Dana Scully’s Diary – Chapter 2

Feedback: XSandPiper78[at]aol.com

Rating: PG-13

Keywords: Humor, “Bridget Jones’s Diary” crossover.

Archive: Sure! Please let me know where.

Disclaimer: The X-Files and related characters are the property of CC, 1013, etc. “Bridget Jones’s Diary” is the property of Helen Fielding and Penguin Books. No infringement intended.

Summary: Scully’s life in “Bridget Jones” style.


The Bugman Cometh

~ Sunday 26 January

Aleve taken: 3, Trips to the bathroom to purge stomach of
solely liquid content: 4, Hangover remedies ingested: 2
(godawful stuff)

(2:30 PM)

Just woke up on kitchen floor. Have horrible hangover, want to
die. Oh! Missy’s waking up.

(10:15 PM)

Spent whole rest of day recovering and dissecting contemptible
character of Vile Tom at length with Missy. Still feel rejected
and a little perplexed, though should have seen this coming.
Knew Vile Tom was vile — what did I expect?

~ Monday 26 January

Stunning career moves: 0, Krycek seductions: 1 (but half-
hearted), Number of minutes plotting Vile Tom’s demise: 368

Office. Am over feeling dejected and have moved on to
Severely Pissed Off. Is much healthier. How dare he stand me
up? Is like high school, when most unattractive boy in school
walks up to you in a group before Prom and looks past you to
ask your best friend instead. While you never really wanted to
be asked, it still hurts when snubbed by sweaty, unappealing

Oh God. What is wrong with *me*? Has life gone so wrong
that even the likes of Vile Tom prefers better company?
Wonder if excess water retention leftover from time of month is

No, must stop this line of thinking. Am responsible, stable
woman of substance not to be swayed by minor setbacks —
namely those involving man with “Vile” before his name. Will
persevere in plans of career advancement, reuniting with
friends, etc. and regain quality of life deserved.

Right. I’ll get started now. Just as soon as I finish this bag of

~ February ~

~ Tuesday 4 February

Wilted veggies thrown out: 8, Cornfields ran through: 3, Alien
autopsies performed: 1 (smelly, unnatural creatures), Number of
times contemplated finding new job: too many to count.

Ugh. Must find new occupation. In the meantime, being out in
the field (quite literally) has given me time to think about the
Vile Tom Situation. Decided somewhere between cornfield
number two and liquefied alien intestines that:

1) Whole mess is blessing in disguise. Have been saved from
possible relationship with a complete ass.


2) Need to focus not on said mess, but instead direct energy
towards maintaining dignity in the workplace — a particularly
difficult feat when one’s hand is up alien’s bottom.

There. That should do it.

~ Wednesday 5 February

Frohike calls: 2, Krycek seductions: 0 (progress!), Panic attacks
concerning upcoming holiday: about 50

Ugh. Have just realized dreaded Valentine’s Day is less than
two weeks away. Who invented concept of Valentine’s Day
anyway? Who? Am convinced was simpering, wide-eyed youth
in full throes of love and devotion. Saccharine sweetness of it is
appalling, really. Am boycotting whole affair on principle.

~ Friday 7 February

Chocolate units: 5 (okay, 15), Number of ideals crushed: 1,
Krycek seductions: 0 (who has time when ideals are busy being

Damn Fox Mulder! Was busy typing up report, feeling v. smug
and assured in boycott of stupid, commercialized holiday when
felt eyes boring into the back of my head. Turned around to find
Mulder staring at me with small smile on his face.

“Can I help you?” I asked irritably. Hate it, *hate it* when he
stares in this manner, as if plotting something at my expense.
Which is usually the case.

“Just thinking,” he replied, offering nothing more in way of

Returned stare for a few moments with expectant look on face,
to which he only smiled wider. Finally, could take it no longer.

“What?” I shouted. “What?”

Grin unbelievably bigger — had not thought this possible, but
clearly have been shown up by Tooms-style person and his
amazing elastic mouth.

Hmm… Spared a moment considering possibilities for such a

Finally, he answered. “Whatcha doin’ for Valentine’s Day,


Gathering dignity, squared shoulders and answered airily,
“Valentine’s Day, Mulder? Don’t you think we’re above such
tedious, silly holidays?”

