"Fish Night" by JulietttXF@aol.com Quick background. About a year ago Windsinger was talking (in e-mail to a group of people) about fanfics and used as an example a fictitious (that is, there was no such story at the time) story called "Fish Nite," gave it an arbitrary length of about 30K, and a brief summary (Mulder's neighbor is visited by Saint Patrick, or something along those lines). For some reason this struck me as really funny and I sat down and wrote this story in about forty-five minutes (I said twenty in the disclaimer because I wrote that before I finished the story). When I went back online to send it out to the people on the aforementioned mailing list I was rather astonished to receive, at the same time, another "Fish Nite" story by Ra, who had had the same idea immediately upon receiving Windsinger's mail. In retrospect, I really shouldn't have been astonished. :D In any case, I shoved this thing to the back of my hard drive, so to speak, and didn't think anything more of it until about a week ago, when I decided to go ahead and post it. I've posted enough serious stuff lately. This is pure farce. There is absolutely NO connection between this story and any of my other stories. The characters are out of character. The time is out of joint. . . . Ooops. Channelling Shakespeare again. Sorry. I've also left this story as is to retain the bizarre, "driven" feel of a story that is written more or less start-to-finish with no editing along the way. I *do* remember that as I wrote I began getting vague ideas as to what I wanted to have happen several paragraphs down the line--and then realized once I got there that--well, I had gone somewhere else entirely. Ce la vie. It was fun writing it and I hope it's fun reading it. As far as a time stamp goes--I wrote this shortly after "The List" aired. It's set about the same time (which should be apparent from something that happens in the story). And now on to the story, including the original disclaimer (nothing has been edited below this line--Heaven help us. . . .). ------------------------------------------------------------------ Thanks to CC for his characters and Windsinger for the idea. This is just a joke, folks. . . . And *because* it's a joke and *because* I wrote it in about twenty minutes with absolutely no outline or forethought or planning of any sort, just let the story take me where it would, it's got a lot of stuff in it that might never be there otherwise: blatant references to the clash in universes, gratuitous gore (well, slight gore, anyway), some UST (well, okay, THAT would be there anyway, but this time it's less -- refined -- than I usually try to do), and, oh, my, shouldn't Juliettt be reading her Milton homework? Hmmm -- maybe either Satan or Michael could make a brief cameo. . . . October 27, 9:01 P.M. Fox Mulder's apartment "Scully." "Hmm?" She glanced up from her Kung Pao chicken. "What is it, Mulder?" "He's doing it again," he said in a hushed voice. "Doing wha--" "Shhhh," he shushed her, holding up his hand. "Just listen." Accordingly, she listened, a frown on her face. From somewhere nearby came the faint sounds of music. Irish music. The bodhrain and the tin whistle and sounds of singing. She opened her mouth to speak, but Mulder shook his head. "Just wait." And then, a sound she thought she had before -- the sound of which British soldier's nightmares (and the nightmares of others) are made, the sound that made the Romans run screaming from the glens of Scotland. No, she had *definitely* heard it before. "Mulder? Are those *bagpipes*?" she asked in astonishment, her mouth agape. He nodded, his eyes gleaming, and glanced at the clock on the wall. "And right on time, too -- every Friday night -- well, every Friday night I've been home," he said with a wry grin, "for the past few weeks, Mr. O'Halloran has continued this -- tradition -- at nine o'clock on the dot." "Really?" she asked, her eyes wide. "Hasn't anybody ever *said* anything?" Mulder shrugged. "Everybody else is probably *out* on Friday night at nine o'clock," he pointed out to her. "Besides, he never -- see," he gestured to the wall. The bagpipes, after a brief skirl, had ceased. The folk music, however, seemed a bit louder. "What do you suppose is going on over there?" she asked, shaking her head in amazement. He shrugged again. "Dunno. Short party for the banshees?" he teased, grinning. She rolled her eyes. He loved her grandmother. It was just that one of his ways of expressing affection was teasing. She put up with it because she knew it meant he cared about her, as well. And he teased her unmercifully. Perhaps that meant. . . . "Mulder, do you plan to do anything about this?" "Do *what*, Scully?" "I don't know, Mulder -- doesn't it ever bother you?" She cocked her head, listening to the music. "Nice." "No, it doesn't bother me -- much," he admitted. "Sometimes it continues longer than others and I can't concentrate on my favorite television show," he motioned to the screen where a program dealing with the paranormal that he and Scully watched without fail was beginning, "but except for