Caffeine, Conspiracies, and the Fortean Nature of Fishes VIII: When Geoducks Go Bad
By D. Sidhe: Erika
Category: Slash, WIP
Pairings: Mulder/Frohike, Langly/Byers
Rating: NC-17. Mulder/Frohike. Plus a lot of grossness, and violence against harmless invertebrates.
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 not made with geoducks, which many crazy people say makes a very good chowder too. 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".) The subtitle in this part is not a close enough parody that I feel compelled to apologize to anyone. Further parts still pend, so get your Shellfish is Selfish protests organized early and avoid the rush.
Beta: TRFB objected to the diction in 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.
Archive: If you want it, take it.
Spoilers: None.
Author's Note: If you want to know what "falling, decayed, whale blubber" sounds like, ask any Oregonian. For a brief geoduck faq, go here.

Summary: I think of my pleasant condition, surrounded by Acres of Clams…

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 past Jumie, 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 slam 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 little 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 goddamn 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 any bells 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, after some thought.

"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 felt better that way. 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 excruciating 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," Frohike 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 to room with the clam?"

"I'm hoping to be rid of it tomorrow. 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?"

"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 this 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."

*Next Up: Caffeine, Conspiracies, and the Fortean Nature of Fishes IX: Sleepless in Sammamish: In which reinforcements arrive to help determine if our next guest OCs are psychic, delusional, or just not getting enough REM, while our Lost Boys discover that there's really only one thing interesting about driving through Eastern Washington at night.*

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

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