Archive of Our Own

Scully is bringing a plant to work, an English ivy in a four-inch pot. She knows it's a futile gesture, absurd even, but she longs for a bit of green in the darkness of her basement cell. She'll probably have to throw it out in a month, but at least for a while, it can be a symbol of growth, regeneration, perhaps even hope. For a little while.

Balancing the pot in one hand, she opens the door to find Mulder already there, reading a University of Seattle alumni newsletter. As she enters, he silently holds it up to her. Juggling the plant and her bag, she takes the flimsy paper and reads a snippet outlined in red:

"Prof. Erik C. Hoffmann surprised the academic community with his unexpected announcement of retirement. His spokesperson and brother-in-law, the psychiatrist Dr. Steven Mack, stated that Prof. Hoffmann had decided to 'devote himself to philanthropic pursuits,' rather than his academic work. Prof. Hoffmann is best known for discounting, or 'debunking,' as he calls it, theories popularized by proponents of extraterrestrial life. 'We are it,' was a buzz phrase he used to summarize his position."

Scully sets down her burdens and shrugs out of her coat. "So?"

Mulder shakes his head. "I found it pushed under my door. I've tried to make some calls, but Seattle's three hours earlier; there's no one in his department office yet. In the meantime, I thought we could research Professor Hoffmann and his opponents. You want the pros or cons?"

"Why call anyone? It's not an X-File; it doesn't sound as though it's even in the FBI's jurisdiction."

He doesn't answer, just continues watching her as she settles in for the day. The silence stretches on, and she begins to smile and shake her head in wry acknowledgment of her capitulation. "Does Skinner know?" He only smiles. "I'll take Hoffman's opponents. It'll be good for you to work with the non-believers." She sits at her computer and logs in. "But you have to bring me decent coffee as an incentive." He obligingly rises, fingering the plant curiously before leaving on his errand.

Phone propped between ear and shoulder, Mulder is mm-hmming and taking notes as Scully, looking cross, pushes aside some papers and leans a hip against his desk. She carries a sheaf of notes. "Professor Hoffmann wasn't ill? Well, what's *your* theory?" Mulder coaxes, and jots down something. "Thank you. You've been very helpful. May I call you again?" He looks up at Scully as he hangs up the phone. "Well?"

"These guys are more desperate to believe that you are, Mulder. Look -- here's a guy, Clay something, who claims aliens are passing as humans in order to study us. We can only recognize them by their aura. And this woman, Patsy Kent, says she *is* an alien." She shakes the papers at him. "They all were in contact with Hoffmann, usually pretty antagonistic, but still shocked by his retirement. Kent says," she rifles through her notes, "that she doesn't believed he retired, that he must have been coerced. Probably by aliens," she adds dryly.

"Is that Kent's idea, or yours? I wasn't able to reach Hoffman, but I did talk to the brother-in-law quoted in the article, and to a student he referred me to. They both claim to be surprised at his retirement. Apparently he was in the middle of some study that he felt would prove a lot of these claims to be false. Although isn't it impossible to prove a negative? Nevertheless, he was unusually excited by it. I have a line on one of his thesis students -- I'm told he is *very* upset by the retirement. Maybe he'll help."

"Disgruntled employees often will. Where is this guy?"

"Luckily enough, right here in DC, at a conference on the paranormal and technology. Let's go out to the hotel; see if we can find him."

"Will we see the Lone Gunmen there, too?"

The two agents push through a crowded hotel lobby to rows of bulletin boards with lists of names pinned to them. Scully says, "Here it is -- room 1310." Mulder strides to the phone bank, but backs up to examine another bulletin board, listing meetings and speakers.

"No, here he is." He points to a flyer listing meetings in the Jacobs Room: Mark Marlowe, 11:15.

"Let's go."

In a large room full of rows of folding chairs, all empty, a youngish man sips from a water glass as he slouches in a chair, feet up on a long table covered in white paper. Mulder asks, "Mr. Marlowe?"

"Yeah." He barely glances up. The agents introduce themselves, which brings some life into his face. He puts the glass and his feet down and sits up marginally straighter. "FBI? I thought you dealt with internal matters. Are space aliens internal?" Short laugh. "Siddown, siddown. No talk today, that's for sure."

"Because of Professor Hoffmann's retirement?" asks Mulder.

"Retirement? You mean disappearance." Clearly enjoying the agents' surprise, Marlowe continues. "Yeah, he just vanished. Took everything -- including my notes. Musta broke into my office. Everything's gone." He takes another sip, then glances at his wristwatch, nearly spilling his drink. "Guess it's too early to reach the department office in Seattle, hunh. Well, I can tell you, I am up the proverbial creek, without the proverbial paddle. I came to the conference anyway, hoping someone here would know something." He shakes his head, and takes another sip.

Scully asks, "Where did he go? Why do you think he left so suddenly?"

Marlowe holds out his glass and waggles it slowly. "You think this is water? This is vodka, my dear agent Scully, neat. Because the sucking sound you hear is my life going down the toilet. And if I knew where Hoffmann went, I'd go there and break his ghostbusting neck. As for why --" He shrugs elaborately. "Maybe aliens took him."

Mulder asks, "What was his latest research about?"

Marlowe snorts in amusement, and sips more vodka. "He wasn't forthcoming. Said he'd met somebody but was real secretive about it. I thought it was --" he glances at Scully, "baloney." A brief silence, then Marlowe puts down his glass. "Let's get something to eat. I'll tell you what I know. I don't owe Hoffmann anything, especially not now."

In a busy McDonald's, Marlowe stuffs his face with fries bloody with ketchup. "First food all day," he mumbles through them. Scully has coffee; Mulder, coffee and an apple turnover he's picking at. Marlowe carefully wipes his hands and face, and rinses his mouth with Coke. "Ahh. Much better. You wouldn't have any aspirin?" Scully opens her bag and pulls out a container of Extra-Strength Tylenol. He gulps down three and looks at the agents.

"Okay. Here's what I know, not that it's very much and not that it'll help you. Erik -- Professor Hoffmann -- had met somebody, maybe six weeks ago, who'd convinced him that all this alien invasion stuff was due to some chemical imbalance in the brain. Said there was some drug people took that made them either see aliens or else become susceptible to theories of alien invasion. No," he shook his head at Scully's half-formed question, "I don't know what the drug is, how people get it, or who was telling Erik this stuff. He was always secretive. But it was obvious that he bought this story. And now he's gone, along with my future." Marlowe sits back, passes a hand across his face. "Oh -- one more thing. This contact was from San Francisco. The department secretary was ragging on Erik for all the long-distance calls there. Wanted him to write up a justification for them."

The agents exchange meaningful looks. "Thank you, Mr. Marlowe," Scully tells him. "You've been very helpful."

"Good luck," Mulder adds as they stand.

Mulder and Scully alight from a cab into a crowd of largely Asian young people waiting for a Muni bus. They cross with a crowd of students onto the campus of San Francisco State University. "Skinner is *not* going to be pleased," Scully comments as she snugs a scarf around her head against the strong breeze blowing in from the ocean.

"Coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco," Mulder responds somewhat cryptically. They consult a kiosk with a map of the campus, then begin climbing a hill to a building they hope houses Hoffmann's contact.

Wandering through the halls, they find a door marked "Physiology Lab." Mulder starts to knock, only to have the door snatched away from his hands. A man pushes past them, shouting into the room, "You just tell him to call me!" The agents peer into the room, but find only a harassed-looking janitor, waxing the floor.

"If you're looking for Dr. Harrap, he ain't here, and I don't know where he is," she warns them.

"Who was that guy?" Mulder demands, but she shrugs and switches on the buffer. They run down the hall and back out into a courtyard, "I'm gonna look for him, " Mulder tells Scully. "You see what you can find out about Harrap." He runs out into the courtyard and down a long stair.

Scully, looking alert but lost, enters the physiology department office, crowded with ugly metal desks and file cabinets. A tired-looking, heavy-set woman shakes her head at her inquiry. "I don't know where Dr. Harrap is. He's supposed to have office hours right now, and he missed his ten o'clock class this morning." She sighs and pushes some papers around on her desk. "There's no answer at his home." She looks at Scully, who discovers with surprise that the secretary is crying. "Agent Scully, this isn't like Connie. He's very conscientious. Why is the FBI looking for him? What could've happened?" Scully shakes her head and asks for Harrap's address. "Here. It's on Forty-fourth and Cabrillo -- a duplex. His door has the whale knocker."

