GOSSAMER--Don't archive; I'll submit via email.

Title - From Ass to Zebra
Author - Dark Nascent
E-Mail address - nascen...@hotmail.com
Rating - R
Category - SAH
Spoilers - Fight the Future
Keywords - M/S UST
Summary - Okay. So what if, like, Vince Gilligan was me, and I was
Vince? I am he, and he is me, and we are all together! Step aside,
Vinzeno. Let D.N. show you how it's DONE.

Archive - Sure, just let me know where it's going.

Feedback - Eagerly anticipated and always welcome. I don't bite
(usually).

---------------------------------------------------

"From Ass to Zebra," from the Barnyard Series
Barnyard Series installments are entirely independent and need not be
read in order. The Barnyard is generously hosted by jordan at
http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Parthenon/1063.

by Dark Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)

---------------------------------------------------

CONTENT WARNING: This story contains both character death and
figments. If you don't like either, stick around anyway. Broaden your
horizons.

DISCLAIMER: I deny everything.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Let's see. It's 5 a.m. What did I eat last night? Oh
yes, Mediterranean fruits...you know, dates, figs, olives
(mmmm...brine....), the Aegean Sea....

---------------------------------------------------

Washington, D.C.
9:31 p.m.

The bulbous thunderhead evoked the bronze-sculpted bust of a man
wielding a great hammer as he crackled and roared out his anger to the
urban world below. The sky shuddered and hummed to a jittery rhythm
like a nervous dragon, spitting great blue fractal tongues of fire
across the blackened sky. Lungs of unimaginably large capacity blew
gales of humid air into the faces of the scattered passersby, all
hurrying along the sidewalks in hopes of finding home before the storm
found them.

Two figures, marked by their determined stride and straight edges, moved
quickly through the threatening evening air. Those who passed them
either stared or slouched--the couple's magnetism compelled all, with
different results depending on their charge. They did not notice: they
were deeply engaged in one another.

"It's nothing benign like that, Scully," the man insisted fervently.
"How can you possibly thing that, after all we've seen?"

"The reasons Cassidy stated were well-founded," Scully replied. "I'm
surprised it didn't happen sooner. If they wanted to shut us down, they
could've used this weapon long ago--_we_ loaded the gun for them!"

"Don't you mean, _I_ loaded the gun?" the man asked with a
self-deprecating sneer.

"_No,_ Mulder," she answered firmly, giving the air a decisive downward
push with the flat of her hand. "I said 'we'--I meant 'we.' My actions
were cited just as frequently as yours, and I don't appreciate being
treated as if I'm not just as responsible for our actions as _partners_
as you are."

Mulder clapped his hand to his forehead as another roar of thunder
ripped across the sky, then slid his hand down his face until his
fingers rubbed his chin. "Scully, I didn't mean it like that," he
began, and just then the clouds ripped open as if slashed by a scimitar.

Cold rain poured down on them from above, and as the scant few others on
the street went dashing for the eaves and other buildings, the pair
simply stopped and turned to face one another. A crackling bolt of
lightening illuminated Scully's face; her expression was a priceless
look of resignation, as if to say, 'Of course this would happen to
_us._' It was impossible for her to look severe when her hair clung to
her face that way, and her partner spontaneously embraced her with an
affectionate grin.

She pushed him away with a look of supreme irritation which, in her
current dripping state, was as comic as an angry, wet cocker spaniel.
"Mulder, get off me," she growled.

He stepped back, but she could see through the dark that he was still
grinning at her, and it irked her unaccountably. She turned around,
hoping to flag down a cab, but the two that passed immediately were of
course full. Others had hijacked transportation _before_ the storm
broke.

Mulder tugged her arm back to her side. "C'mon, Scully," he said over
the roar of the rain. "Let's wait it out a bit in there."

She followed his pointing finger toward a green-and-brass pub, the kind
with curtains sealing off the lower half of the windows. A neon sign in
tasteful serif decorated the doorway: _The Last Stop,_ it read.

Well, it was a better option than this curb. Scully followed Mulder
willingly inside.

The bar was more crowded than it should have been on a Wednesday
night--other patrons seemed to have entered on the same inspiration that
drove Mulder and Scully. Mulder took Scully's wet coat as she shrugged
out of it, then abandoned both their trenchcoats to the hooks by the
door. Several lonely men who had been eying Scully with proprietary
amusement looked quickly away as her holster was revealed. Mulder found
their reaction oddly satisfying and straightened slightly.

All the booths were taken, so Scully led them to an unoccupied end of
the bar and slid somewhat awkwardly onto the bar stool. Her toes did
not quite reach the brass rod intended as a footrest, and this, combined
with her soaked and tangled hair, made it very difficult for Mulder to
hide his amusement.

"What are you laughing at?" she snapped as he sat down beside her.

Mulder schooled his face into a carefully neutral expression. "I'm not
laughing, Scully," he told her.

"Good, because you look pretty ridiculous too," she answered, a hint of
a smile playing about her lips, and he knew that her irritation was at
least partially feigned.

Mulder snorted. "Let me buy you a drink, Scully," he suggested. "We
could both use it."

He was both surprised and gratified when she didn't argue. "Sounds
good," she said. "A dry martini would be wonderful."

Encouraged, Mulder reached out to tentatively pat her stray, wet hairs
back into place. She frowned but she didn't bat him away. "What's
wrong with you, Mulder?"

He withdrew his hand. "What do you mean?" he asked, confused.

She touched his arm reassuringly. "It's just that...this isn't the
reaction I'd expected. I'm angry. Why aren't you?"

