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  This author's e-mail address has changed to: xanaduxf@yahoo.com
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***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references
in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter,
and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it.

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Paperwork Hell
by shannono
shannono@iname.com


Vignette, Humor, Mulder/Scully UST

Rated PG

Summary: Mulder hates paperwork -- most of the time.

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Paperwork Hell
by shannono


I am in paperwork hell.

For the last three days, I have been buried under a pile
of receipts, reports, and requisition forms, up to my
schnozz (Schnozz? Is that Yiddish?) in a sea of get-
another-signature, fill-this-out-in-triplicate,
bureaucratic bullshit.

Oh, what I wouldn't give for a liver-eating mutant. Or two.
Anything to break the monotony.

And now, to top it all off, I have just given myself the
biggest paper cut I have ever had in my life.

It hurts.

I managed to choke down the yelp (not a girlie scream, you
understand) that sprung to my lips as the edge of a folder
sliced neatly into my index finger. A sort of gurgling
noise erupted in its place, and I swiftly planted the
injured finger deep into my mouth in search of relief.

Big mistake.

Too many sunflower seeds.

Talk about pouring salt in the wound.

This time, I can't hold back the holler. "YEOWCH," or
something like that, I say, pulling the finger from my
mouth. I yank out the already loosened tail of my dress
shirt and wrap it around the cut, blood seeping slowly
into the cotton fibers.

The yell gets the attention of my oh-so-cool, calm, and
collected partner where she sits at the table halfway
across the room. She swings her head around to regard me,
my face twisted in pain, one hand holding my cut finger
in the hem of my shirt.

"Are you okay?" she asks, concern playing with amusement
on her face. She knows *exactly* what I've done, but she
wants to make sure she's right before ragging me about it.

Considerate of her.

"Yeah," I grind out through clenched teeth. "Got any
Band-Aids?"

Her mouth twists into almost a smirk as she reaches to the
back of the table for the first-aid kit I know she keeps
handy at all times. Six years' partnership with me will do
that for a person. She has enough drugs and bandages in
there for half the bureau.

And I keep her busy keeping it restocked.

She carries the box over to my desk, plops it down in front
of me, and holds out a hand. "Let me see," she says, not a
request but an order. For once, I comply.

She pulls the hand toward her and bends over it, pushing at
the skin to inspect the damage. I bite my lip to stop
another yelp, groaning instead. She looks at me, gives a
(relatively) compassionate grin, and then reaches for the
antibiotic cream.

She covers the open edges of the wound, adds a bandage, then
places my hand back on the desk. "There," she says, a teasing
tone in her voice. "All better."

I grin up at her sheepishly. "It's amazing how much pain a
little cut like that can cause," I say, not quite defensively.

She holds her own grin, leaning against the desk in front of
me. "Oh, believe me, I know," she says. "You think *this* job
is a lot of paperwork. Try teaching at the Academy full-time.
Syllabuses, lesson plans, tests, homework, et cetera, et
cetera. Not to mention the *standard* FBI bullshit."

I chuckle. "I can just imagine," I say, shaking my head. "And
also not to mention the danger of slice-by-scalpel."

That draws a slight laugh, albeit paired with the ever-present
raised eyebrow. "No, I try to save the scalpels for the bodies
... the dead ones," she says, reaching to ruffle my already
tousled hair as she turns back toward her seat.

I feel my smile widen, out my control, and sit there with what
I know must be a goofy grin on my face. She doesn't see, having
reburied herself in her work.

That smile. That laugh. That touch.

Almost makes the paper cut worth it.