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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 · 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
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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.

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."

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."

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.

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.

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?"

"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?"

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."

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?"

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?"

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?"

Anything could happen, in the course of seventeen years. The truth is, she isn't surprised at all to find him shadowed by grief; she's been worried by it, the knowledge that he won't cope well with her coming death. But she's evidently alive and presumably well enough, now-- and still he looks the way she'd have feared.

The question drags her away from speculation, and she musters a small smile.

"My purse didn't come along for the ride," she answers. "An Apollo 11 key chain. You told me it was because you thought it was cool."

She'll repeat her own interpretation if he needs it, but Pendrell's death is recent enough that she doesn't want to dwell on it if she doesn't need to.

"It's a good thing you found Skinner," he says. "Getting around with no cash would be tough."

That's the only thing that rings false for him, the fact that she materialized essentially before Walter Skinner's eyes. It's convenient, especially considering she'd just been several states away, back in 1997 - but at the same time, the fact that Skinner presumably saw her appear speaks to the reality of the situation. He's a lot of things, but he's not someone who carries water for the kinds of people who would set up a hoax on this level. His part in it would never be active deception. At most, he'd be a rube on the outside, the same as Mulder.

At least, that was true ten years ago. He can't actually trust anything at this point, can he? But he wants to trust Scully. Sitting before him now, looking exactly the way she remembers - how could he resist believing her?

"We'll do a blood test later," he says, though he doesn't mean the kind that involves lab work. If there's any real concern to be had regarding her identity, a pinprick should put it to rest. In the meanwhile, her answer is one he can't imagine anyone else knowing - though all the best tests of her identity are things that haven't happened to her yet. When we were living on the coast and we stayed up all night to watch the sunrise, what did I whisper in your ear? What did I tell you after you brought me back to my apartment, after you brought me back from the dead? What's the thing you like me to do with my tongue?

A Scully who's never looked at Mulder as anything but friend and colleague is a much easier one to fake. But for now, he's willing to take her as the general article. He clears his throat. "Can I ask where you're staying?"

"Lucky I did. I'm not sure what I would have done..."

It leaves her uneasy, too. There aren't many people she'd trust to help her in a situation like this; ending up right in front of one of them seems all too convenient. And honestly Skinner might have been the safer option; Mulder would never hurt her, she knows, but he'd have more reason to distrust her showing up on his doorstep.

"Any test you want. As far as I know, I'm myself, but... if I wasn't, I'd want to know, too." Her expression becomes a bit grim, probably buying them another few minutes from the waiter.

"A hotel. It's not like I can... I mean, I'm guessing my apartment isn't my apartment anymore."

She's got nothing, and nowhere to go.

"No," he agrees, and other different circumstances, he'd be not careful with his answers - but right now, he's as hurt by the situation as anyone. "You have a house somewhere - he might know the address. You'd be welcome to stay at my place, of course, but that won't be convenient to the city."

The real problem is the fact that she might not be comfortable out on the edge of the world with him. The other Scully certainly wasn't.

That's a punch to the gut-- that he wouldn't even know. She can't imagine what could have happened to cause such a rift-- even if he isn't her partner anymore, both of them evidently gone from the Bureau.... he's her best friend. If she's pictured a future where that isn't true it's only because she wasn't in it at all.

As much as she tries to keep the shock off her face, he must know her well enough (... right? ) to see it.

"It's not like I'm worried about commuting," she points out. "Mulder-- I don't want to impose on you. On whatever you're doing now. But I don't know who else I could ask to help me figure this out."

Her surprise is palpable, and in retrospect, it's obvious; of course she's concerned by the idea that he can't place her home more specifically than Maryland. From here, he'll need to be more cautious with the information he gives her, if only because having her over will become infinitely more complicated if she realizes she used to live there.

(He could, he knows, find out if he wanted to. It wouldn't be as trivial as when the Gunmen were around, but he doubts he'd need to hire a private investigator to get the job done. He never has, though, and he never will. Scully deserves her secrets, even when the knowledge of them feels like it's lodged high in his chest.)

"You know I'm here to help you," he tells her, and this Scully, at least, will believe him. "It's not an imposition. In fact - we could go now, unless you were really hoping for an order of boneless chicken wings."

She does believe him; not only because she's inclined to, inherently-- has trusted him with her life for years, now-- but because it feels like he means it. Which just leaves her more madly curious about what the future will bring, but clearly it's not something to dig into here and now.

It's some comfort, though. If she couldn't rely on Mulder, where would she go from here? Time travel is the kind of problem he can sink his teeth into; together, they stand a chance. At least-- she hopes so.

She manages a small smile, a little less guarded. Her tone is teasing.

"Last time I saw your fridge you had expired OJ, an unidentified crumple of aluminum foil, and a bottle of ketchup-- should we get a salad to take out, first?"

And a nice tip for their beleaguered waiter.

"You know me," he says, trying to make it sound lighthearted. "Living the bachelor life. Why don't you tell Skinner what's up? I'll put the order in."

