Title: Saint Michael (1 of 4)

Author: Jennifer Adams Kelley

E-mail: swordlady@jennifarse.com (new address, not that you care)

Rating: PG-13 for some really naughty language and implied smut.

Category: SH

Keywords: alternate universe, pre-XF (at the start), Mulder/Other,
Scully/other (sorta) UST

Disclaimer: As you are well aware, my name doesn't flash on screen at any
point during an episode of "The X-Files." And as you should also be aware,
the show and main characters belong to Fox and to 1013 Productions.

Spoilers: Vague up to the end of season 6

Archive: Yes, please.

Summary: A college one-night stand causes Mulder to forget himself fifteen
years later.

Author notes: I've classified this story as "alternate universe" because
Mulder just so completely ignores any kind of proper procedures it isn't
funny. Look at this as a fantasy, okay? I started writing the first version
of this story back in spring of 1999, and chose to keep the setting there
just for ease of plotting.

Oh, and although this note does not apply to the first part, a row of
asterisks means that the narrator has changed.

********************************************************
SAINT MICHAEL (1 of 4)
by Jennifer Adams Kelley

Saint Michael
by Jennifer Adams Kelley

Okay, so I know you're going to kick my butt no matter what. And I
know I'm being really stupid and immature by not telling you this
beforehand. But it's not like we've actually been getting along or
anything the past couple months. I'm not sure you'd even listen if
I tried to explain this all to your face.

So I'm creating an on-going report for you to read after opening
that case of whoop-ass, so you know that I wanted to tell you but
was too chickenshit to do so.

Anyway, you're not going to have a clue until I start at the
beginning, and that goes back to Oxford, the winter of 1984. I was
in my second year there (having started winter term 1983, yeah,
not usual, but then again would you expect anything else from me?)
and had fallen in with a group of guys who shared an interest in
beer drinking, chick watching, and science fiction kibitzing. I'm
tempted to lay the blame for what you'll have to go through this
weekend on them solely; really, I was to blame as much as them.

Maybe I ought to explain a bit about the culture. Something about
the upper-class-twitness of the public (read "private") school
system that produces many Oxford underclassmen compels otherwise-
reasonable young men to call each other by the stupidest of
nicknames. It's the only bit of the Wodehouseian England that
still remains (or remained, really, no clue what it's like now).
The gist of this long-winded prose is that although officially I
hung out with Peter, Terry, Colin, and John, we referred to them
as Tristan, Guiness, Wanker, and Nobby. And because even then I
preferred to be called "Mulder" and because that was considered
weird enough as it was, Nobby decided that because of my height
and my looks, I should be called "Michael," after Michael Nesmith
of the Monkees. (Geez, it could have been worse! I could have been
called "Wool Hat"!)

So anyway, I had been answering to "Michael" for nearly a year by
the time we gathered in Tristan's room one cold February evening
to watch *Doctor Who.* Tristan always hosted the TV parties. Not
only did he have enough cash to afford a TV license, but he also
had connections to get tapes from the States...and an NTSC VCR and
TV to play them on. He traded episodes of British shows for
episodes of American ones. I liked watching the tapes because it
relieved homesickness and I enjoyed everyone's reactions to
"normal" television.

The first part of "Planet of Fire" aired that evening, in which a
new, supposedly-American companion was introduced. Personally, I
thought her accent was horrible, but she had huge tracts of land
and fenced them in nicely in a bikini throughout the episode, so I
didn't mind too much. At least not until, switching off the set,
Tristan said, "At least they got the accent right this time."

"Much better than Tegan's," Nobby concurred, passing out another
round of beers.

"Er...you're not referring to Peri, are you?" I asked. "Because if
you are, you guys need to watch more American TV."

Wanker stretched. "What's wrong with her accent, then? I thought
it was spot on myself."

"Me, too," Guiness nodded.

"I think we all did, 'cept for you, Michael." Nobby leaned into my
face. "What's wrong with Peri's accent?"

"Well, other than it sucking, not much."

"I dunno, mate, she sounded a lot like you."

"I don't sound anything like that." I swigged some beer, and set
the whole terrible chain of events into motion. "In fact, I bet I
do a better English accent than Peri does an American one."

Nobby snorted. "And how you going to prove that one, Michael?"

"Well--"

"I know," said Tristan. "He has to convince people he doesn't know
that he's native. And since we're going down to London this
weekend, I can't think of a better time or place to do it."

"But--"

"Twenty quid says you can't do it."

"Twenty quid?!"

"All right, fifty."

That was a serious chunk of change. "Well, if you put it like
that, I guess I have no choice. But we gotta have some criteria."

Guiness and Wanker exchanged glances, probably trying to figure
out what "criteria" meant. (It's not like I hung with the
brightest of people, you know. I think they both got into Oxford
because of generations of inbreeding....) Nobby nodded knowingly,
the alcohol in his system making him overly serious. "You're
absolutely right. We wouldn't want any cheating. Must be on the
up-and-up. All right.... " He tapped his finger against his chin.
"Now, it wouldn't be fair to expect you to be English the entire
night. Especially not after several pints."

"Right."

"I suppose," Tristan agreed.

"So, the first pub we go to, you have to convince at least three
people you're English. And if you do, you get the fifty quid."

"And if I don't?"

"Well, other than making a complete arse of yourself...."

"You have to clean my flat for a month," Tristan said. "I'd ask
for money, but I know you don't have any."

"Gosh, thanks." I sighed. I knew this was a dumb idea, but hey, it
was fifty pounds. Besides, I liked being stuck in the middle of a
dumb idea, because it meant I had friends who came up with a dumb
idea, and that's something I didn't really have back home.

So, anyway, I had a couple of days to prepare for the bet, and I
spent that time coming up with a bogus background for an English
version of me...and working on the accent. I knew I was
good...well, I was pretty sure I was good. The only thing I could
impress my peers in high school with was my dead-on quotations
from *Monty Python's Flying Circus.* The year I had spent at
Oxford had only increased my skill (or so I thought). (Yeah, other
things were increased, too, other things destroyed, but we'll
leave Phoebe out of this. Well, other than to mention that we were
already history, which is why I was spending too much time with
Tristan, Guiness, Wanker, and Nobby.)

(Okay, I know I'm rambling, Scully, but you really need the
*whole* backstory, which means you gotta read through all this
crap before I get to the point.)

We arranged to meet at the Oxford train station that Friday
morning, with the plan being to check into a hostel upon arrival
in London, then head over to Forbidden Planet (a science fiction
bookstore) in the afternoon, then pub crawl that night. I showed
up in my usual jeans, jacket, t-shirt, and sneakers, but I had
several surprises for the "lads" in my backpack. I put up with the
usual ribbing on the way down and throughout the afternoon. I
didn't care, really, I was enjoying it.

We returned to the hostel early evening, to do the usual young
male preening prior to going out. Wanker and Guiness shared a
room; Tristan had his own (rich bastard), which left me with
Nobby. I thought it fitting that he be the one to see the
transformation first.

No, I'm not being melodramatic. I'm trying to describe a defining
moment for me. No, I don't mean the moment when I realized I was
really gullible to other people's suggestions. I mean the moment
when I realized I could get in another person's head. You, know,
the profiling bit. Yeah, I was getting into a fictional person's
head...but the whole experience made me think that maybe I could
get into real people's heads, figure out what makes them tick,
determine their likeliest course of action.... But I'm digressing
*again.*

I had brought along a pair of good pants, a white button-down
shirt, a narrow dark tie, and a suit coat infested with little
metal pins advertising various punk and synthopop bands. I changed
quickly to leave myself plenty of time to do stupid stuff with a
tube of gel and a hairdryer. (I had much longer hair back then, so
it took awhile to get it all spikey.) Finally, I put on my glasses
and took a look in the small wall mirror. Overall, the effect
suggested Rik of *The Young Ones,* except with less acne and
better hair.

Nobby returned at that moment from the shower. "Ooer, Michael,
that's a bit of a change, isn't it?"

"I have no idea what you mean," I replied, using the accent.

"Well, you don't look American, do you?"

"That's because I'm not, am I?"

"You should have held out for 100 quid, mate. You're going to
clean up." Nobby shook his head. "Absolutely bloody clean up." He
slapped me on the shoulder. "Come on, Michael, let's earn you that
money."

We headed downstairs and met the others in the lobby, then headed
over to a nearby pub recommended by the desk clerk. I took the
ribbing over my clothing quietly, mostly because I wanted to keep
the accent going without letting them know what it really sounded
like. So I did a lot of uh-huh s and um-hmms on the three block
walk over.

It was still early, judging by the amount of people in the place,
so we were able to score a table with no real problem. We ordered
a round and surveyed the other crawlers to decide on the likely
victims. Tristan spotted a booth of three girls in a back corner.
"There you go, Michael, let's give them a pull."

"All right," I agreed.

"Nobby, you come along. You can be the neutral party to determine
his success."

"What about us, then?" asked Wanker.

"Yeah, can't we talk to the birds?" Guiness added.

"We don't want to scare them off, do we?" Tristan jerked his head
toward them. "Come on, lads."

Nobby and I followed him over to the booth. The three girls were
fairly attractive in a collegiate kind of way. I figured that
Tristan would have tried to chat them up anyway, and that he chose
them to kill two birds with one stone. In any case, he took the
lead, as always. "Hello, there. You look like you could use some
male companionship."

(Yes, his opening line *always* sucked. And no, I did *not* get
ideas from him.)

The tallest girl-brunette, long hair, green eyes, would have been
attractive if she didn't have a perpetual smirk-gave Tristan the
once-over and snorted. "Yes, we could...but I suppose you'll do."

"Well, thank you for that vote of confidence. I'm Tristan, by the
way."

"Nancy. This is Maureen," she pointed at another, smaller brunette
with a pinched face, "and her cousin Phaedra." Phaedra had dirty
blonde hair, gray eyes, and a wardrobe that looked left over from
the Summer of Love.