"Oh, I'm angry, Scully," he assured her. "I'm just not _worried._
We'll get the X-Files back. Don't we always? This is a minor setback.
Things have been much worse, but you and I are alive and healthy and..."
He trailed off.

'Together?" she suggested.

"I was just going to say 'well-fed,'" he deadpanned, and was rewarded by
an involuntary laugh.

He waved down the bartender, a middle-aged woman who looked far cheerier
than the weather merited, and ordered them each a drink. When she had
gone, Scully pursed her lips seriously.

"Really, Mulder," she said. "This is not just a bureaucratic excuse.
It's not as if the X-Files were just closed. We've been accused of
ineptitude and maybe something worse. I don't think this is going to be
as easy as you seem to believe."

"Nah, just let Spender go at it for a few weeks and he'll wind up either
dead or in an asylum. Then Skinner and Cassidy will apologize and we'll
go back to work. _If_ it is, as you say, about _us._ If it's an
agenda, something to keep the nameless men happy, then we might be in a
little more trouble. But still, we'll get through this."

"What about Fowley?" Scully asked, and Mulder did not miss the sharpness
in her tone.

"Diana can take care of herself," Mulder answered carefully.

"Yes, she certainly proved that today, didn't she?" Scully asked, her
voice deliberately casual.

Mulder remembered how the miraculously recovered Agent Fowley had
testified to the assistant directors earlier that day and winced
involuntarily. "I have to talk to her some more," he said finally.
"Figure out what's going on."

"Do you trust her?" Scully asked.

Mulder considered her question, tracing the woodgrain of the bar top
with one fingernail. "No," he admitted finally. "Not really."

"What did she say to you, Mulder?" Scully's voice went deliberately
cold. "After I left."

Mulder grimaced slightly at the memory, raising his eyes to meet
Scully's. "She said she was sorry," he answered, his bitterness oozing
like sap. "She said that it could 'happen to the best of us.'"

Scully's brow furrowed. "That what could happen?"

Mulder raised an eyebrow at her, and abruptly she understood.

"Oh," she said neutrally.

--------------------------------------------------

Hoover Building
Four hours earlier

Scully felt an eerie twinge of deja vu as A.D.s Cassidy, Skinner and
Margulius regarded her from across the long, glossy table. The
wood-paneled walls hadn't changed from the last time she had been called
to the floor in this room, but the people on this side of the table were
different. Mulder sat to her right, and to her left were seated Agents
Spender and Fowley.

_The cost of the _suits_ in this room alone could feed a small family
for a year,_ she reflected with an idleness which bordered on
bitterness.

"Answer the question, Agent Scully," Cassidy ordered sternly, her hands
folded tightly before her.

Scully blinked coolly. "The question, ma'am, as it's currently phrased,
cannot be answered."

"Let me rephrase it, then, Agent Scully," Margulius intoned cockily, his
grey features sinister with warning. "Did you or did you not consider
your partner mentally fit to continue his duties after the Roche case?"

Mulder sat beside her, implacable. Skinner looked uncomfortable.
Spender looked smug, and Fowley was chewing thoughtfully on her lower
lip.

"At no time have I ever considered my partner unfit to uphold his duties
to uncover the truth as an investigator," Scully said confidently.

"Clever answer, Agent Scully," Margulius remarked, in a tone of voice
that not-so-subtly suggested she'd been taking lessons from Bill
Clinton. "But what about his duty to uphold the law? Was he upholding
the law when he broke onto Ellens Air Force Base? When he killed John
Barnett while the man was holding a hostage--the hostage a friend of
yours? When he knocked Duanne Barry around after your disappearance? How
about his failure to immediately report the death of his father, or
his--and your--flight from the law at that time? Or his
still-unexplained involvement in the explosion of a train--"

"His involvement saved hundreds of lives!" Scully objected, unable to
sit silent any longer.

But Margulius only regarded her sternly and continued. "His illegal
custody of a federally subpoenaed suspect--Jeremiah Smith--and his
inability to explain Smith's death or the whereabouts of his remains?
His disappearance and allowance of Alex Krycek's escape in 1996 which
led to your subpoena and jailtime? His witnessing the death of David
and Amy Cassandra while under the influence of illegal drugs? How about
when he faked his own death, possibly to cover up the murder of a DOD
agent and you lied to your superiors to conceal it? Your illegal
intervention in the care of a child not in your custody? Your partner's
repeated attacks on A.D. Skinner and Agent Spender? And, last but not
least, the illegal and irresponsible release of a convicted criminal to
further his own personal agenda, resulting in the trauma and near-death
of a six-year-old girl?"

Before Scully could open her mouth, the man added sternly: "These
incidents, of course, do not reflect the numerous violations of civil
rights, breaking and entering, evidence tampering, and abuses of federal
power, if only because charges were never filed in most of those
incidences. But word gets around, Agent Mulder. Word gets around."

Mulder stared the man down coolly. "Are you talking to me or to my
partner?" he asked. "I hope you're talking to me, because it's hardly
fair of you to ask _her_ to defend my actions."

"You're right," the man snapped. "Though her file is also fairly
thick. We'll get to that. But how do _you_ defend your actions, Agent
Mulder?"

"With my reports," Mulder answered, his hands carefully folded in his
lap. Rage boiled just beneath the surface of Scully's skin and she
wondered how he could contain himself so well. Although, she reflected,
she probably at least _appeared_ as calm.

Skinner, watching the pair, thought that Scully appeared dangerous. He
waited.

"Everything I've seen and experienced, and my reasons for my actions,"
Mulder said, "are documented in my reports, which I believe you have
access to."

