Title: RADIO DAZE 
Authors: Jean Robinson (jeanrobinson@yahoo.com) and 
haphazard method (haphmeth@yahoo.com)
Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property 
of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television 
Network. No infringement is intended. 
Rating: R for language
Classification: S, H
Archive: Please ask permission.
Spoilers: It'll make more sense if you've seen through 
"Hollywood A.D."
Summary: Mulder and Scully make beautiful music 
together.
Feedback: If you're still speaking to us after reading this, 
<g> we'd love to hear from you at haphmeth@yahoo.com 
or jeanrobinson@yahoo.com
Author's notes at the end 
*****************************

RADIO DAZE (1/5)
By Jean Robinson and haphazard method


I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date. . . .

Okay, so it wasn't a date. But the theme song of the 
scampering White Rabbit in Disney's "Alice in 
Wonderland" repeated itself incessantly through 
Kimberly's head anyway, because she =was= late. For the 
third time this week.

Assistant Director Skinner wasn't one to stand on 
ceremony where a forty-five minute lunch hour was 
concerned, but even he couldn't fail to notice this 
increasing pattern of tardiness.

Not that she'd blame him, but it was all the more 
frustrating because none of it had been intentional. On 
Monday, she'd left the deli and been halfway back to the 
Hoover Building before she realized that the odor 
emanating from the greasy white bag in her hand was 
not that of tuna salad, but instead the more pungent 
fragrance of pastrami on rye. With mustard. By the time 
she'd gone back and straightened it all out, there'd been 
no time to eat it anyway.

On Tuesday, it rained. Correction. On Tuesday, it poured 
buckets, water sluicing from the sky in endless torrents 
that filled the gutters to overflowing and made lakes out 
of parking lots. She'd brought her lunch. Setting foot 
outside before quitting time had not been on her agenda 
until the run in her stockings expanded and spread like 
the Grand Canyon. A quick five-minute dash through the 
deluge to the nearest drugstore was all she planned.

The speeding taxi plowing through the intersection 
caught the puddle at just the right angle, drenching 
Kimberly from head to toe. Blotting and mopping in the 
ladies' room took nearly an hour; even then she 
resembled a refugee from the cast of "Annie" for the rest 
of the day.

Today it was Agent Timson. The man wouldn't take no for 
an answer; she'd been avoiding him for two months and 
finally couldn't fob him off with another lame excuse. 
Lunch in the cafeteria. Okay, fine, whatever. 

Were all newly divorced men so boring? And dense? 
Blatant peeks at her watch hadn't clued him in. 
Repeated references to the time hadn't fazed him. He 
continued to blather on about his children, his gym and 
his collection of blues CDs until she finally stood up, 
dumped her tray and walked away. Even then he 
followed her into the elevator, still talking.

Uncomfortably aware that the little hand was on the one 
and the big hand was well past the twelve, Kimberly 
ignored him, her gaze pasted on the display panel until it 
indicated her floor.

Thankfully, he still had one more to go. "Well, 'bye!" she'd 
exclaimed with forced cheerfulness, fairly leaping out of 
the elevator and restraining the urge to run down the 
hallway to her office.

Skinner kept odd hours and rarely took lunch on a set 
schedule, but he'd have her hide if she wasn't there and 
he needed something. Didn't he have a 1:30 meeting 
today? Had she assembled all his papers for it? Damn, 
had she found the Jerworski file before she'd gone to 
lunch?

She couldn't remember; a bad sign. Hurrying through 
the crowded corridor, she tried to look as if she were not, 
in fact, hurrying. Down the hall, turn right past the 
conference room.

"Mulder, I refuse to do this! What you're proposing is 
unnecessary and borders on indecent."

The uncharacteristically angry note in Agent Scully's 
raised voice stopped Kimberly flat. Mulder's response 
caused her to drop her purse in shock.

"Oh, come on. Admit it. You want to do it. You've done it 
before. I've heard you. Besides, it'll help me. It's been so 
long I can hardly remember how. So do me a favor and 
loosen up a little, all right?"

Aghast, Kimberly turned toward the closed double doors. 
The X-Files agents were temporarily housed on this more 
respectable floor while their office was being debugged. 
Literally. The fumigation specialists had been in to rid 
the basement of an ant problem that had been plaguing 
the lower floors for nearly a year. Fox Mulder and Dana 
Scully had been banished from their normal quarters for 
four days while the pesticide did its dirty work.

What was going on in there?

"I'm not convinced this is a good idea." Scully sounded as 
if she were weakening from her formerly adamant stance.

"Why?"

"If you must know, sometimes I do it in the shower. . . 
and I get carried away. And I get loud."

Dear God. Did they have any idea their voices carried 
through the thin plywood door? This was just a 
conference room, not one of the soundproofed offices 
afforded the more senior staff. 

"Scully, it'll be fun, you'll see."

"There are people outside, Mulder."

So she did know.

"Besides," Scully continued, "need I remind you that the 
last time you decided to do this, it nearly cost us $446 
million dollars even though you were drugged?"

Say again?

Mulder sounded affronted. "I still don't believe your 
version of that story, thank you. And as for everyone else 
in the building, I doubt they care what we're doing, and 
we're not doing anything wrong anyway. It's part of our 
assignment."

Try as she might, Kimberly couldn't recall any 
assignment that involved activities such as these two 
were intimating. Agent Mulder was renowned for his 
creatively unauthorized expeditions, but this?

Mulder continued, and now it sounded as if he were 
smiling. She pictured him with that endearing little grin, 
the one that so often made his partner roll her eyes while 
they waited in Skinner's anteroom for their latest round 
of official ass-chewing. "You know you want to," he 
wheedled. "It'll be easy once you start. You'll see."

"Oh, for God's sake. All right." Scully was clearly 
exasperated. There was a pause and the light tapping of 
her heels as she moved in the room. Then. . . "'And now 
our bodies are oh, so close and tight. It never felt so 
good, it never felt so right. And we're glowing like the 
metal on the edge of a knife, glowing like the metal on 
the edge of a knife. . . .'"

WHAT?

Kimberly felt her jaw unhinge. She hadn't heard that. 
She definitely had =not= heard prim, proper Dana Scully, 
she of the smooth porcelain complexion and the steely 
blue eyes, singing "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." Off 
key. She hadn't. It simply didn't process. She was having 
auditory hallucinations, that's what it was, probably 
brought on by job stress. Skinner was going to have a fit 
because now she'd need time off to go see a doctor and--

Mulder's roar of laughter derailed her frantic, rambling 
train of thought. "Oh, fine, Mulder." Scully's defensive 
annoyance transmitted loud and clear, even through the 
closed door. "Let's hear you do better. Go on."

"No, no." Mulder was gasping, as if he couldn't get 
enough air to form real words. He snorted, coughed, and 
finally came out with coherent speech. "Now I remember 
the song. You're right, it fits. Very good."

"I'm waiting, G-man. Next one's yours. I'm all ears."

"No, really. . . ."

"Mulder. This was your idea. SING." His partner sounded 
more than irritated; she sounded dangerous.

Kimberly decided the chill she felt was the byproduct of 
air conditioning and imagination rather than an actual 
temperature change caused by the frost in Scully's tone.

"Um, 'Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me. 
Twice on the pipe, if the answer is no.'" Mulder's rather 
uncertain warble became more confident as he 
continued, accompanied by the sharp rapping of 
knuckles on wood. Apparently he felt the song warranted 
back-up percussion. "'Oh my darling, knock three times 
means you'll meet me in the hallway. Twice on the pipe, 
means you ain't gonna show.'"

