully, but far enough from home that it won't twig anyone to him. The drive home can be as long and circuitous as he needs to shake any interested parties intent on tailing him.
He makes himself shower, though he leaves yesterday's five o'clock shadow and pulls on a t-shirt and jeans. He's not an agent anymore, and he's not going to pretend otherwise. And he's fifteen minutes early, scoping out the place, pacing in front of the restaurant, eventually getting a booth inside. It's hard to believe this is even real - but if Scully's walking the streets looking like that, something's wrong. And it might be wrong enough that it'll make up for the bad blood between them.
no subject
He's hunched over his laptop when a news article socks him in the gut.
Revealing his cell number isn't an appealing proposition, but it's quicker than driving into the city - especially if it turns out that he can no longer get into the Hoover Building on charm alone. He calls Skinner and gets his secretary and doesn't have any room to feel bad about how damn short he is with her. It's Mulder turns out to be the magic words to get him patched through, which is a real reversal of fortune, when you think about it.
"What the hell did you do to Scully?!" is his opening gambit, his voice loud and rough with worry, and he can nearly see Skinner pinching the bridge of his nose on the other end. "No, I'm not going to calm down -"
It goes on that way longer than he'd like to admit. Eventually, they agree to a meeting - the happy-hour special at a bar and grill in Alexandria. Mulder's willing to venture out there: it's close enough to be convenient for Skinner and Scully, but far enough from home that it won't twig anyone to him. The drive home can be as long and circuitous as he needs to shake any interested parties intent on tailing him.
He makes himself shower, though he leaves yesterday's five o'clock shadow and pulls on a t-shirt and jeans. He's not an agent anymore, and he's not going to pretend otherwise. And he's fifteen minutes early, scoping out the place, pacing in front of the restaurant, eventually getting a booth inside. It's hard to believe this is even real - but if Scully's walking the streets looking like that, something's wrong. And it might be wrong enough that it'll make up for the bad blood between them.