Title: Furor Brevis (1 of 1)
Author: Diana Battis
Distribution: OK for Gossamer, Xemplary and Spookys. Anywhere else, just ask. 
I usually say yes.  
Classification: MSR S, Angst 
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Yes. That's it -- just yes.  
Summary: Some things aren't better left unsaid. 
This is part of a series, and is a sequel to Interminabilis Vitae -- you 
really should read that first. It's archived at my website. See below for the 
URL.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never have, never will. Damn it!
Author's Comments: 
Music may be the food of love, but I live for feedback! E-mail me -- 
All4Mulder@aol.com
My fanfiction can be found at: 
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Vault/4090/TheXFilesFic.html

********

The unrelenting hammering echoed through the large room. An untidy pile of 
clothing stirred, and an arm emerged, a cheap digital watch on the wrist 
showing the time -- 2:37 a.m. A series of grunts emanated from the pile as it 
slowly shifted itself into the form of a small, decidedly unhappy man.

I'm getting too old for this shit, he thought grumpily, keeping his eyes 
tightly closed. He'd been having such a fantastic dream. A beautiful Playboy 
model, good booze, and a hot tub. A great time was being had by all until. . 
.he winced as the cacophony of sound again assaulted his ears.

Red-rimmed eyes blinked owlishly as he fought his way to complete 
consciousness. Groaning, he lifted his head from the table, peeling the Miss 
July centerfold away from his cheek. His hair stuck out every which way, and 
he attempted to tame its wildness with less than sure hands.

What the hell is that? He wondered hazily, as the noise continued unabated. A 
familiar voice bellowed his name, and he snapped to attention as it 
commanded, "Frohike! Open the door!"

"All right, all right! Keep your damned shirt on!" Bleary eyed, he stood up 
and scrabbled through the rubble on the table. Stacks of printouts, disks, 
assorted electronic parts, and a half-eaten pizza were pushed aside as he 
frantically conducted his search. Finally, a triumphant look on his face, he 
pulled out a pair of glasses and hurriedly donned them. The streak of tomato 
sauce on the left lens was a momentary distraction, but the pounding at the 
door soon won his full attention again.

"Frohike, open the goddamned door!" Mulder's voice blared through the 
speaker, and Frohike winced as the metal door reverberated from the force of 
the agent's blows. 

Damn it, does he have to be so freaking loud? He shook his head in disgust. 
"Sure ain't no way to keep a low profile," he mumbled gruffly to the loud 
voice. Pausing in his struggle to open the numerous locks, he shot a quick 
look at the monitor.

Mulder looked decidedly rumpled, his tie pulled loose and his suit jacket 
hanging limply from his broad shoulders. He carefully held a large bag in his 
arms, and was kicking rhythmically at the door. Turning suddenly, he stared 
balefully in the direction of the hidden surveillance camera. "What the 
fuck's taking you so long, Frohike?"

Sliding back the last bolt, Frohike pulled the door open and admitted his 
friend. "Jesus, Mulder. Give me a break. I was sleeping. Do you know what 
time it is?" He pushed up his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, trying to 
banish the slightly fuzzy vision he was still experiencing.

"Is that a rhetorical question?" Mulder brushed past him, sighing as he 
entered the dim coolness of the room. He dropped the bag on the table, 
knocking over a large stack of magazines. Issue after issue of glossy porn 
fell, littering the floor with their airbrushed fantasies.

"Hey! Careful there." With a muttered curse, the little man stopped the slide 
of paper, restacking the magazines neatly.

"Hard at work, were you?" Mulder asked dryly.

Frohike flushed in embarrassment. "Damn it, the cover on this one is 
creased." He fussed over the issue, carefully smoothing out the tiny wrinkle. 
"These are priceless collectibles," he muttered.

"Sorry. I'm a little bit clumsy tonight." Mulder's face twisted into an 
unfortunate sham of a smile, and he turned away from his friend, busying 
himself with the contents of the bag.

