Date: Wed, 28 Jul 1999 18:33:51 -0700 Subject: NEW: someone you know (1/6) by lemon Source: xff I'm baaaackk! Two years later? Here's #3 effort. Whew. I can't believe it. Thanks to all of you and your encouragement re: stalking horses! (Now exclusively at the Chronicles of LabBoy Page, and an NC-17 festival...end of shameless plug). Unfortunately, this has nothing to do with it. Comments to: lemon@navix.net Disclaimers: The Killer Of Pendrell (Mr. Chris Carter..I'll name him) (and I'm still mad) owns all, is all, sees all....I do not intend to ever make any money off this venture, nor do I intend to infringe on any copyrights or important legal stuff. I am doing this for sheer fun at this point. The other characters here are mine! (Yikes.) I hereby say they are copyrighted, or whatever. Archive: Yes, please, as you kind folks at Gossamer have been doing for me. Please ask me if you'd like to post it or distribute it anywhere else. Punk, you don't have to ask. Rating: Um, I think PG 13 for lots of nasty language and some pretty heavily implied sex Classification: R, S as far as I can tell? Summary: Well, let's just say that this was inspired by ST:TNG's "Lower Decks" episode..or was it "Below Decks"? Lots of things *about* our intrepid heros, they do show up. It's not MSR. Oh, and this has nothing to do with the *real* xf timeline or any other *reality.*. Maybe someone will read it? someone you know by lemon FBI Academy, Quantico Monday, June 12, 1997 1:10 pm I was surprised. Frankly, I was stunned. I had a hard time hearing past the mention of his name. My agenda had always included him. My personal agenda, anyway. I found it hard to believe that I had brought his name up, that they had accepted it. In fact, they treated my letter exactly like the other three nominations. Apparently they weren't just paying the idea lip service, trying to appear unphased by my suggestion. Now--now he was coming here to speak to my class, Spring graduates at Quantico. I never expected this. He would attend a luncheon, speak, and stay for a reception. My pulse drowned out my instructor's voice in my ears. "Faether. Are you listening to me?" "What? Oh, sorry sir. Yea, um...." "Your letter was accepted. It will be up to you to make sure Special Agent Fox Mulder is accommodated during the afternoon..." "Yes, sir." "Contact him soon, Faether. He's expecting a call." My letter had been the culmination of a weekend with a few fellow students. It was a Saturday night. We were all drinking at Mick's, taking some R&R. I was plastered. We were off, calling it shore leave, on our last break until graduation. ********** "This is al*most* over," I said to Jack Daniels. I've always been a weepy drunk. "Faether, I love you. When are you gonna come out with me--leave these two jerks at home. C'mon. You know I'd treat you right." "Zisk, stop asking me when I'm drunk. I'm too easy. Ask me when I'm sober." "Zisk, piss off," Amon said. I looked at Amon then. So attractive. Beautiful brown eyes, hair that zig-zagged in all the wrong directions at once. A passionate, insolent face. I recognized that face. "You remind me of Spooky," I said to him, to his eyes. I've always been an honest drunk. There was silence all around. Spooky Mulder's name had a way of grinding trainee conversation to a halt. Everyone had an opinion about him. Everyone who'd done Quantico since 1988 knew who he was, his work. His was the kind of insider fame that incited James Tiberious Kirk jokes, the kind that made or broke friendships, created cliques. For instance, if you believed that Hoover wore dresses *and* a bra, you hung out with certain other rookies. And if you took Spooky seriously, you tended towards certain other factions, usually destined for academy ridicule. We were them, carefully defining ourselves as "Hoover-No-Bra-Spookies." It was a tough row to hoe, especially for me. I'm older, 31. I'm a woman. *And* I'm firmly in the pro-Spooky camp. It is a constant source of surprise to me that I have made it this far, that as a group, we have made it this far. Stan Zisk was a blonde of a guy, with a butt smaller than mine and a petite nose that indicated he might actually be a pro skier. He was only 23. Jim Whitman was a quiet study of a man, who wanted nothing more than a legitimate reason to toy with the best computer technology our government could offer. He was 27, and I trusted him to drive me home drunk, because he loved his wife and so did I. Stacy Amon blew me away. He made me want to forget this fight for a career in a man's world and become a professional belly dancer. He was 25. No one was saying anything. You'd think I'd just compared Amon to Ghandi or Elvis or something. "Fuck you guys," I started, sitting back in my seat and waving them off. "Meeting Spooky. Now, there'd be a thing," Zisk said, wistfully rubbing his beer bottle for effect. "Shit, man, don't you think the man has a bit to do? I mean, you don't get the highest solve rate in the Bureau by shootin' the shit with us puke greens," Amon blurted. "He's why I'm here!" I shouted, the picture of drunken stupor. "I need to know the truth." "She was green--she was three shades of fucking lime green when they met," Zisk added. "Nobody with an MD in forensics is fucking green, you jerkwad," Whitman piped in. The table fell silent again as I polished off my fourth Jack of the evening. Beer chaser was stinging the back of my throat when Amon's eyes lit up like a starry night sky. "We nominate him! We fuckin' nominate him for the graduate luncheon address." "Brilliant, Amon. Yea. They're gonna let the Bureau renegade tell all the little newbies how to really get the job done. You're a total kook," Zisk laughed as he tipped his beer into his mouth. Amon ignored him, focused his beautiful brown eyes on me. "Faether....Amy, we could do this. You know things about him, his career. You know we could write this thing and make it about solve rate, profiling, and blow the sunshine so far up their asses that they'd *have* to trot him out, just to relieve the pressure. Spookies, Non-Spookies, they all wanna meet him. Let's do this, Amy." "Stop calling me Amy, Stacy, or I'll be forced to admit that I love you." "Faether, you name the place and we'll...." "write them a nomination letter they can't refuse," Zisk cut in, doing his best Brando. "Oh, fuck you Zisk," I muttered, still holding Amon's eyes in mine. I've always been a horny drunk. We all wound up at Whitman's, huddled around his 19" Sony monitor. Althea brought in some coffee. "Althea, don't you have anything