From: "D. Sidhe" <dsidhe@attbi.com>
     Date: Sunday, December 08, 2002 1:49 AM

Okay, it looks like I'm actually gonna finish this one, and I have the first four parts written (though it's getting longer by the second.) so I'm offering this bit here, as well as on the web page. Which I went through and fixed all the links so they take you to where you were on the story index page, instead of making you scroll down it every time you go back there, which I admit was hugely annoying. Still no pictures or background or borders or anything, because I'm doing more writing right now than I am experimenting with that. I'm all about the priorities. :-) This one's for Shamrock, whose kind words and brilliant fiction inspired several of these moments, whether she meant to or not.

     Caffeine, Conspiracies, and the Fortean nature of Fishes I:
     This Island Maury
     By D. Sidhe: Erika
     Category: Slash, WIP
     Pairings: Byers/Langly, Mulder/Frohike
     Rating: NC-17 for Entirely Gratuitous Sex (L/B)

Summary: Sir Tedious Exposition and his Essentially-Well-Intentioned Boring-But-Unfortunately-Necessary Painfully-Stupid-Question Dance Company put on an incomprehensibly dull show. With some entirely gratuitous sex thrown in just to get people to read it.

Relevant Denial: "All About Yves" never happened. "Dreamland" never happened. (Once again, Morris Fletcher was just a huge fly in the ointment.) Seasons eight and nine (and frankly, I'm prepared to ignore a lot of season seven and pretty much all the mytharc episodes) of the X-Files never happened. And JTS definitely didn't happen.

Disclaimers and Apologies: Pretty much nothing here is mine. J. Wayne is mine. 'Powder Keg' is mine, as is Zev Allansu. Pete Dodden, 'Underground', Rickson, Payter, and the anonymously unethical hypnotherapist are mine. Everything else is used without permission, but also without malicious intent, and I apologize to everyone I'm about to offend or exploit for my own amusement. I'm about to offend or exploit everyone for my own amusement. Particular apologies to my fellow Washingtonians, who are about to be portrayed as nutbars and fools, but hopefully delightfully wacky ones, and to the entertainment industry in general, including Billy Joel, Woody Guthrie, and The Ramones, whose lyrics I have, ahem, borrowed. (Gilbert and Sullivan's public domain now, right?) Further parts are pending so file your lawsuits early and avoid the rush.

Beta: With gratitude to The Rather Fetching Betty, who giggled at most of the right parts and mostly not at the wrong parts, and who demanded way more exposition than I was prepared to offer. I currently owe Betty six Godiva truffles, one "Made in Canada" story, and two hours and fifteen minutes of shoe shopping companionship.

Author's Note: J. Wayne and associated weirdos come to us from the "Weekend in the Heartland" series I did several months ago, about a UFO conference Mulder and Frohike attended. Aside from the hypnotherapist, the watches, and the 'war criminal' J. Wayne mentions, and the involvement of Rickson and Payter (who don't exist), all the conspiracy lore here is legit. Or at least I didn't make it up. I thought I made up the thing about Bay of Pigs, but a little more looking and I realized that was part of the lore, too. In fact, Crisman does seem to be tied, directly or indirectly, to just about every conspiracy of the past fifty years. Kevin Bacon would be thrilled, and truth is basically fiction on LSD.

---

The door buzzed, early on Thursday evening, and Frohike went to get it. He checked the video feed first, and was surprised by what he saw. A young man, not much more than mid-twenties, stood nervously, glancing up at the camera. Maybe five-seven, five-eight, slim, with light brown hair cut short and blow-dried, soft brown eyes, and a stylish suit that didn't quite seem to fit, even though it had clearly been tailored. Frohike grinned and opened the door.

The young man stood there, smiling hesitantly. "Mel, hi... I was in the area, and I took a chance..."

Frohike pounded him on the back. "J. Wayne, how the hell are you? What brings you here?" He grabbed J. Wayne's arm and dragged him inside, closing the door behind him. "Just a second, kid."

J. Wayne watched in fascination as Frohike relocked the door. Frohike heard him counting them under his breath and grinned. "Follow me. The guys'll be glad to meet you." He headed upstairs, giving the visitor barely a chance to look around--not that there was anything to be seen in the gloom of the office areas with all the lights out. "Everybody's upstairs. I'll give you the twopenny tour later. What the hell are you doing out here, J. Wayne?"

"I was in the area," J. Wayne said again, "and you and John both said..."

"Right, right," Frohike laughed. "You're Mr. Spontaneity, aren't you. That's fine, we'll drag it out of you. I can test that homemade truth serum."

"Homemade truth serum?" J. Wayne sounded unnerved.

Frohike snickered. "Okay, no, but I can always let Langly cook you dinner. Take a stronger man than you to withstand that. Why're you really here?" he asked, leading the way to the living area where Langly, Byers, and Jimmy were watching "Get Smart". Byers looked relieved at the interruption, and Frohike stifled the smirk.

"Hey, look who's here!" he said cheerfully.

The three of them inspected J. Wayne. Finally, Langly said, "Who?"

"Boys, this is J. Wayne Arthur, the Third. J. Wayne, the guys." He gestured. "Ringo Langly, Jimmy Bond, John Byers."

Byers stood and offered his hand. "This is a surprise. It's nice to finally meet you, Wayne."

Langly leaned forward and offered his own hand, possibly as a ploy to distract J. Wayne from Byers. Frohike managed not to snicker. "Langly. Hi, J. Wayne. What are you doing in town?"

"I was just about to pry that out of him," Frohike said. "Have a seat, kid, and tell us what brings you here."

"A story," J. Wayne said, a little nervously. "One I'm hoping you can help with."

Langly shot him a look. "Did Yves put you up to this?" he demanded suspiciously. He'd quickly taken a serious dislike to the young man.

"Who's Yves?"

Frohike waved it off. "Tell us what you got."

"Well," J. Wayne said, trying to organize his story for maximum persuasion, "It started about three weeks ago. Zev, my editor--"

"Zev Allansu," Frohike put in.

"That prick's involved in this?" Byers put his hand inconspicuously on Langly's arm, silencing him.

"Sort of," J. Wayne offered. "He dropped a story on me, a phone message from a man in Seattle. At first it looked like a routine UFO sighting--"

"Why would that interest 'Powder Keg'?" Langly asked belligerently. "UFO sightings are a dime a dozen."

J. Wayne colored slightly. "Zev and I, uh, we don't work well together. It was a fish file."

"What's a fish file?" Jimmy asked.

"Busy work," Frohike told him. "A story that stinks to high heaven."

"Oh."

"Right. He's been giving me fish files all along," he looked at Frohike, "like the Indiana conference. Mostly tabloid stuff. Possessed microwaves, ghost cars, and UFO sightings. First kind or lower," he clarified. "No trace, no occupants."

Byers made a small sympathetic noise. Langly came close to growling. Frohike tried not to laugh, and J. Wayne edged away a bit.

"But this one was a little different. A Seattle resident named Joe Rickson reported a sighting of a craft over Maury Island," he continued. Frohike took a breath, and Byers blinked. "Yeah, it, uh, rang a bell. I remembered some of the things Pete, you remember Pete Dodden, Mel?" Frohike nodded. "So I remembered some of what he said about that, and I started digging. Then I called Rickson, and he said he wouldn't talk about it. So I asked why he called in the first place, and he swore he didn't. So I dropped it." He shrugged. "And Zev docked me for the long-distance."

Frohike snorted. "Asshole."

"I don't get it," Jimmy began.

Langly interrupted him. "I hate to agree with him, but I don't get it either. If there's nothing there, why are you here?" From his tone, it was fairly obvious where Langly would have preferred J. Wayne.

"About a week later, Rickson called me back, at about three in the morning. At home," he explained.

"You gave him your home number?" Langly was incredulous. "I thought this guy was supposed to be smart," he sneered. Byers' grip on his arm tightened slightly, and he shut up.

"No, I didn't. I really didn't. And it's not listed, so I don't know how he got it," J. Wayne said earnestly. "I asked him, but he was drunk. I mean, really drunk. And he kept talking about what he saw, and it was obvious he did make the first call. But every couple of minutes, he'd say he couldn't talk about it, they told him not to talk about it."

"They," Frohike repeated carefully.

J. Wayne pulled out a Palm Pilot and read from it. "Three men, almost identical. They were all wearing black suits with sunglasses--at night--and, 'really stupid hats'. This is what he told me, remember. They visited him the day after he made the call to 'Powder Keg'. They knew all about his sighting. They didn't ask him about it, they told him about it. He was very clear on that. And they told him about his call, too, and then they told him not to talk about it."

Langly had leaned forward, suddenly interested despite himself. "Maury Island's where..." he said.

Byers nodded. "The first Men in Black."

"Wait," Jimmy started. Frohike cut him off.

"Yeah, like the movie. Sort of."

"They're not exactly the same as in the movie, Jimmy," Byers said. "In the movie, the MIB were supposed to be protecting people from aliens. In the lore, they go around actually threatening people who see things, and telling them not to talk about... it. Whatever it was. They don't turn up in every UFO case," he went on. "Not even in most of them. And the first report of MIB was from Washington State, in the Maury Island case."

Frohike took up the narrative. "A guy named, what was it, Byers?"

"Harold Dahl," J. Wayne said.

"Right. Dahl. He was Coast Guard or something like that,"

"Harbor patrolman," J. Wayne offered.

"Okay, thanks. He said one day he was out near Maury Island, which is in Puget Sound. And he saw six, I think it was," Byers and J. Wayne nodded, "toroidal--" he looked at Jimmy's expression and clarified, "--donut-shaped UFOs. One of them was hovering very close to the water, and spewing pieces of metal, with the other five apparently trying to help. Allegedly a dog was killed by the slag, and a boy's arm was burned."

"The boy was Dahl's son," J. Wayne said. "No one has explained what he was doing out on the boat."

"Take Your Son To A UFO Sighting Day," Langly inserted, snickering.

J. Wayne almost laughed at that. "So Dahl went back and reported this to his supervisor, a man named Fred Lee Crisman."

"Crisman!" Langly snapped his fingers suddenly. "He was at Dealey Plaza."

Byers glanced at him. "Are you sure it was the same man?"

Langly shrugged. "Has to be, right? The Torbitt Document names Fred Lee Crisman as one of the tramps at the railyard. The New Orleans District Attorney subpoenaed him. Called him an anti-Castro fanatic."

Byers cocked his head to one side. "Did he testify?"

"Nope. There were rumors he was a CIA asset."

Frohike sighed. "Everyone was a CIA asset if you listened to the rumors, Langly."

"Garrison said he was," Langly protested.

This silenced them for a few moments. Then Jimmy said, "Who's Garrison?"

"The New Orleans District Attorney who investigated the Kennedy assassination," Frohike explained.

"What about that Warren guy?"

"That was later," Langly said. "Except," he paused, uncertain. "Crisman wasn't harbor patrol. He was a radio host. And a preacher, I think."

Byers shook his head. "It can't be the same man."

"It was the same name." Langly stood up and headed for the nearest computer. "Let's find out."

"The Maury Island Crisman was a Hollow-Earther," J. Wayne observed. "He wrote to 'Amazing Stories', saying he'd fought Deros."

"Isn't 'Amazing Stories' a movie?" Jimmy was totally lost now.

"Yeah, it was," Frohike said. "But first it was a science fiction magazine. The first science fiction magazine. The publisher was into UFOs. Fortean phenomena." He glanced at Jimmy. "Like, rains of fish, okay?"

Jimmy nodded, shook his head, nodded again, and finally shrugged. "I guess."

"Crisman was part of the Shaver Mystery?" Byers asked J. Wayne.

"After the fact," Frohike said thoughtfully. "He wrote a letter telling Palmer to drop it, it wasn't safe."

"Shaver was a nutbar," Langly put in. "Heard voices, saw aliens, got committed, the whole deal. Everybody was out to get him, he said."

"Yeah, but that sounds--"

Frohike tried to cut Jimmy off. "Don't say it, okay?"

"--like Agent Mulder," Jimmy finished.

Langly snickered, and even Byers had to hide a smile.

"Yeah, okay," Langly said, finally, "But Shaver said his aliens were intraterrestrial robots. And he also said he came up with the Theory of Relativity before Einstein, and invented lasers."

"He didn't say he invented them," J. Wayne corrected him, earning further enmity. "He said the Deros showed them to him."

"Deros," Byers sighed. "I'm not sure we want to start that again. The community barely recovered its credibility the first time around."

"If it's a story, it's a story," Frohike told him firmly.

Langly turned around and fixed J. Wayne with the hairy eyeball. "I haven't heard a story yet, though. All I've heard is a crank call and a bunch of paranoia campfire stories."

"Shut up, Punk-Ass," Frohike snapped. He turned back to J. Wayne. "Bring it home, kid. Where's the meat on this bone?"

J. Wayne took something out of his inside suit pocket and leaned forward to lay it on the table. A stack of photographs.

"A couple of days after Rickson called me, I got an email from a Marcus Payter, in Tacoma. He described the same thing Rickson did, and he got pictures."

"Dahl had pictures," Langly said cynically.

"These came out," Byers said, picking them up. "Did he send you the negatives?"

J. Wayne handed him a small envelope. Byers passed it to Frohike. "See what you can do with these? These are good pictures. My initial impression is that they're not going to be easily explained away." He flipped through them and passed them to Frohike.

"Holy cow," he said, eyebrows raised. "These look good, really good."

"You ever see 'V'?" Langly wanted to know.

"The show with the lizard aliens?" Jimmy asked.

"Yeah. They had footage of spacecraft moving, right? That looked pretty good too."

Jimmy yelped and bolted to his feet. "Those lizard guys are real?"

While everyone's heart rate went back to normal, Langly turned around and thumped his head on the desk. "No, Jimmy," came his muffled voice. "That's not what I meant. I was making a point."

"Just not a very clear one," Byers said, trying not to laugh.

"Oh," Jimmy sat down sheepishly.

The computer beeped. Langly glanced up and did a classic double take. "It's the same guy."

They were silent for a moment. Then Frohike said, "Doesn't surprise me."

Byers looked at him. "Doesn't it? It's quite a coincidence."

He shrugged. "I bet if you looked, he'd be Bay of Pigs, too."

Langly shrugged this time. "No bet. He's mentioned in the anonymous1968 OCC 'Bay of Pigs' letter to Garrison. There's a rumor he was Majestic12, too."

"MJ12 is a pile of crap," Frohike said dismissively.

"Mulder believes it," Langly snickered.

"Mulder's paranoid." Nobody bothered to comment on that.

"He was Riconoscuito's father's business partner," Langly offered, still reading.

Byers stared. "Wackenhut-Cabazon?"

"Yeah. That was connected with Reagan, right?"

"And Meese," Frohike observed. "And Wackenhut provides security for Area 51."

"Not to mention the Paperclip technology they were given," Byers added.

"Jesus. It looks like Crisman's into everything." Frohike stood up and walked over to Langly, laying the pictures out beside the keyboard like they were a royal flush.

"Damn, man." He picked up the first one and studied it closely. "These do look good."

Each of the four pictures showed a boomerang craft, in grays and blacks, with blue lights. The pictures were taken at dusk or dawn, evidently one after the other, showing the progression of the object across the sky. In each picture, trees could be seen, and above the craft was a formation of lenticular clouds. The craft was slightly blurry, due to what Langly assumed was the exposure time, while everything else in the frame was sharp. Either the pictures had been snapped several seconds apart, or the object was moving very fast.

Langly looked up. "No trace?"

J. Wayne shook his head. "Not from that."

They all turned to stare at him. "From what?" Frohike asked eventually.

J. Wayne reached into his briefcase and took out an oblong piece of grayish-white metal about the size of a pack of cards. It had irregular edges, looking charred and partially melted in some places. He set it on the table. Frohike reached out to touch it.

"Keep it away from the negatives. It fogs film."

Frohike dropped it and pulled his hand away like he'd been burned. "Radiation?"

"It's not dangerous." J. Wayne shook his head. "I carried it with me from Michigan, remember."

"Oh, that was bright," Langly said caustically. Frohike disappeared through a door for a moment. They heard him rummaging in a drawer, and he returned with an object that looked a lot like a large radio remote control for a toy truck or boat.

He flipped a switch and held it over the metal. It clicked, once, dispiritedly, and fell silent. Frohike checked the dials. "Normal radiation levels. Why does it fog film?"

J. Wayne shook his head again. "No idea."

Byers cleared his throat. "Where did it come from?"

"Payter sent it to me. The guy who took the photos," he clarified. "He sent them separately, about a week ago. He said the metal was from a pile on Maury."

Byers gazed at the metal for a moment. "Hanford. There's a theory that Dahl stumbled across an illegal dumping ground of radioactive waste from Hanford."

"Yeah, Keel's theory," Langly said disparagingly.

Frohike patted his Geiger counter. "This little baby'd be singing." As if in response, it let out another forlorn-sounding click.

"Are you sure that thing still works?" Langly asked.

"Yeah," Frohike snapped. "I test it on your cooking every month."

Jimmy giggled, and Byers held out his hands for peace. "I think we're getting ahead of ourselves here. There was also a mining operation on Maury, still is. In fact, they're looking to expand it, the press release from Deep Impacts just crossed my desk a couple of weeks ago. Couldn't this be from that?"

"It doesn't seem likely," J. Wayne said. "It broke two diamond blades while a friend of mine was trying to get a sample for the gas chromatograph. It looks like it's been burned, and torn, and melted, but we couldn't even make a dent in its surface. We still don't really know what it's made of."

There was a silence while they considered that. Then Byers said, "Are you certain it's an artifact?"

J. Wayne shook his head again. "Not certain, no."

"Could it just be anomalous slag?"

J. Wayne shrugged. "It could be six ballerinas on a pink circus pony for all I've been able to find out."

"I think we can rule that out," Byers said with a straight face. "It wouldn't fit on our table."

Langly stood abruptly, clearly irritated. "I need a Jolt." He stalked out the door Frohike had used earlier.

Byers raised an eyebrow at Frohike as J. Wayne cleared his throat. "You keep a Geiger counter in your kitchen?"

Frohike laughed. "Where do you keep yours?"

Byers stood, too, and gestured. "I think we could use some dinner."

J. Wayne tried to hide his alarm, and Byers smiled. "Mel's cooking."

"I heard that!" came an outraged complaint from the kitchen.

"Good for you!" Frohike hollered back.

They gathered around the kitchen table, and Frohike started rummaging through cupboards. "Still vegetarian, J. Wayne?"

"Uh, yes."

"We'll find you something."

"Thank you. How is Agent Mulder?"

Mel gave him a fast glance. "He's fine. About the usual." He grinned. "I'm sure he'd like to see you while you're in town."

J. Wayne blushed slightly and Byers and Frohike exchanged amused looks.

Jimmy, who had been working through something for several minutes, spoke up. "I got a question."

Byers steeled himself. "Yes, Jimmy?"

Jimmy looked at J. Wayne. "So are you Jay, or Wayne, or Arthur, or what?"

J. Wayne grimaced. "Just call me Wayne."

Jimmy nodded, obviously still confused. "So you've got, like, three first names."

J. Wayne choked down the "James Bond" joke, everyone saw it in his face.

Byers hid a grin, admiring the young man's restraint. "So what did you need our help with, exactly?"

"I was hoping you could help me find out what's going on."

"That's pretty vague," Langly complained. "You want us to hunt down the Meaning of Life for you, too?"

"The pictures are only part of it," J. Wayne said calmly. "I did some digging. They're seeing at least three types of boomerang-shaped UFOs, or at least light formations, out there. One of the sightings in the daytime was of a 'pie-piece' type of craft. There's also apparently a formation of lights that turns up at night that's been described as outlining a unilateral triangle. And then the boomerang, in the pictures. The reports are very specific. They're not flying saucers."

"Saucers are rare," Frohike said. "The wedge sightings have gotten a lot more common in the last two decades. Since eighty-four, actually."

"Hudson Valley," Byers commented.

"Yeah. We're working on a story... Well. The wedges may be something completely different. Something--worse, maybe."

"Something more foreign to our understanding, in any event," Byers suggested.

J. Wayne nodded. "They're seeing other things out there. Besides the crafts and the MIB. Freak storms, lightning displays without any type of weather that would explain it. Abductions have been reported, and missing time. An investigator for 'Underground' is out there, and he's seeing somatic effects and irradiated objects, including film. And," he added, a little embarrassed, "cattle mutilations."

Byers thought it over. "That's... very interesting. All of this in Washington State?"

"Nearly all of it in and around the Seattle/Tacoma area." He paused. "You're doing an Eldridge story?"

Frohike grinned. "You've done your homework."

"It is interesting. And I wanted to know if it was worth bothering you with."

Frohike leaned against the counter. "Well, J. Wayne. This looks pretty solid to me. After dinner, we'll check your photos, see what we can do with your negatives. You can tell us exactly what you've done already, so we don't end up duplicating your efforts. Then Langly'll hit the computers, and Byers'll take the trace, and we'll see what we can find out."

"What do I do?" Jimmy asked eagerly.

"Get in the way and ask stupid questions, usually."

"C'mon, guys, I can help."

"You can help me with the metal, Jimmy," Byers said. "I still don't understand, J. Wayne. Why us? Is 'Powder Keg' really going to just ignore this?"

"No, they're not. Zev already sent someone out there."

Byers raised an eyebrow. "Why did you come to us?"

"I, uh, don't work for them anymore."

Frohike blinked. "You quit?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

"Personality conflict."

They all waited for a few moments, and then Frohike said, "Spill it, kid."

"He cut several of my stories," J. Wayne admitted.

"Big deal," Langly said.

"That's it?" Byers asked, a little surprised.

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean, that's all he did, really. But. That's not why I quit. Not just because he cut them. He sent me on at least four stories where this happened..."

Frohike sighed. "Just say it, already."

"I'd go out, and find something, something important, and he'd use it, for money."

"How?"

"I uncovered evidence that Pokemon digital watches cause violent impulses in males who take a specific combination of anti-depressants and over-the-counter cold pills. The drug company paid Zev to cover it up."

Langly leaned forward. "You got documentation on this?"

"Yes."

"Solid?"

"Yes. I brought the docs along." He sighed. "Since I seem to be freelancing now."

Frohike grinned. "Came to the right place. We'd love to scoop 'Powder Keg'. You show us what you got, and we'll run with it."

"Thanks, Mel. It's important. But it's only one of the stories he did this on. He'd send me digging up stuff and then shop me. I also uncovered audio tapes of a Lansing hypnotherapist programming his patients to vote republican."

"The therapist paid Zev?" Frohike asked.

"Yeah."

"Okay, so Zev was selling you out. What'd you do?"

"Oh, I uh..." J. Wayne looked embarrassed. "I faked a story. I got a guy I know to go along with me--I did a story like he was a war criminal, okay?"

"He fell for that?" Langly demanded incredulously.

"Zev is not the brightest star in the heavens," Frohike reminded him.

"Well, it had to be something I could control. And something I could disprove, in case it escaped. I didn't want to just start rumors."

Byers nodded. "That's really quite clever."

Langly made another noise that was close to a growl, and J. Wayne edged even father from him. This time Frohike just sighed.

"So Zev tried to blackmail your friend?" he asked.

J. Wayne nodded. "And we got it on tape."

"What'd you do with the tape?"

J. Wayne's face fell. "I took it to the Tech ed, and he treated it like a joke."

Byers made a sympathetic noise, and Langly nearly snarled. "Do you have the tape?" Byers asked.

"Yes."

Frohike grinned in unholy glee. "That's even better than scooping 'Powder Keg'. Boys, let's get Zev canned."

The option seemed attractive even to Langly, who stopped glowering briefly. "That prick deserves it."

"So you quit?" Byers asked.

"Yeah. Obviously I couldn't have kept working under Zev. So, I'm between jobs, and I thought I'd see..."

Langly glared at him. "So we help you get the story, and you use it to get you a job somewhere?"

"Uh, no. Not quite like that. I mean, I... Look, I don't need a new job right away. I mean, obviously getting this story would help me get on with a group, but..." He shrugged. "I'm hoping if it's a good story, you'll print it. If you give me a credit, and if it's a good story, that's only fair, right? Then I can take that with me when I'm interviewing."

Frohike nodded. "Seems fair enough. We get a story, you get a job. Everybody wins."

"Thanks, Mel."

---

The party broke up around two AM, with J. Wayne headed back to his hotel, leaving his cell phone number, his trace and his photos. Frohike's preliminary conclusion was that the photos were legit, and Byers had gotten nowhere with the metal. Langly had spent several hours listing everything Crisman seemed to be connected with, and organizing it into layers according to how directly he was involved, and how reliable the source material was. The chart had shocked even Frohike. Jimmy kept the coffee flowing, and flow it did, like the Mighty Mississip. The line between paranoia and caffeination was often blurred at two in the morning.

"'Night, guys!" Jimmy headed for his room, still wired.

"G'night, boys," Frohike said, yawning.

"See ya in the morning." Langly pulled the door shut and leaned against it, arms across his chest.

Byers hung his jacket neatly on the single wooden hanger in Langly's closet, and turned around. "What?"

Langly shook his head. "Haven't seen you this excited in a long time, John."

Byers nearly grinned. "This could be it, Ri. This one... feels big. The MIB, Arnold, Palmer. JFK, Bay of Pigs. Paperclip, Area 51. God, it all goes back to Crisman. This is--" he stopped, trying not to get carried away. "It could be big."

Langly wandered over and put his arms around Byers. "Big, huh?" he half-whispered. "How big?"

Byers sighed. "Puns again."

"That's plan B. Wanna guess what plan A is?"

Byers leaned into him. "Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

Langly sighed. "You sure know how to give a guy an inferiority complex."

Byers laughed and turned around. "Okay, so is it... animal, vegetable, or mineral?"

"Is this Twenty Questions?"

"Well?"

"Animal. Definitely animal." Langly growled a bit, setting them both laughing.

"Two down," Byers suggested, as Langly played with his tie.

"Is that a guess?"

"No... Just saying." Fingers slipped inside his shirt and he shivered. "Does it involve taking off our clothes?"

"You're good at this," Langly smiled, starting on John's buttons.

"Practice. Does it involve a bed?"

"Only if we get there soon."

Byers chuckled. "How many questions is that?"

"I lost track. I'm getting you a clip-on tie for your birthday."

John brushed his hands away and undid the knot on his own. "Stop being so impatient. I've got another sixteen questions."

Langly sighed melodramatically. "Okay."

"How many people does it take?"

"Foul ball."

Byers laughed. "Just trying to narrow it down."

"This is taking forever. Let's play Truth-or-Dare instead."

Langly was undoing his belt, fingers lingering too long--not long enough--stealing his concentration, but he rallied. "No way. I remember last time."

"So do I," Langly grinned.

"Does it involve... tongues?"

"Mm," Langly said hungrily. "God, I hope so."

"Is it hot?" he asked, as Langly slid down his body, taking his trousers with him to the floor.

"Very."

"And wet?"

Langly leaned in and scrubbed his stubble lightly across John's belly. "Oh yeah."

"And does it--"

Langly looked up, annoyed. "Johnny. Right now, at this minute, of all the possible things that I could be doing with my mouth, are you sure that you want me to answer questions?"

Byers leaned against the wall, laughing a little. "Are you calling a time out?"

"No. I'm hoping you'll forfeit."

"But I'm so close to getting it."

"So'm'I."

"This could be a lot bigger than we think," Byers said thoughtfully.

"It is," Langly informed him.

"No... The story. Wackenhut is into everything."

"Focus, John."

"I am. Do you remember the rumor about Wackenhut and Vince Foster?"

Langly sighed. "Not at this precise minute, no. Are you gonna keep this up? Should Fro and I fix you up with Mulder? You two can take your clothes off and argue the finer points of conspiracy theory all night."

Byers laughed. "Sorry."

"You should be. Focus, okay?"

"Mmm. Oh, wow."

Langly stopped and stared up at him. "'Oh, wow'?"

"Ohhhh yeah. Wow."

"What the hell has gotten into you, John?"

"Nothing, yet."

Langly slumped to the floor, laughing helplessly. "I give up."

John sighed and joined him. "Sorry," he chuckled.

Langly shook his head, too far gone for words.

John put his arms around him, grinning. "You don't usually give up this easily, though."

Langly rested his head against John's chest, gasping for breath. "You're... not usually... this weird."

Byers glanced down and realized there was an ear conveniently within reach. "Sorry. It's just this story... It could be everything." He ran his tongue over the outside of Langly's ear. "Almost everything," he amended as Langly leaned into him. "Or not." Langly's hand moved across to one nipple. "In fact," John shuddered, "really very little. Oh, God."

"You think you can focus now?"

"Oh, God."

"Is that a yes?"

"Oh, God," he moaned again as Langly's hands did things to him that could have been their own X-File. When Langly pulled them away, he was ready to commit homicide. "Ri!"

"I didn't hear a yes."

"Yes, whatever, anything, God, yes, okay?"

Langly laughed. "That was coherent."

"I really hate you sometimes."

"C'mon," Langly said, helping him to his feet. "If we do this here, you're gonna bitch about bruised knees again."

Byers flopped bonelessly on the bed. "Take your clothes off," he said softly.

Langly grinned. "You want a show, Johnny?"

The older man propped his head on one hand, eyes bright. "Mmm. Let's see what you've got."

"You've forgotten already?" Langly sulked.

"Knock it off. You're not Mulder, and The Pout doesn't work on me."

Langly played with the hem of his t-shirt. "It was a sulk. And it sure as hell does work on you."

"You're stalling," Byers accused.

"Some music might help." Langly grinned and went over to the stereo. Seconds later...

     "It landed in a field in Idaho
     Where it came from, I don't know
     It did not look like it came from Japan
     And out of the dark walked a strange man..."

Byers sighed. "'Zero Zero UFO'. I should have expected that."

Langly laughed. "You've been listening to my Ramones CDs?"

"Ri, when you listen to your Ramones CDs, people across town hear them."

Langly snapped his fingers. "Mood lighting." He plugged in his lava lamp, while Byers sighed in resignation.

"This had better be some show, Ringo."

Langly turned out the overhead light. "I gotta get a mirrored ball in here. Or a blacklight or something."

Byers stood up. "That's it. I'm going to my room, where it's sane."

Langly pushed him back on the bed, hands everywhere, and started singing against various bits of John's anatomy. "'You may be right/ I may be crazy/ But it just may be a lunatic you're looking for--'"

Byers pulled a pillow over his head. "Can you try to be insane to one song at a time, please?" he said plaintively.

"Okay. I can do that." Langly pulled the pillow off his face and began to slip his t-shirt up, a little at a time, giving John glimpses of lean flesh. "'A million miles from the Milky Way/ A hundred years, a month and a day/ Zero Zero UFO... Zero Zero UFO...'"

Langly twisted around to the beat and showed off a little shoulder, immediately flipping his hair over it and turning around to run his tongue along his own finger at John, who was reduced to helpless laugher.

Langly managed to wriggle half out of his shirt even with--Byers was almost positive--both hands on John. The lighting wasn't really conducive to close observation. And neither was John's less-than-dispassionate state.

He half-stood as the song started over again, and flipped his shirt over his head. With one hand, he pulled it off and blew John a kiss as he draped the shirt over him. He toed off a shoe and scooped it up, singing into it like a microphone. "'Zero Zero... UFO...'" The other shoe followed, smacking against a wall. "'Spaceship travels at the speed of light...'" One sock at a time, stuffed down the front of John's trousers with a casual grope. And then the tight jeans, good God. Byers watched as closely as he could, dying to see how the younger man would get out of them. Langly kept dancing, wiggling his ass at John, and turning around to undo his fly, one agonizing button at a time, revealing only bare skin. John wasn't laughing all that much anymore, and Langly was clearly enjoying it. "'Zero Zero... UFO...'"

Byers grinned and joined in. "'Out of the dark walked a strange man...'"

Langly laughed and slid a hand inside his own jeans, stroking himself as he started to shake the jeans off. Byers rolled over for a better view. Langly half-leaned against the wall and peeled himself slowly out of the jeans.

"Oh, wow," John breathed.

"You said it, baby."

"Ri... Come over here."

"What's the magic word?"

"Hard."

Langly blinked. "That'll do." He stepped out of his jeans and took the half-dozen steps to the bed at a pace that had John's heart in his throat.

"Jesus. Get over here. Please."

"Now who's impatient?" Langly chuckled.

"You're the one who wanted to play Truth-or-Dare."

"Truth or Dare, Johnny." The rasp in his voice went straight down John's spine, and he'd abruptly had enough of the games.

"Ringo. Please."

"Are you forfeiting?"

Byers was close to screaming in frustration. "Ringo, if you don't put your hands on me right now--"

Oh, and there they were, burning his flesh wherever they touched him--and they touched him everywhere. He was desperate, aching for it, aching with it. Even getting what he wanted, needed, didn't do anything to soothe him. Then Langly's mouth was on him, and holy heaven, there was never anything like this.

"Fuck, Johnny, I love it when you make those noises," Langly hissed into the hollow of his hip.

John moaned incoherently... Langly's teeth grazing the skin over his ribs... long fingers in his ass... constant mutters of encouragement... By the time Langly finally buried himself in John's heat, John was reduced to desperate whimpers. The tease had affected Langly too. He gave John barely a moment to adjust to the sensations and then he was thrusting, hard and deep.

Byers had just enough presence of mind to bury his face in the pillows to partly muffle his shout when he came. And to almost entirely muffle the sound of Frohike, next door, who chose to highlight the moment in his own special way:

"Nine-point-four from the American judge!"

Langly finally pulled away, resting his head on John's shoulder. "Asshole," he managed, laughing.

Byers winced. "My room next time. My room, Ri."

"You think Jimmy can't hear you?" Langly asked, staggering to his feet and yanking a blanket around his waist.

"At least he doesn't offer commentary," Byers said grimly, as Langly headed into the hallway.

Langly opened the door and glared in at Frohike lying in bed, obviously enjoying the free entertainment. "Listen, Elf, I don't care if you want to listen--"

"The way that boy is, I'd have to be deaf not to--" inserted Frohike tartly.

"--but keep it to yourself, or I'm showing Mulder your diary, got it?"

Frohike didn't stop laughing. "Just remember to turn the music off before you fall asleep this time, okay?"

Langly turned pink. "It was one time, okay?"

"Yeah, I know. He wore you out. That's no excuse for three hours of Plastic Bertrand!"

Langly grinned at a sudden thought. "If we're keeping you awake, we can take it downstairs."

"I booby-trapped my desk."

"You're just jealous." He headed back to his room and found it empty. "Damn." He left the CD on, and made a rude gesture at the wall he shared with Frohike, before going on to John's room. He opened the door and caught a wet washcloth right in the face. He spat it out, laughing. "That's a helluva greeting, John."

Byers snickered. "I thought I'd pre-empt any witticisms on your part."

Langly grinned and sprawled lazily onto the bed beside his lover. "Just havin' some fun."

"You left the music on, didn't you."

Langly rolled over and nuzzled the beard. "He was asking for it."

Byers sighed and reached up to stroke the blond hair. "You really are a bad influence on me, you know that?"

"Somebody has to be," Langly said happily. "Next time, you get to strip."

"Not to the Ramones, I don't."

"You pick the music."

"I like Woody Guthrie. 'This land is your land'," Byers sang softly, nearly giggling. "'This land is my land...'"

"Appropriate, but no thanks. 'Woodgrain'? Modest Mouse?"

"I don't know that one. 'Hard, Ain't it Hard'?"

Langly broke up. "Oh, man. 'Scruffy the Cat'. 'Tiger Tiger'."

"I don't know that one, either. How about Gilbert and Sullivan? 'When I sally forth to seek my prey/ I help myself in a royal way/ I sink a few more ships, it's true/ than a well-bred monarch ought to do...'"

"What's that?"

John kept singing. "'And it is, it is, a glorious thing/ to be a Pirate King.'"

Langly snickered. "'Three little maids from school are we/ Pert--'" Which was as far as he got before a pillow ended up in his face.

"You promised not to mention that again," John sulked.

"Sorry," Langly nudged him aside and laid claim to more than his share of the blankets. "Couldn't resist."

"Try harder," Byers advised him. "What was that one you were singing the other day?"

"Which one?"

"The one Jimmy was singing along with."

Langly grinned. "'27 Things I Wanna Do To You'? That's Screeching Weasel."

"Screeching Weasel," Byers repeated. "Sounds charming."

"You have no idea."

Byers considered it. "I can think of twenty-seven things."

"Sicko."

"Hey, you just did three of them."

"Only three? That must be some list."

"Number eighteen involves painting you with raspberry jelly and making you into my own personal peanut butter sandwich."

"Oh, man. What's number nineteen?"

"I'm too tired to even explain number nineteen."

Langly swallowed. "Oh, wow."

"You said it, baby."

---

---

Date: Monday, December 09, 2002 7:28 PM

     Caffeine, Conspiracies, and the Fortean Nature of Fishes II:
     Flying Saucer Safari
     by D. Sidhe
     Category: Slash, WIP
     Pairings: Langly/Byers, Mulder/Frohike
     Rating: strong R, for even more Entirely Gratuitous Sex
     (L/B)
     Archive: If you want it, well, we all know the drill by now.
     Summary: The shiniest UFOs you've ever seen are in Seattle,
     and the Grays the grayest gray in Seattle...

Disclaimers and Apologies: Most of what's here isn't mine, either. Apologies to everyone else I'm offending and exploiting here. The Bobby Sherman lyric is parodied in the summary without permission, and the Suburban Lawns song used as the subtitle here is also without permission. Further parts are pending, so get your death threats in early and avoid the rush.

Author's Note: I promise, there is wackiness in future portions of this. God, plot is irritating, and exposition is dreadfully boring. I spent most of this yelling at the lads to stop acting like science fair geeks and do something witty. In the end, what they apparently decided to do was have some more entirely gratuitous sex. I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of that. Anyone who wants to write and explain why my math and my science is wrong, feel free, but before you do, remember that there is entirely gratuitous sex, and try to cut me a little slack. I'm trying for humor, plot, smut, and accuracy: Two out of four isn't bad for a chick who majored in English.

Spoilers: There's a brief allusion to "Diagnosis: Jimmy", but an actual spoiler for the Preston/Child novel "The Ice Limit". Yeah, I don't know how that happened either. Beta: Further gratitude to TRFB, who did all the beta-reading, some of the typing, and contributed meaningfully to a three AM conversation about Stephen King's alien weeds and geoducks, and didn't even bitch when he found out I didn't use any of his ideas after all. (He may be assuming they'll turn up later.) Geek details in this part were subjected to the rather-less-than-rigorous brand of form-over-function science that is the hallmark of the Brilliant-if-Whimsical PaperClip. ("Well, I guess they could try that. I mean, I wouldn't, because it could kill everybody in a three block radius, and it probably wouldn't work, but it does sound pretty cool, if they can find that kind of stuff, which I also don't know how they would.") PaperClip, who refuses to marry me on a regular basis, is possibly the long-lost love child of MacGyver and Red Green, with a fully-stocked junk drawer and a shiny metal box full of Pocket Duct Tape Strips. (PC laughed especially hard over the time thing. "How the hell do you plan to explain that?" "Do I have to explain that? It's alien technology." PC has threatened to buy me a trophy that declares me the world's worst plotter.) It is probably worth noting that PaperClip has nothing to do with the CIA's Paperclip project, and is understandably bitter when asked. Other geek details were supplied by Lee, who also refuses to marry me on a regular basis although apparently her husband wouldn't mind, and who is in fact a real scientist, and for some reason still doesn't hang up when I call early in the morning to ask if it's possible to create DNA from Peeps and Krazy Glue. (No.) Possibly only because she isn't yet aware that I haven't used those ideas, either. Lee doesn't have much respect for alien technology, but does seem to have a soft spot for Jimmy, so I guess it's okay. Lee laughed pretty hard over a lot of things I left in anyway. Needless to say, errors and implausibilities that remain are there because I'm incorrigible.

---

J. Wayne turned up at ten Friday morning with a bag of muffins and fresh fruit. Byers cleared off one of the tables while Frohike and Jimmy dug up some orange juice and coffee. J. Wayne picked up a stack of folders only to have it snatched from him with a glare by Langly.

"That's confidential."

Byers cast a puzzled glance at Langly, but didn't comment. He handed a folder to J. Wayne. "Your trace is very interesting."

J. Wayne sat down and started looking through the printouts. "Did you figure out what it is?"

"No." Byers half-smiled. "That's just one of several things I wasn't able to determine about it. If you'll look..." he leaned over the younger man's shoulder and flipped a page, "I calculated the mass and the weight, and couldn't match the density with any single element, or any common alloy. It's probably an unusual combination of several metals. With all the variations possible, I wasn't especially surprised by that. But I couldn't manage to sample it, either, and that did bother me, especially considering how lightweight it is."

J. Wayne nodded. "That's the same thing my friend told me."

"I even gave laser emissions spectroscopy a try. Nothing." Byers looked disappointed with the lack of results. "It does definitely fog film, however," he said. "What's even more interesting is that while I was working with it, my watch was disrupted."

"Disrupted?"

"It slowed down. I was working with it in close proximity for about an hour, and when I checked my watch, it was almost half an hour slow. So I did some experimentation, and it seems to distort time by a factor of two-point-something." He reached over and grabbed a peach, pulling out a pocketknife and slicing into it. He set half the peach on the table, and the other half on his desk, next to the piece of slag. "Watch."

"This is like watching paint dry, John," Langly said, irritated.

"Okay, don't watch. We'll check it again in ten minutes. In the meantime, let me show you what else I tried..."

A while later, Byers reached over and grabbed the half of the peach that he'd set by the metal, and put it next to the one he'd left on the table. The one on the table had started to turn brown, and the other one looked like it had when Byers had cut into it.

"Whoa," Langly said. "That's weird."

Frohike stared at the metal. "So if you carried it around with you, you'd age half as fast as everyone else?"

Byers shook his head. "It doesn't seem to work that way, actually. I haven't tested it on live cells yet. But it looks like it's not affecting the makeup of the cells themselves so much as it is affecting how they move through time."

"That's really weird," Langly said.

"And only in a limited area," Byers went on. "The effect itself disappears abruptly somewhere between nine and ten inches from the metal. It's like there's an invisible line around it. At ten-and-a-half inches, it's business as usual with watches, fruit, whatever. At eight inches, your watch moves half as fast as it should." He glanced at his hands. "It's possible that it's had some impact on the somatic cells of my arms and hands, but I'm not sure. Certainly, I didn't feel anything."

Frohike whistled. "That's no hunk of mining refuse."

Byers shook his head. "No, it's not."

Frohike shrugged. "So what the hell was it still doing lying around on Maury? Why wasn't it cleared away decades ago?"

Byers shook his head again. "I don't know."

J. Wayne had been silent for several minutes, and he finally spoke up. "There's another possibility that might explain the discrepancies you found in weight and mass. What if it's not a solid block of metal? Maybe there's something else inside it? A core of some other material?"

Langly scoffed at that. "That's not likely. I mean, it's part of something bigger. If it had a core of something else, it'd be visible."

Byers thought about that. "Maybe not. If this isn't a piece of something larger."

"And the torn and melted edges?" Frohike asked.

"Well," Byers said slowly, "Maybe they're just that--edges. What if it's a piece of something not much larger?"

Jimmy shook his head, finally. "I don't get it."

Byers picked up a piece of plastic-coated cable that was sitting on Frohike's toolbox. He held the end of it out to Jimmy. "Can you see what color the wire is?"

"Sure. Copper."

"That's because this comes from something bigger, right? And you're looking at the end where it was cut." He turned it sideways. "Can you see the wire now?"

"No. It's inside the plastic."

