So it had happened. And Robin was right, it had meant something. What was hard for Katherine, even harder than understanding why she’d slept with Robin (who was beautiful and sexy even to a straight woman) was why Robin was all over Katherine like she was some sort of irresistible treat. Robin deserved someone a lot better.

Robin was making a mistake.

“I don’t know how to be okay with this,” Katherine said. “I keep thinking that I’ll have to wear Birkenstocks or cut my hair…which is ridiculous.”

“Don’t cut your hair,” Robin said with one of her bright little smiles. Katherine liked the way Robin smiled, like everything could be okay, like none of this was life-changing. “You look great just the way you are.”

Was this another aspect of…this? Or was this just Robin and how she was? Katherine wasn’t used to being accepted for everything she was, including being a crazy person who killed ex-husbands and had a past about five times darker than Robin’s stripper one. Robin hadn’t killed anyone, as far as Katherine knew. Katherine didn’t think Robin could kill anyone. Robin was too sunny for that.

“Really?” Katherine asked, fussing with her hair slightly.

“Really,” Robin said, firmly taking Katherine’s hand out of her hair. “Relax, honey. I’m not going to eat you.”

She actually raised her eyebrow when she said that and Katherine heard the unless you want me to, even though Robin didn’t say it.

“You’re way too nice to me,” Katherine said. “Even when you’re telling me I’m full of crap, you’re being nice to me.”

Robin smiled again, all sunshine and curves and whatever it was that made Katherine get fluttery and stupid when she was near Robin. “I like you,” Robin replied with that disarming honesty that killed Katherine. Nobody on Wisteria Lane did honesty. No wonder all the other women on the street didn’t quite trust Robin. They projected their own foibles onto her, of what they’d do if they were as pretty and wonderful as Robin was. “Why shouldn’t I be nice to you?”

Katherine snorted. “Ask half the street about that,” she said bitterly. “And they’d be right, too.”

“What-EVER,” Robin said throatily, swinging her foot back and forth. “Everyone screws up now and then and you have a good heart. Plus, anyone who sees you and can’t see that you’ve been hurt and that what you need is someone to love you and accept you and not judge you is a jerk.”

To her own horror, Katherine started to cry. Robin looked alarmed, so Katherine tried to blink away the tears and smile, but the damned tears kept coming.

“It’s okay!” Robin said, clasping Katherine’s hand between her own (warm, soft, WONDERFUL, get a grip on yourself, Katherine) hands before reaching up and brushing the tears away. “I didn’t mean to make you cry, silly.”

“Why are you so wonderful?” Katherine asked hoarsely. “I don’t understand how someone like you can just fall in my lap…um, so to speak.”

“Kismet,” Robin said blithely. Katherine almost wanted to smack her for being so happy about it. How could Robin not get that Robin was way too good for Katherine, leaving aside all of the gender and sexuality issues? Katherine didn’t deserve Robin and she was trying to do the right thing. Explaining to Robin that Katherine was (probably) straight and also almost too crazy to function in the real world was the right thing to do. That way Robin would get away before Katherine hurt her. Katherine always hurt people, even though she didn’t mean to. That was her nature.

Katherine’s lip trembled, but she bit it so that she didn’t start crying again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know if I believe in that.”

“Fate? Destiny? Good luck?” Robin asked, her smile lighting up the whole room.

“Not for me,” Katherine said with a gallows half-smile. “Maybe for you, but…”

Robin laughed. “Yes, because being a lesbian ex-stripper who moved in with a neighbor of my club’s former owner because I had nowhere else to go is proof of my excellent choices in life,” she said, petting Katherine’s shoulder. “Stop being so sure you’re a hopeless tragedy, Katherine. It’s a waste of time.”

“Is that right?” Katherine asked.

“Yes, that’s right,” Robin said with a little bit of exasperation in her voice. “Maybe we’re both such screw-ups that we’re perfect for each other. Or maybe the universe or God or whoever is giving us a break. You never know, do you?”

That was true, Katherine thought. You never, ever knew anything. Well, except that Mike was always going to end up with Susan. She’d broken her brain on that one so she wasn’t going to forget it.

“That’s fair,” Katherine said. “You know I’m probably never going to be 100% okay, right? That there are going to be bad days. Maybe bad months. And I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I really don’t want to hurt you. You’re the first person in a long time who’s been kind to me without an ulterior motive or out of pity.”

Robin looked touched to hear that. “Goodness, I don’t know the last time someone told me something that.” Katherine almost jumped out of her skin. Robin looked a little teary. Why would Robin look teary? “That really means something, hon.”

“Why?” Katherine asked.

“Remember how I’ve also made some awful choices?” Robin said with a grim little smile. “Most people who are interested in me see this–” and Robin mimed her very impressive curves — “They don’t care about what’s in here. And before you ask, yes, women can be just as bad as men when it comes to that.”

“You are extremely hot,” Katherine said dryly.

“I thought you might have noticed that,” Robin replied.

“I thought you might have noticed me noticing,” Katherine replied, feeling the oddest feeling in her throat. To her surprise, it was a laugh. “Well, people who don’t realize the inside of you is at least as amazing as the outside are idiots.”

It took Katherine about three seconds to realize what she’d just said and she turned four shades of red. Robin burst into laughter, slapping Katherine lightly on the thigh.

“Your face!” she said between giggles. “Oh my God, you look like you’re about to choke.”

“This is not funny!” Katherine replied, starting to laugh herself, which only made Robin laugh harder. It wasn’t funny. Okay, it was funny, but why did it have to be funny at her expense? “I feel like a teenage boy who hasn’t mastered the art of the double entendre.”

“It’s totally endearing,” Robin answered. “But I think everything about you is endearing, so I’m a little biased.”

Katherine hid part of her face with her hand and sighed. “Oh, don’t say that,” she said.

Robin tilted her head. “Why not?” she asked, trailing her finger up Katherine’s arm. “You’re gorgeous. You’re smart. You’re an amazing cook. You’re a great kisser…”

Something about Robin’s mouth being close to hers always made Katherine’s mouth get a little dry. Every time, even when she didn’t want to kiss Robin.

And Katherine wanted to kiss Robin now.

“Hi. Are you looking for Nicki?” Margene decided to ask.

“I think so,” the woman said in a husky kind of voice. “Is this the right house for Nicolette Grant? I thought maybe I got the damn number wrong.”

“Yeah, um. This is the place. I’m Margene, Nicki’s neighbor,” said Margie, fumbling to open the screen.

“And you’re about eight and a half months pregnant,” said the woman, opening the screen door. “So I’ll get the door for myself, if that’s okay.”

“Okay,” Margie said. “I don’t think we’ve met. You’re Nicki’s older sister, right?”

The woman’s eyes went huge. “Who told you that?” she asked suspiciously.

“Nobody,” Margie said, taken aback by the intense Grant-style response. “It’s just that you look like one of the Grants. They all have that blonde, blue-eyed look. You don’t dress like you’re out of the compound, though.”

Before the woman could answer, Nicki stomped into the house from the back. “These people and their expectations! I am a mother of two and if they can’t understand the pressures of family li…Margene, who’s this?”

Margie was pretty sure that the blonde woman wasn’t Nicki’s sister now. Even though they looked alike. And acted alike. And the blonde was giving Nicki a stare nearly as hateful as the one Nicki was giving her.

“You’re Nicolette Grant, I assume,” the woman said, biting off each word bitterly. “My name is Erica Hahn. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Why?” Nicki asked.

“Because according to my mother, she had an affair with Roman Grant when they were both young and stupid, and I was the stupid product of that stupid affair,” the woman said, still biting off her words. “And you’re the only Grant I could find who isn’t on that creepy compound that just got raided by the FBI — or in jail.”

Margie choked. Wow, Nicki’s maybe-sister was blunt.

“Are you claiming that you’re my half-sister?” Nicki demanded of the blonde woman — Erica, Margie guessed her name was. “How dare you claim my father would have an affair?”

Man, Margene was pretty sure that she’d dare to claim it, because Erica gave Nicki the Grant look back with all the disdain of a Chosen One and then some.

“I don’t want to claim it, but…look. I’m a doctor,” Erica said, visibly calming herself down. “I wanted some DNA from a Grant to do the tests. And you’re the only one who was available. So. My apologies, Ms. Grant.”

She turned to leave. And of course, Nicki was going to let her, even though Nicki was dying of curiosity just like Margie was, so Margie had to get in the way.

“Please stay,” Margie said, smiling hopefully.

“Excuse me?” Erica asked, giving Margie the stink-eye now.

“Nicki!” Margie said, turning to glare at Nicki and her sour pout. “She’s clearly your sister. You look the same and you even have the same snotty attitude I thought came from the compound but is clearly in the Grant DNA…so invite her to dinner already.”

Nicki glowered at Margie. “Invite a stranger to dinner who claims my father had an affair?” she asked. “Margene, have you lost your mind?”

“Yeah, why not?” Margie asked. “It’ll be fun.”

Erica was giving Margie and Nicki very strange looks. “You two are very close neighbors,” she said with an odd catch in her voice.

Nicki faked a smile. “Utah is a very friendly place,” she said. “Where do you live?”

“I used to live in Seattle,” Erica said. “But my life recently came unglued, so I decided to do one of those stupid finding myself things — and then my mother dropped this bombshell on me.”

“Wow,” said Margie. “Did you even guess before?”

Erica looked at Margie uneasily. “We should probably sit down before getting into the trivia of my personal life. I’m not a neo-natal expert or anything, but it’s gotta be rough, carrying that much extra weight around while Ms. Grant and I eye each other and wonder if there’s REALLY a resemblance.”

“Trust me,” Margie said, gratefully heading for the couch as Wayne came bouncing down the stairs. “You two look a lot alike.”

“Mother,” Wayne said, looking at Erica very curiously but politely. “Is she from Juniper Creek? I thought we weren’t supposed to have any contact with Juniper Creek.”

Erica looked at Nicki, who looked back and sighed. “This is Dr. Hahn,” she said. “She’s looking for her missing family. She is NOT from the compound.”

Margie could have laughed, because Erica looked moderately gobsmacked by Wayne. Wayne, for his part, looked a little pleased that Erica was a doctor.

“What kind of doctor are you?” he asked in his stuffy little voice.

“I’m a cardiothoracic surgeon. Most people just say heart surgeon, even though that’s less accurate,” Erica said. “What does your mother do?”

“Mother’s a mechanic,” Wayne said. “She’s very good with tools.”

Nicki was now looking at Erica with a great deal more interest, which Margie thought was sad. Maybe it was just because Nicki had a bunch of sisters from being in a really big polygamous family, but if Margie had a secret half-sister, she’d care about the secret half-sister part, not the heart surgeon part.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Nicki asked. “It’s usually a family affair, so it can be pretty hectic…”

Erica looked up from Wayne, mouth twisted slightly. “Sure,” she said. “No problem. But how about I take you and your family out for dinner instead?”

Oh, boy. Margie could tell this would be something.

She hadn’t wanted it to be true. When the pretty girl with dark hair and eyes came bouncing up to the door, Erica had almost cried with relief. Her father was not the icky old religious fraud whose youngest wife was something like seventeen. She wasn’t going to have to walk through Juniper Creek to understand the mob of family — thirty-one half-brothers and sisters — whose DNA she shared.

Then the brunette asked if she was Nicki’s sister and Erica’s heart sank.

Then Nicolette Grant’s son had taken one look at her and asked if she was from Juniper Creek. Erica could have stabbed herself in the eye with a scalpel at that moment, and not felt the pain.

Three months ago — only three! — she’d been one of the top cardiothoracic surgeons in the world whose biggest problem was that Cristina Yang was really freaking annoying and despite her personal rules, she’d been making friends with Callie Torres.

Now? Erica was on an extended leave of absence from her life, gay, and apparently the daughter of an infamous polygamist, complete with a really bitchy younger half-sister who looked at her like she was about to grow horns and teach her babies science.

Never mind that her “neighbor” Margie and her two kids had come along for dinner with Nicki, Erica, and Nicki’s two kids. That was pretty weird, even for Utah. First of all, that two single mothers were living next door with no man in sight, second, that they were all BFF, and third, the way Nicki and Margie acted was…interesting.

“So you’re a mechanic,” Erica said, trying to make small talk with Nicki. They’d already arranged to meet in Salt Lake tomorrow to get the cheek swab. Erica had a former colleague who was going to bump up the results as a favor, what with Erica saving his son’s life and all one time. “I guess you never had a chance to go to college, which is too bad.”

“I’m happy with the life I have,” Nicki said icily. Jesus, this one was weird. She’d gotten out of Juniper Creek, presumably because she’d wanted to escape polygamy, but still acted like any indirect criticism of the place was the most horrible thing Erica could do.

“Still,” Erica said. “I imagine a mechanical engineering degree would make it easier to support the boys.”

Wayne tilted his head. “But, Dr. Erica, my mother is supported by…” he began as Margie, of all people, smoothly interrupted.

“Wayne honey, it’s not nice to talk about money at the table,” she said with one of those Utah-nice smiles that Erica hated. “Mechanics make great money around here. People like it when they’re native English speakers, so there’s a premium.”

Erica almost bristled at the naive racism in that statement, but this was a tense enough dinner. Besides, the way Wayne was looking at Margie, she thought there might be something more to the story, too.

“Why didn’t you go see my father directly?” Nicki inquired coolly.

“It would have been rather time consuming to request a DNA sample from a man who is in state custody,” Erica said, bringing the temperature down to icy. “As you can imagine, something of that nature would bring the press down like vultures. I’m a private person, Ms. Grant. I don’t need it broadcast that I might be Roman Grant’s daughter from a premarital liaison.”

Nicki folded her arms. “If you even are,” she pointed out. Margie chuckled. “What, Margene?”

“Dr. Hahn, can you do what Nicki just did?” Margie asked.

Erica folded her arms. “If you even are,” she said crisply. “What, Margene?”

Margie cracked up, and her oldest boy pointed in toddler-style wonderment. Wayne’s eyes had gone huge.

“She sounds just like Mother,” he said. “Dr. Erica, you even look like my mother when you give sharp looks.”

“Wonders never cease,” Nicki said acidly.

“Does this mean she’s part of our family?” Wayne asked hopefully.

“Maybe,” Nicki and Erica said in unison, and that time, Erica could hear the similar tones. Nicki caught her eye, and the emotions reflected on the woman’s face were genuine for the first time.

Erica suddenly thought it might not be horrible to have a sister. Even one who wore french braids all the time.

If dratted Margene hadn’t been so positive about Dr. Hahn, Nicki was fairly sure that Barb and Bill would have been against getting DNA tested. Maybe not Barb, who probably thought it would be nice to have a secular liberal connected to their family, but most certainly Bill would have been. After all, it would look bad for Papa, having relations with a woman out of wedlock. Though Nicki could believe that her father had gotten special permission for such a thing, or that it was far more complicated than this Dr. Hahn thought it was.

Still. The last thing Papa needed, the last thing their family needed, was this liberal surgeon woman casting doubt on his character. It wasn’t even as though Dr. Hahn understood what a blessing it was to be the Prophet’s daughter. She thought Papa was a pervert. She didn’t want to be Nicki’s sister any more than Nicki wanted Dr. Hahn to be her sister.

So it would have been better if Nicki had said no. But dratted Margene had sang the praises of Dr. Hahn, and everyone thought it would be rude not to get a cheek swab, especially if Dr. Hahn was her sister.

It had been a lot of driving for very little work, too. The cheek swab had taken all of three minutes, and then Dr. Hahn had hustled them out of the medical center, looking as ashamed as Nicki felt.

“This is all so damned ridiculous,” she said, glaring at the Wasatch Range. Nicki felt an odd twinge in her chest, the way she had last night when Margene had been so adamant that Nicki and Dr. Hahn even spoke alike. “I wish my mother hadn’t said anything, but I guess I pushed her hard enough to get a different answer this time.”

“You don’t want it to be true,” Nicki said. “Well, why did you find me if you wanted to pretend Roman Grant wasn’t your father?”

The shock in Dr. Hahn’s gaze suggested that they both agreed, on some level, that she was Papa’s daughter. Nicki didn’t like Dr. Hahn, but she wasn’t a fool. The woman was a Grant to her fingertips. It was spooky.

“My life is a chaotic mess,” Dr. Hahn said slowly. “I need to know some things definitively so I can regroup and move forward.”

Nicki nodded. “Life can be complicated sometimes,” she said. Thinking that it would be something to watch Dr. Hahn and Alby go toe-to-toe, because this one would have no time for Alby’s blasphemous power-seeking.

“I imagine yours is particularly complicated,” Dr. Hahn said, chancing a sidelong glance at Nicki. “Were you close to Roman before you left the compound?”

“I was as close to Papa as anyone could be, I suppose,” Nicki said. “He isn’t as bad as everyone says.”

“Oh,” Dr. Hahn said neutrally. “Why did you leave?”

Nicki pondered the right thing to say to an outsider who didn’t know the first thing about the principle. “Because I thought it was the right thing to do,” she said. That was true enough for now. “Why’d you leave Seattle?”

“I worked in a pit of backstabbing vipers, and I ended a really intense relationship,” Dr. Hahn said. “It seemed to be a good time to get the hell out of Dodge and think about who I am.”

“Do you miss surgery?” Nicki asked.

“Every day,” Dr. Hahn said. “It’s not so bad though, being out here. I grew up in Idaho, fairly close to some of the compounds up there. And the man I thought was my father was a real son of a bitch.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Nicki said.

“He dropped dead one day when I was twelve,” Dr. Hahn said. “I didn’t cry at his funeral. I thought I was a horrible person for being glad. And then I found out he wasn’t my father at all and I felt like…”

Her face lifted back up toward the mountains, but there was a tiny smile on it now.

“I’m glad,” Nicki said. “Even if you hate my father.”

“Probably our father,” Dr. Hahn said. “And I don’t hate him. I don’t know him. But I don’t approve of what he’s done.”

Nicki sighed. “So you’re condemning someone you’ve never met,” she said.

“You really love him, don’t you?” Dr. Hahn asked. “Even though he’s messed you up in a thousand ways.”

“You see it as being messed up,” Nicki said. “I don’t.”

Dr. Hahn looked at her strangely. The entire situation was bizarre. Nicki wanted to tell this stranger everything, about her relationship with Bill and her sister-wives, about how much it hurt that it was her fault, completely and totally, that Papa was in jail in his condition because of her, and Alby, that snake, was ruining everything because he could.

“Are you okay?” Dr. Hahn asked. “You’re crying.”

“Am not,” Nicki said. “It’s not your business anyway. Just because you may be my sister doesn’t mean you understand.”

“I think I might get some of it,” Dr. Hahn said, with that weird smile on her face again.

Someone at the clinic was a snitch. Erica was going to believe that version of events, and that the snitch was going to be prosecuted for violating her HIPAA rights the way half of her former coworkers deserved to be. Because if Erica let herself believe that Oliver Wilson had sold her out to the Utah press as Roman Grant’s secret daughter, it would just be another cherry in the crap sundae that was her life since transferring to Seattle Grace.

Did anyone in this state have ANYTHING better to do than stare at the polygamist’s daughter? Seriously, Utah itself was gorgeous. Erica had even gone to sunrise yoga and realized that Callie or not, she liked it. The sun coming over the mountains, the clean dry air that was nothing like rainy Seattle — it had been intense. Almost enlightening.

Not quite as intense as coming back to her hotel and seeing two news vans and the guy from Deseret News waiting for her to tell her the news about the DNA test, though.

Erica paced back and forth, looking at the damn Salt Lake temple and that hideous building she’d heard two Goth kids on Temple Square call “the Meganacle” and checking her watch. The first call she’d made after sending a blistering message to Oliver Wilson was to Nicki, who had declared she was coming up to Salt Lake to get her. Immediately.

At least Erica hadn’t gotten any calls from Seattle yet. It was unlikely but possible — she’d had to leave a forwarding contact number with Richard’s people, and those damn residents could get private information like nobody else. She could imagine someone picking up the news as a Seattle-related oddity involved with the Juniper Creek scandal and someone calling, maybe not Callie, but Yang had no sense of…

Erica almost jumped in the air when her phone went off. Caller ID said it was Nicki, and so Erica answered the phone with a crisp, “are you here?” because damned if Erica was giving Nicki the satisfaction of knowing that Erica was relieved to hear her voice.

“I’m out back. There’s no way I’m going past that news van,” Nicki said. “You come down here right now. We’re going back to my house and you’re going to tell me how this sort of news gets out.”

“How am I supposed to get past the news vans?” Erica inquired dryly.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Erica,” said Nicki in that superior little voice that drove Erica crazy, in part because she could hear her own cadences in it. “Fine. I’ll come up and we will sneak out of your expensive hotel together. I thought you might not want us to be seen together, but I’ll risk it for family.”

Erica almost suggested that Nicki take her help and shove it, but instead she said, “Thank you, Nicki. It’s the ninth floor, room 927.”

It took her five minutes after that, but Nicki knocked on her door, looking exasperated at the condition of Erica’s room and the entire situation.

“Pack a bag, Erica,” Nicki said. “If you’re going to hide out at my house in Sandy, you might want a bag.”

Erica hadn’t thought about that idea. She’d been too busy staring at her phone wondering if she wanted to call Seattle. “Thank you, Nicki,” she said gratefully, throwing clothes into her suitcase. “I’m sorry. This is all really ridiculous.”

“You don’t know the first thing about being a Grant,” Nicki said, sitting down on Erica’s bed and fingering the high-count sheets. “That could be dangerous in Utah.”

“I’m not a Grant,” Erica pointed out, making sure her…personal items…were covered. She had the feeling Nicki wouldn’t approve, even though Nicki was a single mother who was super-close with her next-door neighbor. “I’m the biological child of Roman Grant, which is different. And I’m shocked that someone would leak this to the press.”

“It’ll be some Mormon woman who doesn’t approve of the lifestyle,” Nicki said, and it took Erica a moment to remember Nicki meant polygamy, not gayness. “What?”

“You’re right, I don’t know the first thing about any of this,” Erica said. “I used to be a surgeon. That’s all I wanted to do. Save lives, do research, and not get involved with all this personal…goo.”

Expecting another disdainful look, Erica was fairly surprised to see Nicki look at her with complete sympathy before rushing over, throwing the last of Erica’s clothes into the suitcase, and zipping it up hastily.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said grimly. “Hopefully the reporters haven’t spotted my car. It could be very bad if they did.”

If Nicki had a bit of sense, she would drop this woman off by the side of the 15 for bringing attention to her. It wasn’t as if Grants hadn’t done it to their own before, and Erica was at least as dangerous as Alby or that rotten Rhonda.

Besides, Nicki had done her research on the internet. Okay, she’d had Marge do it, which was about the same thing, and they’d been impressed by the results. Dr. Erica Hahn was the best cardiothoracic surgeon west of the Rockies, and that was saying something. And if Nicki knew anything, it was that surgeons made a lot of money. You didn’t drop sisters who were surgeons on the side of the road.

