Title: What Happens in Vegas
Author: Malibu Sunset
Category: MSR; First Time; Humor
Rating: Mild NC-17
Summary: This is an alternative ending to the episode Three of a Kind. What might have happened if Scully had reached Mulder when she called him and he had met her in Vegas? Maybe this….
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine; the story is. Just borrowing them for fun.
Thanks: To Steph, who has the best ideas ever and whose dirty mind equals my own. And to the NR’s – you know who you are. NEVER OVER IT!
When Mulder steps from the air conditioned cab, the wall of stagnant heat hits him like a tidal wave and his cotton shirt suctions itself to his body. Beads of sweat gather between his shoulder blades as he digs through his wallet for an appropriate tip. His small carry-on bag managed to get beat to hell even more than usual in the overhead compartment of the plane and it sags sadly on the curb, waiting for him. He considers blaming Frohike and Company for that too. Bunch of weenies. He can’t believe they thought they’d get away with luring Scully out to Vegas on false pretenses. He could have told them they were in over their heads. It was inevitable that she’d figure it out. And when she did, she was on the phone with Mulder, who hopped a plane to Nevada two hours later, and here he is. Sweating his ass off in Sin City.
The convention has the hotel sold out, but between the guys and Scully, he figures he can mooch a pillow and a blanket off someone. He dials Scully’s cell phone, gets voice mail, hangs up without leaving a message, then dials Frohike. Someone pokes his shoulder and he spins to see his trollish friend staring up at him sheepishly, his phone to his ear. Mulder punches the end button and pockets the phone. “Do you know how many drinks you owe me if I can keep her from kicking your ass for this?” he says.
“Approximately. Although the ass kicking holds some allure, I must admit.”
“Where is everybody? Scully’s not answering her phone.”
“Not sure. She and Langly finished the autopsy an hour ago. Maybe she’s in her room.”
“I need somewhere to toss my bag and take a shower.”
Frohike fishes into the pocket of his black leather jacket and hands Mulder a credit card key. “Here. Room 631. Find Scully and meet us in the casino bar, Amigo. We need a plan before this thing gets any weirder.”
Mulder nods and pockets the key, heading for the elevator.
Showered and changed, Mulder tries Scully again to no avail. Where the hell is she? He tries seducing the front desk clerk into giving him her room number, but meets failure there too, as well as unimpressed looks when he flashes his badge. He leaves, feeling vaguely stalkerish, and makes his way through the casino toward the bar.
He hasn’t been to Vegas in years. The last time was right after Diana had left for Europe and he came to work a case by himself, disgruntled by being alone again. Certainly it had been as much to drown himself in the excesses available to him as it had been out of any real legitimacy to the case. He had played table games and downed scotch all night with a blue-eyed brunette he’d met in the elevator, and the only reason he’d gone back to his room alone that night was because he’d had too much to drink and didn’t want to push his luck, so to speak.
He paces toward the bar now, weaving a path through inebriated gamblers, when he hears it, carried above the hum of the crowd, carefree and melodious, like windchimes. He’d know that laugh anywhere, although he’s quite certain he’s never heard it like this before. An expression of concern and bewilderment settles onto his face as his gait quickens and he pushes past suits and sequins.
He sees Frohike before he spots Scully, his short stature drowning amidst a group of at least five men, all hovering around the pretty redhead on the bar stool. Jesus Christ. Mulder stops short at the sight of Scully, and he does a double-take. It’s her all right. But if he was a betting man, he’d say she’s been possessed by the spirit of Marilyn Monroe. She’s working a crowd of eager men better than a pin-up girl on a military base.
With a flip of her hair, she suggestively extracts an unlit cigarette from a pack offered to her, using only her mouth. That mouth. His stomach tightens as he watches the vultures circle and he doesn’t need to read the thought bubbles above their heads to know exactly what each one of them is thinking. A blonde haired man leans in and whispers something in her ear and she erupts into careless laughter, blinking up at him from beneath batty lashes and wetting her lips.
