TITLE: Hair Of The Dog AUTHORS: Brynna (ingos_grrl@hotmail.com) and Magdeleine (playwrtr@surfmail.net) DISTRIBUTION: Just leave our names/email addresses on it and don't exchange money. FEEDBACK: Yes please. We like feedback. Feedback is our friend. Won't you be our friend too? SPOILERS: teeny, tiny one for the movie. RATING: PG-13-to-R (depends on your language sensitivity) CLASSIFICATION: S/H/MSR SUMMARY: Mulder has a bad hair day. DISCLAIMER: *Brynna looks at Magdeleine* Nope, don't see it. *Magdeleine looks at Brynna* Don't see it either. *Both look out at you* We just don't see the resembalance to the folks at 1013. Do you? THANKS: to BFM & the creators of Volume Boosting Spray Foam (it'll make sense later, we promise) 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 13, 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 said 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. ******End of Part 1******* 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.