From: Keeper of Smelly Markers Date: Fri, 14 Jul 2000 15:52:06 -0400 (EDT) Subject: New: Return TITLE: Return AUTHOR: JuJu EMAIL: JuJu84@webtv.net DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere's fine. It'd be nice to know where though:-) RATING: Hmm. Probably a PG-13 CATEGORY: Humor and/or Badfic depending on your view on life, death, and Mulder and Scully having a picnic. It's a bit fluffy too, kind of like refrigerated birthday cake. SPOILERS: There's so many I couldn't possibly name all of the episode titles. Um, Quagmire and Syzgy off the top of my head. If a secondary character died in it, it's probably spoiled here. DISCLAIMER: Nope, I don't own them, but my birthday is coming up very soon... SUMMARY: Picnics are for reunions, right? NOTES: This was written the night before my community's Kennywood Day. Kennywood is an amusement park in West Mifflin, Pennsylvania (close to Pittsburgh). Go there! Have some summer fun! Ride on the Thunderbolt (#1 according to the Discovery Channel) and the Steel Phantom (#4. Go ride it now! They're closing this big steel beauty next year!). Well anyway, I was way too wired to go to sleep, so I wrote this late at night and was tired the whole day at Kennywood:*( FEEDBACK: Is always encouraged and welcomed! Just don't flame me. I don't have to get into that story about my man-eating parakeet and paper-eating cockatiel again, do I? JuJu84@webtv.net ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Return by JuJu ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Mulder reclined on his leather sofa throwing his basketball up in the air every few moments. He was bored. The 'videos that weren't his' had given him little amusement on this endless day. Skinner had let Scully and him take a short vacation while the whole FBI building was being painted, and now that he was away from his obsession he had little to do or think about. Grabbing his cellphone from the stained coffee table, Mulder hit the first speedial button. After 2.5 rings, Scully finally picked up. "Dana Scully residence," she sang into the phone. "Uh, hi Scully. Whasssssssuuup?!" he said in his best parody of the popular commercial. "Mulder, what the hell are you on?!" she demanded, her voice having suddenly lost its sing-song quality. "Eeeuh. Sorry, Scully," Mulder squeaked. Scully laughed and snorted comically. "Serves you right, Mulder. That's what you get for straining that beautious voicebox you have!" Scully could swear she heard Mulder pout over the phone. "I'm bored, Scu-lee!! Amuse me, enlighten me..." "Sci-fi me. Mulder that's a blatant rip-off. Have you been watching commercials again? I told you that's just another reason why they call you 'spooky'. No other person they know can sing the entire "Mr. Clean" jingle...and don't even think about breaking into song now." "Sure, Scully," Mulder said smiling because his fingers were crossed. "Nice try, Mulder. You were eating that greasy pizza from the place down the street and you crossed your fingers on the phone. They squeaked, Mulder. I know you're lying." "My girlfriend just jumped out of a car at 70 miles an hour. I'm..so..sad." "Brisk, baby. No more commercials, Mulder." "But I'm buh-ored, Scu-llee! Can we do something? A movie, a or maybe...Oh! I know! We can go on a picnic, Scully!" he exclaimed in triumph over the boredom monster. "Mulder, it's raining cats and dogs out there. There's no way I'm getting into another storm with you. Every time I'm stuck in a storm with you something terrible happens." "Actually Scully, whenever you're with me period something terrible happens." "You're not giving me confidence, Mulder." Scully sighed and rolled her eyes. "I'm getting sick of you, and I can practically see your pitiful puppy-dog eyes from here, so fine. We'll go out on a picnic in the pouring rain." "I love you, Scully." "Bite me, Mulder." "Mr. Clean, Mr. Clean..." "Goodbye, Mulder. I'll pick you up in an hour with the food. Please take a shower and shave for once. I'm getting sick of that "Survivor" look you've been sporting lately." "Don't worry, Scully. I'm more of a "Real World" kind of guy", Mulder said gleefully. "Scully? Scully? Where'd you go?" Mulder frowned when an earsplitting eh-eh-eh-eh-eh filled his poor ear and he slammed the 'off' button on his cell. "I wonder what I said," he murmured to his almost-always-dead fish. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^ "Mulder, I'm driving." "Scully, you're not," Mulder said sternly to a fuming Scully. "Oh, yes I am, *Foxy*," Scully said with a smirk. "Noooo! That's worse than those commercials where little kids keep messing everything up -- getting horribly dirty, spilling OJ all over the floor, and painting a whole HUD house blue! For the love of God, Scully, don't call me Foxy! It makes me think of Phoebe and gives me uncontrollable homicidal tendencies," Mulder spoke matter of factly. "Mulder there's no way you could live without me. I'm the 'one in 5 billion' that knows how to fold your boxers correctly. Many before me have tried and failed to master this feat. And don't forget the way I can pack your suitcase so everything fits and doesn't ever get wrinkled," Scully smirked. "Face it. You'd never hurt a red hair on my head." "Mr. Clean gets rid of dirt and..." "Shut the hell up, Mulder before I kick you out of this damned car with my 'little feet'!!" Mulder made a whimpering noise like a puppy shunned by its dog-hating owner. He was silent the rest of the way while Scully drove. ^^^^^^^^^^ Scully smiled. "I know just where we can go, Mulder!" she exclaimed happily. "There are pavilions, barbecues, and grills to cook the wieners and burgers on!" They pulled into the park's parking lot and took what they could carry out of the car. They were sopping wet by the time Mulder got the last of his wieners out of the previously cramped automobile. "Are there any sticks for me to cook my wiener on?" Mulder asked quietly, still shaken from his last encounter with the Scully-PMS Beast. He knew it. He counted on the Playboy calendar Scully had gotten him as a Christmas gift. She had laughed rather un-Scullylike and called it a XXX-Mas gift at the time. She frowned whenever she came over and saw it hanging on his avocado colored refrigerator, dates studiously marked. He wouldn't forget her birthday, or her mom's this year. They both had particularly top-heavy women pictured on top of their birthday months. Mulder had decided to be funny once and put a picture of Scully's face on Ms. February's body. She almost tore his avocado colored fridge down. He was sad. "Go out and look for a stick, Mulder. Good luck finding a dry one, though. This rain looks like it'll never let up. Don't get lost, Mulder, and no UFO searching; I made sure this park has had no paranormal sightings of any sort." "'Kay, Scully," Mulder mumbled as he kept his eyes to the ground, searching for just the right stick to cook his wiener on. He walked farther away from the pavilion; he didn't even notice how far away he was due to his concentration. "Hello, Mr. Mulder," a voice jarred him from his stick searching. "Uh, hello," he responded, eyes still to the ground. "Mr. Mulder!" The voice yelled at him. Mulder looked up. "You're dead," Mulder said unemotionally. "If I'm dead then how am I here?" the possible apparition questioned. "Then you're a ghost," he began to shout. "Do you see a light?! Move into the light! Leave this earth! You belong elsewhere, so skeedatle, benevolent spirit! Begone!" The man better known to his almost-friends as Deep Throat, (no relation to the stripper of that name) snorted rather un-consortiumly and rolled his eyes. "Did I ever tell you you're a jackass, Mulder? Well, if not then I'm telling you now. You're a jackass." Mulder gave his patented sad-face. "Do ya have any secrets for me today?" Deep Throat sighed and said, "No, Mulder. Not today, although I do have a little story for you..." "Noo! Noo! You're not him! You're not my neighbor! Go away! I'm not Tim-the-toolman-Taylor! No story!!" Mulder pleaded pitiously. To Mulder's surprise, Deep Throat started singing. His voice was not only retched in a horrible old-man-singing kind-of-way, but it was also noteless; the off-keyness of it made Mulder want to hurl his breakfast on somebody's shoes. "Won't you be my neighbor!" Deep Throat finished after changing his jacket and shoes. Meanwhile, Mulder had fainted and Deep Throat and his unseen companion tended to the fallen FBI agent. "Will he be okay?" the previously unseen companion asked. "Sure, I think he'll be fine, X-ey. Here, we'll prop him up. Damn, this rain is getting annoying. Have your people tell them that the storm has lost its convenience. Mulder and Scully are already here, so we don't need to keep the