From: akelleynolan@yahoo.com   
      
   TITLE:  Have a Nice Trip   
   AUTHOR:  A. Kelley Nolan   
   EMAIL:  akelleynolan@yahoo.com   
   DISTRIBUTION:  I'd be tickled pink.  Just let me know.   
      
   RATING:  R for innuendo (some) and language (lots)   
   CATEGORIES:  VRH   
   KEYWORDS:  Mulder/Scully romance, Humor (I hope)   
   SPOILERS:  Anasazi, but that was years ago.   
      
   SUMMARY:  Mulder gets slipped a mickey.   
      
   FEEDBACK:  Is good karma.   
      
   Disclaimer:  I don't own Mulder, Scully, Skinner, the Hoover Building,   
   Tylenol, or Advil.  I do own Rondonjohn and the FBI Doctor Lady, but   
   I'm willing to share.   
      
   Thanks:  To tree, for declaring it snort-worthy, and for agreeing with   
   me that "mindfuckingly" is so a word.   
      
   Author's notes at the end.   
      
   *********************   
      
   PART 1: MULDER   
      
   Scully's hair looks as bright as a penny.  I mean, I think.  I've   
   never really seen it, what with that whole colorblind thing, but this   
   guy down in the lab -- that young, geeky kid, what the hell's his   
   name? -- told me once that it's the color of a new penny.  He said it   
   with this kind of heartfelt sigh, if I remember correctly, and got a   
   little misty-eyed.  She has that effect on the lab rats.  I think   
   every one of them would chirp "which one?" if she told them to cut off   
   an arm, and I'm including that girl with the fierce hair and rather   
   frightening musculature.   
      
   But she's sitting here next to *me*, looking like newly minted   
   currency in the middle of an ass-numbingly boring divisional meeting   
   in Skinner's office.  I wonder who you have to screw to get an office   
   like this.  You could play a decent game of flag football on this   
   conference table, not to mention the things you could do to a   
   penny-haired pathologist on it.  Wonder if Skinner and Kim ever...nah.   
      
   I sneak a look at her and almost snort coffee out my nose.  She's got   
   on her "I'm so interested" face -- she's even pulled out the   
   thoughtful little frown between her eyebrows.  I know this look.  I   
   get it sometimes mid-slide show, and what it really means is "If you'd   
   just shut up I could slip into a full-on coma without seeming rude."    
   Mrs. Scully raised her kids to be polite, as well as mule stubborn.    
   And this particular little Scully is even pretending to take notes on   
   whatever the hell Pencil Dick, the accounting boy wonder, is talking   
   about.  I bet she's already listed all the presidents and is working   
   on states and capitals now.  I look at her notepad.  Shit, she's going   
   for alphabetical instead of geographical.  She really is bored.  I   
   think of a couple of highly effective ways to get her attention.    
   Well, highly effective up against the door of my apartment last night,   
   anyway, but I bet it would work anywhere.   
      
   I'm sort of sliding across the small area of table between us when I   
   feel a sharp little toe in my shin.  I know this toe, too.  It means   
   business.  It means "don't even think about fucking with me -- or   
   fucking me -- because you know I don't have any serious qualms about   
   shooting you."  She's a damn good shot, too.  She could take out   
   Little Mulder at 50 yards.  I slump back in my chair and throw my head   
   back to look at the ceiling.  Hey, the chair kind of spins.  You can   
   swing back and forth, and if you let your eyes go a little hazy all   
   the little squiggles on the ceiling tiles look like writing.  Like   
   Reticulan, maybe.  Shit, my head feels heavy.  I'm having a nice,   
   floaty flashback to an excellent trip in a punt on the Thames.   
      
   There is a sudden, sharp pain in my thigh, and I bolt upright in my   
   chair.  She fucking stabbed me with her pencil!  Ever hear of lead   
   poisoning, Scully?  Graphite poisoning, whatever.  I shoot a glare at   
   her, rubbing my wounded person, but she just angles her notepad so I   
   can see it better.  PAY ATTENTION.  All caps.  Underlined.  Oh, right,   
   like we're going to be tested on the capital of Wisconsin later.  I   
   sit back again and start dreaming up ways to make her pay.  That thing   
   up against my door comes to mind again.  I'm starting to feel a little   
   tingly.   
      
   Shit.  When did it get so hard to focus?  And now my whole body feels   
   kind of heavy.  Good heavy.  Like...post-coital heavy.  Fuck.  Why am   
   I swearing so much?  Whatever.  This is the best   
   stuck-in-a-bullshit-meeting sensation I can remember.  She's still   
   sitting there next to me, neat as a pin in that little black suit, and   
   I flash a proud smile around the table because I know exactly what she   
   looks like under it.  Skinner catches it and scowls even more.  Oh, if   
   you only knew, Skinman.  That big lantern jaw of yours would hit the   
   floor.  I swallow a snicker and look back at her.  One of those awful,   
   Federally Approved Decor spotlights over the conference table is   
   shining right down on her.  It makes her hair kind of glow, and her   
   skin seems even more translucent than usual.  She looks like she's   
   being beamed up.  No...shit, she looks like an angel.  Oh, wow.  I'm   
   in love with an angel.  Isn't that a song?   
      
   She's so pretty.  That isn't news.  I lay next to her and look at her   
   all night sometimes, thinking about how pretty she is.  But that's in   
   a general, God-damn-my-life-is-good kind of way, and right now I'm   
   noticing the specifics.  With really startling clarity, in fact.  It's   
   intense, like when you can hear colors.  She really is mindfuckingly   
   pretty.  Look at those eyes.  Man, I'm glad I can see blue.  Who has   
   eyes that clear?  They're like air.  No -- like the Caribbean.  Wait,   
   I've never seen the Caribbean.  They're like...like...swimming pools.   
    Yeah.  Big and wet and blue like Las Vegas swimming pools.  Damn,   
   that's really poetic.  She likes poetry.  I wonder if she'd like to   
   hear that?  Yeah, I bet she would.   
      
   "You have great eyes, Scully."   
      
   I have to say it in kind of a stage whisper to make sure she hears me.   
    The guy on the other side of her -- Ron?  Don?  John? -- leans   
   forward and looks at me with his eyebrows jiggling all over his   
   forehead.  One of them seems to be spelunking while the other's on its   
   own personal Eiger quest.  "Hey," I say amiably and look back at   
   Scully.  She has gone all still like she does when she thinks there's   
   a bug on her.  I've seen her calmly count the maggots in a corpse's   
   eyeball, but mention the possibility of a spider in her immediate   
   personal vicinity and she totally wigs out.  She hasn't moved a   
   muscle.  Maybe she didn't hear me?  Rondonjohn heard me.  Maybe she   
   needs me to clarify.   
      
   "They're so big and blue," I elaborate, and there is a definite dreamy   
   quality in my voice.  "Like swimming pools."   
      
   "Agent Mulder?"  Skinner is doing that laser eye thing he does, and I   
   give him a little wave.  That's my name, don't wear it out.   
      
   A tiny muscle twitches in Scully's jaw, and she darts a glance at me   
   that, if that hadn't been so fucking poetic, I would think meant   
   serious imminent danger to my person.  There is a skitter of sound   
   around the table, like autumn leaves blowing down the sidewalk, but   
   Scully doesn't say anything.  She does turn kind of a leafy color,   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)