How funny is it that there’s 1 (one) office in the FBI basement and it belongs to the spookiest guy in the whole bureau

Partner (Prt. 1)

남자는 희망을 가질 수 있다.  A guy can hope. 

Description: (y/n) works as a special consultant for the federal government. Specifically the special operations unit that handles some of the worst crimes the country sees. Working multiple cases with Hongjoong’s team, this case seems like any other case but it’s not only personal connection to that case that rocks (y/n)’s demeanor. Her old partner from the exact case shows up in life again. Can she catch the suspect she’s been chasing for 2 and a half years? Warnings: Guns, stabbing, serial killing, swearing Genre: Crime, Mystery, Angst Word Count: 2.2k

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"We need you on this." Seonghwa says over the phone.

I flip over and peek at my bedside clock through sleep heavy eyes, "Seonghwa, it's 2 in the morning and you guys haven't needed my assistance in almost a year. Why now? Why this case?"

There's a pause on the line, "I can't discuss that over the phone. Can you just come in?"

I groan, "Right now?"

"No, (y/n)!" San's sarcasm is unmissable even from the background, "The dead body sitting in autopsy can wait until the morning!"

I roll my eyes. San can be a pain in the butt, sometimes, but he’s a good agent. "I don't ever go into your office. Seonghwa, what's changed?"

Seonghwa takes in a deep breath but someone takes the phone from him, "Because you're the expert on this particular case." Hongjoong hisses, "Be in here in an hour. It’s your lead." He instructs before ending the call.

Knowing the exact case that he’s talking about, I sigh and sit up in bed, questioning why I let my guard down even though I knew this cooling off period couldn’t last forever. Running a hand through my hair, I let out one more sigh before getting out of bed. Throwing on some acceptable clothing, I start to find my towards their office.

As a special consultant for Hongjoong's special operations team, I help whenever they need help. Trained as a spy, I was handed over to the government when a deal was made with my organization. None of which I minded, until my own people turned their back on me and my alliance went straight to the government. Ever since, I've been helping the federal crime agency with various difficult cases but they especially like to stick me with Hongjoong's team. Something about us working extremely well together.

Last time I worked with Hongjonog's team was about a year ago. It was a case of missing children, serial kidnappings. The cases were central to a southern city so we convened there and I have never had a reason to visit their office.

Until today.

My phone vibrates with a text as I stand across the street, spending a few seconds to collect myself.

"By the way, we've added a new team member." San's texts reads. "Name's Song Mingi."

My eyes soak in the name and my foot stops midstep. "Song Mingi." I repeat.

Mulling over the name, I begin trying to convince myself that it's not the same Song Mingi from my past.

"It's not." I shake my head, and cross the street in the middle of a sleeping city. "It can't be him."

Walking through the lobby, I look around wondering where to go next. The whole building being an unknown maze.

"(y/n)." Seonghwa calls me over to the elevators, where he's holding the one he just came in. "Good to see you." He gives me a hug once the doors begin to shut.

"Good to see you too, under the circumstances." I greet back and give him a smile. "So this is the much talked about office." I look around the plain elevator. Simple gold lines border the dark and light brown marbled walls.

"Lobby is somewhat of a decoy. More offices on the third floor and up." Seonghwa explains, "We work in the basement."

"You work..." I trail off.

"In the basement. The tech and conversations are safer in the basement. And we have been dubbed the best." Seonghwa finishes for me with a small smirk.

“And the best team should get the best everything, including security.” I playfully roll my eyes.

"Down this way." Seonghwa walks out of the elevator and directs me.

"So is everyone here?" I wonder, taking in the florescent lights bouncing off the grey walls, thought slivers of blue catch my eyes.

Seonghwa nods, "Everyone except for Mingi. He's out running down a lead, or a hunch. I couldn't really understand him when he ran out the door."

"Must be a busy bee." I comment.

"The busiest." Seonghwa agrees and opens a glass door. “But he’s proven to be quite the agent.” Opening his arms, he breathes in the air, “Welcome to our home.”

A raised landing area leads down into a large open space with desks and a wall of screens on the wall opposite of where I stand. There are a few other door ways leading out of the space and a couple halls that lead away but before I can scan anymore, Jongho and San's screeches of welcome divert my attention.

"(y/n)!" Jongho yells and comes running up, engulfing me in a hug.

"It's been way too long!" San comments, replacing himself in my arms when Jongho finally relinquishes his grip on me.

"Not my fault, San." I smile, "You guys are just too good, you never needed me."

“So this area we call the conference hall, gives the notion of conversation and thinking.” San immediately goes into a small visual tour of the area, “We have those two conference rooms for us but there’s a ton more on upper floors.”

“That hallway leads to the garage with other storage places,” Jongho picks up and points to the hallway on the right. Then he points to the left hallway, “And that hallway leads to our forensic lab and autopsy.”

Hongjoong clears his throat and we instantly take the hint to get to work.

"What have you been up to since we last saw you?" Yeosang asks as we make our way into the ‘conference hall.’