"Phaedra?" I asked. "What? Like in the song?"

"What song?" Nobby asked.

"'Some Velvet Morning.' Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood, 1967."

"Not like the song, but I'm surprised you know about it." Phaedra
definitely had an American accent. (A real one.) She looked at me-
and did a double-take. She didn't say anything else, though, so I
thought maybe she thought I looked funny or something.

"Who're your friends, then, Tristan?" Nancy prompted.

"This is Nobby, and this is--"

"Michael." Phaedra finished, sounding definite but looking
hopeful.

"How'd you know?" I asked.

She smiled secretively, blushing.

Maureen waved her cousin's reaction off. "Don't mind her, she's
from San Francisco. Are you lot down from Oxford or Cambridge?"

Tristan slid into the booth next to her. "Oxford. Why? Is it that
obvious?"

"Yes, actually. Local college puddings never come here. Our friend
Sarah, though, works the front desk at the hostel down the street.
She sends likely sorts this way on nights she
knows we're going to be here."

"So we're likely sorts, then?"

Nancy shrugged. "At first look. But tell us about yourselves and
we'll decide from there." She motioned for Nobby to sit next to
her.

I was left out, which if you ask me was the entire story of my
life to date. I looked around for a chair to pull up. Phaedra
nudged Maureen, who nudged Tristan, who rolled his eyes and let
both girls out of their side of the booth. He slid back in first,
followed by Maureen, followed by Phaedra. "Just enough room here,
Michael," she said, patting about six inches worth of vinyl.

"Ta," I said, squeezing a butt cheek onto the bench.

Tristan and Nobby both introduced themselves, both embellishing
their life histories something awful. I felt I was embellishing
myself already by pretending to be British, so I kept my bogus
backstory simple. (Pay attention to this, Scully, I'm gonna be
tested on it this weekend.)

"I'm rather boring compared to my mates, I'm afraid. Only child,
grew up in Woking, Surrey, father's an architect, mother's a
writer. Dozen or so 'O' levels, half dozen 'A' levels, reading
literature at Queens College, Oxford."

"So, you're getting a degree without a use, too, huh?" Maureen
said. "Phaedra's reading English, too."

"I would have majored in psychology, but I couldn't take the
pressure."

"Pressure? The tests and experiments?" I wondered.

"No, knowing why people act the way they do."

"Can't you learn that from literature, then?"

"With literature, you can pretend it couldn't really happen."
Phaedra leaned close to my ear. "Could we go somewhere and talk?"

"Er, sure, I suppose." I glanced at my friends. Tristan mouthed
that I had won; Nobby merely winked lewdly. "We could go in the
back room, if you'd like."

"Yeah, I think I would."

I stood, offering her my arm as she rose. She grabbed my hand in
hers...and something extraordinary happened.

I can tell your eyebrow rose when you read that last sentence,
Scully. But I assure you, I wasn't drunk, and I wasn't as gullible
as you seem to think I am these days. She simply touched me. And
when she touched me, I found myself , I dunno, *becoming* this
other persona. It was like Fox Mulder was the fictional character,
and Michael was the real person. I no longer had to think to do
the accent, certainly, and I no longer had to keep all the made-up
details in the forefront of my mind. Everything seemed...natural.

And to top it off, I didn't think anything was weird about it at
the time. In retrospect, sure, but I put it down to the hormonal
imbalance created when a young adult male was faced with the
possibility of getting laid.

So we went into the back room, which in British pubs is a quieter,
slightly fancier place where guys bring their girls or their
parents for a quiet chat and a pint or two. We found an open table
and sat, never breaking hand contact. We ordered another round and
a plate of chips (fries, Scully, fries), then she sighed. "Do you
ever have dreams?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Dreams involving me?"

I smiled apologetically. "It's not like I remember any of them,
actually."

"I have had the same dream every month since I was 12. And you're
in it."

"Am I?"

"We're floating the clouds, drifting toward a bright light. When I
first had them, we just kissed, but as I got older, well, you
know."

"So I slept with you in the middle of nowhere?'

"You didn't so much sleep with me as transform me." She squeezed
my hand. "I know this sounds completely off the wall, but you were
there. Really. You didn't tell me your name until last month, when
you said to come to London and find you. And here I am. Transform
me."

"What? Just like that? Not even any foreplay?"

She suddenly seemed very shy. "Well... I dunno. I guess. You just
said to come to London and find you, and that you'd handle things
from there. You didn't go into details or anything."

"In your dream."

"Yes."

"And you believe this is somehow predestined?"

"You've come to me every month for 8 years, Michael. What am I
supposed to think?"

"I don't know, what?"

She grabbed me and planted a kiss on my lips that left nothing to
the imagination. Then she took my hand again, paid the bar bill,
and took me around to her hotel room. She stripped the moment we
were inside and all but ripped my clothes off in her eagerness. So
I did the only humanly thing possible.

I shagged her, Scully, I shagged her rotten. We spent the next 36
hours doing each other, breaking off only for food, sleep, and the
odd twosome-shower. I was having an excellent time, but I
certainly didn't notice any transformation in Phaedra. She wasn't
saying much, really, just moaning a lot..... In any case, my
accent, my persona...didn't slip once. I even came with an English
accent... frequently. And I didn't think it was weird.

Sure, okay, maybe I was distracted by what we were doing, and
maybe after awhile I didn't sound as English as I thought I was
sounding. Phaedra certainly didn't call me on it. So I figured I
was doing okay. Then she told me she had to leave.

"What do you mean, leave? This is your room, love. If anything, I
should be the one going."

She tousled my hair and said, "Silly. I mean leave the country. My
flight back to the States is at 11. Classes start up again
tomorrow, and I have a major to change." Phaedra rolled out of bed
and padded toward the bathroom. "Sorry to break it to you like
this, Michael."

I tried to appear nonchalant. Shrugging, I said, "Well, it's not
like we've chatted all that much since we've met, you know. Too
busy doing other things."

She smiled. "Good." She grabbed fresh underwear from her suitcase
then returned to the bed. She gave me a full-tongue kiss, then
wrapped me in a hug. "Then you'll understand when I ask you to
go."

"Just like that?"

"You don't mind?"

"Is it something I did?"

"Oh, no, no, no, goodness no, Michael. Please don't think that."
She squeezed me tighter; her affection for me flooded my mind as
it warmed my soul. "It's just now that you've transformed me, I've
realized what I need to do. And I need to get back to school,
switch my major to psychology, and start helping people."

"You're sure this transformation was due to me?"

"Yes. And I'm forever grateful." She kissed me again with a
passion that made me want to make her miss her flight. She pulled
back far too quickly for my tastes. "Thank you for everything,
Michael."

"Can we at least stay in touch?"

She shook her head. "We'll meet again someday. I know it."

"But I don't even know your last name!"

"Jones. Boring, isn't it?"

"Not really."

"What's yours?"

"Allingham." (Surprised, Scully? Nothing too pop culture in that,
huh? Although, I will confess, I was reading a lot of Campion
mysteries at the time....)

"Well, Michael Allingham, we'll meet again." She took my hand and
waved her hand over it. "Give it fifteen years or so." She gave me
one last kiss and pulled me out of bed. "Now, get dressed. I don't
want you to be here when I'm done with my shower. It'll be too
hard." She hugged me. "See you in 1999, my savior."

Phaedra ducked into the bathroom, and I threw on my clothes and
staggered back to the hostel, arriving just in time to find my
friends checking out. I got numerous pats on the back and nudges
in the ribs from the lads, plus a prompt payment from Tristan. We
headed back up to Oxford that afternoon. Other than a lingering
soreness below the waist and difficulty talking normally for
several days, the weekend left no real effects.

This alone should have alerted me that something strange was going
on. I was young and not really paranoid yet, though, so I put it
down to being one of those magical college experiences guys like
to brag about once they've graduated. Even when it became 1999, I
didn't give it or her too much thought, other than thinking it
would be really cool if I actually did encounter her again. Then
the case came up.

See, Scully, Phaedra actually did switch her major to psychology,
and she graduated with honors, too. She went into practice for
several years, but discovered along the way that her real talent
lay in motivational speaking. She started giving seminars in
changing your life, and got quite a following. She advertises
strictly by word of mouth and on the Internet. Normally, I
wouldn't give a rat's ass about any motivational speaker. I mean,
I see too many of them channel surfing. But several people who
attended her recent series of workshops have either committed
suicide or gone high school, and since they all thank her for
giving them the courage to live their lives they way they really
wanted to, and since our fellow agents over in VCS have discounted
this connection, it sorta falls onto us.

Before you say anything (well, okay, think anything), yeah, I did
think about just showing up as myself, and write off any
resemblance to "Michael Allingham" as being an amazing
coincidence. And I did think about being up front about being a G-
man. Then I thought it over some more, and decided that maybe I
should give Phaedra the benefit of the doubt. Maybe by going
undercover, we could get at the real truth behind what was going
on. Maybe it's my Achilles heel to be blindly loyal to women I
have shagged. In any case, it was decided for me when you got the
last spot in her seminar this weekend. I knew that Fox Mulder was
s.o.l.-but Michael Allingham might not be.

That's why I sent you to get an early lunch for us today, Scully.
I wanted to call without you hearing me talk English. I gave you a
whole five minutes to maybe remember something and come back to
the office before I dialed the number.

The phone was answered on the third ring by some perky young
woman-probably the same one who took your call, if the expression
on your face was any indicator. "Phaedradream. I'm Marcy. How can
I help?"

"Ah, hello, Marcy, I was wondering if there might be any spots
left in this weekend's seminar."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she sounded genuinely sad. "We just booked the
last space about half an hour ago. Could we accommodate you next
weekend in Madison?"

"No, that won't do, I'm afraid, I'm due in London next weekend.
There is simply no way to squeeze me in, I suppose."

"No, I'm afraid not. Phaedra's most insistent on the maximum
seminar size. She feels she won't be able to give her best with
more than a certain number. I could put you on the waiting list,
though, if you'd like."

