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You've always been good at that part.
And I've been practicing.
And I've been practicing.
It's harder having hope than dealing with loss, I think.
It's probably an oversimplification- but it didn't help. I think in a way... Once we didn't have a crisis, we didn't know what to do next.
And I didn't think I could let myself want this.
And I didn't think I could let myself want this.
We still would have wanted her. I would have wanted all of us, together.
But maybe we'd never have gone back to work and seen what we've seen.
But maybe we'd never have gone back to work and seen what we've seen.
Do you remember that night, after you came back from Stonehenge? When I came over?
I had such a powerful sense that night of being in the right place, the right moment.
There were so many things that brought us there- a lot of terrible things too- but I knew, then, it was the only way we could have gotten there. That night, the two of us, on your couch.
There were so many things that brought us there- a lot of terrible things too- but I knew, then, it was the only way we could have gotten there. That night, the two of us, on your couch.
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| The East-Coast Extraterrestrial Extravaganza Your #1 Source for the News the News Won't Tell You | ||
| POSSIBLE DIMENSIONAL RIP IN WASHINGTON, D.C. Mysterious woman appeared "out of thin air," possibly in connection with top-secret government experiments on manipulating the fabric of spacetime. By John F. Pseudonym ยท APRIL 11th, 2014 | ||
| Several eyewitnesses reported the sudden appearance of a young woman on 11th Street, north of Pennsylvania Avenue, on the afternoon of April 10th. "She came out of nowhere. Like, really nowhere," said one witness, who declined to provide a name. "Like when someone walks behind a truck in a movie and they cut it and they never walk out the other side? Except, backwards. And there was no truck. And- I guess it's not like that, but you know what I mean? Nothing was there, and then she was there." The mystery woman was described as petite, with bright red hair, dressed in a trenchcoat one onlooker described as "weird and old-fashioned." After appearing, she took several steps down the street before stopping short, looking around in obvious confusion, and reaching into an inner pocket of her coat. One eyewitness claims to have seen a holstered weapon, though at no point was a weapon brandished or discharged during the brief incident.  Photograph of the unidentified woman who allegedly appeared "from thin air" in Washington, D.C., on April 10th. All witnesses agreed she pulled some sort of device from her pocket-- possibly a cellular telephone ("like a dumb one though," according to one witness), and looked at it before swearing audibly and shoving it back into her coat. The woman began to run down the street, calling out something unintelligble-- "mother," according to one witness; another thought it might have been "murder". Before reaching the avenue, however, the woman encountered another pedestrian-- described as an tall, older, balding man in glasses. She jumped backward as though startled; he froze in obvious surprise, but the two cautiously approached one another and began to speak in an animated manner, though too quietly for the witnesses to overhear. After a few moments, the man gestured again toward the avenue; the woman nodded, and the two left together. Witnesses were not able to account for their actions after they turned the corner. This shocking event-- taking place in broad daylight-- has received little coverage in the mainstream media, which combined with the individuals' possible connection to Federal agencies, suggests to this writer that things are being suppressed-- for readers familiar with our previous coverage on | ||
| [ ARTICLE CONTINUES AFTER ADS ] | ||
Another day in Virginia, precisely like the day that came before it. The grass needs mowing, but Mulder hasn't been in the mood to do it. The house could use cleaning, he could probably stand to shower - and eventually, he will. Whatever Scully might say about his habits, or what they might say about his mental state, the reality is that today's a rough one, and he's not in the mood to deal with any of it. Keeping tabs on the world is what he's up for, and that's what he does.
He's hunched over his laptop when a news article socks him in the gut.
Revealing his cell number isn't an appealing proposition, but it's quicker than driving into the city - especially if it turns out that he can no longer get into the Hoover Building on charm alone. He calls Skinner and gets his secretary and doesn't have any room to feel bad about how damn short he is with her. It's Mulder turns out to be the magic words to get him patched through, which is a real reversal of fortune, when you think about it.
"What the hell did you do to Scully?!" is his opening gambit, his voice loud and rough with worry, and he can nearly see Skinner pinching the bridge of his nose on the other end. "No, I'm not going to calm down -"
It goes on that way longer than he'd like to admit. Eventually, they agree to a meeting - the happy-hour special at a bar and grill in Alexandria. Mulder's willing to venture out there: it's close enough to be convenient for Skinner and Scully, but far enough from home that it won't twig anyone to him. The drive home can be as long and circuitous as he needs to shake any interested parties intent on tailing him.
