DISCLAIMER:

"Dear Ms. Daniell, thank you for letting us read your freelance report of the incident on the set last week. Your article was generally well-written, and did cover the salient facts concerning the attack on Mr. Duchovny with the stuffed feline puppet from the Teso dos Bichos episode of The X-Files. While we do applaud the succinct use of the English language in journalism, we feel rather strongly that you would do well to choose an article title other than 'Duchovny Pussy-whipped.'"

If all the world's a stage, then the New Agent Orientation sessions here at the Bureau must be the cosmic equivalent of Amateur Comedy Night. I feel every inch an old lady of 35 when I see the gaggles of freshly scrubbed junior agents. When did we start recruiting from high school cheerleading teams, I wonder, as the elevator disgorges another group of giggling young female assistants and first year agents.

I've faced down all manner of spooky...sorry, odd phenomena, dangerous, hardened criminals, and yet I would happily plead a nasty migraine and run for home today--

--but for Mulder.

You remember him. Spooky Mulder, Champion of the X-Files. Sir Mulder, the knight who sifted the snow of Antarctica to find me. Mulder, Seeker of the Truth, who wants to Believe.

Except today I'm graced with Whiny Mulder. My pigheaded partner has been laid low by an honest-to-God, full-blown cold and flu. This is a man who has repeatedly visited Death's Door only to ring the doorbell and run away like a prankster. Mulder has been shot, poisoned, partly frozen, roasted, even basted with black oil; but it takes a case of influenza with a secondary upper respiratory tract infection to reduce him to a pathetic lisping and sniffling shadow of his former self. The worst part is, Mulder won't go home. His sorry carcass should be at home in bed, but will he listen? No.

Exercising my foresight and knowledge of Mulder's behavior--although my dear partner would categorize it as a 'premonition'--I made sure that my first errand after flying back from California was to head straight to his apartment and pitch all of the food in the refrigerator, which consisted of poorly refrigerated leftovers and a couple of selections that would have required that you draw your weapon to escort them to the microwave. If it hadn't been for me, Mulder would have chowed down on six-week old barbecued chicken and side dishes. The potato salad was not quite as green as Mulder was this morning.

As if it weren't bad enough that Whiny Green Mulder won't go home, I'm dismayed by the the progression of an obscure mental dysfunction which has caused a degeneration of his speech patterns. I noticed it first when we were assigned the undercover case at Arcadia.

'Honey-bunny.' 'Freaky-deaky.' Truly bizarre, even by Mulder-standards.

I found him at his desk this morning, moaning pathetically. Try as I might, I could not get him to go home, even when I offered to call a cab or drive him myself. He said he wanted to try to work, to try to take his mind off how wretched he felt, oh and could I

--turn up the heat, he was having the chills

--get some soda, maybe he could drink a bit of soda

--get some cola, ginger ale wasn't what he had in mind

--and crackers, could I get some crackers from the cafeteria?

--get rid of the bubbles in the soda...his mom always gave him flat soda

--turn down the heat, he was roasting

--stop bugging him about the aspirin...wait, is it the orange kind?

--push the trash can closer, maybe he was going to--

--get him something else to drink, microwaving the soda got rid of the bubbles, but he couldn't drink hot cola...what about the powdered flavored coffee Kersh gave us for Christmas?

--move the trash can away, it smells like something died in there

--make some tea and pour out the putrid Irish Creme Mocha Tropical Delight coffee

--maybe put some ice in the cola, that sounded better than tea after all

--stop playing with the heating and make it a reasonable temperature, please?

I began to think about the risks and benefits of shooting my partner. Again. Mulder flailed an arm weakly at the trashcan, which I moved into range. Again. I tried to convince him that it might be more serious than just a flu bug. A doctor is supposed to do no harm...but all I was doing was making sure he was an informed patient...

"Mulder, perhaps it isn't just the flu. Maybe you have neurological complications. Let me feel your head. Do you have any other symptoms? Dizziness? Ringing in your ears? Look up here, I want to check your eyes."

