This part rated PG-13


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Chapter Seven
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March 2, 1993
9:42 a.m.

Everything was the same, but different.

That sentiment had continually manifested itself since I woke up 
this morning, greeted by a six-years-younger Byers peering into 
my face.  After a breakfast of coffee and more coffee I decided 
that what I really needed was a shower and a change of clothes.  
And I knew someone who was just my size.

Frohike handed me a cell phone, a slip of paper, a credit card, 
and some cash.  I stuffed it all into my pockets while Byers 
promised to call with updates.

We'd rented a car for me at the airport when we got in last night 
-- something small, nondescript, and cheap.  I wanted to start 
searching for Scully immediately but the boys convinced me that 
I'd have better luck during the day, with some sleep behind me.  
I kept waking up during the night not knowing where I was and 
feeling like I wanted to bolt.  So much for a good night's rest.

Before we turned in for the night we came up with a few ideas of 
who Scully might have gone to for help -- our list of guesses 
could now be found on the slip of paper burning a hole in my 
pocket.

Call me an optimist but the first place I looked was the bench by 
the Lincoln Memorial.  There was no reason Scully would choose 
that as a natural rendezvous spot, but part of me hoped that we 
might get a Forrest Gump reunion out of this after all.  Nope.  
Far too easy for us.

So I drove to Alexandria.  My apartment seemed as likely a place 
as any for Scully to look for me ... if she was looking for me.  
Maybe she would even try and enlist my other self's help?  Nah, 
too risky.  It could change the course of a lot of events if 
either of our other selves were to see us here ... and especially 
before they met.  We met.  Which meant that I had to be careful 
as well.  But I didn't have any apprehension about going to my 
apartment; it was late enough in the day that I was sure to be 
gone.  Back then, I had practically lived in the office.  Okay, 
so not much has changed.

I pulled up by the curb and started up the walkway.  Wow, I 
forgot we used to have flowers and shit out here.  When I got 
back I'd chase Oscar down and ask him what he did with all our 
rent money when landscaping had obviously ceased to be a 
priority.

The hallway on my floor smelled different.  I couldn't pinpoint 
what it was, except that it didn't smell this way anymore.  It 
tickled my memory cells, though, and suddenly I remembered me, 
the way I had been in 1993.  The things I had thought as I walked 
this very hallway.  All the "truths" I had believed in.  All the 
motivation I had needed to see through another day.

I looked for the spare key I used to keep in the light sconce by 
the door -- hey, yeah, we even used to have sconces! -- but it 
turned out that I didn't need it.

I rolled my eyes as the doorknob turned easily in my hand and 
tossed the key back into the lighting fixture.  No wonder people 
found it so easy to break in, when it seems it wasn't uncommon 
for me to forget to lock the door.  I opened it cautiously, 
peering in as far as I could to determine if "I" was there.  But 
I could tell from the stillness that the apartment was empty.

Closing the door behind me, I surveyed the area.

All right, so coming here was partially to satisfy a curiosity.  
I wanted to see, to remember, what I had been like.  The answer: 
a total and complete slob.  Ah, memory returns.  Leftover food 
cartons sat in pairs like lovebirds all over the kitchen 
counters.  The sink was full of dirty glasses, and there were 
papers, magazines, and clothes strewn everywhere.  I remembered 
back then I used to tell myself that it was an organized madness, 
but now I wrinkled my nose in disgust.  I wondered what had 
finally convinced me to start keeping neater, cleaner habits.

Oh, right.  Scully.

So I used the shower, and again had a moment of distaste when I 
encountered soapscum and an army of discarded towels.  And I'd 
thought I was too good for the Gunmen's bathing facilities.  The 
good thing about "me" being so messy, however, was that there was 
no way I'd notice an extra dirty towel or two.  I grabbed a pair 
of boxers from the dresser along with an undershirt. Going to the 
closet was another lesson in humility.  Did I really used to wear 
=that=?  What the hell was I thinking?  I pulled out a pair of 
clean (I hoped) khakis from the back of the closet and chose one 
of the dozen white shirts that still hung in their dry-clean 
bags.  At least I knew they'd fit me.  I could have just used the 
money and credit card the boys had given me to buy new clothes, 
but what the hell, I was here anyway and he'd never miss it.

