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good day bad day

by fatladysing

 

On a good day (a good day being one where she arrives at work and Mulder is already there but Kersh isn't; there are no messages on her desk, on her phone, or on her computer; she has plans for the evening that involve good friends, casual clothes, cocktails, and music) her step is light and her posture relaxed.  She exchanges pleasant conversation with Mulder as they review the facts of the case.  And they work efficiently, collaboratively to complete their report.

 

* * *

 

On a bad day (a bad day being one where Kersh is there and Mulder is nowhere to be found; the messages on his desk have overflowed to hers, the phone hasn't stopped ringing since she walked in the door, her e-mail box is at capacity; she already knows she will spend the evening in the office) her step is sluggish and her posture tense.  Passersby in the hallway steer clear at her approach and they drop into step gingerly in her wake.

 

All day long (on a bad day) rhythm and balance elude her.  And when Mulder finally appears she brushes by him in forceful affront.  Her manner commanding him to follow; her demeanor chastising his tardiness.  He knows better than to ask what's wrong or offer an excuse.  She will say "Nothing!" or narrow her glacial eyes in accusation and disbelief.  Instead he will follow her meekly through the halls, up the elevator, and to the office of an impatient Assistant Director.

 

* * *

 

Or (on a good day) they arrive early at Kersh's office.  Mulder walks in with his hand on her forearm, eyes capturing hers as she laughs at his joke.  The Assistant Director's secretary, Jeanine, greets him politely and her warmly, directing them to empty seats in the anteroom.   As she turns back to Mulder she feels Jeanine brush against her, a brief tug at her hip and a warm touch on her thigh.  And when the Assistant Director gestures them through the inner door, she feels a scorching gaze rake her from head to toe as she walks by the secretary's desk.

 

She sits, legs crossed and leaning back.  Her right hand drops idly into her suit pocket and she smiles as her fingers brush over the scrap of paper there.  She draws it out and unfolds it discreetly.

 

It says: "See you tonight."

 

Their report is thorough and the questions direct.  Even Mulder cannot obfuscate the simplicity of the case.  A murder.  A motive.  A suspect.  A confession.  These are the cold, hard facts.

 

And on a good day they are true.

 

* * *

 

But on a bad day the report in her hand is thin and Mulder's voice droning as he plies her with conjecture.  When they step into the Assistant Director's anteroom, Jeanine is on the phone making alternative evening plans.  The greeting, when it comes, is formal.  And as Jeanine shows them to their seats, she notices the secretary's hands lingering on Mulder's wrist, his witty remark, and her flirtatious giggle.  And when the Assistant Director beckons them through the inner door, she catches Jeanine whispering in Mulder's ear and the answering smile on his face.

 

The Assistant Director's eyes are narrow, his face hard, as he leans across his desk regarding them.  Mulder gestures at an out-of-focus photograph, his voice thrumming with excitement.  The report lies at his feet forgotten.  She slinks down in her chair and runs through the facts in her mind, repeating them like a mantra while Mulder twists and distorts and expounds.

 

As he is apt to do on a bad day like this.

 

Their rendezvous back in the office is short-lived as Mulder hastens away to follow his leads out in the field.  And she resigns herself to a day of reading, filing, and cross-referencing.  For her leads are buried in research and numbers and reports.

 

* * *

 

At the end of the day (on a good day) she and Mulder part ways with light words and gentle smiles.  She hurries back home for a shower and change before heading into the heart of the city.  A line has already formed outside the bar, but her name is on the list and they let her in.  She threads her way to the pool table in the back.  As she leans against the rail to watch the players, Jeanine approaches with a grin on her face and a pint in each hand.  She takes one and Jeanine slips the now-free hand under the hem of her shirt, caressing warm flesh with cold fingers.  She smiles at Jeanine over her beer.

 

The music at the bar is frenetic and her friends keep her pint full.  There are soft touches under the table and burning gazes across it.  She gets up to take her leave, but the room spins and her knees weaken.  A strong arm wraps around her waist and she leans into the support.  Once outside, Jeanine leads her to the passenger side of her car and gently removes the keys from her grasp.  When they are ready to go, she stretches across the seat and slips her tongue into Jeanine's mouth.

 

* * *

 

By the end of the day on a bad day, it is already the next morning.  The apartment when she gets there is empty.  The room is dark.  There are four messages blinking insistently on her machine.  Mulder.  Mulder.  Dial tone.  Mulder.  She makes her way to the bedroom and reclines, fully clothed, on her duvet.  She stares at the ceiling, she closes her eyes.  It is a demanding job.  Everyone makes sacrifices.  Not everyday will be like this.

 

* * *

 

On a good day, Jeanine helps her into the apartment and out of her clothes.  They leave a trail of shoes and shirts and jeans from the door to the bedroom.  They lie down next to each other on the bed and Jeanine slips a hand between her legs.  She doesn't want to respond yet.  She wants to remain in control.  But slowly, slowly she grows wet and swollen beneath those steady hands.  And slowly, slowly her body betrays her, letting those long beautiful fingers enter her and take her. 

 

Afterwards they curl into each other, the top of her auburn head resting gently beneath Jeanine's chin.  She reaches up and tangles her hand into soft blonde hair.  Eventually Jeanine will get up and retrace the path of clothing through the room, to the door, and out of the apartment.  But for now their bodies press together and the sounds of their deep syncopated breathing fills the darkened room.

 

Even on a bad day she will always remember this: the soft blonde hair, and the long beautiful fingers stroking her to ecstasy.

 

* * *

 

THE END

 

* * *

 

Note:  This piece is based on the short story "Body Language" by Diane Schoemperlen.  I really liked the structure and decided to take it out for a spin.

fatladysing@hotmail.com

 

 
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