6:10.  As in a.m.

_Dammit. Never fails.  Langly sleeps the entire day away when he's hung over.  *I*, however, have my eyes pop open at the butt crack o' dawn, every time.  Maybe I'm allergic to hops. . ._

He took care of the bladder and reluctantly looked in the bathroom mirror.  Frohike had to admit that he looked like shit, even by his standards.  Hair a mess, each individual fiber standing on end in a different direction.  Eyes bloodshot and rimmed in puffy black tissues.  Teeth desperately needing some toothpaste and maybe a shot of Listerine.  He complied with that need and then gave himself a quick once over. . .

_Wait a minute. . ._

There were the strangest little bruises along his lower neck and collarbone.  _Where the hell did they come from??_ he thought and began to piece together the night before.

At first, Frohike got nothing, and that scared him.  You had to be a really good alcoholic to lose times before you'd even started drinking.  He ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to get it to lay flat and discovered a
huge, tender lump near the crown.

He had a sudden vivid image of his head repeatedly hitting the headboard, hurting like hell and not giving a damn, while a petite redhead rode him like. . .

_Damn!  That was one hell of a dream, even for me!_  Frohike smiled almost happily as flashes from the rest of his dream ran through his head.  He prided himself on being a pervert's pervert, and this dream managed to
out-horny almost all of his videotapes, and even some of Mulder's.

He was also smiling because he recognized the source of his dream, and much of his memories returned, even as the dream faded like dew in the sun.  He felt no regrets as it passed into oblivion; reality was even better.

_Scully called me up!_ he told himself, a toe-curling jolt of pleasure almost obliterating the hangover.  _She wanted me!_

Almost, but not entirely.  He quickly scooped handfulls of water to his mouth from the tap, slaking some of the raging dehydration.  As he fished in the medicine cabinet for his economy-sized bottle of Nuprin, he ran the conversation through his head.

**
The boys were arguing about how to spend their Saturday night.  People thought that geeks didn't notice when the weekend rolled around--being dateless wonders and all, others assumed.  The urge to blow off work and some hard-earned cash is strong in all people, however, and the Lone Gunmen were addicted to their leisure as much as anyone.  Anyway, there was nothing on TV.

Langly was making a pretty good case for the local leather and bondage bar when Frohike's cell phone rang.  Scully!

"To what do I owe the pleasure, pretty lady?" Frohike managed to stammer out.  He thought he'd been pretty smooth, considering the circumstances.  All conversation in the room came to a stunned halt.

"Frohike, I want to talk to you about, um, the last set of information you brought to us.  Can we meet?"

_Crap!!  What was the last thing we did?_  It all ran together after a while, including all of the unauthorized snooping into Moose and Squirrel the three of them did for their own entertainment.

"Certainly my dear.  Er. . .do you need me to bring anything in particular?"  _Please jog the memory, all I'm getting right now is that set of video cameras in your shower stall. . ._

A moment of silence, during which Langly and Byers gestured wildly for Frohike to let them in on the secret.

"So you don't remember either, huh?  I think we both have been working too much."  The last was said quietly, almost to herself.  Frohike was at a loss for words.

"Look, you just want to go get a drink or something?"

Frohike jumped into the air three times and did a quick Ray Lewis touchdown dance.  The other two, who had managed to catch the gist by now, were clearly stunned.

He managed to reply without seeming too much out of breath, "How about Nacho Mama's, in Canton?  I'm starved, and they've got hubcap margaritas."

"Fine.  See you there in an hour."  She hung up without saying good bye.

Frohike showed the boys a grin that threated to make the top half of his head slide off.  "Sorry guys, but you're on your own.  I have a tasty date."  And then he pelted back to the bathroom to do the quickest shower and shave of his life.  And put on the *really* nice leather pants.

**

More of the evening returned in bits and pieces.  Frohike remembered thinking on the drive over that it was pretty obvious that he was being used for a quick ego boost.  Scully was lonely and tired--anyone could see it.  Her partner had been acting progressively more squirrelly and secretive over the past few months, which was saying a lot considering his baseline mental state.  Mulder was even blocking Scully out, and you had to be an idiot to see that she wasn't head-over-heels for the sap.  She'd obviously called up good ole Fro because it was a sure thing he'd spend the night fawning over her, paying for drinks, and generally making her feel like a queen with one subject.

_And frankly Melvin, I didn't give a damn!_  So what if she felt it was a privilege to spend time with her.  So did he.

He could remember a long wait for a table, a very long wait punctuated by several Baltimore-famous hubcap margaritas, a few beers, and several tequila shots.

Frohike smiled at himself again in the mirror.  _Note to self: never try to out drink little Irish redheads._  He was feeling downright chipper.  He and Scully had had a great time.

Memories of dinner were much foggier.  He could pick out snatches of conversation; he'd been right, she had been very lonely lately and even doubting Mulder.  At one point she'd slurred out something about loving
someone who only took advantage of it.  He shook his head at the memory.  _Poor Scully.  Mulder has been such an ass lately.  Hey, maybe if she's seeing that. . ._

He paused in the middle of buttoning up his shirt.  Something was really hurting on his back.  He walked back into the bathroom.  As he looked back over his shoulder, he had another flash: Scully laughing, then thoughtful, and then a hand running up his thigh.

_Whoa Melvin_ he thought indulgently.  _We're talking about reality here, not that spankin' tasty dream. . ._