All thoughts of lateness, reprimands, lost files, meetings 
and talkative admirers vanished from Kimberly's head. 
Mesmerized, she stepped closer to the door, straining to 
hear what the curious duo inside would sing next.

**************

Meeting, meeting, when the hell was that meeting? 
Eschewing the elevator, Skinner bounded up the stairs, 
uncomfortably certain that it was a 1:30 gathering, not a 
2:30 as he'd originally thought when he'd planned his 
day.

Not that knowing this would have made his morning any 
easier, but he might have spent less time trying to puzzle 
out Agent Devereux's incomprehensible prose and more 
time searching out the files he'd need for the afternoon's 
main event.

When it came to weird, Agents Mulder and Scully won 
the prize, hands down. But at least their neatly typed 
pages of ghosts, vampires, aliens and conspiracies were 
coherent and organized, backed by as much hard, 
factual science as Scully could inject and rounded out by 
Mulder's outlandish but intelligent suppositions.

Not that he expected anything less from a doctor and an 
Oxford graduate.

Agent Devereux, however talented she was at 
apprehending serial killers, absolutely sucked when it 
came to writing down the details of her work in a format 
that anyone other than she and her partner could 
understand. Skinner didn't know whether to laugh or 
scream at the thought of what his successor might think, 
years in the future, stumbling on Devereux's latest. The 
first sentence in the opening paragraph of the report was, 
"But I knew he hadn't been back since before the last 
time he'd been there while I was there back when my 
partner and I were watching back prior to the last time 
he'd been back."

Then came a phone call from the powers above. A long 
phone call. One of those calls where you sit and grit your 
teeth and say, "Yes, sir. No, sir. Of course, sir. I'll take 
care of it right away, sir," when what you'd really like to 
say is, "Blow it out your ass, sir."

Usually such calls came after Mulder and Scully -- well, 
Mulder, at least -- had done something stupid and pissed 
off someone with connections. Today another pair of 
agents had taken that burden away from the X-Files 
team, necessitating an impromptu "chat" with Agents 
Sharp and Singleton about the joys of cooperating with 
local police. Reminding them that calling the lead 
detective a "fat ball of shit" was not advisable, especially 
when doing so in the police station men's room where 
echoes could be heard through into the ladies' room next 
door. And especially not when the fat ball of shit's wife 
was using the facilities at the time of the remark. 

Skinner hadn't thought he'd been unduly harsh, but 
Singleton looked as though he might never use a 
bathroom again by the time their discussion was over.

Suffice to say, he'd had little time to think about the 
meeting. Pounding down the hallway to his office, he 
tried to remember if Kimberly had located the Jerworski 
file before she left for lunch. Speaking of Kimberly. . . .

Skinner slowed his steps, wondering why the hell his 
secretary was standing motionless outside the closed 
conference room doors with her mouth open and a rapt 
expression on her face.

"Kimberly?" He touched her shoulder and spoke quietly, 
not wanting to alarm her.

She uttered a little screech and jumped straight up, as if 
he'd goosed her instead of tapping her. Startled, Skinner 
jumped back a bit himself. "Kimberly, what on earth. . . 
?"

Fright and embarrassment paraded across her face, 
coloring her cheeks and clearing the haze from her eyes. 
She gulped, trying to find her voice. "Sir! I. . . I'm sorry, 
sir, I didn't hear you."

"What are you doing?" And why do you look like I've 
caught you doing something illegal, when as far as I can 
tell you're just standing here in a trance? Christ, I've 
seen murderers who look less guilty than you do right 
now.

"I. . . I. . . that is, um. . . ."

In all his years with her overseeing his office work, he'd 
never known her to stammer. What in God's name was 
going on?

"'Everybody's doing a brand new dance now, come on 
baby, do the Loco-Motion! I know you'll get to like it if 
you give it a chance, now, come on, baby, do the Loco-
Motion!'"

Skinner whipped his head around in the direction of the 
closed door so abruptly he felt and heard a muscle in his 
neck creak. "WHAT was that?" he hissed.

"I think it was Agent Mulder, sir," Kimberly offered 
weakly.

"I know it was Agent Mulder," he grated, "but why is he 
=singing=?"

Before Kimberly could respond, Scully's voice drifted 
through the door.

"Are you sure, Mulder? What about 'I'm leaving, on that 
midnight train to Georgia. . . .'"

"Tell me that was not Agent Scully imitating Gladys 
Knight and the Pips." Skinner realized he was gripping 
Kimberly's arm with far too much force but couldn't 
make himself let go. For her part, Kimberly had 
apparently been struck mute and numb; she neither 
answered his question nor protested his manhandling.

"All right, we can argue that one later. But this. . ." There 
was a pause, presumably while Mulder pointed 
something out to his partner. "'Like a rhinestone cowboy, 
riding out on a horse in a star-spangled rodeo!' No 
question, Scully. None at all."

"You're so sure about that? Haven't you ever heard 'I've 
been through the desert on a horse with no name, it felt 
good to be out of the rain' or even 'She ran calling 
Wildfire. She ran calling Wildfire. She ran calling 
Wiiiiiildfire.'"

"She can't carry a tune." It was all Skinner could think to 
say.

"I've noticed that, sir."

"Kimberly, how long have you been standing here?"

She looked down at her feet, obviously chagrined. "I've 
already heard 'Brandy, You're a Fine Girl,' 'Afternoon 
Delight' and 'Laughter in the Rain,' sir."

Floored, Skinner turned to look at the bland panel of 
wood that separated them from the madness in time to 
hear a duet:

"'Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on? Could it be 
a faded rose from days gone by? And did I hear you say, 
he was a-meetin' you here today, to take you to his 
mansion in the sky!'"

Their singing -- if it could be called that -- dissolved into 
uncomplicated, delighted laughter.

Outside in the hallway, Skinner let go of Kimberly and 
wondered what kind of mental health facility would take 
on such seriously disturbed individuals, and how long 
their treatment program would last.

**************

End part 1 of 5
________________________


RADIO DAZE (2/5)
By Jean Robinson and haphazard method
Disclaimers, etc. in part 1


Hard to decide which was worse, Krycek speculated, 
losing an arm without the benefit of anesthesia, or 
having their voices scrape down his spine like rusty 
razors on raw flesh. Admittedly, the International Union 
of Spymasters, Local 503, was lax about these kind of 
details, but he was pretty sure that aural abuse was not 
included in his job description. He yanked off the 
headphones and turned down the volume on the bugs 
and to momentarily escape the torture.

When Mulder and Scully had been temporarily moved to 
Skinner's floor, he'd leapt at the chance to listen in. 
Sure, he was as curious as the next guy to learn if they 
were fucking, but with any luck, he'd hear something he 
could really use against them. 

But this? In his wildest dreams, he never thought it 
would be this bad.

He vaguely wondered if he set the nanocytes in Skinner's 
blood boogying to a disco beat whether Skinner would get 
the message to stuff socks in their mouths, thus ending 
everyone's misery.

"'Everybody was kung fu fighting, those cats were fast as 
lightning. . . .'" Krycek's fingers twitched in time to the 
song prancing through his head thanks to Agent Scully. 
Without too much effort, he could see his younger self at 
a junior high school dance, arms akimbo, acting out the 
words to the song as he danced. Jesus. His ego lifted a 
little, remembering that was also the night Beth Stanley 
let him put his hands under her shirt. Pretty slick for a 
twelve-year-old, but frankly, he'd rather forget all of it. 
Junior high school. Jesus. 

Desperately hoping they'd gone to lunch, he turned the 
volume up to maximum so he could listen without the 
headphones.

"Absolutely not. Can't you see it, Mulder? That is 
definitely 'Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy, 
sunshine in my eyes can make me cry. . . .'"

