TITLE:  TMI
SPOILER STATEMENT:  Three of a Kind; The Unnatural; the Diana Fowley
subplot.
RATING:  PG
CONTENT STATEMENT:  M/S married.  Scully/Frohike UST.  A few bad words.
CLASSIFICATION:  VRH
SUMMARY:   Fill-in-the-blank for "Three of a Kind".  A Making It
Personal Story.  The conversation Frohike and Scully had on the way from
the bar to the Gunmen's hotel room -- and things get a little intense,
even for Frohike.
THANKS TO:  Brynna, Paulette, Robbie, Shannon & Sharon.
.
 

TMI

by Brandon D. Ray
 

I blame Byers.

It was, after all, his idea that we drag Agent Scully into this
operation.  He was the one who insisted that we needed our own
government agent to counteract the other government agents we'd run up
against.  He was also the one who was adamant that it had to be Scully
rather than Mulder that we called in.

To be fair, and to spread the blame as liberally as possible, Langly had
a hand in this as well.  *He* was the one who suggested using a
simulation of Mulder's voice to persuade her to help us, and he was also
the one who let her wander away from the autopsy suite in this condition.

Leaving me, as usual, to clean up the mess.  Byers is upstairs trying to
jumpstart a relationship with a woman he knew for two days ten years
ago, and Langly is playing D&D, which means he isn't even as close as
Byers is to getting laid.  And people think *I'm* a loser.

I turn my attention back to the matter at hand:  to wit, trying to get
the lovely Agent Scully upstairs to our room so we can maybe figure out
what the hell's going on with her.

I don't know what's come over her; I've never seen her like this, and
for a few seconds there I didn't think I was going to get her out of
that bar with her virtue intact.  I finally had to pull rank -- her rank
-- to get it done, and Agent Scully herself was no help at all.

One thing I know for sure:  This is *not* jet lag, as Langly claimed a
little while ago.  I'm not smelling any booze on her breath, either, and
she doesn't seem to be uncoordinated, just ... goofy.  She even said she
*likes* me, and much as I wish I'd been wearing a wire so I could
immortalize those words for all time, that's just not ... Scully.

Hell if I know what's going on.

Not that those jackals she was hanging out with gave a damn.  To them
she was just another bimbo, and the only question in *their* minds was
which one of them was going to take her upstairs.  Good thing I showed
up when I did.

Of course, now that I've got her out of the bar I still have to get her
into the elevator and up to our room.  Which is turning out to be no
easy task, as she's already escaped twice:  once to admire the color
scheme used for the little pictures in the slot machine windows, and the
second time to get acquainted with a ficus that reminded her of her 11th
grade chemistry teacher.

And now here we go again.  I loosened my grip on her wrist for just a
second, and she's broken away once more and is heading for the gift shop.

For just an instant I'm tempted to let her go.  I do have other fish to
fry, after all, and it really isn't fair that I've been left to solve a
problem all by myself which was at its heart created by my two fine,
upstanding colleagues, the bastards.

I quickly suppress the impulse to blow it off, though, because not only
is Scully one luscious babe and a half, she's also Mulder's .... Well,
whatever she is to Mulder, he's very protective of her, and he'll kick
our sorry asses if we let anything happen to her.  And if he ever finds
out exactly *how* we lured her out to Vegas ....

I shudder and take off after Agent Scully.

"Look, Hickey!" she exclaims with childlike delight as I come to a halt
next to her.  We're standing in front of the magazine rack, and Scully
is paging through a copy of Sports Illustrated in apparent fascination. 
"It's all about Fernando Tatis!"

"Who?"  I glance over her shoulder at the magazine.  Some guy hitting a
baseball.

She looks up from the magazine, her eyes wide and her mouth forming a
little "o".  "Hickey!" she exclaims breathlessly.  "You haven't heard of
Fernando Tatis?"  I shake my head, and she continues, "He hit homeruns. 
Two of 'em.  Grand slams.  All in the same inning.  Mulder's been raving
to me about it.  Look!"

She holds up the magazine about two inches from my eyes.  It's currently
open to a full page ad for a BMW Z3, which sheds no light at all on the
matter at hand.  But rather than try to explain that to her, I slide it
gently from her hands and put it back on the rack, then take her elbow
and try to steer her towards the door.

"N-o-o-o!" she says, sounding just exactly like a frustrated four year
old whose balloon just got away from her and sailed off into the sky. 
She pulls away and heads back for the magazine rack.  "I wasn't finished!"

