From: Mrsblome Date: 18 Nov 1999 03:07:16 GMT Subject: NEW: Out of Our Minds, by Sarah Segretti and haphazard method, PG-13 TITLE: Out of Our Minds AUTHORS: Sarah Segretti and haphazard method E-MAIL: mrsblome@aol.com, haphmeth@yahoo.com SUMMARY: Two very private people suffer through the ultimate invasion of privacy: Mulder's new and unwanted sixth sense. CATEGORY: Story, Angst SPOILERS: Biogenesis, plus assorted small ones from Season 6. Sixth Extinction and Amor Fati largely ignored. This story takes place in the summer; we refuse to acknowledge the victory cap. RATING: PG-13, language. DISCLAIMER: Not ours. Surprised? ARCHIVE: Gossamer okay, Spookys okay, everyone else okay, just let us know. WEBSITES: http://dasha.simplenet.com/hap.html, http://members.aol.com/mrsblome. AUTHORS' NOTES: Sarah has a nice G flat, but hap only has an F sharp. Both would prefer feedback! Many grateful thanks to Amy S. and Barbara D. for beta testing versions 1.2, 1.3, 1.4 ... Out of Our Minds Sarah Segretti and haphazard method November 1999 /hang on Mulder coming Mulder don't die Mulder I'm here Mulder/ The wheels on the gurney I am helping to steer squeak and clatter as I rush down the hospital corridor, the hem of my purloined white coat flapping behind me. Langley and Frohike look convincing enough in their scrubs, two disheveled orderlies at the end of a long shift. At least Langley had the foresight to stuff his hair up under a surgical cap. But me -- I can hear my shoes clacking against the tile, each strike of my heels exploding in my ears. I pray no one else can hear it -- one look at my shoes and we're busted. No self-respecting doctor would wear heels this high on rounds. Damn, I knew I should have taken five seconds and changed . . . /hold on Mulder 214 216 218 hang a right/ Skinner told me everything when I got back from Africa. Where Mulder had been moved, what condition he was in, how to get him out. He told me this from his own hospital bed as I watched his vascular system harden and swell before my eyes. He didn't ask my forgiveness this time, didn't try to explain himself, just gave me the information I needed to save my partner and ordered me to go. "Yes, sir," I said automatically, backing out of the room. The gratitude that flashed in his eyes at the honorific nearly brought tears to mine. Please, God, let me have done the right thing in trusting him. /then a left through the swinging doors unmarked room oh my God *Mulder*/ The smell hits us first, shit and piss and sweat and vomit, no way to be clinical about it, like a homeless shelter that needs to be sluiced out with a firehose. The machines at his head are dark and silent. He's so still. Too still. Langley slaps a hand over his nose and mouth. Frohike mutters something evil under his breath. My eyes sting. They abandoned him, those motherfuckers, they abandoned him to die... Eyes flicker in his gaunt face, covered with longish stubble, and I snap back into professional mode even as my heart continues to break. "Come on, guys, let's get him out of here." The three of us move to the sides of Mulder's bed, begin releasing his wrists and ankles from the restraints. Even cloth and Velcro can do some damage -- his wrists are battered and greenish from where he'd clearly been fighting them. The color scares me -- the bruises aren't fresh. When did he stop fighting? "Never." His voice is a ruined echo of its normal self, and I remember him screaming, screaming my name as I left -- two weeks ago. Two weeks he was alone... "But I knew you'd come back." "Mulder, shhh." He's feverish, too, barely conscious. His lips are cracked, his near-beard flecked with vomit. He's lucky he didn't choke to death here, alone. God, I hope we can handle this. Frohike and Langley look at each other nervously, then at me, awaiting instructions. I motion for Frohike to join me on my side of the bed, and then show them where to grab onto the sheet. "On my count," I say, and on three we hoist Mulder onto the gurney. Too easy for two small people and one big wimp. Mulder's lost weight. God, I'd love to take the time to clean him up. He grabs my hand as Langley spreads the blanket over him, and something occurs to me. "Mulder," I say, leaning close and running a hand over his dirty hair. "We have to strap you down so that you don't fall off as we transport you. It's for your own safety. I don't want you to be scared." "I won't be." He barely has any voice left. "I know the plan. I heard you." What? The guys and I look at each other in confusion. I'd run over the plan a couple of times in my head on the way in, but we'd hardly said a word to each other once we entered the building. Mulder opens his eyes -- bloodshot, oh, God, so bloodshot -- and with an effort raises his hand, presses his fingertips against my forehead. "*Heard* you," he rasps. "'Hang on Mulder, coming Mulder, don't die Mulder, I'm here, Mulder..." I stand bolt upright, my heart pounding in shock, as his hand drops to his chest and his eyes slide shut. "'Hold on, Mulder,'" he whispers, and drifts back into unconsciousness. The guys are staring at me. "Agent Scully?" Frohike asks. "Are you all right?" "I'm fine," I say automatically. The rest of my mind remains blank and stunned rather than process what I think Mulder's just told me. "Let's get him out of here." As we roll him out of the hospital, to the Gunmen's van and freedom, the shock of hearing my own unspoken words quoted back at me begins to wear off. He's delirious, I tell myself as we load him aboard the van, confused. Dehydrated. Drug-addled. It was a lucky guess. He knows how I think. He's a profiler, a psychologist. I've rescued him a million times before. I feel a light pluck at my sleeve. Mulder. His gaze is not focused, but somehow he knows where to look to see me. Byers rockets the van out of the parking lot, and I'm thrown on top of Mulder. Chest to chest, I lift my head to meet his bleary eyes. "Million and one," he says, barely audible. I hear it, he'd said in Skinner's office, in my head. That's not possible, I tell myself. That's just not possible. And I keep telling myself that as I watch him recover in a real hospital bed, as I sit across from him at his kitchen table while he wolfs down his first solid food in weeks, as we take a slow walk around his neighborhood on a warm summer morning so that he can regain his physical strength and I can tell him about Africa without being overheard. The look of hope on his face when I tell him one possible theory I have about the craft's origin is something to behold. But oddly, I find myself shielding my thoughts, not allowing my feelings to take shape. As if I didn't want him to know how plausible I found that theory. As if I didn't want him to know how much it pleased me to see him happy. It's not possible, I remind myself once more. "So when do we go?" His voice is still five miles of bad road. He ruptured a vocal cord screaming. Now I can be clinical. It's so much easier. It's safer. "We don't," I sigh. He visibly deflates, and I let myself feel sad for him. "I saw Krycek at the airport in Abidjan. He was just arriving as I left." "It's gone," Mulder says flatly. "More than likely," I tell him. "The Gunmen have been pulling satellite photos. There are certain changes in the coastline..." "Shit." He presses his lips together and looks away. I let him have his moment to mourn the loss. We walk along in silence. At one point, his knuckles graze the back of my hand, then bump against me again. I choose to interpret the motion as accidental. I can't reach out to him any more than I already have. It's taking all my energy to cope with getting him healthy again and to ignore this crazy idea that insists on bouncing around my head. *** *** *** I don't think I can do this much longer. Five weeks ago I was in tears, terrified that he'd die before I could find him. Now I'd kill for a good night's sleep, and we won't discuss the alarming amounts of hair left behind in my comb each morning. Even Frohike finally wandered off after the worst was over, muttering something about a vacation, once Mulder had finally, slowly recovered. I don't blame him. I don't doubt it was worse on Mulder, but by the end, I don't think any of us were strong enough to withstand another relapse. I doubt I will ever forget how it felt to be completely helpless, unable to do anything but hold him while he screamed in terror and pain. Thank God the headaches and flashbacks finally tapered off. I don't know how or why, but I haven't had any answers for a long time now. And, incredibly enough, Mulder seems to have recovered faster than any of us. Wish it were that easy for me. Try as I might, I can't ignore the FBI's own Energizer Bunny waving a case file at me like nothing has changed. I don't know. Maybe nothing has. Maybe it was just a crazy idea. He can't read my mind. Then again, maybe he just doesn't let me know because he knows how upset I'd be. This is stupid. He can't read my mind. End of story. "Scully, have you heard anything I've said?" His voice still sounds like someone sandpapered his throat, but it's coming back. I jerk my head up to find him glaring at me. It always