"Don't wanna look up. Wanna work. My tummy-wummy hurts."

'Tummy-wummy'? I'm an experienced medical examiner and *I* just about lost it, hearing that. I briefly considered the possibility that Mulder had switched minds with Tickle Me Elmo.

I pride myself on having a fairly decent bedside manner--after all, none of my regular patients has ever complained, ha-ha--but Mulder was getting to me. Yes, I was sure he felt like death warmed over, but...I swore to God, one more foray into 'wordy-erdies' and I would take my scalpel-walpel, amputate his cocky-wocky, and stuff it where the sunny-wunny doesn't shine.

Mulder launched into another moaning monologue about how awful he felt, and how much he wanted to throw up, and how much better he'd feel if he did. Suddenly I was reminded of a time years ago when my brother Bill got sick, and had carried on in just this fashion, and how I leaned over his shoulder and whispered in his ear--

--and Mulder was droning on, and I saw it coming, another word rhyme, and it was going to be my name--

"and my stomach feels so queasy, Scully-Wul-"

I bent down, close to Mulder's ear, and breathed softly and serenely:

"Cold gristly hamburgers swimming in grease."

The next moment Mulder was head first into the trashcan, ridding himself of lukewarm microwaved cola, pseudo coffee, tea, aspirin, and crackers. It didn't take long, he was done by the time I got him a cup of water. He rinsed his mouth, and managed a weak smile.

"I feel better."

"That's nice, Mulder. I'll send you a bill. NOW will you go home?"

No, he wouldn't. Mulder felt well enough to work, or so he said. In fact, he felt so much better that he wanted to review a case we ran across while on Manure Exile, and he thought the case file might be up in the bullpen, and would I go and get it for him?

Well, what do *you* think I said? My sanity (or what was left of it) desperately needed a break, and judging from his demeanor Mulder would be OK for about half an hour until he ran through his new-found energy reserves. I was out of there as fast as my little feet could carry me, pausing only to warn Mulder against trying to snack on dry-roasted peanuts on a tender tummy.

Fate conspired to give me speedy elevators and an intelligently filed copy of the case. Even taking the long way 'round to the North side elevators seemed to go far too quickly. I gritted my teeth and hugged the file folder to my chest, trying to screw up my courage for round two with Mulder. My preoccupation with the thorny issue of how to deal with Mulder kept me from noticing the group at the elevator until it was too late to make a graceful retreat. Caroline had already seen me, and her eyes were telegraphing a plea for help.

Caroline Stacey is one of the few people I know who can look completely innocent and worldly wise at the same time. She's a formidable older black woman with a keen and incisive wit, competent and reliable, and not at all domineering or superior unless the target of her ire deserves it. Gossip has it that she used to be Kersh's secretary and that he made it his personal quest to find her an administrative spot in the Director's office. Whatever it was she did to rattle Kersh's cage was enough to get him to straighten up and fly right, to use an old Navy expression of Ahab's.

Even the administrative staff at the Director's level are expected to pitch in during Agent Orientation time, and knowing Caroline, she hadn't asked for special dispensation to avoid the duty. Something made me wonder if she wasn't having second thoughts, given the look in her eyes and the fact that if any of the four young women surrounding her had walked into a bar, they would have been carded on the spot. Still, for someone who had handled Kersh so deftly, this should have been a cakewalk.

Shouldn't it?

"_Doctor_ Scully!" Caroline hailed me from twenty feet away. I nodded, more to hide my surprise than anything else. We're on a first name basis, Caroline and I, and I knew her well enough to realize that there was something going on.

"Good morning, Ms. Stacey."

The four agents were alternately gawking at the surroundings and whispering to each other, but ignoring me.

"Ladies," Caroline said in hushed tones, "Dr. Scully would know." Caroline paused for a moment and looked around in the most unsubtle manner for possible eavesdroppers. "Dr. Scully is...*his* doctor."