"Right." Byers thought about it for a second, and dug through the box. He came up with a small tack and a hunk of putty. He wrapped the putty around the tack, and set it down. "All right, this is kind of a loose analogy, but this plumbers' putty should burn about as well as metal, which is to say, not well at all." He grabbed Frohike's lighter and held it to the edge of the putty. It charred and bubbled a little, but didn't burn. "Okay, Jimmy. Where's the tack?"

"It's, uh, still inside--Oh, I get it!" Jimmy beamed. "So you're saying maybe this thing is just melted around a couple of edges, not broken off of something."

"Exactly," Byers said with satisfaction. "So there could be something inside it. Of course," he said thoughtfully, "that makes it less likely to be a piece of wreckage than an object in itself. Something that's supposed to look, more or less, like this."

Frohike leaned forward. "Hold on, Byers. Couldn't it just be honeycombed? Could the metal be reinforced with something?"

J. Wayne shook his head. "Why? The metal itself seems virtually indestructible, what would be the point of reinforcing it?"

"Something burned it. Edges or not," Langly said acerbically. "You may not be able to damage it, but something did."

Byers rubbed his jaw. "He's got a point."

"Let's see if we can get a look at the inside of this little baby," Frohike said, standing up. "We can throw everything we got at it. Something's gotta work."

"Everything" ended up involving a highly concentrated beam of radioactive particles. "You're gonna wanna stand back," Frohike advised J. Wayne, grinning. "I'd love to tell you I'm positive I can contain the particles, but..."

Byers grimaced. "Stop trying to scare him. It's reasonably safe."

J. Wayne didn't look all that reassured.

The eventual conclusion was that there was most likely a density variation in the center of the block. Langly was unimpressed. "I thought we'd already decided that."

Byers sighed. "Frohike, why don't you show J. Wayne what you found out about the pictures."

Frohike cheered up some. He dragged J. Wayne to his computer and offered a detailed explanation of his analysis. "Well, I don't know about your paperweight, but these pictures do seem to be the real deal. The negatives themselves are clean as Byers' bedroom. And as for the actual subject... The shadows and reflections fall right. The colors are what they should be. This object is actually in the sky, and I'd say at a distance of, oh, two hundred yards. You can see how it's bending the light around it, which you can do with a good computer and the right software, but that's not how it was done in this case." Frohike looked delighted. "I think I found Mulder's birthday present."

J. Wayne laughed. "With my compliments."

"So it's a real spaceship?" Jimmy asked.

Frohike sobered abruptly. "It's a real something. Experimental aircraft is most likely. I'm not gonna say it's a spaceship. We don't know that."

At some point in the afternoon, Byers swore loudly, suddenly, and stood up. Everyone watched him without comment as he found a can of spray paint and a discarded piece of plywood. He held a cloth over his nose and mouth and sprayed a thick two foot circle on the board. He picked up the metal, realizing he was being closely watched.

"Oh. I, um, had an idea." He set the metal in the center of the circle. "You gave me an idea, Ringo, when you mentioned paint drying. So we'll find out where the boundary of the distortion is, by seeing where it dries faster."

J. Wayne nodded. "Ingenious."

Langly stalked silently from the room, and Frohike sighed.

Byers stared after him. "I don't know what's gotten into him."

Jimmy stifled a laugh, and Frohike rolled his eyes. "Maybe you should go talk to him."

Byers shook his head. "Later. I'm starting to get a very strange idea about this thing."

"Strange? About a piece of metal that fogs pictures and slows time? Go figure." Frohike shrugged and wandered back to his computer. "Have fun."

"Mel, where's the video camera?"

Frohike turned around and gazed at Byers. "You're going to make a movie of paint drying?"

Byers shrugged, half-smiling. "It's science."

Frohike laughed. "Over by the radio equipment, last I looked. Knock yourself out."

"Thanks."

"If nothing else, this'll be a good bargaining chip the next time someone tries to show us vacation movies."

Byers grinned from behind a row of shelves. "We'll make a copy for Mulder. Class up his video collection."

Frohike laughed, gazing at J. Wayne. "Are you implying 'Titstanic' lacks class?"

Byers set up the camera, feigning shock. "He swore that one wasn't his."

J. Wayne was trying very hard not to snicker. He glanced down at the paint and looked back up, startled. "John, what did you say the boundary was?"

Frohike came over to look. "Weirdness," he said.

Byers stared. "I'll say."

Jimmy looked at it a while, then shrugged. "Why? You said it was slower inside the circle."

"That's just it," Byers said, eyes never leaving the board. "It's a circle."

Jimmy tried to work that out and gave up. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Frohike rolled his eyes. "Because the metal is a rectangle, you dope."

Byers put a hand on Frohike's elbow. "Look, Jimmy. If it's the metal itself that's causing the zone, the zone should be an outline of the metal, at a set distance. See? It should look like a big shadow of the metal."

Jimmy thought about it. "Okay, I guess. So why's it a circle?"

"Because," J. Wayne said slowly, "it's not the metal that's generating the field. It's something in the center of it, something round, apparently."

Byers shook his head. "We're getting ahead of ourselves again. See how ragged the boundary is? It seemed to me this morning that it was fluctuating slightly. The effect died between nine and ten inches from the metal, and it varied. Something nine-and-a-half inches away from it would sometimes be inside the field, and sometimes not."

"Without anything moving?" Frohike asked.

"Yes. The field is fairly constant, but it does move."

Frohike considered it. "Okay, but the metal is longer than it is wide. The field should still be oblong, even if a fluctuating oval."

Byers sighed. "You're right, I suppose. This is... interesting. There apparently is something inside it, then."

J. Wayne gazed at it. "Then it might be a whole artifact. I wonder what it's for."

Frohike shrugged. "No way to tell, really. You'd expect, maybe, some moving parts or some markings or something."

"Maybe it's an alien egg," Jimmy said.

Frohike let out an explosive breath. "Jimmy, why don't you leave the theorizing to people with more brain cells than a hunk of Sheetrock?"

Byers fought back a smile. "Why'd you think that, Jimmy?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Read it in a book somewhere. 'The Ice Limit', I think. It had a big meteorite that was really an alien egg."

They turned to stare at him. "You read 'The Ice Limit'?" Byers asked in disbelief.

Jimmy made a face. "I'm not as dumb as I look, guys."

Frohike snorted. "Jimmy, no one is as dumb as you look."

Byers sighed. "Knock it off. But there's no reason to assume it's an egg, Jimmy."

Frohike's turn to shrug. "No reason to assume anything so far. Not that it matters. We just shot enough radiation through it to kill anything alive in there. In retrospect, it may have been a little heavy-handed." He stood up. "Jimmy, why don't you show J. Wayne the morgue and the files." He waved vaguely at the back half of the warehouse. "We probably have something back there that'd be useful. I'll be there in a sec." He waited till the two of them were out of earshot, and motioned to Byers. "You'd better go talk to the hippie."

Byers ran his hand through his hair in Langly-grade aggravation. "God, Mel! I don't know what the hell has gotten into him. I should apologize to J. Wayne. He's really been a jerk about this all day."

Frohike was almost amused. "John, for a bright guy, you're really stupid sometimes."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Frohike sighed and made calming motions. "I'll apologize to J. Wayne, but I doubt it's necessary. He knows what's going on." He cut Byers off again. "Why don't you go talk to Langly and find out what's going on, okay?"

Byers gave him a look that promised a resumption of the conversation later and headed upstairs.

He was surprised to find his room empty, and went on to Langly's. He was sprawled face down on his bed, pillow and arms over his head. Byers pulled the door closed behind him and sat next to Langly.

"Go away," Langly muttered.

"Ringo, would you just talk to me? What's wrong?" He pulled the pillow away. "You've been acting like a jerk all day."

Langly turned his head and glared at him. "You're an asshole, John."

John blinked. "What did I do?"

Langly didn't answer, he just yanked the pillow back.

John sighed and rested his hand on Langly's back, wondering what the hell the problem was. Eventually, Langly moved the pillow slightly and said dully, "Cute kid, huh."

John pulled the pillow off and held it tightly, fighting back an urge to smother Langly. "Oh, for pity's sake, Ri. You moron."

"What?"

John tossed the pillow across the room before he succumbed to the provocation of the outraged yelp. "Yes, he's a cute kid. Yes, he's a bright kid. And yes, he's got a crush on Frohike, or hadn't you noticed?"

Langly rolled over and stared. "What?"

Byers stood up and headed for the door. "I'll deal with you later," he said meaningfully. He'd gone maybe five steps when Langly tackled him from behind, slamming them both into a conveniently large pile of discarded clothes. Byers, the wind knocked out of him, gasped for air and ended up with a mouthful of sock. He spat it out. "I hate you sometimes, you know that?"

Langly laughed and rolled them over onto their sides. "You're nuts about me, admit it."

Byers gave a long-suffering sigh. "I suppose. God knows why."

Langly pinned him down and kissed him hard.

"Okay, never mind," Byers said weakly. "I think I figured it out."

"Deal with me now," Langly suggested.

"You're a moron."

"Very nice, John. Very condescending."

"I'll stop being condescending when you stop being stupid."

"Johnny..." There was a hopeless note in the younger man's voice.

Byers sighed. Langly could be shockingly insecure at times. "He's a cute kid. But I am nuts about you."

Langly wasn't convinced. "He's more your type, you know?"

Byers thought about stuffing the sock in Langly's mouth. "I don't have a type, Ri."

"You know what I mean."

Byers leaned over and whispered into Langly's ear. "I'm completely nuts about you. You make me stupid, Ringo."

Langly swallowed. "That's a good thing?"

Byers shook his head gravely. "No. That just makes it worse." He grabbed Langly by his hair, earning a hiss, and pulled him closer, forcing his head backwards to expose his throat. "I wouldn't let anyone else make me stupid."

Langly was giving serious consideration to fucking Byers into incoherence. It probably wouldn't be the most meaningful contribution he could make to the discussion, but it was pretty close, given what Byers' mouth was doing to him. "But you let me?"

Byers managed to move even closer, which Langly would have considered impossible without a total reworking of physics, or at least the removal of clothes. "I can't control it," he said in the low voice that made Langly more than a little stupid himself. "You put your hands on me, and I'm lucky I can remember my own name."

Langly whimpered. "Johnny, Jesus..."

Byers rasped his tongue around Langly's ear. "You do things to me I'm going to end up in therapy for someday. And I'm saving up."

"Yeah?" Langly had pretty much given up on holding up his end of the conversation. The voice and the tongue--and dear God the teeth--occupied his entire diminishing attention span.

"You make me want things I'm going to end up in hell for--and I won't regret a second of it."

And the hands--Langly was starting to want some pretty extreme things himself. John's breath on his skin--fuck, fuck, fuck. Hell seemed like the most fleeting consideration. "Johnny--" he gasped, writhing. "Please, God. Please, Johnny--"

"Please what?"

"Anything, God, please, anything, just, please--"

Byers bit his neck, and he nearly came in his jeans. "Anything" became sharply defined suddenly. "Johnny, fuck me. I swear I'm gonna die if you don't fuck me."

Byers nodded. "That's exactly what you do to me, Ri."

"God--" Langly moaned, somewhere between sin and redemption. "How can you stand it?"

Byers' next words were mumbled into the most desperate kiss Langly could ever remember. "You fuck me. Then I'm okay."

"Please," Langly wasn't even sure if he said it aloud.

Byers nodded again. "I will. Trust me. I will."

---

Frohike almost managed to keep a straight face when the two of them, smelling of sex and complacency, finally emerged from the living quarters. It probably didn't help that Langly had accidentally retrieved a different dirty concert t-shirt from the pile of discarded clothes they hadn't bothered to move from.

Stupid, Byers thought as Frohike winked at him. Stupid was the only possible word for what Langly did to him.

While Byers and Langly had been... re-establishing their relationship, J. Wayne and Frohike had managed to cover most of the available flat surfaces with folders and files relating to a wide variety of subjects: UFOs, particularly the delta variety, were the most common theme, but there were also background files on abductions, radiation, Kirlian photography, the MIB, Dealey, Shaver, Palmer, Foster, Arnold, cattle mutilations, Wackenhut, nuclear waste, and even the slim file on Maury Island, which was destined to grow much larger before they were through.

Langly picked up the folder marked "Mutes". "You know most of these are cults, right?" he said to no one in particular.

J. Wayne nodded. "I'm not ready to buy the just-dropping-by-for-fast-food theory or anything. But apparently they're seeing some of them out in Washington."

"You don't think the black helicopters are relevant?" Frohike asked.

J. Wayne shrugged. "There haven't, as far as I know, been any sightings of them on this one. You accept the treaty theory?"

Byers was flipping through the Garrison file. "I don't find it that unlikely that our government would allow ETEs to experiment on humans and livestock in exchange for technology, no," he commented. "But it seems more reasonable to assume that it's part of a widespread, ongoing disinformation operation. Gore Vidal observed that 'Americans have been trained by the media to go into Pavlovian giggles at the mention of conspiracy.' Think about it. You did it last night, J. Wayne. Whenever cattle mutilation is brought up, everyone giggles and looks embarrassed. How could anyone believe in mutes? Obviously it's cults, or hoaxers, or insurance fraud, or Burger King, for that matter. Anyone who takes it seriously must have a screw loose. And maybe that's why it happens."

"Anal-probing," Langly said abruptly, and then turned bright red. Byers glared at him.

Frohike did his damnedest not to laugh as he explained. "Polls show, for however much you can trust them, that a significant percentage of the population believes that alien abductions take place. The part where people stop believing in the possibility and decide it's just absurd is the anal probing. Why would a superior intelligence come all this way to cut up cows and gaze at a trucker's asshole? You'd have to be nuts to believe that. And like Byers said, maybe that's why it happens."

J. Wayne gazed from one to the other. "By that logic, everything that disproves your premise turns into proof. Doesn't that seem a little circular? I'm not saying you're wrong, necessarily, but taken to its extreme..."

Byers sighed. "Taken to its extreme, that's the paranoia mindset in a nutshell. The trouble is, the opposite is also true. If you accept that any evidence is proof of paranoia, everything becomes useless."

"So do we want to believe?" Frohike asked, half-smiling.

"It does seem like it's at least worth checking out in person," Byers said. "The metal is certainly... unusual. Evidence of something that would be difficult to explain, in any event. I'd like to find out more about it, frankly."

"No way," Langly said belligerently. "I'm not goin' back there."

"Why not?" Jimmy asked, confused. "It was cool!"

"You almost got killed, Jimmy. That was cool?" Byers was incredulous.

"It was cool," Langly said flatly. "It was fucking cold. I got thin blood. I'm not doin' that again."

"Look, kid," Frohike said. "It's July. And we're going to Tacoma, not Timberline."

"That's in Oregon," J. Wayne pointed out.

"I don't care. The point is, we're not going into the mountains, and it's not going to be snowing. Get over it."

Langly whined for the better part of the evening. He seemed to have resigned himself, more or less, to J. Wayne's presence, but certainly not to his mission, or their part in it. Finally Byers pulled him aside and said something quietly to him. Frohike, watching, saw him blink, lick his lips, and blush to his blond roots. Byers caught Frohike looking and offered a sweetly innocent smile which sent Frohike bolting for his room where he laughed himself into tears.

---

Over dinner, they discussed how to handle the trip, Langly having surrendered, if less than gracefully, after Byers' little chat.

"We can't all go all the way across country in the bus," J. Wayne said, arguing for flying out. "And we should get out there as soon as possible."

"We can't afford for all of us to fly," Byers repeated for the third time.

"We can," J. Wayne said firmly.

"You're not buying plane tickets," Frohike said. "Not for everybody. But it might be a good idea for you and Byers to go out to scout. You can tell us if these people are serious."

"Why Byers?" Langly demanded.

"Because he knows the most about it, you dork. Do you want to go?" Frohike snapped.

"Christ, no," Langly said quickly. "I just..." He trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence. Jimmy giggled, and Byers glared at Langly.

Frohike stifled his laugh and went on. "Well, we have to send someone."

"Why not Jimmy?" Langly asked, passing along the glare he got from Byers to Jimmy.

Byers sighed faintly and tried to come up with a tactful way to put it. "Jimmy is... still learning about UFOs. He's not ready to scout a Men in Black sighting."

Jimmy looked a little disappointed, but was honest enough to see the truth of it.

"But I agree," Byers continued. "It shouldn't be me. I'm the best driver we have, and if there is anything to this, we'll need the kind of equipment we can only take in the bus." He glanced at Frohike, a faint smile in his eyes. "Why don't you go with him, Fro?"

J. Wayne seemed pretty happy with that. "Mel, that'd be great. I'm not all that well versed in UFOs, which is why I was really hoping for your help. If I go out there alone, I'm not going to be able to tell how credible these reports really are. If you came with me, it'd be a learning experience."

Jimmy giggled again, and Langly glared at him again. "Maybe you two should take Jimmy."

Frohike looked horrified. "I'm not teaching Journalism 101, dammit. This is a serious investigation."

This time, Langly tried not to giggle.

Byers rescued Frohike. "If we're driving, we really should have Jimmy with us. It's a long trip, and three drivers would be better."

Langly stopped fighting off the snickers and turned his glare on Byers. "It's not that big a van."

Frohike snorted. "How much space do you two need, anyhow?"

Byers ignored it. "We've done it before."

Jimmy giggled again, and this time Langly snickered right along.

"So Mel and I will fly out?" J. Wayne asked, sounding a bit eager.

Byers caught Frohike's eye. "It's as good a plan as any, I suppose," he said.

"Okay, but here's the thing," Frohike put in. "It'll take you a week to drive. Do you want us out there before you start, to see if it's worthwhile, and you can stay and finish the issue, or do you want us to hang around here and finish the issue, and then catch a plane in a couple of days so we're still there ahead of you?"

Byers glanced at Langly. It was obvious Langly was hoping Frohike would report back that it was a waste of time, so they wouldn't have to go. Langly wasn't thrilled about cross-country drives, Byers knew, and especially not with Jimmy along with them. It was understandable, but this was a story, and judging from the slag it could well be a massive story, and Byers wasn't going to give it short shrift just because Langly was upset about sharing a hotel room with Jimmy.

And he had a feeling about this one... Frohike obviously did, too. Byers had been exchanging daily emails with J. Wayne for months, now, and he didn't think the young man would waste their time. Plus, truth be told, there was something exciting about the historical angle to all this, the way it all circled back to the first MIB, the first modern sighting, the first UFOlogists. Surely, he and Langly would be able to swing some time alone together, anyway. He nodded to himself.

"We'll head out first," he said, conscious of Langly's disappointed sulk and Jimmy's excitement.

Langly sighed dramatically, but didn't say anything. It might have had something to do with Byers' hand on his knee, under the table.

Jimmy grinned, just happy to be a part of it all. "All right!" he said enthusiastically. "When do we leave?"

Byers considered it. "Tomorrow, I guess. We can pack this evening. I know you're not done with your column yet, Langly, but you can email it back when you are."

"Whatever." Langly was still annoyed.

"Okay," Frohike said. "Let's figure out what you'll need to take."

---

"Great," Langly complained as soon as Byers shut his door. "We get to spend the next week in the van with Jimmy. This sucks, Byers."

Byers hung his jacket neatly in the closet. "I expect you'll survive, Ri," he said mildly.

Langly sprawled across the bed. "I could use a little incentive," he grinned. "I remember somebody mentioning something..."

Byers sat down beside him, combing his fingers through the blond hair where it was spread out on the covers. "I've never broken a promise to you yet, Ri," he smiled. "Do you think I'd start with that one?"

"Do you think I'd let you?" He beamed. "Jimi fucking Hendrix!"

"And the Experience Music Project."

"Yeah." Langly grinned.

"I suppose there's Kurt Cobain's grave, too."

"He's no Jimi Hendrix," Langly said wistfully.

"Nobody ever was," Byers sighed.

Langly sighed, too. "He still didn't deserve to be killed by that no-talent bitch."

"I still don't think she did it."

"Well, it wasn't suicide."

"I didn't say it was."

Langly dismissed it in the face of more pressing concerns. "A week in the van with Jimmy."

"It's a long trip," Byers said thoughtfully.

"Yeah, John." Langly glared at him with one eye open. "That's why I'm so pissed."

"It's a long trip, in our van, without Frohike," Byers explained.

"So?"

"So I don't know much about cars. Do you?"

"I know where to put the key and how to make it go."

"Well, we wouldn't want to be stuck in the middle of nowhere when the van breaks down. I think it'll probably need a thorough going-over while we're on the road. Probably at least a couple of times."

"Jimmy knows cars."

"Yes, he certainly does, doesn't he."

Langly smiled, finally. "Thank God. I thought I wasn't going to get laid at all this week."

"I've taken your lack of discipline into account."

"What's that mean?"

"Ri, you can't go three days without sex before I have to keep you off with a stick."

Langly's hand crawled up John's thigh. "Your fault."

"Oh, sure. Blame the victim."

"It's the way you dress, baby," Langly teased. "You know you want it."

Byers sighed heavily. "Apparently, I make you pretty stupid as well."

"You could say that. Or you could just take all your clothes off and let me fuck you."

Byers stood up and took his tie off. "Maybe J. Wayne's more your type."

"Huh?"

"I think I'm too old to keep up with you anymore, Ringo."

Langly sat up and put his arms around Byers' waist. "You're only as young as you feel. And you feel pretty young to me, Johnny."

"Puns," Byers sighed.

"Plan B."

---

---

Date: Thursday, December 12, 2002 11:19 AM

This one's for motie, who really enjoyed the tea bag joke, and let me bounce bizarre ideas off her for hours, *all without ever once /kickbanning me*. She even snickered at the lemur thing, unlike my beta-readers, all of whom either said "Huh?" or "I've got gum on the bottom of my shoe younger than that joke."

     Caffeine, Conspiracies, and the Fortean Nature of Fishes
     III: Trek to Stupidity
     By D. Sidhe dsidhe@attbi.com
     Web: http://www.dsidhe.com/
     Category: Slash, WIP
     Pairings: Langly/Byers, Mulder/Frohike
     Rating: PG for language
     Summary: People flock like cattle to Seattle...

Disclaimers and Apologies: I continue to exploit and offend without permission, in the name of basically harmless fun. The song title used as a subtitle here is from The Young Fresh Fellows, and my apologies to Scott McCaughey, who may well be the Kevin Bacon of the recording industry, (I mean that in a good way, I swear). The song lyric used as a summary in this part is from "Viva Sea-Tac!" which is Robyn "Crabs Decide My Setlist" Hitchcock and the Young Fresh Fellows. Grunge may be dead, but Seattle still rocks, kids. I've also used a Weird Al lyric ("Midnight Star") without permission. He's not from Seattle, but that's no reason not to apologize to him anyway. Further parts are pending, so get your unflattering assessments of my intelligence in early and avoid the rush.

Beta: Call-Me-Betty and I had several battles over this part. One of the biggest went like this: "Do they have to have this whole stupid salmon discussion?" "What? Of course. It's important. They're journalists. I'm establishing character here!" "The characters are already established, okay? It's fanfic!" "Maybe. But it's still foreshadowing." "You know that you're begging to be slapped with a trout, right?" "As long as it's on the Seafood Watch approved list!" Ultimately, since it's my story, the salmon stayed, and I'm sorry. Some details were provided by Manda-In-Black. Feel free to guess which ones. Other details were, well, spell checked, by PC, who couldn't stop laughing at me long enough to tell me how little sense they made in the contexts in which I placed them.

Author's Note: I'm going to end up apologizing for the paperclip joke, so I might as well do it now. Sorry, PC. I couldn't help it. And you know you want to go with them anyway, admit it. A word about the MIB: It may look like I'm stealing details about the MIB from HISTK or from XF, and I'm not. Similarities you notice are there because they stole them from the same place I (and Manda-In-Black, though I would never accuse her of stealing, if only because she has the power to make me vanish) did, which is to say, UFO lore. Particularly useful was Jenny Randles' slightly boring book "The Truth Behind Men in Black". I'm also going to have to apologize for the frog thing. It's real. Well, at least, I didn't make it up. A really cool page about it is here: http://home.fuse.net/tswendel/LFP.htm This may not be the funniest thing I've ever seen, but it definitely makes the list. The Elvis/Bigfoot thing is especially nice. It's kind of a shame that I saw this page, since I'd already written those bits for later parts of this story, but it's funny enough that I had to include the page, and I'll just swear that's not where I got the idea to drag them into my bout of literary insanity.

---

Loading the bus Saturday took a lot longer than it should have. Frohike, in Fifties Dad On Vacation mode, supervised. "For God's sake!" he bellowed for the eighth or ninth time, "You should have been on the road hours ago!"

Byers abandoned all hope of leaving before noon, and tried to take solace in the notion that they were providing cheap entertainment to the neighbors. Not to mention providing an ironclad reason to leave the warehouse alone while they were away--they were obviously taking everything with them, and there'd clearly be not so much as a paperclip left behind.

Frohike pawed through Langly's duffel again. "Look, I already told you, Hairboy, it's July! You're not gonna need mittens. Go try again."

Langly headed back in, grumbling things under his breath Byers was happy he didn't catch. Mittens didn't seem likely to compel the neighbors through seven locks and an electronic alarm system. Particularly not in July.

"Jimmy!"

"Uh, yeah?" Bond looked like a kid with his hand in the candy jar.

"What the hell are you bringing this football for?"

Byers shook his head as the argument went on for more than a minute. Jimmy lost, as everyone knew he would, but the football wasn't likely to tempt anyone, either.

"Byers! Where's the surveillance equipment?"

"Third cabinet from the back, under the bench. Where it always is, Fro. And before you ask, yes, I got the night lenses for the DVRs, and yes, the extra cards, and yes, I packed the full range of listening devices and board cameras."

Frohike looked slightly put out at having nothing to complain about. "What about the first aid kit?"

"It's fine. I checked it."

Frohike glowered. "Did you double check?"

Byers succumbed to a brief urge to sarcasm. "No. I actually just made sure there was an out-of-code bottle of aspirin and a selection of Hello Kitty Band-Aids."

"C'mon, Byers, I'm trying to get you guys organized and out of here!"

"Mel, relax. I'm sure we'll get to World's Biggest Ball of Twine before it closes tonight."

Jimmy giggled, and J. Wayne watched all this with bemusement.

Frohike glared at Byers, hands on his hips. "The kid is a terrible influence on you, you know that?"

Byers smiled. "Somebody has to be. Which of the laptops are we taking?"

Frohike sighed. "The newest one, and Langly's, plus yours. I'll take mine on the plane. Are you guys gonna need paper files on anything?"

"I've got the ones it seems most likely we'll need. If I think of anything else, you can bring it."

"What about after we leave?"

"I imagine we can call Mulder. He may be able to offer some new information, while he's at it."

"Okay. Did you sign a check for the printers?"

"Yes. I left it where I always do."

"Ah-ah!" Frohike caught Langly trying to slip past him. "Bring that here. Let's see how you did this time."

Langly sighed and handed over the duffel again. Frohike went through it one more time. "Langly, do you really need all these damned CDs?"

"I wouldn't, if you'd have let me get that iPod."

"We're not having that discussion again. What the hell is--Tea bags? Oh." Frohike stuffed something back in a pocket, looking slightly embarrassed. Langly turned bright pink. Byers pulled himself off the wall he was leaning against and walked casually back into HQ, trying very hard not to giggle. He heard Jimmy behind him, snickering like a gang of squirrels on a chalkboard, and elected to ignore it.

"You got the tap jammers?" Frohike demanded, following him in.

"Yes. Second cabinet over the workbench. Like always."

"GPS?"

"Yes. And the vehicle trackers. And the RF detectors. And the scanners. And the battery packs, and the adaptors."

"The weatherproof ones?"

"Yes, of course."

"Stun guns?"

"The cell phone and the flashlight. The pepper spray pens and the regular canisters. Plus the injector gun in the first aid kit. Metal detector, Geiger counter, UV powders and lights. I don't think you need to worry so much."

"You've got the regular flashlights, right? Batteries fresh?"

"Yes, of course."

"It's not like he forgets this stuff, Fro," Langly said from behind them. "He's even more obsessive than you are."

"I know, I know. But we don't know what we're going to find out there. We might as well be prepared for anything." He paused. "You all have your night gear? In case we end up doing a little funky poaching?"

Byers nodded. "Yes. Are we taking yours?"

"Yeah. And all the extra documentation."

Langly snickered. "You're not trying to get false IDs on the plane?"

Frohike sighed. "Your cell phones? All the batteries charged up?"

"Yes, Dad," Langly said.

"Just makin' sure. Who's got the good credit card?"

Byers raised a finger. "Me."

"Langly, you have the updated contact information?"

"Oh yeah." Langly headed upstairs.

"See? I do have to remind you. Look, Byers, you can get two rooms if you have to, as long as you stay at the cheaper places."

Byers smiled and patted the little man on the back. "We'll work it out. Stop worrying."

Frohike looked away. "I've got a feeling about this one."

Byers nodded. "Me too."

Frohike glanced at him. "What kind of feeling?"

"This could be big," Byers said carefully.

"It could also be dangerous," Frohike said.

Byers didn't respond for a moment, and Frohike was surprised by the pensive look on his face. "You're worried, too," he said.

Byers nodded again. "A little. I don't know why."

"The biggest stories are usually the most dangerous."

"And we have rather a poor track record in Washington State."

Frohike smiled. "It's July. No skiing accidents." He sobered abruptly. "Look, take the tackle box."

Byers was surprised. "I'm not that worried, Mel."

"I am, John. Take the box, drive carefully. Don't get stopped and searched. If we don't need it, good. If we do, we'll have it."

Byers sighed. "I really think you're worried about nothing, but if it'll make you feel better, we'll take it." He followed Frohike into the back, where the box was concealed in a cardboard box between several similar boxes.

"I checked it last month. Just be careful. Okay?"

Byers lifted the box and carried it out to the van. They were joined halfway by Langly, who stared at it. "What's the panic box for?"

Byers smiled calmly. "Just in case. Did anyone remember the insect repellent?"

Frohike nodded. "Sure did."

Jimmy came practically skipping into the warehouse. "Hey, are we ready yet?"

In direct contrast to Langly, Jimmy enjoyed road trips to a degree that bordered on the pathological. In fact, it was actually one of the things that made Langly so irritable about them. Byers could sympathize, honestly. Three hundred odd miles of Jimmy trying to remember which bottle had fallen off the wall now had pretty much permanently scarred all three of his traveling companions. They'd ended up drawing straws for the opportunity to sit politely next to Yves in her car and try to avoid being pumped for information while not frustrating her enough to rip someone's throat out.

Jimmy took a step back when he saw what Byers was carrying. "Whoa, hey. We're not gonna need that, are we?"

Byers shook his head. "No. But we'll take it just in case."

"That's cool. Like carrying an umbrella stops the rain."

Frohike snapped his fingers. "Umbrellas! You boys got your umbrellas and raincoats?"

"It's July," Langly said nastily.

Frohike glared at him. "It's also Seattle."

"I'm not sure we have room for rain gear," Byers said, "and it is July. Even Seattle doesn't get much rain in July."

"Seattle gets more rain in the middle of a damned drought than we're used to," Frohike snapped.

It turned out to be a moot point. The only umbrellas they could find had holes in them, or had had pieces cannibalized to jerry-rig equipment, or, in one case, had a family of small mice living in it. Jimmy wouldn't allow them to be chased out, and in fact dashed off to find them some cheese. He came back with a bag of Cheez-Puffs. He knelt by the umbrella, trying to tempt the mice out.

"C'mon, little fellas. C'mon..."

"Rat poison," Langly said darkly to Frohike.

Jimmy stared at them in horror. "You wouldn't!"

Frohike glared at Langly. He'd known better than to mention it in front of Jimmy. "Look, Jimmy, they're vermin..."

"But they're cute!" Jimmy all-but-wailed. "I'll be responsible for them, please?"

"Geez," Langly groaned. "They're not puppies, Jimmy."

Jimmy stood up and loomed over the two of them, looking as menacing as he knew how. "You're not killing the little guys, okay? They've got babies. What kind of a rotten person would kill little animals with babies?"

"My kind," Frohike muttered. Jimmy backed him against the wall, and he abruptly conceded the argument. "Fine, but if those little bastards eat our files, you're a dead man."

Byers sighed. "This is all very touching, and I'm sure PETA would be delighted, but we do have to get going. Mel, leave the cheese things there, and we'll worry about the mice when we get back. I don't think they're going to make it downstairs just to gnaw on a copy of the Starr Report."

Langly snickered. "Nobody's that hard up for entertainment."

"As for the umbrellas," Byers said, ignoring him, "if we need them, we'll buy them when we get there."

Frohike snorted. "Good luck. You ever try to buy a damned umbrella in that town?"

Byers sighed again. "I'm sure we can figure something out. I'm not going to worry about it now, though."

---

It still took another hour before they were actually on the road. As they left the city, Byers found himself mediating a dispute between Jimmy and Langly regarding radio stations. He set aside the folder he'd been trying--without success--to concentrate on and leaned forward. "Jimmy's driving, and he has the radio. When you drive, Langly, you can have it."

Langly sulked. "We're gonna be out of reach of any good stations by then. Stuck out in cow country with Bible Bangers predicting the end of the world on every channel."

Byers glared at him. "Maybe you'll get lucky and find a talk show about the potato harvest." He leaned back, less than anxious to hear what he was certain would be Langly's judicious and well-controlled verbal reaction.

Jimmy cheerfully found an easy listening station that was playing John Denver's "Calypso". Langly heaved a sigh like he'd just agreed to donate a lung, and Byers handed him a file.

"Here. Do something useful. Go through this and see where Crisman's mentioned."

"That's exciting."

"Oddly enough, Ringo, I'm not actually trying to provide you with excitement." He leaned across and dug through Langly's duffel. "Here." Byers threw a CD and his player at him.

"'Phones suck, John. You can never get them loud enough."

"I love road trips," Byers said aloud to no one in particular.

Jimmy started singing along with James Taylor. Without another word, Langly put on the headphones and turned the volume all the way up.

By the time they stopped for dinner, they'd actually been making good time. Jimmy might not be able to interpret an MRI, but he could read a map, a talent Byers particularly respected after a long and allegedly deliberate tour, with an increasingly sarcastic-but-determined Mulder behind the wheel, of every back road in Vermont.

With Langly cursing every time he saw a cow. And with Frohike trying to explain the thing about the lemurs and the mothership to Jimmy, who didn't get it at all, but did latch on, quite happily, to the tradition of yelling "Frink" at cows.

By the time they'd found their way back into New Hampshire, which Byers had almost forgotten was the point, except that Frohike had kept up a running monologue on how far behind the schedule they were. Byers had been more than ready for a drink when they eventually pulled in beside the despairing gangrenous flicker of the "A-N-C-Y" sign of what apparently was the local version of the Bates Motel.

After four hours of listening to Langly do battle with man-eating cows in his sleep, Byers had gone to the sleep of the righteously exhausted in the fortunately-unoccupied bathtub. And didn't wake up the next morning until the maid began shrieking and he was called upon to demonstrate that he wasn't, in fact, a corpse. Which Langly had slept through, a bovine expression of bliss on his own face.

Frohike had started stocking the first aid kit with Valium, after that.

Langly bolted inside as soon as they stopped, and Byers sighed and handed Jimmy a twenty dollar bill. "Do you think you and Langly can order without fighting?"

Jimmy laughed. "Yep. Hamburgers, fries, and Cokes, right?"

Byers nodded. McDonald's wasn't his idea of a good dinner, but it was fast and cheap, and Byers was hoping they could get in another few hours of driving tonight. "Order for me, too. We need to check in with HQ before it gets any later."

"Cool."

J. Wayne was still occupying a hotel room, to Byers' amusement. He wondered how much longer that would last. At the moment, J. Wayne was apparently dividing his time in the warehouse between file-digging and helping Frohike put together the new issue.

"He's damned good at this, too. A natural muckraker," Frohike said proudly, as if he'd invented the kid himself. "'Powder Keg' will be kicking themselves in the ass for years."

"Has he had a chance to catch up with Mulder yet?" Byers asked, doing his best not to laugh.

"Mulder doesn't know he's in town yet. I'm going over there tomorrow, and maybe I'll drag the kid with me." Frohike listened to the suspicious noises coming down the line. "Shut up, Byers."

Byers fought down the snickers. "I didn't say a word."

"You didn't have to. How are the kids behaving?"

Byers sighed. "Well, so far I haven't had to actually call any time-outs. Or threaten to turn the van around."

Frohike laughed. "See any cows?"

"Not yet. I'm prepared to blindfold Ringo and gag Jimmy when we do."

"Be a lot easier if you'd just take some of the Valium yourself."

"I'm never the one who needs it," Byers said darkly.

"If you can't get him to take it, you will be. So are you stopping there for the night?"

"Hopefully not, unless the two of them resort to hair-pulling and 'He's making faces at me!' I'd like to get another three or four hours in."

"You don't have to drive straight through, Byers."

"I know. How's the Diamante Security story look?"

Frohike made an irritable noise. "The CEO has disappeared. So we may be too late on it."

"Well, we were hearing those rumors..."

"I know. I think we should hang onto it until next month. If something breaks while we're in production, we'll look stupid."

Byers was frustrated. "If we could figure out what's going to break--"

"I know. But I don't see how we can. I was thinking we should just go with the China computer dumps."

Byers sighed. "Whatever you think is best, I suppose. I just wish there was some way to contact--"

"You don't find him, he finds you," Frohike intoned. "I don't think he's the kind of guy who's interested in publicity, anyhow."

Byers almost smiled at that. "Probably not. Okay, it's up to you. I suppose I'd better get in there before they start throwing ice cubes at each other or something else equally adult."

Frohike laughed. "Are they really doing that bad?"

"No. Once we got the radio stations sorted out, they pretty much ignored each other."

"Okay. Hey, Byers, remember the time zones are changing for you--"

"I know."

"--and don't drive too long. It's not what the clock says--"

"--It's how tired you are," Byers finished with him. "I remember. Stop worrying, Mel."

"Sorry. Something just doesn't feel right."

"It has the potential to be a huge story. No one's ever gotten to the bottom of the Maury mess."

"I know. I'm not suggesting we scrap it. But I think we need to be careful."

"We will. We are. Don't worry so much. If you need to get through to us, I'll keep my cell on tonight."

"Okay. Keep in touch, Byers."

"Of course. Talk to you tomorrow, Fro." He disconnected, hearing the older man sigh gustily as he did so. Frohike did seem unusually worried about this one. Byers decided it probably had more to do with the travel plans than anything else. Cross-country flights drove Frohike crazy, Byers knew. He wasn't the kind of guy who coped well with enforced inactivity. He preferred to be doing something.

Byers locked the bus and headed into the restaurant, only to discover Jimmy and Langly giggling at each other across the table. He sighed.

"Happy Meals?"

"They've got MIB2 toys," Langly explained, snickering. "You got the worm guys."

Byers shook his head. "Fantastic."

Jimmy giggled. "I got Jay, and Langly got Frank, but we traded."

Langly threw a fry at him and turned back to Byers. "How's the issue coming?"

"The Diamante CEO has disappeared."

Langly raised an eyebrow. "Disappeared?"

"Evidently."

"Chapel?"

"Possibly. So we're going to hold off on the story for a while and see if anything breaks."

"Good call. What are we running instead? The Atlantic salmon farms story?"

"Illegal computer dumping in China."

Langly squinted at his burger as he tried to remember the details. "The junk heaps?"

"Yeah. The GMOs will still be there, but meanwhile that acid is leaking into the groundwater."

"What's a GMO again?" Jimmy asked.

"Genetically modified organisms," Byers reminded him.

"Like those tomatoes with the fish genes," Langly explained.

"Right, okay. And those fish that might get loose."

Byers nodded. "Exactly."

"Why's that bad again?"

"Introduced species kill off the natives," Langly said.

Byers nodded again. "And often lead to a weakening of the gene pool of a species, leaving it susceptible to disease."

"Plus pollution, and they spread disease and parasites to the natives."

"Oh, right. But I kinda feel bad for the fish, they don't get to live in the ocean."

Langly sighed. "They're fish farms, Jimmy, it's not 'Free Willy' or anything."

"Even if they don't escape," Byers added, "they still cause pollution and disease, because they're raised in net pens. And the overuse of antibiotics in the industry is a serious danger."

"Right. Like that soap you guys told me not to buy anymore."

"Yeah, like that," Langly said.

"Okay." He looked at Langly. "I know they're just fish, Langly. But I don't think anything should be caged up. I mean, somewhere they don't want to be. Like Peanuts, I mean Simon."

"I never want to hear that name again," Langly muttered.

Byers shook his head. "Okay, finish up, and let's see if we can get a little farther before it gets dark."

Jimmy was still thinking about things. "Would that Chapel guy kill someone, do you think?"

Byers shrugged. "I don't know. No one really knows anything about him."

"We should try harder to find out," Langly said.

Jimmy dismissed it with his usual attention span. "Okay, so these Men in Black guys. They're not like the movie."

"No."

"And they didn't make them up for the movie."

"No. There've been stories about the Men in Black since Maury Island. They've possibly been around for much longer than that. But Maury Island was the first one. After Dahl reported his sighting to Crisman, a man dressed in black took him to breakfast the next morning--"

"That doesn't seem very scary."

"--and explained that people who go around telling improbable stories sometimes come to harm."

"Wait, just one guy?"

"In that first case, yes. Since then, the classic pattern is three MIB in a vintage black car."

"In mint condition," Langly added.

"Yes. Usually a Cadillac, though not always."

"What kind of Cadillac?"

"I don't know right off-hand, Jimmy. I don't think it matters that much. In any event, Dahl said the man told him about his own sighting, rather than asking him about it. Dahl said the man was proving that he knew more about the sighting than Dahl did."

Jimmy's brow furrowed. "The guy threatened him, right?"

"Yes. And his family."

"Then how come we know what the guy said to him?"

"Because he didn't listen to the warnings, and continued to tell people."

"Oh. Did they get him?"

"No. There's never actually been a report of the Men in Black following through on their threats."

"A lot of weird deaths, though," Langly said.

"Possibly, or possibly not. It's often reported that Dahl disappeared after that, but in fact he died in 1982, in Tacoma. By that time he was unemployed, or self-employed, or retired, depending on the report, and had kept something of a low profile, again depending on what you believe."

"There were rumors he was in Witness Protection."

"Well, there were also reports that he and Crisman had confessed the whole thing was a hoax."

"Crisman was supposed to have disappeared, too," Langly observed cynically.

"Crisman died in the VA hospital in Seattle in 1975."

"How come people think they disappeared?" Jimmy asked.

Byers shook his head. "Dahl apparently abandoned his house and didn't bother to tell anyone where he was going, shortly after the incident. He turned up later. Crisman did much the same. It was years before anyone heard from them again."

"Except we now know Crisman was popping up all over the place between then and his death," Langly said thoughtfully.

"Fred Crisman," Byers mused. "Conspiracy Theory Whack-A-Mole."

Langly laughed. "You're so twisted, John."

"Okay, but what about these weird guys?"

"Which ones," Langly was still snickering.

"Are they CIA or something?"

Byers shrugged. "No one seems to know. No one admits to running them, which isn't surprising. Whatever their mission is, part of it seems to be to deny their own existence. All of the stories include some of the most bizarre details, and many of them sound frankly incredible."

Langly nodded. "Which might be the plan. If you tell people you saw a UFO, they might believe you. If you tell people you were threatened by three guys in a dark car who knew all about you, and who didn't seem to know what a fork was for, then you just sound paranoid."

"People tend to dismiss paranoia," Byers commented. "It's more comfortable for them to believe that they know what's going on, and that no one is, well, out to get them."

Jimmy had been chewing this over. "Wait. You said they don't know what forks are? Maybe they're Chinese or something. Do they have accents?"