"To what do I owe this unexpected honor?" Frohike absently scratched his 
chin. "And where's your better half," he asked carefully, a bit surprised to 
see the agent alone.

"Brought you a little present," Mulder announced, disregarding the questions. 
He eagerly extracted a bottle from the depths of the paper. "Glenlivet. The 
Glenlivet, actually. Eighteen year-old scotch. Nothing but the best for my 
pal Frohike." Looking around the room cautiously, he asked, "Where are your 
two co-horts?"

"Sleeping."

"Sleeping? On a Friday night? You guys don't know how to live." Mulder kept 
his eyes focused on the bottle.

"It's after midnight, so technically it's Saturday. Besides, we pulled an 
all-nighter last night." He patted a towering pile of paper. "Monitoring some 
very interesting satellite communications," he stated earnestly. "You might 
be interested. . ."

Mulder shook his head. "Not now. We can look at them later. First things 
first." He held out the whiskey.

Frohike took the bottle from Mulder, cradling it reverently in his hands. 
"Nectar of the gods, my friend." Examining the scotch closely, he raised his 
eyebrows in surprise. "This one's been opened. . .somebody rip you off, Agent 
Mulder?" He held it up for his friend's inspection. The seal on the bottle 
was broken, though there didn't seem to be much scotch missing.

Heavy lids drooped over hazel eyes, looking at the proffered whiskey. "Sorry, 
Frohike, but I started without you. Only one little drink, back at my place. 
Then I thought, 'what the hell am I doing, drinking alone when I could be 
sharing this with my pal Frohike'? So, here I am." 

"Here you are," Frohike repeated, slightly confused. He held out the bottle 
for a second longer, but Mulder made no move to take it. Shrugging, the 
little man placed it on the table.

Mulder glanced around the room, vaguely searching for something before 
starting to sort through the clutter on the table. "Got any clean glasses? 
Let's drink a toast." Frohike winced as Mulder rearranged the organized 
chaos, causing several stacks of paper to teeter dangerously. 

"That's okay, Mulder. Park your ass. I'll take care of the glasses." Frohike 
walked over to a storage cabinet, poking his head inside as he searched. "So, 
you never told me -- where's the delectable Agent Scully tonight?" He emerged 
victoriously, holding two mismatched and only slightly dusty tumblers.

Mulder took his time answering. He pulled off his jacket, tossing it in the 
general direction of the table where it was soon joined by his tie. "Busy, I 
guess." His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, opening it midway, 
then rolling up the sleeves before settling into the chair. 

"What the hell do you mean, 'you guess'? Did something happen?" Frohike 
stared at his friend, his eyes filled with concern.

Instead of answering Mulder reached over and took the two glasses from the 
little man. He opened the scotch and poured a generous amount of the amber 
liquid into each of them. Passing one to his friend, Mulder raised his in a 
toast. "To absent comrades," he intoned, before draining the contents.

"Hey, ease up, man. This stuff ain't water. Besides, you want to treat it 
reverently, give it the attention it's rightfully due." With a nod, he 
clinked his glass against Mulder's empty one and sipped slowly. "Mellow, 
smooth, just a hint of smokiness." He closed his eyes, savoring his next sip.

"Quite a commercial, Frohike. Impressive, very impressive." Dropping his 
empty glass onto the table, he applauded, affectionately mocking his friend. 
"I'm sure when the FCC allows ads for hard liquor on television someone will 
be beating down your door. In the meantime, you drink it your way, and I'll 
enjoy it mine." Mulder poured another glassful for himself, again draining it 
in practically one swallow before slamming the tumbler down.

"So, Mulder, you never explained why you're here." Frohike sipped again at 
his scotch, enjoying the tangy warmth as it slid down his throat.

Mulder looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap. Shrugging, he untwisted 
his fingers and reached for the Glenlivet. "Oh, I just realized it's been a 
while since we talked." He filled his glass yet again, his tone slightly 
uneven.

