Close Encounters of a Spooky Kind

[carose59]

I've never written a crossover where the cross-continuity mattered to me, and I doubt I ever will. Here are some notes to get you oriented before you start out.

I started writing this before Shawn and Jules got together, so there's that. And my understanding of what was going on during The X Files was sketchy at best even when I was watching it regularly. Once Mulder was gone, I only watched sporadically, and I had no idea what was going on. I have seen the finale, and the first movie. But I made up my own ending-ish thing, and I wrote Mulder as much more first season than he should be because it was more fun.


"Shawn, we are going to meet Spooky Mulder," Gus said in his familiar I will drag you if I have to tone.

"Of course we are, Gus," Shawn said, wondering why Gus was arguing with him when he wasn't arguing back.

"Spooky Mulder is the foremost expert in the field of extra-terrestrial activity," Gus lectured at him. "Not to mention unexplained terrestrial phenomenon. The man knows everything there is to know about un-, sub- and supernatural forces! And he used to be an FBI agent!"

"I know, Gus! The man's a genius, an icon. We're honored just to have him in the same city with us."

"This is Spooky Mulder, Shawn! Spooky Mulder! I am not missing out on meeting him because of you."

"What do you mean, because of me? We're going right now to get my dad to get us into the conference. What's the problem?" Shawn didn't ask what chance Gus thought he'd have getting into a police conference whose guest speaker was Agent Fox "Spooky" Mulder without him, since pharmaceutical reps were seldom invited to those things.

"Everything you just said," Gus said. "You going to get your dad to do something you want him to do. How well does that ever work out?"

Shawn pretended to consider. "You might have a point. Maybe we should stop and buy him a doughnut."

"Shawn, that's exactly what I mean. You have to take this seriously."

"OK, buddy, just for you. We'll stop and get doughnuts, but just for ourselves."

Gus nodded, satisfied.


Henry was working at his desk when they got there. "Hey, Dad, how's it going?"

Henry didn't look up. That didn't faze Shawn

"Dad, we really need you to do us a really big favor. It's not for me, really, it's for Gus. He's perturbed and agitated."

His father still didn't look up. Anyone else would have said that Henry didn't react at all, but anyone else hadn't been raised by a crazed control-freak of a cop who insisted his son be attuned to notice the slightest detail. Probably nobody else had. Maybe somewhere there was a woman who had had the same kind of bizarre upbringing Shawn had, and one day he would meet her, and they would marry and raise children so oblivious, they wouldn't even look both ways before crossing the street. (Which people thought Shawn didn't do, but he totally did, he just used his peripheral vision, which made him look totally cooler than people who turned their heads back and forth like an owl or some other animal that turned its head back and forth.)

Henry didn't look up, but there was a micro-millisecond's pause in his writing, and a lot of tiny muscles tensed, and his nose hair stood on end. Shawn couldn't see that, but Henry had told him once, in the middle of an argument, that the sound of Shawn's "whiny" voice made his nose hairs stand on end, and what kind of thing what that to say to your son, anyway? What did it even mean? There were times when he was talking to his father that that was all Shawn could think of, how his nose hairs must be standing on end right then.

"Dad?" Getting no response, Shawn raised his voice just a trifle. "Dad!"

Henry continued his writing. Shawn wondered what he could be writing that was so important. It probably wasn't porn. Fan fiction? Maybe it was a letter to Dear Abby. Shawn wondered if his father knew Dear Abby was dead.

"Do you think this is his subtle way of hinting around about that hearing aid he wants for his birthday?" Shawn asked Gus.

"Shawn," Gus said warningly, so Shawn ignored him.

"Dad! It's me, your son, Shawn!" Shawn crouched down to try to get in his father's line of sight, but Henry just kept writing. Shawn sighed and stood up. "Maybe it's just my voice he can't hear," he said to Gus. "Why don't you try?"

"If it was just your voice he couldn't hear, I don't think he'd be asking for a hearing aid," Gus said. He could be so hurtful sometimes. "Mr. Spencer, Shawn and I need to talk to you about a matter of great importance," Gus said.

Henry looked up. "Gus. Good to see you." He glanced at Shawn. "I see you have my son with you."

"At least he hasn't gone blind," Shawn said. "I wouldn't want to have to drag him into the men's room to stick his hand under the water so he could learn to say waa-waa."

"Shawn, what are you going on about?" Henry asked.

"Why were you pretending not to hear me when I came in?" Shawn countered.

"What did I tell you about proper office decorum?" Henry asked.

Which meant Shawn had to answer this with a question, too. "Always wear pants?" Which totally counted as a question because of the way his voice went up at the end. But he couldn't resist looking down at his jeans-covered thighs and pointing and saying, "Ta-da!"

Henry was shaking his head. "No, Shawn—"

"You mean pants are optional? Cool!" He made as if to pull down his zipper, but before he could be really convincing, Gus elbowed him.

"This is what I was talking about," Gus hissed.

"I told you that you are not to address me as Dad in the office," Henry said sternly. "I'm your superior—"

"You've always thought you were my superior, but you still let me call you Dad," Shawn said, frankly a little hurt. As much as he'd wished the gypsies who had left him on the Spencer doorstep would come and get him, he didn't like the idea Henry would relinquish him so easily.

"Shawn, in the office, you are not to call me Dad, is that clear?"

"What should I call you? Henry? Hey, how about Hank? Or Henny. Henny-Penny? Ducky-Lucky? Turkey-Lurkey—"

"Shawn!" Gus hissed again. He was in fine hissing mode today.

"I'm sorry, Henry, it seems Gus here wants to be called Turkey-Lurkey. That surprises me, Gus. I really thought you were more the Goosey-Loosey type."

"Shawn, take your nonsense someplace else, I have work to do," Henry said.

Gus elbowed him again, hard, so Shawn elbowed him back.

"Ow! What was that for?" Gus demanded.

"You started it!"

"Shawn! Gus! Go outside and play!" Henry bellowed. It was really only a half-bellow, but it still got their attention, along with the attention of three uniformed officers, a custodian, and woman who had either been arrested for solicitation or stealing cheap jewelry. "And you may not attend the conference where Agent Mulder is speaking."

"How did you know—" Shawn started, then stopped, hand-waving the explanation. "Never mind, this is no time for a lot of obvious exposition. Why can't we?"

"Well, two reasons. No, three. First, you aren't a police officer. Second, all of the reasons I gave you for not taking the Kessler case—"

"But we solved that case!" Shawn protested, then looked at Gus. "Didn't we solve that case?"

"Somebody solved it, and I think it was us," Gus said. "Not to mention saving Denny Gogolack's marriage."

"That's right, it was a win-win-win-win-win," Shawn agreed.

"Are you sure that's not too many wins?" Gus asked.