sweet to make this paint-stripper palatable?" I asked. She hugged me. "You need to go. I don't want you on my couch tonight, Amy. What *are* you people up to at this hour on a Saturday night?" she asked, passing a hand across Whitman's back. "Trying to get to meet Spooky Mulder," he said. That hush fell across the room, as we listened intently to the clackity clack of the keyboard. "Well then," Althea said reverently, "I'll make up the spare room and bring ya'll some pillows." By Sunday night, we had it finished. I signed my name to it. Zisk and Whitman were afraid to sign; Amon just handed me the pen. ******* Monday, June 12 1:15 pm I left the Quantico classroom and practically ripped the phone out of my coat pocket. "Amon." "Amon, it's me. Listen to me. He's coming here Friday. We gotta ask him to dinner, shepard him around. You up for that?" He was silent. Then... "Shit, Faether, you got him. Why'd they let you ask him? It's almost as if..." "As if what?" "As if the XFiles are legit. Or they want us to think so, damn, Faether, this is scary..." "I gotta go. I gotta call him." "Shit, Faether." And I hung up. I looked at the HQ number the instructor had given me. Why had they chosen my nomination, like nothing was weird about asking for him? Why had Fox Mulder accepted an invitation to speak to a graduating class at Quantico? Was it because of me? I dialed before I could chicken out. "Mulder." Oooo. What a voice. I wasn't expecting that. He answered the phone like he was in the middle of flirting with you. "Hello, Agent Mulder. Ummmm...I'm Amy Faether at Quantico." "Faether. Yea?" He seemed distracted, like he was expecting someone else. "I, well, I wrote the nomination letter. I'm supposed to take care of Friday." "Right. Friday. Could you hold?" "Yea, Yes." I heard his cell phone burr. I heard half of a brief conversation. I heard the word autopsy. Then he was back to the handset. "Faether. Fine. I'll be there on Friday, unless I'm called out of town. What's your first name?" "What?" "Your first name, Agent Faether." "Amy." "Fine. Friday," and he hung up. I didn't even get to remind him that I wasn't an agent, yet. ***** Monday, June 12 9:05 pm We were at Mick's again. It was a Monday night, but we were celebrating. One big fat point for the Hoover-No-Bra-Spookies. "Shit, I can't believe it," Zisk was saying, "The whole campus is talking about it. Faether, you're gonna be famous." I licked my lips. They tasted pretty sweet. Amon was distracted, though. He kept staring off into the corner. "Amon--what's over there. You're making me think I've lost my sex appeal," I said, petulant, perturbed. He turned back to the table, wide-eyed. "She is." "What?" we all exclaimed. Zisk practically threw himself off his stool turning around to see. In the corner of Mick's sat Special Agent Dana Scully. Petite, red hair, impeccable suit. She sat alone, reviewing some files. It had to be her. How many women who looked like that worked for the FBI? "What's she *doing* here?" I whispered. "Reconnaissance," Zisk whispered. We frowned at him in unison. "That has to be the stupidest thing you have ever, ever uttered, Zisk," Whitman offered. We stared back into the dimly lit corner booth. "No, no, see she has to check us out, to make sure its safe for Spooky. You know, they call her Mrs. Spooky. It's like they're married or somethin. I'm so *sure* he's doin her. I would be." "Shut up Zisk," I directed. "This is crazy. We've been coming here for 6 months, and suddenly *she* shows up? I'm starting to get a little paranoid," Amon said. "What if she *is* looking for you, Faether. What if she wants to know what you know?" "I don't know anything, you jerk. Leave it alone," but it was too late. Whitman and Zisk were already using that investigative, dog-with-a-bone stare that they had been teaching us at Quantico. They weren't gonna let me off the hook. I had told Amon. I told him over a bottle of Jack one night not long before he suggested that we get Spooky to come to campus. I told Amon, because I knew how much he liked Mulder, the idea of Mulder. I thought he'd find it interesting. I halfway considered it foreplay. But he'd taken it like I was Paul writing to the Ephesians. Like I had suddenly become a religious relic in his personal iconography. Casual sex for us was out after I told him I'd grown up on the Vineyard. That my last name had been Galbrin before I was adopted by my stepfather. That my real father had died in a car wreck only days after Samantha Mulder's disappearance. That Samantha and I had played with my Barbies just two days before she disappeared. I had only met Fox Mulder in passing, the way that you might imagine saying hi to the older brother of your 8 year old friend. I don't remember what he looked like then. My mother and I were too involved with Dad's death to console the Mulders, or help them look for their daughter. With Dad gone, our connections to the Vineyard were severed, and we moved to Florida. She married again rather quickly, and I became Amy Faether. A different person, an insolent, impudent person, with friends who believed in extremes, and extreme possibilities. For awhile I read tarot, channeled a spirit I named Zulston, traveled a weird circuit of towns where I met unlikely, gullible people, and took their money. When Fox Mulder's name came up one night around the campfire as we waited for lights at Gulf Breeze, I knew I was a fake, and I was ashamed. My mother died of a heart attack a year later, and I began to claim my life back. And to connect my father's death with Samantha Mulder's disappearance. I wanted the truth. I told them all this sitting at the tall wooden bar table in Mick's. I told them quickly, like it was something I'd just as soon forget. Whitman stared at me with his mouth hanging open, Amon's face was radiant, Zisk asked, "And you *passed* the background check?" After a time, everyone seemed to remember that Special Agent Dr. Dana K. Scully was sitting in a booth in the corner of Mick's. By the time we looked over, though, someone was with her. This was getting interesting. The someone was short, with glasses and salt and pepper hair. Dictionary definition of funky nerd. A few words of their conversation drifted over to our table. We heard "Mulder" and "autopsy" and "case" and "find this for him." We heard him order a glass of red wine, and tell her she looked beautiful, to which she simply smiled a patient, amused smile. After his wine came, I distinctly heard my name: Amy Faether and the word lecture in the same sentence. The