"Talk, huh? Well, what do you want to talk about?" Frohike's sharp eyes 
examined his friend, a puzzled look on his face. Mulder was on the verge of 
getting soused, and that wasn't like him at all. He shook his head slightly. 
No, not like him at all. It was obvious Mulder was upset about something, and 
unwilling or unable to admit it.

"Just wanna catch up. Haven't seen you guys in a while and I thought. . ." 
Picking up the glass, Mulder gestured vaguely, and some of the amber liquid 
spilled over the rim and ran over his fingers. He never noticed.

Frohike was fast losing patience. He watched his friend take another huge 
gulp of scotch, and was relieved to see that he stopped after one swallow. 
The time for that sensitive crap was over. "Buddy, you can pull this vague 
shit on someone who doesn't know you well, but I ain't buying. Now what the 
hell is going on?" He pulled his chair closer and settled back into it, 
waiting. . .

Mulder cast his eyes around the room, as though searching for the answer 
among the clutter. Finally, he met Frohike's steady gaze. "It's her," he said 
bleakly, then bit his lip and looked down at his hands. They were trembling, 
and the whiskey left in his glass swirled uncontrollably. 

At those words, Frohike leaned forward, almost dropping his glass. "She's 
okay, isn't she?"

Sighing, Mulder shifted around, carefully placing his glass on the table. 
Turning back, he hesitated briefly before answering. "Truth, Frohike? I'm not 
sure. She. . .she's been acting strange." He slowly ran his fingers through 
his spiky hair, not meeting the other man's eyes. 

"Strange? By whose standards, yours or mine?" The older man asked evenly.

Mulder shot him a sharp look. "Strange by Scully standards."

"Care to clarify the situation a little, Mulder? I'm still in the dark here." 
Frohike took a large swallow of the scotch.

Mulder pressed his fingers against his eyes, then scrubbed his face roughly. 
"It's hard to explain," he muttered huskily. "Something was wrong. I sensed 
it, but couldn't quite put my finger on the cause." He dropped his hands and 
looked at Frohike. "At least, not until this morning. . ."

"What happened?" Frohike inquired gently, surprised to see the fear and doubt 
on Mulder's face. 

Mulder grimaced. "I. . .I overheard part of a phone call. From someone named 
'Chris'." He spat out the name like an obscenity. "She said something to him 
about not calling her." Shaking his head, he continued in a hard voice. "When 
she heard me come into the office she ended the conversation by saying she'd 
get back to him."

"Why do I get the feeling there's more to this than just a phone call?" 
Frohike mused aloud.

Mulder rubbed the back of his neck wearily. "It isn't just what Scully said, 
it's *how* she said it. Like she was trying to hide something." He shook his 
head slowly. "Scully's the most honest person I know. I can always count on 
her. And normally she's focused, direct, and practical. But that wasn't the 
Scully I worked with this week," he admitted glumly. "She was. . 
.preoccupied, sloppy in her work, and evasive."

Frohike thought for a moment, weighing his friend's words. "Maybe she's just 
having a bad week," he said finally. "It happens."

The other man sighed deeply, hunching forward in the chair. "I think it's 
more than that, Frohike. She's there, but at the same time, she isn't." He 
pressed his fingers against his temples, his brow furrowed in pain. "Christ, 
I'm not making any sense!" He exclaimed angrily.

"Easy, Mulder," Frohike encouraged compassionately. "We can make sense of 
this."

Mulder nodded, dropping his hands back to his lap. "She's different, like she 
was before. . ." He took a slow, deep breath, seeming to struggle for the 
words. "Anyway, we still talked, had a few discussions about equitable 
distribution of paperwork, but nothing really. . .personal. Scully was kind 
of withdrawn, and not inclined to small talk. And today, well, she did her 
work, ate at her desk, and left promptly at five." He reached back for his 
scotch, taking another swallow. "I thought I'd see her this weekend, but she 
said she needed some time to herself. . ." He shrugged.