He makes himself shower, though he leaves yesterday's five o'clock shadow and pulls on a t-shirt and jeans. He's not an agent anymore, and he's not going to pretend otherwise. And he's fifteen minutes early, scoping out the place, pacing in front of the restaurant, eventually getting a booth inside. It's hard to believe this is even real - but if Scully's walking the streets looking like that, something's wrong. And it might be wrong enough that it'll make up for the bad blood between them.
He's hunched over his laptop when a news article socks him in the gut.
Revealing his cell number isn't an appealing proposition, but it's quicker than driving into the city - especially if it turns out that he can no longer get into the Hoover Building on charm alone. He calls Skinner and gets his secretary and doesn't have any room to feel bad about how damn short he is with her. It's Mulder turns out to be the magic words to get him patched through, which is a real reversal of fortune, when you think about it.
"What the hell did you do to Scully?!" is his opening gambit, his voice loud and rough with worry, and he can nearly see Skinner pinching the bridge of his nose on the other end. "No, I'm not going to calm down -"
It goes on that way longer than he'd like to admit. Eventually, they agree to a meeting - the happy-hour special at a bar and grill in Alexandria. Mulder's willing to venture out there: it's close enough to be convenient for Skinner and Scully, but far enough from home that it won't twig anyone to him. The drive home can be as long and circuitous as he needs to shake any interested parties intent on tailing him.
He makes himself shower, though he leaves yesterday's five o'clock shadow and pulls on a t-shirt and jeans. He's not an agent anymore, and he's not going to pretend otherwise. And he's fifteen minutes early, scoping out the place, pacing in front of the restaurant, eventually getting a booth inside. It's hard to believe this is even real - but if Scully's walking the streets looking like that, something's wrong. And it might be wrong enough that it'll make up for the bad blood between them.
Privately, pragmatically, she wonders if she's dead. Or maybe this is the process of dying-- some strange hallucination formed of half-baked memory and regret, neurons flaring in chaotic desperation, coming together in some bizarre, illogical fantasy of a future she won't reach. Reaching forward in time (is that an echo of their recent case with the freezing compound?), worrying about Mulder (an ever-present weight), looking for an escape.
It would be impossible enough just to have found herself outside the Hoover building, when she'd been in Rhode Island. But-- if, well, everything she's seen is to be believed, the physical distance is the least of it.
Skinner, to his credit, doesn't seem to have changed much in nearly twenty years. He's outwardly calm (and inwardly losing his mind, she can tell) as he explains what he can: when it is, where it is, some broad strokes of the intervening time. The fact that she no longer works for the Bureau. She sits on an uncomfortable chair in a hotel room he's booked for her (kind, but also necessary; her credit cards are long since expired and Jesus Christ, the inflation) and listens on speakerphone as he tries to call the only person he can think of who might help.
You've reached Dana Scully; please leave a message.
She's not sure how to feel about that one.
And then the next day, Skinner gets a phone call. An unknown number. He looks at it, and he looks at her, and they both just know.
She can hear him yelling without the benefit of speakerphone.
And so... so they go out. To meet Mulder at a bar, because apparently Mulder doesn't live here, doesn't work here; doesn't seem to do anything as far as Skinner knows, and she finds herself second-guessing him on that basis in spite of his kindness, his even-keeled, almost fatherly care. (God-- she can doubt it's been seventeen years, but they show on his face all too plainly.)
She tries to relax, and fails utterly, sitting ramrod straight in his car as they drive out to some restaurant in Alexandria she's never heard of. Didn't there used to be a pharmacy here, yesterday? A decade ago. Whatever.
They walk in and she hesitates, looking around from the door, absolutely lost. It's amazing how disorienting and unfamiliar the very atmosphere is; the way people talk and move and look at their little Star Trek style computer-phones. It grates against her already raw nerves.
It's Skinner who strides confidently towards a booth-- and she realizes it's him.
She squares her shoulders, fixes her face into a neutral, pleasant expression that ought to mask her panic-- at least as far as the civilians around them go-- and follows to sit across from Fox Mulder.
"I--" she takes a deep breath, feeling stupid.
"Hello, Mulder."
It would be impossible enough just to have found herself outside the Hoover building, when she'd been in Rhode Island. But-- if, well, everything she's seen is to be believed, the physical distance is the least of it.
Skinner, to his credit, doesn't seem to have changed much in nearly twenty years. He's outwardly calm (and inwardly losing his mind, she can tell) as he explains what he can: when it is, where it is, some broad strokes of the intervening time. The fact that she no longer works for the Bureau. She sits on an uncomfortable chair in a hotel room he's booked for her (kind, but also necessary; her credit cards are long since expired and Jesus Christ, the inflation) and listens on speakerphone as he tries to call the only person he can think of who might help.
