From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 26 Oct 2001 02:04:09 -0000
Subject: A Neurotic Need for Validation 1/6 by Kel
Source: direct

Reply To: ckelll@hotmail.com


Title: A Neurotic Need for Validation
Author: Kel - ckelll@hotmail.com
Website: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Realm/9374/
Keywords: Casefile, MS friendship
Spoilers: Fire (for casual reference to Phoebe Greene)
Rating: G (except for a couple of naughty words).

Thanks to my beta buddies:  Stephanie Johnson, who consults actual
reference texts; Erin, with her fierce loyalty to feta and 
mozzarella; and Linda, who's always looking out for Scully.  
Trelawney, I wish you'd get over this "work" thing you keep 
talking about.

Disclaimer: I don't own them, but I love them.  Seems like I'm always
thinking of them.  Though, oh, oh, they do me wrong now.  My love is
strong now.  They really got a hold on me.  

Apologies to Smokey Robinson.  I don't own the rights to his 
creations either.


Summary: 

Perception is reality, for we do not interact directly with the world
around us or even with ourselves.  

Or:  
         
As I was walking up the stair  
I met a man who wasn't there;
He wasn't there again today. 
I wish, I wish he'd stay away. 

(Hughes Mearns: "The Little Man")
 

= = = = =

A Neurotic Need for Validation 1/6



"Jesus, Roger, put your leg down," exclaimed Joy Bellin.

"Sorry," Roger said sheepishly.  His baggy canvas shorts were 
supremely comfortable, but they called for some common sense in 
terms of posture and position.  On the other hand, he owned the 
company. His employees had it damned good, and they knew it.

"It's bad enough being the only woman working here--" Joy began.

"Toilet seat alert!" said Tony Rossiter.  "We are guilty, every one, 
and we humbly beg forgiveness."  Joy was an engineer, and Tony was 
only a technical assistant, but RMP was the kind of company where
everyone felt free to speak up.

"I've never understood the problem," said Andy Marcus.  "Do you find 
it overwhelmingly difficult to put the seat down for yourself?"

"Why don't we adjourn on that note?" suggested Roger.  "I know how 
much you all enjoy staff meetings, but we have other important
responsibilities.  Like lunch."

"I'm ready to present my report on the Pentagon project," Chris Boyd
reminded him.

"Apparently you're the one who finds it difficult to put the seat 
down," said Joy.  "Apparently they didn't teach you that at MIT."

"Apparently they did teach it at Carnegie Mellon," said Andy.
"Fascinating."  Andy tended to speak slowly, as if he was choosing 
his words carefully.

"Come on, people, it's corned beef day at the Tavern." Roger rose 
from his chair and pushed it under the table.  "Everyone in?"

"Roger?  Andy?  What about my report?" Boyd asked anxiously.

"Hey, Joy, you don't hear any of us complain when you leave the seat
down," Rossiter said.

"You are such a pack of animals," Joy grumbled.  They thronged from 
the room.  Despite the many times that contract deadlines and heavy
workloads forced them all to work through the weekends, Fridays were
taken seriously, and lunch at the Tavern was a treasured ritual.

Chris Boyd watched everyone leave, and then he hurried after them.

= = = = =

"RMP is an electronics consulting firm, founded about five years ago.
Most of their work is in communications, but their expertise in
satellite technology led to their first contract for the Department 
of Defense," Mulder said.

Scully yawned, then covered her mouth as Mulder gave her a 
tight-lipped frown.

"Sorry," she said.  Mulder always presented his cases as if he were
addressing a lecture hall.  He was in love with that slide projector.

"While the discrepancies are minor, I think it's fair to say that no
discrepancy is insignificant, given the delicacy of the project," 
Mulder said.

"Seriously, Mulder, why are you here?" she asked.  He'd arranged to 
take a few days off but then changed his mind--supposedly because of
this "case."

"It's a very sensitive project of great importance," Mulder said.

After all these years he was still trying to bullshit her, Scully
thought.  Mulder didn't know or care what the project was.

"It sounds very delicate," she deadpanned.

"Yes," said Mulder gratefully.  "RMP was founded by Roger M. 
Pearson, a young go-getter who left Sprint to start his own 
company."  Mulder adjusted the focus, and Scully studied the 
image dutifully.

"He needs a haircut," she said.

"The other two engineers with the company are Joy Bellin and Andrew
Marcus."  Mulder advanced the slide tray to project the unflattering
portraits.

Scully shut her mouth.  By comparison with his two employees, Pearson
looked like Pierce Brosnan.

"These three principals are assisted by various skilled helpers as 
well as by other engineers, contracted as needed for particular
projects," Mulder said.

"Mulder, stop," said Scully.  "We'll go to Boston, okay?  But off the
record, I want to know why."

Mulder looked positively flustered.

"Gremlins?" he said.  "Nonhuman malevolent saboteurs attacking the
defense industry.  The phenomenon was first reported--"

"Gremlins," said Scully.

"Gremlins.  Oh, and Scully... Maybe you should pack something formal.
You never know with these high-tech start-up companies," he said.

= = = = =

RMP Consulting was not located in Boston, but in Ellison, a small 
city near the New Hampshire border.  The company took up three 
floors of a red brick building; the lower level housed a local 
eatery called The Tavern.

Roger Pearson's office was modest in size, decorated with a few 
framed photographs and a large scheduling calendar.  Pearson himself
wore khaki shorts and a short-sleeved plaid shirt with a pocket
protector.

"Andy sent you, didn't he?" Roger said.  "Or else they all put you 
up to it."

"You don't seem to understand, Mr. Pearson."  Scully proffered her
credentials for the second time.  "I am Special Agent Scully of the 
FBI, and this is Special Agent Mulder.  We are here to examine your
record log, particularly your US701s, J2-309s, and your attendance
documentation for the last three years."

Pearson leaned back and swung his sandaled feet up on his desk.

"You're a stripper, right?" he asked.

"You are aware, Mr. Pearson, that your contract with the Department 
of Defense requires thorough documentation to account for time,
materials, and expenditures, as well as compliance with the DOD book 
of standards," Scully said.  She tried to catch Mulder's eye but he 
was gazing out the window.

"Okay, I'll play," Pearson said indulgently. "Andrew Marcus is the
quality assurance administrator, and I'm sure he has all the 
paperwork you want.  I'll just call him in and he'll take care of
everything."

Marcus, a balding beanpole with wire-rimmed glasses, conducted Mulder
and Scully to his own office, which was no smaller than Pearson's but
more cramped, due to the filing cabinets that lined two of the 
walls. A Red Sox banner over the doorway caught Scully's attention, 
and she wondered suddenly if Mulder had baseball tickets.  There had 
to be some explanation for this odd excursion.

Marcus studied Mulder's credentials with great care, and then 
Scully's.

"I believe there's a serious penalty for impersonating federal
officers," he said slowly.  "Even when it's all in good fun."

Scully looked to Mulder for support, but he was mesmerized by 
something on Marcus's desk. She followed his transfixed gaze down to 
a little calendar:  "Heroes of the World Series."   Scully sniffed,
squared her shoulders, and stated her case.

"Contrary to what you and Mr. Pearson may believe, this is not a joke
but a very real investigation.  You are obliged to make available
upon demand documentation establishing your compliance with the terms
and standards of your contract with the Department of Defense, as 
well as the results of your internal audits and your plan of action 
to address any deficiencies," she said sternly.

"Fine," said Marcus, sliding his chair back carefully to avoid the 
cords and cables snaking from his terminal.  As Marcus stood, 
Mulder's hand strayed to pick up the coveted item.

"I believe the Constitution still offers a modest amount of privacy 
and security to American citizens," Marcus said pointedly, grabbing 
back his calendar.

"Sorry," Mulder mumbled.

"The desk calendar is not included, but we do need your US701s and
J2-309s," Scully said staunchly.

"By all means," Marcus said coldly.  He pulled three large red 
binders from a wall shelf and slammed them on the desk. "The 
US701s." Walking around the desk, he indicated a three-drawer 
filing cabinet. "The J2-309s."  He thumped the middle drawer of 
an adjacent filing cabinet. "The J2A-111s, which were acceptable 
in lieu of the J2-309s until last year.  Anything else?"

"Yes.  The time and attendance documentation for personnel billed to 
the project," Scully said, craning her neck to look him in the eye.  
He was absurdly tall, at least three inches taller than Mulder.

"The time and attendance documentation is maintained by the aptly 
named time and attendance officer," Marcus said.  "I'll call for 
them."

"Thank you," Scully said.  She opened one of the red binders and 
began to read.

Marcus picked up the phone and spoke to someone about the papers 
she'd asked for, and then he sat down at his desk.

Scully wondered what she was supposed to be looking for.  She read 
the first few pages carefully, then leafed through the rest of the
binder to see if any dates were missing.  Then she turned back to the
front of the book to inspect it page by page.

After ten minutes that seemed like an hour, she looked up to ask 
Mulder to clarify what they were doing.  Marcus, she saw, was seated
with his arms folded across his chest, staring at her as if she were 
an exhibit in a sideshow.  Mulder had an open file folder in his lap,
but she saw no sign that he was reading it.

"Mulder?" she asked in a low voice.  He looked up.

"I have to take care of something," he said, and he closed the folder
and lay it on top of the desk.

= = = = =

Hours later Scully's head was swimming and Mulder had not returned.
She'd moved from the ring binders to the file cabinet, and at last 
she found something she could question.

"October of 1994 shows an unexplained inventory discrepancy," she 
said triumphantly.  "Acquisition of twenty LEDs, but only eighteen
accounted for."

"I'll make a note of that," Marcus told her through gritted teeth.

"Don't you have an explanation?" Scully asked pointedly.

"Two missing LEDs.  Perhaps Roger gave them to Ted Kaczynski.  Maybe 
I sold them to Fidel Castro," he said sarcastically.

Those silly LEDs probably cost two dollars apiece at Radio Shack, 
Scully thought.  Had Mulder really dragged her here to hassle these
people about their paperwork?

"I know this inquiry must strike you as excessive, but it's important
for the federal government to maintain control of their 
expenditures," Scully said in a conciliatory tone.

Marcus didn't answer her, but the effort of his silence showed on his
face.

"Don't hold back, Mr. Marcus," she said, and he exhaled with an 
audible sniff before he began in his customary measured tone.

"An impartial observer might find himself or herself trying to 
estimate the expense of your site visit, Agent Scully.  
Transportation, accommodations...  Such an observer might find 
himself wondering about abuse of power by the federal government," 
he said.

= = = = =

"Where the hell were you?" Scully demanded.  If she'd finished her 
day the way she'd begun it, scrutinizing blindingly boring forms and 
ledgers while Andy Marcus looked on with barely stifled resentment, 
she would have been considerably less pleasant.  Fortunately for 
both of them, she'd taken a leisurely lunch break and spent most of 
the afternoon with Roger Pearson.

Whereas Andy Marcus was intense and deliberate, Pearson had an easy,
confident air.  Scully understood that he was trying to charm her,
hoping to learn the purpose of her visit and to limit the damage, but
she enjoyed his company nonetheless.

"Byram," Mulder said.  "It's the next town over."  Using the motel 
room coffee maker, the complimentary tea bags, and ice from the
dispenser down the hall, Mulder was brewing iced tea.

Scully turned the air conditioning down a notch.  When Mulder left 
and she could minimize her attire, she'd probably turn it off 
altogether.

"The college?" she asked, and for some reason the question seemed to
make him squirm.

"The university is not the only thing in Byram," he said stiffly.  "I
got a haircut."  

She eyed him carefully, and when she walked around to check the back,
he whirled to face her.

"Stop it, Scully!  Next time I'll ask for a receipt," he said.

"No, I believe you," she said.  "It's just... unusually subtle."

"A good haircut is supposed to be subtle," he concluded.

"A good haircut, and you told me to pack a dress... I know!  We're
investigating the slime at the bottom of Boston Harbor!" she said.

"Were you able to learn anything about those deceptively dimwitted 
geeks at RMP?" Mulder asked stodgily.

"They're hardly dimwitted."  She almost laughed in his face.  "Roger
Pearson was a pioneer in electronic voice recognition before he
graduated from college.  He cleared his first million before he 
turned thirty."

"I feel like such an underachiever," Mulder said. He poured two 
glasses of iced tea, holding one out to her in triumph.

She took her glass and directed him away from the little counter.

"Sit down and tell me what's going on," she said.

He set the tea down on the nightstand and helped himself to one of 
the room's two beds, lounging on his back.  Scully sat on the edge 
of the other bed.

"RMP is developing a system of electronic camouflage.  Do you have 
any idea what that is?" he asked.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Scully answered.  "It's based on the 
idea that information, in any form, is screened to remove random
interference.  It's something that people do as well--ignore anything
that looks meaningless.  So one way to hide something is by making it
seem random and insignificant."

"I didn't expect our friends to be so candid with you,"  he said,
kicking off his shoes.  One fell to the floor, the other remained on 
the bed until he gave it a shove.

"The general concept is not proprietary," she said.  "I'm sure they'd
balk if I started to ask for flow charts and schematics."

"I'm just surprised that Mr. Bill-of-Rights would tell you 
anything," he said.  "He seemed a little paranoid, don't you think?"

"I think Andrew Marcus showed an appropriate level of defensiveness 
for a man unexpectedly confronted by the FBI," Scully said.  "Do you
have a problem with the Bill of Rights, Mulder?"

He gave her a sheepish shrug.

"That fourth amendment is a pain in the ass," he said.

"The one about unreasonable searches and seizures," Scully said.

"Yeah.  There should be an exception for just looking around and 
taking stuff," he said with an irritating smirk.

"And wiretaps?  Bugs?  Hidden cameras?" she asked.  He nodded
emphatically, still grinning.  "I'm glad you think so, Mulder. I'll 
feel free to employ all of those, plus torture, if necessary.  Now 
drop this stupid act and tell me why we're here."

A beat of silence as they stared each other down.  Finally Mulder 
looked away.

"I did something incredibly stupid and now I need your help," he
confessed.

"Mulder, of course!  But what did you do?" she asked.

"I accepted an invitation to somebody's wedding," he said.  "I don't
want to go alone."

"What?"  She had an ugly feeling that she knew where this was 
leading, but she hoped she was wrong.

"I need a date, Scully," he said.

"You need a date.  I got that part," she said.

"The wedding's in a church about five miles from here," Mulder 
continued blithely.  

Scully pressed her hand to her forehead.

"May I infer that our investigation of RMP is directly related to 
your wedding invitation?" she asked.

"Well, I figured if we were in the neighborhood anyway, you wouldn't
mind doing me a little favor," he said.

"Apparently everyone's willing to do you a little favor.  The 
government is happily paying for our jaunt and the nerds at RMP are 
just delighted to have you pawing through their paperwork," she said
angrily.

"Scully, take it easy.  Tell you what:  I will personally cover our
travel expenses."  He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the
bed.

"You're damned right you will," Scully said.  She was seething. 
"You'd better just hope RMP doesn't file a protest."

"Scully, I'm not looking to make trouble for them," Mulder said.  

"You'd better hope I don't report you," she said icily.

"Scully, this is important to me," he whined.  "I don't want her to
think I'm a loser."

"Who is this woman?" she snapped.

Mulder took a sip of his tea before he answered.  He leaned forward 
and began his narration.