“How long did you live in Seattle?” Nicki asked a somewhat numb Erica.

“Since I finished my residency at Johns Hopkins,” Erica replied. “Eleven years. How many brothers and sisters do we have?”

“Thirty-two,” said Nicki. “Papa had one since that article in the LA Times came out. What’s your mother’s name?”

“Joanne,” Erica said. “Joanne Williamson before she married my stepfather. What’s your mother’s name?”

“Adaleen,” Nicki said. “Why did you really leave Seattle?”

“Someone broke my heart and if I had to see them every day, I would scream,” Erica replied diffidently. “What about you? What happened to the boys’ father?”

Nicki bit her lip. “It’s complicated,” she said. “Margene helps out a lot, though, and we get along. There’s enough money to send Wayne to a prestigious private school. It’s Catholic, but there’s no better education in the Salt Lake area.”

She parked the car in the driveway and turned the engine off. Erica looked surprised that they were already back at Nicki’s house and blinked rapidly. Nicki didn’t know why Erica was so upset. In two or three days, this would blow over if Erica wanted it to and she could go off to her liberal life and never have to worry about any Grant ever again. It was Nicki who would have to deal with it, the real Grants who loved Papa, not this cuckoo in the nest.

“I was just thinking that this is so weird,” Erica said as they pulled her bag from the back of the car. “I’m not used to having a family. I don’t like people. I’m bad at small talk. So having to think of nice things to say when I’m processing that my biological father is a polygamist and the only person who’s helping me out is my half-sister who clearly still loves him is hard.”

Margene came flying out of the house, followed by the boys. “Nicki, where have you been? Barb is freaking out,” she said. “Oh hi, Dr. Hahn. How are you?”

“Freaked out,” Erica said. “The test results came back this morning.”

“Are you part of the family?” Margie asked, looking hopeful.

“Of course Papa is her biological father, Margene,” Nicki said. “And Erica is very traumatized, so don’t pester her for details. There was a news crew after her in Salt Lake, so we’re laying low here for a day or two.”

Margie nodded, eyes huge. Erica looked a little suspicious, probably because she was wondering who Barb was and why Margene spent so much time in Nicki’s house.

Whatever. Boss Lady would probably have her head for supper if Nicki didn’t get back to her immediately, no matter what Nicki’s other troubles. At least Erica looked as though she would just sink into a couch for the day and stop causing trouble. It was all under control for now.

“Dr. Erica, are you really my aunt?” Wayne asked. He’d been following her around for an hour. Usually Erica would have scared the kid into the next state for not leaving her alone, but usually Erica wasn’t hiding from the press in her sister’s house in Sandy, Utah. Also, the kid was her nephew and he seemed lonely. His little brother was playing with Margie’s oldest and Jesus, there were a lot of kids running around this place.

“I am really your aunt,” Erica said.

“But you’re not from Juniper Creek,” Wayne said.

“No, I am not,” Erica said. “Have you ever been there?”

“No. I’m not allowed,” Wayne said. “Mother wants to bring me, but Dad says it’s not allowed.”

Erica didn’t want to know. Something was weird about this whole situation, from Margene and Nicki being a little too close, to the mysterious Barb who Nicki had run off to placate, to the shared backyard she’d glimpsed through the kitchen window. Nicki was weird just by virtue of being a compound graduate, Erica was pretty sure, but it was more than that.

So Erica decided to focus on what she could handle, which was the stuffy sound in Wayne’s voice. “Wayne, do you have allergies?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Wayne said. “Sometimes it’s hard to breathe but Mother says that I’ll grow out of it.”

Of course Nicki would say that. Probably she believed in faith healing or something equally ridiculous. Erica caught herself in a half-scowl and tried to smile instead.

“Well, I’m not an ENT…that’s ear, nose, and throat doctor, by the way,” Erica began, “But I know a few tricks. And if I’m right, we can tell your mother the things to tell a doctor so you get the right help.”

A blonde girl came in while Erica was examining Wayne. It didn’t seem to be asthma or anything involving the heart or lungs. Definitely either allergies or an ENT problem that five minutes with Mark Sloan could clear up. Wayne seemed delighted that someone was talking to him about his little problems, and was telling Erica all about how the other children thought he was “doofy” because he didn’t like to run.

Probably it was the stress, but Erica felt for the kid. A lot.

“But Dr. Erica, I do like to run and jump. I just get tired if I run too much,” Wayne said. “Do you think I’m going to die?”

“Absolutely not,” Erica said, looking up at the blonde girl. “Who the…who are you?”

“I’m Sarah Henrickson,” the girl said. “Who are you? What are you doing to Wayne?”

“I’m Nicki’s new secret half-sister Erica,” Erica said. “And Wayne, I think, either has allergies or possibly a minor nasal blockage.”

Wayne beamed. “Dr. Erica is a famous surgeon from Seattle, Sarah,” he said. “She’s a cardiothoracic surgeon. Some people say heart surgeon, but that’s not as accurate.”

Sarah blinked. Erica was slightly impressed at how smart the kid was; he listened. “I was here to watch the boys,” she said to Erica. “Hi. So you’re clearly not from Juniper Creek.”

“No, I’m from Seattle,” Erica said. “Okay, Wayne. I’ve finished my examination. We can tell your mother exactly what to tell a doctor to help your nasal problems.”

Wayne nodded and then, to Erica’s surprise, hugged her fiercely.

“I like you, Dr. Erica,” he said. “Thank you for helping me.”

“You’re welcome, Wayne,” Erica said, looking up at the gobsmacked Sarah. “Why is it that everyone around here just wanders into each other’s homes? I know Utah’s pretty idyllic, but it’s a bit much for me.”

Sarah swallowed and looked ready to lie. “I think you should ask your sister for the answer to that,” she finally said.

“Think she’ll tell me?” Erica asked, standing up and patting Wayne on the shoulder.

“No,” Sarah said. “But I’m not going to, because I don’t need Nicki jumping down my throat. Anyway, if you’ve got this under control, I’m out of here.”

Before Erica could contradict her, Sarah was gone and Wayne was waving after her.

Christ, these people were weird.

Nicki’s sister was pacing her floor when Nicki and Raymond finally got back from the meeting with Barb. Barb had declared in no uncertain terms that if Barb was out to Pam and Carl, then Nicki needed to tell Erica about living the principle.

When Nicki got closer, she noticed that Erica was on the phone and visibly distressed.

“I don’t care that you’re worried about me. You had O’Malley find my private information. You invaded my privacy!” Erica shouted.

Nicki closed the door behind her and told Raymond to go upstairs. He looked pouty about it, but did as she told him.

“Look, Callie,” said Erica in a weary voice, “I don’t have time for this. I’m fine. I’m not coming back to Seattle. And I’m not sorry I left you.”

It took a moment, but Nicki’s eyes widened. Callie was a girl’s name. Erica had talked about leaving someone who’d wrecked her. This Callie was probably that person and probably a girl.

Erica waved at Nicki, who hadn’t hidden well enough.

“Yes, I’m fine. Utah isn’t that bad,” Erica said. “It lacks the backstabbing resident bed-hopping of Seattle Grace.”

What was Nicki going to do? Erica was almost crying and Nicki couldn’t just throw the woman out, as much as it would be the correct thing to do.

“Thank you for your concern. Don’t call me again,” Erica said finally. “Good night, Callie.”

Nicki stared at Erica when she put her phone away.

“So you struggle with same-sex attraction,” Nicki said, looking at her sister with slight distaste. At least she was only a half-sister, though Alby’s… tendencies…had been a joke at Juniper Creek for as long as Nicki could remember. Not that Alby had ever acted on those tendencies, but his eyes could linger.

“Is that how you’d put it?” Erica inquired with a grim sort of humor. “If you call me a lesbian, my head won’t explode, you know. Yours won’t, either.”

“I think that sort of language enables the pathology,” Nicki said before grimacing. She wasn’t talking to Margie or even Barb here. Erica didn’t take to Nicki talking down to her, and the flash of anger in Erica’s eyes when Nicki looked up confirmed that. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Do you get off on being such a smug bitch, or can you just not help it?” Erica asked sharply. Thank God Margie hadn’t heard that; she would have giggled and agreed. Nicki wouldn’t take that from a third wife the way she would from an older sister who was a surgeon. “I was every day of forty before I realized, and it made my life better even though my first girlfriend was a real piece of work. So trust me, I’m not struggling with same-sex attraction. I’m embracing it. And with the way you act near Margie, I would have thought you’d get it.”

The way she acted with Margie? Nicki gaped. No wonder…oh, goodness.

“Margie’s my sister-wife!” Nicki said, flushing red. “She’s not my lover. She’s my sister-wife! We’re married to the same man. It is most certainly not what you think.”

It was Erica’s turn to change color. She went ice-pale. “Oh, Nicki,” she said in a little voice. “You’re still in it? Even after you’ve seen what men who practice it do to women? Are you out of your mind?”

“Don’t you dare judge me, you sodomite,” Nicki growled. “You may be my sister, but you have no right to…”

“Sodomite?” Erica said, looking at Nicki like she’d grown a second head. “Are you kidding me?”

She’d rescued this judgmental sodomite. And even knowing Nicki’s opinions on morality, Erica was the one acting as though she were offended and sad for Nicki. And thinking that she was Margene’s lover? It was true; those people thought everything was about their aberrant sexuality.

“I don’t think I can have you in my house. You might corrupt the children,” Nicki said.

“Or you, because you know the gays can’t resist the hot incest loving,” Erica sassed back.

“Don’t be vulgar,” Nicki snapped.

Erica sighed. She looked pained, and Nicki felt pained, too. It had been nice, having a family member — even one that came from such a scandalous beginning as Erica Hahn’s — who didn’t immediately judge her by the standards of Juniper Creek. But Nicki didn’t think tolerance should be taken too far…that was how civilizations fell apart.

“Nicki,” Erica said. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean for this whole visit to get so complicated. I wanted to get a cheek swab, find out that my mother was maybe losing her mind and Roman Grant wasn’t my father, get the real story, and then go get a job somewhere like Boston or New York, find a real girlfriend and move on from all the drama. Maybe I should pretend the middle part happened and move on.”

It was absolutely what Erica should do. Nicki shouldn’t want this liberal feminist gay in her house, and absolutely not as a family member.

Instead, Nicki swallowed. “Salt Lake is pretty liberal, you know,” she said. “It’s not even majority Mormon anymore.”

Erica raised an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting observation, Nicolette,” she said dryly. “Is there anything else you want to add?”

“No,” Nicki said, folding her arms. “But I think it’s a bit elitist, you just discounting anywhere that’s not a big city in a liberal coast state. And your fantasy is stupid, anyway, because Roman Grant is your father. Someday, someone’s going to find out, and do you think your big city liberal friends will know what to say when they find out you’re the daughter of a polygamist?”

“Jesus, Nicki,” Erica said. “That’s a lot of words to say that you want me to stay, even though it freaks you out.”

“I didn’t say that,” Nicki objected. Erica gave her one of the withering looks that she did so well; if that was really how Nicki looked when she was disapproving, it was a little discomfiting. “Fine. Even though you’re practicing an alternative lifestyle, and you’re proof of my father’s sinning, I like you. And I would like to get to know you. And I would like you to know my whole family. Including my husband and my sister-wives and our children.”

“Is that why you people have the one yard and wander in and out of each other’s houses?” Erica asked. She sounded as though a great mystery had been solved. “That blonde girl, Sarah, came in and almost gave me a heart attack. Then she asked me what I was doing with Wayne. It makes more sense now that I realize she’s his big sister.”

Nicki tilted her head. “What were you doing with Wayne?” she asked.

“He’s having problems with breathing and sinus drainage. I think it’s either allergies or problems with his nasal passageways,” Erica said earnestly. “Five minutes with an ENT guy and Wayne will have a better childhood.”

“I see,” Nicki said. “So will you come to dinner tonight and explain it to Bill?”

Erica looked dubious. “He’s your husband, right?”

“Yes, he’s our husband,” Nicki said.

“All right,” Erica said. “I’ll come.”

“So I left,” Erica said, concluding her story about the last days of her career at Seattle Grace Hospital.

Barb looked appalled. The kids had long since gone off to watch a video with Margie. And Nicki looked a little bored, like she’d heard it all before.

As for Nicki’s husband, Mr. Patriarch of these three perfect little suburban box houses, he kept watching Erica like he expected her to have a special bomb from Alby Grant or something. Bill Henrickson didn’t quite like Erica, and Erica was betting it had more to do with her lesbianism than anything else.

“So you left,” Barb echoed. “That took a lot of guts.”

She sounded wistful, as though leaving was something Barb had considered before; everyone here had a damn agenda, Erica realized. Even Margene seemed to have her own secret wishes. After all, Margie had been the one to manipulate this situation into being in the first place.

“Honestly, I didn’t know what else to do,” Erica said. “There are some situations where you can’t stay, no matter how much you want to.”

Barb nodded, and Nicki bit her lip. Erica was not used to having people who weren’t surgeons around her asking all these personal questions. And Erica wanted to ask as many as she was getting, especially to Bill and whatever she was seeing in his eyes.

“So what do you plan to do now, Dr. Hahn?” he asked her, interrupting the flow of conversation between Erica and Barb. She’d already noticed that Nicki got quiet and somehow resentful in Bill and Barb’s company.

“I’m going back to surgery, of course,” Erica said. “Salt Lake Regional needs a cardiothoracic specialist. I’m also considering Denver and Boulder, around that area.”

She hadn’t been, not before today, but now it seemed almost ideal. Erica, working in Denver, away from the Mormons and too much of the crazy, but close enough that she could fly or drive any weekend, or Nicki could come to visit.

Bill’s lip curled slightly. “Boulder, huh?” he asked. Of course he’d be against the pot-smoking Boulder hippie types. “Beautiful country out there.”

“Don’t you think you’ll want to have a family?” Barb broke in.

“Barb, Erica already has a family,” Nicki interrupted, giving her sister-wife a nasty glance. “She’s my sister and Wayne is quite fond of her already.”

“Really,” Bill said. “Well, it couldn’t hurt, having a surgeon for an aunt for him to look up to.”

Erica had never considered that before that moment. She was Wayne’s aunt. The way these people thought, she was now the gay aunt of seven, almost eight, niece and nephews. More than eight, even. Roman Grant had one hundred and eighty-five grandchildren and great-grandchildren, which meant Erica had a hundred and eighty-five nieces, nephews, and dear god, great-nieces and nephews.

She was someone’s gay great-aunt. That was so beyond what Erica Hahn was able to think that she simply rejected the concept. For now, she had her one half-sister, and her polygamist criminal biological father, and the two nephews, and the six other step-nieces-and-nephews.

Erica smiled at Bill, her own thoughts finally clearing up behind her eyes. Then she looked past him and winked at Nicki.

Nicki looked shocked for a moment, but then tilted her head and smiled back, almost despite herself.

“I think it’ll be good for all of us,” Erica said to Bill. “I’ve never been anyone’s aunt before. I think maybe this is something I can get used to.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Bill said, sounding a little surprised. “Most liberals don’t cotton to polygamy.”

Erica wondered what would happen in Bill’s head if he said lesbian instead of liberal. Maybe it would cause a stroke. Erica wasn’t sure if she’d be too torn up about that — or if Nicki would be that upset, come to that.

“I’m not sure I like the kind my — Juniper Creek — practices,” Erica admitted. Barb looked pleased about that, and Nicki resigned. “But it’s been a hell of a year. I’m not sure I can just turn down a family.”

She wasn’t sure she could just handle this family, either, which was why Erica had this vision of Colorado in her head. A big house with windows looking out over mountains and snow, someone waiting for Erica to come home from surgery, and a hundred messages from Nicki about how Papa wanted to meet her, and if she trusted that surgeon who wanted to work on Wayne, and that Barb said she should come next weekend.

Maybe a dog in the yard and a Subaru in the driveway. Just for good measure.

Someone touched her shoulder, and Erica came out of her reverie. “My goodness, Erica,” said Nicki, looking at her. “You’re a million miles away.”

“Just a couple of hundred,” Erica corrected, smiling at her sister and wondering if these kinds of dreams were what Nicki and her family thought of as revelations. “Ready to go back home now?”

i. …but one of these days there’ll be nothing left with which to venture forth.

It’s a way to punish herself for cheating on a fourth fiancé in fifteen years in exactly the same way she cheated on the first three. She voluntarily exiles herself with all the scum and cheaters in the surgical universe, exiles herself to the place where Preston Burke was loved and respected, and isolates herself, never mentioning why she would come to a place she despises, because she despises herself more.

Her born-Catholic, converted-to-Mormonism mother would laugh at the impressive display of guilt her wayward daughter shows at last. If her mother wasn’t long dead.

She hates everything about Seattle Grace, but (irony of all ironies) she deserves to be here.

ii. the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass.

Cristina Yang.

Cristina fucking Yang.

It’s like going to work every day and seeing herself in a very slightly distorted mirror. Passion, skill, arrogance, and dear god, let her not have been that annoying and approval-needy when she was a resident.

And a kind person, a person who is not in self-imposed exile would understand that Yang is trying so hard because she doesn’t know what else to do; cardio is her life, Burke was her heart, and Yang needs something to fill the void now that her guts and soul have been ripped out.

Erica gets it. They both have nothing except the work, cannibalizing as it sustains their immortal souls.

She understands, but she can’t let Yang in. There’s something so dangerous about the horrible and perfect symbiosis they would have, twin glares as they antagonized idiot patients and stupider interns before performing breathtaking surgeries. If she let them, they would be a unit that was closed to everything and she can’t do that to someone.

Cristina Yang.

Cristina fucking Yang.

iii. My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time

“Do you want to know my name? My real name?” Callie asks.

It’s just past midnight and she’s been out dancing for the first time in seven years. They’ve been drinking, watching guys check them out — mostly Callie. She’s under no illusions here. Callie is gorgeous; she might charitably be called handsome.

Then again, she’s the one who’s got Callie’s attention, not the guys.

“What, Callie O’Malley isn’t your real name?” she asks, elbowing Callie companionably.

“God, no,” Callie says. “So do you want to know or what?”

“Might not be a good idea,” she says, grinning. “I know plenty of old folk beliefs that say if you tell someone your true name, you give them power over you.”

“Oh, whatever. I trust you,” Callie says. “So?”

“Tell me,” she says, wondering why it’s important.

“Calliope Iphigenia Torres,” Callie says, accenting the words. “So now I’m under your power. What should I do next?”

“Sign your divorce papers and fall in love with someone extraordinary,” she says grandly, feeling the whole world go sparkling bright. Maybe it’s the champagne they’ve been drinking. Or maybe the music, or maybe when Callie forced her to dance. Or maybe the giddiness of doing something different and realizing she’s not dead yet.

But the sparkling, that she’s sure of.

“Ooh, good call,” Callie says. “If that’s the sort of decisions you usually make, you can have all the power you want over me.”

She finds this idea a little more exciting than she should. And decides not to think about that too hard.

iv. Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde?

When Callie lets go, when the kiss stops, they both look away with shock.

“I’ll see you…tomorrow,” she tells Callie, turning away, shaken to the core.

Callie takes her hand. “Don’t disappear on me.”

She nods. The shock is too much for words.

She goes home and stares at herself in the mirror. In her opinion, she looks awful. Not that she likes make-up or that she should look good after that many hours in an OR, but god, there’s nothing to her.

Callie is so beautiful. Dark hair, dark eyes, this sense of herself that animates everything. The greatest smile. Curves that could turn a stick of wood on. Even tired out of her mind, Callie Torres is beautiful.

She’s a dishwater blonde. Her eyes are too close together, her upper lip is chapped, she has sallow skin, fat arms, and a tummy that will eventually be revealed.

If anything happens. If she’s not hallucinating that Callie Torres grabbed her and kissed her at the hospital. That’s possible. The surgery was insane. Maybe the concrete fumes made Erica hallucinate.

The point is that even in dreams, nobody like Callie would want her. She’s awkward and raw-boned and a bad teacher. And yet the memory of the kiss burns through Erica, making her heart pound and her head spin.

Please god, let it be true.

v. All I want is boundless love.

When they touch again and the same sparkling electric sizzle rocks through her, it’s like a light bulb going on.

Oh. She likes girls. She likes Callie most of all, but it clubs her around the head and shoulders with a realization that’s at least ten years overdue.

She’s always been attracted to women.

It explains why she kept cheating on her fiancés. Always at the same moment — the moment when she felt like she was trapped, when the idea of spending forever with a perfectly nice guy who loved her to bits. Men whose kisses she tolerated because they were good to her and she cared and she wanted them to be happy, but who never made her catch fire. It explains so much — why she didn’t mind weeks with no sex, months without passion, why the idea of a boyfriend never made her giddy like every other woman.

She’s not an alien, she’s a lesbian. It’s a relief to know, a relief she feels in her bones — maybe she isn’t the secret monster she feared being after all.

Callie can just look at her and she wants more. Kisses, caresses, long nights spent sleepless, naked, and sweaty. Her body has been plugged into this current where she’s alive and all the mushy personal stuff isn’t for wimps and people who speak a language Erica can’t follow.

It’s new and it’s addictive and it’s kind of why she won’t tell Callie that while she might be a virgin, this isn’t just about them.

Later, when it’s right.

vi. How am I to become a legend, my dear?

Joe’s always has too many people in it, but sometimes she hears interesting things while there. Especially now that the world has a new significance and people, while still venal and stupid, have a new weight to them that she finds fascinating.

“So if you had to choose between lo, our many sexy attendings, which one would you do?”

She’s been waiting for Callie for half an hour and is so bored that she’s eavesdropping on Grey and her new old friend, Susie or whatever, as they gossip about the attendings and who’s hot and who’s not.

“That is a good question,” Susie or whatever says, flipping her blonde hair and surveying the place like she owned it. “No offense, but Derek seems drippy. Besides, he’s yours. So I don’t want him. Chief is okay, but I’m not a big fan of the older man-younger woman dynamic. Dixon is insanely hot in her way, but I don’t need another mom.”

“Which leaves what, Sloan and Hahn?” Grey asks. “Great, another intern who’d do McSteamy.”

Susie snorts. “Please. He’s skanky and he spends all his time with that one girl,” she says. “No, I would be on Dr. McStrict over there in three seconds flat.”

“Really?” Grey asks. “I mean…really? I think she’s scary.”

“You’re such a straight girl,” Susie replies with a disdainful face. “Dr. McStrict has the right kind of energy. It’s all repressed because you know, she hasn’t found the right person to unleash it on, but it’s there.”

“I can hear you,” Erica says, putting her empty glass on the bar. “Girls, if you see Dr. Torres, tell her I needed to work on my journal article and I’ll see her tomorrow.”

Maybe she swaggers a little bit as she leaves Joe’s, even if she has been stood up. Susie or whatever is cute, and it’s flattering to hear that someone’s looking at her with desire.

vii. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you’ve set.

It’s a Tuesday night and they’re driving to Erica’s place for a night in, complete with new toys that she found online. The box is in the back seat of the car, and after much blushing and giggling, Callie had admitted she thinks it’ll be fun.

