TITLE: Machine Wash, Tumble Dry
AUTHOR: Satchie
E-MAIL ADDRESS: satchie51@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: MT/Humor
RATING: PG-13 (for language)
SUMMARY: For Mulder, cleanliness is not next
to godliness. It's an invitation for
disaster.
SPOILERS: None worth mentioning
FEEDBACK: Feed the need
ARCHIVE: Mulder-in-Jeopardy, Ephemeral and
Gossamer. All others please ask.
DISCLAIMER: Yes, they all belong to Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen Productions and Fox.
Damn.
THANKS TO: Spock for inspiring me to spoof the
bane of my existence.
DEDICATED TO: My Mulder's Refuge chat room buds for
the on-line therapy. By the way, I
*still* hate laundry.

++++++++++++

Mulder sighed in exasperation at the overstuffed laundry hamper.
Clothes cascaded over the sides of the wicker basket and spilled onto
the floor into shapeless blobs. Scarcely a square inch of bathroom
tile was visible beneath the minor landfill. He had been seriously
remiss in his housekeeping chores for over two weeks, and the aroma
was extremely pungent. Thank goodness Scully wasn't here to witness
this brutal assault on the environment. She would contact USAMRIID
and have him and his apartment quarantined indefinitely.

Of course the circumstances were entirely beyond his control. He had
intended to atone for his woeful neglect last weekend after
unexpectedly being loaned out to the Detroit field office.
Unfortunately, a last-minute case intervened before he could spend
quality time in the laundry room. Mulder had haphazardly thrown his
garment bag on the bed and frantically scrambled to locate a
sufficient supply of clean clothing while cursing his predicament.
After packing the modest supply of t-shirts and boxers, he had been
dismayed to discover his sock drawer was completely empty. Alas,
with his flight due to depart in less than two hours, Mulder's
choices were limited. In an act of sheer desperation, he rummaged
through the clothes hamper and retrieved half a dozen previously worn
socks. Blessing them with a generous spray of deodorant, he bemoaned
his tragic dilemma. Armani suits and dirty footwear. His mother
would be mortified.

Now safely home following another harrowing encounter with a genetic
mutant, a fate worse than any X-File awaited Fox Mulder: Laundry.
Gulping the slightly expired orange juice directly from the carton,
he opened his closet and assessed the damage. Crap. The situation
was far worse than he imagined. If he didn't drop his suits off at
the cleaners this morning all he would have to wear on Monday was a
baseball cap and a smile. J. Edgar would never approve unless,
perhaps, Mulder wore matching pumps.

His search for unsoiled weekend wear was marginally successful.
Donning a pair of mismatched sweats, he was profoundly thankful he
wouldn't have to dig through the pile of dirty clothes and perform
the infamous "sniff test." Mulder took a deep breath and summoned
the energy and enthusiasm necessary to accomplish his dreaded tasks.
Resigned to the inevitable, he crammed his dress shirts, ties and
suits in a large plastic bag. For a fleeting moment, he considered
paying someone an exorbitant fee to decontaminate the rest of his
wardrobe, but assumed it would be a federal crime to knowingly expose
a civilian to excessive levels of bio-hazardous materials. Torching
his formidable foe with gasoline and setting it ablaze was a tempting
option, but he strongly suspected his long-suffering landlord and
fellow tenants would not appreciate his creative solution. Thus far
they had tolerated the occasional nocturnal gunfire, elevator brawl,
leaky waterbed and dead body in the hallway, but surely there was a
limit to their endurance.

With his jaw set in grim determination, Mulder snatched the battered
laundry basket from the closet and reluctantly headed toward the
bathroom. An explosive pain in his right foot belatedly alerted him
to the presence of a recently relocated box of old files. Uttering
an impressive array of profanities, he dropped to the floor while he
examined the injured digits. How could a small anatomical structure
hurt so badly? And wasn't there a statute of limitations as to how
many times a person could break his little toes? The affected area
was red and already starting to swell. Common sense dictated that he
should elevate his foot and apply ice. Naturally he chose to ignore
prevailing medical wisdom and resumed his duties. He was going to
have clean clothes if it killed him!