I shrug, "This, that, random assignments. The usual." I look towards the files laid out on the center table, "But I don't know if we can consider this 'the usual.'"

"Right," Hongjoong switches into work mode, "The body we found last night was-"

"Stabbed fourteen times with two different knives and a single strand of blonde hair laid across her neck." I finish.

"Bingo." Hongjoong exhales, "Pulled similar cases and found you were the one in charge of them."

"So what do you know?" Wooyoung asks, leaning forward with his palms pressed to the table.

"I know what you know." I explain, "Spent two years watching these cases arrive and waiting for the suspect to make a mistake. But they never did. Then about a year and a half ago, they vanished." I fish through the files and pull the last victim before the one found last night, "We knew he was going silent because," Flipping through the photos, I find the one with the note rolled up, "He left a note in the victim's hand."

"’I know you're getting tired. Let's take a break, my love.’" Yeosang reads the pictured note. "That's a little creepy."

"No kidding." Wooyoung agrees, "Never thought it was meant for you, though."

"There weren't any other females on the case, just me." I say, "Our profilers said because I was the lead on the case, the suspect felt they had a relationship with me." I shrug, “The note is still in evidence, but forensics couldn’t pull anything off of it. No DNA, no prints. The only thing they could distinguish is that they’re left handed, assuming they wrote the note.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.” San crosses his arms across his chest in contemplation.

Footsteps come echoing out of one of the left hallway, "Hey guys, the forensic team was able to- oh hey, (y/n)- they were able to identify the knifes used. They were-"

"A 7 inch clean bladed presumably kitchen knife and a 5 inch hunting knife." I cut Yunho off. "Any anomalies from autopsy?" I ask, my investigator jacket slipping itself over my shoulders.

Jongho flips through some files, "No, all the same. Three stabs on each side of the stomach and four on each thigh. Cause of death was blood loss. Killed 24 hours before she was found."

"Any suspects?" I ask already knowing the answer.

"Nope." San pops the 'p.'

"We were talking," Hongjoong says as I take a seat in one of the chairs, "and we're thinking that this suspect is too good."

I cock my head to one side, "Too good? What do you mean?"

"Like he's done this for years before. He's just too good to be THIS good." Hongjoong adds. “The precision and the pattern is just so precise. There has to be something we’re missing. There has to be other victims who don’t completely match his M.O.”

My hand hesitates in the middle of reaching for a file when Hongjoong mentions ‘other victims’ but I quickly recover. 

“We tried looking but there aren’t any other cases.” Hongjoong continues, “I don’t believe this is everything.” 

"Well, believe it." I chuckle, unconsciously rubbing my stomach. "There is no sign of similar cases or a path of progression. This suspect busted on the scene and wiped out the competition."

"It was just a thought." Seonghwa comments, eyeing me with curious eyes.

"Alright, what do we have on the most recent victim?" Hongjoong calls out and the whole team jumps into action.

"Our victim is Baek Hyejin." San goes into the profile, "She is the sixth of a string of similar cases. She was found on a park bench, 24 hours after she was killed. The same as the other cases."

"29 years old, lived alone." Seonghwa continues, "Uh, her apartment was clean. No weird fingerprints."

"Talked with friends and neighbors, they didn't notice anything odd about her the day she died." Yunho picks up, "We're still trying to track down her ex-boyfriend. Nothing yet but he’s not connected with the other victims so I doubt he’s involved."

“Still find him.” Hongjoong instructs and Yunho nods before working on his computer.

Wooyoung walks over from his desk, "Her bank records are clean, in fact, all of her records are clean. She doesn't even have a speeding ticket."

"Miss squeaky clean." I comment and sigh, "Just like all the others."

"Hey, (y/n)," Yeosang says, looking at one of the files, "You never told us you worked with Mingi."

I swallow hard, "I, I haven't." I lie, mentally face palming, knowing it’s all recorded so there’s no hiding it.

"It says right here." Yeosang shows the file. "Song Mingi." And there in print in front of everyone is the start of unraveling the secret I've kept for years.

"Hey guys, I found somethi-" A familiar voice stops mid-sentence at the top of the landing.

I don't even have to turn around to know exactly who is standing there.

"Mingi, this is (y/n). (y/n), Mingi." Hongjoong introduces us though there really is no need. I turn towards him and force myself to nod in greeting.

Looking into his eyes, memories flood into my mind but the conversation surrounding me distracts me.

"Mingi joined our team about 6 months ago." Seonghwa informs me, "And (y/n)'s been a special consultant for our agency for years. We haven't worked a case together in about a year. Which is why you've never met."

"Or so we thought." San points to the file of the first victim.

“Uhm, yeah, (y/n) worked on a couple cases together, way back when.” Mingi stammers out, avoiding my gaze entirely.

"You said you found something, Mingi?" Hongjoong nods towards the file now tucked behind his back.

"Oh, uh," Mingi stutters, "I just, I just need a few minutes to, uh, check some, uh, things."

Hongjoong scrunches his face in confusion but concedes to Mingi's statement, "Alright, go ahead." Once given permission, Mingi quickly shuffles towards a small conference room.