"Well, there was Dennis and Molly—"

"Denny," Gus corrected. "He wants to be called Denny now."

"Denny and Molly, there was Roy Kessler, there was the case he was working on— There were a whole bunch of wins there."

"Are you two finished?" Henry asked.

Shawn returned his attention to the man who was only sometimes his father now. "Let me guess, you have work to do. But your second reason doesn't make any sense. We're not asking to be on any case."

"No, but I know that Agent Mulder is known for investigating so-called paranormal activity. And Shawn, I know how you get about that subject. Which brings me to the third reason. I don't want you there because I don't want you embarrassing me in front of the whole department."

The whole department wasn't even going to be at the conference, but Shawn knew there was no arguing with his father when he was worried about being embarrassed.

"I was going to tell you you didn't have to worry about getting me a Christmas present this year," Shawn said with great dignity. "But now, you do. Come along, Mr. Guster, Mr. Spencer here is a very busy man.

"Now what?" Gus asked.

"We're going over his head. But we have to be careful, it's slippery up there."

"Shawn—" Gus was telling him again how they had to get into the conference, but Shawn ignored him in favor of planning what he was going to do next to make their dream come true.

Chief Vick was in her office, and since she didn't say anything about not just coming right on in, Shawn did. For some reason, Gus stood in the doorway, tapping on the doorframe in annoying way.

"I don't have time for you, Mr. Spencer," Chief Vick said.

Shawn did not say that Mr. Spencer was his father, who you could not call Dad in the office. But for all he knew, Chief Vic was allowed to call his father Dad anywhere she wanted. "But, Chief, Gus and I have an offer for you you simply can't refuse."

Chief Vick looked up from whatever she had been writing—had the whole department been given writing assignments?—with her head tilted in that "make it fast and make it good" tilt he'd come to recognize. "You have one minute."

"Gus and I have come to officially offer our services in the next case that comes up."

"I've told you before, I'm not paying you for a case that might never happen," Chief Vick said.

Shawn wanted to ask her if her talking counted as part of his minute, but asking her that definitely would, so he just went on with what he was saying. "We don't want you to pay us."

"We don't?" Gus asked, and that probably came out of Shawn's minute too, because Gus didn't have his own minute.

"No. We're willing to work pro-ana."

"That's pro bono, Shawn," Gus corrected.

"Then what's pro-ana?"

"That's a bunch of people who think anorexia is a legitimate lifestyle choice," Gus said.

"Really? Why do you know that?"

"Where did you even learn the term?" Gus countered.

"Fair enough. We're willing to work pro bono," Shawn said. "Or, if you prefer, we'll work pro-Cher. It's entirely up to you, the point is, it won't cost you a dime."

"What do you want?" Chief Vick asked, looking at him through eyes so narrowed Shawn wasn't sure she could still see him.

"We'd like to come to the Beyond Guns and Handcuffs: Police Skills in the 21st Century conference."

"No. Please shut the door on you way out."

"But—"

"Mr. Spencer, your minute is up. Don't make me have you escorted out."

Shawn was stunned by this hard shutdown. "But—"

"Your father called me," she said.

"That man is not my father!" When the chief looked at him strangely, Shawn back-peddled, "Not in this building, anyway."

"This is a serious police-only conference, and I will not have you turning it into—Comic-Con! Now, please leave my office." And when Shawn hesitated, "Now!"

Gus pulled him out by the back of the shirt and shut the door.

"Comic-Con?" Shawn asked. "Does she really think I have the power to turn a dull police conference into the coolest thing to happen on the West Coast all year?"

"You blew it," Gus said. "You promised me we'd get to meet Spooky Mulder, and all you did was practically get us banned from where we know he'll be! I can't believe this."

"Come on," Shawn said. "I need a plate of Fries Quatro Queso Dos Fritos to work this out."

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The flight from Dulles to LAX had been very relaxing, the six hour nap just what he'd needed. Whenever possible he booked non-stop because there was no place Mulder slept better than on a long, uninterrupted flight.

Now Mulder sat hunched in his chair, staring at the screen of his cell phone so he wouldn't accidentally make eye contact with any of the people milling about.

Mulder hated LAX. They kept promising to renovate it, but that never happened. There were hardly any news stands or bookstores—which Scully had once attributed to the high level of illiteracy among the inhabitants. And you'd have better luck finding a lemonade stand while crawling through the Sahara than you would finding any place to get food or drink here. The food selections were disappointing even when you already knew how meagre they were. Maybe it was because everybody here was on some kind of bizarre diet.

But the really weird part was that there weren't enough seats in any of the terminals. It was as though it had never occurred to the designers that there might be a whole bunch of people waiting for planes at one of the largest airports in the country, and that some of those people might like to sit down while they waited.

Fortunately—or something—the time between his long flight and the short hop to Santa Barbara was a long one, giving him plenty of time to get to the next gate and get a seat. Mulder had read somewhere that you should allow yourself three to five minutes to get from one terminal to the next. If he ever met the person who had written that, he'd make him try to get from one end of the airport to the other in that theoretical three-to-five minutes. Mulder had done it once; he'd flat-out run. But that was when a guy running in the airport didn't have to worry about being shot by an air marshal.

And then there was the Smell.

The Smell was a game he and Scully had played: Categorize the Smell at LAX. They'd laughed like loons as they threw out ideas for just what the Smell was.

It was Scully who'd nailed it. LAX smelled like dirty socks, Freon, and rotting eucalyptus, and how was that even possible? It wasn't as though the employees smelled like they needed to change their socks, and where else would that smell come from? The Freon might be from a faulty air conditioning system, but it didn't seem likely. And rotting eucalyptus? "How do you even know what rotting eucalyptus smells like?" Mulder had asked Scully, gasping the question out between laughs, and Scully had answered, "I had a whole life before I ever met you!" as though the scent of eucalyptus putrefying in the evening air could possibly be part of a moment to be envied.

And that had set them both off again. They'd laughed so hard, they'd ended up having to show their badges just to avoid getting tossed by suspicious security personnel.

God, he missed Scully.

At the moment he missed her for their shared good times, but most of the time he missed her because she was someone he didn't have to talk to.

In so many ways their partnership had been a marriage, one that had practically started out at the comfortable ignoring-each-other stage. With Scully, he never had to pretend he was different than he was, he never had to make conversation. When he wanted to be alone without having to fend off endless concerned queries of, "Are you sure you want to be alone?", he could be with Scully and she would leave him alone. Right now she would be sitting next to him, ignoring him, reading or writing or something, but she would still be there. And if he swore because the game on his phone was annoying him, she might make an absent comment, or if she found something in her book that she wanted to share, he'd say a word or two in response. That was all.

He missed her like an amputated limb.

But he understood her need to be away from him for a while. Mulder had more than once wished he could get away from himself for a while, too, but he'd never come up with a way.

