From: "Branwell" Date: Wed, 14 Nov 2001 00:15:13 -0500 Subject: NEW: Screwballed! (1 of 2) by Branwell (spoilers for "Nothing") Source: xff This story came to be because of a challenge proposed by WhyIncision. Our heroes have to face the most monstrous abuse yet -- they have to attend the FBI Halloween Costume Ball. Title: Screwballed! (Part 1 of 2) Name: Branwell E-Mail: COMBS-BACHMANN@WORLDNET.ATT.NET Date Finished: November 11, 2001 Rating: PG, for adult themes Category: Improv, Fluff, Humor, Holiday, MSR, features characters from Seasons 8 and 9 Spoilers: Some vague and general ones for the Season 9 Premiere "Nothing Important Happened Today" Archiving permission: Anyone may archive this. Just keep my name with it. Disclaimer: Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, Mitch Pileggi, Robert Patrick, Annabeth Gish, and Ten Thirteen productions created and own the characters you recognize. My writing is for fun, not profit. Setting and Summary: It's an improv and a ball. Deputy Director Kersh thinks that a strange offense is the best defense when you're under suspicion. Thanks: I owe thanks to WhyIncision for the inspiration and nerve to tackle the infamous FBI Ball. http://www.geocities.com/whyincision/ http://groups.yahoo.com/group/WhyIncision I also thank bugs for friendship, and for the beautiful website she created for my stories. See the URL below. http://underthewing.com/branwell/ *************************************************** Skinner tried to blink away the drowsiness and read what the e-mail really said. Kersh couldn't possibly expect him to show up at a costume party tonight. Not when he'd just flown in from Australia, where he'd put in 2 weeks of 18-hour days tracking terrorists with the AFT. His biorhythms probably looked like his stock portfolio. In his delirium he must have misunderstood Kersh's special, red-envelope message. Unfortunately the memo still said the same thing when he read it again. He'd changed into his oldest, most comfortable clothes, anticipating a nap on the sofa before he went to bed for the night. Why hadn't he waited until tomorrow morning to check his e-mail? He wondered for a moment if he could pretend he had. Then he remembered that Kersh received an automatic notification of receipt. He had three hours to clean up, rent a costume, and get downtown to the Elysium Hotel. The floor seemed to tilt uphill under his feet as he walked to the bathroom. Vague thoughts of costumes drifted through his mind, as he squirted shaving cream into his hands. The puffs of white lather reminded him of ghosts wearing sheets, and this led to a vision of clean, white sheets spread on a soft bed. As his eyes drooped shut, he wondered about the wisdom of applying a razor to his skin. He came back to himself with a start, gripping the sink with slippery hands, shaving cream smeared across his decrepit sweater. It was the face in the mirror that gave him the idea. Skinner hadn't shaved for two and a half days. The shadowy growth reminded him of the Halloweens of his youth. Most years he'd been satisfied to rub burnt cork on his cheeks, dress in his father's yard clothes, and go trick or treating as a bum. His grandfather had thoughtfully supplied the family with a lifetime supply of corks, before his liver exploded. What if he didn't shave? What if he didn't change from his ancient sweater and paint-stained jeans? He could fall into bed for a two hour nap and go to the party as -- a bum! Kersh couldn't say a word. He'd just swell up with venom like a toad, and be slightly more unpleasant than usual. Skinner rinsed his hands and staggered to the bedroom. He had a feeling there was a problem with his plan, but he couldn't think clearly enough to put his finger on it. ********************************************** The Punch and Judy Costume Shop was empty of customers when Doggett entered. The mannequins crowded into the small showroom were stripped. The deep shelves were dark and empty. Only a few tiny "Attorney General Barbie" suits and a dozen, minute Terl outfits remained on the racks. "I don't suppose you have any costumes left by now, do you?" Doggett tried to keep the happy certainty out of his voice when he addressed the clerk. The young woman behind the counter had her back to him. She was bent over a complicated pattern of leather and gilt. When she turned around and straightened, she had to tip her head down