Mulder's the one with cash - only cash, at the moment, he's in no mood to be tracked by card here - and he has absolutely no idea what to say to Walter Skinner right about now. Thanks for finding my ex, please don't tell her about the 'ex' thing. Sorry about how the whole Bureau mess ended up. I'm not going to give you my address, but I still consider you a friend. No. Better to leave things where they are: uncertain, unspoken. If Skinner tries to offer help, he's not sure what he'll do, but it won't be good.

(He can't break down over this. He's not going to break down over this. Fox Mulder doesn't have breakdowns the way normal people do, and he's not about to start now, just because the love of his life has wandered back into his world, looking twenty years younger and ten times as happy to see him.)

He gets up from the table, going to find their poor, beleaguered waiter, and orders a salad to go for Scully. Two orders of steak on top of that, in case Scully smells his and decides she wants that carnivore life after all, with broccoli and mashed potatoes on the side. There's slightly more in his fridge than there was back in the Clinton administration, but he doubts bags of instant Rice-a-Roni will pass muster tonight.

Something about the phrasing feels funny, but she's not going to look the gift horse of room and board and help righting the timeline in the mouth. She nods, and watches him rise and go, and she takes a shaky breath to center herself.

She finishes her water, and goes to talk to Skinner, who to his credit is apparently absorbed in reading something on his computer-phone and doesn't look like he's been eavesdropping at all. He gives her a sympathetic, sad smile and she bites her tongue on asking what the hell happened. Mulder won't tell her, she guesses, because of the sanctity of the timeline; Skinner won't tell her because it's not his business and he wishes he doesn't know, though she can tell by the set of his jaw that he does.

After she gives him the rundown, she pauses-- a careful quiet moment for him to interject if there's something she needs to know-- some reason she should stay closer to the city, or some sense of where he's taking her, or anything. But all Skinner does is nod, and lean back from the table to fish a business card out of his pocket to scrawl his cell number on the back of it. Not that she's got a phone to use for it, but better to have it than not.

Thanking him, she offers a smile that she hopes looks more optimistic than she feels, and goes back to stand beside their abandoned booth. For whatever reason, Mulder doesn't seem inclined to deal with Skinner; she's not going to press it. She tries to keep the faint smile going as he finally returns.

"Ready?"

It takes a while, but eventually Mulder comes back with a plastic bag of food in each hand. One warm, one cold. The smile he gives her is a similar kind of half-assed as hers; neither of them is completely happy about the situation, but at least they're in it together.

He'd rather not count back just how long it's been since that was the case.

"Yeah." He throws a twenty on the table, which is one hell of a lot more gratitude than he normally shows waiters of any kind. Seeing Scully again has a value beyond the usual meritocratic approach he has to the service industry. "Let's get out of here."

He gives Skinner a nod, and Skinner nods back - and at some point, maybe they'll talk. But both men know that won't be today.

Outside, he brings Scully to a big, beautiful gas guzzler of an SUV, something he got for adventures out in the sticks and the occasional need to haul stuff around. He'd had an idea, at some point, that he and Scully would pull out the seats, go "camping," and sleep in the back like a couple of teens living out of a van. It didn't happen, but it had sounded great at one point.

Right now, all the seats are in, and he opens the passenger side door for Scully. The food gets set at her feet, and he goes around to the other side to get in. "We're going to take the scenic way back. Just in case."

From her perspective it seems like an incredible tip-- though in fairness she hasn't adjusted to what things cost, barely looked at the menu. She doesn't have much of an appetite-- rarely does these days, even less so when she's running on time-travel stress. Go figure.

He doesn't seem to be fully at odds with Skinner; they're civil, just distant. She shrugs it off for the moment and trails after, to a vehicle that might as well be a Mack Truck. Dana Scully, fresh from the age of wall-to-wall Ford Tauruses, raises an eyebrow. It's huge. She manages to clamber up into it and clicks her seatbelt, looking out at a neighborhood that ought to be familiar and isn't.

"Do I get to know where we're going? I didn't think to bring a blindfold."

What the hell happened to them-- to him?

SUVs have become so common that it doesn't even occur to him that it'd seem weird. Definitely a change from his old station wagon, but the MPG isn't that bad, and the ability to haul things still has a certain appeal. Maybe someday.

"I'll allow it," he says, and there's a little of his old humor in the comment. "But I'm swearing you to secrecy. The less the Bureau knows about my whereabouts, the happier we all are."

When they drive right past his old building without slowing, that'll be the nail in the coffin: this is a new Mulder. They're heading away from D.C., out toward the country.

"I'm not sure who I'd be telling anyway," she murmurs. Skinner, but Skinner doesn't seem to want to know any more than Mulder wants him to know, so that feels like a bust. She keeps gazing out the window, if only to create some semblance of familiarity. Miles and miles of road while Mulder drives. Just like the old days, except nothing like the old days.

"I have to admit I was surprised when Skinner told me you weren't with the Bureau. I guess I expected to find you in the office, even now." She shoots him a small smile, oddly shy, not that he can see. Maybe he can hear it. "But I guess... it's been so long."

Maybe it's natural that he'd move on. The thought doesn't sit right; not when she's fresh off his ketamine adventure, another desperate move to try and find the truth.

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