"I do," Margulius snapped. "I've read many of them. They're
ridiculous."

"But true," Mulder answered. "I've recorded everything that happened
truthfully in those reports, as has Agent Scully."

Scully hoped she didn't wince when Mulder lied. She knew there was a
multitude of details which never found their way into the official
reports, but she was confident that they had remained true to the spirit
of justice.

Cassidy leafed through the papers before her. "I must admit, Agents, I
was convinced of a need to reopen the division based on your production
of evidence with which we were not capable of dealing. The two of you
boasted a stellar solvency rate. However, some of the explanations
which your supervisor"--she glanced sideways at Skinner--"signed off on,
are hardly what I consider to be solutions. Loosely based on evidence
and providing little proof, your conclusions are, quite frankly,
embarrassing."

Scully broke in. "I assure you, ma'am, that I was as skeptical as you
yourself. I am a scientist, and was assigned to this division
ostensibly to disprove Mulder's versions of events. In most cases I can
neither confirm nor deny his version of events, but in many cases I,
too, have witnessed unexplainable things."

Cassidy frowned. "Yes, I've noticed that you seem to rarely be present
for the most bizarre encounters described by Agent Mulder. People and
objects defying gravity, large 'spaceships', alien bodies...."

"I have seen what could possibly be alien life forms," Scully replied
calmly. "I have seen what could be a spaceship; in fact, I was recently
confined in one, as you'll note in our last report."

"Don't you think it interesting, Agent Scully, that you began witnessing
such events only later in your partnership, after a long time of severe
stress and near constant association with your partner?"

Scully glanced sidelong at Jeffrey Spender, who sported a satisfied
smirk. Why the hell he and Fowley were permitted to be present for this
humiliation had eluded her for some time, but the gleam in his eyes
hinted at an answer. "Are you suggesting I've been subject to his
suggestion?" she asked. "That I have not seen the things I've seen?"

"I'm suggesting," Cassidy replied carefully, "that you both undergo a
full psychological evaluation, subject to review by your superiors.
We're at a loss to explain these events, Agent Scully, and your reports
are less than satisfactory in that regard. However, we're also at a
loss to explain the empirical facts of your disappearance or your
cancer."

"Exactly," Mulder cut in decisively. "We have physical evidence that
something was done to Agent Scully. And we have other witnesses to that
fact." He glanced significantly at Skinner, who cleared his throat on
cue.

"It's true," Skinner said. "There is definitely an implied connection
between the X-Files and what has happened in Scully's past."

"'Definitely an implied connection,'" echoed Margulius, mockingly,
without looking at Skinner. "That's very reassuring. Tell me, Agents,
if so much of this is connected, if so much of it is true, why don't you
have pictures? Don't you have a camera?"

"We're usually a little too busy fighting for our lives," Mulder
remarked. "Kodak moments aren't exactly a priority."

Margulius continued as if he hadn't heard. "Why haven't you gone to the
media to expose the men whom you claim have threatened your lives and
killed your loved ones? Surely you don't expect me to believe that a
conspiracy as large as the one you're suggesting could exist without the
media ever getting wind of it."

"They _control_ all of the mainstream media," Mulder answered, his voice
ringing like crystal. "We read what they want us to read, see what they
want us to see. Some media tell the truth, but it's largely ignored
because the spin they create teaches us it's all insanity."

Margulius smirked triumphantly, as if Mulder had fallen into an obvious
trap. "You're mighty paranoid, aren't you, Agent Mulder?" he asked.

"It's a learned behavior," Mulder answered, mirroring the older man's
smirk.

Cassidy, glancing from one man to the other, cut in gracefully. "Let's
talk about a specific case here," she suggested. "One of your early
ones, in Philadelphia. Do you remember Lauren Kyte?"

"Sure," Mulder replied. "The woman who was seemingly surrounded by
mysterious deaths."

"The company she worked for was found guilty of smuggling weapons to a
Middle Eastern extremist group because of our actions," Scully added
quickly.

"Yes," Cassidy replied. "But, Agent Mulder, your report alleges that
the company was exposed by one Howard Graves, who was dead at the time."

"That's correct," Mulder answered.

"Further, it claims that Howard Graves' ghost communicated this by
causing objects to be flung around a room, defying gravity. It also
says that Graves' ghost was responsible for killing people."

"That's correct," Mulder repeated.

"And yet," Cassidy continued, "Agent Scully's report on the same case
calls those deaths unexplained."

"Yes," Scully answered neutrally.

Cassidy raised her eyebrows. "And this bothers neither of you?"

Mulder started to speak, but before the words emerged, Scully cut in
quickly. "I did not witness the events which Mulder saw, but I do know
that the coverup was exposed. It does bother me that the deaths were
not sufficiently explained, but that is frequently the nature of the
X-Files, and I'm confident that with more time and investigation of
similar cases, we can form a more cohesive explanation." Her eyes slid
sideways over Fowley and Spender, as if to suggest this pair could
perform such a feat was ludicrous.

"Like you did when you classified nursing home deaths and a rape as a
form of 'astral projection,' or when you said the same about a quadruple
amputee?" Cassidy persisted, ignoring the implication. "Or when you
attributed murders to another dead man--Isaac Luria?"

"That was completely different," Mulder said quickly. "And I _saw_
him."

"Did you see Isaac Luria, Agent Scully?"

"No," she admitted. "I was in another room. But I did hear my partner
fire on him, and I'm sure he wouldn't do so unless there was a reason.
And I have seen many things I can't explain."

"Like a decapitated man restored to life?"

"Yes," Scully answered coolly. "Like that."

