A Weekend in the Heartland IV: The Effects of Alcohol on the Reptile Brain
By D. Sidhe: Erika
Category: Slash, 4/5
Pairing: Mulder/Frohike
Rating: NC-17 for swearing and sweaty encounters.
Disclaimers and apologies: Very little here is mine. The conference coordinator is mine. The journalists (barring Frohike) and the cub journalists, are mine. That last part should be obvious, because non-drinking journalists are clearly fictitious. Powder Keg is mine. Apple Cart is mine. Vicente Ramos is mine, though TREAT is not. The books and other publications are not my property, except in the sense that I own copies, however, there doesn't actually appear to be a book called UFOs for Dummies, which is a real shame. Additional apologies to vegetarians, vegans, and non-drinkers, Arkansas, Poland, Bigfoot fanciers, Stanford, FUROR, "Encounter of the Fifth Kind" proponents, Blum, Knight (and anyone who has the Knight book and therefore got the joke), the Dolphins, CUFOS, Hudson Valley witnesses, UFO Coverup Live, SC Johnson, Sam Adams, TREAT, persons involved with the Great Falls Movie, and PATS victims.
Archive: If you want it, take it.
Spoilers: Yappi is mentioned again, plus possible-but-certainly-vague spoilers for "The Jersey Devil", "Ice", "F. emasculata","Our Town", and "Grotesque".

Summary: Late Saturday at the Conference. You can't believe everything you're told… And you can't believe that, either.

**

On the way to the lobby, Frohike ran into, literally, J. Wayne.

"Hi, J. Wayne."

J. Wayne smiled. "Just Wayne, really."

"You've gotta stop that, J. Wayne. Look at it this way: the best way to break into subculture journalism is to be a character. Now, if we ditch the suits and replace the tie with a bowtie, you'll have a real hook. Three years from now, Powder Keg won't be able to get close enough to you to beg you for a syndicated piece."

J. Wayne laughed a little.

"But you keep up the 'Just Wayne' thing," Frohike continued, "you're destined to answer that question for the rest of your life."

"What question?" J. Wayne looked puzzled.

"'Does the J. stand for Just?'" Frohike grinned. "Do you really want people calling you 'Just Wayne' for the rest of your career?"

The younger man thought about it. "Good point, I guess."

"What are you doing for lunch, J. Wayne?"

He shrugged. "I haven't thought about it yet. Is there a good place around? Somewhere that does salads or something?"

Frohike shook his head. "J. Wayne, you may not even need the bowtie. Tell me you're not a vegetarian."

"Well…"

"Vegan?"

"Just vegetarian."

Frohike rolled his eyes. "C'mon, kid. I'm having lunch with Apple Cart and The Smoking Gun and Flap. You can be my guest."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Frohike."

"Mel. And I've got an ulterior motive." He dug through his pack and came up with the pages Byers had sent. "Look these over, would you?"

J. Wayne followed him to the lobby and was introduced to the group. "J. Wayne Arthur. He's tagging along with me for the day," Frohike explained. "They stuck him on the Philadelphia Experiment Q&A with me, the poor kid. J. Wayne does the covert ops boys and high energy fields."

"Just starting out," J. Wayne said. "Still learning."

Allen and Rosenberg from Apple Cart showed off their guest. "This is Pete, he's our copy." Chuck Allen grinned at the cubs. "That's reporter for Ain't-Gettin'-Paid." The reporters laughed, but the cubs looked a little nervous. "Pete's thing is hoaxes. Tell 'em about Frdynia, Pete," Allen instructed.

"Well, there's really a lot—" Pete started.

Allen cut him off. "Thanks, Pete." The journalists laughed.

"Thank God you haven't changed, Allen. You're still a jerk," said the Flap editor.

"That's why they put me with Rosenberg here. I piss 'em off, and he breaks 'em open."

Josh Rosenberg grinned. "Good reporter/bad reporter. Who've you got there, Steve?" he asked Flap.

"LaSalle. If she's got a first name, I've never seen it."

LaSalle blinked a couple of times. "Letisha."

Rosenberg laughed. "You don't pay her either?"

Steve Helder snorted. "Hey, I'm feeding her, aren't I? LaSalle does SETI and IS travel tech. She's got science degrees you could choke an ET Bigfoot on."

