Subject: [MTA_Slash] FIC Exaiphnes V: Home Invasion R (1/3)
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999

TITLE: Exaiphnes V: Home Invasion
AUTHOR: Rachel, Marti and Valeria
E-MAIL: oakgirls@yahoo.com
DISTRIBUTION:Gossamer, Ephemeral and Exemplary okay, others please ask.
SPOILERS: None, really, but set post FTF and in Homicide season 7.
References to "Unusual Suspects" - XF
RATING: R
CLASSIFICATION: Crossover -Homicide: Life on the Street
KEYWORDS: slash; Mulder /other romance
SUMMARY: Mulder and Tim Bayliss decide it's time to take their relationship
to a more domestic level. Follow up to Exaiphnes I - IV. Check them out
at http://schism.tktv.net or
http://www.oocities.org/Area51/Dimension/3568/Exaiphnes/exaiphnes.html.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on the characters and situations created by
Chris Carter, the Fox Network and Ten Thirteen Productions as well as NBC
and Baltimore Pictures. As such, the characters named are the property of
those entities and are used without permission, although no copyright
infringements are intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This truly is writing by committee. When Marti and I
(Rachel) decided that Tim and Mulder needed to move in together we
envisioned their friends helping them. This suddenly evolved into a large
group of characters we didn't write very well. That was when we turned to
our local Munch expert, Valeria. Not only did she do a great Munch, but
also the chorus of voices that sing out in the middle of this installment.
For that we have given her honorary "Oak Girl" status with all the rights
and privileges included in that honor. [Please don't get too
jealous...there aren't any.] As always, this would not be possible without
the fine work of our beta readers, Jo-Ann Lassiter and especially Gerry
Hill.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Home Invasion
by Marti, Rachel and Valeria

Fox Mulder rolled over in bed, wondering once more why he'd bothered to
keep the waterbed in his apartment. It felt so strange to have the waves
undulating beneath him every time he moved. Most of the time, he still
elected to sleep on the more familiar couch, but the bed had more room for
two people. As he shifted, he reached out for the warm body on the other
side of the bed, pulling his partner into a spoonlike embrace, and felt the
familiar presence of his morning erection. It occurred to him that it
might be worth it to do it one last time on the waterbed.

Still half asleep, his eyes at half mast, he carefully pulled his boxer
briefs off and kicked them out from under the covers onto the floor. He
started to nuzzle the neck of his companion, then stopped short. He looked
up to the mirrored ceiling to see, not the familiar lanky form of Detective
Tim Bayliss next to him, but rather the compact body and crimson hair of
Dana Scully. He put a hand to his forehead, remembering how many tequila
shots they'd consumed between them. Or, more accurately, he didn't
remember, but he just knew it was a lot. He'd been surprised to see how
well Scully held her liquor.

****
Three weeks earlier, he had been lying in another bed in Baltimore, around
midnight on a Sunday night. Earlier that evening, he and Tim had ordered
in Indian food, watched a little TV, and debated the merits of "That 70's
Show." Tim had won the argument by setting the takeout containers on the
coffee table, sliding down to Mulder's end of the couch, and starting to
nibble his earlobe, which eventually escalated to a point that they needed
to go upstairs.

"Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"I hate to say this, but I really need to go." Mulder was aware how feeble
this sounded. He was trying to figure out how he could heave himself out
of this warm bed, where Tim lay half on top of him, lazily trailing one
hand from his shoulder to his hip. Even as he said this, Mulder was
caressing the back of Tim's head, twining his fingers through the soft
hair. He noticed that Tim didn't move when he made his announcement. "I
didn't plan to stay this long...I have an early meeting with Kersh
tomorrow. The fish haven't been fed since Friday."

"I know." Tim moved up to kiss him, then lay back down on the other
pillow. "I'll let you go. It's just that...well, you know those signs on
the highway?"

"Burma Shave? High occupancy vehicles only? Which ones?"

"The ones that say, 'If you lived here, you'd be home by now.' Think about
it."

"I'm trying to find something closer..." Mulder sat up and started trying
to figure out which piles of clothes on the floor belonged to him.

"Look, Mulder." Tim sat up and touched his arm, making him turn back
around. "Why don't you just move in here?"

The thought had, in fact, crossed Mulder's mind as he spent a couple of
Saturdays looking at apartments in and around Baltimore. He was anxious to
get out of Hegal Place, and anywhere Tim was looked pretty inviting. But,
at the same time, he hesitated. He had lived alone for so many years that
he'd grown used to it. For that matter, when he had shared a room in
college, he had always been relieved when he came home and found that his
roommate hadn't returned yet. As arduous as it now seemed to get himself
up and dressed and drive for an hour, he still had moments where he looked
forward to his return to an empty apartment, so he could have some time to
himself. Tim, conversely, lived alone only out of necessity, and would
always rather have Mulder there than not. Still, none of the apartments
Mulder had looked at had made much of an impression on him, while this one
had the advantage of, well, Tim.

So he said he would think about it, gave Tim a lingering goodbye kiss, and
headed back down I-95. By the time he was back to Alexandria, he had
decided he would do it.

***
"What time are the movers coming?" Scully asked as she surveyed the living
room. Mulder had grudgingly taken her up on her offer to help him pack.
Based on the large quantity of material still on the shelves and
countertops, she hadn't arrived a minute too soon.

"They'll be here at 10 a.m. tomorrow. Tim will meet us in Baltimore to
unload. He and Munch are wrapping up a red ball, but they should be able
to help us tomorrow, as well as Mike and Meldrick," Mulder responded,
picking up a box and beginning to remove the books from the shelves. "Grab
a box and dig in."

Scully leaned over to pull a box from the pile. "Well, I guess I might as
well start in the bathroom," she responded as she headed in that direction.

