Hope for the End of the Day
by JHJ Armstrong

Rating: PG-13 for language. Vignette.

Summary: Little things mean a lot when you're in a funk.

Archiving: Anywhere. Anytime. Anybody. Please link to my site.

Feedback: E-mail [email protected].
Disclaimer: If you don't sue me for borrowing your characters, Mr. Carter, I won't sic my seriously buff, football-loving body on you for ignoring continuity. Deal?

Notes: Yes, Virginia, I love you. Thanks for making me think. POV Nazi -- I'm so glad you once lived where they do. Merci.

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6:30 a.m.
Tuesday
Somewhere in Georgetown

Scully woke up tired.

Tired of feeling like the last one chosen at kickball. Tired of being the runt on the FBI playground. Tired of chasing her (and her partner's) tail in a circle. Tired of her nonstop ride on the carousel of weird.

So she went for a run, a few miles through the park. It only made her tired and sore.

Back in her apartment, the computer booted up, her tiny ponytail came down and the garbage went out to the Dumpster. Mr. Coffee perking just the way she wasn't. Running shoes in the closet, sweaty clothes in the hamper. Suit for work set out on the bed, hose beside it, heels on the floor. All done with an automaton's rhythm, done because that was the way she always did it.

Stepping into the shower, she moved the setting to pulse and let the water pound into her shoulder blades, shifting her body this way and that, trying to wash away her ennui.

It didn't work, even after lather, rinse, repeat and loofah; she could feel the detritus of her life sticking to her like coarse sand on wet skin. Bowing her head, she made one final revolution under the spray and shut off the water.

She got out and stood in the bathroom for a second or twelve, hand laid absently on the shower door. Blank mind, foggy mirror, cold floor.

Somehow, she got to the bedroom, putting on bra, underwear, nylons, navy skirt, powder blue button-down shirt and navy jacket. Heels, of course, a vanity usually enjoyed.

She clicked into the kitchen. The scent of the day's first caffeine, usually good for at least a second of appreciation, turned her stomach instead. She poured a mug, but it just sat on the counter, all steam and bitterness, while she sliced a bagel.

Pressing down the toaster lever and waiting required more energy than she had, so she smeared peanut butter and honey and gulped it cold and chewy. Coffee, tepid with a skin on top, was dumped into the sink in favor of vitamin C-enriched orange juice. Still bitter, more sweet.

Breakfast over, she checked her watch. Eight minutes before Mulder. And after Mulder, then what? Yet another crime scene, maybe an autopsy, then thrust and parry with her partner's theories. The paper trail had to be followed, too. Monsters, mutants and muggings, oh my.

She sagged against the sink's edge, fighting the urge to run back into bed and stay under the blanket for good. Somebody else could fight the good fight. Ostrich Scully, that's what she would become.

'So what if we might find the key to stopping viral apocalypse today? Like anybody would thank us,' she thought.

Even the computer monitor mocked her when she looked at it, "Rage, rage against the dying of the light" scrolling across the black screen in bold 18-point red type. 'Up yours, Dylan,' she thought to herself before crossing the room and wiggling the mouse to make the words disappear.

She sat down and opened her e-mail. Nine new messages, the last one from one of those electronic greeting card sites. Not sure if she should but feeling too punchy not to, she opened it. "Please wait ... loading," her screen told her.

Tiny red aliens began to march across a black background, followed by tiny blue spaceships. "Hi, Scully, it's Tuesday!" blinked in yellow and white beneath them. They gave way to a Rocky-and-Bullwinkle-end-credit montage of colors, shapes and sounds featuring wildly manipulated pictures of Scully, Mulder and the Gunmen.

Lastly, a normal picture of her and Mulder popped up. Letter by letter, in a scripty font, "Love, Mulder" appeared. Then the window went black, and Scully was left staring at the screen in disbelief.

What the hell was that?

So she played it again.

And again.

Then she snorted. Chuckled, even. Giggled a little, too. She sobered momentarily, then gave up and laughed out loud, a laugh from the belly like she hadn't had since forever. She put her head down on the table, her body shaking with mirth.

The guffaws had just started to subside when Mulder knocked on her door. Still quivering a bit with glee, she got up and let him in.

"Morning, Scully." Noting her flushed face and teary eyes, he asked, concerned, "Is something wrong? Are you okay?"

She had been scurrying about, gathering briefcase, folders and other things, but at his query she stopped to look at him fully, tilting her head and smiling. "Everything's fine, Mulder. I was feeling kinda tired, but now I've ... got a little hope for the end of the day."

"Oh," Mulder said, quizzical but accepting. He followed her out the door, her sure steps as familiar to them as the hand he put on the small of her back.


-- 30 --

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