Was that a choking sound he heard? Krycek thumped 
the monitor. Yes, there it was again, but it didn't sound 
like it was coming from inside the room. Who the hell 
was out there? And how could those two not hear them? 
They must be off in their own little bubble, as usual, only 
able to see and hear each other. Nauseating, really, and 
dangerous, considering their history.

"No, that's not it, Scully. Not subjective enough. How 
about 'I can see clearly now, the rain is gone. . . .'" 

"Now that's interesting. Hmm." 

Krycek could hear Scully's heels clacking on the floor. 
Cheap government contractors. Trust the powers that be 
to cut corners by putting linoleum in the conference 
rooms instead of wall-to-wall carpeting. At the moment, 
though, he'd be willing to donate a rug if it would absorb 
the sound and spare him the agony. 

"Wait, that doesn't explain this part," Scully mused. "Oh, 
I know!"

Krycek cast up a sudden, violent prayer to anyone 
listening that she wouldn't, she couldn't --

She did. "'We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the 
sun, but the stars we could reach were just starfish on 
the bee--'" Krycek banged his forehead on the monitor.

Even Mulder sounded appalled. "Scully, stop." He must 
have moved quickly to silence her; her last word had 
been chopped off mid-vowel. "Please, not that one."

"Why not?" She sounded querulous.

"Even I have my limits. Just promise me."

"Fine. But you owe me one."

"Trust me, I owe you everything, but this is neither the 
time nor the place. Besides, I think this is really 'You 
light up my life, you bring me hope to carry on. . . .'"

Krycek howled, clapping his hand over his ear and 
cursing the limitations of his false arm that left the other 
ear unprotected.

**************

Going to the chapel and we're gonna get married. . . . 

The tune from his youth sang cheerily inside his head as 
Assistant Director Kersh left his office for his 1:30 
meeting, in direct contrast to his emotions on the union 
in question. He should have known something was up 
when Elizabeth came home for Christmas break last 
year, all bubbly and sparkly. He thought it was because 
his only daughter, the light of his life, had made Dean's 
List her first semester at Columbia.

Last night he'd found out the truth. Sure, Elizabeth was 
doing brilliantly at her studies; Kersh expected nothing 
less. But it seemed her intelligence had also drawn the 
attention of others, including one graduate student 
teaching assistant in particular.

Intelligence, my ass, Kersh thought sourly. You saw a 
pretty eighteen-year-old whose father has connections in 
Washington, you son of a bitch. Don't think I'm not 
aware of your law school ambitions. Now you want to 
marry my little girl and distract her from fulfilling her 
own potential.

His wife had tried to soothe him after Elizabeth's ecstatic 
phone call. "Don't blow it out of proportion. So they're 
engaged. The ring on her finger doesn't close her eyes."

"She's too young to be engaged, Susan. She's too young 
to know what this bastard really wants of her." 

"Alvin, I know it's your job, but for once, can you stop 
being so paranoid? Sometimes you sound like that agent 
you used to supervise. . . what was his name? Miller? 
Milder?"

"Mulder. Fox Mulder."

"Whoever. Elizabeth will be home in a few weeks, so can 
you please just try and be mature about this?"

How can I be mature when I see my baby's future 
disintegrating in front of me? Kersh thought peevishly. 
Maybe Mulder did have the right idea; they =are= out 
there and they =are= out to get us.

Still brooding along those lines, he strode down the 
corridor. Perhaps because the X-Files agent was foremost 
in his mind at the time, or perhaps because the sight of 
Assistant Director Walter Skinner and his secretary 
standing outside a closed conference room door in the 
apparent attitude of eavesdroppers was just so peculiar it 
warranted a hesitation, he stopped to investigate.

"Walter?"

Both Skinner and the woman -- Kimberly, was it? Kersh 
could never remember -- started guiltily. The woman 
flushed bright pink and Skinner looked as though he'd 
been caught rifling someone's desk. Neither one spoke; 
they simply stared at him.

"Walter, are you are all right? What are you doing?"

Skinner's mouth moved, but no sound came out.

>From inside the conference room, a woman's voice could 
be heard:

"'Oh yes, they call him the Streak. Fastest thing on two 
feet. He's always makin' the news, wearing just his tennis 
shoes, guess you could call him unique!'" 

Kersh closed his eyes and tried to pretend that wasn't 
what he thought it was. Susan's right, he thought. I'm 
getting paranoid over Elizabeth, and now it's affecting my 
work.

I think.

Perhaps I should just check to make sure.

Without opening his eyes, he asked quietly, "Am I 
imagining things, or I did just hear Agent Scully 
=singing= a novelty tune about a collegiate fad from the 
1970s?"

Skinner didn't answer. Kersh squinted just enough to see 
that his colleague had covered his eyes with one hand 
and lowered his head, hiding his expression.

"Walter?"

"Yes. You did." Skinner's voice was muffled; Kersh 
wondered if the man was suppressing laughter or tears.

Okay, first question answered. I'm not crazy. Yet. Next 
question. Wait. Do I really want to know the answer to 
the next question?

Before he could respond to his own mental query, Mulder 
chimed in. "That was an easy one, Scully. But this. . . 
this one took genius. 'You are the dancing queen, young 
and sweet, only seventeen. Dancing queen, feel the beat 
on the tambourine, oh, yeah!'"

"I beg to differ," Scully rapped back smartly. "It could be, 
'You make me feel like dancin', I wanna dance the night 
away. . . .'"

"'You're so vain, you probably think this song is about 
you, you're so vain!'"

"Touche, Mulder. You're just jealous because I got the 
other one first."

"Give me a break. As if 'Hello, it's me. I've thought about 
it for a long, long time' was a big stretch, considering how 
we always begin our phone conversations."

Outside, Kersh put a hand against the wall to steady 
himself. His knees felt decidedly weak. "Walter, what in 
God's name are they doing in there?"

"Singing, apparently. Beyond that, I haven't a clue."

"You haven't tried to stop them?"

Skinner had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Uh, 
no. Actually, it's been rather entertaining to hear what 
they'll come out with next."

Kimberly spoke up for the first time. "Just be glad you 
weren't here for their rendition of 'Funkytown.'"

Glancing at his watch, Kersh realized that he and 
Skinner were more than late for their meeting. At any 
moment, someone would come looking for them, and 
then explanations and apologies would be in order for 
disrupting the crowded schedules of so many busy 
people. Normally this wouldn't have been a problem, as 
all of them were susceptible to being waylaid for 
emergencies. 

Except here, the explanation was simply untenable; the 
only emergency would be how soon a review panel could 
be convened to summarily relieve all of them of their 
duties. "We're late, Walter. We should go."

"Hell. Kimberly, did you find the Jerworski file?"

She opened her mouth to answer and was interrupted by 
another mini-concert from within the confines of the 
temporary X-Files domain. All three of them cringed 
simultaneously.

"'Billy, don't be a hero, don't be a fool with your life. Billy, 
don't be a hero, come back and make me your wife. . . .'"

"Mulder, the lyrics sound ridiculous enough coming out 
of your mouth without the falsetto. I thought this was 
supposed to help your problem. If you're not going to 
take it seriously, then I suggest we try something else."

"You just don't want to sing all the verses to 'American 
Pie.'"

"Even Don McLean doesn't want to sing all the verses, 
and it's his song."

"Spoilsport. Here. Try this one."

Scully sighed heavily, the sound bleeding through the 
thin door without difficulty. "You picked that on 
purpose."

"It's this or 'American Pie,' Scully, and I don't mean the 
Madonna version. Go for it."

The three interlopers in the hallway leaned forward 
unconsciously, heads angled toward the door to catch 
the faintest sound.