a little to look him in the face. "Is it for you?" she asked, pushing long brown hair behind her ears. Doggett felt his luck being sucked out of the room. "Yeah. It's for me. I'm kind of hard to fit - narrow in the hip, you know." The clerk almost smiled. "The one we've got left, that's not a problem. It's got padding." "What is it?" Doggett asked. He hoped it was something unacceptable, like the naked, pregnant torso in the catalogue that lay open on the counter. The woman replied as she ducked through the bead curtain that separated the stock from the display room. Through all the clashing, her answer sounded something like "Pinky Oinky." Great, he thought. A cop in a pig costume. Three weeks ago, he'd transferred his invitation from the in-basket to the wastebasket, barely breaking the motion long enough to open the orange envelope. Then came the e-mail from Deputy Director Kersh. His agents would attend, or he would assume they were no longer happy working for the bureau. This ball was important to him, and therefore it was important to them. Everyone knew that there was a crisis of confidence in Kersh, and things could go either way. But Doggett couldn't imagine why the Deputy Director, not being a heroine in a Jane Austen novel, believed that giving a ball would help his chances. It must have been a mental block that kept him from remembering to reserve a costume. When he remembered, at 5:30 on Saturday afternoon, he refused to worry. If he couldn't get a costume, he'd attend in a suit and tie, and tell the sad story of how the shop had screwed up his order. The young woman came clattering back through the beads. "Here," she said, handing over a large black bag that was copiously stapled at the top. "That'll be thirty-seven twenty-five." "Wait a minute. I'd like to see it . . . ." Doggett protested, poking a finger between staples. The bundle inside was fuzzy. When he tried to peer in, he saw nothing but darkness. "Look, I'm closing now." The clerk demonstrated by walking over to the door and flipping the switch to turn off the "Open" sign. "I've got a party to go to, and I'm going as Xena. Do you have any idea how long it takes to fit a leather corselet? Do you want the costume or not?" Doggett had his credit card ready by the time she'd gotten back to the register. Within seconds she was snatching the signed slip from his fingers, and hustling him out the door with the bizarre comment "By the way, it's a magic bag." ********************************************** Scully stood in front of the mirror in appalled disbelief. She tried to pull the faux leather fringe farther down on her legs. Then she steeled herself and headed for the living room to question her mother. "Mom, are you sure they gave you right costume? I asked for a sailor suit. You know - bell bottoms, a shirt with a big square collar, little round hat - not some travesty on Native American culture." "Dana, do you think . . . now that you're a mother . . . isn't that rather short?" her mother asked, raising both eyebrows. "Yes! Or else the leggings are missing. Why didn't you check . . . ." Scully began. Mrs. Scully's put on her face of saintly patience. "Well, dear, when you asked me to pick it up, you didn't tell me what costume you'd chosen. And after driving through all the traffic for forty-five minutes, and spending twenty minutes looking for a place to park . . . . Shall I take it back right now and exchange it? Let's see, I could be back in, oh, maybe an hour. Shall I take Will with me, or can you manage him for another hour?" Scully had realized her folly only a few words into the speech. But the best strategy was to allow her mother to suggest the manner of her martyrdom, and then circumvent it. "No, no. There's no time. You're right, Mom," she said. "I didn't ask you to check." She picked up the box labeled "Pinocchio's Costumes" and found a yellow order slip under the black tissue paper. Someone had crossed out "Sailor" and written below it: "Pocahontas." She would take it up with the shop later. "But, dear. What about the length?" Mrs. Scully protested. "I don't mind going back, really. What else could I want to do with my time besides look after you and Will?" "I've got some tights somewhere. Don't worry about it. I'm not going to stay long anyway." "Now, dear. You've been so low since Mulder had to leave on that undercover assignment. Go to the party and have a