"Were you ever at a point in your life where everything seemed set?
I was in grad school, shacked up with a beautiful woman, getting by 
on a stipend and a part-time job," he said.  "For a while we were 
just too busy to figure out if we were happy or not."

Mulder the starving grad student.  She could picture it.  

"It wasn't going to last," he continued.  "There were problems, 
issues. The FBI was the last straw.  She was pissed when I applied, 
but she was sure nothing would come of it. When it turned out they 
were interested in me, she became a lunatic."

The FBI Academy was the burial ground for so many relationships, 
Scully reflected.  It marked a turning point in the lives of its 
cadets, but that was only one reason that lovers were left behind.  
It demanded a total dedication that spared little energy or concern 
for anyone on the outside.

"She had dozens of objections, most of them ridiculous and
contradictory," Mulder continued.  "*I* was too headstrong and 
impulsive to stay out of trouble in a paramilitary bureaucracy.  Or 
else I was too decent to be involved with the secret police. You 
would have thought I was signing on with the KGB."

Scully had never heard him sound so vulnerable.  

"And you're trying to convince her that you're a nice guy who can 
find a date?" she asked.

"I just want her to take me seriously.  Take my career seriously,"
he said. 

"Mulder, you're an FBI agent.  You catch serial killers and you 
protect the innocent.  You search for the truth and you serve 
justice," she reminded him. 

"And yet I retain a neurotic need for validation," he said.  "Look, I
was young and callow, and she believed in me.  I don't want to
disappoint her."

"When is the wedding?" Scully asked with a sigh.  Mulder wiped his 
brow in an exaggerated pantomime of relief.  

"Saturday afternoon, reception to follow. I owe you, Scully. You're a
pal.  Anyway, I think we can give your friends at RMP a clean bill of
health," he said, jaunty and confident once again.

If only it was that simple, she thought.

"Not yet.  Someone has to examine their personnel records and billing
statements," Scully said.  "I agree that they're clean, but now that
we've opened the case, we can't sign off on it until we've done a
thorough job."

"You're suggesting that once we begin the process of harassing 
someone, we have to complete it," he said.

"I wish you'd thought this through before you initiated the audit," 
she rebuked him.  "We can't certify that they're in compliance until 
we confirm it."

= = = = =

Since it was all Mulder's fault anyway, Scully felt it was only fair 
to allow him the privilege of combing through RMP's personnel 
records.

"I hogged all the US701s and the  J2-309s, not to mention the 
J2A-111s, which were acceptable in lieu of the J2-309s until last 
year," she said.  "I'll leave you to match up person-hours billed
against personnel time sheets."

Joy Bellin, RMP's only female employee, was the designated time and
attendance officer.  Her straight brown bangs ended just above the
frames of her aviator glasses and, like her male counterparts, she
dressed for comfort rather than fashion.

She treated Mulder to a rambling rant as she tried to marshal the
necessary documents.

"We spend more time on paperwork than we do on engineering," she
complained.  "Look at this mess!  And you want all the records for 
the last three years?"

She was less uptight than Andy Marcus but also less organized.  She
stacked piles of bound and loose timesheets, invoices, and progress
summaries on the table around Mulder, and Scully would have felt 
sorry for him if he hadn't created the situation himself.

"Maybe we could sort these by date?" Mulder asked Bellin hopefully, 
but she just snorted.

"Be my guest," she said.  "It's Roger's ass if you find 
discrepancies, not mine.  I have software to write."  She stalked 
off to focus her efforts on her chosen profession, leaving Mulder 
to drown in a sea of paper.

Scully had never seen a woman so totally immune to Mulder's wiles, 
and she resolved to learn a lesson from the grumpy engineer.

"Scully?" He turned his pleading-orphan face to her, and she 
considered for a moment that it wouldn't take much to lend him a hand
and put the sheets into some semblance of order.  But that would 
deprive Mulder of a valuable learning experience.

"Don't worry, Cinderella, the ball's not until tomorrow," she said.

His studied expression of adorable helplessness drifted into honest
misery as he attacked the papers.  Scully's mind drifted as she 
watched him.  Her apartment needed painting, and she was thinking 
about doing some redecorating at the same time.

"Hey, we have a question for you."  It was Tony Rossiter, RMP's
technical assistant.  The FBI investigation had caused him no
aggravation at all because he wasn't responsible for any of the
documentation, and he burst into the room with a big grin.

Tony was a wiry man whose appearance and age suggested a flower-child
drug dealer, but his background check had proved him free of criminal
activities.  All of RMP's employees had received security clearance 
from the DOD.

"What's your question?" Scully asked.

Obviously the novelty and threat of the FBI audit were wearing off, 
and the natives were loosening up.  Soon there would be jibes about
Hoover's cross-dressing or the latest Bureau screw-up.  Scully was 
sure that the DEA and AFT screwed up just as often as the FBI, but it
never seemed to make the papers.

"You have to carry your gun at all times, right?" Rossiter asked.
Mulder gave a low groan without looking up from his work.

What do you do with your gun when you go swimming?  Where do you put
your gun when you take a shower?  There were several variations on 
the question, and Mulder's stock answer always made her cringe.

Scully sighed and nodded, waiting for Rossiter to ask the inevitable.

"What about on airplanes?" Rossiter asked.

Scully brightened.

"Either you carry your weapon or you can pack it in your checked
luggage," she began to explain.  "There are forms you submit--"

"Aha!  Paperwork!  Could you come tell that to Andy and Joy?  We 
have a bet going," Rossiter said.

"Sure," she said.

So Mulder sat all alone, elbow-deep in scrambled documentation, 
without even Scully's smug gaze for company.

"At least Cinderella *wanted* to go to the ball," he thought.

= = = = =


end 1/6

A Neurotic Need for Validation - 2/6
Disclaimer and stuff with part 1

= = = = =

It was a friendly competition, but Scully was sure she would win.  
The crew at RMP thought they held a record for inane paperwork, but 
Scully had an edge.  She worked for the government.

"Then they introduced a third form to explain the first one," she 
was saying. "The second form was a description of the outcome of the
incident and any corrective actions, and the first form was supposed 
to state the facts with the names and addresses of witnesses.  But 
legal affairs complained that those two forms still didn't tell them
what happened, so the committee created the third one."

Maybe she was a nerd at heart, but Scully found herself fitting right
in.  Andy Marcus had been suspicious at first, even suggesting to her
that anything she learned in the context of a mutual gripe session
would be a violation of the fifth amendment.  It was Joy Bellin who 
had managed to break the residual tension, restating what she'd said 
to Mulder:

"If Roger isn't worried I don't see why you should care. It's his 
butt."

Roger Pearson wasn't worried.

"If Big Brother was really after us, they would have sent in an army,
and they'd be seizing files and sealing the premises," he said.

"Then why are they here?"  Andy Marcus raised an eyebrow at Scully,
diffusing the bluntness of his question.

"You know what I think it is?  It's like those guys who ride around 
on trucks and don't do anything," said Tony.  "You know, those green 
trucks that say 'City of Ellison'?  And they don't pick up trash or 
lay asphalt, they just kind of drive around in the traffic?"

"I see.  This is the federal equivalent," said Marcus.  "I believe 
it was Thoreau who said 'that government is best which governs 
least.'"

Roger Pearson took on a fractured French accent and a discreet hushed
tone:

"The Marcus is most at home when standing on a soapbox and 
pontificating about politics," he said.

There was an edge to Marcus's response:

"In the presence of a female, the Pearson may abandon his customary
shrewdness."

Marcus's comment hung in the air, and Scully searched for something 
firm but friendly to say to counter the idea she was part of a mating
ritual.

"What is wrong with everyone?" Bellin asked indignantly.  "Just 
because she wears makeup and high heels doesn't mean she's a bimbo."

"Nah, I think what he's trying to say is that she's some kind of Mata
Hari.  She'll dazzle Roger into admitting that he double-billed for 
some piece of circuitry or something," Rossiter explained
matter-of-factly.

"Let me clear this up," said Scully coolly.  "My half of the
investigation is complete and I will report that I found no
irregularities.  If you feel that my appearance, dress, or demeanor 
were objectionable in some way, I can advise you on how to file your
complaint."

"Hey, I'm sorry. I should think before I open my mouth," said 
Rossiter. "It's just kind of funny.  They send you to look over 
Andy's papers, and then there's Richard Gere in the next room going 
over Joy's rat's nest."

"Yeah, he does look a little like Richard Gere," said Bellin.  "You
think he'd sleep with me if I testified against Roger?"

"You'd need an impressive crime," Marcus said.  "If Roger had written
the screenplay for the first Star Trek movie, for example."

"I bet they have a formal agreement for you to sign.  A contract for 
the exchange of sexual favors for information," Bellin said.  "I bet 
I can use this in my act."

"Joy's an aspiring comic," Pearson explained to Scully.  "She makes 
an ass of herself on amateur night at the Tavern."

"You guys should come," Bellin said.  "When I do the part about 
sleeping with Agent Mulder, I'll invite him up on stage."

"This is a good example of the double standard," Marcus said.  "Can 
you imagine how much trouble I'd be in if I speculated about 
sleeping with Agent Scully?"

Mulder walked in on end of the sentence and looked from Scully to 
Marcus and then to Bellin, who was appraising him keenly despite her
earlier indifference.

Scully saw him stiffen.  Her own easy manner should cue him that 
nothing was amiss, but he looked miserably awkward.

"Mulder?" she asked.

"I found something," he said.  "Who is Chris Boyd?"

= = = = =

"Who is Chris Boyd, Mulder?  You must have a theory," Scully said.
Stakeouts with Mulder had nothing in common with the stakeouts they
taught at the Academy.  On a proper stakeout, one agent locked his 
eyes on the target, never even turning his head.  The second agent 
was responsible for scanning the area around the target and 
recording all observations, his own and his partner's.  

Mulder's stakeouts were unofficial, unauthorized, and unorthodox.  
Now they sat in a car parked outside an apartment that was supposed 
to be vacant and waited for someone to emerge into the night.

"Maybe if you sleep with Andy Marcus, he'll tell you," Mulder said.  
He was watching the front door through binoculars, although they 
hardly seemed necessary.

She didn't want to sleep with Andy Marcus, at least not until she 
knew him better.  Mulder was in a state again.  She wanted to tease 
him about the wedding but he was too genuinely nervous for that to 
be any fun.

"Joy Bellin thinks you look like Richard Gere," she said.

"Her power of observation leaves a lot to be desired," Mulder said.

Scully considered offering her own opinion, that even the young 
Richard Gere had nothing on Fox Mulder.  But she doubted if the
compliment would penetrate his gloomy funk, and assuredly it would 
come back later to haunt her.

"Tony Rossiter thought so too," she said.

Mulder put down the binoculars.

"That's wonderful, Scully. I'm glad they both took the opportunity 
to study my face.  If only they'd used a little of that keen 
curiosity to glance over at Chris Boyd, perhaps we'd have a 
description," he said.

Chris Boyd seemed to be the ultimate cipher.  The name appeared
sporadically on time sheets, invoices, and progress reports, but the
four permanent employees of RMP, Inc., professed a global ignorance 
to his--or her--identity.

"That summer intern from Wellesley--was she Chris Boyd?" Andy Marcus
speculated.

"Do you remember the consultant from Europa Systems?  What was his
name?" Roger Pearson pondered.

"Your lawyer's nephew, with the bad skin.  You gave him a couple of
coding jobs," prompted Joy Bellin.

Mulder, who hadn't wanted or expected to find anything out of line, 
grew impatient and suspicious.

"Either these records are fabrications, or Chris Boyd, whoever he or 
she was, worked here on and off over the course of two years,
concentrating exclusively on the DOD contract," he pressed them.  
"Your amnesia is unconvincing."

Scully snapped her fingers with the triumph of inspiration.

"He must have had security clearance," she said.

That avenue had proved surprisingly frustrating as well.  Their first
search yielded nothing, but oddly enough the name popped up when they
tried it again.

Christopher Boyd.  Date of birth either 12/06/60 or 06/12/60. There 
had been some difficulty, apparently, in confirming his academic
credentials, and the folder included a letter from his alma mater
apologizing for their earlier error.  

"I guess he's one of those guys you don't notice," Scully said.  
"Even his background check was sloppy."

"We'll find him. How many adult white males could there be?" Mulder
asked sarcastically, raising the binoculars as he turned back to 
watch the door.

"Why are we looking for him?" she asked.

"Don't you find it somewhat remarkable that a man engaged in hiding
transmissions and information is himself able to slip from databases 
and even from conscious awareness?" Mulder asked.  "I think we're on 
the trail of the invisible man."

= = = = =

Maybe it had something to do with being the youngest.  Dad would 
sneak him into movies long after he was too old to go for free.  
Bobby and Kim got a ticket and a popcorn, but not Chris.  Chris was 
the baby. He could share.

That didn't explain what happened in school, though.  The teacher 
never called on Chris.  Whether he was waving his hand like a 
frantic flagman or cowering behind his notebook, she never seemed 
to see him.

He grew into an adult who spent an inordinate amount of time on 
"hold," who was passed over in lines, whose reservations were lost
routinely. That sort of thing could hurt a fellow's self-esteem.

There was a bright side to being anonymous.   Years after Megasys 
laid him off, they continued to send him paychecks.  Not that he 
had much need of money, because no one seemed to notice if he paid 
his bills or not.

Chris Boyd didn't need to work, but what else was he going to do?  
Sure, people overlooked him, but it was his only chance to have any
effect at all on the world around him.  So what if others took 
credit for his ideas?  At least his ideas made a difference.

He enjoyed his time at RMP, Inc.  It was a tiny company, small 
enough that people had to notice him at least some of the time.  
The work was varied and there was no dress code.  Most of all he 
enjoyed working on the digital camouflage project.

Chris had a genius for making things disappear.  Patterns turned into
coincidences, vital data took on the appearance of errors, and huge
transmissions were dismissed as static and fragments.

He didn't mind if his name was omitted from company reports, and it
certainly didn't matter to him if he missed a paycheck now and then.
Sometimes Roger would say, "Great work, guys," and Chris knew he was 
one of the guys, even if nobody mentioned his name.

But one morning when he arrived for work, someone else was sitting 
in his chair.  Chris didn't have an office like Roger, Andy, or Joy, 
or even a work area, like Tony Rossiter.  But he had a space with a
terminal, a phone, and room for his circuit boards.  His space.  
Until they gave it away to somebody else.

She was a college student, working at RMP for the summer.  Chris 
stood and watched her as she fielded phone calls and performed 
whatever little tasks she was given.

"Hi, I'm Chris," he said.  She didn't answer.

Around eleven Roger came to ask her to locate a particular rheostat.

"It's getting crowded here," Chris told him angrily.

Roger looked puzzled for a minute.

"Do you have enough room?" he asked the girl.

"Yes, Mr. Pearson," she answered.  And Roger moved on.

Chris wandered around the building for the next hour.  He stood 
behind Andy Marcus as he uninstalled a board from his processor.

"Hey, chrome dome!  Baldy!" he shouted.  Andy frowned as he worked,
absently stroking his head.

He found Joy Bellin muttering over some code.

"Four-eyes!  Fat-ass!" he hissed.  She looked up and gave a deep 
sigh.

It really wasn't any fun, though.  At noon he joined the crowd
downstairs in the Tavern, helping himself to a draught when the
bartender wouldn't take his order.  Then he walked the few blocks 
to the commuter line and rode into North Station.  The Sox won that 
day, but he couldn't enjoy the game, despite his field-level seat in 
the dugout.

