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When Harry Met
Scully Friday night. Time for romance, feng shui, and psycopathic stalkers. Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and all other X-Files related characters do not belong to me, but belong to Chris Carter, 20th Century Fox, and 1013 Productions. Feedback: Send feedback to fwidsvnt@ilfb.org FBI
Headquarters Dana,
briefcase in hand, froze at the doorway of the cozy but
chaotic space they shared in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. She felt a
sudden
King's "I
should've asked you earlier, I know, but Frohike and
the guys have lined up some sweet seats at tonight's Wizards game, and
maybe,
if you don't have any plans, you'd like to, you know, grab some ' za
and watch
some hoops with us," Fox suggested in a higher octave than was normal
for
him. " "Where'd he get that from, some covert ops agency that monitors NBA intelligence?" Dana asked, the gastric rollercoaster taking another steep dip. "Naw, Treasury guy with season tickets. What say?" Dana swallowed. "Well, Mulder, I appreciate the invitation, but actually, well…" Fox' face fell fractionally, and he attempted to compensate with the lame grin that invariably failed to disguise his chagrin. "…I have a…" Dana hesitated, both alarmed and vaguely thrilled by Fox' obvious dismay. "…a meet--, oh, an appoint--. Mulder, I have a date tonight. A blind one. The date, not him, he's not… It's, you know, a fix-up… I have a previous engage--. I'm busy. But thanks." Fox' Disneyish grin expanded, though the look in his eyes was similar to that of women experiencing multiple births. "Hey, well… You should get out and have a good time for a change. So you're out for the game, then?" "Uh, yeah." "Hey, 'nother time, huh?" "Sure." The behavioral scientist and the pathologist/criminologist stood silently for a moment, trying to suck in enough oxygen to reactivate their brain functions. "So, who's the guy?" Fox finally asked, casually hooking an arm over the back of his chair. "A blind date, favor for a friend," Dana lied again, working to avoid sounding like she was reassuring her partner. He would have to ask the one night in months, jeez, maybe years, when she'd had something going. "He's an attorney with one of the firms downtown, handles a lot of lobbying work." "Ah." Fox' eyes appeared to contract as his grin widened and his head bobbed violently. "Well, hey, have a good – nice – time. Have a nice time." "You, too, with the guys, at the game, tonight," Dana attempted to say. She grabbed several times for her case, snagging it on the fifth try. "Tell the guys I said…um…" "Hi?" Fox offered. "I will tell them that." "Yeah, do. Um, bye." "Yeah, you…" Fox trailed off. Dana gave her partner an insipid, finger-waggling wave, and managed to get through the door before one of them suffered an aneurysm. Fox
stared at the door for a few moments, then plucked a pen
from his desk and flung it as hard as he could at the wall. It
ricocheted; the "I, uh, I forgot my my organizer," she said, grabbing the leather book and fleeing, oblivious to Fox' injury. "Attorney,"
he murmured, stowing every pen, pencil,
and letter opener within sight. "Hey, no biggie," the lawyer said. "Matter of fact, Senate put off the big vote I was waiting for, so I decided to play hookie and do some shopping." "I thought we were going to meet in the bar," the FBI agent inquired. "Yeah, yeah," Harry drawled. "Um, it was kinda packed in there – some convention or something in town, so I thought we might just as well have drinks with dinner. You mind?" "No
difference to me," Dana said. "Movie starts 8 sharp, so we've got plenty of time," he assured her as they headed for the maitre'd's station. Harold
Thiessen had met Dana Scully Saturday, when her car's
thermostat had given out over by the Smithsonian. They'd both been to
see the
new Art Deco exhibit, and when Harry saw Dana hunkered under the hood,
seeking
clues to her plight, he didn't hesitate to jump in, most likely ruining
a crisp
new Polo shirt and his white khakis. In the end, he'd had to admit he
knew
little more than she did about the internal combustion engine, so they
called a
wrecker and had some Italian in The
Center Café was perched above the main hall of the train
station, and Dana had always enjoyed its atmosphere of cozy
self-containment
amid the bustle of tourists, travelers, and congressional aides
entertaining
home state dignitaries. They ordered "So what are we seeing?" Dana asked, glancing up at the tall, precisely-groomed brunette sitting across from her. "Well, you said whatever I wanted to see, you didn't care, right?" Dana pasted on a smile, bracing for the Jackie Chan/Steven Seagal/Arnold Schwarzenegger movie ahead of them. "I hope you don't mind, but the new Meg Ryan-Hugh Grant thing got some really nice reviews in the Post," the attorney continued. "I like romantic comedies. That OK?" Her smile spread. "Well, sure, I suppose." Gallant, accommodating, and sensitive, Dana thought. So what's wrong with him?, Scully demanded. Offices
of the Lone Gunmen "Mulder," he said. "Frohike," Fox responded, pushing past the conspiracy theorist. The Lone Gunmen's well-hidden operations center had the ambience of a newspaper backshop mixed with a computer repair shop mixed with a sci-fi/comic books shop mixed with the basement of a frat house on double secret probation. "Mulder," Frohike repeated, staring at his friend. "Why don't you take a retinal scan?" Fox asked. "It'll last longer." The scholarly Byers looked up from a computer nearby. "Mulder." "What?"