good time. Willie and I will have so much fun. There's no hurry. Pick him up anytime tomorrow - the later the better." Mrs. Scully checked the straps on the baby carrier as she spoke. Will frowned a little, and twitched his generously proportioned nose in his sleep. "*Who* is grandma's good little man?" she cooed softly. She gave Scully a hug, and then stepped back for a critical glance. "You look more like the ghost of an Indian," she remarked. "Better lay on the blush with a heavy hand." Scully stood for a minute after the door closed and thought about all the activities that would have been more fun than this costume ball. There was cleaning her oven, or scrubbing the grouting in the bathroom with a toothbrush. Or trying on all the clothes that didn't fit since Will's birth, and packing them up for a charity. She had no choice. She couldn't afford to be fired - she needed to stay on maternity leave. She had to go to this party. ********************************************** When his alarm went off, Skinner jumped as though CPR paddles had been applied to his chest. His nap seemed to leave him groggier than before. He dribbled toothpaste down his front when he tried to spit. His sleeve charred when he reached across a red-hot burner. When he missed his mouth with the cup of coffee he'd finally succeeded in making, Skinner decided not to drive. He called for a cab and took the elevator down to the front sidewalk to wait for it. The cab driver barely slowed down as he reached the curb where Skinner stood. He took one look at the unshaven man in stained clothes, and sped away. Skinner went back upstairs and made a second call to explain his appearance. The next driver, a delicately featured Indian, nodded and smiled agreeably throughout their conversation. He still refused to move the cab an inch until he'd received his fare in cash. The doorman at the Elysium made Skinner show his invitation and badge before he admitted him to the gilt and marble lobby. Skinner was already starting to feel uneasy about his costume. It was as he passed one of the huge, full-length mirrors in the lobby that he felt sharp regret. Apparently a lot of coffee had spilled down his front and made a puddle on the chair where he sat. The seat of his jeans had soaked up what hadn't gone into his lap. Skinner had been in worse situations, but they usually involved Krycek. Or Mulder. Neither of whom he expected to see tonight. Life still had something to offer, he reminded himself. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow. You're only a day away. He realized that the hated show tune wasn't just playing in his head. It was coming from the room with an orange and black banner draped over the door. It read "FBI Halloween Ball." He stepped into the ballroom, where five hundred odd- looking people at elegantly set tables all seemed to stare directly at his crotch. The server he questioned about seating did the same thing. "Excuse me," Skinner addressed the matronly woman. She forced her eyes up to his face, and sidled a step back. "Is there assigned seating for the dinner, ma'am?" "No," she said. "You're supposed to sit wherever you like." When he looked away to scan the room for an empty chair, she bolted for the kitchen. Skinner didn't recognize anybody. And he didn't see any friendly, welcoming looks, although it was hard to tell behind the masks and make-up. Then he saw a pudgy purple arm go up in a wave, and heard his name called. "AD Skinner. Over here, sir. It's me. John Doggett." Given the events of the last year, Skinner thought Doggett showed poor taste by dressing in an alien costume, but he had to admit that Doggett made a cute, round-faced alien, with adorably big ears. Ears like cunning satellite dishes, in fact. As Skinner circled the table to sit by Doggett, he stumbled over something and almost fell headlong. "Damn nuisance," Doggett grumbled. "That thing is always in the way." Skinner freed his foot from a strap and picked up a red purse. "This is yours?" he asked Doggett. "Do aliens carry purses?" "It's not a goddam purse, dammit. It's a magic bag." Doggett answered. "And I'm not an alien. I'm a . . . well, I'm from a children's show. They're called teletubbies." "Ah, I see," Skinner answered, although he didn't, exactly. Dogget pushed his mask aside, giving a Cubist effect to his costume. "I know you just got back from Australia, sir," Doggett