____________________

PARALLAX By Vivian Wiley 
(vivwiley@yahoo.com)

Category: Angst, some mytharc

Rating: R Written: January, 2001

Disclaimer: The characters and situations 
of The X-Files are the property of Fox 
Broadcasting and 1013 Productions. No 
infringement is intended.

Notes at the end.

Summary: Baltimore? Who the hell wakes up 
and finds themselves in Baltimore? And 
then who do you call?


[sometime between SR 819 and Biogensis]

Like so much else in her inexplicable 
life, it all made sense only later. In 
retrospect she was able to see beyond the 
parallax, and realize it had been 
inevitable, the collision of their 
particular lives a foregone conclusion. At 
the time, she wasn't able to find her 
bearings. She lost everything--her sense 
of time, herself, place--lost it all to 
the overwhelming pull of gravity and pure 
reaction. As she drifted through the black 
vacuum between the stars, cut off from 
direction and the familiar tugs of oxygen 
and gravity, she had no choice but to 
surrender to events. Only much later did 
she understand what had been both won and 
lost in that night.

The shrill ring of a phone shattering her 
sleep was a familiar intrusion. What was 
unfamiliar was the sudden flash of anger 
and the tired ache that followed. Damnit. 
It was Saturday night-- Sunday morning?--
and once, just this once she had wanted a 
quiet weekend. A weekend to herself. It 
wasn't as though he called every weekend, 
but it had been more frequent of late. And 
the excuses he used for waking her up and 
consuming large quantities of her free 
time were usually so transparent. She had 
the strong sense he was slowly coming to 
some momentous decision, and needed her 
there to help him think or maybe to define 
the question. But sometimes she just 
needed a little time on her own.

Her voice was unexpectedly sharp, slightly 
foreign to her own ear. "What is it, 
Mulder?"

An odd pause, and a different man 
answered. "Agent Scully?" 

Still caught in the maw of sleep--only 
partly aware of who she was and where she 
was--she was struggling to name the voice 
she knew, but couldn't place, when he 
continued.

"It's Skinner. I'm sorry to wake you." 
Another pause, and now she was fully 
awake, but knew somehow that she should 
wait for him to finish. "I'm sorry to wake 
you," he repeated, "but I need your 
assistance."

She had managed to sit up and lean against 
her headboard, but at his words she found 
herself slumping forward, pressed down by 
a sudden onslaught of images--the veins 
pulsing on Skinner's neck, his arms 
strapped to the boards as the surgeon 
prepared for amputation, the flatline of a 
heart monitor with nothing left to 
monitor. She drew a quick breath, fighting 
for composure that seemed elusive. "What 
is it, Sir? Where are you?" Her mind 
already racing, cataloging all the 
hospitals within range of his Crystal City 
apartment.

"I'm in..." another pause, and she could 
hear something that in anyone else she 
would have called uncertainty threading 
through his tone. "I'm in Baltimore."

"Baltimore?" She was lost, trying to 
anchor herself, to find a reference point 
in a known reality. She looked at the 
clock again, as though somehow knowing the 
hour would also help her find her place in 
the world.

"Yes." Something now that was nearly 
bemused. "I...look, I was wondering if you 
could come up here."

"You want me to meet you up there?"

"Uh...yes. That is..." The hesitancy was 
back. "I'll explain when you get here." He 
gave her brief, but perfect directions to 
a diner near Fells Point, but a little 
away from the trendy parts of the 
waterfront.

"Got it, Sir. I should be there in less 
than an hour."

"Thanks, Scully. You don't have to...I 
mean, thank you." And he hung up before 
she had time to analyze the color of his 
tone.

On her way out her door, less than 15 
minutes later, it occurred to her that 
Skinner had only asked her to come, but 
maybe he'd also called Mulder. She debated 
whether to call her partner and see if he 
wanted to share the drive up to Baltimore, 
and then some echo of Skinner's voice 
shook her, and she stepped into her car 
without touching her cel phone.

I-95 was nearly deserted. Eerie patches of 
brightly lit pavement cut into the 
blackness and then blinked out as she 
drove through them into the murmuring 
darkness of the stretches in between.

