Title: NO PROBLEM
Author: Jean Robinson (jeanrobinson@yahoo.com)
Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property 
of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television 
Network. All others are the property of the author. No 
infringement is intended. 
Rating: R
Classification: S, H
Archive: Please ask permission.
Spoilers: FTF
Summary: What Mulder doesn't know can hurt him.
Feedback: Make me girly-scream at 
jeanrobinson@yahoo.com
Author's notes at the end
*****************************


NO PROBLEM 
By Jean Robinson


He's utterly oblivious.

I want to tell him, I really do. I'm not shy about that kind 
of thing; when you train to be a doctor, very little about 
the human condition surprises you. When I was in med 
school, one of my girlfriends from college wanted to know 
how I could stand looking at naked people all day and 
not get turned on. All I could tell her was that most of the 
naked people were oozing or wheezing or otherwise 
spouting bodily fluids of one type or another, and it's 
hard to get aroused by copious quantities of blood or 
mucus.

But despite my good intentions, what flits across my 
mind first is a singsong litany of initials from my 
childhood and I refuse to stoop to such an infantile level 
to address this. Before I can formulate a mature, 
unemotional approach to the problem, Mulder sweeps me 
out the door and we are heading for the elevator on our 
way to Skinner's office.

My partner is mumbling something about Larry and the 
ghosts. I take this to mean that Skinner is not satisfied 
with his explanation of our little jaunt to visit "Crazy" 
Lawrence McIntyre, a self-made millionaire recluse who 
claimed that his success in the transit industry was due 
to spiritual intervention. Mr. McIntyre invented some 
kind of coupling system used in electric buses. I hadn't 
had time to look at schematics before our interview with 
Mr. McIntyre, not that I would have understood them 
anyway. Biology is one thing, but full appreciation of Mr. 
McIntyre's accomplishments would have taken a degree 
in electrical engineering.

Sometimes Mulder forgets that "science" is a rather 
broad term.

Mr. McIntyre called Mulder to tell him that the same 
ghosts who had explained to him how to revolutionize 
bus transportation were after him to improve the airline 
industry, too, and what did Mulder think he should do. 
Never one to let such a tantalizing opportunity go to 
waste, Mulder's response was to rush right over to talk to 
this lunatic with me in tow.

Without authorization, as usual.

Turns out "Crazy" Larry had a platoon of nurses, doctors, 
attorneys and relatives camped out in his Alexandria 
mansion waiting for the old man to die so they could 
squabble over the will. They were less than thrilled to see 
the FBI on their doorstep.

Hence the inevitable call to Skinner. Hence our first-
thing-in-the-morning-just-to-start-your-day-off-right 
summons to Skinner's office.

I suppose it wouldn't be a typical week on the X-Files if 
we weren't being reamed out about something, but it 
would be nice to make it through my first cup of coffee 
without acid indigestion for once.

Due to the nature of our work and Mulder's propensity to 
find trouble even where none previously existed, I've had 
plenty of practice in maintaining my staid poker face no 
matter what the provocation. They don't call me 
"enigmatic" for nothing. 

But this is different. This will take restraint I'm not sure I 
can marshal first thing on a Monday morning. 

Thanks, partner. Thanks a lot.

___________________________

Oh, my God.

I look up with my usual welcoming smile when the two of 
them appear for their meeting with my boss. I'm not one 
to eavesdrop, but A.D. Skinner's voice has a tendency to 
carry, especially when he's irate. All I had to hear was, 
"He WHAT?!" and I knew who was in trouble, as sure as I 
knew what his first words would be when he got off the 
phone.

"Kimberly, please call Agents Mulder and Scully and have 
them come up here immediately."

So I did, and now they're cooling their heels in the 
anteroom with me while my boss completes yet another 
important, can't wait, don't interrupt phone call.

