|
Title:
Erin . Red Right Hand
Note: This was suggested by Crystal Martin, who wrote me about my Erin stories, and said it would be an interesting idea to see Erin and Fox analyze a song from a few different viewpoints. Being the song-crazed kid I am, I thought it was a great idea, and seeing that the XF soundtrack is due out any day now, I thought I'd do an XF song in honor of it. This fits just before Erin Go Bragh in my Erin timeline; Erin Go Bragh will be posted on St. Patrick's day. If you need a complete list of Erin stories and the order they go in, or if you need any Erin stories at all, let me know. Always glad to oblige. Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter, 1013, and FOX. Erin and Michael Mulder belong to me. The Archfiles also belong to me, and if you want to hear more about THEM you've got to find Phile-adelphia Experiment. They have no bearing on this story. Red Right Hand belongs to Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds and Warner Brothers.(and their warner sister! D'oh!)
8:30 am The sound of clinking plates, rustling paper, and a percolator woke her halfway. The smell of the coffee managed quite nicely to take it from there. *Best part of waking up* she thought to herself. Erin Mulder yawned, stretched, fell off the couch, and wandered into the kitchen of Fox Mulder's apartment. He set a cup of coffee and a doughnut on the table. She grinned, slumped into the chair, and picked up the cup. "Whassup?" "Nothing...." He watched her warily. Erin just sipped her coffee. "Don't worry, Fox, I'm kinda worn out. School." She made a face. "Just wanted to get away for a while." "Get away? And you came *here*?" he asked. He had been a little surprised when she'd called him and asked if she could spend the weekend, but hey, he had no life anyway, as she was usually quick to remind him. "It's critic's week at the diner. Dad's going crazy, I was tired of waitressing, and there's nothing to *do* in our neighborhood." Erin replied. She picked up the newspaper nearby and rifled through to find the comics. "I miss Calvin and Hobbes." "Don't we all," he responded, settling into the chair across from her. "So...what do you want to do? Free Saturday, you've got a car and a willing tour guide..." "I'm going to eat this doughnut. I'm going to drink this coffee. Then I am going to go straight back to sleep." "Sounds like a plan. Didn't you know coffee will stunt your growth?" "Do I look like I'm going to do a lot more growing?" She gestured to herself. "I'm 16, five foot three in bare feet. Been that way since I was twelve. I don't think a little caffeine is going to make much difference one way or another." Her eyes sparked over the rim of the mug. "Now you, on the other hand, should have had *more* when you were a kid, maybe you wouldn't be so tall." "Nothing wrong with tall," Fox said with dignity. "For example." He picked up the doughnut and held it over her head. "Just try and get it back." "Gimme." She punched him in the stomach. He doubled over, allowing her to grab the pastry back. "See, short is good." "Don't...fftt....do that." He gasped, falling back into the chair he'd vacated. She took a bite of her breakfast and walked over to the stereo in one corner. "Music calms the savage beast." "That's my new stereo, you'd better watch it." "I'm not gonna *break* it, silly." She gave him a sardonic glance. "You have really lousy taste, Fox. Kinda like my dad. Simon and Garfunky?" "Garfunkle. Art Garfunkle. Lay hands on my Pink Floyd album and die." "Bad touch! Wouldn't dream of it. Oh, here we go." She pulled one of the CDs off the rack. "Knew you were a closet fan." "Of?" "Archfiles. Two FBI agents investigate murders and mayhem in DC's worst side. Kinda like Miami Vice for the nineties." She read the back. "You watch this? It's so....bootsie." "Bootsie? This is a word?" "Means...um....funky." "Funky." "Uncool, but in a cool way." "Right." "I can't explain it. If you don't understand, you never will." She pronounced. "Man, look at the mixed talents on this thing. Rob Zombie, Sheryl Crow...brrr, Willaim S. Burroughs. Danzig...oh, here we go. Nick Cave." Fox leaned back in his chair. "That's the one about fire, right?" "Well, sorta. Actually, it sounds like it could be about you." "Me?!" "Just listen." She held up a hand. The music kicked in with a heavy bass and bells, crackling noises in the background. He shivered slightly. Someone struck a match on the track and Erin grinned. A voice started to sing. Take a little walk to the edge of town and go 'cross the track; "See, it's fire." "Wait." On the gatherin' storm comes a tall handsome man "There." She hit pause and smiled triumphantly. "A tall handsome man." He thought for a second. "I don't own a dusty black coat." "No, you only own two leather ones and a trenchcoat, all three of which have been coated in slime or dirt at one time or another. And you're usually hurt at one time or another. Red right face...red right foot...red right hand." She had a point. The music started again. He'll wrap you in his arms, tell you that you've been a good boy He's a god he's a man he's a ghost he's a gu....ru. "So tell me what else you think this is?" she asked pointedly. "Wishes." "What?" "Wishes," Fox repeated. "Maybe not to you, but he's talking about a man who can grant you any wish. But you don't have a choice. He's a guy who comes into town, changes your life, and then charges you for it. You may feel better, but then you're in his debt." Erin stared at him. "What?" he asked. "You don't agree?" "This is a song, Fox. Kind of like those inkblot thingys. I think you're reading something into it." "Okay, okay, so play some more and we'll see." The pause button came off again, and for a few bars thunder rolled behind the music. You don't have no money "Maybe you're right." "Sssh, keep listening." You don't have no self respect Erin took another bite of her doughnut, defeated, while the instrumentals played on. Fox smiled. "See? He's a voodoo master, a wizard, a witch. He comes from nowhere, appears, grants you your wishes. But real life doesn't work like that." "Really." "That's right. He's waiting, at the end, to claim what you owe him. In one case, perhaps your soul. In ancient mythology, there was often one sign that always gave away the demon that was sent to trick people. In this case, a red right hand." He finished. "So he's offering whatever you want in return for...everything else," Erin asked, realization dawning. "Yeah." He stared at her across the table. If he were offered the trade, would he...? <Would you trade Dana for Samantha?> Would he? <No.> <Hey buddy, when did you start thinking of Dana Scully as what's important to you?> <Good question.> "Well, he seems like a jerk, then." Erin's voice pulled him back to the present. "Most tools of evil are, Erin," he said quickly, not wanting her to mentally catch his slip. "Not to sound like a preacher, but....." "I mean, he's a modern demon, though, right? He can get you a car. Hey, for the car I want, I'd do just about anything." She giggled. "How about you, wouldn't you, for a crack at the truth?" Startled, he looked at her thoughtfully. Then smiled. "Not in a million years." "Spoilsport." Something started howling through the speakers, and the background began to crackle again. You'll see him in your nightmares, you'll see him in your dreams Erin sighed. "Well, that's a fitting load of paranoia to end the song on, huh? So he not only charges you, he *uses* you." "Sounds like a few people I know." Fox mumbled, the image of a burning Morley floating in his mind. "You need some new friends, then." "Didn't say he was a friend." "So who is he?" "Someone who'll get what he deserves in the end." He reached over and switched the CD player off. "I'm going back to sleep." "Sweet dreams." She finished off the food and sat out on the couch, letting the rising sun fall over her. Finally, she whispered, "And good luck, man whose everything belongs to Dana." END
|