Grimacing in pain, Mulder hobbled to the bathroom and began the
daunting excavation process. Artifacts from the "boxerzoic"
and "sockazoic" eras quickly filled the basket, yet most of the
hamper's overflowing contents remained entombed. Frustrated by this
turn of events, he limped to the closet and grabbed two pillowcases,
careful to avoid another encounter of the box kind. As he filled the
makeshift laundry bags, he parodied Scarlett O'Hara's famous scene
from "Gone With the Wind." Shaking his fist in the air, he
proclaimed, "With God as my witness, I'll never go this long without
doing laundry again!"

Several minutes later, nearly every article of clothing Mulder owned
waited near the front door to begin its journey toward purification.
In his missionary zeal, he almost forgot the washing detergent. He
opened the pantry door and reached for the not-so-familiar orange
box, but despite his long arms, it was maddeningly unattainable. Not
wanting to exacerbate the throbbing in his sore toes, Mulder gingerly
balanced his weight on his left side and stood on the ball of his
foot. Aha! Success! His slender fingers grasped the container and
he dragged it toward the shelf's edge. Slippery from the caked soapy
residue, the box escaped his tenuous hold and struck him on the
face. The flap opened, thus unceremoniously christening him with
detergent powder. His eyes felt like they had been bathed in acid
and he instinctively rushed to the kitchen sink to irrigate them. A
small eternity passed before he found blessed relief from the hellish
burning sensation. Mulder wasn't sure whether the cold water or his
tears helped flush the chemicals away. After the pain dissipated, he
realized his hair was covered in soap bubbles. Wonderful.
Absolutely, fucking wonderful! While the water flowed over his head,
he seriously debated whether he should bother to rinse his hair or
drown himself.

Deciding he did not want do die with dirty underwear on his
conscience, Mulder blindly adjusted the water to attain a suitable
temperature. The overcompensation was immediately discernable. He
yelped in pain as the scalding water splashed over his sensitive
scalp. Mulder reflexively jerked back, hitting his head on the
faucet.

"Damn it! Why me?" With his hair dripping wet and his vision
blurred, Mulder groped for a clean dishtowel on the counter. Finding
none, he angrily yanked open a drawer to find the desired item. The
wooden drawer bounced off two very tender toes prior to landing on
the kitchen linoleum. Oh yeah. He really meant to fix that loose
handle. Despondent over the current state of affairs, Mulder sat
down on the floor and dissolved into a whimpering mass of humanity.

Why was the universe out to get him today, more so than usual? What
did he do to deserve this torture? Mulder propped his elbows on his
knees and lamented his pathetic state. How could a person be
repeatedly wounded from doing laundry? There were so many injuries
he didn't know which to attend to first. He would have to be a
damned octopus to simultaneously nurse his broken toes, irritated
eyes and burned scalp. And how did one soothe a deflated ego? On
top of everything else, he was developing a wicked headache.
Fortunately this was a problem over which he had some control.
Cautiously flexing his limbs, he stood up and opened the overhead
cabinet.

Hmm, that was odd. The door had never stuck on previous occasions.
He tugged at it again, but it refused to budge. Annoyed at his
latest stroke of bad luck, he leaned forward and pulled the door with
greater force. Arrggghhhh! He expected more resistance, and his
fist unexpectedly recoiled and smacked him in the nose. Blood gushed
profusely as he pressed his hand against the wounded proboscis in a
futile attempt to staunch the flow. Maybe it was time to reconsider
the ice issue. Not trusting his own strength, Mulder gently pried
the freezer open. No, this was not happening. There wasn't a single
frigging ice cube in sight. Scully told him bagged vegetables would
work in an emergency, but his freezer had never been defiled by
healthy food. Would a half-empty carton of Ben & Jerry's Chubby
Hubby ice cream do? Probably not. Instead, he settled for holding a
handful of damp paper towels against his face and the back of his
neck until the bleeding subsided.