bugs him when I look oblivious while he's talking, even though he knows I hear every word. Or at least every other word. "Yes, I heard everything you said. You believe that they were exposed to a retrovirus that integrated itself into their chromosomes and lay dormant for years until it was activated by someone or something unknown. At which point the virus instructed the cells' DNA to transform. For the record, Mulder, this is one theory about cancer, minus the intent." I stretch my legs out and hook my toes under the front of his desk. Fiji. I hear it's nice there, this time of year. "But," I say, waving my hand in the air as I continue with this fairy tale, "instead of transforming into cancerous cells, these cells transformed these people into, what was it? Oh yes, bears, coyotes, and gila monsters. Gila monsters, Mulder." I swear, sometimes I think he makes this stuff up. Why would they transform into animal totems? Then again, the Navajo symbols on the ship... No. I do not buy this story and no, the people of Ellicott City, Md., are not transforming into animist spiritual guides. It's not possible. "Even if I believed this, which I do not, it seems to me that there is nothing paranormal about this. Which makes it a job for the CDC, or maybe the National Zoo, or even a Hollywood producer looking for his next summer blockbuster, but not us." To my surprise, he relaxes and nods his head. "You may be right, Scully." What? Startled, I sit up, more than a little suspicious. "Why do I hear a but coming, Mulder?" "No, no but." He shuffles through the piles on his desk until he finds a yellow legal pad with his scribbles all over it. "But I did talk to some interesting folks at Johns Hopkins while I was working on this." "That sounded an awful lot like a but to me." The corner of his mouth quirks. This whole totem thing was a front for something else, I just know it, though I'm not sure I'm ready to hear whatever it is he's working up to. "I have a theory about the engravings on those artifacts and the alien craft." I was right. I'm not. "Mulder, we've already been through this..." He flings himself back in his chair, throwing his arms up. "Not in any great detail, thank you. Just think about it. The entire human genome was laid out there. They didn't just stop for a visit, they've always been here. This could be the key that explains everything." "Mulder--" Damn it, I don't want to talk about this. "Scully, this could be it. Even the abductions--" Here we go again. He's relentless, one of those clown punching bags that takes a beating and bounces right up for more. This could be an affectionate thought, were I in a better mood. I'm not, and it's not. "Mulder. Stop. I know where you're going with this, and I am not any more convinced now than I was then. We did not evolve according to some master plan set out by little gray men. Kansas public schools to the contrary, our genomic diversity is the result of a long history of random spontaneous mutations." Even I can hear the whine in my voice. Damn. Why do we have to go through this again and again and again? "I am not asking you to ignore evolutionary theory. I'm simply suggesting that our evolution has not been as random as we thought." "Mulder, you're not 'simply suggesting' anything. You are ignoring facts to suit your purpose. If aliens have been altering our genetic code to insure that we evolved a certain way over time, how do you explain the fact that we share the vast majority of our genes with the rest of the animal kingdom?" I'm too tired for this foolishness, and though I know better, I can't help my sarcastic tone. "Let me guess. The aliens have been abducting animals, too, and they have some grand plan for pigeons to take over the world once they wipe us off the face of the planet." A flash of anger but he controls it quickly. "The first part of that plan is already in motion, Scully. Ever been to Trafalgar Square?" Yesterday -- hell, anytime since I found him -- I would've been glad to hear him joke but today I just feel like a crazy woman. A brief image of my fingertips pressed into his throat crosses my mind. "Be serious, Mulder," I snap, and he recoils. Maybe a little forcefully for the tone of voice I thought I was using, but I don't care. "Your theory isn't even practical. It's not like they could just grab the first human, change our genes early on and poof! We're off on some designated evolutionary course." "That is what I have been trying to tell you. The researchers at Johns Hopkins suggested viral transmission of DNA into our genome." My jaw drops. "Mulder, please tell me you didn't ask them how aliens are directing evolution." "Give me a break. Of course not," he hisses. "But I did ask about whether a retrovirus could have been purposely designed to do what it did, and they, I might add, were willing to at least consider what I was saying." With an effort, I ignore the jab. He barrels on, oblivious. "They pointed out that a virus is just genetic material protected by a protein coating, which spreads between organisms and even between species." His hands flit across the desk like excited hummingbirds. "What if highly contagious viruses were introduced at various times throughout history? The genetic material could splice into our genes and become part of our DNA." I take a deep breath and look up, letting it out slowly as I study the black flecks in the ceiling tiles. I can't take this all out on him. I'm beyond tired, I skipped lunch today, and I'm worked up over a crazy idea that's probably all in my mind. None of this is his fault. "Doesn't this strike you as a little inefficient?" I look at him and tick off my points on my fingers. "First, these alien virologists have to invent a virus that specifically affected egg and sperm cells, so that the trait was passed on to offspring, which is hard to do, as your friends at Hopkins could tell you. And second, they would also have to find a virus that spliced itself into the chromosome in a systematic way without mutating or evolving randomly itself. That's a leap, Mulder." "But not an impossible one. What is going on with you?" He slaps his hands on his desk and pushes up from his chair, his voice like the scratch of a match along the side of the box. "Here I present you with a theory that could actually work according to your precious scientific principles, and all you can say is 'That's a leap'? Why are you being so defensive?" His eyes fall to the base of my neck where I suddenly realize I've been fiddling with my cross. I yank my hand into my lap but it's too late. He takes a deep breath and sits down. "Scully, I know these discoveries have shaken your faith..." It's a little late to become sensitive to my religious beliefs, buddy. "No, they haven't. Even if it were your aliens at work, you have only been talking about how. Not about why. And my faith tells me that God has His reasons, even for aliens." "So what is your problem?" I can't help it. I close my eyes and drop my chin to my chest. My problem, Mulder, is that while I may suddenly believe in aliens, I do not -- I cannot -- believe in psychic powers. And I can't shake the feeling that in your delirium, you might have been telling the truth. My problem, as you put it, is that I'm scared to death of the truth. Fingertips slide gently under my chin and raise it. I won't open my eyes, I won't -- and I do. He's right there, almost nose to nose with me, right in my personal space. Somehow I manage not to flinch. I think of myself on a tropical island, just me, my sarong, and a fruity margarita, anything to erase the sight of his face and the pressure of his will. Go away, go away, go away -- "I'm not going anywhere, Scully, not until you help me understand why the truth frightens you so much." Jesus Christ! I smack his hand away and jump to my feet at the same time, sending the chair skittering across the floor behind me. He leaps back, shock and hurt crossing his face. "Scully, what?" Unbelievable! He honestly looks baffled. I'm frozen to the floor, stunned by what I think just happened. Run away. The island flickers through my mind again, and without missing a beat, he says, "Fiji is not an option here, Scully. Talk to me." My head snaps up. He's still talking but in my shock I can't even hear him, only see his lips move. Oh my God. "How dare you --" I begin, cutting him off, but I choke up on my anger and flee before I can say or do something I regret. Not that it matters. He can hear everything I'm thinking. He really can read my mind. Oh my God. *** *** *** My ass and my hands crash backwards against the edge of my desk and my brain glazes over in shock. The basement is so quiet that I can hear Scully out in the hall pounding the elevator button over and over and over. She just *hit* me. What the hell was *that* about? The elevator doors slide open, then close. The tension vanishes with her. I rub my face in frustration. She's been like this, tense and edgy and weird, ever since I came home. She hardly ever meets my eyes. Our conversations have become even more elliptical than usual, nearly incomprehensible -- this may have been the most coherent discussion we've had in