I sigh and go after her again, to find her once more looking at the
picture of the baseball player.  "Two grand slams, Hickey," she says
with little-girl seriousness.  "No one's ever done that before -- not in
the same inning.  Two grand slams.  Mulder was very impressed."

A slow, sweet smile starts to spread across her face.  On anyone else I
would describe that smile as sultry and provocative, but this *is* Dana
Scully.  For just a second certain images flash through my head -- but
then I push them away and gently put my hand on her elbow again.  I have
*got* to get her out of here; there are things that need to be done, not
least of which is figure out why she's acting the way she is.

"Hickey," she says, pulling me out of my thoughts once again.  She leans
towards me until her face is only inches from my own, and her breath is
warm and sweet.  God damn.  How the hell does Mulder resist this, day
after day?  If it were me --

"You know what Mulder and I did last week?" she asks in a conspiratorial
whisper.  "We hit a grand slam of our own."  And she starts to giggle.

"Did you, now," I reply, my mind working frantically.  She did *not*
mean that the way it sounded; that was just my own dirty mind supplying
that interpretation.  If she and Mulder were doing the naked pretzel I
would know about it.  At least, I *think* I would.  It's true that
Mulder hasn't been around much the last few weeks, but that's a normal
part of his cycle ....

"We went to this ball field," she continues through her giggles. 
"Mulder and me, Hickey.  We went there.  And there was this pitching
machine and Mulder taught me how to swing a baseball bat."  More
giggling.  "A baseball bat.  A real Louisville Slugger."

She leans a little closer and nudges me in the ribs with her elbow,
lowering her voice still further so that now it's almost too throaty and
sexy to bear.  "I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd played fast
pitch in high school.  Besides, if I *had* told him that, ol' Poopyhead
might not have let me play with his bat and balls!"  And as she
dissolves into helpless laughter she stutters out, "S-see?  I d-do *so*
have feminine wiles!"

If I didn't before, now I'm really beginning to understand the reactions
of those men in the bar.  There's something incredibly arousing about
seeing her like this -- like I need any help in *that* department.  But
that's something else that just isn't going to happen, for a number of
reasons -- not least of which is that it's blindingly obvious that she
has eyes only for Mulder.  I figured that out within five minutes of
meeting her, although the two of *them* have displayed a breathtaking
level of denial on that particular topic.

Meanwhile, this little scene is getting out of hand, and people are
starting to stare.  Agent Scully is laughing semi-hysterically, almost
to the point of tears, while tightly clutching my arm for support -- and
just as I'm thinking it can't get any worse she starts singing, in a
reedy, offkey voice.  "B-ball Park F-franks!" she carols, barely able to
get the words out between chortles.  "They plump when you lick 'em! 
Ball Park Franks!"  And then she loses it completely.

I've got to put a stop to this.  "Agent Scully?" I say, trying to get
through to the rational part of her that I know must be lurking down
inside somewhere.  "We need to get going.  We're late."  And I try to
take the magazine from her again.

"No!" she says petulantly, the laughter dying out as quickly as it
began.  She clutches the magazine more tightly.  "I'm going to buy it
for Mulder.  I haven't got him a proper present yet, and I think he'd
like it."

"Fine," I say, making no effort to keep the tone of exasperation from my
voice.  At this point buying the stupid magazine will probably be
quicker than trying to talk her into leaving it behind.  "The cash
register is that way."

"Okay," she replies placidly -- and wonder of wonders, she allows me to
lead her in that direction.  The transaction goes without incident, and
a moment later we're out of the gift shop and heading for the elevator. 
Agent Scully has quieted somewhat, and is allowing herself to be led, so
I guess letting her buy the magazine was the right decision.  Now we're
standing in front of the elevators and she seems to be totally absorbed
in reading about Fernando Tatis.

Thank God.

"Stardust!"

Oh, Jesus.  Not *him* again.  I glance quickly at Agent Scully, and see
her eyes light up as she spies one of the assholes from the bar bearing
down on us.  By great good fortune the elevator doors choose that moment
to open, and I grab her arm and drag her bodily into the car.  Lover Boy
speeds up a little as Scully waves to him enthusiastically, but the
doors close again just in the nick of time, and I close my eyes and sag
against the wall in relief as the car begins to move.

"Jesus!" I mutter.  "That was too close."

"Aw, Hickey."

I open my eyes to see Special Agent Dana Scully *pouting* at me -- and
dear God help me if *that* isn't a big turn-on, too.  I've got to be
strong, I remind myself.  Not only would it be wrong to take advantage
of her in this situation ... but, well, it would be *wrong*.  That's all.