said. "Did, uh, everything go alright? You look a little . . . tired." "I came as a bum, Agent Doggett." Skinner didn't see why they should go through several rounds of conversation dedicated to determining whether he'd lost his mind. "Didn't you ever go out trick-or- treating as a hobo when you were a boy?" "Not me, sir. I was always a soldier," Doggett answered. "You want a drink? It's a cash bar." As he spoke, Doggett was rooting around in the red bag. "I don't know how you're supposed to find anything in these . . . . There it is! He waved a ten-dollar bill. "I'll be right back," he called over his shoulder before Skinner could answer. >From the back Doggett looked like a big-headed kid in his jammies. With an antenna on his head. The thought of pajamas made Skinner even sleepier. If the servers hadn't come by with platters of red hot buffalo wings and chocolate covered ants, he would have laid his head on the table. ********************************************** Scully dashed in just as the servers started bringing in the entrees. The candlelit tables all appeared to be full. She tugged her skirt down, and considered her options. "Blaaat!" A raucous horn went off right in her ear, and she jumped several inches. "Ha, ha. Gotcha." Scully recognized a voice that sounded like a mallet crushing gravel. "Good evening, Deputy Director Kersh," she began, as she turned to face him. She almost jumped again when she saw his costume. Kersh wore a billowing clown suit in a striped pattern of green and yellow. His face was unrecognizable under white greasepaint and a bulbous red nose, topped off with a bright blue wig. Scully realized with distaste that the bristling lump under his nose, stiff as a used paintbrush, was his mustache. There were smears of white on his glasses. He beeped the oversize bicycle horn in her face again, and laughed like a hysterical ten-year- old. "Blaaaat. Blaat. Blaat." "Ha, ha, ha." "Is there assigned seating for the dinner, sir?" Scully asked. "No. Certainly not. This is a mixer. I want everyone to get down! Meet some people you don't ordinarily get to meet. There's no more room at our table," he began. Scully sighed with relief. "But here. Sit with all these nice young people." Kersh took her arm and steered her over to a table full of twenty-somethings, all sporting fake piercings, fake tattoos, and weirdly colored hair. "This is Pocahontas," he introduced her. "Blaaat, Blaaat, Blaaaaat!" he punctuated with the horn. The young people gave weak smiles while he laughed again. "Otherwise known as Dana Scully." The expressions around the table grew even less enthusiastic. A sullen young woman took her feet off a chair to make room for Scully. "You people don't have any sense of humor," Kersh accused the group. His bright red lower lip protruded in a characteristic sulk. "Don't you think clowns are funny?" Scully was the only person who spoke up. "Clowning always seemed rather aggressive to me, sir. A sort of assault with allegedly humorous weapons." Kersh stared at her and blatted the horn in her face again before he strode away. "I'm not Pocahontas," Scully told the silent young people around her. "Oh yeah? Then who are you?" inquired the young woman who'd had to put her clunky black boots on the floor. "Tiger Lily?" "What's up Tiger Lily?" giggled the purple-haired young man with a skull tattooed on his cheek. "I'm Sacajawea," Scully said, with a quelling look at the young man. "Well then, where are Lewis and Clark?" he rallied after a moment's thought. "They couldn't keep up with me," Scully informed the group serenely. At the end of the table, a chunky girl in a too-tight black dress gave an exclamation of dismay. "What is this?" she demanded of the server. "Don't we get any choice?" In the center of her dinner plate was a mound of black pasta topped with pale, filmy ribbons. Artfully spaced around it were two hard-shelled tacos and a glazed donut. The young waiter's round face was pink with exertion or embarrassment. "It's raw cuttlefish on squid ink noodles, a cinnamon-clove donut with a caramel drizzle, and stone-ground tacos filled with spiced, shredded beef. That's the menu." "I can't eat this sh . . . ." the girl began. Then she glanced at Scully and was silent. Scully hadn't been hungry anyway. She picked at the lettuce in the tacos and drank ice water. The purple- haired young man accepted her donut. No one touched any