Frohike laughed. "You've been in Arkansas too long, Steve. You're just getting Too Folksy For Words."

Helder raised an eyebrow and affected a drawl. "I been practisin'. I jist don' think I'm folksy enough."

Rosenberg looked to the older man who was shepherding the six person party from one of the bigger magazines, The Smoking Gun. "Drose, who are your new kids this year?"

"We brought most of the department," Ian Drose said. "The advantages of a big budget. And a small department. Most of you boys know Masashi Katahira, crop circles. Bill A. Kahn, Roswell and recovered bodies. This is Marvel," he said indulgently, gesturing to a tall man in a fedora and wingtips. "No known legal name," he grinned. "Marvel does abductees, selectees, contactees, channelers, experiencers, hybrids, StarBorns, Walk-Ins, and Crawl-Ins."

The journalists laughed, and the kids looked confused again. "Crawl-Ins are reincarnated EBEs born in human bodies. Hereditary Walk-Ins," Katahira explained. The kids smiled at him and nodded, looking relieved at the explanation.

"Last and least, of course," Drose continued with a wink, "our cubs here. This lovely young woman is Benji Hamlin, theoretical xenobiology. She's only with us for the summer, then she's back to Stanford. I don't believe we've changed her mind about that so far, although we are still trying. And this is Nick Trebaczewski, who has finished his schooling for the moment, so we get to keep him. And don't any of you try to lure him away. He's one of the best writers I've seen in quite a while. He's hoaxes and non-ET explanations, also. You and Pete might compare notes," Drose said to Trebaczewski.

"Just remember," Allen said, grinning, to Pete, "no sharing confidential information or sources. Got it? You can talk history and published theories. But we own your theories, boys. As well as your bodies, your spare time, if any, and your souls."

There was another round of laughter, and the cubs looked a little unnerved again.

"Smoking Gun isn't just UFOlogy," Rosenberg told them. "But this is the best part of their UFO department here. Drose is the UFO editor, and resident mutilations expert. He knows more about dissected livestock than any of us will ever let him tell us."

Drose chuckled. "They expect me to keep quiet and pay for lunch," he observed affably. "Weak stomachs, the lot of them. All right then, chaps. Where shall we eat?"

Marvel grinned. "You're picking up the check, so you pick."

Drose cuffed him affectionately. "I can still take away your press pass, Marvel."

"I hid it. You can look, if you want," Marvel offered with a humorously obscene gesture.

Drose shook his head. "No, thank you, really. Not here. I'll just have your creds revoked."

Allen snorted. "That shouldn't be hard."

"Lay off my boy, Allen. Or I'll tell Pete about your Vegas Crash story."

Allen held his hands up in playful surrender. "My bad."

Drose winked at Pete. "Perhaps I was thinking of someone else. Do you by any chance have a last name, Pete?"

"Pete Dodden," Rosenberg said with a smile. "We stopped expecting Allen to know more than half of anyone's name years ago."

"The cubs, at least," Allen smirked. "What's that you got there, J. Wayne?"

J. Wayne looked nervously at Frohike, who answered for him. "Some microwave theory stuff. I'm picking the kid's brains."

LaSalle edged over to Hamlin and Trebaczewski and introduced herself. Dodden and J. Wayne joined them as they all left the center.

"So, boys, do we want food and drink, or drink and food?" Kahn asked.

"What kind of question is that?" Allen demanded.

Drose held up a hand for attention. "I'll pay the food, but everyone picks up their own bar bill, gents." There were the traditional good-humored groans and protests amidst the laughter. "You children, don't you worry about it. We may not pay you, but at least we can get you drunk."

"I've got you, J. Wayne," Frohike said with a nod. "You can be my cub for the day."

J. Wayne smiled faintly, a totally Byers expression. "That's not necessary, really."

"Expense account," he joked. He looked the kid over. "Let me guess, you don't drink."

"Uh, no. I, uh…"

Frohike laughed. "You're gonna have to learn if you want to get along in this crowd. But at least you're a cheap date."

Allen suggested "Hooters", to the embarrassment of LaSalle, Trebaczewski, and J. Wayne. Hamlin and Dodden ignored it.