Scully raps sharply with the brass head of a hump-back whale, but there's no answer. She sees mail, addressed to Harrap, sticking out of the dented blue mailbox next to the door. Knocking on the duplex's neighboring door, only a barking dog answers. She peers into Harrap's windows and walks back to the street, then to the garage. She lifts the door with some effort and leaves it open, dusting her hands. "Professor Harrap?" she calls. The garage is empty except for a washer and dryer and a hot water heater. There is a door next to the washer; she knocks and calls his name. She tries the knob. The door opens.

Mulder races down the long metal stairwell, past and through crowds of students. He taps a man on the shoulder who jumps with surprise. "Yeah?"

"You were looking for Professor Harrap?"

"Yeah, so? He missed an appointment. Took that fucking Muni all the way out here, and he never shows. Why? Who're you?"

Mulder pulls out his badge and identifies himself. "May I ask what your business with Professor Harrap was?"

"Why? Why's the FBI want him? What's going on?" Students bump into them. "Come on, let's get out of this zoo." The man begins walking away; Mulder follows as closely as he can. A long hike away from campus, he flags down a cab, and as he and Mulder get inside, he tells the driver, "221 Cabrillo." To Mulder he says, "I'm Cap Wheeler. I own a chain of health food stores, and I have no idea why Harrap wanted to meet me. He called two days ago, said it was urgent, life-threatening." Wheeler rolls his eyes. "Yeah, right. Anyway, this address is Harrap's home. He wanted to meet there first. Maybe he forgot." Wheeler lapses into silence and stares glumly out the window. "Fucking academics," he mutters venomously.

He suddenly turns to Mulder. "Here's my card. You look really run down, son. Here," he fishes in his coat pocket, "take these. Multivitamins with C, D, E, and kavakava." At Mulder's puzzled look he adds, "to keep you calm." Mulder gravely accepts the bottle and card and puts them both in a pocket.

Mulder pays the cab ("Might as well let Uncle Sam pay!" Wheeler tells him) while Wheeler springs out, rushes to the door, and begins pounding on the whale knocker. To Mulder's surprise, Scully opens the door. "No one's here," she tells the men as they enter, "but there's been a scuffle." At Mulder's look, she says, "justifiable cause. Look." She leads them to a kitchen in disarray. Flour has been scattered over the counter and on the floor, with footprints leading out the back door. The three stand silently, then Wheeler turns. "I'm outta here. You're the feds; you deal with it." Scully starts to object, but Mulder shakes his head.

"Let him go. I've got his name and address."

"But Mulder -- why are people disappearing? We're running out of leads."

Scully follows him out of the empty house, but hesitates at the door. "We should call the police."

"Why? Is there evidence of foul play? Just flour on the floor. Besides, the campus already has called them. As you say, it isn't even our jurisdiction." She frowns but follows. There's no sight of Wheeler or a cab, so they begin climbing the hill. "I have some ideas," he adds. "So," Scully prods, puffing slightly, "what are they?"

"First, we shoulda rented a car. Yeah, I know, the hills, the parking, but still. Second, let's get some Dungeness crab. I'm not leaving San Francisco without any. And some sour sourdough bread to go with it. Third, I'll tell you after we eat."

Fisherman's Wharf is crowded with tourists, including two FBI agents eating crab out of paper cups as they lean over a railing and stare into the oil-slicked water surrounding fishing boats. "Well, the crab was a good idea," Scully tells him; "do you have another one?"

"What kind of person was Harrap?"

"The secretary said he was well-liked. Reliable."

"Any idea why Hoffmann and he talked so often?"

"No, the secretary had never heard of Hoffmann. But she said he'd been making a lot of calls to Seattle lately -- she noticed it on the phone bill. Yes," she added before he could ask, "it was Hoffmann's number."

"So Hoffmann and Harrap are burning up the phone lines. We need to know more. Get Skinner to subpoena their phone records. Maybe there's a third number they both called."

"*Get* Skinner to do something for us while we're on an unauthorized fishing expedition?" She grimaces, but pulls out her cell phone.

Sitting on a bed in a bland hotel room, Scully is again speaking on the phone. Mulder pushes open the adjoining door; she holds up her hand and shakes her head at him sharply. "Yes, yessir, I understand. I will give him the message. No, I'm not sure where he is. Yes, of course. Yessir. No, I'm not covering for him. Thank you, sir." She hangs up and sighs.

"I'm in trouble?"

"Big surprise. Skinner is pissed. Oh, well, what else is new. He's still willing to help, though; God knows why." She sighs again and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "A judge authorized a subpoena for the phone records. Skinner found something he wants you to check." She hands him her notes. "This is Tamara Veblen's address and phone. Hoffman's department secretary says she and Hoffmann had a relationship. Almost broke up his marriage. She lives in Oakland."

"I'm off. Gotta please our Assistant Director. What are you going to be doing?"

"I'm still trying to reach some of his students. Call from Veblen's." Scully waves goodbye and picks up the phone again.

Mulder stands outside a small house, surrounded by a small ratty yard, in a lower-middle-class neighborhood. Stooping, he pays the cabdriver, who leaves quickly. He knocks at the door, which swings open at his light touch. He steps in and his brought to his knees by a blow to his head. Another blow, and he's flat on his stomach. His hands and feet are tied, then he's dragged him into a kitchen. Flour has been spilled onto the floor and he twists his face away from it. He's rolled onto his back, half conscious. Hands begin unfastening his pants, which wakes him up. He begins to yell and is rolled back onto his stomach; his pants are being pulled down. He yells louder, "No, no, don't *do* this, *no*!" and wiggles and rolls away, but the hands keep pulling at his waistband. Finally, a trousered knee pushes into his back, holding him down on his stomach. The hands have a hypodermic needle in them; they pull down Mulder's pants and shorts a couple inches, and plunge the contents of the hypodermic into his hip.

Mulder sits propped against a dark wall, alone, on a dirty, very narrow cobblestone street. He wakes and jerks around, but no one's there. He pulls together his clothes and stands, fastening his trousers. As he does, a young boy, very dirty, runs to him, crying, "One dollah! One dollah!" and thrusts his hand between Mulder's legs.

"Hey, no," he protests and the kid runs away, still yelling, "One dollah!" "It's worth more than that," Mulder mutters as he staggers into the wall. He straightens and walks to the corner, turning into some nightmare bazaar. Herds of people stream past him; he has to turn sideways to pass. They shout in Arabic, French, German, and languages he can't identify. This is clearly not San Francisco. "Where am I?" he demands of a woman, who stares at him in stunned stupidity. The people around him wear robes or caftans, burqas or chadors, and the smell is high. He keeps walking, looking for an American face, listening for a voice speaking in English.

He passes a cafe where a white woman dressed in a chic suit raps on the dirty glass window and waves at him to enter. He backtracks to the open door and pushes in. It is as crowded as a cattle car. The woman and a man stand up and wave at him; a second man drags a chair over to an already crowded table. "Sit, sit, darling; you look exhausted!" the woman cries in a high-pitched British voice. "Oh my god, Constantine, doesn't he look exhausted?" Constantine, the man to his right, nods; they squeeze closer to him. He sees there are five men at the table, he's the sixth, plus the woman, squashed into a corner of the cafe. All are drinking and smoking.

"Where am I?" he tries to ask the woman, but she ignores him and urges him to eat. The noise is deafening; he has to lean over and let her shout in his ear to hear her. The waiter brings a platter of something that looks to Mulder like dead flies on boiled wheat. He recoils and exclaims in dismay, "I can't eat this." The woman laughs. The entire table is laughing; in fact, it appears to him now as if the entire cafe is laughing at him. He pushes away from the table, from the woman and Constantine, who tugs at his trousers' front pocket and shouts, "Pay for the meal!" But when he pulls out his American money, Constantine shouts again, "No! No! Get it exchanged!"

"Where am I?" He roars, but no one hears or cares. To exit he must slide between people, and on the street it is worse, and it feels to him as if every passerby strokes or pats or fondles him. "Where am I?" he shouts periodically, then tries, "Ou est le bureau de change?" with similar results. He is sweating, his hair is stuck to his face, his face shiny with sweat, his arms ringed with sweat, his shirt a sticky torture. Then he feels an arm put right around him, and he jerks away, only to look straight into the face of Deep Throat.

"You! You're dead!" But Deep Throat laughs and pulls Mulder along, arm in arm.

"Not here, I'm not. Not now, I'm not," his familiar smoky voice says.

"And where *are* we?"