Scully cleared her throat, then sang, "'I'm not trying to 
make you feel uncomfortable. I'm not trying to make you 
anything at all. But this feeling doesn't come around 
every day. And you shouldn't blow the chance, when 
you've got the chance to say. . . I love you. I honestly love 
you.'"

Silence. On both sides of the door.

Then, Mulder: "Aw, Scully. I didn't know you cared." He 
sounded as though he was smiling.

"I don't. Now it's your turn. This." A solid thump 
followed, as if Scully had emphasized her choice with her 
fist.

"That's mean, Scully."

"Cruel and unusual punishment, yes. Now sing. Start 
with the chorus."

"'If you like pina coladas, and gettin' caught in the rain. If 
you're not into yoga, if you have half a brain. If you like 
making love at midnight, on the dunes on the Cape,  
you're the love that I look for, write to me and escape.'"

Kersh stared at Skinner, wondering if having two agents 
under your supervision simultaneously go insane was 
worse than learning your teenage daughter was more 
concerned about a wedding dress than a summer job. 
Between them, Kimberly had both hands pressed to her 
face and was making tiny hiccuping noises. "Walter, if 
this gets out, you know your career is finished, don't 
you?"

Skinner turned to stare mournfully at the blank door. 
"I'm well aware of that, Alvin. Well aware."

**************

End part 2 of 5
________________________


RADIO DAZE (3/5)
By Jean Robinson and haphazard method
Disclaimers, etc. in part 1


Jana Cassidy fumed at the clock, its second hand 
clicking merrily along, oblivious to the fact that it was 
now thirteen minutes past the moment at which this 
meeting was supposed to have begun. The Jerworski 
case. She sighed. Why couldn't the federal government 
just take over DC and be done with it. No more crack-
smoking mayors, no more battles over whether the city 
could tax commuters who worked in the city but lived in 
the suburbs.

No more getting mixed up in investigating whether rogue 
members of the local police force, Jerworski among them, 
had taken to planting evidence on gangbangers in a 
misguided attempt by the boys in blue to reduce crime in 
the city.

Normally, none of this would be Cassidy's problem except 
that activists had demanded an outside investigative 
team. Perfect. The Bureau was screwed no matter what it 
did. The local police would be pissed at the Bureau for 
investigating; local activists would be pissed for not 
investigating hard enough, no matter what. Something to 
look forward to. Reno had dumped it on her, and she in 
turn had pulled in Skinner and Kersh. If she was going 
down, so were they, and that's all there was to it.

She punched a button on her phone and barked into the 
receiver. "Lisa? Call Skinner's office and see where the 
hell he is. And then call Kersh. They were both supposed 
to be in here almost fifteen minutes ago." She listened as 
her secretary rattled off her most recent messages. "Did 
the vet call? No? Okay. Thanks."

This cat was rapidly working through its nine lives, but 
after twelve years together, Jana couldn't imagine life 
without Attila. Thank God she'd never had kids. This was 
traumatizing enough, not that she'd ever admit in public 
to being enslaved heart and soul to a feline typhoon.

A brainless feline typhoon, that is.

She could understand why the cat liked to sleep on top of 
the dryer. Jana stored her extra towels on it, making the 
appliance's surface not only warm, but soft. Attila's 
attraction to the spot was natural.

Why the hell he'd suddenly decided to nap =inside= the 
dryer instead was something she still couldn't 
comprehend. She'd opened it up to check whether the 
load was dry yet when the phone rang. All she could 
figure was that during the fifteen minutes it had taken 
her to brush off her sister,  Attila had hopped inside the 
inviting cavern for a snooze. Maybe in some elderly-cat 
fashion he reasoned that if the top of the dryer was good, 
the interior must be even better.

Still thinking about her sister's remarkable ability to 
irritate her in no time flat, she'd slammed the dryer door 
closed and punched the "dry heat" button.

Five seconds later, an unearthly yowl erupted from the 
machine.

For a brief instant, she thought the dryer itself signaling 
an attack, like something out of a Stephen King novel. 
The yowl rose in pitch to an earsplitting screech, followed 
by a violent thudding, as if she'd added a sneaker to the 
clothing inside. 

Realization struck.

Sweeping open the door, she'd barely had time to step 
aside before a frizzled ball of fur shot out, static 
electricity crackling from every silky strand of his coat.

Four hours later, after she'd finally dragged him out from 
his hiding place behind the refrigerator, the vet 
diagnosed minor burns to his paws and nose and sent 
her home with a salve and application instructions.

That had been the past weekend. By Monday evening, 
she'd left three messages at the vet demanding an 
explanation to Attila's abrupt hair loss and new 
behavioral quirks.

The patchy coat style was bearable, although it pained 
her to see a semi-bald cat skulking about in place of her 
long-haired pet. But Attila the fearless, slayer of mice, 
cockroaches, moths and ankles of potential male escorts 
had, through his dryer epiphany, been transformed into 
Attila the invisible, cravenly lurking under her bed.

He'd become such an instant sissy that Attila hardly 
seemed an appropriate designation anymore. If not for 
the distressing condition of his fur, she would have 
renamed him Fluffy.

The vet talked blithely about stress and trauma and 
suggested the name of a reputable cat psychologist. Only 
$150 for the first half hour therapy session.

Jana found it laughable that everyone worried so much 
about HMOs and the escalating cost of human health 
care. The next time someone bemoaned the Bureau's 
insurance plan she was going to slap down her vet bills. 
She could just see it: "Dependent's name: Attila Cassidy. 
Age: 12. Eyes: Blue. Hair: Sable and thinning. Weight: 10 
pounds. Occupation: Former Ruler Supreme, Present 
Coward in Residence."

Cassidy snorted. For the amount of money the kitty 
shrink charged, he better have a couch big enough for 
her, too. So much for that trip to Key West.

Where the =hell= were those two deadbeats?

She snatched up the phone again, only to slam it down 
when Lisa's voice mail message started. Take a deep 
breath, Jana. She probably went to find them. This is 
obviously going to take awhile. You might as well call this 
alleged pet therapist and make an appointment.

She searched her briefcase for the phone number, 
humming quietly to herself. "'Jana, don't lose that 
number. It's the only one you own. You might use it if 
you feel better, when you get home.'" Ugh, where did that 
come from? She had a fuzzy memory of this morning's 
Muzak selection in the elevator. Those words never really 
disappear from the brain, do they? It made her feel 
vaguely old to hear songs she once loved converted to 
instrumental oatmeal.

Skinner and Kersh weren't the only things MIA; she must 
have left the cat psychologist's card on her kitchen table 
this morning. Slamming her briefcase closed with an 
impatient bang, she stalked into the hallway to haul her 
recalcitrant colleagues' asses -- she stutter-stepped in 
her march to the door, distracted by the thought of 
Walter's ass -- into this damn meeting so she could get 
home and take her neurotic pet for analysis.

Rounding the corner, she stopped dead at the sight 
before her. A crowd of six, no, eight, including her two 
wayward colleagues and her secretary. They looked like 
pod people, more vegetative than animate, except for 
Lisa, whose purple face and shuddering shoulders made 
Cassidy wonder if she was having a stroke, albeit a silent 
one.

"Assistant Directors." The two men stared at each other 
in horror before turning to face her. What the hell? 
"Would you please explain to me what you are doing here 
when we are supposed to be meeting in my office as of 
twenty minutes ago?"

Everyone simply gaped at her, frozen in place until 
Skinner's secretary scurried off with a gasp, pulling Lisa 
with her, a motion which somehow jerked the others 
from their trance.

Only to freeze again at a sound that made Cassidy think 
of raccoons in heat.