Mulder heard "If this is a sample of the sparkling conversation to be had this evening, I can scarcely wait for halftime," Fox said. "Oops," Byers murmured. "Guys," Fox groaned. "Dude,
we got totally wrapped up in things, and I guess
we kinda forgot about the game," "Rain check, Mulder?" Frohike asked casually. "Whoa, guys," Fox protested. "Wizards, Jordan, nachos, cheerleaders." "Whoa, Mulder," Frohike countered. "Iranians, psychotropic drugs, the NRA." "Huh?" Byers stood, dressed as always as if he looking forward to a night of paperwork and filing. "Mulder, we believe John Hinckley did not act alone in shooting Ronald Reagan." "
"We have quasi-documented evidence and a witness who will verify that Hinckley was not a horny rich geek but a hopped-up stooge for the Shah of Iran and the gun lobby, who hoped to generate sympathy for the right-wing Reagan agenda," Frohike said with gravity. "While we are no great fans of the Reagan administration, a conspiracy is a conspiracy. Game's gonna have to wait." "Freakin'
A," "You guys need a night out," Fox concluded. "Use the john?" "Just move the Geiger counter," Frohike grunted. When
he came out of the bathroom, which resembled nothing
quite so much as a rural "Celia," she said flatly. "You have to be Fox." "Yes, it's on my official ID, so it's mandatory," the agent responded, smiling charmingly. She neither smiled nor blinked. "My cousin said they're not going to be able to get out tonight, so we're supposed to go get something to eat or something. Fine by me – these nerds are bringing me down." Great,
a fix-up with Morticia Addams. Fox suspected she was
born of the "Yeah, sure," Fox replied. "How's some ‘za before the game sound?" "Za," she repeated. "Ah, pizza. Or we could get some dogs at the game." "Cheese and dough or mutilated pig with rat shit," Celia mulled. "You must really have some issues with your lower intestine. What kind of game?" "Wizards." "Wow, like Dungeons and Dragons or runes?" "Basketball." "Yeah. Gee, maybe I will just stay here with the Science Club…" "What would you like to do?" Fox asked politely, cursing his manners. "You know any good ska clubs?" "Good ones?" "Ha. I get it." Fox began to feel the neck of his jersey tighten. "Look, nice to meet you, but maybe I'll just crash early tonight." "Fine by me," Celia mumbled. "Just I haven't been out since the abduction." Mulder froze and turned back to her with concern. "You were kidnapped?" "Yeah, by the cast of Close Encounters. Little gray fuckers." "Aliens…"
Fox murmured, Simpsonishly But he realized that act would sever him forever from his Celia, whose daily visits made all the shouting and ranting, all the menial chores worthwhile. No, he would bide his time until the old woman died on her own. Meanwhile… Meanwhile, he knew from past experience she would be unconscious probably until morning, and he could safely slip out for the night. Carl could tell when Celia came by with the groceries that she was going out for the evening. He hoped it wasn't with some male – the thought filled him with primal anger. He
would find her. Carl crept quietly to the kitchen and out
the townhouse door into the cool Union
Station "Bummer," Harry deadpanned. "In his defense, he was under the hallucinatory influence of ergot mold. It was in the homemade ink the neighborhood tattooist had mixed. Otherwise, he was a hell of a guy." "Sounds like it," the attorney said. "You still hear from him?" "I was an FBI agent, he was a multiple murderer. I felt there were some issues." " ‘Honey, you seen my gun?' ‘Yeah, next to my ax in the living room,'" Harry ventured. Dana chuckled as she nibbled at the last of her quesadilla. "It's kind of tough when you're out of town all the time on cases, and half the people you work with are either competitive male agents, career criminals, or ghouls. Ah, strike that last part." "Ghouls?" Harry persisted. "Just what kind of cases you handle, Dana." They hadn't gotten deep into the work stuff on the weekend. Dana sighed, described briefly the mission and scope of the X-Files, and provided mercifully sketchy details about her partner. Harry actually seemed amazingly receptive to her rather odd profession. "I guess the upshot is, I don't get many chances to meet, much