of the noodles or fish. After the plates were removed, Scully's table companions made a trip outside to smoke, and returned in better moods. "What's up, Tiger Lily?" became the catch phrase of the evening. Every time it was repeated the hilarity grew. They didn't seem to notice Scully's irritation. But the evening's music competed effectively as a source of aggravation. The band consisted of twenty wrinkled old men in black dinner jackets. The leader tottered back and forth across the floor in front of them like a hyperactive penguin. Their repertoire was a pastiche of show tunes rendered with the emphasis on the strings. Scully waited grimly for the third repetition of the series. When she saw Monica Reyes approaching, she brightened at the prospect of a little gossip. ******************************** Screwballed! End of Part 1 of 2 Title: Screwballed! (Part 2 of 2) Name: Branwell Rating: PG, for adult themes Category: Fluff, Humor, Holiday, MSR, features characters from Seasons 8 and 9 Spoilers: Some vague and general ones for the Season 9 Premiere "Nothing Important Happened Today" See part 1 for disclaimers, summary, etc. ************************************************* Reyes had gone all out on her costume. She wore a tall, pointed black hat with a buckle, and an antique-looking black satin dress over full petticoats. Her shoes were black pumps with rosettes and court heels, paired with clocked hose. She'd painted her face green and accessorized it with a spectacular hooked nose and chin wart. It was only by her grin that Scully recognized her. Reyes relaxed into a temporarily empty seat with a slippery rustle. "That's a wonderful costume!" Scully told her. "I like your Sacajawea outfit, too. Are you looking forward to the Lewis and Clark Bicentennial?" "To tell you the truth, it wasn't my first choice," Scully said, with a self-conscious smoothing of her skirt. "You must have reserved yours early." "Oh, it's not rented. I found it up in the attic. We've got all kinds of things up there in trunks. All I had to buy was the make-up. Stereotypical, but . . . ." Reyes shrugged and smiled her crooked smile. "Have you seen Agent Doggett, or AD Skinner? I thought everybody had to attend this thing," Scully said, the barest hint of bitterness in her voice. "I saw Skinner wandering around. He wasn't looking too well. I've been sitting with an old friend. Did you ever think you'd never get tired of listening to someone talk about himself? It just goes to show." "You weren't on the Planning Committee for this party, were you?" Scully began hesitantly. "Planning Committee? Hah! I've gotten an earful on that tonight. Kersh insisted on making all the arrangements himself and he made a mess of it. Mix- ups and misunderstandings with the caterers, the decorators, the entertainment. They claimed he couldn't make up his mind; he said they were lying. You know how it goes with Kersh. How's Will doing?" "He's fine. Healthy and . . . . well, I think he's beautiful. But . . . sometimes . . . ." Scully looked intently at the braids she was plaiting into the fringe at her hem. "Sometimes he looks at the phone before it rings." "Sounds like a normal, anxiety-filled mother-baby relationship to me. My mother says I made her nervous because I was always looking over her left shoulder." "Will is with my mother tonight. On Wednesday I'm going to her place. We dress up in costumes and hand out the Beggar's Night candy together." Reyes nodded vigorously. "It's lucky this party didn't fall on Halloween night. It would have conflicted with my family traditions too." Scully was about to ask what those traditions were, when she saw Reyes frown at something across the room. "Look over there," Reyes said. "I found John. And look who's draped all over him." "Omigod. Somebody has to tell him." Reyes stood up and squared her shoulders. "See you later, Dana." *************************************** Skinner took a wandering path back from the rest room. He stopped for a long puzzled stare at the dessert table. "That cake looks like a relative of yours, Doggett," he said when he returned. "Some chubby guy, a funny green color, and he's got two antennas." "No, that's not a teletubby," Doggett corrected him. "That's a . . . ." He broke off to watch a male fantasy approaching their table. It looked as though the leggy, pneumatic woman in a cat suit was eyeing him. Her eyes glowed strangely