~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ TITLE: Between the Lines Fantastic (1/1) AUTHOR: KatyBlue CLASSIFICATION: SA, AU? SPOILERS: Requiem DISCLAIMER: I've heard that CC and 1013 productions own all rights to these characters. Doesn't seem at all fair to me but there you have it. Pretend I never wrote this. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: To an amazing editor, Meredith, who I know would also have liked to see Peyton Ritter back And to Toniann, who told me I could leave the 'alternate partner' as he is with a clear conscience -- mucho thanks, my friend! :) AUTHOR'S NOTES: This was written before we found out about Doggett, so I created my own version of the new partner and decided to go ahead and post it this way. It is otherwise in keeping with what's going on in the 'real' xf universe. ;) This story is dedicated to Laine and Kestabrook, who I am missing almost as much as Mulder... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Part (1/1) Scully contemplates the fantastic. It's been a long day for her. *Very* long. She's concurrently learning a little about water retention as she reads through this latest testimonial of alien abduction. Quite possibly, this is the thousandth such account that has been ingested by hers truly since Mulder's abduction took place. It's a new account, having allegedly occurred just last week at nineteen hundred hours in a small village on the outskirts of the larger city of Hamburg, Germany. Apparently Frans Gruberheim was plucked from his field of cows and brought aboard the mothership. She never ceases to be amazed at the detail contained within these accounts. The copious amount of description and purpose that can never be fully explained or adequately refuted. And what the hell is it with cows, she wonders? Some bizarre alien sense of humor? This sounds like something Mulder would say and she welcomes the internal attempt to fight off the despair that would like to set up camp in her soul. Apparently, Frans, who has the equivalent of a high school education and has been farming for most of his life, was shown around this mothership by some sort of 'alien tour guide'. He's drawn childlike pictures of the event. Mostly technical aspects, such as a large vat with 'meat- like' chunks floating in a viscous fluid. Also, strange amorphously shaped pods which apparently contained various- sized alien embryos suspended in an amber liquid. The alien who took him on this approximately three hour tour, no pun intended she hopes, was called a 'blonde'. The ones in the pods were the more familiar 'grays', being raised for the purpose of indentured servitude to this more Nordic version of alien life. The account then travels off tangentially into a description of an alien war occurring between the 'blondes' and the 'grays', a tale that Frans was obviously privy to from said tour guide. This 'Regalian war' as he calls it, is happening somewhere out near Procyanthe, which, as readers of the account may wonder, is a binary star system about 11.3 light years from earth. Apparently, some of the 'blondes', including the aforementioned tour guide, have become degenerate renegades, space pirates and mercenaries rather than live under the domination of the 'grays', who are reputed to be winning this war. He describes the tour guide as an individual of unknown gender with pleasant facial features, along with too much kohl eye make-up and some apparently mean curves, despite the sexual ambiguity. Scully doesn't know whether to laugh or weep by this point. She chooses instead to stop for a second, throwing the folder down and covering her face with her hands in order to allow a small groan to escape. This particular description looks suspiciously familiar. And though this thought alone frightens her, she rubs at her eyes and tries to remember from where, wishing in vain for Mulder's photographic memory. For the picture of some previously read document, right down to the exact page number, to suddenly pop into her head and enlighten her. It doesn't happen. Instead, she becomes aware of her discontent with this task. So she focuses on her body. Her ankles are swollen. She can't stand it. Next thing she knows, she'll have to give up her heels for Hush Puppies. She can barely tolerate the fact that her body, with this pregnancy, is betraying her. And she is only nearing the end of her fifth month. She's hardly even showing yet, for god's sake. She wants to be able to work without stopping. To put in the eighty hour plus weeks that she and Mulder used to pull. But at every turn, some part of her is protesting. She remembers, thankfully, where she saw the mention of this odd war. This is a good thing. Otherwise, she would have obsessed about it all night. Getting up, she ignores the discomfort from the punishment of her shoes in order to pull a book from Mulder's shelves. The volume she extracts is particularly disturbing to her. The reason -- it was obviously written by a completely unhinged psychopath. It contains, of course, a detailed accounting of all of the known 'alien races', including believe it or not, an actual photograph of a 'brown', which looks suspiciously like a clay mask. It also holds a remarkably similar account of the alien war between the 'blondes' and the 'grays'. Maybe Frans has a bookstore near his farm specializing in obscure publications. In addition to the alien descriptions, the book delves into various accounts of how religious events, such as the appearance of the Virgin Mary at Fatima, can be explained as nothing more perplexing