They worked through the afternoon, managing to get most of the living room,
kitchen and bathroom packed. Mulder was astonished to realize the amount
of stuff he had managed to accumulate during his tenure in the apartment.

"Chinese or pizza?" Scully asked as she finished taping up the final box in
the kitchen.

"Huh?" Mulder asked, looking up from broiler pan where he was trying to
figure out how to remove it for cleaning.

"Chinese or pizza?"

"Pizza. I want to get a thin crust sausage from Gus. His business is
going to drop by 20% when I leave. The least I can do is throw one last
pie his way."

Scully nodded and headed to find the phone. When she returned she saw
three bottles with varying quantities of liquid in them.

"Your stash?" she asked as she walked over to pick one of the bottles up.
"Cuervo. That's good stuff."

"Yeah, the other stuff is rot gut, but I think if we did a taste test you
would find that you're just wasting your money on the Cuervo," Mulder replied.

"Taste test?" Scully asked, cocking her right eyebrow at him. "You have
any oranges, cinnamon?"

"Oranges? I thought you were supposed to have limes and salt."

"Oh, wimps drink their tequila with limes, but real drinkers have it with
oranges," Scully challenged.

Through a miracle and some misguided thought Tim had about healthy eating,
Mulder was able to unearth a bag of five oranges and a can of ground
cinnamon. He held them out for Scully's inspection.

"Okay. Now, if we can lay our hands on a knife, two shot glasses and a
cutting board, we're in business."

Mulder moved around, collecting the utensils with the dedication of an
eager lab assistant and presenting them to Scully with relish. She took
the knife from him and began slicing the first orange.

"These are called 'Bernies.' Missy and I went up to Door County in
Wisconsin one summer for a vacation and there was a bar up there where
everybody drank them. We became pretty fond of them. When ever I'm really
missing her, I like to think about that week. We used to really have fun."

Scully's voice had remained calm while she explained the origin of the
drink, but Mulder could tell from the ferocity with which she was attacking
the citrus that more was going on. He reached over to take the knife out
of her hands.

"What's going on here, Scully?" he asked. She handed the knife over and
looked at him, starting to speak, then stopping herself, then giving in.

"I know it's just Baltimore, but it's a change, okay? I just feel like--oh
dammit, this is stupid."

"What?" Mulder asked, looking at her carefully. Stress lines creased her
attractive face. "What's the matter, Scully? You've been weird for days."

Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, I don't know--it could just be PMS, but
this seems so final. I--I don't begrudge you your relationship, your life
with Tim, but you're leaving."

"What?" Mulder asked. He couldn't believe that she as so upset by this.
She had never visited his apartment regularly, and they would still be
working together. What would change?

"I won't be able to come over whenever I need to, to just show up," she
replied. She reached for the bottle of tequila and poured herself a finger
in the glass Mulder had found for her.

Mulder stared at her, his jaw slack. Scully downed the tequila and poured
another.

"If memory serves, I'm the one who shows up on your doorstep. Anyway, it's
further, but you can still show up at my door. Why would you think you
couldn't do that?"

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation and Mulder went to get
the pizza. When he returned, Scully was pouring herself another shot of
tequila.

"So, are you going to show me how to do this 'Bernie' thing?" Mulder asked,
setting the pizza down on the table. Scully reached for the cinnamon. She
shook a little bit on the edge of her hand between the index finger and her
thumb. Next, she licked the spice, picked up the glass, drank it down and
then stuck a slice of orange in her mouth and sucked the juice.

"Lick, drink, suck. That's all there is to it," Scully answered. She
poured one for Mulder, who imitated her earlier action.

"Not bad," Mulder responded. He lifted the pizza box top and pulled out a
slice. "I hope it goes with pizza."

"Everything goes with tequila," Scully replied, helping herself to a slice
as well.

"So, back to the earlier topic, you aren't really that upset about me
moving, are you?"

Scully looked down, contemplating the pepperoni on her slice of pizza. She
looked back up at him. "No, that's not it, not really. I mean it is a
little bit, but it's just a bad week. You couldn't have known that."

"Bad week?" Mulder asked. He searched his memory. Her birthday was coming
up in a couple of weeks, but they had already talked about going out. Tim
had suggested taking her to Annapolis to Buddy's Crabs.

Scully continued chewing, her face impassive. Finally, she shook her head.
"You're right. It isn't you. It's--do you know what's going to happen
this year?" Mulder shook his head. Scully did another 'Bernie.'
"Thirty-five. That's--that's old, Mulder. How did I get so old?"

Mulder laughed. She slapped him on the arm. "Don't tease me, Mulder. It
isn't nice." He laughed harder.

"You're drinking yourself into a state because you're turning 35? Give me
a break, Scully. I would expect more from you," Mulder responded as he
poured himself another shot of tequila. Reaching for the cinnamon he
licked, drank and sucked. "If you remember correctly, I turned 35 myself
more than a couple of years ago. I'm practically 40. If anyone should be
putting a tear in their beer, it's me."

"You're a man. It doesn't matter for you. Quite frankly, your best years
are ahead of you. Haven't you seen Tony Randall on Regis and Kathie Lee
lately? Harrison Ford and Anne Heche. It's everywhere. Old is sexy if
you're a man. For a woman it's just old." Scully did another shot.
Mulder tried to count how many she had finished. Six plus whatever she had
while he was paying for the pizza. She might in fact be beyond reasoning.
He tried to decide what the best course of action would be. After a split
second internal debate he concluded that if you couldn't beat them, you
might as well join them. He reached for the bottle.

