Title: I'm Not Irish, So Why'd You Pick On Me?
Author: Cheryl Cohen -- Alias Imastinker
Written: March 2000
Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters and situations created by Cris Carter, the Fox Network, and Ten Thirteen Productions. As such, the characters named are the property of those entities and are used without permission, although no copyright infringements are intended.

Summary: "Oh, I'll be doubtin' that she'll kill ye lad..."

Fox Mulder lazily opened one eye and yawned. He loved weekends, especially Sundays. He could sleep late, not shave, hog the morning paper -- at least the most important parts, namely the funnies and the sports section, then watch an endless marathon of primitive, male-type displays of animalistic athletic competition on the TV for as long as Dana would let him before forcing him to go to the mall. The mall...eeck. He'd certainly like to draw and quarter the money-hungry, self-serving male traitor who thought up that idea.

He had morning mouth and his damn pillow was wet from drool. Yuck. Why couldn't he sleep with his mouth closed? When he was a kid, he'd often had nightmares of what might have crawled in there during the night. He still did.

Hey, maybe that accounts for the morning mouth phenomena, he thought dourly as he rolled over to inform Dana that he'd just solved yet another age-old X-File and expected a reward befitting this new amazing feat.

Damn, he forgot. Today is St. Patrick's Day and he and Dana were expected at her mother's house this afternoon for the customary blow-out party consisting of no holds barred, drinking, raucousness, and general Gaelic debauchery. Oh family life...sometimes he felt it was inherently more dangerous than a roomful of mutants. Where in the hell was she, anyway? He smiled. Maybe she went to the mall without him. Yes! If he'd gone with her, all he would have heard the whole time was that he spent too much time in toy stores and bought too many baby things. So what? He couldn't help himself. He was addicted to toy stores. He disagreed with all the psychological BS they'd shoved down his throat at Oxford about spoiling infants. How could you show a baby too much love? Assholes didn't know what they were talking about. Obviously they'd never had to survive his family. "Hmmph," he grunted out loud.

He ran his hand affectionately over her side of the bed and inhaled her scent from the rumpled pillow by his head. "Dana?" he yelled experimentally. "Dana are you here?" "Oh well, can't stay in bed all day," he mumbled.

"Why not?" a small, disembodied voice retorted in a distinctly Irish brogue.

"Cause Scully would have my ass fo..." he stopped suddenly in mid-sentence and looked suspiciously around the room. He closed his eyes and shook his head in confusion. There had been enough voices in his head from the last case and he really, really didn't want to start manufacturing them on his own. "Nah...Imagination's getting the best of you again...better not mention this to Dana," he grumbled to himself.

I'll have ye know that me name tisn't Imagination and I'll not be tryn' to get the best of ye unless ye try to catch me, and further more why would ye not mention me to yer charmin' wife?" the small voice retorted.

Mulder bolted up straight in his bed, looked beneath the covers, then dropped over the side and took a quick peek into the space between the bed and the floor just in time to see a blur of motion exiting from the opposite end.

Reaching over to the nightstand, Mulder grabbed the Woody Woodpecker boxers that had hastily been deposited on the lampshade the night before and slipped them on...backwards. "Shit," he exclaimed with a squeak as one foot caught in the waistband and he crashed to the floor with a thud. Something had just rounded the corner of his bedroom door. Fine. Usually he had a decent sense of humor, with a name like Fox it was a prerequisite for survival. But this...

This practical joke had gone far enough. This was an invasion of his inner sanctum. He ruled here, he thought with typical male, territorial pride and someone had intruded into his domain.

Silently, Mulder wondered who the prankster was and who had put him up to this shenanigan. "Okay, I know you're here," he offered as a platitude, "come out, come out, where ever you are," he called out like a ten-year-old.

A flash of green scooted across his kitchen doorway. "Gottcha now," Mulder beamed, running toward the kitchen. Well, he had been running until his big toe connected with the vacuum cleaner that someone had thoughtlessly left in the middle of the living room floor. "OW!! Shit, Mother Fucker," he cried while hopping up and down on one foot. "Okay, I surrender. You win. You can go tell Dana you got me good. Ha...Ha..."

"Why in ta name of hevin' would I be doin' a ting like that?" the small, lilting voice admonished him.