"If that's the best that can be arranged...." By now I was
starting to think that maybe we should have gone the direct route
in the first place.

"Your name, sir?"

"Michael Allingham."

She repeated it softly, as if making sure she wrote it down
correctly. Then she answered an indistinct question from someone
in her office. "Could you hold a minute, Mr. Allingham?"

"Of course." I twiddled with a pencil and wondered what the proper
trajectory should be to lodge it into the virgin ceiling tiles
above.

A new voice came on-one that I hadn't heard in fifteen years.
"Michael?"

"Phaedra. So it *is* you behind Phaedradream."

"What in the world are you doing in the States?"

"Ah...long story. I'm going back next week, though, and I was
really hoping to attend your seminar. I've heard so much about
it."

"Oh, Michael, you have to come."

"Won't I be upsetting your numbers?"

"You'll never upset me, Michael. Never. Please come."

"Since you insist...."

"And it's on me, of course."

"Ta very."

"See you Friday, then, Michael. Bye." Phaedra hung up.

I reached for a legal pad and a pen. I had to start extrapolating
more of a life for my fictional construct.

**********
END PART ONE OF FOUR

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Title: Saint Michael (2 of 4)

Author: Jennifer Adams Kelley

E-mail: swordlady@jennifarse.com (new address, not that you care)

Rating: PG-13 for some really naughty language and implied smut.

Category: SH

Keywords: alternate universe, pre-XF (at the start), Mulder/Other,
Scully/other (sorta) UST

Disclaimer: As you are well aware, my name doesn't flash on screen at any
point during an episode of "The X-Files." And as you should also be aware,
the show and main characters belong to Fox and to 1013 Productions.

Spoilers: Vague up to the end of season 6

Archive: Yes, please.

Summary: A college one-night stand causes Mulder to forget himself fifteen
years later.

Author notes: I've classified this story as "alternate universe" because
Mulder just so completely ignores any kind of proper procedures it isn't
funny. Look at this as a fantasy, okay? I started writing the first version
of this story back in spring of 1999, and chose to keep the setting there
just for ease of plotting.

Oh, and although this note does not apply to the first part, a row of
asterisks means that the narrator has changed.

********************************************************
SAINT MICHAEL (2 of 4)
by Jennifer Adams Kelley

Mulder's up to something. He's been acting weird, even for him.
Ever since I took the last spot in that seminar thing.... Well,
maybe sending me out to get lunch wasn't weird in itself, but at
11:24 a.m.? Then, when I got back, he was scribbling away on his
legal pad. He hardly even touched the sandwich he was oh so
anxious for. He didn't even finish the jumbo iced tea. He sat
there all afternoon, thinking, and writing, and tearing sheets off
every so often to start again. I hinted repeatedly that maybe I
should be let in on his Deep Thought Process. I don't think he
heard me.

Then this morning...he brought breakfast. Not just any breakfast,
either. He actually went to Starbucks and actually got me a lowfat
cranberry muffin and a grande skim decaf latte. This was shocking
enough. But to see him slamming down a vente Earl Grey tea and a
blueberry scone...! "Mulder-what the hell's going on?"

"What do you mean?" He seemed awfully fascinated in his computer
screen, a sure sign he was Hiding Something.

"What's with breakfast?"

"Geez, can't a guy be nice once in awhile?"

"Well, if it's you...."

He looked up. "I just got the urge for a scone this morning,
Scully, and while I was there I thought I'd pick you up something,
too."

"Uh huh."

"I get really tired of watching you shovel that yogurt and granola
crap down your throat. I thought you should live a little." He
turned back to his display.

"But tea, Mulder?"

"Can't have coffee with a scone, Scully, makes it taste gross." He
met my eyes again, quirking a smile. "Don't you have some
paperwork to catch up on? I know I do." He turned back to his
work. I could have sworn I heard a soft chuckle.

At this point, I was willing to cut Mulder some slack still. It
could happen, after all, he could actually do something nice for
me with no ulterior motive. We spent the morning doing computer
work, until about noon, when he suggested we go to lunch. He even
offered to drive, so we could go to that organic deli place I
like.

We got down to his car and hopped in. His tape player kicked in as
he started the engine, some kind of comedy sketch about a dead
parrot. I didn't recognise it per se, but I recognised the accents
of the performers. "You're being a real anglophile today, Mulder."

Mulder ejected the tape quickly. "Yeah, well, Python happens."

"Something's going on."

"Isn't."

"Is, too."

"Is this the five minute argument or the full half hour?"

"What?"

"Not a Python fan, I take it."

"Should I be?"

He simply shrugged and changed the topic to expense reports. And
then I knew for sure that something was going on.

So here I sit, looking like I'm working on another report for
Skinner, while I wait for him to reveal the sick processes of his
mind to me. And if it has something to do with this Phaedradream
case, and he doesn't tell me what it is before I leave for the
undercover work Friday morning, I will seriously kick his ass when
I get back.

**********

You are *soooooo* paranoid, Scully. Just because I bring you
breakfast and offer to drive you to your favorite organic deli for
lunch, you think something's going on. Yeah, well, something *is*
going on, but there's no way I'm telling you *now* I don't care
that you spent the entire afternoon pretending to work on that
expense report waiting for an explanation. It's not going to
happen. Yet.

I spent most of the evening watching BBC America (for once the
cable company added a *useful* channel) and finishing up my
profile. Then this morning I brought my Earl Grey in a travel mug
(don't want you to get too suspicious, now) and switched between
the wrap-up on the Bensenville case and a list of what I needed to
get to carry out my part of the undercover assignment. (Skinner's
gonna freak when he reads the expense report on *this* file!)

Now all I have to do is tell you I'm cutting out for the day. Got
shopping to do. Got a visit to the Lone Gunmen to make. (I'm not
going through official channels for the proper I.D., Scully. I am
going so far off Standard Procedures it isn't funny.)

**********

Mulder stood up and shouldered into his suit coat. I looked up
from my paperwork, glancing quickly at my watch to see what time
it was. "Another early lunch, Mulder?" I asked.

"Actually, I'm leaving for the day." He started stuffing files
into his briefcase. "I have some contacts to meet up with."

"Anything to get out of the paperwork backlog."

"I'm doing serious work."

"Uh-huh." I gave him my patented "Don't give me that shit" look.

"No, really."

"And when are we going to have our briefing session? You know, the
one where you tell me exactly what I'm looking for while
participating in the so-called 'life-transforming' weekend? The
one that I need before my plane takes off at 10 a.m. tomorrow
morning for Chicago?"

"Tonight?"

"You supply dinner."

"Well, if you're going to be that way about it.... Say 8?"

"And it better not be pizza or Chinese."

"Okay, okay." He gave me a mock salute and left the office.

And now I'm left catching up on my own. Gee, thanks, partner, I'll
do the same for you someday.

**********

You would have enjoyed my little visit to the Gunmen, Scully. At
least I like to think you would have. Langly let me inside.
"Dude!" he said by way of greeting. "You have Frohike in absolute
knots!"

"Why?"

"He's convinced you're actually going underground and are going to
leave us all adrift. Especially your partner."

I chuckled at that, but my amused expression vanished upon seeing
how morose that little troll actually looked. "Hey, Frohike."

"Mulder. Or, should that be 'Michael'?"

"Not going to be 'Michael' until tomorrow morning. And then, only
for the weekend." I told them all about Phaedra and why I'm
turning English again.

Frohike finally sighed, and pulled a crumpled twenty out of his
pocket. He handed it to Langly, muttering, "I hate it when you're
right."

"Now I can afford the new GURPS supplement."

Bryers, who had remained customarily silent throughout my
explanation, produced a manila envelope. Emptying the contents, he
said, "British passport, drivers license, plane ticket showing a
London departure next weekend, Visa card-all charges will pop up
on your own card, by the way. Bring in the receipts when you
return and we'll massage your real name onto them."

I glanced through the documents, confirming that all the photo
I.D. showed me with glasses on and that all the other background
information I had supplied appeared correctly. "Nice
Photoshopping, guys."

"Photoshop and CorelDRAW, actually," Byers corrected.

"Whatever."

Langly took over. "Internet searches will reveal Geocities and
Xoom sites supposedly by fans of Michael Allingham's writing, as
well as some entries at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com for his
books. A visit to michaelallingham.com and michaelallingham.co.uk
will show an under-construction notice and links to an American
book signing tour itinerary. E-mail sent to
allingham@michaelallingham.co.uk will blind forward to your AOL
account."

"Wow. Overkill, don't you think?"

Byers said, "We're thorough."

"And we thought you were really going under," Frohike added
grumpily.

"Do you want us to remove the Internet stuff?" Langly asked.

"Nyah, it might come in use someday. Thanks, guys. I owe you."

Frohike nodded agreement. "And what does the charming and
delightful Agent Scully think of this little deception?"

"Well, as soon as she finds out, I'll let you know."

The Gunmen looked shocked for a moment. Byers then shook his head
sadly and left the room. Langly rolled his eyes. Frohike sighed.
"She's gonna kick your ass, Mulder."

"Don't I know it."

"Of course, that might mean I can get back in the running for her
affections."

"After that little Las Vegas stunt? I don't think so." I gathered
my bogus I.D.s together. "Thanks for the help, guys. I'll let you
know how it went."

"If you're still alive to tell the tale," Frohike called after me.

Well, you know what happened Thursday night, Scully. I brought
over Thai and the case notes, and we reviewed them. We then
covered what you should look for while at the seminar. It seemed
pretty cut-and-dried to me.

I thought I was pretty clever, too, with my cover story for what I
would be doing while you "improved" yourself in Chicago. I didn't
even mind the inevitable eyebrow I got when announcing I would be
investigating stigmata in the Smokey Mountains.

I put in an hour or two at the office Friday morning, then headed
home to change and finish packing. I parked in the long-term lot
at National, grabbed my bags, slipped my glasses on, and assumed
the persona of Michael Allingham.