"That's it? That's what's got you sucking down this fine scotch like it's 
water?" Frohike couldn't keep the note of exasperation out of his voice. 
"Jesus, Mulder, give the poor woman a break. She leaves on time one day and 
you're ready to call out the Marines? She was probably just tired after a 
long week of your shit."

"Goddamn it, Frohike," Mulder hissed through gritted teeth. "Give me a little 
credit. I *know* Scully!"

"Maybe some poor lab tech was bugging her about test results and she didn't 
want to go over them on the phone. I bet that's all there is to it." Frohike 
forced a smile. "I thought she'd finally wised up and kicked your sorry ass 
out. Thought there was some hope for me." He kept his voice light, trying to 
ease the tension in the room.

Mulder tossed back the remainder of his drink and set the glass down. "You 
may have to stand in line," he bit out. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled 
out a rumpled piece of paper. He smoothed out the creases before handing it 
to Frohike.

"A phone number?" Frohike smirked. "She ask you to give me this?"

"Part of a phone number," Mulder corrected. "Only an area code and four 
digits."

"And the purpose of this would be. . .?"

"That, Frohike, belongs to the mysterious Chris. I want to know who this 
person is, and what connection he has with Scully."

"How the hell *did* you get this?" Frohike waved the crumpled note.

"I. . .I pulled it from the trash." Mulder pursed his lips, a thoughtful 
expression on his face. "Something's not right with her, and he's the reason. 
She could be in trouble, or. . .I just have to know," he said finally, 
pouring a small measure of scotch into the glass sitting on the table. He 
turned back to face the other man, his features set. "I thought you could 
help me."

Frohike stared at his friend. "Well, why the hell don't you just ask her? 
Scully's not the type to lie." He shook his head. "I wouldn't feel right 
doing this, Mulder. It's one thing to spy on those sneaky bastards in 
Washington, but on Scully? No can do, my friend. Sorry." He handed the paper 
back to Mulder.

They sat there in silence, the little man confused and the taller one busy 
staring at the small slip of paper.

Mulder exhaled loudly, reaching behind him for the almost forgotten glass of 
scotch. He drained the contents, then turned quickly and threw the glass 
against the metal door. It shattered on contact, the shards glistening where 
they came to rest on the concrete floor.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Frohike started to stand, but was shoved 
unceremoniously back into his seat.

Mulder towered over him, his eyes burning like coals in the darkness of his 
face. "I said I need your help. And one way or another I'm going to get it," 
he threatened. Mulder stood there, body tense and fists clenched, awaiting 
his friend's answer.

Frohike remained calm, his eyes taking in the trembling form standing before 
him. It was the booze talking, he realized. And the fear. . .with a sudden 
nod of his head he reached out to Mulder.

"I'm gonna do this. Not because I'm afraid of you, though god knows you could 
wipe the floor with me. But because you're my friend, at least, you used to 
be." He pushed at Mulder's chest, and the agent staggered back. His thighs 
hit the chair behind him, and he sank into the seat, as though his legs were 
suddenly unable to hold his weight.

"Thanks, Frohike, you're. . ." He shook his head, words failing him. A lone 
tear snaked down his cheek, and he wiped it away self-consciously.

The other man waved away the thanks. "Wait until you see what I find out. You 
can thank me then." He turned to the keyboard and typed rapidly for a few 
moments. "Oh, and Mulder, if you tell the delicious Agent Scully that I was 
even remotely involved in this I'll. . ." His words were interrupted by a low 
snore.

Turning, he saw Mulder leaning over the table, his head resting on his folded 
arms. "Sleep, my friend. And enjoy it while it lasts. You're gonna feel like 
shit in the morning." Humming, he turned back to the computer and continued 
his work.

********

Frohike stole a glance at his watch: 6:55 a.m. Time to make that call. He 
looked back at Mulder, still sleeping soundly, and without taking his eyes 
from the slumped form, he dialed.