You've reached Dana Scully; please leave a message.
She's not sure how to feel about that one.
And then the next day, Skinner gets a phone call. An unknown number. He looks at it, and he looks at her, and they both just know.
She can hear him yelling without the benefit of speakerphone.
And so... so they go out. To meet Mulder at a bar, because apparently Mulder doesn't live here, doesn't work here; doesn't seem to do anything as far as Skinner knows, and she finds herself second-guessing him on that basis in spite of his kindness, his even-keeled, almost fatherly care. (God-- she can doubt it's been seventeen years, but they show on his face all too plainly.)
She tries to relax, and fails utterly, sitting ramrod straight in his car as they drive out to some restaurant in Alexandria she's never heard of. Didn't there used to be a pharmacy here, yesterday? A decade ago. Whatever.
They walk in and she hesitates, looking around from the door, absolutely lost. It's amazing how disorienting and unfamiliar the very atmosphere is; the way people talk and move and look at their little Star Trek style computer-phones. It grates against her already raw nerves.
It's Skinner who strides confidently towards a booth-- and she realizes it's him.
She squares her shoulders, fixes her face into a neutral, pleasant expression that ought to mask her panic-- at least as far as the civilians around them go-- and follows to sit across from Fox Mulder.
"I--" she takes a deep breath, feeling stupid.
"Hello, Mulder."
Hers is a face he knows better than his own: the particular tint of her hair, the set of her mouth, the edge of concern keeping her from looking entirely calm to him. She's beautiful. She always has been, but now especially, after too much time alone, Mulder can't help but see every flawless curve and angle. He doubts she's cracked thirty-five yet - that haircut reminds him of nothing so much as oncology wards and hospital beds. But she doesn't have the chalky-skinned look of a woman on the verge of death.
He hardly notices Skinner, doesn't acknowledge him at all, and Skinner takes the hint, muttering a good to see you out, Mulder before grabbing a table nearby. Later, Mulder will probably regret not taking a moment to talk to him.
It occurs to him, belatedly, that he can't just sit here gawking at her in silence. But all he can think to say, reaching over to touch her hand, is: "It's really you."
He hardly notices Skinner, doesn't acknowledge him at all, and Skinner takes the hint, muttering a good to see you out, Mulder before grabbing a table nearby. Later, Mulder will probably regret not taking a moment to talk to him.
It occurs to him, belatedly, that he can't just sit here gawking at her in silence. But all he can think to say, reaching over to touch her hand, is: "It's really you."
Subconsciously, she hadn't really been prepare for this. It's silly, because the time was etched on Skinner so of course Mulder, too, shows the years-- but they'd walked in and she'd been looking for-- for him. As she remembered him-- some part of her unable to conceive of him ever changing, or not matching her in this odd adventure. They've been each other's shadows for long enough that it feels natural.
"As far as I can tell," she answers, with a somewhat pained smile. There are any number of things she could be other than herself; he's only got her word on it. (The incredulity is... something she'll think about later. She isn't dead, she's pretty sure-- judging from her voicemail greeting-- she knows she must look very different, suddenly missing a decade and change, but surely it can't be that long since he saw her last.)
"I'm guessing.... you weren't expecting this? No convenient case report I'll write when I get back when I belong?"
He looks...
She doesn't want to try to puzzle it out now, how he looks. She didn't expect anything, not really, but he doesn't look the way she'd expected him to.
"As far as I can tell," she answers, with a somewhat pained smile. There are any number of things she could be other than herself; he's only got her word on it. (The incredulity is... something she'll think about later. She isn't dead, she's pretty sure-- judging from her voicemail greeting-- she knows she must look very different, suddenly missing a decade and change, but surely it can't be that long since he saw her last.)
"I'm guessing.... you weren't expecting this? No convenient case report I'll write when I get back when I belong?"
He looks...
She doesn't want to try to puzzle it out now, how he looks. She didn't expect anything, not really, but he doesn't look the way she'd expected him to.
His gaze is soft-edged and sad, the face of a man who never expected to see her again. (Well, occasionally. Probably occasionally, if only to justify the medication he hates taking. Not like this, though.)
"Maybe you'll write a case report." He's speaking a language he set down years ago. Even as he marinates in the search for the truth - all day, every day - he's long since lost the trappings of their Bureau lifestyle. His is the world of newspaper clippings and endless internet arguments. "When do you belong, Scully? What were we doing?"
