Title: Hell Freezes Over (1/1)
Author: Stacey Oziel
E-Mail address: CleverGrrl@aol.com
Rating: G
Category: SH
Spoilers: The X-Files: Fight the Future
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me, including some
of the more public figures in this story. You'll see what I mean.
Summary: See title.

Author's note: This is the first story I've written and FINISHED
in several months, since Alter Ego. I'm currently almost 3/4 
of the way through writing a full-fledged X-Files novel, but I just had 
to take a break because it's damn hard work. (And on the eighth day,
she wrote "Hell Freezes Over"...)

Thanks to Mary G. for the helpful editorial comments.

Send words of encouragement, please, to CleverGrrl@aol.com.

And now, on with the story...


-----------------------------------------------------------------------
"Hell Freezes Over" by Stacey O., aka CleverGrrl
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Mulder's Apartment
3:52 am

Fox Mulder stirred in his sleep. It was rare that
he even slept soundly enough to stir. Usually, he
was asleep one moment, awake the next.

But on this particular night, he was out cold 
and loving it.

He murmured a bit in blissful oblivion. His 
lean body turned, rustling the cotton sheets 
that were desperately in need of a good washing. 
It was a hot, sticky night in Washington D.C.,
all-too-normal for a city in the throes of
urban summer.

His lanky frame straightened on the couch, and he 
buried his head into the softness of the fluffy down
pillow.

Suddenly, the shrill sound of the telephone 
roused him from the dead slumber of uninterrupted 
R.E.M. sleep. Right smack-dab in the middle
of an amazing dream.

Mulder cursed. 

It was dark, and his hand fumbled clumsily, aching
to silence the trilling nuisance. He wanted nothing
more than to hurl it against the wall.

But ringing phones always meant something. They
couldn't be dismissed as prank calls or wrong
numbers... not in his apartment, that is.
In fact, not answering an early morning phone
call could mean the difference between life and
death. So he couldn't just ignore the blasted 
thing. 

At least, he admitted to himself, he couldn't ignore 
it for much longer. In the time it had taken him to 
consider not answering it, he realized the phone had 
probably rung four or five more times.

He sighed wearily, and picked it up.

"Mulder," he said into the receiver, his throat still 
raspy with sleep. 

"Turn on the TV," said a breathless, insistent, 
Southern-accented voice.

The familiarity of the request momentarily brought
a pang to his heart as he fumbled for the remote.
It wasn't Deep Throat, and it wasn't X. It certainly
wasn't Marita Covarrubias - unless she'd had a 
sex-change operation and took to speaking with
a Southern accent. Which was entirely possible, 
since he hadn't seen her for several months. 

He cracked a grin.

And it couldn't be Kurtzweil, unless the late
British gentleman had decided not to dispose
of the blundering paranoiac after all.

Mulder shook his head. So it was none of the 
usual suspects, who were either dead... or, presumed
dead. Could it be a brand new informant? Someone, 
perhaps, who could give him some new and valuable
insight into the intricate web of global conspiracy?

He found the remote control - the TV was already
on, since he usually fell asleep watching it - and
went back to the telephone. He'd learned by now not
to question any anonymous source, especially not
one who called mysteriously in the middle of the night.
The identity of the caller would always become clear 
in due time. The only prudent thing to do would be to 
cooperate fully, no questions asked.

"What channel?"

The man laughed. "Any channel."

Mulder turned. Gasped. And dropped the phone.

[Announcer] "...to be. Again, this is no joke, and
this has been confirmed by our source on the scene.
Some form of extraterrestrial has landed at the 
front of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Its ship is
oblong in shape, and appears to contain several
sentient lifeforms. Wait... John, they're coming
out. 

Oh, my God. They... they look like grey
men, with pale, smooth skin and gigantic black
eyes without pupils. They're approaching the
President. They're handing him some kind of
brightly-colored object. Yes, John... flowers.
I can confirm, they're flowers. I believe 
they're hydrangeas, John...."

Mulder, still gaping at the screen, shakily
picked up the receiver.

"What...?!" was all he could manage.

The man chuckled. "It's what it looks like, Mr.
Mulder. Aliens have landed in front of the White
House. Your dream has come true. It's happening
right here, right now, for all the world to see."

"This is a pretty elaborate hoax to pull on
someone at four o' clock in the morning," Mulder
choked after a long, strangled pause. 

