Little Black Book

by Polly

Title: Little Black Book
Author: Polly -
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."


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