Title: Ghost Pencils in the Sky
 Author: Vickie Moseley
 Summary: How did Scully and Mulder get alllllllll those pencils
 down from the ceiling? Post episode story from 'Chinga'.
 Warning: Spoiler warning for 'Chinga' (but does not give away
 plot details) and a slight reference to 'Detour'
 Rating: PG (I can't get Mulder to clean up his language!)
 Category: V H UST MT (Mulder Torture, but mild, believe me)
 Archive: I'd love to see this archived everywhere. Go ahead and
 put it on the newsgroup, too.
 Keywords: Humor, pencils, office furniture towers
 Disclaimer: I _had_ to do this one, Mr. Carter. You set it up too
 perfectly and you were just _begging_ me to do it. So if I am doing
 it without permission, my defense is insanity. You made me crazy
 with that ending. But I have no intention of profiting by this, so
 I'm not infringing on your copyright. Mulder, Scully, and Skinner
 all property of 10-13 Productions.
 Comments: Oh, yeah, I definitely want to hear what you think.
 You know where to get me, but just in case, I'm at
 vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com 

Ghost Pencils in the Sky
 by Vickie Moseley 

FBI Headquarters
 Washington, DC
 Tuesday, February 17, 8:15 am 

"So, did you get much done this weekend, Mulder?" Dana Scully
 asked, the patented 'Skeptic of the Century' look that he so loved
 shining from her face. 

He had to wipe that look off her smug mouth or he was gonna pop
 her a good one. After all, she had hung up on him--three times!
 And he was just trying to help. He was still dying of curiosity over
 what could have interrupted Dana Scully's 'perfect vacation'. But
 for now, he couldn't let her know. "Oh, God, yeah. I mean, you
 can't imagine how much I was able to accomplish without someone
 questioning my every move--" 

A pencil appeared out of nowhere and landed with a soft, almost
 imperceptible _thud_ on his head. 

He started to continue, to explain that he was totally focused on his
 work all weekend, when yet _another_ errant pencil rained down
 on his soft brown hair. This time, he couldn't hide the wince it
 invoked upon landing. It hurt. 

Scully's eyes, almost fearfully, strayed to the ceiling. She let out a
 small gasp. There, imbedded in the ceiling tiles were probably four
 dozen pencils. New pencils. Newly sharpened pencils. Pencils it
 had taken her six months to wrest from Supply, who seemed to
 think that the X Files Division used an inordinate amount of pencils
 and merited being placed on some sort of bizarre pencil ration. She
 could now see the logic in that move. 

"T-t-there's got to be some sort of explanation for this," Mulder
 stammered, as he was nailed again by the evidence of his own
 misdeeds. 

"I don't know, Mulder. Some things are better left unexplained,"
 Scully said, an inscrutable look on her face. 

When the next pencil attacked _her_, however, she narrowed her
 gaze to a glare. "I think you need to tidy up a bit, Mulder," she
 said in a low growl. 

Thud. This time the pencil just missed his eyes as he had turned his
 face toward the heavens for closer inspection. Immediately, the
 game was no longer innocent. "Got an umbrella, Scully?" he asked,
 only partially kidding. 

"Mulder, reach up there and get them down," Scully commanded.
 Now she was using her 'den mother' voice, as he thought of it, and
 he really hated it. 

"I don't know if you've noticed it, Scully. I mean we've only been
 in this office for _five_ years_, but that ceiling is 12 feet tall!"
 Mulder cried in protest. 

"And you, Special Agent Fox William Mulder, are _six_ feet tall, so
 that means unless you have 'really little stubby arms', you should be
 able to stand on the desk and reach up there and get them all,"
 Scully intoned forcefully. 

Mulder looked at her, perplexed. Finally, he got out of his chair,
 and stared at the ceiling. He hoisted himself up on the desk, giving
 Scully one last look. "uh, tell you what. Why don't you go over to
 the phone there on your desk, dial 9 - 1 - 1 and then hang up. That
 way, when I fall off the desk and break my neck, you just have to
 hit the redial button," Mulder said in all seriousness. 