four of us were stunned. The little man asked her to dinner the next night, and she politely declined. Then he left, with no indication that he had been given a small package and had secreted it away in his jacket pocket, a package about the size of a disk. I felt like I was watching Mission Impossible. Amon looked at me, intently. "Faether. You gotta go introduce yourself, find out what's going on. You know she knows. Or she's trying to find out." "I was right!" Zisk whispered. "It *is* reconnaissance." "Fuck you, Zisk," I finished, and wisked myself out of the bar before Jack convinced me to do something stupid. Whitman drove me home. -end part 1- someone you know..by lemon (Part 2..lemon@navix.net) Wednesday, June 14 1:10 am I was dreaming of being a little girl. There was my mom. "Mommie, can I have a cookie?" "Sure honey. Now make sure you put away your dollies before Dad gets home." "Okay mommie." I moved to arrange my Barbies in the odd order that I had designed. The first row was for blondes, the second for brunettes and the third was for those whose hair I had chopped off, or who were headless due to some misadventure. Because they had had a bad day at the beautician, or had simply lost their heads, they were relegated to back row status. Blondes were in the front row because they were the *Real* Barbies, the ones actually *named* Barbie and everyone knew it. Brunettes like me and my best friend Samantha were in the middle....somewhere between being blonde and losing our heads. Oh, yea. Samantha. Where was she? "Mommie, where is Samantha?" I asked. "I told you honey, she's not coming anymore for a while. She went away, on a long trip. She might come back, but I'm not sure of that." In my dream, I searched out my mom's face. She was crying. She looked really scared. I tried to memorize that face. It was one of the few times I remembered thinking that she loved me. My Dad came in then. Only it was really my Dad from the pictures I look at of him, from when he was younger. My Dad in a suit and skinny tie, with a glass of bourbon in his hand. Not my Dad from 1973, when he looked grey haired and tired all the time. This dream was going okay, I was visiting my parents. "Hi, Dad." "Amy, what are you up to?" he asked me. I didn't remember his voice, so my subconcious mind always substituted Walter Cronkite's voice. "I'm playing, Dad." "Why are you putting the Barbies in rows by hair color? Don't you understand that the hair pigment and accompanying breast size of barbies is a heinous corporate conspiracy designed to make you feel inferior and unworthy in a male dominated world?" Wow. My Dad never said anything like that to me. But Cronkite's voice made it real. "*DAD*dy. Can't you see? I'm going to be an FBI agent." "Move Francie out of the Second row. She's Barbie's young, flatfooted friend. And Samantha too," he directed. I looked down, and there was a little Samantha head on one of the burnette's bodies. I reached out to move her forward, but then, the head disappeared. I was forced to put her in the back row. My Dad frowned. "I tried Daddie. I tried. But she got lost." I woke up on purpose. I knew he wasn't coming back, either. I don't need Spooky's psych degree to realize what that dream meant. Friday might prove to be more than I could handle. My face felt flush. I didn't want to cry, but I did. For a long time. Shit. ***** Wednesday, June 14 6:05 pm "Faether, you look like shit. We shouldn't be here doing this. You need to get some rest," Whitman howled as he walked into Mick's. "Spooky won't like you if you look like shit on Friday," Zisk said. "We need to make some final arrangements for Friday. I'll get more sleep tonight." I muttered. We pulled out the schedule that we had made up for the brass. They wanted to know *exactly* what we were going to do with Spooky, within the basic ceremony framework. Amon and I had been relieved that they made us detail our every move beforehand....that was the behavior of the FBI we'd come to know and love. It was like Traveler was on the move, and I was Clint Eastwood. I was hoping that John Malkovich would stay out of it, though. 11 am Special Agent Mulder to meet Candidate Faether in main lobby 11:05 Faether and Agent Mulder to Room 1013 for pre-ceremony meal 12:00 Faether to escort Agent Mulder to dining hall on ground level/seated at head table. 12:10 pm Faether to introduce Agent Mulder. 12:15 Agent Mulder makes presentation tentatively entitled "Alternative Ways of Knowing and Extreme Possibilities as Profiling Tools." 1:00 Questions from Candidates 1:30 Ceremony for graduates 3:00 Reception. Faether to escort Agent Mulder to the North campus gym 5:00 Function concluded. "I can't take you guys with me during the day, but maybe we can ask him out for a beer or something at the reception. *If* he agrees to waste any more of his time on me," I said. I really was tired. "Wear the red suit, Amy Marie, and he'll be licking your toes," Zisk directed, caressing my knee under the table. "Fuck you, Zisk." "But you're sober! When you going out with me Faether?" I just gave him my full throttle stare; he shut up. Why couldn't Zisk have just believed in the Bra theory of Hoover cross-dressing? Then he wouldn't even need to be here...She walked in again. "Oh - my- god," I whispered. Everyone turned to see. Luckily, we were in the booth across the bar, snugly discussing our Eyes Only itinerary, so we could more discreetly stare at her. She sat down in the same booth as before. Red hair, impeccable suit. "I think she followed me," Whitman said quietly. "I'm sitting her out," Amon said. "Two can play at this game." We looked at Amon in unison. "We're sitting her out," Zisk said. "Together." He looked at me then, a spot of apology in his gleaming blue eyes. "Fine," I muttered. This was just too much of a coincidence. I was as curious as they were. But I was *really* tired. *** Five hours, four baskets of French fries and three rounds later, I was stinking drunk again. Miss Perky Dr. Dana K. Scully was still calmly reviewing files. Every freakin' red hair in place. "Faether, what's with you? Three beers and you're fucked up enough to take your clothes off?" Zisk said. I had somewhat clumsily removed my pantyhose, suit coat and heels. The pantyhose were the trickiest, but I was in the back of the seat, and Whitman was riding shotgun. He didn't peek once. Zisk had started to look, but I smacked him just hard enough under the chin. Now I was getting my bra out of my sleeve. "I'm hot and I'm tired," was all I could say. "I *have* to go. Althea is already angry, I can feel it across town," Whitman said. "Amy, let me take you home." "No! Forget it, Whitman. I'm waiting her out..." I slurred, my longest sentence in about an hour. "Amon, damnit, call her a cab when its time to leave," Whitman griped, and promptly left me alone on my side of the booth. Mick's could be so hot sometimes. I leaned my head against the cool wood on the wall and closed my eyes. Zisk got up, probably for the men's room. "Faether, what's the matter with you?" Amon asked me. I kept my eyes closed. I didn't want to look into his. "I mean, you look like you haven't slept in a week." "Not a week," I said through closed eyes. "Just a day. I probably really *blew* the last exam today," I continued. "Bad dreams." I suddenly felt a cool hand on my cheek. Shit, he was touching me. I opened my eyes to see a perfectly formed set of lips on a pale ivory face, surrounded by neat red hair. "Are you okay? I'm a doctor and I couldn't help noticing that you looked ill. You don't seem to have a fever." I couldn't speak. Amon came to my rescue. "Oh, um, she's okay. She's just tired, you know, exams and all." Great. Dr. Dana K. Scully sits down at our booth and passionate Amon turns into a 10th grader. "Quantico?" Agent Scully asked. "Yea." was all Amon could offer. I still couldn't speak. He smiled the dumbest little boy smile I had ever seen, full-on teeth and gums. "Maybe you should get your friend home, " the Super Dr. offered. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the little nerdy guy walk into Mick's. Dr. Dana K. noticed, too. "Excuse me," she said, nodding toward and then returning to her booth. I looked at Amon, whose chin was now permanently bruised from slamming into the floor, and said, "Take me home, Stacy." We left before Zisk got done peeing. -end part 2- someone you know...by lemon (Part 3...lemon@navix.net) Thursday, June 15 11:21 am Someone was banging on my head and it sounded like wood. No, someone was banging on the door. I opened my eyes. Where the hell am I? Where the hell am I? I looked around. I recognized Amon's bookcases. I saw Amon's coat thrown over his desk chair. Oh. I was in Amon's bed. Well. I tried to sit up, to see if I could get the door. The minute I moved, my head was spinning in several directions at once. I felt like Linda Blair. Shit. It took me only one more minute to realize that Amon had put me to bed in my clothes. I couldn't decide whether to bitch him out or to make him marry me. No one was answering the door, though. So I had to get up. Whoever it was wasn't going away. Whitman. "Faether, what the hell are you doing here? Where's Amon?" "I don't know," I whispered. "WHAT?" "I DON'T KNOW," I shouted back at him. The noise hurt my head so badly that I gripped it and slid down the wall to a crouch. "Would ya keep it down?" I muttered, rubbing my forehead. "What's the matter with you, Jim?" "Can't find him. Can't find Zisk. We were supposed to meet at the target range today to *finally* have the contest. He didn't show. I tried his house. He didn't answer. I called his cell. No answer. I called you. No answer. I called Amon, no answer. Damnit, Faether, I would've called his *mother.*" "He was peeing." "What?" "He got up from the table and went to pee. Amon and I left before he got back. He just went to pee." "Faether, get a grip. It's the next day, it's the freakin' next day. What time did you leave Mick's?" "I, I don't.... I can't..." I was stammering. Nothing could've happened to Zisk. He only went to the bathroom. Just to pee. The fact that we left him alone, that didn't mean anything. He was alright. He probably went home with Dr. Dana K. Yea, right. In his dreams. Something was wrong here. Whitman reached down for me, drew me up. He held my hands away from my forehead. "Agent Faether, at what time did Agent Zisk leave your company," he intensity, his cadence came straight from Interrogation 101. I looked at him. I willed my head to clear, to remember some indication of the time we had left Mick's. My training should mean something to me here, even with a hangover. "Sometime between 11:00 and 11:30. I remember looking at the clock in Mick's at 11 pm. And I remember hearing the time on Amon's car radio as 11 twenty something." "Okay, it's a start. Now. Where's Amon?" "Um....I don't.....Whitman! Dana Scully spoke to us just after Zisk got up. She came over and asked if I was ill. She said I looked ill. She told Amon to take me home. Could it mean something? Was something going down, and we got out but Zisk was left there, in the middle of it?" My words rushed out. "What makes you think something was going on," Whitman continued to interrogate me. "That little man came back. She left us immediately then. He must have found out what she wanted to know. Maybe something went down, Jim. Maybe...." I was struggling against my headache and my utter dread. God, we weren't even Agents yet. "Go make you some coffee, get a shower. I'm gonna make some phone calls. Work on remembering where Amon is....if you even know. From the looks of that outfit, I'd say he didn't sleep here." Whitman was trying to lighten the mood. It didn't work. ***** I let the hot water pound my back. Two thoughts competed for my attention: that I was naked in Amon's shower, and that Zisk was dead. I don't know why I knew he was dead, but I knew. Something about his eyes last night. Something told me things were not right with him. He never apologized for anything, and especially not to me. Funny, I think I know these guys. These men. I think of Zisk as the golden boy, the one who'll make the best agent. He knew he wanted to be an agent when he was 8. He was dedicated, exceled at everything: prep school, early college entry, number three in his undergrad class. What Amon lacked in schooling he made up for in passion *and* common sense. He *is* like Spooky, able to connect disperate events and information and solve problems: he'd be a God in the field. I like to think of Whitman as a senior agent, even though he isn't one at all yet. He *will* be an AD one day. No question about it. But all these observations, these details, these assumptions, were based on nothing but the time we have spent together in this place. Aside from the sure knowledge that I have the hot-and-nasties for Stacy, what do I *really* know about any of them? Maybe it had been a mistake to tell them so much about me. Can I trust them? Can I trust anyone? I *know* I can trust Spooky. But I'd waited. I'd waited until I could be trustworthy myself. Did I wait too long? **** Whitman was yelling into the phone. "I'm *going* to have a badge number *tomorrow* you idiot! Can't you look up my name in you're damn computer? I'm sure it's already been assigned, if they're gonna *hand it to me tomorrow.