through lush lashes that rested on cheekbones a man could cut himself on. Her lavender mouth reminded him of a carnivorous flower. In the warm candlelight her skin shone like darkly polished wood. Doggett blinked rapidly when she leaned in close to him and stroked his fuzzy, purple suit. Her pupils were vertical slits in emerald green irises. The woman laughed. "Do you like the contacts? They add a nice touch, I think." "Do you I know you Miz . . . ?" Doggett asked. With a sinuous wriggle, the woman seated herself beside him. Even the five-inch heels on her boots were curved. "My name is Lilith. No, I don't think you know me, but I know about you. I've seen your picture, heard about you." "Good things, I hope," Doggett suggested. She shrugged snugly leather-covered shoulders. "If you make the proper corrections for perspective. Are you having a good time?" "I'm not what you'd call a party animal." "Of course you're not. But what kind of animal are you?" Lilith's eyelashes made delicate fluttering shadows on her cheeks. The fine lines of her silver whiskers scintillated. She scraped a glittering nail along Doggett's jawline, making him shiver. "I've got a suite upstairs. Would you like to come up for a little catnip and conversation? That is if your friend doesn't mind." Lilith wrinkled her nose in Skinner's direction. His eyes were open, but unfocused, angled toward the huge, grinning jack-o-lantern that loomed in the corner. "Hey, hobo man, Hey Dapper Dan, you both got your style, but brother, you're never fully dressed without a smile," he was crooning along with the band. "There's a party in his head," she remarked to Doggett. When she stretched luxuriously, Doggett admired the way the leather molded itself to every taut muscle. He was mulling over pleasant options when he noticed a sumptuously dressed witch striding purposefully toward him. Only Reyes' steady eyes were recognizable over a hideous green nose. She marched up and squeezed herself into the tiny space between his and Lilith's chairs. "They're playing our song, John," Reyes announced. "You promised me this dance." Doggett sat in bewildered silence searching for missing memory links. Reyes applied leverage to his forearm with both hands, bringing Doggett to his feet with a bound. He strained to look back over his shoulder as she hustled him across the room. His purple plush hood bunched up at the side, and obscured his view. He hadn't even gotten a chance to ask Lilith to wait for him. Doggett struggled to stay polite as they stumbled around the perimeter of the dance floor. "Monica, what is going on? Is something wrong?" "Excuse me, I didn't mean to kick you. Yes, something is wrong. Do you know who that woman is?" "Woman . . . you mean Lilith? We were just getting to know each other when somebody came along and dragged me away. Ouch. Watch it. I'm not wearing shoes under these booties." "Have you ever met Deputy Director Kersh's wife?" "No. So?" Doggett stopped dead, and an ancient couple careened into them. "Wait a minute. You're kidding. Tell me you're kidding." Reyes tugged at him and succeeded getting them back into the flow. "No, I'm not kidding. That artful puss is Mrs. Alvin Kersh." "What the hell? Is it some kind of conspiracy? Is Kersh behind it?" Reyes looked down at their feet. "Not exactly. She's notorious. She goes to all these bureau functions and looks for somebody who's in her husband's black books. And, um, seduces them. Once. She seems to, uh, like to get caught." "Don't look at our feet. It makes staying together harder. But why does she do it? Why does he put up with it?" "Marriage is a mysterious thing. Sometimes it's best not to look, right?" Doggett had already allowed his thoughts to stray too far into the psychological terrain of the Kersh marriage. He sternly redirected them before he had to re-visit his earlier dilemma of whether to swallow that slimy mouthful of noodles and fish. The band segued into the "Merry Widow Waltz." "Why don't you let me lead, Monica?" he suggested. With that, he swept her into a dizzying progression around the dance floor, weaving skilfully among the other dancers, rising and falling on his toes. He signaled his moves to Reyes with light pressure on her back, and was gratified that she responded. The black satin skirt belled outward with each swing. Doggett kept their shoulders parallel to the floor, allowing Reyes hat to