It continued like that for an hour--the questions increasingly specific
and sensitive. What, exactly, had they seen and how much had been
documented? Did they honestly _expect_ to be believed? Through it all,
Spender smiled cockily while Fowley stared neutrally forward, hands
folded neatly in her lap.

Finally, Scully and Mulder were dismissed, left to pace the hallway
while the panel consulted with Spender and Fowley. When the pair were
called back into the room, less than thirty minutes later, Spender's
irrepressible smirk and Fowley's composed, slightly sympathetic features
signaled that a verdict had been reached.

"Agents," Cassidy announced. "We've come to a decision. You two will
undergo voluntary psychological evaluation, and the results of that
evaluation, and at that time we will reconsider. But in the meantime,
Diana Fowley will be named SAC of the X-Files division, with Jeffrey
Spender as her partner. The pair comes highly recommended."

Before Scully could catch his eyes to stop him, Mulder exploded.

"That's _ridiculous!_" he announced. "I opened the X-Files. I worked
my ass off on them for years. Spender has no respect for
them--nominating him to succeed me is unconscionable. Would you want to
know _why_ he comes highly recommended? It's because these nameless men
know it's the best way to render the division impotent!"

Spender leapt out of his chair, a cry of anger on his lips, but Fowley
surged up with him, grabbing his arm tightly. "Fox--" she began.

"_No,_" Mulder said firmly, rounding on her. "You know this, Diana.
You've seen things. You know what they're trying to do."

"Fox, I've seen evidence for psychic abilities, but not for the things
you've described. I'd like to discuss it with you, but--"

Margulius cut her off. "You will not have any contact with the
division, Agent Mulder. I mean that. Perhaps after we get things more
straightened out, but in the meantime, you will remain in your Quantico
assignment."

"But--"

"Mulder," Scully said softly, sternly.

He did not look at her. Instead, he fell silent, turned abruptly on his
heel and stalked out of the room.

Scully regarded the three at the table coldly, hoping that her
disappointment registered strongly with Skinner.

"Agent Scully," he said, cold and distant. "You must admit that few of
your claims have been substantiated. This arrangement is not
necessarily permanent. It only merits further review."

Scully folded her arms across her chest, let her gaze travel slowly over
each person in the room, dragging through them like a knife. Each of
the men winced in turn. Cassidy looked away, but Fowley only stared
back, sympathy in her eyes. Scully ignored it.

"It does indeed," she said, then turned to follow her partner.

He had waited for her outside, clenching and unclenching his fists as he
stood in the hallway.

"Mulder--" Scully began as the door clicked shut behind them.

"No, Scully," he said, waving his hand. "It's all right. It's
temporary. We'll get through this."

She nodded. "I know," she said fiercely, and inclined her head,
gesturing for him to accompany her down the hall.

Just before they stepped into the elevator, Fowley's voice grabbed
them. "Fox!" she cried, and Mulder rounded on her, glaring.

She closed the distance between them in a few quick strides. "I didn't
want it to be this way," she said quickly, her voice low. "I don't
want you to think I've betrayed you."

She glanced sidelong at Scully, who had folded her arms across her chest
in a clearly disbelieving pose.

Mulder shook his head slowly at her. "I don't know what to think,
Diana," he told her carefully.

"I'm doing this to keep the X-Files alive," she hissed. "There're real
things in there, as you know. If the time comes, I'll hand it back to
you gladly, or perhaps we can...all work together. But the things
you're saying...I just don't know. Can I...talk to you a minute?"

Scully blew air softly through her nose, her eyes narrowing. Mulder
glanced at her. "I'm not supposed to talk to the X-Files division," he
sneered, turning back to Diana.

"It's not really about that. Not really," Diana fumbled awkwardly.
"Just for a minute."

Mulder considered, his fists still clenched at his sides. Finally,
after an interminable moment, he gave Scully a slight sideways nod.

With a parting glare at Fowley, Scully stepped into the elevator and the
doors slammed shut as if the red-haired agent had willed it.

"Thank you," Diana breathed, and gestured toward the stairwell. Mulder
motioned that she should lead the way.

They stopped on the landing between floors, and she stood close to him,
as if perhaps fearing she might be overheard.

"I'm sorry, Fox," she whispered, wrapping her fingers around his arm.
He could smell her perfume, familiar and vaguely erotic via the memories
it summoned.

"I want to preserve the X-Files, though, you must know that," she
continued. "Spender's a fool, but I can work around that. Until all
this is sorted out."

Mulder snorted skeptically. "Sorted out how?"

"I don't know that yet," she said slowly, squeezing his arm. "I just
don't know that. But...I'm worried about you."

Mulder turned his head away and started to speak, then stopped, then
looked back at her and tried again. "You think I'm crazy."

"I think...you're under a lot of pressure. Some of what you say you've
seen...it isn't what we used to talk about, Fox. It's...more. I don't
know what to believe."

"Join the club," he muttered.

"Fox," Diana said firmly, maternally. "You've been subjected to
incredible stress. It can happen to the best of us. But you're
_stronger_ than this."

Mulder jerked free of her grip. "Don't patronize me, Diana," he
warned. "I'm a psychologist--I know I'm not exactly a model of sanity,
but I am _not_ delusional."

"That's not what I said," she answered patiently.

Mulder shrugged. "What did you want to tell me?"

She accepted his change of subject gracefully. "I told you most of it.
But also that, when this is all straightened out, you'll of course be
welcome to come back. I'll take good care of things. Together we
can--"

Mulder cut her off. "Diana, if I come back, Scully will be coming with
me. I don't think the division has the cashflow for more than two
agents."

