A Weekend in the Heartland II: A
Day at the Galactic UN
By D. Sidhe: Erika
Category: Slash, 2/5
Pairing: Mulder/Frohike (implied Scully/other male; implied Byers/Langly)
Rating: R, for profanity, innuendo, and for the likelihood of readers being
offended by something.
Disclaimers and apologies: I don't own much of anyone or anything in this part,
either. Except the mistakes. Those are mine. I suppose Ebben, the VLA t-shirt,
the Alliance of Non-Human Persons, and the movie titles are probably mine, too.
But it wouldn't surprise me to know that there are movies with those
titles. Apologies to most of the people I apologized to in part one, and additional
apologies to: MIBs; FOIA personnel; Obscure Research Labs; Gene Roddenberry
and Paramount; Trekkers; the Klingon Language Institute and Dr. Marc Okrand;
the Klingon Feast Guild; journalists; Forteans; Inner Light and Walk-Ins in
general; Canadians and hockey players alike; INS; AFIS; APRO; NICAP; Hollow
Earthers; Circles Effect Research Society (most of whom are not Hollow-Earthers.);
CAUS; Dr. James A. Van Allen and the University of Iowa; Frank Drake; Booksearch;
the communities of Crittenden, Virginia; Roswell and Socorro, New Mexico; Ubatuba,
Brazil; and Lubbock, Texas; the mutilated cattle and human occupants of Meeker
County, Minnesota; real persons (if any) associated with the Allende Letters
and the Kinross Disappearance; surviving members of Project Grudge, Project
Twinkle, and Project Blue Book; the Condon Committee; possibly every movie company
in existence; Frank Olson and his survivors; the CIA (but not Gehlen,
which I am damned well not apologizing to); Strange News Publications;
ParaScope, whose excellent Request-O-Matic I've fictitiously given some credit
for to Byers; StarBorns everywhere; the city of Miami; Ed and Frances Walters
and everyone else in Gulf Breeze, Florida; Whitley Streiber; and Charles Berlitz
and William L Moore and their book The Roswell Incident, which was,
after all, written in 1980. I'll try to offend fewer people in part three.
Archive: If you want it, take it. And get professional help.
Spoilers: None, really. Some uncalled-for Yappi-taunting ("Clyde Bruckman's
Final Repose", "Jose Chung's 'From Outer Space'")
Author's Note: I feel compelled to make particular groveling apologies to Star
Trek fans. This is where the Star Trek stuff comes in. It should be very clear
by the end of part two, if it is not already, that I Know Nothing About Star
Trek. Don't kill me. I dig Trekkers. I live with one. But one who unfortunately
does not speak Klingon. Phrases were gathered without permission from the Klingon
Phrasebook at The Universal Translator Assistant Project. And I apologize to
anyone associated with that, also. I expect flames. I'll try not to take it
personally if anyone tells me my mother has a smooth forehead. Though, she does.
Summary: Friday at the CUFOIN Conference. What the hell are we doing in Indiana, Frohike?
**
"First in the shower," Frohike mumbled when the alarm went off.
"Can't we shower together?"
Frohike slapped the roaming hand away. "No. I'd like to actually get clean this time."
Mulder sighed theatrically. "Fine. I'll order us breakfast."
"Ooh! Room service!" Frohike pretended to swoon. "You sure do know how to treat a guy."
Mulder's hands were creeping over him again. "Well, the way to a man's heart…"
Frohike snorted. "Just as long as you're not actually doing the cooking, Mulder." He climbed out of bed and gazed around the room again. The thick curtains, purple velvet of course, blocked out most of the sunlight, but a few more details were revealed. There was a large console across from the bed with large jet panels he suspected concealed a TV. They'd undoubtedly check out the in-house movie channel later this evening.
He staggered into the bathroom, confronted with faux-slate tiles, rough and irregular under his feet. Last night he'd assumed he was hallucinating, but the toilet was indeed the same glossy violet as the shower stall and the tub. So was the sink. Weirdness.
The soap had bat logos embossed on it. He'd have to remember to bring some back for Langly. Over breakfast, they got out the advance materials for the conference and planned their day. There were, just aside from the contact he was attending at the behest of, about a dozen people Frohike needed to spend a little time with.