"Scully." The sleepy tone that greeted his ears caused his heart to beat a 
little faster.

"Scully, this is Frohike." He cleared his throat nervously.

A rustling sound came over the line, and he imagined her sitting up in bed, 
flicking on the light. Her beautiful red hair would be slightly tousled and. 
. .his musings were interrupted by the crisp voice that assaulted his ears. 
"This had better be good, Frohike. Do you know what time it is?"

"Listen, I'm real sorry to call you so early, but it's. . .it's about 
Mulder," he stated bluntly.

She inhaled sharply. "What about Mulder?"

He heard the fear in her voice and hastened to explain. "He's with me, 
sleeping it off at the moment. Showed up last night, looking for a drinking 
companion."

"You called me at the crack of dawn just to tell me Mulder had a couple of 
drinks?" She snorted in disgust. "Surely this could have waited. . .?"

He winced at the displeasure in her voice. "There's a little more to it than 
just the drinking, Scully," he replied apologetically. "He's upset about 
something that happened this week."

"Did he say what he was upset about?" she asked cautiously.

Frohike frowned, choosing his words carefully. "He mentioned a phone call, 
and said that you seemed. . .distant and troubled about something."

"I'm not sure what you mean," she interrupted, her voice barely above a 
whisper.

"I know, Scully," he said quietly. "Dr. Christopher Laughton, Head of 
Oncology, Georgetown Memorial."

"What do you know? That I've been in contact with a colleague?" Scully 
challenged. Her voice was stronger, and she sounded more in control.

Frohike's admiration for her increased, and he hated having to call her 
bluff. "That wasn't just a professional courtesy call, Scully. I've seen the 
records. I know about the biopsy." He sighed regretfully. "I'm sorry. I never 
meant to invade your privacy."

Scully was silent for a moment. "I'd ask you how you found out, but I know 
you have your ways," she murmured bitterly. "Chris is an old friend of my 
father's. He agreed to perform the biopsy as a favor. I didn't want Mulder to 
know, so I've been using an unorthodox means of. . ." Her voice faltered. 
"But I don't need to explain to you why I didn't want to go through normal 
channels."

"No, you don't." Choosing his next words carefully, Frohike continued, 
"Honest, I'm real sorry you're going through this. If I can help you in any 
way, you know I will." He thought about the implant, and remembered Mulder's 
face when he told them of her cancer's remission -- excited and hopeful. 
Relieved, too. So much pain and guilt eased by that small metal chip. But 
now. . .Scully's voice interrupted his musings.

"Did. . .did you find out anything?" She asked softly, a slight tremor in her 
voice. "I was told they wouldn't have the results until Monday morning."

"Nothing, Scully. Just the record of the biopsy. Like you said, the results 
are due in Monday." He abruptly changed the subject. "What about Mulder? You 
planning on telling him?"

He heard her sigh. "I couldn't tell him, Frohike. Not yet. It. . .he feels so 
responsible for everything that's happened to me. I thought I could spare him 
this. If the biopsy is negative, telling him won't be a problem."

Frohike forced himself to ask, "And if it's cancer?"

She took a long, deep breath. "I don't know. I honestly don't know. Haven't 
thought about it much," she replied, matter of factly.

Liar, he thought, that's all you been doing. But he kept that to himself. 
"Mulder knows something's wrong. He came over tonight, to talk he said, but 
he really wanted to cry on my shoulder. He's got some cockamamie notion that 
your interest in Dr. Laughton is personal." 

"But that's ridiculous!" She stated forcefully. "Why would he think. . ."

"Because of the way you've been acting this week. It looks mighty suspicious, 
Scully, don't you see that? You've been trying to protect him, but it ain't 
working," he declared grimly as his eyes again strayed to the agent's 
slumbering form. "Mulder's not the insensitive boor some people think he is. 
He knows something's up. That's why you need to come clean with him *now*!"