I transferred all the items from the pockets of my old clothing 
to the new, then stuffed my dirty clothes into a plastic bag I 
found under the sink.  Looking around, I resisted the urge to 
clean the place up a bit.  The phone rang and I froze, 
considering picking it up.  The urge passed and soon the 
answering machine clicked on.  I wondered who could be calling 
... if it could possibly be Scully.

It was a female all right, but it wasn't Scully.  The voice was 
low and breathless, telling "Marty" to give her a call soon.

"Oh, brother," I said under my breath.  This was a really sad 
state of affairs.  I vowed that when I got back, I would give up 
phone sex permanently.  In fact -- I stode over to the machine 
and pressed "Delete Message."  Erasing it probably wouldn't do 
anything in terms of usage, but at least I wouldn't come home to 
just =that= on the machine.

All in all, I was in and out in less than an hour.  Before I 
left, I grabbed another set of clean clothes that I knew I 
wouldn't miss.  I hesitated at the door, unsure if I should leave 
it unlocked the way I'd found it, or lock it just in case.  After 
a few moments of indecision, I decided to leave it as I'd found 
it.  After all, I hadn't been robbed in the time I'd lived here 
(shot, drugged, beaten, and stalked, sure, but not robbed), and 
there was no reason that it would be any different this time 
around.  I made my way out of the building unnoticed and tossed 
everything into the car.  Now, it was really time to find Scully.

I fished out the slip of paper that listed the most likely people
Scully would go to for help in a situation like this.  Granted, I 
didn't know the Scully from 1993 as well as I knew the Scully 
from 1998, but I had some givens to work with.  And the woman who 
had sat in seat 13F was =my= Scully, it had to be -- either that, 
or it was the most incredible coincidence imaginable.

So she was stuck here just like me, with probably the same 
priorities: to get back to where we belonged, and to find each 
other.  But I couldn't even be sure that she was looking for me.  
She hadn't seen me, so with Scully's anal-retentive need for 
evidence, she might have assumed that I hadn't "traveled" with 
her.  Although she had to know by now what had happened, where 
she was.  =When= she was.  She couldn't deny =this=.  I almost 
wanted to find her just so I could hear her admit that she had 
traveled in time.

Scully had left Nevada pretty quickly, from what we could piece 
together.  Other than the strange pulse that had occurred three 
days ago, there were no signs of gravitational anomalies dating 
back at least a year, and I thought it was pretty safe to say 
that Scully would not have looked for me in the desert for a 
year.  At this point, we could only assume that she'd arrived at 
or around the same time that I had, and then beat it out of there 
post-haste.

I couldn't remember what Scully had on when I saw her last, or 
what was in her pockets, but it was a sure bet that even if she 
had her credit cards or her cell phone, they wouldn't work.

She might have had enough cash to fly herself back to D.C., but 
why would that have been her immediate reaction?  No, Scully had 
gone back because she either had no other option, or because she 
thought she could make more progress here.  Both scenarios relied 
on external assistance.  I just had to figure out who that was.

At the top of the list was Melissa Scully.  Not only because she 
and Scully had seemed very close and would help one another out 
in times of need, but because she was also more likely to buy 
Scully's crazy story of time travel.  I didn't think Scully knew 
very many people like that, especially not in 1993.  And I was 
willing to bet Scully didn't have much tolerance for people who 
didn't share her rational approach to life.  But Melissa was her 
sister, and as such was privileged with Scully Tolerance and 
Love.  Scully would also want to see the sister she'd lost.  I 
knew I'd want to see Samantha, if given the opportunity.

Running a close second was Margaret Scully.  While I had no doubt
Scully's mother would do anything to help her daughter if Scully 
needed it, she was also a pragmatic woman, and would probably ask 
difficult questions -- questions that Scully didn't have answers 
to.  She might even contact the "real" Dana, and Scully wouldn't 
want to risk that.

The address the Gunmen had found for Melissa was in Arlington.  
It turned out to be an apartment complex near the Iwo Jima 
Memorial, and the layout of the building was kind of confusing -- 
I got turned around a few times before I actually found apartment 
#5C.  I felt a bit like I was following the white rabbit, only 
even more baffling.  If only there =were= signs about that read 
"Go this way" or "She's here."