"'Someone left the cake out in the rain, I don't think that 
I can take it, 'cause it took so long to bake it, and I'll 
never have that recipe again, oh, nooooo!'"

Oh my God. Cassidy almost reached for her gun before 
remembering that desk jockeys didn't carry loaded 
weapons. It sounded like someone was in pain in there, 
possibly dying, and everyone was just standing around 
doing nothing. Typical. She rushed for the door but 
Skinner stepped in front of her.

"Wait. . . ." he began.

"What?" This close she could smell his cologne. Nice. 
Then her jaw snapped shut and she leaned slowly to one 
side to look over his shoulder at the closed door when 
she heard. . . Fox Mulder?

"Scully, that's pitiful. Now who's not being serious? You 
know this one. I know you know this one. C'mon, it's 
practically our theme song."

Cassidy couldn't process it. Scully. Dana. Short, 
redhead, a glare to be proud of. Particularly when 
making snappish, utterly insubordinate remarks about 
the Bureau's lack of qualified personnel to evaluate 
virus-laden bumble bees. =That= Dana Scully?

"Mulder, I am quite sure that we do not have a theme 
song."

Yes, that Dana Scully. As if there were any others who 
could converse rationally with Agent Mulder, who was 
now defending his position with all the righteous pomp of 
a well-paid attorney.

"Of course we do. All self-respecting crime-fighting duos 
have a theme song. Listen: 'To telepath messages 
through the vast unknown, please close your eyes and 
concentrate.'"

"Oh, you're kidding me."

"I'm not."

"Mulder, please tell me you aren't channeling Karen 
Carpenter."

"Don't be ridiculous. Her brother Richard. Here, sing the 
chorus with me."

Cassidy winced at the laughter erupting from inside the 
room. The two of them were apparently laughing so hard 
they could barely breathe, never mind sing, if one dared 
to grace the discordant racket emanating from that room 
with that label.

"'Calling occupants of interplanetary craft. Calling 
occupants of interplanetary most extraordinary craft!'"

Cassidy slowly reached around Skinner and opened the 
door.

**************

Fox Mulder thought he'd seen all the facial expressions 
that his partner could produce. Hell, he'd caused most of 
them, one way or another, so he was familiar with 
everything from Scully Angry to Scully Zonked and all 
the minute deviations in between. It had taken him 
nearly seven years, but he thought he'd finally sorted 
them out in his mind, down to the microscopic lip curve 
that meant all the difference between Scully Inquisitive 
and Scully Infuriated.

When the conference room door opened and their boss, 
former boss, former tormentor and a whole cadre of 
agents and staff stampeded into their current quarters 
like stormtroopers out of the original Star Wars movie, 
Mulder was treated to an entirely new visage of his 
partner.

Scully Mortified.

He'd suggested the activity as a joke, something to put off 
the inevitable and unwelcome task of forming a profile for 
such an inane and unsubstantiated crime.

Enlisting her cooperation required more than just his 
considerable persuasive skills; first he had to get past the 
"Shaft" dig. He privately believed she'd invented all that 
for the authorities to bolster her defense of him. To her, 
"Agent Mulder was heavily drugged and singing theme 
songs from 1970s police dramas" sounded much more 
plausible than "Agent Mulder was pursuing a vampire" 
when it came to explaining why he'd staked a teenage 
pizza delivery boy through the heart.

In light of his goal, he refrained from reminding her 
about Florida, when she'd croaked out "Joy to the World" 
at his insistence. Having his ass kicked by Ponce de Leon 
et. al. was not an event he wanted to remember anyway.

Still, he'd been surprised and more than a little pleased 
that she'd given in and goofed along with him. Maybe 
after all this time, she was finally letting go of some of the 
things that haunted her. He'd jumped in before she could 
back down.

Now, watching the color drain from her face and her eyes 
widen, seeing her hands fall slackly to her sides and her 
mouth drop open in silent protest, his first thought was 
that she was going to faint. Pass right out in sheer 
embarrassment and humiliation. Swoon, even.

Then she turned her gaze on him, and Mulder saw he'd 
been completely, utterly wrong. In those bottomless blue 
eyes he saw his future, and it wasn't pretty.

She wasn't going to faint; she was going to kill him. 
Slowly. Possibly later tonight, in his sleep. Scully was a 
doctor. One with a key to his apartment. She could do 
those kinds of things. She =would= do those kinds of 
things.

"Agent Mulder." Jana Cassidy's acerbic voice dragged 
him back to reality. Mulder was grateful. Anything, even 
a face-off with the Queen of Mean, was better than seeing 
his own mortality reflected in his partner's baby blues.

"Yes?"

"Would you mind explaining your actions?"

"My actions?" When in doubt, hedge.

Skinner apparently felt the need to assert some control, 
as if this would somehow distance or exonerate him from 
any contamination the X-Files staff was carrying. "Agent 
Mulder, what is the meaning of this. . . this 
=disturbance=? Your conduct is unprofessional at the 
very least."

"I don't understand, sir." Scully, help me out, here. 
Please. Feel free to jump in any time.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see she'd folded her 
arms across her chest, her face schooled back into the 
familiar mask of emotionless neutrality. 

Oh, great. She was going to let him swing in the wind.

"Agent Mulder, you and Agent Scully were singing, if you 
want to call that caterwauling we heard music." 
Cassidy's tone dripped acid. "Last I heard, we didn't pay 
our agents for their ability to memorize golden oldies. Not 
to mention distracting an entire floor full of people from 
their own work." At her words, everyone but Skinner and 
Kersh abruptly vanished, suddenly realizing they were 
next on the hit list once the latest bawling out of Spooky 
Mulder and his woman was complete.

"We're working on a case." Scully's calm, firm voice 
redirected all attention toward her. "Assistant Director 
Skinner assigned it to Agent Mulder and myself two days 
ago."

Thank you, Scully. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I 
owe you big time, okay? I swear.

Skinner coughed. "I don't recall any case involving this 
kind of din, Agent Scully."

She didn't flinch. "The radio station case."

Skinner's eyes narrowed. "That doesn't begin to explain 
what you were doing, Agent."

"What doesn't explain what?" Kersh exploded. "What the 
hell is going on here?"

After a quick glare at Skinner, Scully turned to the other 
man. "WHUD is a light music station situated in the 
lower Hudson Valley of New York State, known for 
playing oldies rock from the 1970s. They've been 
receiving hand-drawn pictures in the mail from an 
anonymous source for the last six months." 

Scully waved a hand at the bulletin board on the wall 
behind her. It was covered with plain pencil drawings on 
lined white paper, fifty or more. Thumbtacked 
underneath each drawing was an index card, most with 
scrawled notes in Mulder's handwriting. "They sent them 
to the FBI for threat assessment, as a precaution for 
insurance purposes. As Agent Mulder and I were between 
cases and temporarily displaced from our offices, we were 
assigned this case."

Mulder knew a united front would be the only way they'd 
survive this. Which was kind of moot, from his 
perspective, because Scully was just going to gut him 
later. One battle at a time. "We discerned that the 
drawings might depict song titles," he broke in. "I 
suggested that there might be a pattern to the artist's 
choice of songs, and that to correctly assess the potential 
level of threat, we should check the lyrics for further 
clues."

"Explain the =singing=, Agent," growled Skinner.

Mulder had a surreal vision of Sally Fields as The Singing 
Agent, in a made-for-television sequel to The Flying Nun. 
He swayed slightly in his effort not to laugh, a motion 
only Scully knew how to interpret, fortunately. 

Or not so fortunately, he thought, freezing mid-sway at 
her look.