Her thoughts flickered black-and-white. It 
was late at night, no traffic to dodge, no 
construction diversions, and there was 
nothing but the long flat road and her 
thoughts and unruly memories that kept 
springing to her mind. Images flashed by, 
ghosts of other late night drives, people 
who had occupied the passenger seat beside 
her through the years. There was no 
coherent pattern to her memories. 
Fragments of her life passed her by, 
snatches of old songs, family stories, all 
the detritus of a life spun ever-so-
slightly out of control.

And then as she drove, again, and again, 
memories of Skinner. Times of 
confrontation and partnership. His quiet 
presence that she realized hovered around 
the edges of so many of her strongest 
memories. This strange, intertwined 
existence that she and Mulder and Skinner 
lived. The shadows they both fought and 
lived in. Why had he called? What errand 
pulled her out of her warm bed at this 
deserted hour? 

Somewhere around the exit for Fort Meade, 
she found herself wondering why she was 
making this late night journey, on nothing 
more than the briefest request. But the 
question evaporated half-formed.

Skinner had asked. She drove on.

She arrived at the diner at 2:15 a.m. 

It was tucked in a small corner lot in a 
sleepy or perhaps partly-abandoned 
residential area. The pot-holed parking 
lot was empty, and for a moment she 
doubted herself. This couldn't be the 
place? There were no squad or unmarked 
police cars. No bustle or yellow tape. 
He'd called her to a crime scene, hadn't 
he? 

Or...

She parked her car and sat for a 
microsecond after she turned off the 
ignition. A strange anticipation held her 
momentarily hostage, and she waited, 
trying to see the edges of the shadow. 
Then she shook herself. It was late and 
she was allowing herself to see ghosts 
that weren't there.

The diner, too, was empty. The fluorescent 
lights hummed and burred casting their 
white-green light over worn linoleum 
counters and a worn waitress of 
indeterminate age and doubtful orange 
hair. The booths and counter seats were 
all unoccupied, and the air smelled of 
congealing grease and ancient coffee. Her 
doubt returned, but this was Skinner, and 
he was not prone to these sorts of 
mistakes. Her tired mind slipped and 
fought to find traction. What now? Had 
this been some sort of elaborate ruse? 
Thoughts of ambushes suddenly rattled her 
and she recalled other nights of being 
summoned out to meetings with people who 
were not who they were.

She stepped further into the diner. The 
waitress looked up at her, an automatic 
curiosity passing over her face, but she 
made no move to greet Scully. 

The door clicked shut behind her and she 
stepped forward once more and then she saw 
him. He was in the corner, the row of 
booth backs had hidden him from her until 
she moved forward into the room. He was 
watching her steadily--a gleam of 
recognition and something else deep in his 
eyes.

She walked down the aisle and seated 
herself across from him.

He cradled a cup of coffee in his hand, 
and after making the initial eye contact 
with her, he looked nowhere but at the 
inky liquid in the stained white cup.

"Thanks for getting here so quickly." His 
voice so low that she almost lost it among 
the buzz of the lights. Although he was 
only two feet away from her, she was felt 
as though they were speaking across a vast 
distance. He seemed to be only partly 
there. It was as if the essence of Skinner 
had departed for some far away land.

"No problem, Sir." She paused, waiting to 
be told why she was here, in this strange 
place, at this strange hour.

Skinner drank his coffee. The black 
surface shone and swayed as he replaced 
the cup on the table.

Years of partnering with Mulder had taught 
her the quality of many types of silence. 
There were silences while one or the other 
of them counted to 10 or to infinity 
trying to find the patience to explain 
their entirely logical theory one more 
time. There were the silences when there 
was simply nothing left to say. There were 
the silences meant to tease, to build up 
to the moment of revealing the grand 
truth. And there were the silences that 
were simply comfortable dwelling places.

She didn't know how to read Skinner. But 
she knew that the silence she heard right 
then was none of the silences she knew. So 
she waited a while longer.