"I'm still not convinced this is the way to handle it. Okay, he was a little 
upset and it was probably my fault. I *have* been distracted this week." She 
sighed heavily before continuing. "But I still think it's better to wait 
until I know if it's malig. . .until I get the results on Monday. I promise 
you I'll tell him everything then."

"Not good enough." He retorted gruffly.

"It's the best I can do, Frohike. Surely you can see that?" She was pleading 
with him now, her voice chipping away at his resolve.

He looked at the computer screen again, then back to Mulder, sprawled over 
the table. "I'm gonna have to insist on it, Scully. He has a right to know."

"What am I going to say to him?" He heard her sniff, and realized she was 
crying. "He won't understand why I waited to. . ."

Frohike interrupted her. "That's why you need to talk to him immediately, 
Scully. For both your sakes. Don't put it off any longer." A low rumble 
issued from the prone form at the table, and Frohike held his breath until 
the noise subsided. "If you don't tell him, I will," he promised quietly.

Silence again. He imagined her, twisting a strand of hair around her finger, 
mulling over his words. "Okay," she said finally. "I. . .I'll tell him. It 
won't be easy, Frohike. And I'm still not convinced it's the right time. . ."

"Today, Scully. No more pussyfooting around it. I want you to promise me."

"You have my word."

He sighed in relief. "You won't be sorry, Scully. You're doing the right 
thing."

"I wish I was as sure as you seem to be," she retorted dryly, regaining some 
of her spirit. "Frohike? Can you do me a favor?"

"If I can." He wouldn't commit himself yet, not without knowing what she 
wanted.

"Give Mulder a message for me." She hesitated, then resumed speaking, her 
voice suddenly sounding stronger. "Ask him to call me when he wakes up. And 
tell him. . ." she faltered.

"Tell him. . .?" he prompted, waiting for her to continue.

"Tell him I missed him last night."

Frohike smiled grimly. He didn't doubt her words -- he could hear the 
yearning in her voice. But he was still a bit unsure of her. "Will do. And 
Scully? If you don't do right by him I'll. . .I'll have to kick your ass," he 
finished, almost apologetically. Much as he admired the pretty agent, his 
first loyalties were to Mulder.

She laughed softly. "I wouldn't expect anything less from a friend of 
Mulder's." He heard a faint click, and then the dial tone.

"I'm your friend, too," he muttered, removing his glasses to swipe at his 
burning eyes. Replacing them, he turned his attention back to the screen, and 
began to delete the incriminating records from his hard drive.

******

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, pulling Frohike from another incredible 
dream. Miss July was there, and a bottle of good scotch, and. . .he snorted 
in disgust and wearily lifted his head. Of course -- Mulder again.

"Frohike. Sorry to wake you, but I can't find my keys," Mulder whispered 
frantically. He looked none the worse for having drank almost half a bottle 
of scotch, and Frohike was impressed with the younger man's stamina.

Meanwhile, the little man attempted to straighten up, his joints cracking 
loudly. His glasses rested crookedly on his face, bent from sleeping on them. 
I'm getting too old for this shit, he thought miserably as he attempted to 
straighten the frames.

Mulder stood next to him, visibly impatient and completely oblivious to his 
friend's struggles. "Keys. Now. Please. You *do* know where they are, I 
assume?"

"Yeah, I took 'em away from you last night, after you crashed. Didn't want 
you waking up and deciding to drive off without my checking you out first." 
He peered at the taller man, noting the red-rimmed eyes and furrowed brow. 
"Close your eyes, extend your arms and touch your nose with your finger. Not 
really a fair test -- your target is bigger than most, but it'll have to do," 
he announced impishly.

"Cut the shit, Frohike. I need my fucking keys." Mulder rubbed his hand over 
his face, and grimaced as his fingers encountered the stubble roughened 
cheeks. "Scratch the keys, for the moment anyway. You have a spare razor? I'd 
like to get cleaned up first."