= = = = =

"If you thought that Chris Boyd was literally invisible, you 
wouldn't be holding those binoculars," Scully commented.  "Are 
you suggesting that he can make people ignore him, forget he was 
there?"

"Well, we don't know that he can control it," Mulder said.  "Maybe 
it's something that happened to him."

"In the process of refining the art of digital camouflage?  You 
think he caught it from a printed circuit?" she asked.  It was 
difficult to summarize Mulder's theories without sounding as if she 
was ridiculing him, but most of the time she tried.

"I don't know, and you don't either.  You can talk about science 
all you like, but you have to admit that scientific knowledge isn't
infinite. It makes more sense to observe and acknowledge the things 
we see than to dismiss them because we can't yet interpret them
scientifically," Mulder said.

"How much of this is observation, and how much is intuition?" 
Scully challenged him.

"As long as it works, does it really matter?" he asked.

"Mulder--" she started to object.  This was one area where she 
thought she'd made some progress.

"I'm not talking about preparing a case for the prosecutors or 
filing a report to the Bureau.  I'm talking about finding the 
truth," he said.

"Ah, the elusive truth," Scully said.

Mulder tossed the binoculars into the back seat.  "Want to know 
how I happened to apply to the FBI?"

"I've always wondered," she said.

"I came home from Oxford with a BA in psychology.  Nevertheless, 
I was able to land a job," he said.

"Do you want fries with that?" she quipped.

"You're brutal.  I'll have you know I worked with the 
psychologically disabled, more properly known as nuts and sluts.  
In a protected environment, more properly known as a locked ward," 
he said.

"Did you like it?" she asked.

"Yeah, Scully, nothing makes me happier than forcing 
schizophrenics to take showers.  Unless it's scraping shit 
off the walls," he said.  "The hours were long and the pay was 
light, but it was in my field," he said.  "I taught introductory 
psych, too. All the grads did. Even the janitor had a section."

"Popular course," Scully laughed.

"Yeah, easy A.  My disenchantment with my work was tempered by a 
high level of satisfaction with my studies.  One course in 
particular."

"That's where you met her?" Scully asked.

"Why, Scully, I do believe you're following your intuition.  Did I
mention a lady?" Mulder asked.

"Not intuition, logic. I don't suppose she has a name," Scully said.

"More intuition!  She did have a name," Mulder said.  He waited
expectantly for Scully to ask, but instead she examined her 
fingernails. "Okay, it was Deanna. I stalked her relentlessly. 
Begging for help with the assignments, offering to type for her.  
And I discovered her weakness."

Cute guys who shower you with attention?  Every woman has that 
weakness, Scully thought.

"She couldn't change a typewriter ribbon," Mulder said.  "Unwilling 
to leave her unprotected, I moved in."

"What else could you do, under the circumstances?" Scully asked.  
It must have been a happy time for him, and he sounded ten years 
younger as he described it.

"They say two can live as cheaply as one, but that's no help if one 
of them is Deanna.  She was hopeless with money.  A dozen credit 
cards paying each other off, second mortgage, shut-off notices.  
A mess," he said.

Scully's jaw tightened.  So Mulder's hottie turned out to be a 
deadbeat.

"We managed to bring some order to her finances, and I took over 
the mortgage payments.  I picked up another job," Mulder said.

Deanna.  It was a whiny kind of name, Scully thought.  Of course 
Mulder couldn't earn a doctorate with a bimbo on his back.

"The pay was good and I enjoyed it.  I quit my job at the Haldol
Hilton.  For a while, everything was great," he said.

"But?" Scully asked.  She could guess the rest: once he was typing 
her papers--probably writing them, too--and paying the bills, 
Princess Deanna grew weary of his company.

"Dee hated my new job and she hated the guys I worked with.  She 
wanted me to put my time into my thesis.  Meanwhile, I was growing 
truly restless with academics.  I didn't like the reality of 
hanging out with schizoids and I didn't like theorizing about the 
mind," he said.

"Mulder, you don't have to work with crazy people to be a 
psychologist! Most of the people who see psychologists aren't crazy 
at all.  Besides, there are other applications, industrial,
educational--"

"You sound just like her," Mulder interrupted.  "Fact is, I was 
burned out.  The only aspect of psychology that still interested me 
was forensics, and I wasn't going to learn that from professors.  
I was learning way more pulling jobs with Quick Mickey and Itchy 
Mitch."

"What was your racket?" Scully asked.  Mulder's enterprise, 
whatever it was, sounded too unsavory to be called a profession. 

"It wasn't a racket, Scully.  It was perfectly legal," he said 
edgily, and Scully saw that she had touched a nerve.  

"What did you do?" she asked, relieved but still curious.  

"Just because a job pays well and offers a little excitement now and
then, chicks think there should be a law against it," Mulder said.

Scully knew she wasn't the chick in question. Mulder would clam up 
now, embarrassed because he'd revealed too much.

"It was totally within the law, Scully," he said with finality. 
Retrieving the binoculars from the back seat, he resumed 
surveillance on Chris's door.  Five minutes later, Scully broke 
the silence.

"Nothing's happening," she said.  "Want to call it a night?"

Mulder stretched and yawned.

"We'll just have a look inside first," he said.

Mulder definitely had a larcenous streak.  Scully tried to rein him 
in.

"What was that Andy Marcus was telling me?  Something about 
unreasonable searches and seizures, probable cause . . ."  Mulder 
was reaching for the door handle when Scully's hand on his shoulder 
made him pause.

"That guy's a fanatic," Mulder said.  "Come on."

"The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, 
papers, and effects . . . Sound familiar?" Scully asked as Mulder 
opened the door.

"Did I say search?  Did I say seize?  We're just going to look 
around," he said reassuringly.

"Mulder!"  she called sharply, but he kept walking and a second later
she was right behind him.

= = = = =

Friday used to be Chris's favorite day, back when he was working.  
Lunch at the Tavern with his friends.  Maybe somebody would say, 
"Pass the salt," and then Chris would pass it.

The Tavern was dark and noisy, and Chris could sit there and be part 
of the crowd.  On nights when Joy Bellin would perform, trying to 
polish her dopey little act, Chris would show up and meet his 
friends. Sit right at the table with the rest of the RMP guys, and 
heckle along with Roger.  Joy used the guys in her act, jokes about 
Roger's wealth, or Andy and the ACLU.  One night she did a long 
routine about the toilet seat.  Chris decided that part was about 
him, and from then on he always left the seat up.

Fridays were sad for him now.  He sat in his darkened living room
watching TV.  Tomorrow was open-mike night at the Tavern, and he was
sure Joy and the gang would be there, but this time he wasn't going 
to join them.

Chris was shocked when he heard a knock at his door.

"Come in," he called tentatively.

"Hello!  Anybody home?"  A man's voice that Chris didn't recognize.

The TV was pretty loud, with lots of screaming, and Chris 
wondered if he was imagining there was someone at his door.

"It's open," he shouted.

"Probable cause," the male voice said triumphantly, and a woman's 
voice said, "Mulder, you know that's the television!"

The door creaked as it opened. Wow. Company.

"It's not locked," observed the male.

The apartment door opened directly into the living room, and Chris
looked over to see who it was.  Disappointment hit him like a slap.  
A couple of burglars.  The man and the woman were well dressed, but 
for all that they carried guns.

Chris lived in a ground floor apartment and he never locked the 
door. No wonder he'd been targeted by robbers.  He felt little 
fear.  Even if the intruders saw him, they wouldn't think he was 
a threat, and he could easily replace anything they were likely 
to take.

"See?  The TV is on," the woman said.  She crossed in front of the 
couch to turn it off, passing within a foot of him.  Chris noticed 
that she used a rubber glove so that she wouldn't leave her
fingerprints.

"I'll check the rest of the place," the man said, heading into the 
next room.  It was supposed to be a dining room, but Chris used it 
for his projects.  Meanwhile the woman was examining the bookcase.

"He likes bestsellers," she called.

Chris snorted.  Book-of-the-Month club ignored his postcards when he
tried to refuse a selection.  He'd given up and bought a larger
bookcase.

"All clear," the man reported, returning to the living room. "You 
won't believe what he's got back there."

"Must be those two missing LEDs from RMP," the woman said archly.

Chris was startled.  What was the connection between these smooth
intruders and RMP?  He had dozens of LEDs in his laboratory.  Some of
them might well be from RMP.

"Have a look," the man urged.

The woman followed him back to the lab, with Chris at her heels.

"Oh my God," she said.  "He took everything but the cash register."

If these people could only know the effort required to force a 
salesman to acknowledge him and ring up his purchase, they would
understand why he usually chose to shoplift.  Chris could hardly be
accused of sneakiness.  He would carry out merchandise by the 
rackful.

That's why they were gawking at his lab as if it was some comic
curiosity.  It wasn't the quantity of parts but the fact that his
inventory was stored on racks and pegboards that still bore the 
Radio Shack logo and prices.

The man leaned over to examine one of the work benches.  Chris was 
glad he kept his hands to himself, although he understood by now 
that it was not from respect for the projects under construction 
but to avoid leaving his prints behind.

"What do you think he's making?" asked the man.

The woman flashed a knowing look that Chris could not interpret.

"Judging by the number of ports, relays, boards, and keypads, he's
merely trying to recycle all the cell phones you've destroyed," she
said.  "Come on, Mulder, let's get out of here."

"All right," he answered.  "See, Scully?  Nothing seized.  Although 
I do need a wedding gift."

"Out.  Now," she told him.

The well-dressed strangers left, and Chris locked the door behind 
them.

= = = = =

end 2/6

A Neurotic Need for Validation - 3/6
Disclaimer and stuff with part 1

= = = = =

"Gorillas eat flowers," Mulder said, fingering the little vase that 
held a single, faded daisy.

Scully wondered if he was that desperate for food.  They'd placed 
their orders only a few minutes earlier, and now Mulder was 
manipulating and arranging the items on the formica table, 
examining the ketchup, twirling the napkin dispenser.

"Chimpanzees eat meat," she offered.  Everyone else in the diner 
was on a date, she decided.  They were all discussing the movies 
they'd just seen, while she and Mulder talked about monkeys.

"Jane Goodall.  Yes, they do," Mulder said.  "Dr. Goodall herself
acknowledges that her presence had profound consequences on the 
animals she observed.  Something to remember, Scully."

It was like waiting for rock candy to precipitate from a sugar 
solution, but eventually Mulder's thoughts would coalesce into 
something expressible if not coherent.  Scully risked disturbing 
the incipient crystal by asking a question.

"She studies primates?  Or animal behavior?" she asked.  He 
looked so perplexed that she wondered if she'd missed the mark 
entirely. Maybe Mulder's ex was a florist.

"You've never heard of Jane Goodall?" he asked in disbelief.  
"Oh, you mean Deanna?  She's a psycholinguist.  Brilliant."

When Mulder said that a man was brilliant, Scully generally 
believed him.  With women, it was a little dicier.  She found 
herself most curious about Deanna's appearance, but she'd have to 
wait and see for herself.

"Stop it, Scully.  She really is brilliant," Mulder protested.  
"Her class was my foundation in profiling."

Deanna was the teacher.  Scully was stunned by the realization.  
She'd taken it for granted that Mulder's honey was a fellow 
student. The plot thickens, she thought.

"She's not that much older," he said defensively.  "It's not as 
if I was a minor.  You know, Scully, if you have something to say, 
I wish you'd say it."

What was she going to say?  "I had an affair with a professor too,
Mulder.  Mine was a disaster, how about yours?"  She started to 
study the jukebox selections.

"Did you get an A?" she asked, flipping through the metal pages.

Mulder sighed and then resumed the original discussion.

"If there were a gorilla sitting at this table, he would perceive 
the presence of food," Mulder said.  "Because there is no gorilla, 
there is no food."

Whiplash, thought Scully, but she hung on.

"But you, a non-gorilla, nevertheless perceive the presence of the
flower," she said.

"Is there any food on the table?  I'm asking you," he said.

"No.  But--" she began.

"Wrong!  There's ketchup," he said.

He was her best friend in the whole world and she loved him 
dearly--not that she'd ever say so.  But he was starting to annoy 
her.

"You know, Mulder, if you'd just invited me to go to the wedding 
with you, you could have saved us two days of tedium.  Not to 
mention how much happier the folks at RMP would be," she said.

"You still don't get it," he said.  "Do you really believe that 
reality is created by the observer?  Do you think our car 
disappeared because we're not outside sitting in it?"

"Of course not!"  She felt another Mulder-Motrin-Moment coming on.

"Exactly.  And that's why we have to find Chris Boyd."

= = = = =

"They're ba-ack," Tony Rossiter sang out as he opened the door for
Mulder and Scully.

The outer entrance to the RMP building was locked because it was
Saturday, but Rossiter was cheerful as he let them in and led them 
up to the conference room.  The remainder of the staff was 
assembled over paper plates and ceramic mugs.

"Roger bought breakfast," he announced.

"Have a bagel," Pearson offered.  "Anyone who has to work on 
Saturday deserves to eat first."

"No thanks," said Scully.  The conference table was free of 
papers, she observed.  Work hadn't started for the day.  Mulder 
helped himself to a chair and a bagel.

"I wanted to tell you that we're satisfied with your practices and 
your documentation," Mulder announced, sawing at his bagel with a 
plastic knife.

"Damn," said Bellin.  "Guess I changed my sheets for nothing."

"We have some general questions about electronic camouflage, if 
you don't mind," said Scully.

"Software, that's me," said Bellin triumphantly.

"Maybe Joy will get lucky after all," said Pearson.

"Yes, and this is the year the Sox win the Series," said Marcus.

"Hey!  It could happen!" Joy protested.

"Electronic camouflage," Mulder said flatly.  "We're interested 
in the theoretical applications."

"I'm sure you are," Marcus said, suddenly serious.  "Electronic
camouflage would be a real headache for someone engaged in 
capturing and assessing large amounts of internet data."

"Andy, these guys are field agents.  They have hotshot hackers 
working on the Carnivore project, not field agents," Pearson said.

"This is about Carnivore?" Rossiter asked.  "Hey, I don't like it
either."

Technology changes, and it only made sense to Scully that the FBI 
would develop methods to access internet communications.  It was 
really no different than tapping a phone call, she thought.  One 
item that seemed to upset people was the wholesale nature of 
trapping internet traffic. The project name "Carnivore" didn't 
help at all.

"Correct," Mulder said to Pearson.  "We're only field agents.  
We have no involvement in Carnivore."

"Aw, you hurt his feelings," Bellin said.  "Be nice, Roger, they're
*special* agents."

Amazingly, Scully realized, Bellin was right.  Mulder was stung by
Pearson's implication.

"Electronic camouflage.  Are there any applications in day-to-day
life?"  Scully was determined to bring the discussion back on track.

"Sure. You could dodge a long-distance charge, but there are so 
many ways to do that.  I bet you could foil a radar detector," 
said Tony Rossiter.

"What about hiding a person?" asked Mulder.  "I'm not talking about
deleting a credit history or a social security file, I mean giving 
him the ability to walk around unnoticed."

"That's kind of far-fetched," said Pearson, failing to suppress his
smirk.

"Not really.  What about using Chroma Key blue to block part of a
scene for special effects?" asked Scully.  It was a lame example 
but the best she could do on the fly.