And Mulder knew this wasn't permanent. Someday he and Scully would be able to talk again, but right now she couldn't hear what he needed to say, and if he talked to her now, he couldn't not say it.

So he played with his phone.

It only had the one game on it: Space Invaders. Given to him by Langly, of course. It was a godsend, since that was another thing wrong with LAX: no free wifi.

Except for having to do time in LA and its airport, Mulder was mostly enjoying this new phase of his life. Giving talks on profiling was fun, and while working as an independent police consultant wasn't a walk in the park, Mulder found it fulfilling. There was an unspoken agreement that nobody brought up extra-terrestrial matters. People treated him well, they respected his opinion on profiling. It was nice, not having to fight to have his ideas listened to.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Carlton Lassiter was prepared to fight to the death to be heard on a matter of this importance, so when he went to Chief Vick's office, he was ready for battle.

After a firm, but polite knock on her door jamb, he said, "Chief, there's a matter we need to discuss."

"Is this about the conference?" the chief asked, not looking up to meet his determined blue eyes.

"Yes, it is. I think you should reconsider—"

"No."

"But, Chief—"

"Detective, no."

"But he's—"

"No."

"And I'm—"

She got up from her desk and walked over to him. "Detective Lassiter, the matter is closed, and so is my door." She closed the door in his face, and as he raised his hand to knock again, she said, "And don't knock on it. Go back to your desk and work!"

Lassiter sulked back to his desk.

O'Hara was at hers, pretending she hadn't just observed his failure.

"Carleton—"

"O'Hara, I do not need your sympathy. If the chief prefers a man of questionable reputation and sanity speaking to the law enforcement officers of this area, that is not my problem. Just because my speech is infinitely better—not to mention my reputation—"

"Carleton, I really think it's the subject of your speech that's the problem. Your Gun: Friend for Life just doesn't fit in a conference whose goal is to show that police work is more than guns and handcuffs."

"But that doesn't explain why they're paying good money to this UFO-guy when they could have me for free!" Lassiter knew he sounded a little, perhaps, less-than-mature. But, dammit, it hurt. First it was that fake psychic, now it was a UFO hunter—why should the chief listen to them and not him?

"I'll grant you, some of Agent Mulder's ideas are way out there," O'Hara said.

"Yeah, like Alpha Centauri," Lassiter muttered.

"But his profiling ability is excellent. He worked with the BAU for several years. I think we should take him out to lunch."

Lassiter just stared at her.

"You know, as a friendly gesture," she elaborated.

Lassiter continued to stare.

"Colleague to colleague," she added. "I'm sure he'd be interested in your speech."

"Interested in my speech," Lassiter scoffed. "Guys like that think you can do more with your brain than you can with your gun. I don't want to have lunch with him!"

"Well, we're going to," O'Hara said, "so get used to it."

She was so unsympathetic sometimes.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

"You struck out, Shawn, admit it," Gus said, even though Shawn had admitted it several times already.

"Yes, but now I have a new plan. A better plan. A plan that will turn Agent Spooky Fox Mulder into our close, personal friend."

"Do not offer to give him a massage," Gus warned. "You know how it worked out when you sent that letter to Val Kilmer."

"Val Kilmer might be a little paranoid," Shawn said. "It's what gave his performance in The Island of Dr. Moreau its edge."

"You and Val Kilmer are the only ones who saw that movie," Gus said.

"The public is shallow. They don't understand art."

Gus rolled his eyes. "What's your plan?"

"We pick him up at the airport!"

"That will make Spooky Mulder our close, personal friend?" Gus asked. "Would he become close, personal friends with the cab driver if he took a cab from the airport?"

"Gus, don't be Kevin Costner's mustache in American Flyers."

"You and Kevin Costner are the only ones who saw that movie," Gus said.

Shawn ignored that. "A cab driver would just be doing his job. We will be doing Spooky Mulder a personal favor. We can show him around the real Santa Barbara, take him to the places the tourists never get to see."

"What places are those?" Gus asked.

"Murray's Delicatessen," Shawn said.

"The Board of Health has closed them down eight times in the last nine years. You want to take him someplace a little less hazardous?"

"OK, how about the beach?"

"Everybody goes to the beach," Gus said, exasperated.

"Not the little cove—"

"You mean the one you saw on Small, Out of the Way Vacation Destinations?" Gus cut in.

"Do you want to go pick him up the airport or not?" Shawn asked. "Because I've got his flight number and arrival time right—"

Gus snatched the sticky note off the finger Shawn was waving around. "Let's get going!"

-:- -:- -:- -:-

They spent the rest of the morning getting ready. First they had Gus's car washed and detailed.

After that they both changed their shirts. Gus went with white buttoned-down, but Shawn wore his bright red Close Encounters T-shirt that had only cost him thirty dollars on eBay. Then Shawn messed with his hair while Gus checked spooky.com, to bone up on topics of conversation that would impress Spooky Mulder. The fans who ran the site were squabbling about whether Spooky was six foot one or six foot two, each group claiming that the man the other group had seen was either an impostor or a clone.

At last they were ready to go to the airport, each armed with his autograph book. Mulder's plane was due to arrive in only two hours.

Arriving that early meant they had to get Mucho Mangos from the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, and Shawn had to try again to persuade the manager to add Plenty'a Pineapple to the menu, while the manager tiredly repeated, "Please send your suggestions to corporate, corporate is always happy to hear from our customers. Thank you." They debated getting something for Spooky, but decided the temperature-sensitive nature of the drinks would make it impractical, and anyway, they'd brought him one of the Psych glitter globes Shawn had had made before Gus found out and cancelled the remaining order. "Besides being pretty, it's practical," Shawn told Gus. "He can use it to scare away Lassie."

"Like garlic to a vampire," Gus agreed.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Mulder didn't sleep on the hop to Santa Barbara; instead, he reviewed his notes.

Not the notes for his speech, but his notes on where he was staying and who he was to contact, made sure he had his confirmation number for the rental car and the paperwork he needed to fill out to be reimbursed. Mulder liked filling everything out as he went along; that way, he was less apt to lose it.

The plane landed smoothly and Mulder waited patiently in his seat while the rest of the passengers disembarked. Then he pulled his carry-on from the overhead and left the plane.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Mulder had told Chief Vick that he didn't need an escort from the airport to the police station, so he wasn't expecting anyone to meet him on the other side of security.

He especially didn't expect two young men practically bouncing up and down with excitement, one of them holding out what looked like a snow globe. His first thought was that they had to be waiting for someone else, but there wasn't anyone else, the other passengers had all hurried on ahead of him, anxious to get to their destinations, or at least out of the airport. Still, Mulder looked behind him, for once hoping he was being followed.