Frohike stepped in and addressed the journalists. "J. Wayne here is a vegetarian. Buffalo wings won't do it. I saw a place around the corner last night that does sandwiches and stout. How's it sound?"

There was general approval, and Drose, the acknowledged elder statesman, motioned for Frohike to lead the way.

The waiters shoved a couple of tables together and the journalists held rowdy court for a while, drinking, joking, catching up. Leads weren't shared, and sources weren't mentioned in any identifiable way, but past work was freely discussed.

J. Wayne was persuaded to try a lite beer, and received a certain amount of taunting. Frohike noticed he only drank a few sips of it, and grinned to himself. Even Byers drank when the press corps went out on the town.

Eventually the cubs loosened up a little and started talking and asking questions. Basic lore was explained for them, and they were offered a rambling, half-soused overview of non-UFO subjects, as well as a highly defamatory and entertaining who's-who of the corps. Specialties were elaborated on, and the cubs were quizzed on education and experience.

J. Wayne was revealed to have a good dose of non-UFO paranoia, and a detailed knowledge of the covert ops boys. When they discovered that J. Wayne wasn't actually Frohike's cub, the bunch of them took turns telling him stories about Frohike and the Lone Gunmen. Frohike protested that the kid was only cub-for-the-day and didn't need to know it all, but finally gave up in the face of overwhelming opposition.

After a couple of hours, the party broke up when Allen and Rosenberg stood up and announced that they had a Gulf Breeze presentation to put on. There was general laughter from the journalists. Allen handed his briefcase to Dodden. "Okay, Pete. Let's go explain why civilizations capable of interstellar travel are unlikely to be astonished by irrigation technology."

Helder laughed. "Biddle-liddle, lip," he told Dodden.

Dodden grinned. "In sleep you know, Zehaas," he said solemnly, as if offering a benediction.

Rosenberg chortled. "After we initiate him, he gets his Power Ring."

Kahn snorted. "You guys are so going to get banned from CUFOIN conferences. I can't believe they're even letting you do this."

Allen smirked. "FUROR will be there to explain why we're ignorant tools of the disinformation-mongers. I saw their boys earlier, and they're armed for bear. If me and Rosenberg and Pete don't survive, I expect you guys to avenge us."

The journalists laughed some more.

Rosenberg leaned over the table for a moment. "Hey, Mel. I hear a rumor you helped with the Starfleet detente."

Frohike laughed. "Some journalist you are, believing everything you're told."

"So you had nothing to do with it?" Rosenberg was serious now.

Frohike tossed some money on the table and stood up abruptly. "Gotta scoot, boys. Calls to make, quotes to take, and hands to shake." He glanced at J. Wayne. "I'll find you later when you've had a chance to think about the MR stuff."

J. Wayne stood up, took a step away from the table, and said, "Do you mind if I walk back to the center with you? I'm not sure I know how to find it. And I've got some thoughts already, we could talk about them on the way."

Frohike cracked a smile. "Sure. C'mon, kiddo. Tell me what you think about that potassium theory."

J. Wayne went on about it for a few minutes, and then stopped to ask, "What's the, uh, Zehaas stuff about?"

Frohike laughed. "I'll find you the books. The Gulf Breeze abductions were a guy named Ed Walters, his wife Frances. Walters said the aliens called him 'Zehaas'. The other thing, is just something he says they said to him. No one really knows what the hell it means. There's a lot of inconsistencies in the Gulf Breeze stuff. And a lot of photos of stuff that looks exactly like pie plates. You can see the strings in some of them. Supporters, and CUFOIN is a big one, say the obviously-hoaxed pictures are disinformation passed by Men In Black, to discredit the real pictures."

"Thanks." J. Wayne shook his head. "UFOs are pretty contentious, I guess."

"Some of them more than others," Frohike said with a grin. He was starting to take a shine to the kid. He was bright, and had the crusading spark. It didn't hurt that he was cute, in a wholesome kind of way. Frohike didn't know if the kid was gay, and it didn't really matter. He was just—window shopping. Besides, the kid's theories were good, really good. J. Wayne was going places, and it could only help to cultivate a friendship.

"Who came up with this, anyway?" J. Wayne asked, flapping the folded papers slightly. "I thought I knew most of the people in the field."

