AUTHORS NOTES: At the end.

~~~~~

"Mulder!!!"

It's a long scramble toward consciousness and the first thing I'm
aware of is my nose.  It's pressed into something rough-textured, yet
yielding... whatever it is, it's hard to breathe through.

The next thing I'm aware of is my shoulder, because Scully is shaking
me by it.  Although why Scully would be in my apartment, shaking me
awake, is something I'm not currently equipped to understand.

"Mulder, get up.  We're going to be late if you don't move your ass."

I crack an eye open and suddenly it makes sense that Scully's here,
because this isn't my apartment after all.  It's hers.  Staring at the
pillow under my head, I open the other eye, allowing time for my
vision to clear. "I'm 'wake," I mumble into the material, if for
nothing else than to get her to stop shaking me.

She does, and I sort of register the sound of her taking a few steps
away from me.  "There's coffee brewing, should be done by the time
you're up," she tells me, and I try to count her steps to determine
where she goes as she leaves my side.  Fewer than to the bathroom,
more than to the kitchen.  Bedroom.

A dull throb radiates through my head as I slowly force it up from its
comfortable, albeit not =resting=, place. Yep, I'm in Scully's
apartment.  Blinking, my eyes fall on my jacket and shirt, draped over
the chair next to the couch.  The jacket still appears to be damp.

And last night comes back in a rush; one I have to fight to keep up
with.

I remember the waitress.  As I'd taken a seat at the bar, she'd told
me not to bother trying to top my old record.  Despite that, she'd
still served me drink after drink.  I think I stopped at thirteen, but I
wasn't counting too well by that point.  And I didn't care.

Drunk off my ass, I'd decided I'd been wasting far too much time with
Scully, not being =with= her, and was going to rectify the situation.
Somehow, I'd ended up here.  I don't remember getting from point A to
point B, but there had to be some form of a vehicle involved.  I hope.

She met me at the door, eyebrow raised, hand on hip, and my nerve, my
bravado, everything left me.  I just started babbling.  I don't
remember what all I'd said-- I don't  =want= to remember what I said--
but I know that by the end of it, I was terribly shaken, and totally
embarrassed.  Due, in a large part, to the fact that she didn't say a
word while I was babbling, nor even let me into her apartment.  So I
just... bolted, straight outside, into a downpour.  How I got back in
here, I can't even begin to remember.

Sitting up, I run a hand through my hair.  I can feel it flattened in
the wrong direction on one side of my head, and, reaching back, my
fingertips brush over a few locks that appear to be standing on end at
the top of my skull.

It can't possibly be that bad.  Surely I'm imagining things.

Being vertical isn't all it's cracked up to be; my head feels like
it's about to fall off and at this point I don't think I'd have the
coordination to catch it before it hit the floor.  I balance my
forehead on my palms, bracing my elbows on my knees, and try to
think.  I'm reasonably certain I didn't say anything incriminating
last night.  I think.  I hope.

Oh hell, I'm screwed.

I know I'm not a brilliant drunk-- I doubt there's any such thing--
but I had no idea that I could plummet to such incredible depths of
stupidity just from a few shots of... of... oh hell, I don't even
remember what I was drinking anymore.  On second thought, I doubt that
it really matters; whatever it was, the verdict is in and it's time to
pay.

Stupid.  Shit.

What did I =tell= her?  I know what I'd =intended= to tell her when I
showed up last night, but surely I chickened out... oh man, do I hope
I chickened out.  It had seemed like such a brilliant plan; just walk
up to her door, knock, and tell her that I was going crazy from not
touching her, that I couldn't live like this anymore, that I lov...
that I loved... well, that was the general plan.  Door, knock, blurt.
By the light of day, though, this is the =stupidest= plan I'd ever
come up with, and I've come up with my share of fucked-up plans in my
career.

Whatever I said, her reaction was pretty obvious.  Nothing.  Stone
silence, and that eyebrow.  I remember the eyebrow.  The 'Mulder,
you're crazy' eyebrow.  If I told her what I'm afraid I told her and
she gave me the eyebrow for it, I think I'm going to have to throw
myself out the window.

I can hear Scully moving around in her bedroom.  The door's half-shut
but the sound effects might as well be in Dolby Surround-Sound this
morning, and some little bastard in the back of my mind is providing
the visuals to go along with them.  She doesn't have her shoes on
yet.  I can hear her padding around, her little feet bare... which
brings up the question of what else is bare.  I think she's in her
robe-- I can hear those silky rustling sounds-- and in a sudden rush
of sensory memory I place the faintly humid vanilla scent still
lingering in the apartment.

