Sorry it's taken so long, beautiful and beloveds, but here is your finale, the last installment in Joint Registration. Its been fun and hopefully enjoyed by all, so make sure to check out some of my other fics before its all said and done. With love and only the best wishes, I take my leave.

The Louisiana sunlight streamed in through dingy motel windows, stirring Scully awake. Her eyes flickered open, and she gave a small smile of contentment. She was rested and warm and...The smile disappeared. Not alone.

Her fingers drifted to the arm draped over her waist, then brushed across the brunette mop of hair of the person sleeping beside her. This was nice, admittedly, and so far innocent.

She sighed. But not by the book.

"Mulder," Scully said softly, lifting her head up. He almost didn't look like a paranoid smart-ass while asleep, how cute. "Mulder, wake up."

He muttered something incomprehensible, burying his face in her shoulder. "Not awake."

"Mulder, let me go."

"Five more minuets."

Scully lost her patience, snapping at him. "Fox!"

"I told you not to call me that!" He moaned, reluctantly withdrawing and rolling onto his back. Her pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes. "Oh God, kill me now."

"I'll save Him the trouble. What are you doing in my bed?"
"Whiskey...scotch...Beads, lots of beads."

"Mulder, are you drunk?"

"Nope, hung-over. Finite difference. Close those curtains, would you?"

Scully defiantly walked over to the window and flung the curtains wide open, prompting Mulder to screech in pain.

"Devil woman!"

"Why didn't you use your own bed, Agent Mulder?"

Her partner heaved himself into a sitting position, rubbing his face. She had used the 'agent' prefix, which usually indicated a definite lack of amusement.

Your bed is approximately four feet closer to the door than mine is. After last night, I couldn't afford those four feet. To be frank, I'm amazed I'm not waking up somewhere on Bourbon Street right now, covered in feathers next to a drag queen..."

"Drag queen and all? We do think alike."

"Did we sleep together?"

Scully threw a shirt at him. "I think I would have noticed."

"Flatterer."

"Get dressed before I shoot you."

Mulder obligingly shrugged the shirt on, fumbling with the buttons. Scully ran a brush through her hair, flicking on the coffee percolator. After a minute of quietly pained moaning from Mulder and stony silence from Scully, she handed him a Styrofoam cup of black coffee.

"Here. It'll cut through the hangover."

"I thought that was bloody maries."

"Frat boys use bloody maries. FBI agents use coffee. "

He took it gratefully, sipping on it for a few seconds. "Scully..."

"Yeah?" She asked, pulling on her robe.

"Why do you put up with me?"

She walked over to him, setting her hand on the side of his face. There was pity in her eyes, but also caring. "Because I just love that no-windows basement office with one file cabinet, too many posters, and countless holes in the ceiling from your goddam pencil habit."

"Again with the sarcasm..."

Scully smiled, brushing his hair out of his face in an almost motherly way. "Who says I'm being sarcastic? Now finish your coffee and take a shower. You smell like Mardi Gras."

"You mean the cathedral candles, night air, Creole food kind of Mardi Gras?"

"No. The drag queen kind." She tapped her cheekbone with a mischievous smirk. "You've got some glitter right here, by the way."

Fifty two minuets later, Scully and Mulder were standing by the rent-a-car, bathed, packed, and in full Bureau dress. Mulder, who thanks to the miracles of disposable razors and soap looked slightly less hung-over, was nonetheless gazing intently at the drivers door as if it pained him.

"Hey Scully...You wanna drive this time?"

His partner shook her head slowly, snatching the keys from him. She got in and reved the engine, then surprised him by leaning over to kiss him as he buckled his seat belt.

"Only if you buy breakfast."