Mulder slowly regained his footing and stealthily inched his way to the kitchen doorway doing a quick peek around the corner. Nothing...absolutely nothing greeted his tactical ploy. All right, so he'd complained to her about going to this St. Patrick's Day party. That didn't mean she could go off the deep end and try to make him feel like a looney tune. "Hey, I said I give up. I'll go to the damn party and I'll even have a good time...Okay?

Bill?..Melissa?..Mom?..Quee?.. Where in the hell is that pesky Pomeranian when you need the little bastard," he whined.

Walking quietly into the kitchen, he stole a look behind the refrigerator, then pulled open the pantry doors, half expecting to find the unidentified menace hiding there. Once more there was nothing. "Maybe it's the hypoglycemia," he muttered, reaching up to snatch a box of sugar coated saucer cereal from the top shelf.

"Ooof, ah shit," he exclaimed as the bottom fell open and deposited its contents on his head, cascading into an invasion of tiny white, pink, and blue alien saucers that landed in a large heap on the floor around his feet. Well this was one UFO site for which he wouldn't have to search. Now, to make like the government and get rid of the evidence. "Deny Everything." He smirked while sweeping up the mess and running it down the disposal. Now who did he know who would put the damn box in the cupboard upside down. What else was there to eat around this place, he wondered. Guess it was time for them to go to the grocery store again. The grocery store. Now there was a store he could handle. He loved grocery stores almost as much as toy stores.

Bright, cheery, always full of good stuff like sugar coated saucer cereal, and Little Debbie's fudge brownies. His mouth watered and he couldn't wait for Dana to get back so he could drag her through the supermarket and wipe out the snack aisle. It was a real pisser that he inherited what was left of her strange food cravings...at least it wasn't fucking calamari. Thank god for small favors. He hated squid. It made him want to puke and god knows he'd done enough of that lately too. He'd just spied a box of Pop Tarts when he heard the music in the living room.

The strains of the "Chicken Song," screeched through the kitchen like a concert of drunken Polish accordion players and Mulder held his hands over his ears in self defense. He didn't even own a copy of that obnoxious song and wouldn't--even if someone paid him to buy it. Why would Scully purchase something so annoying? "Dana!!" he yelled above the din, "I can't take it any more...Uncle!!! I refuse to eat biserking breakfast saucers while being enticed by a stupid song to shake my butt and flap my arms around like frightened poultry. Scully??!!"

Mulder walked quickly into the living room. He'd learned his lesson concerning running. Stopping by the couch he bent over and picked up the CD cover from "America's Favorite Party Songs." Where the fuck did this come from, he asked himself while leaning over the back of the couch to check for unwanted visitors.

"Whoaa!!!" He felt a slight nudge on his posterior just as he lost his balance and toppled over the couch bringing it down with him. He hadn't realized how many popcorn kernels had accidentally fallen between the cushions until they slowly rained down on his face. In the future, he'd learn to use the vacuum.

Mulder searched the house from floor to ceiling and for the life of him, couldn't figure out where the culprit was hiding. Jesus, it was getting late and the popcorn kernels were still littering the floor. "Better clean this mess up quick," he mumbled out loud, while picking up the nozzle to the vacuum cleaner that had previously attacked his toe and turning it on.

"Shhhiiiitttt!!!!" he moaned pathetically when a cloud of dust exploded from the back end of the machine like the a-bomb at Hiroshima. Soot and dust bunnies covered his face and body and nearly everything else in the room.

"Oh god...Scully's gonna kill me," he cried in despair.

Poltergeist? Maybe it was poltergeists. Yeah, that was it. He'd have to check on this house's history a little more closely.

"Oh, I'll be doubtin' that she'll kill ye lad..."

Oh, no...it's the voice again... He still couldn't get the CD player to spit out that crummy disc and all attempts to turn the sucker off had been futile.

Fuck. He was so sick of hearing that goddamn Chicken Song. One more rendition and he would certainly blow chunks any minute even though he'd gotten over the morning thing' a few weeks after Scully.

"That's it!!" he screamed over the noise. "Enough!!"

Turning back toward the stereo, he stopped in his tracks. There, perched on top of his cd player was a very short, green (at least what he perceived as green), being with large pointy ears.