I always look at Agent Mulder first; what woman 
wouldn't? The man may not be as strikingly handsome 
as some of those movie stars, but he's got that aura of 
sexuality that can't be faked with stage makeup and 
fancy lighting. And he walks around as if he's totally 
unaware of his effect on people, which makes him all the 
more attractive.

God knows what's going on between him and Agent 
Scully. Half the secretarial pool thinks they're sleeping 
together, while the other half thinks one or both of them 
is gay. I've managed to avoid contributing to the 
speculation.

But when he shows up like this, it makes me wish I had 
chosen sides.

I sneak a quick glance at Agent Scully to see if she's 
aware of it, but I can't tell. Dana Scully is a difficult 
person to read. She has exactly two facial expressions: 
calm and calmer. I've never seen her smile. I've never 
heard her laugh. I sometimes wonder if she can do 
either, or if it's been so long since she's had anything to 
laugh about that she's forgotten how. I've heard the 
names they call her at the water cooler and by the coffee 
machine and I sometimes feel sorry for her. I'm sure she 
knows about them; the only thing that travels faster than 
gossip in this place is bad news. Every once in a while I 
think about trying to start a friendly conversation with 
her, but then I look at those glacial blue eyes of hers and 
lose my nerve.

Agent Scully looks like she doesn't need any friends but 
Agent Mulder.

All the same, how could she not know about her 
partner's problem? I decide she does, but she's elected to 
ignore it.

I'm relieved when the little light goes off on my phone, 
indicating that my boss has completed his call and is 
now ready to see these two and hand them their heads 
on a proverbial platter. I smile politely and tell them to go 
in to A.D. Skinner's office.

______________________________

Christ, Mulder, what's wrong with you?

I almost lose my entire train of thought when I see him. 
For a brief instant I consider telling him, then disregard 
it. In an office setting, particularly this setting, with 
Agent Scully standing rigidly right next to him, it's hardly 
an appropriate comment.

"What the hell were you two thinking last week?"

My words are harsh, biting, laced with all the sarcasm 
I'm used to mustering when dealing with this pair. One 
thing I've learned over the years is that Fox Mulder does 
not respond to subtle hints. The man needs to be hit over 
the head with a sledgehammer before he'll back down 
from a position.

Mulder tries to defend himself. I irritably tell the two of 
them to sit down and immediately regret my invitation 
because I've just made things worse. Now I can barely 
concentrate on what he's saying, not that it would make 
a difference anyway.

Scully looks at me with those impenetrable blue eyes, as 
if I'm some sort of newly discovered bacteria she's 
viewing under a microscope. It's a stare so close to 
insolence I could almost call her on it, but not quite. I've 
seen sides of Scully that I don't think anyone else has, 
not even her partner. I've seen her on the verge of tears, 
I've seen her filled with compassion, and I've seen her in 
the throes of utter joy. I've watched her burn white-hot 
with fury, and I've been scalded by her rage more than 
once. And on one occasion we'd both rather forget, I 
caught her in my arms and cradled her as she grimly 
held on to consciousness long enough to whisper an 
accusation of betrayal only I was meant to hear.

But I will never claim to understand Agent Scully. As I sit 
here behind my oak desk bluntly telling this pair that 
their actions last Friday afternoon were so far outside the 
scope of Bureau protocol they weren't even visible on the 
horizon, I can't tell if she's noticed her partner's 
predicament or not.

If I had to make an educated guess, I'd say she has. Her 
eyes reveal nothing but a cool acceptance of today's 
lecture, but I can detect slight movements of her jaw, as 
if she might be biting the insides of her cheeks to keep 
her expression neutral.

"I don't want to get another phone call like the one I had 
this morning from Mr. McIntyre's attorney. Is that 
understood, Agents?"

"Yes sir," Mulder mutters. He's pissed and not bothering 
to hide it much.

"Yes sir," echoes Scully. She sounds perfectly composed, 
as if she spent the last fifteen minutes discussing the 
weather instead of being yelled at for not protecting her 
partner from his own idiocy. "Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes." Please. Just get him out of here, Scully. You deal 
with him, because any minute now I'm going to lose my 
hard-ass façade and start laughing out loud.