He just stared at me. Went on, feeling inexplicable need to fill
in the silence.

“I mean, just because greeting card and chocolate manufacturers
*tell* us we need to celebrate love on the fourteenth of every
February, doesn’t mean we all need to be mindless slaves to
their marketing strategies.”

Prepared to launch into second and more comprehensive half of
my “Anti-Valentine’s Day speech”, which had been thoughtfully
prepared and repeated at length to self for reassurance when
halted by uncharacteristic quirk of partner’s eyebrow.


“So…what you’re saying is, you don’t have a date.”


~ Saturday 8 February

Calories: 10,000, Number of times checked answering machine
for calls from Vile Tom: 8 (v. bad), Krycek seductions: 0
(what’s the point?), Number of dates for stupid Valentine’s Day:

Have consumed weight in Haagan Dazs. Am too depressed to

(6:30 PM)

Oh God, but Mulder just *knew* I didn’t have a date. Is it that
obvious? Am I emitting some sort of “pathetic and single”
signal? Am destined to die alone in this apartment, covered in
cats. Won’t be found until weeks later when smell drives
neighbors to investigate in manner of sad, New York deaths.
Oooh! Phone ringing…

(6:43 PM)

Was Vile Tom, apologizing for not showing up for date.

“Yes, it’s been nearly two weeks now, Tom.”

“I really am very sorry, Dana. I was called away unexpectedly
on a case and only just got back an hour ago.”

Two guesses what he said next.

“Let me make it up to you.”


But no, will be strong. Will not be made a fool of twice. “I don’t
think it’s a good idea, Tom.”

“Please? I’ll never forgive myself if you go away thinking ill of

Then again, it wasn’t *his* fault he was called away on a case. I,
of all people, should understand that.

“C’mon, Dana. It’s just dinner,” he teased. Sounds v. cute when
he teases. Almost forgot this since has been a long time since
our days at the Academy.

“Okay,” I whispered before I could question self further.

“Great! Well, I’ll be wrapped up in paperwork after this case, so
this weekend is no good. How about Valentine’s Day?”


~ Monday 10 February

Bureau accountants dodged: 4, Clandestine lunches: 1, Krycek
seductions: 1 (am so bad!)

Euphoric today! Random, leggy blonde from secretarial pool
accosted Mulder in hall upon entering building, accusing him of
being first-rate bastard, very public argument culminating in
resounding slap across partner’s stunned face.

I wonder, is it wrong to laugh outright and at length in such a
situation? Oh well.

Began day with review of possible cases, in which Mulder
actually discarded some of the more outrageous claims rather
than deciding to drag us to the forefront of them. Progress, I’d
say. Was v. shocked, but pleased.

Ran into Tom on way to coke machine, who cornered me in
near-deserted hallway.

“Dana,” he purred, grinning. “How…fortuitous, meeting you

“Tom,” I returned. Oooh, the man smells incredible. He
gestured toward copy room next to machine. Without a thought
as to propriety, or the past, I followed him in.

Emerged fifteen minutes later with smug smile on face. Of
course, did not sleep with Tom on top of copy machine in
manner of office tramp, but had v. nice make-out session which
gave me a lot to think about. Saw Krycek on the way out of
copy room, disguised once again in form of UPS man. Looked
at me with a kind of respect, no doubt approving of obvious
state of affairs. Felt naughty, so fluffed hair and licked swollen
lips in unmistakable ‘come-hither’ gesture, brushing against him
‘accidentally’ on way down hall, extra sway of hips completing
just-shagged look. Caught mesmerized look in his eyes.
Especially enjoyed dropped jaw and lustful gaze. Having
entirely too much fun at Krycek’s expense.

V. good day in all.

~ Wednesday 12 February

Hmm… v. strange thing happened today. Came home for lunch
hour and wasn’t home five minutes before there was a knock at
the door. Opened to reveal exterminator standing there with
clipboard and official-looking expression on face.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Exterminator, Ma’am. Mind if I come in?” he answered in all-
about-business voice, then proceeded to let self in.