Returning to the cabinet, Mulder searched for the bottle of Tylenol.
Oh no. This was simply not possible. In view of his propensity for
becoming sick or injured, Mulder couldn't believe he had allowed his
supply of Tylenol to run out. The only alternative was a leftover
bottle of Vicodin from his last on-the-job injury. Normally he
wouldn't resort to drastic measures, but he was at his wit's end. If
he took half a tablet, his misery could conceivably be alleviated
without turning him into a total zombie. It was worth a try. To his
astonishment, Mulder was able to swallow the medication without
further incident. No choking or tearing his esophagus on the
bisected tablet, no deep lacerations on his hands from glass
fragments resulting from clutching the juice glass too tightly...dare
he allow his hopes to soar?

Warily regarding the source of his recent misfortunes, he picked up
the box of detergent and evaluated its contents. Miraculously there
was an ample supply left to wash his mountain of clothes. He
deposited his nemesis in a lumpy pillowcase and plotted his
strategy. Since he wanted to minimize his trips to the laundry room,
he needed to distribute the weight properly. Various scenarios
crossed his frazzled mind. Okay, this wasn't rocket science. An
Oxford educated psychologist should be able to figure this out. Yes,
that might work... Satisfied with his flash of insight, Mulder
shuffled to the bedroom to find reasonably comfortable shoes. A
brief scavenger hunt yielded a pair of moccasins. On an intellectual
level, he understood a guy with a couple of probable broken toes
couldn't afford to be too picky, but he shuddered at the fashion
abomination. It was unquestionably every young man's dream to appear
on the cover of GQ wearing a gray sweatshirt, navy blue sweatpants,
no socks, tan moccasins and a hairstyle sculpted with washing
detergent. Life didn't get any better than this!

Due to the Vicodin, his pain was currently manageable. However, the
friction of the leather moccasins against his swollen toes caused
significant discomfort. Regardless of his distress, he was
determined to complete his vexing task. He hobbled to his apartment
door and hastily took an inventory. Keys, wallet, quarters, laundry
and detergent. Perfect. He slung the basket on his hip and piled a
bag on top, then awkwardly bent down and picked up the last
pillowcase. As he approached the elevator, the weight of his burden
seemed to increase exponentially. A cramp in his left arm loosened
his grip on the basket, threatening to topple the additional load
from its precarious position. In an effort to stave off impending
disaster, Mulder tilted the plastic container toward him. While the
swift action prevented one crisis, it presented another. The
overfilled laundry bag rolled into his face, obstructing his vision
and threatened to asphyxiate him with toxic fumes. Finally the doors
slid open, and he stumbled across the threshold with his albatrosses.

Once on the first floor, Mulder deposited his laundry in the hallway
and reassessed his plans. Sometimes there was a fine line between
tenacity and stupidity. Resolved to be sensible, he carried the two
pillowcases to the laundry room and made a second trip for the
basket. Soon he was contentedly sorting his clothes into different
categories. There was something oddly therapeutic about the process,
creating a semblance of order out of chaos. The cathartic experience
made him feel empowered and in control of his life. Immersed in his
task, he could temporarily ignore the indignities he had suffered
throughout the morning. Immensely pleased with himself, Mulder
tossed the newly organized garments into several washing machines.
He then poured the appropriate amount of detergent over each load,
closed the lids and put the required number of quarters into the
trays. With boyish glee, Mulder pushed the money into the machines
in rapid succession. Hopping on his left foot, he celebrated his
achievement with a victory dance. Woo hoo! His ordeal was almost
over.

Buoyed by his progress, he collected his work attire from his
apartment. Organization was the key to conquering domestic
responsibilities. He would swing by the dry cleaners during the wash
cycle, then return to the laundry room to transfer the freshly
laundered items from the washing machines to the dryers. He could
then stretch out on his couch and watch television for at least
thirty minutes while his clothes dried. Nothing could be simpler.