Somewhere from some far off distance, she 
heard the wail of police sirens rise and 
fall as they rushed to some other point in 
the city. 

The waitress without asking, or speaking, 
brought her a cup of coffee and cream, and 
disappeared again.

The silence stretched, thick and twisting. 
He seemed more and more distant, although 
he never moved except to occasionally sip 
his coffee.

Just as Scully was beginning to wonder if 
the sun would rise and find them there, 
Skinner let go of his coffee and looked up 
at her. This time the angle of his head 
caused the glare of the overhead lights to 
reflect white-blue on his glasses, and she 
couldn't see his eyes.

His voice was stronger, but still she felt 
like she should be leaning forward to hear 
him. 

"Thanks for coming, Scully. I...it was a 
lot to ask of you, but I do appreciate 
it." He drew a deep breath. "The fact of 
the matter is I'm not sure what I'm doing 
here." 

He looked down again, as though he were 
trying to read his future, or perhaps his 
past in the brown dregs at the bottom of 
his cup.

She said nothing--held still by a 
combination of surprise and confusion. 
Something in his tone warned her that 
nothing tonight would conform to any known 
pattern.

"I woke up tonight to find myself walking 
along the streets near the Baltimore train 
station. I don't know how I got there. 
That was a couple of hours ago. I walked 
and walked and finally came here. Then I 
called you."

She wanted to shake her head, to protest, 
to deny his words. No one just woke up and 
found themselves in Baltimore. She wanted 
to reach over and touch him. To see if it 
were really Skinner, as if a simple touch 
of skin to skin could clarify for her this 
mystery that bloomed strange and 
frightening in front of her. But she 
chained her voice, kept her hands still. 
There were things in heaven and earth not 
found in her philosophy, as Mulder would 
have reminded her. And this was Skinner--
he did not speak in metaphor or mystery. 

He shifted a little before he continued, 
and now she could see his eyes, but could 
read nothing in them but the usual cool 
intelligence. He might have been reporting 
the closing stock prices. "I'm just not 
sure what happened. I remember going home 
tonight after running some errands, and I 
think I remember having dinner and going 
to bed, but now....well, I'm just not 
sure."

She looked at him closely now--noting his 
clothes, a black henley, jeans, and a 
leather jacket. Casual, but seasonable 
attire. She resisted the urge to check his 
feet to see if he was wearing shoes.

He seemed to have stopped, and it seemed 
to be her turn to say something.

"What...how...?" It was difficult to find 
the right way to begin. She fought her way 
through the dizzying thicket of 
speculation that clamored in her mind. 
Theories beginning to form, cast aside and 
reformed as she tried to deal with his 
simple and devastating recitation. Hours 
ago, he'd said. He would have been 
thinking. "Do you have any theories?"

He shrugged a little. "The things in my 
blood seem a logical starting point. But, 
he's never...that is, I've never had this 
sort of thing happen with them before."

It was time to end that particular 
masquerade. She tried to keep the sudden 
sharp anger out of her voice. "You mean 
Krycek's never controlled your movements 
before."

His seemed winded - a rabbit punch to the 
solar plexus. "You know?"

"There are some faces you don't forget." 
She kept her tone level.

"You didn't say anything."

"We were trying to follow your lead, Sir. 
We know....none of us are completely free 
agents anymore, are we? It's hard to know 
what can be said out loud, sometimes."

He watched her for a long moment, as 
though trying to gauge her reaction to the 
knowledge that she'd had for months. He 
gave a peculiar half-smile. "No, Krycek 
has never used the controls for this type 
of thing. Usually he just shows up, 
activates the fucking bugs for a while and 
then leaves. Sometimes he 
wants...information."

For this night, she would only concentrate 
on the immediate problem. She tucked away 
her sorrow and dread. Scarred. They were 
all so scarred, even if the wounds weren't 
always visible. "So, this could be a test 
of some other property of the nanobots?"

"Possibly, but there's no residual feeling 
of the nanobots being activated, and 
there's been no attempt to contact me, 
to....gloat." The bitter edge of his voice 
cut through her, leaving her momentarily 
wordless. She felt a knife edge along her 
skin. How do you live when your enemy 
holds your life very literally in his 
hands? When pain is only and always only 
as far away as the next shadow?