There were also several seminars he wanted to attend, though not Mulder's, since he'd already heard the talk before, and a Q&A panel discussion he'd agreed to participate in. It was a working holiday, but hopefully by Sunday he'd have a chance to check out the rest of the sellers and dig up some new stuff for the next issue.
Mulder was giving one talk today, one tomorrow, and doing a few panel discussions over the weekend, so he'd be pretty busy too, and he was already cursing himself for having agreed to attend this one.
**
"What the hell are we doing in Indiana, Frohike?"
Frohike just shrugged, having run out of smartass answers to that before they'd even left the hotel. "Just don't get lost, or we'll be in Indiana a lot longer."
"Well, I'm pretty sure this is the exit."
"Pretty sure, Mulder?"
"Pretty sure."
It wasn't.
They arrived an hour later than they'd planned, and stood in the already long line at the registration table. Frohike was gazing at a small knot of people near a book signing. "You know," he said seriously, "I don't think real Men In Black wear 'Hello-My-Name-Is' tags."
Mulder snorted.
Frohike disdained his own nametag and immediately dived into the crowd to find his contact. Mulder wandered around for a couple of hours, chatting with cereologist and selectee alike.
When they crossed paths, they pretended to not know each other. It wouldn't do Frohike's reputation any good to be seen hanging with the Feds. ("Are you ashamed of me, Fro?" Mulder had asked at one similar occasion a year or so ago. "Yes. Go talk to someone else in a suit," Frohike had laughed.)
Mulder scattered cards around like Mardi Gras beads, and signed a couple of bras for self-proclaimed abductees, in what he later explained to Frohike was a weird but increasingly common occurrence in his career. Frohike snickered rudely and reminded him of the killer cockroaches, and demanded to know exactly how Mulder defined lingerie as weird.
Mulder sidled up to Frohike around one. Frohike was negotiating the purchase of what the seller claimed were actual classified Project Grudge documents, which were so heavily censored they looked like an industrial-size freezer with a half-dozen magnetic poetry pieces scattered randomly across it.
"We've gotten some decent stories out of this kind of thing," Frohike told Mulder defensively.
The agent wasn't paying attention, though. He stood with his back slightly to Frohike, darting anxious looks about the hall. "I'll meet you out in the lobby when you're done here, and we can go get lunch, okay?"
Frohike raised puzzled eyebrows. "Let me guess. ORL wants to have a chat with you about your sun-dog theory."
"No." Mulder looked embarrassed. "The, uh, the Stupendous Yappi is here."
Frohike laughed. "Maybe you can borrow some shades from the MIB over there."
Mulder wasn't amused.
When Frohike got to the lobby, blacked-out documents safely concealed, Mulder was standing against a wall, looking nervous.
"What the hell is that noise?" Frohike asked.
Mulder shrugged. "We're being picketed by Klingons."
Frohike stepped over and gazed out a window. "Now there's something you don't see every day," he said conversationally. "The universe's most warlike race, with hand-made protest signs, singing 'We Shall Overcome'."
Mulder snickered. "It does seem a little—pacifist. But hats off to whoever translated the words."
Frohike feigned shock. "I thought the original was in Klingon."
"God, I hope not. It doesn't exactly scan."
"What, precisely, do you figure they're protesting?"
"Well, I did see a sign that said 'LGM are for Halloween'. Maybe they're here for you."
Frohike didn't bother to rise to the bait. "They're making fun of CUFOIN? Believers?"
Mulder laughed. "Maybe they think CUFOIN is giving Trekkies a bad name."
Frohike wasn't convinced. "I don't know. That's pretty weird. I mean, I know the science fiction people and the UFO people don't always get along, but you sure don't expect snide 'Little Green Men' comments. Gotta be more to it than that."
"Well," Mulder said with a courtly gesture, "I guess we'll find out. Let's go get lunch."
Frohike shrugged. They didn't stop to chat, but they did slow down enough to accept badly-printed screeds from the Klingons. Mulder was reading one of them as they walked the next couple of blocks. "They're mad they weren't invited, I guess. It looks like CUFOIN wouldn't give them a table for the KLI."
"Figures," Frohike said, more interested in lunch. "They have a hard enough time maintaining any credibility in the larger society without being associated with guys in Spock ears. Where do you want to eat?"
