I can be irritating if I want to.

Personally, I'm not a fan of the WIP. Too many of them are left unfinished, or inadequately edited because the author doesn't want to take the trouble of going back to change something she's already posted.

It's especially stupid when the story in question promises to be about six pages long when (if) finished.

On the other hand, I'm hard-up for material to blog about these days, aren't I?

Do Me

"Do me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do me. It's been hanging in the air since practically the second we met. We've both been thinking about forever and now I think it's time. I want you to do me."

How was he supposed to answer a statement like that?

He was a little too old to do 'offended virtue' and mentioning that it wasn't the most romantic offer he'd ever had didn't seem to strike exactly the right note.

"No," he said. "I haven't been thinking of it. Why have you been thinking of it?" He glared at Mulder. "Why aren't you working?"

"You haven't?" Mulder looked surprised, then shrugged. "Never mind. My mistake I guess. I'll see you tomorrow."

Walter stared as Mulder nodded briefly and left the room.

That was it? Want to? No? Okay, see you around. Was that how it worked these days?

The world was going to hell in a handbasket.

* * *

It was close to midnight before it hit him. 11:42 p.m., to be exact, and the digital clock beside his bed was always exact.

That precision normally reassured Walter, but on some rare occasions, it also annoyed him.

The problem with a digital clock was that there wasn't any context.

It was 11:42 p.m. No earlier, no later.

With an old-fashioned clock, it was also about twenty till midnight. It was a little after 11:30. It was, and you could count the hours quickly, around five and a half hours until the alarm was going to go off. It was 42 minutes after he'd laid down and started not sleeping.

42

42 was one of those weird numbers that showed up more often than there was any reason for. 42 was the number of Mulder's apartment.

Mulder. Do me.

Walter sat up and glared at the darkness of the far wall.

What the hell kind of thing was that to say to your boss?

He'd backed Mulder and Scully through hell and this was how Mulder thanked him? By playing some weird practical joke or running some half-assed psychological experiment or sending coded messages disguised as come-ons or whatever the hell it was he'd been doing?

There were moments, and 11:42 p.m., 11:44 p.m. now, seemed to be one of them, when he wondered what it was that was stopping him from reassigning Scully and kicking Mulder's stubborn, nonconforming ass right out of the Bureau.

Whatever it was that was going on, and Assistant Director Skinner had long, doubtful hours when he still couldn't believe the stuff about aliens and colonization, Walter didn't need this additional layer of weirdness in his life, keeping him awake half the night.

Right. Tomorrow, all it was going to take was One. Wrong. Word. from Mulder.

One eyebrow out of place and he'd find himself back on wiretapping before he finished smirking. In fact, Walter was looking forward to the opportunity.

* * *

What astounds me is that I used to churn out this much stuff while brushing my teeth. Now it takes me two weeks to get around to writing 50 words. (And I still haven't gotten around to rewatching any episodes and am fully aware, thankyou, that the character's voices are wrong. Blame JiM. She's the one who made me promise to try this.)