Deep Throat laughs again. "Where you always wanted to be, Mr. Mulder, and never had the courage to go."

Scully paces the beige carpet in her hotel room, obviously worried. The phone rings and she answers quickly. "Yes, thank you, I appreciate your being willing to see me on such short notice. I'll be there as quickly as I can." She hangs up, hesitates, then leaves.

Sipping jasmine tea, Scully sits in a comfortable chair in an attractive office overlooking the bay near the Marina. Behind a large immaculate desk sits a good-looking woman of 40 or so, dressed very stylishly. Prada, Scully thinks to herself. "Yes," she tells Scully, speaking in a high-pitched British accent, "I consulted with both Erik Hoffmann and Constantine Harrap. They called about the same chemical, which they claimed produced hallucinations." She shrugs elegantly. "And now you tell me they're both missing. I find that -- provocative." She smiles.

"Ms. Veblen, what do you know about this drug?"

"Would you like to try it?"

Scully is stunned. "What?"

"Why not? It can't hurt you. The good professors were clearly mistaken about its effects. I've tested it myself. And I've had no problems." She smiles again. Scully finds her smile disturbing.

"No, no, I don't think --"

"Agent Scully. There comes a moment when you must act. I believe this is such a moment for you." Scully, determined to resist, stands, slowly and with difficulty. She tries to reach for her gun, but her arms feel weighted. The woman smiles again. "Your friend is now missing; did you know?" Scully starts, and nods. "Try this. I promise you that it won't hurt, and it might help." Scully shakes her head and tries to pull away, but, as if in some dream, her feet refuse to move. "I'm sorry," Tamara Veblen apologizes, still smiling, "I knew you wouldn't willingly try it, so I've sedated you. Not much. Just to relax you." She takes Scully's limp arm and gently pulls her jacket off one shoulder. Scully watches, as if from a great distance, while Veblen injects a hypodermic into her upper arm. "Au 'voir, cherie."

Scully opens her eyes to an empty room, dusty, clearly long deserted. The view is not of San Francisco Bay; it's of some dirty, poor waterfront Scully has never seen before. She backs out of the room, stumbling. The entire building is empty; the walls graffitied, trash mounded in the corners. It seems to be early morning, just before dawn. Pulling herself together, Scully turns down the stairs into a street starting to fill with men and women in long dirty robes. The women wear black shawls pulled over their heads. Scully feels naked in her trim business suit; the men glare at her, the women peer through their shawls' fringes with hostility. This city stinks and she wrinkles her nose in disgust.

She begins walking in this nightmare, willing herself to wake up. Already the day is growing hot, and she plucks at her jacket where it sticks to her back. Her hair is frizzing in the heat and humidity. Where is she?

She turns a corner into an even more crowded street, filled with hawkers and vendors and street performers, all shouting for attention and money. It's getting hotter. One vendor thrusts a straw hat at her. "Pour vous, mademoiselle," he shouts into her face, "un peu plus de cinquante francs!"

"No, I have no money," but he tugs at her shoulder bag, which she opens and shows him her American money. His face falls.

"Va a le bureau de change!" he shouts, but suddenly seizes some bills and jams the hat on her head. "Par le coup de soleil!" He vanishes into his stall.

Scully wads up her remaining bills and clutches her bag tightly, moving the strap over her head and hat so it now crosses her body. She pushes on into the crowd, wiping the sweat out of her eyes with her scarf. People keep shoving against her; it's like swimming against some awful current. "I want out of here," she murmurs, staring into the uncaring, uncomprehending faces crushing by her. She passes into a square; a cafe or bar has set out chairs and tables, all filled; she squeezes through them. A woman stands up and waves to her. It is Tamara Veblen.

"You! How did you get here?" What did you inject me with?" The woman shakes her head at Scully while waving her fingers to an unseen waiter. A chair appears, and a glass of some clear yellowish liquid.

"Sit, my dear. Your hat is a wise precaution." She sips her drink; Scully tastes hers but spits it back into the wineglass.

"I can't drink this! It tastes like urine."

"Well, maybe you can't *now*," Veblen laughs.

"Look, who *are* you? How did I get here?"

"Tell me what you know. I'll fill in the rest." Scully stares, rather sullenly, out from under the shade of her hat. Sighing, she begins to tell her story.

Mulder is asleep, propped against a dirty pockmarked wall, Deep Throat pressed against him, watching him closely. The crowds swell past them, and the noise wakes him. He is already sweating. It appears to be late afternoon, but he is disoriented and confused.

He pulls off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. "Is there edible food here?" Deep Throat laughs.

"Not really. But we can find something. Help me up -- I'm too old to sleep on the street." They stagger up together, Deep Throat keeping hold of Mulder's arm. "This way."

As they press their way through the streaming crowds, Mulder says, "So, if I'm not hallucinating, I'm here -- in some alternate timeline?"

"Not timeline. An alternate place -- maybe a different dimension. I'm not sure how to describe it, except that all this exists concurrently with the world you know. That we know," he adds, less certainly. "I think that's why time passes so erratically here."

"And I got here because of that injection." Deep Throat nods. "But how can an injection move me to a different place? And how did *you* get here?"

"I'm not sure I *am* here. I think I'm here because you're here -- you're manifesting me." He doesn't look at Mulder as he says this.

"All right, that I can accept. I'm talking to some split off part of my consciousness. But why here? Are all these other people manifestations of myself? Because if they are, I'm a hell of a lot more hostile than I realized."

Deep Throat smiles, but says, "You are here for a reason. You want evidence -- I have evidence. I need to meet someone, first, and you should try to eat. Really," he adds. He pulls Mulder into a bar and orders "deux cognac." Mulder sits on a stool. Deep Throat tells him, "Stay here. No matter what. I'll be back." The bar is dark, but the other customers are dressed in western clothes; Mulder finds that mildly reassuring. The barman brings him a balloon glass quarter-filled with an amber liquid. Deep Throat slaps down two large gold coins and moves into the back, the barman following, although his eyes remain on Mulder.

Mulder picks up his glass and sniffs it cautiously, his nose wrinkling in distaste. He takes a sip and chokes, but swallows it. He swivels on his stool to look behind him and discovers that most of the other customers are watching him. The smoky air wavers before him. For a moment he clearly sees Powell Street and Union Square, a trolley car clanging past, then he squints in the sudden darkness of the bar. "Concurrent," he mutters, and takes another sip, grimacing.

Scully still sits at the table with Veblen, her face in her hands, her hat pushed back on her head. The woman smokes intensely. She lifts her head and stares at Veblen. "So you're telling me that all this," Scully waves, "is real, here and now, yet simultaneously we're somewhere else, in San Francisco?" Her voice rises in disbelief. "Occam's razor dictates that whatever you injected me with is causing me to see this. Why should I believe your more incredible version?"

The woman shrugs and blows out another stream of smoke. "Because it's true?" she suggests. "Let's set aside for the moment the question of whose version is more credible, of what is truth. You want *evidence.*" She stresses the final word. "You and your friend have discussed this. In fact, he's told you that you taught him this -- that hard evidence is needed." Startled, Scully nods. "Then come with me. We'll meet some people, and tonight I'll show you evidence."

Scully pulls her scarf from her pocket to wipe her face. Although she shakes her head no, she says, "All right. All right! Let's go -- I can't stand it here anymore." The woman laughs again. They rise.

Night has come to the heat-soaked city. The street noises are just as loud: middle-eastern music, belly dancers, and uncountable guests throb in a large courtyard. Many wear western clothes, but most wear caftans, robes, and djellabahs. The courtyard is completely filled with musicians, dancers, waiters, tables, chairs, a dirty fountain with vaguely obscene statues rising from the center. It is surrounded on three sides by a two-story building with an open veranda on the second floor, equally crowded.

Moving easily through the press, Tamara Veblen leads Scully, holding her hand to pull her through, although Scully finds wending her way more difficult. The crowd seems to part for Veblen but closes immediately behind her, leaving Scully crushed. She is holding her hat in her left hand, clutching her bag which still crosses her body. Her suit jacket is wrinkled and stained, her stockings run and holey, and the heel of one shoe threatens to break off. She cannot remember being more miserable.

Under a large tent hung with spangles and fairy lights stands a long table covered in a white cloth and burdened with platters of food. None of it looks edible to Scully, although Veblen cheerfully grazes, popping tidbits into her mouth. She offers one to Scully -- something wrapped in a grape leaf? -- but she is hesitant to take anything from someone who drugged her. Veblen shrugs and drops the goodie into her mouth. Staring at Scully, she chews with her mouth open. Scully blushes and drops her eyes, then stares challengingly back. "Evidence?" she shouts over the cacophony. Veblen smiles. Scully ponders her own irritation, and vows to be more patient with Mulder's foibles.

