Dear Undear Mulder

by Pattie

Title: Dear Undear Mulder (Pre-Christmas) Author: Pattie
Rated: PG-13
Category: Scully POV, A.
Spoilers/Timeframe: Mid-Season 7. Before The Gosts Who Stole Christmas.
Summary: Scully angrily tell Mulder off in a letter under the influence of Christmas cheer.
Archive: Gossamer, anywhere you'd like. Please tell me. Feedback:
Disclaimers: Mulder, Sclly, and Skinner and The X-Files belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Studios. No money made: no copyright infringement intended.

Dana Scully's Apartment,
December 23, 1998
1:35 p.m.

Dana Scully marched into her apartment, slammed the door and shook the snow off of her coat. Her purse went across the room, gloves on the floor and coat beside them.

She placed her hands on her temples, shook her head and growled. "ARGH! Mulder, you thick-headed, selfish, unsophisticated... why do I bother talking to myself?"

At least she had finished her Christmas shopping this year. The presents for her family and friends were all wrapped and ready to go. The Bureau party had gone well this year. As for her partner, Fox Mulder, well...

Scully grabbed her Journal and just had to vent or she'd scare the hell out of everyone at Bill's.

December 23, 1998:

"This has been the worst week of my career at the X-Files, with the exception of my cancer and the abduction. Yesterday, he took off without saying where he was going, leaving me with rough drafts of his notes and a letter pleading with me to finish up the final casenotes! (As if I didn't have my own notes to go over: Slice, dice, sample and theorize). So, I took today off early. Told Skinner I had a headache.

Yeah, a six-foot headache with a huge ego! I have had dung splashed all over me, biological toxins eat away at my shoes, an attempted frontal lobotomy, even horrible tests, chemotherapy and lost a dog.

I think this about takes the cake. No, I am not drunk. I only had three shots of Scotch in the car before I came into the house. I am... Relaxed. Honestly, the man has exasperrated me to no end. "All work and no play?" THAT is HIM. HE is the culprit. He gives me all the work at the office this time, and goes off to play alien hunter, or species discoverer, or guess that goon!

Boy, it's hot in here. Well, anyway, he isn't around and when I see him again it will likely be the day after Boxing Day, and I am going to give him a piece of my mind. YES! A very blunt letter telling him off! He needs to be TOLD and how! And if I put it on paper, I won't have to deal with the pout, "Aw, what did I do this time?", and the classic,"What is it, Scully? You can tell me." Tell him I will. Right now.

I'll have more to write later, I guess."

Before she wrote the letter, however, she thought another shot of Scotch would do her a world of good. It was with water this time, but a hasty drink nonetheless.

"Dear Undear Mulder:

You are an insensitive emotional midget. Your notes are your notes, and my notes are my notes and... and... and never the twain shall be... I won't do both parts ever again! Take your "I Want to Believe" poster and shove it right... you know where. Being a paranoid SOB must be fun. You think everyone is paying attention to you. They're not. I'm not. Really. I am not paying attention to you! So why am I so DAMN ANGRY!!!

There is no excuse for all the times you've gone out on your own and not said a word to me about why and where. None. Even after the last case. Wanna know what it looks like when you do that at work? Huh? Lazy oaf! Looks so damn peaceful without you there! So quiet! So... lonely. Oh, God. I feel sick. Yeah. Sick of COVERING for you, sick of LYING, sick of answering the phone every night... well, last night you didn't call. I FIXED THAT! Unplugged the... the thingy. Why can't I just block all home phone calls until morning? Especially from your home... what you call a home.

And I am still MAD that you did not call the office today. That was not like the Mulder that I normally know and ... GET MAD AT! Yeah. That fits in nicely. And now I have to drive all the way to Bill's alone this year with no date, in who knows what conditions... still single and childless and come home to probably a load of rough casenotes about some E.B.E. or shapeshifting whatseewhooz. Yeah, a shapeshifting stripper is more like it and you are also a no good porn addict who calls those 1-900 anumbers because you can't even find a date so there! You egotistical bum!

Shoot yourself before I do because I can't see straight right now. I had a few toasts to celibate... CELEBRATE all my damn good cheer. And those aren't tears on this paper, you gadabout. There's snow in my hair. Well, it melted. but there was. Really... Then I came home and wanted to..."


Scully couldn't decided whether to hide the letter, on the off chance it was Mulder, or just take it to the door.

"Scully? You home?" It was "The Undear One".

She shoved the paper hastily into her pants pocket and threw her writing tablet onto the coffee table.

"Yeah, yeah." She slowly walked to the door. When she opened it, she found herself smiling at Mulder. She wanted to dig her nails into her hands to stop the smile. "Hey, Mulder! Where were we off to this time? Mars?"

"Uh, no. Actually, I stopped off at Mom's place. There was something she wanted you to have. She left it to you. So, can I come in?"

"Yeah, come on in!" She wobbled around and slammed the door carelessly.

"You're drunk!" He grinned. "Why?"

"Merry Chris... Nice Holiday. This is a beautiful vase, Mulder. So sweet."She was on the verge of tears. "I'm touched. What a nice lady she must have been." She reached into her pocket for a tissue and out came the letter.

Mulder bent over to pick it up, but she had it before he could grasp it. "What is it? Personal mail, I understand."

"Yeah. It's personal. One sec." She marched into her bedroom, tore the letter into shreds and returned. "Want a drink?"

"Sure. Just one. So, Scully, Skinner said you had a headache?"

"Yeah. That's okay. I can put up with any big headache that comes my way."

As Scully poured Mulder a Scotch, she found she wasn't angry anymore. "Merry Christmas, Mulder." Better plug the phone back in before bedtime, she told herself, wiping a tear from her eye.

"Merry Christmas, Scully."


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