She blinked, nonplused. "Not with _your_ budget, maybe, but things can
be reworked. I wasn't implying that Agent Scully would be unwelcome--I
can see she has a lot invested there as well."

Mulder nodded curtly. "Is that all?"

Diana took a step backward, her face betraying slight hurt which,
surprisingly and despite her familiar perfume, had absolutely no effect
on Mulder. "Yes," she said softly. "I guess it is."

"Then I'll see you later," Mulder told her, and started down the stairs.


From Ass to Zebra, by Dark Nascent
Fourth out of the Barn

part 2/2

--------------------------------------------------

The Last Stop
10:46 p.m.

Mulder finished off his third drink and pushed his empty cup aside,
watching his partner closely. Her hair had dried now, but hung in wispy,
untamed tendrils which made her look much younger than she was. She had
propped her cheek up with one hand, her eyes unfocused.

Outside, the rain still pounded on the sidewalk. They should have left
by now, shared a cab back to their cars and headed to their separate
homes. But Mulder was reluctant to leave, and judging by Scully's
pensive expression and relaxed posture, she was in no rush either.

He touched her hand. "What are you thinking?" he asked.

She didn't reply immediately, but when she did, her words felt like
straight vodka sliding down his throat. "What if they're right?" she
said. "What if it _is_ crazy?"

"Wha...what do you mean?" he asked. "We've _seen_ things."

"But what does that really mean?" she demanded, looking at him now.
"Perception is our only window on the world, but how can we really trust
it?"

With relief, Mulder recognized her musing as rhetorical. He rose to the
challenge naturally, immediately more relaxed in this familiar rhythm.
"Perception isn't all we have," he replied. "We have intellect. We can
interpret what we see and predict its likelihood by thinking it
through."

"Of course, but many of the things we've seen don't make sense at all
intellectually anyway. Leonard Betts, for instance. There is no way a
person could evolve the ability to spontaneously regenerate body parts
just by eating cancer, in one generation. It's ridiculous."

"Scully, just because it doesn't _seem_ to make sense doesn't mean
anything--it just means we're not looking hard enough. Didn't you tell
me that once?"

"Maybe it means we're looking too hard. What about Jason Nichols? Even
if time travel were possible, what he claimed to want to do wasn't
possible--that's easily and conclusively provable. He wanted to change
the 'past,' and he thought he did. But time is simply a fourth
dimension--there's only one point corresponding to each four-dimensional
coordinate--he could not have changed the 'past'--it's completely
paradoxical. Basic linear algebra. Sort of."

"See? You're already squirming a little." He elbowed her. "We don't
know _what's_ possible. If we can't explain what we see, then our
explanation is insufficient."

"No," Scully corrected him. "You just said, effectively, that intellect
should be the final judge, not empirical perception. Now you're trying
to explain away perception at the expense of intellect."

"When did I say that?"

"You said, 'We can interpret what we see and predict its likelihood by
thinking it through.'"

Defeated, Mulder pushed his glass away. "Scully, are you always this
feisty when you're drunk?"

She snorted. "I'm not drunk, Mulder, I had two drinks. I'm Irish, for
chrissake."

"'For chrissake?'" he echoed with amusement. "Oh yeah, you're drunk."

"Shut up, Mulder. Seriously. Even if we _do_ say that intellect can
explain and should be superior to perception, we still have no means for
input except by perception. Our perception is still the limiting
factor."

Mulder shrugged. "Okay, so what's wrong with perception? Are you
telling me I'm not seeing what I see? Are you telling me I can't say for
a fact that you, my partner, Dana Katherine Scully, are sitting in front
of me arguing with me?"

She blinked at him. "You're a psychologist, you know that's possible."

"For psychotics, yes."

"And how can you be sure you're not psychotic?"

Mulder struck his chest in mock injury. "Physician, heal thyself!" he
cried, a little too loudly, and a few patrons turned to look. He
lowered his voice, leaning in closer to her. "You've seen these things
too, Scully. Or do you think you hallucinated that ship? Others."

"Well, I...."

"Exactly," Mulder said triumphantly. "Drink. We need another drink."
He waved at the bartender, who was washing out her glassware, and tapped
the counter. She nodded and held up a finger, signaling him to wait.

Scully shook her head. "Mulder, I don't want any more."

He grinned, reached out to graze her back with his palm. "What, is your
perception clouding? Afraid you'll see some aliens?"

"Afraid I'll see some men in little grey suits, you mean," she corrected
with a significant glance. He thought she leaned back into his hand,
but he might have imagined it.

"No, that's the I.R.S.," he quipped, then lowered his voice seriously.
"I'm not afraid of the truth, Scully. I want to know it, no matter what
it is. Even if it means I'm wrong."

Her brow furrowed, and she leaned away from his touch. "Are you saying
I _am_ afraid?"

"That's not what I'm saying at all," he said, enunciating each word
carefully. She favored him with a slight smile.

"Seriously Mulder, I'm wondering now. How do I know that the stress of
working with you for all these years hasn't implanted suggestions, made
me ready to believe? Warped my mind?"

Mulder frowned, suddenly feeling that the whole evening he'd been
playing puppy to her pit bull. "Gee, thanks, Scully," he commented
dryly. "I'm glad all these years have meant so much to you."

But his partner was nothing if not unpredictable, and she did not fail
him now. Skipping past the casual brushes and touches which acted as a
second language for them, she seized his hand unexpectedly, looked
seriously into his eyes. "Mulder, you know I don't regret it. You
_know_ that."