"It would be, but this whole thing's bigger than
you, my friend, and bigger than me," he drawled.
"And that's saying quite a bit. After all, I am the 
leader of the free world."

Just then, Mulder noticed that the television had
cut to a live shot of the White House lawn. 

The phone dropped from his hand.

The cameras were photographing four tall, slender
grey aliens, who flanked President Bill Clinton 
on each side. Clinton was holding some sort
of black object to his ear. Mulder squinted,
and thought it might be some object enabling
the President to communicate with a security 
team standing by, or even with the press corps.

Then, he noticed that the man's lips were moving
in sync with the words he heard buzzing through
the earpiece of his telephone, which was now
laying on the floor.

His eyes bugged out of his head. Oh, Lord.

The President of the United States was talking 
to him on the telephone.

For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Then, tentatively,
his hand shaking, he picked up the phone again. The
man hadn't stopped talking, and was still 
blabbering on about something.

"Mr. President?" Mulder quavered, interrupting him.

His words were greeted with robust laughter, and Mulder
saw from the television that Clinton's cheeks were
ruddy and bright. He was grinning from ear-to-ear.

"Mulder, you were right all along. Aliens do exist,
and they're right here on this planet. They sure
do appear friendly. Hey, don't touch me there...
that tickles! Mulder, I... Mulder? Hello?"

The phone dangled by its cord, and the door
slammed closed.


*        *        *

Dana Scully lay in bed with the lights off. She couldn't
sleep. Lately, she'd been having problems getting her
mind to relax when her body was ready for rest. The
two parts weren't in sync. They worked on maddeningly 
different schedules.

Sighing, she rolled over, and closed her eyes. She could 
sleep if she really wanted to. It was a matter of 
mind-over-body, she told herself firmly. Or, in this case, 
maybe it was the other way around.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when someone began
pounding like a madman at her door.

Instantly, her gun was in her hand, and she dropped
to a defensive stance. 

"Who is it?" she said suspiciously, and tiptoed
into her living room.

"Scully, dammit, open the door!" 

She breathed a sigh of relief, and released
the hammer on the gun in her hand.

She undid the latches, and Mulder - wearing
only an undershirt, jeans and tennis shoes -
sprinted in. He was practically jumping up 
and down with excitement.

"Mulder, what's wrong?" she breathed, staring 
at him. She should have been fairly annoyed, 
but she sensed that what he had come to tell her 
was important. So curiosity prevailed, at 
least for the moment.

"Oh, God. Scully. They're here. I can't 
believe it, but they're finally here. Oh, 
my God."

"Mulder, slow down. What are you trying to
tell me?" He wasn't making any sense.

Mulder shook his head numbly, and ran to her
television to turn it on.

She frowned in annoyance. "Mulder, I know
how you love 'Bonanza' reruns, but I'd really
like to know why you're..."

Her jaw dropped. Clinton. Sandwiched between
four grey aliens. On the White House lawn. 

Live.

"Is this a joke?" she whispered, barely
trusting herself to speak.

She waited breathlessly for an answer.

"I don't know," he breathed.  

They stared at each other. 

Scully jumped up. "Well, what are
we waiting for?" 

She ran into her tidy bedroom and 
yanked out a drawer, spilling its
contents. Pulling out a pair of 
neatly-folded chinos, she tugged
them on, far too preoccupied to
realize that she'd just bared her 
bottom to her partner. 

Mulder, completely beside himself, 
didn't even register this rare glimpse 
of Scullyflesh - nor the quick flash of 
a small, circular tatoo on her backside.

"Come on, Scully. Come ON!" Mulder
implored her, pacing back and forth.

Scully stuck her bare feet in a pair
of well-worn loafers, turned, and
sprinted out the door, with Mulder
only inches behind her.

The television, now-unwatched, 
continued to blare:

[Announcer] 
"... to form. Now we see the 
President waving to the crowd. 
He's shaking the hand...(laughter) 
or whatever you can call it... it 
has four digits, Bob... yes, they're 
shaking hands... Oh, what a historic 
moment in the history of our planet.

I tell you, Bob, this night
will stay in the hearts and
minds of every American for
generations to come. This is 
one for the history books. 
And now for a brief recap. 
Aliens have landed on the 
White House lawn. They appear
to be from a planet not too
very far from our own..."