the thirty-second bagpipe concert he's really not that loud. I've never met the man -- after the first time I went downstairs and looked on his mailbox, and that's where I got the name." The music stopped and he looked at the clock again. "Five minutes. And nothing more until next week," he promised. She shook her head, took another swallow of tea, and settled back against him on the couch to watch the show. It was a new episode dealing with a death-row inmate in Florida who vowed to come back from the dead to take vengeance on five men who had injured him during his incarceration. There were dead bodies, which of course didn't bother her, and maggots, which they had of course seen several times during the course of their investigations. But they both still wished they had ordered in anything *but* Chinese. ***** October 30, 7:42 A.M. Quantico, Autopsy Bay Six "So, Mulder, any more private Irish music festivals this weekend?" she teased when he walked into the lab. He shook his head. "None. I told you, Scully -- the guy only does this on Friday nights at nine o'clock, and only for about five minutes. It's weird." She gave him a Look. "*Weird*, Mulder. *You* consider this *weird*?" "Okay, okay," he said, holding up his hands in self-defense, "call it 'unexplained,' then." He grinned at her. "Wanna do some investigating?" She cocked her eyebrows. "Explore the mysteries of your next-door neighbor's fondness of Irish folk music?" "Yeah," he said, coming up to stand in front of her and dropping his voice to a husky whisper. "Friday night. You and me. Pizza and beer and the mysteries of the universe. What more could you possibly want?" She looked up into his eyes and thought of several things. Things she couldn't mention to him, especially not here, where the walls undoubtedly had ears. Things she might never be able to say. She swallowed hard and her voice sounded thin in her own ears. (<--- obvious UST, anyone?) "But, Mulder, that's what we do *every* Friday night. . . . (heh, heh, heh) ***** The week passed uneventfully. Well, for *them* it was uneventful; the average man or woman on the street might have a slightly different take on seven days filled with suspicious lights and night stakeouts and serial killings in which the killer tatooed his name on his victims -- they weren't sure whether it was before or after he killed them by cutting off their thumbs and big toes and allowing them to bleed to death. (<--- this would be the gratuitous gore) But for them, par for the course. They didn't even bat an eyelash when all of their evidence went up in smoke -- again -- and the supposed killer vanished into the woodwork -- again. Friday came and with it the promise of more exciting adventures. He asked her if pizza were still okay. She said pizza was *always* okay. He asked if she would pick it up for him. She hit him over the head with her purse and then stood over him while he lay on the ground, dazed and blinking. "What the heck do you *have* in that thing, anyway, Scully?" he asked as she helped him to his feet. "All the money I have to carry around to make sure I have enough to feed your big appetite," she teased. At any other time she would not have been teasing, but he had a bruise on his forehead and it was beginning to swell. "You okay?" "I'm *fine*, Scully," he said in a falsetto. When she winced he nodded. "See how annoying that is?" "You better watch it, Mulder, or I'll get the healthy kind of pizza. You know, the kind with whole-wheat crust and nonfat cheese and all-natural sauce with no salt, and only veggies for toppings. The kind that will make your arteries give me a standing ovation. The kind that will keep you around long enough to see me become head of the FBI in 2023. The kind that --" "The kind that they market under the name 'cardboard boxes -- insert pizza here,'" he said with a grimace. "I get the picture. So, will *you* get the pizza? And need I remind you that *I* paid last week?" "Yeah, but only because you owed me for doing all the paperwork for the past month," she reminded him. Then she sighed. "Fine. But you get the beer." "You got it," he said, then grinned. "I figure we should go thematic. Killian's, Harp, or Guinness?" "Killian's," she informed him severely, "is made in California, although they *insist* on charging import prices for it. I used to like it but I won't drink it anymore." "An imposter beer, huh?" he teased. "Harp," she said, heading out the door. ***** November 3, 8:15 P.M. Fox Mulder's apartment Mulder opened the door to reveal Scully bearing a steaming box which, he was gratified to note upon lifting the lid, contained a huge pizza with a double helping of artery-clogging cheese which was loaded with pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms, jalapenos, and all kinds of good stuff that made little bumps and ridges under the second layer of cheese. He began salivating just at the smell. "Just call me Pavlov," she said with a smile, setting the box down on the coffee table. "Mmmph," he said, sinking his teeth into a melting slice and rolling his eyes heavenward. "Mmmmmmmmph. . . ." "Like