What the absolute fuck is going on, and who the hell managed to get Scully drunker than a sorority pledge? Jaw tight and hands fisted at his side, he moves in.
He’s just paces away when he sees Frohike coaxing Scully down off her stool and tugging her out of the crowd, her heels shuffling reluctantly after him. She sends a regretful look over her shoulder toward her suitors who appear equally disappointed. Mulder quells the urge to toss a few punches, but decides that getting thrown out of the casino for the night isn’t to anyone’s benefit, especially Scully’s at this point.
He steps into their path and addresses Frohike defensively. “What the hell is going on? What’s the matter with her?”
Frohike raises one hand in surrender, while continuing to steady Scully with his other arm. Mulder can only imagine what his expression must look like because the smaller man appears as if he wants to tuck tail and run. “Damned if I know! She was fine earlier. Who knew Scully could drink this much?”
Scully’s attention has now completely shifted onto Mulder and an enormous smile lights up her face. “Therrrre you are.” She pushes toward Mulder and bumps into his chest before righting herself with a hand to the front of his shirt. “I thought you’d never get here.” Her giggle is rapturous and confusing to multiple parts of his body.
“How much have you had to drink, Scully?”
Her hair flies about her face as she shakes her head vehemently. “Not a one.” She crosses herself sloppily with an index finger and pouts her bottom lip at him. “Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”
Mulder and Frohike exchange skeptical looks.
Scully’s smile fades and she pats the front of her, eyes glancing about the carpeted floor. “Where’s my cigarette? I had a cigarette just a minute ago.” Just as quickly as the smile faded, it returns. “Ooh Mulder, let’s play some slot machines. You wanna play some slot machines with me?” Her small hand darts into the very top of his front pants pocket before he knows what’s coming. “Do you have any money, Mulder?”
He flinches away from her and grabs her hand. “Scully! Hey, hey, take it easy there.”
“Somebody must have slipped something in one of her drinks,” says Frohike.
Scully hangs off Mulder’s arm giggling up at him. A cocktail waitress with a tray of dirty glasses walks by and Scully’s hand stretches to grab a half-empty tumbler of amber liquid. Before she can bring it to her mouth, Mulder snatches it from her and places it behind them on a table, ignoring Scully’s indignant pout.
“Take her up to her room,” instructs Mulder. “Stay with her until I get there and don’t let her out of your sight. I’m going to question the bartender and find out who served her.”
Frohike nods and takes Scully by the arm. “Come on, Good Time Sally. Let’s get you some place where you can sleep it off.”
Scully grins back over her shoulder at Mulder, but follows Frohike obediently out of the casino.
Mulder can’t believe that no one at the bar can remember who might’ve served a pretty redhead about an hour ago, but his questions are met with blank, inconvenienced stares. “Look, Buddy, it’s a crowded bar. I just serve ‘em, I don’t take names and addresses,” the bartender says, sarcastically. Mulder’s middle finger twitches, but he behaves himself.
The emptiness in his stomach gets the better of him and he buys a bag of seeds and a candy bar in the gift shop and then heads for the elevator. He anticipates a lively evening, babysitting Scully until she sleeps this off.
He’s never seen her like this before. And while a drunken, flirtatious Scully would have normally intrigued him in a good way, he feels more bothered by the oddness of the circumstances instead. She was fine when he spoke to her on the phone just hours ago. So what then - she had hung up the phone and then decided to go down to the bar to get tanked and pick up strange men? It didn’t add up. Scully had a rebellious streak in her, but not a stupid one.
Mulder is cracking a seed in his teeth in the elevator, halfway to the sixth floor when he notices a man in a pin-striped suit, his only elevator companion, giving him the visual once over, followed by a friendly smile. “Any luck down there for you tonight, my friend?”
His accent is curious – German or maybe Russian. Mulder smiles back and meets his eyes. “Afraid not. You?”
The man tilts his head, thoughtfully. “Not yet. But the night is young, no?”
Mulder chuckles politely and nods, turning toward the elevator doors as the car hums to a stop. The last thing he hears is the ding of the elevator doors right before he collapses under a sharp, quick blow to the back of his skull and everything goes black.
