From: juliettt@aol.com (Juliettt) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: "Have You Ever Had One of Those Days. . . ." by Juliettt Date: 27 Oct 1995 23:29:45 -0400 "Have You Ever Had One of Those Days. . . ." by Juliettt@aol.com (October 26, 1995, which was definitely One of Those Days) Just a little, light story. Well, it wasn't light at the time, but. . . . Disclaimers galore: Dana Scully and Fox Mulder are property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, FOX Broadcasting, and Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny, and I'm borrowing them lovingly but without permission. This story and the events it represents are mine, unfortunately. And, yes, they are real. Again, unfortunately. . . . And I'm very, very sorry for putting Scully through the wringer. Really. Read this and rejoice to yourself: "Hey, my day wasn't so bad after all!" ******************************************************** "Have You Ever Had One of Those Days. . . ." by Juliettt@aol.com ******************************************************** "*WHAT* a day!" Special Agent Dana Scully moaned, leaning her head on her steering wheel. "What else could possibly . . . no, forget I said that. . . ." It had all started when her wallet had disappeared last week. Not stolen, not left somewhere as far as she could remember, but just -- disappeared. She knew she'd had it at Target when she went to pick up some cleaning supplies and such, and then she'd stopped by Mulder's apartment for a cup of coffee to celebrate surviving a particularly hellish week. At least, she thought at the time that it had been hellish. . . . She had remembered bringing in her wallet and keys and putting them on top of his television -- she distinctly remembered sitting there on his couch and seeing them there after he invited her to stay to watch their two favorite television shows together. Oh, boy -- a hot Friday night for the pair from the X-files division. . . . She'd gone home, exhausted, and collapsed into bed. She hadn't gone anywhere the next day. It had been far too long since she had caught up on her laundry and cleaning (hence the supplies), and her normally impeccable apartment was beginning to look a little dingy. She didn't get as far as she would have liked; it seemed that every time she turned around she was getting another long distance call from one relative or another, and before she knew it the day was gone. On Saturday night she realized she had run out of Diet Coke and she really, really had the craving. She picked up her keys and reached for her wallet. Not there. How could it just *not* be there? It *had* to be there. She *never* lost her wallet -- never. That was Mulder's forte. Okay, think rationally. The bedroom. Nope. The kitchen. Nope. The bathroom? Nope. She had a flash of inspiration and headed to her car. Nope, nope, nope. Oh, great. *How* could she have misplaced her wallet between Mulder's place and hers? She heaved a sigh and sat down to call him. "Mulder." "Hey. It's me. Ummm. . . ." "Scully? Something wrong?" She could hear the concern in his voice. It made her feel pleased and guilty at the same time. "No -- well, yes -- well, it's not a big deal. . . ." "What's wrong, Scully?" "Umm. Mulder -- did I by any chance leave my wallet over there?" His laughter was relieved and amused. "Your wallet? No, I haven't seen it." "Could you check, please?" "Scully, I'm hurt. Do you think I never clean or something?" "Mulder, I *know* you never clean." "Oh, yes, I do," he chortled. "Today. Even vacuumed. Did all my laundry. Did all the dishes, too." "No wallet, huh?" "No -- sorry, Scully. Are you sure you left it here?" "No, Mulder. If I were sure I left it there I would be at your apartment picking it up instead of asking you to look for it," she growled. "Hey, take it easy," he said. "Want me to come over and help you look?" "No, that's okay," she sighed. From the sound of things his apartment was in better shape than hers, especially now that she had torn it apart looking for her wallet. She didn't want him to have *that* to hang over her as well. "I'll keep looking. See you Monday." "Yeah -- bye," he agreed. "And good luck." By midnight she was in a panic. No, they hadn't seen it at Target. Yes, they would certainly call and let her know. The woman sounded dubious, though. With good reason. Great. Just great. Thank goodness her FBI badge had its own wallet. She couldn't call to put a hold on her bank card because nobody was there for the weekend; she was certain there was a 24- hour emergency number, but it wasn't in the book. It was probably on the back of the card, she thought wryly. Blocking from her mind the vision of somebody running up an impossible debit on her checking account, she called and cancelled her other cards. Monday morning and she still hadn't found her wallet. She cancelled the bank card and vowed to go down to the DMV to have another license made so she could at least write checks. But she had been busy the whole week and hadn't gotten a chance. Saturday. She would have to go Saturday for sure. So now it was Friday again. A whole *week* without her wallet -- she hadn't known she could survive that long. After the first day, when it became obvious that this was somewhat more serious than Scully just *misplacing* her wallet, Mulder had quit teasing her about alien abductions and George Carlin's "pile of lost things." This morning she left the apartment earlier than usual to allow herself time to go by the bank and get some money, since she couldn't charge anything or write a check without her i.d. She hurried out to the car and grabbed the door handle. It pulled upwards at a sickening angle and