Scully just took a shower.

Oh Christ.  She's naked under that robe, I just know it... she's
walking around her room in just a robe and pretty soon she's gonna
have to change into her work clothes...

My heart is pounding, my head hurts like hell, but despite my
hangover, I'm already starting to get a hard-on from sheer
anticipation when I finally hear the unmistakable... slithery... sound
of that robe... coming off.

Oh, have mercy.

I can't stand it anymore.  Despite my lack of coordination I manage to
scramble off the couch and stagger to the kitchen.  Coffee will help.
At the bare minimum, it's a distraction; at best, it might take the
curse off this hangover.

The coffee is still perking, making the little bubbly sound that, on a
normal day, is simply a pleasant background noise.  But this hangover
has turned my whole skull into a giant eardrum, and every perk of the
coffee feels like a small rock bouncing off my head.  I stare at the
coffeepot and wonder blindly if this is what it feels like when
Superman invokes his Super Hearing.  If so, that would go a long way
toward explaining the pained expression he always gets when he
concentrates.

Thankfully, Scully must have started the coffee a long time before she
managed to wake me up; it sputters and burbles a few last times and
seems to relax into a steamy sigh.  Much easier on the old eardrums.
I'm gearing up for the search for a coffee mug when I notice that
Scully has already left a couple of mugs out; considering how tidy she
is, this is a tacit command clearly spelling Use This Mug, Do Not Go
Through Cupboards.  Not a good sign.  The last few times I was here,
she trusted me to find a mug on my own.  Looks like I've been demoted
to 'houseguest'.

Gee, I wonder why.

I pour myself some coffee and try to develop some kind of plan,
something to fall back on in case the nightmare is about to come
true.  Because while Scully hates to talk about her emotions, she's
never been too shy about dissecting =mine=, a problematic tendency
that leads me to believe that the shit is really going to hit the fan,
here.

If I said what I'm afraid I said, and Scully decides that We Need To
Talk, then it's not going to be a discussion, it's going to be Fox
Mulder On Trial.  She'll be calm.  She'll be reasonable.  She'll take
me apart piece by piece and remain coolly above the whole process.  At
the end, she'll have every one of my inner demons will be pinned down,
squirming, like bugs in a display case, and I still won't have a clue
what she's feeling.

Shit.

I find myself face to face with my reflection in the microwave door,
and realize for the first time just how fucked up my hair really is.
I had no idea.  There are two separate patches that stand straight up,
like asymmetrical horns, and what I can see of the left side is
flattened, pointing diagonally toward my eyebrow.  I look like
=hell=.  It must have really been raining.  Perfect.  To top it off,
the world's best solution-- a shower-- is out of the question, seeing
as I wore home my 'emergency suit' a week ago, and never brought
another one back.  That's just fucking great.

I look like the little evil boss from Dilbert, my head feels like a
troll was running around inside all night, and any second now,
Scully's going to come out here and laugh at me.  She might not mean
to, but she won't be able to control it.  And I know that I made a big
enough fool of myself last night that I don't need to repeat it in any
form.

Taking a sip of the strong coffee, I realize I don't have much
choice:  I can stay here, and face Scully looking like... whatever it
is that I look like, or I can try and deal, and face her like my
normal self.

Neither is a great option, but I think that in the grand scheme of
'lesser evils' I'm going to have to do something.  I grab the coffee
cup she left out for me.  It actually =is= the same one that I've used
the last few times I've been here.  Maybe... no.  Instead of allowing
myself to think about that, I head toward her bathroom.

Forcing myself not to pause at her bedroom door, not to listen to what
she's doing, I make my way into the bathroom, shutting and locking the
door.

As I set the mug on the small shelf next to the sink, I take in my
reflection in a real mirror.  Good god.  It should be against the law
for hair to look this bad.

And, being a guy, I shouldn't care.

But being a guy, a guy who probably told my partner way too much
emotional information last night before passing out on her couch, I
can't help but feel that I should at least do my best not to look like
some mutant the next time I see her.

I can't help checking out the small collection of hair styling
products she has assembled around the sink.  Mousse, I'm familiar
with.  Hairspray, too.  She has these, and more.  Something called
volume boosting spray foam... and what the hell is glossifier?  Not to
mention a couple of other small bottles that I don't even bother to
pick up.

Do women really use all this junk?  More to the point, I wonder as I
stare at my reflection again, does it work?

