From: AnubisKV5@cs.com   
      
   TITLE:  THE ACCIDENTAL SPY (*Do not archive to Gossamer!*)   
   AUTHOR:  AnubisKV5   
   E-MAIL:  AnubisKV5@cs.com   
   FEEDBACK:  Constructive feedback always appreciated!   
   RATING:  NC-17. No one under 18!  No minors allowed!   
        Shoo!  Go away!  This isn't for you!   
        (NC-17 is the copyright of the MPAA, no   
        infringement intended.)   
   BETA:  Aerostar.  All other errors are my own.   
   CATEGORY:  Voyeur; someone's watching Mulder!   
   SPOILERS:  None, I think.  Set somewhere in   
        Season 1, however.   
   ARCHIVE:  I will post to Ephemeral and Gossamer. All   
        others please ask first.   
      
   DISCLAIMER:  Not mine; I only wish.  The X-Files   
        characters belong to 1013 Productions, Chris   
        Carter and Fox.  No rights implied.  I'm only   
        borrowing them.   
      
   SUMMARY:  You know, they NEVER make these stalls   
        completely private and there was a gap in the   
        corner joint, so I could see.  I'm not a voyeur   
        by nature. *I* don't like to be watched, but,   
        I admit I was intrigued.   
      
      
   AUTHOR'S NOTES:  Written for the Voyeur Challenge at   
        Fandomonium.com. (Please see Endnotes after   
        reading.) BTW, I am *not* either of the authors,   
        Anubis or AnubisLite at Gossamer; I am a totally   
        different individual.   
      
   DEDICATION:  For Aerostar, Obfusc8er and Radikel.   
        For AJ and SSD, always.   
      
   ~~x~~X~~X~~X~~x~~   
      
   I was tired as all get out.   
      
   Tired of the drudge work.  Tired of the garbage.   
   Tired of the damned paperwork.  Tired of the   
   scumbags.  I spent upwards of eighteen hours a day   
   in this place, and it was wearing.  I was rarely   
   home and that rankled.   
      
   I was just ... tired.   
      
   Worse than everything, I had to go.  NOW.  I can't   
   help but laugh at myself.  It's a normal, human,   
   bodily function and people just don't talk about it   
   in polite company.  Including myself.  Still, it   
   was either trudge down those stairs for some well-   
   earned time alone, or "enjoy" the company of my   
   fellow agents.  Frankly, I get quite enough of   
   that, thank you very much.   
      
   Okay, I know it's not a big deal, but I do *not*   
   share easily.  And I do NOT like sharing a bathroom.   
   No doubt because of a very public incident which   
   happened to me in Pre-Kindergarten that scarred me   
   for life.  So it's quirky for a very public agent   
   of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  Big tough   
   FBI agent.  Ha!  I admit it, it's bizarre.  Go   
   figure.  Maybe I'm even a wuss.   
      
   So, sue me.   
      
   Therefore, a long time ago, I discovered THE bathroom   
   in the Hoover Building.   
      
   And those facilities were in the dark, dank, hot or   
   cold basement, depending on time of year.  In the   
   summer, it was hot; the AC barely reached down that   
   far.  In the winter, it was cold.  Apparently it's   
   true:  heat rises. Maybe the air-conditioned air and   
   the warm heat, like almost everyone in the building,   
   avoided the basement like the plague, too.   
      
   The basement, where only the fearless tread.   
      
   The facilities I was waxing so poetically about were   
   the ones where few traversed.  Except for one agent.   
   The one everyone called the Lone Wolf.   
      
   Or "Spooky."   
      
   I wasn't really worried; Fox Mulder was rarely in   
   his office, always out chasing little green men or   
   UFOs, or other strange phenomena that were part of   
   his "division" -- the X-Files.  Chances were slim   
   he'd come in while I was in there.  He never had   
   before.   
      
   With a sigh, I signed off my computer and enabled   
   the password.  I learned a long time ago to never,   
   ever leave a document open on my computer.  So, I   
   stood up, stretched my back and left my office.   
      
