TITLE: Hair of the Dog
AUTHOR: XochiLuvr
E-MAIL: xochiluvr@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: Nanny nanny boo boo, I won't tell you.
Sequel to "Remotely Controlled" by Marguerite, but works as a standalone.
Written without permission of the original author, who, if you haven't
actually flamed or complimented her yet, can be contacted at
Marguerite@operamail.com . Ain't I a stinker? ;-P
RATING: PG-13, tops.
SPOILERS: HAD, X-Cops.
FEEDBACK: Wanted almost as badly as Scully in pleather.
DISCLAIMER: I'm just borrowing the keys. I promise to wash, wax, and fill
her up before I bring her back. Oh, you meant the Car! Umm...
NOTES: At End.
SUMMARY: "Calm, gentle, passionless, as he appeared, there was yet, we fear,
a quiet depth of malice, hitherto latent, but active now, in this
unfortunate old man, which led him to imagine a more intimate revenge than
any mortal had ever wreaked upon an enemy."
   --Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter.

Hair of the Dog

"Agent Mulder, I thought I told you last night to never again call me that.
Though I trust you enjoyed yourself as well."

"Actually, sir, I didn't... nevermind. I'm sorry, sir. I won't make that
mistake again," said Mulder, hoping he sounded sufficiently contrite so that
his boss would feel no further admonishment necessary.

"Come on, Mulder," Scully called from several paces ahead, "the cab is here
to take us to the airport, and if we don't leave now we might miss our
flight. Besides, we wouldn't want to keep the Assistant Director from
anything big."

"You're absolutely right, Agent Scully. You never know when the next big
thing will come around," Mulder replied, grinning from ear to ear. "Right,
sir?"

"Sure, Mulder," Skinner replied, certain he was missing some vital
information, but ignoring it for the time being; they sooner he them out of
there, the sooner he could return to the pleasures that awaited him in his
suite. "I'll be back in the office in a few days. I would appreciate it if
you two could stay out of trouble until I return," he called out as the
agents loaded their suitcases into the trunk of the car. It wasn't a
suggestion.

As they turned to get into the car, Scully turned around and spoke loudly in
return, raising her voice to carry over the loud sounds emanating from the
city surrounding them.

"We left you something at the front desk, sir. For all you've done for us, I
mean with the movie and all. Just a little something to tide you over until
something BIG comes along."

"Something big. Whatever," the A.D. mumbled as the taxi pulled away.

....................
Earlier that morning:

As she gasped for breath, shook her head to rid herself of the awful
nightmare she had awakened from, and opened her eyes to face the bright
mid-morning sun, Dana Scully realized her brain was slowly oozing out her
ear. She moved quickly to lie flat, and made sure to cover her head with a
pillow lest she lose any more of her mind or go completely blind. Shortly
after settling herself in the new position, she felt the hotel bed shift
under her as a sorrowful moan escaped the sheets from somewhere in the area
of her feet.

"Oh, my God," her left foot cried out, sounding remarkably like her partner.
"I've died and gone straight to hell."

"Mulder? Why are you facing my feet? For that matter, why are you down there
at all?" Scully grumbled, rapidly trying to focus on the situation at hand.
Or foot.

"Ugh. Scully, if I knew the answer to that, I'd probably have some idea as
to why my skull feels like a rock star is doing a solo somewhere in the
vicinity of my temporal lobe."

"You, too?"

"No, Scully, that would mean Bono. He's more your generation than mine. I
was thinking more along the lines of Jimmy Page."

"Oh, God, Mulder, no jokes when I'm feeling this horrid, ok?"

"Alright. I just needed some levity, considering the awful nightmare I just
had."

"About?"

"Well," Mulder started, as he moved his body to sit up against the
headboard, "A Hollywood studio made a movie about us, and got everything
completely screwed up. We went to the premiere, which was a complete fiasco,
and then had dinner in a really nice restaurant, but some starlet lost
control of her Porsche and crashed into the dining room and just barely
avoided killing us. After dealing with the reporters and police, we went
back to your room, sat down to watch some T.V., and discovered our little
stint on "Cops" was being rebroadcast..."

"Mulder, it wasn't a dream."

"Oh, shit, I was afraid you were going to say that; I usually don't book us
hotel rooms where the sheets are actually color coordinated."

"Mulder, you usually don't get us hotel rooms where the sheets are actually
*washed*."