New, she says, but fun.

Callie’s driving, and Erica has her head leaned back on the headrest, eyes closed, idly fingering the top of her collarbone.

The music is slow — something indie that Erica bought a while ago, the kind of CD Callie jokes is lesbian music. Probably this is true (and she doesn’t care, because hey, she is in fact a lesbian), but it doesn’t stop Callie from singing along to it.

“I’m glad that you came to speak with me here, I’ve been so confused, so bridled with fear, oh oh….” she sings. One of the things she knows about Callie that nobody else does is that Callie sings. But she’s the only one at Seattle Grace that Callie sings for, even if it’s just singing along with the stereo on the way home.

“Looks like I’ll be happy after all…”

And she is perfectly, blissfully happy, reaching out to draw her hand over Callie’s arm and smile, eyes still closed.

When she opens them, Callie smiles at her.

“You’re so…you’re something, you know that?” Callie murmurs.

“Yeah, well. I like when you sing,” she says. “I like you, period. But especially when you sing.”

It’s not exactly the declaration of love she wants to share, but it’s close enough.

viii. Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching.

“Don’t you miss guys, ever?” Callie asks, stroking her back one random Saturday night after an hour of toe-curlingly good sex.

She wonders, sometimes, if Callie will ever get tired of asking that question.

“Not really,” she says.

Something had changed, which she thought was a good change at first, at the start of the year. At first Erica was so sure that Callie was going to end it, after all the freaking out about having sex, or standing her up at bars and being on-call and busy or tired so that it was maybe twice a week that they got together. Sometimes less.

And then Callie had shown up one night — it had been raining, and Erica’d been home alone working on a journal article with a bottle of wine and her laptop — Callie had shown up, hair plastered to her head, breathless, and looking at her with huge, bright eyes.

“I love you,” she’d said at the door. “I want to be with you. Just you.”

They hadn’t even made it to the couch.

And it had been the honeymoon they’d never gotten all of a sudden. It had been the honeymoon and the time where all the secrecy stopped and Karev had taunted O’Malley and everyone had been primly happy for them.

Bailey hadn’t been prim. She’d said, “if that girl’s smart, she’ll know how much you love her” to Erica. Cryptically. While prepping for surgery.

But Bailey was like that, and she always wanted to believe the shadows and hints were all in her head.

“If I’m smart, I’ll make sure she knows,” Erica had replied bravely.

The slow death of that giddy period was, well. It was what it was.

And now Callie missed boys.

And she didn’t.

ix. Why should I share you? Why don’t you get rid of someone else for a change?

Do you want to live with me?

Move in with me, be with me, I love you, I don’t know how to say it.

She wants to say this. All of this. Any of this. Whatever is the right combination of words. There are butterflies tied up in her stomach, but it’s time.

“Dr. Hahn?” a tentative, scared little voice says. It’s a voice that sounds like the one in her head, which makes it worse.

“What?” she asks, irritated to be distracted while she’s on this mission to declare that she wants to move forward with Callie. Irritated to realize how scared the voice in her head sounds.

The little voice belongs to a very pale Lexie Grey, the latest in Mark Sloan’s many attempts to feel twenty-five instead of forty. She’s a decent surgeon-in-embryo. If Yang thinks so, Erica is apt to agree.

“I think there’s something I have to tell you. About Mark. And Dr. Torres. About Mark-and-Dr-Torres,” she says, words speeding up as she speaks.

The girl’s words are knives in her stomach.

“Well, tell me,” she says, a thousand little hints becoming foreshadowed doom and lovesick naiveté. “Or are you too scared and stupid to do that?”

x. Destroy yourself, if you don’t know!

There was a legend that went around Seattle Grace that Meredith Grey had almost run Shepherd over with her car when she found out about Addison and that whole mess.

There would now be a legend about how Erica Hahn had tried to kill herself in traffic over Callie Torres screwing Mark Sloan, off-and-on, since the beginning of their affair. Which — fine. If people wanted to think she was a suicidal loser, it was better than some alternatives.

Unlike the legend about Grey, the legend would be mostly false anyway.

What had happened was that she had started crying in the car, away from all the gossips and leering assholes, just as she was pulling out of the parking lot. And that was when she’d gotten rear-ended by the upset patient who caused her to lose her grip on the brake pedal and hit the gas instead.

And that was when she ended up knocked into traffic with a totaled car and a very public end to her first gay affair.

All in all, it was a low place that ended with her staring at her bruised and swollen face and realizing that nothing that she could want so much would last and that nobody could want her anyway.

She told the nurses not to let Callie anywhere near her, right before they gave her a mega-dose of morphine so she could sleep and not feel things for a while.

She knows it’s a good idea.

It makes her feel hollow inside anyway.

xi. I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up.

“Seriously, I thought you were hot long before I found out you were a lesbian,” explains Sadie, fingering the top of her glass. “It wouldn’t be pity sex. It would be filthy fantasy fulfillment for Sadie.”

“It would be inappropriate, so stop offering,” she says.

The strangest thing about existing in the lowest place is that suddenly she has friends. Allies. Well-wishers. Callie might not have gotten near her after the accident, but Virginia Dixon was back at Seattle Grace like a shot to offer tough love, Bailey was there cursing Sloan’s name for her, and she now has the loyalty of a few interns. Mostly Sadie and Lexie Grey, but they’re the ones she’d want anyway.

But this is what stumps Erica. She has not been allowed to hide in a corner and deal with a broken heart and broken ribs alone, which is how she imagined it would happen. Isolation and shame, followed by a hasty resignation from the shame of having a dramatic breakup even by Seattle Grace’s notorious standards.

Instead, Richard told her to her face that he wouldn’t take her resignation and that she’d become a better teacher in the last year and that she should be proud of herself for who she’s let herself become.

She wants to say it’s too much, because people are still stupid and annoying and gossiping when she walks by, but it’s not.

“Ew. Slutty ex, ten o’clock,” Sadie says.

“Sadie, that’s not nice,” Lexie says. “Anyway, I think Sadie is right and we should take you out somewhere. A gay bar. I’ll even go if you guys make sure I don’t go home with a girl and it’s not inappropriate.”

“The gay bars here suck, but whatever, you will get so much love from the women between that bruised eye and your awesome career and the crappy ex,” Sadie says. “Lesbians are such suckers for bruised hearts, and you’re hot to boot.”

“I am going to go now,” she says.

“We’re doing it!” Sadie yells as Erica makes her way to where Callie is sitting alone.

There’s been a discreet shunning, she hears. She’s not sure what to make of that, because shunning? Is so high school.

“Hi,” she says.

Callie stares at her. “Oh my god, your face,” she says. “The nurses and Bailey wouldn’t let me near you. But! Your face.”

“Yeah, it’s gruesome,” Erica says. “Are you okay?”

Callie gapes at her, which doesn’t make her feel any more hideous and unfuckable, oh no, of course not. “I…why are you even talking to me? I wouldn’t talk to me. Five different people have told me just what a bitch I am, including Grey’s sister and Izzie Stephens, so…”

“I loved you,” she says. “I wanted you to know that. I think there’s gonna be a part of me that always loves you.”

“Erica,” Callie says. “I…”

“No, listen to me,” Erica says. “I gave you too much power over me. I cut out bits of myself, even though falling in love with you made everything about my life better. And it wasn’t any better for me than it was for you.”

Callie looks at her with such intense longing that she could almost get on her knees and tell her that all is forgiven. But it’s not. She can’t bring herself to let someone who thought the way to make Erica happy was to sleep with a boy have that power over her again.

“Is there anything I can do that can make it better?” Callie asks, the regret and desperation clear on her face.

She leans over, her mouth against Callie’s ear, knowing that half the bar is watching them.

What she says…well, that’s only for them to know. She’s changed, but the person she was is still to some extent the person she is. And Callie closes her eyes, nods, and kisses her on the cheek when Erica finishes saying what she has to say.

“Live happily ever after for me,” Callie says, eyes closed against the pain they both feel. If things had been a little different, it would have worked. But if things had been a little different, they never would have even had anything to make work. “Because I loved you, too.”

xii. It’s like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

Her name is Alison, and she’s the daughter of a friend of Virginia Dixon’s. She’s a program manager for a software company, early thirties, just moved up to Seattle from Portland.

Apparently, she sings, too. How Virginia knows about these details that make everything right, Erica will never know.

“So I used to work as a teacher in Japan, you know, back about five or six years ago,” Alison says. “That was where I realized I was gay, gay, gay. And there’s nothing like being quietly gay in Japan. I mean, I was only out to the expat community, so it was like, I trolled the bars in Tokyo when I could make it down there. Madame Mars of Mars Bar — you should meet her. She’s awesome. She told me I had awesome tits.”

She doesn’t look much like Callie; green-eyed, white, not blonde (thank god), though they’re about the same size. Not as jaw-droppingly beautiful as Callie, but who is? Alison is cute and impish.

“You do at that,” Erica says.

Alison smiles.

And the world is new.

Twelve surgeries at once. Twelve. And they’d done it with grace and style. That alone was pretty legendary. The legendary that would be mentioned with Seattle Grace’s rising reputation.

More legendary was the aftermath, starting when Hahn and Sloan strolled into Joe’s and announced they were buying a drink for every last person, down to the interns and scrub nurses, who had been on the team. Hahn had actually personally walked up to Yang and said, “seriously. I’m buying your drink. Don’t think that means I like you.”

Yang had looked more shocked than if Hahn had screamed at her for pointing out the potential problem in front of everyone.

“Trust me, I know we’re not friends,” Yang said. “But we did all right today, huh?”

“We did,” Hahn said, looking over Yang’s head to catch Callie’s eye and smile. “So, what’s your poison?”

Callie shivered suddenly, because that smile had just hit her in the stomach with lust. Even Mark, lazily wandering over to sit next to her and say something about miracles, couldn’t dispel the desire that was wrapping around her body like…something that wrapped.

“Torres, are you even listening to me?” Mark asked.

“No,” Callie said, watching Erica say something quickly to Lexie Grey before heading her way with two drinks for them. She stood up and grabbed her drink from Erica. “Hi, you.”

“Hi, indeed,” Erica said, and they were standing there, practically breathing each other’s air, eyes locked. “Callie.”

“Erica,” Callie said softly, setting her drink on the table before taking the other one and doing the same.

Gently raised eyebrow, wary almost-smile. “I could have put my own drink down,” Erica said.

Callie ran her hand over Erica’s arm and shook her head. “Dance with me?” she asked.

“Here?” Erica asked, almost but not quite squeaking.

“Yeah, here,” said Callie. “Unless you’re scared.”

A slightly exasperated and sweetly tart glance met hers, reminding Callie that almost all of the fear had been Callie’s fault. But Callie didn’t feel a bit of it now. Just a little bit floaty and whatever she called the emotion wrapping itself around her and making her want to seize the woman across from her and feel her hips rock against hers.

“I’m not scared,” Erica said. “Just surprised. Wondering how many drinks you’ve had, maybe.”

Callie shook her head. “I want to dance,” she repeated. “With you. Who I am increasingly crazy about for not hating me for being an idiot.”

“Here. Where everyone will see,” Erica said.

“Yep,” Callie said, drawing a hand across her friend’s waist before sliding past her. “I’ll be out there.”

Still felt floaty. And ready. Really, really ready for the next part of this funny, weird adventure that Callie was on with Erica, who was watching her move her hips and trail her fingers over her throat so intently that Callie knew she didn’t know she was licking her lips and touching her own throat.

It was nice, being able to turn someone on with a touch. Not even in the best of times had she made George that publicly turned-on. Callie kind of loved being wanted like this and made sure to show off just what was waiting.

A couple of the baby interns were screwing around and dancing, too, and one of the boys, this cute-ish Indian or Pakistani guy, was totally giving Callie the eye. Screw ‘em. There was one person Callie wanted to dance with, and she was very slowly making her way toward Callie.

Making her way toward, and then drawing her hand across Callie’s back before moving into her own orbit. Swaying back and forth slightly, eyes downcast. Practically screaming a certain level of expected rejection that made Callie want to kiss all the uneasiness right out of her.

The baby interns looked panicked, which was another thing Callie always forgot. Everyone else knew scary Dr. Hahn who threatened people with steak knives. Callie knew the woman who inhabited that role. She was definitely a pain in the ass and not friendly, but there was something about her — the fierceness, the vulnerability that lived in her eyes when people weren’t looking, the breathtaking ability to focus, the unexpected dry humor that was just as often at Erica’s own expense as any of the juniors on staff, the way she listened and gave advice — that woman was not someone Dr. Hahn shared with anyone. She didn’t want to be everyone’s best friend.

Just Callie’s. And oh, she was.

Callie reached out and pulled Erica against her. Caught her waist and kinda like…swirled against the warm body she held. Found the places they could fit together and fit them together.

Hers. Callie could have this for her own if she was brave enough to take it.

“You are the most sudden…” Erica murmured, brushing Callie’s hair off her shoulder and leaning in to almost kiss her neck. A ghost of a kiss, the promise of more kisses.

Callie flashed Erica a smile and turned around so she could rest her head on her shoulder. “Do you mind?” she asked.

“No,” Erica said, one of her arms finding Callie’s hips while the other rested on Callie’s shoulder. “But I’m not going home alone tonight, either.”

“That’s very true,” Callie agreed, shimmying down. “You’re not going home tonight at all.”

“I thought I was way too much for you,” Erica said. “Too much, too soon.”

“Yeah, well, I considered the alternative,” Callie said, twisting around so they could stare each other in the eye. “Which was not having you at all. And I suddenly felt really, really stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Erica said, looking drowsy and running her teeth over her lower lip. “Just freaked.”

“Yeah, but there’s being freaked and being so freaked you forget to tell the person you’re exploring this whole new thing with,” and Callie liked the beat of the music enough to pull back a tiny bit, arch her back, and tilt her head while shifting her hips. “About all the things you’ve been thinking about that make you freaked.”

“Something about rules, an embassy, and a safeword?” Erica asked with an acid-sweet smile.

Callie shook her head and leaned forward, her mouth against Erica’s ear. It was like nobody was there, even though everyone was watching. Callie had no illusions that everyone was watching this little dance.

Well, screw them. This dance was for Erica, who was so sure that Callie was going to quit on her again that she was challenging her with every move. Begging to be proved wrong about her suspicions that Callie was going to reject her again, begging to be touched and kissed and wanted.

God, Callie was turned on.

“Something about how I pin your wrists over your head and kiss you until you can’t breathe,” Callie whispered. “You’re so easy and I kinda like that.”

Yes, that was a whimper.

“See?” Callie said. “And you’re gonna come home with me now, aren’t you?”

“Fuck, yes,” Erica said raggedly.

The electric flair of needy, insistent lust almost made Callie giddy. Oh, yes, this moment, this feeling, this was what she’d dreamed about when Erica had started starring in her dirty little fantasies. And maybe it was sort of a power play, making the ice queen admit that yes, yes, yes, she needed someone to make her squirm and scream and moan and give in, but Callie was suddenly feeling good about them. Together. Callie-and-Erica, not what Callie would to do Erica and vice-versa.

Callie grabbed her hand. “Now,” she said, and led them out of Joe’s, ignoring the gazes of appalled, smirky amusement. Screw them all and their games of telephone and tattletale.

She grabbed Erica again as they stumbled out the door, kissing her and flicking her tongue into the mouth that was more and more familiar before moving her assault to the jaw, the earlobe. The earlobe was good for nibbling on and it made Erica’s hips arch forward and Erica’s hands cling to her arms like she was drowning.

“Callie,” Erica said, voice breathy and full of gasps. “If you keep doing that, my knees are going to give and we will never get to your place.”

Callie giggled. “You are SO easy,” she said, ceasing her teasing and hustling them toward the car. “I am so turned on by this, you cannot believe.”

“I can’t believe you told me that you’re turned on,” Erica said, bumping Callie. “By me, no less.”

“I know,” Callie said, grabbing her hand. “Really. I’m sorry. And I was genuinely freaked.”

“Stop being freaked,” Erica said, squeezing her hand. “You have me. Because I am easy for you. Sometimes you smile at me and I almost have to excuse myself, that’s how easy I am.”

Okay, that was so hot that Callie wasn’t sure she wanted to wait all the way to her place, but somehow she managed to find her keys and unlock the car.

“Tell me,” Callie said as the locks clicked shut.

“Callie,” Erica said, flustered.

“No, we have ten minutes with the lights. I want to hear what you think about when you think about me smiling at you,” Callie said, breathing faster. “Because after that, I’m going to show you what I’ve thought about when I think of you.”

And this would be legendary, too, Callie thought as Erica took a deep breath and breathed out, want so clear that the noise sounded laced with sex already.

Oh yes, this.

“Does that mean someone has to cook?” Cristina asked.

Callie made a face at her housemate. “God, no,” she said. “It means we get drunk and make our friends bring us crap we’ll never use.”

Cristina pondered this. “Could we make our friends bring us alcohol and food?” she asked. “Because that’s the only way I see this idea working.”

“Sure. Price of admission to Callie and Cristina’s awesome apartment party — one bottle of booze,” Callie said.

Cristina nodded. “Great. Now we just have the problem of my friends and your friends hating each other,” she said. “Because I don’t see your bestest friend in the world Hahn coming to hang out with Meredith and George and Izzie and so on.”

Callie wrinkled her nose. “George?” she asked. “Why would I invite my ex-husband to my party anyway?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you married and then divorced the twerp,” Cristina said. “If I invite Meredith and Izzie and Alex, and George doesn’t get to come, he will whine. He will think you hate him.”

“George cheated on me and ended our marriage,” Callie said. “Does that no longer qualify for haterade?”

“Hahn managed to keep me off cardio until the chief instituted these new stupid rules,” Cristina said. “I bet I hate her more than you hate O’Malley. Plus, she threatened to cut Meredith’s heart out with a steak knife. A steak knife. That’s verbal assault. Meredith could get her sent to jail.”

All of this was getting too complicated and political for Callie. She’d just wanted to have a party, invite Erica, get drunk, and then screw her silly in her shiny new bedroom in a way that discreetly indicated that they were an item. She figured “the coven” (Erica’s new, mean, and way too accurate description of the residents that clustered around Meredith Grey) would run with it, get their gossip on, and then there would be no weird public announcement of dating.

But everyone would know and Erica would have to deal and Callie could say, “my girlfriend” without getting funny looks.

“This is too complicated. Forget it,” Callie said.

“No, no, I want to watch Hahn squirm at our housewarming party. You can bring McSteamy, too,” Cristina said, eyes glittering with fantasies of torturing Callie’s girlfriend. “We’ll get drunk and play Scrabble. This party has to happen now.”

“You hate parties,” Callie said weakly.

“I love getting drunk and irritating Hahn,” Cristina said. “And this will irritate the crap out of Hahn, but she’ll come, because she likes you.”

“Okay, now I know this is a bad idea,” Callie said.

“Too late,” Cristina said, hustling over to George and Lexie Grey. “Hey, Callie and I are having a housewarming party this Saturday. Bring a bottle of booze.”

“Can Lexie come?” George asked.

Cristina looked at Lexie, lips pursed. “Fine, whatever, if you irritate your sister I will beat you,” she told Lexie. “And you each have to bring a bottle of booze. No two-for-ones.”

Callie hid her face behind her hand. Oh, this was such a bad idea.

“You’re making me go to a party with all of those girls?” Erica whined at Joe’s, where Callie had finally worked up the courage to tell her that there was a housewarming party on Saturday. “This is some obscure revenge Yang is trying to get on me for threatening Grey with a steak knife.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Callie said. “Also, stop mentioning that or people are going to think Grey pressed charges.”

“What, how Dr. Hahn threatened Grey with a steak knife?” Mark asked, sitting down with them. “Too late. I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hey, Mark, you’re coming to the housewarming party, right?” Callie asked.

“Duh,” Mark said. “Like I’d miss watching Hahn here have to be nice to Yang for a whole evening.”

“I’m not going,” Erica complained. “This is cruel. You don’t force attendings to go to parties with a bunch of residents. And you don’t make Batman drink with the Joker.”

“Who are you, the Batman or the Joker?” Mark asked. “Come on, Hahn. You gonna let Yang scare you out of getting to see Callie’s new apartment with its new bedroom that’s not Dr. Yang’s couch?”

Erica paused and gave Mark a passing glare. “Well-played, Dr. Sloan,” she said ruefully.

Callie grinned. “I did kind of plan, in the original version of this party, to spend a lot of time showing you the nicest parts of my apartment,” she said, winking. “And if the mean little residents get under your skin, you can take it out of me.”

Erica did a double take and smiled back, looking away slightly. “Don’t think I won’t, either,” she said shyly. “This isn’t going to turn into a party where everyone with an MD is invited, is it?”

“No,” Callie said. “It’s you two, Stephens, O’Malley, Grey, Karev, and Meredith’s sister. At least as far as I’ve heard.”

“Ah, the one who’s attached to O’Malley’s ass,” Mark said. “That’s not a bad group…wait. Is Derek not getting invited?”

“Cristina hates him and I don’t know him to invite him,” Callie said.

“He’s Meredith’s boyfriend,” Mark pointed out. “He’s my best friend.”

“Cristina hates him,” Callie repeated. “If you think you need Derek at the party, go take it up with Yang.”

“Well, maybe I will,” Mark said. “Ladies.”

He actually left them alone. Callie snickered.

“He’s scared of being alone at the party with them, too,” Erica whispered into Callie’s ear.

“Yeah, he is,” Callie said.

“This party is going to suck more than a thousand ABBA records,” Erica murmured, squeezing Callie’s hand under the bar.

Callie whimpered. “I know.”

Seriously, all of Callie’s friends who weren’t Cristina sucked. Because the last thing Cristina wanted to see was Sloan coming her way to bitch about who was invited to her party.

“Are you inviting Derek to this little housewarming party?” Sloan asked Cristina, who snorted. “Come on, you can’t leave me stuck with those two and no one else, and your friends don’t like me, Yang.”

“Take it up with Dr. Torres,” Cristina said airily. “Also, I don’t need McDreamy at my party. He’s all I hear about in general.”

“At least ask that new trauma doctor, Hunt,” Sloan pleaded, reminding Cristina that Dr. Hunt was in the building. Not Joe’s, but the hospital. And that the thought of having Dr. Hunt at her party — which Cristina knew she was holding mostly to torture Hahn — suddenly made it seem less party-like and more anxiety-making.

“Fine,” Cristina said. “Huh.”

She’d been watching Hahn and Callie, and they were just so weird, the way they were near each other. Hahn was looking at Callie like they were in love or something, resting her head on her hands and smiling at Callie, and Callie was laughing about something.

“Do you ever think those two are the weirdest BFFs ever?” Cristina asked.

Sloan chuckled. “Oh, you have no idea,” he said. “Hunt needs to be at the party, okay?”

“Fine, whatever,” Cristina said. “Just don’t tell Derek, because I will McPuke if I have to deal with him.”