"Byers, they mentioned him. He's a generalist, really. A conspiracy Renaissance Man. I'm glad you understand the questions, 'cause he's been driving us nuts with them for a while. I couldn't understand any six words he put together on that."

"He's got a real grasp of the fundamentals. And some ideas I wouldn't have considered. The genetic angles," he elaborated.

Frohike nodded. "If you could write down some of your answers? So I make sure I get them to him right? We'd owe you."

J. Wayne looked uncomfortable. "No need. You already fed me."

"That was just cub-care, J. Wayne," the older man laughed. "Everybody does that. Story help is repaid with story help."

That got a smile. "I may need it, actually. I could, um, email him. If that'd help? In case he has other questions? I'd really like to hear some of his thoughts."

Frohike grinned and dug out one of Byers' cards. "Thanks. I'm sure he'd appreciate it. What'd they tell you to come back with?"

"Powder Keg?"

"Yep."

"Eight hundred words. And they'll cut it to three, my editor said. If they use it at all."

Frohike shrugged. "They're real bastards over there. Who's your editor?"

"Zev Allansu."

Frohike clucked sympathetically. "You poor kid. Is Zev still as big an asshole as he used to be?"

J. Wayne laughed a bit. "I think he's been practicing."

"Sounds like him. I've got some stuff to do, J. Wayne, but I'll see you later. Okay?"

"Sure. I need to schedule some interviews and get some quotes. For the story they won't bother to print." He didn't seem depressed about it, just sort of bemused.

Frohike patted him on the shoulder and moved off into the crowd.

He was still a little high from the chummy shop-talk lunch when he strolled back in to the conference. Mulder bumped into him near an information table, Frohike figured deliberately, from the brief hand on his ass. Very casual. Frohike tried hard not to laugh.

"How was lunch?"

"Pretty good. What'd you do?"

"Ebben."

Frohike laughed. "And is he a screamer?"

Mulder sulked a little. "I mean we had lunch together, okay?"

"Sure, sure. What'd you have? The… kielbasa?"

Mulder snorted and picked up a pamphlet from a group that was lobbying to have a fifth category added to the Hynek Encounter Classification System. "Burgers and beer. They think EBE treaties should be counted separate from contact."

"How does that work?" Frohike asked, puzzled.

"I dunno." He counted them off on his fingers. "Close look, physical trace, occupants, abduction, government cover-up?"

"Well, you'd know."

"Very funny. How'd your Q&A go?"

"What if they gave an interdimensional insectoid alien invasion and nobody came?"

More laughter. "Bust, huh."

"Not totally. Lobster moderated."

Mulder gave a low whistle. "How'd they manage that?"

"Near as I can figure, they lied to him."

Mulder snickered. He glanced around again, and seemed to spot someone. "See you later, Fro," he said suddenly, and loped off.

Frohike handily tracked down copies of UFO Abductions in Gulf Breeze and The Gulf Breeze Sightings, adding for the hell of it a copy of Howard Blum's Out There and Peter Knight's Conspiracy Culture. He laughed at, and declined, UFOs for Dummies. The seller assured him it virtually flew off the table.

"Does it hum?" Frohike asked.

The seller, a young woman in a t-shirt bearing the legend "Order of the Dolphins" grinned. "Hovers and beeps."

He tucked his purchases away and headed off to check out the Starfleet tables, feeling a little proprietary towards them. He was offered a hero's welcome, which made him laugh.

"So you're not upset they said no to the food?" he asked an unusually short Romulan babe.

She laughed. "Hell no. Klingon cooking is not an indoor thing."

Frohike gathered some quotes. It was pretty much just a matter of habit, even if he wasn't involved, it wasn't their kind of story. He did manage to identify the Vulcan who had thrown the pie. The man was good for a couple of quotes, and assured Frohike that, no, he hadn't actually been arrested. The Stupendous Yappi couldn't tell a Vulcan from a Romulan, and had been unable to describe his assailant.

"He couldn't even say male or female," Frohike laughed, and showed him the incident reports.

"That's not really what happened," the man told him, shaking his head. "He was just begging for a pie. I didn't even know who he was."

"You couldn't have pied a more deserving asshole," Frohike said.