less go out with nice, stable types like yourself," she concluded. "Whoa-oh," Harry held up a palm. "Stable? I don't think I want to hear this." "I mean it as a compliment." "It's the oldest chick flick cliché," the lawyer said. "Smart attractive career woman, wacky unorthodox guy friend, and stable, stodgy boyfriend. You were Meg Ryan, I'd be doomed." "Well, Mulder is hardly Tom Hanks or Harrison Ford, and you're too witty to be either Bill Pullman or Greg Kinnear," Dana said, feeling a faint stab of disloyalty. "And I have neither the bubbling bouyancy of Meg Ryan, the boundless energy of Sandra Bullock, nor Julia Roberts' boobs or height." The white-haired man finally rose from his table across the floor, excusing himself with a distracted smile. Scully had noticed him peering furtively at them as Dana chatted with Harry. "You know this guy?" Dana asked, nodding subtly at the man who was clearly headed for their table. Harry turned slightly, pretending to take a sip of his wine. "Don't think so. If he was Dabney Coleman or Jack Warden or Sydney Pollack, I'd guess he was my blustery chick flick boss or my rich fiance's father. Wait, that would make me Tom Hanks instead of Greg Kinnear ." The man looked uncertainly down at Harry as he arrived at tableside. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your dinner, but aren't you Tod Uftring with Ephron, Nichols, and Keaton?" Harry looked at the man for a second. Dana could swear he paled. " Nooo…Harry Thiessen. I am an attorney here in town." "Oh," the well-dressed intruder. "Well, I am embarassed . Phil Greenlee, legislative liaison with the American Plastics Manufacturers Association. Meet a lot of lawyers up on the Hill; must've gotten you mixed up. Guess I was hoping it was Uftring -- I heard about his --" "Nope, not me," Harry interrupted cheerfully. "Nice to meet you, though, Phil. Hope to see you on the Hill some time." The white-haired man smiled uncertainly. "Well. Once again, sorry for the intrusion, and I hope you have a nice dinner. Try the black forest torte." "Sure will," Harry promised, politely dismissive. The man waggled a few fingers and moved slowly back to his table, looking back occasionally. "Now we have to have dessert," Dana complained. "Should've told him you were a diabetic attorney." "Not fast enough on my feet, I guess." Like hell, Scully thought. Shut up, Dana told Scully. "I need to freshen up," Dana told Harry. "Which way is the little feds' room?" Once in the far stall of the women's restroom, Scully punched out the number for SherilynYun, a corporate attorney she'd befriended on a case. "Yeah, Sheri?Dana Scully?" "How you doin', girlfriend? Been meaning to call you for lunch for some time now, but you know the drill." "Work 12 hours, do another four at home, and drop unconscious into bed," Dana supplied. "Precisely. You still partnered with tall, dark, and spooky?" "Yeah. Sheri, you know most of the big firms in town, right? Ephron, Nichols, Keaton?" "Wow, Dana, they've got like an army of senior and junior partners and even more associates." "How about a Tod Uftring ?" There was silence on the line. "You calling me professionally, Dana?" "Why?" "Well, Tod got taken out by a drunk driver on the expressway about, oh, five, six months ago. Him and his girlfriend, some historian at the Smithsonian, I seem to remember. Real messy. Thought it was a clearcut DUI, though. You investigating?" "No," Dana responded, confused. "The name just came up. How about Harry Thiessen? Same firm?" Sherilyn hmm'ed ."Doesn't ring a bell, Dana. Maybe an associate?" "No, I'm pretty sure he said he was a junior partner. Does lobbying work." "Lobbying? They into that now? I hadn't heard. Most of their caseload is international law, intellectual property. Oh, well, diversifying, I 'spose." Scully heard the silent polygraph alarm in her brain. "Hey, you seeing this guy? I mean, Thiessen, of course." "Not seriously, yet." "Cause -- and if I'm out of line, just tell me -- I was wondering if your partner was seeing anybody? He is cute, in a goofy Tom Hanks sorta way…" "Listen,"
Dana said, chasing Scully's suspicions
momentarily from her mind. "I'll call you next week; we'll do lunch.
Thanks, Sheri," she said, hastily disconnecting.