She was probably going to McPuke when she invited Owen Hunt to her apartment, but that was extra reason why Derek didn’t need to come. One bad situation was plenty. Cristina didn’t need two.

“Do you think Meredith will actually care that I’m at her best friend’s party?” Lexie asked, hefting her twenty-dollar bottle of tequila as they waited at the door. George had vodka, and he looked totally nervous, despite the fact he wasn’t the one nobody wanted at this party.

“Do you think my ex-wife will care that I’m at her party?” George asked.

“Is Dr. Torres the kind of person who holds a grudge?” Lexie asked, knocking again.

“I’m not sure, but I’m a little afraid,” George said as the door flew open to reveal — Hahn? “Um. Hi.”

“I have been elected bouncer,” Hahn said. She was…was she tipsy? “Do you have the bottles of booze? Dr. Sloan came without and is currently scrounging at the liquor store. Because no one is above the rules here.”

She was tipsy. “Um, I kind of know how Cristina is,” George said, holding up his bottle of vodka.

“And Dr. Torres, of course,” Hahn said, giving him this weird, cutting look. “You know all about how she is.”

“Yes,” George said, sliding past.

“You look nice,” Lexie managed to say to Dr. Hahn, who chuckled. She did look nice — for the scariest person Lexie knew.

“And you have tequila, which means you, Dr. Grey, will be very welcome by our hostesses,” Hahn said grandiosely.

“Thanks,” Lexie said, hurrying behind George. “Wow, this apartment is not the craphole I would have expected. It’s actually kinda nice.”

“Yeah, it is,” George said. “Was it me, or is Hahn drunk?”

“Oh, yeah,” Lexie said.

“George-and-Lexie!” Cristina announced loudly. “Dude, you two are late.”

“Did you all pregame?” George asked. “Hahn is…”

“She’s sloshed on expensive wine that only attendings and Princess Callie get to drink,” Cristina said. “Lightweight.”

“I heard that,” Hahn yelled.

“Good,” Cristina said. “Where’s Sloan? He owes us a jumbo bottle of the good stuff….ooh, Lexie, you have tequila. Meredith! Your sister brought tequila!”

George almost fell over as Meredith bounced out of what he assumed was Cristina’s bedroom, beaming and also kind of drunk. Meredith was so rarely a happy drunk.

“Good sister!” Meredith said. “I just called Izzie. She says that if we lose her Scrabble pieces, she will beat us all up, and she, the Scrabble board, some muffins, and her bottle are on the way. Where’s Callie?”

“I don’t know, she’s getting all sexy,” Cristina said with a sneer. “I invited Dr. Hunt, who swears he’s coming, and I didn’t dress up. Callie’s not even dating right now, so don’t ask me what her deal is.”

Meredith had stolen the tequila from Lexie and was already pouring for herself and Alex Karev, who was at the stereo bitching about the CD collection. Hahn looked like she wanted to attack Cristina with a knife or hide, George looked happy that Dr. Torres was hiding, and Cristina looked on edge about something.

“I’m scared,” Lexie murmured sotto voce to George.

“We should all be scared,” George said, opening his vodka and pouring himself a screwdriver.

He was halfway through his second when Callie finally made her appearance.

“You weren’t joking,” he told Cristina, who was tapping her foot impatiently. “Callie looks…wow. She looks nice.”

Cristina laughed. “She does bring the hot when she’s in the mood,” she agreed. “Though I have no idea who it’s for.”

“Me neither,” George said, shaking his head.

Lexie just hoped it wasn’t George, because then she’d have to throw down with George’s ex-wife, and then George’s ex-wife’s best friend would kill her.

Probably with the same steak knife she was planning to use to kill her sister.

Definitely, definitely this party was kind of terrifying and Lexie needed to drink now.

Everyone at her party was already wasted and they weren’t even playing Pictionary yet. Well, okay, George wasn’t drunk just yet and Lexie Grey was totally in love with him if Callie was reading that situation correctly.

Exciting.

Erica, of course, was being the weird girl in the back who didn’t talk to people, and Callie was having none of that tonight. She poured Erica a shot of tequila, got her own, and sashayed to the door.

“You are hiding like a scared little girl,” Callie said, handing Erica the shot. “Do the shot.”

“I am trying to get drunk without Karev making too many comments,” Erica replied dourly before looking up at Callie. “You are…wow.”

“Oh, you like?” Callie asked, twirling around in her sparkly skirt, and then thrusting out the shot glass. “Come on, drink with me.”

Erica took the shot and made a face. “I don’t understand why you like tequila,” she said. “It always makes me act like an idiot. Besides, there are things I’d far rather do than drink with you…”

Callie tossed back her shot just in time to get shoved against a wall and kissed thoroughly.

Nice. A few glasses of wine and one shot of tequila and suddenly there was much less, “oh no, if the other surgeons see me touching you I will be disgraced and unprivate!” crap coming out of Erica’s mouth.

Oh, yeah. This was definitely good.

Of course, Erica did jump apart from Callie and put her hand over her mouth when the person at the door knocked hard, but they were making progress.

“I bet that’s Mark,” Erica said disdainfully, wrenching open the door. “Oh, hey, it is.”

“Oh, hey, Dr. Hahn, what were you up to?” Mark greeted them.

“Mark, is that…Jaeger?” Callie asked, focused on his large bottle of booze.

“It is,” Mark said. “Shut up and let me in. I have another present for this super-fun party where everyone hates each other.”

“Does Sloan have booze now?” Cristina called from the living room.

“He has paid his toll,” Callie said.

“Good,” Cristina said.

“I have also brought a present,” Mark said, handing Erica the package and Callie the booze before draping his arms over each of them and smirking as they lumbered into the living room. “Wow, it’s a bunch of drunk residents and Lexie Grey. I thought Dr. Hunt was coming, Yang.”

“So did I,” Cristina snarled bitchily. “What is Hahn holding?”

“Erica here has a PlayStation 2 with the greatest game of all time…”

“Madden?” George suggested.

“Grand Theft Auto?” Alex added.

“Rock Band?” Lexie said. Everyone looked at her. “I play it at Best Buy when I’m upset. It’s fun.”

“Almost Rock Band,” Mark said. “Karaoke. Competitive karaoke.”

Everyone stared at him in fascinated horror, and that was when the doorbell went off again, causing Erica to set the PlayStation down and run for the door.

“Izzie! Dr. Hunt! And…Dr. Shepherd!” she said loudly.

Cristina paused and then gave Mark a look of death. “You didn’t,” she said.

“No, I didn’t,” Mark said. “Why don’t you ask Meredith?”

Meredith lifted her cup from the couch. “I didn’t!” she said. “What didn’t I do?”

“Do they have the entrance fee?” Callie inquired, extricating herself from Mark’s opportunistic embrace.

“Do you mean this bottle of expensive scotch?” Dr. Hunt asked, hoisting a bottle.

“Apparently the answer is yes,” Mark said. “So, how about it, Dr. Hahn? Team karaoke, winner take the expensive booze home?”

Erica shot a look at Callie as she led Izzie, Shepherd, and Hunt into the party and then smiled evilly.

“Only if Callie and I get to be a team,” she said sweetly.

Oh, Erica was going to take so many things out of Callie later. Until they were both hoarse.

Okay, the part where this party had no use for a random intern was sort of making it better. Also that everyone was having drama that in no way involved Lexie and nobody was telling her to go away.

“Why didn’t you mention there was going to be a party?” Derek was asking Meredith, the hurt clear in his voice.

“Because you’re not friends with the hostesses,” Hahn said from Callie’s lap. It wasn’t Lexie’s business, but they were kind of cute, all cuddly and teasing everyone else, especially Dr. Sloan, who kept giving them funny looks. It made Lexie kind of wish she had a sister she could cuddle with. That or a George O’Malley, though she didn’t think Hahn and Torres were cuddling the way Lexie wanted to cuddle George. “Don’t whine, Shepherd. You’re here and nobody kicked you out despite you bringing half a bottle of Grey’s booze, so deal with it.”

Cristina was suddenly hiding out in the kitchen in the midst of the new arrivals and Dr. Hunt was watching her but not saying much. Hunt seemed way too mature for this messed up party, except maybe he liked Cristina. Lexie hoped that he really, really liked Cristina, or this messed up party was going to scare him off, and rejected Cristina was mean Cristina and it would be Lexie who suffered.

“I see,” Derek said, attention on Hahn all of a sudden. “And you are…definitely on all kinds of terms with your hostess tonight, I see.”

Maybe Dr. Hahn and Dr. Torres were cuddling romantically after all.

“What’s that mean?” Callie asked Hahn, suddenly burrowing deeper into the other surgeon’s shoulder and smiling.

“It means we’re drunk and touchy-feely and winning karaoke when one of us geniuses attaches that machine to Yang’s television,” Hahn said, petting Callie’s arm covetously. “Also that McDreamy feels snubbed by the coven and wants to take it out on an obvious target.”

Everyone went dead silent and stared at Dr. Hahn. She gazed back wordlessly with the die, peasants glare and inevitably, only Alex could overcome its scariness.

“Dude,” Karev said. “I think every day should be get Hahn drunk day.”

“Besides, how do you know you’re going to win karaoke?” Cristina demanded. “One of us might be a secret Broadway star, and you wouldn’t know because you don’t like people and don’t know their secret talents.”

“I will put up a hundred bucks that Dr. Torres and I win,” Hahn said simply. “Anyone else got money to put on the table or is everyone here all talk?”

“I’ll take that wager,” Dr. Hunt said, pulling two bills out of his wallet. “Cristina and I are in.”

Cristina tossed Hunt a surprised look, but seemed to get some courage from that. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m so in.”

“What the hell,” Mark said. “Grey, you and me.”

Meredith looked surprised. “Why us?” she asked.

“Dirty mistresses stick together,” Mark said. “Besides, who else am I gonna pick — Karev?”

“I don’t have a hundred bucks to play competitive karaoke,” Alex said. “Especially because I have no interest in playing.”

“I’m in,” Izzie said brashly. “Alex, man up and play with me.”

Lexie felt a little left out. Not only was she too broke to play drunk karaoke with attendings, George wasn’t exactly volunteering, and Dr. Shepherd looked really mad at both Hahn and Dr. Sloan.

“George, Lexie,” he said suddenly. “Apparently no one thinks we have a chance to win, so why don’t we team up?”

“Thanks,” Lexie said. “That’s really nice of you.”

“Oh, suck it, Skipper,” Cristina taunted, having moved herself much closer to Hunt. “We can only have so much perkiness at this gathering of mean people who hate each other.”

George looked up from where he’d finished plugging in the PlayStation. “Underestimate the Lexie at your own peril, Yang,” he said, trying to sound mean.

He failed, but that was why Lexie adored him anyway. Because unlike the rest of…oh, god, it was so mean and religiously biased that Dr. Hahn called her sister’s friends “the coven” but it was true, it was horrible and true…Lexie liked nice people.

And George was so nice. If he only understood she existed.

Stupid Hahn. She got to be mean AND be cuddled, further proving life was not fair.

He had come. He had come only to discover the worst of all of Cristina’s friends and frenemies and now Cristina wished that instead of inviting hot Dr. Army to her housewarming party of torture and failure, she’d ditched the party and gone skydiving with him instead.

Or something.

“Can you sing?” Cristina asked Owen.

“No,” Owen said with a shrug.

“Do you hate me for inviting you to this drunken mess of dysfunction and failure?” Cristina asked as McSteamy explained in his big boy voice how to play Singstar and the rules for winning the five hundred bucks now ostentatiously sitting in a pile on the coffee table.

“Absolutely not,” Owen said. “It’s interesting to see how my colleagues behave when they’re off duty. For example, I wouldn’t have expected your roommate’s girlfriend to be quite so demonstrative. She seems rather private about the relationship at work.”

Roommate’s girlfriend…oh, Hahn. He meant Hahn.

He meant Hahn and Callie were an item.

“They’re not,” said Cristina, and then looked at the duo, who was hanging all over each other on the couch, giving Sloan crap. “I mean…well. I.”

That explained so much. And was so clearly true that Cristina felt kind of stupid for not realizing it before.

“I assumed, anyway,” Owen said. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

“I think that given that Callie used to be married to George and was recently sleeping with Sloan, I am a little surprised,” Cristina said, trying not to be obvious as she stared.

“Okay, who’s going first?” Sloan asked. “Since Dr. Hahn has a big mouth…”

“You’re going first,” Hahn said. “But you can pick whatever song you want for us later.”

Sloan glared, motioned Meredith to the microphone, and chose “Paint It Black.”

“Your old is showing,” Cristina hollered. Sloan waved her off and Cristina soon learned that Sloan knew something about video game strategy, because a song with that many “mmm mmm mmm mmm mmms” was actually kind of easy to sing and dealt with the part where Meredith couldn’t sing.

Cristina kind of wanted to know where Sloan had the time to play this much video game karaoke, but whatever, he was demonstrating how to play. That was good.

Their score wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad, either. Mark smirked at Cristina before he and Meredith sat down.

“Okay, we’re next,” Izzie announced. “Alex?”

He looked up from the back of the game box. “Sublime, Santeria,” he said. Izzie looked a little nonplussed, but went along with it.

Turned out that Izzie couldn’t sing…and Alex could. Kinda sorta. They virtually tied with Sloan and Meredith, which meant that elimination time was going to be rough.

“All right, guys,” said Shepherd to George and Lexie. “Shall we show these mean, terrible people that we don’t suck at Singstar?”

George shrugged. “It’s okay if we do,” he said. “Though I have to wonder when Dr. Hahn and Dr. Torres are gonna take a turn and show off these skills they claim to have.”

“Soon, O’Malley, soon,” Callie piped in before going back to her innocent, friendly nuzzling with her ‘best friend.’ “After you.”

“Well, I think that means we have to rock the greatest song of the 90s,” George said with slightly drunken dignity. “Ice, Ice Baby.”

That turned out to be a mistake, because the rap meter on the game was totally different from the song meter and watching Shepherd, George, and Lexie try to rap together, while great for laughs, didn’t net them a very good score.

Cristina was meanly glad because that meant she and Owen didn’t have to be good. Just better than George, Lexie, and Derek.

“All right,” Mark said. “I think it’s time that we see if Dr. Hahn can cash that check her mouth wrote. And as she so kindly said that I could choose the song…”

He paused the game. “Aretha Franklin, Respect.”

“Sure,” Callie said. “Hand over the microphones, Mark.”

Cristina realized as Callie helped Hahn up that they had perhaps been set up, because Mark settled back with a little grin that was less-than-innocent and seemed not at all worried about what Hahn had up her devious sleeves.

“How do we turn this up to hard?” Hahn asked.

“Patience, you,” Callie said. “Let’s win the round first.”

“You two can’t be that good,” Alex complained.

“I’m not,” Hahn said, raising her eyebrows. “She is.”

Sure enough, when the first notes of the song started up, Callie started to sing and everyone gaped. The woman could sing. Dear god, could Callie sing. And for all her smirking declaration that she couldn’t, Hahn wasn’t bad. She wouldn’t have won it on her own, but she definitely was better than Meredith or Izzie. About as good as Alex, which was like being Madonna in this crowd.

“Cheaty McCheaters,” was what Meredith managed to say when they finished with a guaranteed Superstar score.

“You totally have to play medium or advanced next round,” Izzie agreed.

“Shush,” Cristina said. “Dr. Hunt and I are the ones who are the most screwed here. There’s still a chance he and I can qualify for the next round while you all tool on Hahn and Torres for cheating.”

“Dude, they’re going to win the five hundred dollars,” Alex said, pointing at Callie and Hahn, who were back to canoodling and drinking and cackling like the evil secret girlfriends they were.

“Yeah, well…I’m still playing,” Cristina said. “So is Dr. Hunt, so shut up.”

Owen winked at her. “Never say die?” he asked.

“Not when I’m playing her,” Cristina said.

Actually, after everyone realized that they weren’t going to win any money singing, the karaoke game had become fun. For instance, Alex was singing some Killers song, and there had been an all-girl rendition of “I Will Survive” that had made Lexie think maybe that she wasn’t working with a bunch of inhuman sociopaths.

Plus, the evening was winding down. Meredith and Derek were crashed on the couch, Cristina had disappeared with Dr. Hunt, and as for Dr. Torres and Dr. Hahn…

“Okay,” said George to Izzie waiting for someone to get out of the bathroom. “Am I crazy, or are Hahn and Callie kind of…sort of…friendly tonight?”

“You’re crazy,” Izzie said. “They’re just double-teaming because they feel intimidated by what Hahn dubbed the coven. It’s insecurity and your filthy male fantasies.”

“Insecurity,” said Alex, chuckling. “Right. Insecurity is totally why they’re practically making out in their one chair.”

“Yeah, insecurity,” Izzie said. “Please, just because you sickos think any time two girls touch there’s a dirty naughty subtext doesn’t mean there’s anything going on.”

“Or O’Malley turned his ex-wife gay,” Alex said. “Dude, you have to admit that’s possible.”

Izzie smacked Alex. “God, I hate you,” she said as the door opened and Lexie hurried out so that Izzie could use the bathroom.

“So O’Malley thinks he turned his ex gay,” Alex told Lexie. “What do you think what’s going on there?”

“Cuteness,” Lexie said with a sad sigh. “I want to cuddle with someone like that. I used to think I could have a big sister to cuddle with. Or a boyfriend. But nobody wants to cuddle Lexie.”

George immediately hugged Lexie and ruffled her hair. “Everyone should want to cuddle Lexie,” he said. “Lexie is adorable and has a photographic memory and isn’t a complete cynical…person.”

Lexie beamed, but then Izzie was done in the bathroom and George rushed in so fast that she almost fell.

Izzie then gestured to Alex and Lexie and pointed at the chair.

“I didn’t want to say this,” Izzie said quietly. “But totally, totally, George turned Callie gay. I just don’t want him to feel bad, because you know, he’s my friend. But seriously, she’s gay now.”

Alex started howling with laughter. Lexie jumped.

“Something funny, Karev?” Hahn asked.

“Lexie is jealous of you two because O’Malley won’t cuddle her,” Alex said. “Hey, has anyone seen Cristina?”

“Oh, she’s off with Owen,” Callie said. “Probably showing him her bedroom.”

Hahn started laughing again and then murmured something in Callie’s ear.

“I did, didn’t I?” Callie said speculatively. “I totally need to make good on that.”

“Is the party over?” Meredith asked suddenly. She had fallen asleep on Derek thanks to alcohol and exhaustion after the singing competition had been dubbed unfair by everyone. “Where did Cristina go?”

“Her room. With a boy,” Izzie said.

“Oh,” Meredith said as George emerged from the bathroom. “Where did Sloan go?”

“He ditched us,” Alex said. “For greener pastures. Or to cry because Callie has no interest in showing him her bedroom.”

“Speaking of my bedroom, you all need to get out now,” Callie said abruptly. “The party’s over.”

“Do we get our money back?” Izzie asked tartly. “I mean, nobody ever mentioned you can sing like an American Idol.”

“I knew, and I’ve known Callie for less time than any of you,” Hahn said. “So you have no one to blame but yourselves.”

Everyone tilted their heads toward Alex. Because there needed to be a comeback or Hahn won tonight. And Hahn winning tonight would be kind of embarrassing, as Hahn had spent the evening semi-sloppy drunk and in Callie’s lap daring anyone to say anything about it.

Also, she had cheated them all out of money.

Okay, mostly she had cheated the attendings out of money, and Izzie, and if Lexie understood the history, Izzie had been the person George had cheated on Callie with, so Hahn probably didn’t feel bad about hustling Izzie out of a hundred bucks for all the rampant cheating.

Alex shrugged. Apparently he valued his career more than their pride, the wimp.

“Oh, give Stephens her money back,” Callie said suddenly, getting up and pulling Hahn with her. “And then, seriously, I’m tired and Cristina’s ditched you guys, go drink somewhere else.”

And then a bunch of confused residents, one intern, and Derek Shepherd were out of Callie’s apartment with the door closed in their face and locked behind them. Izzie had her hundred dollar bill, and she looked about to say something, but Callie was already back in her apartment, which only had one person left in it.

“You hustled them,” was all Callie said. “Are you even drunk?”

“On three glasses of wine and a shot of tequila?” Erica asked, rolling her eyes. “Please.”

“You are evil in ways that nobody imagines,” Callie said, looking at the mess with distaste. “That’s hot.”

“I entertained myself,” was Erica’s reply. “I guess we owe Mark some money, too.”

“Screw that,” Callie said. “He knew what was coming and played along. We get his money.”

Erica started to laugh. “None of them would say it,” she said. “I mean, we were pretty blatant tonight, weren’t we?”

“And then Cristina stole our idea and ditched us with her friends,” Callie said. “God, I didn’t realize how much I don’t like Cristina’s friends. Because I tried to be friends with them, you know? Back when it was me and George.”

Her girlfriend — and it was true, Callie had basically announced that she had a girlfriend now — petted her neck and smiled ruefully.

“Speaking of your ex-husband,” and Erica’s voice was sweet and purring, “How clueless is he? That poor girl whimpering because nobody would cuddle her and O’Malley still didn’t take the hint?”

“I know,” Callie said. “So…do you want to see my bedroom?”

“Yes,” Erica said. “Because I can take a hint. And because, y’know, I’ve known you six months and I know more about you than all your other friends.”

“I don’t like my friends,” Callie said, running her hand over Erica’s arm. “Well, Yang’s all right, despite your feud, but I like you…” and there was a long, slow kiss… “Better than my other friends.”

“Can I see your bedroom then?” Erica asked, swaying and teasing.

“Oh, yeah,” Callie said, leading them down the hall. “Every last inch.”

Okay, maybe the party had been a good idea. Callie and Cristina had both ended the evening with someone to warm them up, so, you know…not bad.

“Hello,” he said, noticing her watching him. “You must be the roommate.”

“No,” Erica said, pulling her robe closed a little tighter. “I was just going to make coffee for Dr. Torres, actually.”

“Oh,” the man said. “Well, I was going to make Dr. Yang eggs. I learned some great tricks in the Army to handle a refrigerator as barren as this one.”

Erica allowed herself a tiny smile. Finally, someone who understood her despair at the state of Callie and Yang’s refrigerator. “This is the apartment of permanent students,” she agreed. “Dr. Torres — Callie — cannot make coffee. And does not appear to know what good coffee is.”

“I did wonder who sprang for the pricey french press and coffee grinder,” he said, moving aside gracefully to let her get to it. “All is now revealed. I’m Owen, by the way. Owen Hunt.”

“Erica Hahn,” she replied, measuring the beans. Owen’s eyebrow raised slightly. “Yang has mentioned me, I see.”

“Once or twice,” Owen said calmly. She liked him a little for being classy about what Yang must have said about her. “I’ll make eggs for your Dr. Torres if I can have coffee for Dr. Yang.”

“All right,” Erica said.

That was the last thing they said to each other, quietly and almost companionably making breakfast. She poured two cups of coffee for him and Yang. He gave her half the eggs, which smelled good and looked good. She gave him a half smile, and he gave her a tiny salute before they went back to sleepy lovers.