"That's the other thing," Mulder said. "They maintain the Alliance of Non-Human Persons is backing this protest. Klingons, Romulans, Vulcans. No mention of Bajorans, Betazoids, or Borg."
Frohike came to an abrupt halt. "I can't decide if 'We Shall Overcome' is redundant or paradoxical for the Borg."
"I'm sure that's why they weren't included," Mulder snickered.
"I don't suppose they're part of the Alliance of, what was it, Non-Human Persons?"
"Yep."
"I guess I just don't see the Borg as all that clubby."
"But you're fine with the Klingons?"
Frohike thought about it. "Let's get lunch, have a couple of beers. Then I'll be fine with it."
Over lunch, they continued to discuss the protest, and Frohike looked through the information they'd been handed. "'Whereas we have too long been denied a seat at the table… Whereas we have been too long ignored as fictional persons…'" he read aloud. He grunted and threw it onto the table. "This is awful," he declared. "These guys should be ashamed to print stuff like this. It doesn't make any sense, it's badly designed, and it's not even spelled right."
Mulder casually attempted to toss his parsley onto Frohike's plate. The older man blocked it with a reflexive fork. "English is not their first language, remember."
Frohike shook his head. "There's no excuse for that kind of thing. Someone ought to turn the photon torpedoes on them. Are you going to eat all your fries?"
"Probably. Did you find your contact?"
"Yeah," Frohike said unenthusiastically, not elaborating.
Mulder tried again. "Who is this guy, anyway? Pretty important?"
Frohike sighed heavily. "Mulder, we've been over this before. I'm a journalist. I don't reveal my sources. I sure as hell don't dime them to the Feebs."
"I'll let you have my fries."
"You have no respect for me at all," Frohike complained. "I'm not selling my ethics for a handful of greasy potato. What kind of cheap whore do you think I am?"
Mulder laughed. "I'm hoping to find out later."
The Kirlian lecture was, Frohike freely admitted, a bust. "The guy didn't even have slides, for God's sake. How the hell do you plan a lecture about Kirlian photography and decide you don't need visuals?"
Mulder commiserated. "Why'd you even go to that? You know more about Kirlian abductee aura than any eight people at the conference."
Frohike shrugged. "Always something new to learn. How'd your talk go?"
"Great," Mulder said. He went on at some length, and Frohike flicked his parsley at the agent's plate. Mulder absently checked it with a hand, still talking. Frohike grinned, appreciating the economy of the move.
"So did you manage to dodge Yappi?"
Mulder made a face. "He spotted me before I spotted him. I didn't even know he was going to be at this thing. He cornered me in front of a bunch of people and lectured me on ley lines."
"Were you polite, or did you tell him to fuck off?"
Mulder shrugged. "It was in front of the Iowa chapter of Inner Light. I didn't want to scandalize them."
Frohike nodded. "They're a nice enough bunch of old gals. Yappi's target audience, actually, I bet."
"I told him I'd had no idea he was such an expert on leys."
Frohike snickered. "Did he get it?"
"Yappi? No. He just sneered at me, you know that look he has, and told me he'd 'studied with the best'."
Frohike laughed. "Well, I haven't fucked him. You?"
Mulder shook his head. "Not even with somebody else's dick."
Frohike snorted into his beer. "Then he hasn't been anywhere near the best."
"No wonder he's so repressed."
"The poor man," Frohike agreed, making another stealthy attempt at parsley transference. Mulder's water glass was suddenly in the way. Mulder grinned as it rebounded limply onto Frohike's plate. "Damn."
"Scully won't play," Mulder told him with disappointment. "We should do this more often."
"What, throw garnish at each other?"
"Nah. The convention thing. I ditch Scully, you abandon the boys… Did they gripe at all?"
"Nah. They were glad to have me out of the place for the weekend. They're probably fucking each other silly on my desk even as we speak."
Mulder laughed. "You always say no when I want to."
"Well, it's not like I gave them permission or anything. What's Scully up to this weekend?"
Mulder sobered. "Mel, you're a good friend. And it hurts like hell to have to tell you this, but I think you need to know."
Frohike sighed. "She's got a date."
"He plays hockey," Mulder elaborated.
"Son of a bitch. Has he got all his teeth?"
Mulder shrugged. "Dunno. Haven't seen him. I teased her some, and she said he had an IQ of a hundred fifty-two."