--------------------------
The Next Morning
FBI Headquarters; Washington, D.C.
8:46 am

Numb from exhaustion, Mulder dragged himself
into their makeshift interim office in the J. 
Edgar Hoover building.

Of course, he observed with annoyance, Scully
was already there, looking impossibly fresh
and rested for having stayed up the entire
night.

She was reading the Washington Post. Mulder
craned his neck. The headline read:

	"Aliens Land on White House Lawn." 

Underneath, the subheading read:

	"Clinton Acts as Emissary to Reticulan
	Ambassadors, Makes First Contact."


Hearing Mulder come into their office, Scully
dropped the paper. They stared at each other
for a long moment. It seemed as if a lifetime
had passed before Mulder finally broke the 
uncomfortable stare.

Scully, however, was the first to speak. 
She stood slowly, took a deep breath, and 
stepped closer to him.

"Well, Mulder, I suppose congratulations are
in order. This is what you've been waiting for. 
There's no more cover-up. No more lies.
It's all out in the open, or it will be soon.
You're the prophet, Mulder. You'll join the 
ranks of Galileo, Nostradamus..."

"...Alvin Kurtzweil," Mulder mumbled.

Scully blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

He seemed to shake the question off. 
"Scully, this is all wrong. This wasn't
the way it was supposed to happen. I've
got a really bad feeling about all this."

She looked at him strangely, a sinking 
sensation in the pit of her stomach.

"You can't be saying what I think you're
saying, Mulder."

"What do you think I'm saying, Scully?"

She shook her head. "I'm not a mind reader.
But you seem to be saying that this isn't
what it seems."

"Exactly," he said.

She stared at him dumbly. "I don't get
it. Aliens just landed on the White House
lawn, Mulder. We were there. We met them.
They had cold, slimy hands! You can't deny 
a one-on-one experience like that. It happened. 
Believe me, it happened."

He put his hands on his hips. "I don't know
yet what's going on here, Scully. But this
is all wrong."

"Well," she sighed, "If aliens landing 
in front of the White House doesn't make
you happy, then I don't know what will.
Maybe you should consider therapy, Mulder.
This isn't normal. I have a great counselor,
Doctor..." 

She turned, and realized Mulder had left 
the room.

*        *         *

Office of the Assistant Director
9:35 am

Walter Skinner emerged from his office
with a gigantic grin of welcome upon
his normally stony face. 

The agents gaped at him. It was the first
time they'd seen the AD's face arranged
in so welcoming and free a manner, and
it was astonishing how the simple change
in expression could so alter and disarm
a man such as Skinner.

"Have a seat, Agents."

They obediently plopped into the two
chairs facing Skinner's desk, and
glanced warily at one another.

"Mulder," Skinner began warmly, 
"I just wanted to be the first to
congratulate you. This is the 
culmination of five years of
hard work and determination.
It's finally happened, Agent
Mulder. Your quest is over. And
I suppose I owe you an apology 
for all those times when I didn't
believe a word you were saying."

Skinner's grin of triumph changed
to one of bemusement as he noticed
the odd expressions upon the faces
of his agents.

"Mulder, what's the problem?" Skinner
asked the younger man. 

Mulder glared at his partner, and 
shook his head. "Nothing, sir. 
Except that nothing's changed from
the way it was a day ago. Nothing
at all."

Scully shot Skinner a look of 
apology. "Sir, Mulder has a
few... suspicions about the
events that took place last
night. He shared them with me,
and he'd like to do the same
for you."

"I'm all ears," Skinner said,
his mouth twitching with 
amusement. He expected Mulder
to offer some far-out theory
about how the Reticulans had
managed to exceed the speed
of light, or how they were able
to learn the English language
with such astonishing speed 
and accuracy in the space of 
one single evening. 

Skinner allowed himself to relax. He 
realized that he couldn't wait for 
Mulder's explanation. It was sure to be 
a doozy.

But then, he watched as Mulder's expression 
changed from stubborn to determined, and
a warning bell went off in his
head. 

If he knew Mulder at all - and he
was fairly sure he did after
working with the agent for nearly 
five years - he knew that they were
about to be treated to a patented
Mulder tirade.

"Sir," Mulder began, "What we saw 
last night... what we were led to 
BELIEVE we saw last night... was a lie. 
A hoax. A coverup for the clandestine 
machinations of a shadowy group of men 
in positions of supreme power who control the
very lifeblood of not only our country, but 
the entire planet. I'm convinced that last 
night's purpose was to divert the nation's
attention away from the REAL alien invasion. 
It must be coming any day now, and by the time 
anyone figures it out, we'll either be dead or 
turned into hybrid clones."