*" "What is it?" "I'm trying to get plane and bus manifests, and they keep asking me for my damn badge number. So, I'm trying to get it from the Bureau *today.* Apparently, I'm the first person in the history of the world to ask this of them. They're putting a call in to the AD at Quantico, blah blah blah." "Spooky has a badge number, and I have his phone number." Whitman slammed down the phone. "Use it." "Did you call all the hospitals first?" "Well I wasn't out here jacking off while you got *sober,* Faether." I deserved that. How many times had I been drunk in the last week, hell, the last month? Shit. "Nothing?" He shook his head, looked down. I finished tying the knot on Amon's robe and picked up the phone. The first ring barely started. "Mulder?" A feminine voice, sounded like Dr. Dana K, only the tiniest hint of worry. "No, um. No. This is Amy Faether, we met briefly last night." Silence. "At Mick's." Silence. "You said I looked sick just before your friend came in." "Yes?" An artic breeze. "Well, I wanted to know if you'd seen my blonde friend, the young one, after Amon and I left. I was more than a little worse for wear. I need to know what time he left, Agent Scully. We can't find him." "We?" "Jim Whitman and I." "Have you been contacted by Agent Mulder recently?" "I spoke to him briefly on Monday afternoon," I offered, not knowing why. "What did you discuss?" "Excuse me?" "What was the content of your conversation?" I pulled the top of the robe up around my neck. Goose bumps rose on my arms. Amon's apartment was *really* cold. "Uhh, well, I told him who I was. I told him that I was supposed to take care of things at the Graduate luncheon tomorrow. He told me he'd be here unless he got called out of town...." "Did he give you any indication of where he might go?" "No." "Was that all?" "He asked me my first name." "What?" "He asked me what my first name was." "Thank you, Miss Faether, " and I could tell she was hanging up. "BUT WAIT..." How had that happened? I called *her* for information. Whoa. She was good. A second later, "Yes?" "I need to know where my friend Zisk is." "What leads you to believe that I would have that information?" "Because you know who I am." "Yes. You're Amy Faether, Graduate Liaison for Agent Mulder's guest lecture at Quantico tomorrow. You've done well at Quantico or you're nomination would certainly not have been accepted. Word has it you'll be able to name your post, that you are an insightful lab technician, one of the best with the new medical technologies for DNA analysis among other things. Apparently, you like to get drunk. Have I forgotten anything?" I was the size of a chickpea. I wanted to *be* her. I was so stupid to believe that any of this was about me. I had nothing else to say. Whitman noticed me slump onto the bed. He grabbed the phone. "Look, can we get you to run a trace? We can't until tomorrow. This isn't like Zisk. Something's wrong here." "These kinds of cases aren't normally...." I heard her distant voice. "Under the jurisdiction of the XFiles, I understand. This may just be a missing person to you, Dr. Scully, but to us he's a friend. If you can't do it, give us the name of someone who will." Silence. Then Whitman said, "Stanley Merrill Zisk....." and began to give Agent Scully the information that we had about his disappearance. Then he hung up. "She says she'll call this number if she finds out anything," Jim said to me. I still couldn't speak. "Where the hell is Amon? God, Amy. Don't cry," he said. I hadn't realized that my tears were dripping onto Amon's robe. Damnit. Whitman sat next to me and gave me a shoulder squeeze. "Faether, you don't even like Zisk." Whitman was trying to lighten the mood. It didn't work. ***** I woke up a bit later to a ringing phone. Whitman came crashing in from the kitchen, but I had the receiver in my hand. "Hello?" "It's me." "Amon. Where the hell have you been?" "What?" "Amon, listen to me. Zisk is missing. Why haven't you been back here?." "Calm down. He called me this morning at about 6:00 am. You were dead and gone. He asked me to come down to Quantico. When I got to the locker room at about 9:00, he'd left a note. I decided to get in a workout while I was here But he never showed. Did he call?" "No! Whitman's been looking for him since 8 am. They were supposed to meet at the target range, you know, the contest." "Have you two gone to his house? I was about to..." Duh. Duh. God, I'm never drinking again. "I can't lock your apartment." "Oh, right. Sit tight Amy," Amon breathed, and hung up. "Well?" Whitman asked. "He's coming home, and we're all going to Zisk's place." -end part 3- someone you know...by lemon (Part 4...lemon@navix.net) Thursday, June 15 3:30 pm There was a knock at the door. I wondered if Amon was being polite, if he thought maybe I was naked in here with Whitman or something. I swung the door open with the only smile I'd had all day on my face. "Shit!" I barked, staring into Spooky Mulder's lazy hazel eyes. "Amy Faether?" he asked, a quirky half-grin appearing. "What are you *doing* here?" I asked him. "I could ask you the same thing," he stated flatly, still grinning. I felt him size me up: *really* big robe, bare feet, bed-head brown hair, just a *tad* too long to be *professional.* I felt like the tattoo around my big toe had turned into a neon sign. "How do you know Amon?" I asked. Damn. Was Stacy lying to me? "I don't. He was listed as second contact on my information sheet for tomorrow's event. Obviously, you weren't home when I went to see you." The curve of his lips only continued upward. Wow. His lips. Look at his lips. "What are you doing here?" I asked again. "I'm a day early, I thought I'd introduce myself. This *is* my fan club headquarters, isn't it?" Damn. That tie has got to go. I heard a snort from Whitman standing behind me. He pushed me aside and stuck out his hand. "Come in, Agent Mulder. You've come to the right place." I checked Fox Mulder out as he slid passed me. Shit. Butt smaller than mine. Why? Why'd it have to be smaller? "Your partner is looking for you," I offered as I shut the door. "Just hung up with her," he said. "What's this about your colleague disappearing? She told me to tell you that he isn't listed on any train, bus, or airport manifests leaving the area