"Height?"
"Five-ten."
"Figures. I suppose he…"
"Full head of blond hair."
"Story of my life," Frohike grumbled. "Don't tell me anything else she said, okay?"
"His name is Lance."
Frohike thumped his head backwards against the wall of the booth. "That's just adding insult to injury, Mulder."
Mulder tried not to laugh. "He's Canadian."
"What's his last name?"
"Why?"
"He's about to run afoul of the INS."
Mulder snickered. He dropped some cash on the table and stood up, pounding Frohike affectionately on the shoulder. "You've still got me, buddy."
"We'll always have the Batcave," Frohike said solemnly.
"Come on. I have idiotic questions to answer."
"Mock them relentlessly, would you?"
"Why?"
"So they'll be too scared to ask me idiotic questions tomorrow."
**
The Klingons had been joined by a silent group of Vulcans with vigil candles. Mulder snickered. They ran the gauntlet again, collecting more Starfleet propaganda.
Frohike shrugged mildly. "At least the Vulcans know how to spell check. Can't say much for their layout, though."
"You're a purist."
"I'll see you later, Mulder. I've got an AFIS guy to see, and you'd make him nervous."
"Should he be nervous?"
"Nah. I'm just getting his opinion on where the field's headed. Nothing classified."
"Would you tell me if it was?"
"Nope."
"Why'd I ask?"
"'Cause you're an optimist." Frohike straightened the agent's tie and clucked like a mother hen. "Go answer your idiotic questions, G-Man."
"Oh boy, oh boy," Mulder offered in a joyless monotone.
Frohike laughed and disappeared into the crowd again. He found his contact in short order, a ferrety little guy who was actually with APRO, not the Air Force. Frohike was aware of the dangers of sleeping with the enemy, so to speak, and lied freely to Mulder about contacts and sources. It was only fair: Mulder did the same to him.
Trust was one thing, but they were still on opposite sides of the fence, even if they were leaning across it necking.
The guy gave him a couple of quotes on deep background, and confirmed a rumor or two. Frohike was pleased. Byers would be pleased. At least he was getting some work done here, even if the talks were a waste of time.
He attended a useless two hour CERES lecture on crop circles, and ducked out after twenty minutes when it became apparent the speaker was a Hollow Earth ITE proponent. He ran into Mulder in the hallway. Mulder took one look at his expression and laughed.
"Not worth the time?"
"Intraterrestrials," Frohike said wearily.
"The-Universe-Is-A-Friendly-Place?"
Frohike nodded. "'Electromagnetohydrodynamical Vortex Communications from Colonized-Core Spirit Guides'," he recited. "Those people give crackpots a bad name."
The younger man laughed. "Hey, there's a guy you have to meet."
"Who?" Frohike asked suspiciously. "Where?"
Mulder sighed. "Just come with me, okay?"
Frohike looked him over. "At least lose the tie and jacket, can you? You have no idea what the Suit look does to people who see us together."
"Is that why Byers doesn't go to these things very often?" He took off his tie and stuffed it in his pocket, unbuttoned his collar.
"Nah. They know about Byers. He gets a lot of ribbing, but everyone knows he's trustworthy. He just doesn't like the UFO cons. Too zooish."
Mulder nodded. "What do you want me to do with my jacket?"
"You can leave it with the CAUS booth. I know the guy working there, he's more reliable than most of 'em."
Mulder shrugged. "Whatever."
Frohike narrowed his eyes at the agent. "You still scream Feebie. It's gotta be the shoes."
"For God's sake, Frohike. We're going to be seen by more people standing here talking about my suit than we would if you just followed me."
"Okay. Lead on, Fed-Boy."
A brief detour by Citizens Against UFO Secrecy. Frohike made introductions.
"Whoa. The Agent Mulder. Wow. Can I get an autograph?"
Mulder swallowed a laugh and signed the guy's program.
"You really think Tunguska was a craft?" he demanded.
"Of some sort," Mulder said mildly. "I know what Van Allen says, but…"
"I know Van Allen. He's a smart guy."
"He can't account for the cesium 137, though," Mulder commented.
"That's never been conclusively proven. Anyway, what about the fact that even a craft couldn't maneuver the way the witnesses said?"