"Okay, let's look at other possibilities. 
How did you get here? Is it possible you 
drove yourself here?" 

He looked out the window, and it surprised 
her to realize he was fighting off an urge 
to shout. His voice when he answered her 
was unnaturally flat. "No, I don't think I 
did."

She reassessed. "Look, you've been 
thinking about this for a while. I just 
got here. What do you think? What do you 
know?"

"Not fucking much. I'm pretty sure I 
didn't drive because I don't have my car 
keys with me, although oddly I do seem to 
have my spare house key with me." His jaw 
worked for a second, and then he looked 
her square in the eyes. She was appalled 
by the bleakness there.

"When you were 'called' to that dam in 
Pennsylvania. What did that feel like? 
What do you remember about how you got 
there?" 

At first she couldn't answer him, tangled 
in her memories of that night, and the 
news footage of the morning after. The 
smell of burning flesh that she was never 
sure if she really remembered, or only 
imagined. The memories recovered in the 
hypnosis session had always had a vaguely 
artificial quality to them, like synthetic 
strawberry flavoring--you knew what you 
were supposed to be tasting, but you 
understood it was only the suggestion of 
reality.

"I never did remember how I got there. I 
only remember the events from being 
there." She could hear the frustration in 
her voice, tried to smooth out the ridges. 
Concentrate on what you do know. "We're 
pretty sure I didn't drive--my car wasn't 
there, but we also think I brought 
Cassandra....I...I just don't know. I have 
a vague sense of movement, of time 
blurring, but I don't think I'll ever 
actually know."

He nodded, and looked down again. She felt 
oddly that she had both disappointed him 
and confirmed something he already knew.

"It just occurred to me that the nanobots 
might not have been the only things I was 
infected with." 

Her gut tightened--low, sharp. Without 
thinking she reached over and laid her 
hand on his. He flinched a little at the 
contact, but didn't move his hand away. 
They sat for a long time, in an airless 
silence.

The waitress appeared and refilled their 
coffees, the slosh and click of the cups 
being set down breaking their reverie. 
Scully realized that she had been thinking 
about nothing at all--her thoughts had 
dropped into a shapeless void. She 
wondered how long they had been sitting 
there.

Then she remembered something. "I don't 
think you have a chip." Her voice seemed 
husky, as though she hadn't spoken in 
days.

He simply looked at her. It frightened her 
how little hope she saw in him. She could 
feel him disappearing into the distance 
again. She pressed down on his hand to 
emphasize her point.

"While you were hospitalized, and we were 
trying to deal with the blockage in your 
veins, we ran more than one complete body 
scan, using multiple imaging techniques--
x-ray, MRI, PET. If you had a chip it 
would have shown up on the scans, and 
believe me, we looked for everything."

"What if the nanobots can also act like 
the chip?"

And now her brain was finally functioning-
-analyzing, looking at fact patterns, 
recalling a life-time of schooling. 
Without thinking she lifted her hand to 
gesture. Even as she continued to drive 
home her point, a small part of her 
registered a sensation of loss. The 
connection had been important somehow. 
"It's possible, but it also seems to me 
that if they could, Krycek would have used 
that feature before this time. You know 
what poor impulse control he has." 

Fleeting grins were exchanged, a shared 
moment of gallows humor.

"Look, there's a whole other possibility. 
What if this is some version of post-
traumatic stress disorder? It's not 
unknown for people who have experienced 
traumas, including near death, to react in 
a variety of ways including sleep-walking 
or..."

"Sleep-traveling?" His tone was sharp, but 
underneath she thought she now heard a 
hint of normalcy. She hadn't realized, 
until that moment, how thin Skinner's 
voice had been.

"Well, I was going to say, essentially 
blackouts, but yeah--something akin to 
waking up somewhere and not quite knowing 
how you got there."