"Back to the case, is there ANY similarities between each of our victims?" Hongjoong turns back to the case.

As the others sift through the files, my thoughts are kept targeted on the missing team member sitting alone in a conference room with a file that I know all too well.

As the anger of the past begins to bubble up, I excuse myself and head straight towards the conference room.

Knocking on the door, I try to ignore the few stares directed towards me from the conference hall.

The door opens and Mingi stands right in front of me. Not having aged a single day.

"(y/n)," Mingi exhales, "Can I help you?"

"I think you can." I nod, "Can we talk in private?" Nodding towards 7 members watching us.

Mingi takes note of the eyes and moves aside, allowing me into the room. The file he was holding earlier is laid open on the table. Mingi closes the blinds of the windows that look into the conference hall, cutting off the others' view.

"You knew I'd be called in?" I gaze over the reports, and the all too familiar pictures.

Mingi sighs, "I did. Though I didn't think they'd call you in at 3 in the morning."

"I actually got the call at 2." I smile, trying the lighten the suffocating atmosphere.

"Guess they found out we’ve worked together." Mingi peeks through the blinds, "Though I hoped they wouldn't.

"Mingi," I cross my arms, "It’s written in a case file. It's officially recorded in every database this agency has. And they're the best team here. They were going to notice."

"A guy can hope." Mingi shrugs and joins me at the table.

I slide the file in front of me. With the pictures enlarged, pictures play through my mine and a shive runs down my spine. After only a couple seconds, I shut the file.

Release Valve (1/10)

This is the first fic I wrote when I came back to the fandom last year--it had been almost 20 years since I’d written my last X-Files fanfic. I plan to release it here, one chapter per day. 

This takes place directly after Fight the Future, and goes AU after that -- meaning S6 and on do not exist in this universe. I do have a sequel planned, but have not yet had the time to sit down and write it. 

It had been five months since Antarctica, and he could still feel the sharp cut of cold air in his nose, the crunch of snow under his cheek as Scully held him close, half his clothes gone, half himself protecting her. It was August in DC, the air hot and thick with car exhaust and pollen, the humidity at 100%, and there were still times he thought he might never be warm again. He leaned back in his chair at his seemingly permanent temporary desk in the BCU bullpen and picked up his phone, bored. Muscle memory dialed the number for him and she picked up before the second ring. “Mulder, I have a class starting in less than ten minutes,” she said, without so much as a hello. “You know this.” He sighed into the receiver. “I’m bored,” he said. “Yeah,” she replied, the touch of frustration gone from her voice, replaced with a casual empathy. “Me too.” “Want to get lunch later?” “I can’t,” she said, then added, “Skinner’s assistant called me this morning. I have a meeting with him at 1:30.” “Today?” He asked, incredulity creeping in. “Yes, Mulder. Today. Listen, I’ve got to go, I’ve got students coming in. I’ll call you after class.” She hung up without saying goodbye. He tipped his chair back as he hung up the receiver and looked up to a familiar hulk approaching his desk. “Agent Mulder,” Skinner said, giving him an assessing look. “Sir?” “I’d like you to come by my office at 1:30.” “Today?” Mulder said, once again. Boredom turned him peevish. “You have somewhere else to be?” “No, sir.” At that Skinner nodded and stalked off. So. Both he and Scully had been called in. This was either really good, or really bad.

When he came into the anteroom outside Skinner’s office, Scully was already there waiting and there was a maintenance worker in the process of removing Skinner’s name tag from the door. He and Scully shared a look of raised eyebrows and he plopped down next to her on the couch with a touch of petulance, the wind coming out of his sails. Maybe this wasn’t a good news meeting after all. At that moment a young agent came walking in, nodding at Kimberly.