It probably won't help them solve the mystery of her presence, but at least he'll know what to expect from her.
"Maybe you'll write a case report." He's speaking a language he set down years ago. Even as he marinates in the search for the truth - all day, every day - he's long since lost the trappings of their Bureau lifestyle. His is the world of newspaper clippings and endless internet arguments. "When do you belong, Scully? What were we doing?"
It probably won't help them solve the mystery of her presence, but at least he'll know what to expect from her.
It's a troubling answer-- not an answer at all. For a moment she wonders if she's looked at it wrong-- maybe she's not displaced at all; maybe this is an illusion, or an imposter. Someone seeking--
Seeking what?
But though it feels off, she doesn't think he's anyone other than himself. He seems like Mulder-- older, sadder, inexplicably far from his life's work. She feels her worry shifting from her own situation to his.
"We were-- you had gone to Rhode Island," she says carefully. "April 1997. That's-- Skinner says it's been seventeen years?"
Seeking what?
But though it feels off, she doesn't think he's anyone other than himself. He seems like Mulder-- older, sadder, inexplicably far from his life's work. She feels her worry shifting from her own situation to his.
"We were-- you had gone to Rhode Island," she says carefully. "April 1997. That's-- Skinner says it's been seventeen years?"
"Quonochontaug," he says, without hesitation. Rhode Island, 1997. He'd been doing anything and everything to figure out just what his brain might have hidden from him, what repressed memories might hold the key to Samantha's disappearance. The scratchy technicolor memory of her face, Fox whispered in his ear, comes to him then - but so does Scully's arms around him, the two of them huddled in his family's summer home.
He's quiet a moment too long, looking through her, before he realizes it. Coming back to himself, he gives her a sad little smile. "That was a long time ago. You'd -"
"Can I get you started with some drinks?" There's a waiter, irritatingly cheerful in the way of happy-hour waiters everywhere, aware that their tips live and die on the mood.
Mulder looks over, startled and mildly annoyed. "Water. And we're going to need a while to decide. Come back in fifteen."
He looks like a college kid, impossibly young in a way everyone's become in the last few years. It'll be less than ten years before William's the same age. "Fifteen? Sir, we're a busy restaurant -"
"It'll be worth your while. Please." Maybe there's something in how he says it, the hangdog look of his face, or maybe the kid is willing to roll the dice on just what worth your while might mean. He heads off to get them their water, and when he sets it down on the table for them, he leaves without trying to convince them of the appetizer specials.
And once again, Mulder's entire world is Scully. He's drawn toward her like a moth to a bug zapper, the way he always has been; she's closer than she's been in...a year? Months, at the very least. And after so long without seeing her, it's impossible to escape just how beautiful she is. Which - damn. She's not in remission, and he's not going to be able to rustle up alien-made hardware to implant in her neck. If they don't get her back to her own time quickly, the replay of her last days with the cancer might go tragically wrong. "How are you feeling?"
He's quiet a moment too long, looking through her, before he realizes it. Coming back to himself, he gives her a sad little smile. "That was a long time ago. You'd -"
"Can I get you started with some drinks?" There's a waiter, irritatingly cheerful in the way of happy-hour waiters everywhere, aware that their tips live and die on the mood.
Mulder looks over, startled and mildly annoyed. "Water. And we're going to need a while to decide. Come back in fifteen."
He looks like a college kid, impossibly young in a way everyone's become in the last few years. It'll be less than ten years before William's the same age. "Fifteen? Sir, we're a busy restaurant -"
"It'll be worth your while. Please." Maybe there's something in how he says it, the hangdog look of his face, or maybe the kid is willing to roll the dice on just what worth your while might mean. He heads off to get them their water, and when he sets it down on the table for them, he leaves without trying to convince them of the appetizer specials.
And once again, Mulder's entire world is Scully. He's drawn toward her like a moth to a bug zapper, the way he always has been; she's closer than she's been in...a year? Months, at the very least. And after so long without seeing her, it's impossible to escape just how beautiful she is. Which - damn. She's not in remission, and he's not going to be able to rustle up alien-made hardware to implant in her neck. If they don't get her back to her own time quickly, the replay of her last days with the cancer might go tragically wrong. "How are you feeling?"
Living in the middle of it, she's not surprised he remembers the incident. It feels like it's going to be hard to forget-- the vision of him huddled in that motel room, his blood-covered shirt and a blanket tucked up around his ears while he battled shock. He seems okay, at least-- which is not a guarantee in the moment she left him.
