From: jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu
Date: Fri, 22 Jan 1999 11:55:52 GMT
Subject: NEW: Pretty Fly For A White Guy 2

Pretty Fly (For A White Guy) Part 2: Sweet Dreams
Author: The Improper Jennifer Stoy
E-Mail: jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu
Web-Page: http://members.tripod.com/~j_stoy/writing.html
Warning/Rating/Description: A peek into Diana Fowley's fantasy life. It's
not quite as sick as Spender's, well, at least not in the way you're
thinking. Some Mulder/Fowley action, though, and um, a little sympathy. I,
like Alex, have been feeling merciful lately.
Disclaimer: CC and 1013 owned these characters in their original
incarnation; if he still wants to claim them after I'm done, I'll leave
them in Lost and Found.

NOTE: This particular story is for Dasha, who gave me "Christmas in
Silver" in exchange. I think I got the better bargain. This story might be
enhanced by play of the Aretha Franklin song "Respect" in the background.
Or not. That was what ran through my head, though.

STORY:

It's hard to be a career woman of the nineties. There are so many
contradictions, so many rules to be made and broken at the same time, and
when you're in a boy's club like the FBI, sometimes you only have your
dreams to sustain you.

And when you're living my life, sometimes those dreams have to get a
little insane.

"Good morning, Agent Fowley," Chuck the security guy says, just like he
does every morning. I'm okay with that. I'm okay with the first four
minutes of my arrival on the job, walking through the metal detector,
saying hello to Agent Marple on the elevator, even watching everyone get
off the elevator and leave me alone to continue my descent further and
further into the basement. Getting off the elevator is okay, too. But then
I open the door to--

"Dad says that I can take the FBI car and go get my hair done," Agent
Jeffrey Spender announces prissily. Okay, so he doesn't really say that,
but he might as well. Dad says everything. Dad says Jeff's in charge. Dad
says that Jeffy is the smartest FBI agent in the entire world--

One day, Dad is going to come downstairs and his ass is going to meet my
foot. I walk over and notice Spender doesn't have the common decency to
make enough coffee for two. I growl, very quietly of course, start up
another pot of coffee, and start daydreaming.

"Dad says that I can take the FBI car and go shopping and I get to use his
credit card. But you have to stay here and do work, but don't do anything
that'll make me look bad," Spender says, slicking back his hair. I smile
at him.

"I'll be right on that, Jeff," I say, reaching in my purse. "Jeff, did you
ever realize that you and I have different fathers?"

Jeff nods. "But my dad is in charge of the FBI."

I pull out my throwing stars and start throwing. The first one gives young
Jeffrey a flat-top. The next two pin him to the wall, and the last one
comes this close from pulling a Bobbit. And now I have a Spender pinned to
the wall, whimpering.

"So what?" I ask. "With a flick of my wrist, I could alter your whole
existance. Think about that, young Jeffrey. Think long and hard."

Then usually I leave him pinned up there while I get coffee and croissants
and when I return, he's begging me to teach him good manners (no, not
that-- I swear, keep out of the gutter!) and has renounced Dad for good.

"Agent Fowley, are you with us this morning?" the real, endlessly annoying
Jeff Spender asks.

"Coffee first," I say with a hopefully tolerant smile. "Good morning,
Agent Spender."

As usual, we try and fail not to fight about which cases are important and
which cases Jeff wants to file "indefinitely" meaning they go into his
brand-new nifty-rama shredder. Whoever gave him that for Christmas ought
to be drug out into the street and shot.

"Agent Spender! This is NOT political!" I shout finally. "This is a crime
and it quite probably involves a case of lycanthropy. Whatever stick up
your ass is motivating you to say that the mauling of four people is
unimportant, I suggest you remove it and focus on the facts."

He stares at me. I'd stare at me too, if I could. That should not have
come out of my mouth, but it felt good. Maybe I'm possessed. More likely,
the coffee is drugged. Or maybe, just maybe I snapped a little and let the
truth slip out.

"I--" and he stares at me. "I-- well. I guess we should, um, look at this
before filing it away indefinitely."

It worked. That's just scary. I nod and sit down, sipping more coffee.
After agreeing to investigate the case, Spender escapes to lunch and I
escape to my favorite fantasy.

I get to go home to my apartment, exhausted after a long day's work. When
I unlock the door, I hang my coat on the rack and call out, with all my
heart-- "Honey, I'm home!"

And I get a vision that beats sugarplums. There's Fox, wearing his best
worn Levi's, the sort that hug the ass and are frayed in all the right
spots. Over that, he's got one of those moody-boy black turtlenecks. And
over that, he's got the cutest little apron. There's nothing goofy on it,
it's just a red-and-white checkered gingham apron spotted with grease.

"Hey, Diana," Fox says in his best happy voice. "I'm making Cajun-Creole
tonight. Crawfish etouffee, red beans and rice, crusty French loaf bread,
and bread pudding with rum sauce."

"Aww, Fox," I say, giving him a little kiss on the cheek. "You didn't have
to go to all this trouble."

"Of course I did!" he says with little boy cuteness. "I did it for you!
All for you!"

He's too sweet. I throw my arms around him and cover him with kisses. He
hugs me back, the sweetest thing.

"You make me feel brand-new," I say. "You really do."

I realize that the coffee in my mug is cold now. I realize that I'm alone
in the office, and there's just me and my dreams and I'm hungry. I gotta
get lunch.