Not that anyone cared on the flight, of course, or even once I got
to O'Hare and caught the courtesy shuttle to the seminar hotel. I
received a small envelope upon check-in inviting me to a reception
at 5. Since it was nearly that, I hurried up to my room to drop
off my bag and check my appearance one last time. Then I headed
for the reception.

**********

In a way, I was glad Mulder wasn't around, because if he were,
he'd be into his usual isolationist mode, making disparaging
comments about the other people at the seminar in an attempt to
feel superior to them. Although I usually felt the same way, I had
been pleasantly surprised by the other seminar participants and
didn't want Mulder's superiority complex to distract from what
looked to be a unexpectedly pleasant weekend.

I shared the courtesy shuttle from O'Hare with three other
participants, a manager from Minneapolis, a veterinarian from Des
Moines, and lawyer from Detroit. All seemed reasonable enough
people, successful in nearly all phases of their life. All had
done research into the Phaedradream seminars, and all had
concluded that, even if the seminar didn't live up to the promise,
at least they would have a nice weekend. I told them that I was a
forensic pathologist from D.C., and made similar noises about
figuring it would be a nice weekend. I felt really comfortable in
their presence; I didn't see how any of these people could go
"high school" (as Mulder described it) just because of a seminar.

Once at the hotel I settled into my room, unpacked, and spent the
afternoon browsing the fancy Michigan Avenue stores. I allowed the
little indulgence since the seminar activities didn't start until
a cocktail hour, and I didn't want to poke around and raise
suspicions before the weekend even formally began.

I appeared at the reception promptly at five. An average-sized,
well-kept woman approximately my own age greeted people at the
door. She had long, wavy blonde hair and wore a flowy, violet
dress that wouldn't look out of place on Stevie Nicks. "I'm
Phaedra," she said, shaking my hand warmly. She seemed genuinely
happy to see me, even though she had no idea who I was. "I'm so
pleased you could join me this weekend."

"Dana Scully," I said. "I'm pleased to be here, too."

"Please, go inside and meet your fellow seekers. I think you'll
find we have a good mix of personalities."

"Thanks." I slipped inside, heading for the bar for a wine
spritzer. The veterinarian was getting his drink, too; we fell
into a pleasant conversation.

**********

Phaedra waited at the door to the reception room, greeting people
as they entered. I caught a flash of petite redness enter as I got
off the elevator. Leave it to you, Scully, to be on time. I took a
deep breath, pushed my glasses back up my nose, and approached the
door.

She recognized me immediately, of course. "Michael!" She caught me
in a hug, planting her lips on mine with all the passion we had
felt fifteen years before. I felt myself relaxing, warming to her
presence. "Didn't I tell you we'd meet again?"

"You even pegged the year, love."

She kept an arm entwined in mine as she brought me inside the
room. "I'm so glad," she continued, guiding me to the bar. She got
us two beers, and brought me around to be introduced to the other
seminar participants.

And as luck would have it, Scully, you and that veterinary geek
were the first ones I got to "meet."

**********

I had my back to the bar, so I heard Phaedra speak first. "Dana,
Mel, I'd like you to meet Michael Allingham. He's the person who
got me into this business in the first place."

I turned around, and, well, I couldn't help it, my eyes widened.
Phaedra was introducing me to Mulder. Oh, sure, he was doing his
best to look like someone else, with his hair combed forward, his
glasses on, a multi-colored striped shirt, khaki pants, and a
shiny new pair of Doc Martins on his feet. But I'd know him
anywhere.

So this was why he was being so weird this week. So this is why I
was going to kick his ass. But I wasn't going to do it just yet. I
raised my eyebrow at him, but smiled for show and offered my hand.
"Hello, Michael, I'm Dana Scully."

He kissed my hand, eyes connecting with mine as if in challenge.
"Pleased to meet you, love." He spoke with a really nice English
accent. He then shook hands with the veterinarian and exchanged
pleasantries.

Phaedra smiled at Mulder, squeezed his arm, and pulled him down to
whisper in his ear. He snorted, shaking his head. Phaedra tugged
at his sleeve. "I want to introduce him to everyone else before
dinner starts," she explained, dragging him away.

I kept an eye (and an ear, as much as I could) on him as I resumed
chatting with Mel. I had no idea what he was up to, or why he was
pretending to be English, or why he couldn't tell me he was going
to pull this shit before he pulled it. You'd think he would have a
clue by now-after almost seven years of working together-that I
get really bitchy when he tries to be sneaky. He always means
well, but he always screws up big time, and almost always gets us
into big trouble.

Phaedra and Mulder made the circuit of the room, then led the way
into the adjoining room for the welcoming dinner. Our hostess
stood at the head of the table and pointed people to their optimal
positions. She seated me between Mel and Mulder. Lorna-the-lawyer
sat on Mel's other side and engaged him in small talk. I looked at
Mulder and cocked my head at him. "Well?"

"Well what, Miss Scully?" He tried to look perplexed. Phaedra-who
sat on the other side of him, at the head of the table-caught his
hand again. He glanced at her, grinning almost playfully.

Phaedra returned his smile. "First names, Michael. We're all
friends here."

"Sorry." He looked back at me, his lips pursed in amusement.
"Dana...well what?"

"You sound like you've come an awfully long way to attend a self-
improvement seminar, Michael."

"Actually, not really. I have been on a book signing tour over
here for the past month, and heard about the seminar from a fan.
Then it turns out Phaedra's the same girl I knew back at
university."

"Ah, I see. So you're an author. What do you write?"

"Science fiction novels, the odd review, nothing you've read, I'm
sure."

"And what makes you say that?"

"You seem the practical sort, that's all. You're probably some
sort of scientist or doctor. You know, someone who doesn't go for
flights of fancy."

"Oh, you'd be surprised." I leaned closer and whispered, "You are
so toast, Mulder."

He pulled back, as if genuinely confused. "Mulder? Who's Mulder?"

"You're going to owe me big time by the end of the weekend."

"Is that a promise, then?" His eyes twinkled.

But then the salad course arrived and further conversation had to
be delayed. Mulder chatted with Phaedra between courses; he didn't
slip in his accent once. He seemed more relaxed than usual, less
sarcastic in his pronouncements.... He was Mulder, and yet *not*
Mulder, which left me both thinking that he could have made a name
for himself in films and that he had better have a *damned* good
explanation when I got him alone.

Phaedra dismissed everyone after dinner-well, everyone except
Mulder. I wandered back to my room to bide my time until I got my
explanation.

**********

I could feel you seethe throughout dinner, Scully, so I was just
as glad that Phaedra whisked me off afterwards. She brought me up
to her suite, poured me a glass of Pinot Grigio, and curled up
next to me on the couch. "I am so glad you came this weekend,
Michael."

"As am I, ducks. It's been far too long." I noted her absence of
wine. "You're not joining me?" I asked, holding up my glass.

She shook her head. "I think I have a cold coming on-wine hasn't
been tasting right all week." She ran a hand through her hair.
"Like last time we met, I am in need of your help."

"You don't need to be 'transformed' again, do you?"

"I need my guardian angel again. I think my ability's gone south."

"In what sense?"

"In the sense that within the past 6 weeks, two of my seminar
attendees have committed murder, and three others suicide."

"And you think you have something to do with it?"

"Well, the FBI came around asking questions. I wasn't about to
explain my abilities to them, so all they got out of me was that
they had issues they wanted resolved."

"And just what are your abilities, love?" I asked, sipping the
wine.

She smiled. "That's right, I never really told you."

"All you told me is that you had a good time and you'd see me in
fifteen years. What is it that you can do now?"

"It's hard to describe." She cuddled closer and intertwined her
fingers with mine. "I help people realize their dreams."

"Well, yes, that's what your seminars are all about, right?"

"I don't just give people a pep talk, Michael. I somehow reach
into their souls and-how can I describe it? I free them from
whatever's holding them back."

"Holding them back from what? Their fondest desires?"

"Yes. It's supposed to be a positive experience."

"But if people have died...."

"I've been doing these seminars for almost ten years, Michael. The
deaths have happened in the past six weeks."

"And you can't think of anything that happened to you that could
have caused this? Any blow to the head? Any illness? Any missing
time, even?"

"No. Nothing. That's why I'm so worried. And that's why I need you
here. I need you, Michael. You've always been my guardian angel.
You woke my power back in London. Maybe you can straighten it out
now."

"Ah, so you *do* want to hop on the good foot and do the bad
thing."

"Does this bother you?"

"You don't even know if I'm attached."

"You're not, but you want to be. I can sense that."

"Really."

"Yes, really. And since you're not formally attached...." She took
the glass out of my hand, took my lower lip in her mouth, and,
well, let's just say she took me slow and sweet. Several times.
And when I staggered back to my room around 2 a.m., I didn't give
any thought to the slight headache I had.

So now I'm just about to go to bed, and I'm really hoping you're
not going to try to hash things out *now*, because I'm spent and I
need to sleep.

**********

I finally gave up trying Mulder's room around 1 a.m. If he wasn't
in his room, he must still be with Phaedra, and since they seem to
have a mutual history.... Well, it's not like Mulder gets any,
ever, so who was I to ruin a rare good evening?

Since the first session started at 9, I buzzed his room at 7:53. I
figured we could grab breakfast and he could at least start to
explain the shit he was pulling. He answered on the second ring.
"Hallo."

"You can drop the accent, Mulder. It's just me."

"Me, who? Oh, the delightful Dana. What can I do for you?"

"Breakfast?"

"Right you are. Shall we say downstairs in the coffee shop in, oh,
20 minutes?"

"How about ten?"

"Well, if you don't mind me with wet hair...."

"I'll make that sacrifice, Mulder."

"Michael."

"Whatever. See you downstairs." I hung up and headed down to the
coffee shop, securing us a booth in the back. Not like I wanted to
make the reaming any more public than it would already be.