Mulder settled in, much to Frohike's disgust. "Well, that's assuming the technology is not advanced beyond our own grasp of physics."
"Physics is physics, Agent Mulder."
"Our understanding of physics may be flawed, though."
"Like how?"
Frohike interrupted. "This is fascinating, but can you do it later? I thought you had something to show me."
"Oh yeah." Mulder and the table-minder exchanged cards and promised to get back to each other. Mulder led Frohike to a table covered with bootleg VHS tapes. Most of them said "Roswell" somewhere on the box. Frohike looked them over.
"Roswell, Roswell, Crittenden, Socorro, Kinross, Ubatuba… Mulder, there's nothing new here," Frohike groused.
"Allende," Mulder said, handing an overlooked box to him.
Frohike turned it over. "I've got this one. It's a complete buy-in. And this is pirated." He glanced sideways at Mulder. "Wonder if it has an FBI Warning."
"Agent Mulder! Back already? And who's your friend?" The table was suddenly manned by an extremely fey older gentleman in a "Project Twinkle" t-shirt. Frohike tried not to laugh.
"Frohike, Lone Gunman Group," Mulder gestured.
"Magic Bullet?"
"That's the one," Frohike nodded.
"Your series on the Gehlen Organization was one of the best I've seen."
"Thanks."
"Frohike, this is Ebben." He turned to the man. "He wants to see your private stock," Mulder explained.
Ebben gave Mulder a look. "How private? I've got a Mantell documentary, the Lubbock Lights footage, some rare Condon Committee stuff."
Mulder grinned. "The other private stock."
"Oh." Ebben grinned back knowingly. "Come into my parlor," he said wolfishly. "Mind the store, Agent Mulder?"
Mulder shrugged. "Sure, if you don't think you'll lose business."
"Fuck it. Maybe there's some guys out there just dying to get a bootleg Meeker County tape straight from The Man. If they're hunky, tell them you need their phone numbers for my records."
Mulder laughed.
Frohike glanced at Mulder, but followed Ebben into the back of the booth. Ebben leaned just a little too close as he pulled the curtain shut. "Okay. The private stock." He opened a smaller box and started taking tapes out. "Why do you think they tried to hide Olson's CIA affiliation, anyway? It's not like it wasn't going to come out."
Frohike didn't hear him. He was blinking at the titles. "Oh my God. I've never even seen a copy of this! How'd you get it?"
Ebben looked. "I know… a guy." He grinned again, and Frohike started to feel a little warm. "I know… a lot of guys, actually."
Frohike turned a box over. "And you… know… Agent Mulder?"
"I wish," Ebben laughed. "No, he just comes to me with requests. I'm like Booksearch."
"Are you the one who found him Plan 69 from Outer Space?"
"That one took a lot of looking. He show it to you?" He rested his hand a little too familiarly on Frohike's arm.
Frohike glanced at him. "We watched it together."
Ebben withdrew his hand. "Shame. I was hoping I could get to… know you, over dinner."
Frohike smiled. "Nothing personal. I've got a date."
Ebben peered out the curtain at Mulder. "If I had one like that to come home to, I wouldn't step out, either." He turned back to Frohike. "You wanna see the really special stuff?"
Frohike read the blurb on the back of Mission to Lars. "More special than this?"
Ebben lowered his voice reverentially. "I've got Men in Back II,"
"You're kidding!"
Ebben waved a hand and produced the box like a magic trick.
"How much?"
"Any friend of Mulder's is a friend of mine. I'll let it go for fifty."
"Done."
"I've also got Project Blue Balls."
Frohike stopped breathing for a moment. "Nineteen eighty-four, or seventy-three?"
"The eighty-four. I've never even seen a seventy-three."
"It's a classic. I'll give you thirty for the eighty-four."
"Deal. You've seen the seventy-three? Watched it?"
"Once."
"Can I just shake your hand?"
Frohike grinned. "Which hand?"
"The one."
Frohike laughed and held out his right hand. Ebben took it firmly. "Is that, like, your Mulder hand, too?"
Frohike snickered. "Everything I've got is Mulder."
"I can't tell you how jealous I am. See anything else you like?" Ebben licked his lips.
Frohike laughed and patted his arm. "I'll take Star Whores, too."
Ebben sighed. "You can have that one for ten. Just because I'm a subscriber and you're a great man."