stay miraculously steady on her head. Before the music ended, he successfully brought them through a double-reverse spin and reverse pivot. When they stopped, they found themselves alone on the dance floor, surrounded by an applauding crowd. "John, I had no idea you could dance like that!" Reyes said. "Dancing lessons were my teenage rebellion," Doggett told her with a smile. The band started into "Everybody Wants to Be a Cat," and he winced. "Thanks for the dance. Where shall I escort you?" "I guess I'd better find my friend," Reyes said. "Thank you, too." Doggett followed her tall, pointed hat through the crowd. It dropped from view suddenly, and he concluded that Reyes had sat down at her table. He headed back to his table to see if Skinner needed to be saved from Mrs. Kersh. ******************************************** "Where did she go?" Doggett asked. "Who?" Skinner snapped to attention and looked in all directions. "The woman who was . . . dressed like a cat . . . Mrs. Kersh?" The whole episode was beginning to seem like a strange dream. Skinner shrugged and observed, "That looks like the Great Pumpkin, doesn't it?" "Huh?" responded Doggett. He was scanning the crowd, planning multiple escape routes. Skinner pointed to the barrel-sized jack-o-lantern that set the decorating theme. Its face was carved into a frighteningly imbecilic smile. It glowed as hot as a bonfire. "Over there. It's burning inside, like . . . like . . . ." "Like the jaws of Moloch agape for a fiery sacrifice?" Doggett finished the sentence. "Yes, that's it," Skinner said appreciatively. "It's watching us, you know. Like the Great Pumpkin. To see if we're being bad or good. Did you ever think how much Mulder was like Linus, waiting in the pumpkin patch? Waiting, waiting, night after night. All alone. No one would believe him. No one would help him. And then the Great Pumpkin took him and . . . ." To Doggett's horror, tears started to brim over in Skinner's eyes. Doggett reached over and smoothly moved his companion's beer out of his reach. "Watch out Doggett. Watch out at midnight when the Great Pumpkin rises. I'm not drunk," Skinner objected tearfully. "I'm just so tired." With that he laid his head down on folded arms. Doggett was afraid he'd start sobbing in earnest. Instead he recognized the respirations of deep sleep in the slow rise and fall of Skinner's shoulders. At that moment all the lights were turned off. The only illumination came from the dancing flames of the candles and the huge jack-o-lantern. "It's midnight," the tiny band leader squeaked into the microphone. He turned to the band and agitated his baton. The galloping rhythms of the William Tell Overture filled the room. The west door to the ballroom swung open. Before it shut, Doggett saw a tall figure silhouetted against the square of light. *************************************** After Reyes left on her rescue mission, Scully took a journal out of her beaded, faux leather bag. "You really don't know how to have fun, do you?" the purple-haired young man remarked. "Coming to a party and reading the 'Studies in Idiopathic Exsanguination Bulletin.'" "It's the 'All Desmodus Rotundus' issue," Scully excused herself lamely. "Look, you want something to make you feel happier?" He held out two small tablets with a crude image of a bird cut into them. "Two little love-doves?" "That's probably caffeine. If you're lucky," Scully frowned at him. "Do you have any idea the chance you're taking with your brain . . . ." she began. "They're aspirin," he said with a sigh. "If I got caught with illegal drugs my career would be down the tubes. But the girls at the FBI don't seem to know the difference," he ended with a grin. He left to join his friends on the dance floor. The group danced in a small knot, arms thrown over each other's shoulders, or waving over their heads in eccentric rhythms that seemed to have no connection to "Everybody Wants to be a Cat," or any of the subsequent melodies. Scully was lost in the complexities of anti-clotting factors in saliva, when the bandleader announced the witching hour. The room went dark, and sudden light from the west door made her look. For a moment she panicked, wondering if one of her table-mates had sneaked something into her drink. That tall, sleek figure in the doorway seemed so familiar, a dear shadow in a strange hat. The door swung shut and the figure was lost in the