"I'm not sure where this is coming from, but since it appears it isn't
anything I've done or anything I can do anything about, I'll let it go."
He downed the shot, sticking the orange in his mouth. Tossing aside the
peel he stood up. "Shall we at least adjourn to the living room? At your
advanced age I would imagine it would be more comfortable for you to sit on
the couch instead of this hard kitchen chair." He held out his hand. She
took it and wobbled slightly as she stood. She grabbed the rapidly
diminishing bottle of Cuervo. Dropping Mulder's hand she grabbed the other
two bottles as well and started making her way toward the living room.
Mulder grabbed the cutting board with the fruit and the can of cinnamon
before following her into the other room.

****
"So Missy dared the guy to get up on the roof. I mean it was the middle of
the day and there were about twenty people waiting to get into the
restaurant. So we followed him around to the back of the building where
the ramp was. He climbed up and then she followed him. I mean there were
goats up there and the guy who ran the restaurant came out and started
yelling and then the cops came. I was so afraid we were going to have to
call Ahab and have him bail us out of jail, but they warned her and let us
go."

Mulder just stared at Scully. He had never seen her in this kind of
condition. The Cuervo was long gone. They had never formally conducted
the taste test, but Scully had worked her way through much of the second
bottle as well. She had started by telling tales of her childhood roving
the United States and world with her naval father. Now she had moved on to
adventures with her sister Missy, including the infamous trip to Door
County where they had discovered the drink that seemed to be doing Scully
in now.

"Hey Scully," Mulder interrupted. "Do you need anything from the kitchen?
Water? Aspirin?" Scully shook her head. Mulder got up anyway and went in
search of some preventive efforts. He downed a large glass of water and a
couple tablets. Tequila was fun when you were drinking it, but the
aftereffects could be deadly. He made a detour to the bathroom and then
headed back into the living room. Scully lay passed out, draped across
Mulder's leather couch. He stood contemplating her figure for a moment and
then moved over and picked her up.

Though not heavy, she filled his arms. He entered his room, moving
carefully around the boxes to reach the bed. He laid her down on it, the
waves undulating slightly under her weight. He rolled her slightly to get
the sheets and blanket arranged around her. Tucking her in, he stood back.
He rubbed his eyes. The day of packing and the night of drinking seemed
to catch up with him all of a sudden. Dropping his pants and shrugging his
shirt off, he crawled in on the other side. Morning was going to come soon
enough.

****
"Oh god. Why did you let me do that?" Scully moaned, rolling over to bury
her head in the pillow. "You're not a friend."

Mulder patted her on the back. "Better get moving. The truck'll be here
soon." *Thank god she had been dead to the world earlier. He might never
have gotten out of that mistaken identity crisis.*

Scully groaned and pulled the pillow over her head. Her response was
muffled to the point of being unintelligible.

"What?" Mulder asked, pulling the pillow off of her. She sat up, her face
screwed up with anger.

"I said I want to die. I can't believe you let me drink that much tequila.
Do you realize the pounding that's going on in my head right now? It's
like the 10 years of construction on the Reagan Federal Building all over
again, except much closer. Water? Aspirin, Mulder?"

"I tried, Scully. You passed out. I can get you some now, but you had
better get moving if we're going to be ready to go by the time the movers
get here." Mulder got up off the bed and headed for the pile of clothes he
had not packed. "If you wouldn't mind at least turning your head, I'll get
ready."

"Mulder, I've seen your bare ass on more than one occasion and you weren't
too shy when you crawled into bed with me last night. Just get dressed.
Nobody here cares."

Mulder cast a glance over at her. She did look pretty pathetic. "So
you're not helping me with the movers?"

"You'll be lucky if you can get me out of this bed and back to my car. You
should have thought about that before you decided to get me so drunk,"
Scully responded.

Mulder opened his mouth to share his version of the events the night before
and then thought better of it. "Well, you are already dressed, so that'll
save you a step."

Scully flopped on her back and lay there looking up at the mirrored
ceiling. "So Tim isn't letting you take the bed with you?"

"Bad back. Do you need a hand over there?" he asked. She shook her head
no and rolled over the side of the bed, landing on her knees. She slowly
pushed herself up off the floor.

"Don't call me. I'll see you next week," Scully said as she exited the
bedroom. She didn't wait for a response as Mulder heard the front door
slam behind her. He waited for a moment and then leaned over and grabbed
the phone.

"Hey, Frohike, turn off the tape. You guys have plans today?"

****
End part one of three

------------------------------------------------------------------------
Subject: [MTA_Slash] FIC Exaiphnes V: Home Invasion R (2/3)

Home Invasion
by Marti, Rachel and Valeria (oak_girls@hotmail.com)

disclaimers and notes in part one

Four hours later

"Could we please listen to some *good* music?" Langly demanded, pulling at
his scraggly blond ponytail in exasperation.

Privately, Bayliss had no objections to the music; it was the crush of
people hauling dozens of boxes in, out of and around his apartment that was
getting to him. When he had asked Munch, Lewis and Mike Giardello to give
him and his bad back a hand with Mulder's prized possessions, he hadn't
exactly pictured what it would be like with them bumping elbows in his
place all at once. Or that Mulder would ask three more people he knew only
by name to join in the mix. Three people so weird, they could have been
Munch's long-lost cousins--and indeed, that's what they seemed to be. The
kvetching, the cryptic jokes and the casual poking around every last corner
of his home would have been bad enough just from him, but multiplied by
four...he sighed and grabbed an armful of rumpled, half-unpacked clothing.
Might as well make himself useful.

"Gimme that," Mulder suddenly announced from over his shoulder, plucking
the distressed shirts and suit jackets from his grasp. "I'm the one
disrupting the place, not you, so just sit down and let us work...what's
the matter with the music?"