Ten minutes later, he parked his government-issued Taurus outside the
dry cleaning establishment. Eager to put the errand behind him, he
gathered his bag and started to slam the door closed. Suddenly
remembering a coupon in his glove compartment for 50% off, he reached
into the car as the crushing weight descended upon his fingers. "Oh,
shit!" he hissed between clenched teeth. Four purplish-red digits
were frozen in a grotesque facsimile of a salute. However, the oaths
Mulder swore had nothing to do with duty, honor and country. He
envisioned a totally different hand salute to express his displeasure
over this development. Spurred by a sense of righteous indignation,
he flung the door open with his uninjured hand and searched for the
troublesome coupon. Finding the garishly colored piece of paper,
Mulder kissed it in a display of mock affection. Satisfied with his
treasure, he sank against the seat and read the fine print. What?
This coupon expired three days ago! He had maimed his fingers for
nothing.

Disgusted by yet another assault to his body and masculine pride, he
cradled his traumatized hand against his chest. The elusive "truth"
may be worth dying for, but clean clothes were not worth life and
limb. Stifling a girly scream, Mulder grabbed the bag from the
passenger side of the car and limped to the dry cleaners to conduct
his business transaction. Several people were in the slow-moving
line, and the lack of air-conditioning contributed to his suffering.
He felt nauseated and dizzy and he feared he would suffer from
hyperthermia as a result of the oppressive heat and humidity. By the
time he advanced to the counter, he was afraid he would puke on the
attendant. The elderly woman recognized the telltale signs of
imminent danger to her work area and hurriedly collected the
appropriate fee. Mulder slipped the claim ticket into his wallet and
headed toward the car.

During the drive home, he decided he would take the other half of the
previously divided Vicodin. Screw stoicism, he needed pain relief
even if the medication *did* make him a bit fuzzy. As soon as he
arrived home, he stumbled toward the pantry and fumbled for the amber
vial. Shaking half a white tablet into his hand, he re-evaluated the
dosage. The label indicated he could take up to two tablets every
four to six hours as needed for pain. He rationalized he *was* in
sufficient pain to justify the full prescribed dose. Furthermore, he
had developed a relatively high tolerance to narcotic analgesics due
to his all too frequent injuries. Mulder placed the pills in his
mouth and washed them down with a glass of water.

Not content to wait until the medication took effect, he staggered to
the laundry room. Was it his imagination, or was the hallway longer
than he thought? Wallowing in self-pity, he almost overlooked the
crime scene that greeted him when he entered the facilities. His
soggy clothes had been removed from the washing machines and dumped
on the filthy Formica tabletop. Why on earth would a human being
commit this heinous deed? And why was his underwear hot pink? Upon
close inspection of the appliances, Mulder found a vital piece of
evidence. A pair of red panties was trapped beneath an agitator. In
his haste to tackle an unpleasant chore, he had neglected basic
reconnaissance procedures by not ensuring the machines were empty.
Great. Not only did he have to bleach his underwear, he needed to
rewash his clothes. This setback would necessitate yet another
agonizing round-trip.

Mulder pressed the elevator button and waited...and waited.
Abandoning that idea, he opted to take the stairs instead. The pain
from his earlier mishaps had abated due to the medication, so he felt
reasonably confident he could navigate the steps without incident.
He had nearly accomplished the arduous feat when his foot slipped on
a slick spot. His arms flailed as he urgently tried to latch onto
the railing. Unable to regain his equilibrium, Mulder struck his
left elbow as he tumbled down the stairs. An excruciating pain shot
through his arm and he screamed bloody murder. Whoever said grown
men didn't cry had obviously never banged his elbow on concrete.
Clutching his throbbing arm, he sobbed relentlessly while murmuring a
string of invectives between gasps. To add insult to injury, he
started hiccupping. Could this day possibly get any worse?