"Oh. My. God," Fox swallowed hard, "They are green..." Dana would never, ever, believe this one. His whole life he'd searched for extraterrestrials and here was one sitting on top of his stereo system, torturing him with incredibly bad party music. Go figure. All this time, and all he had to do was play the fucking Chicken Song. Why did they bother to send up Bach? The little fuckers probably really get off on the Barney Song. He started to giggle hysterically. "I love you, you love me, I've got a fucking EBE, I was wrong, they're not gray...who gives a shit, anyway..."

"What ye be babblin' bout' lad?" the tiny figure croaked, "And what the devil is an EBE?"

Mulder couldn't believe he was having this conversation. Maybe it was the corned beef and cabbage Scully made him eat last night. He'd sworn off beef and she'd managed to coerce him quite effectively to make an exception just this one time in honor of St. Patrick's Day. Now, he was paying the price.

"You're just indigestion," he hedged, "the unfortunate remains of a poorly digested dinner."

"Am I now?" the little thing retorted. "I'll have ya know, I'm a leprechaun and if you catch me, I'll grant ye three wishes."

"Oh great," Mulder answered, "I'm standing here conversing with something that looks like an unsuccessful cross between Yoda and Mr. Spock and I'm supposed to believe it's not just indigestion. Can't you just leave me alone?"

"Don't ye want ta three wishes?" the leprechaun asked with a puzzled expression. "They always want ta three wishes," he urged, his voice getting desperate. "Isn't there anythin' ye be wantin'?"

Mulder smiled. "I already have almost everything I need," he replied with conviction except for one thing," he added thoughtfully.

"And what might that be? Power? Wealth? Long Life?" the being asked, rubbing his thin hands together in anticipation.

"No," Mulder sighed, "I want my sister back. I wish I could find Sam," he replied sadly. "Everything else will unfold as it should without you or anyone else. I'll take what life has to offer and be thankful for what I have.

Wishing for things you didn't earn can only bring sorrow in the end and I wouldn't take the freedom from any living creature...not even if it is a figment of my imagination," he added with a quirky grin. "God, I need some Rolaids."

The being hopped down from his perch and lightly touched Mulder's hand with one finger. "Your wish will come true with time," he said with a sparkle in his eyes, "And like you say...I would have absolutely nothin' ta do with it. May the luck of the Irish follow you and give you joy! If ye not be needin' yer wishes, then ye have ta release me from me offer and I'll be on me way."

Mulder looked confused. "I'm not Irish. Why'd you pick on me in the first place and not my wife?"

"Tisn't it as plain as ta nose on yer face? Ye weren't wearin' the green!"

"I wasn't wearin' anything," Fox chuckled.

"Exactly," the little imp grinned.

"Well, just let a few more verses of that damn Chicken Song play and I guarantee, I won't have to wear green, I'll be green. Please, make it stop?

What do I have to do to get you out of here before Dana gets home?"

The leprechaun pulled a green bow tie from his vest pocket and handed it to the mortal. "Here, put this on and I'll be gone."

Mulder stared at the tie and grimaced. "You're kidding, right?"

The little green creature shook his head, 'no', and motioned with his hand for Fox to put on the tie.

Mulder reluctantly placed the tie around his neck and the creature disappeared just as Dana walked through the front door.

"Christ Almighty, what happened here?" She stood and stared in astonishment.

Her husband stood in the middle of their living room in his underwear, wearing nothing else except for a hideous green bow tie. The entire room including said husband was covered in dust and that god awful Chicken Song played loudly in the background. She seriously had to repress the urge to laugh hysterically and commented instead in the steadiest voice she could muster, "gee, Fox...starting the celebrations a little early, don't you think?"

Fox turned suddenly at the sound of her voice, blushed a vibrant crimson, and shrugged sheepishly. "I...uh...um...Scully, you're not gong to believe this..."

"Mulder?" she asked with a mischievous grin.

"Um...what?"

"I think the slit for Woody Woodpecker's beak belongs in the front of those boxers, Mulder. Suddenly a CD disk shot out of the player, landing on the floor right before Mulder "accidentally" stepped on it with a defining crunch.

"Come on let's get you cleaned up," she muttered, leading him to the bathroom and the shower beyond. "I don't even want to know."

"I'll leave it to you to correct the fashion faux pau," he grinned.

All of the sudden the annual Scully St. Patrick's Day bash didn't seem so...wild after all.

Fine