As I knocked on Melissa's door, a sudden bout of panic seized me.  
What would I say if Scully weren't here?  How would I explain who 
I was?  Should I tell her the truth?  Would Scully be angry that 
I had involved her sister in this?

I knocked again.  After a few moments and still no answer, the 
panic faded and instead I began to feel the weight of 
disappointment.  Even if Scully were with Melissa, they wouldn't 
necessarily stick to the confines of an apartment.  What were the 
chances that I'd find Scully at the exact right place at the 
precise moment that she was there?  It seemed that the smartest 
thing to do would be to pick a likely spot and camp out there.  
But given how many "likely spots" there were and the possibility 
that Scully might employ the same tactic, this seemed 
extraordinarily inefficient.

I heard the creak of a door and saw that Melissa's neighbor had 
stepped out to get her newspaper, which had been cast carelessly 
and waited a few feet from the front door.  The woman was dressed 
in a t-shirt and shorts, a ratty flannel robe hanging on her thin 
frame.  She saw me at the same time that I lifted my head, and I 
could see that she was young, in her early 20s at most.

"Can I help you?"  The question was flat, as if she expected me 
to try and sell her something, but was too polite to just ignore 
me.

"I'm looking for Melissa Scully," I said, gesturing to the door 
I'd been knocking on.

Her gaze flitted from my face to Melissa's door, and I could tell 
she was deciding whether or not to tell me something.  I put on 
my most innocent look.

One more moment of hesitation, then the woman shrugged.  "She 
doesn't live there anymore."

"She doesn't."

"I saw her with her sister moving her things out about a week 
ago."

I felt a brief buzz at this casual mention of Scully before 
realizing that of course it was the wrong one.

"You wouldn't happen to know where she's moved to, would you?  
I'm an old friend and I'll only be in town a couple of days.  I 
kind of wanted to surprise her."

"No, sorry, I don't."

I smiled.  "Well, thanks anyway.  I guess I should have called 
instead of stopping by unannounced."

"Sure."  She picked up the paper and went back into her 
apartment, closing the door quickly.  Just in case I changed my 
mind and decided to try and sell her something, no doubt.

Once back in the car, I called the Gunmen.  Byers answered.

"Have you heard from her?" I asked without any preliminaries.

"No, nothing," he answered.

I let out a loud breath of frustration.  Why hadn't Scully 
contacted the Gunmen?  She would know that they'd be the first 
place I'd go.  Of course, that was assuming she thought I was 
even here.  And in any case, she would probably assume that being 
the paranoid sons of bitches they were, they wouldn't trust her 
because they didn't know her, and might even contact the other 
"me," which would spell trouble all around.

"Any luck with her sister?" Byers ventured.

"Yeah, instead of 'address' label it 'last known address,'" I 
said.  "Found out from a neighbor she moved about a week ago."

"Maybe she moved to wherever it was she was living when you knew 
her," he suggested.

"Maybe, but I have no idea where that is," I said.  The first 
time I'd met Melissa, I'd been far too concerned with Scully 
being in a coma and about to die to banter with her sister about 
residences.  Melissa had found mine eventually, but I'd never had 
reason to seek hers out.  Scully got well and Melissa Scully 
rarely featured in my thoughts, except when Scully would mention 
her in passing and it would make me remember how Melissa's 
accusations had given me the strength to do the right thing and 
say goodbye to my partner.  Then when Melissa died, the only 
thought I had was one that made me feel guilty, seeing what 
Scully was going through ... that I was glad it hadn't been her.

"We're going through pay phone records in Nevada from the area 
you guys were in to see if anything jumps out at us," Byers 
offered.

"Okay, great.  Did Frohike go to Georgetown?"

"Yes.  He says 'nothing out of the ordinary.'  He confirmed that 
the younger Dana Scully does live there, and she happened to 
leave when he was around, so he followed her."

No doubt about it, it was the younger Scully.  A Scully who could 
be followed and remain oblivious.  "Quantico?"