"You're a cop," she murmured around a mouthful of weeds. "You don't seem like one. Too, I dunno, dissipated and disconnected." "Thanks," Fox said. "Now, you said you're a decorator?" "Fengshui," she corrected darkly. "God bless you." "What? That was a joke?" "I thought at the time. That's the art of manipulating the Chi, the positive spiritual force, in a room or environment, right? So you can maximize relationships, professional performance, and success by bringing elements into harmony?" Celia straightened up and spit out some kind of stem, looking at Fox with new eyes, as if a badly-trained beagle had suddenly performed a Bach cantata. "Wow, you are one fucking weird cop. Want to have some sex?" "You gotta get licensed for that?" Fox queried, pretending not to have heard the abrupt invitation. "Freelance," Celia said, seemingly forgetting her carnal request. "I've read and surfed everything available about fengshui. I've done a couple friends' apartments and a few shops. Dude in a skateboard shop I did got shot up by some gangbangers -- they were able to save both his legs." "Wow, good job," Fox said. He now felt the time was right. "So this alien abduction? When was that?" "Oh, boring," Celia waved a hand. "Let's not even talk about that -- those guys were gross and really rude, you know? Hey, you mind if I call my Aunt Thea? She's a paraplegic, and I always like to check up on her when I'm out. We got her a helper, but he's kind of undependable, you know?" "You go ahead. I'll be right here, eating my spinach…thing." Fox half-expected Celia to telepathically call her aunt, or astrally project out of the restaurant. Instead, she pulled out a cell phone plastered with alternative band stickers. "Auntie," she breathed with uncharacteristic emotion. "I was worried there for a sec. Sorry to wake you up. Oh, I'm having dinner with this guy Fox. He's really sweet, and he's into feng shui." Celia looked up at Mulder with a girlish smile, like Linda Blair in The Exorcist, except in reverse. " Yeahhh, he is. Hey, shut up. Oh. I think it's in the kitchen, on the table. Get Carl to get it for -- Really? Where is he? The little shithead. Yeah, yeah, I know, mouth. You need me to come over? Well, you got the number. Kisses." Celia folded the phone, and her expression returned to half-power. "So, what about the sex thing?"
His anger toward the old woman now was directed toward Celia, who had not yet returned to her second-floor walk-up above the gay gift shop. Carl was hungry, but he didn't dare desert his post for dinner, for fear his Celia would come and go. His hunger exascerbated his irritability. If she was with a man, they'd both be sorry, he thought, ripping some bark from the tree.
"Oh, oh, oh," she cried, trying to clean the crimson streaks from his jacket. "I'm so sorry. Hey, is that Armani?" "Yes," Grant smiled, forgetting for a split-second that he was soiled and possibly concussed. "It looks good on you," Ryan observed, stepping back analytically. "Very colorful, yes," Grant agreed. "Oh, geez, I am sorry," Ryan said, pain crossing her face as she went back to scrubbing his lapels. "Please send me your dry cleaning bill, I mean it." "I'll take care of the catscan myself," the actor said absently, pulling away. "Look, I have an appointment with an important client. I'll just tell him I was hit by a bloodmobile. Bye now." Ryan looked miserable. Grant looked up, turned smiling. "Nice," he said, regarding Ryan's street mural. Grant moved on. Close-up on Ryan. Her eyes suddenly glowed, a beatific smile dimpling her elfin face. She glanced down as the camera fixed on a pager. Obviously Grant's, spilled as he is assaulted under Ryan's mural. She looked up, opening her mouth to call him back. He is gone. "Well," she grinned, slipping the pager into her coveralls with a faintly scheming look in her eye. "Whoo, boy," Dana sighed. Meg Ryan was a freelance street artist who nonetheless lived in a high-priced loft with hardwood floors and a brushed aluminum kitchen. Hugh Grant was a rich, personable, incredibly cute publisher who somehow couldn't find women. Mulder was a downright realist compared to the author of this piece of fluff, she thought, craning around again to see if Harry was back. The attorney had excused himself for the men's room at least 10 minutes ago. Dana got up, crept past her fellow moviegoers, and fumbled her way to the lobby. No sign of Harry at the concession stand. Dana turned into the small restroom hallway, and then instinctively pressed herself against the wall. "Look, I thought we talked about this," Harry told the strikingly tall brunette plaintively. "It gets lonely, and I need to get out every once in a while." Married, Scully thought coldly. The woman's expression remained stony. "Couldn't wait to get out is more like it. Where were you Saturday, by the way?" "I just wanted to revisit places we'd been, where you worked. I never really did take an official tour of the place before." "You were gone 'way past hours. I almost came looking for you then, except I didn't know that I could." Harry grinned. "Well, now you know you can. That's great, Honey – a real personal step. Now, why don't you go back, and I'll be along in a while." The woman crossed her arms tensely. "You are with another woman, aren't you? Boy, wait 'til she finds out." Harry was alarmed. "Look, there's no need to be vindictive. Sometimes, things