“I’m supposed to see him at 1:30?” He said to her. He had a short, choppy haircut and thick preppy glasses. He pulled at his tie like he wasn’t used to wearing it as Kimberly directed him to a chair opposite Mulder and Scully. He plopped down and gave the armrests a little drum, clearly not a kid who was used to sitting still. Skinner popped his head out of his door then. “Agents?” He said expectantly. All three stood up and Skinner turned to the third man. “Stone?” “Yessir?” “Give us a minute.” “Yessir.” He plopped back down. Mulder and Scully exchanged another look and followed Skinner into his office. “I have some news,” he said once they were all settled. “The OPR recommendation finally came down.” “Don’t keep us hanging,” Mulder said, trying to keep the glibness out of his voice. “The X-Files are being reopened,” he said. “I’m sensing a ‘but,’” Scully said, leaning forward. “Less of a ‘but,’” Skinner went on, “more of an ‘and.’” “And?” Said Mulder. Skinner looked at them a moment without saying anything. Assessing or deciding, Mulder couldn’t quite figure out. “Your budget has increased,” He finally said. “You’ll have two more full-time agents assigned to the unit.” Scully’s face fell, and Mulder leaned back. “Not to sound ungrateful,” Mulder said, holding up a hand, “but our recent experience working with other agents on cases associated with the X-Files has not gone all that great.” He remembers the five o’clock shadow scrape of Krycek kissing his cheek. Shoving Spender into a wall. The latent smell of cigarette smoke and a basement full of ash. Skinner leaned back. “I’ve been promoted,” he said, looking at each of them in turn. “To Deputy Director. I’ve been given authority to shape and oversee the X-Files unit.” Skinner let that sink in a moment before going on, his tone indicating that this wasn’t a negotiation. “Agent Mulder will be the X-Files SAC. You’ll be giving the orders to the agents under you and will have hiring and firing approval.” Mulder shot a look at Scully. “What about Agent Scully, sir?” “Quantico has requested she stay on there to teach.” Mulder opened his mouth to protest, but Skinner raised a calming hand. “Technically, she would be an instructor in residence at Quantico, but assigned to the X-Files as official consult. Able to take leave from teaching whenever needed in the field or at the Hoover.” He gave Scully a pointed look. “The decision is obviously hers. Quantico wants her, but so do I.” “So do I,” said Mulder quietly. Scully tucked her chin to her chest, her eyes to the floor. Neither of them had been quite expecting this. Skinner leaned back and gave them a moment. “I thought you’d be pleased,” he finally said. Scully looked at Mulder. “I can’t speak for Agent Mulder,” she finally said. “You can,” Mulder said with confidence. Off his look, she continued. “But I’d like nothing more than to continue our work.” “Great,” said Skinner, “It’s done, then.” He rose. Mulder made to get up too, but Scully spoke. “Sir,” she said, “what about the X-Files? The actual files, sir. The ones destroyed in the fire?” Skinner resumed his seat. “Kimberly had begun digitizing them months ago,” he said, off of Mulder’s surprised look. “She was able to save most of them to a secure server. She said the only ones she hadn’t gotten to were those from the last year or two.” Scully looked at Mulder. “I should have those on my computer,” she said to Mulder, “you should too. After the most recent Executive Order, we’ve been required to keep digital copies of all reports since almost that long ago.” “My laptop was in my office when it burned,” Mulder said flatly. “If I’m not mistaken, yours was, too.” Scully gave a pinched look and Skinner once again stood. “About that,” he said, walking to his office door and gesturing outside. The young agent who’d been outside waiting walked in and Skinner pointed him to an empty chair around his conference table. “This is Agent Stone,” he said, “He works in Computer Sciences and Crimes – he’s been working to restore the destroyed computer units from your office.” Off a surprised look from the X-Files agents, Stone shrugged. “Standard procedure. Evidence conservation and protection.” “Were you able to save any of our work?” Mulder asked. Stone looked at him. “I was able to save all of it,” he said. “And I want in.” XxXxXxXxX “I don’t understand,” Scully said at last. Skinner nodded his head at the young agent. “He’s here for a job interview. He’d like to be one of your two new X-Files agents.” Stone sat up, animated. “I’ve obviously read all the files on your computers,” he said, “and when I was done with those, I read all the digitized files.” He looked at them both keenly. “I’ve read every single X-File. It’s fascinating work. I want to do it. I want in.” Scully raised an eyebrow. “You’ve read every file on a secure server?” “I, uh, may have hacked it,” he said, momentarily sheepish. He nodded toward Skinner. “I came to the Assistant Director with my concerns on just how secure it is. I can help you with that. I can help with a lot. I know I’m pretty green, but I’ve read your files back to front and I know I can help you.” Skinner looked to Mulder. “Your discretion,” he said. “Your unit.” Mulder appraised the young agent for a moment and turned to Skinner. “I’ll want a full background check. If there’s so much as a hint of Morley smoke anywhere in this kid’s past, he’s gone. He doesn’t come near the X-Files OR our computers. If he passes that,” he turned to look at Stone, “trial basis. As short or long as I see fit. This isn’t a tenured position.” Stone sat up straight, smiling. “Yes, right. Sweet. Awesome. Yes.” XxXxXxXxX These men. These men who would do anything for a hairsbreadth of power. She’d been kidnapped, micro chipped, infected with a malignancy. They’d taken her ova and her career and the love of her life more than once. She couldn’t watch the news without seeing their malevolent machinations in every third disaster. Don’t even get her started on Colony Collapse. If she could kill every one of them and film it, she’s convinced snuff would become her kink. But maybe… Maybe they had a chance now. To bring down the Syndicate. To bring down the Smoking Man. Cautious optimism was still a pretty generous name to put to it, but she finally felt if not a sense of hope, at least not the Sisyphean doom and gloom from months before. She looked over her glass of wine at Mulder. He’d shown up, energized, practically bouncing up and down at her door, bearing pizza and Chianti. “I’m surprised you didn’t put up more of a fight on Stone,” she said. Mulder shrugged. “Maybe it was the high of getting the X-Files back, but I also don’t want to look a gift Skinner in the mouth, if you know what I mean.” “I know what you mean.” The terms of getting back the X-Files was best case scenario. It was probably too good to be true. “He seems young,” she added. “He IS young,” Mulder said, “I went over his file this afternoon. Graduated at 20 from