"Yes.  Didn't act suspicious, wasn't jumpy.  We're reasonably 
sure she's in the dark about the whole thing."

"Good.  That's not unexpected."

There was some shuffling on the other end, and I could hear 
muffled voices. Finally, Byers returned and in a long-suffering 
voice said, "And by the way, Frohike says to tell you he thinks 
your new partner is hot."

Hot?  Scully was a trained pathologist who could shoot a hole in 
a quarter at a hundred yards.  She had hands that efficiently cut 
open dead bodies, gently checked for fevers, patched broken 
bones, and steadily aimed guns at those who would do us harm.  
She had a nose that freckled and scrunched up in the sun.  When 
she smiled, really smiled, she looked like a teenage girl.  She 
hated disorder and not being taken seriously.  She turned to 
science for answers no matter how often it was shown to be 
lacking.  She had a place on her back that was made for my hand, 
a scar on her neck where an alien chip rested to keep her 
healthy, and places in her heart where people like Emily and I 
could sneak in.  She was alternately exasperating, hurtful, 
irritating, adorable, and awe-inspiring.  "Hot" didn't begin to 
cover it.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I said.  "I'm on my way to Mrs. Scully's.  
Call me if you find anything else."

The thing about traveling back to 1993 was that the time period 
itself was ... boring.  If I'd gone back fifty years, or a 
hundred, it would have been fascinating to explore.  I might not 
have been so keen on finding Scully and a way back.  Well, okay, 
I still would've wanted to find Scully, at least.

But the fact was that I had just lived out this time in my life, 
and seeing it go by again was about as interesting as watching 
reruns of "Three's Company."  I was more interested in what the 
future would hold than the past.  I wanted to see what lay in 
wait for Scully and me, and for the inevitable moment we would be 
together.  At least, I hoped it was inevitable.  It was still 
amazing that we were here at all, that we had experienced time 
travel first hand.  But I'd be having a lot more fun with it if 
not for the dread that sat like a stone in my chest.

It took a little under an hour to get to Baltimore.  I called 
Mrs. Scully's number twice on my way, but both times, the 
answering machine picked up.  I'd rehearsed a few questions that 
would hopefully sound innocuous to someone who didn't know what 
was going on, but which would be more obvious to someone who did.

The important thing was that I not identify myself, in case the 
younger Scully got wind of it.  From the way she'd eventually 
described her meeting with Blevins, I knew that she didn't yet 
have even the faintest inkling about her new assignment.  But 
she'd be hearing about it soon, and if she thought that her new 
partner was stalking her family in some way, it would no doubt 
significantly change our first meeting, and I didn't want that 
jeopardized.  History would already be changed enough with the 
Gunmen involved.

It was probably just as well that no one was home, since this 
kind of investigation was best done in person.  If Scully was 
there, then my search was over, and if she wasn't, I'd be able to 
learn that without arousing as much suspicion.  Plus with the 
house empty, I could break in to look for evidence.

I had to be more careful than I was at Melissa's.  I'd been 
overeager and hadn't been thinking clearly.  What if Melissa had 
been home, but Scully hadn't contacted her?  She might have 
remembered my face when I met her a year or so later and asked 
awkward questions.  Not that I would have known what she was 
talking about.  But still, best to be cautious.  What a novel 
concept for you, I could hear Scully say.  Something about 
destroying the fabric of time and undoing the universe tended to 
give one pause, apparently.

I parked a couple of blocks away.  Peering into the windows was 
useless, since the curtains were drawn.  I listened at the door 
but couldn't hear any sounds coming from inside.  Spotting a 
stray tennis ball laying in a tuft of grass near the edge of 
their lawn, I had an idea.  It was weak, but it might work.  I 
grabbed the ball, which was slimy and dirty from the ground and 
probably some dog's mouth, and waited, hoping that the 
opportunity would present itself.  Luck was with me, as a few 
minutes later a teenager who looked like he was going home for 
lunch rode by on his bike.

"Hey!  Stop!"  I called, and he put on the brakes, tilting the 
bike to a stop but not dismounting.

"Yeah, what?" he asked warily.

"I'm George.  What's your name?"

He looked at me without answering for a moment then said, "Pete."