He wasn't. They were UFO groupies. They weren't the first, and they probably wouldn't be the last, but how did they know he was going to be here?

Well, at least they didn't look dangerous. That snow globe probably wasn't loaded.

He heard them whispering loudly to each other, something that sounded like, "That's him! That's Spooky!" and when he got close enough the one in the red T-shirt—good grief, was that a Close Encounters of the Third Kind shirt?—said, "Live long, and prosper!" while proffering, yes, a snow globe. It said psych on the side, and inside were tiny figures of the two men now looking at him expectantly.

What the hell is going on?

"I'm Shawn Spencer," the one offering the snow globe said, "and this is my partner—"

"Burton Guster," the other man interrupted. "But you can call me Gus."

"Thank you," Mulder said reflexively. He took the snow globe from Shawn, mostly to make him stop waving it in his face. "Who are you?"

"I'm Shawn Spencer," Shawn repeated without a hint of sarcasm, "and this is my partner, Kla—"

"Burton Guster," Gus interrupted again. "But I'd love it if you'd call me Gus."

Mulder started to ask again who they were, but he was afraid he'd just get the same answer again, so instead he tried, "So, why are you guys here?"

"To drive you to the police station," Shawn said, tipping an imaginary cap.

"I'm the one doing the driving," Gus corrected. "You can carry his bags."

"I only have the one bag," Mulder said, protectively cradling his carry-on. His last duffel had been stolen by a "helpful" ufologist, and Mulder had later been tipped off by Frohike that his stuff was being auctioned off on eBay. He could have gotten it back, but he refused to pay the one hundred and thirteen dollar Buy It Now price for his own—unwashed!—socks, jeans, and Fruit of the Looms. "I can carry it myself."

"I knew he was taller than Lassie," Shawn said to Gus, then to Mulder, "How tall are you?"

"Six-something, I don't know." Mulder hated it when these guys got fixated on him, like he had all the answers. He wondered which one of them was the abductee.

"Taller than Lassie," Shawn said with satisfaction.

Well, of course I'm taller than Lassie, she's a collie! Why was he surprised at their level of crazy? They were always crazier in California. Well, maybe not really crazier, but less inhibited about it. On the East Coast, crazy people were more likely to avoid you and mutter to themselves. Here, they met you at the airport.

"Where would you like to go first?" Gus asked. "Your hotel, or the police station?"

"Look, I'm not going—who are you?" Quickly, before they could start their introductions again, Mulder added, "Why are you here waiting for me, and why do you think you're taking me anywhere?"

"Nobody told him about us," Gus scolded Shawn, sotto voce. "You didn't think of that, did you?"

Other people know about them, Mulder thought. That's good.

Shawn nodded. "It's OK," he told Gus, "I can fix this." He took out his wallet and removed a card from it. As Mulder read it, Shawn recited, "Shawn Spencer, Psychic Investigator. And this is my partner—"

"Burton Guster, but I can call him Gus," Mulder interrupted. The look of joy on Gus's face was a little frightening.

"I sensed you would be here, so I came to pick you up."

Gus kicked him. "We," he corrected. "We came to pick you up. It's my car."

"I'm also the head psychic for the SBPD. Before we go, could I get your autograph?"

"We," Gus corrected again. "Could we get your autograph?"

"Wouldn't it be autographs?" Shawn asked.

"But he only has one name," Gus said. "You wouldn't ask him if you could take his pictures, even if you wanted to take more than one."

"That's what we forgot! A camera! We can stop at the gift shop—"

Eventually Mulder signed their autograph books, promised to pose for pictures at the police station, and compromised by letting them drive him to the Avis where his rental was waiting for him. He didn't think he could have handled going much farther in Gus's little blue car; he wasn't claustrophobic, but he'd been in trunks of cars that were more spacious and comfortable than that passenger seat.

But while Shawn seemed kind of ADD, and Gus seemed a little uptight, neither of them showed any of the PTSD symptoms that abductees usually had. They weren't ufologists, either; there was nothing serious about either of them. They were a couple of goofballs who made sculptures with their mashed potatoes, quoted Stars Trek and Wars, and talked about pods in the basement and ET phoning home.

And he kind of doubted Shawn Spencer was psychic, either.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Sitting at a stoplight, Mulder picked up the snow globe that sat on the car seat next to him. The more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed to him that Shawn Spencer was psychic. He was more like a ten year old who couldn't sit still in class. How in the world could spirits talk to him when he didn't seem to be able to have a normal conversation with a living person?

-:- -:- -:- -:-

"We met him!" Gus shrieked. They'd both kept their composure until they'd seen Spooky Mulder drive away, but now they were doing the Snoopy Happy Dance in the Avis parking lot.

"He signed my autograph book!" Shawn said. "The same one that was signed by Judd Nelson!"

"That guy was not Judd Nelson," Gus said, because he always had to be like that.

"He looked like him," Shawn argued.

"He looked a little bit like Judd Nelson," Gus conceded. "I don't know why you made him sign your book."

"Because what if I never get to meet Judd Nelson? When I'm dead, people won't know that, they'll think I did meet him because I have his autograph. But now I have Spooky Mulder's autograph!

"So do I!"

They danced around some more.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Up in his hotel room, Mulder threw his suitcase on the bed, took out his cellphone, and dialed Walter Skinner's home number.

When he resigned from the Bureau, Walter had made him give his word that he would stay in touch. "I expect to hear from you. Regularly."

Mulder had thought he meant cards at Christmas, but on his third day of his first week of disenfranchisement, his phone rang. "You're still alive," had been Skinner's greeting. When Mulder had assured him he was, Skinner had replied, "Stay that way. And call me. Don't make me have to hunt you down. You know I have the resources."

So Mulder started calling, but he always called Skinner's office number, and always just a little before seven a.m. Mulder would apologize for missing him, tell him everything was fine, then do the same thing three days later. That went on for two weeks, when Skinner picked up his phone.

"I'm not your boss anymore," Walter said. "I'm your friend. There's no reason for you to duck talking to me."

So every week or two, or whenever he'd just arrived in a new city, Mulder called Walter, usually at home. Sometimes Mulder told him about what he was working on, if it was something entertaining. Sometimes they talked about the weather, or the Capitals or Redskins, or, if it was near some holiday, they talked about that. Somewhere along the way, it had become something Mulder looked forward to.

"So how's sunny California?" Walter asked by way of greeting. Caller ID was a wonderful thing: it made everyone a little bit psychic.

"Warm and sunny," Mulder said, trying not to sound smug. "And they sent a couple of the local nuts and berries to greet me at the airport."

Walter laughed. "How do they always know where you're going to be?"

"I don't know! They've got a better network than the Bureau's ever put together. Too bad we can't harness their powers for crime-fighting."

"So how bad were they?" Walter asked, and Mulder knew he was genuinely interested. His fans were an endless source of amusement to Walter.