His mouth went suddenly, inexplicably dry, and he found himself nodding
in response. He did know.

The bartender sidled over with another drink for each of them, and the
moment shattered. Scully released his hand.

"You know," Mulder said conversationally, sipping from the new drink.
"Descartes confronted this problem when he took up the Catholic church's
challenge to prove the existence of a good and generous God. By proving
his own existence he demonstrated that his perceptions were valid, and
thus, since God gave us the ability to perceive, since it couldn't have
come from elsewhere, God must be good, or at least, honest."

"Nice synopsis, Mulder." Scully smirked. "I think the one I got in
philosophy class was a little more detailed."

"Give me a break, it's been a long day."

"His argument was tautologically flawed, though," she continued,
unrelenting. "He started with 'I think, therefore I am,' and everything
else relied on that. But the postulate presupposes his existence by
using the word 'I.' He's already acknowledged that he exists, and then
tries to prove he _'is'_ Q.E.D. It's an amazingly weak argument."

"I wasn't going to point out that circularity, because for once the
religious guy was sort of on my side," Mulder answered, taking another
swallow, "...but I thought you believed in God."

"That doesn't mean I need a philosopher to tell me why it's acceptable."

"Why not? Have you ever perceived God's existence?"

"Not in the conventional sense of perception, no," she admitted. "But
that's irrelevant, Mulder. We're not discussing whether I need to see
something to believe it: we're discussing whether I can believe what I
do see."

"Touche," Mulder said. "Okay, let's say all supernatural phenomena are
just hallucinations. How do you explain their consistency from person
to person? How do you explain the consistency between the two of us, in
what we've witnessed?"

"What we've witnessed hasn't been entirely consistent, Mulder," Scully
answered. "I mean, sometimes it has, especially more recently, but
Cassidy was right--I didn't see many of the things you did, in our early
years together. Environment and cultural myth color our perception in
ways we can't begin to understand. People experienced well-documented
shared hallucinations during the witch trials of Salem, and the fervor
stirred people who wouldn't have normally testified to such things into
testifying. But did you know that that year, local farmers documented a
pestilence in their rye crops? Some even attributed it to the
'witches.' It was a fungus--ergot. Which, as you know, secretes an LSD
precursor. Even if you scrape off the rot, you've only destroyed the
visible part of the fungus--the microscopic hyphae will still persist in
the plant and was probably baked into the bread. So maybe the people of
that town really _were_ seeing unexplainable visions, but the visions
were still born in their brains, influenced by the dominant cultural
myths and stereotypes. What if your immersion in the X-Files, and
later, mine, created common expectations in our minds which were
fulfilled in a...in a semi-hallucinigenic manner?"

"Have _you_ been doing LSD, Scully? Besides the tattoo, I mean. Because
I haven't."

Scully rolled her eyes. "Except when it was in your water," she pointed
out. "But that's beside the point. Maybe we don't need to be drugged.
Maybe we're just...."

"...crazy?"

She shrugged uncomfortably, and Mulder frowned.

"Scully, it's undeniable that things have happened to us. To you.
This...this 'folie a deux' can't explain us being in Antarctica, or...or
your cancer, or Emily...."

"Well, I agree that there's something...some...conspiracy, for lack of a
better word. Some project that's being carried out. But maybe we're
assuming too much by dubbing it 'alien.' For that matter, maybe these
men, these men who don't know the meaning of the word 'justice', have
_been_ drugging us for years. Monsters and ghosts and psychic
powers...maybe it's all just in our heads."

"In _your_ head, Scully? Mine, maybe, but _yours?_ Come on."

"Yes, in my head. I've seen things I cannot explain since I met you.
And at first I didn't see them."

"Maybe _that's_ when you were fooling yourself," Mulder suggested
gently. "Maybe that's when you were seeing only what you expected to
see, and then what you expected to see was _not_ monsters or ghosts or
psychic powers."

"Maybe," she acknowledged. "But I don't like that any better. In that
case, I'm still stuck with the conclusion that I can't believe
everything I see."

She paused, took a long drink from her glass. Mulder, pleasantly
buzzed, contentedly watched her throat contract as she swallowed.

"Anyway," he said when she put her glass down. "How do I even know
_you_ exist? How do you know I do? How do you know the last five years
haven't been a dream?"

"Once," she said. "Once, I would have laughed at that. But now..."
She shook her head. "This is more depressing than the meeting today. I
think it's time to go home."

Mulder nodded slowly, studying her carefully. "You don't really worry
about this, do you? I thought we were only speaking philosophically."

Scully smiled at him. "No, I don't really worry about it," she assured
him. "Not...really."

"Good," he said, rising to retrieve his wallet. "Because _you,_ Agent
Scully, will always be able to tell the rabbit from the hat."

"How?" she asked, looking up at him with an expression of genuine
curiosity.

He dropped several bills on the bar top, met her eyes for a significant
pause. "I don't know," he admitted softly. "But I _do_ know you."

Her sharply questioning eyes melted into a fondness that made Mulder's
chest constrict, and when she leaned impulsively into him, he slipped
his arms around her, let his fingers track briefly through her hair.
This time she did not push him away. They parted after a second,
suddenly conscious of their surroundings, but still she smiled up at
him. "Just a minor setback," she said, echoing his words from earlier
that evening.

He nodded as she rose, moved past him to the door.

They slipped on their coats and ventured out into the dark night.

"It stopped raining," Mulder commented, surprised.

Indeed it had. The streets were slick and shiny, giving off rippled
reflections of streetlamps. Few cars passed them, prompting Mulder to
glance at his watch. It was after 11. "Do you want to get a cab?" he
asked.