Byers shook his head. "Sometimes. Sometimes they apparently sound like movie gangsters. Sometimes they speak to each other in an unidentifiable language. But they're not Chinese. When he said they don't seem to know what forks are, that's not what he meant."

"It just comes up in practically every story. These guys seem baffled by refrigerators, or they ask a lot of questions about a TV or a phone, or they dissect a ball point pen, or they act like they've never seen a fork before."

Byers nodded. "And maybe they don't, or maybe it's just an act."

Jimmy grinned slyly. "Hey, I've got a really weird idea..."

"Here it comes," Langly said, slumping.

"I know this sounds crazy, but what if--"

"--they're really aliens," Langly finished with him.

Byers glanced at Langly's expression, and couldn't keep a straight face. Langly glared at him.

"Listen, Jimmy. Everybody says that about them, okay? It might be why they act like that, okay? To get people to think that. There's no evidence they're aliens. They're probably some government's agents."

"Oh." Jimmy's face fell. Then he brightened up. "Like in the movie?"

"No, Jimmy," Langly said heavily, standing up. "I'm gonna get another Coke to go. You guys want anything?"

"That sounds good," Jimmy said, slurping the last dregs from the bottom of the cup with his straw. He handed Langly the change from the twenty.

"I'm driving, okay?" Langly said, and headed back for the counter.

Jimmy giggled. "I don't think he likes my music."

Byers laughed as they went out the door. "He likes it loud."

Byers took shotgun, and Langly climbed into the driver's seat, and put the key in the ignition. The first thing he did was change the radio station from Tears for Fears' "Sea Song", flipping around increasingly dispiritedly until he finally found a station playing Pink Floyd.

"Why don't you get some sleep, John."

"With that playing? I'll wait till we get to the hotel."

"No, 'cause I want you to drive later while I'm sleeping."

"We don't have to drive straight through, Ringo."

"Oh, I know. But, like, I'm kinda hoping we can get through, you know, some of the cow states, while it's still dark."

Byers sighed. "We'll see how it goes. I don't think we could make it much farther than Illinois by tomorrow morning, though."

Langly made a noise that implied he was less-than-sanguine about the prospect, and Byers patted his arm. "We've got the Valium."

"Great. We'll give it to Jimmy."

Byers sighed again. "I love road trips."

"Me too," Jimmy said happily from the back seat.

Langly turned the radio down almost enough to qualify as a token effort, and brushed his hand across Byers'. "Get some sleep."

"I wonder how many mice there are," Jimmy said suddenly.

Byers turned around and blinked at him. "What?"

"In the umbrella. The mice. I'm wondering how many names I need to come up with for them. Maybe I should ask J. Wayne to count them for me. He's vegetarian, so he probably won't want to kill them."

Byers sighed. "However many there are now, I'm sure there'll be more by the time we get home."

Jimmy seemed pretty happy with that. "Good. I'll think up a lot of names for them. Do you have anything I can write on?"

Byers slid a hand across his face. "There's a stack of notepads and some pens in the first drawer on the left under the workbench."

"Thanks, Byers."

Byers refused to look at Langly, but it didn't stop the snickering. "Jimmy?"

"Yeah?"

"There are some earplugs in the back of that drawer. Would you please pass me a set?"

Langly turned the radio up.

---

The next thing Byers was aware of, Langly had slammed on the brakes, and he was being thrown forward, hard, against the seatbelt. He opened his eyes and found himself wondering if he really was awake. He pulled out the earplugs, and heard Langly muttering. It sounded a lot like "Oh shit, oh fuck, oh shit..." Byers recognized it as Langly's panic mantra. Usually it made Byers want to shake him, but this time he found himself agreeing with the sentiment, if not the repetition.

"What is that?" Jimmy asked in total shock.

"That" was a--creature--which was staring up at them from the road in front of the van. It was a leathery grayish-olive in the heaadlights, and standing crouched and frozen, apparently equally surprised to see them. Byers estimated its height at about four feet. It had pale eyes with the slitted pupils of a reptile, and the head of a frog. It stood with arms upraised, as though trying to ward them off. As the four of them stared at each other, another, slightly smaller, creature loped onto the road behind the first. It seemed to be limping slightly, with something whitish wrapped around one--hand, forepaw, whatever. It almost ran into the first creature, not seeming to have realized it had stopped. It blinked slowly at the larger creature, and then turned its body to face the bus. It blinked slowly at them, too, giving the impression of a particularly dim bullfrog, and Jimmy giggled nervously.

Byers shook himself slightly. "Get the camera, Jimmy," he hissed, not taking his eyes off the animal.

They heard Jimmy trying to find the camera in the cabinets and cupboards. The first creature had turned its body to blink at the second one.

Byers sighed. "Bottom left, cupboard over the workbench closest to you, Jimmy. In a black case."

The second animal lurched up to the van, and put its hand up to the windshield. Byers realized that the thing was holding a piece of dirty cloth. It started to wipe off the dirty windshield with the rag. Byers became aware that his jaw had dropped. Langly was still chanting under his breath.

The first creature stepped up to the driver's side window and seemed to be waiting there for Langly to roll the window down. Byers figured that was only slightly more probable than what they seemed to be witnessing.

Jimmy eventually managed to find the camera, and handed it up.

By now, the first creature had given up and was hunching back off the road, followed by the second one. Byers swore as the camera's startup screens displayed. Six seconds later, he ended up with a poorly-lit lens-flared shot of the back of the smaller animal through the smeared windshield.

Byers watched as the creatures slipped back into the woods. "Another great moment in journalism history," he sighed. He glanced across and put his hand over Langly's where it rested on the steering wheel. "Ringo, please, try to relax."

Langly nodded, but didn't stop muttering.

Byers sighed again. "Jimmy, there's a couple of Snickers bars in my bag, in the front pocket. Would you get one for him, please?"

With the help of the chocolate carrot, they eventually managed to persuade Langly to drive the two miles to a parking lot, and to calm down enough to actually start breathing again. Byers rubbed his shoulder for a few minutes, murmuring things to him Jimmy tried to pretend he wasn't listening to.

Finally Langly shivered violently and slouched into the seat. "Johnny... What the fuck was that?"

Byers shrugged. "'The incredible Frog-Boy is on the loose again.'"

Langly stared at him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Never mind. Do you know where we are?"

Langly shook his head. "Near someplace called Sundale, I guess. I was trying to find a gas station."

"Loveland, Ringo."

Langly blinked and chewed on his candy bar, thinking it over.

Jimmy giggled again, still a bit unsteadily. "That's a weird name."

That seemed to bring Langly back a little. He made an irritated noise. "You think everything's a weird name. You spent three days making 'Chuckanut' and 'Humptulips' jokes in Washington the last time we went out there."

Byers shook his head. "The Loveland Frog."

Langly let out a breath like he'd been punctured. "Oh, yeah."

"That was a frog?" Jimmy asked.

"No..." Byers tried to explain. "It's a cryptid. An animal people aren't sure if it's real or not."

"Like Bigfoot," Langly inserted.

"Bigfoot's a hoax," Byers said. "But, this, uh, I guess it's probably, real. I suppose. Maybe. Honestly, I'm not sure what we just saw, let alone if it was real."

"I saw it," Jimmy said. "So did you guys. So it must be real."

"Remember what I said about 'V', Jimmy?" Langly asked wearily.

"That the lizard guys aren't real?"

Langly sighed. "Yeah, whatever. But they looked kind of real, right. So seeing it doesn't always mean it's real."

"Oh." Jimmy tried to work that through. "Well, we just saw something. I mean, didn't we?"

Byers shrugged, shaking his head. "I suppose it could have been a fraud. But we're the only people on this road, as far as I can tell. Why would anyone bother to try to hoax a deserted road?"

"I dunno, John. But the Loveland Frog as some kind of rural Squeegee Man?"

Jimmy looked from one to the other. "So what is this frog thing? 'Cause it didn't look that much like a frog to me."

Langly closed his eyes tightly. "The head did, a little. You can see where the name came from, anyway."

"In 1955," Byers tried again, "there were a couple of reports of, well, pretty much what we just saw, standing by the side of the road, in one case the report said there were three of them, and that they had some kind of weapon."

"Like a gun?"

Byers shook his head. "It was described as a metal wand, with sparks coming from one end of it."

Jimmy tried to sort that out. "They're aliens?"

Byers shook his head again. "I don't know. I'm just telling you what the original reports said. Quite a long time went by with no further reported sightings. But then they started turning up again. A couple of policemen were said to have seen them on separate occasions, standing or lying in the road. There have been infrequent sightings since then."

Langly gazed out the windshield with a distracted air. "Johnny, are there any more Snickers?"

Jimmy handed him another one. "Did this frog thing ever hurt anyone?"

"Evidently not," Byers said. "it was always just reported as watching people, or moving across or alongside the road. No one seems to have seen it doing anything threatening."

"It just washes windows?"

Byers shook his head again. "Ah... No one has, in fact, ever suggested... anything like that."

Langly tore into the candy bar. "I think..." he paused. "I think somebody else better drive for a while."

Byers took a deep breath and opened his door. "Scoot across, I'll drive." Langly wasn't especially pleased to watch him get out and go around the front of the bus, but he pulled himself together and moved across the bench seat. He locked the door while Byers climbed in the other side, all without taking his eyes off of Byers. He sighed faintly in relief as Byers locked the door on his side and started the engine.

"We'll find a gas station, and get directions to a hotel," Byers decided. "It's late, and we all need some sleep."

"Johnny?"

"What?"

"I'm sleeping with the lights on."

Jimmy giggled again. "Me too."

Byers smiled a little wanly. "I guess we can all share a room, then." He handed Langly the camera. "Did the picture come out?"

Langly played with the displays for a moment. "Yeah. It looks a lot like that picture of Tessie. Or maybe one of those Bigfoot ones."

"Is that good?" Jimmy asked.

"Or, you know what it looks like?" Langly continued relentlessly. "Remember three weeks ago, when the printer malfunctioned and we ended up with blotches all over the galleys?"

Byers sighed. "Okay, okay. I get the picture."

"Actually, no, you didn't."

Byers sighed again. "Get out the map."

---

---

Date: Monday, December 16, 2002 10:48 AM

This one's for the SO, who provided Tab at midnight, medication refills on a regular basis, and a steady stream of giggles. And though it now turns out that most of the laughter was at me and not with me, well, that's okay too.

     Caffeine, Conspiracies, and the Fortean Nature of Fishes IV:
     Earth Boys are Much Harder
     By D. Sidhe: Erika dsidhe@attbi.com'
     Web: http://www.dsidhe.com/
     Category: Slash, WIP
     Pairings: Mulder/Frohike, Byers/Langly
     Rating: NC-17. It's smut, but it's educational smut, I
     swear. (M/F in other words.)
     Archive: If you want it, take it.
     Summary: The Man in the Moon. and Mulder.

Disclaimers and Apologies: I continue to exploit and offend without permission. The movie title parodied in the subtitle here is not mine. The flower story in this part is loosely based on a short piece of cryptobotanical fiction (Yes, there are plant cryptids.) by John Blunt, entitled "The Orchid Horror", which is also where I got the grex from. What's a grex, you're probably asking? (Actually you're probably asking if I'm undermedicated again. Probably so.) Nonetheless, a grex (plural, 'grexes', believe it or not) is a classification for cultivars derived from the same hybrid. The flower does not actually exist, events recounted by Mulder did not happen, any resemblance to real persons living or dead would frankly surprise the hell out of me. And I'm very, very sorry about the Smurf thing. Further parts pend, so get your petitions to have me banned from the net in early and avoid the rush.

Beta: TRFB initially refused to touch this part with a ten foot pole. I expressed doubt that he had a ten foot pole, and it turns out that now I owe him two dozen Godiva chocolates and my red FM heels that I stopped wearing when I developed vertigo and acrophobia. TRFB finally did read this over, though "beta" may be too strong a word for it, but the fact that Mulder has two, and not three, arms is entirely due to his attentive eye and excellent math skills. (Apparently he has a blind spot for measurements, though.) He's also responsible for the fact that the celery joke does not appear here, though it may turn up later.

Spoilers: None. But that's only because this entire section is basically a PWP. Though I suppose if you're still reading the excellent paper on Gryllodes sigillatus, "Co-evolution of nuptial gift and female multiple mating resulting in diverse breeding systems" by the Centre for Ecological Research at Kyoto University, I've probably ripped the suspense right out of it for you. Sorry.

Author's Note: If you really can't figure out what Mulder was going to say, email me, and I'll tell you. But it's pretty gross.

---

The three of them finally woke up, or at least abandoned attempts to sleep, around eleven on Sunday morning. No one had done much unpacking, so heading out was quick. Byers checked them out, and came back to the parking lot to discover Jimmy and Langly standing speechless at the back of the bus. He wandered over and stood between them. Then he looked down.

"That's... interesting," he finally said.

Jimmy and Langly nodded like twin drinking birds.

Byers sighed. "There's a pond right over by the office. It's coincidence, that's all."

They nodded again.

Aligned on the bumper--big, middle, and small--were three frogs. Gazing up at them with what Byers had to think of as amphibian smugness. He leaned down to see if he could shoo them away, feeling a little foolish, and the middle one made a noise. Byers pulled his hand back fast.

Langly made a noise of his own.

Jimmy blinked at them all without bias. "I thought frogs said 'ribbit'."

"I thought frogs said 'Budweiser'," Langly muttered. "I could use one."

Byers leaned forward again, and this time the smallest one half-crawled onto his hand. He held it up to his face, slowly. It made the same noise, and man and phib blinked at each other for several moments. "Jimmy," he said calmly, still looking at the frog, "get the other two, and we'll put them back by the pond."

Feeling even more foolish, he started walking towards the pond. The frog didn't move, not seeming put out at the unusual mode of transport. He heard Jimmy, behind him, say "C'mon, guys. I bet there's big juicy flies over there."

He waited until Jimmy put his passengers down, and then crouched down to put his on the grass. The frog made the noise again.

Jimmy handed him something. "I guess they want this."

Feeling exceptionally foolish, Byers set the dollar bill on the grass next to the frog. It hopped across and sat on it.

Jimmy laughed. "I wish I had some flies for them or something."

Byers stood, feeling about as foolish as he ever had. "Langly?" he asked, not turning around to see how big his audience actually was.

"He's still over there," Jimmy said.

"Thank God for that," Byers sighed. "We're not going to tell him about this, right? It's our little secret."

Jimmy laughed again. "Okay, Byers. Whatever you say."

"Thank you."

"I think it was nice," Jimmy continued, not seeming to notice Byers' thorough humiliation. "I wonder what they're gonna do with it? Do you think they'll give it to the other ones? The big ones?"

"I don't want to know," Byers said resolutely. "Let's just go wash our hands and get out of here."

---

"Johnny?"

"Yes, Ringo."

"I didn't hear that, did I?"

"No. You were hallucinating it. Lack of sleep or something."

"Oh. Good."

"Low blood sugar, maybe. We'll have breakfast, and you can take a nap, and it'll be okay."

"Okay."

"Well, I heard it. Those frogs said 'Change'! I've never heard frogs talk before!"

"Shut up, Jimmy."

"And keep your eyes on the road."

"Except on TV. Kermit talks."

"Jimmy?"

"And those beer frogs. What?"

"Shut up."

---

They were most of the way through breakfast when Langly couldn't stand it anymore. "What the hell is so funny, Jimmy?" Families enjoying post-church pancakes looked up disapprovingly. Langly lowered his voice, but his attitude would require three or four more hours of sleep. "Are you going to giggle all damned day?"

"IHOP," Jimmy said, and then giggled. "IHOP. Get it?"

Byers sighed.

"I've been waiting for one of you guys to get it!"

Byers summoned the waitress and asked for more coffee.

"IHOP," Jimmy said again. "I'm a frog and IHOP. I-HOP."

"Yes, we get it, Jimmy."

Langly turned to Byers. "Experience Music Project."

Byers nodded and poured him another cup of coffee. "I'll go with you. We'll get you a shirt. I'll pay."

Langly slugged it back. "You bet your ass you will." Which was the last thing he said for several hours.

---

They stopped briefly for lunch and more coffee, lots of it, in one of the larger towns, and Byers selected a deli next to a music store. He handed Langly some money and watched him disappear into it without a word. Jimmy had finally stopped making frog jokes, after Byers threatened to tell Yves about the picture of her he kept under his pillow. Langly hadn't so much as smiled.

Langly turned up twenty minutes later with a small bag and something approaching life in his expression, and silently tore into the sandwich Byers had ordered for him.

They (Jimmy and Byers, anyway) agreed to get off the road before dark tonight and try to catch up on some sleep. In separate rooms. Langly signaled his acceptance of the decision, Byers figured, by not throwing anything at anybody.

Byers checked in early with Frohike, keeping one eye on Langly.

"See any cows yet?"

"Uh... No. Not really. Not that we noticed."

Frohike paused, hearing the strain in Byers' voice. "What happened?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"You're all okay?"

Byers exhaled and tried to relax a little. "Yeah. It's been a long day, and nobody got much sleep last night, but we're all fine. We're going to find a hotel after dinner."

"How's the kid holding up?"

Byers gave him a sideways glance. "We're all fine, Fro. I'll tell you more about it in person. If you need to get us tonight, I'll have my cell phone on, okay? If I, uh, don't answer, try Jimmy, or just call back."

Frohike laughed. "Gotcha. I'm dropping the paper off at the printers in about an hour, and then heading over to Mulder's, so if you need me, I'll leave mine on, okay?"

Byers half-chuckled. "We should get Mulder a better tap jammer for Christmas."

Frohike snorted. "We should get Mulder some better locks for Christmas.

"Is J. Wayne going with you?"

"Assume so. Haven't asked him yet. He disappeared into the morgue this morning and hasn't made a peep in hours."

"There seems to be some of that going around. Enjoy your evening, Mel. All of you."

Frohike sighed. "That kid's--"

"--a bad influence on me. I know." Byers smiled. "Keep in touch."

"You too. Be careful."

---

J. Wayne begged off, looking faintly furtive, but Frohike dismissed it and went alone for beer, pizza, a couple of movies, and the easy companionship of his favorite (male, anyhow) FBI agent. With the green peppers/anchovies issue thoroughly hashed out, they settled together on the couch in casual bare feet and awaited the arrival of dinner. Mulder'd already changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants, which was sort of a disappointment for Frohike, who did enjoy a nice bit of blue-jeaned scenery.

Mulder'd gotten released, Saturday afternoon, from four days in biohazard quarantine, and spent all day writing a report that wasn't going to be well-received by Skinner. It'd be at least midnight before he'd relax much, Frohike knew. But after four days in quarantine, nobody was expecting him in on the dot Monday morning. Frohike had plenty of time to see what he could do about the fact that the agent was almost vibrating with stress. He slung an arm around Mulder's neck and leaned against him.

"Four days. You should've called me," he scolded mildly. "I'd have fed your fish and watered that fern you keep trying to kill."

"I called you as soon as they turned me loose yesterday. Anyway, it wasn't necessary."

"You killed the fern? And the fish?"

"Fishes. Fish is plural for one species. Fishes is plural for several species. I have three angels and a bunch of different tetras. I have fishes. If I had four guppies, I'd have fish."

"If you had four guppies, you'd have schools of fish before too long. And I believe the question was, do you now have floaters?"

"I didn't kill them. I left a note on the tank before I headed out of town."

Frohike looked over. "Can't read it. What's it say?"

Mulder snickered. "It just asks whoever breaks in to feed the fish and water the fern."

Frohike sighed. "You're nuts."

"Yeah, but they did."

Frohike pulled away slightly. "Who did?"

Mulder shrugged. "Krycek, maybe."

Frohike covered his eyes with his hand. "Don't tell me anything else. I'm going to assume it was actually Scully."

"Assume away. But whoever it was also brought up my mail and swiped my copy of 'Celebrity Skin'."

"You're right. That doesn't sound much like Scully."

Mulder shook his head. "Not really, no. She'd have replaced it with 'National Geographic', and turned my fishes over to the SPCA."

"I don't want to know. You never did tell me what the case was. And why the hell were you in quarantine this time?"

Mulder sighed. "You want the highlights, or the whole story."

"Start with the highlights."

"The highlights. Killer orchids do it for you?"

Frohike raised eyebrows. "Killer orchids?"

"Sort of. This stupid blue orchid releases pollen that makes guys nuts--"

"You must've gotten a snoot-full," Frohike grinned.

"You wish. It's like super-Viagra or something."

"I do wish. So who's dying?"

Mulder sighed again. "Okay. Last month, we had guys turning up dead in South Carolina, I think I mentioned that at least. And they're blue, and naked, and appear to have died from anaphylactic shock."

"Naked blue corpses. It's like snuff flicks for Smurfs. I can see why you were called in, Spooky."

"Fuck you."

"We'll get to that. Finish your story, Mulder."

Mulder snickered and shifted so that his back was to the older man. Frohike dug in and started to work at the knots in his shoulders. "Oh, God, that feels good."

"Finish your story or I'll stop."

"You're always ordering me around."

"Hey, I'm the top, remember?"

"How could I forget."

"Finish your story, Mulder," Frohike said again, a little less patiently.

"Ahh..." He stretched into the strong hands. "Okay. The weird thing is, all these guys died on the same day, though of course we didn't find a couple of the bodies until a few days after."

"Oh, goody. I bet they were ripe by then."

Mulder grimaced. "Ripe is not the word for it. It's fucking hot down there."

"And humid."

"Believe me, I know. So maybe we have some kind of spree-poisoner, they think, which is where I come in."

"Scully go with you?"

"Yes. She was giving me 'Well, it could be an infestation of a new species of spider, or possibly it's a new strain of hantavirus, and of course you know Mulder there have been reports of mildew'--"

"Mildew? In South Carolina? In July?"

"June. And it's the humidity, remember, not the heat. And it turns out she was about half-right. Are you going to let me tell this?"

Frohike moved one hand up to the agent's neck. "You're bitchy tonight."

Mulder sighed and deflated. "Sorry. It's been a really shitty week."

"You're forgiven, I suppose. Go on."

"Thank you. So the connection is, these guys, their wives are all members of the garden club, a garden club they've got down there."

"Let me guess. Orchids."

"Yeah."

"Cult?"

"Not quite. The orchids in question were owned by a woman who decided to share them around."

"That's friendly."

"Well, it wasn't deliberate. The sharing was, but basically these men all died by accident. She kept the orchids in her greenhouse." Mulder stopped, and shifted towards Frohike a little more. "What do you know about cultivating orchids, Fro?"

"Assume I'm ignorant of the subject."

"So was I. It seems that orchid seeds are really tiny little things--"

"Is that scientific terminology?"

"Yeah. 'Tiny' is bigger than 'itty-bitty' but smaller than 'teensy'."

Frohike snickered. "I'll keep that in mind." One hand started to work its way under Mulder's shirt, which audibly met with approval.

"Mm. Okay. The seeds are really small, and in order to germinate, they have to form a symbiotic relationship, apparently, with a fungus, which starts growing roots, sort of, that absorb water, which I'm told the seed can't do by itself."

"I can see why Skinner's gonna freak."

"Which part?"

"Your fine grasp of the scientific details involved. Why didn't Scully write the report? She knows more biology than you do."

"It was my turn."

"Ah. Lost another bet?"

Mulder sighed again. "No. But she wasn't going to touch the bodies otherwise. She's a brilliant woman, and a doctor of enormous skill, and I respect her talent greatly, but she has this thing, apparently, about blue snot."

Frohike snorted. "I can't begin to imagine how often that comes up."

"We had it in some quantity in this case. Anyway--keep doing that, okay?--it seems that different species of orchids need different types of fungi."

"Okay. And you got some kind of mutant strain from all the varieties?"

"No, it was a normal fungus, but from a different species of orchid. Which created, essentially, a mutant hybrid of the orchid. Making it much stronger than it originally was, and leading to the allergic reactions and the deaths. The worst part was the fight between the orchid-pusher and one of the forensic techs, who turns out to be an orchid buff himself, for the opportunity to name the thing. While they were going at it, one of the wives, excuse me, widows, sneaked off and had it registered as a Cattleya bowringiana 'Trixsemptia' with something called 'Sander's List'. Evidently blue orchids are a rare and much sought-after variety."

"Who're you quoting?"

"Gary Sabro, the tech."

Frohike pondered it for a moment. "So why's Skinner going to be mad?"

"Because nine of our fourteen dead men, naked and blue dead men, remember, are very prominent men in South Carolina. Very prominent corpses, at any rate. A little to the left? Including the father of a state senator."

"And the FBI gets to explain that it was Smurf-death-by-mutant-orchid."

"Mutant aphrodisiac orchid."

"He was hoping for a spree-poisoner, was he?"

"Yes. It didn't help that the orchid-pusher was the granddaughter of a federal judge."

"I suppose it wouldn't, no. I gather you were not directly exposed?"

"No. But you know how Scully is."

"Haven't had the pleasure. Was she quarantined too?"

"Twenty-four hours. The allergy is a sex-linked trait, apparently."

Frohike kissed the nearest shoulder. "I'm glad you weren't exposed."

Mulder laughed. "I knew you cared."

"Of course I care. What the hell else would I do with my Saturday nights?"

Mulder would probably have lapsed into a pout if the pizza hadn't come.

As they settled in with bottles and slices, Frohike commented idly, "Actually, you may be the one who has to worry about Saturday nights, at least for a while."

"Why's that?"

"The boys and I are headed to Washington State again."

This time Mulder did pout, and Frohike managed to not throw down his beer and fuck the agent on his coffee table. It was a struggle, but the coffee table was probably sticky enough as it was. Mulder wasn't much of a housekeeper. "More bear poachers?"

Frohike shrugged and swallowed as the pout melted like a retreating Ice Age. "Nothing so conventional."

"Bigfoot?"

"Bigfoot is a hoax, Mulder, you know that. No. UFOs and Men in Black."

Mulder gave him a look over his bottle. "Maury Island?"

Frohike nodded, catching strings of cheese. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Four days in quarantine. I caught up on my mail."

They chewed and drank with a vicious nonchalance for several minutes, until Frohike gave in. "What's your mail say?"

"Nothing much." The smirk was a long way from the pout, but it wasn't bad, as scenery went.

Frohike sighed. "Smugness does not become you, Mulder."

Mulder grinned. "The hell you say. I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"That's probably not the lamest line you use on me, but I think it makes the list."

"It always works, though."

"I'm a romantic."

"And a sucker for a nice ass."

"True. Tell me what you know, and give me a chance to eat some more of the pizza before you devour the rest of it."

Mulder laughed and stood up, heading for the kitchen and more beer. He came back and handed one to Mel. "I'm a selfish bastard."

"Also true. Spill, buddy."

"UFOs and light shows, mutes and ghosts and missing time..." Mulder chanted in a sing-song as he sprawled against Frohike again. Frohike moved his arm and Mulder slid his head into Frohike's lap, gazing up at the Gunman.

"Ghosts?" Frohike asked. A slice of olive fell and Mulder caught it. Frohike admired the reflexes and the glimpse of tongue.

"Apparently. Residual effect, I suspect."

"No Bigfoot?"

"Bigfoot is a hoax, Mel, you know that."

Frohike played with the thick dark hair with his free hand. "Just because I'm not gonna go hunting him, doesn't mean people don't report him."

"True. But as far as I know, no. Though there was a sighting of 'Colossal Claude."

"Colossal Claude?"

Mulder shrugged, making Frohike twitch. "Sea monster." Mulder thought about it. "Sound monster, anyway."

"I should've guessed. What kind of UFOs?"

Mulder grinned. "You tell me."

"Deltas."

Mulder nodded, getting another twitch out of Frohike. "Deltas and wedges. Boomerangs."

"Hudson Valley stuff."

Mulder nodded again. "How's the story coming?"

Frohike shook his head. "Still chasing rumors."

"After almost a year? I still think it's bullshit, Fro. Nobody's screwing with Invisibility anymore. Not after Eldridge."

"I'm starting to think you're right. But Byers isn't gonna let this one go."

"No, I suppose not."

Frohike grabbed a napkin and wiped sauce off his fingers before twining them back into Mulder's hair. "I'd have thought quarantine would at least be restful."

Mulder snorted. "You've never been, obviously. People in spacesuits suits come in every half hour to draw blood and take your temperature and blood pressure and mutter over you like you were the guest of honor at a wake. Restful it is not."

"And Scully set you up for this?"

"Yep. She's an evil woman."

"Tell me more," Frohike leered.

"She's vowed to shoot me again if I tell you her new phone number, you know."

"We don't want that." Frohike traced the scar under Mulder's shirt with delicate fingers. "How does she know I didn't find it myself?"

"Feminine intuition, I suppose." He pushed the hand aside and stretched his arms over his head, casually settling them around Frohike's waist.

"She hasn't got much respect for my kung-fu."

Mulder grinned up at him. "Oh, but I do."

"Hey, once you've gotten a taste of Frohike..."

Mulder wriggled against him. "I could go for another bite."

Frohike pulled back. "No way, buster. Last time, you left a mark that had the boys smirking at me for a week."

Mulder laughed and let go long enough to take his shirt off. "They're just jealous."

Frohike's hands followed it up, tracing along the soft skin. "Mm. What could they possibly have to be jealous of?"

Mulder worked Frohike's shirt loose from his jeans and slipped a hand underneath, playing with the buttons. "There's always Colossal Claude."

Frohike snorted. "That's at the top of the lame list now."

"I didn't think it was that lame."

"Inexcusably lame, Mulder. Dog lame."

Mulder sighed and stretched one hand around to Frohike's back, expertly slipping the older man's belt loose.

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

"What am I doing," Mulder mumbled against his chest.

"You're hoping to have your way with me."

"Why would you ever think that?"

Frohike laughed. "You paid for dinner."

"Good point. Are you gonna take your shirt off, or do I have to work around it?"

"Let's see you try to work around it."

"I paid for dinner, remember."

"I paid last time."

"And, as I recall, you had your way with me."

"Yeah, but you're a slut, Mulder. I can't be had for the price of pizza and cheap beer."

"If I get Rolling Rock next week, can I have you now?"

Frohike thought about it. "Next week, I'll be enjoying microbrew."

"In the rain."

"It is July, Mulder."

"In Seattle."

"I suppose if I don't let you work your wiles on me, you'll spend the next week pouting."

"And with no one here to see it."

Frohike let out a resigned sigh. "Okay. Just don't go telling the boys in the locker room tomorrow that I let you feel me up."

"Deal." Mulder waited until he had Frohike making the noises that signaled an abrupt loss of IQ, and then pulled his hands away slightly. "So what are you hearing from Washington?"

"What?"

"Washington, Mel. Why're you going?"

Frohike did his best to remember without being distracted from the ear in front of him. "Ummm. J. Wayne asked for help."

"You what?" Mulder demanded.

Frohike shrugged but didn't bother to stop licking the skin below Mulder's ear. "J. Wayne. You remember."

"Do I," Mulder said with feeling. "What's J. Wayne doing in Washington?"

"He's not, yet. He's out here. Turned up on our doorstep Thursday night. Before I know it, we're planning the trip and trying to shut Langly up about how cold he was last time. We're flying out Tuesday."

"So how long will you be gone?"

"Long as it takes, G-Man," Frohike mumbled, nibbling at Mulder's neck. He wasn't entirely sure whether Mulder's moan represented arousal or depression. He tried it again, and got the same result. "Just checking."

"Checking?"

"Nothing. I don't know how long we'll be gone," he told Mulder's earlobe. "The boys and Jimmy are already headed out there in the van. It's not like me and J. Wayne will be alone."

Mulder sighed faintly. "It sounds like you already have been." He could feel the grin.

"Why, Mulder," Frohike said with mock surprise. "Are you jealous?"

"Shit yeah," he said as Frohike started to chuckle. "He's a hell of a cute kid."

Frohike bit his neck, not gently, and Mulder yelped. "Asshole."

Mulder laughed. "So is he any good?"

"Dunno," Frohike said, kissing the red mark he'd left. "Yet," he added.

Mulder pulled away as much as possible and went into Serious Pout mode. Frohike chuckled and yanked him back close. "Who knows, maybe you'll find out first. He sure hasn't forgotten you, either."

"Mmm," Mulder sighed. "Do that again, Fro. I always wanted to be a talent scout," he said absent-mindedly.

"I thought you always wanted to be a cabaret girl."

"I'm flexible," he said, squirming out of his sweats.

Frohike remembered to breathe. "Oh, believe me, Mulder, I do know."

"So he brought you this story?" Mulder had gone to work on his jeans. "Out of the blue?"

"Hmm?"

"J. Wayne. He brought you this story?"

Frohike tried to concentrate. "Yeah, um. He thought we could help. Maybe print it if it's any good."

"What do you know about hangingflies, Mel?" Mulder asked his collarbone.

"If this involves little nooses, Mulder--"

Mulder laughed, making Frohike shiver against him. "No... The Order Mecoptera. When it's mating season, the male hangingfly offers the female a dower, a courtship gift."

"Fascinating," Frohike breathed, with a certain amount of irony. He pushed the agent back and did his best to distract him.

"You have the most talented hands, Fro... The dower is an insect the male caught, and while the female is eating it, the male mates with her."

"You're saying the story is a tasty bug?"

"A tasty bug?"

"Something's pretty tasty."

"Dog lame, Frohike."

"I learned from the master."

Mulder put his hand on the back of Frohike's head. "Less banter."

"I'm just trying to take an interest. So this story's a bug? A dower?"

Mulder moaned and slumped back even farther against the couch. "He might be trying to lure you into sexual congress, yes."

"And why on earth," Frohike mused, "would anyone think I was at all susceptible to luring?" He squinted up at Mulder. "I wonder if he talks about bugs in bed. Or on the couch, for that matter."

"Good point. I'll stop being jealous. He hasn't got a chance with you."

Frohike heaved a martyred sigh. "You're a total fruitbat, Mulder."

"Mm. Say it like you mean it. What most people don't know about mecopterans is that while they currently are only about a hundredth of a percent of the extant species, in the past they were significantly more numerous..."

Frohike had been trying to concentrate, but he couldn't stop the sarcasm. "Most people don't know that? No kidding?"

"Jesus, don't stop--" Mulder's fingers dug into Frohike's back and shoulders. "Yeah--Oh yeah!--They're about forty percent of the discovered fossils in the Permian beds of Kansas."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Mulder's control was slipping. "Decorated crickets..." he panted. "Decorated crickets..."

"Crickets now?"

Mulder whimpered. "Please, please do that again."

"Are you gonna stop talking?"

"Whatever happened to 'smart is sexy'?"

"Smart may be sexy, Mulder, but weird is just weird." The lower lip started to creep forward, and Frohike took his glasses off.

"What are you doing?"

"Neutralizing your secret weapon." He leaned back down and tried nibbling for a change.

Mulder groaned softly. "Fuck. J. Wayne should be this lucky."

"Maybe he will be," Frohike mumbled around his mouthful.

"You think he'd mind sharing?" Mulder slid a leg up over Frohike's shoulder. "Decorated crickets make their own dowers."

Frohike moved off a bit. "They put together tiny quilts?"

"No... No--Oh, yes!--mmm. No. They secrete a gelatinous glob called a spermatophylax, for the female to eat."

"Mulder, for Chrissakes."

"The spermatophylax surrounds the ampulla that holds the spermatozoa..."

"You have to stop watching the Discovery Channel."

"...and the male glues the whole thing to her..."

"Congratulations."

"Hmm?"

"You've finally found a species with weirder mating habits than yours."

"Oh, fuck, Mel. I think--"

Frohike cut him off. "If you say it, I'm stopping right now."

Mulder laughed raggedly. "Anything. Please don't stop." His fingers moved restlessly on Frohike's scalp and when that willing mouth descended on him again, all he could do was buck into it and swear weakly as he came.

Much faster than Frohike would have thought him capable of it, Mulder did--something--and Frohike found himself tossed across the coffee table, "Victoria's Secret" digging into his back. It stopped mattering almost immediately, when Mulder spread himself across the smaller man and yanked his head up for a kiss that didn't stop until they had both run out of oxygen.

"Fuck," Frohike gasped. "You're trying to kill me."

Mulder laughed breathlessly and moved off Frohike's chest. "Then I can have J. Wayne all to myself. He's staying with you guys?"

Frohike ran a hand over his own scalp and licked his lips. "No... He's in a hotel..."

"Which one?"

"You do that again, and I'll never tell."

Mulder moved his hand down Frohike's belly. "What if I do this?"

Frohike managed to laugh. "Go ahead. I'm not grassing."

Mulder snickered and squeezed lightly. "We have ways of making you talk, you know."

"Name two."

"I'm gonna get out my Junior G-Man Fingerprint Kit and see just where the kid's been putting his hands."

"He's too smart to leave evidence, Mulder."

"Then you won't object to a search."

"You have a warrant?"

Mulder grinned. "I have a gun."

Frohike rolled off the table, landing mostly on top of Mulder. He tangled his hands back into the silky hair. "And I have Fourth Amendment rights."

Mulder reached up and grabbed a hand. "I don't think you have an expectation of privacy in my apartment."

Mel sighed and buried his face in Mulder's neck. "Mulder, nobody has an expectation of privacy in your fucking apartment. People line up just to break into this place."

Mulder laughed. "The rent isn't bad, anyway. And there's always someone to feed my fish."

"Fishes," Mel mumbled against his ear.

"Hmm?"

"Fishes. Not fish. I do listen to you, you know."

"Only while I'm fully clothed."

"You were barefoot."

"True. If the kids are gone, and J. Wayne's in town, why didn't you two invite me over? It's not like anyone ever breaks into your place," he snickered.

"I think we still have a better record than you do. I did invite him. He said no."

"He said no?"

"He looked pretty nervous."

"I make him nervous?"

Frohike got to his feet and held his hand out. "Mulder, you make me nervous. Come on. Your couch is way too small if we're going to be wrestling."

Mulder took the hand, smiling. "I even shoveled all the paperwork off my bed for you. I know how picky you are about these things."

"I'll get you trained yet," Frohike said, making sure the door was locked and turning off the light. He heard Mulder come up behind him.

"That sounds like fun," he said, running his hands across Frohike's back. "More fun than wrestling, anyway."

Frohike put his hand on Mulder's arm and spun him at the end of his reach toward the bedroom, pulling himself close. "Those aren't our only options."

Mulder moved with him. "I can't believe I had to find out from Langly that you dance."

Frohike tried to look innocent, not easy while sporting only fingerless gloves and a hard-on. "You never asked."

Mulder smiled. "Has J. Wayne asked?"

"Nope."

"He doesn't know what he's missing."

Frohike grinned. "Is that an endorsement?"

"Anytime you need a reference, Mel..."

"But not Scully," they said together.

Mel brushed soft fingers down Mulder's chest. "I'll change your mind someday," he laughed.

"I'm not sharing you with her. She can find her own dates."

"There's enough of me to go around."

Mulder leaned down and kissed his neck. "I'm insatiable, remember?"

Frohike chuckled. "I think I'm being reminded, yes. C'mon, Big Guy. Let's see what we can do about that."

Mulder practically dragged him into the bedroom and sprawled wantonly across the bed, watching him with lust-darkened eyes. Frohike took his time, kneeling next to Mulder and slowly, very slowly, working his fingers into him. Between quiet noises of intense pleasure, Mulder managed to confine his conversation to the--alarmingly detailed--list of things he seemed to be hoping Frohike would do to him within the next several hours. At some point Mel found himself laughing softly against the younger man's chest.

"You're such a pervert, Mulder," he said fondly.

Mulder leaned back and exposed his neck to messy kisses. "One of my many charms."

Frohike laughed. "You have a great ass, you're a pervert, and you pay for dinner half the time. I only count three."

"What about my stimulating banter?"

"This is probably going to crush you, Mulder, but you're hot despite your tendency to lecture me about free radicals during sex, not because of it."

"You're right, I'm crushed."

"Sorry. Maybe I can make it up to you."

Mulder sighed contentedly. "You have anything in mind?"

Frohike reached down and stroked him casually. "In hand."

Mulder arched against him, half-whimpering. "Oh, God. God, you have great hands. Oh--" He lapsed into another elaborate fantasy, and Frohike half-listened, marveling at Mulder's inventiveness.

"Mulder," he said finally.

"Mmm--hm? Oh, fuck, don't stop, please."

Frohike rested his elbow on Mulder's chest and looked him in the eye. "Play-Doh, Mulder?" he asked incredulously.

Mulder laughed raggedly. "Or cooky dough. Do that again."

"That's unhygienic."

"So? Please do that again."

Frohike sighed. "How in the name of God did you ever get past the FBI's psych tests?"

"Memorized the answers. Please?"

"No, but I'll do something else if you promise to stop making obscene suggestions at me."

"The Mr. Bubble is obscene. Play-Doh is just... whimsical."

"One man's opinion."

"No, really. Think about it. If you--"

"Mulder," Frohike said, frustrated. "Do you want to have a debate on the Freudian nature of cultural icons, or do you want me to fuck you?"

Mulder laughed. "Fuck me, Mel."

"As long as you're sure." He arranged a pillow under the younger man's hips and leaned in to kiss him hard before moving into position.

"Oh, fuck yes," Mulder said as soon as he could talk again, "I'm sure. Yes."

Mel wrapped his gloved hand around Mulder's cock as he slid into him. Mulder shuddered violently and pushed himself against Mel as much as possible.

"Mel..." Mulder groaned. "I'll pay for dinner next time, too."

Frohike half-laughed, and concentrated on driving Mulder crazy. It was so easy it gave him time to think. "Mulder?" His only reply was a soft, heartfelt moan. He pulled out of the younger man and held himself there. "Mulder."

Mulder whimpered. "What?"

Frohike grinned in the soft light. "What kind of tasty bug?" He could feel Mulder's confusion.

"What?"

"What kind of tasty bug do you think the kid's brought us?"

"Oh... I dunno. Fuck me, Frohike."

"In a minute. You've got me curious."

Mulder got himself together with a superhuman effort. "With hangingflies it's usually a plump, juicy fly. Please fuck me?"

"You started this." Mel considered it. "But I get to have the bug, right?"

"What? Yes. Yes, whatever you want. Jesus."

"I mean," Frohike was getting a perverse pleasure from this. "I'd get to eat the bug. It's not just a trick to get me to mate?"

"I hate you."

"Okay, but...?"

"Yes. Okay? Yes. The male lets the female eat most of the bug before he tries to mate. Okay?"

"That's all I wanted to know."

"Jesus," Mulder said again. "I swear I'll never talk in bed again."

"I'd love to believe that."

"Fuck me already," Mulder begged.

Frohike didn't move. "Are you sure?"

"What?"

"Are you sure that's what you want?" Frohike persisted, enjoying himself immensely. "There aren't any other fascinating facts about insects you'd like to offer? Because I was starting to get into it. I mean, if you wanted to explain to me why female black widows eat their mates or anything, this would be an ideal time."

Mulder suddenly pushed him off and rolled on top of him. "I don't know why female black widows eat their mates, Mel, but I'm starting to understand why male FBI agents shoot theirs," he said darkly.

Frohike started to laugh, and it was several minutes before Mulder could stop him, which he finally managed by shoving his tongue down Frohike's throat. When he came up for air, he glowered at the older man. "Don't make me get my gun."

Frohike, still chuckling softly, grabbed his hair and dragged him close again. "That's kinky even for you, Mulder. Do they teach you that at Quantico?"

Mulder shook his head against Mel's cheek. "Nobody ever planned for you, Fro."

Mel grinned. "Nobody ever has."

"I sure didn't," Mulder said softly.

"You're not gonna get sappy on me now, are you?" Frohike demanded suspiciously. Occasionally Mulder strayed too close to declarations of something other than affection. Mel was more-or-less fine with the sentiment, but could do without the vocalization of it.