I don't even know where to start.  All my years at the bureau, and
this has to be the biggest X-File yet. The 'women's hair-styling
phenomenon.'  "Filed next to the 'wig that ate Jimmy Hoffa', Scully,"
I mumble, vocalizing the thoughts of the sarcastic little voice in my
head.

As my eyes are drifting between the mirror and the bottles of stuff
next to me, there's a knock at the door. "What are you doing in there,
Mulder?"

She sounds annoyed.

Shit.

Nothing, I want to say.  My mouth still isn't working; the word comes
out mangled.  "Nuhcgh..."

"Mulder?"

I work my jaw for a second and try again.  "Nothing."

There's a long pause.  Finally her voice comes again, with a little
more of an edge to it.  "All right, if you say so.  Just make sure
that 'nothing' doesn't take more than five minutes, because we really
have to get to that meeting."

I hear her footsteps recede and I stare at the mirror again.  I can't
even remember what the hell meeting it is that we're supposed to be
going to.  I can't imagine having to spend time in someone's office,
listening to bureaucratic bullshit with Scully next to me and knowing
that the minute we get out of the damn meeting that she'll turn to me
with that business-like look on her face and say, 'Mulder, we have to
talk...'

Maybe I should just stick my head under the faucet.
Wet-and-neatly-combed is the Old Yeller of the hairstyle department,
the universal Sunday morning treatment that every mother uses on every
son.  It's not real stylish, but it's nice to know you can always fall
back on it.  I have no idea what the female equivalent is.  Some sort
of clippie thing, maybe.  Rubber bands, or whatever the hell it is
they use to make ponytails.  I don't frankly give a shit.

I turn the water on, test the temperature, and duck my head, aiming
for the faucet as best I can.

THUNK.

"OW, SHIT!" I yell, clapping my hand to the top of my head.  The
fucking faucet is too fucking =low=.  Fucking jackass sonovabitch
piece of shit.  I can already feel the bump forming where I clobbered
myself.  As if my head didn't hurt enough already.  Perfect.

"Mulder?"  Scully again, and this time she sounds really concerned.  I
don't blame her.  I'm pretty damn concerned, myself.

"I'm okay," I yelp, clutching the edge of the counter to keep from
falling sideways.

"Are you sure?  What was that noise?"

"Nothing," I yell.  Oh, that was brilliant.  Say something even more
intelligent.  "I'm fine.  I stubbed my toe."

"All right..." She sounds doubtful, but she leaves anyway.  I check
the mirror.  The bump is tender, and turning a light shade of red, but
it's not too noticeable unless you're looking for it.  I briefly
consider leaving my hair like this, just to distract from the bump,
but I remember Scully giving me the eyebrow last night and I remember
what it felt like, the last time she laughed at me.  If my heart is
scheduled to be broken this morning, the last thing I want is for her
to be *laughing* at me throughout the process.

Water.  Comb.  Fix hair.

I edge toward the still-running faucet again, but my head is throbbing
from the hangover-- not to mention the blunt instrument trauma-- and I
lose my nerve.  No more of that, thank you very much.  Another
technique, maybe... I hover over the sink and experimentally scoop a
handful of water toward my head.  It all dribbles out before it gets
anywhere near my hair.  I try again, applying more force; the water
splats against my forehead and dribbles down my face.

I guess I'm awake now, at least.

I catch sight of my coffee mug and, suddenly, I have a great idea.
There's still about half a cup of coffee left; I take a last swig,
dump the rest down the drain, and fill the mug with water.  Feeling
very proud of myself, I lean over the sink and pour the water over my
hair.

It occurs to me a moment later that it might have been wise to rinse
the mug out first.  Java-scented water cascades over my face and I
spot a few specks of ground coffee in the water as it swirls down the
drain.  I can hear Scully's voice already, I know exactly what she'll
say... 'Get enough coffee, Mulder?'

Oh, hell!  No time to mess with it.  What's done is done.  I dig
around frantically in a drawer, shoving aside multicolored
velcro-roller things, a big vicious-looking cylindrical brush,
=another= brush, a silver hair clip or barrette or whatever, a green
fabric thing that I can't figure out...  Aha! There's a comb.  There's
no time to be neat about this; I run the comb through my hair at full
speed, squinting against the caffeineated water flying in all
directions, flick, flick, flick.

There.

I open my eyes.

Oh, HELL!

There has to be a curse on me today.  There is no other explanation
for how fucked up my life has become in such a short period of time.