They depart, and I can finally rest my head in my hands 
and smile to myself before I summon Kimberly to bring 
me the rest of my messages.

__________________________

What the hell is going on?

No. That's not right. What the =fuck= is going on here?

Okay, so I screwed up with McIntyre. That my 
investigative style has been called into question yet again 
is hardly news around here. So why is everyone, from the 
guard at the metal detector all the way up to my boss, 
looking at me as if I've grown another head?

Even Scully is doing it. Scully, who minces no words, 
makes no bones about telling me to my face what she 
thinks of me at times, is shuffling and sidestepping and 
giving me curious little peeks as if we've been transported 
back in time to our very first case. I almost expect to 
hear her say, "My name is Dana Scully and I've been 
assigned to work with you."

It's been six years, Scully. Not to make a big deal out of 
it, but I hauled my ass across Antarctica to rescue you 
once, and I think I deserve a little respect and honesty on 
your part for that maneuver, if for nothing else.

Most people don't think you even =have= emotions, let 
alone show them, but I know you better than that. You're 
smirking behind that carefully constructed nonchalance. 
I know you are. If you were anyone else you'd be on the 
floor laughing so hard the tears would stream down your 
face and your stomach would ache for a week. 

Usually you just give me the cold shoulder after a 
meeting like that with Skinner. Today it's been one big 
internally suppressed giggle from the minute I stepped 
into the office to now.

Kimberly was even worse. Don't think I haven't noticed 
how she sometimes stares at me as if she's wondering 
how I might taste. This morning she looked like she'd 
found out I was lima bean instead of the Godiva 
chocolate she'd been expecting.

Then Skinner got into it. He was only operating on half 
power, and you know it. He should have screamed at us 
for at least another ten minutes, but for some reason he 
couldn't wait to get rid of us. The minute we sat down, he 
looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in that office 
with us. Or with me, I should say. I caught him 
eyeballing you more than once, but he couldn't even 
bring himself to glance at me for more than a 
millisecond.

So what is it, Scully? Did someone stick one of those 
"kick me hard" signs on my back like we used to do to 
the nerdy kids in grade school? I'm going to worm a 
confession out of you if it's the last thing I do.

"Scully?" I keep my voice calm. If I make a big deal of 
this, you won't enlighten me. I know you well enough to 
understand that's how you operate.

"What, Mulder?" You don't look up from your paperwork. 
I've never seen you so engrossed in a file that didn't have 
some nice juicy autopsy photos. You're hiding something, 
Scully, and you picked the wrong window-dressing this 
time. I know you're not that interested in a file with the 
title "'Winnie-the-Pooh Stole My Babies': Distraught 
Mother Claims Beloved Bear Kidnapped Children To The 
Hundred Acre Wood."

"What's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

Oh, you're not getting out of it that easily, Scully. "I 
mean," I say acidly, "why is everyone treating me as if I'm 
Typhoid Mary this morning."

"Are they?" You're losing it, Scully. I can hear that giggle 
coming to the surface in your voice.

"Yes. Even you are."

"I am?" Jesus, Scully, how long are you going to fence 
with me about this?

"Yes. You are. Now are you going to tell me what the 
problem is, or do I have to go ask a stranger on the street 
to look me over and give me an unbiased opinion?"

You finally deign to give me your full attention.

You're smiling.

You're smiling like the cat that ate the canary.

Scully, you never smile like that.

You absolutely never. . . oh, shit. I glance down at myself 
in horror.

Yes, my fly is open.


End


Author's notes: I blame this on cabin fever caused by 
Hurricane Floyd and the prescription painkillers I was on 
for three days during that time. No actual men were 
harmed in the writing of this fic. My apologies to Winnie-
the-Pooh for including him in something so totally 
without merit. ;-)

Feedback: Make me girly-scream at 
jeanrobinson@yahoo.com