Mulder turned his head and looked into his eyes. "Wouldn't dream of it," he smiled. "Now will you fuck me?"

"Hey, you're on top."

Mulder held his shoulders and flipped them back over. "I'm a bottom at heart."

Mel laughed a little breathlessly. "You're just lazy."

"Also naked, begging, and mere seconds away from pouting."

"Holy God."

"I don't need a gun."

"Considering how often you drop it, that's probably a good thing."

"Okay, that's it. I'm officially pouting." Which he did for about three seconds, before Mel thrust deeply into him. Mulder shook with it. "Holy God," he gasped.

Frohike grinned and drove himself deeper. "Yeah," he panted. "That pout is lethal."

Mulder moaned and tried to pull him as close as possible. "J. Wayne doesn't know what he's missing."

"Yet."

"You think..." Mulder arched against him, struggling for every breath, "...think he'd mind--oh, shit, Mel, harder--if I watched?"

The gloved hand slid across the other man's shoulder. "I'll be sure to ask." He felt Mulder's length thicken in his hand and opened his eyes to watch as he drove him to a frenzied orgasm. The younger man threw his head back and cried out harshly. The sight pushed Mel over the precipice as well, and he was groaning Mulder's name as he buried himself once more and shuddered violently.

Eventually he pulled himself up and off Mulder, sprawling next to him. "Holy God," he said again, kissing Mulder's chest. "J. Wayne should be this lucky."

Mulder laughed a little. "What'd you think I was going to say?"

"Hmm?" Frohike was drifting, warm and sated.

"When you told me not to say it."

Mel sighed, but there was less exasperation in it than usual. "Mulder, I know you don't pay that much attention, but I tell you not to say a lot of things while we're fucking."

"When you were going down on me, and threatened to stop."

Frohike thought back. "Oh, that."

"What'd you think I was going to say?"

"We both know exactly what you were going to say."

Mulder grinned lazily. "It would've been funny."

"Mulder, if you had said what you were going to say, I'd never have been able to swallow again."

---

---

Date: Wednesday, December 18, 2002 4:14 PM

     Caffeine, Conspiracies, and the Fortean Nature of Fishes V:
     Mutes: It's What's for Dinner
     By D. Sidhe: Erika dsidhe@attbi.com
     Web: http://www.dsidhe.com/
     Category: Slash, WIP
     Pairings: Mulder/Frohike, Langly/Byers
     Rating: PG, for language
     Archive: If you want it, take it.
     Summary: I'm going down to Cowtown, the cow's a friend to
     me...

Disclaimers and Apologies: I continue to exploit and offend without permission. I'm very sorry, but obviously not so sorry I'm going to stop doing it. The Beef Council slogan is parodied without permission, and the summary in this part is from TMBG's song "Cowtown". I've also used the lyrics from Coal Chamber's "Big Truck" without permission, but at least I didn't actually quote the Neil Young song, which is best known by its other name, "Computer Cowboy". Langly may not like Wisconsin (Unofficial State Motto: "Eat Cheese and Nobody Has to Get Hurt.") but I do. Regardless of how I mistreat it in this section. Further parts continue to pend, so get your Meat is Murder protests organized early and avoid the rush.

Beta: Call-Me-Betty gave up on demanding exposition long about the post-Loveland Frog conversation. "It doesn't seem to be helping any, you know? Even when you explain things, they make no sense." He has instead started demanding more gratuitous sex, and some gratuitous violence. And truffles.

Spoilers: I've managed to kind of ruin the final portions of the XF ep "Little Green Men", just on the off chance you somehow missed that one.

Author's Note: Drose and Marvel and Rhinehart are mine, also from "Weekend". The Blue Thing is not mine. Someone may have made it up, but it wasn't me. The fact that the Blue Thing is engaged in such an odd activity is the result of what the UFOlogists call "merging" (and what the psychiatrists call "boundary-deficit disorder") on my part, but other than that the Blue Thing is represented faithfully to the original reports. (And even etheric entities probably need a hobby.) All the stories described as being in TLG are actual news stories, most reported only by the alternative press. (Including the XY Conspiracy, [www.xyconspiracy.com] which, again, someone probably made up, but it wasn't me.) I did make up the specific instances of cattle mutilations, and also the additional Wow Signals (there was really only ever the one), though Ehman is real and is doing what he is reported by Byers to be doing. In my own defense, CC made up additional Wow Signals long before I got around to it.

---

With a little more sleep under them, all three of them felt better Monday morning. Langly wasn't delighted with the prospect of driving through Wisconsin, but Byers kept the Snickers coming, and it, and the new CDs, seemed to help immeasurably. Jimmy was restrained from cow jokes with the threat of further revelations to Yves. He continued to whisper "Frink" every few minutes, though, until Byers glared at him. The whole cow thing was starting to get to Byers.

They had just crossed into Wisconsin when Jimmy suddenly said "Weird."

It wasn't a 'Frink', which made Byers look across. What he saw made him pull the van off the road. "Oh my God," he said. "Langly, you've gotta see this. Jimmy, the camera." He climbed out of the driver's seat and walked around the front of the bus, eyes on a distant part of the omnipresent cow pasture.

Jimmy finally tumbled out with camera in hand, followed by Langly, who said "cows" very quietly. Byers pointed and Langly forgot the cows.

"Holy shit."

"Yeah," Byers agreed. "You know what we're looking at?"

Jimmy handed him the camera. "A weird blue thing?"

Byers shook his head and tried to focus clearly. "Not just a blue thing, Jimmy. The Blue Thing of Wisconsin."

Byers took a couple of shots, hoping like hell they'd come out. The Blue Thing, looking very much as it had been described, a person-height amorphous gray blue... thing, gliding through the field at the edge of a wood. As the Blue Thing slid smoothly along, there was time to notice that the trees could be seen through it, like looking through colored smoke. But it held its shape, and it moved along, rather than upwards.

Byers held the camera steady despite the tingling along his nerves. The others seemed to share his sense of unease.

"Creepy," Langly hissed as Byers snapped more shots.

"I think I liked the Frog thing better," Jimmy said nervously.

The Blue Thing moved past a cow, which seemed to collapse silently when it was touched. Then the Blue Thing seemed to shift direction and slipped without a sound into the wood.

"Maybe it was just someone walking," Jimmy offered, but not in a tone that suggested he believed it.

"It wasn't walking," Langly insisted. "It was gliding. And it wasn't touching the ground. You saw that. Don't tell me it was somebody walking. And it did something to that cow. And let's get the fuck out of here, okay?"

"Wait here," Byers told them, looking intently at the camera's display. He stepped to the barbed-wire fence separating them from the pasture, and climbed over it carefully, incongruous in his sharp suit.

"Johnny!" Langly yelped, but it didn't stop the older man.

Jimmy patted his arm. "Hang on. I'll go with him, okay? You stay here and don't let anybody steal the Mobile Command Unit."

Langly watched anxiously as Jimmy ran to catch up to Byers, and they both continued across the pasture, picking their way delicately through cow patties. At the edge of the wood, where the Blue Thing had been moving, they both leaned down to look at the stricken cow. Langly stood and hoped the Blue Thing wouldn't return, hoped he'd be able to keep from panicking long enough to yell a warning if it did. His lover pulled this kind of shit all the time, and Langly doubted he'd ever get used to it. If the Blue Thing didn't kill them, Langly was seriously going to give it a shot.

Unwilling to take his eyes off them and the woods behind them long enough to find the binoculars, he tried to make out what they were doing. Langly watched Byers take pictures, and thought back to what J. Wayne had said about the mutilations. Finally, Byers backed away, and Jimmy leaned down and pushed the cow over in some way so that it appeared to be sitting. Byers took another couple of shots, and then walked to the place where the Blue Thing had disappeared. Langly held his breath long enough to turn a little blue himself. Byers took a couple more pictures.

After about a hundred years, Byers and Jimmy started back across the pasture, and Langly breathed a faint sigh of relief. As they came closer, they were arguing about something, but Langly couldn't quite catch what. Byers glanced up and saw him, and gave him an all-clear sign.

When they got to the fence, Langly helped him over, then shoved him against the side of the van and kissed him hard. Once he broke away, Byers stared at him, ignoring Jimmy's snickers. "It's okay, Ringo. Really," he said calmly. "Relax. We're fine."

Langly exhaled noisily and put his forehead against Byers' chest. "You're a fucking asshole, Johnny. You gotta stop doing this crap, okay?"

Byers put his arms around the younger man's shoulders and kissed his hair. "It's okay, really. We're fine. But Wisconsin probably isn't the best place for a PDA."

Langly gave an exasperated laugh. "Get in the fucking van, John. Jimmy, shut up and drive, willya?"

Jimmy obliged cheerfully enough. When the radio came on, he started singing along with Neil Young's "Syscrusher". Langly didn't even snipe at him, so he left the station where it was.

It took nearly twenty minutes before Langly let go of Byers long enough to ask. "Okay, so what the fuck was it out there?"

Byers sighed and found the camera. "You're not going to like it."

"Well, shit. Nothing new there."

Byers handed the camera to Langly. "Shit is right."

Langly flipped through the images. "Great. This looks like smoke, John. Nobody's gonna buy it."

"Keep going."

Langly stopped and looked up. "Mute?"

Byers shook his head. "Nothing so conventional. Just look."

Langly braced himself and then checked the rest of the pictures. He looked up at Byers with a distant expression. "What the fuck?"

"Just what it looks like."

"Yeah, but..." Langly stared at the image again. "You know what this is?"

Byers nodded.

Jimmy couldn't take it anymore. "Okay, so what is it? The cow isn't all cut up or even dead or anything, so why are you guys both so freaked?"

Langly sighed and flopped back against his seat. "The Wisconsin Blue Thing is a cow-tipper."

---

About an hour after they'd stopped for lunch, with Jimmy driving and Byers beside him, they heard loud noises. Byers glanced up, and saw three huge black helicopters moving south fast. He watched for the few bare seconds they were in sight, but there was no way of following them, and no chance of getting pictures.

"Wonder what's going on," Jimmy said.

"Hmm?" Byers was still thinking about it.

"Those are news guys, right?"

Byers blinked. "No, I don't think so. News copters usually put their station number all over them." He paused and stared at the sky. "Like, uh, that, actually."

This one definitely was a news team, it was white, with the number seven all over it in bright red, and call letters on the sides. It was headed north almost as fast as the black ones had been going south.

"So I wonder what's going on," Jimmy said.

Byers shrugged. "No way to tell."

They rounded a corner and stared. "Pull over, Jimmy."

Jimmy managed to find room for the van on the side of the road.

Byers glanced back at Langly, who was apparently napping. "Stay here, okay? I want to see what's up."

Jimmy nodded.

He was halfway over the barbed wire when he heard a voice from the pasture. "Byers! John Byers! What the hell are you guys doing here?"

Startled, he nearly fell on top of the fence. A figure detached itself from the knot standing fifty feet away and came towards him. As it got closer, he realized who it was. "Marvel?"

"So what's 'Gunman' doing in the middle of Wisconsin?" The tall man grinned widely at him.

Byers smiled. "Passing through. What's the commotion?"

Marvel grinned wider and resettled his fedora at a rakish angle. "Drose dragged me out. Cattle mutilations all over the state this week."

"We saw the helicopters about twenty minutes ago..."

"Yeah. They've been photographed, videotaped, and reported all over the state, too. As far as I know, everybody but the air force and aviation control has seen the damned things. Where's Mel?"

"Not along this trip. Me, Langly, and Jimmy."

"Mr. Bond, I presume?" Marvel laughed. "Drose'll be really happy to see Jimmy."

Byers chuckled. "I don't think he's Jimmy's type."

Marvel pounded him on the back. "And that's the only reason I'm ever happy to see Jimmy." Marvel shouldered aside some of the reporters standing around, and dragged Byers into the thick of things. "Hey, Drose. Looky who's here!"

Byers gazed at the object of everyone's attention. "Oh, my."

An older man crouched by the carcass glanced up at them. "Neatly put as usual, John. How are you?"

Byers nodded at him, still cataloguing the site before him. "Fine. How have you been?"

"Busy, busy," Drose chuckled, standing up. He peeled off a glove and offered a hand. "What brings you out to Wisconsin, my lad?"

"Passing through."

Drose glanced around. "In which direction? Your boy didn't come? Or is he hiding in that behemoth of yours lest he spot a ruminant?"

Byers laughed a little. "Very perceptive."

"And Mel?"

"Not along this trip."

Drose looked back to Marvel. "Get some pictures of the others, heads and udders. Skin samples, hair. With follicles this time. Don't just let that stupid boy do it. You know what I need, Marvel." Marvel nodded, and Drose gestured towards the road again. "Let's talk, John."

Several of the reporters tried to get in with last minute questions. Marvel smiled politely at them. "Dr. Drose will be back to answer the rest of your questions in just a few minutes."

Drose laughed. "I hate it when he does that. Have you considered, John, that this suit may not be most appropriate for a cow pasture in the middle of nowhere?"

Byers smiled. "Marvel seems to pull it off well. But, no, I certainly wasn't expecting to be spending my day in pastures."

"You've seen the other sites?"

"No. We were just passing by and got curious, especially after we saw the black helicopters ten or fifteen miles back."

"Spotted those too, did you? You're headed west, of course."

Byers was surprised, a bit, but nodded. Lying to Drose was never going to make the list of the smartest things a journalist could do. And Byers wouldn't be at all surprised to get to Washington and discover that every alternative press organization in the country was already crawling all over the place in hopes of putting a Man in Black above the fold. He made a mental note to remind Frohike to make motel reservations soon. The amount of stuff piled in the van this time, there was no way any of them could sleep there, let alone all of them.

"We hear strange things from Maury Island," Drose mused. "You too?"

"Yes. UFOs and MIB."

"And cattle mutilations, which is why I'm headed there too, as soon as we check the other four sites here today, and the two in Montana. I hear unconfirmed reports from Idaho, though it seems the corpses, if corpses there were, have been disposed of. People never learn."

"Very busy," Byers said. "Is it all in the Northern states?"

Drose shrugged. "Tucson, Roswell... I just got back from Socorro yesterday, and here I am already on the road again. And of course Minnesota is always good for a bloater or two. How goes the Eldridge story?"

Byers stopped abruptly. "What?"

Drose gazed at him and laughed. "Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, my boy. Nothing stays a secret from me long."

Byers acknowledged it a shade unhappily. "I thought we'd been discreet with our questions."

Drose clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Of course. You needn't worry about the military knocking down your door. But I heard the same rumors you did, from the same place you did, and I knew you'd take an interest, John."

Byers sighed. "I suppose." He started walking again.

"Don't worry. I've no interest in scooping you on this. We lack your kind of protection from the big boys. Have you heard from Dr. Rhinehart recently?"

"A few months ago."

"It might not be inappropriate for someone to take an interest in that, either."

Byers blinked. "He's missing?"

"'Absent' is perhaps a better word. Just something to keep in mind. Mel is tending the home fires?"

Byers laughed. "Not really, no. He's finishing up the issue, and he'll be flying out later."

"I look forward to seeing it. And him. I don't suppose you have any tips for an old man," Drose suggested slyly.

Byers considered it. "'Powder Keg' may have been caught with their hand in the cooky jar."

Drose sighed. "They're an embarrassment. I hear their young Mr. Arthur has moved on to greener," he smiled and gestured around, "pastures."

Byers nodded. "He's flying out with Mel."

Drose beamed. "So he's with you now? That is news."

"Not really, no. He's freelancing, for the moment."

"Ah. Tell me what you hear about the Wow Signals."

Byers gave it some thought. "I understand the Big Ear has been 'inspected' recently. And Ehman has rejoined the staff."

"You're holding out on me."

Byers smiled. "You mean Arecibo? Old news, unfortunately. The tapes were degaussed."

"Would your Agent Mulder consent to an interview?"

"I'll put in a good word for you," Byers promised.

Drose laughed. "I suspect it'd work better, John, if Mel did it for me. Jimmy Bond, good to see you again."

Jimmy shook his hand, grinning. "Hi, Drose. Are these cows cut up or what?"

"Several of them, I'm delighted to inform you. I imagine you're anxious to keep moving," he leaned in the front door and waved to Langly, "or Marvel and I would invite you out to dinner to discuss it with you."

Jimmy blushed and Langly snorted.

"Well, then, boys. I know you must be on your way. I expect we'll be seeing you in Washington. Drive carefully, and please say hello to Mel and young Mr. Arthur for me." He paused and glanced at Byers. "Tell Mr. Arthur to send us his resume. Marvel and I could certainly make room for him."

Byers nodded and Langly laughed. "Say hi to Marvel."

"Of course. Good day."

They'd gone about ten miles when Jimmy suddenly said, "I think he thinks I'm cute."

Byers grinned.

Langly sighed. "Damn."

Jimmy looked from one to the other. "What?"

"You explain it," Byers said.

Langly turned pink. "I owe Johnny five bucks. He said you'd figure it out before the end of the year."

Jimmy thought about that. "I'm not that dumb, guys," he said finally.

Langly snickered. "That's pretty much exactly what Byers said."

Byers blushed.

---

Mulder finally dragged his own, exhausted, carcass into work around four. Frohike had been up since their morning... workout, and eventually prodded Mulder into verticality with the promise of lunch. Frohike had suggested, a little whimsically, that Mulder take some time off and go out west with them.

"Maybe if you wiggle that great ass at him, Skinner'll call it an X-File."

Mulder snorted, and buried his nose in more coffee.

Frohike swung by the printers on the way home and picked up the run, pleased with how well it had come out. The China story came out fine, as did the expose on activistcash.com, the astroturf consumer website. Frohike made a note to talk with Byers about including a regular watch on corporate groups posing as citizens' alliances. The stuff they'd dug up on Berman & Co. while researching the story was potentially explosive. Byers' own article on the XY Conspiracy was densely enough layered with facts that Frohike figured it might have a shot at a journalism award.

Even Jimmy's work with the Letters page was starting to look professional. Langly's column about the privatization of the broadcast spectrum was good, but it seemed to lack the kid's usual sense of outrage on behalf of the American people, and once again Frohike found himself wondering what the hell was happening out there. Byers would've told him if anything was wrong, he knew, but it did sound like things might be getting, well, weird.

But all in all, the issue looked damned good, and the web version was going to look even better, and they were all hoping it'd help increase circulation. Frohike hummed with the delight of the sexually- and professionally-satisfied conspiracist as he finished boxing them up for the trip to the post office tomorrow morning.

The phone rang in early evening. Frohike, humping the boxes out to Jimmy's car, let the recorders catch it.

"Hi, Mel. It's me, Wayne. Give me a call when you get in, and if you haven't got other plans, maybe we could have dinner together."

Frohike grinned a little to himself and went to call the kid back. On the way he passed several of the potted plants Jimmy had more success with killing ("Jimmy, it's a warehouse. No windows, okay? Plants need light.") than Mulder had, and made a note to dig up what he could on Mulder's orchid case. Maybe there was something they could use without getting the agent fired. It wasn't like he needed the help with that.

---

They stopped for dinner around six, at a Red Lobster. Langly had insisted on anything but burgers, and after the scene in the pasture earlier, Byers had been happy to agree. Byers checked in with Frohike, who didn't seem much surprised to learn that "The Smoking Gun" was headed for Seattle.

"Probably run into everybody out there, actually."

"We should make hotel reservations early," Byers commented.

"Good idea. The cheap places will all be taken if we wait too much longer."

"Cheap but clean, please."

"I know, I know. Any problems?"

"Not problems, as such, but this is definitely going down in my journal as one of the weirdest trips I've ever been on."

"Is this what you couldn't talk about last night? What'd you do, spot Bigfoot?"

"Bigfoot is a hoax, Fro. You know that. No... It was..."

"Just spit it out, Byers."

"The Loveland Frog."

"The what? Please tell me you didn't say what I think you said."

"I wish I could. Can you bring along the file on that, and the Juminda Incident? Juminda, Estonia."

"Juminda's a UFO sighting, isn't it?"

"I'm pretty sure there was a froglike humanoid mentioned in the reports."

"Hmm. Did you see a UFO?"

"No. I'm not sure they were aliens. But it's worth checking the cross-references. Unfortunately, it gets worse." Byers sighed and explained.

There was a long moment of silence, and then Frohike said, "You, uh, haven't been dipping into the Valium, have you, Byers?"

"Not yet," Byers said meaningfully. "That's not the worst of it, though. This morning we saw the Wisconsin Blue Thing."

"What blue thing?"

"The Blue Thing of Wisconsin. The old Ice Age hiking trail sightings. I know we have a file on it somewhere."

"On what? A blue thing?"

Byers explained further.

Frohike sighed heavily. "Byers, if this was anyone but you tellin' me this..."

"I know. I took pictures. And of the Frogs."

"How good are they?"

"We have to get a digital camera that starts up faster, Fro."

Frohike laughed. "That good, huh?"

"Unfortunately. How's the paper look?"

"Great. One of our best yet. I wanted to ask what you thought about a recurring feature on corporate front groups."

Byers nodded into the phone. "Good idea. I don't know why we haven't thought of it before. A sidebar, maybe. Front Watch or something."

"It needs a better name. Ask Langly. He'll come up with something zippy."

"We can talk it over later."

"Okay. I'm updating the web site right now with last month's issue. Should be done in a couple hours if you want to take a look. You guys going any further tonight?"

"Probably. Ringo's anxious to get out of Wisconsin."

Frohike laughed. "Check into a hotel and cheer him up."

Byers blushed. "I'm plying him with Snickers."

"What, not Twinkies?"

"Mel, I may never forgive you for explaining that to Jimmy."

Frohike kept laughing. "Frink."

"How's Mulder?"

Frohike snickered. "Crazy as a bedbug."

"Well, that's nothing new. Was he happy to see J. Wayne last night?"

"I invited him. He said no."

"He said no?"

"He said he was busy. This kid blushes almost as much as you do, Byers. But I think he's a better liar."

"Everyone's a better liar than I am, Frohike."

"Not Langly."

Byers laughed. "I better get back to the table or he's going to order me some sort of thing with tentacles."

"What, no steaks? Keep in touch, Byers. Let me know if you guys spot Elvis or something."

Byers sighed. "Have a good evening."

---

Langly wanted to keep going, so Byers took shotgun again. Jimmy sat in the back and tried to sing along with Langly's choice of radio stations. Eventually Byers gave in and dug out the earplugs again, which may have been a mistake, in that he fell asleep before too long, half-curled against the door.

At some point he became aware of being shaken roughly by the shoulder. He tried to burrow back into sleep, assuming this was the prelude to another of Langly's four AM conversations about his latest D&D campaign. But then a hand landed on his crotch, and this never failed to wake him. He shook like a wet dog and the hand was removed. He opened his eyes to protest, and immediately wished he hadn't.

Jimmy was staring at him in the dark with wide eyes, and just past him Langly's profile. Byers knew Langly had long fancied a three-way, but couldn't imagine what kind of drugs it would take for him include Jimmy Bond as part of it.

Jimmy was saying something, but it sounded like he was underwater. And then it came back to him. He pulled out the earplugs and turned to gaze at Langly, face completely neutral. "I'm assuming that was you, Ringo," he said calmly.

Jimmy started to giggle helplessly, and even Langly let out a snort of laughter before he shrugged it off. "I think we've got trouble."

Byers blinked and tried to focus. It was nearly two AM. "What is it?"

"For the last three hours, there's been a truck following us."

Byers sighed. "This is the interstate, Langly. It's possible he's just going west."

Langly shook his head. "I've got a bad feeling, John."

Byers sighed again and dug out a map. "Where are we?"

"Minnesota. We just passed the exit for someplace called Oakbury."

After a moment he said, "Okay. There's a rest stop in twenty miles or so. Pull in there, and we'll see if he follows. I could use some coffee anyway."

Langly gave him the You're-Not-Taking-Me-Seriously look, but nodded. "What if he does? Follow us, I mean."

"Then we keep going to the next town and lose him there. It's a big truck. It should be pretty easy."

"Okay," Langly agreed, still looking worried.

Byers gazed into the rearview mirror. "Put your seatbelt back on, Jimmy." It was indeed a big truck, an eighteen-wheeled hauler. But it could have been carrying anything, and a great deal of commercial trucking went on at night, so merchandise could be on shelves in the mornings, and because spot checks were less frequent.

On the other hand, it did seem to be following them closely, which was odd, considering how little other traffic there was. And, actually, that seemed a little odd, too. Byers checked to make sure Jimmy was buckled in and the doors were locked, and said, "Slow down a little, Langly. Let's see if he'll pass us."

He didn't, and he didn't try to force a confrontation. He just slowed down to match their speed.

Only when the radio started again did Byers notice it had been turned off. "That's a little loud, Langly," he observed mildly.

"I didn't turn it on!" Langly said, in pre-panic stage.

Byers turned around and stabbed at the power button. It didn't help, and he kept trying. Loud metal pounded through the van.

"Big truck

Big truck

Big truck

Ain't no grave gonna hold my body down

Ain't no grave gonna hold my body

Hold my body

Big truck

Big truck--"

Langly had moved past pre-panic. "Oh shit, oh fuck, oh shit," he muttered.

"That's kinda creepy," Jimmy said once the music finally stopped.

Byers shook his head to clear it, and turned back to the mirror. He couldn't quite make out the driver, and while he was trying, the headlights went to high beam. "Okay, Ringo. Speed up. Let's get to that rest stop soon, though it does look like he's following us."

Langly nodded, still shaky. "And he knows we know, now."

"He doesn't seem to be interested in doing anything about it, though. Why'd you notice him?"

Langly went from blanch to blush fast enough Byers started to worry about him passing out, and he put his hand on Langly's leg. It was cold under his jeans, despite the warm night. "Calm down, all right?" he said quietly.

Jimmy said, "I noticed him. He was just following us. I was trying to see his license plate, you know, for the list of states, and he kept following us."

"Did you get his number?" Byers asked.

"Uh, no. But he's from New Mexico."

"Hmm."

The truck pulled in behind them at the rest area, diverting to the commercial lot. Byers caught part of the plate, EVS-something. From New Mexico. Byers shrugged at Langly. "Keep going."

As they went by it, Langly looked at the side panels and let out a humorless laugh. "Wal-Mart. That figures."

"Maybe he wasn't following us after all," Byers said, as they pulled out and it stayed parked. But seconds later, a different Wal-Mart truck detached itself from the lot and slid onto the interstate behind them.

"That's a little weird," Langly commented, starting to look anxious again.

"We've been seeing Wal-Mart trucks all over since we started, remember. It doesn't have to mean anything." Byers pulled out the map again. "The next town of any size is, let's see... Hudson. We should be able to lose him there."

"Guys?" Jimmy asked hesitantly, several minutes later. "This is even weirder."

"What?"

"It's the same license plate."

Byers turned to stare at him. "What?"

"It's a different truck, Jimmy," Langly said, sounding less confident than he'd have liked.

"Look, I saw the number, okay? EVS-028. It's the same truck."

"Johnny," Langly appealed to him.

"It was EVS, but I didn't see the numbers."

"It's the same truck," Jimmy said firmly.

They were silent as the truck followed them onto the off ramp for Hudson. Byers, watching the truck carefully, gave Langly instructions, trying to lose the truck without getting lost themselves.

"Holy shit," Langly swore suddenly.

"What?" Byers jumped.

"Look at that, John."

Byers smiled thinly. "That may be our explanation." They stared at the Wal-Mart store in front of them. "Keep going, past it."

"Whatever you say, but we're gonna need gas pretty soon."

"Hey, he's pulling off," Jimmy said. "Into the Wal-Mart lot."

As it passed them, John made a faint noise, staring out the window.

Langly kept driving. Finally he said, "Maybe it was just a coincidence."

Jimmy grinned, a little unsettled still. "Maybe we got nervous about nothing."

Byers was still staring out the window. "That's the weirdest thing," he said, slightly dazed.

"What is?"

He didn't answer, and Langly tried again. "What's weird? Johnny?"

Byers turned to blink at him, pale in the streetlights.

"Johnny? You okay, babe? You look like you saw a ghost."

Byers nodded slowly. "I swear that driver looked exactly like Jimmy Hoffa. Just like he looked when he disappeared."

Langly shook his head and headed for a gas station. "We'll get you some coffee. Maybe some Ho-Hos. I think your blood sugar's low."

"It coulda been worse," Jimmy laughed. "It coulda been Bigfoot."

Byers sighed. "Bigfoot is a hoax. Let's call it a night and find a hotel."

     "--Big truck
     Big truck
     Big truck--"

Langly slammed his palm against the radio. "And get this fucking thing exorcised. And I think I'll call Frohike and get him to burn all my Coal Chamber CDs."

---

---

Date: Tuesday, December 31, 2002 8:07 AM

This outing is still pretty lackluster, so I'm dedicating it to the genius who invented Imitrex, which almost exactly does just about nothing for me, aside from giving my neurologist an excuse to not talk to me. I've had a migraine for two weeks, and it seems to be blocking the secretion of wackiness molecules, so what you see is what you get. Part seven might be better, or it might just have more gratuitous sex. Yeah, I don't know which I'd prefer, either. :-)

     Caffeine, Conspiracies, and the Fortean Nature of Fishes VI:
     Land of Ten Thousand Lake Monsters
     By D. Sidhe: Erika dsidhe@attbi.com
     Web: http://www.dsidhe.com/
     Category: Slash, WIP
     Pairings: Langly/Byers, Mulder/Frohike
     Rating: NC-17 for L/B Geeksmut
     Archive: If you want it, take it.
     Summary: Here Be Monsters.

Disclaimers and Apologies: I continue to exploit and offend without permission. My apologies to the State of Minnesota for using their motto to pretend that they have lake monsters, which somehow, weirdly, it appears they don't. Twelve thousand lakes, thereabouts, and not a single suspicious-looking log. What's up with that? Minnesota deserves our deep adoration if only because of their unofficial motto, which is: "Come Fall in Love with a Loon". Someone may have made up Colossal Claude, but it wasn't me. The summary, of course, is from XF "Quagmire", but I have reason to believe it wasn't original with them either. The lakes are real, the cymbospondylus used to be real, the hat is really from "Quagmire", lures mentioned are real, and I didn't make up the bassers, either. They really talk like this. If you're ever in Jacksonville, GA, go ahead and stop by the State Historical Marker for George Perry's record largemouth bass. He ate the fish, but you can still see replicas made by actual taxidermists. Interestingly enough, or perhaps not, the guy in California, Scott Duclos, is involved in a number of controversies, not the least of which being that he actually turned the thing loose. If it helps any, I'm not going to get nostalgic about Hee Haw star Junior Samples. Further parts continue to pend, so get your interstate extradition demands filed early and avoid the rush.

Beta: Call-Me-Betty has saved you all from having to read the series of jokes Langly makes about his Chubb Wiggle Fish. He tried to make me get rid of the lake monster jokes, too, but his argument would have been more compelling had he been able to restrain himself from snickering at them. Messages of eternal gratitude will be dutifully passed along to him, despite the fact that he will use them to mock me unmercifully.

Spoilers: If you still haven't seen the Discovery Channel special "Chasing Giants", regarding the O'Shea Expedition in search of live giant squid, I may have spoiled that for you. Go watch it now, and come back when you're done. It's okay: I'll wait. There's also an XF "Quagmire" joke or two, and a "The Lying Game" joke, plus approximately half-a-joke from XF "Three of a Kind", but if you haven't seen those episodes, you won't recognize them, so don't worry about it.

Author's Note: Bets and Darcy Patterson are mine, from the "Weekend" series. Wow, it's like old home week. The Patterson girls, who are not sisters, work for "Fortean Times Magazine". (No, not really.) Their intern is mine, too. He basically exists to hold things and to keep the hard-drinking Patterson girls from driving while impaired. And because every lesbian couple needs a little guy to order around, right? I'm very sorry about that pun. Call-Me-Betty is now refusing to answer my phone calls, but I left it in anyway. AUCWA's mine, as is CARP. (As far as I know, anyway.)

---

Byers found himself with some very concrete goals Tuesday. Specifically, he wanted to get some decent driving in, and he wanted to be the hell off the road before dark. The Blue Thing had been odd, but last night...

He wasn't quite ready to ask Langly for tips on effective panicking, but he hadn't actually slept much, either, when they'd found a hotel. It had taken close to an hour for Langly to calm him down, although Byers' own version of "unsettled" was never going to win any awards for amateur dramatics. He'd spent the better part of the hours until dawn sitting bolt upright in bed, trying to see out the curtains Langly had pulled tightly closed, and rebuffing his lover's offers to "relax you a little, baby". Langly fortunately didn't take it too personally, and had in fact at some point fallen asleep with his face buried in Byers' lap.

Byers' addled brain chose to interpret this as "comforting" rather than "arousing", which was possibly the weirdest development yet.

Eventually, Byers fell asleep too, despite the fact that Langly was drooling into his boxers. He woke around ten to the surprisingly appealing smell of fast food.

"Hey, Johnny." Langly lobbed something at him.

Too tired to catch it, he settled for ducking.

Langly laughed and threw himself down next to Byers. "We brought you breakfast, okay? We got two hours to checkout."

Byers mumbled his thanks as he accepted coffee and dug through the bag for a sausage biscuit. Langly leaned against him. "What, no complaints about the junk food?" he teased.

"Too hungry to care."

Langly laughed.

A biscuit and two hash browns later, Byers was watching him speculatively as he finished his coffee.

"What?"

Byers smiled enigmatically. "I was just... wondering..."

Langly waited.

"Oh, never mind," Byers said.

Langly sighed. "What, John?"

Byers blushed a little. "No, it's okay. It doesn't matter."

"What doesn't matter?"

"Well, I was going to ask... But never mind."

"Johnny, spit it out, okay?"

Byers spent close to a minute looking him over carefully, not saying a word. He looked up and met Langly's eyes finally, and Langly found himself adjusting the ragged jeans, feeling very warm indeed.

"No, it's okay," Byers said. "We should get going."

Langly tried not to whimper. He grabbed Byers' wrist and applied firm pressure. "John... what is it?"

Byers looked away and ran his tongue along his lips. "I was hoping you'd... do... something. For me, I mean."

"Jesus. Anything, Johnny. Anything. I can't believe you even have to ask."

"In that case..." Byers leaned in to whisper harshly in his ear. "I would... love... some more coffee."

Langly deflated. In at least a couple of ways. "I can't believe I let you do this to me."

Byers laughed. "Neither can I, actually."

Langly stood up with a martyred sigh. "They've probably got coffee in the lobby. If they don't, you're out of luck. I'm not goin' back to the McDonald's for you, after what you just pulled."

"You're nuts about me, admit it."

Langly just sighed again before closing the door behind him.

Byers glanced at the clock and decided he'd better take a shower before it got too much later. Never mind that what he really wanted to do was to try to get some more sleep. But he could do that on the road, and, his treacherous mind suggested, if anything weird happened, at least he wouldn't have to know about it.

---

It wasn't to be, though. It seemed like he'd barely gotten his eyes closed when the van shuddered off onto a graveled shoulder and came to an abrupt halt. He heard Langly say--something, but decided to ignore it. That wasn't to be, either. The front doors opened and closed, and then the side door opened, and light streamed onto his face.

Langly shook him roughly by the shoulder. "Wake up, John. Something's going on."

Byers surrendered and opened his eyes. "What."

Jimmy leaned in. "It's like a big tailgate out here."

Byers sighed and unbuckled the seat belt as Langly dug for the camera again. He stepped out of the van, expecting--Elvis, maybe--, and what he saw wasn't, initially, too bad. But it didn't bode well. He was staring at a van with the words "Anomalous Underwater Cryptid Watch Association" emblazoned across the side. He could live with that. But if AUCWA was here, things were bound to get worse.

He stepped around it, and he found himself gazing, mouth wide open, a collection of some of the weirdest looking people he'd ever seen. Despite the fact that he'd seen many of them before. They all had cameras of one sort or another, and they were all looking at... a lake.

Byers sighed. "Somebody spotted a lake monster."

Langly shrugged. "It's Minnesota."

"Good point. I guess we might as well go see what's up."

They trailed through a variety of vehicles, some with their organizations displayed but most not, and eventually ran into someone they knew. Darcy Patterson grinned at them. "Well, hello, boys!" The curvy redhead handed her camera to her assistant before flinging her arms around Byers and smooching him on the cheek.

Langly did his best not to giggle, but Jimmy suffered no such inhibitions.

They heard a whoop, and that was all the warning they got before Bets Patterson came tearing across and threw herself at Jimmy and Langly, knocking them into each other and onto the ground in a tangle of long arms and legs.

She finally pulled herself off them, laughing, and got to her feet, offering a hand to Langly. "Haven't seen you boys since Atlanta!"

Jimmy grinned. "This is so cool. We saw Drose and Marvel yesterday, and now you guys!"

Darcy sniffed. "Who're you callin' a guy?"

Byers detached himself from her with as much dignity as he could muster, conscious of the dozens of cameras in the vicinity. "Good to see you again, Darcy, Bets. You're looking well. Lake monster?" he asked.

Bets laughed. "Of course. All over this damned state. Nearly fifty sightings at last count, in about half that many lakes, all in the past week."

Darcy smiled and accepted the notebook from the assistant. "We've been to nearly a third of the lakes in three days. Some decent interviews, a couple of interesting theories, and a grand total of no verifiable pictures."

Langly laughed. "You've been at this too long. Since when does Fort care about verifiable?"

Bets stuck her tongue out at him. "Since the O'Shea expedition found those larval architeuthis. Lake crypts are getting their asses kicked by the giant squid. You know those bastards are even organizing letter campaigns to get us to take the damned thing out of the crypt listings? 'As it is demonstrably real, it hardly can be featured as a cryptozoological entity alongside such obvious pseudoscientific legends as Bigfoot...'"

Byers smiled. "Bigfoot is a hoax. You know that."

"Prove it," Bets said belligerently.

Byers chuckled. "Prove a negative? Sure. After that I'll count to infinity. Anything out here?" He looked around. "Where is here, anyway?"

"You're so funny, John." Bets sighed and collapsed onto the hood of a rental car. "Here is Mud Lake," she said. "Our third Mud Lake in as many days. Wanna guess what the most popular lake name in Minnesota is?"

Langly laughed. "So is there anything here?"

Bets shrugged. "Some suspicious logs, a couple of turtles, a swan, and a bunch of guys with John Deere caps and rubber worms standing around saying 'hey, yer scarin' the lunkers'." She looked around. "Where's Mel?"

"Back home."

She winked at Jimmy. "So this is a vacation? Are you chaperon or pinch-hitter?"

Langly snorted. "Neither."

"Are you guys in a hurry?" Darcy asked. "We were about to go find lunch. Lens Cap U just showed up, so we might as well drag our asses out of here. No one's going to see anything now, even if there was anything to see."

Langly snickered. "Somebody oughtta sabotage their truck."

Bets grinned wickedly. "You think we haven't? C'mon, let's grab some beers and catch up. Follow us, okay? There's a place a couple-three miles down the road."

Byers glanced at his watch and shrugged. "Why not. I need a lot more coffee before too much longer."

---

"What's Lens Cap U?" Jimmy asked as they pulled back onto the road.

Byers smiled. "Crypto-Aquatic Research Project. They've been doing this for four decades and still haven't gotten a single decent image of a creature. The lens cap was still on, or the film got exposed, or the batteries were dead, or someone put a thumb over the lens... They keep trying."

Langly snickered. "And every fucking lake monster in the world rolls over and tries to look like a sunken log when they show up."

Jimmy blinked. "You don't believe in lake monsters, do you, Langly?"

"Hell no. But don't tell the chicks that. Bets has had her heart set on finding a, what is it, John?"

"Cymbospondylus."

"Right, a cymbospondylus, for as long as we've known her."

"It's a Triassic marine reptile whose fossils have been found in Nevada. A thirty-foot prehistoric lizard with a tail as long as its body."

"A dinosaur?"

"No. A marine reptile. A fish lizard. They weren't fish, either, but they weren't dinosaurs. They were aquatic reptiles that lived at the same time as the dinosaurs. Like plesiosaurs and ichthyosaurs."

"Right. I've heard of those. But in Nevada?"

"Nevada used to be part of a massive inland sea. Bets has a theory the cymbospondylus adapted to fresh or brackish water, and got quite a lot smaller." Byers shrugged. "I think it's nonsense, but she's spent years chasing the things. And stranger things have happened."

"Like last night," Langly snickered. "And yesterday morning. And the day before."

"Please," Byers said. "I'd rather not think about it."

"Hey, Jimmy," Langly said. "Don't tell the chicks about Washington either, okay? I know you don't get it, but we're reporters, right? And so are they. We don't need 'em scooping us."

Byers half-smiled. "I imagine they're heading that way, too. We'll probably end up with an alternative press convention out there."

Langly grumbled. "So what the fuck are we going out for?"

"We've got Rickson and Payter."

Langly sighed, but shut up.

---

They settled in behind sandwiches and drinks at a local tavern. The guys had coffee, the gals went for scotch.

Bets couldn't resist the urge to tease. "Come on, boys. Put some hair on your chests."

Langly snickered.

"It's a little early," Jimmy said, dubiously.

Bets snorted indelicately. "It's Minnesota, and we've spent three fuckin' days taking pictures of turtles. If that's not a good enough reason to drink, I'll never know what is."

Byers smiled. "We're driving. Who's your new assistant?"

Darcy poured the kid another cup of coffee. "Richie Von Sant. Richie, these are the Lone Gunmen. Three out of four, anyway. Why'd you leave your better half at home, boys? If this isn't a vacation."

Langly snickered some more. "He was busy."

Bets let out a peal of laughter that earned her glances from half the guys at the bar. Her blonde ponytail earned her a few second glances. Darcy smiled and put a proprietary arm around her.

"Mulder lose the handcuff keys again?" Bets asked, leering.

Byers managed not to blush too much. "Not that I'm aware of. How long have you been with these two, Richie?"

Darcy grinned. "Three months. We're awful proud of him."

Bets laughed again. "Yeah, he's got the record. By, let's see, two months and three weeks."

Darcy grinned wider. "He even passed the test. Tell them what he said when you hit on him, Bets."

"He said, 'Well, you're the bosses'."

"Yeah, she wasn't serious, though," Von Sant observed in disappointment. "I figured I'd have a hell of a harassment case."

Langly laughed himself into tears. Bets pounded him on the back. "We're keepin' this one," she informed them mischievously. "Sometimes you just need a Dick around."

Von Sant smiled. "Delighted to be of service, ladies."

Byers did blush, and excused himself politely. "I'll be right back. I need to make a call."

Bets watched him go, smirking. "I'll bet. What's the matter, Langly, you haven't convinced him yet?"

Langly managed to stop laughing. "Oh, sure, he's convinced. He's just a little more restrained than you chicks."

"Just don't lose the handcuff key," Darcy advised solemnly. "Locksmiths can be so damned patronizing."

Langly grinned back at them. "Yeah, but at least we don't have to cut sleeves out of a shirt before we call him."

Bets giggled. "Strapless."

The laughter was interrupted by Byers, returning with another round of drinks. "Mel says hi," he told the gals.

Darcy sulked. "And you didn't let us talk to him?"

Langly grinned. "Hey, you have his number, you can pay for your own obscene calls."

Bets laughed. "Last time, I called collect. He accepted."

Byers made a face. "He would."

Bets slapped him on the back. "Don't be jealous, John. I'll call for you next time, okay?"

Langly laughed. "You'd have better luck with Jimmy."

Bets leered. "Now that sounds like a good time."

Langly snickered into his coffee. "Yesterday he had Drose after him. Today, it's you two." He looked Jimmy over. "I just don't see the appeal."