Mulder showed up shortly, as promised with wet hair. He also had
on a paisley collarless shirt that would look at home in a *Brady
Bunch* episode, his glasses, and black denim jeans. (I'm
describing what he wore to emphasize that he was dressing really
differently from usual, not that I noticed otherwise. Or,
actually, *tried* not to notice otherwise.) He slid in across from
me and immediately buried himself in the menu. The waitress came
by; I ordered coffee and multi-grain cereal; he had tea and an
english muffin. Once we had our beverages, I leaned across the
table and said, "Okay. What exactly is going on?"

"That's what I'd like to know." He looked at me with his patented
puppy-dog expression. "It's rather disconcerting to find out that
a character one's been writing about for years has turned out to
be a real person."

"Don't you think you're taking this a little too far, Mulder?"

"It's even more disconcerting to think that you think I'm Fox
Mulder."

"Aren't you?"

He shook his head. "Only in my head. And only when I'm writing
another X-Files book."

"X-Files *book?* I'm totally lost."

"I'm more so...because until this morning, I thought this world
was my latest book." The food arrived; he spread honey on his
muffin.

"I have no idea what you mean." Mulder was starting to scare me.
Usually I can tell when he's dicking me around, because his eyes
can't hide it. But I saw none of that. I saw a man genuinely
concerned, genuinely confused.... "Why don't you tell me what
you're doing here...Michael."

He gave me a small smile. "Well, as I said last night, I heard
about the seminar through a fan at a book signing, and I thought
it would be good research for my next book. So I rung up, and
found out that Phaedra was the same girl I knew back at
university."

"Knew her how?"

"Knew her bloody well. An acquaintance I was happy to renew last
night, I might add."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "And when you were introduced to me
last night?"

He thought about it a moment, chewing on his lower lip. "It's a
little fuzzy. I remember role-playing in my head Mulder pretending
to be me and meeting his partner, but...." He sighed. "It's
fuzzy," he repeated. He then pulled out a leather portfolio and
passed it over to me. "Here's a little reading material to get you
through breakfast. My book to date. Although how I got to meet
Phaedra is all artistic license, what happened between us isn't."
He bit into his muffin and averted his look while I read.

A dozen or so scribbled pages later, I understood why Mulder
didn't say anything beforehand, and why he felt he had to go
undercover. I still didn't understand, though, why he thought he
was his undercover identity. Unless it had something with having
intimate contact with Phaedra. I was about to ask if he had any
theories when he glanced at his watch. "We'd best head upstairs.
We wouldn't want to be late for the morning session." He signed
his assumed name to the check, added his room number, and
reclaimed his writing.

He let me lead the way to the elevator, but he didn't put the
customary guiding hand on the small of my back. He seemed lost in
thought on the way up to the seminar room.

**********

Okay, so Spooky here is seriously spooked. I have *no idea* where
that crap about suddenly landing in a book I was supposedly
writing came from. I mean, yeah, I was mostly asleep when you
called my room this morning, but still... I had no real clue to
what I was doing until after I had signed off on breakfast. I
thought to myself that it was pretty good I didn't hesitate
signing my alternate name, and then what all had happened at
breakfast hit me.

I could chalk it up to wanting to see how big a hole I could dig
for myself before you found out for sure, but since you had
already read my notes to date, there was no way I could get in any
deeper doo-doo.

So I'm spending the morning session-when I should be paying
attention to what Phaedra is saying, despite it all sounding
exactly like everything I've ever heard when channel surfing past
a self-improvement program-trying to figure out what's going on in
the hidden regions of my mind. I'm not having much success
concentrating, though, especially not with you trying to read my
scribblings from time to time.

I should really get laid more often. Then, when I do, I won't be
so addle-brained the following morning.

**********

END PART TWO OF FOUR

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Title: Saint Michael (3 of 4)

Author: Jennifer Adams Kelley

E-mail: swordlady@jennifarse.com (new address, not that you care)

Rating: PG-13 for some really naughty language and implied smut.

Category: SH

Keywords: alternate universe, pre-XF (at the start), Mulder/Other,
Scully/other (sorta) UST

Disclaimer: As you are well aware, my name doesn't flash on screen at any
point during an episode of "The X-Files." And as you should also be aware,
the show and main characters belong to Fox and to 1013 Productions.

Spoilers: Vague up to the end of season 6

Archive: Yes, please.

Summary: A college one-night stand causes Mulder to forget himself fifteen
years later.

Author notes: I've classified this story as "alternate universe" because
Mulder just so completely ignores any kind of proper procedures it isn't
funny. Look at this as a fantasy, okay? I started writing the first version
of this story back in spring of 1999, and chose to keep the setting there
just for ease of plotting.

Oh, and although this note does not apply to the first part, a row of
asterisks means that the narrator has changed.

********************************************************
SAINT MICHAEL (3 of 4)
by Jennifer Adams Kelley

An hour and a half into the talk, a small bell tinged and Phaedra
smiled. "Take a break, people. Be thinking, though, about why you
came here, what you want more than anything. We'll discuss when we
regroup."

We drifted out of the room, pausing at the coffee setup in the
hallway. Mulder had more tea; I went with mineral water. "Any
ideas?"

"Me? No. How about you, then? What do you think?"

"I think that if I were Mulder, I'd be thinking that Phaedra can
get into people's minds."

"Like Modell?"

I cocked my head. "You're remembering?"

"I'm remembering one of my X-Files stories."

"Uh huh."

"Humor me for the moment, Dana."

"Don't I always humor you?"

"You always humor Mulder, yes. And since you seem to think I am
Mulder operating under a delusion--"

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to, love. It's in your body language." The bell
tinged again; Mulder put his cup down on a tray. "Ah, the self-
improvement resumes. And I can't wait to hear what the enigmatic
Doctor Scully-you *are* a Doctor, I presume, you are in my
stories-could possibly want the most out of life that she doesn't
already have."

**********

I'm apologizing right now, Scully. I don't have a clue why I
slipped back into full Michael mode during the break, other than a
deep-seated subconscious desire to annoy the shit out of you.

But now for some real work: making notes on what everyone at the
seminar wants out of life. So...

Lorna - lawyer - wants respect of her peers. Doesn't everyone?

Louis - lab tech, major teaching hospital here in Chicago-money.
Doesn't everyone?

George-middle management - success in his field. He's not going to
get it by being in middle management!

Jim - marketing manager - less stress. Shouldn't he just take up
tai chi?

Julie - administrative assistant - power, especially over people
she works with. Next psycho?

Raymond - another lawyer - spiritual wealth. Needs a new
profession to find that....

Mel -veterinary-*veterinarian*- do more for animals. I hear PETA
calling his name.

(Phaedra came to me next. I responded with "a normal life", which
let you get revenge, Scully, by planting a chunky heel in my
shin.)

And Scully, the best for last-romance? Romance?! Not you, Scully.
Nice cover story, though.

In any case, Phaedra did with you what she did with the rest of
us. Review time, Scully! She placed her hand on top of your head,
closing her eyes and breathing slowly. The hand slid to the chin;
your eyes closed and your breathing matched Phaedra's. But
then...then...Phaedra's eyes snapped opened. She looked at your
enraptured expression (and this is *not* an exaggeration!),
smiled, and then glanced at me.

If anything, Phaedra's grin broadened. She patted my cheek, broke
contact with you, and returned to the front of the room. "An hour
and a half for lunch, my friends. We'll discuss how to prepare
yourself for your new life this afternoon."

The others filed out of the room with slightly dazed expressions.
Then you turned to me and invited me out.

**********

"Lunch?" I asked Michael.

"On your expense account?"

"How about yours?"

"I don't have one."

"If you say so...." I stood; Michael gathered his notes and
followed me out.

We left the hotel, choosing a designer Chinese place a block or so
away. We chatted about the weather on the way over, not saying
anything all that interesting, but really just enjoying each
other's company.

I liked the opportunity just to study my companion.
Intellectually, I knew that he *had* to be Mulder.  There could be
no logical explanation, especially with the way my idiot partner
was acting the past few days. But instinctually...
instinctually....

The more time I spent with "Michael," the more I was convinced he
was his own person. Mulder, for one thing, sucked at undercover
work. Especially if I was around. Plus, his snarky nature demanded
he make smart-ass comments about  all people and situations he
encountered. Michael, however, kept his opinions to himself-
assuming he had any opinions in the first place.

He carried himself differently from Mulder, too. He was walking
right next to me, instead of a few steps behind me, with his hands
in his pants pockets and his portfolio tucked under an armpit. His
walk wasn't nearly as driven, and he seemed much more cheerful
than Mulder could ever hope to be.

We reached the restaurant, and Michael held the door open for me.
He followed the waiter to the table, leaving me to take up the
rear. I ordered steamed vegetables and rice. Michael chose the
kung pao chicken and insisted on sharing an order of pot stickers.
We sat with a pot of green tea between us.

He tucked a couple of pens in his portfolio, and tucked it under
his chair. He then met my gaze and smiled. "What?"

"What do you mean, what?"

"You're staring at me."

"Am not."

"Do I really look that much like your partner?"

"Yes. And sound like him, too, except for the accent." I looked up
at him, anticipating a joke about *The Patty Duke Show.*

Instead, he shrugged. "Well, I did base a lot of Mulder on myself.
Although I always fancied Scott Bakula would play him on screen.
That might be a bit of a leap, though...."

"If you say so." I sighed. "Is Mulder really just a dream to you?"

"He's a figment of my imagination. But then again, so are you. So
I don't know what to think." He sipped his tea, then asked, "What
exactly did you feel when Phaedra touched you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because you seemed to withdraw into yourself. What happened?"

I thought about it a moment. "I don't know," I admitted finally.
"I remember the cadence of her voice, but not what she said."

"And when she looked at me?"

"I that's when I stopped completely doubting you were who you said
you were. It was a complete moment of clarity. A 'd'oh' moment, as
Mulder might say."

"Really?"

"Yes."