days. But I want to talk to her, I need to talk to her. She saw the Grail, and I need to hear more. She not only saw it, she touched it. She stood on it. And she still refuses to believe it. Shit. No. That's not it. I'm pretty sure she does believe, and she's working overtime to convince herself she's wrong. I've done everything I can to pull her fingers out of her ears, to get her to stop la-la-la-ing so she can hear the sound of her own conclusions. But it's not working. I sigh, and go back to my own chair. The email from the scientists at Hopkins is still up on my computer screen, and I close the document. I'll admit it, the gila monster thing was a ruse to get her thinking about retroviruses. It almost worked. I pushed her too hard. She thinks I'm pushing too hard in general. I can hear her thinking it every time she deigns to look at me -- What the hell are you doing here? Why the hell aren't you home? Well, Scully, because there's nothing for me there except the sound of my own thoughts. I don't remember much that happened after you left for Africa -- between the voices and the pain and the fear it was easier just to mentally decompensate for a while -- but I remember enough to know that I don't feel like remembering more. Unless you're willing to hold me, and listen to me, and stroke my hair and comfort me until the pain and horror are gone. Like you'd ever do that now. Oh, yeah. Bitter is good, very good. Very useful. I shudder, hoping to shake off the emotion, and begin searching our stack of pending cases to see if there are any she might find more worthy of her investigative attention. Mutilated livestock, maybe. Mysterious lights. Talking tattoos. The phone rings, derailing that happy train of thought. "Agent Mulder? Laura, from A.D. Kersh's office." Oh, *perfect.* But it's nothing serious, just another background check follow-up that needs a signature from the original investigator. We still get these calls every so often, and Scully usually takes care of them. Laura must have found the one check I actually completed. "On my way," I tell her, and head out. And stop at the elevator, steeling myself for the rise into the real world. One populated with people. Lots and lots of people. Who think. Constantly. The doors slide open, I take a deep breath, and step on. The elevator fills at the lobby level. Thoughts murmur around me like a radio left on low in the next room. Not that I enjoy this, but it's not as bad as it was before. I've learned to control what I hear, I think, or maybe I'm getting better at ignoring it. At least I know what it is, and at least it doesn't hurt. I'd mention this sixth sense to Scully, but she wouldn't want to hear about it. Just one more thing for her to pretend doesn't happen in nature. And having her think I'm crazy, when I know what crazy really is now -- I close my eyes. Not interested in that kind of pain now, thank you. The elevator informs us in an electronic female voice that we're on the second floor, and the third. You know what they don't tell you in telepath school? Most of what you overhear when you're reading minds is either boring or annoying. Hardly coherent, frankly. Mostly people have songs stuck in their heads -- a few of my coworkers here are living la vida loca. Some make lists of things to do, or actually mull over a project or a case. They replay fights they had with a spouse or a boyfriend. They admire each other's clothes. All right, they admire each other, but usually in a brief, don't-go-there sort of way. I would be king of the water cooler, if I were that kind of guy. Oh, and when I'm around, they think about me. I feel the questions and the curiosity /gone for a month committed AWOL I heard kidnapped partner crazy/ Basically, nothing I couldn't have guessed at anyway. I can't decide if it's reassuring or depressing to have the confirmation. Well, once it was funny. The entire HR department recoiled in mental horror when I came in to fill out my latest batch of return-to-work forms. All of them kept their professional half-smiles on, but their conjoined terror was audible: /oh no not me I processed his paperwork last time took me a week I'm too old for this not me I did Antarctica no way I do his partner's make the new girl do it not me no way/ I sent them a group bouquet of roses and a big box of chocolates, and I haven't heard a peep from them since, mentally or otherwise. I step off the elevator and head down the hall to Kersh's lair. My name follows me like the wind whispering through a wheatfield /spooky spooky spooky/ but it's not that bad. Unless someone is essentially shouting at me, or right on top of me -- like in an elevator -- I hardly notice what they're thinking any more. And it's easy to block it out. /. . . Living la vida loca . . . / Laura eyes me as I bend down to sign the forms, still whistling Ricky Martin, and suddenly I get a vivid, explicit flash of us, naked and entwined on a living room floor. She catches my eye as I push the forms towards her, and licks her lips just a little. Settle down, girl. Message received, even if she hadn't unwittingly sent me the visual feed. That's how the professional psychics do it, after all, with expert reading of body language and a few leading questions. Nothing a trained psychologist can't do. Making sure Laura gets the expression that says I never noticed a thing, I take her leave and head back for my own quiet office. But, well, it's not often somebody transmits something like that right into your head. Wonder if that's what she really looks like, or if that's just her image of herself? I consider this for a few seconds -- good thing I'm the only mindreader in the building. Guess it is a good thing Scully doesn't know I can do this. She'd be even more furious with me than she is already, for reading Laura's smutty mind. Hey, imagine what Scully would do if she thought I could read *her* mind. She'd go -- Berserk. I stop dead in the hallway. Somebody crashes into my back, and we both mumble an apology, but I'm somewhere else altogether, frantically replaying our last conversation. I never thought, believe it or not, about whether I *was* reading Scully's mind. We so often communicate with a glance or a touch or a lifted eyebrow that I'm used to picking up visual cues from her. If I was forced to rely only on what she actually *said*, for example, then I would have had to believe all that "I'm fine" bullshit when she was sick. How did I know she wanted me to go away? Because I was in her face, and she's told me to back off in that situation before. How did I know she was afraid of the truth? Because she *is,* damn it, I've known that for years. And how did I know she was thinking about a tropical island? Because once in a wild moment of boredom on a faceless interstate highway she admitted that that's what she thinks about in moments of stress. She even allowed me to know that she prefers her margaritas on the rocks, not frozen. /Except that when *you* picture her on that tropical island, and you do, you picture her in a bikini, not a one-piece and a sarong./ Oh, no. Oh, God. Oh, shit. I did it. Shit. /No, it's worse. Why do you think she's been acting strangely?/ I slip to the side of the hallway, out of the main flow of traffic, and moan silently. /he's freaking just spooky okay ask no don't okay stay out of it/ How long has she known I can pick up Radio Free Scully, I wonder, the unspoken concern of my coworkers a reminder to keep moving to my basement sanctuary. Maybe I said something while I was recovering, maybe she just read between the lines -- oh, what does it matter? It's not like I want this ability, but I've got it, and that's that. Maybe if I find her, and explain just how it works... And then when I find her, she'll assume I tracked her down by searching out her thoughts, not because I know from experience that she goes to the Navy Memorial when she's pissed at me and wants space, and then I'm screwed all over again. Call her. Of course. Voice mail. Of course. She's sitting there by the fountain watching her cell phone display, waiting until the notice of the incoming call from my number goes away. Well, I'm not going away, no matter how much you want me to, Scully. And this new parlor trick of mine isn't going away either, as far as I can tell. We're going to have to learn to live with it. Besides, given the things you're probably thinking about me right now, yours is the *last* mind I'd want to read. end part 1 of 3 From mrsblome@aol.com Fri Nov 19 16:29:55 1999 Date: 18 Nov 1999 03:09:13 GMT From: Mrsblome Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: Out of Our Minds, by Sarah Segretti and haphazard method, PG-13, 2/3 Out of Our Minds, part 2 of 3 *** *** *** I barely have time to lock the door behind me and slip off my shoes before the phone rings. I must be tired, because I pick it up without thinking. Shit. I freeze with the phone halfway to my ear. Mulder. No. He's been remarkably good all week about not bothering me at home. He's limited his phone stalking to my work extension and my cell phone, which I turned off two days ago. Then again-- I put the phone to my ear hesitantly. "Hello?" "Dana?" "Mom?" Even