He closed his eyes, and leaned back in the 
booth. The creak of the ancient vinyl 
startlingly loud and somehow out-of-place 
in the stale-coffee air. He seemed to be 
lost in thought, or maybe memory, or maybe 
sheer weariness. It had been, she thought, 
a very long week, month, year for all of 
them.

When he looked back at her, though, she 
finally recognized him again. "Hard to 
know what to wish for some days--chips in 
my brain, or a brain that's all screwed 
up. God knows I've been down that road 
before, after..." He shook his head. "Hard 
to know...."

"I know." And she did know. But she was 
also out of ideas, exhausted and still not 
sure exactly what she was doing here. 
"What do you want to do?"

"I want to go home."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

He hadn't meant to call her. 

It had taken him only a couple of minutes 
to realize he was in Baltimore, even as he 
realized with a feeling of near terror 
that he had no idea how he'd gotten there, 
or even what day or time it was.

Twilight Zone episodes were always so much 
more entertaining when they happened to 
someone else.

He walked and walked--the streets winding 
through residential areas that were mostly 
quietly tucked in for the night, and then 
through the business district, that, like 
all urban areas was so eerily deserted 
after dark. For a while he'd tried to 
think through the problem, to figure out 
what the hell was going on. After a while, 
simply walking was more important.

He'd wandered into the diner almost by 
accident. He hadn't planned to rest, to 
stop, but the neon sign had drawn him--a 
migratory moth to an impersonal flame--and 
he'd walked through the door before fully 
registering what he was doing.

The diner had been nearly empty, and the 
waitress didn't seem to care that he 
didn't want anything besides coffee. Some 
time later, he'd found himself in the 
back, at the pay phone, Scully's number 
already half-dialed before he'd thought to 
ask himself what he wanted of her. It did 
not seem to be his finest night for 
careful analysis.

But he'd finished dialing anyway--let the 
call ring through. He needed to hear a 
familiar voice in this strange night, and 
there were less than a half-dozen people 
in the world he could trust, and only two 
lived in DC.

Her sleep-smudged voice was the first 
touch of warmth he'd felt all night, and 
he couldn't stop himself from asking her 
to come up and meet him.

During his wait for her he'd nearly gone 
back to the pay phone a half-dozen times 
to call her and tell her not to bother to 
make the drive up. But the weakness won 
out. He needed to see her. He carefully 
did not plan or think about what he would 
say to her when she arrived.

When she'd finally appeared in the diner, 
for the briefest of moments he didn't 
recognize her. Somehow she seemed too 
bitterly warm and real--a visitor from 
another dimension. But she walked down the 
diner aisle to him and he felt his 
shoulders relax marginally. It would never 
be all right. But maybe it could be 
better.

On the drive back down to Virginia, it 
occurred to him that there was so much 
more he could have said to her in the 
diner. On balance, though, he was glad he 
hadn't. 

The interior of her car smelled of leather 
and something darker, more complicated. 
They drove through the early morning black 
in silence, the hypnotic thrum of the 
tires interrupted only occasionally by the 
inevitable cracks and flaws in the road's 
surface. This time the silence between 
them wasn't so stretched and fraught. He 
spent most of the drive gazing out the 
side window, the buildings and tree-shaped 
shadows barely seen blurs hurrying by 
them. After a while, his gaze pulled in a 
little, and he saw her reflected in the 
glass. He didn't think she knew he was 
watching her in reflection. Oddly, he 
failed to feel at all guilty for watching 
her drive. For watching her.

As she took the exit to Crystal City he 
stirred, finally, seeing the buildings and 
street lights of the sterilely familiar 
area he lived in. They were already back? 
The drive had seemed short.

"Do you want to come up?" He was asking 
several things with the simple question, 
and he wasn't sure which she answered when 
she said yes. He filed away the tone of 
her voice to analyze at another time.

He keyed in the security code for the 
garage in his building and directed her to 
a visitor's parking space.

His car was in his space. They walked by 
it on the way to the garage elevator, and 
as they passed it, they stopped and looked 
it at for a three-second eternity, and 
then continued on with no comment.