than a previous alien interaction. It also reveals an incredible amount of material on how the United States government has been working with the alien races in order to create human-alien hybrids. While this sends the requisite chill down her spine, the book goes on to regale the reader with such an overwhelming stream-of-consciousness of detailed information, a veritable barrage of inconceivable human- alien interactions occurring within this government cover- up, as to effectively render itself irrefutably ludicrous. Overall, it sounds like some of the worst stuff the Lone Gunmen have turned out. Or the National Enquirer. Or someone locked up in an insane asylum and given a pen and paper. She's been forcing herself to read as much of the abduction literature as she can since Mulder disappeared. She's doing this for two reasons. To make herself almost as much of an expert on the phenomenon as he was, now that she's in charge of the X-files. And second, to unearth any clues that might help her to find him. This research should make her feel informed. Instead, she just feels insane whenever she finds herself agreeing with any part of it. And she wonders, during her perusal of some of the more extreme examples, how much of this did Mulder believe? It worries her. If she ever finds him, it's one of the first things she's going to ask. Of course, by that point, maybe she won't need to for any number of reasons. She knows if a layperson picked up this particular book, they would be in stitches within seconds. Or shaking their heads, disturbed that anyone would publish such misinformation and no doubt noting that someone should have given the author some serious drug therapy for his blatantly obvious schizophrenic condition. She'd even found herself laughing at various points, such as the page where he casually mentioned how the movie 'Close Encounters' was actually a government-sponsored film meant to introduce the 'grays' to the American public, but backfired when the 'grays' double-crossed the mysterious planners of this event. Of course. Other parts of the book, however, are not so easy for her to shrug off, despite what would be considered their more unbelievable aspects to the general public. This is what she has become. A closet lunatic. Was Mulder one as well? Was he always on the fringes of sanity and she just didn't recognize it, lulled by his more attractive exterior? Has she been unwittingly delivered to his same fate? Ah...absence makes the heart grow fonder. And much more confused about where it actually is. There's a knock on the door. "Agent Scully...?" a male voice says tentatively. The door opens slowly. Here he comes. Her new 'partner' in all his youthful, boyish glory. She resents him, simply for not being Mulder. He takes the resentment a requisite step further when he enters the room and reminds her so strongly of Peyton Ritter she can barely stand it. He even resembles him physically in some ways. She expects him to pull out a gun and shoot her at any moment. His enthusiasm annoys her. His rigid adherence to protocol does the same. And of course, he believes that she's seriously demented. She gave him her office on the fourth floor so that he could have some measure of sanity around him. And also so she wouldn't be forced to look at him every day, reminding her that Mulder is gone. She stays down here in the basement, surrounding herself with the alien atmosphere of it all and reading everything she can get her hands on about little gray men, be it true or false. And there are no right or wrong answers to the test she's giving herself. He has a folder in his hands, standing there with his military bearing and that annoying buzzcut and thick neck shouting out the army background he possesses. He nevertheless seems like a child to her. She feels as if she's only babysitting this new agent. "A.D. Skinner has given us a case," he announces, snapping the folder toward her with his precisely outstretched arm. As she takes it, she's surprised he doesn't salute. "At ease, Mark," she drawls sarcastically. He's offended by this. She can tell by the petulant scowl. She knows he's reporting back to someone on her. Hello, paranoia. Is this what Mulder felt like in those early days? She wonders if the situations are parallel. Of course, when she met Mulder, he wasn't five months pregnant by his previous partner and beginning to anticipate the inevitability of becoming a beached whale and barely functional from a job perspective. "What is it?" she asks with a sigh, opening the folder with unfocused eyes. Having a hard time maintaining her concentration at all. She's just tired, she tells herself. She's pushing herself too hard. She needs to stop. She can't stop. "A missing persons case." He's starting to relax. He's still adjusting to her more informal approach, so it takes him a minute. "But the mother has some whacko idea that aliens took her daughter." She glances up at him. He's watching her. Waiting for her to refute his statement or maybe to look hopeful, as she has in the past. But she's already learned to hide her more extreme beliefs from this often annoying upstart. She realized at some point in their association that where she'd always countered Mulder's more implausible comebacks with scientific theory, this new partner counters hers with thinly veiled contempt. He is not at all happy about his transfer to the X-files, but he's doggedly sticking to it, to her undisguised dismay. She decides that silent acceptance is the best approach today. It's all she can handle. "When do they