in my relief, my heart is hammering so hard I can feel my eardrums throb. "Dana, there you are. Is something wrong? Is this a bad time? I was starting to think I had the wrong number." "No, Mom, everything's fine. I just walked in the door. What's up?" A deep breath later, I curl my toes into the carpet, glad to be out of those shoes, and notice a run in the toe of my brand-new hose. That's right. Think normal thoughts. Everything's fine. "Well, I was looking at this gingersnap recipe you e-mailed me and it looks delicious but I can't figure out one of the ingredients. What is a cup of choe?" "Choe?" Joe? What is she talking about? "Yes, C-H-O." "Ah! CHO!" I mentally kick myself. "Sorry, Mom, I must have been distracted when I typed that in. I've been spending a lot of time in the lab. Sugar. It's the chemical shorthand name for sugar." Her laugh trills in my ear, and for the first time in the week since I fled Mulder's office, the muscles in my shoulders unclench. God bless Mom. "Okay. One cup of CHO it is." She pauses. "Dana, it's 9:30 at night and you're just getting in?" Once upon a time, a lifetime ago, a question like that would have made me feel smothered. But now I just wrap her soft concern around my shoulders like a fuzzy shawl. "I've been pretty busy at work, Mom. I've been out at Quantico a lot this week, and I'm working on a new paper so when I'm not there, I am usually in the lab." And when I'm not there, I'm at the gym, Mom, trying to push myself into mindless exhaustion. If I'm concentrating on work or sleeping, I can't be broadcasting, right? "You work too hard, honey. Are you still coming over for lunch after church on Sunday?" "As far as I know. Mulder hasn't mentioned any pending cases, so it looks good." Of course, I haven't spoken to Mulder in a week, but she doesn't need to know that. "How is Fox? Has he fully recovered yet?" For an awful moment I blank on what I told her. A viral brain inflammation, that was it. Close enough. "He's fine. He gained back the weight he lost, and he's stopped complaining about the headaches." "That's good to hear. Tell him I said hi. See you Sunday. Get some sleep, Dana." "Night, Mom. See you Sunday. Bye." I hang up the phone and stare at it. Someday I'll tell him, Mom, when I've got the nerve to talk to him again. I wish I could call him, call the old Mulder and bounce this whole crazy mind-reading scenario past him so I could concentrate on a scientific explanation. But, I remind myself, the Mulder I knew is gone. Get over it. Damn. I rub my eyes, pushing them hard into their sockets. Screw the mascara. God, I'm exhausted. Even when I'm home, I can't relax. He may or may not be able to hear me and I'm sure as hell not risking it. I've been multitasking like a wild woman for days trying to avoid thinking anything he'd be interested in hearing. I bet he's heard some amazing stuff from people who don't know any better. That could be funny, if I weren't terrified of what he's heard from me. I know he got Fiji loud and clear. Who knows what else he's heard? Shaking off that thought, I lean on the table to peel off my knee-highs. Another pair bites the dust. I toss them in the trash on my way into the kitchen and find a banana to eat while pondering the vast emptiness that is the inside of my refrigerator. Forty-two kinds of salad dressing and a package of polenta I bought in a fit of inspiration after reading one of Mom's Bon Appetit magazines. Right. I don't even know why I bother. Grabbing the milk, I let the door swing shut and head for the cereal. I suppose as a scientist I should try to test his range, see if he can pick up WDKS, all Scully, all the time, but I don't think I have it in me to be that detached. Besides, I can't prove anything -- how do I prove he isn't poking around in my skull if he doesn't want me to know? He's preternaturally curious and quite capable of keeping secrets from me. Inclined to, as a matter of fact. I trust him with my life, but with staying out of my head? Damn it. Why couldn't this at least have affected both of us? Why just him? The tears don't catch up to me again until I'm in the shower. Mine can't be the only mind he can hear. What the hell does he need me for if he can just cock an ear or however he does it and hear everything he needs to know? All he needs is a lab tech to confirm his findings and turn them into admissible evidence, and that's got to be a hell of a lot cheaper than a field agent with a penchant for second-guessing him. My skepticism is what I brought to our partnership. He was the intuitive one, and I forced him to work for his theories. Yin and yang. That without me, he'd have been a crank in the basement, a brilliant one, but still a crank, ranting about things he couldn't prove. Yeah, so maybe, just maybe, I got some small, private pleasure out of being the 'sane' one. But not now. He's not nuts. He really can do this. He doesn't need me any more, and it's just a matter of time before he figures it out. Dana, banging your head on the tiles isn't helping. Worse than losing my partner, I've lost my friend. To think we made it through this year, only to end up here. What a horrible year, even before we ran into the artifact. But for awhile there, we seemed to be back on track, working well as a team, even playing baseball. Not just bound together by trauma, but actually enjoying being together. Reminding me of everything that makes him dear to me, his intelligence, and compassion, and stubbornness. As big a pain in the ass as he can be, I can't imagine life without him. Enough. I can't cry any more, so I haul my waterlogged body out of the shower. Then I pause, one damp arm stretched halfway towards the robe hanging on the back of the door. The closed door. Why shut the bathroom door when you live alone? How reserved is that? Like I needed a reminder of just how private I am and what a disaster this all is. Who dreamed up this special hell for me? Tugging the belt of my robe tight, I fling open the damned door and stalk towards the bedroom, hoping to leave all this brooding behind. No such luck. After an hour staring at the reflection of streetlights off my ceiling, I'm seriously contemplating Benadryl and that mini-bottle of wine stashed in my fridge from who knows what flight. Instead, I move to the couch, tucking my feet up under a throw blanket, wondering if I am the only one awake on a couch tonight. I wonder if I'm the only one who feels so alone. Maybe I'm not being fair, and he's as scared as I am. It's easy to lose sight of that. Not very empathetic, Dr. Scully. It doesn't matter; I can't stay, not with him nosing around in my head. God, to think I used to worry about him subsuming me completely, just taking over my life and leaving me with nothing to call my own. I had no idea how right I was. I need to leave. When Skinner asks why I requested to meet with him, I will just come out and say I want a transfer. I want a transfer. I want a transfer. I can do this. I want a transfer. Why do I think this isn't going to get any easier to say? I want a transfer. God. I want a transfer. I want-- --to stop crying. Damn. Waiting for the elevator in the lobby of the Hoover Building the next morning, I realize that I need to get a file from the basement before my meeting with Skinner. Damn. "Sorry, I'm sorry," I mumble, as I back away from the elevator into a crush of people trying to get upstairs, only to find myself frozen with fear. Now what? I can't stand here all day, I can't go downstairs, what the hell am I going-- No, it's Wednesday, he has a weekly 9 a.m. meeting with the other department heads. Everything's fine, no problem. I can do this. Glancing at my watch, I figure I have about 20 minutes to kill before I can get down there, grab what I need and get out. Fast. In my office, or more precisely, in my cubicle, I hang up my coat and sit down to sort through the mail that piled up in the last week while I wait. A suspiciously thin letter from the American Journal of Pathology sits on top. "Your manuscript, 'Microsatellite Instability and p53 Gene Mutations in Nasopharyngeal Tumors' has been examined by several experts in this field, and based on their review, we have decided not to publish..." Dinged. Though I anticipated this, it still stings. I'll have to e-mail Wei and Shaoling and let them know. Damn. Microsatellite instability. That phrase struck Mulder funny for some reason, and I remember driving along I-95 late one night, listening to him muse about possible uses for microsatellites. I stopped him when he got to the dark recesses of Skinner's closet, but it was fun. Feels like a long time ago, now. I quickly sort the mail into junk and 'deal with' piles until I recognize Mulder's handwriting. What is he doing? I've known him long enough to know when he's up to something. I study the long white envelope until I understand. Okay, Mulder, I get it. I sit back in my chair, folding my hands across my stomach. I can hear my fellow cubicle rats settling in for the day, booting up their computers, listening to voice mail, slurping their Starbucks take-out. I can do this. My new mantra. When my phone rings, I jump about