"Yeah, I've been meaning to talk to Skinner about raising our travel
allowance."

"Umm, that reminds me, Mulder. I had a dream about Skinner last night."

"Do tell."

"Ahh... we were in bed, watching the "Cops" rerun."

"Where does Skinner come into this?"

"That's just it. We were watching it. Skinner and I. In his bed, and..."

"Ewww, stop right there. I can't believe you would even so much as dream
that, Scully! "

"Tell me about it. I'm never going to look at that man again without
wondering if steroids really did affect him to that great an extent."

"Are you saying Wally had a wittle willy?"

"Mulderrrr...."

"Come on, Scully, you can tell me," her partner cajoled, putting his arm
around her waist and pulling her closer, "Please?"

As she turned to him, she wore a sorrowful look, giving him the impression
that he was not going to like the answer.

"To be perfectly honest, Mulder, the Assistant Director in my dreams was
hung like a horse."

"Oh. Really." Mulder replied dejectedly, feeling that his manhood had not
simply been challenged, but amputated without the use of anesthetic. "I,
umm..."

"Mulder," Scully giggled, "I'm sorry, but he really was. Like a quarter
horse, to be precise."

"...I, uhh... WHAT?"

"Yep. Skin Man the Thin Man."

Scully managed to control her smile as she watched her partner's emotions
wash across his face. First came astonishment, though she didn't know if it
was from relief over his personal "equipment" or her likening their
immediate superior's family jewels to a miniature equine. Next, her partner
grinned broadly and his body began to shake as he tried not to laugh out
loud, even going so far as to snort once or twice. Finally, they both
erupted in a fit of giggles and full-on belly laughs that lasted for quite
some time before they managed to regain some control over themselves.

"Thin Man? First you make me feel woefully inadequate, and then you go and
make the worst pun I think I've ever heard? Kill me now; I no longer serve
any useful purpose," said Mulder, holding his chest and struggling to
breathe.

"I'll let you live if you can figure out a way to get over this hangover. I
want to curl up and hibernate until y-three-k."

"How about we just find a way to give our hangovers to Skinner? It's his
fault we're here in the first place," said Mulder, reaching over and pulling
open a drawer beside the bed, where his partner has always made sure to
store an emergency medical kit.

"Want some aspirin, Scully?"

"Maybe just a bottle or two. What the hell did we drink last night, Mulder?"

"I'm actually not entirely sure, Scully... I brought it from D.C. It was a
gift from a friend."

"Mulder, you don't have any friends to speak of aside from me and the Lone
Gun... Oh, Mulder. No, please, no."

"I'm sorry, Scully. Yes."

"Give me the bottle, Mulder. NOW."

Mulder, hearing her sharp tone, leapt from the bed, and promptly collapsed
on the floor, holding his head and pleading for a quick death.

"uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

Scully was in no mood for his childish theatrics, so she got out of bed -
slowly - and moved carefully to the sofa where she retrieved the bottle.
While she lurched to the bathroom to get a glass, Mulder crawled over to the
bed and hoisted himself back into it, sighing in relief.

Once she returned, Scully sat back upon the bed and carefully examined
the bottle. She could find no label, and the dark amber colored glass
obscured its contents from view. Scully was surprised to note that as hung
over as she and her partner were, they had only consumed two thirds of the
bottle at most. She poured a healthy dose of the liquid into the glass,
scrutinizing its color and consistency, searching for any sediment in the
liquid; looking for anything that would determine what it was she and her
partner had imbibed the night before. She sniffed the glass, analyzing the
smell. Shrugging, she lifted the half-filled glass to her lips and drained
its contents. Meanwhile, her partner watched with a look of what could only
be described as shock.

Then she shook her head a little and belched. Forcefully.

"Scully, are you sure you should be..."

"Hair of the dog," she gasped out, struggling to regain her composure.

"What?"

"You've never heard of 'the hair of the dog,' Mulder? Must not have been a
common phrase when you went to school at Oxford."

"I did my fair share of drinking in college, Scully, and I can tell you for
a fact it wasn't."

"It's the best cure for a hangover I know. All you do is ingest some of
whatever it was you were sucking down the night before. It's not perfect,
but it really does help."

"But we don't know what's in there!"

"We didn't last night either, and we're still alive, Mulder. Well, mostly,
anyway."