"What's the matter with it?" Langly retorted, not looking up from a box
stuffed with never-used kitchen utensils. "It's like something you'd hear
in a dentist's waiting room, that's what's the matter with it. I always
thought you had better taste than that, Mulder--"

"Better taste?" Frohike snorted. "You mean that shit you inflict on Byers
every time I'm not in the office?"

"Oh, I don't mind," Byers remarked from the opposite end of the living
room, where he wrestled with a set of straightback chairs.

"You can never listen to 'Holiday in Cambodia' too many times. And as
someone who's learned to live without them, trust me, those higher hearing
registers are really overrated."

Langly wiped one hand across his face, leaving a grimy smear of dust on his
reddened forehead. "Better than this Steeleye Span crap or whatever--"

"*Steely Dan,* Ringo, and please do not impugn the name of the finest pop
craftsmen the poor benighted seventies had to offer." Munch settled
himself more comfortably in Tim's large red wing chair, regarding Langly
with a caustic eye. He and Frohike, having discovered and plundered the
set of boxes containing Mulder's books and music, had ensconced themselves
near the CD player, setting up an impromptu chess game and abandoning the
least pretense of helping out.

"One of the lone bright spots in the decade of polyester pantsuits, Whip
Inflation Now, rampant gonorrhea and *Governor* Ronald Reagan, little did
we dream...ahh, shit."

Frohike smirked in triumph as his bishop swept across the board, capturing
the Candyland child serving as Munch's makeshift rook. "Your move, Johnny."

"Don't call me Ringo," Langly muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
His complaints about Munch's musical selections had been his first words in
nearly two hours; faced with foreign turf and three virtual strangers, he
had become uncharacteristically tongue-tied, his usual air of chirpy
erudition completely deserting him. After the initial round of
introductions, he kept himself well in the background.

Byers and Mike Giardello, meanwhile, had sized each other up and come to an
apparently instant rapport, arranging a brisk box-and-furniture assembly
line into the apartment as Meldrick supervised the unloading of the truck
itself. Munch and Frohike gave themselves a tour of Tim's home--desk
drawers, closets, refrigerator and medicine cabinet being the
highlights--before commandeering the reading material and the most
comfortable chairs. Mulder wandered around a little aimlessly, lifting the
occasional box and then setting it back down again, and Bayliss sat on the
sidelines feeling increasingly ill at ease. This had all been *his* idea,
right? Figured...

"Some *good* music," Mike mused, placing another box into a neatly stacked
pile by the sofa before strolling over to Tim's CD rack.

"Okay, let's see what we've got here...Erasure...Erasure...Pet Shop
Boys...Erasure...The Cure...B-52s...Erasure...Disappear Fear...Brujeria?"

Tim shrugged as Mike gave him a quizzical stare. "Kind of a souvenir.
It's a long story."

"Erasure...Johnny Hates Jazz...Joni Mitchell...Erasure. Anything there,
Langly?"

"Joni Mitchell," Munch interjected, reaching for a pawn. "Preferably from
her pre-Mingus phase-"

"Oh, Jesus," Langly groaned, tossing a pristine eggbeater and cheese grater
onto the kitchenette counter. "You *would* like that hippie crap. By the
way, where did you get all this kitchen stuff, Mulder? I've never seen you
cook a single thing."

Mulder looked up from the box he was picking through, "Mrs. Scully. Some
sort of 'if you build it, they will come' theory, I think."

Refusing to let Langley's last jibe go unpunished, Munch interrupted.
"Listen, you punk-addled stripling, you're insulting one of the finest
guitarists ever to--"

"Old. You are *old*, and this just proves it, Munch. Between this and the
Cole Porter..."

Munch glowered at him, slamming the pawn down onto the board. "I'm sorry,
Langly. You're absolutely right--when it comes to consummate songwriting
skill, Jello Biafra just blows fourth-rate hacks like Cole and the
Gershwins right out of the water."

Langly dumped out the rest of the kitchen box in agitation; the cacophony
of metal clattering on the counter made Bayliss wince. "At least his songs
are *about* something, okay? Not this moon-in-June, silk-stocking,
hello-my-ragtime-gal crap--I bet you like Glenn Miller too, right?"

"Maybe we could compromise," said Byers, opening and then carefully
reclosing a box of Mulder family china. "I could hum a few bars of 'In the
Mood' and then swing into 'Too Drunk to Fuck'-"

"Do they always fight like this?" Tim asked of no one in particular. His
headache was getting worse.

"His callow idiocy makes it inevitable," Munch retorted. "Why so cranky,
Ringo? Time for your graham crackers and afternoon nap?"

"Grandpa, what's Vietnam?"

"It's right here," Frohike answered, surveying the board in triumph as his
knight captured Munch's queen. "And I am Victor Charlie. Checkmate,
Munch..."

As Munch stared in consternation at the black pieces hemming in his king,
Frohike folded his arms and smiled, exposing a row of sharp yellowing
teeth. "Well?"

"Fuck," muttered Munch.

"So what's that make it now? Seventy-eight wins for me, two for you? How
about double or nothing on the next game?"

"How about you take your precious knight and--"

"So I guess now you can both lend us a hand," said Mike. "With the moving
and all? The stuff we're here for? Right?"

"No," said Munch flatly, turning pointedly away from the chessboard and
diving into one of the opened boxes of books. "Us weak old men get a pass
on the heavy lifting."

Tim looked around the living room in dismay; after nearly three hours,
there were a few sticks of furniture crammed into a corner, a few boxes
chaotically unpacked and a mountain of work ahead. "Look, maybe I should
help you guys with--"

"Just sit down and let us do this," insisted Mulder, wandering over to the
sofa where Mike and Byers were methodically opening boxes and arranging
them by contents. "I think that's all the books, right in that--"

"The books are over *here,* Mulder," Munch noted pointedly, brandishing a
copy of Acid Dreams.