Scully is on her knees in front of the small hotel room refrigerator, shifting the contents about carelessly. Frohike checks and double checks his digital watch. Where the hell is everybody? It’s been forty-five minutes since he brought Scully up to her room and still no sign of Mulder, or anyone else for that matter.
And regardless of how much he adores Scully, she’s beginning to make him a little nervous. She’s been fluttering about like a hummingbird since they arrived. The moment they got to the room, she went about flipping through every cable channel three times before kicking off her heels and flopping onto the center of the king-sized bed, smiling up at him. “Lie down and talk to me. I’m soooooo bored,” she had pouted, her blazer eschew and silk blouse pulled tight.
Bad, bad, bad idea, Melvin. Talk about a death wish. If he so much as touches that bed with her on it, and Mulder walks in, it’ll be all over but the crying. Despite all his wise ass talk, Frohike is an honorable man at heart, and he does not take what doesn’t belong to him. He’s smart enough to read between the lines. It may not be in the traditional way, but Scully is absolutely spoken for.
His protective eyes are on the back of her now, watching her sort through tiny glass bottles in the door of the fridge before her small hand starts twisting at the cap on a mini bottle of Bacardi. “Rum! Look! And they have Coke too. Let’s mix rum and Cokes!”
Shit. “Uhhhh, no you don’t, Scully. I think you’ve had enough for one night. Let’s stick with water, shall we?”
He takes the rum from her hand and replaces it with a bottle of Dasani, but she pushes it aside, already sidetracked by small packages of gold, crinkly things. “Ooooooh Belgian chocolates! My favorite!” She tears at the wrapper and slips a chocolate into her mouth. “So good,” she says blissfully, mouth full. “Have one!”
Frohike takes the package and sets it down on the nightstand behind him. “I have an idea, Scully. Why don’t you get comfortable and relax and we’ll try the TV again. Maybe find a movie or something while we wait for Mulder.”
Her face lights up at the name, child-like. “Is Mulder here?”
“Uhhh, yeah, of course Mulder’s here. Remember? We just saw him in the casino.”
“That’s right!” She darts to the door, excitedly, and begins to unlock the deadbolt. “Let’s go find him! Let’s find Mulder!”
“Hang on there, Missy. Mulder told us to wait here and that’s what we’re going to do.” Frohike throws the bolt again and attaches the chain, hoping to deter the pint-sized Houdini.
“I want to tell you a secret,” she whispers, leaning into his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck. “But you can’t tell anyone, okay?” Those insanely blue orbs blink up at him and he manages an extremely cautious nod.
“I like Mulder.” She smiles, eyebrows lifting.
“Okay,” he replies quietly, like they’re trading state secrets. “That’s good. I like Mulder too.”
“Nooooooooo silllllly, I mean I really like Mulder.” This time, she punctuates her statement with a girlish laugh. “Like, reeeeally like him. You know what I’m saying?” Her face is delightfully flushed.
“Uh, I’m pretty sure I do, yes.”
“Don’t tell *anyone*,” she says. “Promise?”
Frohike suppresses a laugh and places a hand to her shoulder, soberly. “Your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell a soul.” Jesus Christ. How can it be this difficult to get two hopelessly in love people together?
Scully is already on to the next thing, sitting now on the edge of the bed, turning knobs on the clock radio. “This is really boring. Vegas is supposed to be fun. I’m bored, Melvin,” she fusses with an exaggerated sigh, twisting the radio knobs with a pouty look on her face. “Let’s go find a club where we can dance.”
She’s like a cracked out Chihuahua. If only he could find something sparkly, he could probably keep her occupied until Mulder gets here.
Two seconds later, she’s on her feet, reeling him in by the lapels of his leather jacket. “I LOVE THIS SONG! Dance with me!” Her arms fold around his neck. Frohike stands stick still with his hands held out to his sides, not touching her.
