'El Tercer Ojo Ciego' (1/1)
Translation:  Third Eye Blind
Author:  Sue
susieqla@yahoo.com
Rating: PG
Category: Gunfic
Spoilers:  'Via Negativa'
Disclaimer: All X-Files characters and
references are property of C. Carter,
Morgan & Wong, 10-13 Productions and FOX.


El Tercer Ojo Ciego



You know you're right, as you do your
darnedest, maintaining the hard line,
holding the persuasive intruders, your
oldest, most intimate friends, at bay.
Despite their combined efforts to override;
prove you wrong with their myopic, specious
reasoning.  The strongest of their
arguments hinges on the fact that nobody's
here to stop them; least of all you.  The
air in this catacombal nook is rife with
insurgence.  But you're determined to
prevail against their hairtrigger
snoopiness.

Langly's making like a dizzying merry-go-
round in Mulder's abdicated chair, firing
rubberbands up at the peppering of Eberhard
Fabers stuck in the ceiling as though
they're a soft-leaded Sword of Damocles
poised over his bobbing and weaving blond
noggin.  One minute, his rubber-soled
clodhoppers are on the desk, like he owns
the place -- like he owns the whole damn
Bureau for that matter, and then in
lightning speed time, they're planted back
on the floor, twirling him, while you do a
creeping burn.

He's pissing you off as never before, but
you do your usual; you ignore his juvenile
antics while keeping an eye on Frohike who
is riffling through several data printouts
which he says deal with some 'questionable'
forensic data marked 'sensitive.'  And of
course it has your name on it, Fro,' you
think to yourself, casting chary eyes upon
him, so that's why it's your sworn duty to
pry to your nosy little heart's content.

With your attention divided, you think to
when the 'appointment' arrives, arranged by
Scully, you and your journeymen will be at
liberty to speak freely, having swept this
eminent domain thoroughly for whatever
digital auditory or visual 'bugs' which may
have been furtively disseminated beforehand.

You gawk at your shifty partners while they
persist in showing how 'can't take them
anywhere' they are sometimes.  They haggle
on, spoiling for satisfaction of the
paranormal kind.  As far as it depends upon
you, you'll see to it they won't get any.

"What do you think you're doing?" you demand
of Langly; this must make the fifth
rubberband he's gotten off.  It lands on
Frohike's head, but he's too engrossed in a
notation Scully's made near a finding, to
notice.  You actually expect an answer which
you don't get.  True to exacerbating form,
Langly's ignoring you the way he usually
does unless, of course, he needs a favor.

Melvin's right in his case; he *is* a punk.
His ass ripe for a good kicking.  Not by you,
naturally, but by someone tailor-made for the
task of giving him a solid comeuppance, so
long overdue.  You've known him for over ten
years now, and with each one that has passed
it's left him that much more truculent.  The
knack he has for being such an ornery cuss is
formidable.

Yesterday, Melvin came the closest to going
'thunderdome' on him that you've ever seen
Frohike come because Ringo had tampered with
several of his sacrosanct Gopher sites,
driveling some well-fondled e-mails which
Frohike had kept pocketed for ages.  'TD'
never mushroomed though; Mel just walked away,
judging it wasn't worth getting a coronary
thrombosis over.  You'd lived the dream for a
few fleeting moments anyhow.  Later, Mel said
he'd fix Langly's little red wagon some other
way.  A much better way, which when he told
you what he had planned brought a substantial
smile to your face.

It appears the printouts are boring the
shorter of the would-be purveyors of fine
mysteries.  He's just cast them aside, and is
advancing towards your last stand; you're
duty-bound to hold him off.  You're just as
adamant about holding the line, staying the
course as they are about crossing it.  Keeping
any and all of the X-Files out of their
grasping, expedient hands has converted into
the mission you've chosen to accept.

"We have a right to our info," Frohike
mutters.

You shake your head meaningfully at Melvin
with your hands up, preparing for battle.
"It's not *our* information," you sternly
object, but in your ears you don't hear
yourself sounding firm enough.

"How many times have we saved Mulder's life?"
Frohike nitpicks.  You tick off mentally how
many.

"How many times have we saved Scully's?"
Langly double-teams.

Okay, so they have a point there on twin
counts, we have, numerous times.  But saving
their lives was its own reward.  Doing so
hardly merits violating what you hold as a
sacred trust.

This is hardly fair, you think ruefully to
yourself, wishing Mulder were here to act as
a resilient deterrent.  Why, if he were here,
you wouldn't be having this ridiculous
conversation with them; they wouldn't have
the temerity to even broach the subject.

"And I'm telling you these files are theirs.
They're *private*," you reiterate, liking the
way you stuck the word 'private' to them.
Who's wussy?  Not you, that's who.

Melvin sets his jaw; this isn't going to be
easy, you bewail.  Why, for goodness' sake,
are you even having this debate with these
heretics?  "And I'm telling you Mulder
wouldn't mind.  We practically solved half
these cases for him."  My, how modest, Mel,
you sardonically extrapolate.  He sounds as
though he has clocked in the actual hours of
gutsy field work with your beloved Agents.