Finally, Scully can take no more -- no more heat, no more noise, no more unfriendly crowds, no more sweating in her expensive suit, no more mysterious behavior. She jerks her hand out of Veblen's and shouts, "Put up or shut up!" Veblen, nonplused, raises an eyebrow but still doesn't speak. Scully turns and begins pushing her way back, trying to find a way out of the courtyard, away from this party. She is so angry she wants to stamp her feet in frustration; she uses her elbows to force her way through, taking pleasure in her neighbors' discomfort. "Kung fu Scully, my ass," she thinks grimly, and smiles a smile Mulder would never recognize.

"Scully!" Mulder shouts. Deep Throat is pulling him through more crowds; he is sick of crowds, he longs for his empty apartment, his office in the basement, his isolation and exclusion. But the red-haired vision he imagined disappears; Scully couldn't possibly be here anyway, unless she's another manifestation of his own mind, probably of his longing for home. He sighs and turns to follow Deep Throat. But he is gone.

Mulder stops suddenly, nearly toppling a woman following him too closely. He slowly turns, scanning the crowd, but there is no sign of his mentor. He is gone, as gone as in Mulder's own world or timeline or dimension. Mulder suddenly realizes how much he was depending on Deep Throat to guide him through this nightmare. His own throat begins to close and he feels ridiculously near to tears. "I want to go home," he thinks, and closes his eyes. "Maybe I should click my heels three times?"

"Click your heels three times," a familiar voice suggests. For an instant, Mulder is actually afraid to open his eyes. He knows that voice, and both fears and hates its owner. "Maybe if I keep them closed he'll disappear, too," he thinks, but he feels an arm draping itself over his shoulders, and he opens his eyes to pull away. It is Krycek, but with two arms, two real arms, not a prosthetic or an empty sleeve. Now Mulder truly realizes he isn't in San Francisco anymore. He doesn't know where he is, or how he can ever go home. He has never been this lost.

Scully's anger is fueling her, helping her stalk away from that irritatingly elegant drug-fiend, Tamara Veblen. Okay, maybe not drug fiend, she admits to herself, but she *is* irritating and she does dress elegantly, although anybody who wears Prada. . . Scully's innate honesty compels her to acknowledge that her fear and exhaustion and hunger are making her petty and childish, but it still feels good to indulge in mental name-calling. Evidence, indeed.

The crowd is finally thinning out. Scully has no idea what time it is -- her watch stopped hours, or days, or galaxies, ago. She has formed a vague plan to find a cafe that's open and to spend the night in a chair; at worst, a doorway. If only she could find something edible.

Krycek's green eyes are very close, and he is smiling at him, a gentle smile, not the usual mocking one. "Hey, partner," he murmurs, and hitches his right arm more tightly around Mulder's shoulders. Only the knowledge that this Krycek is a product of his own mind keeps him from punching him out -- that and his exhaustion.

"Why are *you* here?"

"You need a guide. Poor old Deep Throat was tired. I'm younger, more --" he strokes Mulder's left arm with his left hand -- "energetic." He tugs gently and Mulder permits himself to be led. The two men stroll entwined in each other's arms. Mulder is so tired, so hungry and thirsty, so disoriented by the heat and crowds, that he finds these familiar arms a comfort. He closes his eyes again and almost sleepwalks, allowing Krycek to guide him. Finally they stop, Mulder swaying in exhaustion. Krycek pulls him down into a doorway, leans against the door jamb, and eases him back into his arms. "Just sleep, partner. We'll talk in the morning." Mulder sleeps.

Scully finds a cafe, but it's closed. All the chairs are piled on top of the tables, visible through the heavily smudged window. She curls up in the doorway, leaning against the door jamb. She wipes her face one last time with the now very dirty scarf, says a prayer from her childhood and asks God to protect Mulder and her, crosses herself, and sleeps.

Scully topples backwards into the cafe when its owner pulls back the double doors and props them open. He doesn't speak to her as he begins carrying chairs out into the street; she rights herself after he steps over her, and scoots to one side. Her tongue feels like a cow's tongue in a butcher's window: swollen and dry. Her hair is frizzy and tangled, and her pretty pink business suit splotched with sweat and dirt. While the cafe owner is inside, she pulls off her pantyhose and throws it into the street; with all the other garbage, no one could possibly notice. She jams her hat back on her head, adjusts the strap of her purse onto her shoulder, and staggers up, that shaky heel finally snapping off. She pulls off her shoe and stares at it ($135!), then pulls off its mate and flings them into the street, too. The cafe owner definitely sees that as he drags a table out. Well, fuck him, she thinks, and carefully steps out onto the filthy cobblestone street. Oh dear. How to walk barefoot through this nightmare?

She seats herself at the one table the owner has set up and opens her purse, pulling out several dollar bills. "Water? Agua? Eau?" she pleads, waving the money at him. He stares at her and returns to the cafe. She puts her head in her hands, money balled up against her forehead, and tells herself to *think*.

"You're a doctor," she murmurs, and finds her own voice so comforting that she's startled. She straightens her back, adjusts her hat, and repeats, "You're a doctor. You're a scientist. You are a trained federal agent. Think!" A wine glass half full of a murky liquid is slammed into the table, and the money wrenched from her hand. So accustomed is she by now to this world that she ignores her twisted wrist and picks up the glass, sniffs it thoroughly, then takes a small sip. It's horrible, but it's wet, and she forces herself to swallow it all.

"You're are not Dana in Wonderland," she continues her soliloquy, ignoring the owner as he ignores her. "You were drugged -- twice, once in jasmine tea, once with an injection. What you are experiencing is an hallucination, nothing more. Whatever time appears to have elapsed is also an hallucination. You do not have to live here the rest of your life."

This last thought is so compelling that it stops her monolog. Her acute intelligence at last has something to work on. "I don't have to stay here. I can leave. I can leave right *now*, because I'm *not really here.* I'm in San Francisco, in the Marina district. I am not here. I am not here. I am not --"

Here she finds herself in Tamara Veblen's office, sprawled on the floor. Her clothes, unfortunately, are as filthy as she remembers them, her pantyhose and shoes missing, gun and cell phone gone, her bag open, and a battered straw hat perches on her head. Tamara Veblen, however, is strikingly absent. But Dana is present, in *her* present. Using the desk, she levers herself to her feet and explores the office. A door leads to a bathroom; Scully sticks her face under the sink's faucet and drinks and drinks and drinks. It's the best water she's ever tasted. When her thirst is quenched, she washes her face and, with the neatness of a cat, tries to tidy herself. Then she returns to Veblen's office, picks up the tiny cell phone she finds on the desk, and calls a familiar number. "Kimberly? This is Agent Scully. Please put me through to AD Skinner. This is an emergency."

Mulder awakes to heat. The sun is pounding into his face and shoulders, the photons as physical as blows. Ripening garbage scents the heated air; Mulder becomes aware that he is contributing to the stench. His shirt is already wet with sweat. As he studies it ruefully, he realizes that he's lost his jacket, and that there are two arms encircling him. Two male arms. He closes his eyes again and tries to think. "Pretend you're Scully," he tells himself. "She never loses her cool; she can think her way out of a paper bag." He is distracted by warm breath against his neck, and a tongue sandpapers his ear. He pulls away sharply and twists to find Krycek's face grinning into his.

"Can you help me get out of here?"

"I thought you would want to see the evidence first."

"Evidence of what?"

"Of alien life. Of impending invasion. Of multi-national conspiracies and coverups." Krycek has stopped smiling; he looks grim and stares straight into Mulder's eyes. Mulder is aware of being aware of those eyes, but chooses to ignore his self-awareness.

"Yes, of course, but first, I want to get out of here. Go home," he adds almost shyly, the word "home" awkward on his tongue. The two men continue to stare at each other as crowds grow around them. They're in an Arabic part of town again, apparently, because they are the only ones wearing western clothes. A street vendor sets up a wheelbarrow full of robes next to them, and begins to string ropes from the shutters behind them to the barrow. He sings something in a minor key as he works.

"Go home," Krycek finally repeats. He seems sad to Mulder, who again refuses the thought. "You can go, but I'd be sorry. I can't be with you like this back there," and he puts his arms around Mulder again in demonstration, and rests his head against Mulder's shoulder. Mulder closes his eyes and again pretends he's Scully.