"Thanks." Frohike found his wallet.
"Can I get some cards from you? Do you have cards?"
"Sure. Pass 'em around."
"Thank you." He peered out the curtain again. "You'd better not leave that one alone for too long. He's got a smile like flypaper."
Frohike grinned. "Eyes like a bug zapper."
"I put my card in there too," Ebben said, holding out the bag. "It's got my site on it, you can look over my catalogue. If there's anything you want that isn't listed, ask. If I don't have it, I can probably find it. You're not a Roswell Incident kind of guy, I can tell that. But the Condon stuff is good." He hesitated. "Ask Mulder what he got from me earlier. You'll love it. If he doesn't share, let me know. I'll put his sales records on my site."
Frohike was still laughing when he collected Mulder, and they departed from Ebben with a wink and a leer.
"What are you doing next, Fro?"
"'FOIA Handling', with Strange News."
Mulder shrugged. "Why are you bothering? What was the last FOIA scoop Strange News had?"
"Those missing Gulf War Chemical Incident Logs. Anyhow, I heard a rumor ParaScope was sending some of their hitters."
Mulder thought about it for a second. "They're the guys with the Request-O-Matic webpage, right?"
Frohike nodded. "Byers helped with some of those. They're pretty useful, really. Citizen muckraking is hard to break into, for novices. They've got a lot of information."
"You're such an idealist, Fro."
"I'm a cynic. Byers is our idealist."
"Which is why you're going to listen to Strange News."
Frohike shrugged. "Always something new to learn, Mulder."
"Yeah," Mulder said suddenly, too cheerfully for Frohike's sense of peace. "We should talk about that later."
Frohike stopped. "Okay, what'd you get?"
"Tell you later."
Frohike sighed as the agent disappeared into the crowd.
ParaScope failed to materialize, and Frohike wandered from lecture to lecture for a couple of hours. The StarBorn seminar was briefly interrupted by a group of singing Romulans. Frohike just shook his head and gave up on the talks. He spent an hour browsing the tables and talking to people he knew, barely knew, and didn't know at all but who just had to tell him their secrets. He smiled politely and nodded and took notes, or, more often, pretended to take notes.
He was finishing a purchase at the CUFOIN host table when Mulder returned to his side, re-suited.
"You do everything you needed to today?" Mulder gazed at a point across the hall.
"Yep. Let's get dinner." He turned around. "Yappi?"
Mulder grimaced. "Still dodging him."
"Better you than me."
They headed out. "What'd you get?"
"A couple of the books Byers wanted. One of the logo paperweights for him. I thought about getting him a 'Field Investigator' cap, but I couldn't take the tension while he searched for something nice to say about it."
Mulder laughed. "Some day he's just going to tell you to go to hell."
Frohike put his hand over his heart. "Good God, Byers? I'm not sure he'd know where to start."
"He's saving it all up. The man's a Vesuvius. Some day he'll erupt."
Frohike snorted. "To hear Langly tell it…"
Mulder covered his ears, but not too tightly. "I don't need to know this, Fro."
Frohike laughed. "Sure. You're an innocent and I'm corrupting you. What the fuck is that smell?"
Mulder sniffed cautiously. "Uh-oh."
"What?"
Mulder glanced ahead of them, his taller form giving him an advantage over the milling people. "The Klingons seem to be having a potluck."
Frohike froze. "Good God."
"Klingon Buffet. I wonder if that's even legal in Indiana."
"They have animal sacrifice laws in Miami, maybe it's legal there. But I doubt Klingon cookery is legal anywhere else in the country. Is it…" he swallowed, "moving?"
"There's nothing worse than half-dead racht, you know that. But, no, I think it's gummi worms."
"Thank God for that."
A Klingon female stepped up to Mulder. She said, "reH nay'meylIjyIn Dujablu'jaj," and held out a plate of nothing Frohike could (or wanted to) identify. Whatever it was, it smelled revolting. They exchanged glances.
Mulder bared his teeth at her and asked, "Dochvam vISop net pIH'a?"
The woman laughed.
"DaHjaj jaj QaQ Daghajjaj," Frohike said politely and elbowed past her.
Mulder grinned. "What's that one?"
"'Have a nice day'," Frohike told him. "I looked it up earlier."