"Oh, right. So what's this stuff?"

Byers lined up a few more boxes in formation. Despite the hard work he was
as tidy and well-kempt as ever, not a drop of sweat on his brow; the only
signs of exertion were his unbuttoned top shirt collar and neatly rolled-up
sleeves. "This, over here, is kitchen appliances...this is assorted disks
and computer files...this is some very nice bone china and this is--what's
this, Mike?"

"More kitchen stuff," said Mike, leaning over a box. "You wanna take this,
Langly?"

Langly rolled his eyes. "I'm going outside to help Detective Lewis." He
disappeared without another word; Byers shrugged and moved the newly opened
box to its rightful pile.

Mike ran a hand through his springy dark hair, the curls gone tighter in
the day's heat. "This'd be a lot easier if you guys had labeled the boxes."

"We were going to," Mulder said ruefully, rubbing his aching temples.
"Kind of forgot, what with all the free-flowing tequila..."

"So what is this magic elixir you two were drinking?" asked Mike. "Just
out of curiosity."

"Some Midwestern delicacy called Bernies. Oranges, cinnamon and Cuervo, a
whole bottle of Cuervo, in Scully's case. Plus almost another whole bottle
of some inferior brand. I swear I heard her liver screaming for mercy."

Frohike snickered. "Little Dana Scully, all one hundred and ten pounds of
her, managed to suck down two whole bottles of tequila? My admiration
grows by the second--"

"I bet it does," Munch mused, flipping absentmindedly through a Covert
Action Quarterly back issue. "Just stay sitting down and we should all be
all right...any particular reason for this uncharacteristic wild tear?"

Mulder shrugged. "She's depressed because she's turning thirty-five. A
lot of stuff about being an old woman--"

"That's not old!" Frohike stared at Mulder in righteous indignation;
whether on Scully's behalf or his own, it was hard to say. "Shit. If
thirty-five's old, most of us here are dead and buried."

"I know. That's what I told her. She says it's different for women."

"She's right," said Munch solemnly, laying the magazine aside and
stretching out luxuriously in his armchair. "You and I may be addled old
men, my friend, but at least we've been allowed to age without the
deafening roar of media exhortations to stay fresh, firm, dewy, peachy,
eternally youthful, sexually insatiable, and simultaneously Dachau-thin and
Playboy-buxom...all the while knowing that when hubby's midlife crisis
hits, you're more likely than not to be abandoned for some pliant,
worshipful teenager anyway. It's the eternal dilemma of female aging, and
when you add Viagra to the whole mix...well. King David can have Bathsheba
*and* all the pretty little concubines he can buy."

"That's what Scully said," Mulder replied. "Sort of."

Frohike twitched impatiently. "Yeah, well, life's a bitch...but she still
looks pretty hot to me. What the hell's with the Captain Sensitive act, by
the way?" he said, turning back to Munch. "I thought you said that was
*his* whole schtick." He nodded toward Tim.

"I'm honestly observant, Melvin," answered Munch, now rifling through a
second book box as Tim indignantly opened his mouth to respond. "You don't
have to be a cat to know getting your tail stepped on is painful...and what
have we *here*?"

Mulder rose hastily to his feet. "Uh, we can open that box later--"

Too late. Munch was examining the loot with the gleeful eyes of a child on
Christmas morning. "Oh, let's see now...Celebrity Skin, Eager Beaver,
Bondage Life, Painslut, Cutie Pie--now this is *vintage* smut, I had this
under my mattress as a wee tyke--Kitten, Wet Girls, Titworld..."

"Munch," said Byers, "this really isn't our--"

"And we haven't neglected the lads either, I see. Musclebound, Playgirl,
Cabin Boys, Hung and Hunky, Big Daddy, Leather Dom--"

"*Munch,*" said Tim between gritted teeth. "This is your last warning."

Munch didn't bat an eye; he had heard similar threats from various and
sundry folk ever since that fateful day he first gained the power of
speech. If he had ignored Mama and Dada's pleas for mercy, he certainly
wasn't going to pay this crowd any heed..."And let's not forget the actual
literature. Story of O, all too predictable...John Norman, a whole *lot*
of John Norman...Scott O'Hara...John Preston...Fledermaus...Omaha the Cat
Dancer, very sweet...Pat Califia?" Munch frowned quizzically at Mulder.
"You are truly one of the polymorphously perverse. So should we file this
by contents or by room, Byers?"

Byers had a hand half-shielding his face, looking torn between pure
embarrassment and the desire to laugh. "Munch, as your friend I strongly
suggest you let me change the subject."

"What the hell's this?" a new voice demanded from the doorway. It was
Meldrick Lewis, sweaty, disheveled and highly indignant. "I'm standin'
down there with pencil-neck tryin' to unload the damn truck, and you're all
up here goin' through old Playboys?"

"Playboy is the least of it," Munch replied, smiling benevolently at
Frohike, who was blissfully absorbed in a back issue of Top Girls. "Get a
load of this one, Meldrick--Bondage on a Budget. You'll never look at a
spaghetti sieve the same way again."

"You know, a lot of that stuff is vintage, like you said, and it's worth a
lot of money, I mean potentially, so there's no point in just throwing
it--" Scarlet-faced and twitching, Mulder shook his head. "Screw you,
Munch."

"Why, wherever would you find the time?"

Meldrick just shook his head. "Langly!" he bellowed down the stairwell.
"*Ringo!* Get up here. We're gonna order in some lunch."

End part two of three.

------------------------------------------------------------------------
Subject: [MTA_Slash] FIC Exaiphnes V: Home Invasion R (3/3)

Home Invasion (3/3)
by Marti, Rachel and Valeria (oak_girls@hotmail.com)

disclaimers and notes in part one

Many cartons of takeout Chinese later, Tim's apartment was still chaotic
and Munch was still at it. "All I have to say, Tim," he declared, pointing
a greasestained chopstick in the other man's direction, "is I hope you know
what you're getting into."