My hair will not goddamn lie flat.  It's still sticking up, only now
it's =wet= and sticking up.  I look like Alfalfa on crack.

My eyes shut again, and I open them slowly, hoping against hope that
the last vision I had was simply a lingering sleep-effect, and wasn't
real.

It was real.  Damn.  My eyes scan the collection of products again,
resigning myself to having to actually =use= something.  I just don't
know what.  Shutting my eyes, figuring my luck at the moment is much
better left up to fate, I grab for something at random.  The spray
foam thing.  Hmm.

Turning the can over in my hand a few times, I can't help but think
how bad of an idea this really is.

The decisions is quite literally taken from my hands as the heel of my
hand accidentally hits the little button on top, spraying white foamy
stuff square into my face.  "Fuck!"

"Mulder?"

Shit.

I flail blindly for a towel and grab the first one that my hand
touches, tugging at the same time that I lean my face in that general
direction.  The cloth flies off the rack way too fast, and an edge
whips across my face, the corner hitting me in the eye.  Ouch!  Fuck
fuck FUCK!  All this over a lousy bad hair day!

I carefully clear the white crap from my eyes and scrape it off my
cheek and forehead.  Oh well, it's already out of the can; I apply it
to my hair, praying for it to do some good.  I realize very quickly
that it won't.

Damn.

"Mulder!"

Oh shit, I hadn't actually answered her. "What, Scully?" I respond,
sounding almost normal.

"What are you =doing= in there?" she asks, sounding increasingly
pissed off.

"I'll be out in a minute," I promise.  Yeah, just a minute, I'm only
trying to deal with this dead animal that's made its home on top of my
head.

She sighs.  It's loud and deep, and it sounds like she's right next to
me instead of on the other side of the door.  "You'd better be," she
mutters.  "And whatever mess you're making, Mulder, I want it cleaned
up."

Ma'am, yes ma'am! I sarcastically salute my reflection... and groan.
I still look like Toto, if he'd been out in the tornado.

"I will, Scully," I call, hoping to get her off my back long enough
for me to do... something.

I turn the water back on, grab for the damned mug again, and rinse it
well this time before attempting to dump more water on my head.  Great
shot.  At least I mostly got my hair, and the back of my neck.

Of course, some of it had to hit the floor.  Just in case I wasn't
already uncoordinated enough.  I drop the towel to the floor and try
to clean up the water.

Okay, that's it, I give up.  I no longer care how horrible my hair
looks.  I don't care if Scully's going to be laughing too hard to
vocalize the horror at what I've done to her bathroom.  I don't
care...

And my foot slips.  Reaching out to steady myself, I knock the mug
into the sink.  The handle breaks.  Shit!  I end up on my knees,
bracing myself against the toilet.

Just fucking wonderful.  Well, this can't get much...

Then I hear a key being stuck into the lock on the door.

...worse.  Right.

"I'm coming in there Mulder.  I hope you're either dressed, or
unconscious."

And there's no time to even get up, before the door swings open, and
there's Scully, hand on hip, staring down at me.

"I... um..." I stammer, trying to find the right thing to say. "I'm
sorry?" I offer finally, staring up at her.

"Is that a question?" she asks, moving toward me.

Well, it =was=, but I'm not going to say so.  "I--"

Too late.  Her eyes are sweeping the scene as though she had to write
a report on it later, taking in the water, the towel, the spray foam,
and the fragments of broken mug... and the poor hung-over bastard
kneeling on the floor clutching the disembodied mug handle, water
dripping off his head.  The dumb jackass who had blurted out some kind
of half-assed drunken confession of love and lust last night.  In
other words...

Me.

I suppose I could try covering my ass with attitude, but I can't find
the will to do it.  There's just no use.  I fucked everything up last
night and no amount of bullshit is going to make it go away, no more
than that spray foam crap made my hair any better.  I give up.

I sag back on my heels, my spine slumped and my head bowed, waiting
for the bomb to fall.  Surrender, pure and simple.  I close my eyes.
Do with me what you will, Scully; I deserve it.

"Oh, Mulder."  Her voice is soft, filled with that wry tone that I
know so well.  A familiar hand brushes lightly over my head like an
angel's benediction, ruffling my soggy hair.  "Mulder, what happened
to your hair?"