"Not too bad," Mulder admitted. "One of them brought me a snow globe, of all things. He had the attention span of a Robin Williams routine."

Walter was still laughing. "Maybe he was from Ork," he suggested.

And now Mulder found himself laughing, really laughing, and it felt so good. "That would explain the car they had. It was about the size of an egg."

"So you're doing OK there," Walter asked when he'd stopped laughing.

"So far. Haven't met with the local constabulary yet."

"Well, they invited you, so they must know what they're doing. Every time I see Aaron Hotchner, he tells me he'd be glad to have you on his team."

"Hotch is a nice guy," Mulder said, genuinely moved not only that Hotch would say this, but that Walter would tell him.

"Hotchner knows a talented profiler when he meets one," Walter said firmly. "I sent you an email about one of the locals, a Carleton Lassiter."

"Thumbs up or down?" Mulder asked.

"Agent Lars Ewing had a few things to say about him. It seems he found Lassiter . . . mediocre."

"Only Ewing would feel the need to officially comment on someone being mediocre," Mulder said.

"He was more impressed with Lassiter's partner, Detective O'Hara, but those comments were redacted."

"That's weird."

"Not really, apparently she'd a pretty blonde."

"OK, yeah, got it."

"Let me know if you run into problems." It was his way of saying he'd step in if he was needed, and his prelude to ending their call.

"Will do. Don't let the turkeys get you down." It was Mulder's standard sign-off, and it always made Walter laugh.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

"You didn't tell him who we are!" Gus said, hitting Shawn in the shoulder.

"I did too! I introduced us twice!" Shawn him back.

They had gone back to the office and had a pizza delivered and everything was fine until Gus became disgruntled. "Oh, yeah, you introduced us all right! You said, 'My name is Shawn Spencer, and this is my partner, Klaatu Barada Nikto.'"

"I did not say that!" A pause. "I tried to say that, but you kept interrupting me to say, 'But you can call me Gus.'" Shawn said it in his best imitation of Gus's low, super-sexy voice. "I'm surprised you didn't kiss him on the lips right there!"

"I might have, if we hadn't been out in public," Gus countered. Shawn knew he wanted to take that back, but he wouldn't.

"Well, it doesn't matter because he likes me better anyway," Shawn said.

"Don't be ridiculous, Shawn. Just because you gave him that snow globe—"

"Glitter globe, Gus. It's a glitter globe. You only call it a snow globe to hurt me. And he said he'd treasure it."

"He was being kind," Gus said pityingly. "That snow globe will be in the Goodwill box before Spooky's even finished unpacking. He'll drop it off on his way home from the airport so he doesn't have to take it in the house."

"Glitter globe!" Shawn yelled. "How many times do I have to tell you, I discontinued the snow globes and went to glitter globes because why would we be standing outside in our shirtsleeves if it was snowing outside? And Spooky Mulder wouldn't lie to me!"

"Yes, he would, Shawn. To be kind."

"I'm not talking to you," Shawn said. "Not until you come to your senses and admit Spooky liked me best."

"We shared a moment, Shawn. On the way to the Avis, we were stopped for a light and his eyes met mine. I looked over and we had a moment of silent communion."

Shawn started to say something, stopped himself, pressing his lips together tight.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Mulder unpacked his duffel, changed into shorts and a T-shirt, then called the front desk to see about getting his suit pressed. Long years of travel had taught him that suits got less rumpled when you wore them than when you packed them, particularly if you were packing light. He left the suit on the bed and went out for a run.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The silent treatment being Shawn's weakest weapon, that didn't last long. Still, he managed a personal best of sixteen and a half minutes before he broke. "Want to watch The Island of Doctor Moreau again?"

"No, Shawn, I do not. I've told you before, I never want to see that movie again. I didn't want to see it in the first place."

"But Val Kilmer—"

Gus cut him off. "I want to watch Red Dwarf.

Shawn smiled. The fight was over.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

"Your Pop-Tarts have been delivered to your room, Mr. Mulder," the concierge called as Mulder walked through the lobby to the elevator.

Mulder stopped, stood a second thinking about this, then went to the desk. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your Pop-Tarts," the concierge repeated. For a desk clerk at a maybe-three star hotel, the man had all the snootiness of the owner of George V. "Two boxes. They arrived, and were taken to your room."

Mulder had no answer for this. In his life he'd experienced lost time, he'd been knocked out—both manually and chemically—he'd passed out from blood loss, he'd fallen off the top of a moving train, he'd been hypnotized to have his memory erased, he'd been subjected to unsuccessful brainwashing, and he'd gotten drunk enough to black out. During none of those experiences had he awakened to find he'd ordered Pop-Tarts to be delivered. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a Pop-Tart, though now that he thought about it, they sounded pretty good. But he had no idea anybody delivered them. "Thank you," he said to the concierge.

"You are aware, sir, that the Pepper Tree Inn serves a complimentary Continental breakfast," the concierge said. He sounded personally offended at what he perceived to be Mulder's preference for more plebeian fare.

"I do know that," Mulder agreed. "In fact, I'm looking forward to it. The Pop-Tarts are for my midnight snack. If I wake up in the middle of the night and can't have a Pop-Tart, it make me very sad." He walked away without waiting for a response.

As promised, there were two boxes of Pop-Tarts sitting on the table in Mulder's room. Mulder went to examine them: one was blueberry muffin, and one brown sugar cinnamon. There was also a note: From your friend, Burton "Gus" Guster, professional pharmaceutical representative.

It was the word professional that made Mulder laugh. Were there any amateur drug reps? Even pushers were professionals.

So he hadn't seen the last of his would-be entourage. He opened both boxes of Pop-Tart, took a twin pack from each, and removed one pastry from each pack, dropping them in the toaster. By the time he got back from the ice machine, they'd be ready to eat.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

"I want to lie, shipwrecked and comatose, drinking fresh pineapple juice—" Shawn sang.

"It's mango juice, Shawn. Pineapple has too many syllables, it doesn't scan."

"But who would choose mango juice over pineapple juice, Gus? That doesn't even make sense."

"And will you quit singing that song?"

"You're the one who wanted to watch the Red Dwarf marathon, you're the reason the song is going through my head. Did you ever notice how much like Rimmer Lassie is?"

"It's hard similarity to miss," Gus said.

"Only he's also kind of like Ace," Shawn mused. "I mean, you can call Lassiter a lot of things, but a cowardly custard isn't one of them."

"I would never use the expression 'cowardly custard,'" Gus said.

Shawn chuckled. He had been chuckling to himself all afternoon, which was irritating. But he was chuckling in that "ask me what I'm chuckling about" way, so the last thing Gus could do was even mention it. Besides, he already knew. And he knew that if he didn't say anything, eventually Shawn would break, and start whining, and tell him even as Gus protested he hadn't noticed, wasn't interested, didn't want to know what Shawn was so privately amused by.