"In movies?" Roger's eyes narrowed as he tried to respond.  "But 
that's the way it's programmed.  You don't really know much about 
electronics, do you?"

"Neural impulses are also electronic and effectively binary,"  
Scully persisted. "What if there was a way to scatter enough 
random and conflicting impulses that perception of one's presence 
would be blocked?"

"Well, I guess it would have been handy in high school," said 
Pearson.

"You could walk into Fenway Park without a ticket and watch the 
game from the dugout," said Marcus.

Mulder looked at him sharply, and then at Scully.  He passed his 
hand over his forehead as he spoke:

"Now that's strange.  That's exactly what I was going to say."

There was a moment of silence.

"Out of all the possibilities," Mulder said, looking to Scully for
support.

"I think it's a common enough fantasy," she said.  "Especially for 
a Red Sox fan."

"Scully?" he asked.

"Baseball fan.  A common enough fantasy for a baseball fan," she
corrected herself.

It was just a slip of the tongue, but Mulder was spooked, and he 
poked around the lab and offices of RMP, unsure of what he was 
looking for but unwilling to leave.  Roger Pearson showed 
incredible tolerance, but Andy Marcus was ready to explode and 
Joy Bellin followed them around showering them with questions.

"How come the Boston office couldn't handle this?" she asked.  
"Which one of you's the boss?  If you break something, do you have 
to buy us a new one?"

"Mulder, a word with you?"  Scully beckoned him into a corner.  
"There's nothing here.  We're leaving."

"Can't you feel it, Scully?  *He's* here."  Mulder's eyes were wide.

"What you're feeling, Mulder, is the jitters.  You're nervous about
seeing Deanna," she said.

"I am not.  Where'd you get that idea?"  He made it sound as if 
she was crazy.

"The haircut?  The date?" she said.

"I want to look good," he said.  "That's doesn't mean I'm falling 
apart over it."

"Good," she said, far from convinced.  "Don't you think it's time 
to get ready?"

He looked oddly distracted for a minute.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"I said it was time to get ready.  What's wrong, Mulder?" she asked.

"Maybe I have time to buy a shirt," he said.

= = = = =

The FBI was looking for him.  A week ago that would have made him
happy, but today Chris treasured his anonymity.

He still needed a few parts, and he'd dropped in at RMP to collect
them.  He would assemble most of his project upstairs, because the 
lab had the right tools.  Then he'd install the device downstairs, 
in the Tavern.

Joy was performing tonight.  Maybe she'd say, "Hello!  Anybody out
there?"  Sometimes she said that when her jokes fell flat.

Before getting down to business, he had breakfast with his old
co-workers.  A bagel with cream cheese.  Roger always bought garlic
bagels, which Chris hated, but the shop must have run out of them.  
This morning it was a mixed bag, and Chris got a plain one.

A good sign, he thought.

When the FBI agents arrived, Chris was amused to learn they were
interested in his specialty, camouflage.  He wondered if they 
wanted it for Carnivore, the FBI program to sniff out individual 
e-mails.  Turned out that wasn't it.

"Field agents," he taunted them.  "You're just the grunts, aren't 
you? Foot soldiers. Look at you, you're wearing uniforms, for 
God's sake."

The guy seemed to hear him a lot better than most people, and it 
was cool, because Chris could see it was eating at him.

"Mulder, what's wrong?" the woman agent would ask him, and he'd 
shrug or just ignore her.

It was funny when Chris told them about going to Fenway, because 
Andy picked it up first and Mulder really freaked.

Mulder slitted his eyes and for a second he looked right at Chris, 
and then it wasn't funny any more.

"Anyone would have said that.  Any Red Sox fan," he protested.  
"A common fantasy for a Red Sox fan."  Finally the woman agent 
picked up on what he was saying, but it didn't seem to help 
matters.

The two agents hung out, asking questions and looking around, 
and Chris was starting to sweat.

"Don't they need warrants?  Why are they here?" he asked Joy Bellin.

"Hey, don't you guys need warrants?" she asked them, but still they
didn't leave.

"These aren't the droids you're looking for," he told the agents.  
"Move along."  The woman looked thoughtful, but the man was like a
bloodhound on a trail.

Chris felt as if his little universe of one was under attack.  For
months and years he'd struggled for attention, but now he felt 
himself flicker into the consciousness of another, and he didn't 
care for it at all.

At least the woman was on his side now, telling Mulder it was time 
to go. She said Mulder was nervous about seeing Deanna.

"Deanna thinks you're a loser.  She's disappointed in you." Chris
scattered his barbs, hoping something would stick.  "Deanna hates
your haircut and your clothes.  She thinks you're stupid, Mulder."

Something hit home.  Mulder seemed to deflate a little and at last 
they left.  Chris nodded with satisfaction.

= = = = =

"Cuff links are stupid," Mulder said. "I don't know why I went 
with French cuffs."

"Maybe I should drive," Scully offered.  He still seemed 
distracted.

"It'll look like I bought a shirt just for the wedding," Mulder
explained.

"There's nothing wrong with the shirt you have on," she assured him.

"It's like a uniform," he complained.

She held her tongue, and an hour later he had selected a truly
breathtaking silk shirt that cost no more than a DVD player.

"It's the most beautiful shirt I've ever seen," Scully told him
truthfully.

"It's a chemise," the salesman corrected her.

"Does it look new?" Mulder asked,  and because she'd been paying
attention when he ranted, Scully answered in the negative.

"No, Mulder, it looks like a nice shirt you already owned."

"Some coordinating neckwear, perhaps?" the salesman offered.

"No, thanks, I have a noose in the car."

"Mulder, what is up with you?" Scully whispered.

The salesman smiled graciously and processed the purchase.  When 
they were outside, Scully tried to shore up her suddenly 
fragile partner.

"You're an attractive, successful man.  You know that, Mulder, 
don't you?" she implored him.

"Thank you, Scully," he said stiffly.

"You're brilliant, resourceful, honest, and dedicated," she 
continued. "You have nothing to prove to anyone."

"Okay, Scully, you can stop now," he said, clearly embarrassed.

"I've never met Deanna, but if she ever deserved whatever 
affection you had for her, she must appreciate you for the 
wonderful person you are."

Here she was fudging a bit.  She wouldn't be at all surprised to 
find that Mulder's former lover was an ice-cold psychotic bitch.

Mulder shook his head, tongue-tied, waving his hand to silence her 
until he could compose his reply.

"Scully," he said at last.  "What are you going to wear?"

= = = = =

It was too early to leave, but they were both dressed and ready.
Mulder had issued his approval of Scully's dress and especially her
shoes.

"Good," he'd announced.  "Everyone will assume we're sleeping
together."  Now he paced back and forth across the small motel room 
as he passed along some final instructions.  Scully leaned back in 
her chair, consciously refusing to absorb his anxiety.

"Dee had a million reasons I shouldn't be a special agent.  First of
all, she was afraid I'd be killed," he said.

Scully had to acknowledge the legitimacy of that particular concern.

"She thought I had a problem with authority, warned me to stay away 
from anything with a defined hierarchy," he said.  "She said I'd be 
a misfit in any rigid organization."

"I see," said Scully.

"So don't let her know I'm a misfit," he said.  "I want her to think 
I made the right choice."

"Don't worry," Scully said.

"Oh--and this is kind of silly.  She had a theory about sunflower
seeds.  So as far as you know, I don't eat them.  Never even tried 
one," he said.

"What's her theory?" Scully asked.

He shook his head.  "Don't go there.  Another thing.  She hates 
guns."

"I'll make sure she knows how often you lose yours," Scully said.

"Scully, no!"  He was horrified in the split second before he 
realized he was being teased.

The telephone interrupted Scully's amusement, a call from Joy 
Bellin of RMP.

"I'm inviting you and Agent Mulder to come to the Tavern tonight 
to see my act. Roger suggested it and then Andy, or I wouldn't have 
the nerve to call," Bellin said.

Scully declined the offer, although she was sure Mulder would have 
a better time being ridiculed on stage than attending the wedding.  
When she hung up the phone, Mulder was still pacing and ruminating.

"You might have to dance with me, Scully," he warned her.

"I'll deal," she said.

"I hope I remember how.  It's been a long time," he mused.

She gave a tiny, tight frown.  He'd managed well enough with 
Phoebe Greene.

"Ugh," said Mulder, suddenly more distressed than ever. Scully 
looked up for an explanation. "Nothing.  Just remembering the last 
time I had to dance," he said.

"Do you want to practice?" Scully offered.  They had to do 
something to kill time.

"Yeah."  To her surprise he reached down to pull her out of the 
chair and into his arms.  His concern seemed to focus not on dance 
steps but on hand placement and body distance. Once he'd found 
the proper embrace, pulling her against his chest with a brusque 
command to loosen up, he dropped her like an uncomfortably warm 
potato and resumed his pacing.

"Okay, that will work," he said.

= = = = =

"It must be a huge affair.  If I'm on the guest list, she must have
invited the whole world," Mulder mused.

"We'll see," Scully answered.  Mulder was trying to calculate the
perfect arrival time so he could be inconspicuous and still find a 
seat.

The church was in a commercial neighborhood and its small parking 
area was full.  They were lucky to find a space across the street.  
Mulder craned his neck to keep an eye on the church and the people 
who collected outside near the door.

"We might as well join the party," Scully said.  Unless he wanted 
her to step out for doughnuts and coffee, and then they could sit 
here all evening playing stakeout.

"Partners watch each other's backs," Mulder observed.  "A partner
wouldn't take advantage of a situation, you know?  Anything you 
might happen to learn... about me... you'd just... ignore it, 
right?"

"I'm not here as your partner, Mulder, I'm here as your pal," she
reminded him.  "We all have little things that we'd like to 
forget, embarrassing incidents and what-not."

He nodded his thanks.

"And if I get the chance, I'll tease you without mercy."  She 
smiled brightly. "Shall we go?"

"I never do that when you make a fool of yourself," he said.

"Like when I mixed up the slides at my anatomy lecture?" she 
reminded him. He'd gotten a huge laugh out of that one, repeating 
the story about a hundred times.

"I didn't realize you'd been biding your time, waiting for 
revenge," he said.  "I could have saved the money on this 
*chemise* and bought myself a Ronald McDonald suit."

"Are we going in or are we going to sit here?" Scully asked.

"There's really no hurry, Scully.  She's always late," he said.  
"Let's drive around a bit."

"I'm going to go mingle."  She turned the mirror, checked her hair, 
and slipped out of the car.

= = = = =

Dry runs and lab tests only went so far.  Chris wouldn't know 
until tonight if his device was a success.  The Tavern was open, 
with a man he didn't recognize behind the bar and Theresa 
starting things up in the kitchen, getting ready for the evening 
crowd. Two men sat at the bar drinking Sam Adams from the bottle, 
but neither one noticed when Chris, crawling along the floor, 
stretched a cable from the doorway to the stage, passing it right 
under their barstools.

Chris didn't know exactly what to expect.  Maybe by this time 
tomorrow he'd be famous.

= = = = =

Scully found herself a spot by a tree, content to watch and listen 
for a few minutes before she began to mingle.  She smiled pleasantly 
at an old lady who grimaced with concentration as she patrolled 
along the edge of the crowd.  The old lady shuffled purposefully 
behind a walker, puffing a bit with the exertion, and she seemed 
to take Scully's friendliness for an invitation.

"Bride's side or groom's?" she panted as she halted by the tree.

"Bride," Scully said.

"That'll do.  Give me a hand."

The old lady, who introduced herself as Cousin Jane, needed help 
up the stairs.

"Might need some help setting myself on the pot, too," she 
explained tartly. "Depends on the bathroom."

Cousin Jane turned out to be the perfect accessory for the guest 
who knows no one.  Her uninhibited narration was entertaining and
informative, and Scully felt less of an intrude in her company.

"Have you met Todd yet?" she asked. "Nice man, easy on the eyes."

"I can't wait to meet him," Scully said.  Cousin Jane would make 
better progress up the church steps if she would save her breath.

"Course, Deanna's usually lucky with men," she continued.  "Not a 
lot of common sense otherwise, but plenty of book smarts."

"I understand she's brilliant," Scully said.

"Sweet as pie," Jane responded.  "She's a professor, so I suppose 
she's brilliant enough."

Scully had promised Mulder that she'd do her best to dig the dirt 
on him, and as she elbowed open the bathroom door, she began.

"Did you know Fox Mulder?" she asked.

"Oh, my goodness, yes.  That poor boy," Jane said.

"Why do you say that?" Scully asked casually.

"Oh, my goodness!"  Jane repeated.  "Now, some of those scrapes 
were funny, but that time at Chucky's Chuck-Wagon, good Lord!"

"Chucky's Chuck-Wagon?  What happened there?" Scully asked.  Jane
maneuvered herself into a stall and closed the door, but her voice
carried and Scully could hear the answer.

"Fox worked over at Meadow Park, and sometimes he'd take a group 
out for a field trip.  Bring a couple of residents over to Kmart, 
teach 'em to buy underwear, that kind of thing," Jane said.  
"He wouldn't take any crap from the patients, and he made sure 
the people on the outside treated them right," Jane said.

Scully nodded.  Mulder hadn't changed much.

"Now, that time at Chucky's, that was just one patient, and he was
scheduled to be discharged.  Dearie, you're going to have to help 
me up."

With a bit of fumbling, Scully succeeded in hoisting Jane to her 
feet, but she couldn't maneuver her out of the stall until she 
shoved the walker out of the way.

"John was his name.  I met him afterwards in the emergency room," 
Jane said, leaning against the sink as she washed her hands.  

"The emergency room?" Scully asked, holding out a paper towel for 
the old lady.

"I drove over with Deanna to fetch Fox home," she explained.  
"Poor boy, one eye swollen shut and a bloody nose.  John may have 
had a bruise or two, but mostly he was shook up.  And he was 
yammering at Fox the whole time."

Jane dried her hands and accepted the walker back from Scully.

"John was saying, 'I was right!  I told you!'" Jane said.  "And 
Fox was yelling at him, 'Shut up, John!  Shut the fuck up!'"

Scully smiled at the old lady's casual obscenity.

"But John wouldn't let it go.  'Didn't I tell you,' he said.  
'Didn't I keep telling you that those faggots at the next table 
wanted to beat us up?'"

= = = = =

end 3/6

A Neurotic Need for Validation - 4/6
Disclaimer and stuff with part 1

= = = = =

Scully and Jane were among the first to take their places in a 
pew. The stuffy heat kept most guests outside as long as possible, 
but with Jane's limited mobility it was more important to find 
a seat.  As the other guests filled the rows, Scully found it 
increasingly awkward to save a spot for Mulder until Jane placed 
her folded walker between them with a defiant "humph."

Cousin Jane had chosen a seat in the middle of the row.  "No need 
to hold everyone up later by sitting on the aisle," she'd 
commented. Consequently, when Mulder finally appeared, he had to 
squeeze past a dozen other guests.  Jane pulled her walker to 
the floor with a clatter, clearing the seat for him.

"Mulder, I'm sure you remember--" Scully began, anxious to avoid 
any hurt feelings in case he didn't remember.  She needn't have 
worried.

"Jane, you ignorant slut!" he exclaimed as he leaned over and gave 
her a kiss.

"Nobody's called me that in years!   How are you, Sly?" she asked.