The Vulcans declared him an honorary diplomat, and he was offered his pick of the protest signs. He laughed and settled for photos of it all.

**

It happened as he was walking down a hallway to find the Hudson Valley slide show. An arm reached out of nowhere and grabbed him, pulled him into a room. Shoved him against a door in total blackness and held him there. He heard the click of a lock. He hoped it was a lock, anyhow.

He swallowed. So it'd finally happened, after all the years and all the stories. He knew being Mulder's friend provided them with a little extra protection, but he and the other Gunmen knew that odds were good someday someone would decide they were more trouble than could be tolerated.

It helped, some, to know that Mulder would probably raise hell to find out what had happened.

Frohike's biggest regret was they still hadn't watched the eighty-four version of Project Blue Balls.

This last thought straightened his spine. He was not going to die in a closet in Indiana. He lashed out with a swift knee and heard a muffled grunt when he connected. Still in the murky darkness, he rammed his elbow into where he was hoping his assailant's ribs were. From the cursing, it was clear he'd succeeded. Something else also became clear.

"Mulder, you are a fucking asshole!" he hissed in disgust.

Mulder laughed a little painfully. "I thought you'd know it was me."

Frohike muttered something virulently obscene under his breath. "If I'd known it was you, I'd have hit you harder. You are a total fucking asshole. What the fuck were you thinking?"

Mulder snickered and leaned heavily against the older man. "I was thinking about sex. But I don't think I am anymore."

"You're an asshole, Mulder, and you just took ten years off my life."

"Yeah, but do you still want to be my Valentine?"

Frohike snorted. "Asshole."

"Are you feeling deprived? Even after last night? I can fix that. If you give me a couple of minutes for my testicles to descend, anyway."

He sighed. "Where'd I hit you?"

"Ribs. And, uh, let's call it upper thigh."

Frohike relented. "Sorry. I really didn't know it was you. Are there lights in here? Where is here, anyhow?"

"Nope. Just a closet. You couldn't tell by the seductive aroma of Windex?" Mulder's words came from a spot way too close to Frohike's face.

"Not really, no. The slightly less seductive aroma of several Sam Adams is overpowering it. How many'd you have, Mulder?"

"Who cares. Hey, Fro," Mulder said breathily. "I'm starting to remember what I was thinking about when I pulled you in here."

Frohike almost laughed. "What's it take to turn you off, for God's sake?"

Mulder did laugh. "Probably a stake through the heart. Anyway, you missed. The important stuff, that is."

Frohike shook his head, knowing Mulder could sense it. "For some reason, being assaulted puts me completely out of the mood. Maybe later, when we're not standing in a dark supply closet, you can show me your bruises."

Mulder's hands were moving down Frohike's body. "I sort of like this closet, Fro. It's… cozy."

"If you touch my belt, I'm going to start yelling 'rape'."

Mulder laughed. "Really?" Frohike could feel him lean in and down and he brushed his lips across the older man's cheek.

A frisson of desire. "Oh, God. Maybe not. I've got a few minutes, I think." He bucked into Mulder's hand. "Fuck!"

"It's a little too cozy for that. Where were you going, anyway? Am I making you late for a meeting with someone… important?"

"Hudson Valley—" Frohike gasped. "Not important. Not important at all." He shrugged his pack off his shoulder and it dropped to the floor. His pants followed, and then Mulder did too.

"Let me show you some bright lights, Frohike."

His mind barely registered the cheesiness of the line. He was—preoccupied with what Mulder did next. Tormenting touches, soft and wet, across his cock. He groaned, trying to keep it quiet.

"Talk to me, Fro," Mulder mumbled, frustrated.

"Mulder—We're in a goddamned closet—God!—at a goddamned conference—do that again!—I don't think we need," he gasped, "an audience. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You're oversexed, Mulder."

Mulder laughed and it rippled through Frohike's body. "I'm prepared to shoot anyone who tries to get in here."

"Oh God. Keep that up," Frohike panted, "gonna be piles of… bodies in the hall. Shit, Mulder. Can't believe we're doing this."

Mulder lightly nibbled the length of his shaft. "I'm a closet case," he snickered.