"Pete.  Great.  Nice to meet you.  Look, I'm trying to play a 
joke on my girlfriend and there's twenty bucks in it for you.  
What do you say?"

Pete the greedy teenager perked up at the idea of cold hard cash.  
"What do I have to do?"

"Easy.  Just take this ball, ring the doorbell, and give it to 
whoever answers, saying you found it on the lawn.  Think you can 
do that?"

He looked at the tennis ball I held out.  "Yeah, but what kind of 
joke is that?"

"It's an inside joke."

"What's the catch?"

"No catch.  Look, here's ten bucks up front as a sign of good 
faith, okay?  You get the other half after you've done your 
part."  I held up two tens. He reached out to take one, but I 
moved it away again.  "And Pete -- of course, don't tell them I'm 
here."

"Yeah," he agreed, then took one of the bills and the tennis 
ball.  "Yech."

I watched from behind a manicured bush as Pete obediently rang 
the doorbell, the ball held with his thumb and forefinger.  He 
waited for a bit, then turned to look at me.  I pantomimed 
knocking, which he did, with some force.  Still nothing.  He 
shrugged, then jogged back to me.

"Damn," I said good-naturedly.  "Guess I should have made sure 
she was home, huh?"  I gave him the other ten and took the ball 
back.  "Well, thanks anyway, Pete."

"No problem.  Say hi to Melissa for me."  He prepared to get on 
his bike, but I stopped him again.

"What?"  My surprise voiced itself without thought.  "You know
Melissa?  I mean, uh, how do you know she's my girlfriend?"

Pete gave me that look that told me exactly what he thought of 
adults who didn't think kids noticed anything.  "Well, I don't 
think you're dating =Mrs.= Scully."

"Well maybe I'm seeing her other daughter," I said, wondering 
what else this kid could tell me if I just asked the right 
questions.

"Mrs. Scully's other daughter doesn't live with her," Pete said.  
"What's the big deal if I know you're Melissa's boyfriend?"

"It's not.  Uh, I was just surprised, I guess.  I mean, she 
hasn't lived here for very long."  I waited to see what Pete's 
response would be.

He shrugged.  "Yeah, I guess.  But she babysat for me sometimes 
when I was little so I know her."  Pete seemed embarrassed to 
impart this bit of information.

"You mean you notice her.  Did you used to have a crush on her?"

Pete's ears turned red.  "Maybe, but I don't anymore."

Shit, I should have realized that the Scullys were the type of 
family to know everyone in their neighborhood.  Time for damage 
control.  "Okay, well, I've decided not to play this joke on her 
after all, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't tell her," I 
said, sounding contrite.

"All right."  Pete slipped his money into his pocket.  "See you 
later."

After he'd ridden off, I tossed the ball back onto the lawn and 
snuck into the Scullys' backyard.  The lock on their back door 
was appallingly easy to pick, particularly given my lack of 
tools.  So Melissa had moved from her apartment in Arlington to 
stay with her parents.  I wondered why.  She certainly hadn't 
been staying here by the time I met her.  In fact, as I thought 
about it, I remembered Scully telling me that her sister had more 
or less dropped out of sight for almost year, starting -- hell, 
starting right about =now=.  But apparently she hadn't gone quite 
yet.

The living room was filled with boxes and stray items that looked 
out of place in the house.  Too many lamps, bookshelves, plants, 
chairs -- obviously a whole separate living area had been moved 
into this one.

I searched for any sign that Scully had been here, and could find 
none.  There were two mugs in the sink, but at least three people 
lived here so that wasn't necessarily significant.  The lipstick 
on the rims indicated that female lips had been on them, but that 
could just as easily be explained with Mrs. Scully and Melissa.

A look through the bedrooms told me that to all appearances, two 
people had slept here last night -- one in the spare bedroom that 
still had a bed and one in the master bedroom.  If anything, this 
was evidence to the fact that Scully =hadn't= been here; I 
couldn't imagine a bed going unmade in her presence, particularly 
one she had slept in.  But unless whoever had slept on the other 
side of the queen-sized bed in the master bedroom had been 
fastidious enough to make it while it was still half-occupied, it 
seemed likely that only one person had slept there.

