Hair Of The Dog; pt. 2 Disclaimer/important babbling in part one I catch sight of my coffee mug and, suddenly, I have a great idea. There's still about half a cup of coffee left; I take a last swig, dump the rest down the drain, and fill the mug with water. Feeling very proud of myself, I lean over the sink and pour the water over my hair. It occurs to me a moment later that it might have been wise to rinse the mug out first. Java-scented water cascades over my face and I spot a few specks of ground coffee in the water as it swirls down the drain. I can hear Scully's voice already, I know exactly what she'll say... 'Get enough coffee, Mulder?' Oh, hell! No time to mess with it. What's done is done. I dig around frantically in a drawer, shoving aside multicolored velcro-roller things, a big vicious-looking cylindrical brush, =another= brush, a silver hair clip or barrette or whatever, a green fabric thing that I can't figure out... Aha! There's a comb. There's no time to be neat about this; I run the comb through my hair at full speed, squinting against the caffeineated water flying in all directions, flick, flick, flick. There. I open my eyes. Oh, HELL! There has to be a curse on me today. There is no other explanation for how fucked up my life has become in such a short period of time. My hair will not goddamn lie flat. It's still sticking up, only now it's =wet= and sticking up. I look like Alfalfa on crack. My eyes shut again, and I open them slowly, hoping against hope that the last vision I had was simply a lingering sleep-effect, and wasn't real. It was real. Damn. My eyes scan the collection of products again, resigning myself to having to actually =use= something. I just don't know what. Shutting my eyes, figuring my luck at the moment is much better left up to fate, I grab for something at random. The spray foam thing. Hmm. Turning the can over in my hand a few times, I can't help but think how bad of an idea this really is. The decisions is quite literally taken from my hands as the heel of my hand accidentally hits the little button on top, spraying white foamy stuff square into my face. "Fuck!" "Mulder?" Shit. I flail blindly for a towel and grab the first one that my hand touches, tugging at the same time that I lean my face in that general direction. The cloth flies off the rack way too fast, and an edge whips across my face, the corner hitting me in the eye. Ouch! Fuck fuck FUCK! All this over a lousy bad hair day! I carefully clear the white crap from my eyes and scrape it off my cheek and forehead. Oh well, it's already out of the can; I apply it to my hair, praying for it to do some good. I realize very quickly that it won't. Damn. "Mulder!" Oh shit, I hadn't actually answered her. "What, Scully?" I respond, sounding almost normal. "What are you =doing= in there?" she asks, sounding increasingly pissed off. "I'll be out in a minute," I promise. Yeah, just a minute, I'm only trying to deal with this dead animal that's made its home on top of my head. She sighs. It's loud and deep, and it sounds like she's right next to me instead of on the other side of the door. "You'd better be," she mutters. "And whatever mess you're making, Mulder, I want it cleaned up." Ma'am, yes ma'am! I sarcastically salute my reflection... and groan. I still look like Toto, if he'd been out in the tornado. "I will, Scully," I call, hoping to get her off my back long enough for me to do... something. I turn the water back on, grab for the damned mug again, and rinse it well this time before attempting to dump more water on my head. Great shot. At least I mostly got my hair, and the back of my neck. Of course, some of it had to hit the floor. Just in case I wasn't already uncoordinated enough. I drop the towel to the floor and try to clean up the water. Okay, that's it, I give up. I no longer care how horrible my hair looks. I don't care if Scully's going to be laughing too hard to vocalize the horror at what I've done to her bathroom. I don't care... And my foot slips. Reaching out to steady myself, I knock the mug into the sink. The handle breaks. Shit! I end up on my knees, bracing myself against the toilet. Just fucking wonderful. Well, this can't get much... Then I hear a key being stuck into the lock on the door. ...worse. Right. "I'm coming in there Mulder. I hope you're either dressed, or unconscious." And there's no time to even get up, before the door swings open, and there's Scully, hand on hip, staring down at me. "I... um..." I stammer, trying to find the right thing to say. "I'm sorry?" I offer finally, staring up at her. "Is that a question?" she asks, moving toward me. Well, it =was=, but I'm not going to say so. "I--" Too late. Her eyes are sweeping the scene as though she had to write a report on it later, taking in the water, the towel, the spray foam, and the fragments of broken mug... and the poor hung-over bastard kneeling on the floor clutching the disembodied mug handle, water dripping off his head. The dumb jackass who had blurted out some kind of half-assed drunken confession of love and lust last night. In other words... Me. I suppose I could try covering my ass with attitude, but I can't find the will to do it. There's just no use. I fucked everything up last