His apartment was empty. Cold. It was a 
late Spring evening, and the air outside 
was chilled. He'd left a window open, and 
the apartment smelled crisp, clean. No 
scent of cooking food or anything personal 
to mark the space. For a moment, seeing it 
through another's eyes, he realized he 
barely lived there at all. 

He automatically motioned her ahead of 
him, and then closed and locked the door 
behind them. Crossed the floor to close 
the window, turned on a lamp. 

He turned to find Scully with her weapon 
drawn and leveled at him, her gaze 
sweeping the living room. He couldn't 
remember how he was supposed to react when 
someone pointed a weapon at him. He was so 
damn tired. He settled for raising his 
eyebrows--raising his voice seemed like 
too much work. "Scully?"

"There could be someone here." She dropped 
her voice to a whisper and the husky tones 
carried through the quiet room, leaving 
strange reverberations in their wake.

He regarded her steadily, feeling like a 
schoolboy trying to translate a difficult 
foreign language.

"There's no one here."

She started to argue and stopped. He saw 
her sway slightly, as though the weight of 
her own weariness had finally settled hard 
and final about her shoulders. She 
holstered her gun and sat down on his 
couch without looking at him or speaking.

He watched her for another second, and 
then walked over to his bar and got them 
each a scotch. Neat. 

He handed her drink to her, and sat across 
from her in the leather armchair that 
showed subtle signs of wear compared to 
all the other pristine furniture in his 
tasteful living room.

He took a swallow of his scotch, pausing 
to let the soft accustomed burn work down 
throat and into his chest. A sensory 
memory from more nights than he wanted to 
recall. He was startled to hear himself 
speak. "So, come to any conclusions? Did I 
wander up to Charm City thanks to 
technology or a fucked-up psyche?" 
Bitterness barely discernible, but still 
shocking.

She seemed to have been thinking about it. 
She answered with almost no hesitation, 
"I'd go with a reasonable reaction to an 
unreasonable series of events. It was just 
a trip to Baltimore."

"I don't remember how I go there." Low, 
emphatic--something between anger and fear 
resonating just below the surface. He 
fought to reassemble his tone, himself.

"We all do things we don't remember. This 
is a little...unusual, but scarcely a 
crisis." Her tone was level, reasonable. 
Her cool logic, more than anything else, 
was his touchstone tonight. That she would 
argue with him, and not simply provide 
meaningless reassurances, meant more than 
he could say.

She continued, almost casually. "Look, it 
happened. Was this the only time?" He 
started to nod, and then caught himself, 
and slowly shook his head.

At that her breath caught. "There have 
been other times?" Slowly, quietly, trying 
not spook a skittish, wounded animal.

"A long time ago." His voice changed 
timbre. Low, the register of an almost-
forgotten memory. "After...after the first 
time I died."

She put her drink down on the table. 
Carefully. "The first time you...?"

Skinner was already half-lost in the 
memory, and had to fight his way back to 
the present to see her clearly. "Mulder 
never told you?"

She shook her head, as though she were 
afraid that words would shatter the 
fragile moment. 

He was still looking at her, but his focus 
shifted 28 years backward. "I joined the 
Marines at 18..."

He unfolded the story that he had only 
said out loud to two other people, 
describing the sensation of floating over 
his own body, watching himself on that 
jungle floor. Telling of the peace he'd 
felt at that time, a quiet he'd never 
found again. 

He told the story from a long dark 
distance. He'd moved away in time and 
place, until he wasn't sure he'd find his 
way home again. But he kept telling her--
telling her what he'd never told Mulder-- 
about the grey, sensationless place he'd 
dwelled in the two weeks before regaining 
consciousness in the military hospital in 
Vietnam, about the months of 
rehabilitation that taught his body how to 
function again. 

And finally he found himself admitting to 
her that twice during his physical rehab 
treatments, he'd woken up in the middle of 
the night to find himself miles away from 
the rehab facility, with no memory of how 
he'd gotten there.

Still lost in the memory--the star-filled 
sky of the desert area outside the Arizona 
VA facility where he'd been treated, the 
feel of the sand crunching and sliding 
under the soles of his shoes, the sharp 
bite of a night wind--he was startled back 
to the present by Scully's touch.

