annoyed to death

Mulder sat in a metal folding chair; uncomfortably leaned against the wall. His hands - tied behind his back to the upper limbs of the chair - were closed fists against the cold concrete.
Blood spattered his white suit shirt, and the man pacing the room in front of him had it stained on his shoes. The clicks of his steel-toed boots were loud in the chamber, echoed off the walls. "Are you ready to talk, Fox?" His voice was deep and graveled from decades of packs of smokes, and even as he interrogated the agent, another hung from the edge of his lip.
In his chair, Mulder smiled, and cleared his throat, spitting a gob of mucus and blood at the man's once-shiny pleather shoes. "It's Mulder, sir. And I'm already talking so…" he trailed off, making an explanatory motion as well as he could with his captive wrists - "I think maybe you should let me go now." The left side of his mouth twitched up, his private little joke - he knew he wasn't going to get out of here, but by God if he was going to die, he was going to do it smiling.
The other man stared at Mulder, mouth in a straight line. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" It came out monotone, dead. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Mulder shrugged, and the other man pulled a gun from a hip holster - unregistered. The man pulled back the slide on the pistol, then pressed the cool steel of the muzzle against Mulder's forehead. "I could, you know. One twitch of my index finger here-" he flexed his hand for emphasis - "and your poor mother will never hear from you again. Wouldn’t you hate to put her through that? Losing not only her husband, but both children as well?”
Mulder smiled, tilting his head up to force the gun to fall between his eyes; and to stare directly at the smoking man in front of him. "You would've taken the safety off if you wanted to shoot me. It's one of the first things we're taught, isn't that right, Agent?" Though he was bruised and battered, dried blood following the curve of his lips from his nose, Mulder was quite determined - "Don't shoot unless you're prepared to kill."

Scully had her hands pressed across her forehead, fingers laced to cradle her brain. She allowed a low hum to fall from her throat as she thought, and then opened her eyes, bringing her hands back to her computer desk. Then her fingers began once more to fly over the keys of her desktop, clicking keys rapidly.
This case has been one that has puzzled both Mulder and I. We weren’t sure what caused the victims to lose their heads - literally - or why there was such spontaneous and gaseous decay either.
She subconsciously cradled the cross around her neck in her hands, and picked up the phone lying to her right. A single press of the clunky buttons brings her to a dial tone; listening to the rings and tapping her heel absentmindedly against her crossed legs. “This is Fox Mulder. Leave a message after the beep.” Scully sighed in annoyance, and left a short message. She turned back to her computer then, pursing her lips at the inconclusive report. Why hadn’t this made sense yet? What hadn’t clicked for the duo? Oh well. She sighed, and placed her glasses onto the table, massaging her temples. It was too late to headache over this - she saved her work, powered the monitor off, and went to bed.
It was close to five a.m. when her phone rang, and she sprang out of bed to feel for the gun in its holster on her bedside table. When Scully realized it was nothing but the phone, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and answered it.