Darcy nudged Langly. "You like 'em smart. We like 'em tall."

Langly grinned at Byers. "He's tall."

Bets winked. "True."

Darcy laughed. "And so here we are, in the middle of Minnesota, having lunch with four gorgeous dolls. You never did say what you were doing out here."

"Passing through," Byers offered.

"Story," Langly said shortly.

Bets pouted. "C'mon, boys, you can do better than that. Give us something, so we can expense this."

Byers smiled and handed over a CD-ROM. "Here. See what you can make of this."

Darcy stared at the neat writing on it. "Seriously?" she asked.

Bets leaned over to have a look. "Fuck me!" she exclaimed. "Photos?"

"They're not that good," Byers apologized. "But I typed up an account and put it on there too."

"Richie, go get the laptop," Bets ordered. "I wanna see this."

Richie sighed, but headed out for the rental.

"The Blue Thing," Darcy said. "That's pretty far out."

Langly snickered. "Who says 'far out' anymore?"

"I can say a lot of other things, too," she informed him loftily. "Want to hear some of them?"

Langly grinned. "No, that's okay. You start in with that, and Byers'll have to go call somebody again, and he'll never finish his lunch."

Byers stood up. "You go ahead. I'm going to get some more coffee. Can I bring anyone else anything?"

Darcy regarded him carefully. "You do look tired, John. Langly keep you awake all night?"

Langly snorted. "I wish."

Bets snickered. "Jimmy keep you awake all night?"

Byers sighed as they all broke into laughter. "I'll be right back."

---

There was only so much coffee could do, though, and Byers was in need of a miracle, or another five hours of sleep. At some point in the afternoon, he found himself gazing blankly out the window as pastures, woods, and lakes slid by.

"Jimmy?"

Jimmy stopped arguing with Langly about the radio station long enough to answer. "Yeah?"

"I guess you'd better pull over." Even to himself his voice sounded leaden.

Langly turned to look at him. "You okay? You're not gonna throw up or anything? It's this music, isn't it. 'True Colors', for Chrissakes. Sucks."

He shook his head and pointed as Jimmy pulled off the road. Langly looked over, and then stared, jaw dropping.

Byers sighed. "I guess it's not a log."

Langly shook his head. "Uh, no." He reached for the camera.

"Make sure you take the lens cap off," Byers said dully.

Ten minutes later, with the surface of Bass Lake broken only by a muddy ripple, Langly inspected the display.

"Okay," Byers said, "tell me the bad news."

Langly shrugged. "You remember those pictures of Champy the librarian took?"

Jimmy was still staring out at the lake. "That was way cool."

Langly glanced at Byers. "You wanna wait and see if it comes up again, closer to shore?"

Byers rubbed his hand across his face. "I want a drink."

"Me too."

---

When they spotted another curious lump at Leech Lake, they didn't even bother to wake Byers up. They just kept driving.

"It's a rock," Langly told Jimmy.

"Rocks don't have heads."

"I didn't see a head."

"You had your eyes closed."

"I didn't see a head."

"Maybe it was a giant leech."

Langly shuddered. "Gross."

---

They didn't have much choice at Rice Lake though. The road was strewn with pickups, SUVs, and news vans, and they literally weren't able to get past. Langly sighed and pulled over. He and Jimmy glared at each other for a few moments, but when Byers started to stir, Langly surrendered with bad grace.

"Gimme the fuckin' camera."

Byers pulled out his earplugs. "What's up?" he asked groggily.

Langly silently recited five of the seven dirty words and then pasted a Zirconite-quality smile across his face. "Just going to see if I can't take a couple shots of my thumb," he said brightly.

Byers sighed and followed them.

A cluster of people stood around a man wearing a hat with the legend "Show Us Your Bobbers", who was being photographed with an extremely large, extremely ugly fish.

"What's going on?" Jimmy asked the nearest man.

"Hawg," the man offered. "Twenty-one two."

Jimmy blinked. "Huh?"

The man frowned. "Bass, son. Big ol' bass."

"Oh." Jimmy nodded, not much enlightened.

The man turned on him with the zeal of an evangelist. "Biggest largemouth ever was George Perry's twenty-two four. Perry used a Chubb Wiggle Fish. Pat Ray here's using Yozuri Lures. Tandem squid rig. He's out here every damned day, never caught anything bigger than twelve pounds. Before today."

Jimmy nodded out of general amiability. "So this one is how big again?"

"Twenty-one two. It's a good catch, for here anyway. Fidel Castro's got bass in Cuba that'd make Perry's look like a minnow. We ought to just bomb that Commie bastard. But this guy," he jerked a finger at the happy fisherman, "he's set for life. Not like that clown in California. Catch and release my ass."

Langly sighed. "So it's just a fish?"

The man stopped viewing Jimmy as a potential member of the Pro-Bass fraternity and glared. "You ought to keep your girlfriend the hell away from bass lakes till she learns some manners."

Byers grabbed Langly and put a hand over his mouth. "We'll just be going now. Come on, Jimmy."

As they made their way back to the bus, phrases leapt out from the excited crowd. "Jig-hopping", "stroking", "double-spoons".

"Now this is an alien species," Byers commented dryly. "I'm just glad I don't know what they're talking about."

---

"Good timing. We're headed to the airport in less than half an hour. Anything new happening?"

Byers sighed. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Elvis?"

"No. Much worse."

"Bigfoot?"

"I wish people would stop saying that. Bigfoot is a hoax. Everybody knows that."

"Are you gettin' enough sleep, Byers? You seem pretty grumpy."

"No, I'm not. And I don't want to talk about it."

"Are you guys okay?"

"We're fine. It's just weird, and I don't want to talk about it."

"You're acting squirrelly again. Did the kid decide he wanted a sex change?"

"Not funny, Mel."

"Sorry. Look, you've got me worried, Byers."

"Lake monsters," Byers spit out abruptly.

"Lake what? What kind of lake monsters?"

"The kind that have actual heads and aren't sturgeons or turtles."

Frohike pondered it. "Mulder said there was a Colossal Claude sighting in Puget Sound..."

"We saw the damned thing, Fro."

"Colossal Claude?"

"No. Some damned lake monster in the middle of Minnesota. Bass Lake."

"You're sure it wasn't a bass?"

Byers nearly growled. "Yes, very. We got mired in a bass contest a couple of hours later. I know what a fish looks like, okay? They don't have long necks."

"Gar do..."

"We have pictures. They're fuzzy and distant, but it's not a fish. There have been monster sightings all over this state this week, according to the Pattersons, who we also ran into today. I gave them the Blue Thing pictures. They said hi," he added irritably

"Jesus, Byers. Maybe you should dip into the Valium. You've never come unglued over a lake monster before. You're acting like it ate your dog."

"Also not funny," Byers snapped.

"Look, buddy, why don't you check into a nice motel and get yourself laid, okay?"

"Fuck you too." Byers disconnected, leaving Frohike staring at the receiver, and wondering what the fuck had gotten into the boy.

---

Dinner was pizza, ham and pineapple. Not Byers' favorite, but Langly wanted no part of hamburgers or fish, and seemed ready to freak out over the pepperoni. Nobody was in the best of moods by the time they found a hotel, which they did while the sun was still up. Byers wasn't taking any more chances. At this rate, Elvis was just around the corner, but at least he wasn't manning the desk at the Motel Six in Fargo. Not the Tuesday evening shift, at any rate.

Frankly, as long as he wasn't working the Wednesday morning shift, either, Byers couldn't have cared less.

Jimmy had volunteered to find a laundromat, and Langly was raiding a nearby convenience store for Hostess and Sweetarts, so Byers decided to see if a bath would help alleviate his admittedly foul mood. He climbed into the hot water and sighed. Frohike was right, of course. It was hardly his first lake monster, and they'd never really bothered him much before. He was still musing on it when he heard the door open and close, heralding the triumphant return of Langly with Snickers and Ding Dongs.

Langly wandered into the bathroom and gave John a lecherous once-over before launching into his complaints against the state of North Dakota. "The guy at the store had never even heard of Jolt, John. Why the fuck do I keep letting you drag me out of civilization on these fucking stories?"

"Fargo is hardly the untamed jungle, Ringo," he replied mildly.

Langly glared. "Prove it."

"They did offer to put cashews on the pizza."

"That just means they're crazy yokels."

"That's one of the things I love about you. Your unconditional acceptance of all people."

Langly snorted. "Yeah, well, they just better get Comedy Central," he said, stalking back to the bedroom.

Byers sank deeper into the hot water.

Eventually, the water started to cool, and he reached for one of the tiny towels, feeling quite a bit better.

Langly, watching The Daily Show from the night before, leered at him as he tried to keep the towel somewhere in the vicinity of his waist.

"Took you long enough. I thought you'd been eaten by a lake monster."

"In the bathtub?"

"It is a Motel Six."

"It's clean. That's all that matters." Byers sighed, abandoned the towel, and his modesty, and flopped onto the bed beside his terminally aggravating lover. "You could've joined me."

Langly rolled over and grinned at him. "Wanna see my lake monster, do ya?"

Byers covered his face with his hands. "God, that's sad."

Langly laughed and leaned in to nuzzle at John's damp hair. "I call him 'Super'. Wanna know why?"

"I hope it has to do with the Great Lakes."

"I guess that works too."

"I think it's a chemical imbalance."

Langly snickered. "Hormonal."

"No." John shook his head. "I mean me. I'm lying here naked on a hotel bedspread I know can't have been washed anytime recently, listening to you make terrible puns about lake monsters, after an extremely frustrating day, headed for a story that could break open everything I want to know, and all I really want at this second is to fuck you senseless, lake monster jokes or not. You can't tell me that's normal."

Langly chortled in his ear. "Fuck normal. Normal is boring. If I wanted normal I'd be sleeping with--" Langly paused to consider it. "Actually, do we even know anybody normal?"

Byers thought about it, as much as he could, anyway. It was difficult to concentrate with Langly playing with the hair at his nape and breathing into his ear. "Does Scully count?"

Langly snorted. "Not anymore, and it's just as well. She'd kick my ass."

Byers chuckled. "I don't know, Cutie. You might have a shot."

"Johnny!"

Byers laughed at his outraged yelp. "Look at it this way. Mel'd kill for her to call him that."

Langly continued to sulk. "I'm not Mel."

John slid his t-shirt up and ran his fingertips along the younger man's spine. "I know." He watched him shiver and moved back to follow fingers up with tongue. "I know exactly who you are," he mumbled as Langly moaned softly. "You're my annoying... insane..." he emphasized each word with a tiny nip, "...impulsive... immature... arrogant..." Langly gave some thought to protesting, but then one of John's hands slipped under his stomach and into his jeans, and he decided to worry about it later, "...brilliant... hormonal... totally hedonistic..." John's mouth had reached the back of his neck and he arched into it, "...melodramatic... co-worker," John finished.

"What?" Langly tried to roll over to face him, blinking, "What?"

John laughed, the low chuckle that sent ripples through Langly's body even when he was across the room from him. "Just seeing if you were paying attention."

Langly sighed. "I was, but not really to what you were saying." He thought about it for a moment. "Immature? Really?"

Byers kept at it. "You spent twenty minutes today arguing with Jimmy about what kind of crust you wanted on the pizza."

"He started it."

"Totally immature."

"I like to think of it as youthful energy."

Byers wasn't just nuzzling his shoulder, he was undoing his fly, one button at a time. "I can go along with that. You have any plans for that youthful energy of yours?"

Langly squirmed against the clever hand. "Anything goes in a Motel Six."

"True. Roll over."

Langly was slow to comply, and Byers grabbed his hardening cock and gave a squeeze. Langly yelped, and did his best. Byers let go and pushed the front of his t-shirt up to his neck, too, trailing feather light kisses along his sternum. Langly closed his eyes and twisted his hands into John's thick hair, concentrating on the hot breaths against him. "Oh, God," he mumbled. "Oh..."

But that other hand was still at his fly, working his jeans down, taking every opportunity of skin against skin. Langly stretched his head back, hips lifting off the bed, trying to get closer. When the hand left his neck, he nearly whimpered, only to find it again, sliding his jeans down his ass. He raised his hips higher, all the help he could give with that mouth sucking gently at his jaw.

"Please..."

John muttered--something--into the sensitive spot just under his jawbone. Langly was having a hard time paying attention to anything but the feel of John's beard against him. All too soon it disappeared, John's lips sliding down his chest and down, down, following the dusting of fine hairs that led to his navel.

"Johnny--" was as far as he got before Byers took him in his mouth. "Oh, God--"

Langly groaned softly as Byers slid a hand over his hip and traced the jut of his pelvis. Byers laughed a little, and the tremors spread through Langly's body. John stroked his balls with light touches, and swallowed him to the root. Langly froze, mumbling frantically, and came, thrusting against John for all he was worth. John pulled away and rested his head in Langly's lap, watching the younger man gasp for breath. Langly panted, running his hands restlessly through John's hair.

"Oh, God. You--Oh. Oh, God," Langly managed.

Byers laughed, and Langly grabbed his head in both hands and pulled him up for a desperate kiss. He threw himself limply back against the pillows, pulling Byers with him. John shifted to lay his head on Langly's heaving chest, chuckling softly.

Langly stroked his beard with compulsive gestures, his breath slowing to a sigh. "Jesus, you're good, Johnny."

Byers smiled wickedly. "You don't know the half of it, Ri."

Langly laughed raggedly. "There's more?"

"You better believe it. After all..."

"Anything goes in a Motel Six."

---

---

Date: Wednesday, January 08, 2003 3:45 PM

This is where Mickey comes in, and I'd like to tell you I knew why it wasn't, say, Sid Vicious, but when the scene happened in my mind, it was Mickey. (Actually, it was Mickey playing against Byers, but he objected, and since his vocabulary in describing the incident was less colorful, I let Langly take over the role. As a consolation, I let Byers make the mouse joke.) I'm feeling unusually together today. It's Wednesday in the story, it's Wednesday in the real world! Just don't expect part eight tomorrow. I ain't that together. :-)

     Caffeine, Conspiracies, and the Fortean Nature of Fishes
     VII: Do Abductees Dream of Alien Sheep?
     By D. Sidhe: Erika dsidhe@attbi.com
     Web: http://www.dsidhe.com/
     Category: Slash, WIP
     Pairings: Langly/Byers, Mulder/Frohike
     Spoilers: None
     Archive: If you want it, take it.
     Summary: They've got the best coffee and computers and
     smack.

Rating: R, for a lot of gratuitous profanity, a little gratuitous violence, and even more gratuitous sex. (No one is seriously injured, I promise.)

Disclaimers and Apologies: I continue to exploit and offend without permission. I've elected not to mock the state of North Dakota for a couple of excellent reasons. As a native of The Other Washington, I have deep empathy for The Other Dakota. Additionally, the political situation is still touchy. Personally, I think they should be allowed to change their name to "Dakota", or "Screw South Dakota", or even "Bob", should the fancy take them, since if they decide to secede from the Union, they will automatically become the world's fourth largest nuclear superpower. Unlike Byers, my response to the heavily-armed has generally been conciliatory. It's not a proud strategy, but I get guns pointed at me a lot less often. The subtitle in this part is the result of my spending the last week listening to the Bladerunner soundtrack, the summary, the week before with Robyn Hitchcock, "Viva Sea-Tac!" (We may see quite a lot of this song before this is all over.) CSICOP and FUFOR are real, respectively they stand for Committee for the Scientific Investigation of Claims of the Paranormal (say that three times fast.) and Fund for UFO Research. (NARG and COUD-I are also real, and doing yeomanly work in the realm of UFOlogy, despite anything I said about their names.) WETHR Front is mine, as is Tim Ellis and the book they didn't write, since they don't exist. Jim Hightower is a man of the people, but not technically mine. Shame, really. What's truly sad is, I didn't even make up the pancake thing. It's based on an encounter a man named Joe Simonton had in 1961. Joe had his analyzed by the US Department of Health, Education, and Welfare, which apparently had a lot of time on its hands back then. Ditsy Dottie, who doesn't exist except in a general sort of composite way, has not changed the recipe. The theory that aliens have some sort of fatal reaction to salt has since been put forward in an alarmingly serious manner. The world is so packed with nutbars that I invite you to ponder the statistical probability of there being room for anyone sane. If Diogenes had had a butterfly net, he'd still be looking. Further parts still pend, so get your nutritional and culinary advice in early and avoid the rush.

Beta: A word about plot: I belong to the Weird Things Keep Happening To Us Genre, one which never seems to worry about tying up loose ends. In my own defense, life isn't all that big on tying up loose ends, either. I haven't exactly concealed this deficiency of mine, but those of you who may have gotten the impression that having these beta read by The Rather Fetching Betty would help with that, you're going to be disappointed too. His actual notion of consistency is illustrated by the following complaint: "Look, I don't understand why they both went to look for Langly. It makes no sense!" That's his idea of a serious plot flaw, apparently. My actual bi-polar plotting, and the fact that there are holes here you could suck infinity through, that doesn't bother him. Sad but true.

Author's Note: I'm very, very sorry about the eel joke (mackerel flapper, anyone?), and the mouse pun. I'll be even sorrier when, as TRFB predicted, no one gets either of them. And I like to think of the chick at the end less as a Mary Sue and more as a Mary Seattle. Just another silent cultural victim of a state where it doesn't rain on the natives: a people still trying to prove that any idiot can start a band or a computer company. (And yes, we do get that kind of weather in July occasionally. It's not the heat, it's the humidity.)

---

Byers was definitely in a better mood Wednesday morning. At least two hours of last night had verged on a religious experience, and he was feeling a lot more relaxed. As Langly pushed him against the wall of the shower and shoved deeply into him, he was willing to concede that the Frog was a prank, the Wal-Mart truck was a coincidence, the Blue Thing was just smoke, the lake monster was, well, a snake eating a turtle, maybe, or a conger eel. Something not worth worrying about, in any event. He braced himself against the cool tiles with a forearm and pushed back into Langly's thrusts.

"Oh, God..." Langly groaned. "So good..."

Byers was in full agreement, but couldn't express any sentiment more complicated than soft moans. He was almost sorry when Langly's grasp on his cock tightened, knowing orgasm wasn't far off. He enjoyed the fleeting moments on the edge of that abyss almost as much as he enjoyed the freefall of climax itself.

Then it was over, and he stood panting under the hot water, Langly half-supporting him. Langly grinned, way too perky for the hour. "Let's get some coffee. Today's gonna be a good day."

"Just as long as we don't spot any more lake monsters or dead people."

"Or Blue Things."

"Those either."

"I wonder if there's a Starbucks somewhere in this Godforsaken town."

"It'd be pretty newsworthy if there isn't."

---

Jimmy spent breakfast cheerfully speculating on who or what they might run into today. Byers did his best to not let it dent his mood. Langly's hand in his lap under the table seemed to help. If Jimmy (or for that matter the waiter) noticed Langly's peculiarly single-handed eating style, he gave no sign of it. Byers reflected again on how easily Langly could make him stupid. Then Langly gave him the lopsided grin he'd never grown tired of. He handed Jimmy some money and stood abruptly, knowing only the van lay between Langly and a PDA of world-class proportions.

"I'm going to check the equipment. Meet you outside," he said, trying very hard to ignore Jimmy's knowing grin as Langly followed him out. Byers thought of Jimmy's knowing grin as a threshold for the knowing grins of the rest of the world. Jimmy was a nice guy, but, to be perfectly honest, he wasn't, well, he just wasn't that bright. So when Jimmy caught something, you could pretty much assume the rest of the world had already reeled it in, gutted and fried it. Jimmy's knowing grin represented the knowing grins of thousands of people with room temperature IQs or higher. It could be... embarrassing.

Langly was nanoseconds away from wearing John's suit, with him still in it, by the time they got to the van.

"What is with you lately?" Byers demanded.

Langly shrugged. "I guess weirdness just makes me horny."

Byers covered his face. "I'm going to have to keep you off with a stick."

"It'd be easier if you'd just come on over to the Dark Side, baby."

Byers did, for a few minutes anyway, but when they heard Jimmy approaching, he reverted to the Forces of Good. "Grab the maps, will you? Let's see what we have today."

---

"Good reporter or bad reporter?"

"What?" J. Wayne asked.

"It's your story. You wanna be good reporter or bad reporter?"

J. Wayne glanced at his neat suit, and then at Frohike's customary leather look. "I'd probably better be the good reporter."

Frohike laughed. "You got it. Ring the bell, kid."

They waited a minute, and then tried again. After what seemed an interminable wait, a short, fat man with a gin blossom and a bad cold opened the door and shot J. Wayne a wary look. "I'm pretty happy with my own religion, okay?"

Frohike shoved rudely past him. "Hey, that's great, who cares. We're the press."

J. Wayne followed him inside. "I'm sorry, Mr. Payter? We had an appointment? I'm Wayne Arthur, and this is my associate. We spoke on the phone?"

Payter seemed to relax a little, and Frohike hid a grin.

"Oh, yeah, I remember. Now, you said you weren't with 'Powder Keg' anymore?" He gestured vaguely at what apparently was the carcass of a lumbering tartan beast of some variety. Frohike flashed a look at J. Wayne, and remained standing. It helped with the menace, he'd found. J. Wayne, less than delighted, sat gingerly on the edge, not all that sure if it was going to collapse under him--or move, for that matter.

"No, sir, I'm not. At the moment, I'm working with the Lone Gunman Group." That sounded faintly ominous, despite J. Wayne's polite tone. Frohike's amusement grew. The kid was a natural.

"Oh." Payter seemed to want to ask a question about that, but kept it to himself.

Frohike seemed to be making him nervous, which was, after all, the point. Even the most cooperative witness, when dealing with the fringe press, didn't quite take them seriously. The vague air of menace and secrecy made people less inclined to treat them like some goofy tabloid. Not to mention the fact that lying to the media seemed to be hardwired into the human psyche. It could be kind of depressing, really.

"Well," Payter said with an uneasy half-laugh. "What do you want to know?"

"For starters," J. Wayne began, "I'm curious about the metal you sent me. Where exactly did it come from?"

Payter shrugged and looked away, which Frohike figured meant a lie was coming. He cleared his throat, but didn't say anything.

Payter focused on him for a split second, and then looked at J. Wayne again. He coughed a little, and sat down. "Maury. It was... just, sitting there, right? In a little pile. About a half-dozen pieces."

Frohike cleared his throat again and narrowed his eyes.

Payter stood up abruptly and went into the next room. J. Wayne glanced at Frohike, who gestured him to stay where he was. Payter returned with a wad of Kleenex. "Sorry. I got this summer cold."

J. Wayne smiled sympathetically. "I know how those are. What I'm mostly wondering is why the metal was still there. My understanding is that Maury was examined pretty thoroughly."

Payter gave a weasely smile. "I guess they missed it."

Frohike kept his sigh to himself and concentrated on projecting an air of disbelief. Not hard at all, under the circumstances.

J. Wayne let it go for the moment. "Did you take all the pieces?"

"Just a couple."

That seemed damned unlikely, in Frohike's considered opinion, and J. Wayne didn't look like he was buying it either. They waited. Eventually Payter felt compelled to fill the silence.

"I mean, I did, but I don't have them anymore. I mean, not with me."

The man was obviously lying. The most likely possibility was that he hoped to sell them the other pieces, but it could be something else.

J. Wayne frowned. "Can we go look at where you found them?"

Payter hesitated. "Sure, I guess. I mean, if I can remember. I'm not sure I can, though..."

Frohike pulled himself off the wall he was leaning against. "This is a load of crap. We're wasting our time here, and we've got other appointments to keep." At about this point, Langly would have said something like "What other appointments" and Byers would have given that nervous chuckle he did when he was trying to lie, and he would have said something lame like "You know, the appointments". Then he would have stood up, blushing slightly, and said something like "Sorry to have--"

"Sorry to have taken up your time, Mr. Payter," J. Wayne said, standing up. "We'll be on our way now."

Frohike figured odds-on the guy would spill before they got to the door, but he didn't. He was still looking undecided and anxious, though, so they might have to try back in a couple days to see if he'd rethought.

J. Wayne was humiliated and disappointed when they got back into the rental and pulled away. "God, I can't believe I dragged you all the way across the country for this! I swear he was helpful before, I don't know what's wrong with him. God, I'm sorry, Mel."

"Relax, kid. He'll spill. It's just going to take a couple of days. In the meantime, let's see if we can get out to Maury with a metal detector, okay?"

J. Wayne slumped in the passenger seat, looking miserable. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. He's not our only way into this thing, okay? You figure out how to get us to Maury, and I'll get in touch with our contacts here. The UFO groups in the area will be buzzing. I know some of the people, and they'll talk." He glanced across at the kid. "It's not a dead end, okay? Someone talked to him before we got there. Probably our Men in Black."

J. Wayne looked up. "How do you know that?"

"He had four coffee cups on the table in the dining room. Three of them were full, and cold. The creamer had skinned. I don't figure him for a regular entertainer."

He thought about it and nodded eventually. "You're right. I didn't notice that. Do you think he'll still talk to us, though? If they threatened him?"

"He's got your cell number."

"Yeah."

"He'll call by Saturday. If not, we'll go see him again Sunday. And you'll wear a gray suit, okay?"

J. Wayne glanced at his black jacket and pants and colored slightly. "Oh."

Frohike laughed. "Let's get back to the hotel."

---

J. Wayne managed to find a charter boat that would take them out to Maury the next morning, and a store that would rent them a decent metal detector. Frohike found himself amazed again at what money could do. It wasn't like they ever had much to play with themselves, so he hadn't had much opportunity to see it at work. Without J. Wayne, they'd have spent three hours searching electronics stores for cheap components so he could make one, or waiting for the boys to get here with the van and the one they already had. They'd also have had to take a ferry and spend a lot of time trying to get out to the actual site, assuming it was even accessible by roads, which from the maps didn't look too likely. They needed to be on the beach, and the best way to get there was a boat.

Frohike had arranged to drop by the offices of one of his local contacts, and on the way he filled J. Wayne in. "This is WETHR Front. They're probably the biggest state-based UFO group in this neck of the woods, certainly the biggest in Washington. I've worked with a lot of these guys. They don't publish news on their own, they're strictly a research-and-book group. So they come to us with stories, sometimes. We dig out the story together, we print it as news, and later they write the books. It's a pretty good system."

J. Wayne nodded. "Okay. What's the name mean?"

Frohike shrugged slightly. "Standard stupid acronym. Washington Extra-Terrestrial Humanoid Research Front."

J. Wayne smiled. "I've heard worse."

"CSICOP," Frohike grinned.

"I always kind of liked that one. FUFOR," J. Wayne offered.

"NARG."

"What's that one?"

"Nevada Aerial Research Group."

"NARG. Perfect."

"There are worse. COUD-I."

"Could I?"

"C-O-U-D-I. Collectors of Unusual Data-International. They publish 'Anomalous Thoughts'."

"'Anomalous Thoughts'," J. Wayne tried it out. "That's not a bad name, I guess. Not everyone can be 'The Smoking Gun'."

Frohike grinned at him. "You'd be surprised how many organizations are."

J. Wayne laughed. "You never told me how you guys came up with 'The Lone Gunman'."

"Another time, maybe. The guy we're going to meet here, Tim Ellis, is an old friend of mine. Mulder introduced us about a million years ago. Don't tell him about the trace though, okay? Don't mention Payter or Rickson, not until we get the lay of the land." He shrugged. "By the way, if Payter calls you, tell him to go to a pay phone, inside someplace like a store, and call you back. Don't let him say too much on his line."

The kid nodded. "You think he's being listened to?"

"No sense taking chances. Someone knew he was talking."

"Okay. Do you trust this Ellis guy?"

"As much as I trust any UFO type," Frohike grinned. "They're all a little wacko. Anyhow, if we strike out here, we've got some other places to try, and some of them do publish news, so let's just keep the trace and the names to ourselves, okay?"

"In other words, don't get scooped."

Frohike laughed. "Being scooped is bad, in any context."

---

Frohike was greeted in traditional hail-fellow-well-met style, which seemed to amuse J. Wayne. Ellis in particular was delighted to see them. He looked J. Wayne up and down appreciatively. "You trade in Jimmy for a compact version?"

Frohike snickered. "The new model. This one is even smarter than he looks."

J. Wayne blushed furiously, and looked around the office, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. "Uh, you look busy," he offered lamely.

Ellis shrugged. "There's a lot going on out here this month. Every nutcase in the county is reporting sightings. Even a couple of sane people are too," he grinned. "Who's your source, Mel?"

"Not yet, Timmy. Let's see what you've got first."

Ellis grinned wider. "Bigfoot."

"Bullshit."

"No, really."

"Bigfoot is a hoax, Tim. Even you know that."

Ellis sniffed with mock contempt. "Bigfoot may very well be an extra-terrestrial, for your information." Frohike snorted, and Ellis shrugged. "Whatever he is or isn't, we've got sightings. We've had about a half-dozen CEIII reports with hairy humanoids."

Frohike sighed. "So, what, Bigfoot's chauffeuring the Little Green Men now?"

Ellis motioned them into his office. "Ix-nay on the GM-Lay. You want to get me burned in effigy by the True Believers?"

Frohike laughed. "Like it'd be the first time. C'mon, you've got more than a Bigfoot."

"Several Bigfoot. Bigfeet? Bigfoots?" Ellis sat behind his desk and thought about it. "Okay. I'm gonna do you a big favor. We really made out on that last book, so I guess we owe you."

"Damn straight."

Ellis picked up his phone and spoke into it. "Kip, call Ditsy Dottie and tell her I'm bringing some friends to see her, and get one of the kids to copy all the new crap from this month." He paused. "Yeah, okay. Thanks, Kip."

He hung up and Frohike raised an eyebrow. "Ditsy Dottie?"

"You'll love her. She's one of those who calls herself a 'selectee'."

Frohike sighed. "The Universe Is A Friendly Place?"

Ellis cracked a smile. "You got it. So, Maury. We've got sightings, we've got photos. No video footage yet, but it's only a matter of time. We have contacts, missing time, and abductions being reported, and we have Men in Black wandering around the place. Have a seat."

"We hear three Men in Black," Frohike commented.

"Yeah, okay. Sunglasses and hats. Bow ties and a black car."

"What kind of car?"

Ellis rolled his eyes. "Reports vary. We've got, let's see..." He pulled out a file and sifted through it. "Oldsmobile, Beemer, Caddy, oh, here's a good one, station wagon."

"Black?" Frohike asked with polite disbelief.

"Of course. I'm not sure I buy this one, though. The reporter is a guy--well, he's not exactly a model of sanity."

"Unlike Ditsy Dottie," Frohike said dryly.

Ellis laughed. "She's--what you'd call local color."

"You're sending out interviewers?"

"Yes, of course. I know what your next question is, Mel. How many are refusing to talk after they report."

Frohike tapped his nose. "Bingo."

"A few, not many. We've had over a hundred twenty reports since mid-June--"

"A hundred twenty in less than a month? That sounds more like a wave than a flap, Tim."

Ellis winked at J. Wayne. "In Virginia, maybe. We have higher standards out here."

Frohike snorted. "If you're tryin' to impress the kid, don't bother. He doesn't know what the difference is. He's watchdog press, not ETH."

Ellis looked disappointed as J. Wayne blushed. He shrugged and explained. "Flap is a big to-do without much cause in the way of sightings. A wave is a big to-do with a high number of reporteds."

J. Wayne nodded. "Thanks."

"Anyway," Ellis continued, "we've had the usual set of statistics. Seventy percent of the callers fill out the forms we send them. Fifty percent of the callers agree to interviews. Nothing too different there. This time nine of those who agreed to interviews turned out to be unhelpful."

"Unhelpful?" J. Wayne asked.

"'Oh, it was a joke', 'I don't want to talk about it anymore', 'no one by that name here', etc. We usually get some of that. People get taunted by their family, friends, whatever, and decide not to go further with it. It happens. Out of a wave of a hundred, we'd probably get four of those. So, yeah, I'd say our friends with the sunglasses are having some effect, but not much. We've got..." he glanced through the file again, and stopped at a page in the back. "Okay. We've had a hundred twenty-two sightings this window. So far. We get more every day. Ninety-one filled out the questionnaires we sent them. We called them back to set up interviews, and sixty-five agreed. Two of those later cancelled by phone, one made four appointments but was never home, the other six just refused to talk to our field investigators for various reasons. None of those cited MIB, of course. And nineteen of the interviews reported MIB visits."

A young man poked his head in the door without bothering to knock. "Dottie's making lunch, Tim," he said cheerfully.

Ellis laughed and stood up. "Come on, guys. You're going to love this. I'll run you over, you can leave your car here. They'll have the copies ready when we get back."

---

Dottie was a short waif of a woman in a blue caftan and bare feet. She greeted them brightly and instantly forgot their names. Frohike suspected the woman was absent-minded by long habit. She ushered them into the kitchen where she served them, with great ceremony, pancakes. With pink plastic Sporks.

"Pancakes for lunch?" Frohike asked.

"These are special pancakes," Dottie assured them. Everything that came out of her mouth seemed to be the victim of exclamation abuse. Frohike found himself wondering how on earth the woman decided which word to emphasize. It was a little like listening to Dr. Seuss Storytime. "I got the recipe from very special friends!"

Ellis was hiding a grin, and Frohike had a feeling he knew where this was about to go. "So when was the last time you heard from them, Dottie?" Ellis asked innocently.

"Three..." Dottie's face wrinkled and she sucked on her finger for a second, thinking. "Four, three, no, two! Two nights ago. Sunday night." She seemed pleased to be able to pin it down.

"It's Wednesday, Dottie."

"Well, last Wednesday, then."

"No, Dottie. I mean today is Wednesday. Sunday night was three days ago. But that's okay, Dottie. It doesn't really matter exactly what day. What'd they say this time?"

Dottie beamed, excited. "We're nearing a time of great importance!" she said proudly. "This window is only the beginning! They want us to understand. They want to help!"

Frohike stifled a sigh and took a bite of pancake to cover his annoyance and embarrassment as Dottie babbled on. He really hated these types. He knew enough about the ETEs to know that they weren't looking to commune with Earthlings in the interests of peace and love. The pancake turned out to be a mistake, though. It was almost exactly as light and flavorful as plywood. No butter or syrup had been offered, which was a shame, because it was about the only thing that'd help him choke down the five Frisbees on his plate. Ellis' grin was just short of demonic. The man was going to hear about this.

"You're not eating!" Dottie suddenly interrupted herself to say to them. "This is a special recipe I got from my special friends!"

"The aliens gave you a pancake recipe," Frohike said leadenly.

She frowned at him. "Reticulans. And yes, they certainly did. I was on my way home from the library one night--"

"She works there," Ellis explained.

"--and I hadn't yet had dinner, I was running so late. We'd just had a huge shipment of new travel books I had to sort and code, and it was all so interesting I sort of lost track of time."

Imagine that, Frohike thought, but he didn't say anything.

"Now usually," she said with creepy sincerity, "they come for me when I'm already in bed, but since I was running so very late, they turned up while I was at the bus stop, and of course I knew I wouldn't get home until the next morning. But since I'd skipped lunch, and I hadn't had dinner, I begged them for something to eat, and they made me pancakes. They gave me some to bring home, and then the next day the commander dictated the recipe to me while I was on my lunch break."

"That's very interesting," J. Wayne contributed, trying as hard as he could to be polite. "Would it be okay for you to share the recipe?"

She beamed at him. "Of course, young man, I've forgotten your name..."

"Wayne, ma'am."

"And so polite!" She cast a momentary glare at Frohike, and Ellis broke into a coughing fit.

"Sorry, sorry," he managed. "Dottie, can I have some water?"

"Oh, of course. And I'll get you the recipe, Wendell, you said? I like to keep copies of it for when people ask. People can really be so intrigued by the Reticulans, don't you think? But it's only natural. They're so fascinating..." She rambled on in that fashion as she went to the sink to get Ellis some water.

The look Frohike gave him would have burned chalk. Ellis fought down more laughter.

"Did you ask the commander about the cattle mutilations, Dottie?" Ellis asked once he could talk again.

"Cattle mutilations are bad karma. They have nothing to do with that," she said firmly. "It's the government trying to frighten people into thinking the Reticulans are a threat to us."

J. Wayne nodded. "That makes sense. Thank you for this," he waved the recipe card slightly. "They don't use salt?"

Dottie shook her head emphatically. "Salt is terribly bad for you. The commander told me they never use it."

Dottie spent the next three hours detailing her history as a "selectee", explaining the vaguely optimistic pronouncements made by the commander and the Reticulans, and pontificating on how to make the perfect flavorless pancake that weighed about the same as a manhole cover. Between topics, she patted J. Wayne on the head and praised him like a puppy, and glared at Frohike. Ellis excused himself several times to make calls, which Frohike figured was just a blatant ruse to let him dash out to the car to laugh himself sick.

It was nearly four when they finally escaped from Dottie's Interstellar House of Pancakes. Frohike didn't say anything until they were about halfway back to the offices. Then he turned to Ellis and commented blandly, "Thanks, Tim. I owe you."

Ellis laughed the rest of the way back, then he helped carry boxes of the documents out to their rental. "Where's your bus?" he asked curiously. "The boys got it?"

"Yeah, they're driving out. With Jimmy," he added.

Ellis jerked his head at J. Wayne. "He's not your new copy?"

Frohike shrugged. "Freelance. He just quit 'Powder Keg'."

"Assholes," Ellis offered casually. "Keep in touch, Mel. We should have more for you tomorrow, and I'll be interested to see what you make of all this."

Frohike nodded. "We've got some people to talk to. We'll holler when we've got something."

---

With each mile that passed and nothing weird happened, Byers felt his optimism for the trip return. Jimmy seemed faintly disappointed that they didn't meet anyone else they knew, but Byers didn't mind.

The call to Frohike was distracted, since they were immersed in the material Ellis had given them. Byers was philosophical about Payter. "He'll come around," he predicted.

"He wants to talk," Frohike agreed. "Where are you guys stopping tonight?"

They'd decided on a good-sized town that, it turned out, was holding some sort of corn-oriented festival. It was a nice evening and people seemed to be gathered in a park in the town center. As they walked across the street between the hotel and the restaurant, they could hear the strains of a brass band playing.

"Corn Days," Langly muttered. "Yokels."

Byers smiled. "No Wal-Mart though."

Langly snickered. "True."

It wasn't exactly a backwoods, though, as the hostess told them they'd probably have a fifteen minute wait for a table. Byers smiled, Jimmy shrugged, and Langly, not one for sitting still, disappeared to check his email.

---

Langly locked the door behind him and turned past a semi in the darkening parking lot, to find himself face to face, or face to plush mask, anyway, with a guy in a Mickey Mouse costume. At least he hoped it was a costume, or maybe two, in that Mickey seemed to be in pirate drag. Presumably this was some kind of fallout from Corn Days, though he had no idea where any of it fit in, especially in Montana. "What's with the pirate getup?" he asked, curious. "We're landlocked, right?"

Mickey cocked his head to one side, tipped his hat, tapped his eye patch with one gloved finger, and gestured Langly closer.

"The parrot have a name?" Langly asked, taking the necessary steps towards him, and that was pretty much the last thing he remembered for a while.

---

Byers was shaking him, which hardly seemed fair, since he'd just barely gotten to sleep. And of course Byers had swiped all the blankets again. And, come to think of it, this bed wasn't very--Oh. He opened his eyes, one at a time, as slowly as possible, giving the universe ample time to decide he wasn't laying on the pavement of a parking lot on the Montana border. The universe was its usual compliant self, in that that's exactly where it decided he should be.

He sat up, groaning. Something fell off his chest and clunked onto the ground beside him. Jimmy picked it up. It made a pathetic lowing noise, and they all stared at it.

"It's a cow-in-a-can," Jimmy said, baffled. "You know. You turn it over and it moos."

Byers blinked, and dismissed it for the moment. "Are you okay, Ri? What happened?"

"Did anybody get the name of that... mouse?" he asked helplessly.

Byers' look of irritated concern got a lot less irritated and a lot more concerned. "What mouse? Are you okay?"

Langly sighed and leaned against Byers. "A Mickey Mouse in a pirate costume sucker-punched me."

Jimmy stared. "Maybe he has a concussion or something. Do you know your name, Langly? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Jimmy..." Byers ran his fingers over Langly's head, looking for lumps. "Ri? Do you think you need a doctor?"

Langly shook his head cautiously. "I just want to lay down, okay?"

Byers shrugged slightly, reserving judgment until they had some light. "On your feet, then. Jimmy, help me get him back to the room."

Jimmy picked him up by his shoulders and stood him on his feet, half-pushing him along behind Byers. Langly didn't complain, which worried Byers a little. He flipped the light switch and turned to look at his lover. "Lay down, I'll get a damp cloth. Your cheek is puffy. Somebody hit you?"

Langly slumped onto the bed. "Not somebody, Mickey Mouse." He glared at Jimmy. "Put that fucking thing down, will ya?"

Jimmy put down the cow-in-a-can, looking faintly abashed. "Are you sure you didn't trip over this?"

Langly sighed gustily. "Yes, I'm sure. A Mickey Mouse in a pirate costume decked me."

Byers came back with the washcloth and applied it to Langly's cheekbone. Langly hissed in pain and pulled back.

"I think we should get you to a doctor, Ri."

"Oh, yes, please," Langly said with trenchant sarcasm. "Let's find a doctor and tell him I got clocked by a big mouse. That's probably pretty common here, do you think? I don't think he'd laugh for, you know, much more than an hour or so, before he called the cops."

Jimmy blinked a little. "Maybe we should call the police."

Byers shook his head. "There's no point. We don't want to call attention to ourselves."

"I hate the fucking police," Langly muttered.

"We didn't do anything wrong," Jimmy insisted. "Why does it matter if they know who we are?"

"Jimmy, with what we do--it's really just better if we stay off the radar as much as we can. Our visibility is high enough, and we don't want to make it worse if there's no need. Besides, if they found him, we'd have to stay here while they took the report, and maybe a lineup--"

Langly interrupted. "Yeah, that'd be fun. 'Can you pick out the mouse that popped you one, sir? You're sure it's not the one with the cape? How about the short white one with the tall friend? He was plotting world domination earlier.'"

Byers came close to laughing. He stepped on the impulse and continued to try to explain. "--And we'd end up coming back for a trial, possibly."

Langly grunted. "Yeah, that'd look good in the local papers. 'DC Journalist Testifies Against Pirate Mouse In Assault'. No thanks. Anyway, I don't need anybody deciding I'm crazy. There's enough people out there who want our heads. Let's not give 'em them on a silver platter, okay? No fucking reports, no fucking doctors, and no fucking cops."

Byers sighed. "Jimmy, why don't you go see if you can get us some dinner for take-out." Once the door had closed, he sat next to Langly. "Does your head hurt?"

"Not really. Just my face." Langly seemed mildly disappointed at not being able to make a dramatic bid for sympathy over it. He shrugged. "Just where he thumped me."

"Someone in a Mickey Mouse costume?"

"Yeah. And a pirate costume."

Byers leaned in to check his eyes. They seemed okay. "I think I may need a little more explanation. There were two of them?"

"No." Langly half-sat up, taking the washcloth away. "The guy was wearin' a Mickey Mouse costume, but it had, like, a pirate hat, and an eye patch, and a sword, okay?" He closed his eyes. "And a stuffed parrot on his shoulder."

"In Montana? It's landlocked. Maybe some kind of weird Corn Days thing, I guess. But why would he hit you?"

"Beats me. It's not like he said anything. He just threw a punch at me."

"And then he gave you a cow-in-a-can."

Langly shrugged slightly. "I don't remember that part. I guess so."

Byers chewed on his lower lip, and gently pulled a twig out of Langly's hair. "You must have been out for about twenty minutes, you know. I'd really feel a lot better if you'd see a doctor."