Tim, now sitting shoulder to shoulder with Mulder, was privately wondering
exactly the same thing, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let Munch know
it. "You gonna finish that eggroll, John?"

"I'm not kidding," insisted Munch, spearing the remainder of his eggroll on
the chopstick and proffering it to Tim. "That rainy day one-handed busy
box even scared *me.*" He regarded Mulder with an arch sidelong glance.
"And when you also factor in the fact that no less than *five* men in this
randomly selected little group have seen you naked..."

"Okay, I've gotta hear this story once and for all," said Mike, setting his
Pepsi down on the coffee table with a decisive thud as the Gunmen exchanged
conspiratorial grins. "I've tried and tried to get it out of him, and he
won't pony up."

"Byers tells it best," Frohike said around a chow mein-flavored belch. "He
was right at the beginning of it--"

Meldrick held up a hand. "Look, no offense, but I don't wanna hear some
story about a buncha naked guys."

"There's only one naked guy in it, and we sure as hell didn't *want* to see
him au naturel," Munch replied. "But the bitch goddess Fate sometimes
slaps us in the face, and this was one of those times. I caught the case,
Stan just took a powder on the whole thing--"

"What case?" Langly retorted. "There was no case to catch. You weren't
even *there* for it."

"Look," said Mulder, "nobody wants to hear some dull story about--"

"I do," Tim said. "He's never told me how he met you three." And there'd
better be a damn good reason why he still hangs around with you, he thought...

Frohike extended a hand palm-upward toward Byers; the younger man shrugged
and took his cue. "You have to understand how this *ended* first," he
said, daubing the corners of his mouth with a still-crisp napkin. "I'm
still working for the FCC; I'm a civil servant, and rather proud of it.
And I end up sitting in a Baltimore jail cell with two completely
disreputable-looking people"--he gave Frohike and Langly a brief, amused
glance--"two disreputable characters I barely know. And I'm someone who's
never even gotten a traffic ticket, a completely upstanding citizen--"

"As opposed to the bad-ass outlaw mutha you are now," Munch commented.

"A totally law-abiding citizen, still trying to come to terms with
everything he's seen that day and that night. I have to *remind* myself of
it, you see, because another part of my brain is still fretting about what
getting arrested will do to my security clearance...and then I find myself
picked up, forcibly deposited in this dank little interrogation room--"

"The box," said Meldrick, already looking interested in spite of himself.

"The box. One half-burned out light bulb, one table, two chairs. That's
it. And I'm sitting at this wobbly little table, trying to figure out how
I woke up inside a Kafka story, when the door suddenly opens and in comes
this rail-thin fellow in an undertaker's suit saying--and clearly not
meaning it--'and a good morning to *you*'..."

With the last sentence, Byers was suddenly transformed: eyes narrowing,
brows waggling over an imaginary pair of glasses, mouth contorting around
the words as his voice dropped half an octave to a nasal, sarcastic timbre.
The change was so unexpected, and so pitch-perfect, that Meldrick and Tim
both burst out laughing.

"Yeah. Cute," Munch muttered. "Just cut to the chase."

"Look," Mulder repeated, "We've got a lot of stuff to unpack here, and I
don't think--"

Tim turned to his lover and smiled, the wide, don't-make-me-hit-you smile
he had bestowed upon many a suspect in the past. "Listen, Mulder," he
murmured, "if I can overlook my apartment being invaded by a quartet of
mutants and a cartload of porn, *you* can put up with one moderately
embarrassing story. Can't you?"

Mulder blinked for a moment, then shrugged casually. "Tell away, Byers.
Time's a-wasting."

Byers, who had overheard most of Tim's not-so-sotto voce comments,
graciously let them pass. "So, where was I...the box. So he walks in with
his Styrofoam cup of coffee, and I can tell just from that first glance
that he's not going to believe a single word I have to say about anything.
*Anything.* And he didn't. Not even my name..."
************

Mike grinned and shook his head. "That's one hell of a story, Byers..."

"Hell of a shaggy-dog story," Meldrick responded. "Okay," he added, seeing
Munch, Mulder and the Gunmen all open their mouths to protest, "it was
good. I'll give ya that--but you honestly expect me to believe that pile
of crap adds up to somethin' real? Asthma inhalers with LSD--"

"*Not* LSD," Munch said impatiently. "An ergot derivative. Trust
me--there's a whole world of difference."

"Whatever. Asthma inhalers with ergot in 'em, government conspiracy, live
guys zipped up in body bags, paramilitary troops--about two blocks from the
stationhouse? That's a great story, but like any cop can tell you, most
great stories just add up to bullshit." Satisfied that he had proven his
point, Meldrick scooped up the last of the fortune cookies.

Again, Byers shrugged. "It's all in the telling, I suppose..."

"It's the truth. As any cop can tell you, the truth is often fantastic and
deeply disturbing," Munch argued. "You believe it, Tim, right?"

"He's still fixatin' on that part where Mulder ripped his clothes
off--*allegedly* ripped his clothes off," said Meldrick. "And if this whole
thing really happened, what about that woman?"

"What about her?" asked Langly.

Meldrick crunched into the cookie. "What was she like, this amazing
mystery woman that set off the whole--"

"I told you," said Byers. "She was beautiful. The most beautiful woman
I'd ever seen..."

"Yeah, yeah, beautiful--but what'd she *look* like?"

The Gunmen exchanged bemused glances; he'd missed the whole point, hadn't
he? "Tall," Langly finally said. "Tall and thin. Blond--dark blond.
Medium-length hair, shorter than mine...brown eyes?"