I walk in the cafeteria and right into Dana Scully. She's a sight for sore
eyes, in her black pantsuit and tight blue tee-top. She looks young again,
she looks like that girl I heard about in the Academy, a little straight
arrow. I suggested her to the committee when I took off. I figured she'd
teach Fox the importance of keeping facts and records, then she'd run off.

Silly me, stupid me. She and I nod at each other rather curtly, and I get
lunch. I'm not so worried any more about eating diet food and keeping my
girlish figure. Life is short and there's something about food, glorious
food-- even FBI cafeteria food...

"Ma chere Mademoiselle, it is with deepest pride and greatest pleasure
that we welcome you tonight," the maitre d' (who did sort of look like a
personified candle) said. "And now we invite you to relax, let us pull up
a chair as the dining room proudly presents - your dinner!"

My dinner. As long as the entire FBI dining room didn't break out into
song, I was quite ready for my dinner, starting with a large bowl of hot
and sour soup, followed by something-- anything-- drenched in creme
brulee. I look at the harmless FBI lunchlady Doreen, who has been there
since before I joined, and she's humming the next lines.

Oh, God. Maybe I am drugged. Or maybe it's the Jell-O salad I'm having
along with the mashed potatoes and gravy, salisbury steak, and big piece
of thick chocolate cake drenched with rich frosting. Either way, I feel
like a proud cow when I march my tray back to the corner of the cafeteria.
I'm not going to starve myself just to fit some false notion of beauty.

I eye what Scully's noshing on. Oh, my God. Yogurt and a green salad.
There is definitely some advantage in being me. I sit back and start
eating, chocolate cake first.

"I made you some raspberry double fudge cake with white chocolate icing
for desert," my little chef tells me. "I hope you like it. And I got some
new espresso, too."

I smile and stuff the first forkful of cake into my mouth. Yeah, there are
definitely advantages. I don't even think Scully has an imagination.

I get back to the office, and Spender has Daddy in the office. Now, we
both agreed fairly early on that this is a big no-no. Despite all the
power little Mr. Jeff accrues from Big Daddy Marlboro, he doesn't like the
man, and I've never liked him in all the years we've had to deal with each
other.

"Agent Fowley, you're back from lunch a little early," Spender says. I
shrug.

"No earlier than usual. Am I interrupting something?" I ask. I hope I'm
interrupting something. I hope that they were busily discussing plans to
get Jeff braces after they take over the world like Pinky and the Brain.
Maybe Old Smokey can even manage to buy Jeff a personality in the bargain.

I sit down at my desk and start looking at the case we were arguing about
earlier in the day. I open up my internet browser and start looking up my
favorite werewolf and paranormal sites on the web. Noisily. If they want
to talk, they can do it outside. I have work to do.

After a minute, Spender shoots me a dirty look, and they go outside. I
keep browsing about the nocturnal habits of the werewolf, but my mind
starts drifting again--

"Foxxxxxxxx," I coo from the bedroom into the kitchen, where my dear, dear
Fox is doing the dishes. I am splayed out on the bed, which is covered
with a leopard-print bedspread, wearing my favorite satin nightshirt from
Victoria's Secret. "Ohhhhhh, Foxxxxx!"

He walks in, the apron all soapy now, and a pair of yellow rubber gloves
on his hounds. "Yes, dear?" he asks.

"We've had this discussion over and over again, Fox," I say, giving him a
sympathetic smile. "Come here."

He walks over to the bed and leans toward me. "Yes, Diana?"

"We're getting rid of this tacky bedspread. Tomorrow. Your mother bought
us that wonderful Stroud's set, and I'm not going to endure this nasty,
circa 1984 thing on my bed any more. Okay, Fox?"

He looks a little crestfallen, but he nods. I throw my arms around him and
give him another kiss. "Why don't you finish the dishes later,
sweetheart?" I murmur into his ear. "You work too hard."

Fox eagerly takes up this new chore and I'm startled out of it by Jeff
slamming the door. His momma evidently never did teach him any manners.

"Did you enjoy that?" he asks acidly.

"Why, yes, I did," I reply dreamily. "So, did you get the requisition
forms so we can go to Minnesota tomorrow?"

"Not yet."

"Well, get on it. I've got AD Skinner's signature on the travel vouchers
already, I don't want to get to Minneapolis and have to fight some local
agent about the car. All right?" I ask. He glares at me, he really does,
but I just smile back. You win more flies with honey than you do with
vinegar, and who's a bigger fly than Jeff Spender?

"All right," he says sullenly, stomping out of the office again. I get
peace, blessed peace, to get some actual work done before five. Then I
head on home, another highlight of my day. Even the traffic into Virginia
seems like heaven compared to Jeff Spender glaring at me and fighting to
do what I love.

Yes, career women of the nineties have it tough, I figure as I pull my
Toyota Celica into the narrow parking space of my apartment building. Then
again, it's not the worst of times by any means. I unlock the door and
hang my coat on the wooden hanger.

"Hey, honey, I'm home," I carol into the foyer. I hear a little sound from
the kitchen, and I grin. "Did you miss me?"

My cat slinks out into the foyer and twists around my legs, purring.
"Meh," it tells me positively.

"I'm glad to see you, too, Muffin," I say, rummaging around in the
refrigerator for something for us to eat. For some reason, I have the
strangest craving for French Silk pie.

THE END