She stood there, watching him as he reached up to grasp a pencil.
 "Mulder. Get down from there." 

"No, Scully. You wanted the pencils down, I'm getting them
 down." He was tottering now to reach some of the pencils furthest
 from the desk. 

"Mulder, get down or I shoot you down," she growled. He
 stopped and grinned at her. 

"What changed your mind?" he asked, clambering down from the
 desk top. 

"An image of you in traction and me having to empty your bedpan,"
 she said through clenched teeth. "Now, move." 

"Scully, you aren't tall enough to get those--" he said, just a hint of
 terror in his voice. Not at her failure to reach, but at her reaction to
 his observation. 

She was standing on the desk and could reach many of the pencils,
 but realized he had a point. There were some just out of reach.
 She looked around the room. "Get that chair over there." 

Mulder looked across at the wooden office chair that he had dug
 out of a storage room five years before. It was squat and made of
 solid maple or walnut, the varnish was so old it was hard to tell at
 this point. And heavy as all get out. At the time, he was certain
 he'd discovered J. Edgar's first chair. "Uhh, what are you thinking
 here?" 

"I'm going to have you put the chair up here on the desk so I can
 stand on it and reach those other pencils," she said, all business like. 

"If you remember, we didn't attend that very important teamwork
 conference, and as a result, we are not properly trained in the
 extremely essential procedures of building a tower out of office
 furniture," Mulder reminded her, stalling for time. 

"Mulder," she purred. "I have my gun." 

"Getting the chair _right now_, ma'am," he replied quickly. 

Mulder didn't like this idea one bit. But the look in Scully's eye,
 coupled with the fact that he'd been the one to put the pencils 'into
 orbit' on their ceiling in the first place left him no room to argue.
 He struggled with the chair--it WAS heavy-- then finally hefted it to
 the desktop, being particularly careful not to land it on his partner's
 size 6 brown leather t-straps. That feat accomplished, he promptly
 stood at attention the base of the newly constructed tower. 

"Careful, Scully," he admonished softly. 

"I'm being careful, Mulder. I climbed trees all the time as a kid." 

"So did I. I have the plaster casts to prove it," he muttered under
 his breath. 

"What was that?" she asked, concentrating on the last of the
 pencils. 

"Nothing, just watch what you're doing," he chided again. Mulder
 would never have admitted it, but he was holding his breath. He
 didn't like the idea of Scully teetering on that old chair, on top of
 his old desk, in the middle of the office, but that was only part of
 the problem. She'd worn a skirt, an occasion for rejoicing in his
 mind usually, but not today. Her legs were drawing his eyes like
 magnets and he was doing his best not to sneak at least a little peek
 up her legs, which seemed inordinately long all of a sudden. His
 eyes betrayed him for just a split second and that's when all hell
 broke loose. 

He was staring most intently at the shape of her thigh as it
 disappeared into the murky shadows of her slip and skirt and what
 he could only assume were bikini cut panties when Scully, in an
 effort to reach the last pencil, scooted the chair just a little too far.
 One leg of the offending office furniture decided to take a free fall
 off the edge of the desk. Mulder noticed, absently, that Scully's
 thigh had taken on a new appearance--had stiffened and was tilting
 at an odd angle. About that time, his brain registered her cry of
 distress just as she started her own head long decent to the floor. 

Working purely out of instinct (because they sure never covered
 this in the FBI training) he put out his arms and captured her in a
 perfect imitation of Popeye saving Olive Oyl from a fall from one of
 Bluto's abductions. His mind was wildly cheering at his success
 when the chair, just a few seconds after Scully, landed with one leg
 soundly on his left foot. 

Mulder let out a roar of pain as the door flung open and Assistant
 Direction Skinner stood in the doorway, taking in the picture before
 him. 