rain going." "Fine, but interrupt me if he wakes up." Mulder slowly opened his weary eyes. Even though he hadn't hit his head, he could still see little parakeets flying around his head. "Ooo, pretty," he mumbled. His eyes lit up suddenly like a 100-watt lightbulb. "I found it! I found it!" he screamed excitedly as he bent over from his half-sitting position in order to grab the perfect wiener stick. "I thought I told you to interrupt me when he was awake," Mr. X said, slightly angered. "My bad," Deep Throat squeaked in a poor imitation of Cher from the not-quite blockbuster film "Clueless". "Hey! Am I missing the party?! Hi Mulder! Boy, you look weirder than usual. Where's Scully? I was planning on buying her a drink when, well, you know. That didn't end too well." "Pendrell?! You're dead," Mulder said in awe. "Ah, whatever. Say, you and Scully aren't, uh, you know, er knocking boots, are you?" "But you're dead!" Pendrell rolled his eyes and watched as a starlight girl walked an orangeish-red dog over to them. "Hiya Samantha! Long time, no see. How's the babysitting gig going?" Pendrell asked brightly. "Oh, it's okay. I just wish I had a break once in a while. These starlight kids are more demanding than the usual." "I see you've got a new friend here! Well, hello Queequeg! Fancy seeing you here!" "Yip, yip, errooo, ACHOO!," Queequeg responded. "Well, bless you, little fella. Good to see things are working out for you." Pendrell turned to Samantha, "You are feeding him regularly, aren't you?" She smiled, "Of course." They turned to Mulder. He was a ghastly shade of white and his legs seemed to be shaking. "Yip," said Queequeg. "Eep," said Mulder. Then Mulder started what only he could do. He started singing the Mr. Clean song. "Mr. Clean gets rid of dirt and grime and..." "Mulder! Wonderful to see you again! How's the old 'stall the apocalypse' thing going?" "B-da b-da. You're dead too. They pushed your wheelchair down a flight of stairs!" The infamous Cigarette Smoking Man smirked secretively, and responded. "I have my ways." Mulder mumbled something about dealing with the devil, but CSM ignored him and went over to Sam and Pendrell who were busy discussing the pros and cons of star-life with a dog that might eat you. After a timely discussion, they all turned to Mulder. "Why don't we get something to eat now. We have some wieners out here, and you seem to have the best wiener stick in the park," Pendrell said cheerily. "Good thing they got this rain cleared up," he added. "Yes -- quite a good thing, and that sounds like a great idea!" CSM exclaimed. "My people gave us some of that new green Heinz Ketchup; it's not due to be in stores until fall. And look! An easy-to-squeeze bottle!" Mulder just nodded stiffly and extended the perfect wiener stick to Pendrell, who was still smiling. If his mind had been capable of thinking clearly, he would have thought Pendrell was a bit cheery, a bit *too* happy, but since his brain was fried after the huge shock of finding his formerly-dead friends, foes, and somewhere-in-betweens, still alive, he couldn't think of anything except for how to breath. "Hello, Mulder," a sultry, but cool voice greeted him. "Fu-fu-fu-Fowley," Mulder managed to get out. She smiled cooly and extended her hand for Mulder. He refused her silent offer and stood up himself, brushing off the caked dirt and mud from his worn jeans. He swayed for a moment, but recovered, steadying himself on an old, ugly sycamore tree. "You're dead, Diana." "Am I?" Mulder nodded stubbornly. Fowley walked over to the rest of the not-so-dead people cooking wieners in the park over a brand-new Weber grill with Mulder's prized wiener-stick. She spoke with them and laughed occasionally, her almost witch-like cackle paralyzing the heavens and earth with its ickiness. Mulder pouted. They were ignoring him, and they were eating all the wieners. He walked over to them quietly, overhearing their conversation. "I know, I wish they all could've made it, but they said the traffic was too bad. Next time they'll be here. They promised, and -- oh, hi Mulder!" He nodded in greeting to the next should-be-dead person -- The Well Manicured Man, who had blown up in that car after giving Mulder the vial of liquid that would save Scully's life from the icky alien-things. "Now I know you have to be dead," Mulder said stiffly. "Really?" he said, a slight, old-man