He thought about calling Scully to tend to his wounds and help him
finish his laundry, but at this point his goal had evolved into a
personal crusade. Determined to complete his mission, he pulled
himself off the floor and carefully ascended the stairs. In his
humble opinion, climbing Mount Everest was undoubtedly easier than
scaling thirteen steps. When Mulder reached the summit, he raised
his arms to the best of his limited ability in a pale imitation of
the stirring scene from the movie "Rocky."

Pleased with his triumph, Mulder slowly worked his way back to his
apartment. He was exhausted from the physical activity and could
barely move without causing unbearable pain despite the amount of
Vicodin in his system. Holding his arm against his chest and
favoring his left foot, he eventually made it to his destination.
His hiccups had diminished in intensity, but continued to plague
him. An old home remedy came to mind. If he swallowed a spoonful of
sugar, the frustrating symptoms should go away. Mulder lifted the
canister lid and frowned. To his consternation, the crystallized
granules formed small yellowish-white stalagmites. Breaking a sugar
fragment from the container, he plopped it into his mouth. He
planned to allow it to dissolve, but a hitch in his breathing made
him accidentally inhale the irregularly shaped object. Desperate to
dislodge the clump of sugar, he clasped his hands together and
prepared to perform the Heimlich maneuver on himself. Arrggghhhh!
The exquisite pain in his fingers and arm prohibited this approach.
Flinging himself across his kitchen table, he coughed and sputtered
until the foreign body was expelled.

When the wheezing decreased from the trauma to his airway, he noticed
his hiccups were gone. Perhaps being scared out of his wits was a
more effective cure. Mulder retrieved the washing detergent and
bottle of bleach. Doggedly pressing forward, he revisited the
laundry room to confront his adversary. Armed with the appropriate
arsenal, he entered the facilities and prepared to wage war.
Adhering to the ancient battle strategy of divide and conquer, he
distributed the clothing into different washing machines. His pink
underwear made him shudder. Mulder impatiently scanned the bottle
for instructions. According to the directions, he should add three-
quarters of a cup of bleach directly to the wash water before adding
clothes. Oops.

He dug the discolored clothes out of the machine and let the water
fill to capacity. If three-quarters of a cup of bleach was good,
twice as much would be even better. His pounding headache was
aggravated by the noxious smell and he promptly puked into the
nearest trashcan. Mulder almost wished he had his service revolver
with him so he could put himself out of his misery. Shoving the
underwear into the malodorous solution, he swallowed convulsively to
avert another bout of vomiting. He swiftly added a scoop of
detergent to each load of laundry and pushed the coins into the
machines. The combination of pain, stress, fatigue and medication
finally caught up with Mulder. Collapsing in a nearby chair, he fell
fast asleep.

An unsettling noise roused him from his catnap and he awakened with a
start. Mulder noticed a young woman removing clothes from a washing
machine. He immediately panicked. Forget chivalry. There was
absolutely *no* way he would permit her to commandeer the dryers and
prolong his ordeal. He hastily aborted the spin cycle prematurely
and collected a load of freshly washed laundry. Tucking it under his
right arm like a football, he disregarded his pain and raced to the
row of dryers on the opposite side of the room. Excess water dripped
from the saturated bundle onto the floor. Totally focused on his
destination, Mulder didn't notice the looming danger.

Stepping into a sizeable puddle, he skidded across the floor dropping
the armload of clothes in an endeavor to regain his balance. Mulder
twisted his body to offset the forward momentum, but the laws of
motion could not be overcome. His ankle turned at an unnatural angle
as he slid helplessly toward the wall. For a split second he lost
contact with terra firma. In accordance with Sir Isaac Newton's
observation that what goes up must come down, Mulder succumbed to
gravitational forces and fell to the ground. His head hit the
concrete with a resounding thud and he mercifully lost consciousness.

++++++++++++

The mournful sound of retching and moaning awoke Mulder from his
fitful slumber. He sought to turn away from the offending noise, but
gentle hands firmly restrained him.