a foot in the air. "Scully." "Agent Scully, this is Assistant Director's Skinner's office calling to confirm your appointment at 9:30 today." "Yes, thanks, I'll be there." I hang up and reach for my letter opener before I can second-guess myself. "S-- Please call me. I know you're upset, and I don't blame you. But you need to know that I would never do anything to hurt you. We need to talk about this. You know the number. M." I stare at the words until they blend together. So much for trying to convince myself it wasn't true, that he couldn't read my mind; he's admitting it. Maybe he can't read minds over the phone. Maybe he can. He says he won't. I'm not sure I entirely believe him but part of me wants to, desperately. I've missed him. I feel like a drowning woman, flailing after an electronic life preserver, one that fits in the palm of my hand. Yeah, and grabbing after electronics in water is either going to save you or kill you. Fine. There's no way I'm ready to see him, but I'm not quite ready to give up the Mulder I knew, either. The one who would not give up, who knows that I hate being out of control, who would figure out that letter could give me some small measure of control back. At least I can decide whether and when to read it. Plus, being a good paranoiac, I'm sure he's figured out that unlike e-mail, it won't end up on any FBI back-up tapes. I'll call. But not here, with so many other people around. Home, I think, tonight. Then I look up at the clock and realize I've been up here longer than I meant to. I need that file. Rushing to the elevator, I push the button over and over in a deluded effort to speed it up. Finally, the elevator spits me into the basement, as quiet and dusty as ever. His door is closed and my knock echoes in the hall, unanswered. Thank God. I slip in and see the papers I need spread across his desk and my work area. What was he looking for? I gather the papers off my table, and find a pen to scribble a note telling him I'll call tonight. Just as I tape it to his monitor, I hear footsteps in the hall. Oh no, oh no, no, no, no. Not yet. I scoop up the rest of the papers I need, and grab an empty file folder from Mulder's outbox to carry them. One of the pages floats off the edge of the desk and I lunge for it, snatching it mid-air to cram it into the folder. "Last time I checked, Scully, the FBI manual explicitly prohibited folding, spindling, or mutilating government property. Not that anyone has any idea what spindling is." Spinning on one heel, I see Mulder leaning in the door, his arms folded across his chest. My eyes snap down to measure the distance between his hip and the door, though he must have known what I was thinking because he straightens, blocking the doorway with his legs slightly spread. I briefly consider charging past him, my body poised for flight, my breath shallow and fluttering. Calm down. Breathe. I take a deep breath, and try to fill my brain with loud noises. Jackhammers. That works. Now all I need is the Diet Coke guy. God, I am losing my mind. "Hi. Um... I was just retrieving some notes I needed. Gotta go, I'm going to be late." Bright, cheery and chipper, that's me. "Don't you have a meeting?" "It's summer. All the good little department heads are on vacation except for me." He gives me a lingering look. "Scully..." My fingers clench around the file. "Mulder, I have to go. I do have a meeting." "Scully, we have to talk about this. You can't keep avoiding me. I've been trying to stay out of your way, but we have to talk." Smiling slightly, he adds, "I know where you live, you know." Not funny, Mulder. "I know." His smile disappears, and he presses his fingertips to one eyebrow. "There is no meeting, is there?" At my look, he sighs, but doesn't move out of my way. "Relax. I'm not reading your mind. Give me some credit for knowing you after six years." Is he telling the truth? I wouldn't put it past him to try to hide his ability in order to calm me down. God. I wasn't ready for this. He's not supposed to be here. I take another step towards the door, as if to leave. "Scully, look." He moves towards me with his hands up, palms out, as if he's trying to show me there's nothing up his sleeves, no rabbit in his hat. "It doesn't work the way you think. I can't reach into your mind. And even if I could, I wouldn't. I've said it before. You have to trust me, Scully. You have to believe." I can hardly think over the 'no, no, no' echoing in my brain, over car alarms, colicky babies, subway cars screeching down the third rail. A distant part of me diagnoses panic, but I don't realize I'm backing up until my hip bangs into the corner of the desk. I jump and rub my hip, staring at my feet like a petulant child, willing my breathing to steady, to calm the fuck down. Mulder. It's Mulder. You can do this. You've faced hundreds of frightening mutants and monsters and never backed down. This is no different. It's not. It is. This is personal in a way that aliens, flukemen, and killer cats were not. Lions, and tigers, and bears, oh my. Oh for God's sake, stop this. Concentrate. Flying monkeys aren't going to snatch you away from here. More's the pity. I look up and Mulder is staring at me. Oh God. Can he only hear words or does he see the pictures, too? Flying monkeys. My humiliation is complete. I rush for the door, gambling that he'll concede and get out of my way. No such luck. He reaches for me and I twist away, barely remembering in time not to crush his instep, slamming my heel instead on the linoleum next to his shoe and pivoting back towards the desk. All those self-defense classes but not a one on how to protect yourself from your partner. Breathing heavily, I stare over the desk at his 'I Want to Believe' poster. I can hear the slow, measured tread of his shoes, closer now, and I have the sudden, appalling feeling that he might be reaching for my shoulder. Turning, I snap, "Don't touch me." His hand drops. Could this get any worse? I scramble around the desk and stare at the bulletin board, unable to look at him. It's okay. It's Mulder. You trust him above all others, remember? And he didn't know about the meeting, he didn't. Maybe. "Mulder, what were you expecting? I can't do this." "Scully..." he whispers. I want to hear anger in his voice. Not pain, not understanding. Especially not understanding. The room is silent, except for the distant groan of the elevator cables, my breath fluttering some of the clippings pinned to the board. With a sigh, I slump into his chair, rubbing my forehead with the back of the hand still clutching the damn folder. When did this all go to hell? When the artifacts showed up? Earlier, maybe. When we ran into Gibson Praise. Over a year of this shit. Enough, already. You win, okay? I'm not sure who I'm talking to. The mysterious, nameless Them, I guess. You win. I give up. I can't take any more. I look up at Mulder, who looks as frightened by my sudden lethargy as he was by my rampage. "Mulder, I can't do this. We both know you can rummage around in my head. Isn't it enough for you that I believe that you can do this? Isn't that what you always wanted, for me to acknowledge that such a thing is possible? Hell, you even have me talking about aliens. What more do you want from me?" I blink back tears. Will not cry. Will. Not. "I want you to trust me. You have to believe that I will not do this to you," he says a little too loudly, his hands balling up into fists. A sharp flick of my wrist and the folder skitters across his desk. "You already did, Mulder." The file teeters on the edge of the desk and for a sudden, perverse moment, I want it to fall and spill its contents across the floor. "Scully, that was an accident. One that I am deeply sorry about. But I keep trying to tell you it won't happen again. I promise." "If it was an accident, how do you know it won't happen again? You can't promise anything." "What do you mean if? It was definitely an accident," he snaps. "I didn't intend to invade your privacy. You were practically shouting at me. I couldn't help it. It won't happen again. For God's sake, Scully, I didn't ask for this. I'm not out to get you." Good. He's angry. Now he knows how I feel. "I hate this, Mulder. I hate that you can do this. It's bad enough that I can't control my body, that I can be taken and experimented on against my will, that someday I could wake up on another damn bridge because of this chip in my neck." Suddenly out of steam, I sigh and finger the hem of my jacket, plucking at the cotton starting to pill into little balls. I wonder when the car alarms in my head faded. "And now this. This is just too much. You're asking too much." He stares at me incredulously. "It's too much to ask that we learn how to deal with this?" Damn it. I return his glare. What the hell is so hard to understand? "We? There is no 'we' here. I can't read your mind and you've just implied that you can't always control what you hear." He winces and sinks into the chair I usually use. That's good, Mulder. Back off. "I know you didn't ask for this ability," I continue, suppressing a wild urge to hit him and an equally absurd urge to hide in his arms. "And I wish I