in the past 24 hours. Have you been to his house?" "Well, no," Whitman responded. Did Jim Whitman just blush? "Amon'll be right back, and we're going over. You could join us?" "I'll drive the Mystery Machine," Agent Fox Mulder quipped. ****** 4:30 pm Zisk's apartment I looked like hell. Yesterday's suit was a wrinkled mess. No hose. It was, however, one step up from Amon's robe. I looked like shit, but I *felt* like an FBI agent, for the first time ever. I was hyper-aware of everything in the building. I found myself observing any face I saw, memorizing it. Cataloging every small detail in my mind. I felt alive. No answer at Zisk's door. It was locked. Whitman and Mulder went to find the manager. As I was pacing the hall, I felt Amon's stare. "Stacy," I said without turning around, "Stop staring at me. Zisk is the one pulling the disappearing act." "Do you think something happened to him?" "Yea. I think he's dead." "What? Faether, why?" "He gave me the strangest look last night. Something's wrong here, Amon." "What a way to meet Spooky," he sighed. "Did you tell him about you?" "NO! No. Maybe tomorrow." "What are you waiting on, Amy? An engraved invitation," he moved closer to me. I was silent for a little bit too long. I hung my head, analyzed the carpet designs in the hallway. He put a hand on my shoulder. "Amy. Tell him." "None of this is about me, Stacy," I admitted. "It's all about you," he said. What were we talking about here? Me and Spooky or me and Stacy? I decided that *lust* no longer described what I felt for Stacy. Lust was there, but I found myself hoping that we'd be together, somehow, forever. This was all getting *way* to mushy. I looked up at him. He never looked so beautiful, so intense. We stood there for a moment, lost. "Get a room," Whitman said, coming back up the stairs. Spooky said, "We've got the key." There was no sign of anyone *ever* having lived in Zisk's apartment. Nothing. No furniture. No clothes, no food crumbs, not even an ant trap. Whitman dialed Zisk's phone number again. He got a disconnect message. "How can this be? I spoke to him this morning! This is crazy." Amon was exasperated. "I shoulda come by here this morning. Fuck it," Whitman snapped. "Does anyone else smell cigarette smoke?" Special Agent Fox Mulder asked. "Huh?" we replied in unison. Spooky pulled out his cell, and dialed. We clearly weren't in on the joke. -end part 4- someone you know...by lemon (Part 5...lemon@navix.net) Thursday, June 15 6:30 pm We were at dinner. Not Mick's this time. A garden restaurant close to Quantico. I was still in shock. Not only were we having dinner with Fox Mulder, he was confiding in us, to a point. He was telling us about the only other agent he had ever known who disappeared in the same fashion. Not the man's name, not the context of the incident. But just that the man had been an assassin. A *government* assassin. "You guys haven't been stealing test answers at school, now have you?" he asked, in what I now considered to be his unique sense of humor. No one was amused. "But he called me this morning." Amon said. He looked uncomfortable. "Maybe he was having regrets," Mulder said. "About what?" Whitman asked. "What did the note say?" Spooky asked, skillfully directing the conversation. "That he would be late. Nothing else," Amon said. I was quiet. I didn't know what to say. Spooky was assessing each one of us, I could tell. He was deciding in a quiet, private way whether he could trust us. Indvidually, not as a group. Pretty soon he focused on me. "Thank you for dinner, Amy. I'm meeting Scully at the airport. I'll pursue this case as far as I can take it, and I'll see you tomorrow." His eyes. I felt like I was the only thing in the world for him. Wow. Is this how Dr. Dana K felt everyday? He didn't say anything to Amon. Whitman stood, offered his hand. "Nice to meet you," he said. Spooky shook his hand, but said nothing. With a last glance at me, he was gone. We sat in silence for awhile. I wished I could be a fly on the wall at the airport. Amon looked a little dejected. Whitman was miffed. "Well, its been a helluva day," Whitman finally said. Then, reverently. "I'm going home. Spooky's on the case, and I can't think of any way to top that. And Faether, get that silly starstruck look off you're face by lunch tomorrow." He was gone. "I *can't* believe this shit," Amon finally said. "That guy really *is* spooky." I couldn't get up the courage to look at him again. I hadn't really looked at him since we were in the hallway earlier. I couldn't believe that Stacy was distracting me from Spooky. And I couldn't believe that Whitman and Amon had respected me enough not to spill the beans to Spooky. I guess I really had learned that I could trust them. The waitress came by with the check. We were waiting for change, and I was staring out the window. "Amy." I dropped my head into my hands. "What?" "I don't want to leave." "It's not the Four Seasons, but it is a nice restaurant," I offered. "I mean you, Amy. I don't want to leave you." I gulped. Finally, I looked at him. Mistake. "Tomorrow means goodbye, Amy. We both know that. My assignment's come through for the Arizona bureau." He continued. "I know you'll go to DC. They really want you there." Arizona? Shit. I heard someone say, "There's tonight, Stacy." Was that me? Big mistake. **** We wound up at his place, I don't remember how, only this time, Jack Daniels hadn't fucked me first. I was taking my heels off in the doorway, doing my best not to look scared. He threw down his keys, his coat, ripped off his tie. He turned, slammed the door shut beside me. He grabbed my hands, pinned them against the wall over my head, and leaned into me. His lips found mine like we had done this very thing a hundred times before. We kissed then, until I couldn't breathe. When he finally let my hands go so he could touch my face, I left them there, over my head. Slowly, then, he slid his hands down my neck, across my shoulders and effortlessly unbuttoned my shirt. He didn't let me breathe again until he'd unhooked my bra, and started kissing my neck. I felt the cold wall against my back, his warm lips on my breasts. I ran my hands through his unkempt hair. Finally when he kissed my belly, I crumpled to the floor. This man. This Stacy. Touching me. "Amy," he sighed, laying me gently onto the sad oriental rug that graced the hallway. "This isn't supposed to happen....this isn't supposed to happen....," he repeated in a little boy's voice. My heart was pounding in my ears. For the second time today, I