"I'm five feet two inches tall but six feet in my heels. I can outrun avalanches, kick alien butt, shoot sense into my partner, and drink SlimFast for lunch," he thinks, and feels a smile crawl across his face. He admires Scully's clarity, her ability to focus on a problem and not get lost in its complexities and ramifications and permutations and significations. Which is exactly what I'm doing, he adds to himself, sitting here puzzling over why I'm in Krycek's arms instead of figuring out what to do.

"Okay," he says aloud, and Krycek raises his head to watch him again. "I was knocked over the head and drugged and suddenly found myself here. But I *know* I saw Powell Street, somewhere," trying to remember where, "I *know* I'm still in San Francisco. Sooner or later this drug will wear off and I'll return. Unless I'm seriously concussed..." He shakes off the thought.

"Wait," he interrupts himself, and discovers he's put a hand to Krycek's face, cupping his fingers around his chin and cheek. "You and Deep Throat keep mentioning evidence. Is there really evidence? If you're just a figment of my imagination," and he runs his thumb across Krycek's lips, "then how could you show me evidence? Unless it's been in my head all along."

Krycek sighs heavily and kisses the hand, then takes it in his own. "No, there really is evidence. I'll do everything I can to take you there. Let's go." He stands and pulls Mulder to his feet, not releasing his hand as they begin to thread their way through the thickening crowd of men, donkeys, carts, and garbage. Mulder knows Scully would never follow Krycek in the hopes of finding some no doubt spurious evidence. Scully would also know exactly why she was holding his hand. He realizes how much he misses his partner, but he doesn't let go or stop following. I guess that's why I'm Mulder, he thinks ruefully, and pushes past a donkey shitting in the street.

Scully decides she never wants to repeat the last half hour of her life. This will *not* appear before my eyes as I'm dying, she instructs herself as she finds her way out of Veblen's office. She has discovered she's been gone for two days, and that the San Francisco field office is searching for her and Mulder. Skinner nearly burst her eardrum in his fury and concern; she had reached him at Dulles and learned that he would be there in a few hours. She was to report to the field office and not leave. Or else. Even as she agreed to his orders, yessirring dutifully, she knew she would disobey. She has to find Mulder, and his last known whereabouts was Tamara Veblen's home in Oakland. She begins searching for a cab.

In the cab ride to Oakland, Scully ponders her decision to disobey her superior officer, a man she respects and likes. She is, she reminds herself yet again, a federal officer, a sworn official of the Department of Justice. Why is she heading east over the Bay Bridge instead of to the FBI field headquarters on Golden Gate Avenue? She is barefoot, big-haired, smelly (she admits with her usual honesty), and now disobedient. Her father would never have understood or approved. She stares out the half-open window, enjoying in spite of herself the smell of salt air, watching tiny jets swing into to SFO to the south, knowing she would regret her actions later. She straightens her already straight back, tucks a curl behind her right ear, and decides to examine her motives and behavior, realizing she would need to do so again in the very near future with Walter S. Skinner's assistance.

Yet she knows, and she knows that Skinner knows, what her motives are: to find and assist Mulder. She understands her behavior very well. He is her best friend, comrade-in-arms, ally, partner, buddy, brother. In her heart, she fears he is also in whatever psychic Beirut she has experienced, and she wants him out. Her intelligence tells her he'll thrive in the chaos; her logic tells her it's unlikely to the point of impossibility that he would be there; but her heart (she dislikes this admission), her heart tells her he is there, and he is her responsibility. Scully to the rescue. She smiles a bit, ruefully, wryly.

Tamara Veblen's home is as unlike her office as alligators are from chipmunks. Scully is hesitant to leave the relative safety of the cab, but her concerns for Mulder force her to pay the driver and walk to the door. No nice hump-back whale knocker here; just a battered, scraped wood door that's needed painting for several years. She tries to knock, but it swings open at her touch. "Ms. Veblen?" she calls, but has to clear her throat and try again. No answer. She gently pushes the door back, but doesn't enter. "Ms. Veblen? Hello? Is anybody home?" For reasons she doesn't understand, she knows she *must not* enter this house. She stands at the door, irresolute, peering in. To her dismay, she sees flour spilled on the floor, and the clear indication of a body outlined in flour, the way chalk outlines a body on a cop show. Her heart, that most distrusted organ, tells her it was Mulder's body that snow-angeled the flour. Scully is not a coward, and knows that about herself, but she also knows she has acted foolishly, to come here alone, after experiencing a lengthy hallucination. She is tired, hungry, thirsty, dirty, and a tiny bit afraid, both for herself and her partner. She pulls out the cell phone borrowed from Ms. Veblen's office and dials Skinner's office again, thus proving to herself once and for all she is not a coward. He will come with the cavalry, roaring like the lion he is.

Mulder and Krycek are still navigating the narrow dirty streets of whatever place or time they're in. The noise is overwhelming, the heat overpowering, and Mulder begins to believe he has died and gone to hell. He is in some circle that requires him to wander forever, never alighting, like Paolo and Francesca. Wait, they were lovers, he thinks, eyeing his former partner. The attraction he felt for Krycek had been tempered at first by his anger at being separated from Scully, then by fear and horror at her abduction, and then his rage from the realization that Krycek played at least some role in that abduction. But the past is another country, and that was another Krycek. This man, who holds me so gently and guides me so confidently, is a part of me, a part I didn't know about until now. He stops at the thought, pulling Krycek to a halt and turning him around to face him. Leaving his left arm linked with his, he puts his right hand to Krycek's face and caresses it, then steps toward him. "I'm going to kiss him," he thinks, and does. It's like nothing he's ever hoped for: like falling into a dreamless sleep that leaves one refreshed; like arriving at a much-loved home after long absence; like finding one's soulmate after lifetimes of searching. They move closer together, and Mulder gently clasps Krycek in his arms. They stop kissing as slowly as they started, but continue standing in the street, swaying slightly. "Is this my evidence?" he murmurs. Krycek laughs softly.

"Maybe yours, but not what I was going to show you. That can wait,"he adds quickly when Mulder starts to move again. "That can wait." The street is full of people, but Mulder no longer can smell or hear them. It's been a long time since anyone held him. He feels a longing for being part of another, of a family, a longing he's shut off for more than twenty years. Scully can evoke a similar longing, but one tinged with desperation -- he loves her so much and fears for her life. He feels such a terrible responsibility for her. But Krycek -- this Krycek -- is evanescent, ephemeral, imaginary. He is all, utterly all mine, Mulder thinks, aware how sad that thought reveals his life to be. He kisses Krycek again, tenderly, then takes his hand. "Lead on, Macduff, and damned be him who first cries hold, enough." Krycek's look is thoughtful as he returns to his task.

"Are you Macbeth?" he asks, but never looks for an answer. Mulder follows silently.

"Agent Scully, I'm somewhere over Nebraska, or maybe Wyoming, a fact that can only benefit you. Why did you not follow instructions and report in to the field office?" The miracle of modern technology allows Skinner to ream Scully out from anywhere in the world; a page to him, a Skyphone call to her, and she's in contact with her supervisor.

"Sir, Mulder is in trouble. I need to find him."

"Agent Mulder is *always* in trouble. We need agents familiar with the area to look for him, not an exhausted woman a continent away from her home office." He sighs gustily into the phone. "If I tell you to leave that house, find a cab, and return to San Francisco, will you do it?"

Scully pauses. Skinner can practically hear her considering his question. "No, sir," she finally admits.

Skinner also pauses. Thirty-five thousand feet above the earth, a thousand miles from the Pacific, he can see his small determined agent, he can imagine her straight back and serious expression, and he knows her dedication and loyalty to her partner. "Very well," he finally says, "I won't give you those instructions. What instructions *will* you obey?" More amusement enters his voice than he intends, and he clears his throat.

"I will wait here for you. Or Mulder. Whoever shows up first. I will not enter the house. I will," she pauses, and in a smaller voice continues, "I'll ask the FBI to come here, if you tell me to."He covers the speaker of the small phone to hide his smile, and rolls his head to losen his tight neck muscles. How did he get assigned these two? How could two brilliant, well-trained agents be such major pains in the ass? Why did he always have to be the *dad*? "Very well," he repeats, "then consider those my instructions. *Including* calling in the FBI. No, wait, I'll do that." Over her protests he says, "It isn't that I don't trust you, Agent Scully, but your phone's batteries may die, or it may be stolen, or you might drop it. I'll save you the trouble of thinking up an excuse."

