When anyone looks at Hank Moody, the word 'sober' definitely did not scream back at them. California was just another addition for people to not care because Hell- the state had some very fucked up people.
How long he had been drinking, no one knows, but they assume he never stopped since he started which was true. Hank sighed as he stumbled into his home at 2:00 a.m. He reeked of alcohol and smoke, but no one was around to care. Becca was at a sleepover with her band and Karen was staying over at Marcy's.
He didn't have time to take off any of his clothes, as he knew any second he would pass out. Closing his eyes as he plopped onto his bed, the darkness finally welcomed him.
Hank awoke to an alarm clock, and rubbed his eyes, taking in a minute to remember last night, which he couldn't. All he remembered is he had gone into a bar with Charlie and then it's all a blur. His whole life was becoming a blur, but he hoped he could hang onto the happy family memories.
Finally reaching for the nightstand, he realized his hand was moving through air. That was odd to him, and he looked around startled, to realize he wasn't in his home. Something could've happened and that was indeed a very common occurrence, so it didn't worry him as much as it would for a stranger.
Sighing, he got up and took note of the apartment he was in.
"What loser lives here," he muttered, looking for the bathroom. He entered and looked in the mirror. He was wearing a plain white shirt and black underwear, but he noticed his bracelets he wore 24/7 were missing on his wrist. He also had a very conservative haircut which he didn't like. What had happened last night?
He called out, but no one was around so after looking in every corner, on the table near the door, he found a wallet. He scoffed as he saw a badge saying his name was Fox William Mulder, Special Agent of the FBI.
"Either I'm in a deep lucid dream, or you're pranking me," he called out to no one in particular. If this was a set up, it was highly entertaining.
He looked in the fridge and realized there was not a single drink or cigarette, which upset him. He needed to go back home. Looking for some car keys, the telephone rang and he picked it up right away.
"Karen, is that you?"
"Mulder, it's me." He heard a female voice on the other end he didn't recognize, and remembered every woman he had met or slept with.
"Did I sleep with you last night?"
Silence on the other end. "No. Mulder, we have a meeting with Skinner in half an hour. Make sure you're on time."
What was this bullshit? He looked out the window and then it only occurred to him, he wasn't in California. Fumbling through anything he could find in the bedroom, he pieced together that he was in Washington D.C, was an FBI Agent named Fox Mulder, and he was into conspiracy theories and aliens. This definitely had to be Charlie's idea.
"At the FBI building?!"
"Yes... Mulder are you alright?"
"Mmmhmm," he said then hung up.
He picked up the phone again and tried dialing Charlie, then Karen and even random girls numbers he had memorized but no one answered and the numbers were all out of order.
"You're putting me in deep shit, Charlie," he said to the atmosphere again.
Opening the closet, he didn't want to dress like an FBI agent. He only ever wore a suit when he went on trial or when it was a wedding or when it was a funeral. There was no need to wear a suit. He ended up just keeping his white shirt, and putting on some jacket he found, before putting on some jeans. He hated the empty feeling on his wrist where he bracelets should've been but put on a wrist watch instead.
Grabbing keys and finding his way to the parking lot, it took less than five minutes to find the matching car.
"What the Hell is this piece of shit," he said, getting in. He took a quick trip to the drugstore to get some Morley cigarettes and a bottle of Jack Daniels before looking up directions to the FBI on his phone. He made it to the garage and flashed his badge at the camera, allowing him access. His eyebrows raised, clearly impressed with the whole situation. Surely he couldn't have been out that long for someone to fly him on an airplane to D.C, but yet again, the alcohol blackout was very intense, and very well could've happened.
Getting into the elevator, he had no idea where he was going, but everyone seemed to be snickering at him.
"The fuck you laughing at, motherfuckers?" He retorted back. He took another drink from the bottle, a cigarette in his other hand. Everyone was giving him funny looks but he was Hank fucking Moody for crying out loud!
The whole place looked so official, and Hank wondered if he was on some sort of set or this was literally the FBI building. The directions wouldn't lie and he was in D.C. That was a known fact.
He felt someone tap his shoulder, and he turned around to see a shorter woman talk to him.
"Agent Mulder, Scully and Skinner are waiting."
"Oh. Where?" he asked. "And who might you be, beautiful woman?" He leaned in closer, but she pushed him back.
"Agent Mulder, I'm Skinner's secretary. You know that. Follow me." She still was eyeing him weirdly the whole way she opened the door for him.
"Meet me at my apartment tonight," he winked before heading in.
Right away, he saw a bald man with glasses sitting behind a desk, and two chairs, one occupied by a shorter but beautiful red head. He assumed she was the woman who called on the phone. They were all dressed like government personnel.
They all had concerned looks, and Hank laughed thinking how Charlie hired such good actors. He sat down in the seat next to her, still not a word being said. He set the bottle on the desk, and inhaled again from the cigarette.
Finally, after a minute of silence, he spoke out. "Well, say something. Geez!"
Skinner just narrowed his eyes and Scully's mouth hung slightly open.
"Well, I better be on my way back to California where I'm needed," he said, getting up but finally Skinner spoke.
"Mulder, what happened?"
"Skinner, bald man, skinman... I like that. You remind me of Charlie. Did he set you up to this? Back to the point, it's hilarious when you ask what happened because I don't know."
Scully moved her hand and touched his head, moving his hair. Out of natural instinct, he liked that, so he didn't move.
"Do that more, woman!" He smiled.
"Mulder, did you hit your head?"
"No? It's the poison. The alcohol!" He said that last part in a high pitched voice and Skinner was just about to snap.
"What is going on here? You show up looking like an alcoholic asshole who can't balance his life. This change just doesn't happen overnight! You were perfectly your regular self yesterday!"
"Damn, sir. When you put it like that..."
"You're not even dressed properly. I don't know if you're going through a mid-life crisis, but this isn't acceptable."
"Can you cut this out, honestly I'm getting exhausted. I'm getting myself a plane ticket to California. I don't live here. I'm not Fox Mulder. He's a loser."
He got up for the last time, taking the bottle with him, a stunned Skinner and Scully watching as he retreated.
"Sir, I think he should go to the hospital for an evaluation," Scully said.
"I think that's a good idea."