"Nobody's called me that either," he laughed.  "You look wonderful,
Jane."

"Wear your glasses!" she snapped.  "But thank you.  I'm glad you 
and Dee kept in touch, even if you did drive each other crazy."

Scully had been impatient for a look at Deanna, but now she was 
content to sit as quietly as she could and listen.  She decided 
to ask Cousin Jane for her phone number and address later.

"What about the groom?  Does he pass muster with the Kiley 
clan?" Mulder asked.

"He'll do.  Smart, funny, good-looking.  He's a lot like you, 
only he doesn't hot-wire cars," Jane said.  She looked past 
Mulder, catching Scully's eye.  "Did he ever tell you about that?"

"You know, Jane, you might try using that Fixodent on both sides 
of your teeth," Mulder suggested.

"Brat," Jane dismissed him.  She leaned forward again, ignoring 
him and addressing Scully.  "By day he was a humble scholar, but 
at night he'd pull on a ski mask and disappear into the darkness."

"I see," said Scully, burning with curiosity.

"In the winter, that is," Jane said with a wink.

"I never wore a ski mask," Mulder said sullenly.  "But now I 
know who was helping Deanna go apeshit."

"You came home with a bullet hole through your coat.  She didn't 
need any help to go apeshit," Jane said.

"That was one time," Mulder said.  "And you know we needed the 
money."

Jane was breathing hard.

"Well, I'm an old fool, and I'm sorry I brought it up.  But 
don't try to tell me you did it for the money because I know 
better.  And it tore Deanna up to think it was her that pushed 
you into it," she said.

"I'm sorry you brought it up too," Mulder said.

"You should tell her it wasn't about the money," Jane said.  
"You enjoyed it.  She deserves to hear you say it."

Mulder turned to Scully, or maybe it was only that he was turning 
away from Jane.

"I'll explain everything later," he whispered.

"You don't have to explain anything," Scully said.  She would 
definitely exchange numbers with Jane.

"I told you there was plenty of time to drive around," Mulder 
said, still twisting toward Scully in his effort to ignore Jane, 
who chimed in nonetheless.

"Late all her life.  Born three weeks overdue," she announced.

Scully slipped off her jacket.  The church was ten degrees warmer 
now that it was full of people.  A murmur of relief passed through 
the crowd when a man in minister's garb approached the pulpit.

"Son of a bitch, it's Quick Mickey!" Mulder's voice was too loud 
for the suddenly quiet church and a few heads turned to glare at 
him.

"Pastor Michael Lewis.  I thought you knew," Jane said.

"Quick Mickey became a minister?" he asked, incredulous.

"Sly Fox became an FBI agent," she retorted.  Mulder was still
struggling with his disbelief when the pastor's voice commanded
everyone's attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience.  I'm sure 
we'll be underway soon, but I know it's warm in here, and you 
may want to step outside for a breath of air.  Everything's under 
control.  And if by any chance there are doctors present, I'd 
like a show of hands.  Any doctors out there?"  Pastor Lewis 
scanned the audience, waiting for a reply.

"Mulder, don't.  There must be another doctor here.  I'm not 
licensed in this state and I don't carry insurance," Scully 
hissed urgently.

"Right here," Mulder called out.  "This lady is a physician."

= = = = =

"I say it's a bad case of bridal panic, but her mother thinks 
she's having a heart attack," the pastor said.  "I was hoping you 
could reassure them."

"I'll see what I can do," Scully said.

Pastor Lewis's office was quite small but at least it was
air-conditioned.  In the corridor outside, dozens of people 
paced and whined and complained.  Friends and family members 
milled about in their formal clothes, obviously eager to finish 
up in the church so they could move on to the reception.

"You know, it would be a real kick if you and Sly would attend 
services tomorrow," Lewis said.

"Maybe we will," she said. It seemed to be a Methodist Church. 
Maybe Mulder was a Methodist.

"We were a heck of a team," Lewis said.  "Does he ever talk 
about that?"

"Quick Mickey and Sly Fox," Scully said.  "Hot-wiring cars."  
She'd given him every scrap of information she had.  Hopefully 
his response would give her more.

"Not a lot of hot-wiring.  We had dozens of key sets, and 
usually one would fit.  But don't let Sly tell you he did 
the hot-wiring, because that was always me," Lewis said proudly.

"I bet he was handy with a slim jim," Scully said.

"He was good with all that kind of stuff.  He could have been a
locksmith," Lewis said.

Scully was on the verge of solving the puzzle. If only she could 
buy a vowel.

"I understand Deanna wasn't keen on it," she said, probing for 
details.

"That's an understatement.  She didn't like him hanging out with
punks, such as myself."  He grinned.  "She had a point, too.  
Mostly she thought it was dangerous."

"People shot at you," Scully said.

"That was rare.  Usually we'd knock on the door and tell them 
what we were doing," Lewis said.

"Nasty little surprise for them," Scully said.

"If you don't make the payments you can't keep the car.  That 
shouldn't be a surprise," Lewis said.  "Those simple jobs didn't 
pay well, though, and you start to hate yourself.  Stealing cars 
from the poor and giving them to the rich."

"What about those other jobs, where people shot at you?" Scully 
asked.

"Those tough cases paid more and felt better.  Sly was happiest 
when we had to trace a car through three addresses and then boost 
it from a locked yard with a razor wire fence and a pit bull on 
patrol," Lewis said.

"That's my Sly," Scully said.  She decided to attend church 
without Mulder the next morning and see what more Lewis would 
tell her after the service.  But now she had to deal with Deanna.  
"I'd like to meet the bride," she said.

"I'll take you.  She's in our lounge along with her mom and a 
couple of friends," Lewis said.

Scully nodded.  The first thing she'd do was clear everyone out 
of the lounge and give the embattled bride a chance to catch her 
breath.  And then she'd have a nice talk with Deanna Kiley.  She
was curious as hell, and she had the best possible excuse.

= = = = =

Chris succeeded in ordering a cheeseburger, but when the waitress
brought the food to his table, she couldn't seem to remember what 
to do with it.  She stared right through him, frowned, and 
double-checked her pad.  Chris served himself, taking the burger 
from the waitress's tray.

He ate slowly.  Live entertainment wouldn't begin until later, 
although some of the musicians were carrying in equipment and 
instruments and stowing them near the stage.  There were some large 
amps that worried him. He hoped they wouldn't interfere with the 
device he had installed so carefully.

Chris had his own explanation for his predicament, a more 
sophisticated version of Mulder's theory.  When a young couple 
sat down at Chris's table, he decided to explain it to them.

"Suppose you had a book, and the pages were dirty.  You would 
ignore the smudges and read the letters.  Are you with me so 
far?" he asked.

"Wanna split a basket of onion rings?" the boy asked.

"In communications theory, the smudges are referred to as noise.  
Noise is unwanted information, if you will.  Let me remind you 
that noise is only noise because it is undesired.  The smudge that 
is meaningless on the page of a book could be pivotal on a 
charcoal sketch," Chris continued.

"What about the sampler?  You get rings, mozzarella sticks, 
mushrooms, eggplant, and zucchini," the girl suggested.

"Noise is an evaluative term, and the evaluation is a function 
of the receiver," Chris said.  "Equivocation is another process 
that occurs at the receiving end."

"You can get that, I'll get the rings," said the boy.

"Equivocation means sorting the input, categorizing it and 
simplifying it for meaning. Going back to the book in the first 
example, let's suppose that it is printed in a variety of 
typefaces.  Perhaps the chapter headings are large and dark, 
or quoted passages are rendered in italics.  When you read the 
book, you perceive the letter A as an A, whether it's a boldface 
capital or a spidery lowercase script," he explained.

"If it's just for me, I'll get the raw veggies," she said.  
"Should we order a couple of beers or do you want to get a pitcher?"

"You can see how the observer creates his own experience by how he
chooses to interpret the input," Chris said.  "A pitcher of Foster's 
and the quesadillas."

"It comes out exactly the same.  You get four glasses from the 
pitcher, and it costs the same either way," said the boy.

"Some seventy years ago, Heisenberg posited that the behavior of 
a particle was dependent on an observer," Chris said.  "Today 
theorists speak of observer-dependent phenomena.  You might think 
that's unimportant, but later on you'll understand."  He drained 
his glass of beer.  "Pitcher, kids.  Ask for a pitcher."

The girl excused herself, heading for the rest room, and when the
waitress arrived, the boy dutifully ordered a pitcher of Foster's 
and some quesadillas.  Chris saw that the girl had left her cell 
phone on the table.

The Tavern was filling with customers, and Joy was probably 
backstage somewhere. He didn't see Roger and Andy or the special 
agents.  His triumph would be incomplete without an appreciative 
audience, and those FBI agents were uniquely qualified to 
understand his achievement.

Observers.  As Heisenberg said, reality is created by the observer.
Chris was surrounded by deficient observers, but he was the one 
who paid the price.

Chris had Mulder's cell number.  He reached for the abandoned 
phone on the table.

= = = = =

"Thank you, whoever the hell you are."

Deanna Kiley wrenched off her shoes without opening the strap 
and tossed them, one at a time, against the wall.

Scully had succeeded in clearing the room of Deanna's 
well-intentioned but frenzied attendants, although she'd needed 
back-up from Pastor Lewis to deal with the mother.

"My name is Dana," Scully began, and Deanna started to laugh.

"You sound like a cop trying to talk down a jumper," she said.

"I'm... a doctor," Scully explained, but guilt overtook her.  
"I am a doctor, but I don't practice.  I'm here as the guest of 
one of your guests.  But the reverend asked if anyone was a 
doctor--"

"Bottom line," Deanna interrupted.  "Do you have anything on you 
that will zone me out so I can go through with this?  Or something 
to drug everyone else so I can escape?"

Scully shook her head.  A judicious use of benzodiazepines was 
probably indicated, but she had none.

"How do I get myself into these things?" Deanna moaned.  "This is 
not me!"

"You don't have to go through with it," Scully said calmly.

"Todd told me this would happen.  Why am I such a ditz?"  She 
started to pace, covering the width of the small room in four 
big strides.  "What was I thinking?"

"Todd is your fiance?" Scully asked.

"Oh, that word!  Fiance, husband!  Goddamn it!"  Her wailing turned 
to anger as she stubbed her toe on a chair leg.

"Sit down," Scully said, reinforcing the suggestion with a hand 
on the taller woman's shoulder.  "Let's talk about it."

"This is all my mother's fault," Deanna said.  "Oh, shit, did I 
say that?"

"Many women struggle against their mother's expectations.  Those
expectations always seem to include marriage," Scully said.

"With a big-ass wedding and your hair French-braided like some 
macrame nightmare," Deanna said.

"A marriage has to be your own choice," Scully said.

"Twenty years ago I didn't know what I wanted," Deanna said, 
pulling a large hairpin from her elaborate coiffure.  "My first 
marriage was brutish and short, like my husband."  She continued 
to unplait her hair.

"You're wiser now," Scully said encouragingly.

"How the hell do you walk in those shoes?" Deanna asked her 
suddenly. "And why?"

Fortunately she didn't wait for an answer, as Scully had none to 
offer.

"Todd isn't brutish and I love him like crazy.  I'm already 
committed to him, and there are practical reasons to make it 
legal," Deanna said. She stared hard at Scully, as if she expected 
an argument.  Finding none, she continued:  "Then it's settled.  
Help me take off this dress."

"Take off the dress?" Scully asked, bewildered.

"Off.  Now.  It's not me," Deanna said decisively.

Scully unhitched the tiny hook and began the tedious task of 
undoing the row of little loops.

"It's a beautiful dress," she observed as Deanna struggled out 
of it and hurled it over her head.

"I want you to go get Todd and Mickey in here.  And we need one 
more witness. Todd can choose someone," Deanna said, pulling on 
a short black skirt and a royal blue dashiki.  "Shit, I'd better 
let my mother watch. She'll be pissed enough as it is."

Deanna had made up her mind.  She wanted a small, private 
ceremony.

Once Pastor Lewis understood what she was asking, he addressed 
his thoughts to Scully.

"Dr. Mulder, have you given her any medication that might 
affect her judgment?" he asked.

"No, Reverend.  And, uh, it's Dr. Scully," she corrected him.

"Mulder?"  Deanna asked in surprise.  "Now I understand why you'd
subject yourself to those shoes.  I bet you're wearing a garter 
belt."

"The reverend is mistaken," Scully tried to explain as her cheeks 
turned red.

"And you're a doctor.  That's good," Deanna said.  "When he comes 
home at night, you can stitch him up and set his fractures."

"Deanna, you're jumping to conclusions," Scully said.

"That little shit.  He didn't invite me to *his* wedding."

= = = = =

The mother of the bride made one last attempt to convince the 
couple to return to their original plan, but the groom showed 
admirable loyalty and Deanna and Todd were married privately in 
the back room of a church full of invited guests.

The ceremony was beautiful in its simplicity, and Scully could 
only hope that friends and family would overlook the slight and 
celebrate the union of this unpredictable woman and this tolerant 
man.

Scully was ready to rejoin Mulder in the church so they could 
drive to the reception, but Deanna asked her to wait.  When the 
two of them were alone in the lounge, and Scully expected some 
words of thanks for her support, Deanna turned to her and said:

"Help me do up my hair and get back in that dress.  We need 
pictures."

The dress was easy enough, but the hair was a disaster.  The
spray-stiffened strands were too sticky to comb, even after gobs 
of mousse and conditioner. Deanna removed the dress again and 
the two women resorted to a messy and difficult shampoo in the 
bathroom sink.

At last Deanna was in her wedding gown again, with fresh makeup 
and her damp hair swept up in a passable French braid.  Then she 
slipped her feet back into her low black pumps.

"You can't wear those!" Scully exploded.  "We just spent an hour
transforming you into a storybook bride!"

"They're comfortable," Deanna objected.

"You.  Can't.  Wear.  Those!"  Scully repeated shrilly.   
"Pictures, remember?"

"Oh, all right," Deanna conceded.  "Hope I don't break my neck."

Back in her strappy high heels, she hobbled off to join her new 
husband for a photo session.  Scully felt guilty about the mess 
in the bathroom, but she couldn't find a mop and she didn't want 
to keep Mulder waiting any longer.

But Mulder hadn't waited.  Scully returned to a church that was 
empty, except for a decidedly crabby Cousin Jane.

"Pastor Lewis explained about Deanna realizing that the true 
meaning of a wedding was the melding of two souls, and forget 
all the hoopla.  I have half a mind to go straight on home, seeing 
that I'm nothing more than hoopla," she said. "And I'll keep my 
present, thank you very much.  Wouldn't want to burden her with 
more hoopla."

"She panicked, Jane.  She couldn't go through with it," Scully 
tried to explain.

"Easy for you to say.  You weren't sitting out here while your 
own second cousin got married in front of a bunch of strangers!  
I'll forgive her when I'm good and ready.  Now come along so I 
can drive you to the reception," Jane said.

"But where's Mulder?" Scully asked.

"If he didn't tell you, why would he tell me?  He had to go, 
that's all, and he asked me to give you a ride."  Jane snapped 
open her folded walker.  "Get a move on.  I'll tell you about the 
time Fox took a group from the loony bin out on pass to see the 
Ice Capades."

= = = = =

Chris sat on the edge of the small stage, nodding with 
satisfaction. Roger, Andy, and Tony were at their usual table, 
and the FBI man was here too.  The woman hadn't come, which was 
too bad.  Chris liked the way she argued with the other agent.