MIT and recruited straight out of graduation. He’s only been a full agent in the Bureau a little over two years.” “Any field experience?” “None.” “Oh boy.” Scully took another swig. “What he lacks in experience, he makes up for in enthusiasm,” Mulder said. “I’m hoping I can train him up my way.” “The suits are gonna just love that,” she deadpanned, and Mulder smiled. He leaned back on her couch and fished an errant piece of pineapple from his shirt collar. “How you can eat that on pizza, I’ll never understand,” Scully said, standing and bussing their plates back to the kitchen. Instead of taking the bait, Mulder blew out a sigh, his mind elsewhere. “I don’t even know where to start on finding someone for the other position,” he said. “If we’re not careful and don’t do it our way, we’re going to end up with another fucking Krycek.” Scully winced and made her way back to the couch, tucking her feet under her on the other end. She tried not to look at the space by her door where Melissa died. “I may be able to help with that,” she said. “Oh yeah?” Mulder leaned forward. “I have a student,” she started. “Not another baby agent, Scully,” Mulder said, “we don’t have the budget for a nanny.” “She’s new to the Bureau, yes,” Scully went on, “but was a beat cop and made detective extremely fast. Ten years with the LAPD before she went Fed. She’s smart, Mulder. She asks all the right questions.” She waited a beat. “She reminds me of you.” “Devastatingly handsome and hard to love?” Scully tucked her chin to her chest, not meeting his eyes. She made a decision then, hard and fast. “I’ve never found it hard to love you,” she said quietly. XxXxXxXxX There it was. They hadn’t talked at all about what happened in Mulder’s hallway before Antarctica. Mulder wasn’t even sure she remembered it and it had been too awkward to ask. “Scully,” he said. She still hadn’t looked up, so he reached out a finger and swept it gently down her leg. She looked toward him and rested her cheek on her knee. “You deserve to know,” she said, “after everything we’ve been through.” Her voice was husky. His pulse started to race. His finger was still on her leg and he fought the urge to skim it higher. “You know, if you’re officially stationed at Quantico, it’s not fraternization,” he said. He wasn’t sure if he came off glib or flirtatious. He wasn’t sure of anything. Scully reached for her wine and took a measured sip. “Are you coming on to me?” She said. Flirtatious. Jesus. His throat bobbed. “I’m coming over with wine more often, is what I’m doing,” he said, reaching for his own glass to cover for his nerves. “En vino veritas?” Scully said. “The veritas has always been our problem, Scully. Maybe the vino is the solution.” XxXxXxXxX “Mulder,” she said, rising up on her knees. She reached up and ran a hand lightly over his cheek. She’d never just come right out and said how she felt about him. Before the bee thing in his hallway, a surveillance chat about root beer and iced tea was as close as they’d come. Enough, she thought. She wanted to kiss him, but the timing didn’t seem right. This was too profound a moment for them. She knew if she kissed him, she’d be outside herself instantly and right now she didn’t want to miss a thing. He seemed to push into her hand slightly, leaning into her touch. His eyes never left hers. His cheek was sandpapery under her fingers and she remembered that fingertips have more nerve endings that most places on the body. Most. “Let’s get our unit put together,” she said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.” Almost six years of ghost hunting, she thought, and flashed on the industrial smell of hospital sheets, the acrid tang of gunpowder. Mulder loping off on his knight’s quest to find his sister, Scully the squire at his side. He was six feet of rumpled suits and taut muscles and she’d fallen in love with him years ago. Hopelessly, stupidly, embarrassingly in love with him. He cracked bad jokes on stakeouts and mumbled her name in his sleep – of course she wasn’t going anywhere. XxXxXxXxX She leaned forward and gave him a lingering kiss on his cheek. He tried not to let his disappointment show. “Yeah,” he said, his voice husky, too. “Yeah.” He leaned back, banking the fire on the moment. She grabbed the glass out of his hand, which he hadn’t realized was empty, and took the rest of their meal detritus into the kitchen. He rose. “Send me the file on your candidate, would you?” He said, making his way to her door. He took his time putting on his coat and lingered in the doorway. She came over slowly and stood in front of him, close. “Scully?” He said, his hand on the doorknob. He leaned forward so their foreheads were almost touching. He needed to say it before he lost his nerve. “I love you, too.” He practically ran outside then, his blood thrumming. It took everything he had not to crow triumphantly at the moon. XxXxXxXxX Jasmine Isaacs. 36 years old. African American. California native. Highly decorated detective with a great solve rate. Single, no children. The kid thing grabbed Mulder by the collar first thing. It was good to have no kids. Just another thing to use against you. He leaned back in his chair and blew out a sigh, his thoughts turning depressive. What a fucking way to think, he thought. That children -- most people’s high point--were just another tool in the arsenal of the Consortium. The basement office felt different. The smell of paint fumes still permeated the space. It was a different shade of grey than the last one, off by just a touch, which grabbed Mulder’s eye every time it strayed from the file in front of him. He’d gotten a new I Want To Believe poster from the same place on K Street where he’d gotten the first one, a throwback to a simpler time. They’d done a bit of work on the office in the refurbish – got rid of the wall leading to the annex and managed to squeeze three small desktops into the space. He thought Scully’s should be bigger than the other two and considered clearing off a different area to make it more senior looking. She had her own office at Quantico and it was probably twice the size of the entire basement. Good, he thought. She deserved that. He turned back to the candidate’s file in front of him. She looked promising. Had a high solve rate. Nothing in her background suggested an ulterior motive, nor highlighted a weakness the Consortium could exploit. So far, so good. If Scully wanted her, so did he. Stone seemed into the paranormal shit. Isaacs could be the level-headed counterpart. He wanted to get them both into a room and see what happened. Isaacs graduated from Quantico next week. Scully walked in then, the smell of the street still on her clothes. Hot dog vendors and fresh air, the amniotic petrichor of the Potomac. He could hear the elevator doors close as she sloughed off her coat. “How goes it?” She said as a greeting. He flipped the file closed and casually tossed it on his desk. “What a time to be alive,” he said.