could ignore it, but I can't. You are a daily reminder that I can be invaded without my consent. At least before, when it was just a chip..." I pause. Just a chip, good Lord, is my life so bad that it's now 'just' a chip? "When it was just a chip, I could sometimes forget, but I can't ignore you the same way." He leans forward in his chair but says nothing, just stares at my hands and rubs his thumbs along his index fingers as if willing them not to reach out. Watching his fingers, I drift, feeling oddly like a third party observing the deterioration of something between two strangers. My gaze finds the ceiling tiles. "Mulder, I'm not someone who wears her heart on her sleeve. I'm not emotionless, but I relate to the world through my brain. It's who I am. And now what I thought was mine -- what was *me* -- is no longer under my control." My eyes water and I lower my chin to swipe at them, looking over his shoulder at his computer instead of at him. "I know you didn't ask for this but I'm having a hard time separating how I feel about you from how I feel about your new ability. Sure, part of me avoided you so I wouldn't have to deal with this, but I also didn't want to take it out on you. It's too easy to get mad at you, Mulder. You're there, up close and in person. I know it's not fair, but I can't help it." "Scully, listen to me," he says desperately. "I wish I knew how to reassure you. This is not just happening to you alone. It's happening to us. Not you or I, Scully. Us." Oh, Mulder. You really do believe that, don't you? I finally look at him, and try to keep my voice low and warm, because I know he doesn't want to think this through to its logical conclusion. "You're saying 'we' but how long before you go back to 'I'? Your quest, your beliefs, your life. Always you. What about the next time I disagree with one of your theories? Are you sure you won't be tempted? I know I would be, if I were in your shoes. It's not like I haven't wanted to reach into your brain sometimes, so I could figure out what the hell you were thinking and what you weren't telling me. Are you really so sure you wouldn't do the same, now that you can?" He sits back in his chair, an unreadable expression crossing his suddenly pale face. "I wouldn't do that, Scully." But he's crossed his arms over his chest, a defensive posture. He's not as sure as he'd like to think he is. "We'll figure something out, Scully," he says weakly, briefly covering his eyes with one hand. For a second I wonder if there's something physically wrong with him, but dismiss the thought. I just hit a nerve, a big one. "I doubt if it will be as easy as you make it sound. This is frightening, Mulder." In the face of his new ability, hiding how I feel seems less important than it once did, if not outright pointless. I lean on the desk, closing the space between us, but he twists his head away, unwilling to look at me. "*I'm* frightened." That got his attention. We stare at each other and once again I am reminded that my friend is in there somewhere and he is probably as scared as I am. I can't help him, hell, I can't even help myself, but I don't need to make it worse. "Give me some time to get my feet back underneath me," I tell him. "But for now, I have to get up to Skinner's office. I really do have a meeting." I stand up. Mulder doesn't. He's struggling with something, trying to hide his panic face, until he finally asks, "Why are you meeting with Skinner?" I can't lie to him now. "I was going to ask about a transfer." At his look, I hasten to reassure him, "No, not now. But Mulder--" He freezes. "I am going to ask him about spending more time in the lab. I'm not ready for you full-time yet. This is all going to take time. I'm sorry, but you have to understand. This isn't easy for me." He nods stiffly, and I close the door behind me on my way out. Leaning against the wall, I try to catch my breath. What am I going to tell Skinner? How in God's name are we going to make this work? *** *** *** One more conversation like that and *I'm* going to ask for a transfer. You're frightened, Scully? What about me, knowing I'm the cause of that fear? Knowing that it's the change in me that's driving you away? It is about us, damn it. You just like to pretend it's only about me, so that you can absolve yourself of any responsibility for mending this partnership. Oh, fuck. No more arguing. Even if it's only in my head. My aching head. Nothing like taking a emotional beating from your partner to exacerbate a daylong headache. I cradle my head in my hands, listening to her heels finally clacking down the hall towards the elevator. What were you thinking out there, Scully? I wouldn't know, no matter what you think. My range isn't that good. I rub my temples for a few more seconds, then surrender, and paw through my desk drawers searching for the Advil I know she's got stashed in there somewhere. Now that's a sign of how messed up she is right now, how oblivious to me she's become. Normally, she'd be all over me at the first sign that anything's physically wrong. Dr. Scully's on the golf course today. There they are. Wash down three of them with our sludgy coffee -- I wasn't using that stomach lining for anything anyway -- sink into my own desk chair and, well, put my head down on my desk. Not very professional, but screw it. Just close my eyes and let it all go for a while. She'll be back soon enough, and this terrible tango we've begun will resume. But I can't let it go. I lie there for maybe 30 seconds before I take up the battle again. Her words echo over and over in my mind until the underlying meaning becomes clear. Whether she meant to or not, she's lumped me in with all of Them, the faceless men who have violated her, who control her, who take what is hers without asking. The pain in my gut is not from the Advil. On top of that, her remarkable admission that she'd willingly do to me what she so fears I'd do to her -- oh, God, Scully, how could you, you -- You *hypocrite.* Anger rolls right over self-pity and hurt, and I jerk up my head as if to shout the words at her, as if she was still here. How dare you excoriate me for an accident when you'd treat my thoughts like that? How dare you assume I'd do the same. I already know how you think, I don't need to pry -- /And what did she say when you told her you loved her?/ No. I have hashed that "oh brother" over in my mind a million times. I know what she was thinking, that I was drugged and concussed and had no idea what I was saying. It doesn't matter. I know how she feels. Felt. Shit. You have no idea, do you? the devil in me asks. There is something you'd like to find out, isn't there? My treacherous brain actually goes silent for a moment, considering this. But you can't look, I tell myself, it doesn't work that way. How do you know? You never tried. I let my head sink back down onto my arms, the weight of temptation bearing it down. I wouldn't. I couldn't. I promised her. But the little devil Mulder presses on. You could find out for sure, it goads me. I don't want to know. I don't need to know. I already know. Come on, back me up on this one... Finally, the angel Mulder speaks up. What if you're wrong? it says. I sit up with a gasp -- and meet the eyes of the elephant I suddenly can't think about. Scully stands in the doorway, frowning at me, a few casefiles cradled in the crook of her left arm. "That was fast," I manage to say. "It's been half an hour." Her frown deepens. "Are you all right?" I should be gratified that she noticed, but oh, God, she's taken a step into the office, coming into range. Woodstock '99, that should be loud enough to block her out. Cowboy, baby, I did it all for the nookie, burn baby burn, whatever, I'm too old to know the lyrics to these songs, Scully, back up, *please*... What if I'm wrong? "Headache," I admit. "Must have dozed off." "Well," she says. "Feel better. Skinner's given us a case." She looks as overjoyed to be working with me as I feel about being in the same room with her. end part 2 of 3 feedback to mrsblome@aol.com and haphmeth@yahoo.com From mrsblome@aol.com Fri Nov 19 16:30:00 1999 Date: 18 Nov 1999 03:10:37 GMT From: Mrsblome Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: Out of Our Minds, by Sarah Segretti and haphazard method, PG-13, 3/3 Out of Our Minds, part 3 of 3 *** *** *** Overjoyed is certainly not the word I would use to describe being in the same car with her. With a woman who probably hates me, who might love me, who has enraged and terrified me to the point where it physically hurts. Who doesn't understand that her proximity is driving me insane, and not in the way I'd prefer. I wanted to take a cab to avoid this contact, to let the Amharic or Punjabi of the cabdriver's thoughts soothe my mind, but she insisted on driving. I close my eyes and hum desperately to myself, trying to keep from listening to her. From *looking.