Work Text:
As it turned out, aliens are flakes. The discovery of a tropical planet two solar systems over had them drop Earth like a cold potato and leave, ship, baggage, technology and all. Leaving the Consortium holding the bag. And bills. A lot a lot a lot of bills. Since their career up to that point had mainly consisted of sitting around and looking important, paying off those bills proved to be a troubling prospect. Luckily, they had options.
Saturday evening saw a very tired Fox Mulder flop onto his sofa. An icy can of Budweiser and a brand new video that certainly wasn’t his were the instruments of his relaxation. Starting the video, he hit fast forward, wanting to get to the action. When the blurred figures had lost their clothing, he sat back and let the normal speed resume. As the janky music played, he closed his eyes, sighed and took a long drink of beer. He opened his eyes and promptly choked violently.
Onscreen, the Smoking Man, in all his nude glory, tossed a cigarette aside and strode towards the woman who was eagerly wiggling her hips at him. He gave the camera a smug smile before shaking his own hips and grabbing the woman around the waist.
Mulder did a fairly credible imitation of Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’.
The calm of the evening was shattered as a TV remote went flying out of the window of No. 42, Hegal Place. It was followed in short order by a VCR, a television set and, for good measure, a can of beer. Subsequent scuffling noises from the apartment were ignored by the rest of the tenants, who were altogether too used to this sort of thing.
Two days later:
“I don’t understand, Mulder. What possessed you to go to Ellens Air Base again? Do you not remember what happened the last time you went there?”
“I don’t remember. That’s the whole point. Jokes aside, honestly, I can’t remember why I wanted to go there in the first place. But for some reason, I feel really relieved...”