Baffled. Why would an exterminator be here? Briefly wonder if
this is some sort of ploy set up by poster boy for lung cancer.
Laying hand on gun under ruse of scratching back, I told him, “I
never called for an exterminator.”

“Basic procedure, Ma’am,” he told me while having a leisurely
look around my apartment. “Just a little preventative action.
There’s a small pest problem in the building, so every unit gets

Fabulous. “Okay, then. But could you make it fast? I’ve got to
leave in about ten minutes.”

Stan, as the patch on his uniform announced, looked affronted.
“Well, there’s no reason to stay,” he assured me. “Been in here
plenty of times before when you weren’t in.”

“Excuse me?” I sputtered. Shocked and outraged that
management has abused trust in such a manner. Further protests
cut off with a raised hand from Stan as he looked around
apartment forebodingly, scowling as he scanned the room with
his eyes.

“You have German roaches,” he said darkly.


“I can smell the little bastards,” he went on, searching the room
with frantic whips of his head. Stormed off in direction of
kitchen, and I followed, horrified that it could be true — that I’d
been unwittingly harboring roaches.

“You — you can *smell* them?”

“Save your questions, Ma’am,” he said, never looking at me,
then dropped the clipboard on the counter. Eyeing every nook
and cranny with suspicion, he stood in the middle of the room
with one hand on a canister of spray and another on a line of
tube gels, all located in his tool belt-like apparatus around his
waist. Am reminded of Old-West-style gunfighter. By now am
v. disgusted. Apartment, though kept immaculate, feels dirty
and invaded.

After several minutes of spraying, gelling and trap laying, Stan
spent the next twenty minutes regaling me with inner workings
of the mating habits, hatching cycles and domesticity of the
German roach, along with details on roach feces and sputum, ad
nauseum. Lost track of number of times Stan repeated that this
particular breed has to be introduced into apartment, as they do
not travel from one house to the next unless in someone’s purse,
clothes or similar.

Now leaving v. late for second half of workday, appalled and
horror-struck. Will sterilize apartment tonight.

(2:56 PM)

V. pissed off right now. Have told Mulder about plight, only to
be met with whooping laugher. Wonder how much of a head
start would have before officials begin to realize partner is


(8:21 PM)

Something really weird going on here. Have scrubbed every
inch of kitchen with strongest bleach solution I can stand,
moving appliances away from walls and scouring cabinets and
drawers, yet cannot find single sign of infestation. Surely there
would be evidence? Am thinking “Stan” is a phony. Will keep
lookout and change locks. Must speak to management
tomorrow before work.

(10:14 PM)

Phone call from Frohike, disturbing much-needed bath.

“Scully,” I sighed into phone, glad have finally gotten into habit
of taking cordless with me.

“Hey there, sexy lady.”

“Frohike. How are you?”

“Not as good as you, apparently.” Sounded hurt.

“What is it, Melvin?” I sighed again, resigned to my fate.

He gasped at my mentioning first name. Had to smile. Could be
fun to flirt with little troll once in a while. “Well?” I prodded.

“I saw you and that Tom Colton creep today.”

Sat up straight, causing water to splash sides of tub. “What?”
Oh God, this is bad. Bad!


“Are you in the bathtub?” He asked, changing tacks.

“Er, yeah.”

Did he just groan?

Heard shuffling and sounds suspiciously like switches being
flipped. Could *hear* the leer in his voice.

“My, my. Don’t you look fetching today, my beauty.”

“Frohike! Do you have a camera in here?!?”

He laughed. “Maybe. You’ll never know, will you?”

Outraged at lack of concern for my privacy. Decided to test him
and find out truth. Trailed free hand down stomach to submerge
beneath bubbles, giving appearance of…well, should be rather

“What am I doing now?” I breathed into phone.

Strange, broken breathing was only response. Couldn’t tell if
this was caused by seductive voice or by actual picture.

“G-gotta go!” he squeaked.

Hung up the phone with huge grin on face. That was too easy.

Though, have to admit, *did* grab towel for coverage before
stepping out of tub. Damn Gunmen and their damned
surveillance equipment.