Scully grabbed the bottle from between her legs and leaned over Mulder to
set it on the bedside bureau. As her arm passed over him, he reached up and
grasped her hand in both of his.

"Wait, Scully, there's something written on the bottom, but I can't make it
out. Something about a worm, but I know that's not tequila in there."

"Let me take a look," she said, hoisting it over her head.

"Wormwood? Holy Mother of God, Mulder, it think it's absinthe."

"Isn't that illegal?"

"Consider the source."

"Oh. Right."

"Do you have any idea what the effects of absinthe are? It's a serious
hallucinogenic. We're lucky we're not naked in the lobby trying to be
bellhops. Or worse."

"I know, Scully. Van Gogh was on an absinthe binge when he cut his ear off,
wasn't he? We really are pretty lucky; of course, considering what we've had
to deal with recently, I probably would have preferred facial reconstruction
or hefting suitcases with my jingles jangling."

"Maybe later, if you're nice to me. Now come on and take a swig, Mulder."

"How about I just share with you?" he said, rolling on top of his partner
and kissing her soundly.

"Oof! Stop that! Your breath is horrid, and you taste funny. Get off me!"
Mulder raised his head at her request, but refused to move from above her.
He licked his lips, stopped and considered a moment, and smacked them
loudly.

"Go brush your teeth and get dressed, Mulder; our plane leaves in a few
hours."

"Not yet, Scully, I've got a job to do. Doctor's orders," he said, sliding
down her body.

"Mulder!" she cried as he kissed her stomach and tongued her belly button
before moving further south. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Hair of the dog, Scully. Hair of the dog."

The End.

Author's notes:

This is, as previously stated, an unauthorized sequel to "Remotely
Controlled" by Marguerite, though it does work as a standalone. I hope you
don't mind that I messed with your stuff, but I had no choice in the matter.
I've been fighting with a sequel to my first x-fic, and it just wasn't
happening, and then this popped into my head and threatened to leave with
the few shreds of sanity remaining me unless I gave him a home.

When I read the original, I thought it was very funny, and I enjoyed the
twist at the end. Mind you, I'm a die-hard shipper, and I deleted the story
without a second thought, but I didn't consider it a waste of my time. I
simply felt no compunction to save it to reread later.

Frankly, I find this whole tizzy over the story downright stupid. I thought
we xf-ers had more class than to degrade ourselves as we have lately with
TBishop's Sister Spooky thing and this. The series is quite possibly coming
to an end, and while I found a five-minute dissertation on how he hangs it
highly offensive, Marguerite's story didn't phase me in the least. For me to
think that we would cause such a ruckus over something like _ this _ was
unimaginable. Until now.

A couple of days ago she commented on all the feedback she's received on the
story, and how it had surpassed all the feedback from her previous stories.
Considering the fact I've saved several of her fics and to my recollection
have never sent her feedback, I figured now was not the time to start.
Instead, I post-epped her.

After all, isn't this exactly what a post-ep is? Taking a story, and
correcting what you as an author thought were mistakes, or simply filling
the holes?

My first story, virtutes, was just that. I saw a problem in the show, and
worked to fix it, since I was sure 1013 wasn't gonna do it. I was right. And
let me tell you, I got like 5 feedbacks (9, really, but I'll explain that in
a moment). I was a little disenchanted by what I saw as a small response
until I thought about those that I * had * gotten. Three of those feedbacks
were from other authors; authors that I respect and to whom in the past I
have sent feedback. If someone who knows what they are doing thinks you do
too, it's a massive self-esteem boost. The other two came from regular
readers - a sign that I had appealed to both sides of the craft; those who
enjoy writing, as well as those like me who are much more comfortable
reading.

If you don't like a story (be it an episode, a fic, whatever), there are
only three things you can do; love it, leave it, or fix it.

I decided to fix it.

Hair of the Dog is dedicated to two xf authors; two women who have helped me
and/or shown me by example what a story is like when done right - I can only
hope I picked some of it up in passing. To RocketMan (my future bride, at
the rate we're going), for the titillating discussions and what has become
the start of a beautiful friendship, and to MystPhile, who as of right now
has sent me around four gloriously ego-boosting feedbacks on virtutes. She
hasn't even read it yet. :-)

By the way, I *do* beta. I don't seem to *have* them at the moment. All
errors were mine.