Frohike braced himself as best he could against the wall with one hand and guided Mulder's mouth helpfully with the other. "Less banter."

Mulder took the hint. He engulfed Frohike entirely, sweeping waves of fever down his spine and curling fingers and toes. "Mulder… Mulder… God." So hot, so rough. So… enthusiastic. He wished he could see the younger man. The darkness started to close in on Frohike, and he pressed against the door behind him. Mulder slid his hands up and held him by the hips.

Frohike whimpered at the firm grip that prevented him from thrusting into the wet heat. Mulder's thumb dug into his hipbone and his mouth was like the heart of a dying star. Frohike swore weakly and could feel Mulder's chuckles as currents rushed over him.

"Fuck…" He bit hard into his hand and his orgasm surged through him. He did see the promised bright lights, briefly.

Mulder rested his head on Frohike's belly, still holding him up. The soft hair tingled against his hypersensitized skin. Frohike was still coming down when Mulder said, "Hudson Valley—Did you ever see UFO Coverup Live?"

Frohike shook his head and tried to get enough breath to laugh. "Mulder. I'm half-naked in a closet. Can we just skip, for the moment, the denunciations of Bill Moore?"

He felt Mulder grin against him. "Sorry."

"S'okay."

Mulder pulled his pants back from around his ankles, and Frohike somewhat unsteadily did them up. "What did you do with my belt, Mulder?"

Mulder pressed it into his hand, and he felt the air move and heard a rustle as Mulder stood. Frohike pulled him close. "Sorry I hit you."

"You can kiss my bruises later."

Frohike laughed quietly. "Deal." He breathed deeply for a few minutes. "If there's a bunch of people waiting for us in the hallway when we open this door—"

"I've got a spare clip."

"You wouldn't have to defend my virtue if you hadn't ambushed me."

"Sorry I did?"

He leaned against Mulder. "No. It was just a slide show."

After a moment, Mulder carefully cracked the door and looked out. "Clear," he said professionally.

Frohike laughed. "Thank God for that. How do I look?"

Mulder grinned. "Sated. Me?"

"Smug."

"Good. No one will be able to tell we've been doing anything unusual."

Frohike pushed him back into the closet suddenly, kissed him hard, lapping at his chin.

"You're welcome," Mulder snickered, when he let go.

Frohike moved back. "I think the come on your face would've given us away."

Still snickering. "Possibly."

They eased back into the empty hallway. "Why were you going to a Hudson Valley slide show?" Mulder insisted.

"Meeting someone there."

Mulder sighed dramatically. "There's always someone trying to come between us, isn't there, Fro."

Frohike laughed. "I'm not touching that." He glanced down. "Forgot my pack." He ducked back into the closet and came out rummaging around in it. "I got you something."

"I hope it's aspirin."

"Shit, Mulder," Frohike paused, looking up. "Did I hit you that bad?"

"No, no. It's okay. I'm joking."

"Sorry, buddy." He came up with the Yappi incident reports. "This should make you feel better."

It took the agent a couple of seconds to assimilate what he was reading, and then he slumped against the wall, laughing till tears ran down his face. Frohike waited.

"Is this for real?"

"Yep."

"How'd you hear about this, Mel?"

"I have my sources," Frohike said evasively, grinning.

Still laughing. "This… this…" He couldn't find the words and settled for "Fuck."

"Hey, I invited the conference coordinator to dinner with us, is that okay?"

Mulder blinked at him. "Is he cute?"

"You have a one track mind, Mulder. It's a she. She's into cryptozoology. She'd love to talk with you about Mackerle, the rest of it."

He shrugged. "I guess it's okay. I was kind of hoping we could be alone, but…"

"We still have the Batcave, Mulder."

Mulder gave him a fast smile. "Maybe I'll bring Ebben, too."

"Ebben would love the Batcave."

"I meant to dinner." Mulder sulked briefly.

"Sure, why not?" Frohike said with post-coital easy agreeability. "Let's make it a party." He thumped Mulder lightly on the back. "I'll see you around seven-thirty, how about? By the host table." He stopped and turned back. "Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Not that I'm not grateful, but… don't ever do that again, okay?"

Mulder just laughed.

Harpy hdsidhe@gmail.com Handmaiden of the Goddess of Irony

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