“Wait…so you’re actually dating Hahn?” Cristina asked. “And what happened on my couch wasn’t some weird drunken mishap never to be spoken of again?”

“We haven’t actually gotten to the dating part,” Callie admitted, rubbing her hair. “But unlike you, Erica has a whole bedroom where I can put my stuff and does not make fun of me for being a baby about making out with a girl on the couch.”

Cristina was practically bent double and Callie wished that Yang wasn’t healing from that icicle in the gut, because then Callie would go and kick Cristina repeatedly in the abdomen.

“What the hell is so funny?” asked Callie, putting a hand on her hip.

“Dude, you’re u-hauling it before the first date,” Cristina said. “You’re not even officially gay yet and you’re already a lesbian cliche.”

“Really?” asked Callie, not quite understanding what Cristina meant, except it was making fun of her and lesbianism. “Nuh-uh.”

“Yeah-huh,” Cristina said, leaning toward her bedroom. “Meredith, it’s totally cliche for two lesbians to move in together early in the relationship, isn’t it? Though I have to admit, u-hauling before the first date is extreme.”

“Grey is here?” Callie asked, just as Grey stuck her pointy little head out. “Speaking of cliches — I thought you and Shepherd had decided to move in together and evict the frat house.”

Meredith sighed. Cristina snorted. It was turning into a jamboree, because right on cue, there was Erica maneuvering into the apartment with another set of boxes, and Callie was about to give up and go live under a bridge because seriously. Seriously.

“Oh, god,” said Erica. “What inane personal conversation are we having now?”

“Are we u-hauling?” Callie asked, now panicked. “Are we u-hauling before the first date? Is that bad? How can I be a lesbian cliche when I don’t know anything about being gay or even if I’m bisexual or anything?”

Erica’s gaze went straight to Cristina. “Yang,” she snarled.

“Why are you blaming me?” Cristina replied petulantly. “Also, I find it amusing that you also know what u-hauling is. Meredith didn’t know. Callie didn’t know.”

“Cristina, could you stop getting me in trouble?” asked Meredith. “Also, I got what you meant.”

“I find it interesting that you know about u-hauling,” Erica said, dropping the boxes and folding her arms. “Seeing as you seem to think that’s some big lesbian indicator, Yang. Care to enlighten us?”

“I got a Ph.D. in biochem from Berkeley,” said Cristina with a sneer. “Berkeley. After an MD from Stanford. Try not being queer-friendly in the Bay Area. There are kids in Santa Rosa who don’t even think homophobia exists.”

“Oooh, is that part of your CV? Is friendly to the gays, but rampant biphobia causes questionable statements in the practical exam,” Erica retorted acidly.

Callie held up a hand. As entertaining as it could be to watch Erica and Yang go three rounds, she was moving off Cristina’s couch now and was kind of looking forward to having her own bed again. Hell, once things started going well, she could be sharing a bed again soon, which wouldn’t suck and was being delayed by Erica vs. Cristina, round eighty billion.

“Guys,” she said. “Could we get to the packing up of my crap now? I mean, when you two play I’m a total surgical badass with no discernible social skills, it gets old.”

“I KNOW, right?” Meredith piped in, causing Cristina to glare at her fiercely. “What?”

“Dude, you know you’re mocking an attending, right?” Cristina asked. “I’m just saying.”

“Yang, shut up,” said Erica.

“Fine, but you are u-hauling before the first date,” Cristina said. “That is a new level of lesbianism that makes your previous one look bi-curious.”

Grey made gestures at Yang that were probably play-fake slaps, but they were so fluttery-looking that Callie couldn’t even call them that.

“Stop it already,” Grey said. “Come on, we have to discuss how to handle evicting Alex and Izzie from my house.”

Wonder of wonders, Cristina decided to stop being a bitch and followed Meredith toward her bedroom.

“I’m not giving you and McDreamy my apartment,” Cristina said. “Just so you know.”

“Thanks,” Meredith said sarcastically as she closed Yang’s bedroom door behind them and Erica took a very deep breath.

“Why does she have to be so good at cardio-thoracic? Why is murder a crime?” Erica hissed, handing Callie a box.

“I don’t know. For the same reason you and Yang have to behave like Regina and Cady in Mean Girls when you get near each other,” Callie said, putting her clothes in the box.

Erica set one careful hand on Callie’s shoulder. “Are you ready for what happens when your ex-husband finds out?” she asked, trying to smile. “I mean, if Yang has you rattled…?”

“Yang aims to piss me off,” Callie said. “And I’m so not worried about what O’Malley has to say.”

Because seriously, what was George going to say that couldn’t be trumped by, “I didn’t run off and have sex with Izzie two seconds after things got hard, so screw you?”

“Izzie Stephens? Addison? Bailey?” Erica continued. “Between Yang, Grey, and Sloan, this is no longer a secret, unless I’m really wrong about how sex gossip travels around this hospital.”

“You’re way, way too practical,” Callie said, exhaling noisily at the thought of Bailey’s expression at the news, and Bailey had caught her having sex with Mark in an on-call room with her son in tow. “I just…how do you deal with it so gracefully when I’m like freaking out that someone’s gonna call me a big dyke?”

Erica grinned slightly. “Do you really think this is the first time I’ve been called a big dyke?” she asked wryly. “Then you have to add in that to most people, two women kissing is, well, the definition of gay, and then that I get to kiss you and…I don’t care so much.”

“Yeah, but I get to kiss you, and that’s even more awesome,” Callie interrupted.

Erica’s smile could light up even Yang’s dank apartment, even when she was clearly itching to be gone.

“Don’t freak out, but every time you say something like that, I get weak at the knees,” Erica confessed, biting her lip slightly and then gazing at the box she’d just filled with Callie’s wrinkled and nasty clothes. “Good God, Torres, how many pairs of underwear do you own?”

“I usually buy new packs when I can’t find any clean ones,” Callie said with a shrug.

“There is this remarkable device called a washing machine. I own one,” Erica said. “It makes dirty clothes clean.”

Callie snorted. “Is that the best you can do?” she said. “Come on, Hahn. How about something like, ‘This remarkable device makes dirty panties clean — until I decide to get rid of yours, hot stuff.’”

Erica choked. Callie snickered, hoping that Yang and Grey had heard that and gotten shocked down to their evil little socks, because if she was going to be outed to the hospital, it was going to be for something good, and not for making out on a couch.

“Weak at the knees?” Callie inquired as Erica continued to choke and throw more of Callie’s socks and panties into a box.

“Temporarily rendered speechless with a combination of lust, delight, and horror, yes,” Erica said, flushing slightly.

This was going to be fun, even if they were u-hauling. Callie liked to torture people who were cocky but blushed when things got really dirty and the torture was definitely leading somewhere, so…

“Good,” Callie said.

What is Mulder’s hand doing on my thigh? I frantically race through the
events that happened last night– I went home, ate dinner, watched a bad
TV movie, read a little, and went to bed. A boring Friday night. But
Mulder was not involved for one minute in this scenario. My memory of
events also doesn’t explain why I have a blistering hangover and the
oddest feelings running through my body. But first things first, Mulder
doesn’t have any right to have his hand on my thigh so casually, like I
was prop–

What the hell? What the hell? I moved to brush his hand off my thigh,
but it’s his hand that moves. I blink a few times. Something’s
definitely not right here. I try looking at my thigh. It’s a little
hairy for mine. I trace Mulder’s hand up to the shoulder. It’s attached
to me.

Something is very, very wrong here. From all evidence, I appear to be a
white male, mid-thirties, with a hangover. In fact, a very specific
white male, by the name of Fox William Mulder, when last night I very
clearly remember being a very specific white female named Dana Katherine
Scully. I stand. I look around. I look down.

Okay. I’ve got my partner’s hangover and my partner’s morning hard-on.
This really, really sucks. My mouth– his mouth– tastes like an open
sewer. And he’s dirty and unshaven– where the hell did he go last
night?

“Dammit, what’s going on?” I ask aloud. Yep, that’s Mulder’s voice.
Geez, how do men handle this– okay, Dana, let’s think. What’s really
unappealing to you? Got it– Frohike wearing a thong. A fake fur
thong. Yikes. Okay, that helps.

Mulder smells bad. He needs a shower, a shave, and jeez, let’s brush his
teeth here. Yes, first things first, Mulder has hellacious morning
breath, and gee, what a way to discover it. Firsthand.

Then the thought comes to me: where the hell is my body, and who’s
wearing it for me? And seconds later, the logical answer, ding ding
ding– Mulder. This gives me quite a scare– the thought of Mr. Mulder
having
free rein over my body is not–

Oh. Oh man. I just realized– heh. Heh heh heh. It’s that time of the
month. Mulder’s going to have to deal with– I double over and just
start laughing my ass off. This is a dreadfully unfunny situation,
but… Mulder. With cramps. Mulder. Dealing with tampons. Mulder. On the
rag.

Okay, so maybe there is one small plus to this. I try to stop grinning
as I go for the toothbrush, but I can’t help it. Okay, plus two– I can
put this lovely male specimen into some decent clothes, without any help
from
his lovely male fashion sense.

************

The bright light eventually breaks through an odd dream involving tic
tacs and teacups to wake me. Without opening my eyes, I flip over in
the bed, burrowing my face into the pillow.

The bed?

I jump to full consciousness. I don’t sleep in a bed. Okay, the odds are
that I’m in someone else’s. The sixty-thousand dollar question is: Whose
bed?

Shit.

My senses report no indication of a bedmate. Reluctantly, I peel my
eyes open only to find my view oddly obscured by some sort of reddish
stripe.I swipe at my eyes with an unusually small hand and brush back
the
offending lock of red hair.

Red hair?

A very familiar nightstand in a very familiar room stares back at me.

Before I can panic about the implications of waking up in Dana Scully’s
bed, I realize I’ve awoken in her body.

I sit up abruptly, only to freeze at the alien sensation of
Scully’s–my?– unbound breasts swaying with the movement. I swallow
hard. So, that’s what they feel like.

Cool.

As the sheet and comforter fall away from my– her? our?– torso, I
glance down at the simple white tank top Scully wore to bed. The
scooped neck of the skimpy shirt gives me an unprecedented eyeful of my
partner’s decolletage, and I gape shamelessly.

God, her breasts are fucking amazing.

I manage to tear my eyes from her breasts when I feel this odd twinge in
my abdomen. No, a bit lower. Very odd place for a muscle spasm–

My train of thought derails abruptly when I realize that besides the
tank top, Scully’s body is clad only in panties.

There is a deity.

Shoving the blankets away, I stare at Scully’s thighs, memorizing the
sight of her pale body. They’re sensible panties, of course, but made of
a dark blue fabric with a faint, magical sheen. The tiny scrap of
fabric somehow manages to tantalize as it serves its mundane purpose.

The shrill ring of Scully’s bedside phone startles me from my lustful
contemplation of my partner’s assets. Guiltily, I haul the discarded
covers over her body before reaching for the phone.

In my own body, I could’ve touched the phone without even straightening
my arm completely, but Scully’s petite frame is another matter
entirely. I have no idea how the woman can even reach a kitchen
counter–her torso makes a 45-degree angle with the mattress before her
tiny hand closes over the receiver.

I bring the phone to my ear and, out of habit, answer, “Mulder.” My
name comes out in my usual staccato syllables, but it’s her throaty alto
that I hear. Belatedly, I realize my mistake and add, “Is that you?”

A pause, then my own voice– Is this how I sound to the world? Like a
robotic drone with a hint of laryngitis?– answers, “Yes.”

Before I can answer, Scully speaks again in my voice.

“What the fuck is going on?”

************

“I don’t know, Scully–er, Mulder–er, Scully,” he says in my voice.
This is just bizarre. It’s worse than hearing your voice on a tape
recorder! I mean, I know he’s using his particular voice rhythms and
all, but I can’t sound like that, it would be just plain fucked up.

“Well, okay. So what does the situation appear to suggest to you?” I
ask crisply.

“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he replies.

“Mulder!” I snap. “Would this appear to be some sort of body switch
situation to you?”

There is a pause on the other end. “Yes. Do you have a clue on how it
happened?”

“No. But you, small white woman with red hair on the other end of the
phone, you remember being a guy named Fox Mulder yesterday, don’t you?
I mean, this isn’t mutual insanity, right? I remember that my body
wasn’t nearly so rank yesterday.”

“Okay, yeah. I was Mulder yesterday. Or at least I thought so. And this
is too contrived to be a coincidence. So, let’s assume it’s true.”

“Okay. So what are we going to do?”

“When did I become the expert on body switching?” he asks in an edgy
voice. Ooh, I do sound like a bitch when I’m pissed off, don’t I?

“I don’t think you’re an expert, Mulder,” I say, trying to be soothing.
“I just wondered if you had a game plan or were you too busy admiring
the view?”

There is an embarrassed silence. Gotcha. Not like you wouldn’t expect
Mulder to examine the merchandise when he’s finally got a chance to see
it close-up, but he’s also enough of a gentleman to feel ashamed about
getting caught.

“Scully, I–”

“You break my body, I break your face, okay? Oh, and by the way,
Mulder–”

“What?” he asks, and the sound of my voice makes me chuckle a little.

“Do you have pains in your abdomen?” I ask. That’s awkward, but how else
am I supposed to say it?

“As a matter of fact, it feels like someone’s stuck a fucking knife in
my stomach and is getting kicks twisting it slowly,” he replies.

“Well, Mulder, that is what we women call cramps. It’s not exactly my
fault, but I– that is to say my body I–am on my period. Tampons are in
the cupboard under the sink. I’m pretty sure you can handle it. If not–
well, try not to ruin all my underwear, okay?” I ask.

“Scu-lleeeeeeeee!” he protests in a high-pitched whine.

“Call you back later, you need a shower,” I say, and hang up. Then I
burst out laughing. I don’t know if it’s the fact I’m in a male body or
what, but I am being mean today. Oh, well. Time for the shower.

I strip off the stinking, nasty garments Mulder wore to bed last night
and start up the water. This whole new perspective thing’s a bitch. I
mean, it’s not the male thing, it’s the fact I’m seeing the world from
six feet
instead of five foot two. Plus, Mulder is gangly. Awkward. If I were
him, I’d have perpetual vertigo.

Ahh, Head and Shoulders– I’m finding out all sorts of things about my
partner today. Like he needs to take a good trip to a Wal-Mart and
stock up on supplies. Like his morning breath tastes like rotten cheese
and
Heineken. Like he’s actually pretty muscular for such a lean man–okay.
So I fantasize a little about Mulder. I also fantasize about Sean
Connery, Brad Pitt, and this really cute guy I see around the FBI every
so often–
I think his name’s George or something. I do have a pulse, sue me.

The question presents itself: I’m wearing Mulder’s body on a Saturday
What exactly do I intend to do with it? I mean, I did have a date with
my mom to go antiquing today– ooh. This whole deal keeps getting better
and better. An almost infinite amount of torture for Mulder– and he
thought he just got to look down my shirt.

************

Fucking perfect.

When I *finally* get free reign over the utterly luscious body of one
Dana Katherine Scully, *why* in God’s name do I have to be introduced so
rudely to the intricacies and indignities of the female reproductive
cycle? Welcome to my life.

Have I mentioned that blood makes me nauseous? Green about the gills?
Absolutely fucking ill? And if it’s Scully’s blood…

I better sit down.

Oh, yeah; I *am* sitting.

With a frustrated sigh, I wait for my head to clear, then tentatively
take to my feet. Scully’s feet. Whatever. God, having breasts is the
strangest feeling. The slightest movement and they just jiggle all over
the place. Very disconcerting. In a thoroughly sexual way, of course.
Sexually disconcerting.

Wow, the world is strange from this height. I pause and glance around
Scully’s bedroom. It looks like I’m still sitting down. She’s barely
tall enough to reach the damn bureau! My stomach twists again, more
forcefully this time, and I turn purposefully to the bedroom door.

Her bathroom is large and quite… well, girlie. Feminine. Lots of
little bottles of lotions and bath oils and a small bag of makeup. As
if I’ll have a *clue* how to begin to apply that. Her damn mole will
just have to
go uncovered today. It’s incredibly sexy anyway. I’ve never understood
her compulsion to slather cover-up all over it.

But, first things first. I’m reaching for her panties when it hits me.
Women do *not* urinate standing up. How inconvenient.

I turn around and hook my thumbs in the panties, then freeze. Wait a
minute.

Gaping at her breasts while they’re still technically covered by her
tank top is one thing. But, I’m about to get up close and personal with
Scully’s…

I swallow hard.

Scully’s… primary sexual characteristics. If Scully can use science to
distance herself from sexual desire, so can I, dammit.

With that thought, I pull the panties down over her hips, my hands
grazing the soft skin as I uncover it. Closing my eyes tightly, I sit
down on the toilet and do what needs to be done.

Yet another cramp hits me, and I groan, remembering Scully’s vague
instructions. I open one eye a bit and glance towards the medicine
cabinet. Great. I can’t reach it from here. Well, *I* could reach it
from
here, but Scully’s puny little arms are just not going to bridge the
distance.

With a frustrated sigh, I sidle, duck-like, to the cabinet, panties
braced around my knees. I squint into the dark recesses of the cabinet.
Toilet bowl cleanser. Super-sized roll of Green Forest recycled toilet
paper.

There. Tampax. Forty tampons. Super tampons, whatever that means. I
fumble with the box until it opens, then retrieve a paper-wrapped tube.
I toss the box onto the sink, then waddle back to the toilet without
dropping the panties. I sink back onto the toilet seat and regard the
foreign object in my hand.

How the fuck does this thing work?

I suppose some sort of instruction manual is included with the box, but
I’m confident in my ability to conquer this little piece of cotton and
cardboard.

Okay. Tear here. I rip the end of the paper wrapper off. So far so
good. I assume that I pull this cardboard tube out–

Fuck!

I don’t know much about tampons, but I assume the damn things aren’t
supposed to be in two pieces when inserted.

I pull the other remaining piece from the wrapper and study it. A big
hunk of cotton with a tail stuffed inside of a cardboard tube. And
let’s not forget the empty tube that’s now resting comfortably behind
the toile where it rolled when I dropped it.

I want my penis.

Please tell me that is *not* a knock on the door.

************

Mulder is such a male slob. All of his clothes are dirty! This sucks!

I don’t want to do his laundry–though it looks like I’m going to have
to. I revolt. One load. And it’ll be of clothes *I* like him in, like
these wonderful jeans that give a nice view of his butt, and ah, yes,
this
t-shirt. Black t-shirt. I sit in his only clean pair of boxers, which I
bet one of the Gunmen gave him as a gag gift, and grin like a cat. For
some reason, I feel like re-enacting that scene where Tom Cruise skates
in
the room with his underwear–that was _Risky Business_, right? But no,
we get to do laundry. And we’re getting some food.

The phone rings. I wait, and then pick up.

“Hello?” I ask.

“Mulder, it’s Tyrone. Are you still on for today?” a rough male voice
asks.

“On for what?” I inquire cluelessly.

“Man, the three on three b-ball. You said it was gonna be you, me, and
Jamal. We were gonna kick ass and take names, bro. What, you have a hot
date with whatsherface, your good luck gal?”

“I don’t remember, man. I have a hangover,” I say, panicking. I don’t
know how to play basketball. I’m a tiny thing, when I tried to play in
high school PE I always got knocked ass over ankles. Of course, I made
up for it in soccer and field hockey.

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you chickening out, bro,” Tyrone says. I
sigh. What the hell. Mulder is big enough, and maybe his body knows
stuff. Beats the hell out of doing laundry and shopping for this big
lazy punk.

“No. I’m coming to play, bro, and you better be prepared. How long
before I’m supposed to show up? And where’s it at, I forgot. This
hangover was a doozy.”

Tyrone snorts. “Mulder, you are one crazy bastard. Our first match-up
is in forty-five minutes, at King High School, all right? And Mulder,
don’t forget your lucky charm. You sound fucked up enough without
jinxing
yourself by forgetting Lil’Red.”

“Of course I’ll remember. She keeps me winning, doesn’t she?” I ask
ironically. Lil’Red. One guess to who that is. “See you there.”

I hang up and call Mulder frantically. “Dana Scully’s residence,” my mom
answers.

“Mo–Mrs. Scully, could I please talk to Scully? Now?”

“Fox?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Where is she?”

“She’s in the bathroom with girl problems, Fox.”

“She’ll talk to me. Knock and tell her it’s me and it’s urgent.”

My mom does as she’s told and within seconds, I’m on the phone to
Mulder.

“Thanks for mentioning I get to go antiquing with Mom,” he says
sarcastically. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to be at your three on three b-ball tournament in forty-five
minutes, you have neither food nor clean clothes, and what exactly is
Lil’Red?”

Silence. “Well, Lil’Red is my lucky basketball charm. It’s in my
basketball bag; you’ll know her when you see her. By the way, the bag
is under the TV, okay? There are clean basketball clothes in the bag as
well. Feel free to feed my body whatever you please, but it likes high
concentrations of sugar and fat. Donuts are a boy’s best friend. By the
way, how the hell do you work these things?”

“Mulder, insert tab a into slot b. I know you can do it. And make sure
to remove the applicator.”

“Oh. Okay. Okay. Do you know the way?”

“Yes, I do,” I reply. “What if I suck it up today?”

“I’ll get heckled and driven from my basketball haunts and be no more a
man. But on the plus side, I do get to figure out the difference between
a credenza and a candelabra.”

“Mulder, please don’t do something too unspeakable. Remember, I love my
mother. I’d prefer to be on speaking terms with her. Don’t tell her
anything ludicrous, like I’m having a wild affair with you or Skinner or
something.”

“Check. Keep the Maggie/Dana relationship in check. What if she tells
me she’s having the wild affair with Skinner? Or Cancerman?”

“Call me immediately and don’t say anything to her except ‘Oh, that’s
nice..’ And don’t tease. Now I have to go get something to eat.”

I hang up, and find his bag. It’s New York Knicks–of course. I rustle
and find a key chain with my picture in it. It’s a good picture; my mom
must have given it to him. How cute. I check the bag to make sure that
I’m really Lil’Red, and when I’m convinced, put on the “clean” clothes.

Mulder and I have differing definitions on some things, and this is
definitely one of them. But I don’t have time to clean up. I dress,
lace up the shoes, find his wallet, and head out to get breakfast.

Donuts sound amazingly good.

************

Okay. This is fine. Really. Nothing’s wrong.

Oh, fuck me twice.

This tampon thing is *not* working out for me. I finally got one to
work correctly on my fourth try, but now it doesn’t feel quite…
right. The instructions claim you’re not supposed to be able to feel
the damn things!

This is not good.

With an exasperated sigh, I reach down and tug on the string. I drop
the tampon into the open toilet and watch balefully as it explodes to
twice its size in the water. “Fuck you,” I mumble as I flush.