"Hazel," said Frohike. "Long legs. Nice mouth. Hot in a low-key kinda
way, you know? If you like 'em tall and blond, anyhow--"

"You like anything that'll come near you, Melvin," Munch threw in, again
turning to the cartons of books. "Which means you have a severely limited
spectrum of possibilities, but hey."

Frohike snorted derisively. "Unlike some people, I don't throw myself at
anything on two legs--I have *taste.* My taste doesn't usually happen to
run to tall blonds, is all."

"Ah, yes, I forgot," Munch replied airly. "Your tiresome little redhead
fetish."

"Oh yeah, you don't like redheads, huh? So what about that detective from
fugitive you've been--"

Frohike stopped short when Munch gave him a look that would have stripped
the paint from metal. Every other head in the room swiveled simultaneously
toward Munch, who seemed to have found a fascinating spot to study on the
opposite wall.

"So," he finally said. "Let's get moving on these boxes before--"

"Hold up," Meldrick said, smiling like Satan in possession of another soul.
"We got a little mystery to solve here"--he turned to Tim and Mike, who
were both now grinning from ear to ear--"just a little mystery. Now let's
see...fugitive, fugitive. We know anybody, any fellow detective, with red
hair who's now workin' in fugitive?"

Tim rested his chin on one hand, the picture of arduous thought. "Red
hair...red hair. You know, I seem to recall *one* suspect fitting that
description..."

"Female, by any chance?" Meldrick asked. "Though, of course, you shouldn't
just *assume* it's gotta be a woman..."

"Boxes," said Munch through gritted teeth. "Lots and lots of boxes--"

"You know," Mike ventured, "*I* actually recall running into a redhaired
fugitive detective a few months back."

"Must be lots of redheads in fugitive, though," mused Tim.

"No, no, you'd think so...but there was only one. Now, what *was* her
name...Karen? No...Katherine? Kathleen? Damn, it's on the tip of my
tongue..."

"Fine," Munch said, heading for the door. "Screw the boxes. We'll start
in on the furniture--"

"Wait, I know it," said Tim. "Kristin...no, no..."

"Lots of furniture down in that truck, guys. Your furniture, *Fox*--"

"Kate," said Meldrick. "That was it--Kate."

"Very heavy furniture--"

"Or was it Kylie?"

"Requiring lots of people to--"

"Kara...Kitty...Kathy..."

"A *giant fucking leather couch!*"

****
Munch stalked out to the moving truck, Tim trailing behind him. "We were
just teasing, John. Why didn't you tell us?"

Munch just shook his head as he climbed into the truck, pushing a large box
out of his way. He picked up the end of couch and moved it over a few feet.

"You can't move that yourself. Let me go get Lewis or Mulder." Munch
continued to try to move the couch out from where it was jammed into the
corner of the truck. Finally Tim sighed and climbed into the truck.
Grabbing the end of the couch opposite Munch, they started to move it out,
Munch's anger at the teasing blinding him to the potential disaster. The
leg on Tim's end was caught behind a small box of books. Trying to wrench
it free, Tim suddenly cried out and collapsed onto the floor of the truck.

"Dammit, Munch."

Having just come upon the scene, Mulder leapt past the detective and moved
further into the truck. "Hey Tim, you okay?" he asked, crouching down to
assess the situation.

"Back. Hurts. Bad." When Mulder put out his hand to investigate, Tim
hollered again. "Hey, stop that!"

"We need to get you out of here," Mulder responded.

"You can't do that. It hurts to move."

"Well, what would be your solution? We can't leave you here indefinitely.
This is only a two hour parking zone. It might be hard for you to take up
permanent residence lying next to my couch."

Tim muttered something under his breath.

"What did you say?" Mulder asked.

"I said I hate this couch," Tim spat out in a measured tone. Mulder raised
his eyebrows, wounded slightly. "You asked what I said."

"But--this--this is my couch, my first real piece of furniture. How can
you hate it?"

"I know what you do on this couch. How the hell can you expect me to spend
my evening sitting on it watching television? Besides, I bought a
perfectly nice couch last fall at IKEA."

"But you sat on this couch all the time at my apartment. Why is it any
different now?" Mulder asked, his lip sticking out in a more prominent pout
than usual.

"Because I have an option?" Tim said, panting slightly. His face was
beginning to get a pinched look.

"C'mon Tim, we have to get you out of here," Mulder responded, trying again
to move Tim's spasmed form.

"The only thing that is getting me out of here is a big shot of Valium.
Either you drive this truck to the ER or you call the rescue squad. Those
are your options."

"Can we at least unload the rest of the truck?" Mulder asked. Again Tim
shot him a look. "What? It's rented by the hour. If I don't get it back
by 8 there's a surcharge." Tim didn't even dignify the questions with a
response, instead shooting Mulder a look that made his hair stand on end.

"What's goin' on? Hey Timmy, you up there?" Meldrick called from the end
of the truck. He crawled in and came to stand over Tim's pain-filled form.
"Damn, I thought you fixed that thing."

"I didn't fix it, I just didn't hurt it anymore," Tim said through clenched
teeth. "Get me the hell out of here."

Meldrick climbed back out, returning with the rest of the cadre. They
stood peering in the darkened truck until finally Munch pushed past his
colleagues and the visitors from DC to return to Tim's side.

"If this isn't a clusterfuck, then I don't know what is," he remarked as he
knelt down.

Tim simply moaned and tried to turn his head away. Mulder leaned over and
whispered into Munch's ear, and the older man responded by crawling back
out of the truck.

"Hey, geeks. Which one of you has a cell phone on your person?" Munch
asked. They all started for their waists, with Byers producing his slim
Nokia phone first.