that, huh?" she asked, reaching for a bottle of Harps. "MmmPH!" he protested. "Mmmrph MMMPH mrrmph!" "What?" she asked, taking a good swallow. "MRRRR!" he grumbled, swallowing. "That was *MY* beer." "So?" she asked, reaching for the other one. "Don't you dare. . . . SCULLY. . . ." She slugged down some of the second bottle and regarded him with amazement. "You mean to tell me, Fox Mulder, that after everything we've shared together -- bile and alien blood and sploogey boils, oh, my, that you're upset about a little backwash in your beer?" "That's gross, Scully. That's really, really gross." He shook his head scornfully and headed for the refrigerator, bringing back a fresh beer. She rolled her eyes again and reached for a piece of pizza and took a huge bite. "Mmmmmm. . . ." He reached over and grabbed a pepper off her slice and popped it in his mouth. "MMRPH!" He simply grinned and shrugged and sat down next to her, reaching for the remote control. "Hypocrite," she grumbled, drinking more beer. They munched in silence as he channel-surfed, waiting for their favorite show to begin. Mulder simply lifted an eyebrow when she finished her first beer and picked up the second, but did not say anything. She flipped through the television guide. "Great," she sighed. "What?" "It's a repeat tonight," she said, showing him the page. "Of an episode I loved, but a repeat nonetheless." "Hey, I loved that one, too," he responded, taking the magazine from her. "Isn't that the one with the cricket?" "Trust you to remember the insects," she intoned, reaching From ???@??? Wed Dec 04 17:56:48 1996 Return-Path: Received: from emout13.mail.aol.com (emout13.mx.aol.com [198.81.11.39]) by megan.netwizards.net (8.8.3/8.8.3) with SMTP id PAA10883 for ; Wed, 4 Dec 1996 15:43:08 -0800 From: EMXC@aol.com Received: by emout13.mail.aol.com (8.6.12/8.6.12) id SAA08250; Wed, 4 Dec 1996 18:19:28 -0500 Date: Wed, 4 Dec 1996 18:19:28 -0500 Message-ID: <961204181832_1487345776@emout13.mail.aol.com> Subject: EMXC-"Fish Night" 1/1 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="PART.BOUNDARY.0.572.emout13.mail.aol.com.849741512" Status: for another slice of pizza. "Well, you gotta admit," he said, shaking his head, "that this episode was *much* better than the one we saw last week." She nodded, chewing. "In a different league. I don't get what the producer thinks he's doing this season. I mean, these are great actors -- the actress in particular -- but look what he's giving them to work with!" Mulder shook his head. "I think the actor's great," he said. "Too bad he looks like a stick just walking through the third-season episodes. And I thought these guys were *friends*, but they don't even *talk* to each other anymore." He turned to look at her. "Where would best friends be if they didn't talk to each other?" She gazed up at him, a warm glow spreading through her body. His face was so close to hers. There was a dab of tomato sauce on his lower lip, and she eyed it intently. She remembered his wiping barbecue sauce off her mouth once, so tenderly, so long ago it seemed now. She wanted to do the same thing for him, only she didn't want to use a napkin. . . . (<--- yup, more blatant UST!) From next door came the unmistakeable sound of bagpipes. Deep in their conversation, they had missed O'Halloran's warmup act. Mulder dropped his gaze and hopped up from the couch. "Let's go." They scurried out into the hallway. The sound was even louder out here, but it was the only noise on the floor. He hadn't been kidding when he said his neighbors all had lives on the weekend. They stepped cautiously in front of the door next door and Mulder tapped on it gently. No response. Louder. There was a wheezing, unmusical sigh as the bagpipes deflated, then footsteps, quick and light, and then the door opened. Their mouths fell open. A tiny man, scarcely taller than Scully, stood there in fully kilted splendor, a set of bagpipes over his arm. His face reflected their astonishment. "Well, ye don' luik like Saint Patrick," he finally managed, "but ye're welcome all the same." He stepped back and they glanced at one another, then walked inside. The room was dimly lit by several small lamps, lending an almost eerie, firelike glow to the room. A CD of Irish music was still playing, and there was an intoxicating smell of tea and baking goodies. They looked over. The table was laid for two. There was no-one else in the room. "Oh, I'm sorry Mr. -- Mr. O'Halloran," Scully stumbled. You were expecting company. . . ." "And I've found it, it seems," he said in a musical voice. "Hae a seat -- I'll just be checkin' the teapot." He scurried around the corner and they heard the unmistakable sounds of clinking china and flatware. "No, really, Mr. O'Halloran, you don't have to. . . ." Mulder trailed off, shaking his head. "He must be at least eighty from the looks of him, Scully. *I* don't even move that fast." She shook her head back at him and the two of them surveyed their surroundings. A plain room, with few, but good quality, furnishings, and a small television set. The stereo was brand-new, though, and