Skinner stared at the younger man,
barely able to believe what he was
hearing. "Do you have proof of these
allegations, Agent Mulder?"

"Well... no," he admitted sheepishly,
trying to ignore the pointed look 
from his partner. "But I'll get 
proof, sir. The whole world's 
counting on me."

Skinner looked at Scully, and nodded
knowingly. "Sure it is, Agent Mulder.
It's up to you to save us from the
big, bad Reticulans. The evil, menacing,
flower-bearing Reticulans. The ferocious,
slimy..." 

By this time, both Skinner and Scully
were cracking up, and Skinner found himself
laughing so hard he was close to tears.

Mulder stood angrily, knocking over his
chair. "Goddammit! You don't believe me,
do you? First I say there are aliens. 
You mock me, you discourage me, you 
refuse to believe. Now I'm telling you
that these Reticulans aren't the real
McCoy, and you can't take me seriously.
They're not aliens! They're mechanical,
or... or, they're men in alien suits!"

Scully rolled on the floor, laughing
so hard that tears were streaming down
her face. Skinner was holding his sides.

"De Nile ain't just a river in Egypt,
Agent Mulder," Skinner winked. 

Mulder was so angry that tears were
welling up in his own eyes.

"I'll show them," he thought desperately.
"There are no Reticulans. There can't
be. This can't be happening."

A knock on the A.D.s' door interrupted
his racing thoughts.

"Come in," Skinner gasped, still trying
to recover from the attack of laughter
Mulder's skepticism had triggered.

A small, slender grey head poked in 
the door. 

"Sorry to interrupt," the creature
trilled politely, "but I was told
that I and the other delegates
could have a tour of the office."

Skinner grinned in welcome, and
Scully stood facing it politely,
grinning at Mulder.

"Of course, Rejnok," Skinner 
answered. "I'll be out in one
moment."

The creature nodded, and slipped
back out.

Scully turned to look at her partner,
and smiled.

"You were saying?"


--------------------------
Four Months Later...

Intranational Conference 
on Reticulan Public Relations
UN Building
New York, NY
11:21 am


"Order, Order!"

A gavel pounded, and murmurs of 
displeasure filled the vast, dome-shaped
auditorium.

The members of the panel on mutual relations
were facing inwards. Towards one of their
own, not out at the packed audience.

Towards a lanky, nondescript, amazingly
expressionless man in his late thirties.
His suit was of the off-the-rack variety, 
and his tie was uninspired. His hair was 
shorn quite close to the scalp, making the 
man's irregular features appear even more 
prominent.

"Agent Mulder," the chairman said 
loudly to make his voice heard over 
the rising din. "Let me get this 
straight. You're saying there are
no Reticulans. This is all a hoax,
is that it? The United States 
government somehow managed to 
stage an alien ship landing on 
the front lawn of The White House?
Hmmm?"

Mulder sat back down, resigned. He
felt utterly beaten. "Ladies and
Gentlemen of the council, heed my
words. These Reticulans do not 
exist. They're figments of the 
imagination, startlingly convincing
fabrications by a government intent upon 
controlling the masses through images of 
patriotism and sensationalism."

He held up a newspaper. The headline
read: "Reticulan Embassador New Joint 
Chair of Xenotropic Affairs, Louis Freeh 
Co-chair."

"This belongs on the front cover of 
a tabloid," Mulder spat scornfully,
waving the paper around. "It belongs
anywhere but on the cover of a 
respectable newspaper. Yet, here
it is. Doesn't that tell any of
you what's happening here?"

"Yeah," shouted an audience 
member. "You're delusional, Mulder.
Get some help, but get off the stage."

The crowd began to shout, and Mulder
backed down angrily. "Fine, but mark
my words. These 'Reticulans' don't
exist. Don't let the government play
its mind-games with you. They..."

He was interrupted by the banging of
a gavel.

"Stella," the chairman called, "Turn on
the projector, won't you?"

The projector snapped on, and clips
of evening news broadcasts began to
play. 

Mulder peeked through his hands, and
saw disjointed images flickering on
the screen behind him. 