"Let's walk," she replied, and he linked his arm through hers.

"Lead the way," he said, and she did.

They had traveled barely a block in companionable silence when the
streetlights flickered and vanished, leaving them in startling
darkness. They stopped.

"Must've been a blackout," Scully said, peering up at the city buildings
that surrounded them. All the windows were dark, and Mulder had the
sudden, eerie impression of hundreds of eyes peering out at them, but
the vision vanished quickly.

"Storm's over," Mulder said, perplexed.

"It's still cloudy," Scully answered. "Maybe it was just static. Or
something."

She started walking again, and Mulder, despite the hairs rising on the
back of his neck, followed, his arm still linked in hers.

The dark streets were eerily desolate--no passersby and few cars. Here
and there a candle flicker lit up the curtains hanging before some
window, casting grotesque inkblots of silhouettes against the pane.
Again, Mulder had the strange sensation that someone was staring at him
from behind. He shivered, refusing to look.

"What?" Scully asked him, her upturned face concerned.

He shook his head at her. "Nothing."

Twenty minutes passed in silence but for their echoing footfalls in the
puddles. "Maybe we should get a cab," Mulder said, as a yellow car flew
past them, spraying jets of water onto the curb at their feet like a
sprinkler.

"Why?" Scully asked. "We're almost there, Mulder--just a few blocks to
the cars. Besides, I like it. The city's...different. Dark like
this."

"Yeah," Mulder agreed, but he did not mean the same thing she meant.

They rounded the corner and he saw it, knew suddenly that it had been
waiting for them.

It squatted not ten feet away. Jerking away from his partner, he
scrambled for his gun, ignoring her indignant "Mulder!"

It towered over them, thirty feet in the air, giant and grotesque. It's
dirty white fur was matted in places, darkly stained with blood. It sat
back on its haunches with deceptive calm, but its long, enameled claws
belied the placidity of its posture.   Enormous yellow eyes flecked with
red, as red as the stains on its dirty, encrusted fangs, stared intently
at the thing on which it chewed.

An electric wire, one of those strung high above the city. Blue sparks
flew wherever it touched.

But what made Mulder act, instead of run, was the helpless figure
clinging to the back of the creature's neck, just above his neck.
"Hey!" the man cried helplessly, seeing the pair below him.

The beast roared, rearing back its head, and Mulder fired.

He heard Scully cry his name again, but the beast was not toppled by his
puny bullets. Adrenalin took over; Mulder ran at the beast, prepared to
distract it, to fire at closer range, to do whatever he had to do. But
it was too quick for him.

A claw slashed out, striking him across the breast, and he screamed in
agony.

Scully did not understand what had happened, but when that horrible
sound passed from Mulder's lips, she ran forward without thought,
dropping to her knees beside him. "Mulder, what--"

And then she saw the blood. The red stain drenched his shirt; he
convulsed frantically in her arms, his eyes bulging at something beyond
her head. Something--

She turned, looked up, and felt its evil breath. It's jaws dripped
gleefully with saliva and blood, and Scully couldn't help herself--she
screamed.

She reached instinctively for her gun, but the giant clawed hand knocked
her aside as well, as casually as a cat tosses aside a mouse, ripping a
wide gash across her belly. Pain exploded her brain, burning and
tearing through her like a dozen blades. With great effort, she forced
herself to look down, and was greeted by the horrifying vision of her
own body, splayed open as if by autopsy, blood-slicked, grey intestine
oozing through the imprecise incision.

She tried to move her hand to cover it, to confine her internal organs
to the place they belonged, but her fingers were neither sufficiently
wide nor long and she felt the slime of her own guts squeezing between
them, flopping forward with every hyperventilated breath.

Beside her, Mulder moaned, but she was helpless. When the terrible
creature (SHOULD NOT EXIST! her brain screamed. CAN NOT EXIST!) leered
over them, she could smell its hot, fetid breath and she whimpered.

"CRAZY IDIOT," it hissed, and Scully's eyes widened.

"No!" she heard her partner scream.

She watched, terrified, as a talon ripped through her best friend's
body, skewering him from front to back like a chunk of meat on a kabob,
and he flailed limply in the air for a moment, before the blood bubbled
forth from his mouth, drowning out his screams. His blood spattered
onto her body, mingling with her own. Scully could only watch, her eyes
wide with pain and helpless horror.

The creature seemed to laugh, tossing her partner nonchalantly into the
street where he collapsed like a rubber doll. It leaned over her then,
even as she tried to back away on her useless elbows. She saw the great
blood-stained teeth coming toward her (CAN NOT NO PLEASE NO), felt the
white-hot agony lance through every nerve, and then.....

nothing.

--------------------------------------------------

Handy's Tavern
9:22 p.m.

"So then this bald guy comes in and starts askin' me all these
questions, and I'm like, 'Look, bud, didn't I just explain this to all
the other cops?' and he's like, 'But now I need you to explain it to
me.'" Adam MacDonald imitated the bald man's voice with mock severity
and his companions laughed.

"Yeah!" Adam said, grinning with him. "So I tell him the whole story
all over again. Right from the beginning. I'm up in my cherry picker,
checking the transformer--"

"--'cause you're an electrician--" interjected a friend.

"--and that's what you do--" added another, as if this ritual had
already been repeated once or twice. Adam grinned broadly.

"Right," he said. "That's what I do. An' then these two nice-lookin'
kids come around the corner and the guy starts screamin' and then pulls
a gun on me!"

"Did a bullet really go through the cherry picker?"