Mulder laughed. "I'm pretty sure she was suggesting all my meals should wriggle."
"What'd you say to her?"
Mulder bared his teeth at him, too. "'Am I supposed to eat this?'"
"Damn, Mulder. You remember the weirdest things."
"Did you see the Romulans got tossed this afternoon?"
"They came into the StarBorn seminar. I don't know exactly what they were singing, but it was to the tune of 'Give Peace a Chance'."
"That's beautiful."
"Who tossed 'em?"
Mulder shrugged. "CUFOIN bouncers, I guess. What the hell were you doing at the StarBorn seminar?"
Frohike grinned. "Some of those hybrid chicks are hot."
"Figures. Come on, I'll buy you dinner."
Over dinner, Frohike showed Mulder the rest of his souvenirs. "I got the 'Very Large Array' shirt for Langly."
Mulder snickered. "Oh, please don't give it to him unless I'm there. I want to see the look on Byers' face."
Frohike grinned. "It's got a picture of the Magdalena Radio Laboratory on the back. Plus I got him a Drake's Equation t-shirt." He looked a little embarrassed as he pulled something else from his pack. "I got this for Scully. You think she'll like it?"
Mulder blinked at the object in Frohike's hand. It was a CUFOIN logo snowglobe depicting a pancake-with-fins-variant disc UFO over the Mount Palomar Observatory. Frohike shook it slightly and a cloud of glitter plumed up and scattered over the scene.
Mulder laughed. "I'm sure she'll love it. I got her a coffee mug."
"I saw those. But this was pretty. I thought she might like it."
Talk turned to the panels. The questions were more idiotic than they'd any right to be, Mulder explained, in great detail. "If I get asked one more damned question about ufocals and lenticular formations, I'm going to start making answers up."
"That bad?"
Mulder muttered something under his breath.
"You get a lot of Gulf Breeze?"
"Brace yourself, yeah. I cut those off after only about a million questions, so they'll probably ask you the other million tomorrow."
"Thanks. How many panelists?"
"Seven, plus me. Two pie-plates, one clouds, three disinformation. One I-Know-Ed-Walters-He's-A-Standup-Guy."
"Nice. I can't believe people still buy that disinformation thing on that one. Totally pie-plates."
"You guys did a story, right?"
"Years ago. Walters had been doing the talk shows. Just after The Gulf Breeze Sightings came out. All those authenticated light-blasted photos and 'artist's conceptions'." He laughed.
"I made a couple of Whitley Streiber jokes."
Frohike snickered. "Komodo dragons."
Mulder shook his head. "We nearly had a fistfight in the back of the room over that stupid Berlitz Roswell book."
"I can't wait," Frohike said without enthusiasm.
Heading back to the Batcave, Mulder glanced sideways at the journalist. "I could use a backrub."
"You're insatiable."
"Just a backrub, I said."
"I want that in writing."
They drove in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Mulder said, "Do you?"
Frohike chuckled. "Nah. Tell you what, we can even do it on the bed again, if you want."
"How about the tub?"
"Sure, why not. Does the Batcave have a VCR, by any chance?"
"It's the Batcave. It's probably beta."
Frohike snorted.
"Just kidding. Yeah, it does. I'll show you the remote control."
"You mentioned that before."
"It's huge. You could launch a Stealth Bomber with this thing."
"Size isn't everything, Mulder."
Mulder gave him a once-over. "True. What'd you get from Ebben?"
Frohike laughed. "Not what you're thinking."
"You weren't back there that long. Anyway, he's a screamer."
Frohike raised an eyebrow.
"I've heard," Mulder amended. "What'd you buy, then?"
"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
Mulder grinned. "Fist Contact."
There was a moment of silence. "You're sick, Mulder."
"So you don't want to see it?"
"It's a cultural legend. I owe it to perverts everywhere to see it if I have a chance."
**
*Next Up: A Weekend in the Heartland III: Beating Disruptors into Replicators: In which Starfleet is offered a seat at the table, Langly and Byers come quickly (but weirdly) to the rescue, Death Worms and Lobsters put in appearances, everybody suffers through idiotic questions, the author develops a crush on an OC with a dorky name, there are Ominous Developments in an unrelated arena, and a couple of people Get What They Deserve.*
Harpy hdsidhe@gmail.com Handmaiden of the Goddess of Irony