He swallows hard. “You know, I’m not really much of a dancer, Scully. I think I’ll sit this one out.” Before Mulder walks in and rearranges my face, which isn’t all that great to begin with, he thinks.
“Party pooper!” She shrugs out of her black jacket and tosses it onto a chair. “Then I guess I’ll just have to dance alone then.” Which is exactly what she does, her hips starting to circle provocatively.
Don’t watch, Melvin. Do not watch. She’s not the least bit sober right now, and when she lifts her arms like that, you’re seeing parts of her that look even better than you imagined they might. Mulder is a decent-sized guy. And he carries a gun.
Melvin watches her anyway. And realizes how very screwed he is.
When the knock sounds at the door, he jumps a mile. Scully keeps dancing as he goes to answer it. Not my idea, Mulder, not my idea, he silently chants to himself, practicing his plea. One glance through the peep hole and he throws open the door. “Where the hell have you turkeys been?”
Langly, Byers, and Suzanne waltz into the room. “We were looking for Suzanne,” exclaims Byers.
“Where were you?” Langly frowns at Frohike. “We searched all over the casino for you.”
Frohike folds his arms over his chest and turns in the direction of Scully. The others stare at her, curiously. “I’ve been right here. Babysitting the Spookette.”
Scully continues her gyrations, clapping her hands together excitedly at the sight of their new room guests. “Finally! It’s about time this party got started!” Her laugh is loud and unguarded, her hair twisting about her face as she moves.
“What is she doing?” asks Byers, brows furrowed in concern.
“Dancing,” proclaims Frohike, stiffly.
“How much did she have to drink?” asks Langly.
“What’s the matter with her?” adds Byers, turning the volume on the radio down.
Frohike shakes his head. “Nobody seems to know. Mulder stayed down in the bar to try and figure that out, but that was an hour ago. He should have been up here by now.”
Scully pouts her bottom lip. “What is it with you guys? Nobody knows how to party around here.” She reaches for Langly’s arm and tugs him closer. “Hey Cutie, you’ll dance with me, won’t you?”
Langly starts reluctantly bobbing his head and shifting back and forth in his Doc Martens, nervously. Frohike, swats his arm hard.
“What the hell are you doing, bonehead?”
“She asked me to dance with her,” whines Langly.
Frohike levels a look at him and Langly slouches to a stop.
“She isn’t drunk,” asserts Suzanne confidently, striding toward Scully and grasping her arm to get her to stop dancing. Scully frowns her protest and tries to shrug away from the other woman as Suzanne lifts the red tresses by her ear. “Just as I thought. She’s been injected with a drug.”
“What do you mean? What kind of drug?” asks Frohike, squaring his shoulders and stepping in front of Scully, protectively.
“The long-term effects are essentially harmless,” assures Suzanne. “I know because I designed it myself. It’s an anoetic histamine. It suppresses higher brain function and promotes susceptibility. It lowers her inhibitions, dramatically, causing her to do and say things she normally wouldn’t.”
Well, that explains a hell of a lot. “So what do we do about it?” Now that he’s certain Scully had absolutely nothing to do with her current state of being, Frohike feels his anger rising.
“There’s an antidote. I have it in my hotel room. If I inject her with it now, she’ll sleep off the effects in six to eight hours.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” challenges Frohike.
Byers reaches for Suzanne’s arm. “You can’t go back to that room by yourself. It isn’t safe. I’m going with you.”
Suzanne’s hand covers John’s. “I’ll be fine. You have to trust me. I’ll slip in and out and be back in ten minutes, John. Stay here.”
Frohike looks at him. “She’s right. If she’s seen, she’ll be safer by herself. We can’t leave Scully like this. We need that antidote.”
Byers sighs and nods reluctantly, and Suzanne slips out the door with a promise to return as soon as possible.
“What should we do while we wait?” asks Langly.
“I’m going to go look for Mulder,” says Frohike. “You two stay here and watch her. Don’t leave her alone for a second. Mulder’s already pissed off we dragged her here in the first place.”
Frohike hears the hotel room deadbolt engage after he walks out. He makes his way down an empty hallway toward the elevator.