Four cases of whiplash were narrowly avoided as the young women turned to stare at me with amazed and envious eyes.

"Really?????" gasped out Miss Ample Plum Eye Shadow. The other three began to hyperventilate. Caroline was wearing a quite readable "see what I have to deal with?" expression.

"I'm sorry, I don't quite follow--"

Miss Retro Groupie--the young blonde still had traces of magenta and lime highlighter hiding along her hairline, and just when had heart-shaped eyeglass frames come back into fashion?--had tamed her breathing enough to pose her question.

"You're...Agent Mulder's doctor?"

The twinkle in Caroline's eyes convinced me to simply nod an affirmative.

Ms. Peppermint Stick fanned herself with her orientation materials. Her light burgundy suit with white blouse wasn't well-tailored and she bore an uncomfortable resemblance to a Christmas confection. I was afraid to look too closely at her name badge--her parents might well have named her Candy.

There are some things that are just too frightening for the human mind to comprehend.

"So is it true?" Ms. Peppermint hissed. It was at times like this that I was grateful for those medical school courses on comportment. I favored her with my best blank doctor stare.

That held them all for a moment, then Ms. Blue Basketweave Suit pursed her lips and tilted her head in a daring fashion.

"We saw Agent Mulder earlier in the week. He gave our group a 30 minute presentation about profiling. He's so..." the pause was filled with a sigh in quadraphonic stereo "...*hot*. He's got this wonderful distinguished nose, and you know what they say...big nose, big --"

Basketweave's mouth was poised, open, in the expectation that I would fill in the blank. Plum, Retro, and Peppermint collectively held their breath. In the background, Caroline was convulsed with silent laughter.

I affected ignorance, shaking my head in confusion.

Basketweave was shocked that I could be so *dense*.

"You *know*, big nose, big --" and this time, Basketweave added explicit hand motions.

I stared off in thought, letting the gears turn visibly. Finally, I looked her straight in the eyes.

"You mean, 'penis'?"

An explosion of embarrassed twitters erupted from the flushed Fibbie Four, enough to confirm that they *were* asking me if Mulder's olfactory endowment extended, no pun intended, to his nether region. Caroline leaned against the wall, the challenge explicit in her arched eyebrow, the opportunity there for me to take if I chose.

Mulder will tell you that I can't lie worth beans. And he's right.

But I *can* act.

I started with an air of clinical detachment.

"Normally, it would be a violation of patient confidentiality." I paused and searched their faces, then continued haltingly. "But in the name of compassion..."

They inched closer as I spoke more softly.

"Yes, to answer your question, it is true for Mulder." I affected a stricken look, and stumbled over the next several words. "Or at least it _was_ true for Mulder, until...The Accident."

They were shocked and appalled that I would discuss Mulder's personal tragedy. They leaned in even closer.

"Agent Mulder was on a Violent Crimes detail that involved a stake-out of a junked car parts lot. VCS had reason to believe that the owner of the lot was running a scam involving counterfeit Ford Taurus replacement parts. The stake-out was at the height of summer, and the constant patrols of the yard by men with guard dogs meant that the Agents on stake-out had to hide, crouched down, in rusting wrecks.

"It doesn't sound like glamorous Bureau work, I know. But Agent Mulder has always played by the book and followed every official request. In fact, he volunteered for that detail. It would be too much to bear, knowing that the counterfeit Ford Taurus parts that *he* let through could contribute to something tantamount to a global conspiracy, with key players in the highest levels of power, that reaches down into the lives of every man, woman, and child on this planet, wreaking social disorder and unrest. I don't know about you, but I don't think *I* could live with guilt like that."

My voice caught, and I saw sympathetic tears welling in the girls' eyes. Tears were streaming down Caroline's face, but for a different reason.