Turning back to the box of tampons on the sink, I very nearly trip on
the pair of panties I’d discarded on the floor. The sight of Scully’s
naked body isn’t doing much for me anymore.

And even if it was, her mother’s presence in the living room should
preclude any lascivious thoughts on my part.

I grab another tampon–fifth time’s the charm, right?–and unwrap it.
Damn, but I’m getting good at this. I lean into this strange
half-crouch and deftly insert the tampon. I remove the applicator and
stand up cautiously.

Could it be…?

I shift my, uh, her hips a bit. I don’t feel a thing. I take a couple
of steps to be sure.

Yes! *Finally*!

We have liftoff! Or insert.

Whatever.

I toss the cardboard applicator in the toilet and flush it with a
triumphant smirk. No problem. Now, shower time. I reach down and
strip Scully’s tank top from her body.

Oh, yeah.

Almost forgot about her breasts. But, they are, in fact, unforgettable.
I steal a glance at her lush body in the mirror. Of course, she’s too
damn short to get the proper angle, so I can only see down to the tops
of her
thighs. Which is still a mighty fine view.

Mighty fine.

“Dana?”

Shit. I blush and grab the bathrobe of the back of the door. I don’t
know why, since I’m certainly not going to *open* the door for Scully’s
mother.

“Yes… mom?” It’s going to be tricky to remember to call her ‘mom’ all
day.

“I don’t mean to rush you, but we’ve got to get on the road soon. I’m
not sure where Rose’s Garden of Antiques is.”

Rose’s Garden of Antiques?

Kill me now.

“I’m just going to take a really quick shower,” I answer, hoping my
voice doesn’t betray my trepidation. “Give me twenty minutes.”

“I’ll just have a cup of coffee, then.”

“Sure, mom.”

Okay. No more Scullygazing. Just a shower. What could possibly go wrong
with a shower?

With a jelly donut in my mouth, size 13 Nikes on my feet, and Lil’Red in
my bag, I realize I don’t look completely out of place when I cruise up
to the b-ball tournament. Slight problem. I have no bleepin’ clue who
Tyrone or Jamal is.

“Spooks! Babe!” someone bellows at me. I turn and look. A tall black
guy who I think I recognize from the Bureau nods. He looks like he’s
ready to play. I hope he’s on my team.

“What’s up?” I ask, trying to be cool.

“Me and Rick and Lopez are gonna kick your ass, Spooky,” the guy says.
“I seen your jump shot. You got no game.”

“Oh, I got no game,” I reply. “What do you got, man? Less than
nothin’? Two olives and a gherkin? I’ll watch you play, then I will
show you how to play.”

This is fun. Men don’t realize women know how to trash-talk. Just– yo
mama jokes aren’t nearly as funny when a woman says them. Besides, guys
get all defensive over it.

“Hey, it’s Mulder,” another man says. His dark eyes catch mine and roll
over the other guy. “Man, you got to tell me someday how you look so
good even when you smell bad and are hung over.”

“Tyrone, shut up and let’s see if Mulder’s up to playin,” the man next
to him says. Something in my stomach turns. Oh, God. Moment of truth.
I take the ball and dribble it. My usual difficulties, while not
completely
gone, are less. I dribble for a moment or two, and make a few lay-ups.
From the look on Jamal’s face, he’s a little worried, but not to an
overwhelming extent.

“Hung-over. What a day to do it, Mulder,” Tyrone says. “Why’d you go get
drunk anyway?”

“No fuckin’ clue, man,” I reply honestly.

“It’s love, my brotha,” Jamal says. I don’t know what to say to that.

“You got no game, Spooky!” yells the same guy from the Bureau.

“Aw, fuck yourself, Action Jackson!” Tyrone replied. “Leo Jackson. He
think he all that and more. But he got nothin.”

“Well, let’s show him that,” I reply with a wicked grin. Yeah. I wanna
beat this guy. Sue me.

Tyrone and Jamal nod, and we step out on the court. I say another
little prayer. Please God, let me be able to play basketball. I want
to have game.

************

“I’m *sorry*, mom,” I repeat. Geez, if this is the flip side of the
Sainted Mrs. Scully, my partner can keep her mother. That
disappointed-slash-irritated look *stings*.

Mrs. Scully nods curtly and move ahead of me. She pops open the door to
her car–since when does Scully’s mother drive a Miata?– and gets in.
I wait for her to unlock my side, then settle into the car beside her.

Wow. Cool car. Of course, I’d never fit into it with *my* body.

“It’s fine, Dana,” she says as she shoves the key into the ignition and
twists it sharply.

Yeah. She’s as shitty at lying as her daughter. I sit in an
uncomfortable silence as Mrs. Scully pulls into traffic. Yikes.
Obviously, Scully did not learn her defensive driving techniques from
her speed-demon of a mother.

I’m at a complete loss. And I’m far too concerned with the tin can of a
car we’re in and its proximity to the sudden glut of Sport Utility
Vehicles out there to figure out how to apologize for taking an extra
hour to get Scully’s body ready for public viewing. Like I’m supposed
to know how to shave legs? Is it my fault one tiny little nick bled for
like twenty minutes?

Scully’s going to kick my ass.

And then there’s the whole chick routine: Hair. Makeup. Complicated
articles of clothing. Just give me a jockstrap and an occasional shave,
and I’m fine.

The Miata careens into a parking lot, and I glance up. Oh, look. It’s
Rose’s Garden of Antiques. Wonderful. I hold in that long-suffering sigh
that Scully does so well and glance over at Mrs. Scully.

After pulling the key from the ignition, she turns to me and gives me a
beatific smile. “I’m so glad you agreed to this, Dana,” she says, her
voice warm.

Um… have I stepped into a space-time anomaly? I thought this woman
wanted to rip my balls off– well, metaphorical balls, given the
situation– ten minutes ago, and now she’s beaming at me.

“Yeah,” I answer lamely. At the slight furrowing of her eyebrows, I
hastily add, “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

“Great,” she says brightly. “Let’s go.”

I pull myself slowly out of the car and turn to face the small
building. The roof is listing to one side, the sign is homemade and
faded, and the front windows showcase an amazingly large collection
of… junk.

Perfect. Scully’s ruining my reputation on the court, and I’m stuck
antiquing in some hellhole. Just fucking perfect.

************

I got game.

I know that this is the most pathetic of all triumphs ever, but it was
incredible. Mulder’s body just took over, all the instincts and talent
hidden in this long, lanky, and sensually male frame bursting out,
pushed by my stubborn short desire to win a game of basketball for once
in my life. It was beautiful. Tyrone and Jamal were thrilled.

Of course there was that ridiculous little ritual they had me perform
before each game. I had to kiss Lil’Red. Yeah. I know. But apparently,
Mulder does it before every game. So I kissed my own picture and
strutted out on the court to play. And I strutted, oh yes. Mulder is
meant to strut.

I only committed one really deliberate personal foul during the whole
affair. Yes, I am embarrassed as hell to admit it, but I elbowed Action
Leo Jackson in the gut. But I had good reason! Good fucking reason! Not
only had he trash-talked me before I even got on the court, but then he
had the unmitigated gall to disrespect me. I don’t care whether or not
Mulder would have pulled the medieval chivalric bullshit of defending
his
lady’s honor, but no one is going to dis me to my face and get away with
it.

Ice Queen my ass!

So we didn’t win the tournament or anything, but I preserved Mulder’s
male honor. He can still play ball without being taunted or being “no
more a man” or any of that testosterone fueled bullshit. Tyrone, Jamal,
and I had a celebratory double bacon cheeseburger. Then I begged off and
went home. I smelled bad, my clothes were still fucking filthy, and I
needed to talk to Mulder. So I went back to his apartment and
immediately stuck a load of clothes in the washing machine. On the way
back up, I ran into her.

Five foot ten inches and one hundred and twenty pounds of big breasted
blonde perfection.

“Fox!” she cried. “Hi! It’s me, Marlene!”

“Marlene,” I said in a voice that I hoped conveyed ‘get the hell away
from me’ in a polite way. “Hey.”

“You never got back to me about dinner! Come on, Fox, I insist.”

“Uh– Marlene, that’s very nice of you, but no. I’m really busy.”

Marlene’s perfect face took on a sulky look. “Fine. Whatever.”

She sidled past me and I ran the rest of the way back to Mulder’s
apartment and straight into a hot shower. Good girl, er, boy, er good
Dana. Of course now that I’m in the shower and underneath all those
clothes, Mulder is indeed naked, I may be in trouble. I’m not confused
or awkward in this body anymore. I know how it feels, how it moves, how
it might be in an athletic activity that *ain’t* basketball.

God, I need a cold shower.

Somehow I make it out of the shower sane and towel off for the second
time in Mulder’s body. I find some dirty clothes and hurry back down to
the laundry room. Clothes into the dryer, up to the apartment. When
those clothes get done, I will finally get to put Mulder in those tight
jeans and black t-shirt that I’ve been craving for all damned day.

But what will I do all dressed up and nowhere to go? A devilish grin
crosses Mulder’s face. Dinner and a movie, Ms. Scully? I do want to see
how the big fat dork handled my body for today anyhow. And after the
antiquing venture, I’m sure he’ll accept my offer if I tell him we’re
going to go see _Gone With the Wind_.

************

Somebody get me the fuck out of here.

If I see one more chipped Flintstones jelly glass, I will not be
responsible for my actions. Mrs. Scully has accumulated a remarkably
tasteful collection of items to buy, but she seems a little perturbed
with
my inability to find any bargains.

I am not a bargain-hunter. I’m a grab-whatever’s-on-the-shelf kind of
guy. Girl. Whatever.

But, there is nothing here to grab. Unfortunately, there *is* a very
annoying man who seems to be following me around the piles of crap.

“Dana, look at this!” Scully’s mother exclaims.

I take a deep breath and hope I’m not making that sourpuss face of
Scully’s. Mrs. Scully is holding up a delicate blown-glass cat
figurine. It looks like something my great aunt Faye would display on
her
windowsill. I force a smile.

Mrs. Scully gives me a questioning look as I reach her side. “Do you
think Tara would like this?”

It takes me a minute, but I make the connection. Tara. As in Bill Jr.’s
wife. His Stepford Wife from hell. Forcing a smile, I nod.

Scully’s mother pats my arm. “Okay, honey. Let me just check out.”

She wanders towards the counter, and I stare at an incredibly large
collection of 45s marked ten cents each. Apparently, some idiots are
still willing to *pay* for records. Unbelievable.

The creepy guy slithers up to me, pretending–badly, I might add–to be
interested in a really ugly red glass shoe. He glances over at me,
feigning surprise.

I’m not amused. I’ve seen that look before–hell, I’ve *done* that look
before–and I know he’s lusting after my body. Well, Scully’s body.
Whatever.

“Hi,” he says, his voice alarmingly high-pitched. One hand smooths
what’s left of his hair as he gives me an eerie smile. “Any good
albums?”

I shoot him a cold look. “I think I saw You Don’t Own Me in there
somewhere,” I answer, deadpan.

He laughs, an odd hacking sound, and moves closer, holding out his
hand. “You’re funny, and I’m Ed Presley, no relation,” he adds with a
laugh.

Reluctantly, I shake his hand. Disgusting! His palm is sweaty, and he
barely even squeezes my hand. Then, his name registers. What *is* it
with guys named Ed having the hots for Scully?

“Nice to meet you,” I answer sweetly. “I’m late.”

Ignoring the sputtering from Ed, I make a beeline for the exit. I’ll
just wait in the car.

************

“Mulder, it’s me,” I say in his voice. “We did fairly well in the game
today. Remind me to kick the crap out of that Agent Jackson next time we
run across him.”

“Got it. What sort of crap was he talking this time?”

“Ice Queen. By the way, Mulder, I love your elbows. They’re excellent
for gouging,” I tell him sardonically.

“Thank you, madame. So why did you call? Is there another evil woman
ritual I have to go through today? I spent the day with your mother,
cramps are a big ball of wrong, I don’t understand it but it really does
take that long for a woman to get ready, and I keep having cravings for
chocolate.”

“You want to have dinner over at your place and then go to the movies?
Compare days?” I ask. “I’m ordering in Chinese and buying beer and maybe
we can rent a video if you’re not up to a movie.”

I hear his long sigh of relief. “You are a goddess, Agent Scully.”

“Shh! Mulder! If my mom’s around, she’s going to be confused. And you
sound really– gay– right now, and my mom might try to find some nice
lesbian to fix me up with.”

Mulder bursts into laughter. I like that sound. I wonder why I don’t
laugh more often. It sounds downright sexy in a cute sort of way, even
though it’s really creepy to be turned on by your own laugh.

“I love your mom. She can’t drive, but she’s great. So, be at your place
around seven-thirty?”

“I will be waiting, Mulder,” I reply. “Remember, you have to change
tampons or you ruin my underwear. And then you’ll have to pay to replace
them.”

Mulder makes this little sound I’ve never heard from my throat before.
It sounds like– well, I can’t describe it, but it’s really pathetic.
“Okay, okay,” he whines. “See ya later.”

He hangs up and I lounge back on the couch. An evil grin crosses my
face. Oh, what I’m going to do to you, Agent Mulder in Scully’s
clothing. But first I’m going to get dressed and do your hair. I have to
look good, after all.

************

I hang up the phone and feel what can only be a shit-eating grin on my
face. I do believe the Enigmatic Agent Scully has just initiated an
evening with distinct date-like qualities. Guess I’d better get her
body ready.

I head for her bedroom, but make a very necessary pit stop in the
bathroom. Geez, her bladder must be the size of a marble. I only had one
glass of iced tea with my burger–which, by the way, gained me some odd
looks from Mrs. Scully–and I feel like I’m about to burst.

And, of course, I’ve got to change the tampon. Luckily, I manage it on
the first try this time and give myself a satisfied grin in the mirror.

Now, what to put on this hot little body for the evening?

I crack my knuckles and approach the closet. This should be
interesting.

Suit. Suit. Suit. Suit. Geez, how boring. Does she even *own* any
interesting–

Wait just one moment.

“Well, well, well, Agent Scully,” I mumble. “What have we here?”

I pull out a shimmery shirt and stare at it. It’s a really deep reddish
color, short, and tiny. It’s got to be tight on her. I hold it up to my
body.

Gulp.

Stops at her midriff. I think we’ve got a winner. I yank the t-shirt
I’m wearing over my head, then shimmy into the maroon shirt. It fits
like a second skin, and feels unbelievably sexy.

I glance in the mirror and am instantly impressed. The scoop neckline
reveals *just* enough, the fabric clings alluringly, and the contrast
between the dark fabric and the pale skin of her navel is startling, and
quite seductive.

“If Frohike could see you now…” I tell the mirror, smirking.
“Actually,” I add with a grimace. “I don’t even want to think about what
Frohike would do.”

Sadly, the tan pants I chose earlier are just *not* going to make the
cut.

I return to the closet. She’s got to have some black pants or something
stashed away in here. Oooh, even better. Underneath some neatly folded
pants, I find a pair of worn jeans. Comfortably worn.

I change quickly, and the jeans are a perfect compliment to the shirt–
fitted, but not skin tight. They are also low-slung, leaving her belly
button visible. I twist in front of the mirror, and, yes, the top of
her tattoo just peeks out above the waistline.

“Nice job, Agent Mulder,” I congratulate myself. Now, shoes.

I glance at the floor of the closet and am horrified to see what can
only be described as a shitload of shoes.

With a sigh, I drop to my knees. I knew it couldn’t possibly be that
simple.

************

I cannot believe what he put me in. The pervert! The nerve! What is it
with Mulder that he has to find the pair of pants I despise– they make
my ass look enormous– and then pair it with a flimsy little bimbo
wannabe t-shirt I bought on an outing with a few girlfriends. It’s made
for a cute undergrad, skintight, belly-revealing, and thoroughly
unprofessional. At least he didn’t stick me in a miniskirt and heels.
Maybe he thought it was cool.

“What the hell did you dress me in?” I ask anyway.

“I was going to ask you the same thing. Since when am I an extra for
Melrose Place?”

“You look good in this. I look like a Calvin Klein model wannabe.”

“You look young in this. Adventurous. I liked it when I found it in your
closet. I especially liked the purple Doc Martens.”

“Those aren’t mine,” I lie. He lifts an eyebrow and I realize I must
look a bit silly, doing that so often. Well, maybe if Mulder weren’t so
full of shit all the time… “So, dude looks like a lady, are you
hungry?”

“Starving. Did you remember chocolate?”

“Mulder, I’ve been a woman most of my life. Of course I remembered
chocolate.”

He smiles, and I notice I smell very good. Oh, this is just too weird. I
know I’ve got the hots for Mulder, Mulder’s body has the hots for mine,
but me in Mulder’s body finds it sickening to be turned on by my slim
form before me. It’s like a really sick version of masturbation.

“Good. I’m hungry.”

He licks those lips, and my head swims a little. Snap out of it, Dana!
This is getting stranger by the minute. How am I going to deal with
this?

“Well, let’s get the Chinese, hey?” I stall, hurrying for the kitchen.
Good plan. Food as diversion.

Of course, this will all go to hell when we try to figure out what to
watch tonight, but for now, I’m fine with it.

************

I dig into my Kung Pao chicken with a vengeance. Anything to distract me
from her–my?–lanky body in that outfit. There has got to be some sick,
twisted reference to this in Freud somewhere. I have never actually
wanted to fuck *myself*.

I’ve never been real conceited about my looks, mostly because I could
only see my huge nose, my weak chin, and that damn mole. It very well
could be the outfit, but from where I’m sitting right now, I am a damn
good-looking man.

Of course, it’s probably just Scully’s body reacting to me. My body,
whatever. That’s entirely possible. But, if the blank look she’s got
on my face is any indication, the sight of Scully’s tight little body in
this get up is doing less than nothing for her.

Great. Story of my life. When I’m in my rightful body, I want Scully.
When I’m in Scully’s, I want my own body. This is just sick.

And, of course, Scully, in all her incarnations, could care less about
me. Sexually speaking. I mean, she probably shouldn’t get turned on by
her own body–Oh, *fuck* it!

“So, Scully,” I ask, a tinge of desperation in my voice. “How’s your
food?”

A-ha! I saw that! While I was speaking, her eyes dropped to my lips.
Her lips. ARGH! Whatever. It appears the unshakable Agent Scully might
just be having the same gender identification problems as me. Yes!

“Pretty good, Mulder,” she answers, and it’s like watching myself in a
mirror. Then, she licks that pouty lower lip, and it’s *nothing* like
watching myself in the mirror. She catches it, and gives me a slow
smile. A smile I recognize. That’s my most convincing fuck-me smile.

Oh, dear. I fervently hope Scully’s and my first sexual experience is
not going to be while we’re in the wrong bodies.

She leans my body closer, her eyes burning into me. “Actually,” she
amends, her voice lowering. “It’s quite tasty. And I’m really hungry.”

I swallow hard.

Suddenly, I don’t care if we’re in the wrong bodies. All I know is that
I want that one.

************

This is wrong, this is wrong, I repeat over and over to myself. My pulse
is speeding up, my mouth is dry and yeah, I’m getting aroused. This is
so bad. But God help me, I want him. Her. Mulder!

“Want a bite of mine?” I ask. Mulder blinks at me with those baby blues
and I suddenly realize my jeans are a little tight.

“Uh– sure.”

“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” I offer.

Mulder immediately shoots me one of my personal favorite looks– yeah,
right, buddy. I grin.

“What’s wrong, Mulder, don’t you trust me?”

“I trust you, Scully, just not that male body you happen to be in right
now.”

I put some broccoli beef on my fork and lift it toward my mouth. “Here,”
I offer. “Take a bite.”

Mulder accepts, and he-she-whatever looks really sexy doing that. And I
know it’s sick and wrong and bad, but after Mulder finishes, I lean in
and kiss him in my own body. So much for self restraint, because no
matter what the weird value is on this experience, it’s a kiss.

My lips are soft and salty, tasting of soy and dinner and lipstick. It’s
sexy and my tongue sweeps out and presses against teeth. Mulder is very
obliging, and soon I’m out of air. I break the kiss.

“Mulder?” I ask.

“Yeah?”

“You know this is really sick, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to stop?”

“Hell, no,” he replies. We start kissing again, lips and faces and
necks–god damn, it doesn’t matter if he’s in his body or not, Mulder
can use his mouth to his advantage. Then I feel a little hand reach for
the breast that’s not there. And stop.

“Shit,” I hear myself mutter. “This just–”

“What?” I ask. My jeans are a lot tighter now, and it’s taking a lot of
self-control not to pull Mulder in my lap and get that shirt off of him.

“The creepiness level is rising on this,” he groans. “I think we should
stop.”

“WHAT?” I ask. I look at him in utter shock. “Now? Mulderrrrrr–”

************

I very reluctantly pull away from my *own* body, which I now desperately
want to unclothe. Glancing up at her– which is weird in itself– to
find my own hazel eyes staring back at me, I cringe. Apparently The Look
jumped bodies with her. “Uh, Scully?”

“What, Mulder?” she asks, my rough voice impatient and a tad
condescending.

“We can’t do this,” I answer regretfully. As much as I want
her–regardless of whose body she’s wearing– I’d never quite pictured
our first time to be in the midst of an actual, for real, documentable
X-File.

Scully stares at me for a long moment, then effortlessly produces that
smirk that has taken me years to perfect. With a pointed glance towards
her lap– well, technically, my lap– she whispers, “Trust me, Mulder,
this body is quite able.”

I groan and pull away. “Not like this, Scully. We should,” I pause,
waving her small hand in the air in confusion. “Wait 24 hours. See if
it goes away.”

The smirk transforms itself into a scowl. “Mulder, this isn’t the flu,”
she replies, exasperated. I hope I’ve never given her that disgusted
look; it’s brutal.

“I know that,” I answer sharply, sticking her full bottom lip out into a
pout. I don’t think it has quite the same effect as when I do it in my
*own* body, but I do what I can.

Scully rises, towering over me in that lanky body. I realize suddenly
how much smaller she is than me. It’s quite strange that she can be so
formidable in a body this size. The note of panic in her voice brings
me back to the present.

“How do you know we’re not *stuck* like this?” she asks, eyes wide. I
recognize the expression–it’s my panicky,
freaked-out-over-the-latest-inexplicable-thing-I’ve-stumbled-across
look.

Maybe it has something to do with being inside of Scully’s body, but I
feel oddly rational. Unusually so. I stand and touch my own bicep with
a tiny hand. “We were both asleep when this happened,” I answer. “Maybe
that’s the key.”

Scully, locked in my body, studies me for a moment. She keeps my face
utterly expressionless, and I’m even more clued out than usual to her
thought processes. Finally, she nodded softly. “So what do you
propose?”

Slowly, I let a grin surface and cock one eyebrow. “In the interests of
science, I must ask you to sleep with me tonight.”

“Right,” Scully rolls her eyes, but the small smile on her lips matches
my own. “In the interests of science.”

************

“All right, Mulder,” I say in a gruff voice. “But what bed are we
sleeping in? You use the couch, as I recall. And that’s rather small for
two to just sleep in.”