"Sir!" But he hears laughter behind the indignation.

"Scully. Dana. Please take care of yourself. I can't just beam myself down there, much as I'd like to. Just stay there until the San Francisco agents arrive."

"Yessir." He hates to hang up on that voice, his vision of her still clear in his mind, but presses "off" anyway. He glares at the passenger next to him, who is taking up far too much foot space and armrest, and calls San Francisco.

Scully has circled the house a dozen times, peeked in every window, fruitlessly knocked on every neighbor's door. She feels as isolated as if she were stranded on a desert island. She finally sits on the curb, twisting back to watch the house, half-expecting it to grab her as in some Thurber cartoon. She glances at her watch repeatedly, although the hands haven't moved in days. She combs her hair, and tugs her skirt down, and drafts a report to Skinner on the back of a bill from her purse. She's still wearing the straw hat from whatever Interzone Veblen had sent her to; it's evidence, she supposes, but she isn't sure of what. Where the hell are the agents Skinner promised? More importantly, what should she be doing to get Mulder back? Where *is* he? She is frustrated at her inability to form a plan, to take some action.

Finally, she closes her eyes and tries to picture where she'd spent the last two days. Not Veblen's office, certainly. No street vendors selling hats there. She remembers the smells -- rotting garbage, body odor, animals, animal dung, strange food cooking, strong wine. Smell, she knows, has the power to evoke vivid memories, and imagining the miasma that city existed in helps build the city in her mind's eye. When she can see it clearly, she pictures Mulder there: hot, sweaty, confused. To her stunned amazement, she sees him, quite clearly, embracing Alex Krycek. She imagines them kissing, gently at first, then passionately, while around them swirls the street scene she has so carefully conjured up. She sees them lean back and stare into each other's eyes, sees Mulder touch Krycek's face with tenderness. His lips part and he leans forward to kiss again. A donkey pulling a cart separates them from her vision, and she opens her eyes to find three Crown Vics pulling up to Veblen's home. The cavalry has arrived, and she couldn't be sorrier to see them, except for the last one to alight: AD Skinner.

She stands, a little unsteadily, and walks to him. Without thinking how it will look to the others, she puts her arms around his waist and leans her head against his chest. After a pause, he puts his arms around her shoulders and holds her. She's aware that the others are surrounding the house, preparing to enter it, but Skinner pulls her to one of the cars, opens a door to its backseat, and she sits. He kneels before her, silent, watching her closely. "I don't know how to tell you what I've seen and done," she begins. "I know where Mulder is. But I don't know how to get there." Skinner's eyebrows lift and, to her surprise, he smiles.

"Clearly you've worked too long with him; you're starting to sound like him." She smiles, too, sadly, recognizing the truth in his statement.

"What's your plan, sir?"

"We'll search this house. Whatever we find, or don't find," he adds darkly, "we'll search Veblen's office. I've already spoken to her employers, who tell me that she's been missing from work for two weeks. She is a biochemist, works for a pharmaceutical company out of Long Beach. She'd been doing consulting for a chain of health food stores here in San Francisco for several months, when she'd stopped calling in or answering her cell phone." Two agents approach Skinner, who stands and turns.

"No one home," they tell him, but one holds out an evidence bag containing a hypodermic and another filled with a white powder. "We'll get them tested right away."

"Excellent. Leave two people on stakeout. The rest to the office in the Marina." As quickly as they arrived, they leave, taking Scully with them. Skinner sits in the back with her, observing her out of the corner of his eye. He sees her exhaustion and frustration, but he also sees a vibrancy and beauty he hadn't noticed before. Maybe it's the bare legs and feet, he tells himself facetiously.

Scully is aware of Skinner's unobtrusive observation of her. She is trying to articulate what's happened to her and desperately wants to confide in him. But not in front of the others, whom she doesn't know. Finally she looks at him and quietly says, "We have to talk." He nods. They most certainly do.

"You're not talking," Krycek comments as they sidle through the thickening crowd. Mulder has stepped in so much donkey, dog, and cow shit that he can smell only that. He wrinkles his nose as he feels his right foot slip again. The hems of robes of the men who crush past him must be permanently trimmed in shit. Krycek tugs on his hand to catch his attention. "No questions?"

"Yeah, no, I mean, would you answer them? Like, how did I get here? Why am I imagining you and me as a couple? What evidence could possibly be here? Where's Scully? And why can't I find anything to eat or drink?"

Krycek turns his head to smile at Mulder. "You're right; most of those questions I can't answer. Can't, not won't," he adds firmly at Mulder's look. "I do know that the drug you were injected with has caused you to be here. I'm pretty sure that the person who injected you was Constantine Harrap, a physiologist. I think he had that newsletter slipped under your door, to ensure you'd learn of Hoffmann's disappearance.

"As to why we're a couple -- that seems pretty damn clear to me. You're attracted to me, I'm attracted to you, you need a guide through this place, and voila, here I am. Your own private Krycek." He stops for a moment to look Mulder directly in the face, then puts his hands on Mulder's shoulders and pulls Mulder's body against his. "Your own," he says, and kisses Mulder fiercely, rubbing the length of his body against Mulder's. "This is it, Mulder; this is where you decide which extreme possibility you want to believe in," he whispers, and kisses him again.

Mulder thinks he is melting into Krycek, that he'll literally become him. He has never imagined desiring another with this *energy* he feels in Krycek's arms. I'm actually kissing myself, he thinks, but he feels too good to care. He runs his hands down Krycek's shoulders and back, and cups his bottom in his hands, pulling him closer. He gently squeezes his ass, and slides his fingers along the crease of his jeans. How can anything feel this good, this solid, and not be real? He remembers that Nabakov once said that the word *reality* should always have quotes around it, since none of us share the same reality. Then he can only think of Krycek's tongue in his mouth and his hand slipping into his shirt, popping buttons. Oh, Christ.

Krycek pulls back. "Your choice, partner. I will do anything you ask, tell you anything I know, go anywhere with you." They stare at each other, and Mulder steps away, reluctantly.

"Evidence, goddammit. Show me this evidence, and then . . ." but he can't complete the sentence. Krycek nods, kisses him gently on the check, and turns, leading him again into the darkening street.

When it is completely dark, and the crowd has thinned somewhat although the smell has not, Krycek slows. He's looking carefully at the doors they're passing. He finally stops before one and looks at Mulder. He slips his arm around Mulder's waist and leans his head against his shoulder. Mulder cannot help but respond in kind, and again they stand embracing in the street. Mulder feels oddly aroused -- not just sexually, but intellectually. He wants to know what will happen next. Will he and Krycek fall prey to their lust right there in the street? Will they enter this house and find a family of Reticulans? Or is this where the dream ends, and he'll wake up back in DC, in the blue light of the television? What he wants to happen next, he acknowledges to himself, is to enter this house and find a bath and bed waiting for Krycek and him. He is embarrassed by his passion, but he's been rubbing up against Krycek for more than twenty-four hours now; that's enough foreplay.

The door opens and a small dark man dressed in a caftan steps out. As the Qaran dictates, he is dressed modestly, and looks serious. "Mr. Mulder," he says in lightly accented English. "You are welcome. Please to enter." He steps back from the door. Krycek hangs behind. Mulder steps up to the threshold, but realizes he is afraid to enter. He stands there a long time, staring into the dark beyond. He turns to Krycek.

"Can you go first?" Krycek shakes his head, never letting go of Mulder's hand. Mulder turns back to the door, takes a deep breath, and steps across the threshold. I should be carrying Krycek, he thinks as he tugs on his hand to follow.

The house is dark and quiet. It smells slightly of the street, and of roses, and some herb scent that Mulder doesn't recognize. He sees a glint of gold to his left and turns to investigate, but his eyes haven't adjusted to the dark and his peripheral vision is still better, so the gold disappears as he moves his head toward it. He shuts his eyes, trying to acclimate quickly. Behind him he hears the door shut, and the street noises disappear. He clutches Krycek's hand more closely, willing him not to disappear the way Deep Throat had, and opens his eyes.

He can see a little more clearly now. He is in an old room, with furnishings that, although sparse and worn, are obviously valuable and well-cared for. The glint he saw is actually their shine, polished by generations of loving hands. His host moves from behind them and steps through another doorway, dark against the whitewashed walls. Squeezing Krycek's hand again, he follows.