Scully frowned and picked up the explanation. "The 
choice to sing the songs rather than write the words 
down or research them online was a mutual decision. By 
singing a few measures of the song, we were able to bring 
the rest of the lyrics to mind. This also helped jog our 
memories. As you can see, we're about halfway done. 
What we've accomplished this afternoon in an hour 
might have taken a day or more had we pursued this 
investigation with more conventional means. However, if 
we are disturbing you, I apologize. We can resort to other 
methods." Scully crossed her arms again, eyeing the 
three assistant directors nonchalantly.

Cassidy looked as though she'd swallowed a wasp. Kersh 
had averted his gaze from Scully and now stared at the 
bulletin board, disbelief written all over his features. 
Skinner, Mulder was certain, was manfully trying to 
maintain a dignified facade by biting on the inside of his 
lower lip.

Can't believe that for once we actually have a good 
reason for doing something this idiotic, can you?

"Sir?" Scully inquired coolly. She was enjoying this. 
Mulder knew she was. After all Kersh had put her 
through, after all Cassidy had implied about her 
judgment during the hearings following Antarctica, 
Scully was relishing the opportunity to stick it to both of 
them.

And he was responsible for giving her the chance to do 
so. Maybe she wouldn't kill him later after all.

"What, Agent?" Skinner had apparently forgotten the 
question; had also apparently conceded that Scully was 
now in total control of the situation.

"Would you prefer that we continue our investigation 
using methods based on a reduction of the noise level 
rather than on speed?"

Skinner hadn't quite followed that. Mulder hadn't, either, 
but it hardly mattered. Cassidy stepped in when Skinner 
hesitated. "Of course we want this matter resolved with 
all due haste, Agent Scully," she said with the bland but 
derisory tone that issued effortlessly from all DC 
bureaucrats above a certain pay grade. "However, please 
remember that you are guests on this floor. Unlike the 
basement level, people here are used to some peace and 
quiet."

Scully narrowed her eyes slightly. "Yes, of course." She 
paused, and Mulder had time for one deep breath in 
anticipation of the verbal punch he could see coming a 
mile away. "However, the radio station has asked the 
federal government for some assurance that this 
anonymous sender is an untalented but harmless artist 
rather than a person nursing a potentially lethal grudge. 
I'm sure you would prefer a little noise here in the 
building to the public outcry should this radio station or 
its listeners become the focus of some kind of attack."

Public outcry, nothing, Mulder realized. The situation 
had just gone from amusing to volatile; there was going 
to be an explosion of epic proportions in the next few 
seconds if he didn't do something to distract the two 
women. Even Kersh was bracing himself, and Skinner 
had taken a step back.

Desperately scanning the room for a diversion, his gaze 
landed on the clock over the door. "'Does anybody really 
know what time it is? Does anybody really care?'"

"Shut up, Mulder." This from four voices simultaneously.

The Showdown-at-the-OK-Corral spell broken, Cassidy 
abruptly turned on her heel and marched away, 
snapping something to Kersh and Skinner about a 
meeting. Kersh followed silently in her wake.

Skinner paused long enough to stare at Mulder and 
Scully. "I hope you know what you've done."

Mulder grinned. "'We are the champions, my friends. And 
we'll keep on fighting 'til the end. . . .'"

Skinner sighed. "Carry on, Agents." He left.

Turning back to the bulletin board, Mulder glanced at his 
partner. "I can't believe you did that."

She arched an eyebrow and favored him with Scully 
Innocent. "Did what?"

"Scully!"

She smiled, a full-blown, wow-that-was-fun smile. The 
kind he'd only seen a few times, once after waking up 
from his own Arctic alien virus experience. "'He's bad, 
bad, Leroy Brown. Baddest man in the whole damn town. 
Badder than ol' King Kong, meaner than a junkyard 
dog.'"

He laughed. "Yeah, but I think those lyrics could use 
some revision now."

**************

End part 3 of 5
________________________


RADIO DAZE (4/5)
By Jean Robinson and haphazard method
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


"Scully, this may be the most brilliant idea you've ever 
had."

"Huh," she grunted at her partner, without looking up 
from the semi-accurate rental car map she was squinting 
at. "I like the sound of that. But which one did you have 
in mind?"

"Getting out of town on a case before Skinner could 
assign us to bathroom cleaning duty in the Hoover 
building."

"I agree. But Mulder?"

"What?"

"I know you think it's funny that this case is in Fort 
Wayne. But if you keep humming 'Indiana Wants Me,' I 
won't be held responsible for my actions."

**************

Jana Cassidy opened her eyes and frowned at the clock 
radio chirping "voolay voo coo shay avec moi say swah" 
across the blankets. Three in the morning. She groaned 
and reached out to slap the damn thing off, jostling the 
cat at the foot of the bed, who scolded her with a sharp 
mew and a glare.

"Don't even start with me," she told Attila. "I'm doing this 
for you."

At least his first session with the shrink had yielded 
some results. A trial prescription of kitty Prozac seemed 
to be working wonders so far.

The patient, unimpressed, unfurled himself into a 
luxurious stretch before he stalked into the living room 
without so much as a backwards glance at his bleary-
eyed owner.

Ever the dutiful servant, Jana followed, fumbling for her 
robe and slippers and pocketing the cat's burn salve. 
Serves you right for wanting a cat in the first place, she 
told herself.

She was still telling herself that as she stood in the 
bathroom ten minutes later, watching hydrogen peroxide 
fizzle over the new scratch on her wrist.

Awake now, she made herself some tea and settled back 
on the couch, the Hun nowhere to be seen, pouting, no 
doubt, at having lost another battle. Cassidy didn't care 
where he'd slunk off to, as long as the mangy beast didn't 
lick the $35 ointment off immediately. That tiny tube was 
supposed to last two weeks.

She rested her head on the back of the couch with a 
sigh, blowing on her tea to cool it. To her horror, she 
found herself whistling "voolay voo" across the top of the 
fragrant liquid. Her groan drew an answering yowl from 
behind the couch.

"Now I'll never get to sleep, Attila," she complained as the 
cat jumped up onto the couch and curled up in her lap. 
"It's like kudzu -- once the songs are in there, it's all 
over. And the worst part is that I could be using those 
gray cells for something useful, like an analysis of 
loopholes in overseas banking regulations, or hell, the 
names of nineteenth century Hungarian diplomats, but 
no, instead I can recite from memory all of the words to 
'Philadelphia Freedom'."

Attila didn't appear to be listening but Cassidy could tell 
by the way one ear cocked back that the cat wasn't 
asleep yet. Good, she didn't want to be sitting here by 
herself with these vapid songs. 

On the other hand, she thought, inspired, why not share 
the pain?

Standing up required digging Attila's claws out of her 
robe, but she moved to the computer and logged into her 
AOL account. You can find anything on the Internet, 
right? She typed 'bad songs of the Seventies' into the 
search window and laughed aloud when a site called 
exactly that popped up. Another search yielded a 
karaoke site specializing in sap from the 70s.

Perfect.

She opened an email to her sister and copied it to her 
college roommate, feeling the exquisite joy of finally being 
able to retaliate for the daily "20 reasons why 
men/women/a cucumber/Macs are better than 
women/men/men/PCs" one or the other of them had 
been forwarding her ever since they discovered the 
Internet. Amateurs. She attached a midi of the "Midnight 
at the Oasis" to the message. If that didn't get a rise out 
of them, nothing would. Besides, they should be grateful 
I spared them from Helen Reddy, she thought. "I Am 
Woman," indeed. Hear me roar.

Grinning maniacally, she clicked "Send Now."

She sat at the computer a moment longer, humming and 
thinking of the two agents who started all of this. "Let me 
tell you, Attila -- oops, sorry sweetie, didn't mean to pull 
your tail, I don't mean to take this out on you -- the next 
time those two appear in front of my committee, it'll be 
'Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.'"