I don't reply, I don't move.  Half of me keeps expecting her to yell
at me, but the other half is caught up in the sudden, fragile hope
that the world might not end after all.  I can't look at her, can't
risk her laughter or her anger; I'm just so tired, so very tired, and
her gentleness is my undoing.  Very slowly, like the beginning of an
avalanche, I fall forward until my forehead is leaning against her
stomach, and rest there, breathing in the scent of woman and vanilla.
Both her hands touch my aching head, smoothing my hair, soothing the
pain, and I pray to whatever is out there that she doesn't push me
away because I honestly think I'd break in half.

"Having a bad day?" she asks, and wonder of wonders, I hear that lilt
in her voice that means she's teasing me.  One of those small, perfect
hands slips down over my wet hair and cradles the base of my skull.
The other hand pats my shoulder.  "Come on, Mulder.  Let's get you
fixed up."

"Scully," I say, and I'm sure there's more where that came from but
damned if I know where it went.  It doesn't matter, really; the only
word I have is quite enough.  Scully.

She puts both hands on my shoulders-- I forget, sometimes, how strong
those tiny hands can be-- and turns me toward the bathtub.  "Lean
over," she commands, and I obey, my eyes still closed tight.  I hear
water running; the sound of it changes abruptly and I look up to find
Scully leaning over me with a detachable showerhead.  Oh, stupid.  Why
the hell didn't I notice that?  All the shit I went through with the
water, and the coffee, and the mug...

"Close your eyes," she says, and I do.

She presses my head down and I feel the warm water on my head, running
in ticklish rivulets past my ears and down my neck.  I feel her hand
run over my hair, her fingernails burrowing right down to my scalp,
and a single shudder runs down my spine.  I'm suddenly aware of how
close she is to me, of the heat of her, of the way her leg is pressed
against my ribs, and as she leans over me-- to get soap? shampoo?-- I
feel something else brush against me, something yielding and warm...
her breast.  Oh, Christ.  I am in big trouble here.

"Here," she says, taking my hand from its death grip on the edge of
the tub and putting something strange and plastic in my hand.  "Hold
this steady.  Right there."  She directs my hand with a firm touch,
and when the movement corresponds to the change in the direction that
the water is coming from, it occurs to me that I'm holding the
showerhead.  For a moment she shifts away, long enough for me to miss
the contact; and then her hands are in my hair.

Oh God are her hands ever in my hair.

I can smell a citrus tang now.  Shampoo, she's shampooing my hair.
Oh, God.  Ten strong, slender fingers, massaging lather into my hair
and my scalp.  Wonderful, dexterous fingers, like a pianist's, or a
painter's.  I feel her nails again, briefly, and I can't help but
shiver.  I'll behave, I promise, I swear I'll try, but I can feel her
thigh against me and the scent of her is making me dizzy and her hands
are in my hair.  How am I supposed to remember what a jackass I am
when her hands are in my hair?

I try.  I try to remember that anything I could possibly do or say
will only get me deeper in trouble, I try to keep my mind on that
mystery meeting that we have to go to and off of the sound of Scully's
breathing and her hands, moving in almost a caress through my hair.
Problem is, nobody seems to have relayed the orders to my dick-- I'm
getting one hell of a hard-on.  The warm puffs of her breath caressing
the back of my neck are not helping matters one bit.

Her hands are in my hair.  Christ.  It's all too easy to imagine those
perfect Scully-sized hands giving the rest of my body the same
treatment, steady and gentle and thorough and oh dear God am I in
trouble.  The showerhead starts to slip from my shaking fingers but
she catches it and uses it to rinse the shampoo out of my hair, her
fingers still strong and sure.

She shifts again, and the water stops.  "Here," she says, and presses
a towel into my hand.  I obediently towel off, rubbing my hair
roughly, still hunched over the tub like a caveman.  She is still
standing close to me, but it's different; I miss feeling the heat of
her skin through her clothes, I miss the pressure of her leg against
my ribs, and I really miss her hands.  I bury my face in the damp
towel, clenching my fists in the terrycloth folds, and hear my own
voice say, "I'm sorry about last night, Scully."

Oh shit.

I peek out, hoping that the towel had muffled things enough that she
hadn't heard me, but when I meet her eyes I can tell she heard, and
understood me.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit shit shit.

She doesn't say anything.  Silently, she picks up the comb and runs it
through my hair with the same precision I've seen her use on a target
range.  Flick, flick, flick.  Even without looking in the mirror, I
can tell that every hair is finally falling into place.

Her face is unreadable, and I start to panic.  Just a little.

Okay, more than a little.  Usually we deal with emotional situations
by pretending that they don't exist, by not talking about them, just
leaving them the hell alone.  I just broke every rule in the book by
mentioning last night, and I don't know what she'll do now.

