He Said, He Said: Exaiphnes Commentary
Written by Rachel and Marti

AUTHORS' NOTES: A little Exaiphnes metafiction -- we got to wondering how Tim and Mulder would respond to all the things we've said about them. Since we each feel we understand one of the characters better than the other, each of us wrote half of this and finished it before reading the other half. We made only minor stylistic changes after that. Basically, it turns out they know each other pretty well by now.

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.

Part I: The Real Mulder

Okay -- I usually don't talk about my private life that much, but the time has come to set things straight. It appears that you've been reading about me and Mulder in these stories that Marti and Rachel write, and let me tell you, they are *so* far from the truth. They make it look like all we ever do is fight and have sex. I mean, there's more to life than that. Sure, they pick the episodes with the most dramatic impact -- and I can tell you that camping trip was every bit as miserable as Marti said it was -- but most of the time our lives aren't dramatic at all. We have to pay bills and take out the garbage just like everyone else.

To begin with, we both work sixty or more hours a week. When we come home, we're *tired.* We just want to read our mail, eat dinner, watch some TV. And one thing that has always amazed me about Mulder is that he can do all these things at once. I don't know if you'd call it multitasking or what, but he'll have the TV on and be reading his e-mail, even writing back to people, plus he'll have a magazine open on the desk next to him to read when he's waiting for files to load or whatever. The first time we sat down to watch a video together and he pulled out a magazine, I thought he just wasn't paying attention, until I realized that's how he always does it. Me, I have to do one thing at a time. I can't even read with music playing.

Music is one thing we don't really agree on either. You know Mulder picks on me for listening to dance music, Erasure and stuff, but I liked it long before I knew that any of us -- me or them -- were gay. I think he thinks it's too repetitive, or soulless, or something, but I like stuff with some life to it. Everything he listens to is morose -- grunge, Metallica ballads. So slow, so ponderous, so angst-ridden.

Another thing we've never agreed on is food. I can't believe how he can go for days without eating a single vegetable. If it doesn't come frozen in a box, he won't eat it. I keep trying to introduce him to new things out of the Moosewood cookbook -- north African couscous, curried stir-fry vegetables, stuff with some *flavor* to it. And I make him go with me to Margaret's once in a while. He'll eat the stuff, and sometimes even admit to liking it, but I know he would never cook it himself. Not that he cooks anyway. Once he tried to make spaghetti sauce, and he misread the recipe and put in a tablespoon of pepper instead of a teaspoon, so it was inedible. Now there's no way he'll ever stop eating Ragu.

Most of the time we do agree on what TV shows to watch, except that I really like Millenium and he thinks it's too much like work. I've recently gotten hooked on those VH-1 Behind the Music things -- you know, the pathos, the sober reflection on a misspent youth. And he has a strange preoccupation with the Lifetime made-for-TV-movie, for some ungodly reason, though he gives them the MST3K treatment. One fascination he's developed since he met me is Loveline, that late-night MTV show. I think it's depressing to see how neurotic all the callers are, but he can't get enough. Maybe it's the psychologist in him. He ends up telling the callers' stories to people later, almost like they're people he knows, like that one where the woman thought the guy on JAG looked just like her ex-husband.

One TV viewing habit I wish he'd get over is the porn. I know men are supposed to be more visually stimulated, blah, blah, blah, but I never did understand it. It's not even that I think it's degrading to women, although much of it probably is. I just think it's boring and clinical. Fortunately, he doesn't watch it or talk about it when I'm around. But there was that one time when I got home earlier than I expected to, and he was stretched out on the couch, with some couple writhing on the screen in front of him. At least he had his pants on; thank heaven for small favors. I don't want to end up calling Loveline myself. "Dr. Drew, I came home the other day to find my boyfriend..."