   ~~x~~X~~X~~X~~x~~   
      
   A few agents nodded to me on my way out of my   
   office, but mostly everyone was involved in their   
   own cases or problems, or were in a pasty-faced   
   hurry, which usually meant they were on their way   
   to get their asses chewed by their ASAC or A.D.   
   Or worse, the Director himself.   
      
   I was down the stairs quickly and in the basement.   
   I paused for a moment in the subdued lighting,   
   listening, and when I heard nothing, I turned   
   right and went on down the hall.   
      
   Door pushed open, I again listened and, thankfully,   
   I was alone.  Like I said, maybe I'm a wuss about   
   this, but there I was.  Blissfully alone.  Something   
   hard to attain at the Hoover.   
      
   Comparatively speaking, the place was much smaller   
   than the rest of the washrooms in the Hoover.  This   
   one had two urinals and one stall.  Way back when,   
   I've heard, the basement's use was for storage --   
   still is -- and copy machines.  And, very likely,   
   the janitors.   
      
   The door to the stall always closed itself, so I   
   invariably leaned down slightly to look under before   
   I went in.  No feet.  Thank God.  I pulled open the   
   door, dropped my pants, sat down and closed my eyes,   
   wondering if the ghost of J. Edgar himself had ever   
   visited the bowels of his namesake building.  And   
   if he did, was he in a suit or a dress?  Maybe *he*   
   was the one who kept the stall door closed, out of   
   modesty!  I couldn't help but snort at my own stupid   
   idea...   
      
   And then I froze.   
      
   The washroom door creaked -- my personal early   
   warning system -- and I realized someone was   
   coming in.   
      
   Aw geez.  I did *not* want company while in here.   
   So, like the kid I had become after that incident   
   in the bathroom in Pre-K, I quickly lifted my feet   
   and quietly planted the soles of my shoes on the   
   door. Thank God they were rubber-soled, or I could   
   have never kept them planted there.   
      
   You know, the problem is, they NEVER make these stalls   
   completely private and there was a gap in the corner   
   joint, so I could see.  I'm not a voyeur by nature.   
   *I* don't like to be watched, but, I admit -- I'd   
   heard the rumors -- I was intrigued.   
      
   It was HIM.  Oh, man, I just wanted him to hurry and   
   LEAVE.   
      
   But he didn't seem to be in a hurry.   
      
   Fox Mulder was standing there, head down for a moment,   
   as if he was praying at the Altar of the Holy Urinal   
   Cake.  What the fuck?   
      
   He was wearing the pants of a very obviously expensive   
   dark blue suit, same color as mine.  But his was ...   
   Armani maybe?  More expensive than anything *I* could   
   ever afford, dammit!  He also wore a light blue shirt,   
   with sleeves haphazardly rolled up to his elbows.   
   His obnoxious paisley tie was loose and his dark hair   
   disheveled, as if he'd run his hands through it   
   repeatedly.  Or *someone* had.   
      
   Finally, he unbuckled his belt, unzipped, reached in   
   ... and I turned my head and looked away.  You just   
   don't watch someone urinate.  God, I hoped he couldn't   
   hear me breathing.  Thankfully, the air conditioner   
   rattled in the ceiling vents and hopefully covered   
   any sounds I made.   
      
   Then, against my own will, I *had* to look back.  Like   
   I said, I'd heard rumors.  Curiosity, they say, killed   
   the cat...   
      
   Holy! Cow!  He was hung!  No wonder half the secre-   
   tarial pool, a ton of female agents and not a few of   
   the "no tell" male agents were lusting after him,   
   despite his weird reputation.   
      
   I couldn't take my eyes away.  He leaned forward,   
   bracing against the wall with his left arm, holding   
   himself with his right hand, leaving my line of sight   
   clear and almost unobstructed.   
      
   I closed my eyes and prayed he'd finish quickly and   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)