"Are you done?"

Done? Mulder gradually became aware of the emesis basis shoved under
his chin, as well as the bitter taste of bile. So *he* was the
source of the dreadful retching and moaning. Someone wiped his face
with a cool, damp washcloth and ran her small fingers through his
hair.

"Scully?" His eyelids fluttered open, but even the reduced
illumination of the room was intensely overwhelming. Wincing in
pain, he draped his good arm over his face. "Scully, are you there?"

"I'm right here, Mulder. You're going to be fine." She resumed
rubbing his shoulder in soothing, circular motions while the nurse
made a notation in his chart.

"Fine? Does that mean I can go home?"

Scully bit her lip and silently counted to ten. "Not yet. You have
a basilar skull fracture so Dr. Soames wants you closely monitored
for a while. He's especially concerned about the disorientation and
persistent vomiting."

"Um, speaking of which, can I have some good drugs? *Now*?"

The tall brunette nurse stepped forward. "Sir, can you answer a few
questions for me first?"

Hospitals were so predictable. In exchange for divulging the
equivalent of his name, rank and serial number, he would receive
medication to lessen his suffering. From his perspective, it was an
equitable trade. "My name is Fox Mulder, it's October 13th, Bill
Clinton is the president, and I'm in Hell." Uncovering his face, he
blearily focused on the shapely young woman. "I'm sorry, I don't
know the name of the hospital or your name though."

"You're at Alexandria Hospital, and my name is Lisa." Brandishing a
penlight, she smiled at her miserable charge. "At the risk of
sounding like a flirt, I need to look into your eyes, okay?"

"No, it's not okay," Mulder grumbled, "but go ahead, have your way
with me." He involuntarily flinched while she examined his pupillary
responses.

"Still sensitive to light, I see."

"No kidding." Swatting the penlight away, he reiterated his earlier
request. "Can I have my meds?"

"Sure, I'll be right back."

Mulder tried to shift his position on the notoriously uncomfortable
mattress, but was impeded by his encumbered left arm and right foot.
Undeterred, he attempted to lower the angle of the bed, but was
promptly thwarted by his overzealous partner. "You need to keep your
head elevated, remember?"

There was no flash of recognition, only a hint of sadness. "No.
Nothing. Nada."

Her expression softened. "You've been pretty 'out of it' most of the
day. It's not surprising you have some substantial gaps in your
memory. Your...um...altered level of consciousness alarmed the
emergency room physician."

"What did I say?"

"You treated the ER staff to a diatribe regarding the evils of dry
cleaning coupons, red panties and killer washing detergent. You also
offered to make a sacrifice to the laundry goddess to atone for your
sins."

Massaging his aching temples, Mulder groaned. "So am I in the psych
ward?"

She grinned mischievously. "Don't worry. It's not that easy to
commit a person for spouting outrageous theories. Although your
extensive collection of injuries might not convince your doctor you
aren't a danger to yourself."

"What exactly did I do?"

In preparation for her recitation, she moved her chair closer to his
bedside. "A neighbor found you in the laundry room and called 911.
You were unconscious when you arrived in the emergency room. In
addition to the skull fracture you have a couple of broken toes, four
broken fingers, chemical conjunctivitis, a minor scalp burn, a
fractured elbow a grade three ankle sprain and a partridge in a pear
tree."

"Very funny. What does grade three mean?"

"Somehow you managed to tear two ligaments in your ankle when you
fell. Your orthopedist doesn't believe it will require surgery
though. Once the swelling goes down they'll put you in some type of
cast for three weeks. After that you'll graduate to a walking boot,
then your personal favorite, physical therapy."

"Oh joy, oh thrill, oh rapture. Oh well. At least I won't have to
undergo the knife."

Staring at a spot on the floor, Scully delivered the bad news. "Your
ankle will probably be spared, but you'll definitely need surgery on
your elbow to remove a large bone chip."

"Shit."