For the AU headcanons thing: what would have happened if Scully had been assigned to Quantico when Mulder had been working with Diana Fowley (maybe their relationship was rocky at that point? you decide), and M+S crossed paths working on a case? Thank you! 😘

1She’s heard all about him but only seen the back of him, walking the corridors with a stride that strikes her as single-minded but thoughtful. Something about his gait, the pattern of his steps. She’s intrigued, of course. Spooky Mulder is a name that floats off the tongues of agents and instructors alike, like a ghost haunting the building, lurking in corners and disappearing behind closing doors. Today, she’s finished her lecture and is taking a look at some samples in the lab. Jack has promised to take her out later but she’s tired and cranky and really just wants to slump in front of the tv with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s. Outside, she hears a woman’s voice, commanding to the point of imposing. Scully can’t help but lift her head from the microscope and listen. There’s a man’s voice too but his tone seems defeated. His one-word responses give away the dynamics in the relationships, she thinks, as she looks back at the slide. She wonders if that’s how her relationship with Jack comes across. She’s lost the will to spend hours talking to him, these days. The virus sample is unlike anything she’s ever seen but she’s too fatigued to think further than that ice-cream so she finishes up, still conscious of the debate outside. When there’s a lull, she takes a chance and opens the door. She narrowly misses hitting the tall brunette.“Excuse me,” the woman snaps.Scully stops. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there,” she says and looks beyond the glare of the agent, one Diana Fowley, according to her name badge, to see Fox Mulder skulking away, jacket over his shoulder, head down. “Do you have the Planter samples in there?” “Planter…? Um, yes. I think so, but I’ve just fini…” “I need to see them.”

2She’s jogging in the drizzle, fighting off last night’s pasta, rushed down at an ungodly hour after Jack had been late for their date. She’s wasn’t even angry. It seems to her that the relationship has simply run its course. She should just say it, she’s musing, as she runs over the bizarre conversation she had with Agent Fowley yesterday. “I can’t tell you what’s happening here because I’ve never seen it before. It’s a virus. But I can’t tell you more than that, Agent Fowley.” “I need answers. Who do I need to see?” Fowley’s chin was permanently tilted upwards, arms wrapped tightly around her middle for the entire exchange. Scully felt her lack of experience, and height, even more heavily when exposed to this kind of interrogation. It was something she had to work on. Learn to make her presence felt just as surely as Fowley did. “I could ask…” “Call me. It’s urgent.” Fowley thrust a card in her hand. “Lives may be at stake.” She runs until her lungs burn. She’d called Carla, a virologist buddy from the Academy labs. Described the virus and its rapid mutation. Carla had promised to take a look and Scully had faxed her the details but there had been no word yet. Now, she’s bent over, hands braced on knees, heaving out breaths. She sees the running shoes, the grey jogging bottom legs approaching her, slowing, stopping opposite. She raises herself up and finds herself face to chest with Fox Mulder.

3 “Agent Scully?” He proffers a long hand and she takes it automatically, letting his fingers wrap around her own. “I’m Fox Mulder, I’ve been assigned to look for you.” “Assigned?” He barks a laugh of surprise, then looks away, embarrassed. “I mean, my partner and I have been calling you. Agent Fowley, she met with you the other day. About the Planter samples?” “Yes, I’m waiting on a call from a virologist colleague. Viruses aren’t my area of expertise.” He drops her hand and nods, curtly. It’s as though he’s suddenly remembered what his task was. “I was under the impression that you…” She thinks back to Fowley. “If you have any doubt about my qualifications or credentials…” His shoulders slump. “No,” he says, hand up. “No. I don’t.” He emphasises the I and, unexpectedly, places his hand on the small of her back, guiding her along the path to the Academy building. “You’re a medical doctor, you teach at the Academy, you did your undergraduate degree in physics.” He looks down at her, rain drops studding his glasses. Einstein’s Twin Paradox, A New Interpretation. Dana Scully Senior Thesis. Now that’s a credential, rewriting Einstein.” He grins.“Did you bother to read it?” His expression softens. “I did. I liked it.” They arrive at the door and he opens it for her. “It’s just that in most of my work, the laws of physics rarely seem to apply.”“You might find it’s the laws of biochemistry that might be more applicable to your strange virus, Agent Mulder.” “Why do you say strange, Scully?” There’s an unexpected reaction to the use of her surname. She likes it.