He didn't remember the woman agent's name.  The man's name was 
easy to remember, because the woman began every sentence, 
"But, Mulder!"

The performer on stage was a decent folk singer, and those people 
who were listening seemed to be enjoying his act.  Mulder wasn't 
one of those people.  He was cruising the crowd, poking in the 
corners, checking out the sound equipment.

Kevin, the owner, had noticed him too, or maybe one of his 
people had told him.  Kevin had come out from the back and he and 
Mulder had engaged in some conversation that included a show of 
the agent's identification.  Then Kevin had shrugged and said 
something to the bartender, and Mulder had gone back to snooping.

The folk singer finished his song to scattered applause.

"You're really good," Chris called to him.

Joy Bellin was up next, but Chris had a dilemma.  Some of the 
performers would be called back to the stage at the end of the 
evening for a little encore, and he didn't know if Joy would make 
the cut.  Should he put his plan in motion now, or should he 
wait until later, when Joy would be basking in her little bit 
of success and the audience would be more mellow?

He decided to take a chance and wait.  Maybe the woman agent 
would be here by then.  Reality is created by the observer.  
Mulder would observe Chris's achievement and give it meaning 
and reality.  The woman would add the final embellishment, 
punctuating Mulder's explanation.  "But, Mulder! But, Mulder!"

Joy opened with what was supposed to be a monologue:

"How about a truce?  Can we all agree that the default position 
is closed?  An idle toilet should have the seat down and the lid 
closed! What do you say?"

It wasn't a monologue, because Roger Pearson yelled something 
about that paper strip that promises the toilet has been 
sanitized, and then Tony Rossiter chimed in about Joy's mouth 
needing to be sanitized.

"I had an interesting experience this week."  Joy was 
unperturbed by the heckling. "I was questioned by the FBI. 
Yes, little old me!  And I was pretty excited because it's not 
often I get to have a conversation with a real, live man!"  
She addressed her next crack to her co-workers: "Nothing personal, 
guys!"

Chris scanned the room and finally found Mulder crawling along 
the floor by the far wall.  It was a good place for him, far 
from any of Chris's handiwork.

"If you've ever wondered how the FBI spends your tax dollars, 
I'm going to shed some light on the subject right now!"  She was 
looking in Mulder's direction, and Chris saw she'd signaled the 
fellow who was working the lighting.  "Spotlight on Special 
Agent Fox Mulder!"

The spotlight caught Mulder on his hands and knees, framing 
him in its glaring halo. Every head turned, but Mulder appeared 
to be occupied, doing something to an electrical outlet, and it 
was a second before he realized he was on display.

"Agent Mulder's been working diligently on the Jimmy Hoffa case, 
and tonight he's made a startling discovery.  Jimmy is not in the 
wall outlet!  Good work, Agent Mulder! Carry on!"

Every eye was on Mulder, and the big spotlight too.  Chris 
sighed with envy.

= = = = =

end 4/6


A Neurotic Need for Validation - 5/6
Disclaimer and stuff with section 1

= = = = =

                                                                     
Mulder always had an excuse when he ditched her, but there was no
possible justification for her current predicament.  At least if 
Mulder were here with her he'd be doing something to deflate these
self-satisfied blowhards.

Scully knew many professors who were friendly and interesting.
Unfortunately the ones at this table were insufferable.

"I remember Fox Mulder.  The ultimate teacher's pet."  The man 
smiled as if his comment was something other than a barb.  "Nice 
enough fellow, really.  I believe he managed to eke out a master's 
degree."

"Consolation prize," observed a woman.  "I understand Fox is a 
career civil servant now."

"Really?  I heard he was picked up by a Vogon freighter.  I hope he 
had his towel."  The man gave another smarmy smile.  "Sorry, 
in-joke."

Scully and Jane had missed the cocktail hour, adding to Jane's
ill temper.  They'd been seated separately, and Scully hoped Jane's
tablemates were more cordial than this sour bunch.

The wedding party had been called out for more pictures, since the
actual wedding hadn't been photographed.  Dinner was delayed, and 
when the band returned from their break, Scully wondered jealously 
if they'd found anything to eat.  

Music to starve by, she thought as they began to play.

"Would anyone care to dance?" she asked, and the men at the table 
looked at each other before one answered for all of them.

"I think not," he said with a dry laugh.

Scully smiled graciously and excused herself.  She found Cousin Jane 
at a half-empty table and sat down next to her.

"At least the Kileys know how to have fun.  Bunch of deadwood over at
your table," Jane observed.  "Here, dearie, have a prune.  No telling
when we'll get fed."  She opened her oversized handbag, revealing an
open box.  Scully helped herself.

"Sly is missing all the fun," Scully said.

"Bad manners, if you ask me, but nowhere near so bad as the blushing
bride. Of course nobody ever does ask me," Jane said.

"That's a shame," said Scully.  "I've been wondering about something,
Jane.  Why do you think Deanna invited Fox?"

"Who can tell?  Dee doesn't need a reason, I would have thought you'd
understand that by now," Jane answered.

"Could you take a guess?" Scully encouraged her.

"Unfinished business, as you young people would say.  Something she
wanted to settle with him," Jane suggested.

"Unfinished business?  About what?" asked Scully.

"Why, it has to be about this whole FBI kick he's on.  I know he 
doesn't blame her, but she blames herself," Jane said.  "She thought 
he had a lot of talent, didn't want to see him waste it."

"She blames herself for him joining the FBI?" Scully asked.  
"I think I understand.  The repo job, sneaking around at night, 
dodging bullets..."

"The boy's a danger hound, but that wasn't Deanna's doing.  He 
doesn't like things too quiet," she said.

On reflection, Scully found herself agreeing.

"Deanna kicks up about a crisis a minute, and Fox was so strong and
steady.  She felt safe with him, until he started running out at 
night and getting himself shot at," Jane continued.

"I wonder if he feels guilty about leaving her when he did. Not to
mention leaving her with all the expenses," Scully said.

"The two of them need to sit down and talk.  Then they need a 
lesson in etiquette," Jane pronounced.  "Prune?"

= = = = =

Chris sat at the bar with his control console sheltered on his lap. 
Agent Mulder's antics weren't amusing anymore, not to anyone.

Chris wasn't amused because Mulder was only ten feet away. He was 
still crawling along the ground, and he'd discovered the wiring.  
Chris wasn't sure what to expect when Mulder traced the wires up to 
the box he held so protectively.  Maybe Mulder's face would go blank 
and he would blink with confusion and order a beer. But maybe not.  

Joy Bellin had tried to exploit Mulder's odd behavior, annoying him 
with her attention and the spotlight, but her ad lib had fallen 
flat. As Mulder continued to investigate, occasionally asking 
people to move or switch seats to accommodate him, the audience 
grew annoyed and bored. Finally they ignored him.

Agent Mulder traced the wire, hand over hand, until he was an inch 
from the control box.  Then he sat down on the empty seat next to 
Chris.

"You don't want to hurt anyone, or you wouldn't have called me," 
Mulder said, angling himself in Chris's direction.

Chris was startled.  While he could usually get people to hear his
message, this was the first time in ages that someone 
acknowledged him as the source.

"Can you see me?" he asked.

"I know you're here, Chris," said Mulder.  "I want to help you, but 
I can't let you hurt people."

"It hurts when everyone forgets about you.  When they interrupt you 
and don't answer when you talk to them.  Don't you think that 
hurts?" Chris said.

Mulder leaned forward, trying to signal the bartender.

"Hey, can I get a drink here?" he called, knocking on the bar with 
his knuckles.

He ordered two orange juices, pushing one down the bar toward 
Chris.  

"Is it a bomb?" Mulder asked quietly.  "Is that how you're planning 
to hurt people back?"

Chris wondered if Mulder could see the control console, which really
didn't look much like a detonator.  

"I just want them to know how it feels when someone looks right 
through you," he said. 

"Whatever you've got there, you can't use it," Mulder said. "Give it 
to me, Chris."

He can't see it, Chris realized.  

"I don't know what you're talking about, Agent Mulder, but thanks 
for the juice," he said.

If he didn't say another word, Mulder would think he was gone.  
Chris wasn't shy about showing off his invention, but he wanted to 
wait for the right moment.

"Chris?  Let's just talk, okay?" Mulder said.

Chris held his silence.  

"You like baseball.  How's Boston doing?" Mulder asked. 

Chris would have enjoyed talking sports, but he wasn't that easily
distracted from his purpose.

"Watching a game from the dugout, that must be sweet," Mulder said.

Mulder was looking in his direction, but his eyes were scanning,
searching.  Mulder couldn't see him.

"Mo Vaughn's off to a good start," Mulder said.  "I don't know about
Clemens."

Great, thought Chris, the only man in the world he could converse 
with was a crashing bore.  And then Mulder startled him, 
lunging at the box in his lap.  Chris spun around on the barstool 
and jammed the "on" button of his control console.  

It was too early, but he was afraid to wait any longer.  Before 
Mulder wrested it away from him, he had to know if his invention 
worked. As Chris's console hummed to life, Mulder swung at him, 
clipping his right shoulder harmlessly.  Chris adjusted a couple 
of toggles and then grasped the potentiometer.  He dialed it up 
and then up a little more.

Chris felt two hands grasp his shoulders.  He turned slowly to 
face his captor and found himself eye to eye with Mulder's blank 
stare.  

He wasn't supposed to see Mulder.  The concentrated "static" from the
machine was supposed to interfere with his perception and "airbrush"
Mulder out of sight.  

Chris could see Mulder perfectly, and Mulder didn't look so good. The
device didn't operate as planned, but perhaps it had other uses.  
Chris decided to assess the overall effect.

"So you like baseball, Agent Mulder.  How many strikes in a full 
count?" he asked.  Mulder continued to stare but didn't answer.  
"How many strikes make an out?  How many outs in a double play?"

Mulder looked as if he was asleep, except for the open eyes.  
Chris leaned in close to shout in his ear.

"Hey!"

Mulder covered his ears and crouched forward.

"Oh, man," said Chris.  What had he done?  

"Hey, fella, sit down," the bartender called to Mulder.  
"Joy, come here. Something happened to your friend."

Joy came over with Tony to help her, and they led Mulder back 
to their table.  He didn't walk right, but at least he could walk.

Chris turned off his machine and gave a low whistle.  What the hell 
had he done?

= = = = =

Her spoon was raised and Scully was within inches of sustenance 
when her cell phone trilled.  She stuffed the bit of melon in her 
mouth and reached for the phone.

"Hi, it's Joy.  I'm sorry to keep bothering you, but it's about 
Agent Mulder."  Bellin's voice was hesitant and nervous.  "He's 
acting kind of funny."

"Let me talk to him," Scully said.

"I don't know if he'll talk to you."  Scully could hear a banjo 
in the background.  Joy addressed Mulder as if he were a little 
boy, encouraging him to hold the phone and finally offering to 
hold it for him.

"Mulder?  It's me.  Mulder?" Scully said.  No reply until Bellin 
took back the phone. 

"I think you'd better get over here," she said.  "It's like he's 
turned into a zombie."

Scully didn't bother to excuse herself when she left the table.  
She hurried over to ask Jane for the use of her car, but changed 
her mind when she spotted Pastor Lewis.

"Reverend, I need a favor," she said urgently.

"Please, it's  Mickey," he said.  "So, you and Fox aren't even
engaged . . . ."

"I need to borrow your car," Scully said, palm out to receive the 
keys.

"I'll give you a lift," he offered.  "Where are we going?"

= = = = =

Agent Mulder looked like he was starting to recover. Chris sat 
next to him, with Joy Bellin on the other side, clucking over 
Mulder and coaxing him to drink his orange juice.  Andy Marcus 
was arguing that they should call for an ambulance, but the others 
were inclined to wait until Scully arrived and let her decide.

"What happened?" Roger Pearson asked Mulder, and Chris held his 
breath waiting for the answer.

"Everything looked strange," Mulder answered slowly.  "I could see
shapes moving, but I couldn't recognize anything.  I heard sounds 
but no words."

"Like a bad trip," Tony said sympathetically.

Chris had some slight knowledge of neuropsychology related to his
interest in artificial intelligence.  He could only theorize that 
his machine had given Mulder some kind of dissociative condition.

"You should eat something," Joy said.

"Chris Boyd.  He did it," Mulder said woodenly.

"Who?" asked Roger.

"That guy he keeps asking about," Andy reminded him.

"Scully," Mulder said, fingering his cell phone.  He punched in 
her number without looking.

"She's on her way, Agent Mulder," Joy told him in a tone of voice 
that made it sound like "Your mommy will be here soon."

Mulder's phone gave him some frustrating message about Agent 
Scully's unavailability.

"Got to find her," Mulder explained as he staggered to his feet 
against the protests of the others, but Scully's appearance, along 
with a man in a clerical collar, ended the argument.

"Mulder, are you all right?" she asked.  For once Chris didn't 
feel singled out; she was ignoring everyone except for her partner.

"I think so," he said, dropping back into his chair.  "It was 
like a global agnosia.  I could see and hear, but nothing had any 
meaning."

"Anything else?  Headache, dizziness?"  She sat down next to 
Mulder, unaware that Chris had done the gentlemanly thing and 
scrambled out of the chair before she landed in his lap.

"I feel kind of clumsy and slow," Mulder said.  "It's getting 
better."

"Any recent head trauma?" she asked, fingering the top of his head.

"Scully, this isn't a head injury," he said.  "Chris Boyd is here, 
and he has some device that caused these symptoms."

"I see," Scully said.  "But just in case, let's get you to the 
emergency room."

"I didn't hit my head," Mulder said impatiently.  "This is not a 
case of trauma, disease, or toxins.  I'm telling you that Chris 
Boyd has constructed some kind of jamming device, a machine that 
interferes with normal brain function."

Scully didn't take her eyes from him, but used her hand to 
indicate the others at the table.

"Did anyone else experience these symptoms?" she asked.  They all
murmured their negative replies.  "It was just you, Mulder.  
How do you explain that?"

"If you help me find Chris Boyd, we can ask him," Mulder said.  

"All right.  I'll stay here and attempt to apprehend Chris Boyd, 
but you need to follow up on your neurological event," Scully said 
firmly. "Just a CT scan, Mulder, it'll take five minutes and they 
won't make you drink anything."

"We have to find the wires again and trace them back to the box," 
Mulder said.

"Damn it, Mulder, I'm willing to admit the possibility that a 
man most notable for being a nobody has built a machine that makes 
you act like you're having a stroke.  I just want you to consider 
the other possibilities," she said.

Chris heard the fear in her voice and he knew he was the author 
of that fear.  But she still wouldn't credit him.  Of course not.  
He was a nobody.  Chris's frustration crystalized into anger, and 
for the second time he turned on his machine.

"Now it's your turn, Agent Scully," he said, surprised at his 
own venom. Mulder believed what he could do, but apparently Mulder 
was a fool, a man with no credibility.  His accomplishment meant 
nothing if he couldn't convince the other agent, the sensible one.

"You son of a bitch!"  Mulder shouted, shoving his chair aside and
reaching for the control box that hummed to life in Chris's hands. 
Again Chris whirled away, but Mulder grabbed him with a deftness 
Chris hadn't expected.

"Yeah, I can see you this time," Mulder confirmed.