want us to leave?" she asks wearily. "Tomorrow." She nods. "Okay. Thanks, Mark. I'll look it over." She tries to return to what she was previously doing but can't stomach picking up that book again, especially in his presence. She can feel his stare. Waiting for something. With an impatient sigh, she forces her glare back up at him. He's just standing there. "What?" she snaps. He shrugs. "I thought maybe we could have a meeting or something about it. I *am* a part of this department," he reminds her. "I'd like to read the case over first," she answers smoothly. It's best to be cautious with him, she's found. Careful what she reveals about anything having to do with aliens and abductions. His level of tolerance is low. Plus, she doesn't want to reinforce her apparently growing instability in his mind. She'll inevitably let it slip somewhere in their conversation that she does give credit to some of the more 'out there' theories. How can she not? She closes up Frans Gruberheim's folder and slides its nondescript manila cover over the book she'd been checking it against, which sports an unfortunately colorful picture of intergalactic space and various human forms floating into unidentified objects. She can see those eagle eyes of Mark's drinking in everything on her desk. Ready to go back upstairs and tattle to someone. But then she cautions herself on the extent of her delusion. Why would they need him? She glances up at the ceiling, wondering where the camera is hidden now. That would be a much easier way to monitor her. Paranoia is not just a way of life with her, she thinks. It's becoming a pathological state. Instead of leaving, Mark crosses the room and pulls over the chair she used to sit in. She glares at him steadily as he slides it up to the other side of the desk and sits down. One of his legs starts jumping under her scrutiny and he folds his hands, leaning forward. "Come'on, Dana. Cut me a break here. Why are you always busting my balls?" She won't even grace that one with an answer. "Read your rules and regulations manual, Mark. That comment alone could be used to bring you up on harassment charges," she remarks coolly. He rolls his eyes. "Right. Whatever. At least I'm trying here, Dana. I think we need to meet more. I want to know what's going on." He's getting pushy again. What he wants is more control of what's going on. What he wants is more information for his reports on her, she's sure. Then again, maybe this is no more than her ever present paranoia. After all, she's fairly sure she's effectively been rendered impotent by the powers that be. In fact, any shred of power left at all is no doubt only in her own mind. Most likely no one cares what she does anymore. She's no longer a player but merely a bystander, on the sidelines. Mooning over Mulder. Gestating on a life. "How are you feeling?" he asks. He's being far too familiar with her. "I'm fine." She can hear the tightness in her voice. "Why do you ask, Mark?" It's a challenge. He shrugs. "Just wondering. You must have all that pregnancy stuff starting." Her eyes narrow at him. This is a new angle for him. Why does he want to know about her pregnancy? It opens admittedly already contemplated alternate avenues of paranoid possibility, but all she says dryly in reply is, "Have I told you yet that your comments are borderline inappropriate, Mark?" He squirms in the chair like a kid. "Hey, I was fifteen when my mom got pregnant with my sister. So I know what it's like." "No, you don't," she rifles back shortly. How anyone of the male gender could even dare make such a bold statement is beyond her comprehension. "What else would you like to discuss beyond the inappropriately personal state of my health or the case I haven't read yet?" He's finally getting angry with her. She enjoys this. Goading him to this point. Though she's not sure why. He's scowling. "I'd like to know what I'm supposed to be doing all day while you're down here reading about UFOs and people flying up into the stars," he storms. "You are my immediate supervisor, Agent Scully. I'm sitting there upstairs," he jerks a thumb upward, "on my ass, doing *nothing*. When I come down here, you brush me off. And when we finally get a case, it's always just another crackpot making up stories and you still somehow manage to maneuver around me the entire time we're on it." This is the most honest response she's gotten out of him for a while. She leans back a little in the chair, satisfied. Finally focusing all of her attention on him. "You can always request a transfer," she says slowly. "I don't want a transfer," he insists stubbornly. "I can make a name for myself here if you'd just cut me a damn break and let me in on things." He seems so earnest she's almost fooled. She studies him suspiciously. He's still fidgeting, but waiting for her to give him something. Anything. He looks pathetically eager behind his anger. "You don't believe in the work," she says finally. "Do you?" he answers incredulously. "Hell, everyone knows it's all a bunch of bullshit. But it's bullshit that's out there and it's our job to deal with it, right? I take *that* seriously," he states. "That's what you believe?" she asks carefully. "Yes." He's defensive. "That's what I believe. Work with me here, Dana. Have you got another idea?" She contemplates this answer for a minute. Mulder once told her that Krycek had seemed very earnest when they worked together. He'd even confessed to her that he'd actually liked the guy for a while. "Get out," she hears herself saying. "Excuse me?" Obviously, he can't believe