So, two unmade beds, two coffee cups with lipstick marks.  Looked 
like Captain Scully wasn't around at the moment.  From what 
Scully had told me of her father, it'd be interesting to see how 
he and Melissa interacted when they were together.  Anyway, not 
knowing what things were like "normally," I couldn't tell if 
anything was out of place.  An extra toothbrush meant nothing.

"Damn," I said under my breath.

A check of the laundry hampers didn't reveal much -- there didn't 
seem to be anything in Scully's size.  Although if there had 
been, that could have just meant that her younger self had left 
some clothes here on a previous visit.

Once, I thought I smelled her perfume, but when I took a deeper 
breath, it had disappeared.  Clearly I was sensing things that I 
wanted to be true.

The drive back to D.C. was spent contemplating if I would ever 
get back to the life I knew, as I listened to 90s pop that was 
even more annoying the second time around.

Finding Scully was not my only problem, reminded myself.  I also 
had to figure out what the hell had happened to us and what, if 
anything, could be done to get us back to our own time.  Was 
there anything in the X-files that would shed some light on 
this?  There was a drawer full of cases of purported time travel 
incidents, but since they weren't directly relevant to my search 
for Samantha, I hadn't really focused on them.  I'd read a lot of 
science fiction novels as a teenager on the time travel theme, 
but that was fiction.  I certainly couldn't count on it to guide 
me now.

Which left the X-files as the only practical source for the 
answers I needed, and like the clothes I was wearing, knew they 
wouldn't be missed by my other self.  Before I knew it, I was 
taking the turnoff that would lead me to the J. Edgar Hoover 
Building.

***

12:02 p.m.

Just as I knew I would, I saw myself emerge from one of the side 
entrances. In these early days, I went to Alvin's almost daily -- 
they had the best cheesesteak sandwiches around until the owner 
retired a year or so later and it came under new management.

There was a strange feeling in my chest at actually seeing the 
other me.  It made this whole thing real like nothing else had.

I waited until I -- he -- had rounded the corner and disappeared 
before making my way into the building.  I took off my jacket and 
strode in the door with someone else.  I walked in with 
confidence, waving to the guard, Jimmy Martinez, who was 
thankfully preoccupied with something else and couldn't give me 
more than a passing glance.

"Hey Jimmy -- forgot something," I called.  He nodded and waved, 
and I kept going.  What ever happened to Jimmy, anyway?  Now we 
had that jerk Tim Gellar, who'd been born without a sense of 
humor.

That tightness in my chest returned when I entered the office.  
To think that this would all be consumed in a glut of smoke and 
fire one day.  I felt the loss even more keenly now that 
everything was whole and intact before me.  Part of me was 
tempted to leave a note for myself: Make copies of everything.

It was a mess.  I remembered that I'd tried to clean a little 
before my new partner showed up, but my heart hadn't really been 
in it.  It wasn't until later that I started really caring what 
Scully thought.  A full mug of cold coffee sat on some napkins 
from Alvin's.  That used to happen all the time -- I'd get in, 
pour myself some coffee, then get so wrapped up in some file that 
I'd forget about it until it'd gone ice cold.

Everything here was so ... me.  Scully wasn't around to influence 
any of it, and if you had asked me after she arrived, I would 
have said that nothing had really changed.  But seeing it the way 
it was now, I realized that she had made subtle but indelible 
marks with her presence.  She'd allowed me to go about my own 
way, steering me without me noticing.

I had to snap out of it.  A lot of times, I'd just pick up a 
sandwich and bring it right back to the office, so I had to 
assume I didn't have much time to moon about and reminisce.

Finding the files I needed was simple enough; I had a specific 
system that I understood and served me well for years, no matter 
how much Scully disbelieved it.  Suppressing the urge to grab a 
few other files to "save," I hightailed it out of there.

I was just about to reach the street where I'd parked the car 
when my cell phone rang.  I nearly dropped it with my arms full 
of files, but finally got it up to my ear.

"Mulder, did you find Agent Scully at her mother's?" Byers asked.