very expensive. The table was covered with a white lace tablecloth and silver and crystal sparkled at the two place settings. As they watched the odd little man hurried back out and in a flash had laid another setting on the table. Then he turned to them and beckoned them to the table. They stood and protested. "No, really -- we just -- heard the music and. . . ." "We've already eaten, you see, and. . . ." "Nonsense!" he said, shaking his head. "Ye're young. The young always kin eat a guid meal. Now sit!" (sorry, I know the accent stinks -- I've been to Scotland, not Ireland. WHY did you have to make it Saint Patrick, Sue?) They sat. He poured tea and they drank and ate, moving as though in a dream. Here they were, seated at the table of a man they'd never met before, a man who had the oddest predilection for playing the bagpipes at odd hours (not that there's ever a SANE hour for playing the bagpipes), and they were eating his food and drinking his tea and -- and enjoying themselves! Immensely! He did most of the talking. He supposed they had come to see about the music. They nodded. He apologized for the volume but since no-one had ever complained he figured everyone else had someplace to be on Friday nights. Mulder blushed and Scully grinned at him. And besides, that was the only way he could get *him* to come. "Him?" Scully asked. "Who's 'him' -- if you don't mind my asking?" He waved her apologies away. "Why, Saint Patrick, o' course." He nodded emphatically at their astonishment. "Every Friday night, I set him a place here, at my board. With tea and soda bread and cheese and fruit and fish -- I'm a good Catholic, you know," he said, staring at Scully, who was reminded of how long it had been since she had kept the customs of her upbringing, "and good Irish whisky -- all his favorites." "Kind of like a seder, setting a place for Elijah" Mulder murmured. O'Halloran nodded. "Quite right, quite right. Except that Saint Patrick actually comes." Their mouths fell open and then Scully swallowed hard, wishing she hadn't left her gun sitting on Mulder's coffee table. This guy might be a loon -- well, okay, he *was* a loon -- but he might be a *dangerous* loon. She eyed the cup of tea warily. He noticed her apprehension and smiled reassuringly. "'Tis nothing to fear, lass," he said gently. "There'll be no enchantment tonight. *He* never comes except when I'm alone, y'see." He turned to Mulder and narrowed his eyes. "Y'don't believe me, either, do ye, young man? After all ye've seen, y'still don't believe." He shook his head and sighed. "Mr. O'Halloran. . . ." He waved his hand at them. "Michael. Please." (HAH! Got my _Paradise Lost_ reference in there after all!!!) "M-Michael." He didn't feel comfortable calling a man who was old enough to be his grandfather by his first name. "We really didn't mean to intrude, and. . . ." ". . . and now ye'll be goin' because y'think I'm a loon," he finished with a glint in his eye. "I'm not, y'know. *You* should know," he said, turning to Scully. Her skin prickled. "I -- I don't know what you mean," she said hesitantly. "Aye, but ye will, lass. No fear o' that." He stood up again. "How about some music?" "I think I could use some of that 'guid Irish whiskey,'" Mulder whispered to Scully. Their host must have heard them, for he reappeared suddenly with a tray on which were three small crystal glasses full of an amber liquid. He lifted his to them in a mute toast and tossed it down with a grin, then vanished again. They eyed one another, shrugged, and sipped cautiously. It wasn't as though they had very far to go. . . . It burned all the way down, making them gasp and splutter. O'Halloran returned and laughed at their faces, then beckoned them into the living room again. They followed, carrying their glasses. They sat on the sofa and he pulled out a tin whistle and began to play as they sipped and listened. As the minutes passed, time seemed to liquefy and thicken and flow about them in swirling eddies of color and sound and smell and sensation. At one point Dana found herself dancing with Mulder, her feet flying beneath her in an intricate pattern she did not know she knew. She was laughing up at him and he was laughing and Mr. O'Halloran was laughing and the music was spinning them faster and faster and her face was burning and her head was spinning and then Mulder's face was against hers and she was winding her arms around his neck and kissing him and the little old man was grinning at them and the music was fading away and the lights were fading and everything went dim. . . . ***** November 4, 11:36 A.M. Fox Mulder's apartment Scully heard a low groan and tried to open her eyes, but the world blurred and shook and she closed them again, burying her face in something soft and yielding. The moan sounded again and this time she realized it came from her own throat. The surface under her shifted and then vibrated with an even lower, deeper moan, and she tried to open her eyes again. Dark blue fabric under her face. It seemed familiar. It *smelled* familiar. So why didn't she have a clue what it