She was crouching beside him, running her 
hands along his arms-- lightly touching, 
pressing. Trying to shape him back to this 
life, this world.

He stirred a little under her touch, and 
looked at her. His focus snapped back to 
the present. She stilled. He started to 
speak, but couldn't find the words. He 
tried to remember why he'd been telling 
her that story. Why he had said aloud 
things he didn't even let himself think 
about.

She was searching his face, her eyes 
worried and lit by something for which he 
had no name. She asked him gently, "How 
did you get home?"

His vocabulary had deserted him, and he 
had no concrete image to tie to the idea 
of 'home.' He frowned, concentrating. "I 
hitchhiked. I wasn't far from I-10."

"Why didn't you call someone?" 

"There was no one to call." And he had to 
close his eyes because he couldn't bear to 
see the pity that would be washing through 
her statement.

Her right hand moved down, and he was 
surprised to feel her fingers lacing with 
his. She tightened her grip, and he knew 
she was asking him to meet her gaze. 
Because he was not a coward, and because 
he had long ago given up any illusions 
about what his life was, he opened his 
eyes.

There was no pity. Only a deep 
understanding and compassion. "I'm sorry." 
There were so many layers to her tone.

"Why?"

"You were so alone." 

"It's just life." A loose fragment of 
knowledge floated by. "Joseph Conrad said, 
'We live as dream, alone'." He shrugged a 
little. "It's just life."

"No, you're not alone." He was surprised 
by a small anger he heard in her voice.

It was the anger, which he realized with a 
small jolt was on his behalf, that undid 
him. Made him say the thing that had been 
running through his mind all night, all 
week. "I am alone and I'm so fucking 
tired. Why am I still doing this? Is it 
simply because I can't run? Because I 
think Krycek will find me no matter what?"

She responded without thinking, revealing 
more, he thought, than she'd intended. 
"I'm tired, too. I think about quitting at 
least once a week. I keep going because 
there are still battles to be fought and 
we are going to be among those standing 
when this all ends." 

She had always had the soul of a warrior. 
It was one of the many things that drew 
him to her. He responded to her tone, more 
than her words. Something almost like hope 
flitted across his heart. A shadow on 
barren ground. "Do you think any of us 
will be left standing, Scully?"

Before she could draw again on the flame 
of her defiance, he continued, unable to 
stop himself. "Yes, I think maybe you'll 
be left. You and..."

Now she cut him off. "So will you." And 
hearing her belief, for a moment he 
believed as well.

But belief was only a chimera. He of all 
people knew that. There were immutable 
facts that shaped all of their lives, and 
those facts dictated an anonymous and 
probably pointless end for him. He had no 
words to answer her.

Silence claimed them again. He heard the 
quiet tick of the kitchen clock, the 
urban-sea shore sounds of traffic ebbing 
and tiding below them. 

She shifted a little, her fingers moving 
against his own, and he realized she was 
still crouched beside him. A remote part 
of his brain reminded him that she was 
probably uncomfortable.

He stood, in order to pull her upright as 
well. Their hands still intertwined, he 
could almost feel her pulse beneath her 
warm silk skin. He looked down at her--
seeing not the agent, but the woman, the 
friend. For a lightning-lit moment he 
allowed himself to see her as something 
more, something closer, more intimate. He 
ruthlessly suppressed those thoughts.

Instead, he very slowly brought their 
joined hands up to the level of his 
shoulder. Shifted his grip and gently 
kissed the back of her hand.

To her startled, but silent beauty he 
said, "Thank you." There was nothing else 
to say, really.

He heard her quiet gasp, and watched the 
seas shift in her eyes. A tempest forming 
at levels fathoms deep. She reached up and 
touched his face, fingers trailing along 
his jaw line--touch light, but leaving 
scorched paths in her wake.

He froze, absolutely still, waiting for 
her to complete the gesture. Feeling the 
world slow on its axis, time crystallizing 
around them.