it either. "Get. Out." she repeats, as if speaking to the hopelessly dense. She imagines the rumors that must fly upstairs. If Mark has any part in them, she'll be stamped a class A bitch soon. What do her co-workers truthfully think happened to Mulder, she wonders? She considers taking a poll...alien abductee or deadbeat dad? And what do they murmur about her, besides contemplating her pregnancy or frigidity? Probably, they just pass around rumors that she's insane. Either that, or the biggest fibber in the known universe. Maybe they still haven't managed to get past the juicy tidbit that she and Mulder were 'doing it' yet. Mark is regaining his feet, but reluctantly. "Look, Dana. I'm trying to work with you here and you're giving me nothing." He spreads his hands out, palms open, expressing his vulnerability rather eloquently. "Please..." She sucks her breath in. For a second, the gesture reminds her of Mulder. She stares at the outstretched hands and feels the familiar sharp pain that is no more than the physiological expression of heartbreak. But it's one of those poignant moments when she realizes just how much she misses Mulder's presence in her life. And, as such a moment, it's filled with an impossible wash of grief and anger. They're becoming rarer, thank god. She takes a second to compose herself, carefully concealing any emotion that dare try to peek through her veneer of complete control by staring down at the folder holding their new case. Finally, she can turn her gaze back on her new partner steadily, not giving an inch. "I suggest if you have a problem with my approach, you lodge a formal complaint or request a meeting with A.D. Skinner and discuss it with him." That will give him something to do. She waits patiently for him to leave. She knows she'll win this waiting game. And she knows better than to place her trust in this mere boy in front of her. In anyone, for that matter. Mulder got lucky with her assignment to the X-files. But then, he had the singular ability to recognize that despite her background and apparent sanity she was somehow a kindred spirit, easily swayed to his delusions. Had he been crazy then? Was she crazy now? She wishes for the ability to read people that Mulder appeared to have. Perhaps that was no more than illusion as well. Her own world and the people within it have started to become unrecognizable to her. Maybe both she and Mulder just needed someone, anyone, to believe in when they were unknowingly placed with one another. She doesn't need that now, she tells herself. But for the merest fraction of a second, standing there with his stubborn military stance in front of Mulder's desk, Mark suddenly reminds her of her brothers in their youth. As he turns stiffly to go, something vacillates slightly within her iron resolve. She wants to shout at him across the desk to wait -- to help her find a way to return from these accursed depths to the land of sanity. To make these last seven years not have happened. To let her go back to a world where she no longer believes in alien-human hybrids or that the father of her child is up in a spaceship somewhere, being catalogued and probed. Return her to her childhood... At the very least, back to blissful ignorance... Anywhere but here... She doesn't speak a word of this, sitting in silence with her more grim knowledge surrounding her. She watches in satisfaction her new partner's uneasy, retreating back and the dirty look he throws at her before he shuts the door loudly. Good. He's gone. She can get back to what she was doing. Her ongoing search for clues to Mulder's whereabouts, carried out on government time and funding. She stares sightlessly at the folder in front of her for a second. She lays a hand distractedly on her abdomen. "I know you're out there somewhere, Mulder," she whispers into the air. She's not sure if she believes this anymore. Reluctantly, she opens the file. The details of the case begin to fill her head with the fantastic. She wants to scream as she reads. She wants to slam the folder closed. To shut her eyes on all of it. Instead, she grits her teeth and forces herself to read on, absorbing each implausible detail. She knows that she takes these accounts now as grains of truth, albeit couched within the fantasies created by the ever fertile human mind. She hopes she can continue to separate the two, but she's skeptical about this. The distinction is beginning to blur. As are the lines of text, swimming before her eyes. She looks between the lines for Mulder. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE END Feedback much appreciated at my special feedback addy, katy2blue@aol.com or feel free to just hit that reply button if that's easier for you. Your efforts keep me posting (really!) I would also like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has sent feedback but not yet received my reply :( I'm severely e-mail challenged but despite the debility, I promise I'm working on it. Until then, please know that I truly appreciate your effort! I write these stories because I enjoy writing, but I only post them because I know people are 'out there' reading... The excerpts from this story are taken from an actual book that honest to God has to have been written by a raving lunatic! It is called 'Extraterrestrial friends and foes' by a man named 'George C. Andrews'. I'm not urging you to read it...in fact, I recommend that if you see it, you run like hell! But to anyone who finds it and actually tries to, the fact that such strangeness got published will both terrify and amaze you.