Before I know it, I'm babbling senselessly.

"Scully, I didn't mean-- I just wanted to-- I shouldn't have gotten
drunk, Scully, and I-- I'm sorry, I never should have come over here,
I shouldn't have-- I didn't mean to--"

I'm not even making any goddamn sense.  I don't even know what's going
to come out of my mouth next, it's like verbal drool, a complete
surprise, and embarrassing as hell.  Scully is leaning back against
the vanity, watching me, waiting for something, and I try to shut up,
I really do, but the words keep pouring out.

"We can just pretend it didn't-- it never-- that I never said what I
said, and that's fine, and I'm just-- Scully, I'm sorry about the
bathroom, and the coffee cup, and I'll clean everything up, I promise,
I just-- I'm so sorry I did this to you, I just, I couldn't help-- I
just had to tell you that I love--"

She leans forward in one swift, fluid motion and kisses me square on
the lips.

Ohmygod.

I stare at her as she pulls away, smiling her enigmatic Scullysmile.
She touches my face softly.  "Mulder," she says, looking dizzyingly
deep into my eyes. "Shut up and go put your shirt on."

"But I--" I stammer, unable to take my eyes off her.

She shuts me up by kissing me again.  I can feel it better this time--
I'm still in shock, but I'm coming out of it.  Velvet lips slipping
over mine, ten strong slender fingers sliding around my head and
pulling me in for more.

If she'd employed this tactic when we first met, I swear to God I
would have let her win every single one of our arguments.

I break my paralysis and reach out to touch her, burying my hands in
the silky fire of her hair and clutching her to me.  I don't believe
that this is happening, but then again I haven't believed that any of
this morning was happening and if I had to make a choice, this is the
part I'd like to believe.  Scully kissing me and me kissing her back.
Her tongue flicking along my teeth and her fingers-- oh, her fingers
are threading through my hair again, drawing invisible designs on my
scalp with her nails.  Ohhh.

I could die a happy man.  Right here, right now.

She breaks the kiss and smiles at me, her eyes dancing with laughter.
"Come on, slowpoke," she teases, and starts for the door.

I grab her hand and pull her back.  I'm just not getting this.  It's
not that I'm not supremely grateful, but considering the cool
reception she gave me last night, I'd just like to know what the hell
brought this on.  "Hey," I say softly, "why-- today?"

The smile she gives me is even better than the last one.  "You mean,
why not last night?"

"Yeah."

"You're sober now," she says, and grins, her whole face shining.  "I
wanted to see if you'd say it again when you were sober.  Now hurry up
and get your shirt on."

I can't help it, I grin right back at her.  I think I might be wearing
this expression for the rest of my life; at the very least, I'm sure
to look like a slaphappy jackass all through the meeting.  Not that I
care.

She disappears into the living room and I automatically check the
mirror on my way out.  There's the grin.  And--

I don't believe it.  She messed up my hair.  Scully messed up my hair.

After all the--

I'm gonna--

Ah, who gives a rat's ass about hair anyway?

~~~~~~~

Authors Notes: Brynna - So, this all started so - innocently. It was
late, I  was tired. Magdeleine was talking about another fic she's
working on. I was helping w/an idea. That idea turned into this. See
what screwdrivers and marshmallows will do to a girl's brain? It's
been an amusing ride, however, my first venture into humor-fic. So I
s'pose I've got my cowriter extraordinare to thank for that, seeing as
it was going to take an act of something god-like, or else a late
night & alcohol to drag me away from angst. Looks like she picked the
right combo. ;-) And now, I return to long-winded angst, but
hopefully, I'll venture back to this side of the tracks once in a
while, now that I know how much fun it is.

Magdeleine -  Once upon a time I was chatting with Brynna when I
mentioned a scene I was trying to fit into my novel... which she
suggested could be much more fun as a stand-alone.  Twenty minutes
later we were ransacking our bathrooms for hair products and hashing
out the basics of "hairfic", and it's been a blast ever since.

This has made for a lovely break from writing the never-ending Mind
Over Matter (coming soon to an addy near you... yeah, right), and I
just want to thank my lovely cohort Brynna for it.  Other kudos go to
Erlybird, who has once again given me a free dose of wisdom when I
needed it most, to the members of Babyfishmouth for laughing madlessly
and helping us get this mucking thing done, and to Robbie, who had
better get her ass back from Scotland soon and that's all I'm gonna
say.