4In her office, he takes a phone call. His has one of those new cellphones, button antenna poking up from the top. She wonders about the necessity to be available all the time, but supposes you can’t stop the advance of technology. Her desk phone trills. She answers as Mulder finishes his call. “I’ll call you back,” she says and hangs up as Jack tries to rush out his offer of a date at Magellan’s. The phone rings again. She cuts off the call. “Boyfriend trouble?” Mulder says with a conspiratorial grin. She leans on her elbows, doesn’t give him the response he wants. “Your virologist colleague? Can we see her? We need those results.” “She’s doing me a favour.” “Is there any reason why we can’t see her, right now? It’s important, Scully. This case…it could redefine the way we investigate the paranormal.” Her eyebrows rise to a point she didn’t know they could reach. “Paranormal?” Her tone, she knows, is just a tad shy of shrill and at that moment, Diana Fowley walks in. No knocking. She just takes her place next to Mulder so there is no light between them and looks down at Scully. Physically and figuratively. “What’s the problem?” Scully tidies the pile of notes on her desk and stands. She grabs her coat from the back of the door and turns to face Fowley. There’s a knot of something in her gut. Fear? Maybe. Anger? Definitely. But also resolve. She’s determined not to let a woman belittle her. Women in institutions like this, she thinks, should support each other. But now is not the time to debate the finer points of the sisterhood. Mulder is looking at his feet. “I don’t know,” she says, straightening her spine, “are you expecting one?”

5Carla explains the similarities and differences between viruses she’s seen and the Planter sample. It’s a fascinating field and Scully listens intently, trying to ignore the waves of antagonism emanating from Fowley. On the way to the lab, she alternately fawned over and pawed off Mulder’s attempts to insert himself into the situation. At one point, she took off, taking a call tucking the phone in the crook of her neck. Scully took her chance. “Paranormal? What does that even mean?” “Unexplained cases, left to rot in the basement of the Hoover Building, Scully. There are piles of them. I’ve devoured each one. And this virus. This could be the key to solving some of the biggest questions in the X-Files.” “X-Files?” Ahead of them, Fowley had finished her call and was waiting for them to catch up. “Is this about building your career?” “No, Scully. It’s far more important than that.” And she knows he means it. She’s still feeling contrite when Fowley asks for the findings to be faxed over instantly. Carla nods and takes her report to the machine in the far corner of the lab. “This could be it,” Mulder says to Fowley as they leave the lab. Scully struggles to keep up with their loafing strides. His face is a mask of awe. Whatever Scully thinks about his bizarre workload, it’s clear he’s driven, passionate and desperate to solve this particular case. She’s guessing that its implications might be even more wide-ranging than his Monty Propps work. Fowley doesn’t bat an eyelid, even with his enthusiasm on overdrive. He’s practically bouncing around like a toddler on a pogo stick. His hands flay out from his sides. His voice rises and rises. As they near the exit and grey slants of watery sunshine filter through the door, Fowley stops. She looks over her shoulder at Scully. Waits a second before putting a hand flat on Mulder’s chest. “This isn’t it,” she says and walks through the door, leaving it swinging. “What was that about?” Scully asks, watching Fowley walk across the courtyard. The sound of his jacket hitting the wall with a dull thud makes her heart lurch. From wonderstruck kid to wounded adult in one strike of a woman’s tongue. She wonders if Jack would take her decision that badly. “Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?” he asks out of nowhere. “Logically, I’d have to say no,” she begins but he walks past her to the door, shoulder hitting hers. She thinks about the virus. It’s strange presentation. It hits her like a bolt of lightning and she runs outside after him. “Mulder!” The way he waits for her, like she’s his new best friend, takes her back to high school and the unlikely allies formed in the hallways. She looks up at him. “I want to believe.”

Seasonal spirit 1/1

For day 5 of @thexmasfileschallenge ‘Tinsel’

Scully is imbued with Christmas spirit. Mulder is not, and he realises perhaps for the first time that Scully is more than just his partner.  Set in season one. Also tagging @today-in-fic

Seasonal spirit

The cardboard box sits just to the right of his desk, dumped unceremoniously by Scully on the ugly grey carpet that covers the floor and the force of the impact had jostled the contents just enough for a strand of gaudy green tinsel to have escaped the confines and flop loosely over the edge of the box where it had settled, with obviously no intention of flopping back in.  And he thinks that if it had actually stayed hidden, he might, just might have been able to ignore its very existence and pretend this morning had never happened.