* She swears fluently and creatively at the other drivers, and it would be entertaining if I were hearing the words come out of her mouth instead of in my head. She's too physically close, and she's shouting, she has no idea. Then again, maybe she's shouting to block me out. I can't help but hear her. Scully, please stop, I don't want to hear you. Fuck, how do I tell her to stop without revealing that I can hear her? Desperate to shut her off, I open the case file that rests in my lap, even though it's hard to read through this headache, even though Scully's asteroid-field driving technique through Dupont Circle is making me carsick. We're headed for the National Zoo. Ironically, this case involves animals and genetic anomalies, and I honestly believe that if I'd handed her the case instead of Skinner, we'd still be in the office arguing over whether it was worth our time. I close my eyes against the jittering type on the case report and lean my head against the window. Scully swerves, honks, and swears aloud. My skull bangs against the glass. We instinctively glance at each other, automatically checking to make sure the other is okay, and quickly look away. "What do you think, Mulder?" she asks after a beat, nodding at the file in my lap. "I think you have a future as a cab driver in a Third World country," I mutter, rubbing my head. "Mulder." That was her I'm-not-in-the-mood voice. Don't need no stinkin' mind-reading to know that. It occurs to me that talking is a fine way to drown out the sound of her thoughts. "One dead chimp, one dead bonobo, two very sick orangutans. No signs of any known illness, but the dead animals showed signs of branched DNA in their systems at necropsy." Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see her flinch. However, she's hiding her thoughts well. God knows she's had enough practice on that subject. "Interesting that the zoo thought to call us. Maybe they got our names from the folks in Ellicott City. As far as I know they're still trying to explain a sudden mysterious influx of bears and gila monsters." Shit. What the hell was I thinking, bringing that up? Nothing like reminding her I can barge into her mind. She's silent for a moment, and her fleeting undecipherable thought taunts me before she speaks. "A few years ago I set up a system that would red-flag any reports of people with branched DNA in their systems, and send them our way," she says with a sigh. "We never got very many, and we were always busy with other things..." A wave of her regret rolls across my mind, and I almost wave my hands to bat it away in horror. You never told me you did that, I think, a little resentfully. "I never thought we'd get animals," she says, and before I can wonder at the sadness in her voice, she darts across two lanes of traffic and screeches into a parking space right at the zoo entrance. She's out of the car before my heartbeat slows to normal. When I catch my breath and get out, I discover that the lush trees of Woodley Park are no protection against the oppressive weather. The heat doesn't mix well with a headache and carsickness, and I have to put a hand on the roof of Scully's car to steady myself for a second. She glances at me, allowing a hint of worry to cross her face, but doesn't come near me. Good. I want her over there, away from me. "Let's go talk to the animals," I tell her. We clomp down the hill to the ape house. Anyone watching would think that we were accidentally separated by the school groups and clots of rampaging tourist, but I know better. This dance was very carefully choreographed by both of us. God, each step I take down this steep incline jars my head. I have to slow down. I feel strange all of a sudden, hypersensitive. Weird images fill my mind, knees and grossly oversized animals and looming adult faces -- and I realize I've blundered into a knot of toddlers in matching T-shirts with address labels on their backs. Kids that little go on field trips? I wonder, before I'm assaulted with images of my own face as they look at me. With a shudder, I break away. Adult minds are strange enough. Scully has stopped a few yards ahead, waiting, her hands on her hips. I motion at her to go ahead, and she frowns, but she does. Thank God. At the moment, there's enough noise in my head without adding the sound of her voice. Damn, I thought I had this under control. My head hasn't hurt this bad since this -- shit, I don't know what to call it -- began. I have a sudden, nasty thought: there are diseases that get better before they get worse, fooling you into thinking you're home free before they kill you. Lord knows I heard enough about anthrax when we were on the domestic terrorism squad. The comparison chills me, even in the heat. I stop and press my hands to my head, which is throbbing horribly. For a second, unable to focus, I consider calling to Scully, telling her what's going on, that I think I'm in trouble. But then she'd have to come into range. No. I can handle this. I don't need help from a woman who's afraid of me. I follow her into the ape house, and the humid, suffocating air hits me like a tubercular fog. It's all I can do not to gag. The monkeys don't look too unhappy, though, and neither does Scully. She's flashing her badge, gesturing at me, and beginning to discuss what I hope is the case with a worried-looking zookeeper. She's got things under control. Feeling sick on so many levels I don't even want to think about it, I step away from the two of them and sink onto one of the benches facing the exhibits. The sound inside my head is buzzing, unrelenting. Yet there aren't that many people in here. I can't tell where it's coming from. What I'm hearing doesn't seem to match with the tourists nearby, nor with Scully or the zookeeper. Disturbing. /what the/ I look over at Scully. She and the zookeeper are examining some pictures, perfectly calm except for the distress he feels over his lost animals. The nearest tourists -- a pair of women about my age surrounded by a passel of little kids of various sizes -- are laughing at something. /how the hell/ It dawns on me that I'm not hearing the words exactly, that my brain is translating some extremely strong feelings into a language I understand. "Mulder?" Scully says. "Care to join us?" No, I think, but stand up anyway. It's hard to breathe. This air is so thick it's nearly edible. I take a step towards her -- /goddamn look at that/ The tourists fall into uncontrollable giggles, and I have a terrible, terrible feeling ... Reluctantly I focus on them. One of the children is holding a stuffed Curious George up to the window of the exhibit. Three gibbons stare at George through the glass separating them from the humans. One of the animals actually seems to point at the toy. The morning's coffee rises in my throat. One tourist claps her hands delightedly. "How to freak out the monkeys!" she cries. Oh god oh god oh god ... I barely make it out of the ape house in time to vomit into some nearby bushes. I hear her before I see her /damn it Mulder what now oh my God/ "What's wrong?" she asks, as I simultaneously shout at her, "Stay away from me!" "Mulder?" she says, and I hold out a hand to keep her at bay. If I can pick up monkey vibes now, I certainly don't want her anywhere near me. Monkey thoughts. Jesus. What's happening to me? Whatever it is, it just keeps getting more and more frightening. I'd almost started to think the ability was going away, it was so easy to ignore. Until this morning. Until Scully reminded me of what I could do with it. "Mulder, you're sick," she says. No shit, I mutter to myself, and find the strength to stand. What to tell her? What to tell myself? She takes another step towards me, but nervously, like all it would take is the word 'boo!' and she'd bolt. That makes two of us. I hold out my hands again, take a step back. Please stay away, Scully, please help me. She doesn't move. "You were right," I tell her. "I came back too soon. I'm going home." And before I can interpret the surprise that ripples across her face, I turn and stagger up the hill. She doesn't follow me. Something vital breaks loose inside me, and for a second I want to fall to my knees and grab at my head, until I realize it's not physical, and then the pain is worse. Oh, God, I want to kill those rat bastards who did this to me, who did this to us, if I hear one more fucking tourist in my head I'm going to kill *myself* -- The remembered feel of cool steel against my temple calms me enough that it scares me to death. Forget home. Maybe I should go to a hospital. Maybe I should maybe go back and get Scully no no not Scully anyone but her -- The roaring in my head is unbelievable, worse than it ever was even when they were doing their goddamn tests. I can hardly think clearly enough to put one foot in front of the other any more, to stand, to see, oh my God, I'm having a stroke, I'm dying dying dying Scully -- And then silence. Relative silence. I hear the sounds of traffic, of trees rustling in the hot breeze, of people talking all around me. Disoriented, I open my eyes and find myself on my back on the pavement, staring at a cross-section of America. About seven or eight tourists are kneeling over me, most of them wide-eyed and frightened. One dark-skinned 20-something plants a hand on my chest before I can sit up. "Stay still," he orders me, and from his tone of voice alone I realize that it's just my luck to die in front of