She dropped her hand and stood in front of 
him. He watched her watching him, and 
wondered what she saw, what she could read 
in his face. He did not know what his eyes 
said, only knew that they were betraying 
something he'd long ago sworn never to 
tell.

She said again, "You're not alone." But 
this time it was a question, something 
almost like a promise. 

He tried to remember how to breathe. The 
images washed over him-- red hair and 
white skin against his sheets, her small 
hand moving up his arm and 
across...laughter and something much 
hotter and brighter in her eyes...the 
generous, mobile mouth open in a gasp....

He swayed slightly under the physical 
impact of the sudden avenue that seemed to 
be opening in front of him. Even knowing 
that what was being offered would be 
limited, restricted to this small corner 
of time, he felt the need and longing 
welling up inside him.

Reality reasserted itself. Nothing could 
truly be restricted to a single corner of 
time, and there were possibilities he had 
long ago surrendered. He had forgotten 
that for a moment, but he could never 
escape entirely. . He spoke, a careful 
neutrality forced into his tone. "No, I'm 
not alone. I do have...friends." He 
paused, watching her deliberately put a 
minute distance in her statement. "Thank 
you, Scully. I...appreciate your help 
tonight."

She gave an almost imperceptible smile. 
"No problem." 

She turned and walked to the door. She 
stopped, her hand on the knob, and turned 
back to him. "Call me if you need....if 
you ever need a ride again." She left 
before he could say anything else. Which 
was just as well.

Her footsteps had receded down the hall, 
and the chime of the elevator had long 
faded away before he finally crossed the 
floor and locked the door behind her.

He turned and leaned against the door, 
seeing, with only a vague sense of 
surprise that the VCR clock said it was 
nearly 5:40 a.m.

He shoved his hands deep in his jeans 
pockets and dropped his head, heavy 
against his chest. His shoulders felt 
tight, muscles abused and knotted. Moving, 
at the moment, seemed impossible.

His fingers caught on a small piece of 
paper, deep in the left pocket. He pulled 
it out, and held it up to the light.

An Amtrak ticket stub from DC to Baltimore 
mocked him quietly in the first light of 
dawn.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Scully spent the rest of Sunday half-
waiting for and half-fearing the call that 
eventually came at 5 in the evening.

"Agent Scully?" The words, more than the 
tone, told her all she needed to know. The 
quiet reassertion of formality confirmed 
the distance she had already suspected. 
She answered in kind.

"Yes, Sir?"

"I just called to say...thank you." And 
for the briefest instant, she heard again 
all the colors of his voice.

Simplicity had always suited both of them 
best. "You're welcome."

He hung up without saying anything else.

Several weeks later, she had to go down to 
Research for copies of some old crime 
scene photos. The rows of cubicles on the 
3rd floor had always seemed like a giant 
maze to her--a warren of some strange 
species of animal that scurried back and 
forth in endless search of new 
information, clues and data. The parallel 
lines of offices, cut at merciless right 
angles by the bisecting corridors left her 
feeling nearly dizzy as she negotiated the 
unyielding matrix. 

She moved through the hall as quickly as 
possible; intent only on getting the one 
file folder she needed to complete their 
report. Movement along one of the next 
aisles caught her peripheral vision, and 
she turned her head just in time to see 
Skinner striding along beside her--walking 
a parallel line to her--walking at her 
side on a path, that in this universe 
would never intersect hers. She stopped, 
waiting to see if he saw her, too, but he 
simply kept moving, until he vanished from 
her sight.

END

parallax. noun. An apparent change in the 
direction of an object, caused by a change 
in observational position that provides a 
new line of sight.

Notes: Deep thanks and respect to Rev the 
Fabulous for Beta assistance. Also to 
Jordan, whose writing inspired this bit of 
madness. And to Meredith, just because.

Feedback would be most deeply appreciated 
and responded to with a glad heart. 
Vivwiley@yahoo.com





=====

"His hair had been particularly hideous 
and she wasn't exactly looking her best, 
but he had a face with a view and when 
they looked at one another something like 
eternity gaped in their peripheral 
vision." -- Revely

I'm here: 
http://www.geocities.com/meredith_elsewher
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