So, Gus updated the numbers in his phone while Shawn made annoying chuckling sounds. When he was finished, he looked up and asked, "Were you thinking about finishing the pizza, or do you want to go out for dinner?"

"I'm glad you asked me that, Gus," Shawn said. "I was just thinking of sharing with you something I did earlier today."

"I was with you all day today," Gus said. "And that's not what I asked."

"Of course it is, in your sweet, shy, roundabout way. And you weren't with me all day."

"That's true, there was that half hour while went to buy pineapple Slush Puppies," Gus agreed. "I'm kind of tired of pizza," he added, just to make things a little harder for Shawn."

"That's ri—what?"

"We were talking about dinner. I don't want any more pizza. What about Chinese?"

"Sure, Chinese sounds fine. But you don't know what else I did while I was getting our Slush Puppies."

"I don't know why you're calling them ‘our Slush Puppies,' since you drank all of yours and half of mine," Gus said.

"Because you paid for them."

Gus held out his hand and Shawn came over and gave him back his credit card. "I told you to stop doing that," Gus said mildly.

"But I knew you wanted me to have a Slush Puppy-and-a-half," Shawn said. "Just like I knew you'd want me to buy something special for Spooky Mulder."

"You mean like a box of Pop-Tarts?" Gus asked. Shawn was surprised into silence. "You called Marcie at my office to get them," Gus explained, "and she called me because you didn't specify what flavor to get. I told her to pick up two boxes, one blueberry muffin and one brown sugar cinnamon." Gus did not mention that weeks ago he'd told Marcie to call him any time Shawn called with a message he said was from Gus.

"Two boxes! Good thinking, Gus!" Shawn was openly admiring. "And nice choices: both breakfasty, yet either could be a very tasty dessert."

"I also had her include a note saying they were from me," Gus added. "Just me."

Shawn's expression went from admiring to admiring and rueful. "Well played, sir," he said. "Very well played indeed."

"Are we going for Chinese?" Gus asked.

"Sure, why not?" And as they were walking out the door, Shawn said, "You know what we could do?"

-:- -:- -:- -:-

"We had egg drop soup, but Gus dropped it," was the first thing Shawn said when Mulder opened his hotel room door.

"That's not true," Gus said, "that's just a joke he likes to make. We wouldn't bring you anything as pedestrian as egg drop soup."

Mulder had been putting the finishing touches on his speech when he heard someone kicking his door. He'd hoped it was someone bringing his suit back, since he needed it to wear the next day.

"Pedestrian, Gus? Really? How can a soup be a pedestrian? Unless it's made from someone you ran over with your car."

Gus ignored him. "We brought hot and sour soup instead." Gus held motioned with his chin to one of the containers he was carrying. "I find it more sophisticated."

They were both loaded down with the traditional boxes that carry-out Chinese food came in. Mulder wondered where they'd gone to get them, since every Chinese place he frequented seemed to have switched to Styrofoam boxes.

"Come on in, guys," Mulder said. They seemed harmless enough, anyway. The Pop-Tarts hadn't killed him.

On the table they set out box after box after box of food. Shrimp spring rolls, crabmeat Rangoon, green pepper steak, chicken chop suey, moo goo gai pan, Mongolian beef, General Tso's chicken, shrimp and cashew nuts, Hunan pork, Hunan seafood deluxe, cinnamon chicken, vegetables deluxe, and several boxes of fried rice—including something Shawn said was pineapple fried rice. "I couldn't decide between the pineapple chicken or the pineapple fried rice, so I just got both. Some people think that's too much pineapple, but those aren't people you'd want to know."

They had also brought beer, and a couple of DVDs. Mulder almost didn't want to ask, since he was pretty sure they were ET and Close Encounters.

He hadn't expected Dead Alien! Truth or Humbug? and The Lazarus Bowl. Given a choice, he'd rather watch ET phone home.

"Which one would you like to watch first?" Gus asked. "We have so many questions we want to ask!"

"Me, too," Mulder said. "I'd like to hear about your partner's psychic abilities." He caught the disappointment as it dropped onto Gus's face and added, "And what it's like for you. Being his anchor to this plane must be very difficult."

-:- -:- -:- -:-

"Carleton, would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" O'Hara asked as they were getting ready to leave for the day.

"Why?" Lassiter asked.

"Because we're partners," O'Hara said slowly as though he wasn't very smart. "Because you're sad. Because I thought you might want to talk. Because we're partners!"

"Don't be silly," Lassiter said brusquely, "I don't need to talk. And I'm not sad, sad is for babies. And civilians. What I am is angry. So I'm going to do what I always do when I'm angry: I'm going to spend the evening at the shooting range, then go home and have comfort food while I watch my Adam-12 DVDs."

"I know I don't want to know the answer to this, but Carleton, what is your comfort food?"

"Campbell's Cream of Asparagus soup," Lassiter said with great dignity. "right out of the can."

For a few minutes O'Hara just frowned at him, her perplexed frown. "Carleton, you don't like asparagus."

"That's the whole point," Lassiter said. "I eat it, and I don't enjoy it, and it toughens me up."

"You have no grasp of what comfort food is," O'Hara said, shaking her head.

"Then I reward myself with a package of Hormel fully cooked bacon. Now, if you'll excuse me." And he got up from his desk and left, heading for the shooting range.

O'Hara was still shaking her head.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The food had all been eaten. Gus had gone on at length about his work as a pharmaceutical rep, and how Shawn endangered his job on a regular basis. And Shawn had defended himself, and had "proven" his "psychic abilities." He'd started by putting his hands up to his face, thumbs and forefingers almost touching his temples while his remaining fingers splayed out like antennae. Then he'd fumbled around, doing the sounds-like thing. And then he'd started dancing around the room.

The spirit world wanted him to dance, Gus explained. It happened sometimes. Mulder kept his expression one of impassive interest.

Then Shawn had insisted the spirit world wanted Mulder and Gus to dance with him. They'd done the Snoopy Happy Dance, and Mulder had danced like the one kid who never moved his arms in A Charlie Brown Christmas, and they'd argued about whether or not that kid was Shermy or just a nameless kid.

And it had been surprisingly fun.

When they were finished dancing, Shawn told Mulder a number of things about him. None of it was startling, a good deal of it was wrong, and all of it had been gleaned from Shawn's observation of the hotel room.

Mulder told Shawn it was amazing, this gift he had, and that was true. Well, true-ish. He did have impressive powers of observation.

After that Mulder told them it was past his bedtime, but he hoped he saw them again before he left Santa Barbara.

"That's something we need to talk to you about," Shawn said.

"What is?" Mulder asked warily.