"Chris?  When did you get here?" Andy Marcus sounded shocked.

His invention had made him visible, and he didn't even know how.  
He couldn't think straight with Mulder squeezing his throat; he 
couldn't even breathe.  Mulder spun him around, and Chris lost 
his grip.  The box crashed to the floor.

"Scully?  Are you all right?" Mulder shouted without turning 
around, almost blasting out Chris's eardrum.  "You turn that off, 
you bastard!"

Chris let his body drop to the floor, and Mulder released his 
throat.

"Somebody check on Scully!" Mulder shouted.

Kneeling in front of his invention, Chris flipped the toggle, 
but the humming didn't stop.  He looked up in a panic.

"Andy, help me out!  Something must have shorted out the switch," 
he called.

Marcus, who was usually so deliberate, wasted no time in joining 
him on the floor.

"Schematics?" he asked, but Chris shook his head.  
"Power source?" Marcus asked.

"Lithium batteries," Chris said.  The case was held together with 
little screws, but Andy was cutting through the metal with a wire 
stripper.

"I can't turn it off," Chris wailed to Mulder.  

"Damn."  Chris looked back to see that Andy had dropped the 
cutting tool.  "It's heating up.  What did you do, Chris?  What 
is this thing?"

= = = = =

Beneath her cool exterior, Scully's mind was racing.  

Rapid onset of total agnosia and receptive aphasia with impaired 
motor function.  

Parietal lobe?  Maybe, but what was the mechanism? She could find 
no outward evidence of trauma.  Hemorrhage was unlikely but 
possible. It was probably a thrombus or a tumor.  

His symptoms had subsided and his pupils were equal and reactive, 
for now.  

Who did she know in Boston?  She'd call Skinner and he'd see to the
rest.  A hospital, a neurosurgeon . . . 

Mulder was arguing with her, and he sounded reassuringly intact. But 
how in the world would she convince a neurologist that there was 
nothing pathological in Mulder's insistence that an invisible man 
was jamming his brain waves?

Maybe it was just one little clot, Scully decided, big enough so 
that it wouldn't migrate but small enough so that a kind radiologist 
could remove it.  Maybe it wouldn't even have to be removed.  Mulder 
could be monitored in a neurological ICU while his tiny thrombus 
resolved.

Her hopeful scenario shattered when Mulder gave a shout and lunged 
at someone who wasn't there.

Agnosia, motor disturbance, and now hallucination.

"You son of a bitch," she heard Mulder shout, but then something
happened. She could still hear Mulder's voice but it was all 
nonsense, sounds that seemed like words but had no meaning.  

Oh my God, now Mulder had expressive aphasia.  

Scully wanted to scream for someone to call the paramedics, but 
everyone was gone, or maybe it was dark.  But it wasn't dark, 
there were shapes and shadows and blobs, some moving and some 
standing still, but the people were gone and she couldn't even 
see Mulder.  

She could hear him, though, Mulder's voice and other voices, 
and the phrases and inflections sounded like English but she 
couldn't understand a word.

She couldn't see and Mulder couldn't talk.  He needed a CT scan 
stat and an MRI and an MRA and an EEG, but how could she make 
that happen and how would she ever read them?

Mulder's voice shouted more gibberish, and she felt hands on 
her shoulders.  Arms lifted her and carried her somewhere, and 
she decided to let them, because they were Mulder's. 

= = = = =

"May I make a phone call?" Chris asked.

He was sitting in an interrogation room in the Boston field office 
with a couple of FBI agents who had lost interest in 
interrogating him.

"Later," answered one of them without looking up from his newspaper.

"Am I under arrest?" Chris asked.

"Yeah, buddy," the same agent told him.  "It's against the law to 
turn invisible."

The second agent snorted at the quip, setting down his coffee and 
wiping his mouth with his hand.

"It isn't nice to spook Ol' Spooky.  The infamous Spooky Mulder.  
What did you make of that guy, Mark?" he asked.

"Mulder's out there, just like they say.  But what about the 
partner?  She's supposed to be the solid one," Mark said.  

"She didn't seem very solid to me," said the first agent.  "If I 
was her ASAC, I'd want to look into it.  Irish name, Scully, you 
know what I'm saying?"  He cupped his hand and tilted it toward 
his mouth.

"You're a bigot, Harvey," Mark told him without rancor.

"I'm Irish myself, on my mother's side.  I know what I'm 
talking about," Harvey said.

"How long are you going to keep me here?" Chris asked nervously.

"We don't know yet," Mark said.  "You want to borrow my paper?"

"Thanks."  Chris accepted the paper and forced himself to read, 
but his anxiety continued to climb.

He didn't look up when he heard the door open.

"We were waiting for you fellows," he heard Mark say.

"This him?" a new voice asked.  

"That's your invisible man, all right," Harvey said with a laugh.

"Let's go.  Now."  The voice was a monotone, and Chris looked 
up to see two men with dark suits and fedoras.  One was carrying 
Chris's control panel, charred and still reeking of melted wiring, 
and the other held a cardboard box.  By the size Chris guessed it 
held the rest of his device.

"You're NSA?" Mark asked, but neither man answered.

"Where are you taking me?" Chris asked timidly as the two men 
flanked him.  Again there was no answer.  Chris took a deep 
breath as they led him out the door.

= = = = =

end 5/6


A Neurotic Need for Validation - 6/6
Disclaimer and stuff with section 1

= = = = =

She knew she was Dana Scully, FBI.  She had no idea where she was or
what time it was.  When a cup of water pressed against her lips so 
she could drink, she knew that someone was taking care of her.  Then 
she went back to sleep.

She woke next to the sound of a voice, Mulder's voice, and he was
speaking words in the same language as the words in her head.  But he
was not speaking to her.

"I didn't say the machine made people invisible, Frohike, and yeah, I
know exactly what you'd do with it," Mulder was saying.  There was a
pause, as if Frohike was answering, but Scully could hear nothing but
the snapping and spitting of sunflower seed shells.

"Right.  It disrupted the centers of the brain where sensory input is
processed for meaning," Mulder said.

He was talking on a telephone, Scully decided.  She opened her eyes 
for confirmation, but the abstract mixture of rectangles and oblongs 
gave her no information and made her head hurt.  She closed her eyes 
again and listened.

"Thanks, Byers, but I know it's possible because it happened," Mulder
said.  "I don't think that's what Chris had in mind, though.  Like 
you said, he was trying to make people invisible."

Words were beautiful things, Scully thought.  When Mulder finished
talking, she would say, "Water," and Mulder would bring her some.  
She was sure of it.

"She'll be okay.  She got a lot more exposure than I did, so it's 
taking longer to wear off."  Scully felt his hand as he brushed her 
hair back from her forehead. "She has to get better.  She owes me a
dance."  The last sentence was spoken so softly that Scully wondered 
if the Gunmen could hear it at all.

"I left a voice mail for the agents from the Boston office.  I'll let
you know what they say.  Thanks, guys."

She heard him hang up the phone.  Before she could remember to ask 
for water, she felt the cup against her lips and Mulder's arm behind 
her head, supporting her so she could drink.

"Good girl, Scully," Mulder whispered.

= = = = =

Once when she woke she heard snoring sounds and the low drone of the
television, and she smiled and went back to sleep.  She woke next to
Mulder's voice, raggedly loud with frustration.

"What I want to know, Hah-vee, is why you released a man from FBI
custody without my authorization. . . . Instructions from the top--of
what?  Then give me their names.  Of course they have names, asshole,
how else does their mama call them home for dinner?  Yeah?  Same to 
you, buddy!"

"Making friends?" Scully managed to rasp when she heard the phone 
slam.

"Scully!  Welcome back."  He sat on the edge of the bed and she
moved to accommodate him.  "Come on, open your eyes," he urged her.

"Don't wanna," she informed him. She didn't like the blobs and 
angles, so frightening in their senselessness.  "Who's Hah-vee?"

"Hah-vee Pah-kuh, from the Boston office.  The genius who released 
Chris Boyd--plus his machine--to a couple of bad dudes he didn't 
know cause they were wearing hats," Mulder said. "How much do you 
remember?"

She yawned and answered slowly.

"You ditched me at the church, I never got dinner, and you need a CAT
scan," she murmured.

"I forgot about that.  I'll get you a CAT scan, Scully."  He sounded
worried again.

"No CAT scan. Sleep," she slurred.  "Night, Muldah."

= = = = =

"Scully, wake up," Mulder said, tapping her shoulder gently.  

She opened her eyes to a world that had returned to normal.  Walls 
and furniture were recognizable.  She held up her hands so she could 
inspect them, and they were normal too.  She turned to Mulder, who 
was finally Mulder again.

"You look terrible," she said, and his tired face broke into a very
broad smile.

"You can see," he said.  "Thank God."

She raised herself on her elbows, which made her head ache, but she
gritted her teeth and forced herself to sit up.

"You need to get some sleep, Mulder," she said.  His appearance was
positively alarming.  She'd seen him at rock-bottom, and he didn't 
look far from that now.

"I'm going to tell Skinner everything," he said.  "How I opened a 
case without cause, using Bureau resources for a private agenda, and 
how I tricked you into cooperating."

"You don't have to do that, Mulder, you made it right.  You're on
vacation time anyway, and we won't submit the expenses.  I'll just 
use a couple of vacation days for myself, and we'll be in the 
clear," she said.

"Listen carefully, Scully, because I don't know what's going to 
happen next. Chris Boyd has vanished--he's *been* vanished.  The 
guys from the Boston office who took custody were ordered to turn 
him over. Now he's gone," Mulder said.

"Turn him over to who, Mulder? Somebody must know where he is," she
said.

"He's untraceable.  The Gunmen won't even try to find him.  They're
scared," Mulder said.  They both knew the Lone Gunmen were not easily
intimidated.

"Boyd's work at RMP was for a DOD contract," Scully remembered.

"If this is DOD, it's an off-budget operation," Mulder said.  
"I can't get near them, Scully. I have to go to Skinner."

"Mulder, you can't!  This is going to look like a serious violation 
of your professional responsibility," she said.  

"Because it is," he said softly.

"You're going to be censured," she said, convinced he didn't 
understand the gravity of his situation.

"No, Scully, you're going to be censured.  I'll be fired," he said.

= = = = =

"There's a lot of interest in your machine, Chris.  Seems it can 
render your enemy helpless at the touch of a button," said the tall 
man.

"Trouble is, it doesn't work unless you're around," the shorter man
said.  "Tough break."

The room had a cot, a table, and two chairs.  Chris was sitting on 
the cot, and the two men had pulled their chairs close so they could 
talk to him.

"That doesn't make any sense.  I'm sure I can fix it," Chris said
hopefully.

"Our scientists say all it does is amplify your own ability.  You're
part of the machine," said the tall man.

"Maybe they'll be able to duplicate your special talent," the shorter
man said.  "Then you'll be free to go."

"I would never tell anyone about any of this," Chris promised 
earnestly, although no one had warned him about keeping his mouth 
shut.

"That's great, Chris. We knew we could count on you," the shorter man
said.  "Remember, we're all in this together."

Chris wondered if he was really nicer or if that was part of his job.

"People will be looking for me," Chris said, eyes cast downward 
because he didn't believe it himself.  "Someone will miss me."

The shorter man put a hand on his shoulder.

"We're not heartless, Chris.  If you want to send your mom a card now
and then, I'm sure we can arrange it," he said.

"The FBI was after me," Chris said.  He thought he saw the tall man
smirk a little, but he pressed on.  "A man named Mulder.  He's very
persistent."

"You'll be happy here.  Remember, you're among friends now," said the
shorter man.

"Friends have names," Chris said sullenly.  His glance strayed to the
camera mounted in the corner of his cell, but he looked away quickly 
so they wouldn't know he'd seen it.

"Not in our line of work.  And remember, now it's your line of work 
as well," said the shorter man.  "But hey, you can call me anything 
you like.  How about Phil?"

"Phil," Chris repeated.

"Try not to worry about the surveillance cam," Phil said.  "We just
want to make sure you don't hurt yourself."

"What are friends for?" asked Chris.  He felt a dull despair descend
on him.  It was a familiar feeling.

= = = = =

Scully didn't know anyone who could express fury as quietly and 
calmly as Skinner.  Instead of ordering her and Mulder to return to
headquarters, he'd dropped everything and flown up to deal with them 
on the spot.  They were meeting in Mulder's motel room, because for 
once his room was neater.

"Misdeeds of this nature are frequently referred to OPC," Skinner 
said icily, and Scully realized that despite his anger he was trying 
to avoid a formal hearing.  

"I'm requesting a review by OPC."  Mulder looked him in the eye, and
Scully hoped he didn't seem challenging or insolent.

"You want to go before the review board and explain that you took it
upon yourself to unleash the power of the FBI on a tiny technology
company because you needed a date," Skinner summarized.

"I'm ready to accept any punishment, as long as the facts of this
incident are aired and investigated," Mulder said.

"Sir, I'd like to remind you that Mulder was technically on vacation,
and I would like to donate three days of my vacation time as well. 
We've agreed, in addition, that we will not submit travel expenses,"
Scully said, and Skinner turned to her with something close to 
disgust.

"One week on the bricks, agent," he said.

A week's suspension without pay.  Scully was startled by his 
ferocity and the punishment.

"At the end of that time, be prepared to demonstrate your 
understanding that the powers you enjoy as an agent of the FBI are 
not weapons to use capriciously against people or corporations," 
Skinner continued.

"Sir, I didn't mean to imply that what we did was right or 
acceptable--" she began.

"Or legal," Skinner said pointedly, and then he turned back 
to Mulder. "You needed a date for a wedding.  Whose?"

"Sir, that's a private matter--" Scully protested.

Mulder waved her off with stinging impatience.

"He has to ask.  OPC will ask too," he said.

Belatedly Scully decided to shut her mouth.

"Sorry, sir," Mulder said.  "A former girlfriend was getting 
married, and it was important to me to show her I was... 
successful."  His voice dropped with the last word.

"Why?" Skinner asked.

"Why?"  Mulder seemed surprised by the question, but under Skinner's
glare he gave an answer.  "Because she doubted my ability to function
within a large, disciplined, hierarchical organization." 

"You didn't want this remarkably prescient woman to know that you
couldn't find a date.  That your own partner wouldn't perform this
simple act of friendship unless you tricked her into it," Skinner 
said.

Mulder nodded.

Scully held her silence.  She would do any favor for Mulder and both
these men knew it, but there was no benefit to arguing the details.

"In order to impress a woman you hadn't seen in years, a woman 
who knew you well enough to foresee your difficulties in following 
rules, a woman who was comfortable enough with the past to invite 
you to her wedding--in short, someone unlikely to be duped and even 
less likely to give a damn--you abused your status as a federal 
officer to randomly bring pressure on a small company with no hint 
or history of violation," Skinner said.

Scully refrained from mentioning that Mulder reported his misdeed
voluntarily and that he'd never intended to bully or harm RMP.

"My action was misguided and foolish as well as illegal," Mulder
acknowledged.

"Try pathetic," Skinner snapped. "And now you'd like the Bureau to 
step in and clean up your mess."

"In the course of my bogus investigation, I discovered the 
existence of a man named Christopher Boyd. Mr. Boyd was in 
possession of an electronic device that caused a paralyzing state 
of confusion in his victims," Mulder began.

"You and Agent Scully were the only victims," Skinner noted.  
"There's an unfortunate dearth of objective evidence to back up your 
claims."