Before she can answer, the waiter stops by and she just-- doesn't know what to do with herself, sitting awkwardly and watching as he sends the younger man away. Maybe he's become a better tipper in the last fifteen years. She certainly hopes so. When the water comes she slides hers closer, fingertips on the glass though she doesn't sip it; she just wants the contact, the cold, something physically grounding.
"I'm all right-- I think I'm still running on adrenaline," she admits. It's not what he's really asking, whether she's all right in the short term. And she doesn't know what to say, really-- she feels okay at the moment, but that could change at any second, as it always does. Mulder must remember what that's like.
So probably they haven't cured cancer since then.
"I just... I don't know what to think about any of this." She takes a sip of her water finally. "It makes no sense."
Before she can answer, the waiter stops by and she just-- doesn't know what to do with herself, sitting awkwardly and watching as he sends the younger man away. Maybe he's become a better tipper in the last fifteen years. She certainly hopes so. When the water comes she slides hers closer, fingertips on the glass though she doesn't sip it; she just wants the contact, the cold, something physically grounding.
"I'm all right-- I think I'm still running on adrenaline," she admits. It's not what he's really asking, whether she's all right in the short term. And she doesn't know what to say, really-- she feels okay at the moment, but that could change at any second, as it always does. Mulder must remember what that's like.
So probably they haven't cured cancer since then.
"I just... I don't know what to think about any of this." She takes a sip of her water finally. "It makes no sense."
It's not a helpful answer, but it's unhelpful in the way he'd expect from Scully. Even when it looked like she was dying, she'd spent an unreasonable amount of time making sure she wasn't interrupting anyone else's life in the process. It had been admirable, at the time; it had meant everything that the work would go on, and Scully along with it, that he wouldn't have to imagine life without her as she wasted away in a hospital bed. And even when it came to that point - she'd still wanted to believe. He did everything in his power to keep her alive, but it wouldn't have worked if she hadn't been willing to try what must have seemed insane. Of course she'd say she's all right.
Under the table, his foot brushes against hers, then retreats as soon as he realizes.
"Time travel," he says immediately, as though the solution is obvious. There are a few other possibilities, but they might as well start with the most likely possibility. "It's only been a day, hasn't it? Does Skinner know whether our time's Scully disappeared at the same time?"
Under the table, his foot brushes against hers, then retreats as soon as he realizes.
"Time travel," he says immediately, as though the solution is obvious. There are a few other possibilities, but they might as well start with the most likely possibility. "It's only been a day, hasn't it? Does Skinner know whether our time's Scully disappeared at the same time?"
The way he pulls his foot back registers more than the bump itself; she's accustomed to the physicality of his comfort, his habits of touching her. It's not exactly that Mulder has no concept of personal space; it's just that he considers it communal property.
But the question he asks is far more noteworthy. Does Skinner know, which means he doesn't know. That's a sobering, shattering thought. That Mulder might not know how to reach Scully. (In any time, any place-- how could he not know?)
"He wasn't able to get in touch with her." Which could mean anything, but probably means there's only one Dana Scully in any given moment. Honestly, part of her is relieved that she isn't going to have to face herself; it sounds even more alarming than this is.
"You think we switched places? Why? How?"
But the question he asks is far more noteworthy. Does Skinner know, which means he doesn't know. That's a sobering, shattering thought. That Mulder might not know how to reach Scully. (In any time, any place-- how could he not know?)
"He wasn't able to get in touch with her." Which could mean anything, but probably means there's only one Dana Scully in any given moment. Honestly, part of her is relieved that she isn't going to have to face herself; it sounds even more alarming than this is.
"You think we switched places? Why? How?"
The disappointment is writ large in his face - for someone who knows him, anyway. Scully should see it. Even back then, she'd always understood what was happening, and when she didn't, she'd been willing to figure it out. There's a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought, but there's no time to waste pondering it. What now-Scully thinks of him is irrelevant; she's missing, and he has to find her.
"I couldn't tell you," he answers, "but I don't see a more likely explanation from the information I have right now. "Unless I need to worry about shapeshifters, and it shouldn't be hard to prove you are who you say you are. Scully, what'd I give you for your birthday? And why?"
"I couldn't tell you," he answers, "but I don't see a more likely explanation from the information I have right now. "Unless I need to worry about shapeshifters, and it shouldn't be hard to prove you are who you say you are. Scully, what'd I give you for your birthday? And why?"
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