just don't work out. People just drift apart." "Is that some kind of fucking joke?" "Geez, no," Harry sulked. "Look, I will come over soon, and we'll talk about things." The woman studied him silently, then nodded. "You bet your ass you will." Scully prepared to scamper back into the theater before the woman re-entered the lobby. She discovered she didn't need to, as the woman opted instead to disappear into a wall. Dana staggered against a pay phone, her heart pounding. She walked quickly back into the theater and made a hushed few calls before Harry made his way back toward his seat. "Hey, Dana," he whispered with false cheer. "Sorry I was so long. Damned hand dryers…" "Who was the woman?" Scully demanded, her wrath overtaking her disbelief. "Woman?" Harry bluffed. "Oh, the woman who just walked through a solid cinderblock wall," Scully prompted. "That woman? Or do you know lots of ectoplasmic women?" "Let's get a cup of coffee," Harry suggested. "How's the movie, by the way?" Office
of the Lone Gunmen "Checked her digs – pitch dark," the faux metalhead reported. "I asked around at a few of the neighborhood joints – nobody's seen her. The old bat aunt threatened to have me busted. Called me a crackhead." Frohike regarded his colleague's black Foo Fighters T-shirt, ratty jeans, and unconditioned blonde locks. "Unbelievable. Well, we appear to be screwed, gentlemen. Without Celia, no story. No story, we might as well see if we can catch the rest of the game." "You know," Byers said, resting his mouse hand, "Celia did disappear about the time Mulder left…" Frohike laughed harshly. "You think they hit it off, and he took her to the malt shop? Now, there's a thought to make you sleepless in Seattle. But maybe she spoke to Mulder before she boogied. Let's give him a ring." Union
Station Dana smirked despite the insanity of the situation. "First time I've heard that in this town." "Ever since Melinda died, her spirit, ghost, whatever has been hounding me," the lawyer said. "I've tried to explain to her that she's dead, that she needs to go over to the other side, if that's where you go. I've even thought about getting an exorcist or something." "You both sounded fairly domestic, in a Married With Children sort of way." "Well, yeah, I have to humor her," Harry protested. "She does poltergeisty things – things breaking, flying around. I had to tell her I'd see her later, or God knows what she might do to me -- or you." "Your deceased girlfriend suggested I'd have a big surprise ahead of me once I found out something. Something about you?" "She meant that I still have a girlfriend. Had, I mean. I mean, once your dead, I don't think there's a really strong basis for a long-term relationship, am I right?" Scully frowned, ignoring her cappuccino. "I think you're withholding a few details here. She said you were out ‘way past ‘hours' Saturday. What hours? As a doctor, the first thing that occurs to me are either patient hours or hospital visiting hours. But if Melinda is dead, what hours does she have to keep? "And when she asked where you were Saturday, you told her you wanted to revisit places you two had shared, her workplace. You said you'd never taken a tour of the place before. What place would you have visited where you wouldn't have looked around? Maybe her place of work, where you probably met her several times to go out. And where'd we meet Saturday? The Smithsonian Institute." Harry put his wrists on the table. "OK, Jessica Fletcher, you've got me. Melinda did work at the Smithsonian. Big deal – you an anti-intellectual or something?" "That's quite a coincidence," Scully murmured. "I know of another woman who worked at the Smithsonian, who died recently under tragic circumstances. She was dating an attorney, as well. Tod Uftring, who according to our uninvited dinner guest bears an uncanny resemblance to you." Harry's jaw dropped and his eyes popped open. Then he recaptured himself and put on an outraged expression. "Well, that's real trust! Miss FBI couldn't help checking up on her date. You know, a relationship is built on –" "A five-foot layer of horseshit, apparently," Scully stated. "Now, what is the story here, Uftring? You're supposed to be dead." As Harry formulated a response, Scully's phone warbled. She held up an index finger. "Scully. Uh huh, I appreciate you going to the trouble. . .Instantly, you say? How was the body? I mean, was it readily identifiable? Uh huh. And the girlfriend?" Scully look stunned, and glanced up at Harry. "All this time? Where is she now? Yeah. No, I'll take care of it. What? Oh, nothing – just a loose end. Thanks." Scully turned to Harry. "How 'bout dinner, a movie, and the Critical Care Ward, Tod?" Connecticut