"Gus and I were hoping to hear your talk at the conference, but both Mr. Spencer and Chief Vick have said we can't go."

"Mr. Spencer?" Mulder asked. "Is he any relation?"

"He's Shawn's father," Gus supplied.

"Sometimes he is, sometimes he isn't," Shawn said. "He works at the police station, where he is most definitely not my father."

"Well, I'll be meeting with Chief Vick tomorrow. I'll put in a good word for you while I'm there."

"Sweet!" Shawn and Gus said together.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Lassiter watched as the stranger checked in at the front desk. He had to be Mulder. The primal need to protect his territory against this invader rose up in Lassiter; he wanted to growl at the man, poke him in the chest, ask him just what he thought he was doing, coming onto Lassiter's home ground and doing a job that was rightfully his!

But he gritted his teeth and suppressed those urges. The chief had already taken him to task over his inhospitable nature, something she clearly saw as a bad thing. Lassiter didn't agree, but he did admit that it was something he needed to be able to control. He had no problem with being feared, or even loathed. (Secretly, he liked being feared and wished more people were more afraid of him.) But like any power, it was useless if it couldn't be controlled—like a gun that fired when you didn't have your finger on the trigger. Later, Lassiter might want this man to quiver in his presence, but not until the time was right.

No longer an FBI agent, Mulder wasn't wearing the regulation black suit, let alone Washington black; his suit was pale gray and somehow looked both sharp and comfortable. He ambled towards Lassiter's desk looking as unprepossessing as it seemed possible to be. Maybe being friendly really would work for once.

And if not, he looked easy to frighten.

So Lassiter greeted him with a warm smile. "Welcome to the Santa Barbara Police Department. I'm Detective Carleton Lassiter. You must be Fox Mulder. Do you go by Fox, or do you prefer Spooky?"

For a long moment, Mulder looked quizzically at Lassiter, then he smiled and put out his hand. "That's me," he said, "Though I prefer Mulder."

"Mulder it is," Lassiter agreed, and offered him a seat. "So you're an expert on UFOs."

"Something like that," Mulder said with what was probably false modesty. Was anybody genuinely modest? Lassiter didn't think so. "I've got a lot of experience, anyway. I investigated paranormal activity for a long time."

Lassiter feigned interest, expecting Mulder to ramble on about the little green men he'd closely encountered. Instead Mulder asked about police work in Santa Barbara.

That threw Lassiter, and he actually started telling him, until he started wondering if Mulder was feigning interest. He didn't seem to be. Maybe he was collecting information. It made sense that Mulder would be interested in police work, since he'd used to be an FBI agent, and some of them did real police work. Maybe Mulder was after his job.

O'Hara showed up just as Lassiter was about tell Mulder that there were no openings at that time.

"You must be Agent Mulder," she said, holding out her hand to shake. "I'm Detective Juliet O'Hara, Detective Lassiter's partner."

Mulder shook her hand, maybe just a little too long. Men were always taking advantage of O'Hara like that, and when Lassiter pointed it out to her, she brushed him off.

"It's very nice to meet you, Detective O'Hara," Mulder said, and really, what kind of thing was that to say to a police officer? Lassiter was back to wanting to throw this interloper out of the station. Out of the station? Lassiter wanted to throw him all the way out of town!

"You can call me Juliet," O'Hara the traitor said. "Or Jules. No, Juliet. Please, call me Juliet. Do you go by Fox, or do you prefer Spooky?"

Again, there was a pause before Mulder answered this question. "I really prefer just Mulder," he said.

"Mulder it is," O'Hara said agreeably. "Have you had breakfast?"

"Well, the hotel has a complimentary Continental breakfast, but the coffee was terrible."

"Carleton, the chief asked us to welcome Mulder to Santa Barbara. Why don't we take him out for a good cup of coffee?"

-:- -:- -:- -:-

OK, so they were very friendly. Well, Juliet was friendly. Lassiter seemed suspicious and borderline antagonistic, but Mulder had seen worse.

So he figured he might as well ask. "Could I ask—why would you call me Spooky?"

"Isn't that your nickname?" Juliet asked. Lassiter seemed equally puzzled.

"Not exactly," Mulder said. "It's what they called me because they thought my unofficial area of expertise was—a waste of the Bureau's time."

Juliet turned to Lassiter. "You told me—" she began, her voice sharp.

"This is all Spencer's fault," Lassiter said. "Ever since the chief said this guy was coming to town, all I've heard out of him is Spooky-this, and Spooky-that. What was I supposed to think?"

"The guy who met me at the airport with the snow globe?" Mulder asked.

Lassiter blanched at the words, and said in a tight voice, "It's really a—a glitter globe, because instead of fake snow inside it has fake—um, glitter."

"Carleton, would you pass me the ketchup?" Juliet asked, though the bottle sat practically in front of her. Lassiter picked up the bottle and set it down in almost precisely the same spot, looking at his partner with annoyance. But he also seemed to relax.

Mulder missed Scully.

"I am so sorry," Juliet said. She looked over at Lassiter. "We are so sorry. We didn't know. If it helps any, I don't think Shawn was being malicious. He's a big fan of yours, and so is Gus."

Things made a lot more sense now, and Mulder had figured out that the Lassie Shawn and Gus had been talking about was Lassiter. Shawn probably gave a lot of people unwanted nicknames.

"I wouldn't trust Spencer as far as you can throw him," Lassiter said with great certainty, "but I have to admit, he and Guster have both been disgustingly enthusiastic about you coming here." His partner poked him with her elbow, and he amended, "Not that there's anything disgusting about you being here. Why don't we talk about guns? What kind do you carry?"

Well, Mulder could talk a bunch of real-guy things: football, the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, and, of course, guns. So they talked guns and drank coffee until it was time for Juliet and Lassiter to get back to work. Mulder went with them, to check in with Chief Vick.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Juliet thought Fox Mulder was a very nice nice man, remarkably gracious considering the way they had all been insulting him—even if it was by accident. So when Shawn and Gus came into the station, she wasn't very happy with them.

"Come with me," Jules ordered, taking Shawn by the upper arm and pulling him toward the interrogation room. "You, too," she added over her shoulder to Gus.

"Why do you subject me to police brutality, but Gus gets to come along quietly?" Shawn asked.

"Because Gus can be trusted to come along quietly and you can't be trusted at all and you never do anything quietly."

Shawn gave that a second's thought. "That's fair. So, did you need our help on a new case?"

"What is wrong with you two?" Jules asked sternly.

"You're going to have to be more specific," Shawn said after a moment. "The number of things wrong with Gus alone is exponentially large."

"What did Shawn do this time?" Gus countered. "Whatever it is, you have to tell Spooky I'm not any part of it!"

"That's it right there," Jules said, pointing at Gus. "You keep calling the man Spooky! Did it never occur to either of you how insulting that is?"