The pot stickers arrived. Michael picked up one and dipped it in
the provided chili sauce. "And this didn't strike you as strange?"

"Should it have?"

"You've spent most of the day so far trying to convince me I
*wasn't* me."

"So I was wrong. Is that so bad?" I dipped a pot sticker and
offered it to him. "I can see some definite benefits to you *not*
being my partner."

"Can you." He looked uncomfortable.

"What's the matter, Michael? I thought you wanted a normal life.
Doesn't that include romance?"

"Well, yes, of course, but not with a figment of my imagination."

"I assure you, I'm very real."

"Yes, I think you are." He tried to pull his hand away; I held on
tightly. "Wouldn't you agree, though, that you're behaving awfully
strange for yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would you be coming on this strongly to anyone else? If you met
them in a pub or on a case?"

"Well...no. But you're different. You're so much like Mulder, but
you're not him."

"Ah, so I'm *your* fantasy come to life, too."

I shrugged. "Maybe."

"And have you always wanted to shag your partner?"

I blushed, and I looked down at the table. Then the food came, and
he became too busy shoveling an excellent kung pao into his face
to pursue the topic.

We finished up in silence, then strolled back to the seminar hotel
hand in hand (reluctantly at first on his part) and resumed our
assigned seats. And that's when we had our first hint that
something was about to go wrong.

Mel had an odd gleam in his eye. He pointed at Michael's
portfolio. "Leather?" he asked.

"Yes. Why?"

"And your boots?"

"Guilty as charged."

"And I suppose you had meat for lunch?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Not if you're a vegetarian."

"Who said I was?" Michael sat and opened to a clean sheet of
paper.

Mel turned his attention to me. "Leather shoes?"

I wiggled a foot. "Looks like canvas to me, Mel. What's the
problem?"

He shrugged. "I seem suddenly bothered by the abuse of animals."

Michael smiled. "Have you ever considered joining PETA?"

"It's not a bad idea."

Lorna and Julie returned; Mel turned his inquiring mind to them. I
settled next to Michael. "Does he turn out to be the next
perpetrator in your book?"

"Mulder would bet on him. Either him or Julie."

"Why Julie?"

"Wants power over other people. Classic motivator."

"And you're not a psychologist."

"A good novelist is a psychologist without any formal training."

"And a bad novelist--?"

"Usually makes the best-seller list more often than I. I've won an
award or two."

"From the Lone Gunmen or some legitimate organization?"

"Your medical skills must come in handy, considering how well
you're able to wound with your words."

Phaedra returned with a small box, breezing to the front of the
room and blowing everyone back into their seats. I moved a foot
next to Michael's; he gave me a small smile before turning his
attention to our leader.

**********

You're good, Scully, damn good. You've got me convinced that not
only do you think that I'm actually someone named Michael
Allingham, but also that you're hot for him. You were more touchy-
feely during lunch than you've been in all the years we've been
partnered.

I know, I know, I brought it on all myself by doing the deep
undercover in the first place. You have every right to mess with
my head, after the way I messed with yours all week. But, still,
the romance angle... especially when you know how I feel (even if
you don't believe me). Low blow. A really low blow.

(I wish I *were* Michael Allingham, and I wish you were really
falling for him at first sight, so then we could be together
without fucking up our partnership. But if I were really Michael,
there wouldn't be a partnership to fuck up. There! I've run rings
around myself logically!)

So, anyway, Phaedra has pulled a candle out of her box, and has
now lit it. And since she wants us to concentrate on it I suppose
I might as well go along. Might make it easier for me to figure
out what's going on.

**********

I have to confess here that I have no clue what Phaedra said
during the afternoon session, only that she spoke for several
hours in soothing tones that lulled most of us into a quasi-
hypnotic state. I'm sure that Mulder-if he were there-would have
completely been fished in by the act. I thought it was really
nice, and I didn't feel hypnotized in the least. Rather, I felt
the same peace and relaxation I feel in Mass, when I can dump
whatever mundane crap fills my mind and really become one with the
service, with the Father....

Needless to say, I felt the same surprise I feel when Mass ends
when Phaedra clapped her hands three times and announced, "See you
at dinner, 7 p.m., right here. It'll be a good chance for you to
put what you've learned today into action."  She smiled
benevolently at us and gathered her things.

I felt something soft in my hands; somehow I had obtained a little
royal blue velvet pouch. I peeked inside, finding a couple of
well-polished stones.

"Wishstones," Michael explained, noting the puzzlement on my face.
"She passed them out 2 hours ago." My eyebrow rose. "Oh, don't
worry, I'm sure no one else noticed, either. She had everyone
pretty much hypnotized."

"But not you."

"Come on up to my room; I'll give you the whole story there." He
waited for me to stand, then took my hand in his and brought me to
the elevators. We rode to his floor in a companionable silence.
Once inside the room, he flung himself onto the bed. I perched on
the side and waited for him to begin.

"Fact: you thought I was your partner playing a trick on you until
Phaedra asked you what you wanted most in life and you answered
'romance.' What you didn't see was that Phaedra then looked at me
and smiled. It was like she was joining us in some way."

"What does that--"

"Fact: Mel the Veterinary said he wanted to help protect animals.
When we returned from lunch, he had all but set up his personal
chapter of PETA. Fact: Phaedra mesmerized nearly the entire group
all afternoon."

"But not you."

Michael shrugged. "I may be immune to her abilities. Perhaps some
protection offered by shagging her."

"How did she mesmerize everyone else?"

"I'm not sure. I suspect it has something to do with her body
chemistry. Some sort of ability to interact with the subconscious.
Her words themselves were nothing spectacular- nothing that hasn't
already been said by any number of self-help gurus." He sat up and
rolled off the bed. "I have to visit the loo...won't be a mo." He
ducked into the bathroom.

I pulled out the wishstones, fingering them gently. They were
almost like counting rosary beads-giving the same sense of
relaxation and hope. My mind began to drift, and I could see
myself and Michael sharing a candlelit dinner...dancing under the
stars...turning to each other at an altar...chasing after a three-
year-old...cuddling together on a cold, winter night under a pile
of blankets...

Michael yanked the stones out of my hands. I shook my head, jerked
out of my reverie and feeling more than a little ticked off about
it. "Michael!"

"I see Phaedra's skills include making powerful post-hypnotic
suggestions." He tucked the stones back into the small bag. "She
told everyone to use the wishstones as a meditation tool, to help
clear the mind and to focus on your main desire."

"But I wasn't--"

"She also said that you should go into meditation mode whenever
you touched the stones."

"Oh." I slipped the bag into my purse. "I hate losing time like
that."

"It wasn't lost. You just didn't notice. There's a difference."

"If you say so." I grabbed for his hand again and hung onto it
tightly.

He gave me a bemused look and helped me to my feet. "Dana, ducks,
I think you need some time alone. I know I do. Why don't you take
one of those baths you're allegedly so fond of? I'll come round
say half an hour before dinner and we can formulate a plan for the
evening." He brushed his lips against the top of my head and
shooed me out of his room with a breathy "See you soon, love."

I wandered back to the elevator and headed back down to my room,
surprised that I simply didn't float down.

**********

Fact: Phaedra's abilities didn't begin manifestation until
puberty. Fact: Phaedra's abilities didn't finish manifesting until
she had been shagged. (Whether this was a physical or a
psychological requirement doesn't matter at this point.) Fact: Six
weeks ago, some of the people in her workshops have gone off the
deep end. Fact: She hasn't changed her presentation style or
anything else about the workshop. Conjecture: Has something
changed in her body chemistry?

Strewth, I wish Mulder were here. But his presence this afternoon
seems more elusive than a best-selling book. It's so unlike him to
abandon me in the middle of a story. But then again, it's so
unlike normalcy to have the quite fictional Doctor Scully pop up
in real life, very much a real, attractive, brilliant woman.
Something strange is going on, and it has to do with Phaedra...
and her hormones.

She's too young to be going through menopause, and although
perimenopause could be a factor, it wasn't something that came on
suddenly. The only sudden hormonal change I could think of in
women was... pregnancy.

I wonder who else she has been shagging.

My literary alter ego would go and ask. I could do no less. I
checked that I had my room key and headed for the elevator.

**********

The awful truth set in somewhere in the middle of my bath. I hate
to admit this even to myself, but I was thinking of Michael, and
getting really excited, and then my logical self finally got a
word in. And in retrospect I feel really embarrassed about my
behavior all day. I mean, really, thinking that "Michael" could
actually be a real person-a real person separate from Mulder.

It was the afternoon trance that brought me to my senses, after
all. If everyone was affected but him, didn't that mean he was
*already* affected? That's why he thought he was this Michael
person-he was hypnotized. He's so gullible for that kind of
thing.... He wouldn't be so convincing if he were in his right
mind.

For a split second I wanted to find Phaedra and demand she remove
whatever post-hypnotic suggestion she planted in my head that made
me get all teenager around Michael. Mulder. Whoever. But then
again, from what Mulder has said about her, she doesn't
consciously realize what she's doing. If she's not consciously
hypnotizing people, she can't consciously un-hypnotize them.

I let the water drain from the bath and turned on the shower-not
cold, really, but pretty damn tepid. I needed to get back on the
case...talk to the other workshop participants, see if I can
detect any change in attitude that would indicate one of them were
planning to go psycho. I had to put Michael-*Mulder-* out of  my
mind for now. I had to trust that even though he thought he was
someone else, he could take care of himself while I took care of
the case.

**********

No one answered the door at Phaedra's suite; the door of course
was locked. Not that I would have barged in if it were open. That
was such a Mulderism. I turned back to the elevator bank, figuring
that she must still be in the conference room or even perhaps in
the hotel bar. I pushed the button for the lift and waited for it
to arrive. Waited...and waited...and waited. Finally I gave up and
took the stairs down to the conference level.

And it was a good thing I did, too.

As I hit the conference level, I saw Julie-the-administrative-
assistant scoot through the double doors leading to the service
corridors. Since she had absolutely no reason to be wandering
through the back corridors, I decided to follow.