Other annoying habits? Here's something you probably don't know. It's hard to get him out of the bathroom in the morning, mostly because he spends a lot of time on his *hair.* It's so short, I don't see what he could need to do to it, but he's always concerned that it's parted just right. Me, on the other hand...I once shaved mine off so I didn't have to fool with it. I'm even tempted to do that again, since it's getting kind of long and hanging over my collar. But I'm never going to worry about it like he does. God, I think he might even have some *mousse* in there.

So, this is the kind of stuff Marti and Rachel won't tell you. They always rave about his tawny skin (tawny?? oh, come on.) and his pouty lower lip and his brooding intensity -- but then they never had to watch him clip his toenails. Trust me, all the mystique goes right out the window. And they don't tell you that he snores, and doesn't leave me a lot of room on the bed, and always wants more blankets than I do.

But, then, it's still worth it to have him sleeping next to me. So Marti and Rachel are right about that much. Just don't let them fool you on the other stuff.

Except the bondage stories -- those are true.

And, by the way, we do *not* hire the housekeeping out; I do it all.


Part II: The Real Tim

Tim just came in here with another one of his "Zen" ideas, and so here I am trying to get some of my "emotions and feelings" out on the screen for all of you. Please bear with me. I may have a degree in psychology, but sharing is not one of my strong skills. Anyway, you've been taking a look at our world through the rose-colored glasses that Rachel and Marti seemed to have tattooed on their heads and I would like to set things straight as well.

First of all . . . can I start with the whole Exaiphnes thing. I've studied a little bit of the ancient languages and what's it with this fan fiction thing and the Greek? Quite frankly, I think they are just trying to prove to all of you that they aren't fourteen. Believe me, they aren't and they have the bottles of Oil of Olay to prove it. Oh, but I was supposed to be talking about me and the detective.

Hooking up with Tim Bayliss has been a, well, a pretty weird experience. If I had known what was going to happen when Scully and I pulled up to that house last fall, I'm not sure I would have gotten out of the car. First of all, until we had that *big* moment where we realized we were a little more than just buddies, I had never entertained the notion of homosexuality. I figured that some night I'd get drunk and Scully would tie one on and we'd finally hook up. Man, I hope she wasn't pinning all of her dreams on me as well.

So, where was I? Yeah, I'm supposed to tell you what life with Tim is really like. Well, it ain't as pretty as it sounds. Did I mention yet that he picks his feet? While we're watching TV he sits in his chair -- that's right, *his* chair -- and picks at the dead skin on his feet. I may not be much of a housekeeper (we hire it out) but that's gross. Just imagine the Thinker there in your Lazy-Boy just picking away.

He does cook, and quite well, but man, what the hell is it? I think I may have moved him off the tofu kick, but I have yet to put my hands on some red meat in this house. And all those years of bachelor living kind of ruined me for the schedule of eating when somebody else is hungry. Some days I like to just come home, read my e-mail, check out DejaNews and call it a day. Other times I like to stay up all night. Tim, he's run by a schedule. Dinner at six, bed at 11:30, back up the next morning at 6:30.

Yes, that's right...6:30 a.m. Not 5:45. Contrary to what they might have told you, Tim very rarely gets up with me in the morning and he never -- and I mean never -- makes me coffee. Hell, he bitches when I disturb him in the morning so that I can get down to DC and actually make a living so we can take nice vacations like that trip to New Orleans. That whole morning before I left for Minnesota? Anomalous all the way around. Also, he always makes me take out the trash.

Okay, picks his toes, sleeps in, no trash . . . oh, but did I mention the back rubs? He gives incredible back rubs. I think Marti or Rachel might have mentioned that once. He also listens to me bitch about my job, Kersh (when I still worked for him), Scully, the shitty rental cars we get. He listens to it all and then tries to put it in perspective for me. The man is downright unflappable.

I guess all in all, I'm pretty damn lucky that we got the call on that bombing case. As much as it might have looked like a dog's life, sitting home every night on my couch watching porn was really not that fulfilling. I do miss the waterbed, but not much else.

Oh yeah, if you're wondering . . . the sex, it's all made up. Natural lubrication . . . my ass, literally.