**************

Long after his wife began snoring lightly beside him, 
Alvin Kersh lay restless and wakeful. Normally he was 
asleep before his head hit the pillow; it was a family joke.

Normally he hadn't spent nearly half an hour being 
subjected to a recital that could have been titled Reasons 
Why, Aside From Watergate, The 70s Are Best Forgotten.

Concern for his daughter's marital decision and the 
residual effects of the afternoon's run-in with the X-Files 
division left him feeling slightly ill, the way he usually felt 
after consuming one too many chili dogs at lunch.

This time the queasy, burning sensation in his gut and 
accompanying headache thumping across his skull had 
nothing to do with food. The sappy songs echoing 
gleefully through his mind were the definite for source of 
his discomfort.

"Love, love will keep us together. Think of me babe, 
whenever. . . ."

"And they called it puppy looooove. . . . "

"Sounds like muskrat looooove. . . ."

"If you love me, let me know, if you don't, then let me go. 
. . ."

And the one that sent him over the edge, cursing Fox 
Mulder's name and weeping silent tears into his pillow: 
"HEY, I THINK I LOVE YOU!"

**************

End part 4 of 5
________________________


RADIO DAZE (5/5)
By Jean Robinson and haphazard method
Disclaimers, etc. in part 1


Krycek had tucked away the headphones and shut down 
the monitor hours ago, but those damn songs still 
babbled through his head on a continuous mental 
playback. 

It was all Mulder's fault.

Lacking ovaries, the man had had his brain scooped out 
instead, he reasoned, and this was clearly the end result. 
At least it settled one burning issue, although not 
necessarily the one that smoking fiend was paying him to 
unearth.

They were fucking each other. They had to be. There was 
no way Scully would have agreed to an afternoon 
songfest if she wasn't getting some at night in 
compensation. 

He rolled over in bed, trying and failing to prevent the 
incomprehensible lyrics from repeating themselves one 
more time. That last lyric Mulder had crooned to Skinner 
had triggered this. If Krycek ever saw Mulder again, he 
might just rip his tongue out. 

"Is the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a 
landslide, no escape from reality. Open your eyes, look 
up to the skies and see. I'm just a poor boy, I need no 
sympathy, because I'm easy come, easy go, little high, 
little low. Any way the wind blows, doesn't really matter 
to me, to me."

If the music didn't drive him crazy, the irony would.

**************

Skinner glared at his bedroom ceiling, still unable to 
accept that for all functional purposes, his day had 
ended at 1:30 in the afternoon. And that fourteen hours 
later he could still hear the 70s Hit Parade in his brain. 

More specifically, Mulder and Scully singing said Hit 
Parade. With a frustrated snort, he rolled over and 
wrapped the pillow tighter around his head as if to muffle 
the memory of that godawful noise.

But try as he might, he just couldn't banish their voices. 
It was like they were singing in stereo, one over each 
shoulder.

Mulder: "'I said what?'"

Scully: "'I said oo-oo-eee.'"

Mulder: "'I said all right.'"

Scully: "'I said love me, love me, love me.'"

"'Undercover angel, midnight fantasy, I never had a 
dream that made sweet love to me, oooh!'" Skinner found 
himself unwillingly singing along with the phantom 
voices and stopped himself with a bellow that echoed 
through the apartment. This was enough to drive a man 
to drink. 

Or to revenge. He thought again about the e-mail he'd 
just received from Wayne Federman and smiled.

**************

Kimberly downed another margarita and signaled the 
waitress. "I'm. . . I think I'm drunk."

Lisa giggled and sipped at her fifth Sam Adams of the 
evening. "Hey, I =know= you're drunk. Because I'm 
drunk, too."

"You gonna call in shick. . . sick. . . tomorrow?"
"I guess so." Lisa stared at the half-full glass of amber 
liquid. "I think we need a day off after today."

"God. I can't believe they were doing that." Kimberly 
handed the waitress her glass and nodded. "Yeah. 
Another one. On the rocks, no salt."

"Meat Loaf?"

"I'm not hungry."

"No, silly," Lisa giggled again. "Meat Loaf. The guy. She 
was really singing Meat Loaf?"

"Agent Shully, I mean, Scully? Yup. Knew the words. 
Can't sing worth a damn, but she knew all the words."

Lisa drained her glass and tried to adopt a nonchalant 
tone, impossible for someone in her state of inebriation. 
"What about him?"

"Meat Loaf? Of course he knows the words!" 

"Not him, dummy, MULDER. Did Agent Mulder know the 
words?"

Kimberly eyed her companion shrewdly through a haze of 
alcohol. "To Meat Loaf? I dunno. But let me tell you," she 
paused to knock back a hefty swallow from her new 
drink. "You know that song?"

Lisa rolled her eyes. "WHAT song?"

"You know, that one. 'I'm hooked on a feeling, I'm high on 
believing, that you're in love with me. . . .'" Judging from 
Lisa's pained expression, Kimberly decided she wasn't 
much better than Agent Scully at staying on pitch, but 
what the hell. After six margaritas, she was entitled to 
stray into another key. A number of bar patrons turned 
to stare at her, but no one said anything.

"What about it?"

Leaning forward across the table, Kimberly lowered her 
voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Agent Muller can ooga-
chaka me any time."

**************

Mulder's eyes opened and he froze, wondering what had 
awakened him. A noise? Scully had promised that she 
wouldn't kill him in his sleep, though he wouldn't put it 
past her to change her mind, especially if she woke up 
singing ABBA. He listened but didn't hear anything other 
than the muted hum from the motel's air conditioner. 
Floating back toward sleep, he considered what he 
remembered of his dream.

He and Scully had been on a beach -- Havana? No, that 
didn't sound right, it had been =north= of Havana. And 
Scully had been singing to him but he hadn't been 
paying attention. All he could think about were the 
yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there. 

How weird, he thought. If I'm going to dream about 
Scully on a beach, you'd think I'd have the sense to 
dream a bikini, too.

He rolled over, pulling the blankets up to his chin. Only 
half awake himself, he watched Scully sleep. She lay on 
her stomach with her head turned toward him, each 
deep and even breath puffing out a stray lock of hair that 
had fallen across her face. As he reached over with one 
lazy hand to smooth the errant strands back into place, 
he softly crooned the lyrics drifting through his brain, 
"'And I know that my song isn't saying anything new, oh, 
but after the loving, I'm still in love with you.'"

"Mmmm, nice." Scully smiled slightly without opening 
her eyes, then rolled so that her back was to him, 
pushing herself back until she was spooned up against 
him. She snuggled deeper into her pillow and drowsily 
mumbled, "Elvis?"

Mulder wrapped an arm around her, burying his nose in 
her hair and thinking that disclosing any dreams 
involving saffron plumage was definitely a bad idea. 
"Engelbert. Gotta love a guy with a worse name than 
mine."

He felt her bare stomach move with her sleepy laugh. 
"You took the words right out of my mouth, Mulder."

"Well, it must have been while you were kissing me." He 
smiled.

"Mulder?"

"What, Scully?"

"I know the song title says 'There's Got to Be a Morning 
After,' but Maureen McGovern never had to deal with 
you. Don't push your luck."


End

Authors notes: Many thanks to Sarah Segretti and Jill 
Selby who agreed to beta-read this, even after we 
explained what the story was about. <g> If you do not 
recognize a majority of these songs, well, you're younger 
than we are. ;-) If you can't sleep because now you can't 
stop hearing all these songs, well, mission accomplished. 
<vbg> Write and tell us about it at jeanrobinson@yahoo.com 
or haphmeth@yahoo.com. 