felt alive. Fuck etiquette and protocol. I squirmed out of my underwear as we slid around on the floor. I wasn't waiting any longer for Stacy. I rolled him over, straddled him. I unzipped his annoying suit pants. His eyes were closed. He looked so beautiful. He murmured my name over and over. I didn't bother to unbutton his shirt or take off his shoes. I pulled my wrinkled skirt up and sat down unceremoniously to enjoy him. Friday, June 16 1:10 am I was dreaming again. Samantha was with me, I was braiding her hair. So long and pretty. I picked up the Barbie sitting near me. I pulled the string with the little pink flower that was stuck on her back. Barbie spoke, but it was really Walter Cronkite's voice. "Don't you have a phone call to make?" "Call them, MeeMee!" Samantha squealed. MeeMee. Wow. She was the only one who ever called me that. Wow. I forgot about that. I picked up the receiver of my pink princess phone. I dialed, and in a little girl voice I said, "Yes, this is Amy Faether. I want to accept the position at the Criminology Lab at the J. Edgar Hoover (by the way, he didn't wear a bra) building in Washington, DC." It was my mother's voice on the other end, "Sure honey. Now make sure you put away your dollies before Dad gets home." I started giggling in my sleep and I woke myself up. An image of Zisk's face floated through my head, though, and I stopped laughing. I looked around for Stacy, but realized all I heard was the radio in the kitchen. "Stacy?" I called, not too loudly. I got no answer. How long had I been asleep? I got up, worried. I walked into the kitchen, but he wasn't there. I checked the bathroom, no dice. Just then, the front door opened and Stacy blustered in. "Hi," he said. I kissed him. He tasted sweaty. "Jogging," he offered the word into my mouth. "It's quiet out now," I agreed, talking while our lips still touched. "Tomorrow's gonna be weird without Zisk," he whispered back. "I know," I said, and we headed back to bed. -end part 5- someone you know...by lemon (Part 6...lemon@navix.net) June 16, Friday 11:21 am He brought her with him. We sat and ate our impeccably presented soup and finger sandwiches with red potato salad and cheesecake. After I had quizzed them about Zisk, and came up with nothing, conversation fell away. I wore the red suit. Dr. Dana K. seemed to sense the quiet more than Spooky. "So, Amy, have you decided to accept a position in Washington, DC?" she asked. "Yes, I have." They couldn't know that inside I was debating when and what to tell Spooky. Half of me wanted to believe that if he just looked at me enough, he'd remember me. But I don't look 8 years old anymore, despite my dreaming, and even eidetic memories could only go so far. I stared at the tiny solar systems on his tie. So ugly. "We have a few friends in the labs there," she continued, glancing at Mulder. I swear, one lunch with these two and you could learn a thing or two about silent communication. "You might look up Agent Pendrell, " she said. Mulder took a bite of his cheesecake and nodded. "Scully could use the competition," he added, turning his quirky grin on her. She gave him, somehow, an annoyed look with an amused smile in it. They held each other with their eyes for just a second too long. Was this a Bonnie Raitt song, or an FBI partnership? I thought of Zisk again. I forgot all the questions I'd had lined up for Spooky. I forgot everything. ***** 3:30 pm We were at the reception. We stood proudly in the midst of the hall now, next to the XFiles team. Amon was fingering his new badge now, though. Distant, flipping it open and shut. Staring at his own picture. Dr. Dana Scully had graciously agreed to field questions as well. I, of course, was getting drunk. 4:45 pm A steady stream of critics confronted us as we stood near the gym wall, and it didn't seem to be letting up. An impressive array of people were challenging Spooky's speech, and he was valiantly polite as he messed with their heads. I wasn't surprised to see a few symphathetic glances offered to Scully, and some very unsympathetic comments directed at her. But she calmly rebuffed them. Someone asked Whitman and I if we truly believed that Hoover could dress as a woman without a bra. It was the only thing anyone asked us. We nodded. The two basement agents looked uncomfortable in this public space. Simultaneously, they glanced at each other. She looked to me for their escape, "Amy, we need to follow up some leads in your friend's case." Mulder nodded, and quipped, "I'll never be able to talk to everyone who thinks I'm crazy in the time allotted, anyway." Scully smirked slightly and looked down. "You know, I've been taking an informal survey. I must be the only graduate of Quantico who doesn't think the King is dead," he added, incredulously, obviously trying to amuse Scully. She ignored and responded to him at the same time by addressing me again, "We'll let you know if we find out anything. I feel that this is a dead end by design. We've seen it before." "But anything's possible in the World of Magic," Mulder added, doing his best Doug Henning voice. He put his hand on the small of her back, beginning to guide her through the crowd. Stacy stared at me across Whitman's shoulders. His eyes urged me to stop them. To tell Spooky the truth. "Amy, tell him," Stacy mouthed to me. But his lips distracted me from what he was saying with them. Whitman was looking at me too. "You didn't do it,Amy," he whispered to me. Doubt wiggled into my mind. Would I be able to tell him, ever? I remembered the feeling of Samantha's hair in my hands. I spun around and darted off after them in the crowd. I grabbed Spooky by the back of his shoulder, pulled him around to face me. As soon as Mulder's hand came off her back, Scully turned too. Fuck it. "My name is really Amy Galbrin," I blurted. "My stepfather adopted me after we moved away from Chilmark." Not what I'd planned, but it left me no room back out. The lazy hazel eyes turned intense and infinitely sad. The depths in them were totally unreachable, indescribable. Scully couldn't hide a blatant look of astonishment. He pursed his lips like he would speak, but said nothing. His jaw worked. He continued to stare at me, unblinking. Scully looked at him. He continued to stare at me. She reached for his arm, he shook her off. I watched his eyes turn slowly as he stared at me, from competent, confident FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder into terrified boy. Shit. I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything but stare