"To prevent dehydration in the extreme temperatures, Agent Mulder routinely consumed several quarts of iced tea before the stake-outs. The stake-out assignments were usually short, each shift lasting only a couple of hours, but on that tragic day a roll-over accident involving several tanker trucks carrying corn oil closed the highway and left Agent Mulder stranded without a replacement.

"For the first time Agent Mulder had to confront the pressing issue of how to relieve himself in hostile territory. The simple solution of speedily answering Nature's Call by urinating on a nearby car was not an option, since the guard dogs would immediately detect the scent. Clearly what was needed was a container of some sort that could be...utilized and then closed up.

"But Agent Mulder could not find anything in the immediate vicinity, and the patrols prevented him from ranging too far. As his need grew, Agent Mulder hit on what he thought was the perfect solution. He quietly crept out the car in which he was hiding, and moved to the rear of the vehicle. With some effort he twisted the gas cap open, the fumes of the last of the gas in the tank wafting around him. In his haste Agent Mulder impatiently yanked down hard on his zipper tab.

"So hard that sparks flew from the zipper, sparks that ignited the gas fumes, and -- and --"

Plum and Retro were quietly weeping into damp tissues. To one side Basketweave was supporting a wide-eyed and pale Peppermint, who kept hiccuping "oh" in a sorrowful manner. Squelched sputters were coming from Caroline as she tried valiantly not to laugh.

"Agent Mulder's cries were heard by the owner of a kennel club next to the junk yard. Mr. Queg rushed to Agent Mulder's aid with a portable fire extinguisher while his prize-winning attack Pomeranians held the Doberman guard dogs at bay. Agent Mulder was rushed to the nearest medical facility, and all the latest scientific advancements and therapies were used with some success, but...in the end...it was but a ...small victory."

I delicately touched my small nose with my index finger.

Peppermint collapsed on the floor, unnoticed by Plum and Retro, who burst into disconsolate wails. Caroline gave up and started laughing only to be all but drowned out by Plum and Retro's cacophony. Basketweave stood in stunned silence, until at last she was moved to utter with heartfelt sympathy, "that poor man."

I nodded sadly as if in agreement with her sentiments, and went back the way I had come, toward the South elevators. I made it all the way to the elevators. Those of us waiting boarded the car, the doors closed and the elevator started down.

If the other passengers in the elevator thought it was odd to witness Special Agent Dana Scully suddenly overcome with hysterical laughter, they had the courtesy--or cautious good sense--not to mention it.

In the basement I was met by the pungent aroma of peanuts and a pasty-faced Mulder, who announced contritely, "I wanna go home, Scully." I grabbed my purse, laptop, and an extra plastic bag, and began to steer my unsteadily weaving partner out of the building.

That "don't eat the peanuts" strategy had always worked with Bill, too.

Within a week Mulder was fully recovered and back at work, logging in new X-File cases as well as searching for archived copies of files we lost in the fire. To my immense relief Mulder has ceased to indulge in the word rhymes that plagued me last week. I'm now convinced it was probably due to previously undetected head trauma.

I'm keeping my scalpel-walpel handy, just in case.

Oh, and Mulder thinks we have a promising X-File case right here in the building. Seems that some Agents collapsed at the end of yesterday's orientation session, shortly after Mulder wrapped up his review of some of our notable X-File cases. It doesn't appear to have been the viewing of the cheerful exsanguination slides, since everyone was fine until one of the Assistants from the Director's Office handed Mulder an announcement to read. He'd read the event announcement aloud and poof! the Agents went over in dead faints. Mulder can't wait for the air and water samples to come back--he's like a little kid at Christmas.

As for me, I'm faced with a dilemma.

I'm the debunker in this partnership. I'm supposed to bring my scientific expertise to bear on the analysis of unexplained phenomena. I'm supposed to help sniff out the truth. But I ask you: should I explain why Mulder making a public announcement about the upcoming "FBI Summer Wienie Roast" would cause four female Agents to swoon?

In this case, I think I should let my partner sniff out the truth alone.

You could say...he's got a nose for such things.

-END-
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