"Just remember that isn't a secure form of communication," he said as he
handed it over. Munch nodded his head rolled his eyes slightly.

When the operator answered his call, he said, "Yeah, this is Detective
Munch. I've got a low priority transport on Shakespeare between Bond and
Bethel. Yeah. No, it's a back injury, but nobody's bleeding or anything.
Oh--yeah, probably two or three." He ended the call and handed the phone
back to Byers. "Thank god somebody can get something done around here," he
said as he headed back into the truck.

"We don't even live in this town," Frohike commented.

"Let alone being able to lift a guy like that," Langly responded.

"Anyway, it was John's fault," Byers added. The three men nodded confidently.

"I'm thinking this might not be a bad point in the day to retrieve the
Gunmobile and head home," Frohike said. The other two noted their
agreement by heading quickly for the rusty VW bus parked down the street.
Doing a U-turn they beat it back to I-395 as fast as they could.

****
"Now, are the sirens really necessary?" Tim asked as the ambulance pulled
up. The narrow cobblestone street was fairly overwhelmed at this point
with the rented truck pulled up on the sidewalk, the ambulance and the
ever-increasing number of onlookers who seemed to be incapable of tearing
themselves away from the incident. Munch and Mulder's attention was soon
drawn away from the injured man by the approaching EMT.

"So, what do we have here, Detective Munch?" the EMT asked. When Munch
related the sad tale, the EMT nodded solemnly and turned to call to his
partner. "Get the board, we've got a live one."

Tim groaned again. The EMT's partner approached. It was Joy Tolson, the
slim blonde woman who had waited with John Lange when he was trapped in the
subway. She came over and knelt down next to Tim.

"So, Detective Bayliss, you're not feeling so good today," she said as she
started to take his blood pressure.

"I'm not some old lady, just get me out of here," Tim stated, the pitch of
his voice rising.

"Things look fine here, let's get you out," Tolson said. She signalled to
her partner with the back board and they efficiently strapped Tim on. They
moved to lift him and Mulder grabbed on the side Joy was on.

"We've got it, sir. Liability. I can't let you help," she said in her
curt manner. Mulder pulled his hand away as if he had been burned. As
they hauled Tim out of the truck and down to the gurney, an old woman came
over to stand near Tim's head.

"Oh, poor Detective Bayliss. Were you shot again? You need to find a
safer job," she said, patting his cheek.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Kemp. It's just my back. I'll be fine in no time," Tim
said, more to get rid of her than to allay her fears. Alice Kemp was well
known in the neighborhood as a major busybody and had already inquired
several times about his "regular gentleman caller."

The EMT's slid Tim into the back of the rig. Meldrick made his way over
and got the keys to the truck from Mulder, figuring that they had
unwittingly started this whole mess with their teasing about Munch and Kay
-- the least they could do was finish moving the furniture in and return
the truck.

****
The ER had been a mess. Since Tim wasn't bleeding or in the midst of a
major cardiac episode, he waited and waited until finally the doctor came
and diagnosed the back spasm that he already knew he had. A shot of valium
and a prescription for muscle relaxants later they were on their way home.

Tim and Mulder walked up to the door slowly, observing that the chaos of
the earlier crowd seemed to have disappeared. The light over the porch
burned, lighting their way. Mulder held the screen door open, allowing Tim
to unlock the front door. He paused before entering.

"You aren't waiting for me to carry you over the threshold, are you?"
Mulder asked.

Tim shook his head. "No, I'm just a little afraid of what we might find."
He waited for another moment and then entered the house. Flicking the hall
light on, he stuck his head in the living room. Bookshelves with Mulder's
library had been carefully added along the brick wall. His fish swam in
their aquarium, the quiet bubble interrupting the silence of the room.
There was no sign of the couch anywhere.

Mulder reached over to the table by the door and picked up a note.

*Hope all went well at the hospital. Black bean burritos in the
refrigerator. Twenty minutes at 350. See you soon - John*

"Munch?" Tim asked.

"Byers," Mulder responded. Tim nodded, chuckling. "They must've come
back. Guilt, I'm sure."

"I think I'm going to head upstairs, but if you want--"

"They'll keep," Mulder responded, switching off the hall light and
following Tim up to their bedroom.

Upstairs, Tim moved gingerly toward the bed, sitting on the edge so he
could take his shoes off. After two attempts at getting his right foot up
on his left knee, Mulder offered to assist him.

"I'm old before my time," Tim whined.

Mulder laughed. "I'm always going to be older than you. What is it with
you young-uns bitching about age? First Scully, now you. I hope you won't
take a bottle of Cuervo to settle down." Tim shook his head. "How about a
shower instead? I'll wash your back."

Tim held his hands out. "I know I'm dirty and I probably stink, but I
think I'm too tired for the shower scene."

Mulder laughed again. "Okay, maybe not the first night we had hoped for,
but there will be others." He helped Tim out of his clothes and into bed.
"I'll run downstairs and get your medication and you get settled."

A few minutes later, Mulder reappeared with a tray and an ice pack,
handing Tim the glass of water and his pills. Tim knocked them back and
turned to lay on his side on the bed. Mulder carefully climbed into bed
next to him, placing the ice against the offending muscle in Tim's back.

"Mulder."

"Yeah."

"If we ever, ever do this again..."

"Hmm-mmm?"

"Professional movers. We go to the Bahamas and let 'Two Guys and a Truck'
handle the whole thing while we're gone, okay?"

"Yeah."

"And one more thing."

"What?"

"We are never having three of your friends and three of my friends in the
house again. It's not big enough."

"Okay."

Having said his piece, Tim relaxed into the pillow and into Mulder's arms.
Then another thought struck him and he lifted his head back up slightly off
the pillow.

"Hey -- where the hell is that couch?"

FIN