"No way," Langly said firmly. "No fucking way. Not after the last time you made me see a doctor." He opened his eyes and found himself staring at John's intently concerned expression. Langly felt a little guilty. He grabbed John's hand where it was anxiously twisting his long hair, and brought it to his mouth for a kiss. "It wasn't that long, anyway. I was on my way back when it happened. I'm okay, Johnny," he said softly. "It's okay. I promise."

Byers sighed. "I worry."

The kiss had turned into something with a little more tongue. "I know," Langly mumbled into his fingers.

"Ri, for God's sake," Byers said, exasperated. He tried to pull his hand away but Langly held on.

"You're so worried," Langly suggested slyly, "you could give me some first aid."

Byers pulled him close and held him tightly, still caught between worry and relief. "You need a doctor."

"Nah. I need..." he grinned, "the kiss of life."

Byers sighed again. "You need a straightjacket," he muttered into the straw-blond hair.

Langly twisted in his arms and latched onto his neck. Byers just knew he was going to leave a mark. "What the hell am I supposed to do with you?"

"I can think of some things." Byers could feel Langly grinning.

Byers had known him long enough that he could guess at a few of them, and he was also pretty sure that none of the things Langly had in mind involved Jimmy coming in with a couple of bags of food, which is in fact what happened next. Byers pulled discreetly away and tried to straighten his collar, but from the way Jimmy was carefully not staring, he had a feeling the mark was still visible.

"It's burgers and stuff, okay? You didn't say what you wanted."

Byers nodded. "That's fine. Thank you, Jimmy." He took the bag Jimmy was holding out and set it on the table. "We'll see you in the morning, all right?"

"Sure thing." Jimmy moved closer and lowered his voice to what he probably thought of as a whisper. "You know you gotta keep an eye on him, right? Wake him up every couple hours in case he's got a concussion. Or he could die. That's what happens when a guy gets tagged like that."

Langly, behind them, made a noise that didn't sound exactly like "Thank you so much for the excellent advice," and Byers sighed. "He's okay, Jimmy. I'll make sure. See you in the morning."

Jimmy went next door, and Byers turned around to see Langly rolling his eyes.

"He means well," Byers commented.

Langly rooted through the bag. "Shame he doesn't think well."

Getting put down by a cartoon character didn't seem to have dented Langly's appetite at all, and Byers cautiously concluded he was probably all right.

Langly looked up. "Get your ass over here or I'll eat yours too, okay?" Byers hesitated, and Langly grinned. "Relax, Johnny. I'm not gonna bite you. Not till after dinner, anyway."

Byers sighed and shook his head. "Do you think some aspirin would help?"

Langly shrugged. "Couldn't hurt."

"All right. Did he bring any drinks?"

"Couple cans of Coke. Must've hit the vending machine."

"Well, he's thinking, at least," Byers said, taking the washcloth and disappearing into the bathroom for the aspirin.

"Yeah, he put 'em in on top. Crushed the hamburgers."

Byers came back and handed him the washcloth again. "Here. Hold this to your face. The big mouse that hit you may have disappeared, but you're going to have a pretty big one where it hit you in the morning. Keep the cloth on it, and maybe the swelling will go down."

"Very funny," Langly grumbled.

Byers rubbed his shoulder and handed him the aspirin. "Take these, okay? You're sure your head doesn't hurt."

"Just my face." He glanced at Byers. "It's worse when I talk. Maybe you should see if you can keep me quiet."

Byers let out an explosive half-laugh. "Short of a gag..."

"Kinky, John."

Byers shook his head, but finally smiled. "You definitely need your head examined, you know that? Every time something like this happens, you're all over me."

Langly grinned. "It ain't just weirdness that makes me horny."

"No, it's practically everything."

"No, really. I've given this some thought. I think I don't have that fight-or-flight reflex they talk about. I think I have the flight-or-fuck one."

Byers pulled him close again and rubbed his back. "It's a good thing we're keeping you out of the gene pool, then."

"Make love, not war." Snickering. "Wouldn't it be a better world if everybody was like me?"

Byers' eyes widened in horror, or something closely akin to it. "Ri, if everybody was like you, I'd be dead of exhaustion by now."

"I don't share."

"You don't play very well with others, either," Byers observed.

"You don't think so?" Langly was doing his best to persuade with one hand, until he finally let go of the washcloth and went for it with both hands.

"Jesus!" Byers yelped. "That's cold!"

Langly laughed. "Let me warm you up."

"For God's sake..."

"Hey, what if Jimmy's right and I die from brain damage or something? You want to have refused my last request?"

"You must have brain damage. I can't imagine any other reason you'd suggest Jimmy was right about anything." He regarded his lover for a long moment with the serious blue eyes. "I don't think so. You got hit pretty hard, even I can tell that." He pulled Langly's head close again, carefully, and held him against his chest. "I think you need to just sleep, Ri."

Langly knew better than to whine. It wouldn't change John's mind. And besides, it wasn't unpleasant to have John's arms around him like this. It just wasn't--everything he wanted right now. But there were ways to get what he wanted, even if he didn't have The Pout working for him. So he forced himself to relax and kissed John's chest gently, sighing. "I'm okay, Johnny. Really."

Some of the tension went out of Byers. "I worry." He played with Langly's hair. "Listen, Ri, maybe I should get Jimmy over here to keep an eye on you--" Langly made a noise that wasn't wholly in sympathy with the plan, but Byers continued, "--and I'll go check things out at this festival. See if I can find your mouse."

"No thanks. Keep Jimmy the hell away from me."

Byers almost chuckled. "Are you afraid you won't be able to control yourself?"

Langly snorted. "Fuck the mouse, John. It's not like we'd press charges if you find him."

Byers shook his head. "I just don't like not knowing why this happened. This morning I thought someone might be following us. It worries me."

Langly's eyes narrowed. He'd noticed that too, but hadn't said anything. He decided on a distraction. "Listen, I'm gonna take a shower. Maybe it'll help." He stood up and swayed slightly, careful not to overdo it.

Byers grabbed him. "Hang on, you're going to fall over. You need to sleep, Ri. You can shower in the morning."

Langly shook his head. "My back's sore. I need a shower, Johnny."

Byers met his eyes, and then sighed heavily. "You win," he said in resignation. "Let's go take a shower." He glared at Langly. "But I want it on the record that I know exactly what you're up to, Ringo."

Langly struggled for innocent. "What?"

Byers shook his head. "Asshole."

"Very nice, John."

"Come on." Byers led him into the small bathroom and helped him strip.

Langly could see him searching his body for any signs he'd been hurt elsewhere. Some of the guilt returned. "He just pegged me, John. I'm okay."

"You said your back was sore," Byers said suspiciously, turning him around. "You must have hit the ground pretty hard."

Langly shrugged again. "I guess so. I just need a hot shower."

The stumble he made getting into the shower wasn't faked, but it was easier to let Byers think it was. There was a fine line between a Byers sympathetic enough to go along with what Langly wanted and a Byers so worried there was no arguing with him. Letting Byers think he was exaggerating a genuine injury was usually just the right note, though the shower might have been a giveaway. Playing innocent could be hard when you were, well, hard. He followed John's eyes and grinned lopsidedly.

"Told you I'm fine."

Byers sighed and rubbed his neck. Langly leaned into it. "You're not fine. You're deranged. Move over and soak your back. Your shoulder looks like it got the worst of it."

Langly twisted his neck to see. "It's kinda red, isn't it."

"Yes," Byers sighed again. "Did he say anything to you?"

"Nope. He just laid me out."

"I'm starting to wonder if this whole thing was a mistake. Frohike says Payter isn't talking anymore."

Langly glanced at him. "The MIB visit?"

"Probably," Byers admitted. "Fro thinks he'll talk sooner or later. But this whole trip just has me... on edge."

Langly shrugged a little tiredly. "It's been weird, hasn't it."

Byers shook his head. "I'll say." He supported Langly under the hot water for a few minutes. "Feel better?"

"Yeah." Langly nodded. "I needed this."

"I know." Byers smiled. "'Fuck the mouse'?"

Langly laughed. "Fuck the mouse."

"Ri?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you eat all the fries, or just most of them?"

"Just most of 'em. And I expect to be rewarded for my restraint."

Byers sighed again. "Do I get to eat dinner before you fuck me into exhaustion?"

Langly grinned in triumph. "Anything you want, babe."

---

"I hate this town," Frohike commented idly on the way back from a very late dinner. It had taken several hours for the pancakes to settle.

"It's not, technically, raining."

"Marble-sized hailstones. Even in July, I'd be using an umbrella."

"I think they might actually be illegal here."

"Yeah, okay. That wouldn't surprise me. Still."

They gazed out the windshield at a green-haired woman in a short skirt, flannel shirt, and Birks, standing on the sidewalk, waiting for a crosswalk signal. If she'd noticed the unusual weather, she gave no sign of it.

"It's not like there's even any traffic!"

J. Wayne shook his head. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone jaywalk in this city." He let it go. "What book did you guys do with WETHR Front?"

"We've done two. The first one was the hoaxed crop circles in Kennewick. It wasn't very popular. Then, about two years ago, we helped them with one about the wave around Hanford in '97."

J. Wayne glanced at him. "'Nuclear Interests'?"

"Done your homework."

"Uh, yeah. I didn't know that was you guys."

"It wasn't, really. We did a series on it, brought in a pile of new readers for us. Got us some contacts in the anti-nuke groups. That's really as far as it went for us. After that we turned the research over to Ellis' bunch and stepped away."

"You don't get anything out of the books?"

Frohike shrugged. "We don't make a lot of money. We're too busy getting stories to worry about the accounting, mostly."

J. Wayne just shook his head. "Fighting the good fight. That's what it's all about for you."

Frohike smiled in the streetlights, the look of a man at ease with his work in a very strange world. "Jim Hightower calls himself an agitator. You know what an agitator is? It's the thing in the washing machine that gets all the dirt out. Sometimes I think that's what we are."

---

---

Date: Monday, January 20, 2003 10:21 PM

     Caffeine, Conspiracies, and the Fortean Nature of Fishes
     VIII: When Geoducks Go Bad
     By D. Sidhe: Erika dsidhe@attbi.com
     Web: http://www.dsidhe.com/
     Category: Slash, WIP
     Pairings: Mulder/Frohike, Langly/Byers
     Archive: If you want it, take it. 
     Spoilers: None
     Summary: I think of my pleasant condition, surrounded by
     Acres of Clams.

Rating: NC-17. Mulder/Frohike. Plus a lot of grossness, and violence against harmless animals.

Disclaimers and Apologies: I continue to exploit and offend without permission. The Levy guy (Dr. Jay Levy, parapsychologist) is real, his rat and chicken studies exist, but were hoaxed, so I can't really say they were real. Kewaunee is real, and he thinks the invisible interdimensional Bigfeet are real, but I'm not vouching for them, or him. Equipment mentioned is real, and should not be assumed to constitute a sales pitch. I may be a pervert, but I'm no shill. The creature the boys run into in Montana has actually been reported in Texas. It has been accused of cattle and sheep mutilations. You can read more about it in the book "The Lake Worth Monster", by Sallie Ann Clarke. I didn't make up the FMG name either. That's what the original headline called it in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Dak is fictional, geoduck facts offered here are not. WUFORG is fictional, FSR could be real, if you want to assume it stands for Flying Saucer Review, or it could be fictional, if you want to pretend it doesn't stand for that. Up to you. The Estacado story is real, but obviously not given to anybody by the LGM, who, just in case your medications are wearing off, don't really exist. Jumie, Madeo, Feysen, Brown, and Coz are mine too, as is the vaguely-referred-to professor. Publication tactics mentioned are real. Ivar's makes a fabulous cup of clam chowder, so I am told. Me, I don't eat mollusca voluntarily anymore, having tried many of them and having liked none of them. I gather it's made with, I dunno, butter clams or scallops or some such thing, not geoducks, which many crazy people say makes a very good chowder too. Whether you like chowder or not, you have to check out their (www.keepclam.com) site with the dancing clam, and of course their Waterfront Acres of Clams restaurant is a Seattle landmark. There'll be more jokes about Ivar's later, I'm sure. With any luck, there won't be any more Space Needle jokes, unless I can think of a way for the aliens to make off with it, or blow it up, or otherwise fictitiously remove it from the Seattle skyline. Lyrics quoted by Langly and Byers are from a song by NOFX. My apologies for the "Dune" joke, but be aware that if you walk without rhythm, the geoduck will still hear you coming. In fact, I'm pretty much sorry for all the movie jokes. The summary in this part is from the song, in all its variations, "Acres of Clams". (Though I think Pete Seeger substitutes "happy" for "pleasant".) If you want to know specifically which version I was thinking of when I typed it, it was actually the one Ivar himself sang, accompanied by accordion. Deal. Further parts still pend, so get your Shellfish is Selfish protests organized early and avoid the rush.

Beta: TRFB objected to the vocabulary of the phone sex scene. "Guys don't talk like that when they're getting off on the phone." "I beg to differ." "Well, okay, gay guys." (He said it, not me, I swear. I really have no idea how gay guys have phone sex, but I'm guessing Mulder and Frohike have called their fair share of 976 lines and therefore have the appropriate vocabulary. ) "It's mostly just noises," he explained. "Guys aren't all that verbal, you know?" He also had issues with a couple of physical impossibilities in the scene, but since it's basically just a fantasy between two distracted guys who probably aren't imagining the exact same thing, I told him to get bent. In a couple of days, I'll apologize, and I'll feed him something with Spam in it, and believe it or not, he'll forgive me. He's a very odd boy, but I love him.

Author's Note: If you want to know what "falling, decayed, whale blubber" sounds like, ask any Oregonian. There's a short geoduck faq on my web page. Enjoy.

---

They picked up the metal detector on the way to the waterfront Thursday morning. Frohike checked out the specs while J. Wayne waited anxiously.

"Will it work?"

"You bet. It's a Fishers' Pulse 8X. Six feet deep, and it ignores mineralization. Not thrown off by salt water, either, which is important. This baby's a real pro."

"That's what he said you needed, yeah," the salesman offered. "That's the Version One, with the seven-five hardwired open coil. Is that gonna do it for you? Or are you gonna need the Version Two, with the interchangeable searchcoils?"

Frohike glanced at the proffered equipment wistfully, and shook his head. "No, this should be fine. We need a pinpointer, though, and extra batteries."

"No problem." He turned away to find them. "Where you guys going, if you don't mind my asking?"

J. Wayne started to say something, and Frohike nudged him. "Golden Gardens."

"Popular. I got a guy found a diamond solitaire necklace there."

Frohike smiled politely. "I bet."

He glanced back at them and grinned. "Okay, sorry. Had to try though. Making sure you'll look after the equipment. Sure you don't want the Two?"

"We're sure, yeah."

"You need maps?"

"Of Golden Gardens?" Frohike raised an eyebrow. "You figure we're gonna get lost in the parking lot, or what?"

The man laughed. "Okay. Just asking. Can I get a credit card and some ID?"

Once outside, J. Wayne wanted to know about the necklace. "You didn't sound like you believed him."

Frohike shrugged. "There's not enough metal in something like that to find it. It might happen, but it's more likely to just be the sort of thing you'd get while buying lottery tickets. 'We had a ten thousand dollar winner in here just last week,' that kind of crap."

"Oh. Why didn't we get shovels there?"

Frohike shook his head. "I know these beaches. We need heavy duty stuff, the damned things are mostly rocks. He might've had something suitable, but why let him know what we're up to. We'll swing by a hardware store."

"You think he could figure out what we're doing just from that?"

"Nah. But why get his curiosity up."

"That's pretty--" J. Wayne began. Frohike stopped him, grinning.

"Paranoid. Ain't it, though." He started the car. "You look a lot younger out of the suit, you know?"

J. Wayne grimaced. "Exactly." Frohike had expected to have to insist, being used to Byers' sense of all-weather-gear, but the kid had been prepared for stomping around on a beach. Jeans, a polo shirt, and good sneakers. He didn't look happy, but he looked good, and Frohike could appreciate the difference without really feeling compelled to do anything about either one. At the moment, anyhow.

"We need some waterproof containers, too, for samples. I want water, sand, rocks, the whole thing. Byers is always asking why we didn't bring him some weird thing it never occurred to us to collect. And considering your piece of metal, he'll probably want seaweed and bugs and worms and whatever else we can find."

"Can he analyze it all without the equipment?"

Frohike shrugged. "There's a lot of stuff in the van. Anything else, we'll make it or make do. We're that type of operation."

"You seem to make it work."

Frohike grinned. "As long as Yves doesn't get involved."

"Who's Yves?"

---

Langly was still groggy when they woke, the bruise prominent on his cheekbone. He yelped when his glasses touched it, and settled them with a great deal more care.

Byers sighed, annoyed at himself for giving in last night. Langly obviously could have used a lot more sleep, and a lot more ice. Langly had obviously tried to restrain himself until after they'd eaten, but his hands had been all over Byers before he could get so much as a catsup packet open. Byers' IQ had dropped precipitously, and by the time they'd gotten to the food, Langly's face had puffed up to where chewing was clearly painful. He'd ignored further efforts to convince him to see a doctor, rolled over, and pretended to sleep.

Byers sat next to him on the bed and rubbed his shoulder, dinner forgotten. He'd fallen asleep draped protectively over the younger man, forgetting to set the alarm.

Not that it mattered. Jimmy pounded on the door with his usual early morning enthusiasm, sobering slightly when he saw the two of them.

"Hey," he said hesitantly. "You guys don't look so good."

"Speak for yourself," Langly muttered.

"Maybe we should stay here today, huh? What difference is an extra day gonna make?"

Langly snorted, disappearing into the bathroom. "Not spending one more minute than I have to in this fucking dive," he said loudly. "Place needs an exterminator. Big fucking rats."

Byers shrugged. "We'll be fine, Jimmy. You can take the first shift, and we'll sleep for a while. Give us half an hour, and we'll be ready to go, okay?" He glanced towards the bathroom, where Langly was still grumbling just loudly enough to be heard over the running water. "But maybe we should wait on breakfast until we find another town."

"Hey, whatever you say, Byers." The big man held up his hands. "You're the boss. See you in a while."

He closed the door and went back to the bathroom, putting his hand on Langly's back. "How do you feel?"

Langly turned around. "How do I look?"

Byers sighed. "I should have made you keep ice on it."

Langly half-smiled. "I'll say I walked into a door."

"Oh, good. Then people will just assume I hit you."

"C'mon. It'll improve your reputation. Make you look like a badass." He grinned as much as he could. "Besides, you think I'm tellin' people some big mouse coshed me? How's that make me look?"

"I'm going to take a shower." Byers glared. "Alone."

Langly laughed.

---

Captain Dak Winnell was a huge bear of a man, with a full salt-and-pepper beard and a long graying braid down his back. He greeted them loudly, and got underway fast. "Goin' clammin', yeah?"

"Something like that," Frohike said evasively.

Winnell laughed and jerked a finger at the metal detector. "You're not treasure huntin', are ya?"

Frohike shook his head and leaned forward confidentially. "Research project. See how the new mining operation proposal impacts the mineral substrate and the water quality."

Winnell glowered. "Hope you can dig up somethin'. Love to get that dog put down."

"Not popular around here?"

"Fuck no."

"Is Deep Impacts getting a lot of community support?" J. Wayne asked. Frohike flashed him an approving look. It was the sort of cover question Byers or Mulder could come up with, and it made them sound more authentic. He'd forgotten the group, himself, and was planning to rely on his shallow knowledge of geology, and his deep grasp of bullshit.

Winnell went on at some length about Deep Impacts, and how the new operation could affect the clamming, which it seemed he was quite fond of. His special fondness was reserved for the geoduck, pronounced gooey-duck, which he described--graphically--as a giant, heavy-shelled bivalve with a neck as big and thick as his arm.

J. Wayne commented on the horse clams they'd seen on the menu the night before. Winnell laughed and laughed. "There's horse clams, son, and there's 'ducks. We call 'em horsedick clams."

J. Wayne blushed furiously, and Frohike chuckled. "They can't be that big."

Winnell gestured rudely. "We'll dig you up one, yeah? Cook it for ya, too. Tasty damn thing."

J. Wayne didn't seem delighted. "We'd need a permit, I suppose," he said hopefully.

"Got one. I can bag three a day. True fact: illegal in this state to take just the neck. Your 'duck, he can live to be hundred, hundred-forty years old. Pin crabs live in the shell, snackin' on the live 'duck. You get a few baby pin crabs, maybe, or a couple, y'know--" he winked broadly--"husband an' wife pin crab, you think about that."

Frohike was thinking about it. In fact, the barrage of pointless facts was making him horny. He sighed and wandered back to check the equipment, cursing Mulder rabidly.

Winnell shot him a look. "'S'with him?" he said to J. Wayne.

J. Wayne wasn't sure, but they could discuss it later. "Crab phobia." He changed the subject. "But they're filter feeders, and with the mining... They must be concentrating the heavy metals."

Winnell nodded. "Mercury mostly." He seemed cheerfully unconcerned by the prospect. "But you can tell me what they've got in 'em, yeah?"

"After we've analyzed the samples, yes, we should be able to sort some of this out."

Frohike directed Winnell to the site they needed. He was skeptical. "Clammin's no good out here. All kindsa crap in the water."

"Well, we're looking for pollutants," Frohike shrugged.

"Okay, you're the geniuses. Guess ya know what you're doin'."

Winnell insisted on following them out to the beach itself with the equipment and a big metal tube he called his "duck gun". The highly specialized arsenal of geoduck-digging seemed to consist of the "gun", a shallow, sturdy scoop, and a bucket. He paddled the rubber raft to the site with strong strokes, lecturing all the way about the wildlife, and how he felt it had been affected by the mining.

He broke off as they got into the shallows. "That's a show."

"What is?"

Winnell nodded at the sand under them, in about six inches of water. "See the little volcano thingie? That's a show. Shows ya where the 'duck is, yeah? 'Duck about three feet down there, maybe less. You got good tides right now."

There was an alarmingly fetid offshore breeze coming at them. J. Wayne wrinkled his nose. "Something's rotting. Dead animal?"

Winnell raked his eyes across the beach. "Don't see how it could be. No gulls. No corbies." He sniffed again. "Don't smell right, either."

Frohike's press thumbs were pricking. "We'd better check it out," he said slowly. "It could be important."

As it turned out, they didn't need the metal detector after all. They just followed the smell. Frohike, in the lead, jumped back as a sudden stream of salt water nailed him in the face. He wiped it away. "What the fuck was that?"

Winnell laughed. "'Duck. You stepped on 'im."

"Where?"

"He's down there. He felt ya movin' around and sucked in his neck real quick. Shoots water out at ya. People think when the 'duck squirts at 'em, he's gotta be racin' away down there under the sand. But he ain't. Grownup 'duck, he don't move much. He ain't got the equipment. He moves his neck, sure, but his shell pretty much stays put."

Frohike sighed. "Fascinating." He was a lot more careful about where he stepped as he tracked the smell a couple hundred yards down the beach to a place that was a lot closer to the surf than the high tide line.

"Well, whaddaya make of that?" Winnell asked rhetorically.

The three of them gazed at a hole in the rocks and wet sand that seemed to be filled with--well, who knows. Some slimy day-glo purple muck with an oily pink sheen. It wasn't dead, at least not all of it, as it writhed in the pit. The smell was almost overpowering, and they covered their faces with their hands.

"I'm gonna go over there a ways," Winnell said, looking queasy.

Frohike was glad Langly wasn't around, frankly. "Let's get some samples. And let's cap the bottles tightly."

J. Wayne nodded and knelt on the rocks, pulling a knife and some tweezers out of one of the boxes, and reaching into the pit with commendable professionalism. He scraped at one of the most decomposed spots and dropped the mess into an open container, which he handed to Frohike. A little bolder, he tried scraping at one of the fresher parts of the mess, only to have the entire mass give a whining hum and retreat to the other side of the pit. J. Wayne pulled back abruptly, and Frohike leaned over intently.

"What do you suppose that was?"

J. Wayne shook his head. "No idea." He looked in again, and reached back in with the knife. "Look at that," he said, curiously.

"Holy shit." There was a dull gleam underneath the slime. He put his hand on J. Wayne's arm, images of the black oil before his eyes. "Gloves. We don't know what that is, and I don't want to take any chances."

The kid nodded and dug through the box for a pair of gloves. With a few more prods and squalling noises, J. Wayne extracted a piece of metal with a seastar--what was left of a seastar--clinging to it. The star had the same slimy purple coating, and the center of it was gone. Two arms were also missing, apparently eaten away from inside. J. Wayne shook it slightly, and the star fractured and fell off.

"Weirdness."

The slime seemed to be coming out of a small round hole in the bar in thick, ropy strands. "Gross," J. Wayne muttered. "What the hell is this?"

Frohike shook his head. "I think we found ourselves an alien."

"No way."

Frohike gave him an odd look and turned back to the metal. "I don't know. But we'd better take as much of it with us as we can. Is there more metal down there?"

They dropped it into a large container and listened as it made the whining noise again, retracting from the plastic sides. Frohike closed it fast. J. Wayne had leaned back into the pit when a low surf washed across the rocks he was kneeling on. Only Frohike's fast reflexes kept him from landing face first in the muck. He grabbed the kid by the shoulder and waited for him to calm down a little. They watched as the salty water sloshed over the thing, making it pulse and spread out again.

They'd almost relaxed when Winnell let out a whoop. "Clam-ho!" he bellowed, wiping gritty seawater off his face. He grinned wildly at them and slammed the bottom of the "duck gun" into the sand. He stomped on the edges to work it in, and dropped to his knees, scooping away at the wet sand. Within a minute, he was head-first into the hole he'd dug, and J. Wayne shuddered. Frohike pulled him to his feet and dragged him over to Winnell, ass in the air, both hands in the hole, digging like a demented greyhound. The gun was keeping the wet sand from filling the hole back in, and Winnell was moving almost too fast to see.

Frohike blinked. "Spectator sport, I guess."

Winnell's muffled war-whoop was followed out of the hole by Winnell's head and arms, and--

"Christ. It's like that worm in 'Dune'," Frohike said in awe.

"Or an elephant trunk," J. Wayne suggested.

Winnell grinned, dangling the thing by the bulging shell. "Horsedick." The thing's dark muscle tissue wasn't completely enclosed in the shell, which was almost ten inches long, and slightly rectangular in shape. The neck hung an improbable foot and a half downward. "This 'un's a bitty guy," he said happily. He grabbed the siphon and tugged at it. Silted water squirted out, and the thing seemed to resign itself to its fate, the brown wrinkled muscle stretching to almost two and a half feet. "Lot of 'em, full three feet long, yeah? Lotta meat on these guys. About three pounds, minus the shell. 'Bout a pound of that's adductor, neck, and mantle, the eatin' parts. The adults don't got much of a foot, so when you spot a show, you can figure he's down there, probably been for decades. He can't dig in much without the foot. You throw 'im on the beach, he's good as dead, yeah? He's a canny critter, your 'duck, but he can't burrow once he's grownup."

Frohike tore his eyes away from the thing, and took a deep breath. "Fascinating," he said again. "We'd better get back to collecting samples. Hey, Captain?"

"Dak."

"Dak, sorry. You ever see anything like that purple mess over there?"

Winnell set the clam in the bucket and rocked back on his heels. "Nope. Like a big dead sea slug, maybe. You think the pollution's doin' that?"

Frohike shook his head. "We don't know yet. This is going to take us a while, so why don't you find yourself another clam."

Winnell looked puzzled. "What for? I ain't sellin' 'em, and I can't eat more'n one. You guys change your mind?"

They both backed away, shaking their heads. "No, that's okay. We've... got dinner... with some people tonight, to discuss... things," he finished lamely. Under the pressure of dinner with the thing in the bucket, Frohike's usual glibness had deserted him. "Sorry. Just too busy."

Winnell nodded, unfazed. "I don't take more'n a man needs. Sea's not endless anymore."

"Good thinking," Frohike said quickly, and headed back for the pit, J. Wayne trailing behind him. He grabbed several garbage bags from the box, putting them one inside the other. "I think we'd better take all of this with us."

"You don't think it might be dangerous to have around?"

Frohike shook his head again, face grim. "I think it might be dangerous to leave around. The way it ate through that starfish, I don't think we want to chance it being found by some more wildlife--or by people. You ever see that movie 'Evolution'?"

J. Wayne nodded and grabbed the shovel. "Good point. Do you think the plastic will hold it?"

"Beats me. I don't think it's going to eat through it, if that's what you're asking. It doesn't seem to like plastic. And we don't have any other choices."

It didn't like metal, either. They managed to slop it into the bag in several clumps. It made a noise like falling, decayed whale blubber, and when it touched the plastic it whined briefly and seemed to contract in on itself. They got a lot of the substrate around it, not wanting to leave any part of the goo behind, and Frohike tied the bags as tightly as possible.

"Jesus, that smells awful."

Behind them, Winnell, who had followed them and stopped about ten feet away, bellowed again. "Clam-ho!"

J. Wayne made a face. "I hope he's not counting on us for dinner," he said in a low voice.

Frohike gagged and nudged the bag with his foot. "After this, I may never eat again."

"What the fuck?" Winnell said, and they turned to stare at him. Dripping off his shirt was a viscous yellow substance. He stared back at them. "What the fuck is that?" He touched the stuff, and pulled his hand away fast, wiping it on his jeans. "Shit, it burns."

Frohike turned back to J. Wayne. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

J. Wayne nodded as Winnell stripped off his shirt. "I think we'd better dig that up, too."

"Never seen a clam do that before. They shoot seawater, yeah? It's sandy, but I never seen it yellow like that, and it sure the fuck never burned."

Frohike took the shirt from him and stuffed it in another plastic bag. "We're going to need to analyze that. And we need to get what's down there, too."

Winnell shrugged at them. "Okay." He stopped and looked back. "I think I better use a shovel on this'n." He stomped the duck gun back into the sand, staying well out of the way of the yellow streams.

J. Wayne handed him the shovel and picked up the box of empty containers. "I'm going to get some more samples."

Winnell dug in carefully, still keeping his posture way back so the yellow goo wouldn't hit him again. After a few moments, the shovel clanked against something hard. Winnell looked up. "'Duck shell," he said, puzzled. He dug in a little deeper, and cautiously flipped up a shovelful of wet sand, leaving it upside-down in the hole. They both looked in.

Winnell covered his nose with his hand. "The fuck's that?"

Frohike did the same. "Weirdness," he breathed.

It looked--Well, it looked repulsive. And it smelled far worse. It seemed to be four geoduck necks growing out of the same blistered and malformed shell. The four dark brown necks had the same oily pink sheen to them, and were grown into each other in places, and in other places seemed to be rotting away. Exposed, it writhed violently in the hole. Yellow fluid with the consistency of warm shampoo leaked copiously from each abruptly truncated siphon. It made a grating, whining noise that set the teeth on edge and had the potential to build to a throbbing headache.

Frohike was extremely glad Langly wasn't around. He was having a hard enough time hanging onto breakfast himself. He gave the previously-potted geoduck a look. "You know, Dak. I don't think it's safe to be eating anything off this beach."

Winnell nodded, eyes wide. "Gotta agree. Guys wanna take him for a sample?"

Frohike grimaced. "Not really, but I guess we'd better."

Winnell nudged the thing in the hole with the shovel blade, and it started making the noise again. "Fuck."

J. Wayne appeared, looking over Frohike's shoulder. "Holy shit."

Frohike nodded silently.

"I don't think we should just put that in a garbage bag," J. Wayne said worriedly.

Frohike shook his head. "Dak, can you loan us your bucket?"

"Won't fit. Do you one better. I got a cooler chest, 'bout that? Put a lid on the fucker."

"Yeah--good idea." Winnell headed back to get the cooler while Frohike kept an eye on the clam, or what used to be a clam, or whatever.

J. Wayne shrugged finally. "Do we need any other samples?"

Frohike gave him a look. "In addition to these things? No. I think Byers'll have plenty to look at." He shook his head again. "Jesus."

---

Langly hadn't eaten much at breakfast, chewing still obviously painful. Byers had given in and asked the waitress to bring him a chocolate milkshake. "With a straw."

The shiner had garnered a few odd looks, but no one commented, a fact that didn't seem to help his mood as much as the milkshake did. Jimmy, with unusual tact, refrained from making mouse jokes until Langly actually fell asleep, for which Byers was grateful. He was running out of threats to make against the big man. He didn't make them often, and didn't really have many to work with when the occasion presented itself.

---

J. Wayne had insisted on paying Winnell for the cooler, giving him enough money to ensure his complete silence about the expedition, and Frohike had wrapped it in several layers of plastic and duct tape, which finally seemed to contain the smell. They could still hear it making a grating noise, so they left it, and the plastic garbage bags full of the slime, in the trunk of the rental car while they went to rent a storage locker. Frohike didn't want either of the things in the hotel rooms. "I don't want to think what could happen if the maid knocked it over or something."

After that, they got another cooler to put the slime thing in, which they did without bothering to take it out of the bags. More plastic and tape, and a very solid lock for the door of the unit, and they headed back to the hotel to clean up.

"I hate to think how we smell," Frohike commented. "I need a Mulder-length shower."

J. Wayne grinned. "How long's that?"

Frohike grinned back, still trying to rid his mind of the image of the things. "Till the hot water runs out."

J. Wayne laughed. "Before or after you get yours?"

"After. I'm no fool. And he's not exactly what you'd call a morning person, anyhow. I'm gonna make some calls--after we clean up--and see if there's some people who can talk to us about this stuff. Maybe someone at the University can take a look at our slimy friend in the bucket and tell us if there's anything wrong with him."

"What about the other samples?"

"I don't want to let those out of our hands just yet. Not until Byers gets a look at them."

---

The offices of WUFORG were just as busy as WETHR Front had been. Frohike paused at the first desk he came to and asked for Jeff Madeo. The extremely distracted young woman covered the phone with one hand and waved across the room. "He's in his office. If you get in to see him, tell him Kewaunee's invisible Bigfeet are back, and they'd like to see him."

Frohike shook his head. "I'll pass that along."

There was a lot of shouting coming from the small room walled off from the rest of the offices. The door slammed open suddenly, and two men exited, one still hollering. "Just get me fuckin' pictures before I shove that camera up your ass!"

The younger man fled. The other man, the shouter, turned to a woman at a desk. "Jumie! Where the fuck is Feysen?"

"He called to reschedule," she said calmly. "He'll be here at five."

"He better fuckin' be!" He turned again and spotted Frohike. "Mel! You old son of a bitch! I shoulda figured you'd be draggin' your sorry ass out here! Where's your damn boys?" He almost shoved Frohike into his office, following. He was about to close the door when Frohike reached an arm out and grabbed J. Wayne.

"The kid's with me, Jeff. The boys are on their way out. And your girl out there says to tell you Kewaunee's invisible Bigfeet want to talk to you. Don't tell me you're still listening to that crackpot, Jeff. Bigfoot's a hoax, everyone knows that."

"Everyone but Kewaunee. Who's the kid? You finally replace that big dumb guy?"

"Nah. He's driving out with the boys. I see Jumie's still putting up with you."

"In that fucking rattletrap of yours? You guys always were cheap." He grinned widely. "Jumie'll be with me till hell freezes over. I'd be dead without her. She knows it, I know it. I pay her extra and don't call her names, and she quits twice a week and runs my fucking life. Take a seat, tell me what the hell's up with you since it seems I got some time on my hands."

Frohike grinned back. "What, you're gonna stand up the Bigfeet?"

Madeo laughed. "Yeah, well, fuck them. Time's just another Goddamned dimension, so they oughtta be used to the wait."

Frohike shoveled a pile of folders off a chair and gestured J. Wayne to sit while he took the other one. "This is Jeff Madeo. Jeff, J. Wayne Arthur. Formerly of 'Powder Keg'."

"Assholes," Madeo said conversationally. "Nice to meet ya, Jay."

"J. Wayne," Frohike corrected him, and watched the kid wince. Madeo didn't notice. "Never seen the place this busy, Jeff."

"Tell me about it. We got sightings coming out our ass."

"Ah." Frohike nodded wisely, trying not to grin. "Anal probes."

Madeo laughed, a big booming noise. "Figure of speech. I got a bone to pick with you guys, Mel! I hear you gave 'FSR' that Estacado story."

Frohike shrugged. "Sorry, Jeff. We owed them."

"Couldn't you have given 'em something smaller?" Madeo demanded. "Shit, Estacado turned out to be huge."

Frohike nodded. "We didn't know it was going to turn out that big, or we'd have run it ourselves, conflict or no."

"Well, that'll teach you to cut your buddy Jeff out. When it got that big, we'd have given it back to you."

"The hell you would have," Frohike said with obvious disbelief.

Madeo laughed, not the slightest bit abashed. "We'd have shared credit at least. Come on, Mel, you know me."

"Which is why I don't believe that for a damned minute."

"Come on. We ever screwed you before?"

"Walla Walla ring a bell for you?"

Madeo slapped his knee. "Aw, that was just a little friendly competition."

"Yeah, that's what they all say after they bend you over. So what's going on out here?"

"You tell me. You didn't come all this way for the weather!"

"That's for damned sure."

Madeo shrugged, spun his chair halfway around, and dug through a pile of folders on the table behind him. "Maury, right?"

"Deltas."

Madeo found the file he wanted and turned back, thumping it onto his desk. "MIBs," he said challengingly.

"Old news," Frohike said, feigning disinterest.

J. Wayne watched them watch each other like poker players over a high stakes hand. Frohike broke first, or at least that's how it looked.

"Fred Crisman," Frohike said finally.

Madeo's eyes narrowed. "What about him."

"He's named in the '68 OCC letter to Garrison, did you know that?"

"Never heard of it," Madeo said, considering.

"Oh, that's right." Frohike was smug. "You guys are just UFOs. OCC is Bay of Pigs."

"He was involved in Bay of Pigs?"

"Looks like it." Frohike grabbed a sheet of notepaper off Madeo's desk and scribbled something on it, handing it across.

Madeo looked it over, stood up, and went to the door. He opened it and leaned out, yelling. "Jumie! Give this to Coz. See what he can dig up." He came back and leaned his heavy frame against the wall. "Okay, you got my attention, Mel. What else do you know about Crisman?"

"Garrison passed along a rumor he was Majestic 12."

"No fuckin' way! Where'd he get that from?"

Frohike shrugged, enjoying himself. "I was hoping you could help us find out. With your crack staff and all."

Madeo grinned, but stifled it abruptly. "You're not gonna give this to 'FSR' if we help you get it, are you?"

"Nope. You've got two weeks to dig something up, and we'll synch printing and share the story. Credits. Exclusives for both papers, we'll refer and you'll refer."

"A month. We print first, you come after, the next week. You'll want access to our files, but you don't print anything from them without a written agreement."

"The files are fine, we don't want to take what's yours by right. But you get three weeks, and we print together, or I'm not sharing what we know and you can dig it up on your own and hope we don't beat you to it. We've got a head start," Frohike reminded him.

Madeo regarded him for a minute or so. "Okay, deal." They shook hands.

Frohike stood up. "I'll be back to check out the files tomorrow. In the meantime, I have to see a guy about a clam."

Madeo laughed and held open the door for them. "Ivar's. Best chowder anywhere. Now get out, you old son of a bitch, and don't leave town without letting me know! We'll have dinner. Jumie! Get me Kewaunee, and we'll talk about his fucking Bigfeet!"

---

"What was that all about?" J. Wayne asked once they were back in the car.

"The deal we made?" J. Wayne nodded. "It's pretty common. There's only the four of us, we're a small group. And we're trying to do everything. So sometimes we subcontract."

"Okay, but you gave him Crisman and MJ12. And you don't even believe MJ12."

Frohike grinned ferally. "I don't, do I."

J. Wayne thought about it. "Wild goose chase?"

"Not quite. I mean, they could come up with something, who knows. I think MJ12 is a pile of shit, but I've been wrong before. Meanwhile, I have access to his files and his staff and his contacts."

"Hmm. So what's the stuff about referring?"

Frohike shrugged. "We'll print at the same time, and each paper will have something the other one won't, and we'll tell readers where to get theirs, and they'll tell readers where to get ours. We get new subscriptions, they get new subscriptions, and everybody's happy."

"Neat," J. Wayne said, impressed. "You guys are a lot more professional than Zev."

"Gee, thanks," Frohike said ironically. "Got your cell? We need to find someone who can tell us about our clam." He recited a number from memory, and J. Wayne dialed. "Ask for Doug Brown."

Brown gave them the number of a professor at the University of Washington, and promised to call him and vouch for them. "Give me till four, then you can call him and set up an appointment."

"What's WUFORG stand for, anyway," J. Wayne asked when they were off the phone and moving again.

"Washington UFO Research Group," Frohike told him. "Jeff inherited it about ten years ago. He keeps talking about changing the name, but they're established now. You think you can handle lunch yet?"

J. Wayne grimaced. "No chowder."

Frohike laughed. "No chowder," he agreed.

---

Montana had been pleasantly uneventful, at least once out of range of bad-tempered rodents, and Byers was starting to relax again. This may have accounted for the fact that his reflexes weren't all that they could have been when a white blur streaked across the road in front of them. He slammed on the brakes, but not soon enough, and the telltale thump was followed by an unholy wailing noise, abruptly silenced.

"God!" Byers said, hitting the door lock and around the front of the van before the other two could react at all.

"What the fuck?" Langly said, sliding open the door.

Jimmy followed him, and they stood in front of the bus, looking down at--something. As they stared, it unfolded itself from its sprawl on the ground, and stood shakily on four spindly legs.

"Jimmy, the camera!" Byers hissed as they backed away.

The--thing--turned to face them and snarled. Byers held out his hands, palms flat, and took another several slow steps away from the thing, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. Jimmy handed him the camera. The thing pelted off into the woods as Byers snapped a single shot. He handed the camera to Langly and went back as Jimmy inspected the dent on the front of the bus.

"It's not too bad," Jimmy said finally.

Langly, playing with the camera, sighed.

"You might as well tell me," Byers said, discouraged.

Langly shrugged. "You know the chupacabra picture that bat cam took?"

"Okay, that's it," Byers said, looking determined. "We're getting a camera with a shorter ready time. This is just stupid. At this rate, we're going to miss the once-in-a-lifetime shots of the Virgin Mary."

"Or Bigfoot."

"Stop saying that. Bigfoot is a hoax and you know it."

---

"We bought a new camera," Byers told Frohike in their usual check-in. Langly was sticking close to Byers, and Byers was actually just as happy with that. The livid bruise was still making him feel irrationally guilty. "And we put a dent in the bus, but it's running fine."

"What happened? You guys run into Bigfoot?"

"Bigfoot's a hoax," Byers said, but there wasn't much spirit in it. "I don't know what we ran into."

Frohike was puzzled. "You don't know?"

"Well, it looked like..." Byers trailed off. "I don't know, Fro. I just don't know."

Langly tried. "It had a kind of human body, but it had four feet and a head kind of like a goat, and it had white fur, but it had scales..."

"Byers?" Frohike said in disbelief. "What the fuck is he talking about?"

Byers shrugged, still run-down from the encounter. "That's pretty much what it was, Mel. I don't know. Jimmy saw it too."

"Scales? Another frog thing?"

"No..." Byers closed his eyes and tried to see the thing. It was disturbingly vivid in his mind's eye. "Like a fish. It had a fish tail."

"And feet?"

Byers shrugged again. "And a goat head."

There was a very long silence. Then Frohike said, "Are you guys drunk?"

"Of course not," Byers said.

"Not yet, anyway," Langly told him. "This... fishy man-goat thing just ran across the road in front of us. We hit it, but I don't think we hurt it. It ran away," he concluded helplessly.