was? She swallowed and sat up slightly, trying to focus. Oh, it was just Mulder. *Mulder*. Panicked, she pushed herself away from him and found herself falling the short-long distance to the floor, which she hit with a hard THUD. "Ow." A pale face, the eyes bleary, appeared over the edge of the couch and tried to look at her. "Shcully?" "Yeah." She sat up. "Oooooh. . . ." "Sc-Scully, you okay?" His eyes were clearing now, a familiar look of concern softening them. "Yeah, I think so. What happened?" she asked, rubbing her head and noticing with relief that she, and he, were both still fully clothed. He sighed. "I haven't the foggiest. No, that's not true. I *do* have the foggiest, but it's just that -- *foggy*. What's the last thing you remember?" "Mmmm," she thought, closing her eyes. "We were next door, having dinner with Mr. O'Halloran -- and then whiskey, and he was playing music. And then I remember dancing and. . . ." He watched, fascinated, as a faint blush crept across her pale cheeks. Ah, so she remembered, too. . . . "And that's all," she concluded hastily. She wouldn't look up at him. "You?" "I remember something else," he said slowly. "I don't know how or who, but I remember somebody *carrying* me out of the apartment and laying me on the couch here." Her eyes blinked up into his, startled. "Somebody *carried* you?" He nodded and she shook her head. "I just figured that you -- well -- but there's no way I could carry *you*, and I doubt Mr. O'Halloran could, either." Her eyes flickered away again. "Is that all you remember?" "If you're asking me, do I remember this . . ." he reached down and touched her lips gently with the tip of one forefinger, "the answer is 'yes'." She blushed again and he smiled. "I'd hate not to remember that, Dana." This time her eyes met his and she smiled back. ***** Breakfast was a hurried affair. Mulder eyed the pizza longingly but even *he* knew not to eat it after it had been left out all night. They rummaged and found the makings for eggs and toast and ate, trying to work out what had happened. "I don't get it, Mulder," she said, shaking her head and quaffing more orange juice. "I mean, were we drunk? We didn't have all that much to drink." He eyed her in disbelief. "Scully. You drank one and a half beers in less than an hour and *then* topped it off with a glass of whiskey of unknown potency." She nodded. "Yeah, I know. I could have been a little buzzed, maybe even a little drunk, but not to remember anything? And to wake up feeling like I drank a whole tubful of bathtub gin?" She shook her head. "And we were there for a long time, Mulder -- I don't know how long, exactly, but it was several hours, at least. I *sipped* at the whiskey -- I don't remember drinking very much of it at all, and *you* certainly couldn't have drunk enough to affect you in this way." He nodded in agreement. "Think we were drugged?" She shook her head again. "I don't know. I would say 'yes,' except that," she paused. "Mulder, when we woke up I felt absolutely horrid, but now I feel fine. Better than fine. Great, actually." He nodded, his brows furrowed. "This is just too odd." "For once, Mulder, I agree with you." ****** After breakfast they went next door again. Perhaps Mr. O'Halloran would have some answers. They were determined to get them. There was no answer. Mulder knocked harder. Still nothing. He banged on the door and it came open. They stepped inside and their mouths fell open in a completely different kind of shock than they had experienced last night. The apartment was empty. Completely, utterly empty. No furniture, no stereo, no sign of the feast last night. No sign of life of any kind. They could see dust in the air as the mites glittered in a shaft of sunlight that poured in through a crack in the blinds. He turned and looked at her. She looked back and said nothing. They hurried downstairs. The label on the mailbox was gone. They turned and looked at one another again. Finally he shook his head and slid an arm around her waist. "Think we dreamed it, Mulder?" "I don't know, Scully. And I don't know how to find out," he said, frustrated. She bit her lip and looked up at him, then dropped her gaze to his lips. "Well. . . ." She leaned up and kissed him, gently, then rocked back on her heels and smiled at his astonishment. He recovered quickly, and grinned, then bent down and kissed her back. When they separated her eyes were shining. "I think I remember that part," she whispered. He nodded and they headed back upstairs, hand-in-hand. A small man watched from the shadows, the pointed tips of his ears fairly quivering with excitement. "No enchantment at all," he murmured, then turned and disappeared in a flash of green and gold. *THE END* Okay, okay, so I had only planned on spending fifteen minutes or so on this story, but I spent more. Bad, bad, Juliettt. BAD Juliettt! And, yeah, I did refer to Macspooky's Generations series a little bit. I didn't think you'd mind too much, Mac, since this is kind of a parody and just for fun. Well, yes, but . . . hey! Cut that out! Well, folks, let me know what you think. . . .