Reticulans touring Arlington National 
Cemetary. Reticulans sightseeing in the 
city. Reticulans shaking hands with the 
president. Little Reticulans playing
at nursery schools. 

Reticulans, Reticulans, Reticulans.

Mulder began to laugh maniacally.

Little grey men. Everywhere.

He stood up, and began to recite the
Pledge of Allegience, tears streaming
down his cheeks. When he got to
"... and liberty and justice for 
all" he began to wail, the keening
so mournful that the other people
in the room averted their eyes in
embarrassment.

The chairman signaled to someone 
off in the wings of the stage. Two 
large, burly people in white coats
quickly approached Mulder, and 
grabbed his arms, twisting them 
roughly into a straightjacket.

Dazed, he turned his head. One
of the men, he realized with a 
jolt of amazed terror, was Reticulan. 
His huge black bottomless eyes,
set far back into his grey,
smooth face, were reflecting 
back at him with benign 
blankness.

Mulder's eyes rolled back into
his head. He began to sing, at
the top of his lungs:

	"This land is your laaaand, 
this land is our laaand, from 
California, to the New York 
Island, to the Redwood Forest,
to the Gulf Stream Waaa-aaa-ters,
this land, is made for you
and meeeeeee..."

His voice trailed off as he
was led away, allowing the
delegates to continue
their meeting in peace.

*        *        *

Bellevue Mental Hospital
One Month Later
3:37 pm


Fox Mulder lay, lightly 
sedated and in full restraints,
upon a bed of white in a room 
with a view of a parking lot.

Dully, his dead eyes flicked 
without interest to the televison
screen. 

The station was The Fox Network.
The program was "When Aliens 
Attack."

At the first commercial break,
Mulder saw that, along with a 
representative of every ethnic
group in the nation, Reticulans were
now included in the new McDonalds 
"Hands Across America" promotion. 

Then, a promotional video of the
new Spice World tour. They'd chosen
a new Spice Girl to replace the
one who'd left. She was a Reticulan.

Alien Spice.

Next was an ad for Barbie. The
cast included Barbie, Skipper, 
Midge, Ken... and Zoltanj.

Reticulan Barbie.

Mulder began to weep.

He barely noticed when Scully walked
in the door.

"Hey," the redhead said softly. "How're
you feeling?"

"Make it stop, Scully," the man wept.
"Make it stop."

She sighed patiently, and mentally made
a note to tell the attending physician
to reduce Mulder's dosage. He was drugged
to the gills.

"I can't make it stop, Mulder," Scully said
kindly. "But I know someone who can."

The door opened, and in walked Alex Krycek.

Mulder stopped crying, and stared at him.

"What are you doing here, Krycek?" Mulder
slurred. He'd tried to make his tone 
appropriately venomous, but the effort
was a failure. He'd just sounded mildly 
peeved.

"I'm here to tell you how it is, Mulder,"
Krycek sneered arrogantly. "Unless you get
your head out of the sand, the Reticulans
are going to take over our planet. You're
the only one who can stop them. They're like 
Starbucks, Mulder. There's one on every block."

He stepped closer, and Mulder could feel
his stinking breath on his neck.

"Only you can stop them, Mulder. 
You're our only hope. The country needs
you, Mulder. I need you, Mulder..."

Then, Krycek leaned forward, and
kissed Mulder full on the mouth.

Mulder began to scream.

A nurse ran into the room, and
injected him with something, 
clucking under her breath.

He turned his head groggily to
protest, and promptly shut his
eyes.

Her face was grey. Her eyes were
large, black and glossy. She
had no hair.

She was a Reticulan.

"No!" Mulder screamed. "Noooooo!"

In slow motion, he watched the nurse
walk Scully and Krycek out of the room.

Time seemed to slow to a soupy crawl as the 
new drug began to take effect, mixing with
the remnants of the weaker tranquilizer.

A strange, tinny sound whined in his head. 

Mulder clamped his hands over his ears, and 
started to moan. Too much noise. Too much 
everything.

His ears were ringing. 

It was growing louder, louder...

Ring. Ring. Ring.....


*         *         *


"No," Mulder mumbled. "Noo."

<Brring. Brring. Brrrrrring.>

Mulder opened his eyes, amazed
to find that he was asleep in his
own bed.

Well, his couch, anyway.

And the phone was ringing.

He blinked. He picked up the
receiver.

He held his breath.

"Mulder, it's me."

And smiled.


--The End--