Avenue , Washington "Jesus, what is with the alien thing?" his "date" snapped. "Let's just go back to my place, and we'll visit another world, OK?" Of course, Fox had no intention of having sex with Buffy the Vampire's Sister – Langley, or Frohike, or Byers, whichever one of them was her cousin, would probably be royally PO'ed , and besides, even for Fox Mulder , she was just weird. But Celia didn't want to go back to the Gunmen's lair, and he couldn't very well leave her to the night. He'd drop upstairs for a few minutes, have a few glasses of wine or eye of newt or whatever she stocked, and get her mind off sex and onto extraterrestrials. "This mirror," Celia said, nodding at the rearview. "It have to be right there, in the middle like that? You're gonna get some pretty shitty Chi off of that." Or perhaps he'd transfer her to the first passing alien craft that materialized, Fox thought as his cell phone sounded. " Mulder." "Frohike. Mulder , did you happen to see a woman while you were here earlier?" "Yeah, your, Langley's, uh, Cousin Celia," Fox reassured him. "She's right here with me." "Cousin?"Frohike grunted. "Blonde, dressed for Kurt Cobain's funeral, slightly, ah, overmedicated?" "That's right," Fox chimed, pressing the phone to his ear. "Hey, Mulder, I don't know what Celia told you, but she's nobody's kin here. You hijacked our Hinckley source." "What?" Mulder asked, smiling at Celia as she wiggled the rearview mirror. "Celia was, well, committed by her family a couple of years ago, after she got caught in some congressman's office trying to move his couch into the hallway." "Fengshui," Mulder replied. "Gesundheit," Frohike offered. "Make a long story short, Jacqueline Chan there beat the living bejeezus out of a couple of aides before they hauled her out. Had to put Celia away for a few months to please the court, and she managed during her treatment to make the acquaintance of Mr. Hinckley, who under the influence of some potent antidepressants told her some very illuminating details about Iranians and the NRA." Mulder glanced at Celia, who was attempting to find the most spiritually harmonious angle for his passenger sun visor. "Is the situation you spoke of hazardous? From my point of view?" "I doubt it, long as she's had her meds for the evening. Whoops, strike that, Mulder – I see her purse right here, and, yep, they're still in here. Woof, looks like a drugstore. Might want to just take her home and tuck her in – she's probably no use to us tonight. And, oh, don't get her going on UFOs – that really makes her psychotic. Ciao, buddy." Mulder pocketed his phone and stepped slightly on the gas. Celia
Janowitz residence Thea's helper had gotten cold outside, and was tired of the stares of passersby, so he'd come around to the alley and used his favorite rear entry to Celia's walk-up. He would wait until she arrived, hopefully alone. Carl knew the layout of Celia's kitchen – she always kept the silverware in one place. The knife she used to hack apart large vegetables lay inches away. In case she wasn't alone. A key scratched in the lock, and the door creaked open. Carl's fingers moved instinctively toward the weapon. George
Washington University Hospital "She was thrown free of the car," Tod whispered, looking wistfully down at his comatose "girlfriend." "I don't know who the guy was she was with, but when they ID'ed what was left of him as me, I saw my chance to get out. You know how this town destroys you – I'd had three or four anxiety attacks, and my blood pressure was through the roof. So I used some connections to score some new I.D. I can't practice law any more, obviously, but – " "Puh-lease," a contemptuous voice interrupted. Scully whirled to see the woman in bed standing near the restroom door. "Give it up, Tod." "Shit," Tod sighed. "So I'm the dead one, huh?" Teri asked icily. "I'm some slut who was tooling around town with some guy she'd never met. Real nice. You think Dana here can't check the coroner's report on you? Dental records, babe." Scully bumped into Teri's heart monitor. "That's right," the brunette said, a note of feminine camaraderie seeping into her voice. "You've heard of guys being dead in bed? Well, this one's the real thing." Tod sputtered. "There's no need to be crude, Teri. We just had a couple of dinners and a tenth of a movie, before you burst in with your obsessive jealously." "But you're. . .solid," Scully said, not quite willing to touch him again. "Yeah," Tod said, thumping his chest with pride. "I don't know what the deal is there. After the crash, I just stood there watching the cops, thinking my soul had left my body. I could float and everything, go through shit. I followed Teri to the hospital, and I stayed with her for a day or so. Then my ass started hurting. I thought your ass didn't hurt after you died." "Very metaphysical, Tod," Teri observed drily. Celia
Janowitz residence "I don't keep pesticides, non-degradable household chemicals, or soda around," the vegetarian freelance feng shuist declared, appraising the agent. "You want some iced green tea with ginseng?" "Yum, bring it on." "It's an aphrodisiac, you know," Celia noted, vanishing into the kitchen. "Or water, whatever," Fox called. He plopped onto a futon placed oddly in a corner of the room, facing the wall. Fox didn't feel more harmonious, just ready to say hasta la vista and forget this chapter of Project Blue Book. He reached behind him and grabbed a stack of magazines. Not a Sports Illustrated or Time in the handful of alternative publications from which dark-eyed, glowering anorexic cover guys and girls stared at him. Fox finally selected a thin journal that promised a piece on animistic religion and leafed to the appropriate page. And the lights went out. "Celia?" he called out, half-expecting a libidinous ambush. "Fuse," the woman responded flatly from the kitchen. "Just replaced it yesterday, though…" Then Fox heard it. A low half-whine, half-growl, inhuman but clearly full of territorial rage. Something scampered into the room, banging against something and yelping. "Carl?"