"Help yourself." Frohike gestured to the doorway at the far end of the room. 
"You're in a damned hurry. Aren't you interested in what I found out?" He 
watched Mulder hesitate, then stiffen his spine and continue walking toward 
the bathroom.

"If you'd discovered anything, you'd have awakened me," he tossed over his 
shoulder miserably. "I guess I overestimated your skills as a hacker."

"Hey!" Frohike exclaimed loudly. "I'll remember that next time you need a 
favor."

Mulder stopped short. "Sorry, Frohike. I'm always a bit cranky until after 
that first cup of coffee," he said quietly.

"S'okay, Mulder. Anyway, you were right. I didn't learn anything new," 
Frohike lied, "but I do have something to tell you. Someone left you a 
message." He paused, wanting Mulder's full attention before continuing. He 
didn't wait long.

Mulder stopped in his tracks, turning swiftly to face the other man. 
"Message? From Scully?" He asked slowly, his face impassive. All thoughts of 
shaving seemed to have disappeared as he awaited the answer.

"Yeah, Scully. I talked to her."

Mulder frowned darkly. "And how in hell did you manage that?" He stalked back 
to confront Frohike. "Goddamn it! You knew I didn't want you to call her."

"What makes you think she didn't call me, Mulder? You don't know everything 
about me, pal." He countered, scowling at the agent.

"Did you tell her I know about. . .him?" He asked harshly, his eyes 
glittering dangerously.

Frohike held up his hand. "Ease up! Look, she gave me a message for you. Do 
you want it or not? Doesn't make a damned bit of difference one way or 
another to me."

"What's the message?"

"She said she missed you and wanted you to call her."

He made an immediate about face, heading quickly for his coat, with Frohike 
following close behind. Rummaging in the pockets, Mulder pulled his cell 
phone out and hit auto-dial. Catching Frohike staring at him, he raised his 
eyebrows questioningly, and the other man took the hint.

"I'm gonna rustle up some coffee." He gestured toward the coffee maker.

Mulder nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. While Frohike watched, 
his features tensed and he uttered a name. "Scully?"

Frohike moved away, trying to block out the conversation. He grabbed the 
coffee pot, the cold remains of yesterday's brew lying like sludge in the 
bottom, and proceeded to the sink to scrub it clean. The roar of the water 
effectively drowned out Mulder's voice.

He'd scrubbed and rinsed the pot several times when a hand again clamped down 
on his shoulder. "Jesus, Mulder, you trying to make me into a hunchback or 
something? Easy, buddy. I ain't made of steel." He winced, and rubbed the 
affected area.

"Sorry," Mulder answered gruffly, "but I need my keys. I have some stuff I 
need to take care of this morning."

"Right, let me get 'em." He put the pot down and searched through his pockets 
for the elusive keys. "Here you go," he announced unnecessarily, flinching as 
Mulder snatched them roughly from his grasp.

"I guess I'm just a little anxious." Mulder said awkwardly, his breathing 
slightly uneven.

"Yeah, just a little. Everything okay with you two?" Frohike couldn't resist 
asking.

Mulder blinked rapidly, then looked down at his friend. "I think so," he said 
cautiously. "She wants to talk. I think that's a good sign," he added 
unconvincingly. Turning, he grabbed his jacket and tie, and walked to the 
door. "Gonna see me out?"

"Sure, sure." Wiping away the beads of sweat threatening to drip into his 
eyes, the little man hurried over to the door and began the ritualistic 
opening of the locks.

Before leaving, Mulder extended his hand to Frohike. "Thanks. I owe you." 

Grabbing the offered hand, Frohike shook it firmly. "Anytime, buddy, 
anytime." But not too soon, he added silently, thinking of Scully and the 
coming meeting. Not too soon. Swallowing the lump that had formed in his 
throat, he carefully closed and locked the door.

********
End

Diana Battis
Feedback is appreciated -- All4Mulder@aol.com