Langly has stopped the carousel ride long
enough to nod in one hundred percent
agreement with him.  An absolute first.
"Yeah, Byers."  You cringe, hearing blond-
boy's nasal quirk.  "Quit your whining," he
says through his nose, and breaks the squeak
barrier.  You assail him with a sharp look,
and blink, making sure you're in the same
time zone.  Who does he think he's talking
to?  "Nobody likes a crybaby..."

What was that?  His lackluster attempt at
irony?  You nearly fall down in the wake
of his pucky eyeball rolls, and guff.
Inwardly, you repeat...'who the hell does
the 'whinefester' think he's talking to?'

You sigh the sigh of the dogged, and clear
your scratchy throat, to begin anew.  "Agent
Scully asked us to give our assistance, not
to go through her files."  You wonder what
Doggett will be like as you close ranks.

"Like she's gonna care," Frohike prattles
on, demonstrative about not camouflaging his
derisive snort.

"Yeah, right," Langly chortles obnoxiously.
You're this close to smacking that jerky
smirk clean off his simpering face; in a
parallel universe that is.  You're about to
say something pithy, but are startled by a
very 'cop looking' man absorbing a first
impression as you turn into the 'loomer'
himself.

By the look you're reading in his blunt
face, ticking like a time bomb, you and your
associates have made an extremely shoddy
first one.  Guilty by unruly association you
carp, lamenting.  Isn't it always the way?

"Can I help you gentlemen?"

Something barbed in his delivery makes you
and yours sound anything but, hearing the
'who sent in the clowns?' dig in his voice.
It almost makes you want to exclaim, 'Can we
get a do-over?'

Wait!  Maybe it's not too late to cut a
clearer, more precise image of who you
collectively are.  You've been known to rise
to many an awkward occasion, and salvage
group pride.

"You must be Agent Doggett."  You breathe a
calming breath, and billow your chest;
urbanity in action.  That's you.  "I'm John
Byers..."  That certainly slid off your
polished tongue, like melted butter, as
though you were being presented to royalty.
"These are my associates.  Melvin Frohike
and Richard Langly."

'Ringo.'  You almost hear it leak from his
curving lips, but once he catches sight of
how displeased you'll be if he corrects you,
he mutes himself.  You're striving for
legitimacy here; not a slap-stick routine.
They actually waved like little kids out the
back window of a station wagon -- God help
you.

"You're the guys Scully told me about;
Mulder's friends..."

He'd said 'friends,' right?  That wasn't
fiends he'd slipped in, instead, was it?
You smile wide, looking staid and sure;
forcedly animated with just the auspicious
blending of joviality.  "Yes.  That's us,"
you say easygoingly; a ship captain's bearing.

Doggett is mulling you over 'en total;' the
trio of you can tell.  He's literally a man
thinking on his feet, as you'll come to
learn how naturally he does it as these
introductory, revelatory moments come and go.

Thinking what, though?  You're hesitant
about wanting to speculate quite that deeply
right now.  "You publish the 'Lone Gunmen'
newspaper."  You grin inwardly; 'newspapah'...
inflected like a true New Yorker would.

"Our reputation precedes us," Melvin
congratulates, with a maturer-looking Langly
straightening up his act; perhaps one day, you
think, he'll wear a tie to go along with it.

--Nah.  That'll be the day when Scully
swallows, hook, line and sinker, anything and
everything Mulder spoon-feeds her.  Never
happen.

"I read the files."

Frohike casts a doubtful look at him.  "Which
is why you need our help," he asserts.

Langly's craving a piece of this pie too.
"No offense, man, but you're in over your
head..."

Maybe, you reserve, unwilling to rush to
judgment.  You cannot identify it yet, but
there's a glimmer in this man which feels
vaguely...

Familiar, archetypical to you.

Four smiles are brought to birth, as you
perceive the ice has been broken, a river
of interchange thaws, and a four-way
brainstorming of minds must begin because
it's time to get down to cases.

In particular...this esoteric one.  You sigh
and reminisce a second.  Haven't they all
been exactly like that?

You don't expect this conference to be a
meeting of a Mulder mind, but you'll give this
man a chance.  The malleable one Mulder gave
you so many years ago, and look where it's
led.

You heard right; that was no fluke.
Unmistakable.  That was cooperative
concurrence issuing from your serviceable
cohorts once the G-man with a vengeance
leaves, hot for the chase.

"Not bad for a beginner," Frohike rewards, a
thing akin to admiration sparking in his eyes,
crediting on the side of generous.

Langly and you nod, remarkably on the
identical wavelength; amicable, hopeful.
For a 'rookie,' the man has definite
possibilities.  You three experts will school
him; finish his training, so to speak, as only
the triad of you can.  Efficaciously, over the
years, you and your fellow men of distinction,
proficient in qualitative analyses of the
technological as well as the abstract, have
reduced the mechanics of this job to its nuts
and bolts.  Your track record is enviable, as
the 'new guy' will come to appreciate.

Welcome, Agent Doggett...



End