Celia inquired. "Until he got bored," Teri grinned, meanly. "His commitment lasted until he gt sick of looking at this godawful wallpaper, right?" "I discovered I was becoming ‘real' again," Tod protested to Scully. "I could feel my body was becoming more solid, I was getting hungry, I needed to get out for awhile." "But your car, your clothes. . .?" Scully pondered. "MY
car," Teri corrected. "They'd cleaned out
his condo after his funeral, but he had several changes of clothes at
my place.
I'm guessing you took my ATM card and PIN number, too, and heisted my
keys from
my personal effects so you could cruise around town looking for
chicks." "I'm in the room," Scully reminded them calmly. "In fact, I'm the only one here humanly entitled to be in the room." "I could feel Tod's presence whenever he was here, his love," Teri went on, a note of sadness creeping into her voice. "When I started feeling that presence fade, I went looking for him. I remember reading stuff on the Internet about astral projection, where you psychically leave your body for periods at a time. I think that was what happened here." "Nearly scared me to death -- well, you know what I mean – the first time she caught up to me in the hospital cafeteria," Tod said. "At first, I couldn't go any further than the hospital lobby," Teri explained. "I just needed to be near him, to know he was still with me. Then, when he was gone all day Saturday. . ." "Your suspicion allowed you to leave the hospital grounds," Scully finished in disbelief and slight depression. "The supreme power of jealousy." Teri looked at Tod witheringly. "I hung on here because you were drifting between this world and the next, and I wanted to be with you forever. But ‘Little Tod' down there obviously continues to make the decisions for you. He always did, even though I hoped you'd get over it." Scully shuddered as thoughts of necrophilia crossed her mind. And people said she never tried anything different. Celia
Janowitz residence "Carl?" he asked. "Yeah," Celia answered from the darkened kitchen. "Carl, is that you?" "This is your aunt's nurse?" Celia laughed tinnily. "God, he couldn't get a nurse's license even in this town. He's Aunt Thea's helper, I said. Gets stuff she can't reach, opens shit, junk like that. You better sit still and be real quiet – he's real possessive about me." "Carl?" Mulder called into the inky darkness. He thought he'd seen a flitting shadow in the dim windowlight . He now understood the guys who insisted carrying off- duty, even to church. "Carl, man, I'm just a friend, not even that. We just had dinner." "You think he's gonna understand you or something?" Celia asked incredulously. Was he mentally challenged? Didn't speak English? That's all I need, Mulder thought: I'm going to beaten senseless by a jealous hulk out of a ‘30s horror flick when I could've been floorside , waving like an idiot at Michael Jordan. Scully was probably with her fancy-ass lawyer-lobbyist, sipping Chablis in front of a fire, chatting about the European trade picture or saving the spotted owl or laughing about her goofy partner and his flying saucer. He makes an observation about how her red hair captures the firelight as if it had its own lifeforce , and reaches out to touch it… The thought energized Mulder, who began to assess his defenses as he heard a rustling across the room . He made out the mushroom-like shape of a table lamp within a long arm's reach. It might make an effective club. The FBI agent stretched as silently as he could, his fingers brushing the lamp's plaster base. Carl made a low, animalistic sound. Deep within Mulder's own CroMagnon genetic code, he recognized the tone of someone about to attack. Mulder's hand made the final two inches, and he had the lamp in hand. Now, to yank it out of the wall… "Hey, know what?" Celia shouted. "Whole neighborhood's dark. Must've had some kinda outage in the area." As if by magic, light blazed into the room. Mulder was momentarily blinded, and blinked to see the dark shape drawing closer to him. "Carl, what are you doing here?" he heard Celia demand. Mulder's vision cleared, and he could see a face contorted with anger – a small face like a parody of a human's, crowned with brown-and-cream fur. The capuchin monkey hurled itself at the man on the futon. Mulder yelled as its sharp teeth bore into his already insulted earlobe. "Carl, you knock