Gus and Shawn stared at each other in disbelief. "You're saying . . . ." Shawn began, but couldn't finish.

"You mean he . . . ." Gus tried, but words failed him now, too.

"Jules, I am—flabbergasted! I am dumbfounded! I am squidward!"

"Shawn," Gus chided, "Squidward is a character on SpongeBob SquarePants. You're not Squidward."

"You don't know. I might be, in my spare time."

Gus just shook his head in exasperated resignation.

"Jules," Shawn said earnestly, "Spooky is the coolest nickname in the whole long history of nicknames. Except for Joe Cool."

"Shawn, I am not calling you Joe Cool," Gus said. "I've told you that before."

"Well, you don't call me Spooky, either. I could be Spooky Shawn Spencer."

"I've told you, that's too many S's. Besides, Agent Mulder is Spooky."

"But Jules says he doesn't want to be called Spooky!" Shawn was exasperated by Gus's deliberate obtuseness. "And if I was called Spooky, when someone called him that, he could explain that they'd mistaken him for me. Hilarious hijinks could ensue!"

"I'm not calling you Spooky, or Joe Cool," Gus said stubbornly.

"Will you two stop it?" Jules said, annoyed. "And he's no longer an agent of the FBI, so just call him Mr. Mulder, or—or else." And because that was really pretty lame, she turned on her heel and walked out.

"The man has the coolest nickname in the world and he doesn't appreciate it," Shawn said as they followed Jules back to the squad room. "Some people just don't know their own luck."

"You know that's right," Gus agreed.


When Mulder emerged from Chief Vick's office, Shawn and Gus were there. They seemed more subdued than when they'd met him at the airport. Mulder hoped they'd stay that way.

"Mr. Guster, Mr. Spencer, do you have business here?" Chief Vick said. She could be a very no-nonsense woman.

"Hey, guys, what's up?" Mulder asked, his words stumbling over hers.

"We're here to see Agent Mulder," Shawn said, and he was very subdued.

"Mr. Spencer, I can't have you coming here, bothering a guest of the Santa Barbara Police Department—"

"They're no bother," Mulder said, and when Chief Vick turned and incredulous stare on him, "Really. It's fine."

She shook her head. "If you say so." And she went back into her office and closed the door.

"Agent Mulder," Gus said seriously, "I want you to know that, if since our meeting, I've done anything to make you feel uncomfortable, I'm most apologetic."

"I second that apology, and raise him an abject," Shawn said. "We're both students of ufology—" he pronounced the word uf-ology, the uf rhyming with buff.

"It's pronounced ufology, Shawn," Gus said, giving the word its proper long u sound.

"Are you sure? And shouldn't it be ufoology, like zoology." He pronounced the last word with the emphasis on zoo.

"That's pronounced zo-ology," Gus said.

"I've heard it both ways."

"Shawn, will you shut up?"

"Is that even possible?" Mulder asked, smiling. "You haven't done anything you need to apologize for," he went on, speaking into the silence he'd created with his small zinger. Gus and Shawn looked shocked.

"No, we know we have," Gus said after a moment. "We were told—by a very reliable—"

"—Not to mention very perky and blonde," Shawn interrupted.

"Shawn, let me handle this. A very reliable source told us that you don't like being called Spooky. We want to assure you we'll never call you Spooky again."

"And to ask if I can be called Spooky instead," Shawn said.

Mulder laughed. He genuinely liked these two, even if Shawn was exhausting. He was exhausting in a fun way.

"Shawn, you're a lot of things, but Spooky isn't one of them," Mulder said. "To tell you the truth, I always hated being called Spooky, because it was coming from other agents who were making fun of me and my work. You're not doing that, so I'm happy to have you call me Spooky." The "happy" was laying it on a bit thick, but once he'd become internet-famous, Mulder realized there was no way he could stop his fans from calling him Spooky, so he might as well learn to live with it. And it was true what he'd told these two: context mattered. They—Gus, Shawn, and the rest of his fans—weren't ridiculing him, so it really wasn't so bad. Once he'd found out Juliet and Lassiter weren't making fun of him, he wouldn't have cared about them doing it, either.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The speech went very well, as did the question-and-answer period afterwards. The questions were thoughtful and intelligent, and no-one asked about anything paranormal.

He was the last speaker of the day. A dinner followed, and Chief Vick had invited him, but Mulder had had more than his share of banquet food in his life, so he declined.

Shawn and Gus were waiting for him outside the conference center, eating ice cream cones.

"Whatcha got there, guys?" Mulder asked.

"Chocolate/vanilla Smoothie cones from the Smoothie shop," Gus said, pointing at the fluorescently-lit shop across the street.

"They look good," Mulder said. And of course they followed him over.

They sat down at one of the round metal picnic tables.

"That was a really great talk," Gus said. Shawn was strangely quiet. "I learned a lot about profiling, and what to look for in a serial killer."

"Thanks, Gus, I appreciate that," Mulder said. When Shawn still didn't speak up, he asked, "Shawn? What did you think?"

"I have to admit, I was a little disappointed."

"Shawn!" Gus hissed at him.

"No, no, it's OK, I want to know," Mulder said. "Why were you disappointed?"

"Because you didn't even mention ETs. Not even once!"

"You're right, I didn't," Mulder agreed. "It's not why they asked me here, and it's not what I do anymore."

"But why?" Shawn whined. "You're the most brilliant UFO expert on the whole internet."

That had to be the worst compliment Mulder had ever heard. "Thank you. But for reasons of my own, I had to move on."

Shawn nodded. "I'm going to get another ice cream. You guys want one?"

Mulder and Gus declined.

"He's really a good guy," Gus said when they were alone.

"I can see that," Mulder said.

When Shawn came back, he was grinning. "I know what you need to do next!"

"Next I'm going to Phoenix," Mulder said.

Shawn waved his hand at this. "In between."

"And what's that?" Mulder asked.

"You should write a book!"

"Shawn, that's a great idea!" Gus agreed. "You could write about all your adventures!"

"No, no, not yet," Shawn said. "Spooky hasn't finished having adventures. This book should be a cookbook!"

"A cookbook?" Mulder asked.

"Sure! Celebrity cookbooks are big sellers, and you don't really have to do that much writing. Just some recipes, with a story or two here and there and you've got cash rolling in."

"I'll certainly take that under advisement," Mulder said.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Mulder drove to Avis in the morning. Shawn and Gus were there, waiting to drive him to the airport, where they bought him a Mucho Mango, took pictures with him, and hugged him goodbye. Oh, and Gus gave him a clicky pen with his name and phone number on it.

As his plane took off, Mulder thought he could see them down below, doing the Snoopy Happy Dance. Walter was going to love this story, and someday, so would Scully.