stuck. WHAT the. . . ? She pulled again. Nothing. Sighing in resignation, she walked around to the passenger side, and paused a moment. What if this one stuck, as well? What were the odds? Nahh. . . . That would be just *too* extreme. . . . She took a deep breath and pulled. To her immense relief, it opened. She reached over and popped the driver's side door open, then hurried around and got in. Now. To the bank. She checked her watch. *Still* plenty of time. She pulled up and parked with a sigh, knowing that she would have to wrestle with the door handle again when she came out. But she couldn't go through the drive-through; she still had no identification. At least the tellers inside knew her. When she stepped into the bank her jaw dropped. A long line wound through the lobby and almost to the door. She closed her eyes and groaned. Pay day. She should have known. "Oh, great," she muttered, looking at her watch. On any other day she would just forget it and leave, but this was almost the weekend, she had no money, and she needed groceries. So she stood and waited. And waited. And waited. For once everyone else seemed to have all the time in the world. She watched two women in front of her laugh and chat idly, sauntering towards the counter as the line moved at a snail's pace. She tapped her foot impatiently, then stopped herself. At least she'd made time for breakfast. She didn't think she could take low blood sugar on top of everything else. The front of the line. *Finally!* She stepped forward and smiled at Rita, her favorite teller. "Good morning, Dana. How're you doing?" She rolled her eyes. "*Not* well. My wallet's gone AWOL, the door handle is stuck on my car and I have *no* money." Rita laughed sympathetically. "Well, that last I can help you with, at least." She counted out the amount Scully requested and smiled as the agent folded the bills and slipped them into her pocket. "I feel so naked without my wallet," Scully admitted. The other woman nodded. "Oh, well. What else can *possibly* happen, right?" Rita's face took on a look of mock horror. "Don't even *say* that!" "Yeah, right," Scully grinned, waving on her way out the door. She was in a better mood -- okay, so she still had to deal with the door handle, and he wallet was still missing. But according to her credit card companies no-one had tried to charge anything. Maybe her wallet was still around somewhere. Maybe the dog had hidden it. Maybe. . . . She scowled at the door handle. She hurried out of the parking lot and headed for the Hoover Building. She had wanted to fill up with gasoline, but now she wouldn't have time. It was only a few blocks, anyway. . . . She glanced at the guage. Almost empty. She had been so concerned with finding her wallet and so busy with everything else that she hadn't realized she was this low. Well, she should have enough until after work. . . . And just then the car lurched and began to lose power. Noooooooooooo. . . . . Less than a minute later she was parked at the side of the road, half blocking the driveway to an apartment complex. she thought, staring up ahead of her. Great. Just great. And now she was going to be late to work because she couldn't just leave her car blocking the driveway, and she couldn't move it by herself. she fumed internally. She picked up her phone and dialled information for the AAA number. While she was on hold she tried to figure out what exactly to say. She didn't have her card, so she didn't have her number. She wondered if they would accept her badge. And for just a moment it crossed her mind -- she could jump out of her car, flag down the first convertible she saw, and flash her badge and gun and just commandeer the sucker. Maybe she could even get as far as Massachusetts before either her conscience or the highway patrol caught up with her. she chanted silently. When the AAA operator came on the line she told an abbreviated version of her story and held her breath. A man. It *had* to be a man. He was probably thinking what a ditz she was for driving around so low on gas. Well, she had a gun. And at this moment she felt like using it when he told her it would be a thirty-five minute wait. Not that she thought that was a long time; from previous experience, however, she knew it would be more like an hour or an hour and a half. She sighed and hung up. She pulled out her laptop and powered it up. But then, suddenly, she rebelled. She played solitaire until she was bored, which didn't take very long, then shut down her computer and stared out the window. Finally she gave in and picked up her phone, punching the first speed-dial button. It picked up halfway through the first ring. "Scully?" Despite herself she smiled. "Yeah, it's me, Mulder." "Are you okay?" She felt a pang of guilt. "I'm -- yeah, well -- I'm okay, but this day. . . ." He relaxed. She could feel it. "That bad, huh?" "You wouldn't believe it." He chuckled. "I want to believe." *End* Yes, the major components of this story are all true, although I don't have a cellular phone, so I had to walk to a nearby fraternity house (whose driveway I was blocking) and when they didn't come to the door (whatever happened to chivalry, anyway?), I had to walk over to another building and call from there. And I didn't get to call my best friend for commiseration, either, because she was studying for comps (oh, what a good friend I am!). Doesn't that qualify for good karma??? Oh, yeah -- and I didn't play solitaire on my notebook, either. Guess how I occupied my time. . . ? Juliettt@mail.aol.com Troupe Leader, Dragon Posse, Lone Gunwoman #7, Eden Agent, Clan McBride, Wolfpack, WWtBJLSWWGU, TFOSG charter celebrant, SKKS co-founder, BBTG!