That was totally her own fault, Scully thought, and this time she
decided to speak up.

"Perhaps a PET scan would be revealing, even at this late date," she
offered.  Mulder nodded in her direction.

"Good.  Anything to shed some light on the nature of the mental
disruption," he said.  "But my first concern is for Christopher Boyd
himself.  While in FBI custody, he seems to have vanished from the 
face of the earth."

"You're questioning the actions of the FBI and possibly other 
agencies in a matter that does not concern you," Skinner said.  
"You're not entitled to this information."

"Sir, Christopher Boyd has been stripped of his most basic rights 
under the cloak of secrecy.  Whether it was the NSA or the DOD or 
some other black ops, the FBI was an accomplice."

"You're in no position to make this judgment," Skinner said.

"'No person shall be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without 
due process of law.'  It's from the fifth amendment," Mulder said.

"Touching," Skinner commented.  "Give me what you have on Christopher
Boyd."

= = = = =

There was more room in the back seat of the black sedan than Chris 
had up front in his own car.  In his own car, though, you could open 
the doors from the inside.

"How are you doing?  Comfortable back there?" Phil asked.

"Yeah," he said.  The tall agent was behind the wheel, and Phil was 
in the passenger seat with Chris's control console on his lap.  
Chris craned his neck to get a better look at the console.  It had a 
new casing and some of the switches and dials looked different.

"There's your friend Mulder," the tall agent said.  

A black and white monitor mounted in the dashboard displayed a view 
of a motel room.  Inside the room Mulder was pacing and 
gesticulating while the other agent, Scully, sat in an armchair with 
her hands clasped schoolgirl fashion.  A tall bald man with glasses 
leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest.

"I want you to try to relax, Chris," Phil said, twisting in his seat 
to stare into Chris's face.  "This will be a lot easier if you can 
empty your mind."

"What are you doing?" Chris asked with no expectation of an answer. 
They were parked outside what was undoubtedly the same motel he could
see on the video monitor.  Phil had switched on the device and Chris
smelled a whiff of warm plastic.

"Your machine's been upgraded, Chris.  Just open your mind and let 
those thought waves flow," Phil said.

"Mulder first?  Or do you want to try all three together?" asked the
tall man.

Phil gave Chris an encouraging nod before turning back to answer his
partner.

"I'll start with Mulder and see if I can spread the field to cover 
all three," he said.  "You follow them on audio."

Chris hadn't noticed before, but the tall agent wore an earpiece.

"Nice, deep breaths, Chris," Phil said in a soothing voice as he
manipulated the control panel.

Chris's neck felt uncomfortably stiff, probably from straining to 
watch the monitor.  He leaned back in his seat, hunching his 
shoulders, but the ache only increased.

"Close your eyes," Phil suggested.

"Nothing's happening," said the tall agent.  "Wait. Mulder just sat
down."

"He's fighting me.  Damn it, Chris, relax!" Phil ordered him.

Chris's head hurt terribly and fireworks burst before his eyes, even 
as he squeezed them shut.

"Bingo!" exulted the tall man.  "The bald guy's down."

"We're smokin'!" Phil agreed.  "We'll just give them a quick cleaning
and then we're out of here.  Good job, Chris!"

He could feel it in his teeth now.  Pain massed in his head and neck 
and down both arms.  Chris tried to curl himself into a ball, 
pressing his face into the crack between the backrest and the seat 
cushion.  

"They're cooked," the tall man announced.  "Let's get our golden boy
home and make our report."

= = = = =

Scully didn't want to open her eyes.  She had the strangest feeling 
that she'd find herself in a cubist painting.  

What could she figure out without the use of vision?  First of all, 
she was on the floor.  The rough rug under her cheek made that 
obvious.  

Mulder was here.  She wondered how she knew.  She couldn't hear his
voice or even his breathing.  Could she smell him, perhaps?  She 
sniffed the air and caught the distinctive scent of Irish Spring.

Mulder never used Irish Spring for exactly that reason: you could 
smell it across the room.  She reached toward the smell and her 
fingers met the tight weave of a summer-weight wool suit.  It didn't 
seem like Mulder's suit, although she couldn't say how it was 
different.

She followed the suit up to its collar, where she found a neck.  
She knew Mulder's neck well, and this wasn't it.  Whoever owned 
the neck was lying on the floor, the same as she was.  

"Scully, is that you?"  Mulder's voice was only a few feet away, 
and she could understand him.  Maybe it would be okay to open her 
eyes.

"Jesus!"  The exclamation burst from the Irish Spring man on the 
floor next to her, and as soon as she heard it she knew who he was.

Skinner sounded angry.  On second thought, he sounded more surprised
than angry.

"I'm sorry!"  That was Mulder.

"What the hell are you doing?" Skinner demanded.

"Nothing!  I thought you were Scully," Mulder stammered.

"Scully would have ripped your hand off!" Skinner hissed.

The funny thing was that no one was moving, as if none of them were
ready to face that challenge.

"My eyes were closed," Mulder explained.

"And you!"  She heard Skinner grunt with the effort of turning his 
head to her.  "Keep your hands off my neck!"

= = = = =

There was no apparent cause for the blackouts. Skinner had summoned 
an environmental team, but the room checked out as clean.  Blood 
tests and diagnostic scans were negative, at least on first 
examination. Scully suspected further analysis would be equally 
fruitless.

They were back in Mulder's room, still grappling with the mysterious
occurrence that none of them could explain or even remember.

"At least we didn't wake up in bed together," Mulder said.

Skinner was immensely disturbed that he couldn't even explain why 
he'd decided to fly to Massachusetts.  

"Apparently I cleared my calendar and hopped the shuttle, 
undoubtedly to limit the damage from you two," he said.  

"Maybe we just called and promised you a good time," Mulder said.

Scully tried to catch his eye to warn him that he was an idiot.  

"Get a life," Skinner said, shaking his head with distaste. 
"According to your field notes you were checking a company called 
RMP for compliance in documentation," he said.

"That's right, sir," Scully confirmed. She remembered the 
investigation even without her notes.

"A far cry from your usual field of inquiry," he noted.

"It does seem strange," Scully agreed.

"Your audit commended the company on the quality of their practices,"
Skinner said.

"According to our report," Mulder confirmed.

"Well... that's that," Skinner concluded.  

"I guess it is," said Scully.

"You might as well pack up," Skinner ordered, parking himself by the
desk.

Poor Mulder.  Skinner would sit here and watch him pack.  She gave 
him a little nod of sympathy as she reached for the doorknob.

There was a startled "Oh!" from the other side of the door as Scully
pushed it open.

"Deanna!" Scully exclaimed.  "Are you all right?"

"It's my own fault.  I was working up the courage to knock," Deanna
said.  She wore uneven cut-off jeans and an oversized blue T-shirt.  
"Is he here?"

Scully nodded.

"I was just stepping out," she said.  "*We* were just stepping out." 
She gave Skinner what she hoped was a meaningful glance.

"I only have a minute," Deanna said.  "I left Todd shingling the 
roof."  She looked past Scully to where Mulder stood frozen, holding 
a hanger and staring at the door.

"Hi, Dee," he said.

"Hi, Fox," she answered.

Mulder looked so woeful that Scully wanted to run across the room and
stand beside him.  Deanna looked about the same.

"I received a commendation," Mulder told her.  "Right, sir?"  He 
turned to Skinner, who looked more baffled than before.

"I think that was back in ninety-one," Skinner managed to reply.

"Congratulations," Deanna said.  "Fox, I want to show you something."

Scully decided that Deanna had the longest legs she'd ever seen.  
Even with red ankle socks and tennis sneakers, they seemed to go on 
forever.

"New book coming out?" Mulder asked as she pulled something from a
manila envelope.

"No.  Look," she said.  She gave him a handful of folded papers. 
Scully recognized the VISA logo on one.

"Oh, that's great," Mulder said, leafing through the statements. 
"Paid on time, paid in full... That's not a bad rate, either, Dee."  

"See?  It's balanced."  Deanna was showing him her checkbook.  "You
taught me that."

"Least I could do," Mulder said.  

"I know you didn't think I could make it on my own--" 

"That isn't true," Mulder interrupted her.  "I knew you could."

"Really?  Thanks," Deanna said.  "Here's something else."  She passed
him an envelope.

"Deanna, what is this?" Mulder asked.

"The money you lent me. I was afraid if I gave you a check you 
wouldn't cash it," she said.  "I needed to pay you back."

"I would have cashed it," he told her.  

They stared into one another's eyes, an arm's length apart, and 
Scully wanted to prompt Mulder to mark the moment with a hug.

"Don't get shot," Deanna said suddenly.  She whirled from him, 
hurrying to the door almost at a run.

"Dee, wait," Mulder called, and she stopped in her tracks.  "What's
wrong with the roof?"

"Just old.  You know."  She shrugged.

"Cedar shakes. Took us a week, with the rain," Mulder said.  

"I remember. You and Mick," she said.

"I thought it would last," Mulder said. 

"I sold that house, Fox.  But the roof still looks great."  With her
long stride, she was out of the room before Scully could say 
good-bye.

= = = = =

Skinner caught the next plane out, leaving Mulder and Scully with 
strict orders to be in his office the next morning.  They were 
flying home later in the day. Skinner hadn't questioned that 
decision, but Scully was very curious.

"No mystery," Mulder told her as they drove away from the airport. 
"We've been summoned by Cousin Jane."

Scully smiled.  

"I think we can expect a few harsh words about our manners," she
said.

"No doubt, but we'll also have the unparalleled joy of eating her
homemade peanut butter balls," he said.  "I bet they're the reason I
invited Skinner to join us in Ellison."

"Mulder, I'm pretty sure I know what you said in your phone call to
Skinner.  I think you told him about the wedding, and how our 
expenses were at least partly personal," she said.

"It had to be something like that," Mulder agreed. "But why would I 
do that?"

"Conscience?" Scully asked.

"My conscience says if I cover the expenses, I'm in the clear.  It's
quite a coincidence that our investigation brought us here in time 
for Deanna's wedding, but do you really think I should report 
myself?" he asked.

"I don't know, Mulder.  I just have this lingering feeling that we 
did something wrong," she said.

"Maybe we did have a three-way with Skinner," he suggested.

"Thanks for the image," she said sarcastically.  "Is there some way 
I can obliterate it before our meeting with him tomorrow?"

= = = = =

"Do you have any idea how much work it takes?" Jane asked crabbily,
using her walker to lower herself into an uncomfortable-looking
upholstered chair. The famous peanut butter balls filled a small 
china plate on the coffee table, perfect chocolate globes just a 
little larger than bite-sized.

"You shouldn't have," Scully said sincerely.  She knew she'd have 
to try one to be polite, and she knew that if she took one she'd want
another. She and Mulder shared a small sofa across from Jane.

Jane snorted.  "You say that.  *He* said he wouldn't come over 
unless I did."

Mulder didn't answer, except for little lip-smacking sounds.  His 
eyes were closed, his head was back, and he appeared to be oblivious 
to everything except the morsel melting slowly in his mouth.

"Mulder!" Scully warned him.  He was embarrassing her.

"I'd give you the recipe, but I expect you have your own ways of 
making him happy," Jane said.

Mulder's head dropped forward and he sighed with satisfaction.  
Scully wondered if Jane could see well enough to know she was 
blushing.

"Anyway, they're a damn lot of fuss and a million calories apiece," 
the old lady continued.

Mulder opened his eyes, stretched languidly, and reached for another
candy.

"And you're going to wash the pot for me and wipe down the stove," 
she told him sharply.

"Mm," he agreed, lips working as he bit through the chocolate shell.

"I mean it!  Not one more bite until you do!" Her tone was no 
sharper than before, but Mulder took her seriously enough to place 
his half-eaten candy on a napkin, licking his fingers as he left 
the room.

"You'd better save me some," he warned Scully, forcing a smile 
from her because there were at least a dozen chocolates left.

"All right then," Jane said.  "Tell me when you and Fox realized 
you had something special between you."

Scully felt guilty.  She hadn't lied to Jane at the church, but 
neither had she corrected the old lady's mistaken assumption.

"I'm sorry if I misled you. but there is nothing special between 
us. We're just good friends who work together," Scully said.

Jane nodded to herself, pursing her lips.

"That's good, because I have a girl for him," she said.

"I don't know if he'll appreciate that," Scully said with a laugh.

"She's an actress, after a fashion," Jane continued.  "You probably
don't know about those movies Fox likes. Blue movies, we used to 
call them."

"Really?" Scully asked.  She knew Mulder would be instantly 
intrigued.

"She has a day job, too.  She's a ticket broker for sporting 
events," Jane said.

"Sporting events?" Scully asked as indifferently as she could.

"Football, baseball, basketball.  She buys and sells blocks of
tickets," the old lady explained.

"How very charming," Scully said, her jaw tightening.

"She's a busy girl, but she always has time to whip up a batch of 
these peanut butter balls.  I can't imagine how she keeps her 
figure," Jane said.

"A porn star with sports tickets and chocolate," Scully reiterated.
The final embellishment had clued her in that Jane was spinning a 
yarn.

"Oh, darn it, I lost you with those chocolates," Jane cackled.  
"I had you going till then.  The look on your face!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Scully said, blushing 
again.

"Calm down, honey, I'm just trying to make a point.  Why don't you 
try a peanut butter ball?  I'm going into the kitchen to yank Fox's 
chain."

Jane rose from her spartan chair with the help of her walker, her 
face crinkling with amusement.

"I'll tell him you've taken a fancy to that bald-headed engineer he 
was griping about.  Or maybe it's the Reverend Mickey Lewis. I know 
that would burn his ass."  Jane chuckled to herself.  "Just 
friends. We'll see about that!"

As Cousin Jane clumped into the kitchen, Scully picked up a peanut
butter ball and took a tentative nibble.

Oh my God!  She'd had chocolate before, of course, and peanut butter,
but this candy brought both to a whole new level.  She'd never known
that anything could taste this good.

She took a larger bite and she was startled anew by the intensity of
the experience.  A million calories, Jane had said, but it really 
didn't matter.  It was worth being fat for this.  She closed her 
eyes, relaxing as her tongue searched her teeth and gums for traces 
of the chocolate. She was dimly aware of noises from the kitchen, 
of Jane's triumphant laughter and Mulder's voice, grieved and 
injured.

"You're a sadist!" Mulder roared.

"Just friends," Jane howled.  "Good Lord, you two are a hoot!"

Scully finished the candy, sucking on it as the last bit melted in 
her mouth.  Then she took another.

=  = = = =

Chris lay on his cot, facing the wall.

"Sorry about the headache," Phil said.

"It's better now," said Chris.

"Next time we'll give you an oxygen mask and see if that helps," 
Phil said.  "We're still in the learning phase."

"Right," Chris said.

"You know, we're working on it all the time.  As soon as we duplicate
that magic brain of yours, you can hit the road." Phil was trying to
cheer him up.

"Thanks."

"And look, I brought you a TV set.  Premium cable and ESPN!  You're a
Red Sox fan, aren't you?"

"Yeah," said Chris.  "Maybe they'll win this year."

= = = = =

the end


Help settle an argument.  Do you think Mulder would have fixed the 
roof?  I agree that David Duchovny would be an unlikely roofer, but 
I think Mulder would have given it his best shot.

Feedback to ckelll@hotmail.com