“We’ll go to your place. You have a big bed. Plenty of room for you
and me,” Mulder says, Ms. Cool.

“Okay. So we’ll go to my place, have a nice long nap, and wake up as
cockroaches tomorrow?”

“Only if God is Kafka,” Mulder replies.

“Mulder,” I say in his deep voice. “Do you know how silly that sounded?
And that your- well, my- ass looks enormous in those jeans?”

“Scully, um, nothing about you is enormous. I think,” and he cranes my
neck around, “Your ass looks quite sexy in these jeans.”

“Sure fine whatever, Mulder. Let’s go back to my place, because
whomever I wake up tomorrow, your ass is mine.”

Mulder smiles that “good God, I’m a damned sexy man” smile, and slips
his arm around me.

“That sounds like a deal to me.”

************
Epilogue

The clock radio goes off. “This is Lisa Tricatello with National Public
Radio at seven thirty on this Sunday morning, and next is a special
program with John Gillnitz of the National Academy of Cultural Arts
discussing the state of American folklore today.”

I roll over. Onto somebody else. I rub my eyes, and try to remember last
night. Last night- last-

“Mulder?” I ask. My voice is high again. “Mulder, wake up.”

“But I’m naked!” Mulder cries. Unfortunately, he’s not. But I don’t
think he’s quite awake either.

“Mulder,” I say, leaning over him and tracing a finger down his cheek.
“Wakey-wakey.”

His hazel eyes snap open. “Did I pass the test?” he asks.

“What?”

He looks at me and blinks. “Oh, it’s you. I’m sorry, I was having a
dream about a bunch of bikers in pleather giving me a test about the
importance of George Lucas in American history.”

“And you were naked?”

“Hey,” Mulder says. “You’re a woman!”

“Congratulations on figuring that out,” I reply drily.

“I’m a man, then, aren’t I?” he asks in this pathetically eager voice.

“I’m a doctor, I think I should be able to figure it out,” I reply. I
lift the sheets, and look–with clinical detachment, of course–at
what’s tenting those obnoxious ‘Ghostbusters’ boxers someone must have
bought him as a gag gift.

“What’s the diagnosis?” Mulder asks.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” I reply, popping out from under the
sheets.

“And I’m not a cockroach?”

“I guess God’s not Kafka, Mulder,” I say, kissing him in a very serious
way. “And let me remind you, your ass is still mine, but-”

Crap. Cramps.

“But?” Mulder asks, looking like a kid in a candy store.

“I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

As I run for the restroom, I hear Mulder say, “Cramps are a bitch. I
don’t know how you women put up with that shit. If I knew anything
about it, I’d find a way to abolish them.”

“It’s so not-sexy to hear you say that, Mulder.”

“Well, sexy, why don’t you get back here and I’ll show you about what
else I learned during my day as a woman?” he drawls as I take care of
business.

“Oh, look who knows so much after one day in a woman’s body,” I reply,
jumping back into bed. He kisses me, and his hands are everywhere.
“Mmmm.”

“Is that a good mmm or a bad mmm?”

“It’s a keep going mmm,” I reply. Well, maybe he has learned something
from yesterday’s aberrant experience.

If not, I’m certainly willing to teach him.

END

Tierney Residence

San Diego, California

10:57 PM

“Damn this thing straight to hell!” James Tierney yelled at his
brand-new Gateway 3000. It would not bring up his report for work, and he
had to have it for an eight am meeting. He’d tried everything he knew to
bring up the file, but every time, the thing smugly told him: FILE NOT
FOUND.

“Daddy?” a little voice asked. James whipped his head around to see
his eleven-year-old daughter, Rebecca, looking at him– no. Her big green
eyes were staring at the computer, eyes filled with longing.

“What is it, Becks?” James asked, and the computer beeped again,
informing

James that not only was the file not found, his _open_ file was now
unreadable trash. “Dammit again!”

“Are you busy with the computer?” she asked. “I wanna check my email.”

“Becks, you’ve checked it three times today!” James snapped. Rebecca’s
face crumpled. “Honey, I’m sorry, but Daddy’s having a really hard time
with the computer tonight.”

“Could I help?” Rebecca asked hopefully. “Maybe I know something.”

For a second, James wanted to yell and send her back to bed, but she
had a pathetic little puppy dog smile on her face, and he was about to
have to redo the whole report anyway, so what the hell?

“Okay, hon, but I don’t think–”

Rebecca bolted past him and attached fingers to keyboard. For an
eleven-year-old, she typed like she’d had thirty years experience. He
wondered how much time her mother was letting her spend on the internet
when Rebecca stayed with her, and made a mental note to discuss it with
her. James could barely see her fingers, but he could hear them, pounding
away like machine gun fire.

“What’s the file called?” Rebecca asked.

“KRCReport,” James replied. He looked curiously at the screen. It didn’t
look right. All sorts of windows were popping up, and it was making
some interesting sounds to counterpoint Rebecca’s thunderous typing.

“KRCReport?” Rebecca asked vaguely. “Okay, let me see, no, no–there we
go. Is this it?”

James rubbed his eyes in disbelief. There was no way in Hell she could
have– but he bent down, and it was.

“Thank you, Jesus,” he murmured. “Becks, you’re a lifesaver. Can we
print this out, and save it to disk?”

“Of course, Daddy. What about the thing you’re working on here?”

James didn’t know whether to scream or laugh. There, in perfect order,
was his open file. “Print that, too, Becks. What are you, Dr. Computer?”

“Oh, Daddy, it’s not that hard. You just have to be patient and learn
the tricks,” Rebecca replied. “So I can do my email and stuff, right?”

“Sure, sure, just be in bed at a decent hour, you don’t want your mom
after me, do you?” James said, grinning fondly at his daughter as the
whole report printed out neatly, without one bit of trouble. He gathered
his papers, and called goodnight to Rebecca, who didn’t answer. She
was already busy on whatever internet business she had.

Two hours later, James was walking down the hall to get a glass of water
when he saw the familiar sickly glow from the computer. He peeked in,
and Rebecca was still sitting there, tapping up a storm.

“Rebecca Mae Tierney!” he whispered. “It’s one in the morning, what are
you still doing up?”

“I’m almost done, Daddy!” she replied, eyes still on the screen. James
stomped into the office, and took her hands off the keyboard. “What
are you doing?”

“March yourself to bed, young lady. Whatever you were doing can
wait–”

“Daddy, no, just five more minutes, please!” Rebecca pleaded.

“No. Now get to bed before I have to get mean,” James said. Rebecca
looked at him with frustration.

“But Daddy–”

“Don’t make me count to three, Rebecca.”

Rebecca made a despairing little sound. “All right, Daddy. Can I at
least log out?”

“No.”

“But–”

“One–”

Rebecca made another sound, and scurried off to bed. James sat down,
and shook his head. “She’s addicted to this stuff. It’s nuts. I’m going to
have to break her of it–”

One of her windows was blinking– an Instant Message from Natasha.

James clicked on it.

<<<<<<<>

James groaned and typed in a message. <<<<<<<> He sent the message, and almost instantly,
a response came.

<<<<<<<>

<<<<<<<>

<<<<<<<>

<<<<<<<> James clicked off the little program and
resolutely started closing all the programs when the little box clicked up
again.

<<<<<<<>

James sighed and disconnected the modem, and tried to close the little
box. It wouldn’t close. He clicked it again and again.

“Damn, must be frozen,” he whispered, and hit CTRL-ALT-DEL…

There wasn’t a large electrical zap, or a lot of screaming. Just a little
smoke as James Tierney fell over, eyes bulging. He was quite clearly
dead.

The little message box changed. <<<<<<<>

“And _that_ is a teaser death!” the Writer cried, grinning at his
handiwork.

“Cue music–”

—————————————–

San Diego

11:04 a.m.

“So, Mulder,” Scully said archly, watching her partner as he drove.
“Even though you woke me up this morning telling me we had a case,
then drove me to the airport and sat next to me on the plane for five
hours, you still haven’t told me what it’s about. Why are we here?”

Mulder grinned fondly at her. “What can I say? I love suspense,” he
confessed. “But we’re almost at the crime scene, so I’ll tell you
now.”

“Thanks.”

“James Tierney died around 1 a.m. last night, apparently by
electrocution. He was found by his eleven-year-old daughter almost
immediately after the incident, and she called 911. But here’s the odd
thing: the electrocution appeared to be caused by his computer.”

“Was he installing new hardware or something?”

“Nope. Just typing, or so it appears. And the electrical burns begin
on his fingers and extend up his forearms, as if his two hands completed
a circuit.”

“Mulder, that doesn’t make any electrical sense. I hope you’re not
suggesting that he practices Yogic flying, because otherwise, he was
electrically grounded. Burns, maybe, but completed a circuit? No.”

>From out of the ether, a whiny, irritated Voice suddenly spoke. “Oh,
great. She’s already getting technical.”

Startled, Scully and Mulder looked at each other, then at the upholstered
Taurus ceiling, then over and around the dash. But no one was there.

Meanwhile, the Writer performed the same, hesitant check of his own
surroundings. Nothing.

He shook his head to clear it, then forged nervously onward.

“Well,” Mulder said, “whatever happened to James Tierney has also happened
to others.”

“Others?”

“There’ve been fourteen deaths across the country in the last two
weeks, internet junkies, mostly. Even though the computers were many
different brands, the deaths were ruled accidental computer malfunction,
and are being investigated, but I think there’s more to it than that.”

“Computer malfunction?” Scully asked. “Wouldn’t there have been panicked
news reports about that, factory recalls, that sort of thing?”

The Writer winced. How was he going to get around this?

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Mulder said enigmatically.

Good comeback, the Writer though, patting himself on the back.

Scully assumed an irritated expression and began to speak, but just
then they pulled up in front of the Tierney residence, a suburban ranch
house with a red tile roof and several police cars parked outside.

Mulder and Scully exited the car and started walking toward the door.

“So why are we investigating _this_ death in particular, Mulder?”

“Because I think this one’s different. I think the source of all the
other deaths can be traced to here.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because all the other victims were internet junkies. This man was a
programmer.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” she reminded him, stopping in
the middle of the yard.

“…_And_ because this man was working on a prototype Gateway 3000
computer.”

“So?”

“God!” cried out another Voice. It didn’t seem to originate from any
particular direction, emanating from all around them. “She’s always
picking on him! We all _know_ Mulder’s gonna be right, hasn’t she
figured that out by now?”

Mulder’s brow furrowed, and he looked nervous. “What the hell _is_
that?” he wondered. “Do you think it’s the Consortium?”

Scully shuddered. “I don’t know, Mulder. Maybe we’ve been working a
little too hard.”

“Oh, _sure,_ always the ‘rational’ explanation,” complained another
Voice.

“Well, at least she came up with _some_ theory, instead of just
tearing down Mulder’s,” said the first.

“Which we know is right,” added the second.

“Unless it’s religion,” said another, “‘cuz then 1013 has got that
annoying hang-up, you know, and Scully has to do her whole little
religion routine, which is of course totally out of character for a
‘scientist.’”

“Yeah,” agreed a Voice. “And then we have to hear about her dumb little
crisis of faith or whatever. ‘I want to believe!’” it cried in a
mock-dramatic tone. “‘I’m afraid to believe! Who gives a shit!”

“God, those religion bits really piss me off.”

While Mulder and Scully stood frozen in disbelief, the Writer ran his
hands through his hair and licked his lips nervously, wondering if he
was losing his mind. They had told him it might happen. Of course, they
hadn’t said anything about criticizing voices.

_Just keep going,_ he told himself finally. _Pretend like nothing’s
happening._

“What’s going on?” Scully hissed.

“I don’t know,” Mulder answered. “But we don’t have time to talk about
it now. Here comes the officer.”

Sure enough, a grey-haired officer had just exited the house and was
headed for them. Mulder stepped forward to introduce them.

“I’m Special Agent Fox Mulder and this is Agent Dana Scully, with the
Bureau.”

“Yeah,” said the cop. “They told me you were coming, though I’m not
sure why. It doesn’t look like any crime was committed.”

“Nonetheless, its recurrent nature makes it worthy of investigation,”
Mulder answered. “I’d appreciate it if we could have a look around.”

“Sure, be my guest. The man in charge–Detective Harrison–is inside.”

Scully and Mulder entered the house and followed the police gradient
into the small home’s office. There stood a tall, darkly handsome
detective, arguing with a technician who was bent over the computer.
The Windows98 desktop glowed coldly on the monitor.

“There’s nothing unusual about it,” the technician insisted. “Everything’s
in normal working order.”

“And there’s no sign of damage by high current?” the detective asked.
“That’s impossible!”

He turned, suddenly aware of the agents’ presence. “You must be the
fibbies,” he said, crossing the room to shake Mulder’s hand. “I’m
Jack Harrison. I’d say I’m glad to have you here, but I’m afraid we’re
just wasting your time.”

He extended a hand to Scully, gave her a winning smile. “And I
_certainly_ wouldn’t want to waste your time,” he added, maintaining
physical contact just a little longer than necessary.

Scully smiled faintly. “We’ll see,” she said. “It sounds like your
technician doesn’t think the blast could’ve come from the computer.”

“Yep, there goes the Ice Queen again!” snorted a Voice. “That woman’s
as frigid as a Popsicle.”

“She’s probably still a virgin,” said another, disdainfully.

Before the surprised room could react, the Writer hurriedly scanned
his mouse across the last paragraph and hit <<<. He tried again.

“And I _certainly_ wouldn’t want to waste your time,” Harrison added,
maintaining physical contact just a little longer than necessary.

Scully raised her eyebrow, not as if questioning a theory, but as if
speculating on exactly how delicious this handsome man would taste in
her bed. “I’m _sure_ you wouldn’t be wasting our time, detective,” she
assured him with a sexy smile.

“Ugh! What a whore!” cried a Voice. “Jesus, this is supposed to be
_Scully,_ here, she’s not supposed to get laid!”

The initial shock worn off, both Scully and Mulder reached for their
guns.

Frantically, the Writer deleted the paragraph and tried a safer tack.

Detective Harrison suddenly gained about sixty pounds and some hair
disappeared. He shook Scully’s hand without comment.

“It sounds like your technician doesn’t think the blast could’ve come
from the computer,” Scully said.

The technician nodded. “That’s right, ma’am. I don’t see how it
could have. Computer’s fine.”

“It was in all the other cases as well,” Mulder said. “Detective, is
the little girl still here? I’d like to talk to her.”

“Sure,” Harrison replied. “Rebecca’s in her room waiting for someone
to pick her up.”

Mulder thanked him and the agents left, crossing the hall to find the
child’s room.

Scully tapped softly on the door. From within came a small voice:
“What do you want?”

“We need to ask you a few questions, Rebecca,” Scully called. “Can we
come in?”

“Sure,” Rebecca answered. Scully pushed the door open and the pair
entered.

It was a typical eleven-year-old’s room, decorated with Spice Girls
and Leonardo DiCaprio posters. Rebecca sat in the middle of the room, on
the floor. Her blond hair hung neatly in a braid down her back, and her
green eyes were devoid of tears.

Mulder squatted in front of her. “Rebecca, my name is Fox and this is
Dana. We’re here to find out what happened to your father, and I know
you must be feeling very sad now, but if you can answer a few questions,
it would really help us.”

“I’m okay,” Rebecca told him. “I read about the four stages of grief
on the internet. I think I’m still in the denial stage. What I really want
is to get back online, but those guys won’t let me. Can you talk to
them?”

Mulder glanced back at Scully, who looked concerned. She moved
forward, bent down beside Mulder.

“Rebecca,” she began. “Where’s Mrs. Tierney?”

“My mom lives in San Francisco with her girlfriend,” Rebecca replied
calmly. “They’re both very nice, Mom and Kay, but they’re on vacation
to China– Kay’s an international lawyer. It’s business stuff.”

“We’ll make sure that a message got to them. I’m sure it’s been taken
care of. Until they get home, Social Services is going to take care of
you,” Scully said.

“What a bitch,’” a Voice said. “The little girl’s just lost her
father, her mom is in China, and all Scully can say is– ‘Social Services
is going to take care of you?’”

The Writer didn’t say anything, just held down ‘backspace’ until the
offending scene disappeared.

“Where’s your mom, honey?” Scully asked, looking at Rebecca with
almost maternal concern.

“My mom lives with her girlfriend Kay, but they’re on vacation right
now,” Rebecca said, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t want to stay
with Social Services, Ms. Scully!”

Scully blinked back her own tears. The poor little girl. “Well, Rebecca,
until we can get in touch with your mother, you have to go there, but I
promise, they’ll be nice, and I’ll make sure you’re okay.”

A low laughter seemed to fill the room, and the Writer paused a second
for the latest sarcastic rejoinder. None came.

Mulder was staring fixedly at a color printout on the wall. Abruptly,
he stood and went to examine it more closely. It showed a picture of
Rebecca, smiling widely, standing in the middle of an enormous devil’s
food cake lit with candles. Printed above it were the words, “Happy
Birthday, Rebecca! Love always, Natasha.”

“What’s this, Rebecca?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s an e-greeting card I got from my friend Natasha. Isn’t it
cool?”

“Amazing. It’s very seamless photo-editing. As someone who takes an
interest in such things, I’m impressed. I’d almost think you were really
standing on a cake.”

Scully joined him, peering at the picture. “Mulder, that’s an easy
Photoshop trick,” she said.

“Scully, this isn’t the first case of its sort,” he said vaguely,
obviously developing a theory. “James Tierney’s electrocution isn’t
unique.”

The Writer had learned very quickly that repetition was important.

“What are you saying, Mulder?”

“Duh, he only already said that twice,” Rebecca said, before the Writer
could contain her. To his relief, she moved forward quickly. “Mr. Fox,
how did he get electrocuted?” she asked.

“We can’t tell. A technician looked at the computer. We opened up the
back and everything seemed normal.”

“It works just fine. Can I have it?”

“I’m sorry, Rebecca, but we need it for the investigation,” Scully said.

“But I need it!” Rebecca said. “You don’t understand, it’s very
important!”

“Rebecca, we need that computer to figure out why your daddy died,” Scully
said. “I know it’s hard, but–”

“God, what a bitch Scully is to that kid,” a Voice snorted. “And, Jesus,
can the little girl be any more annoying? We know she’s communicating
with whatever monster’s in the computer, so just spit it out. Good thing
Mulder’s taking care of things.”

Scully’s jaw dropped in amazement, and she just stood there, making a few
almost-laughing noises in surprise. Mulder noticed her open-mouthed
condition and shook his head.

“Not now, Scully. You’re very pretty but we’re working,” Mulder said,
patting her on the shoulder.

Scully was flabbergasted. “_What?_” she demanded.

“I know you’re doing that open-mouthed, please-fuck-me look, but we’re
really busy with this killer computer. By the way, looking at this
evidence, I have a theory, I think that the Gateway 3000 that killed
James Tierney is possessed by a demon from hell who wants to use the
Internet as a gateway into our reality and he’s using Rebecca here to
help him. Now, get your mind out of the gutter and get to work.”

Scully closed her mouth. Speech had pretty much deserted her at this
point. She just breathed in (through her nose), and slapped Mulder in
the face with all her might. He reeled, staring at her in disbelief as he
clutched his cheek.

“Bam! Bitch went down!” Rebecca cried, clapping. “That’s _gotta_
hurt.”

“What was THAT?” Scully screeched at her partner. “Just because my mouth
is open, that means I want you to _fuck_ me? Excuse me? _Excuse me?_
Who the hell do you think you are, Mulder? You’re lucky I don’t sue
you–or shoot you! And where on Earth did you get _that_ theory? A William
Gibson novel? I mean– the ‘Please-fuck-me look’? Innuendo can be funny,
Mulder, but that–_that_–”

“_Rrow!_ Saucer of milk, table four. Watch out, she’s turned into the
cream cheese harpy again,” the Voice crowed. “And she’s all defensive
because you know she really wants to do him.”

The Writer tried very hard not to hyperventilate at the latest remarks
from everyone, his fingers frantically banging out a way to get out of
this scene without Scully shooting Mulder again.

“Scully–what did I just say?”

“I believe you had issues with my mouth,” Scully answered, nearly
steaming.

“Oh, my God,” Mulder answered, suddenly seeming as shocked as she was.
“That was so out of line. Scully, I’m so sorry. That has to be the
most horrible thing I’ve ever said to you. I didn’t even believe it when
it came out of my mouth. I think maybe these weird voices we keep hearing
are having an influence on me. Like in Comity–you know? Except this is
much more annoying.”

“I’d kick his butt if he ever said something like that to me, Ms. Scully,”
Rebecca told her, arms crossed primly on her chest. “That was so
sexist and rude. My mommy’s a lawyer, she could sue him for you.”

“Maybe I should get a copy of her card, Rebecca,” Scully said slowly, her
eyes never leaving Mulder’s face. “Mulder, don’t think you’re off the
hook just yet, but I admit, these voices are doing strange things to
us,” Scully said. “Think it really could be another rare planetary
alignment?”

The Voice sniffed again. “Scully has no sense of humor, they should
never give her jokes, they just are completely lost on her character.”

“Oh, totally,” another Voice agreed. “And has everyone forgotten Scully
_is_ an MD? Why doesn’t anyone call her Dr. Scully?”

“Maybe ‘cuz she’s not really a doctor?” chortled the first Voice. “I
mean, who the hell goes to med school to learn how to cut up dead
people?”

“And what the hell do you mean, a demon’s possessed the computer?” Scully
demanded, ignoring the last comment from the Voice. “How on earth did
you come up with _that_ theory?”

“Oh, great, here we go again,” complained a Voice. “Come on, Scully.
When is she gonna start believing? I mean, she’s seen aliens and
spaceships and head-regenerating men and everything, so don’t you
think it’s just a LITTLE unbelievable that she wouldn’t just go along with
everything Mulder says by now?”

“Right,” another Voice sniffed. “I mean, if one paranormal thing turns
out to be true and unexplainable, they obviously _all_ are. You’d think
she’d make a few adjustments to that belief system of hers.”

“–which isn’t very consistent anyway, ‘cuz there’s always that God
stuff.”

The Writer felt his blood pressure rising. He had to get out of this
scene as quickly as possible. Or someone– possibly him– was going to
have a heart attack and die.

Detective Harrison burst suddenly into the room. “I think you’d better
come quick. There’ve been two more deaths just like Mr. Tierney’s at a
local cybercafe.”

Mulder and Scully glanced at each other, hostility forgotten, and
moved quickly to follow Harrison.

—————————————–

Cyber Java Groovy Cafe C Place

1:22 p.m.

“I don’t understand,” Scully said, shaking her head. “You mean to tell
me these people were logged in for the past thirteen and sixteen hours,
respectively?”

Manfred Griggs, the proprietor of Cyber Java Groovy Cafe C Place, where
the most recent deaths had occurred, nodded soberly. “We’re open
twenty-four hours,” he replied. “It’s not that uncommon.”