"Right fuckin' _through_ it!" Adam took a large gulp of beer.   "I shit
you not. I told the bald guy that, an' the he sorta frowns an' then he
says--get this--an' then he says: 'You didn't notice any...strange
lights or anything did you?' An' I'm like, 'Whaddaya mean?' an' he says,
'Oh, you know, _lights._'

"An' I say, 'Fuck, are you _stupid_ or somethin'?! The power was out!

There _were_ no lights!  That's why I was _there!_"

"'Cause you're an electrician!" shouted his buddy gleefully.

"And that's what you do!" rejoined another.

Adam slapped his palm on the table. "Damn straight. So I tell him
about the lady yelling at the guy like he was crazy or somethin', which
of course is what _I'm_ thinkin', and then about how the guy starts
screamin' like his heart was gettin' ripped out, and then _she_ goes
nuts! And Mr. FBI says, 'She only pulled her gun after she perceived
her partner to be hurt?' or some shit like that, and I'm like, 'Sure, I
guess.' And then he asks what else I saw, an' I'm like, 'Man, that was
_it!_ What, you think I'm gonna just _watch_ while these two nutcases
are waving their guns around like that? I _ducked!_ I mean, I thought
they were gonna _kill_ me!"

"They could've," one friend pointed out soberly. "Sounds like they were
crazy. Can't believe the government lets people like that have guns."

"I can," another man remarked. "See? That's why this gun control shit
is such a load o' crap."

Adam continued, ignoring his friends. "Anyway, I asked the bald guy
what they died from, and he shrugs, says there were no 'apparent
injuries,' and all he knows is that their adrenalin levels were high and
that they'd been drinking."

"Well, no _shit,_" his friend snorted derisively.

"So I asked if they were like, friends of his or somethin', and Mr.
Clean--that's what he looked like, like Mr. Fuckin' Clean--looks all
teary-eyed or somethin' an' he says, 'It was my fault. I should've sent
them to counseling a long time ago.' Then he looks really embarrassed
and excuses himself fast.

"Shit," one man said. "Feds. They're all fuckin' crazy."

"That's what _I_ think," Adam said proudly. "They coulda' _killed_ me!"

"You should sue," suggested one friend earnestly. "I'm serious. I bet
you could make a fortune."

Adam nodded vigorously. "I'm already lookin' into lawyers."

His friend waved the waitress over, held up five fingers to signal
another round. "Good for you," he told Adam. "Good for you."

--------------------------------------------------

End.

Oh, oh, oh! Don't think I forgot you all, you adorable little
mushiefaces, you! I had a whole other ending for this piece and I came
_so_ close to writing it you just can't believe it. I mean, SO close.
I think I'm glad I stuck with this one, in the end, just because
Scully's intestines are cool, but sometimes you gotta, you know, don't
worry and be happy!

So here's the thing. It was gonna be like this. Mulder and Scully go
out for the drink and still have the long ridiculous conversation about
what's real and what's not, and then they decide to walk home, but
instead of getting all nervous when the lights go out, Mulder just, I
don't know how to explain it, he just feels all warm and gooey and
squishy about his partner 'cause she's still with him after all this
time. With me so far?

So in this wonderful, romantic lightless urban evening, he finally
kisses her, and she loves it, and they catch a cab back to her place and
shag on the rug. Then up against the wall. It's a thing of beauty! Of
course, I wouldn't do it that abruptly or anything, I'd've worked up to
it and made it all tender and incredible, like the most incredible thing
they'd ever experienced, you know?

And then they'd go into work, but instead of MacDonald being an
electrician, he'd be the psychologist ('cause Kousseff just doesn't cut
it in my book) that evaluates them as per Cassidy's recommendations,
right? Because we know that has to happen. But he's a pretty nice guy.

He recognizes right away that Mulder and Scully are not only desperately
in love with each other, but that they're OUT OF THEIR FUCKING MINDS, so
he has them involuntarily committed. But since he is, as I said, a nice
guy, he manages to get them into the same institution, and since
everyone knows Mulder is as rich as Bill Gates and nearly as
megalomaniacal, it's a REALLY nice institution. In Kentucky, I think,
just off the Blue Ridge Parkway, with a big horse farm. And lots of
white picket fences.

Asylums are really nice places, if you've got the money. Mulder and
Scully are finally happy--they spend all their days together and they
even have favorite horses, though the staff are always trying to talk
them out of TALKING to the horses, which they do a lot, claiming the
animals actually talk back. Mulder's horse is named Mr. Ned, and
Scully's is called Twilight (after my favorite My Little Pony--you know,
the unicorn with the purple and silver glitter on its ass?). Actually,
maybe Mulder's horse is a donkey..well, maybe not, but it's definitely
grey.

The four of them have lots of adventures without ever having to leave
the funny farm, and exchange lots of quippy innuendo over whose ass is
bigger (Mr. Ned or Twilight, that is, not Mulder's or Scully's, though
maybe they both put on a little weight. Couldn't hurt.).

But in the end, I decided the white picket fences just weren't nearly as
appealing as Scully's intestines. If you want to believe _this_ was the
ending, hey, who'm I to stop you? Pretend what you will, my friends.

--------------------------------------------------

Conceived: July something or other
Finished: Sept. 13, 1998

REAL ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Dahlak and Lee...this bud's for you, media and
evidence and all. Affectionately, of course. <g> As always, infinite
thanks to the many individuals of the fanfic community who support this
terrible habit, and special thanks for the encouragement of people who
get it (you know who you are). Please don't hold them responsible.

Char, thanks for the Bill Clinton line (not to mention the bones. I
like the bones a lot).