But if she starts to tremble her lower lip at me I won't be responsible
for the consequences.

"Hickey, you didn't have to do that," she says, in a sulky tone of
voice.  "I just wanted to talk to him again.  He's funny."

"Uh, Agent Scully," I say, "somehow I don't think conversation is what
that guy had in mind."

She rolls her eyes at me, looking exactly like an exasperated teenager. 
"Oh, Jeez, Hickey, *I* know *that*.  I didn't just fall off the turnip
truck, you know."  She shakes her head.  "Besides, I'd never hurt Mulder
like that; you know me better than that.  Don't you?"

Suddenly she looks anxious, and I want to reassure her -- but I have to
reflect for just a moment.  I don't know all the details of their
relationship, but from late-night beer-and-pretzel sessions with Mulder
I know that she *has* hurt him from time to time, sometimes pretty
badly.  On the other hand, Mulder can be a real pissant too, on occasion
-- the whole tawdry business with Diana Fowley comes to mind.  On the
whole, based on what I *do* know, I'd say the honors are about even.  So
I just say, "Sure, Agent Scully; I understand."

Only I guess I took too long thinking it over, because rather than
looking relieved, the anxiety on her face deepens.  "Frohike," she says
with the hurt dignity of that aforementioned exasperated teenager, "I
wouldn't do that.  I just wouldn't.  I know Mulder was worried about
that during the Padgett case, but I would never betray him like that.  I
take my vows very seriously."

Sometimes there are advantages to being short, and this is one of those
times, because my jaw doesn't have nearly as far to fall as it would if
I were a six footer like Mulder.

"Vows?" I say, hating myself for the stupidity of it, but not able to
stop myself or think of anything more eloquent to say.  She does not
mean that the way it sounds; she can't.  Not that I have any right to
object, or even *want* to object; I've never known two people who were
more clearly intended to be together.  But ... Jesus ....

"Yeah," she says, and suddenly her expression is softening, and there's
that light in her eyes that says she's thinking about Mulder in a
personal way rather than a professional one.  "February 18," she adds
with a dreamy smile.  "That was the day.  We drove over to Fairfax
County during our lunch hour and saw one of the magistrates.  Can you
believe it?"  She shakes her head as if *she* is having trouble
believing it.

I know the feeling.

"I know you're probably hurt we didn't invite you, Hickey," she goes on,
looking and sounding like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. 
"But it was all very sudden.  My mother was very upset."  Then abruptly
her happy smile returns, and she, God help me, coos, "But we're going to
have another ceremony that all our friends and family can come to, and
when we do I want all of you to be my bridesmaids.  You and Langly and
Byers, I mean."

I feel my eyebrows shoot up at that statement, but before I can respond
Agent Scully goes on, "And you'll all wear pink tulle, because that's
what I always wanted for my bridesmaids."  She starts to giggle again
and clutches my arm.  "Don't you think Langly would look positively
scrumptious in pink tulle?"

Now *there's* a thought.

The elevator comes to a halt at our floor and the doors slide open.  I
take Scully's arm and lead her down the hall to our door, and she begins
humming that Ball Park Franks song again -- and suddenly I realize what
she was actually singing about.

Oh, Jesus.  They plump when you *lick* 'em?  That really *was* what she
meant by "grand slam".

We finally reach the door and I dig in my pocket for my key card. 
Hopefully once we get her into the comparatively controlled environment
of our hotel room, we'll be able to figure out what's wrong with her and
find a way to fix it.  At least, I hope to God we can fix it, because if
we *can't* there won't be anyplace on Earth where it'll be safe to
hide.  Mulder will find us if it takes the rest of his life, and he is
*not* going to believe -- or care -- that this is really Byers' and
Langly's fault, and that I actually argued against it.

Shit.

I finally get the key card into the slot, but before I can open the door
Scully goes into another fit of giggles.  She grabs my arm again and
says, "Hey, Hickey, you know what?  There's one thing you said about
Mulder a long time ago that turned out to be true after all."  She
pauses for effect, and lets out a couple more giggles.  "He really *is*
a Redwood among sprouts!"

And that's it; that's all I can take.  Some things are just too much
information, even for me.  I know the expression on my face must be
comical, because Agent Scully starts to laugh even harder, but I just
don't care anymore.  I turn the handle and the door swings open, and I
propel her into the room.

Byers and Langly are gonna to pay for this.
 
 

Fini
 

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  My beta readers recommended that I inform people at this
point that "TMI" stands for "Too Much Information".  :)