Out of habit, she reassuringly rested her hand on his. The light
pressure brought an unsettling detail to his attention: He had an
IV. How many other tubes invaded his body? Experimentally, he moved
his leg and was upset to discover another unwanted intrusion. Damn.
Was there an unwritten hospital policy that stated, "Thou shalt stick
a humiliating tube into every bodily orifice?"

On that note, Lisa breezed through the door. "I brought you some non-
narcotic pain medication and something for the nausea. I'm sorry for
the delay, but the pharmacy was out of Phenergan suppositories. We
had to get your doctor's authorization to switch to the IV version."

Gazing at the syringe, Mulder hesitantly asked, "Will I get the rest
of my medications intravenously too?"

Lisa nodded. "Unless your doctor changes the orders, that's the plan
until you're able to tolerate oral medications."

"Thank God!"

Amused by his reaction, Scully suppressed a giggle. "Mulder, are you
having a religious experience?"

He gratefully observed the medication being injected into his IV
port. "I usually don't believe in the existence of miracles." The
nurse chuckled as she disposed of the syringes in the sharps
container and left the room.

"I'd hardly call avoiding a suppository a miracle," Scully teased.

"I can't help it if I'm feeling profoundly spiritual. All I want to
do is drift into the arms of Morpheus and pretend this day never
happened." As if to emphasize his point, Mulder yawned. Images of
the morning's catastrophes replayed in his mind and he abruptly
struggled to get out of bed.

"What's the matter? Are you nauseated again?"

"No, I just thought of something. Most of my clothes were in the
laundry room when I lost consciousness. I have to find out what
happened to my stuff!"

"Don't worry. I'll take care of it." She repositioned his pillows
and gently pushed him back onto the bed.

"But what if my laundry was swiped or thrown away? I can't wear
togas or fig leaves until I can replace everything."

"Let me check with the landlord before you resort to drastic
measures."

Mumbling in a low voice, he revealed his embarrassing secret. "Um,
Scully. I had a little accident earlier. I didn't bother to make
sure the washing machines were empty when I dumped my clothes in, and
um...there was a pair of red panties stuck under the agitator. My
underwear turned bright pink. I refuse to wear pink t-shirts and
boxers. It's not manly."

"I don't know. It could demonstrate you're secure in your
masculinity."

"I'm not *that* secure!"

Ever practical, she proposed a short-term solution. "All right.
I'll buy you a couple of packages of white underwear to tide you over
until you can get to the store."

The thought of Scully purchasing certain personal items made him
uneasy. "Uh, I'd rather you not do that."

"That's ridiculous. It's not like you have anything I haven't
already seen."

"Sculleeeee!"

"Mulder, for heaven's sake, get a grip! I used to help my mom fold
clothes when I was growing up. With a father and two brothers, I've
handled plenty of boxers and briefs in my lifetime."

"Oh, that!" He blushed at his erroneous assumption.

Genuinely puzzled, Scully absent-mindedly brushed a stray lock of
copper hair behind her ear. "What did you *think* I was talking
about?"

"Never mind." Mulder managed to muster a modicum of dignity. "I
suppose you need to know my size..."

"I already do."

"What?!"

"Your underwear sizes. I couldn't help but notice when I've brought
you clothes during your previous hospitalizations."

Riiiiight. As luck would have it, the Phenergan began to take
effect. He lazily glanced at Scully. "Sorry, I'm crashing here."

"Get some rest. You've had a rough day." She playfully tousled his
hair. "I'll stop by your apartment building and conduct an
investigation. Hopefully your clothes haven't been abducted by
Reticulans. I'll see you tonight."

"Okay."

Rising from the tattered visitor's chair, Scully regarded her
bedridden partner. En route to the door, she turned around and
smiled. "Laundry goddess, huh?"

"Who knows?" he shrugged. "I think it's remotely plausible there's a
higher power with a bizarre sense of humor. After all, who would
have ever guessed I'd be punished for having clean thoughts?"


finis