that shit off!" Celia shrieked. Bureau-honed instinct kicked in, and as the monkey wrestled with Mulder as he tried to remove his ear, the agent grabbed the lamp cord and yanked. The cord from the lamp, rather than from the wall outlet. Despite the searing pain on the side of his head, Mulder jammed the cord's exposed wiring into the monkey's side; Carl screamed as he flew across the room. Mulder, who had just discovered lower primates were excellent conductors of electricity, let the cord drop from his numbed fingers. Celia raced from the kitchen. with a cry of anguish. To Carl, who was twitching on the floor. She scooped the creature into her arms and cradled him. "I think he's just dazed," she concluded, as Carl began to make plaintive, infantile sounds. "Why didn't you tell me Carl was a fucking helper monkey?" Mulder yelled, trying to find something to press against his bleeding ear. "I don't believe in labeling people, you Mark Fuhrman son-of-a-bitch!" Celia snarled. "He's not an effin' people," Mulder snarled back. "My fingers are tingly. You gotta call 911 and get an ambulance over here." Celia rocked Carl. "Oh, you bet I will, you monkey beating fascist bastard. And I'm calling PeTA and the SPCA after that." Carl looked solefully up at Celia, then bared his teeth at Mulder and made a gross approximation of a hand gesture the agent recognized from Friday afternoon rush hour. The EMTs, when they arrived, were respectful; one sang "Shock the Monkey" falsetto as they carried Mulder to the waiting ambulance. "Curious George Whoops Some Ass," the other cackled. George
Washington University Hospital Teri suddenly was silent, smiling enigmatically. "Well, ‘Babe,' you want your freedom, go for it. Did it ever occur to you why you're still around, that maybe it wasn't you pulling the strings? That maybe I knew where you were headed, and just hoped I could stall it off?" Tod's eyes widened. "Well, I'll be needing the car from now on," Teri said lightly. "Let me tell you what I should've said the first time you came back from a late-night ‘legal conference' with your jockeys on backwards." "No, Teri, Babe. . ." Teri waved and disappeared in a beat. Scully turned instinctively to the bed; Teri's eyes popped open, and a weak smile flickered on her atrophied lips. The machines monitoring her signs burst into new activity. "Shit," Tod gasped. Teri uttered three words, and even with the respiratory equipment and hoses muffling them, Scully could make out what they were. "Go to hell." Scully turned. Tod was no longer there. Dana shivered as she realized Teri's first living words in months had been no mere figure of speech. George
Washington University Hospital ER "Mommy, the mean helper monkey bit me," Fox joked dismally. Dana smiled sympathetically and then surprised him by gingerly planting a tiny kiss on the wounded ear. "Worked for me at camp," she explained, blushing at her impulsive gesture. She took a seat by the exam table. "I was already upstairs when Skinner called me and said you'd been rushed to the ER. What is the story here, Mulder?" Fox shrugged. "Same old thing. Boy meets geeks, geeks blow him off, boy meets girl, they graze on some vegetarian vittles, boy goes home with girl, jealous domestic ape nibbles on boy's ear before girl gets chance. It's an old story, but always a goodie . So, what were you doing here? Lawyerboy choke on a nolocontendre ?" Dana sighed. "It's like they say, Mulder: You meet a nice guy today, he's either married, gay, or dead." Fox looked at her curiously. "Well, they're supposed to be releasing me in a few minutes. You ate yet?" "Actually, yes, but I'm feeling oddly peckish for some reason. You wanna get ' za'ed?" "Yeah, we can take it to my place. I just happen to have a two-day rental on a cinematic classic," Mulder grinned. Dana's eyebrow arched. "Arnold, Jackie, or Jean-Claude?" "What do you think I am, some kind of knuckle-dragging prohominid? This is a sensitive story of romance in an academic setting, of young love in its flower, of roguish lads and coy lasses…" "Animal House, right?" "Fast Times at Ridgemont High," Fox informed her somberly. "A contemporary classic," Dana nodded. "Let's get a liter of Diet Pepsi, hopefully a good year, to accompany our ‘za." Fox felt his hip pocket, slapping the metal exam table. "You spot me a few bucks 'til tomorrow? I think the dirty damn ape lifted my wallet." |