"No, didn't find anything conclusive.  But I went to the office 
and got some files that might help us --"

"We went through those pay phone records, and some familiar 
numbers came up.  Your cell phone, your home phone, the Bureau, 
and the residence of William and Margaret Scully.  All from the 
same pay phone in downtown Vegas.  We checked the numbers before 
and after; they're random and out of the Belt area, unlikely to 
have been made by Agent Scully.  Plus the times aren't right."

"What time was the last call she made?"  Excitement danced 
through my veins.

"About four a.m., Nevada time, on the day you arrived."  Scully's 
flight to D.C. had been three hours later.  She must have been 
able to get help from her parents.  Or maybe ... no, Pete had 
pretty much confirmed that Melissa was staying there.  It might 
have been she who'd helped Scully.  Things began to click into 
place.  The unmade beds.  The coffee mugs.  God, I'd just been 
there ... stood in the same room where Scully had been mere hours 
ago -- and would probably return to later today.

"Okay, I'm headed back there now.  We'll talk about these files
later."  There was a beeping sound in my ear.  "Byers?"

"I'm here.  But don't get your hopes up too high, okay?  The 
evidence points to this conclusion, but it's still possible that 
she's somewh --"

"Byers?  Hello?"  Damn, the fucking battery had given out.  Well, 
I knew what he had been trying to say.  Scully could have gotten 
to D.C. and then disappeared into the woodwork.  But all the 
pieces fit together, and finally I felt I had the finished 
picture.  I wanted "She's here" signs?  Well, this was the 
closest thing to one I'd had yet.

I dumped the files into the trunk of the car, then set off once 
again for the Scullys'.  She'd tried to call my cell phone, had 
tried my home number.  She had to have spoken to my younger 
self.  I groaned, thinking of how that conversation must have 
gone.  Was that how she'd realized we'd been transported to the 
past?  I could only think of how I would feel if I called Scully 
and she professed not to know me.  I've had nightmares about that 
very thing.  Scully didn't necessarily feel the same way about me 
as I felt about her, but certainly she would have been 
bewildered, annoyed, and -- dared I hope -- maybe a little hurt?

It was strange to think that the me I'd seen earlier today had 
spoken to his partner of six years and didn't even know it.  He 
wouldn't even have recognized the name.  I wondered if "I" would 
remember the middle of the night phone call once I was notified 
about my new partner, and put the names together.  Uh oh.  While 
that might not drastically change the course of history, it 
certainly couldn't be good.

I made it back to Baltimore before two p.m., a testament to my 
eagerness, though the drive felt impossibly long.  I knew that 
Scully was out doing whatever she felt she had to do to right the 
situation, and might not return home for a while.  Waiting wasn't 
a problem, but I wanted to be waiting =there=.

To be safe, I decided that I would find a parking spot some 
distance away, where I still had a clear view of the house and 
the garage.  That plan was soon dashed.  As I was rounding the 
corner onto the right street, I saw that someone was at the front 
door.  The red hair was unmistakable, as was the tiny figure it 
belonged to.

Instinctively, I slammed on the brakes and jumped from the car, 
even though I was still a few houses away.  I barely took the 
time to shut the engine off.  "Scully!" I called, jogging to 
her.  She didn't seem to have heard me, so I tried again.  Now I 
was closer, and could see that there was something off about the 
woman.  It wasn't Scully ...

I realized what was wrong with her at the same instant that she 
turned around and confirmed it.  It was too late to pretend that 
I hadn't been calling her name, and the breath seized in my 
throat.  I shuddered to a stop at the foot of the pathway that 
led to the front door.

The woman crossed her arms, so very Scully-like, and raised an 
imperious eyebrow.  "Do I know you?"  Oh God, those smooth, 
dulcet tones.  Those were Scully, too.  I was losing my mind.

I couldn't speak.  I could only stare stupidly at the woman who 
didn't know me from Adam.  The woman who waited impatiently for 
an answer.  The woman who would face unspeakable demons with me, 
believe in me, shoot me for my own good, and hold me when I 
cried.  The woman who, six years from now, would travel a lonely 
Nevada road with her partner and be intercepted by the 
government, aliens, Fate, and God knew what else.

She wasn't my partner.  She was my partner-to-be.

==========END CHAPTER SEVEN==========