Screwballed! by Branwell for Why Incision

Direct quote from Listmoms:
" . . .we thought we'd entertain ourselves with a Halloween FBI
Ball story. . . . Feel free to write your own fabulous masterpiece as
well." So this is all their fault.<g>

Date Finished: November 11, 2001

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"

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. Or
maybe the WhyIncision simply has a sadistic need to
see our heroes in social distress.

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. 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 an
agitated 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.

******************************
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.

***********************************************
End of Screwballed! Part 2 of 2

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.

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