Veblen's office is as empty as when Scully left. Another hypodermic is found, this one in Veblen's desk, but no samples of the substance injected into Scully. The tea cup is missing. Skinner sends the agents to test the hypodermic, for fingerprints and for the remains of the contents; one car is left for him and Scully.

He sits down at Veblen's desk and motions for her to sit. She has no choice but to sit in the same chair she sat in two days ago, when Veblen sat at the desk. She feels uncomfortable at the memory. Skinner doesn't speak. She must find the words to explain what she has seen and done. She doesn't know where to begin, so she starts with finding Mulder with the newsletter. It takes a very long time to tell her story, and parts of it are so difficult. Her pauses grow longer and longer, until she falls silent. They sit companionably in the dark, until she can begin again. She can no longer see Skinner; she feels as though she were back at the table at the cafe, talking to herself. As she tells her story, the images of the cafe owner, the table, the dirty glass and nasty water return vividly, and she discovers she is describing them, as though they play some key role in this surreal adventure. The room feels warm and she removes her jacket; then takes off the hat and uses it as a fan. She can hear other people speaking, and smells rotting meat. Skinner seems much closer to her, the desk small and round. She realizes they are sitting at a table at the cafe where she spent the night, wine glasses at their elbows.

She pauses, to glance around her. The cafe owner has set four or five tables right into the street. All are crowded with people, only a few of whom are in western clothes. She is one of only three women that she can see, and again becomes uncomfortable in her business suit. What light there is comes from candles and hurricane lamps set on the tables, and from the interior of the cafe. Skinner's glasses glint in the light as he studies her. Afraid of the answer, she asks him quietly, "Where are we?"

He is slow to respond. She can see in the dim light his throat as he swallows. Finally, he says, "Where do you think we are?"

"I think we're in Tamara Veblen's office. However, what I see is--" She stops, unsure what to name this place. "I see where I've spent the last two days. Where I'm convinced Mulder is." She leans forward, dropping her hands from her chin onto the table. "Do you see this place?" she whispers.

Again a pause. He too leans forward, and takes one of her hands in his. His voice is uncertain, puzzled. "Agent Scully, I seem to be seeing double. No, I see two scenes superimposed over each other. We're very clearly in Veblen's office. I'm sitting at her desk and you're two yards from me. But I'm also," he swallows again," sitting at a small table, holding your hand. I can see this; I can feel your hand," he insists, his voice becoming louder and more confident. "How can this be?" he asks as he looks around him.

"Maybe the drug doesn't have to be injected to have an effect. There are certain drugs that can be absorbed by touch."

"Like women can {ropecia," he comments ironically; she refuses to smile. "Mulder is here?"

"I *know* he is, sir. Where else could he be?"

"Can we look for him?" She stands up, keeping his hand in hers and pulls him up as well. They move deeper into the night. "Don't let go," he whispers, and takes her arm. The cobblestones hurt her bare feet and are filthy with ordure, so they move slowly, examining every face they pass. At the first corner they stop. Which way? Where is Mulder?

Mulder, still clasping Krycek's hand, follows their host through the narrow winding corridor. The walls have been whitewashed, but poorly, once they leave the front room. The ceiling brushes Mulder's head and he must hunch forward to walk. At irregular spaces there are lintels or beams he must duck under. If this is all in my mind, he thinks, then I'm byzantine in complexity. Or psychotic. It's getting darker, and the walls become plain brick, their mortar crumbling. Suddenly, his host stops, turns, and gestures for Mulder to proceed him. Mulder tugs Krycek's hand, to pull him forward; when nothing happens, he turns. He is holding no one's hand. Krycek is gone, as gone as Deep Throat. Mulder is, as he has always been and believes he will always be, alone. When he turns back, his host is also gone. He puts both his hands to his face and rubs his eyes, like a sleepy child. Then he straightens his back as best he can in the cramped passageway, and steps forward. He knows now that this is entirely in his mind and expects to find nothing. He hopes for much more, though.

Stepping through the collapsing doorway, he finds himself inside the same enormous antiseptic fileroom where he'd found Scully's implant. He can no longer be surprised by the sudden transitions in this world -- in his head. He pulls open a file drawer at random, and removes a card. It reads: Your mother fears you. The next card reads: Your father loves you. Tears fill his eyes. He's afraid to read another card. He thinks of what Krycek had offered him in the street: which extreme possibility would he believe in? Why hadn't he chosen to be with Krycek? Or with Scully, or, for that matter, any other human being? Why did he continually choose to run? I thought I was running to something -- to Samantha, to Scully, to the future. All the time I was running *away*. He pulls out the next card. It reads: It isn't too late. He slams the drawer shut. "I don't want to be here anymore," he says aloud. He turns to retrace his way through the house, but the doorway no longer exists. There are only stack after stack of file cabinets, poorly lit with flickering, buzzing fluorescent lights. "This is a fucking metaphor for my life," he whispers to himself, and leans his head against the cold metal of the cabinet. "This is my life."

Scully believes she understands how this world works. She is envisioning Mulder in it, standing on a busy corner, looking very GQ among the poverty and filth. She can almost see him, hands in pockets, head tilted as he waits patiently for the next lead. She creates the corner in her mind's eye: a scraped red door behind him, street vendors hawking their wares, women in chadors peering at him from behind their shawls. She gives him Krycek, too, although she can picture him less easily; Krycek puts his arm through one of Mulder's and smiles into his face. Mulder is so alone; she cannot begrudge him any comfort. Tears come to her; her doctor's eye has diagnosed his ailment and prescribed a cure. She turns to Skinner and whispers, "I see him. On a corner. Waiting for us." Puzzled, he scans the street ahead, and she follows his eyes. "There -- do you see him?" she points. As they approach, Mulder appears to materialize out of the dark, Krycek at his side. Skinner moves more quickly, then glances down at Scully's bare feet. Without a word, he picks her up and carries her. He begins to jog, and she puts her arms around his shoulders. She can see Mulder quite clearly now, although he hasn't yet seen them. He's watching Krycek, a rare smile on his face, leaning forward to kiss him.

Mulder, like most men in western culture, doesn't really know how to cry. It hurts to do so. He's read that tears shed a toxin, so intellectually he knows he ought to weep, at least occasionally. Like getting a flu shot every October, or a tetanus every ten years. But he can only crumple his face and cling to a handle of one of the file cabinets. He pictures himself with Krycek as they were earlier: embracing, stroking each other, staring into each other's eyes with passion and, he admits, affection. He cannot say love. He feels another's hands on his shoulders and relaxes into them. This world is so fluid, maybe he's imagined Krycek back into it. Then he hears Scully whisper his name.

He turns to find her and Skinner behind him. He's standing on yet another street corner, in this disgusting city. It's late, yet the crowds continue to swirl by, their robes dragging, their animals crying and barking and braying and, most noticeably, shitting. This is, he thinks, a shitty world. He puts his arms around Scully and embraces her with such affection. He smiles at Skinner, who touches his shoulder almost shyly, but does not return his smile.

Then Skinner grasps Mulder more firmly by the arm and puts his hand on Scully's back. They both look at him, awaiting his instructions. He can see Scully sitting in Veblen's office and Mulder lying on the floor in Veblen's home, yet they stand before him, warm in his hands. He feels a wave of anxiety wash over him -- anxiety that he's worked with Mulder so long he now shares his paranoia, that these two people he respects and, yes, likes will be hurt, that they can never return from this horrible place but will carry it with them the way he carries Viet Nam in his heart. He gently shakes them both and using his command voice says, "Let's go home."

Instantly he finds himself back at the ostentatious desk. Scully leaps to her feet and he follows her to the Crown Vic waiting for them. An agent has remained behind; Skinner thinks he's named Hopkins. "Back to Oakland," he orders, and puts Scully in the back seat.

It's a long drive to Oakland from the Marina, but no one speaks. Hopkins glances at his passengers from time to time, but senses their tension. He's a good bureaucrat and knows when to interrupt and when to be silent. As they cross the Bay Bridge, strung with lights like a Christmas tree, Scully rolls down her window a few inches and breathes in the salt air. Skinner twists in his seat to look at her, but she has her eyes closed, the wind tangling her hair even more. Her face is dirty, her clothing ragged, and he can smell her from the front seat, but he finds her more than appealing. He can't decide if he's attracted to her as a woman, or as the daughter he never had. Fortunately, he thinks, I'll never have to make that decision. He sees Hopkins watching him and turns back from the sight of his agent in the night.