in morbid fascination. He hurt so deeply. I could see it. I started crying. No one else was paying us any mind. Scully's eyebrows raised and she looked away from him. He kept staring at me. This time he opened his mouth as if to speak, said nothing. Scully folded her arms across her chest. I was sure time had stopped. He shifted his weight, continuing to stare, mouth open. The sounds of the room were drowned out by the silence between us. A tear dropped noisily onto my cheek. Finally, I couldn't look at him anymore and I looked down at the floor. Another single tear fell onto the yellow free throw marking line. I noticed that Agent Scully and I were wearing the same shoes, black velvet pumps with scalloped edges, small square heels. "I don't remember you," he spoke so softly, so suddenly. He sounded the way his sister did in my dreams. Agent Scully's face flushed, "Miss Faether, " she began defensively, "surely you don't expect us to believe..." "Run a search, I'm not lying," was all I could say. He grabbed my chin, forced me to look at him again. "I don't remember you," he said again, softly, searching my face for something to recognize. I made my eyes look down. I didn't expect him to touch me. Where was Stacy? Where was Whitman? Where were all the people that had just been in this gym? All of a sudden, he grabbed my arm roughly, and drug me behind him while he forced his way through the crowd and towards the nearest exit. I looked back through the closing gym door, and noted that the room was now truly silent, and everyone stared after us. Outside the bright sun hurt my drunken eyes. His hands were down at his sides, and he clinched and unclinched his fists. "How come I don't remember you?" he asked, almost yelling. Scully was there somehow. "Mulder," she started. "Scully, I don't remember her. What do you know about my sister?" he hissed. I started to get scared then, as I watched him get angry. "Amy, maybe we should go someplace to talk..." Scully began again. "I don't want to go anywhere, Scully," he said, a petulant boy. "I....I....." stammering again. Damnit! He grabbed me by both my arms. "Why were you hiding this from me? What do you know about my sister?" he spoke through clinched teeth, his grip dug right through my red suit, hurting my arms. I wanted him to let go. I just wanted him to let go. I moved my head back and forth to try and avoid him, but he was so close to me. His grip got tighter, he started shaking me. "Tell me where she is," he growled. Scully reached for his arm, "Mulder don't," she said. But he practically picked me up and shoved me against the wall, my feet barely touching the grass. I was really scared now, that he would hurt me. "Stop it," I mumbled, not looking at him. Where was Stacy? "I- don't- remember- you," he fumed. "Mulder, let her go," Scully said angrily from somewhere behind him. This wasn't going anything like I thought it might. This man needed to let me go. "STOP IT! I MISS HER TOO!" Was that me? Did I just cry out and start sobbing hysterically? Probably a good thing I *already* had my badge, or this little display would definitely end my career. He let me go and immediately turned away, grasping his head in his hands. Was that me, crumpled against the wall gasping between sobs? Shit. Where was Jack when you needed him? I had to fix this. "My....my dad died two days after Samantha disappeared. He died in a car wreck. We had to move. I couldn't help you look. I....I....I didn't know what happened. I was only eight. I was eight, and my dad was dead. My mother wanted to forget. She made me change my name, I....I didn't want to," I rushed and stumbled over the words as they fell out of my mouth, "I want to remember, if I know anything, I want to tell you I...I...want to help....I .....I wasn't hiding, I wanted you to believe.....it's why, it's why I'm here....you're...." I couldn't talk anymore, I gasped for air. Agent Scully rubbed a hand over her face, took out her cell phone. "Danny, it's Scully. I need you to run a trace on a name for me. Yea. Amy Marie Faether. Thanks. Yea, an emergency," she pressed the off button and shoved the cell back into her pocket. "It's okay Scully, I think she's telling the truth," Mulder said, still not turning towards either of us. Everything was silent for a moment. "Why?" she asked. "Because I remember her father's funeral." "What?" I asked. "I couldn't go. Mom and Dad went, but they made me stay home. It was the first time I was alone in the house by myself. Without Samantha. Without anyone," he breathed. "Why don't I remember you?" he whispered to himself, frustrated. "Amy, we do need to talk about this somewhere. Not here. Here's my card. We're staying at the Parkside. Can you come by tonight? At about 8?" I nodded. She put an arm around his shoulder, and he let her walk him away, like a mother would a sick child. I watched them until they disappeared around a building across campus. Where was everyone? Before I could think about it too much, Whitman was next to me. He picked me up. "I'll take you home," he said. **** 6:30 pm I was sitting at my kitchen table, staring at nothing when the phone rang. It rang several times before I could be bothered to answer it. "Faether," I said, with little conviction. "Amy, it's me." "Stacy," I said. "Amy, can we talk about this?" "About what?" "What happened," he said. "We fucked, Stacy. It's not that big a deal." Why was I saying this? "Stop it." "What?" "Stop acting like this. It's not about that, Amy. I'm coming over." "Fine." And we hung up. I'm not sure how much later it was when the doorbell rang. It rang a few times before I could be bothered to get up. I smoothed my skirt and went to the door. I opened it. "ZISK!" I gasped, relief flooding over me. I got a split second look at his gloved hand wrapped around a piece with a hefty silencer. Well, fuck me. I felt something hit me, knock me to the ground. I saw bright lights. Like car headlights. I heard Walter Cronkite's voice in my head, "Amy, what are you up to?" In the distance I heard the gun drop beside my head. Briefly, I saw myself standing in front of a fake forest backdrop with my mom and dad. We were having our family portrait done when I was five. I tried to speak to myself at five, but I only gurgled. I tried to reach up to touch my mouth, but I couldn't move. I saw myself at 16, with bleach blonde hair and a flowered skirt, bejeweled and reading the palm of a woman in her 60s. I heard the woman say to me, "Now make sure you put away your dollies before Dad gets home." THE END