“But what could they be _doing_ for all that time?”

Griggs’ eyes narrowed and his voice dropped melodramatically. “A new
breed of surfer has taken up residence in California and indeed around
the world, Agent Scully,” he told her. “Neither burly nor strong, these
men and women spend far more time cultivating hunchbacks than tans, as
they bend eagerly over their keyboards to peck in the latest manifestation
of their brilliant wit, which will surely demonstrate how much smarter
they are than their fellows. The playing field is a lot more level than
the ocean.”

“Hey, wait a minute….” a Voice began, in a tone that suggested he
suspected that this philosophizing had been interjected gratuitously
and was uncertain whether to be offended.

Scully frowned, moving on quickly. “So, can you tell me what they were
doing before their deaths?”

Griggs shrugged. “I dunno. Computers. I hardly touch the damn things.
Newsgroups, maybe?”

“Scully, c’mere!” Mulder called out suddenly.

Scully turned to find her partner leaning over a keyboard, cell phone in
hand, trying to dodge the officer who was photographing the
electrocuted corpse at his feet. She made her way across the room.

“What?”

He motioned for her to be quiet, pointed at the phone. “How long? Right.
Okay. Thanks.”

He hung up. “Listen to this, Scully. The technician at the crime scene
had turned the Gateway on not long before we arrived at the Tierney
place. These deaths occurred around 11:15, just a little later.”

Scully shrugged. “So?”

“So, I think it’s online.”

“What–the demon spirit?” Scully arched an eyebrow expertly.

“She’s so _mean_ to him!” cried a Voice.

Scully rolled her eyes at the ceiling, hoping the Voice’s owner saw her
and took it personally.

“Demon spirit or not, Scully, it’s Rebecca’s friend.” Mulder pointed
at the monitor, and Scully bent to read it.

It was a rude response to a Usenet post. Judging from the bracketed
attributes, the original poster had been “Looking for Rebecca.”

“I think we better get back to our little friend,” Mulder said.

—————————————–

To Be Continued in Part 2/2

From: Elizabeth Marin
Date: Sat, 22 Aug 1998 09:11:42 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: The Number of the Beast, 2/2, by Flywoman, Jennifer Stoy , and , Nascent (fwd)

Disclaimer in Part 1.

—————————————–

Social Services

5:31 p.m.

When Scully and Mulder entered, they found Rebecca hunched on the floor
of her surrogate bedroom, knees drawn up to her chest and cheek pressed
against her knees, much more sober than before. The television was on,
but muted, while “Sympathy for the Devil” was pounded out at top volume by
the radio in the corner.

Scully crossed the room and turned down the music. “Hey,” she said
softly, approaching the girl from behind. “How are you feeling?”

“Shitty,” answered Rebecca shortly. “I think I’m in the angry stage
now.”

Scully sighed and crouched down, put a hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. “I
know how difficult it is to lose someone close to you,” she said
quietly.

“When my father died, even though I was past thirty years old, I
suddenly felt very young again, very sad and even afraid.”

An irritating nasal Voice stabbed at them through the ether. “Okay,
okay, we all know she was a daddy’s girl. Does she really need to share
her Elektra complex with an eleven-year-old kid?”

“What’s an Elektra complex?” Rebecca asked, looking suddenly curious.

“Dammit,” the Writer muttered, running a tired hand over his face. He
slammed his thumb into the backspace key and held it there for a long
moment.

“I know how difficult it is to lose someone close to you,” Scully said
quietly. “When my sister died, I felt–”

“There she goes again with that passive-aggressive bullshit!” cried a
Voice indignantly. “You _know_ she’s only saying that ’cause Mulder’s
standing right there, ’cause she thinks it’s _his_ fault. Of course,
she’d never _say_ that, just hint at it enough to make him feel
guilty, then do all her little ‘I’m fine’ song and dance.”

“She’s such a manipulator,” agreed another Voice.

“What the hell is she _supposed_ to say?” the Writer exploded. “The
kid’s dad is _dead!_”

“Why does she have to say anything?” the Voice replied haughtily.
“She’s said enough this episode.”

“Fine! Fine! Fine!” the Writer replied, and tried it _yet again._

Mulder sighed and crouched down, put a hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. “I
know how difficult it is to lose someone close to you,” he said
quietly. “I lost my sister when I was about your age, and then when my
father died, even though I was past thirty years old, I suddenly felt very
young again, very sad and even afraid.”

The Writer held his breath, waiting for the inevitable outbreak from
the Voices. But nothing happened.

“If you want to talk about it, it’s okay,” Mulder continued.

“That’s okay,” Rebecca said softly. “Really, I’d just like to get a
computer back.”

“Why?” Scully asked, exchanging a glance with Mulder.

“So I can talk to my friends on email. I miss them, and it’s really
boring here.”

“Friends like Natasha?” Mulder asked, holding his breath.

“Yeah, like her.”

Mulder straightened and took Scully’s elbow, pulling her gently aside.
He leaned down to speak softly to her. “Scully, do you have your
laptop?”

Scully studied his gaze, reading his intent. “Mulder, I don’t think
that’s a good idea….”

“She’s _always_ picking on his ideas!” exclaimed a Voice. “Come _on_,
hasn’t she figured out by now that Mulder is _always_ right?”

Scully nodded. “It’s in the car.”

“Go get it, will you? I’ll be right here.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked, starting for the door.

“There she goes again–” began a Voice.

“All right, all _right!_” the Writer cried.

“I’ll go get it now,” Scully answered, and left the room.

When she returned minutes later with the Powerbook tucked under her
arm, one of the Voices cried out, “Is she his gofer or something? ‘Scully,
do this, get that, do this autopsy…’. What kind of woman of the
nineties is this?”

But this Voice was weaker, so the Writer forged ahead, wiping the sweat
from his brow with the back of his sleeve.

Mulder took the Powerbook from her and plugged it into the wall,
scrambling briefly to find a jack for the modem port. Rebecca watched
with almost unholy interest. When the boot-chime announced the computer’s
rebirth, she approached him, eyeing the keyboard hungrily.

“Now, listen, Rebecca,” Mulder told her, catching her wrist in one
hand before she could touch the machine. “Your friend Natasha is not a
very nice friend. She may be nice to you, but she’s done some very bad
things to other people.”

“You think she killed my father, don’t you,” she said dully. It was not
a question.

“She may have, yes,” Mulder said, with a glance back at Scully, who
arched one eyebrow skeptically. “She may have killed a lot of people.
But she seems to like you, and if you could talk to her, it might
help. Tell her she needs to stop, ask her why she’s doing what she’s
doing. Just be very careful not to make her angry, okay? Agent Scully and
I will be right here.”

Rebecca nodded, but the eagerness with which she seized the laptop
suggested she might not have been listening as patiently as Mulder had
hoped.

She hastily found a satisfactory terminal emulator and dialed into her
ISP. Seconds later, she was at a Unix prompt.

Before she could enter her mail program, it arrived.

<<<<<<<>

She grinned happily at Mulder, then returned to the screen.
<<<<<<<>

<<<<<<<>

<<<<<<<> she typed, her fingers flying faster than any
child’s should on a keyboard. <<<<<<<>

<<<<<<<>

She frowned, looked uncertainly at Mulder. “Ask him why he hurts
people,” Mulder prompted.

Instead, she typed, <<<<<<<>

<<<<<<<> the computer countered.

<<<<<<<>

The words flashed like lightning. <<<<<<<>

Rebecca’s breathing picked up and Mulder put a hand on her shoulder,
holding her back. When she didn’t answer immediately, the computer
continued. <<<<<<<>

Wrenching herself free of Mulder’s grasp, she drummed quickly:
<<<<<<<>

There was a sudden blinding flash of light, arcing between Rebecca’s
fingers and the keyboard. The lights in the room flickered, then went
out as the child screamed. Scully rushed to the girl’s side but by the
time she reached her, Rebecca was curled in a fetal position, electrical
burns sizzling on her hands and arms. She was thankfully unconscious.

Mulder was staring in horror at the smoke rising from Scully’s
Powerbook. The display was cracked and dark. He could hear Scully
crying something to him, and he turned, stunned, to see she was starting
CPR on the child.

Footsteps rushed toward them in the hallway and a head peeked in,
screamed.

“Call an ambulance!” Mulder ordered, then dropped to his knees to help
Scully.

“Well, at least Scully’s doing her doctor thing for once,” a Voice
remarked. “Most of the time she just stands there.”

———————————–

St. Margaret Hospital

10:56 p.m.

Mulder was seated in a plastic chair outside the burn unit. He heard
Scully’s footsteps before he saw her, and slowly turned and stood. He
tried to read her expression, hoping to discern whether or not the
child had lived, but her face was blank, emotionless.

Mulder closed the distance between them in a few strides. “Scully,”
he said, feeling as if she was looking through him. Her eyes flickered up
to meet his. “Is she gonna be okay?” he asked.

Scully blinked. “No, she isn’t, Mulder,” she said softly. “She’s dead.”

Mulder closed his eyes and turned his head away, feeling tears
prickling. “Damn,” he whispered.

“God, what a cold-hearted bitch!” cried a Voice, startling them both.

“What is it _now_?” snapped the Writer.

Mulder and Scully exchanged uncertain glances. Mulder was starting to
get very creeped out and he wished these Voices would go away.

“Come _on_!” the Voice insisted. “What is she? A _robot?_ Let’s see
some _tears_ for chrissake. The kid’s dead, and all she can do is stand
there wooden-faced and shut Mulder out.”

Scully shook her head, but decided not to say anything, just looked
quietly at the clock.

Mulder glanced from side to side and snarled: “_I_ was okay with it.”

The Writer heaved an exasperated sigh. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Let’s
try it again.”

Mulder turned as he heard Scully’s heels clicking on the tiles. Her
face was a mask of grief and he knew the little girl must be dead. He
closed the distance between them in a few strides.

“Scully,” he said, feeling as if she was looking through him. Her eyes
flickered up to meet his and he saw that they were brimming with
tears.

“Oh, Mulder,” she whispered shakily. Abruptly, she flung herself
against him, burying her face against his chest. “Oh, Mulder…. Rebecca’s
dead!”

Mulder wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair.
“Oh, Scully,” was all he could manage. He began to sob, and she began to
sob, and they stood together, sobbing in the hospital hallway.

“What the hell!” the Voice interrupted. Mulder and Scully pulled back
from their embrace and looked at each other in confusion.

“_What?_” the Writer growled.

“Come _on_, just because she had a kid die doesn’t mean she should get
all gooey and totally lose control when she sees another kid dead. Do we
have to keep hearing about Emily? Anyway, why’d she get so attached to
Emily in the first place? She’d only known her for what–a _week?_”

“It was about more than just Emily,” the Writer said haughtily, feeling
it was time to defend himself. “It was about _choices._ Scully had the
choice to bear children taken away from her, and Emily represented it
being given back.”

“Well, we’re not really interested in Scully’s mommy fantasies,”
sniffed the Voice.

“Ex_cuse_ me?” Scully interrupted, her hands on her hips. This was
really getting to be too much. “Would you people _mind_–”

The Writer interrupted her. “What do you want me to do?” he cried. “I
don’t get it! It’s okay for Mulder to get all broken up over every
little girl that comes his way because it reminds him of his sister who’s
been gone for _twenty-five years_ but it’s not okay to have Scully get
choked up because she’s reminded of a daughter who’s been gone for a few
_months_?”

“It WASN’T HER DAUGHTER!” a Voice yelled. “And she didn’t even cry!”

“Listen to me, you son of a–” Scully began.

The Writer hurriedly cut her off by frantically writing her back into
Mulder’s arms. If she spoke into his shirt, no one could hear her.
He knew a lost cause when he saw one.

“Scully,” Mulder whispered brokenly, his face squishing up with tears.
“It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t given her that computer–”

“_His_ fault!” a Voice cried incredulously. “It’s _her_ fault! It
was _her_ computer, she gave it to him! If she were more supportive of him
he wouldn’t have to go and do these things to prove he’s right anyway.”

“Goddamit!” the Writer exploded. Mulder and Scully kept crying on each
other. “Okay! Fine!”

Mulder was sitting on the plastic chair outside the burn unit. He
heard Scully’s footsteps before he saw her, and slowly turned and stood.
He tried to read her expression, hoping to discern whether or not the
child had lived, but her face was blank, emotionless.

He closed the distance between them in a few strides.

Scully answered the unasked question. “She’s going to be fine,
Mulder. Just a few burns on her arms and torso. She’ll have to stay in
the hospital a few days.”

“Oh, thank God,” Mulder said. He peered down at Scully. “Scully, are
your allergies acting up? Your nose is awfully red.”

Scully wiped at it with the back of her hand. “I think I’m just
coming down with something. I’ve been feeling sort of nauseous lately.”

The Writer hesitated, uncertain which path would be the safest
transition to the next scene. Finally, he cautiously settled on one he
assumed would be acceptable.

“So what do you want to do now, Mulder?” Scully asked.

————————-

12:01 a.m.

Two hours later, Mulder stepped out of the recovery room and closed
the door quietly behind him. He turned to Scully, who stood regarding him
with her arms folded. “She can’t tell me how to stop the demon,” he
admitted.

“Of course she can’t, Mulder. This whole idea of yours is preposterous.”

“But we’ve seen this before, Scully. Examples of the transmigration
of souls between a deceased individual and-”

“What we’ve seen, Mulder, are examples of intense psychological trauma
resulting in misplaced identification with a disturbed individual and
subsequent behavior that fails to conform with-”

“God, I HATE it when the writers forget that Mulder’s the psychologist
and not Scully,” the Voice interjected disgustedly. “And break out the
thesaurus, babe–I’ll use it as a pillow.”

Scully stumbled dazedly to a halt. “What was I just saying?”

“Beats the heck out of me, I’ve perfected the two-second tuneout over
the five years we’ve worked together. But Scully, there’s another way to
get at this thing. We can have Rebecca undergo regression hypnosis. The
truth is in her, Scully.”

“Mulder, listen to yourself! Haven’t you put the poor girl through
enough already? I will not be a party to that.” She started to walk away
down the hall, heels clicking resolutely.

“I have yet to hear your idea,” he called after her.

Scully turned and skewered him with a glance over her shoulder. “I’m
going to go do what we should have done in the first place.”

“And what is that?”

“Attempt an exorcism.”

—————————————–

1:22 a.m.

Scully regarded the infernal machine with loathing, barely disguised by
a thin veneer of scientific detachment. For its part, the computer
ignored her, buzzing contentedly as it collected, registered and
redistributed posts in malignant glee. Mulder watched from a safe
distance, braced against the doorframe. “Careful, Scully,” he said.

After making sure that there were no liquids in the immediate
vicinity, Scully sat down gingerly in the swivel chair and slipped her
reading glasses on. The monitor flickered and hummed as messages scrolled
down the screen too quickly for her to catch more than a glimpse:
“cubicles…decaf… Olestra… 666…”

She typed, <<<<<<<>

The message returned instantly. <<<<<<<>

<<<<<<<>

<<<<<<<>

“Great, a computer with a twisted sense of Existentialism.”

“Hey, Scully, remember the old Star Trek? Think of an insoluble logic
puzzle. Or ask it to calculate pi to the last decimal.”

Scully typed, <<<<<<<>

She could have sworn she heard a guffaw this time as the requisite
text flashed across the screen. <<<<<<<>

The lights in the room flickered wildly and went out. Outside the
window, electrical wires sparked and sang in agony. Scully felt the
fine hairs on the backs of her arms stand up in a gathering charge.
The room was filled with the ominous rumble of a million bees.

“Scully!”

“Mulder!”

“Scully, do something! Ask it to find a word that rhymes with
‘orange’!”

<<<<<<<>

“Noooooooooo…” Mulder shrieked as very foundations of the house began
to tremble. The light bulb above his head flared up, howled, and
shattered. “Tell it to prove Fermat’s Last Theorem!”

“Too late!”

“You mean…?”

“Yes, it’s already been solved. But I have another idea!”

“Douse it with holy water and recite the Lord’s Prayer?”

“That’s more like what _she’d_ do,” said a Voice, smirking.

“No,” Scully replied grimly, “Just do THIS-” and with one jerk, she
yanked the phone line out of the modem and the surge protector out of the
wall socket.

Instantly the monitor went dark and the room fell silent. For good
measure, Scully yanked all the plugs out of the computer as well. She
considered smashing the accursed thing to pieces, but decided that
would be just a little childish.

Mulder stared at his partner, panting slightly. “Scully?”

“Yes, Mulder?”

“I just got very turned on.”

The Writer cackled hysterically. He knew how to make the Voices stop.
Fuck Chris–he’d give them all what they _really_ wanted.

Scully’s eyes widened as she met Mulder’s gaze. The desire she’d
always known was between them was clear in that look. She felt herself
drawn closer, even as she stepped back and bumped into the CD player,
which, coincidentally, held a Sarah McLachlan CD.

“And sweet surrender is all I have left to give–” the speakers sang.

“Is that true, Scully?” Mulder asked gently.

“All that I am is yours, Mulder,” Scully replied, giving herself up to
his embrace. He wrapped his arms around her and met her lips with a gentle
kiss.

“Oh, Dana–”

She kissed him back, cursing herself for waiting so long. “Mulder–”

“Fox. I want you to call me Fox.”

“All right, Fox,” she said. She wrapped her arms around him, knotting
her fingers in his silky hair. Mulder paused a moment to smell the
wonderful scent of her strawberry shampoo, then slid her jacket off. “I
love you so much. I’ve always loved you.”

Mulder ran his large hand down her back and looked down at her fondly.
“I love you, too–” he whispered, kissing his way down her neck.

“That feels so good, Fox. Why didn’t we do this years ago?” Scully
asked, luxuriating in the feel of his long fingers running slowly down her
neck and towards her breasts.

Mulder chuckled in a deep voice and continued torturing her with
touches. “To be honest, my dear, I have _no_ idea–”

“Oh, ENOUGH! Before I have to hurl my lunch all over you people!” the
Voice shrieked in dismay. “Could that possibly be the most sappy and
disgusting Mulder/Scully romance ever? Oh, Fox. Oh, Dana. Give me a
freaking BREAK! Scully should know better than to call him Fox– and
why is she wearing strawberry shampoo? And why did she let him seduce her
on a crime scene, come on, she’s a professional, she _should_ know
better.”

“Fine, okay, I get it– romance is _dead!_” the Writer snapped. “How
about this?”

Mulder looked at Scully and grinned devilishly.

“I just got very turned on.”

Scully turned her head. “Mulder–we’re at a crime scene. Now is
neither the time nor the place.”

He crossed the space between them and embraced her roughly. Scully
squirmed back out of his arms.

“Mulder, not now.”

“I think now is indeed the time,” he murmured, drawing her face up to
his and kissing her violently. She struggled a bit, but started kissing
back, sweeping her tongue into his mouth.

“Take your shirt off,” Mulder whispered. “I want to see all of you.”

“Mulder, we’re on a case.”

“To hell with that,” Mulder hissed, his eyes bright with passion. “To
hell with everything. I want you here, now, everywhere. I’ve wanted you
since I first saw you sashay into the office.”

“Sashay?” Scully protested, feeling herself get aroused anyhow. “I
have never in my life sa-”

Mulder kissed her again, and all rational thought left her mind. She
raked her nails down his back, through the shirt, then pulled away and
took off her shirt. Mulder groaned appreciatively.

“You’re wearing too many clothes, Agent Mulder,” Scully whispered.

He grinned again, and buttons flew. Then his eyes were drawn back to
his luscious little partner. His hand went for the buttons at her
waistband.

“I’ve waited far too long,” he said.

“Then don’t wait any more,” Scully replied.

“What the hell is that?” the Voice asked. “Mulder practically forced
himself on her and she’s all happy about it? That’s so stupid! And why
the hell would this case cause them to get together? And why did Mulder
have to initiate the sex, everyone knows Scully wants him bad, and can we
say unrealistic, and how could Scully be that skilled after five years
with only one lay?”

Scully let out a piercing Xena-like scream. “THAT’S IT!” she hollered,
pushing Mulder away and putting her shirt back on. “I am leaving, I am
sick of this nonsense!”

“What?” Mulder asked. “Where are you going? You can’t leave!”

“Watch me! I’m taking off! I’m going to Cabo, where I’ll have lithe
young cabana boys oil my back and drink strawberry margaritas all day and
watch the ocean. In peace. I am WAY overdue for a vacation, Mulder, and
all this carping and sniping has sent me over the edge. Don’t try to stop
me, or I’ll shoot you again!”

The Writer gaped. He’d lost control! How was this happening?

“See, she is a heartless bitch,” the Voice whispered. “Told ya–”

“Oh, fuck off,” Mulder said, rolling his eyes. “All you ever do is
complain. She can’t do anything right. I mean, _I_ don’t mind how she
acts, in fact, I kinda _like_ it, so I don’t need your punk ass
defending me, okay?”

“But–” the Voice tried to protest.

“Scully, I’ll be your cabana boy,” Mulder said amiably. “I give great
backrubs.”

“What about feet?” Scully asked, sticking her lip out in a way she
knew was obnoxious.

“Feet, back, legs, neck, I’m your man,” Mulder said. “Anything to get
away from the Voices.”

“Look, see, Scully’s even ruined Mulder’s character,” the Voice
complained. “I cannot believe this. The writers have just gotten worse
and worse as time goes on. The show is absolute–”

“Excuse me,” the Writer said, looking up from his keyboard. “Mulder?
Scully?”

“Yes?!” the pair asked together, impatient.

“Can I tag along on your vacation to paradise? I’ll even throw in some
good music–I once worked for Jimmy Buffett!” the Writer said. “I can’t
do this any more. A guy can’t win, writing for you two.”

Scully looked at Mulder. Mulder looked at Scully and shrugged.

“What the hell,” Scully finally said. “Do you know ‘Cheeseburger in
Paradise?’”

“Or ‘Why Don’t We Get Drunk?’” Mulder countered. The writer nodded.

“I know ‘em all,” he said. “Come on, the first round of margaritas are
on me. Oh, hey–you?” He swiveled, addressing the unseen audience.
“If Chris shows up, tell them we’re all on strike, looking for the
lost shaker of salt–oh, and that it’s all _your_ fault we’re on strike,
okay?”

The trio left the scene then, bound for tropical dreams and a nice,
relaxing, and well-deserved vacation.

“This show just hasn’t been the same since second season,” a Voice
sighed crabbily. “They _cared_ about quality, then.”

———————————

Two hours later

Chris Carter walked in to find the area disturbingly empty. No Mulder.
No Scully. No Writer. Only a note, hastily written and pinned to the
wall. Chris read it carefully and burst into bitter laughter, pounding his
fist across the desk.

“It happens again,” he said cryptically, wiping his eyes. “Oh well.
I’ll just have to get some new ones.”

And he left the note: ON STRIKE–on the wall, and simply walked off.

The Voice sniffed, remarking: “He _never_ would have done that in the
second season. This show’s really gone to hell. I wonder what next
week’s episode is about?”

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