It was Frohike's turn to sigh. "I'd be mad about the van, but it's been one of those days here, too. We got out to the site, and there was... a gooey thing. A couple of them. And a geoduck."

"A gooey duck?" Byers didn't sound as curious as he might normally have. "Oil spill?"

"A geoduck is a kind of clam." He spelled it out for them. "No, I don't know why it's pronounced that way." He described it for them in excrutiating detail. "Wait till you see it. It's in my bathtub."

"That's nice," Byers said.

Frohike waited. "Are you going to ask why?"

"Mel, after the week we've had, I don't care if you're sleeping with the thing."

Langly snorted. "Mulder might care."

"Yeah, I meant to ask you about that."

"I suppose if you let him sleep with it too..." Byers began.

"Byers, that kid's a bad influence on you, you know that?"

"It's been mentioned a couple of times. What did you want to ask us?"

"I'm thinking maybe we should see if he'll come out."

"J. Wayne say no?" Langly smirked.

"Screw you, Langly. Look, a couple of the things we found on the beach... I think they might be something Mulder needs to know about."

"The clams?" Now it was Byers' turn to be confused.

"No... Look. We have a couple of things in a storage locker that seem pretty damned unusual. I don't want to get into a lot of details here on the phone, but they might not be, well, indigenous."

They thought about that. Finally Byers said, "You don't mean to the area, do you."

"Not really, no." They could hear Frohike shrug. "We're in over our heads here, boys. We could sure use his resources."

Langly glanced at Byers. "Okay," he said, then he snickered. "But I'm not sharing a room with him. The man's a pervert."

Byers smiled. "Plus he squeezes the toothpaste from the wrong end."

Langly glared. "How do you know that?"

"I know everything. It's my job."

"I don't want to know why that's your job, Byers," Mel said.

Byers shrugged. "The last time he disappeared, remember? I searched his bathroom and bedroom."

Langly looked relieved. "Oh, okay."

"We already booked the rooms, anyhow," Frohike told them. "You two are together, and J. Wayne and Jimmy will share one." There was a slight hesitation. "It was J. Wayne's idea," Frohike explained.

Langly shrugged again. "So who gets the room with the clam in the bathtub?"

"I'm hoping to be rid of it tomorrow, actually. We've got an appointment with a professor at the University. I'm supposed to keep it alive so he can cut it up."

"You can't do that," Langly complained.

"Why the hell not?" Frohike demanded.

Langly snickered. "Clams have feelings too."

Byers tried not to laugh. "Actually, they don't have central nervousness."

Langly cracked up. "I'm gonna marry this man," he managed between giggles.

Frohike sighed and addressed his next remarks to Byers. "You're sure he's not drunk?"

Byers shook his head. "It's been a weird day, Fro."

"Tell me about it. What's so funny?"

"It's just a song. Don't worry about it."

---

"Hey, Mulder, how's it going?"

"Busy," came the short reply. "You wouldn't happen to know how to butcher an emu, would you?"

Frohike considered that from all angles. "Are you cooking again, Mulder?" he asked suspiciously. "Or did someone give you a new pet."

"Neither. Are you back in town?"

"Nope. We just went out to the site today. It's gonna be a long one, I think."

"Damn. I was really hoping for this weekend. Wanna have phone sex?"

"Not in front of the emu, no."

Mulder laughed, and Frohike experienced the usual temptation to get to the man in any way possible and fuck him senseless. "So why're you calling?"

"Moonlighting for the SPCA. Anything important going on for a while?"

Mulder snorted. "Apparently I'm not getting laid this weekend. Besides the emu, no, not really. An illegal crematorium frame-up."

"Frame-up?"

He could hear Mulder shrug. "Someone's trying to put a nightclub out of business."

"And you're involved why?"

"One of the bodies didn't stay dead."

"That must have made Scully happy."

"She's taken a few days off."

Frohike laughed. "If she wasn't so luscious, I'd have to call her a wimp."

"Well, it wasn't just that the body didn't stay dead. It got a little complicated after that."

"More complicated than bodies that don't stay dead?"

"That's kind of where the emu comes in."

"I don't want to know. I just don't want to know."

"Have it your way. There's also an alchemy scam going on."

"I thought alchemy was a scam."

"Uh, yeah. Well, I don't have the details yet, so I don't actually know it's a scam. But it's one of those assumptions I make when people tell me they're making water into gold."

"Seems like a conservative enough strategy."

"Yeah. So are you hoping I'll come out so we can play fuckbunnies, or is there something serious actually going on."

Frohike chuckled. "Little of both."

"I gather you and J. Wayne are not compatible, then?"

"Well, I don't really have any reason to assume that he doesn't have all the required parts, but I guess I don't know for sure. I'm kind of assuming he has a standard assortment of tabs and slots. So you could conceivably be able to take a little time off?"

"I don't know if Krycek would feed the emu."

"I'm just going to pretend you didn't say that."

"Have at it. The truth is, I do have a case..."

Frohike waited. "Stop running up my phone bill and just tell me already."

"I don't believe for one second that you pay a phone bill."

"I do now. Byers insisted. Are you gonna tell me about this case or should I go see just how compatible J. Wayne is?"

"Possessed appliance."

"I'll tell him you said hi."

"A man in Vermont reports poltergeist activity in his microwave."

Frohike gave that some thought. "What kind?" he asked finally.

"GE, apparently."

"Shit, Mulder, don't tell me you tried that one on Skinner."

"Are you implying he lacks a sense of humor?"

"I wouldn't imply anything of the kind, considering he's just as likely to be tapping your phone as anyone else."

Mulder was silent. "You think so?" he asked, in a kind of horrified curiosity.

"What the fuck do I know, Mulder. I'm just a professional paranoid. You're the guy who belongs to the organization with all the rules about wiretaps."

"Why doesn't that comfort me any."

"J. Edgar Hoover ring any bells for you?"

"That's probably why, yeah. As it happens, I did use that line on Skinner. He probably would have laughed hysterically if he didn't feel he had to preserve the sober FBI image."

"I'm sure that's it."

"Are you humoring me?"

"Well, at least you're paying attention."

"If you're humoring me, let's have phone sex."

"You've got your heart set on that, don't you."

"It's not my heart..."

Frohike sighed. "Clinical insanity. There's nothing like it."

He could hear Mulder shrug, see the brilliant smile. "I'll let you know after I talk to my microwave guy."

"Skinner really approved that?"

Mulder laughed, and Frohike realized he'd been had. "Sure. So what's going on out there, if you didn't call to have phone sex?"

"Rein in your libido, Fed-Boy. At least for ten minutes or so."

"Hot damn."

Frohike narrated events while Mulder made a variety of horrified and disgusted noises. When he was done, Mulder was still thinking it over. Eventually he said, "What do the boys think?"

"They're still in Montana. They've been making sure to be off the road before dark since they spotted Jimmy Hoffa driving a Wal-Mart truck in Wisconsin."

Mulder sputtered something incoherent.

"I just know what they told me," Frohike said, defensive. "They also saw the Loveland Frog, the Wisconsin Blue Thing, and a lake monster. And today they ran into a fishy man-goat."

Mulder was silent for a very long moment. "Is Langly driving stoned?"

"Of course not." Frohike thought about it. "I'm sure Byers wouldn't let him. Anyhow, it's Byers tellin' me this stuff."

"Byers?"

"Yeah."

"Tall guy? Beard? Wears a suit?"

"Yeah, that one."

There was an even longer moment. Then Mulder said, very seriously, "Listen, Mel, if he needs some help, I think we can get Scully to prescribe some kind of antipsychotic for him. Some of the newer ones have much milder side effects..."

Frohike sighed again. "I'm reasonably certain he's not crazy, Mulder. Have you been ignoring your mail again?"

"Ever since that bastard Ed McMahon lied to me..."

"Look, just aside from whatever the fuck we've got in storage, there's been sightings of lake monsters across the nation. Crop circles in several of the Midwestern states, over a hundred reported sightings of UFOs in Washington State alone, mutes across the Northern states and some of the Southwest. Dozens of MIB reports. Bigfoot seems to be turning up everywhere but the fuckin' talk shows, Mulder, and I've got something that looks like it came from 'Tremors' in my bathtub. I'm not ready to rule out the Loveland Frog and some blue thing."

"Bigfoot's a hoax," Mulder said, a little distracted. "What's in your bathtub?"

"Geoduck clam."

"And why?"

"I didn't want to leave it in the car."

"As good a reason as any, I suppose. The Loveland Frog. Remind me. Ohio? Reptilian humanoids?"

"That's the one. Byers had me check out the Juminda incident."

"UFO sighting. Reptilian humanoid. You find any real connection besides just the Frogboy angle?"

"Not really. The Juminda Frogboy, as you say, tends to be described as bigger, with a tail."

"Loveland?"

"No tail. Plus, it apparently is self-employed."

Another long silent moment. "Doing?"

Frohike explained. Finally, he said, "Mulder? Still there?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"Just waiting for you to tell me it's a joke."

"I wish."

"So you want me to come out and be an expert witness at commitment hearings?"

"I just thought you might want to come see what's going on out here. We could have a pizza, microbrew, sex. This thing's turning into a huge X-File."

"Back up a second. What was that third thing you mentioned?"

"So much for the Master of Memory."

"So you want me to go to Skinner--a man who has chewed my ass raw on countless occasions, if I may remind you--and ask him if I can go get laid in the Rainy City?"

"You can if you want, but I think you might get farther if you don't emphasize that part. Come on, Mulder. We both know you've gotten flimsier excuses by that man."

"I hope you're not implying I would squander taxpayer dollars."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that."

"Damn straight."

"I meant to say that outright. Whatever happened to that Levy guy who was tracking telekinesis in chicken eggs? You went to see him, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but that rat orgasm study of his looked legit. So you want me to risk a tongue-lashing from Skinner just so I can help you guys dig up some weird story?"

"Glass houses, Mulder. And yeah. You have to admit, it has all the signs of being huge."

"Speaking of huge..."

"Pervert."

"Okay, so if I agree to do this, can we have phone sex?"

Frohike sighed heavily. "Mulder, I hate having phone sex with you. I always have to do all the work. It always starts out what-are-you-wearing, and it always ends up with you explaining how accordions work or where earthlights come from."

"I've explained where accordions come from?"

"Not yet, but it'll happen. I don't really think you have room to be casting aspersions on Byers' sanity, by the way."

"So do you want me to come or not?"

Frohike made a noise of total exasperation, intent on his mission. "Yes, Mulder. I want you to come."

Mulder's voice was suddenly low. "Make me, Frohike."

"You asshole." Mulder started laughing and Frohike raised his eyes to the heavens. "We're not having phone sex, for God's sake. I want you to get on an airplane, one bound for Seattle, preferably after buying a ticket, though I won't insist. And keep your filthy ideas to yourself." Frohike sighed. "I can't believe you were trying to trick me into having phone sex."

"I can't believe I had to try that, actually."

"I think I'm gonna need to get a lot farther from the scene on the beach this afternoon before I can have sex. And get the thing out of my bathtub. Have you ever seen a geoduck?"

"I saw a picture once."

"They don't begin to do justice to the fuckers. They're huge. Like a horse's dick huge. Mulder, I may never have sex again."

Mulder was silent for a moment.

"You're pouting, aren't you."

"Yep. I'm heading out tomorrow."

"You're really going to Vermont?"

"Nope." Mulder was elaborately casual. "Turns out there's a huge X-File in Washington State. In the Seattle area, actually. Skinner approved the 302 today."

It was Frohike's turn to be silent. "You total asshole," he said eventually.

Mulder's voice was wounded. "I thought you'd be pleased."

"You total asshole. I swear to God, if it wasn't a federal crime to kill an FBI agent... You couldn't have just said that?"

Mulder sniffed. "You were busy impugning my prowess and professional approach to entirely legitimate expenses."

"You do know you're a total asshole, right?"

"It's been mentioned. What blue thing?"

"Huh?"

"The blue thing you said you weren't going to rule out. More Smurf deaths?"

Frohike thought back. "Oh, that. No, the Wisconsin Blue Thing."

"Okay. And?"

"You can't tell me you don't have a file on it somewhere in that rathole of an office."

"Assume I don't."

Frohike sighed and explained what Byers had told him, plus what little he'd gleaned from their own file. Mulder didn't seem impressed. Not by that, anyhow.

"Probably just smoke. The Pattersons, really?"

Frohike sighed. "I think we're going to end up with an impromptu convention out here, if you want the truth."

"Then aren't you glad I'm coming."

"It wouldn't be a party without you, Spooky. You can spend some time with Drose, and I'll show the lovely Agent Scully the sights. You think she'd like to get a look at the Space Needle?"

"Is that what you're calling it now. Fight it down, Fro. I told you, she's taking some time off. Besides, I thought you said you were never having sex again."

"Women are different. Just wait till I show you this fucking clam."

"Is that a come-on?"

"No. Everything about this thing is obscene, but there's nothing sexy about it."

Mulder laughed. "That's pretty much what Scully says about you."

"Low blow."

Mulder lowered his voice again, soft and throaty. "She doesn't know what she's missing, though."

"Well, if you'd--"

Mulder kept going, undeterred. "The things you can do with your hands--your mouth--Jesus, Fro. You're so good."

Frohike gave in. "Apparently, we're having phone sex."

"I'd rather have actual sex, but we can do that tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm just imagining how your hands feel on me."

"Imagining, my ass. I know damned well whose hands are on you right now."

Mulder laughed softly. "I'm imagining your ass, too, yeah. You've got one of the all-time great asses."

"Based on your extensive experience," Frohike said dryly.

"There's been some fieldwork, yes."

"J. Wayne has a nice one," Frohike said, consideringly. "Not that yours is bad," he clarified. "Yours is very nice."

"Very nice?"

"Are you pouting again?"

"Yes."

"You're gonna be the death of me, Mulder."

"It's just a shame you're not here. There'd probably be other things I could do with my lips."

"Other than pout?" Despite the day, despite the goo and the smell, despite the clam in the bathtub, despite everything, a faint shock hissed down his spine at the image that presented itself. "You wanna suck me, Mulder?"

"Oh yeah. I wanna be on my knees in front of you, Fro. I want your hands--those gloves--on my shoulders, my back, my face."

"In your hair. God, I love your hair, Mulder. So thick and silky."

"Not the only thing thick and silky," Mulder mumbled.

Frohike ignored the cheesy line. "You're touching yourself."

"Yeah. Are you?"

"Wish you were here to do it instead."

"I will be, tomorrow. You'll be lucky if I don't drag you off to an airport bathroom and suck you till you scream."

"You'll be lucky if I don't push you against the wall and fuck you till you scream, Mulder."

"Mmm--yeah. Oh, yeah. I can see that. Public places, huh? People watching--listening?"

"Turns you on, doesn't it. People listening to me pounding you. Hearing you moan."

Mulder obliged. "Oh, Christ. I can see guys, listening... You, slamming into me, me up against a door, guys listening... Thinking about what's going on. Imagining it, imagining someone getting fucked so hard he's making all these noises... I can see them taking their dicks out, stroking themselves..."

Frohike's breath was shallow, absorbed in the fantasy. "Getting themselves off, listening to us? God--Wishing they could watch, too..."

"Watch, yeah..." Frohike could hear Mulder's quiet grunts of pleasure, could practically feel Mulder's hardness, smell his arousal. Mulder's voice was hoarse. "Maybe they would. Maybe they're looking in, over, whatever. Whatever it takes to watch."

"Watch me fucking you."

"Oh, ohhh, yeah... Watching you ride me. Hard... harder... Hands on my hips..."

"My gloves against your hot skin..."

"And it's burning in me like a fever, I'm so close... Fuck, so close, all those guys listening to it. Knowing how close I am... Wishing it was them... Wishing--"

"Yeah--But it's not... It's you. Always you, Mulder. So hot, so beautiful... The way you move under me..."

"Mmm--Trying to get more, take you deeper. Ohhh... God, I'm so close I can barely breathe. Harder, Fro..."

"One hand, fingers tracing along your spine..."

Mulder groaned. "Your hands, Jesus. I love your hands... Digging into me hard enough to leave bruises..."

Frohike panted. "Faster, it's gotta be faster, you're so tight around me... So hot..."

"And your tongue, Fro, your mouth... My back, my sides... Wet... hot..."

"...Eyes closed, you're sweating--your skin's salty, perfect, and you're shoving against me, forcing me deeper..."

"...Making me moan..."

"...And I'm so close... and you're so close... those noises you make... that look on your face--your mouth, Mulder, yours... So beautiful--"

"Oh, God!"

Frohike heard Mulder come, heard him gasping for breath, heard the half-sobbing moan, heard the high, soft noise deep in his throat, the one Mulder always made when he came hard. He stroked his own weeping, throbbing cock, his grasp on himself tight and fast, feeling his balls tighten, and then he was coming, too.

It was a few minutes before either of them could speak. Predictably, it was Mulder who recovered first. "I think the emu really enjoyed that."

Frohike took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I don't want to hear about it."

"Hey, I stayed on-topic this time, did you notice?"

"I did notice, and I am eternally in your debt. I'm also wondering if you're sick or something. Were you replaced by one of those shape-changing alien guys?"

Mulder snickered. "If I could change my shape, I wouldn't look like this."

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"You're looking down, aren't you."

Mulder laughed. "I was, yeah."

Frohike chuckled easily in the afterglow. "Don't change a thing, baby."

Mulder snorted. "I'm gonna have to change this shirt, anyway."

"Liar."

"Huh?"

"I know you, Mulder. You started taking off clothes the second you heard my voice."

"That's all you know. I took all my clothes off when I saw the Caller ID flash your number."

"Okay. It's definitely you."

"No pod people here."

Frohike gathered his scattered wits. "When's your flight get in?"

"Ummm... Oh, yeah. Seven-seventeen. PM. United."

"Seven-seventeen. That seems pretty optimistic, doesn't it. Let's say seven-thirty, then."

Mulder laughed. "That still seems pretty optimistic. Bring the kid, would you?"

"Sure. We'll have a late dinner."

"We can go to Ivar's--"

"Shut up, Mulder."

"Listen, can you book me a room where you're staying? The usual places are full already."

"Done and done. J. Wayne already handled it. You know the damned kid's rich?"

"And young and cute."

"With a nice ass."

Mulder snickered. "Yeah, but I have a great ass. How rich are we talking, here?"

"Beats me. I didn't ask. But he's got enough money to make things work. Pretty impressive."

Mulder thought about it. "Maybe I should propose to him."

"Stand in line, Mulder."

"I can share."

"I hope so, actually. We're sharing a room." Mulder was silent. Frohike sighed. "What's the matter, you don't want to share a room with me?"

Mulder made a surprised noise. "Oh. Yeah, that's fine."

Frohike snickered. "You thought I meant me and the kid?"

"I hoped you meant you, me, and the kid."

"The kid's sharing a room with Jimmy."

Mulder choked. "When the fuck did that happen?"

"Fight it down, Mulder. Nothing happened. They're just sharing a room, okay? Jimmy's straight and you know it."

Mulder laughed, relieved. "I should, I've been hitting on him for the past year."

"I don't see the attraction," Frohike said, considering.

"Have you forgotten my great ass?"

"Not you, him."

"He's big and blond. Unfortunately, he's also dumb as a post, and about as straight as one, too."

"True. If he doesn't respond to The Pout or your great ass, he's gotta be straight. Or crazy. Either way."

"Alien infiltrator."

"He's not smart enough to be an alien infiltrator, Mulder."

"You ever watch 'Invader Zim'?"

Frohike sighed. "Yeah, okay, whatever. I have to clean up, and me and the kid have to figure out what we're doing tomorrow. We'll see you when you get in, okay?"

"Where are we staying, anyway, if the kid's rich?"

"Motel Six. I insisted. I bet he heard me through the wall, actually."

"Oh, God--" Mulder's breathing shortened again. "Fro--"

"Fight it down, Mulder. I'm not a young man anymore. You've gotta give me some time to rest."

Mulder sounded disappointed. "Tomorrow night--"

"Not in some airport bathroom, either. I'm not completely sleazy."

"Yeah, I know. The Motel Six. Second home to reporters and special agents everywhere."

"Anything goes in a Motel Six, Mulder."

"Anything?"

"You might remember the increased security in our nation's fine airports," Frohike commented mildly. "You can't get a lot of that stuff on a plane anymore."

"Seattle has one of the highest per capita porn shop ratios in the country."

Frohike sighed. "You would know that."

"I'm not the one with a huge clam in my bathtub," Mulder retorted. "See you tomorrow, Fro."

---

---

Date: Friday, April 04, 2003 8:13 PM

     Caffeine, Conspiracies, and the Fortean Nature of Fishes IX:
     Sleepless in Sammamish
     By D. Sidhe: Erika dsidhe@attbi.com
     Web: http://www.dsidhe.com/
     Category: Slash, WIP
     Pairings: Mulder/Frohike, Langly/Byers
     Archive: If you want it, take it. And get help. Seriously.
     We're all concerned.
     Summary: Just when you thought it was safe to go back into a
     UFO cult...

Rating: NC-17 for language, smut, and general perversion, plus a lot of what I'm probably going to be sued for referring to as "Discovery Channel After Dark".

Disclaimers and Apologies: I continue to exploit and offend without permission. "Washington Watches" is mine. Their surly receptionist and her multicolored forms are mine. Their internal bulletin board, and much of their decor, are borrowed significantly from the SO's place of employment. Kind of scary, really. The chick with the Cube is mine. The actual usage of said item in prognostication is not. (I swear, I have a book that tells how to do it.) If it helps any at all, I made up the Brotherhood of Pragmatic Resistance. On the other hand, given the fact that the various jokes made about them are not exactly original, maybe it doesn't help that much. Rosenberg, Allen, and their cub reporter Pete come to us from "Weekend", in which they represented the entirely fictitious (as far as I know) publication "Apple Cart". Pete's area of interest is UFO hoaxes, which will become relevant hopefully at some point. "Flap", which is a real name of a real UFO press, has become fictionalized in the person of Steve Helder, editor, from Arkansas. At this point I frankly regret that I used a real name of a publication, but on the other hand there are only about eight discrete organizations called "The Smoking Gun", so let's just all pretend this is a different "Flap". Scientific facts offered are real, as are the t-shirts, though bakeries and novelty items mentioned are not, as far as I know. The pop-up book will not be explained on the grounds that it may tend to incriminate me. Further parts continue to pend, so get your incredulous emails about "I waited months for this?" in early and avoid the rush.

Beta: This segment was written in front of a live studio audience. Who got bored a lot. And whined a lot. "You know," he said at one point, "Your dialogue is usually pretty zippy, but you can't plot to save your life." "I'm plotting right now," I told him. "Does it involve cooking at me?" "As a matter of fact, yes." "That's not plotting, that's scheming." He may have a point. And I'm not just saying that because I liked the "zippy dialogue" thing. He also bitched a lot about my abrupt scene changes in this part, but for God's sake, it was fifteen pages without the author's note. Do you want smooth transitions, or do you want Entirely Gratuitous Sex? I thought so.

Spoilers: TLGMaD. Oh, wait, no they're not. Never mind. But there's a couple of references to XF: "Unusual Suspects".

Author's Note: No live animals were harmed in the making of this segment. (Aside from the steady diet of pizza and cheeseburgers, anyway. Does Spam count? And if so, doesn't it seem like a particularly inhumane thing to do to the pig.) Betty helped me with an experiment to see just how many "roommates" Frohike would eventually end up with. Based on flippant reasoning and loose math, or the other way around, we figure we're looking at somewhere in the neighborhood of seven thousand. And no, I'm not going to explain how we figured that out, because then I'd definitely be in the running for a nice canvas blazer with the optional extra long sleeves, and honestly, white is not my best color. I'm not explaining the barnacle thing, either, though anyone who's interested in checking my math to see if we're right, remember it's never too late for rewrites. I did some checking, and it seems that male club tail dragonflies, comprising members of the genera Gomphidae and Stylogomphidae, don't have genitalia larger than that of barnacles. An entomologist consulted suggests that dragonfly and damselfly genitalia are interesting for many reasons, not least that their sperm production organs are not connected to their copulation organs (ligula), and they must actually transfer sperm from the ninth abdominal segment to the twelfth before transferring it to the female. Genitalia identification is aided, he explained, by inflating the penises of dead insects with pressurized alcohol. Once the alcohol dehydrates, the genitalia harden into the inflated shape. "It's like a tiny balloon," he commented with an enthusiasm that may give me nightmares for months. Bambi, from X-Files "War of the Coprophages", may have been referring to Phyllogomphidae, or snaketails, which have thick penises, based on photos I've unfortunately seen, but not what I would consider especially long ones, compared to photos of barnacles I've also unfortunately seen. (I may never recover.) Clubtails in fact include four species of pygmy dragonflies. If you're interested, you can donate your combine or tractor to IORI, the International Odonata Research Institute, which is a not-for-profit foundation housed within the Florida State Collection of Arthropods facility. Even if your snowmobile or jet-ski isn't working, you can still get a tax write-off from the donation, and you do not pay towing charges. You can also donate Odonata specimens, which, properly presented, will earn you a tax write-off of about five dollars apiece. Uncurated specimens are worth much less, it seems. If it helps, they're also looking for emerged specimens with exuviae, preserved in 95% to 100% ethanol, for DNA studies. Yeah, that was good news to me, too. I'd been wondering what to do with all those exuviae. And, okay, it's probably time to explain two popular elements of UFOlogy. Frohike's experience in the first part of this segment is more or less an example of "Oz Factor". That is, the weirdness in terms of environment and perception that happens during a UFO encounter. It tends to include visual and auditory hallucinations, (or conversely a total lack of noise), strange lights, smells, and sensations, a feeling that time has stopped, that the world is frozen, and that "something is wrong". (Possibly the big shiny thing with the little gray guys inside, I suppose.) Frohike's response to this, afterwards, is what is generally referred to as Soda Pop Phenomenon. It indicates someone behaving in an unnaturally normal way in the presence of something very surreal. It's named for an incident in which a contactee, being told by the aliens that they were thirsty, allegedly went into a grocery store and bought them some soda pop. I mention this because they're both going to come up again later. Repeatedly, in fact, because I basically can't resist beating running gags to death. One more thing: Evidently the Nerf line is being retooled, and therefore Nerf Warfare events are few and far between until the end of the year. I include this fact because I've been hearing about it at great length for the last two months, and why should I have to suffer alone?

---

After dropping a chunk on the new camera, Byers had insisted the three of them share a room last night. Langly was less than thrilled, until Jimmy announced that he was going to go give the van a thorough going-over after dinner. Byers had barely had time to dump the Bible into the trash can at the end of the hallway before Langly dragged him back into the room and was stripping clothes off both of them with the kind of efficiency and speed he usually reserved for a hack.

"Ri, for God's sake. Can I at least brush my teeth?"

"No time to waste," Langly had muttered into his hair. "You heard the man."

"I heard him say half an hour. I think we've got time to brush our teeth."

"I don't think half an hour's gonna be long enough for what I wanna do to you."

Byers had feigned surprise. "It only took ten minutes last time."

"Smartass."

As it turned out, Jimmy had returned with surprising tact an hour later, by which time Langly was snoring away and Byers was the sole recipient of the knowing smirks and giggles. He'd sighed and rolled over, stealing the blankets and leaving Jimmy to giggle at the little hearts on Langly's boxers. Served him right.

---

Restless in the night, Frohike had awoken at some point, and been drawn to the window by a shimmering pale light between the curtains. He remembered peering out to see--snow. It had seemed to be snowing, in the deserted parking lot, lit by the dim streetlights. It melted as it touched the ground, and he dismissed the thought it might be, ash, maybe, or fallout, or something like that. Nothing moved but what his eyes kept telling his brain was snow, and the whole world seemed silent. There was no sound from the air conditioner he'd left on earlier, no traffic noises.

Alarmed at the eerie scene, he had backed into the table. There was no noise even from that, and he'd turned to see he'd knocked over several of the sample containers. The world had frozen into an icicle around him, and sharp at the point were the two canisters balanced in midfall. He'd reached out with a hand that didn't tremble through sheer force of will, and set them carefully upright. He'd been realizing it had to be a dream when the varnished surface of the table had shone with the reflected vibrant blue of lights from outside the window. His outstretched arm tingled where it was bathed in the light. He'd turned, not breathing, and seen... something. A roughly triangular shape outlined by the circles of blue light. The lights cast rays through the snow, pooling on the pavement. And then it was gone.

He remembered noticing he had something on his hand from one of the samples, something warm and gooey and he didn't want to know what it was. He'd walked calmly to the bathroom and washed his hands and then, thirsty, drank three glasses of water. He'd glanced into the tub, it seemed, to see the clam pulsing gently, and glowing softly in shades of violet. He'd regarded it without emotion for a moment. Then he'd gone back to bed.

In the morning, everything looked normal. Just a weird dream, he told himself.

Except--Except--Except that there was a burning rash on his arm where the light had been brightest. His brain stuttered at it until something suggested he was allergic to something from the beach yesterday, and this was the reaction.

He heard J. Wayne moving around next door, and knocked on the connecting door. The kid was already up and dressed. He stared in surprise at Frohike, enrobed and probably looking the worse for wear, and focused on the rash.

"What happened?"

Frohike shrugged. "Allergy, I guess. Mind if I use your shower? There's a clam in mine."

J. Wayne stood back, still looking curiously at the rash. "Sure. Allergy to what? Because it looks like a burn, actually."

Frohike shrugged again. "It does kind of burn. I don't know to what. Something on the beach, maybe. After I get dressed, we'll hit a drugstore, get some cream or something."

J. Wayne nodded reluctantly. "Maybe you should see a doctor. Considering what was on that beach. You could have been exposed to anything, really."

Frohike snickered. "You want to go to a doctor and ask if he thinks this is a reaction to an alien slime mold?"

The kid sighed. "I guess not."

Frohike was, truth to tell, a little concerned about it himself. With what he knew about the black oil, it would have been impossible not to be worried. But there wasn't much a doctor could do about it, and he knew better than to let himself pop up on the radar like that. There were still laws about alien contact, after all, and there were people who'd use any excuse to break up "Gunman". They'd made a lot of the wrong kind of enemies, and Mulder's protection only went so far.

When the hot water hit his arm with a pain he'd previously only associated with drunken power-tool incidents, he let out a noise that could have come from a horny moose.

J. Wayne was instantly banging on the door, panic in his voice. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

Frohike shut off the water and stood dripping, trying to get his breath back. "I'm okay," he eventually managed. "The water was too hot."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry about it." He turned the water back on and held his arm well out of the spray while he finished up.

---

After breakfast, Frohike took J. Wayne by the offices of "Washington Watches", another UFO research group "Gunman" worked with from time to time.

"They're pretty much the same deal as WETHR Front," he explained. "They publish books, not news. Some articles in science journals. The guy in charge here is Walter Censoni. He's a nice guy, a little... focused. They maintain observation posts, send field investigators to sites. Not everyone does that. They also have radar and listening posts. They're pretty technologically advanced. He might be able to tell us what's been going on on Maury."

"The books must do well," J. Wayne commented.

"Not that well, no. Censoni's new money. Microsoft money."

"Okay." He seemed distracted. "When's Agent Mulder coming in?"

Frohike gave him a fast glance. "Seven, seven-thirty. We'll get dinner after that, that okay?"

"Whatever."

"You're coming with me to the airport, okay?"

J. Wayne looked surprised. "Yeah, sure, okay."

"You don't want to?"

The kid turned bright pink. "No, I just assumed, uh..."

Frohike took pity on him. "Mulder asked."

He looked pretty happy with that, Frohike thought, smothering laughter.

"You, uh, never told me how you met Agent Mulder." The words came out in a rush.

Frohike allowed himself a grin. "Long story. We'll get Mulder drunk at dinner again, he'll tell you." He chuckled. "Most of it, anyhow. He doesn't remember... the best parts."

J. Wayne settled for raised eyebrows and a questioning expression. Frohike didn't notice, he was remembering that first time they'd met. A lot of it was kind of awful, but Mulder didn't remember those parts either, so nobody'd have to tell the kid, really. But what Frohike would die remembering, was Mulder, stark naked and sweating all over, sprawled on the concrete, yelling at the top of his lungs about aliens. Even fucked up, Mulder was totally hot, and Frohike'd lived with that image in his head for years before he'd gotten another look. Which had been well worth the wait. Finally, Frohike shook his head and chuckled again. "A very long story. It's how we got our name, too. How we got our start."

"The paper?" J. Wayne asked.

"Yep. Time for that later, okay? Let's go talk to Wacky Wally."

J. Wayne laughed a little, and Frohike grinned at him again. "Don't tell him I called him that, okay? We still need his help here."

---

Washington Watches was located in a three story glass-and-brick edifice with an array of unrecognizable equipment bristling from the roof. Inside, it simply bristled with people. Dozens of them, milling about, all with piles of papers in hand, typing, or talking on phones. All of them loud.

From the high ceiling of the foyer hung a UFO of the type J. Wayne was coming to recognize as a Marfa Diamond. There were other, much smaller, models hanging around the offices, or perched on stands, and J. Wayne was surprised to see how few of them resembled the traditional "flying saucer".

Frohike led him to the busy reception desk, where a harried woman put her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone and snapped at them. "Pink's First Kind, yellow's Second, blue's Third, red's Fourth, orange if you're not sure. Abductions and conversations with entities, fill out a green sheet, too. If you saw Bigfoot, just leave your name in the log and we'll get back to you." She waved at an array of colored papers.

Frohike laughed. "I got an appointment, Censoni. 'Lone Gunman' to see him."

The woman looked annoyed for a moment and then resigned herself, turning back to the phone. "Please hold for just a moment." She spun to her computer terminal and tapped a few words. "Mel Frohike and friend?" she asked suspiciously.

"That's the one."

She sighed faintly. "Please take a seat over there. He'll be a few minutes." Then she went back to the phone. "Sorry about that. When you say trout, you mean...?"

Frohike laughed again and grabbed one of each colored paper, sitting in the arranged chairs already partially occupied with several other people, some of them busily filling out forms. He handed an orange sheet to J. Wayne and started reading over the green.

Twenty minutes later, they'd both read all the questionnaires, and listened to the woman give her curt speech seven more times between phone calls. Three people had taken one form or another, two of them leaving with them in hand, and one sitting down near a window to fill hers out. Another had signed the log and gone away looking disappointed. Two more had been put off by the welcome and gone away apparently unsatisfied. Of the last two, the woman had been directed to a desk on the second floor, and the man had been instructed to take a seat and wait.

Frohike, displaying no evident impatience, had wandered over to the in-house bulletin board, J. Wayne tagging behind, to read the notices.

"They got an INWO league," Frohike said cheerfully. J. Wayne gave him a blank look, and Frohike sighed, in unconscious echo of the woman at the desk. "Illuminati: New World Order," he said. "It's a board game, and now one of those trading card games. It's how conspiracy geeks unwind. Those of us too old for D&D, anyhow."

"There's a D&D group too," J. Wayne observed. "And a Magic league, it looks like."

Frohike nodded. "Censoni's got money, so most of these people are paid. They don't need a day job, so they have time to play. With Nerf guns, apparently," he grinned, pointing to an invitation to the Annual Non-Lethal Weaponry Armageddon.

Other notices tacked to the board offered "Psychic Housecleaning", "Feng Shui Therapy", and a variety of baby-, pet-, and house-sitters listed by religion. Frohike spent a moment wondering what "Houseplant Analysis" would accomplish. J. Wayne drew his attention to a notice for the monthly "transmitter hunt".

"No clue," Frohike shrugged. "It was all model rockets in my day." The kid gave him a skeptical look, and he snickered. "And dinosaur chariot races," he added.

J. Wayne blinked, and looked ready to say something, when a little man in a "Blame it on the Media" t-shirt tapped Frohike on the arm.

"Come on back, Mel. Walt's hiding out in his office."

"Larch, you sonofabitch," Frohike said happily, pounding the man on the shoulder. "What's Walt hiding from?"

The man rolled his eyes. "Kewaunee, among others."

Frohike laughed. "Him too, huh? WUFORG was dodging his Bigfeet yesterday."

"Bigfoots? Bigfeets?" mused the little man. "He get past Jumie?"

Frohike snorted. "Does anybody?"

The guy grinned, holding the elevator door open. "Did you?"

Frohike laughed again. "Briefly. Sneaked past when she wasn't looking."

That earned him a look of utter disbelief. "Like she's ever not looking. You sweet-talked her, didn't you."

Frohike smiled smugly as Larch led them into a private office nearly buried in files. "Not tellin'."

A dark curly head rose out of the stacks of papers scattered around, and Censoni, clad in blue jeans and a t-shirt that read "Microsoft: Assimilate or Die" tried to pick his way out of the mess to greet his visitors. "Not tellin' what, Mel?"

"Socked in again, Walt?" Frohike chuckled. "Your boy here wants to know what I've got on Jumie at WUFORG."

Censoni laughed. "That thing with her daughter, maybe?"

"Old news." Frohike smiled faintly. "These days I have to rely on natural charm, like everybody else."

Larch raised an eyebrow. "Her daughter? You dog, Mel."

J. Wayne could have sworn Frohike was blushing. "Nothing like that, Larch. Jumie'd take out a restraining order if it was like that. I just. helped her out a little. Years ago."

Censoni shook his head. "Sure. So who's the kid? You trade in that Bond guy?"

Frohike shrugged. "Not yet. Byers swore he'd feed and walk Jimmy every day if we let him keep him. This is J. Wayne Arthur. J. Wayne used to be with 'Powder Keg'."

"Assholes," Larch said pleasantly enough.

"Bunch of pricks," Censoni added. "Nice to meet you, Jay. Where'd you run into Mel?"

"J. Wayne," Frohike corrected him, just to see the kid wince again. "We met at a conference," he said, not elaborating. "He's working with us for a while. J. Wayne, this is Walt Censoni, and this is Larch Redlund."

Redlund squinted for a moment and then snapped his fingers. "Wayne Arthur the Third. 'Weaponized Microwave Exposure and Germ Line Repercussions on Humans'?"

Censoni looked surprised, but it was nothing to J. Wayne's blush. "Uh, yeah."

Censoni and Redlund traded a look. "You're working with Gunman now?" Censoni asked carefully.

"For the moment," J. Wayne admitted. "I'm freelancing since I left 'Powder Keg'."

The two men traded another look. "You need a bunk?" Redlund asked.

J. Wayne looked slightly confused. "No, we're fine."

Redlund laughed. "I didn't mean a place to sleep," he explained, "I meant a place to work."

J. Wayne shook his head. "UFOs aren't really my thing..." he started.

Censoni nodded. "That's fine. We prefer people with a grounding in hard sciences and an open mind to True Believers. Get me your resume before you leave, and maybe we can find a place for you. If not with us, we do know most of the groups in the area."

"Thank you, I'll do that."

Frohike interrupted. "So what's going on, Walt?"

Censoni managed to find a bare piece of desk to perch on. "You tell me, Mel. 'Gunman' doesn't come to Washington for the weather."

Frohike snorted. "Yeah, but that's mostly because Langly whines."

Censoni turned to Redlund with raised eyebrows, and Redlund shrugged. "Where're your boys, Mel?" Censoni wanted to know.

Frohike shrugged again. "Montana."

Redlund spoke up. "We've got cattle mutilation reports, from Montana. You're doing a black helicopters story?"

Frohike shook his head. "Nothing so conventional. They're looking for Bigfoot."

Censoni grimaced. "Bigfoot's a hoax. Everybody knows that, Mel."

"Which is why you're hiding from Kewaunee, right?"

"Okay, everybody but Kewaunee knows Bigfoot's a hoax."

"Actually, so far they've only found a Fishy Man-Goat. Their words," he clarified hastily, "not mine."

Censoni gave that due consideration. "Are they driving drunk?" he said at length.

Redlund snickered.

"Of course not," Frohike said virtuously. "Byers would never allow it."

Censoni shook his head. "So let me guess. You're here because you heard rumors about Men in Black and Maury Island."

Frohike nudged J. Wayne. "He's a smart guy. Exactly." He grinned some more. "You show me yours..."

Censoni laughed. "You've been hanging out with what's-his-name too long, Mel. Okay, what do you already know?"

Frohike ran down most of their information, omitting the more significant details, and highlighting the alleged connections between Fred Lee Crisman and the MIB, MJ12, Bay of Pigs, and JFK.

Censoni listened thoughtfully. "What's John think?" he asked eventually.

J. Wayne looked puzzled, but they could discuss it later, Frohike figured. "He's intrigued. The JFK thing especially, you know him. He and Langly put together a chart..." He rummaged in his pack and came out with a smaller version of the connections Langly had come up with, together with Byers' notes on them. "This doesn't leave your hands, Walt," he said meaningfully.

Censoni nodded. "Usual deal."

Frohike hesitated a moment longer, mostly for effect, and handed the papers over.

Redlund gave him a look. "Did you give this to WUFORG?"

"Not the chart, no. I gave them MJ12 and Bay of Pigs."

"Who else have you talked to?"

"WETHR Front."

"What'd you give them?"

"Not much. They want the MIB angle."

Redlund started to say something, but Censoni waved him into silence. "They can have it. And the Bigfoot reports. I want Maury, Mel."

Frohike shook his head. "They're not gonna go for that."

They were all quiet for a while. Finally Censoni shrugged. "Okay. They can have the history. We want the present. Will Ellis agree to that?"

Frohike glanced at his watch. "Let's give him a call and see. Maybe we can get together and hash it out in person."

Censoni picked up the phone, and paused for a moment. "If we get a book put together out of this, do you think WUFORG would promote it?"

Frohike smiled. "I think we can arrange that."

"Is there a book here, Mel?" Redlund asked.

"More than one, Larch."

Censoni put the phone down again and regarded them intently. "You've got more than you're telling."

Frohike nodded. "A lot more. We've got trace."

Redlund sat up abruptly and knocked over a stack of folders. He and Censoni ignored it. "Recordings?"

"For your ears only," he said firmly.

Censoni and Redlund both nodded. Frohike glanced around suspiciously. "Artifact," he said quietly. J. Wayne shifted slightly, surprised. Frohike gestured him to relax.

"You're serious," Censoni said.

"Look, Walt. Mulder's coming out. That's how serious I am. If this is anything like what I think it is, there'll be books and exclusives for every organization in this state, okay? It's huge. You know that already. We're gonna need all the help we can get. Especially with the MIB wandering around trying to bury it as fast as they can. There's room for everybody on this one."

Censoni gazed at him for a while and then nodded, picking up the phone again.

The door swung open suddenly, and a tall man came in, followed by two others. They all worse suits, and Frohike had a brief MIB moment.

"I hope you're right, Mel," said the first one. "'Cause everybody's going to be here."

J. Wayne stretched out a hand to the youngest of the trio. "Pete, how are you?"

Frohike tried innocence. "Allen, Josh. What brings you here?"

The first man snorted. "Give it a rest, Mel. Who're you callin', Walt?"

Censoni put the phone down again. "Locksmith. Don't you ever knock, Allen?"

Josh Rosenberg smiled. "Usually he lets me do it. Come on, men. There's no need to fight over this. Mel's right, it's huge. Plenty to go around." The smile verged on a grin for a moment. "By the way, you've got 'Flap' in your reception area."

Redlund sighed. "Swell. Let's make it a party."

---

After a loud and contentious, but ultimately mutually beneficial, two hour meeting, they headed back to the hotel to pick up what Frohike referred to as his roommate.

"What's that noise?" J. Wayne asked curiously once the door was open.

Frohike stopped and listened. "Kind of a rustling?"

"Yeah..."

"It's coming from--Oh, no." Frohike dashed into the bathroom and groaned loudly. J. Wayne followed.