sparkle in his eye. "Uh-huh," Mulder said, quite sure of himself. The WMM just raised his bushy eyebrows and turned back to finish his conversation. Mulder pouted. He was sick of having everyone ignore him. He was always the center of attention -- the loony-bin, the amazingly accurate profiler, the spooky agent in the basement, the-- "Mulder?! Wake up!" Scully slapped his face lightly. "B-wa, b-way?! Scully!" Mulder awoke with a start. "They were dead, but they weren't! And they took my wiener stick, Scully!" Scully gave Mulder her patented one-eyebrow slide towards the heavens and patent-pending skeptical look. "Scu-lee! The Cigarette Smoking Man, Samantha, Pendrell, Deep Throat, and X, and The Well Manicured Man, and Diana, and --" "Toto, too?" "Ye-- no! Queequeg was there though." "Mulderrr!! Queequeg is dead. He was killed by an alligator! None of those other people are alive either; they're all dead!" "But Scu-lee, they were there!" "Mulder, that branch must've really conked your head. I didn't think it was that windy, or I would have told you that I have metal wiener sticks. They're in the car. I forgot them because someone was having a temper tantrum." "A branch 'conked' me out?" "Yes, Mulder. A branch. Not a UFO, not the Loch Ness Monster --" "Scully, Nessie's in Scotland." "Whatever, Mulder. What I'm trying to say is that you were hit on the head with a branch and hallucinated. No ghosts, no dead people, no--" "Okay, Scully. I get the idea, but how do you explain these Morley cigarette butts, and what about this pomeranian poo-poo your foot is stepping in?" "Shit. Mulder! The cigarette butts are probably from unruly teenagers and that crap my $200 walking shoes are in isn't necessarily from a pomeranian." "Surrrre. Blame it on the unruly teenagers. Everyone blames it on the teenagers." "Mulder, you're starting to sound like Homer Simpson. Shut up and eat your semi-warm wiener. No stick-searching required." "Sure, fine, whatever," Mulder finished shortly in a blatant copywright infringement of Scully's 'line'. "When do I get to sing the whole Mr. Clean song though? No one ever lets me sing it, Scully! Puh-leeze?" Scully sighed painfully. "Sure. Sing it ... what the hell?! Mulder, I can't hear you!" Scully screamed over a low-hovering charcoal colored helicopter's loud whirring. Mulder continued to sing his beloved jingle, blissfully unaware that no one could hear him. Finally, no one would interrupt him. "Mr. Clean gets rid of dirt and grime and grease in just a minute, and now it's stronger longer 'cause there's ultra power in it!!" Mulder finished triumpantly as the mysterious black chopper pulled away. "Ready, Scully?" "Yep, let's go, Mulder. I don't like this park anymore. Next time we'll go to one closer to your house." "Next time? I thought you hated picnics with me, Scully." "Oh, I do, but this time nothing terrible happened to me. Sure, you got a bump on the head, but otherwise everything's fine and dandy. I'll take my chances for a next time, Mulder," stated Scully. "Okay," Mulder grinned happily, glad that the ordeal was over, but curious about the day's events. "You're like a roller coaster, Mulder. As much as you scare me, I just can't stop coming back." "You're like a dark ride, Scully--" "Don't go there, Mulder." "But Scully, I meant it in a good way." "Drop it, Mulder." "Wassssuppp?!" ~~~~Fini(!)~~~~ Wow, next time I'll have Mulder sing the "Log" song. "It's log, log, it's big, it's heavy, it's wood...!" In character, what's that?! Gimmee Feedback!! I can take it...I think. JuJu84@webtv.net For those of you wondering about a sequel to "There's Always Hope", it's on the way. My mind has been rather good at drawing blanks though, so expect it in a little while. A Note: No ketchup, dogs, wieners (better known as hot dogs), or wiener sticks (hot dog sticks) were harmed or cooked during the writing of this fanfic. The only casualty was a $200 pair of walking shoes owned by the enigmatic Dana Scully. She is currently suing the author of this fanfic for $200 plus the $224 cleaning bill for (1) Ford Taurus' rugs, as well as emotional anguish. Due to his impending insanity, The Lone Gunmen were later forced to monitor Mulder's television watching. He now sees snow where the funny commercials used to be. Written on - 7-12-00 Started - 12:?? Finished - 3:22am ______________________________________________