Scully has her seatbelt unbuckled and the door opened before Hopkins can stop the car. The instant it rolls to a halt, she jumps out but falls to her knees. Skinner follows and pulls her to her feet; he bends to see blood oozing from a scrape but she pushes him away. With Hopkins behind them, they again open the door to Veblen's house. The two agents left on stakeout materialize and follow them inside.

Mulder lies on the floor, dusted in flour as if he'd been dragged through it. He appears to be sleeping or unconscious. Hopkins, Skinner, and the other two agents search the house again, while Scully checks his vitals. He begins to stir and by the time Skinner kneels next to Scully, Mulder's eyes are open. "Sir?"

"Shh, Agent Mulder. You've been out for several days. You're dehydrated and exhausted." In a gesture Skinner himself finds surprising, he brushes the flour off his agent's shoulder and arm, then rests his hand on Mulder's upper arm. Behind him, he can hear Hopkins calling for support and an ambulance. Scully strokes Mulder's hair and holds his hand; Skinner sees tears in her eyes shining from the streetlight. "The ambulance will be here soon. Until you've been seen and cared for, *say nothing to anyone*." He uses his command voice again and both agents almost jerk to attention. Scully takes his hand so they form a circuit: Skinner to Mulder to Scully to Skinner.

"Thank you," she whispers, but Skinner shakes his head and she falls silent. They remain in this tableau until the paramedics arrive and push Skinner and Scully away.

Mulder sits in his office trying to write his report. His hands hover above his computer keyboard, but never descend. He glances at the clock just as Scully opens the door. She is carrying a battered straw hat, which she hangs over the light on his desk. He jumps up smiling and clasps her hand. She smiles back at him but says, "I bumped into Kimberly; Skinner wants to see us ASAP." Mulder rolls his eyes, but anything to postpone writing that report.

Skinner stands behind his desk, jacket off, hands in his pants pockets, staring out his window. He is more than happy to be back in his office and out of the field. He was a good field agent, he knows, but he is a better administrator. Or so he hopes.

Kimberly buzzes him with the news that his two favorite agents are here. She doesn't say that, but he recognizes the tone of her voice. They enter his office, but he remains standing, staring out the window. Let them stew a bit, he thinks, smiling slightly.

Mulder feels almost compelled to take Scully's hand and only the knowledge that she would be profoundly offended by the gesture keeps him from doing so. The comfort would be for himself, he knows, but she wouldn't. She'd find it patronizing. So they stand together, quietly awaiting their fate once again. Their boss continues to stand, ramrod straight as usual. Finally he sighs and turns. "Please be seated."

He moves from behind the desk to in front of it, directly in front of them, and then leans back, arms crossed. Mulder begins to feel even more uncomfortable and wonders what baroque punishment Skinner has dreamt up for him this time. Why can't he just put a reprimand in my personnel file? he wonders, and why include Scully? He begins to shift in his chair as the silence fills the room.

"Agents Mulder and Scully, do you know how much your west coast adventure has cost this agency?" They glance at each other in surprise; this tactic again? "No, I know you don't. The price of the airline tickets, the time and effort of the San Francisco agents, the time, effort, and concern of your superior officers, only begins to itemize the expense. Furthermore, Harrap, Hoffmann, and Veblen are still missing. Do you have any suggestions for what direction, if any, the agency should take at this time?"

Scully clears her throat before Mulder can speak. "Sir, you were there with us. You saw what we saw. You know where Harrap, Hoffmann, and Veblen are." Mulder looks at her in surprise, but Skinner has to hide his grin.

"I think I do, Agent Scully. But no way will I ever put that in a report. Nor do I suggest either of you do." The reprieve Mulder has been looking for, he realizes, has just been handed to him. "Let me summarize the findings. The two hypodermics we found contained only traces of saline solution. No mysterious drugs. No fingerprints.

"The San Francisco office searched Veblen's home and office at least twice while you were missing. It was under observation the day you appeared in her home, Agent Mulder, yet somehow either you entered or were brought to the house without the agents noticing anything.

"You tell us that your tie and jacket are missing, and Agent Scully, that your shoes and --" he twists back to glance at the notes on his desk, "your, um, pantyhose are missing. As are both your guns, including the holsters.

"Tox screens are negative; nothing out of the ordinary in your blood.

"Finally, that hat. The only piece of evidence we have, but the labs tell me it probably came from the Cost Plus on Fisherman's Wharf. Where you admit being."

All three fall silent, contemplating Skinner's words. Skinner is remembering his disorientation when he simultaneously stood on a dark corner in an unknown city, his hand on Mulder's back, and sat at Veblen's glossy desk in San Francisco, while observing Mulder's unconscious body in Oakland. He shivers at the images.

Scully is wondering, again, whether Skinner saw Mulder kiss Krycek when she materialized them out of her need for her partner. It isn't anything she could ever ask, but she wants to know. She studies the almost imperceptible play of emotions across her supervisor's face, and shivers at the thought that he might have seen.

Mulder is staring at the carpet, brow furrowed, trying unsuccessfully to keep at bay the image of Krycek. How could he have conjured up him, of all people, as guide and comforter? He feels ghostly hands against his body, lips against his face. He shivers at the sensation.

All three people sigh deeply. Skinner continues, in a softer voice. "We have to say something. I am not instructing you to deceive our superiors who will read your reports. However, sometimes obfuscation is actually clarification." He stops and stares at them.

Mulder is nodding his head; Skinner knew that he would understand. However, he can see that Scully is mildly shocked.

"Sir, you can't mean . . ."

Skinner cuts her off. "Haven't you been in situations where speaking the truth is inappropriate? A friend asks you how she looks; do you always tell the truth? Mulder asks you how you are feeling; do you always tell him the truth?" Scully actually blushes at this. "Agent Scully, you must do what you think is best. But I will support whatever report you submit. *Whatever* that report may say." He stares at them a moment longer to let his words sink in. "Agents, you are dismissed."

Mulder practically pops out of his chair, but Scully rises more slowly. She looks at Skinner so intently he fears that he will blush, too. Finally, she says, "Yes, sir," and turns to follow Mulder from the room. At the door she glances back at him and their eyes lock for a few seconds. Skinner finds he must drop his eyes before her steady gaze, and begins to sort the papers in his in basket. He hears the door shut softly behind him. He sighs heavily, but feels that smile on his face again. Maybe he should take a few hours off today, go home a bit early, before Scully has second thoughts and hunts him down.

Back in the basement office, Mulder is ecstatic. "Can you believe it? We can say whatever we want, as long as we don't tell the truth! Whatever is happening to our beloved Assistant Director, Scully? Did he get dosed with that drug, too?"

He barely notices that Scully isn't sharing his glee. "Yes, actually he did a little," she surprises him with. She is soberly watching him.

"What? What?"

"Mulder, I saw you there, wherever we were, not just when I was with Skinner. I saw you with -- well, with Krycek." Mulder freezes. His mind skitters ahead, trying to invent excuses or denials. Scully puts her hand on his arm, then slides it down to take his hand. "It's okay. I know it wasn't really Krycek. But Mulder, I can't help but wonder . . ." Her voice trails off and she drops his hand; he catches it and grasps it firmly.

"Scully, I was alone, I was scared, for god's sake, I was *drugged*." She nods unhappily. "I just conjured him up for company, as a guide. I -- he --" but her steady gaze stops him. They stare at each other for a moment, then he leans over and kisses her forehead. "I'm sorry you saw that," he whispers.

She nods again. "I just don't want you to be unhappy, Mulder. You're so alone. At least I have my mom and my brothers. Who do you have, Mulder?"

He cannot reply. Doesn't she know? He only has her. Krycek was a dream, a fantasy, but she's standing right here, her hand on him. Why doesn't she know? How can she not? "Scully," he whispers. "I told you; you're my one in five billion. Don't I have you?"

After a moment, the lines on her face clear and she smiles gently. Then she laughs. "You will always have me, Mulder, in one way or another." She squeezes his arm and then drops her hand. "Come on; I'll buy coffee and biscotti. We need to get creative about this damn report." She pauses to dig a finger into the soil of her English ivy; she'll water it when they return. Not drooping too badly; not yet, anyway.

Notes: "Propecia" is the U.S. brand name of a drug that prevents male-pattern baldness. Women of child-bearing age are not supposed to touch the tablets because it's teratogenic and can be absorbed through the skin.
You probably recognize the influence of William Burrough's beautiful and twisted _Naked Lunch_ on this story.

Posted: November 9, 2000