the only other MD in the zoo. "We're about to call an ambulance." I can't stop staring at him. His face is only a couple of feet from mine, well within range -- and there's silence. I glance around at the other faces floating above me. Silence. "How many fingers?" he asks. So predictable. "Two. Bill Clinton, Wednesday, 1999, the zoo. Pupils responsive to light. Watch." I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. He blinks in surprise, and I grab the front of his polo shirt before he can stop me. "Don't call an ambulance. Think the craziest thing you can think. Thinking that I'm crazy doesn't count." Puzzlement and annoyance flash across his face, but I can see him comply. And I have no idea what he just thought. I let him go, covering my face with my hands and taking a long shuddering breath. It's over. It's gone. I'm free. I don't know how, I don't know why. Maybe that smoking bastard dropped the key piece and broke the magic spell. I don't know, and I don't care. I am finally alone again inside my head. "Are you sure you're okay?" Doogie Howser asks. "I'm fine," I breathe. "I'm fine. Let me go home. Don't call an ambulance." "Well --" He rocks back on his heels, and I know I've won. I know how to twist a doc around my finger. Most of them, anyway. For the first time it occurs to me to look around for her. She's not there. I'm not sure how to feel about that. "Okay." He relents and gets up, and helps me to my feet. That's a sign for the tourists to disperse. "Just -- go see your doctor, okay?" My doctor is down in the zoo ministering to sick critters and has no idea what just happened to me. She always knows when I'm in trouble; the thought that she might have heard her internal Mulder alarm go off and chose to ignore it bothers me more than I want to admit. The fact that I'm the one who told her to do it doesn't escape me, either. For a fleeting moment I wish I could read minds again, to know where she is, what she's thinking, except that's the kind of crap that got us into trouble in the first place. Not only am I alone again inside my head, I'm alone again, period. I stand there for a moment, taking in my surroundings -- I'd almost made it out of the zoo when I passed out -- and decide that I really will go home. And I'm standing on Connecticut, arm in the air to hail a cab, when my phone rings. The display tells me it's exactly who I think it is. Do I want to talk to her or not? Habit wins out. "Mulder, it's me," she says, and hesitates. "We're finished here, I'm leaving the zoo now. Where are you?" "Catching a cab." There's a pause. "No, Mulder. Let me drive you home." Fuck. I don't need to be babied. "I'm fine, Scully." Her silence is telling. I've pissed her off with that statement, the way she always did me. No, that's not fair. The last time she saw me, I was losing my breakfast and screaming at her like a crazy man. I should at least tell her the end of the story. "They're gone, Scully." "What?" "The voices." I lower mine, in case anyone's listening. "I can't... do it any more. They're gone. I don't hear anything." It seems to take forever for her to answer. That's great, Mulder! I'm glad, Mulder! Come on, Scully, work with me here. "Are you sure?" My vision narrows to the mouthpiece of my phone. "How the hell could I not be sure about a thing like that? Jesus!" I shout. "Am I sure? Give me a break! " "Who are you trying to convince, Mulder? It took five weeks and a lot of proof before I would even believe you could do this, and now you expect me to believe that now, all of a sudden, you can't anymore? Pretty convenient timing, wouldn't you say?" I want to howl with rage, to reach through the phone and shake her stupid. My nerves tingle and pulse with the need to do violence to someone, to something -- and then those emotions cool like a hot pan dunked in cold water. God, I'm tired. Tired of waiting, tired of fighting, tired of everything. I want to go home. "Scully," I say, my voice flat. "You don't have to believe in the same things that I do, but I wish that just once, you'd believe in *me.*" And I hang up on her, and start walking down Connecticut, my steps becoming ever faster until I break into a full run down the hill. Let me reach escape velocity. Please. *** *** *** He hangs up on me. I listen to dead air for a second before punching my own "end" button, and the next thing I know, I'm watching my phone soar past a few surprised tourists into the flamingo pool. Fuck. Son of a bitch. Believe in him. I am not one of your apostles, Mulder. When are you going to get over this insane idea that I should immediately believe something just because you tell me it's true? Never, apparently. Who would have guessed these scrawny birds were so easily spooked? I climb over the rail to go after the damned phone and the squawking lawn ornaments scurry for the other end of the pen, except for one alpha flamingo who caws at me from about ten feet away. Back off, Rambo, or I'll wring your neck and feed you to the lions. My shoes sink into the mud while I'm rolling up my sleeve to reach through the pink-orange feathers floating on the stagnant water -- don't think about why the water feels slick or you'll never get the damned phone. As my fingers curl around it, I half-expect to get a shock, my own warnings about electronics and water coming back to haunt me. Wrong again, and I'm neither dead or saved, though I may still be drowning. Holding my dripping ex-phone out with two fingers, I turn, only to find a pack of 5-year olds gaping at me and one angry security guard on the move. Mulder, when I find you, I am going to kill you. Using my other hand to fish my I.D. out of my pocket, I explain that I had to retrieve government property. Maybe it's my most authoritative federal-doctor-superagent tone, or maybe it's just the wild look in my eye, but the guard lets me go after a brief lecture on leaving the animals alone, playing to our rapt audience. Sure, fine, whatever. My shoes are streaked with guano, and I'd rather have my bare hand in a decomposing cadaver than have wet pantyhose stuck to my legs. Charming. I move over to a bench, wipe the phone with a tissue and put it in back in my pocket. I don't even know why I bothered to go after it, but now that I've got it, I can't just toss it out. What the hell was that conversation with Mulder, and how did it go from bad to worse in no time flat? I didn't mean to imply he was lying, and I certainly didn't mean for it to end like that when I called. Why did you bother to answer your phone if you were still so eager to get away from me? You were so insistent outside the ape house, that I agreed to just to let you go. Hell, if I hadn't seen you puking your guts out, I might not even have called. It's not like I'm actually looking for opportunities to spend more time together. I honestly was concerned about you, even if you didn't think I was. Oh, hell. I rub my forehead, forgetting about the nasty pond residue. Jesus. My hands drop into my lap, and my fingers snarl together. Have I managed to handle any of this gracefully? I don't think so. Somehow this became all about me, Mulder, and it wasn't any prettier than when it was all about you. It is about us. You went through an awful, awful trauma, it spilled over on me, and yes, God help me, you were right, it happened to us. I hate it when you're right, you son of a bitch. Hard to believe that a month and a half ago, I was flying home from the Ivory Coast. I shudder, remembering the feeling of locusts crawling in my hair. But even though that alien ship completely shook my world, I still knew what I had to do, still knew I had to get home to Mulder. Six long weeks of helping him heal, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. /I *heard* you./ Yeah, Mulder, you did. And that's when my world collapsed. I've been juggling so many conflicting feelings. Fear for him, fear of him. Anger. If only I could just let the balls drop and walk away. I have no doubt there are some still hovering up there, waiting for the right moment to drop on my head. My hand reaches into my damp pocket for another tissue and finds my soggy phone. Out of habit, I press the power button -- no, that would be too much to ask for, I guess. His anguished pleas to stay away still echo in my mind. Call him anyway. Ignore the rest of it; he's not that long out of the hospital and something's wrong. Find a pay phone. Call him. But if I call him to ask how he's feeling, it's all about him again. Come on, call him. Somehow, I'm going to find a way to keep this about us. Just call him, Dana. Mulder, are you listening to me? Calling Agent Mulder, come in, Mulder. Yeah, that's right, buddy, keep walking past the nice bedraggled lady rolling her eyes. Mulder. I don't know if you can hear me, and trust me, I'm as surprised as you are that I am actually trying this, but if you can hear me, please don't run away. For a moment, I sit there, actually listening for him. Lord, we deserve each other. Okay, Mulder, ready or not, here I come. And with any luck, I can be waiting on your stoop by the time you get home. *** *** *** The End. feedback to mrsblome@aol.com and haphmeth@yahoo.com