All the lyrics in the story were used without permission. 
No infringement is intended. Songs referred to in the 
story are listed below, in alphabetical order by artist.

Dancing Queen - ABBA
Horse With No Name - America 
You Light Up My Life - Debby Boone
Hooked on a Feeling - Blue Suede
Rhinestone Cowboy - Glen Campbell
Love Will Keep Us Together - the Captain and Tennille
Muskrat Love - the Captain and Tennille
Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft - the 
Carpenters
Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is – Chicago
Send in the Clowns - Judy Collins
Bad, Bad Leroy Brown - Jim Croce
Knock Three Times - Dawn, featuring Tony Orlando
Sunshine on My Shoulders - John Denver
Kung Fu Fighting - Carl Douglas
The Loco-Motion - Grand Funk
MacArthur Park - Richard Harris
Billy, Don't Be A Hero - Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods
Escape (the Pina Colada Song) - Rupert Holmes
After the Loving - Engelbert Humperdink
Seasons in the Sun - Terry Jacks
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road - Elton John
Philadelphia Freedom - Elton John
Hopelessly Devoted to You - Olivia Newton-John
If You Love Me (Let Me Know) - Olivia Newton-John
Midnight Train to Georgia - Gladys Knight and the Pips
Lady Marmalade - Patti LaBelle
Funkytown - Lipps
Brandy (You're a Fine Girl) - Looking Glass
There's Got to be a Morning After - Maureen McGovern
American Pie - Don McLean
Copacabana - Barry Manilow
Paradise by the Dashboard Light - Meat Loaf
You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth - Meat Loaf
Midnight at the Oasis - Maria Muldaur
Wildfire - Michael Murphy
I Can See Clearly Now - Johnny Nash
Puppy Love - Donny Osmond
Undercover Angel - Alan O'Day
I Think I Love You - the Partridge Family
Bohemian Rhapsody - Queen 
We Are the Champions - Queen
Delta Dawn - Helen Reddy
I Am Woman - Helen Reddy
Hello, It's Me - Todd Rundgren
You Make Me Feel Like Dancing - Leo Sayer
Laughter in the Rain - Neil Sedaka
Afternoon Delight - Starland Vocal Band
You're So Vain - Carly Simon
Rikki Don't Lose That Number - Steely Dan
The Streak - Ray Stevens
Indiana Wants Me - R. Dean Taylor
Joy to the World - Three Dog Night
Aqualung - Jethro Tull
Bungle in the Jungle - Jethro Tull
Locomotive Breath - Jethro Tull


**************

But wait, there's more. <g> If you're still reading and 
wondering where the Lone Gunmen were during all of 
this, you're in for a bonus treat:

RADIO DAZE, The Gunmen's Tale


Byers pushed the yellow eggy mass around the pan with 
a wooden spoon, reaching for the salt with his other 
hand. He bounced his heels up and down, bobbing his 
head in time and humming quietly. Behind him, the 
toaster popped. He spun around, rather gracefully he 
thought, to grab the bread, sliding it onto a nearby plate. 
The eggs were piled on next, some Tabasco sauce, and 
for color, a bit of parsley, probably left over from take-out 
Italian two nights ago, though that didn't bear much 
thinking about.

"Voila. Dinner is served," he announced to himself, 
untying an apron from around his waist. He sat down to 
eat, quickly becoming re-immersed in the latest proposed 
FCC regs for low wattage radio stations.

Behind him, he heard Frohike and Langly return from 
their food run, still arguing about Langly's theory that 
The Simpsons was a signaling beacon used by Rupert 
Murdoch in his quest for global domination.

"Okay, so scratch the reverse vampires, but it's still 
possible that the RAND Corporation is in league with 
space aliens."

"Langly, in case you hadn't noticed, the Berlin Wall fell 
long time ago. Those Cold Warriors are done, finished, 
washed up. Hack into their systems all you want, you're 
not going to find evidence that Rupert is channeling 
messages through Homer Simpson."

"It was Milhouse, and as I recall, not too long ago, you 
didn't think FEMA was a threat, either. I'm telling you, 
all that war gaming is a smokescreen for something else."

"Whatever. Shut up and let's eat." This over Frohike's 
shoulder as the pair entered the kitchen. Byers ignored 
them both, focusing instead on his regs and eggs.

"Byers!"

He looked up at Frohike, startled. "What?"

"You're humming again."

"I'm what?"

"Humming. You've been doing it all day. Knock it off."

"Sorry, I didn't realize." Byers finished the last of his 
dinner and stood up to put his plate in the sink. "It's 
strange, actually. I can't seem to get the song out of my 
head. It's like it's following me."

"Run faster," Langly advised through a mouthful of food.

"Swallow. Then you can talk," ordered Frohike. He turned 
to Byers. "What's the song?"

Byers thought for a moment. "'Send in the Clowns,' I 
think."

"WHAT?"

Byers looked up from the soapy water, relieved to finally 
remember the lyrics that had eluded him all day. In a 
remarkably clear tenor for a paranoid former bureaucrat, 
he sang, "'Where are the clowns? There ought to be 
clowns. Well, maybe next year.'"

Langly's whole body stiffened. He put his sandwich on 
his plate. "Byers, I'm trying to eat here."

"What's wrong with Judy Collins? I happen to like Judy 
Collins," huffed Byers.

Frohike glared at him. "You are out of your mind. Sure 
she was pretty, with those big eyes and all, but gimme a 
break."

Byers turned back to his dishes, still humming under his 
breath, visions of fame and fortune in the Conspiracy 
Theorist Glee Club dancing in his head. The 22 Seconds 
of Silence Singers. The FOIA Chorus. The Take the Fifth 
Choir. Maybe he =was= losing his mind. Clowns?

"Tull, man," Langly said dreamily, "that's the only good 
music from the 70s."

"Tull." Byers goggled at Langly. "Tull??"

"Jethro Tull. You know, 'Bungle in the Jungle,' 
'Locomotive Breath,' 'Aqualung.'"

"I've heard of Jethro Tull," Byers snapped, insulted.

"'Sitting on a park bench, eyeing little girls with bad 
intent. . . .'" The reedy voice made Byers' sound like Tom 
Jones.

Frohike pitched a fried motherboard at Langly's head, 
which whistled past as he ducked out of the way, trilling 
on an air flute.

"Langly, that's disgusting." Byers rolled his eyes.

Langly sat up with one last riff on the air flute. "Well, 
their whole sylvan glen phase was kind of cool."

Frohike snorted. "Yeah, right, Maid Marion."

Langly pointed his sandwich at Frohike. "That's Lord 
Manhammer to you, you stunted half-orc."

"Screw you." Frohike turned on Byers. "This is your fault. 
You started this."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you and your clowns, you Watergate-baby punk. 
Where the hell did that come from, anyway?"

Byers had to think for a minute. "It started right after 
Mulder called this morning, wanting help. He wanted to 
map the itineraries of lounge performers in the Catskills 
over the last fifteen years."

"Lounge singers." Frohike snorted. "It was only matter of 
time before he got to that paranormal phenomenon. I'm 
surprised he didn't manage to bring Elvis into it. Did you 
find anything?"

"Not yet, it's still running. I figured I'd call him 
tomorrow."

Frohike nodded. Then his eyes narrowed. "Mulder was 
humming?"

"Yes. Before he realized I'd picked up the phone, I think."

"'Send in the Clowns.'" Frohike's tone was as flat as 
roadkill.

"Yes," Byers said, remembering.

Frohike turned away, malice in his eyes. "I'm gonna kill 
that idiot."

**************

The end. Yes, we promise this time.