She moved with a singular purpose, checking all the food service
staging areas for *something.* She found an unattended, ready-to-
go banquet set-up, complete with utensils appropriate to slicing
up the no-doubt dry and tough gourmet repast. Julie grabbed
several steak knives, slipped them into her pants pocket and
turned around.

And that's when I found out it's nearly impossible to act non-
chalant when you have a guilty look on your face. "Oh! Er... I
don't suppose this is the way to the...pool, is it?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You're not dressed for it."

"The chlorine helps clear my sinuses."

"Were you following me?"

"Why? Did you need following?"

She glared at me, then pushed past me back the way she came. I
found the nearest exit. Phaedra first. I could do nothing about
Julie until she actually used her weapons.

The doors opened into the actual conference room we had used all
weekend. Phaedra sat at the head table, head and arms resting on
table and mouth slightly open in sleep. I pulled up a chair
opposite her. "Phaedra?" I began, brushing her hair out of her
face.

She opened an eye, then sat up, flustered. "Michael! I'm so sorry,
I just put my head down for a moment and--"

"-don't worry about it, love. Been catching a lot of catnaps
lately, have you?"

"Now that you mention it, yes."

"Have you been off your feed?"

"What?"

"Has your appetite been off?"

"In some ways." She gave me a puzzled look. "What's all this
leading to?"

"Have you had your period since the trouble with your participants
began?"

"Uh....no."

"I thought so."

Phaedra noted my smug expression. "Thought so what?"

"Who else have you been shagging lately?"

"Why should *that* matter?"

"Because he's the father of your child."

"Child?! But I don't-- oh." The light dawned. "That would explain
a lot."

"Yes, it would. Should congratulations be in order?"

"I...have to think about this." She stood abruptly. "Can we talk
later, Michael?"

"Of course." I gave her a reassuring smile. She attempted a return
grin and hurried out of the room.

**********

END PART THREE OF FOUR

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Title: Saint Michael (4 of 4)

Author: Jennifer Adams Kelley

E-mail: swordlady@jennifarse.com (new address, not that you care)

Rating: PG-13 for some really naughty language and implied smut.

Category: SH

Keywords: alternate universe, pre-XF (at the start), Mulder/Other,
Scully/other (sorta) UST

Disclaimer: As you are well aware, my name doesn't flash on screen at any
point during an episode of "The X-Files." And as you should also be aware,
the show and main characters belong to Fox and to 1013 Productions.

Spoilers: Vague up to the end of season 6

Archive: Yes, please.

Summary: A college one-night stand causes Mulder to forget himself fifteen
years later.

Author notes: I've classified this story as "alternate universe" because
Mulder just so completely ignores any kind of proper procedures it isn't
funny. Look at this as a fantasy, okay? I started writing the first version
of this story back in spring of 1999, and chose to keep the setting there
just for ease of plotting.

Oh, and although this note does not apply to the first part, a row of
asterisks means that the narrator has changed.

********************************************************
SAINT MICHAEL (4 of 4)
by Jennifer Adams Kelley

After my shower, I decided to check my voice mail and got another
surprise. Mulder's voice greeted me. "Yo, Scully, where you be,
girlfriend? Too busy improving yourself to recharge your phone?
Well, there ain't nothing but wild nuts here in the Smokey
Mountains, so I'm heading back to civilization and will try to
catch you sometime tomorrow. I'm going to be out of cell phone
range for a couple hours, so leave me a message if anything
interesting's going down."

I saved the message, tried Mulder's phone, got an "out of area"
message, sat down on the bed and sighed. He had to have set it up
beforehand, to taunt me with his alleged cleverness. Still, it
might come in use-what would "Michael's" reaction be to hear
"Mulder's" voice?

I decided to use the time before Michael's-Mulder's-arrival to do
a little research on my fellow seminar attendees. I dug my laptop
out of its case, then jacked into the data port and logged on to
the FBI secure server. Either I had a really good connection or no
one else was working background checks, because I got answers on
all the participants as quickly as the dial-up would allow.

As I suspected, though, everyone seemed to check out, at least at
the surface level. I put in a request for a deeper check on Mel
and Julie, then decided to check out Mulder's alias.

The answer came up several moments later. I stared at the screen,
impressed. I would like to think that the Gunmen-for all their
hacking skills-would not be able to break into the FBI database to
deposit bogus information. Then again, considering how often they
tap into the DOD, hitting the FBI would be like posting to a
Usenet group for them. Still... Michael Allingham had one
reference, and that was that he had been hassled by a militant
paranormal support group during a book promotion tour here in
1997.

Now I was intrigued. I switched to my browser, popped over to
Yahoo!, and plugged in my partner's alias. The gunmen were
certainly thorough, I'll give them that... but why Mulder would
want them to be that thorough just for a weekend of "let's
pretend" is beyond me. Unless the boys were simply bored with
their usual forms of entertainment one night. Unless Michael was a
real person.

No, no, no, no, no. Michael Allingham was not a real person. My
idiot partner was pretending to be someone with that name. Any
feelings I was having for him were planted by Phaedra. She was
playing on my not-too-unconscious wishing for a normal life-or at
least a normal romance. Mulder's a friend, a brother, not a lover.

But Michael could be a lover.

I think I need a cold shower.

What I *really* need, though, is to get this file closed.

I was still thinking that some time later, as I finished dressing
for dinner. A knock sounded on the door; I let my idiot partner
in. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself, love." He wore gray slacks, a dark shirt, and a
nicely-patterned cardigan. He brushed past me and flopped onto the
bed. "Find out anything interesting while I was gone?"

"Everyone checks out, at least at a surface level."

"Even me?"

"Even you." I found myself blushing.

He smiled at my reaction. "The delightful Doctor Scully lives up
to my expectations." He patted a space on the bed next to him; I
sat on a chair. "Don't trust yourself near me, eh?"

"I am still under some of Phaedra's influence."

"And I know why she's so influential these days. She's preggers."

"Pregnant? How far along?"

"Oh, about six weeks."

I nodded. "And going by her claim that her abilities were brought
on by puberty--"

"-with a little help of losing her virginity--"

"-which has no effect hormonally but obviously still makes you
giddy just thinking about having had a virgin--"

"You'll leave my sex life out of this, thank you."

"It's your sex life that brought us here in the first place."

"Did you ever stop to think that breaking her hymen--"

"Now you're getting really rude!"

Michael grinned. "As rude as you want me to be, love."

"So, I'm betting your theory is that the hormonal changes brought
on by pregnancy has somehow boosted her mental powers, allowing
people to fully realize their dreams-even if they're homicidal
ones."

"You'll be a believer yet, Doctor Dana."

"Where would that leave you, then, Mulder?"

He sighed. "We're back to that, I see."

I reached for my cell phone, and accessed the mail box. "Play the
first message. Maybe you'll recognize the person speaking." I
tossed him the phone, and watched as he pushed the message button
and put it to his ear. His eyebrows drew together as he listened.
He pushed the phone power off after he heard the message and
returned it to me. "Well?" I prompted.

"Was that Mulder, then?"

"What do you think?"

"Look, the only thing that message proves is that Mulder exists as
well. We could be arguing this existential puzzle all weekend,
love. What's more important is why Julie-the-administrative-
assistant felt it necessary to skulk about the service corridor
and liberate a handful of steak knives."

I sat up straighter. "She did what?!"

"Gives a whole new meaning to getting your point across, doesn't
it?"

"She's one of two I asked for a deeper background check on."

"The other being our veterinary?"

"Of course."

"Resourceful and beautiful both. Just as I imagined you."

I glanced at my watch, anything to not have to meet his eyes.
"Hey, Mr. Imagination, it's dinner time."

"Will you be packing?"

"Will you?"

He had the grace to turn a little red. "I meant your weapon."

"Both gun and badge are handy, should they be needed."

"Good." He stood and offered me an arm. "Let's go eat. Intrigue
always makes me peckish."

**********

We had barely stepped off the elevator onto the conference level
when Phaedra came up to us. "Michael! I need to talk to you a
moment. In private." She had wrapped an arm around mine, almost
dragging me away.

I glanced at Dana; she nodded, spotted Mel-the-veterinary, and
headed for him. Phaedra pulled me into the service corridor and
hustled me into a corner between an ice machine and a couple of
large service carts. "What should I do?" she whispered.

"About what?"

"Well, those people whom I coerced into committing murder or
suicide, for one thing."

"Can't bring back the dead, love. And if you could, they would be
decaying, foul-smelling, and very, very angry."

She gave me a small smile. "I knew you could make me feel better,
Michael. But what about everything else?"

"Well... are you going to keep the baby?"

"Absolutely."

"Then perhaps you'd best not give any more seminars until after
the child is born-longer if you plan on breastfeeding. It's your
hormonal balance that determines your ability's effectiveness."

Phaedra nodded. "And there's something else.... When I was up in
my room, trying to get over the surprise of realising.... I fell
asleep again. And you came to me in my dreams."

"I thought  I always did."

"No, you stopped, actually, once I had slept with you."

"I suppose I should be disappointed."

"Anyway.... You came to me again, in the dream. Only it wasn't
exactly you."

"In what sense?"

"Well, you were in a charcoal suit, you didn't have your glasses
on, and you spoke with a distinctly American accent. And you kept
chanting 'set me free, set me free' like it was a mantra."

"That *is* strange," I agreed, worrying my lower lip as I thought
about it. "Perhaps you should see if you can lessen the strength
of the suggestions you have already planted in us this weekend."

"I've never tried that before."

"I suspect that at least two of us have a great probability of
adding to the dead body count if you don't."

She looked distressed at that remark. "I don't even know where to
start."

I took both her hands in mine and pulled her to me in a gentle
kiss. "I have the greatest confidence in you, Phaedra. Trust your
instincts and everything will work out all right."

