Title:  Little Black Book

Author:  Polly - Polly122456@yahoo.com

Rating:  PG-13; a couple of bad words

Feedback:  Welcome and greatly appreciated

Category:  Mulder POV, MSR, Humor, Post-Ep

Spoilers:  Takes place after the events of "Chimera" 

(Season 7); references to several other episodes

Disclaimer:  These characters belong to Chris Carter 

and 1013 Productions

Archive:  Be my guest

Notes:  Written for Haven's 500 Words of PMSing 

Challenge (and it's only 859 words too long!)  Thanks 

to Peg's Girl for the quick beta

Summary:  Mulder deals with PMS as only Mulder can

*   *   *   *   *   *

Like every self-respecting, red-blooded American bachelor, I have a

little black book.  But mine is not a "little black book" in the

widely understood definition of that term.

I use my little black book to mark the passage of time.  Rows and rows

of dates written in my neat block print - one entry every 28 days or

so.  Some might call it perverse.  I call it an exercise in

self-preservation.  When you spend every day with a woman who has a

gun and a scalpel and knows how to use both, it's imperative that you

have an early warning system in place.

When Scully and I became partners seven years ago, I had forgotten

what it was like to be around an adult female on a full-time basis.  

I never considered how "that time of the month," as my mother used to

call it, might affect our working relationship.

The first few months of our partnership, I was blissfully unaware.  I

suppose I was still sulking about being saddled with a partner I

didn't want, forced to not only defend my theories but to find proof

that would satisfy her scientific mind.

Then one day I was hit full force with the wrath of Dana Scully -

usually reserved for murderers and mutants, not Mulders.  While I

tried to figure out what I'd done to deserve it, she stormed off to

the ladies room for the third time in an hour, and then it hit me.  

Elementary, my dear Watson - the culprit in the strange case of Dr.

Scully and Ms. Hyde was none other than PMS.  (They don't pay me the

big bucks for nothin'.)

I felt my theory was sound, but the enigmatic Agent Scully taught me

the importance of collecting solid evidence, so I found a small

notebook in the desk drawer and made my first entry.  Sure enough, 28

days later, it was a repeat performance: irritability, fatigue,

frequent trips to the bathroom, and grumbling about her tight skirt

even as she consumed two brownies and handfuls of M&M's from a bag she

kept in her desk drawer.

And thus my little black book was born.  There are a few gaps, but by

far it's the most accurate record keeping I've ever done.  It's become

a vital resource, reminding me of the days that I need to watch my

step and my mouth in order to protect my ass.

I did tempt fate once.  I threw caution to the wind and under the

guise of "liberated male" met the enemy head-on:

"Scully, did you know there's a theory that in the days before

electricity, all women had their menstrual cycles at the same time

because their bodies were influenced by levels of moonlight?  And the

reason women's cycles are different now is because there's artificial

light everywhere?"

"Mulder, did *you* know that I find these charming little anecdotes

you seem to pull out of your ass extremely annoying?"

I never tried that again.

Another time I forgot to consult my little black book before we left

for a case out of town.  Thus, I was totally unprepared for the week I

spent getting chewed out by Scully and watching her drool all over a

bucktoothed sheriff.  Scully remembers it differently, of course

(including the part about the buckteeth).  When I suggested her

behavior in Texas was a direct result of PMS, she agreed.

PMS, she said, stood for "Putting up with Mulder's Shit."

After that, my little black book was just like my American Express

Card - I never left home without it.

Luckily, Scully thought my little black book was exactly what single

men *usually* use little black books for, so until recently, I've

never had to hide it when I made my notations.

"Another sexual conquest, Mulder?" she'd say as I checked my calendar

and made an entry.

"Mmmmm, three-and-a-half stars," I'd reply.  "Lost a half-star for

wearing pantyhose instead of thigh highs."

She'd shake her head and mutter, "Mulder, you're sick," then turn back

to her work.

But she started wearing thigh highs soon afterward.  She made sure I

noticed.

Scully and I have been in a physical relationship for awhile now.  On

the fifth or sixth sleepover, as I lingered somewhere between the arms

of Dana Scully and Morpheus, that sultry, sexy voice that she reserves

for the bedroom whispered in my ear:  "So is your little black book

retired now?"

"Not retired," I replied dreamily.  "I burned it."

A lie, of course.  Given our new relationship, my book is more

important now than it ever was (especially since I figured out that

there's also a positive side to PMS like increased sex drive and more

intense orgasms).  But I have to be discreet.  If Scully ever finds

out what I've really been doing with my little black book for all

these years, she'll rip it to shreds and then rip me a new one.

The lights of Washington twinkled below as my plane prepared to touch

down at Reagan National.  I felt a twinge in my shoulder as I pulled

the seatbelt around my waist - I was tired from the case in Vermont

and more than a little sore from being tossed around like a rag doll

by a jealous suburban housewife turned monster.  All I wanted to do

was get home, wrap my arms around Scully, and let her soothing touch

mend my battered body.

It was then that I remembered our last discussion in the seedy

Southeast apartment building before I left for Vermont, and her

cranky, whiny telephone calls over the last few days. I pulled the

book from my jacket pocket and checked the date.  Yep.  More than

likely, I would soon be face to face with a beast woman of a different

kind.

I passed the gift shop on my way out of the airport and couldn't

resist stopping to check out what treasure was behind the handwritten

sign that read "75% Off."  It was meant to be a tactic to delay the

inevitable; but there in the bargain bin, I found the perfect peace

offering.

A short Metro ride later I rapped on her door lightly, then used my

key.  No time like the present to see if my theory was correct, so I

cracked the door just enough to poke my head through.  As sweetly as

possible I called out, "Honey, I'm home!"

"Call me 'honey' one more time, Mulder, and you'll be peeing through a

catheter."

Once I remarked to Scully that I was right something like 98.9 percent

of the time.  Make that 99.

I removed the key from the lock, dropped my suitcase by the door, and

watched her emerge from the bedroom, already dressed in her satin

pajamas.  I smiled as she stopped in front of me and placed her bare

feet atop my shiny wingtips.  Even with the added height, she still

had to stand on tiptoe to lock her arms around my neck.

"What kept you?" she asked, then pulled my lips to hers, her tongue

exploring vigorously as her teeth grazed my lower lip.  Did I mention

the increased sex drive?

When she let me up for air, I answered her question.  "I stopped to

buy you a present."

I pulled the gift from behind my back and her eyes lit up.  Within

seconds, the box I had selected from the bargain bin of Easter candy

was open and the chocolate rabbit inside had been expertly de-eared.

"Mulder," she said as she seductively sucked each fingertip between

those cherry red lips, "I've had a craving for chocolate all day.  

How did you know?"

I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close, prepared to

reciprocate her earlier greeting with equal gusto, when the little

black book in my jacket pocket pressed against my heart.  A sudden

wave of guilt swept over me.  Should I come clean?  Tell her how I'd

been deceiving her all along?  Drop to my knees and beg her

understanding and forgiveness?  I made my decision, looked deep into

her eyes, and gave her my reply:

"I just knew."

THE END