It looked just a little like the cover of those paperback books that
 appear in row after row in the airport news stands. Scully, her hair
 a blaze of color around her face, had her arms clenched around her
 partner's neck. Mulder, pain, agony and rage playing tug of war
 with his facial expression, was cradling his partner in his arms, and
 looked for all the world like Rhett Butler, about to take Scarlet up
 that long staircase and have his way with her. 

The chair was miraculously sitting, upright, innocently, next to the
 desk, where it had slid off Mulder's foot just seconds before. 

"Am I interrupting?" Skinner's voice boomed off the quiet walls of
 the basement. 

Scully gasped, then whacked Mulder on the shoulder to indicate she
 wanted down. Mulder complied and grabbed for his foot, which he
 was certain had been severed by the weight of the chair. Skinner
 stood there, waiting for an explanation. 

"This isn't what it looks like, sir," Scully assured him hurriedly as
 she fought to straighten her skirt. 

"God damn, son of a bitch," Mulder hissed under his breath as he
 collapsed in the chair, _the_ chair, and worked at the laces of his
 leather shoe attempting to find the extent of the damage. 

"It looks like two agents attempting to cover up the destruction of
 property instigated by the senior agent when that agent's partner
 took a couple of days off, Agent Scully. Or do I have the wrong
 impression?" Skinner asked in perfect deadpan. 

Scully choked. "No, sir, no, absolutely, that _is_ what this was, I
 assure you." 

"I'm bleeding," Mulder said, to no one inparticular. 

That got Scully's attention. She turned to her partner and knelt
 down to get a better look at his foot. Sure enough, the chair had
 hit hard enough to cut the skin, but the leather of his shoes had
 protected the foot from too much damage. Even so, an ugly bruise
 was beginning to show around the small cut. 

"We should take you for x-rays, Mulder. You might have broken
 one of the smaller bones in your foot," she said, giving him a sad
 smile. "You did it again, and this time you were just a bystander." 

"And you wonder why I believe in conspiracies," he glared in
 return. 

Meanwhile, their superior had disappeared. 

"Where did Skinner go?" Scully asked, looking into the hallway. 

"Probably calling the Washington Post. This would make a great
 story," Mulder fumed, trying to get his sock and shoe on again for
 the trip to the ER. 

They both stopped at the sound of metal scraping on cement.
 Skinner appeared in the doorway, carrying a six foot metal step
 ladder. He set it up expertly, climbed to the proscribed second step
 (for safety) and removed the three remaining pencils from the
 ceiling. Then hopped down and handed them to Scully. 

"When you get back from having his foot checked out, one of you
 can get back up there and fill in those holes with a little 'wite-out',"
 he confided. 

"Where did you find that?" Mulder cried in disbelief and pointed to
 the ladder. 

"Janitor's closet is two doors down, Agent Mulder. You mean to
 tell me that as much time as you spend in this office you haven't
 'investigated' what's in there?" Skinner accused with an amused
 smile tugging at his mouth. 

"I never thought--" Mulder stammered. 

Scully narrowed her eyes and glared at him, then turned the same
 glare at her boss. "I never should have come back from Maine,"
 she concluded, then grabbed her purse. "C'mon on 'Hopalong',
 we're off to visit your favorite place," she said, pulling Mulder up
 to a standing position. 

"My foot feels fine," he tried to persuade her, until his first step
 caused pain all the way from his foot to his hair. He started to
 crumble back into the chair, but Skinner caught his other arm and
 kept him upright. 

"I'll help you get him to the car, Scully," Skinner offered. He
 turned out the lights on the way out of the door. "So, Scully, how
 was Maine, anyway?" he asked as the three of them waited for the
 elevator. 

"Quiet, sir," she assured him. "Compared to this place, it was quiet
 as a tomb." 

the end <VEG> 

I knew you told me you chased tornadoes,
 but in my heart, I always thought it was a metaphor. 

Jami Gertz to Bill Pullman in 'Twister'