She pulled back; I noted a tear running down the side of her nose.
Before I could wipe it for her, though, she rubbed it away  as she
took a deep breath and stood up a little straighter. "You're
right, of course, Michael. And I know just what to do. Thanks
again for your help." Phaedra let me out of my corner, patting my
bottom as I squeaked past her. "I'll be inside in a few."

**********

Most of the others had already arrived and chatted amiably near
the portable bar. I ordered myself a diet Coke and turned to Mel,
who was keeping to himself. "What's with you?" I asked innocently.

"I'm not sure. I mean, I've always been fond of animals-that's why
I became a veterinarian in the first place. But today...." He
sighed, sipping his beer. "Today I'm really, really bothered by
leather shoes, leather clothes, meat in dishes...." He pointed at
his feet. "I mean, look. I couldn't bear putting on my dress
shoes, so I have my sneakers on." He pulled at his waistline. "I
had to take the belt off right after the morning session. I
couldn't stand wearing something that came from an animal. I mean,
I have been thinking about going vegetarian for awhile, but this
is ridiculous!"

"Well, this is supposed to be a life-changing weekend."

"Yeah, but...." He bowed his head a bit. "I think I need to
apologize to everyone. I was pretty confrontational at the start
of the afternoon session."

"I wouldn't go that far...." I soothed.

"The thing I hate worst about the PETA types are their
confrontational nature. The way I see it, forcing the issue will
only piss off a lot of people. And there I was, all but ready to
get out the red paint and feces and pour it on people." He
shuddered. "No excuse."

"Apology accepted."

"Thanks. Let me get the others." Mel joined Lorna and Jim.

I sipped my pop, crossing Mel off the suspect list for the moment.
That left Julie. She wasn't in the room yet. Well, if she was
planning on taking out anyone at dinner, it was probably taking
her a bit longer than planned to conceal her weapons.

The door opened; Michael-Mulder-entered, and stopped at the bar
for a longneck before joining me. I clicked my tongue at him.
"Drinking on duty, Mulder?"

"I'm not the FBI agent here, Dana."

I smiled to humor him, then pulled him over to the table, speaking
low and nearly in his ear to both make sure we weren't overheard
and interrupted. "Mel seems awfully repentant for his earlier
attitude. I don't think he's the problem."

"Then it's our Knife Thief...especially since it seems she's late
for dinner."

"So's our hostess," I pointed out.

"I think she's preparing for another ritual. She's going to stop
giving the seminars until her hormonal levels straighten out, and
I asked her if she could do something to lessen the effect of her
suggestions earlier today." He smiled. "Mulder couldn't have done
better himself."

Julie entered the room then; she seemed a little sheepish as she
cradled a bandaged hand in the other. Michael casually waved her
over. She hesitated; he waved again and she blushed as she came
over. "What happened to your hand?" he asked quietly.

"Something stupid. You know those knives you saw me take? I was
using them as darts to throw at a drawing of my bosses. I got a
little too enthusiastic and cut myself. Three stitches. The hotel
doc just finished sewing me up."

"Well, that's certainly cutting to the quick of your problem, eh?"

I rolled my eyes. Julie smiled self-depreciatingly. "Yeah,
something like that. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to get
something to numb the pain." She headed for the bar.

Michael caught my hand in his. "That seems to wrap up this x-file.
Not as serious as some of the others I have written, but I've been
meaning to put out a collection of humorous tales."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "There's still the matter of who you
are."

He leaned forward, so that we were nearly nose to nose. "Does that
really matter at this point?" he murmured.

His nearness, his scent, his soulful hazel eyes-I wanted to kiss
him-or to do other things to him-right then and there and not care
who thought what. Instead I taunted him back by licking my lips
and whispering, "If you're really Michael, then one of us is in
the wrong universe. And if you're really Mulder, not only are you
still operating under a delusion, you're also trying to broach
territory we're not going to be broaching."

"Not ever?" he breathed. "I ask in the interests of research,
only."

"Not now." I managed to pull away as a soft bell rang and Phaedra
entered the room.

She carried a handful of candles and her small bell. Motioning for
everyone to sit, she passed out the candles and simply smiled when
asked what they were for. A gesture to the bartender started the
meal service.

Michael fortunately kept his hands to himself, although his foot
did rest suspiciously close to mine. And although I could have
nudged it away, I chose not to.

If he were really Mulder, he probably wouldn't remember anything
of this afternoon, and thus a little extra flirting couldn't do
any real damage to our working relationship.

**********

I'm using the few minutes between dessert clean-up and whatever
Phaedra has planned to catch up on my notes. The ending in real-
life is weak, but in a way I'm quite pleased I didn't actually
have to witness some of the blood and gore that Mulder has become
accustomed to. I can always punch it up in the re-write.

I'm still puzzled by Doctor Dana's presence, though. One of us
must have slipped a dimension. Either that or I'm completely
delusional. I would like to think that Dana exists outside my
imagination, especially since she has proven to be as beautifully
vibrant as I envisioned her. And I would like to think that if I
met her, she would be as attracted to me as I hope she might be to
her partner. (Especially since Mulder is basically my alter ego.)

I'm going to have to put the whole experience down to my wanting
to find my own Dana, someone both sexy and intelligent who would
happily board my deranged trains of thought.

Ah-the ritual is about to begin. Phaedra is lighting our candles
for us, and asking us to concentrate on the flame.  Not that I'm
the world's greatest candidate for hypnotism, but-

**********

I could tell I lost time only by the fact that the candle had
burned down an inch or so when I became aware of it next. Phaedra
clapped her hands twice and commanded, "You may blow them out
now."

I pursed my lips and blew, meeting Michael's eyes as the flame
extinguished. He seemed a little confused and a little wary. "You
okay?" I asked him.

"Um...sure. Sure." He shook the mood off with a small smile. "I
must be more vulberable to hypnotism than I thought."

"Another trait you share with Mulder."

"You might say I share a lot with Mulder."

"I've been saying that all weekend."

"So I've noticed. Ah, here comes dessert!"

He busied himself in the tiramasu, finishing off the dregs of mine
in addition to all of his. He then made small talk the rest of the
evening with everyone but me. I knew the behavior well. I only
wondered, did Mulder feel guilty for his little deception, or had
something happened while he was under? Seeing that I wasn't going
to get any answers soon, I made do with soothing Mel's guilt and
encouraging Julie to look into an anger management program.

Some time later, when I scanned the room for him, both he and
Phaedra were gone.

**********

What the fuck happened this afternoon? I remember Phaedra starting
her afternoon session, and then, poof! There I was at dinner,
blowing out the candle. I have vague impressions of things
happening in between. Maybe it'll make more sense once I get a
chance to read what I wrote. But first, I want to get down what
happened once Phaedra wisked me out of the room.

As you probably expect by now, she did take me back up to her
suite, and she did pour me another excellent glass of wine. She
dug out a bottled water from the frig for herself. She settled
next to me on the couch, snuggling against me. "How can I thank
you, Michael? You not only pinpointed my problem, you came up with
a solution, too. You really are my patron saint."

"I wouldn't go that far, love. I'm just a man."

"You're my savour, and I'm not going to let you say otherwise."

I smiled at that. "So now that I've saved you again, does this
mean we're not going to have a thing to do with each other for
another 15 years?"

"Okay, so maybe that was a little stupid. But I was right about us
getting together again, wasn't I?"

"Yes you were."

"So can we stay in contact?"

"Do you know how much it costs to call England?"

"Do you have e-mail access?"

"'Course." I tore off a corner of one of my portfolio pages and
gave the address the Gunmen had set up for me. "Here you go.
What's yours?"

She told me; I scribbled it in the margin a few pages back, you'll
notice. She added, "And I am going to kick you out now."

"Ah-ha!"

"No, not permamently. I'm just really tired and I would like to go
to sleep." She gave me an extra-friendly night-night kiss. "Thanks
again."

"Oh, thank you!"

So I returned to my room, and, one cold shower later, I am
catching you up so I can catch myself up.

Is it too late to apologise profusely for this entire weekend?

**********

Mulder called me first in the morning for breakfast; he was still
sounding English but otherwise was completely his usual idiot
self. We met again in the hotel coffee shop, where he complemented
(to use that term loosely) his pancakes with a pot of tea. "At
least your diet seems to be inching back toward normalicy," I
commented. "Now if you'd just lose the accent...."

"Y'know, Scully, most American women are turned on by an English
accent."

"Uh huh." I stared him down until he sighed.

"Actually, I can't seem to talk normally yet. I'm sure it's just
due to Phaedra's nearness."

"I really don't need to hear every last detail of your sex life."

"If you're implying that I did Phaedra again last night--"

"Didn't you?"

"Gentlemen don't tell."

"Oh, so now you're a gentleman?"

He made a face at that. "Look. I'm sure that by the time Skinner
has my butt stuck between his teeth, I will be back to my usual
sardonic American self. In the meantime, you'll just have to deal,
love."

"Don't call me 'love.'"

"If you keep being this difficult, perhaps I won't bother telling
you how the x-file has resolved itself. I'll make you suffer
through more pages of my horrible handwriting."

"Whatever." I was starting my revenge early.

"Fine." He all but tossed me his portfolio. I feigned disinterest
as I read his notes, then returned them to him without comment.
"Well?"

"Well what?" I asked, trying not to smile.

"No comments?"

"You'd better finish up your breakfast. It's almost time for the
final session."

"Yes, mother."  He kept his eyes on his plate the rest of the
meal.

**********

I wonder if Skinner will chew my ass out so much there won't be
any left for you to kick. Nyaaaaah. Wishful thinking.

Well, you know the rest, Scully. Another inspiring talk on Sunday,
nothing earth shattering but then again Phaedra wasn't trying to
push anyone. And so we're here now on the plane, and you're not
saying much to me, which is only right, I suppose, because The
Punishment has already begun. Still, cut me *some* slack, huh? I
meant well.

I *did.*

And getting laid was just a bonus. Really!!!!!

THE END

**********
END PART FOUR OF FOUR

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