"Fuck," commented Frohike. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

The bathtub was alive with tiny purple crabs. They were all over each other, nearly four inches deep. The sound of their shells rattling together was producing a sort of irregular hiss. The tip of the clam shell was just visible under the shifting patterns of the crabs.

Frohike grimaced and reached in to snag it. "Damn!" He yelped and yanked his hand back, shaking off the two crabs that had applied themselves to the skin of his fingers. One landed on the tile and J. Wayne upended the empty ice bucket over it before it could flee.

Frohike was sucking on his finger. "Rotten little bastards," he muttered. He stalked into the other room and returned with a pair of pliers.

Once shaken free of the crabs, the shell was everything Frohike had hoped it wouldn't be: empty, picked clean, almost polished with the action of thousands of tiny claws.

He offered a rhetorical viewpoint that turned J. Wayne's face pink, and left with the clamshell in hand. He was inspecting it closely in the sunlight from the window when J. Wayne, having returned the fugitive crustacean to the tub, rejoined him.

"Nothing," Frohike muttered disgustedly. He dropped the shell heavily onto the table and leaned back against the wall. "I suppose," he said after a while, "we should take some of the crabs with us to see our professor. Not that there's any point."

"You've got a message," J. Wayne commented, gesturing at the phone. "I'll snare a couple of your little friends. Maybe we should take a sample of the purple thing," he suggested.

Frohike shook his head. "Not a good idea. The fewer people know about that right now, the better."

"Okay. Hey," he called from the bathroom, "Why'd you tell those guys about the metal?"

"They've got equipment we're gonna need." He thought about it for a moment. "I should probably make sure the boys are keeping it somewhere safe, now that we know what's in it."

J. Wayne returned, peering into a plastic canister with several crabs scuttling in the bottom of it. "You think it might be dangerous?"

Frohike shrugged. "No. I think we shot enough radiation through it to kill whatever was in it. But I'd rather not take chances." He picked up the phone and got the desk, asking for his messages. He listened for a moment. "Look, it's not like--" he protested, before being cut off. He listened a little longer, and then sighed. "Fine, yeah, okay. We'll do that."

J. Wayne waited for him to hang up, which he did with a certain lack of restraint, and then said, "What's wrong?"

"Apparently," the older man said in leaden tones, "we need to talk to the manager about a pet deposit."

---

The professor wasn't helpful, though not for lack of trying. He declared the crabs to be perfectly common Hemigrapsus nudus. He dissected one and concluded there was nothing abnormal about it. The clam shell had only recently been vacated, and though shore crabs didn't commonly eat geoduck, he supposed with enough of them in a confined area they'd grab at whatever was available.

They weren't pin crabs, he responded with a certain amount of surprise to Frohike's question, but purple, or naked, shore crabs. He went on to explain that as far as he knew, the only possible way for them to have gotten into the bathtub was for someone to have put them there. He lectured at some length about the mating habits of the crabs, and Frohike found himself obliged to put his pack in his lap. Mulder was quite a social liability even when he wasn't around, Frohike reflected.

A terrible thought suddenly occurred to him, and he made their excuses quickly and herded J. Wayne back to the car.

"Mel, what's up?"

"Look, if someone filled the tub with crabs, then maybe they got to the locker, too. We need to go make sure it's safe."

The kid folded himself into the car without another word.

A speeding ticket later, the lock appeared to be unmolested. A check of the closet and its contents showed nothing different from the day before, aside from the smell, which was starting to overwhelm even the climate control in the heat of the summer.

"This is a good place for a Stick-Up," Frohike mused as he closed the cooler chest lid. Definitely starting to feel a bit ill, he dropped the lock into place and snapped it shut. "Well, I guess that's okay. But it doesn't explain the crabs."

"Maybe whoever did it doesn't know about this. Or maybe the lock was too hard to get past."

Frohike sighed. "One thing hanging out with Yves has taught me, no lock is pickproof."

"Who's Yves?"

Frohike wasn't listening. A tall woman with extremely long, blue-black hair was approaching them. She had a limp, huge sunglasses, and a very sharp nose. She was barefoot, and wearing what Frohike could only describe as a collection of gaudy scarves and rags knotted together. It somehow didn't quite cover everything, and he watched with interest as her odd gait caused brief and unexpected revelations of dark skin. Even standing still, she jangled from dozens of pieces of copper jewelry.

"Melvin Frohike," she said, in a high, edgy voice, pulling off her glasses to reveal seriously bloodshot eyes. "And Jay Wayne Arthur, the Third."

"Have, uh, have we met?" Frohike asked, automatically offering his hand.

She took it between both of hers and squeezed. Her hands shook slightly, Frohike noticed, and her left thumb seemed to twitch continuously. "Um, no. Not in this existence. Not until now." She let go of his hand and turned to take J. Wayne's. "I'm Sela Loy," she said. "And I've been looking for you."

Brief suspicion flared for a moment. "How did you know we were here?"

"Well, I followed my guide."

J. Wayne glanced around, seeing no one. "Your guide?" he asked hesitantly.

From somewhere in whatever she was wearing, the woman produced... The two men blinked.

"A Rubik's Cube?" Frohike asked.

"My guide," the woman nodded quickly.

"Oh."

"I know your clam is missing," she told them.

Frohike stared. "Uh, yeah?"

"How do you know about that?" J. Wayne demanded.

She petted the Cube anxiously with the fingertips of her free hand. "My guide told me."

"Uh, yeah." Frohike squinted at it. "Right. Your Rubik's Cube told you about our clam."

"And where to find you."

"And where to find us," he repeated. "Uh, it's telling you anything else?"

"Many things." Shifting her gaze from the men to the Cube and its apparently random patterns, she smiled anxiously at J. Wayne. It seemed to unnerve him. "This won't be everything you hope, but it will be what you want."

"Oh," he said again. "What will?"

"This." She offered a vague wave of her hand that seemed to indicate the closet, the ground, and possibly the entire solar system. Then she turned to Frohike. "And for you, um, barnacles." She looked puzzled.

"Excuse me?"

"Barnacles," she nodded again. She forced the Cube into his hands. "Twist it six times. Don't look at it."

Still baffled, he did as he was told. She took it back and pondered it for a moment, shifting it from side to side and regarding it from various angles. "Ice," she said at last. "Or snow."

"What?" Frohike was startled.

"Or ice cream. I can't be sure. But, yes, barnacles, definitely."

Frohike sighed. "Whatever. Look, Ms. Loy, we're really pretty busy today. We haven't got time for a toy-assisted psychic, okay?"

Her eyelids jumped a bit as she put her sunglasses back. "I understand. I'll be in touch." She pulled a card from--again, somewhere--and handed it to him. Then she turned and walked away, displaying even more glimpses of skin.

Finally, Frohike sighed again and turned to J. Wayne. "I hate this state, you know that? As far as I can tell, there're only about a dozen sane people in the entire goddamned place."

J. Wayne laughed. "I think I'm ready for lunch."

---

Over lunch (not chowder) Frohike pulled out his cell and made a call to Tim Ellis.

"Do you, or does Dottie," he grimaced at J. Wayne across his sandwich, "know someone named Sela Loy?"

J. Wayne stole one of Frohike's french fries as he listened. Evidently, Tim did.

"You can't be serious," Frohike started, only to be interrupted. He listened a while longer, occasionally interjecting exclamations of disbelief, and hung up, sighing. He stared at his fries for several moments without saying anything.

"So what's he say?" J. Wayne asked.

Frohike reached across and grabbed the younger man's dill pickle wedge. J. Wayne grinned and swiped another fry. "Maybe we should order for each other next time," Frohike commented ironically.

J. Wayne laughed. "I'm not getting anywhere near your roast beef. So what's he say?"

"That's a shame. It seems Ms Loy is a member of a group known in these parts as The Brotherhood of Pragmatic Resistance."

The kid raised an eyebrow. "Resistance to what?"

Frohike closed his eyes. "Alien abduction."

J. Wayne thought about that for a moment. "What's pragmatic resistance?"

Frohike slumped and dropped one hand heavily onto the table. "You don't want to know."

"Why, is it illegal?"

"Who knows? It starts with guns. They seem to be the best-armed bunch of insomniac nutcases in the state."

"That makes me feel safe."

"This'll help, then. It seems the head nutcase is a guy who calls himself Brother Bob the Righteous."

"Brother Bob?"

"Brother Bob the Righteous," Frohike confirmed. "That's not even the worst part. Apparently, pragmatic resistance involves more than just weapons and caffeine addiction. Brother Bob claims to have been targeted for abduction by, I dunno, nocturnal sex-crazed aliens who want his sperm. So to thwart them--"

"He got a vasectomy?"

"Brother Bob is apparently not one for half measures," Frohike told him, eyes closed.

J. Wayne swallowed nervously. "Does that mean--"

"Let's just say he's got an ironclad defense in any paternity suits."

J. Wayne winced and pushed his plate away. "You're right. I didn't want to know." He thought about it for a moment. "And Ms. Loy?"

"Tim says their habit is to name you for the first thing you see when you are 'rebaptized'. So aside from Brother Bob, there's also Brother Table, Sister Drinking Glass, Brother Window, that sort of thing."

"And Ms. Loy?" J. Wayne persisted.

"Sister Brother Table."

They both contemplated that. Finally J. Wayne said, "Well, I can see why she goes by Sela Loy."

"On the bright side, not all of them have gone as far in the pragmatic resistance thing as Brother Bob. Many of them can still, for example, count to eleven."

J. Wayne snickered.

"Tim says," Frohike commented eventually, "that Ms. Loy is a nutcase, but does seem to be legitimately psychic."

"That's a shame," J. Wayne said mildly.

"What is?"

"He seemed reasonably intelligent."

Frohike just laughed.

---

Idaho was soothingly uneventful on jangled nerves. On the other hand, they were only in the state for three hours. Afternoon in Eastern Washington was turning out to be a blissful monotony of wheat fields, cows, parched grass, and dust, broken only occasionally by the glimpse of a boulder or a tree sitting in the middle of a field or pasture.

Even Langly was learning to live with the cows. He'd appropriated the radio while Byers was driving, declaring the airwaves to be "communal property" and therefore his by right of domestic partnership. His enthusiasm had dimmed upon discovering that the majority of the available stations were broadcasting religious material and farm reports.

He'd skipped lunch and rigged the van's radio to play from his CDs, despite Byers' predictions that Frohike wasn't going to take that well. Langly shot him a look that could've singed gnats, and he shut up and concentrated on driving.

Things went okay until about four, when they found the road blocked by a black stretch limo with darkened windows. Byers pulled the van to a stop and gazed at Langly in puzzlement. "Car troubles?" he mused.

Langly shook his head. "I don't know what the hell a limo would be doing out here in the desert."

Jimmy leaned forward. "Guys, there's somebody in there. Maybe we should go see if they need help or something."

Byers unbuckled himself. "Or at least push it off the road."

As they walked up to the front of the car, it became apparent that there were a lot of somebodies in there, though no one seemed to noticed the Gunmen. Byers rapped politely on the driver's side window and waited.

"Freaky," Langly muttered. "I can't figure out what they're doin' in there."

"There's enough of them," Jimmy said in confusion, "they should've been able to move the car off the road themselves, right?"

"Unless they were too busy," Langly snickered.

Jimmy's eyes widened. "There's a lot of people in there, Langly. Are you sayin' they're--"

Byers hushed them both before Jimmy could complete his thought. The door opened, and the three of them stood back. A heavy middle aged guy in a rubber Ronald Reagan Halloween mask stepped out of the car, and the Gunmen stepped back even farther. The limo seemed to be packed with guys in Ronald Reagan masks and fuzzy Pikachu bedroom slippers.

The masks added a surreal uniformity to the occupants, but the Gunmen found themselves in a very good position to identify the wearers as male anyway--the masks and the slippers were all they wore.

"Oh, my," Byers said faintly as Jimmy and Langly fought down giggles. "You, uh..."

"Thank God you came," said the man, his voice slightly muffled by the mask.

Byers tried to come up with a logical reply. "Uh, car trouble?" he ventured helplessly. Langly came close to choking, and Jimmy had to pound him on the back.

A second mask leaned out of the car. "UFOs stole our clothes!" he wailed.

"You, uh," Byers smiled painfully. "No kidding," he said finally.

The first man tried to take Byers' hand, a move he prevented by turning away to gaze at the car's skew across the road. "So what, uh, happened out here?"

"Do you have jumper cables?" a third masked man asked Langly.

"Why?" Langly demanded suspiciously. "What are you going to do with them?"

Byers did what he could to suppress the sudden image. "Yes, we do. Let me get them. We'll bring the van closer."

---

As soon as they picked up Mulder, Frohike drove them to the storage locker. Ever obsessive, Mulder had insisted.

"Hold your nose," Frohike advised. "I hate to think what it's going to smell like today."

Mulder and J. Wayne prudently stepped back. Frohike pulled the lock off the hinge and the door exploded outwards as the contents of the closet pressured it open and poured out. Frohike was left standing in the middle of an improbably large pile of multicolored ping pong balls.

Tok... tok... tok... The last few bounced away and finally rolled to a stop.

Frohike stood blinking, too shocked to move, at the inside of the closet, still half-filled with the balls.

"What the fuck...?" Mulder said faintly.

J. Wayne bent over and picked up a yellow ball, regarding it intently.

"Boys?" Mulder said. "Tell me you ran out of Styrofoam peanuts and this is what you went with."

Frohike sighed as they started to dig him out. "We weren't mailing it, Mulder. Someone else did this."

"That's what I was afraid of." Mulder began scrounging hopelessly through the three feet of balls still left in the closet as Frohike and J. Wayne watched in depression.

"Give it up, Mulder, they're not in there."

Mulder thumped into the middle of the pile, the popping noises of balls bursting under his weight. He sniffed. "They didn't leave it here long, either. This whole place smells like... gardenias?"

"Gardenias?" Frohike leaned in and sniffed the air. "Weirdness."

"Well, it certainly doesn't smell like the goo did," J. Wayne commented.

"I assumed not, no," Mulder said, reaching out an arm. J. Wayne helped him up.

Frohike shook his head. "The stuff was here this morning, Mulder. And this place just reeked."

"Wow, those Ionic Breeze things are great, then," Mulder commented, feigning awe. "Let's see if we can..."

"Garbage bags, in the trunk," Frohike told him. "I'll get them." He wandered back, shaking his head.

J. Wayne and Mulder stared helplessly at each other.

"Is it always this weird around these guys?" the kid finally asked.

Mulder shook his head. "Of course not." J. Wayne looked relieved, and Mulder pulled the rug out. "It's usually a lot weirder. Especially if Yves is involved."

"Who's Yves?"

Frohike returned with the box of garbage bags and some latex gloves. "There's no point, Mulder, but what the hell."

They put on the gloves and started scooping the balls into the bags, careful not to miss any. As predicted, the storage closet was devoid of goo, alien or terrestrial.

J. Wayne sighed. "At least we still have the samples and the pictures. What are we saving the balls for, anyway?"

Frohike glanced at Mulder. "You answer this one. You can practice your explanation for Skinner when he starts screaming."

"Who's Skinner?"

"My boss," Mulder sighed. "A man with a very subdued sense of humor. He's not going to like it when I ship thousands of ping pong balls back and ask the lab to fingerprint them."

Frohike snorted. "That's an understatement."

J. Wayne thought about it. "They should be able to fume them with cyanoacrylate. It ought to be faster than printing each one. I mean, they're ping pong balls. You're not going to need VMD, after all."

Mulder shrugged. "I just hope I get a chance to explain that before Skinner fires me." He grinned at Frohike. "Gonna need your prints for comparison, J. Wayne."

Frohike snickered. "Ink and powder, Mulder. Kinky."

Mulder kept grinning. "Hey, you brought the prophylactics," he replied, waving a gloved hand at them.

Frohike's own grin grew. "That's not all I brought. Once you get your prints, I've got the UV powder and a black light."

"Always the Boy Scout," Mulder laughed. "Always prepared."

J. Wayne just stared at them.

---

They dropped off Mulder's stuff and the ping pong balls at the hotel. Frohike was relieved to discover the crabs hadn't increased or escaped in the interim, and the look on Mulder's face was priceless. The agent was rendered totally speechless. Frohike wished he'd had a camera ready. He explained briefly.

"Maybe we should fingerprint those, too," Mulder said at last. He blinked and shook his head. "I gather we're showering with the kid? Or is he the one who gave you the crabs in the first place."

Frohike snorted and went to check his messages. He listened briefly to the desk manager and turned around to gaze at Mulder, who was examining the specimen containers. He raised an eyebrow at the agent.

Mulder noticed and made a face. "Stop that. I get enough of that from Scully."

Frohike put the phone down. "Who knows where you're staying?"

Mulder shrugged. "Who'd you tell? I didn't even know where we were staying, exactly. Why?" he added, as an afterthought.

"Somebody left an envelope for you at the desk. And I didn't tell anybody."

Mulder shrugged again. "Maybe J. Wayne did."

Frohike shook his head. "I don't know why he would have. Hey, do you know about something called the Brotherhood of Pragmatic Resistance?"

"No. Should I? Resistance to what?"

"Alien abduction. Where do you want to eat?"

Mulder considered both statements with equal intensity. "I dunno. They tried to feed me on the plane, so anything would probably be a step up from that. How do they resist alien abduction? Become UFOlogy authors?"

"Nothing so conventional. It's actually not the abduction per se that they're resisting. The head nutbar seems convinced that the aliens visit him at night to steal his sperm."

Mulder made a face. "He got a vasectomy?"

"He seems to have gone a little overboard, actually."

Mulder winced. "You're not telling me--"

"That he doesn't play piano standing up anymore?"

Mulder shook his head. "That's disgusting, even from you, Frohike."

Frohike snickered. "Yeah, but you knew what I meant."

"There was this fratboy in my misspent youth..."

"I never pictured you as a fratslut, Mulder," Frohike commented dryly. "But yeah, that's what I'm telling you about Brother Bob the Righteous."

"Brother Bob..."

"The Righteous."

"Okay, but does it work?"

"Apparently not. He's got a group of well-armed nutcases in a compound in Sammamish."

"That's very reassuring. Where's Sammamish?"

"I don't know, exactly, but I understand they have a big fish festival every year."

Mulder sighed. "I think they put something in the coffee."

---

The envelope at the desk was anonymous enough, but questioning of the desk clerk who'd taken it revealed that it probably wasn't Ms. Loy or any of her fellow jittery insomniacs who'd left it. They gathered J. Wayne and piled into the rental again to find dinner. Mulder opened the envelope and took a look through what initially appeared to be a dozen photos of unusual UFOs. Not the standard saucer shapes, and not even the deltas they kept running into reports of out here. Mulder's initial excitement faded almost instantly. He tilted the photos slightly so Frohike could see them.

Frohike gave them a two-second glance, snorted, and looked back to the stoplight, a cynical smile on his face. "Someone's fond of you, Mulder."

Mulder sighed and handed the photos back to J. Wayne.

The kid looked through them, silent for a moment. "I don't--" he started, and then stopped. "Well, that's weird."

Mulder slumped. "I get this kind of thing all the time," he said to no one in particular.

Frohike just laughed.

---

"Private party, boys?" Allen pulled out a chair and sat down next to Mulder. "What are you doing in town?"

"Starting a grunge band. How are you, Allen," Mulder said without enthusiasm.

J. Wayne gave in to the inevitable and made room for Rosenberg and Dodden.

"It takes a really big deal to get the FBI out," Rosenberg noted. "What aren't you telling us, Mel?"

"Me? Keep things from my pals at Apple Cart?" Frohike feigned surprise.

Allen heaved a sigh. "What's it gonna take to get it out of you?"

A cruel notion hit Frohike abruptly. He caught Mulder's eye for a split second and grinned slyly. "Why would you think we were hiding anything?"

Rosenberg glanced at each of the three men, suddenly thoughtful. "You and Walt have something on the side," he speculated.

Frohike went for offended. "We told you everything we knew."

Allen sat up as if he'd been jabbed. "Everything you knew?" he asked, repeating the subtle emphasis.

Mulder turned away very deliberately, acting disappointed.

Frohike looked crestfallen, and tried to bluff through it. "Yeah. Everything." He didn't--quite--meet Allen's eyes.

J. Wayne started to say something and found Frohike's hand on his leg under the table. He shut his mouth in a hurry.

"You're looking shifty, Mel," Allen commented. "Spill."

Rosenberg gave Mulder a fast look. "Let's not get personal. We're all friends, remember."

Frohike experienced a quick stab of remorse, but it passed. They were press, after all. "Well, if we did find something," he said nastily, "that 'shifty' crack would cost you big, Chuck."

"Ah-hah!" Allen crowed.

Mulder sighed and leaned close to Frohike. "You have to stop letting these guys bait you," he hissed.

Rosenberg looked from one to the other. "What do you want for it, Mel?"

Frohike tried sheepish. "I don't--"

"Okay, Mel. Let's talk trade. What do you want?"

Frohike sighed and let his shoulder slump, to all appearances defeated. "A stiff drink."

Allen grinned. "Deal."

Mulder snorted, and Rosenberg smiled. "We'll just get the check. Now, what is it?"

Frohike and Mulder glared at each other for a moment, evidently oblivious to the rest of the world. Mulder shrugged at him. "You spilled it, you go get it."

Frohike sighed and stood. "J. Wayne, if he gets his parsley anywhere near my plate, I expect you to spit in his drink."

J. Wayne blinked while Mulder and Allen snickered.

Rosenberg smiled gently at the two cubs. "The only people stranger than reporters are the FBI," he explained. "They've been tossing parsley at each other over dinner for years."

Dodden and J. Wayne didn't seem particularly enlightened.

"We can explain it to ya," Allen smirked, "but we can't understand it for ya. Go on, Mel, I'm keeping an eye on him."

---

Twenty minutes later, the three reporters stared at their new prizes.

"Checkers," Dodden said eventually, sighing.

"You what?" Allen yelped.

"Checkers and marbles. You know, the toys?"

Rosenberg looked more carefully at his picture. "I hate to say it, but he's right."

"They've been painted silvery-gray. And photographed from a very controlled angle. Sorry."

"Well," Rosenberg began.

"Don't say it," Allen begged.

"Someone's playing games with us."

Allen smacked his forehead. "I'm putting in for a transfer. Maybe they need another guy in cold fusion."

"They must have known," Rosenberg said thoughtfully.

Allen pitched the envelope into the back seat, narrowly missing Dodden, and started the car. "Mel's gonna pay."

---

"And I guess it's a good thing Ringo packed so many extra clothes, because we ended up giving most of it to them. He's not happy about it, and I owe him a bunch of new shirts." Byers paused. "Fro? Still there?"

Frohike nodded, still speechless, and realized Byers couldn't see it. He cleared his throat. "Twenty-seven naked guys," he said, hoping Byers would correct him. He didn't, and Mulder stopped looking at the sample containers and stared.

"In Ronald Reagan masks," Byers confirmed unhappily.

"In Ronald Reagan masks," Frohike repeated for Mulder's benefit. "And Pokemon slippers."

"Pikachu, I believe. When they drove away, they were all singing that Jigglypuff song."

"Okay, that's it. Jimmy's not watching cartoons anymore. The only thing more pathetic than you knowing the Jigglypuff song, Byers, is me knowing what you're talking about."

Byers almost chuckled. "Believe me, twenty-seven naked men singing it is worse than either of those. We collected several drawings of the alleged craft and occupants. Jimmy and Ringo have spent the better part of the last two hours speculating on why there were twenty-seven guys in slippers and masks in a limo in the middle of nowhere to begin with."

Frohike gave it a moment's horrified thought. "What'd they come up with?"

"I had my earplugs in, but I think they decided it was probably someone testing hallucinogenic substances on civilians again."

"Surprise, surprise. Maybe it was a cult. We ran into one of those today."

"A naked Ronald Reagan cult?"

"Something called The Brotherhood of Pragmatic Resistance."

"What are they resisting?"

"UFO abduction."

"I wonder if they know the ones we ran into."

"You'd have known. The Brotherhood is less worried about having its clothes stolen than its sperm."

"There is some mention, in the literature, about missing or disarranged clothing. And, at the risk of belaboring the obvious, the ones we ran into were all men."

"It's the pragmatic resistance thing. These aren't your guys. Trust me, you'd have known."

Byers listened to Mulder's hysterical laughter in the background and a terrible suspicion dawned. "You're not saying--"

"That they're not going to be in any good porn movies, no."

"Dear Lord," Byers breathed. "That's..."

"Yeah," Frohike agreed. "Shut up, Mulder," he added as an afterthought.

"What's Mulder think about the samples?"

Frohike sighed. "They're gone, Byers."

"Gone?"

"Yeah. We got back here to pick up the clam, and it'd been eaten by crabs."

"Eaten by crabs," Byers repeated carefully.

"Uh, yeah. Thousands of the little bastards, in my bathtub. They ate the damned thing."

"I don't remember you mentioning crabs."

"Well, yeah. We're thinkin' someone put them in there to get rid of the clam."

"Someone's getting rid of evidence?"

"It might be our friends in the dark suits. Whoever it was also got to the stuff in storage."

"More crabs?" Byers asked incredulously.

"Ping pong balls."

Byers was silent for a while. "I didn't hear that, I don't think."

Frohike sighed and explained it, as vaguely as possible, while Mulder sat and smirked at him from across the room.

"Frohike?"

"Yeah."

"Are you drunk?"

Frohike heaved another sigh. "I wish. Just hang onto your piece, will you? There's something weird going on out here."

Byers was quiet long enough to alarm him. He caught Mulder's eye and jerked his head at the door. Once the agent had left, he sprawled on the bed. "What are you thinking, Byers?"

"Hmm?"

"Look, you've been acting strange since this whole thing started. What're you thinking?"

"Mel?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you still have that bad feeling about this one?"

He thought about it. "I dunno, John. It's not as bad as it was. I mean, what's going on out here is weird, but it's more frustrating than anything else. I don't like the thought of somebody going around stealing trace."

"Well," Byers said reflectively, "The fact that there's so much activity has to mean something is going on."

Frohike nodded. "Yeah, I think so, too. 'Flap' and 'Apple Cart' showed up today, by the way."

"Oh? Who's there?"

"Allen and Rosenberg. Steve Helder came out himself, with a couple of his kids. We banged out some territory agreements."

"I trust you didn't give away too much."

"Do I ever?"

Byers could hear the feral grin, and assumed everybody had gotten a royal screwing at Frohike's hands. And, knowing Frohike, had thanked him afterwards. "I'm sure J. Wayne is learning a good deal from you."

"Everything I know."

Byers did chuckle this time. "Everything?"

Frohike snorted. "Okay, not quite everything. Are you guys staying put for the night?"

"We'll keep going for another hour or so. Nobody's tired, and we haven't found a decent looking hotel yet."

"When do you think you'll get here?"

"Um, noon, maybe. Barring any more weirdness."

"Okay. I still want you boys to be careful."

"We will, Mel." Byers came perilously close to smirking. "Sleep well."

Frohike sighed and disconnected. He got up and wandered over to listen at the wall he shared with J. Wayne, but didn't hear the two of them, so he assumed Mulder had gone elsewhere. Probably raiding the local convenience store for sunflower seeds, knowing Mulder. Or, and this was a scary thought, he was off checking out one of the many porn shops in the neighborhood.

He wandered into the bathroom and stared at the crabs again. They were going to have to figure out what to do with the damned things. The rattling noise was getting on his nerves. He was still thinking about it when he heard the door open and close, followed by the sounds of a paper bag. There were none of the familiar sunflower-seed-cracking noises, so he assumed the worst.

"Mulder, if you've gotten some kind of pop-up book again..."

Not so much as a laugh from the other room, and Frohike suddenly hoped it was Mulder, novelty condom or no, instead of, oh, any number of people who might have decided to pay him an unannounced visit, say Yves, or the Men in Black.

He went somewhat cautiously back into the bedroom, only to be grabbed from behind and pushed face-first into the wall.

"Hey, Fro," a soft voice chuckled at his ear, "remember last night?"

"Oh, hell yeah," he said with exaggerated enthusiasm. "The kid does this thing with his tongue, you wouldn't believe--"

Mulder manhandled him around, leaning in and down with his mouth right next to Frohike's. "Tell me more."

Frohike relaxed between the agent and the wall. "Why do we always have to talk?"

Mulder's eyes glazed slightly. "You're right. Screw the conversation. You can show me."

Frohike laughed. "Okay, what'd you get me?"

"It depends."

"That doesn't sound good. What's it depend on, Mulder?"

"On what you've got for me."

Frohike sighed. "Lame."

Mulder leaned closer and tugged at Frohike's chin with his thumb. Lips millimeters apart, eyes locked. "Maybe I can make it up to you."

Frohike's smart remark was smothered under Mulder's hungry onslaught. He finally had to push Mulder away just to breathe. "Jesus, Mulder--" he gasped, only to have his mouth claimed again. The urgency was almost shocking. Mel was accustomed to a meandering pursuit, an equality of wit and want. It was only when Mulder shoved him against the wall again, hard, loud, both hands up the front of his shirt, mouth fierce on Mel's own, that he realized what was driving the agent.

Mulder broke the kiss to pull his shirt off, and Frohike put a hand on his chest, holding him slightly away until he could get enough breath to speak.

"Mulder," he panted. "God. You gotta let me breathe now and then."

"Mel--" the plea was raw and real. Frohike dropped his hand and his objections and stretched his head back, exposing his neck to Mulder's fevered advances. He laced his fingers through the younger man's thick hair, and slid his other hand down Mulder's back to cup the firm flesh of his ass.

For once, Mulder's assault was totally wordless, the only sounds their harsh breathing and Frohike's own moans, getting louder by the second. Mulder pinned him to the wall, hands everywhere at once. Mulder undid Frohike's buttons, pulling vest and shirt back and half off, trapping Frohike's arms behind him, leaving him helpless in Mulder's grip. Fingers grazed Mel's hard cock, and he gasped again, head hitting the wall.

There was no way the kid could miss this, and the thought of him listening was pushing Frohike to the edge almost as fast as it seemed to be pushing Mulder. The agent's sudden streak of exhibitionism was beginning to surprise him with its intensity, and he just hoped it wasn't going to turn into one of Mulder's freaky obsessions. Frohike didn't need months of Mulder trying to talk him into, for example, sex at an ATM booth. Mulder could get some weird ideas.

"Umph!" He slammed against the wall again. Mulder was tugging at his pants, sliding down his body. "Fuck!" He yelped. "Mulder!"

The younger man yanked away abruptly, staring up. "Mel? What?"

"Careful--" he gasped, dimly aware of a thump from the other side of the wall. "Jesus."

Mulder held him up while he tried to get himself together enough to explain. He fumbled out of his shirt, revealing a stark white handprint across the red blotch on his forearm.

Mulder pulled him over under the light and scrutinized what at this point couldn't be mistaken for anything but a burn.

"Listen, Mel, the next time you and the kid play together, you should remind him that I want you returned in the original condition."

"Very funny," Frohike said flatly.

"What happened?"

"Allergic reaction to something, I guess."

Mulder shook his head. "That's a burn. What happened?"

"It's just a rash, but I got hot water on it this morning in the shower." He prodded it gently. "Maybe I'm allergic to the burn cream, too. I'll try something else tomorrow. Now do you want to talk about my arm, or do you want to have sex?"

Mulder actually seemed to be thinking it over. Frohike wasn't fooled for a second, though. "Let's have sex." Mulder gave him a sly look. "Maybe you should tie me up so I don't accidentally grab your arm again."

Frohike sighed. "You're lazy enough already, Mulder."

"I was doing okay for a while there."

"That's true. Let's give that a try again. But maybe on the bed this time."

Mulder sighed. "I suppose if you've got your heart set on it." He grinned down at Frohike. "You don't want to see what I got you?"

"Probably not." He pulled Mulder with him to the bed. "Does it rhyme in any way?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"A vital one, after the 'Amarillo' tape."

Mulder snickered. "It doesn't rhyme."

"It's not another pop-up book?"

"Nope."

Frohike sighed as he sprawled onto the bed. "Promise me it's not more novelty baking products."

"Of course not. We're a long way from 'Hot Buns'. I wasn't gone that long."

"True, but if there's another erotic bakery closer, you'd know where it was."

"I've learned not to waste 'Saucy Tarts' on you."

Mel's eyes snapped open. "Uh, Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Who do you get them for, then?"

Mulder smirked. "Why, Frohike, are you jealous?"

Mel closed his eyes and shook his head, relaxing again. "I just had this sudden image of Scully with jelly roll filling all over her fingers." The bed started to shake, and he heard a strange series of muffled noises. Against his better judgment, he opened one eye to see Mulder, collapsed next to him, red-faced and helpless with silent laughter.

Frohike sighed. "I can see we're going for an Anoxia Theme Night. You should probably start breathing anytime now."

Mulder finally recovered himself, swiping at tears with long fingers. "If you want to do that," he managed, "there are better ways."

"Keep your belt to yourself, you sicko," Frohike said firmly. "Even I've got some limits."

Mulder looked mildly embarrassed. "That's not what I had in mind, either. Sure you don't want to see what I got you?"

Frohike thought it over. "Is it illegal?"

"Nope. Is this Twenty Questions?"

"With you, Mulder, this is just common sense. Can we rule out small animals again?"

"Never mind. Maybe the kid would be interested."

"Mulder, so help me, if there's a gerbil in that bag--" He was distracted by Mulder's breathy whisper in his ear.

"Nothing like that. You should learn to trust me."

"I could get there from here," Frohike said, starting to relax as Mulder's mouth moved down his neck.

"Sappy," Mulder scolded fondly. "You're getting sappy on me."

"You're getting slobber on me."

Mulder chuckled against his shoulder. He was going to say something when they heard a particularly loud cracking noise from the bathroom.

Frohike winced. "I hate to think what that is."

"Maybe they're escaping down the drain. Why would they fill your bathtub with crabs?"

Frohike shrugged. "Dunno. Why would they fill the storage with ping pong balls? Naked shore crabs seem almost boring at this point."

"Naked shore crabs?"

"That's what the professor said they were."

"That's interesting."

"It's because they don't have bristles."

"No, I know that."

Frohike stared at the top of Mulder's head. "You knew that?"

"Yeah. That's not really what's interesting about them."

"I probably don't want to know."

"They're some of the hungriest crabs around. They're aggressive predators, among the most voracious small crabs on the Pacific coast."

"That's comforting, considering we're sharing a room with several thousand of the bastards."

"They don't fly, they don't jump, and they don't eat people. Relax. I'm just saying, it makes sense that they chose the naked shore crabs instead of mole crabs or something."

"Repeat that sentence, will you? Slowly."

"It's just that if they wanted to feed your clam to a type of crab--" He broke off abruptly. "Okay, I suppose overall it doesn't make any sense."

"Right. Why not just steal the clam? And why leave all the specimens and the other trace?"

"Maybe they just wanted you to think the crabs were an accident. Accelerated breeding, maybe."

"Well, I did think that, initially. I mean, Dak--"

"Dak?"

"The guy who took us to Maury. He was saying that crabs live in the clams. And you and I both know what some of that mutant crap can do to stuff, and I'm not sure the clam was normal to begin with. So when the storage closet was fine, I just assumed it was something like that."

"The ping pong balls were kind of obvious."

"Yeah. We know these people, Mulder. Why not just burn the whole thing down? These are not subtle people."

"I suppose not." Mulder was idly playing with Frohike's chest hair, while the Gunman kept his right arm carefully out of the way. It was stretched over his head, making him look, Mulder thought with a smile, like a pin-up boy. He pulled Frohike's glasses off and slid one hand down to trace the older man's ribs. Frohike practically purred.

Mulder leaned in and gently sucked at the nearest nipple.

"Oh..." Frohike's hand buried itself in Mulder's hair again, fingers playing across his scalp and leaving his whole body tingling. Mulder's own hand pressed briefly into the jut of the older man's hip as he swiped his tongue sharply across the nipple in his teeth. Frohike groaned, long and deep, arching himself against Mulder.

Mulder tried it again, delighted with the noise, and Frohike's other hand was suddenly at his cheek, rubbing teasingly against the stubble. "Mmm..." he sighed into all that chest hair. "Scully's nowhere near this much fun to share a room with."

Frohike's moan twisted into a laugh and a gasp when Mulder slid his hand back along his zipper. He could feel Mulder's grin against him. "Maybe you should show her the pop-up book," he muttered.

"I did. She called me a pervert."

"Ohhh... We have so much in common."

"Scully thinks we're both perverts?"

"No... We both think you're a pervert."

Mulder laughed. "Yeah, but you love me for it."

"Well, that's true." He wriggled a bit and arched a little, and then he was naked with Mulder laying half on top of him, and then Mulder was naked too, hard against his leg. "Okay, so what'd you get," he asked, not as collected as he could have hoped.

Mulder grinned down at him, and raised his hand to display--

"What the fuck is that?"

Mulder held it closer so he could see the picture better. "Therapy."

"Tell me that's not what I think it is."

"Well, let's just say it wouldn't do The Brotherhood any good."

Frohike squeezed his eyes closed tight. "Mulder, we had an agreement. No more novelty condoms."

"It's not a novelty. It's therapy," Mulder insisted. "They didn't have any clams, but I thought a gooseneck barnacle would help you get over your clam issues."

"I can't tell you how much it won't help."

Mulder's free hand was roaming Frohike's body, which was responding despite his best intentions.

"You know," Mulder said smoothly, "the barnacle has the longest penis in relation to body size..."

"Mulder!"

Frohike tried smothering Mulder's mouth against his belly, but the lecture continued. "Some of them have penises up to seven times their body length. A gooseneck barnacle has a penis-to-body ratio of one-and-a-half inches to five inches. That's like me having a twenty-two inch penis."

Frohike blinked and thought about it. "That'd be... something, all right," he said eventually. "Holy cow."

Mulder grinned down at him. "In your case, it'd be a little less..."

"I'm going next door. The kid doesn't make short jokes."

Mulder tried for offended. "It'd still be nineteen inches or so. Nothing to sneeze at."

"Mulder, what the hell would you do with nineteen inches, anyhow?"

The younger man grinned. "Well, barnacles are hermaphroditic. So each of them unfurls its penis, which is prehensile, did I mention that?"

"Mulder," Frohike whimpered. "I don't need to hear this."

"And they reach around until they can get their penises into a barnacle nearby. So sometimes barnacles will fertilize each other. I've seen the footage--it's amazing."

Frohike covered his eyes and tried not to think about the images Mulder was suggesting. "Mulder?"

"Mmm, yeah. What?"

"If you don't put that fucking thing away, you're gonna be rooming with Jimmy and I'm moving in with J. Wayne."

There was a quiet thump of something hitting the carpet. "Consider it gone." He looked up at Frohike. "And consider me," he said, the laughter just below the surface of his low voice, "sulking."

"God--" Frohike flipped him over fast enough to leave spots in front of Mulder's eyes, and when they cleared Frohike was sucking at his lower lip, muttering harsh encouragements. Mulder was careful of Mel's arm this time, keeping his hands to Frohike's torso. When his fingers trailed between the older man's thighs, Frohike groaned, pushing himself down hard against Mulder.

"Mulder."

"Ummm, yeah. Yeah--Huh?" Mulder blinked, trying to refocus. "What?"

"Tell me you have some normal rubbers, too."

"I told you, I'm always prepared." Mulder shifted slightly, reaching over the side of the bed, and fumbled in his abandoned jeans. Lube and condoms were pressed into Frohike's hand. "Fuck me, Fro."

"All in good time, Mulder." He slipped a slow finger into Mulder's ass, and concentrated for a while on making him moan, which he did a little louder than was perhaps strictly necessary. Frohike himself was acutely aware of J. Wayne on the other side of the wall, and he knew Mulder was too.

Thinking about the kid reminded him of something. He had to repeat the agent's name a couple of times to get his attention.

"Hmm...?"

"What's VMD?"

"Huh?"

"VMD. You and J. Wayne were talking about printing the balls."

"Oh." Mulder shook his head, remembering. "Vacuum metal deposition. It's what tech geeks do with extra time and money. You, uh, you take your evidence, that you think might have latent prints on it, and you seal it in a vacuum chamber. Then you--oh, God, Fro, your hands--you, uh. You evaporate a couple milligrams of gold and zinc in there, and they condense on the evidence, on the prints."

"Sounds expensive."

"Yeah... The whole process is... automated, though, so you can get consistent--consistent--" Mulder panted for a moment as Frohike teased his prostate. "You, uh. God... God, that's good."

Frohike withdrew and waited patiently for Mulder to resume his seminar.

"Where was I?" he said after a while, running his hand across his face. "Oh... The results are consistently better, and it works where other methods don't. You can, uh," he swallowed, watching Frohike roll the condom onto himself. "You can use it if cyanoacrylate ether fuming doesn't work, even."

"Superglue, right," Frohike said absently.

"Yeah..." Mulder took a deep breath as Frohike pushed his legs up and spread him. "Ooohhhhh..." A low moan was torn from him as Frohike thrust slowly into him. "Ohh." He whimpered when Frohike reached for his own swollen shaft with a knowing grip. Mulder struggled to get his legs around the older man, to pull him deeper, faster. Mel didn't respond to his urgings, and he threw his head back, trying to buck into Mel's hand instead.

He held Mulder still until he was in that tight ass up to his balls, and flicked his thumb across the throbbing vein on Mulder's cock.

Mulder cried out at the sensation, taken by surprise. "Mel..." The pleading note was back in his voice. "Hard, Mel. Fuck me hard."

Frohike wouldn't have been surprised if the people across the hall heard that. He grinned slightly and pulled out, still slow enough to torment Mulder. When he thrust back in, it was hard and fast, and Mulder's shout was even louder.

"Harder--"

Frohike ran his hand along Mulder's leg, demanding he spread wider. "I'm not... nineteen inches, Mulder," he mumbled.

Mulder's laugh was ragged. "You feel like twenty-two. Harder," he insisted.

Frohike did his best. Mulder was rhapsodizing about--something--as he came, dragging Frohike with him.

They stayed like that, still tangled together, gasping for breath. Frohike's brain eventually started working again.

"Mulder?"

"Hmm?" The younger man had that glassy-eyed sated look that was second only to The Pout.

"The Mounties, Mulder?"

"Mounties."

Frohike sighed. "The Mounties. You were talking about--"

"Oh." Mulder stretched languidly, and Frohike had a sudden moment of gratitude for his age. At least these days there was a chance of getting through a couple of conversations with Mulder without pinning him down and fucking him again. Even when he looked like that.

"We used to have to use the RCMP's setup. They were the first ones in North America to get one." He yawned. "It's been used on evidence up to twenty years old, to find latents. It doesn't damage the evidence, which is good, and if you evaporate silver, you can use it to read tooling marks on credit cards. So it's good for fraud cases. Plus it provides superior resolution. Didn't I already explain this?"

"I was distracted," Frohike said, staggering to his feet. "Hey," he said. "You were imagining I was J. Wayne, weren't you."

"Would I do that?" Mulder tried to look innocent.

"Yes."

"Actually, I was imagining I was J. Wayne."

"Oh, good."

"Huh?"

"So was I." He Cheshired into the bathroom, the grin hanging in the air for a bare moment as he closed the door behind him.

---

"Guys?" Jimmy said in awed tones. "What do you make of that?"

The three of them were silent for a very long moment as they stared at the sky.

"Keep driving," Langly eventually instructed. "I'm out of shirts and so are you."

---

*Next Up: Caffeine, Conspiracies, and the Fortean Nature of Fishes X: The Strawberry Ice Cream Show: In which all our boys are reunited, just in time to experience bizarre forms of cruelty to produce, while Scully mocks Mulder mercilessly from afar.*

Harpy dsidhe@attbi.com Handmaiden of the Goddess of Irony
 

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