darkness. She kept her eyes on the spot where she'd seen the man, anxious for a better look. When the lights came up, she was still looking hard at the door. She didn't see him until he stood right beside her. He wore a cowboy outfit in sky blue that clung to his body like a Speedo. His white, wide-brimmed hat was pulled down over his eyes, but he also had a black half-mask tied around the upper half of his face. A red, silk scarf was knotted at his throat, and he wore a black gunbelt with fancy, silver-trimmed holsters. Ivory-handled Colt 45s peeked out, riding low on his hips. Mulder introduced himself in a loud voice. "The name is Moore -- Clayton Moore, ma'am. I've been wanting to meet you ever since I had the privilege of running spectroscopic analyses on some soil samples you collected." Then he leaned over her shoulder and pretended to look at what she was reading. His whisper sent an agreeable frisson through her whole body. "William is with your Mom for the night, right? What do you say to a room upstairs with a jacuzzi and bottle of champagne on ice?" "But it's not safe for you!" she whispered back. "You shouldn't be here." "I didn't get the room until half an hour ago, and I paid cash. The Lone Gunmen have swept it. Byers left a trail to Florida for anybody who's looking." Mulder leaned in very close to her ear. The black braided wig left it bare. "C'mon, Scully. I've been exiled to the cold, lonesome prairie. Is your wigwam warm?" Scully shook with trying to restrain sobs or laughter, or both. She hadn't realized how cold and tense she was until a wave of warmth washed through her, and her stomach suddenly unclenched to demand cake, and crackers with cream cheese rosettes. "Let's steal some food and go upstairs. All we really need is a room with a door," she whispered back to Mulder. He emptied the licorice cats and marshmallow ghosts out of the plastic jack-o-lantern centerpiece. Scully followed him over to the dessert table, fighting the urge to reach out and stroke his round blue ass. "I want two pieces," she remarked to Mulder's back. While she moved to stand beside him, he remained still, gazing at the cake with a satisfied smile. Then he carefully cut three pieces from just below the troll's belt. Just above the belt was the name "Shrek" done in green icing. "I suppose we'll have to take Will to movies like that in a few years," she said softly. "It's a strange choice for a grown-up party. I heard there were mix-ups with the caterers. They claimed someone called up and changed the order." Mulder had slipped the cake into the plastic pumpkin. Now he was piling in appetizers. "I think it's a good choice for this party. Try rearranging the letters in the name." Mulder's smile got broader. She dutifully ran through a few combinations, and then her eyes widened and her mouth began to open. Mulder popped in two crackers loaded with orange and black caviar. He gave her instructions in a soft voice while she dealt with the salty snack. "Take a west elevator to the sixth floor, room 6512, in five minutes. God, I've missed you, Scully. And I've been so bored." Then he shook her hand with hearty enthusiasm, and tipped his hat. His public good-bye resonated. "Good night, Agent Scully. It was a pleasure to meet you." The plastic pumpkin of goodies bumped gently against his holster as he made his way out of the room. Scully managed to wait for four and a half minutes before she shot out the west door of the ballroom. Doggett had watched the interchange between Scully and the cowboy through a pleasant haze of alcohol and fatigue. "Who was that masked man?" he enquired of Skinner. He didn't really expect an answer. His companion slept peacefully, his head resting on Doggett's magic bag. *********************************************** Author's Notes: I went with the constraints, but chose my own elements. A cake is served at the ball. Its shape is significant. As proof of their love Mulder and Scully wear related costumes Poor Doggett. He gets to the costume rental shop last, and has to make do with the dregs. Skinner originally isn't going to attend the ball, but he decides to go. There's a band. Everyone notices the songs. There's an X-file involving the pumpkins. Skinner has a bit too much and does something out of character. A character reveals a hidden talent. A surprise visitor arrives at the stroke of midnight! Doggett gets the last line.