night and no amount of bullshit is going to make it go away, no more than that spray foam crap made my hair any better. I give up. I sag back on my heels, my spine slumped and my head bowed, waiting for the bomb to fall. Surrender, pure and simple. I close my eyes. Do with me what you will, Scully; I deserve it. "Oh, Mulder." Her voice is soft, filled with that wry tone that I know so well. A familiar hand brushes lightly over my head like an angel's benediction, ruffling my soggy hair. "Mulder, what happened to your hair?" I don't reply, I don't move. Half of me keeps expecting her to yell at me, but the other half is caught up in the sudden, fragile hope that the world might not end after all. I can't look at her, can't risk her laughter or her anger; I'm just so tired, so very tired, and her gentleness is my undoing. Very slowly, like the beginning of an avalanche, I fall forward until my forehead is leaning against her stomach, and rest there, breathing in the scent of woman and vanilla. Both her hands touch my aching head, smoothing my hair, soothing the pain, and I pray to whatever is out there that she doesn't push me away because I honestly think I'd break in half. "Having a bad day?" she asks, and wonder of wonders, I hear that lilt in her voice that means she's teasing me. One of those small, perfect hands slips down over my wet hair and cradles the base of my skull. The other hand pats my shoulder. "Come on, Mulder. Let's get you fixed up." "Scully," I say, and I'm sure there's more where that came from but damned if I know where it went. It doesn't matter, really; the only word I have is quite enough. Scully. She puts both hands on my shoulders-- I forget, sometimes, how strong those tiny hands can be-- and turns me toward the bathtub. "Lean over," she commands, and I obey, my eyes still closed tight. I hear water running; the sound of it changes abruptly and I look up to find Scully leaning over me with a detachable showerhead. Oh, stupid. Why the hell didn't I notice that? All the shit I went through with the water, and the coffee, and the mug... "Close your eyes," she says, and I do. She presses my head down and I feel the warm water on my head, running in ticklish rivulets past my ears and down my neck. I feel her hand run over my hair, her fingernails burrowing right down to my scalp, and a single shudder runs down my spine. I'm suddenly aware of how close she is to me, of the heat of her, of the way her leg is pressed against my ribs, and as she leans over me-- to get soap? shampoo?-- I feel something else brush against me, something yielding and warm... her breast. Oh, Christ. I am in big trouble here. "Here," she says, taking my hand from its death grip on the edge of the tub and putting something strange and plastic in my hand. "Hold this steady. Right there." She directs my hand with a firm touch, and when the movement corresponds to the change in the direction that the water is coming from, it occurs to me that I'm holding the showerhead. For a moment she shifts away, long enough for me to miss the contact; and then her hands are in my hair. Oh God are her hands ever in my hair. I can smell a citrus tang now. Shampoo, she's shampooing my hair. Oh, God. Ten strong, slender fingers, massaging lather into my hair and my scalp. Wonderful, dexterous fingers, like a pianist's, or a painter's. I feel her nails again, briefly, and I can't help but shiver. I'll behave, I promise, I swear I'll try, but I can feel her thigh against me and the scent of her is making me dizzy and her hands are in my hair. How am I supposed to remember what a jackass I am when her hands are in my hair? I try. I try to remember that anything I could possibly do or say will only get me deeper in trouble, I try to keep my mind on that mystery meeting that we have to go to and off of the sound of Scully's breathing and her hands, moving in almost a caress through my hair. Problem is, nobody seems to have relayed the orders to my dick-- I'm getting one hell of a hard-on. The warm puffs of her breath caressing the back of my neck are not helping matters one bit. Her hands are in my hair. Christ. It's all too easy to imagine those perfect Scully-sized hands giving the rest of my body the same treatment, steady and gentle and thorough and oh dear God am I in trouble. The showerhead starts to slip from my shaking fingers but she catches it and uses it to rinse the shampoo out of my hair, her fingers still strong and sure. She shifts again, and the water stops. "Here," she says, and presses a towel into my hand. I obediently towel off, rubbing my hair roughly, still hunched over the tub like a caveman. She is still standing close to me, but it's different; I miss feeling the heat of her skin through her clothes, I miss the pressure of her leg against my ribs, and I really miss her hands. I bury my face in the damp towel, clenching my fists in the terrycloth folds, and hear my own voice say, "I'm sorry about last night, Scully." Oh shit. I peek out, hoping that the towel had muffled things enough that she hadn't heard me, but when I meet her eyes I can tell she heard, and understood me. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit shit shit. She doesn't say anything. Silently, she picks up the comb and runs it through my hair with the same precision I've seen her use on a target range. Flick, flick, flick. Even without looking in the mirror, I can tell that every hair is finally falling into place. Her face is unreadable, and I start to panic. Just a little. Okay, more than a little. Usually we deal with emotional situations by pretending that they don't exist, by not talking about them, just leaving them the hell alone. I just broke every rule in the book by mentioning last night, and I don't know what she'll do now. Before I know it, I'm babbling senselessly. "Scully, I didn't mean-- I just wanted to-- I shouldn't have gotten drunk, Scully, and I-- I'm sorry, I never should have come over here, I shouldn't have-- I didn't mean to--" I'm not even making any goddamn sense. I don't even know what's going to come out of my mouth next, it's like verbal drool, a complete surprise, and embarrassing as hell. Scully is leaning back against the vanity, watching me, waiting for something, and I try to shut up, I really do, but the words keep pouring out. "We can just pretend it didn't-- it never-- that I never said what I said, and that's fine, and I'm just-- Scully, I'm sorry about the bathroom, and the coffee cup, and I'll clean everything up, I promise, I just-- I'm so sorry I did this to you, I just, I couldn't help-- I just had to tell you that I love--" She leans forward in one swift, fluid motion and kisses me square on the lips. Ohmygod. I stare at her as she pulls away, smiling her enigmatic Scullysmile. She touches my face softly. "Mulder," she says, looking dizzyingly deep into my eyes. "Shut up and go put your shirt on." "But I--" I stammer, unable to take my eyes off her. She shuts me up by kissing me again. I can feel it better this time-- I'm still in shock, but I'm coming out of it. Velvet lips slipping over mine, ten strong slender fingers sliding around my head and pulling me in for more. If she'd employed this tactic when we first met, I swear to God I would have let her win every single one of our arguments. I break my paralysis and reach out to touch her, burying my hands in the silky fire of her hair and clutching her to me. I don't believe that this is happening, but then again I haven't believed that any of this morning was happening and if I had to make a choice, this is the part I'd like to believe. Scully kissing me and me kissing her back. Her tongue flicking along my teeth and her fingers-- oh, her fingers are threading through my hair again, drawing invisible designs on my scalp with her nails. Ohhh. I could die a happy man. Right here, right now. She breaks the kiss and smiles at me, her eyes dancing with laughter. "Come on, slowpoke," she teases, and starts for the door. I grab her hand and pull her back. I'm just not getting this. It's not that I'm not supremely grateful, but considering the cool reception she gave me last night, I'd just like to know what the hell brought this on. "Hey," I say softly, "why-- today?" The smile she gives me is even better than the last one. "You mean, why not last night?" "Yeah." "You're sober now," she says, and grins, her whole face shining. "I wanted to see if you'd say it again when you were sober. Now hurry up and get your shirt on." I can't help it, I grin right back at her. I think I might be wearing this expression for the rest of my life; at the very least, I'm sure to look like a slaphappy jackass all through the meeting. Not that I care. She disappears into the living room and I automatically check the mirror on my way out. There's the grin. And-- I don't believe it. She messed up my hair. Scully messed up my hair. After all the-- I'm gonna-- Ah, who gives a rat's ass about hair anyway? ~~~~~~~ Authors Notes: Brynna - So, this all started so - innocently. It was late, I was tired. Magdeleine was talking about another fic she's working on. I was helping w/an idea. That idea turned into this. See what screwdrivers and marshmallows will do to a girl's brain? It's been an amusing ride, however, my first venture into humor-fic. So I s'pose I've got my cowriter extraordinare to thank for that, seeing as it was going to take an act of something god-like, or else a late night & alcohol to drag me away from angst. Looks like she picked the right combo. ;-) And now, I return to long-winded angst, but hopefully, I'll venture back to this side of the tracks once in a while, now that I know how much fun it is. Magdeleine - Once upon a time I was chatting with Brynna when I mentioned a scene I was trying to fit into my novel... which she suggested could be much more fun as a stand-alone. Twenty minutes later we were ransacking our bathrooms for hair products and hashing out the basics of "hairfic", and it's been a blast ever since. This has made for a lovely break from writing the never-ending Mind Over Matter (coming soon to an addy near you... yeah, right), and I just want to thank my lovely cohort Brynna for it. Other kudos go to Erlybird, who has once again given me a free dose of wisdom when I needed it most, to the members of Babyfishmouth for laughing madlessly and helping us get this mucking thing done, and to Robbie, who had better get her ass back from Scotland soon and that's all I'm gonna say.