As it was though, the light catching the metallic surface made it a twinkling, accusing reminder of what an absolute asshole he had been - even more of an asshole than he usually was that is - and no matter where he settled his gaze, that fucking piece of glittery tat mocked him in the far reaches of his peripheral vision with all the stomach churning acidic burn that only the very guilty ever feel.

He could simply get up and stuff it back down into the box and then kick the whole thing out into the hallway where he wouldn’t have to look at it, but a part of him knew that he deserved every bit of the guilt he was feeling and which had been building steadily inside him since she had exited the office; displaying as much dignity she could muster in the face of his sneering, mocking indifference toward what she had tried to do.

The morning had started well enough he supposed.  They had no immediate cases on their books to tax them, the rainstorm of yesterday had given way to sunshine and clear frosty skies and for the first time in weeks he had managed to get a decent night’s sleep without hearing the cut-glass accent and mocking british tones of Phoebe Green taunting him in his head whenever he closed his eyes.  Consequently, he had been a little late getting himself together, and knowing that Scully - ever the early bird - would no doubt have beaten him to work he decided to stop off and pick them both up a decent cup of coffee which would, he decided, make a welcome change from the evil brew served up in the bullring and which tasted like something had crawled into the machine and died most of the time.

In fact, he had to admit that when he entered the office he was feeling pretty chipper, the scent of the coffee mixing deliciously with the fresh-baked bagels in the brown paper sack that was tucked tightly beneath his index and pinky finger, his remaining digits curled around the cup carrier.  A bit of a juggling act sure, but he had made the perilous journey down the service staircase that led to the basement without a single drop being spilled.

The sight that greeted him though almost caused everything to fall to the floor at the same rate as his mouth dropped open, and for a second he just stood rooted to the spot.

His partner was balancing precariously atop the swivel chair - his swivel chair it should be noted -  and while initially he found himself to be momentarily diverted by the fact she was not only wearing a skirt, but that she had slipped her shoes off in order to give herself a better contact surface of- feet- to- cushioned- seat as she arranged a strand of red tinsel at the edge of his bookshelf, one end already secured beneath his precious ‘Six seconds in Dallas’ hardback and the other still held in her hand.  Her hair had flopped over her face and she huffed at it in annoyance before before suddenly being aware of his presence, quickly stuffing the fluttering glittery decoration under another book (John G. Fullers ‘The interrupted journey’ - a first edition no less) she turned to bestow upon him a dazzling smile which, under normal circumstances would have pretty much knocked Fox Mulder square on his Armani clad butt.

“Merry Christmas!”

He said nothing and Scully’s smile drooped a little, her brow furrowing slightly as she gracefully stepped down from the chair and back onto solid ground and for just a moment, it struck him how small she actually was without her customary heels. But the the thought was a fleeting one, immediately chased away by a sudden surge of annoyance at what she had done.

Various bits of Christmas Kitsch  jostled for space alongside his prized collection of genuine alien artifacts, the shrunken head he had managed to procure from an admittedly, fairly dubious source, now sported a gaudy red satin bow that was caught at the center with a sprig of plastic holly, every shelf, every surface in the small room had been sprinkled with his still-fairly-new partners version of Christmas cheer.  Even the poster on the wall behind his desk now had the unwelcome addition of a collection of plastic gold baubles and -of all things - white pom-poms hanging from the corner via a thumb tack which succeeded in doing a fine job of obscuring a fairly large chunk of the iconic image from view. 

Slamming the cup carrier down on the desk and ignoring the fact that brown liquid sloshed out of the small hole in the plastic lid and spattered across the completed report he had finally finished yesterday ready to deliver to Skinner, he began removing Scully’s festive handiwork and shoving it roughly back into the large cardboard box that she had perched on the other chair. 

“Mulder?”  there was no trace of annoyance in her voice, just confusion. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t do Christmas.”

“That’s it?  No discussion?  No compromise? You don’t do Christmas so I don’t do it either?  What about what I might want? Does it even occur to you that I might not only ‘do’ Christmas but that I might even actually enjoy doing it?”

And then he’d said it.  Said the first thing that came into his head, wanting to pull the words back in the second they were thrown at her.  Careless words he didn’t really mean but which had an immediate and devastating effect on her.

“My office Scully.  My rules. End of discussion.”

Her face had paled slightly as she took a step away from him and he could almost see the chasm which opened up between them, all those months of learning to work together as a single cohesive partnership, all those months of learning to trust each other, of watching each other’s backs and he had just sent them spiraling backwards by reminding her that she was here by default, had been assigned to his quest, to his domain, that she was still just an interloper in his world.

The look on her face was scaring him a little, as though he had just confirmed everything she feared might be true, that he was merely tolerating her presence these past months, that all her continuing efforts to prove herself worthy had been for nothing.

“Scully….look I didn’t mean….”

But she hadn’t let him finish, grabbing the box from atop the chair in order to free her coat which she had draped over the high back, and dropping it and it’s contents at Mulder’s feet.

“Well I’ll just leave this here for you Mulder.  You might want to pee up it since it’s encroached upon your territory and I’d hate for you to miss an opportunity to mark it.”

She shrugged her coat on then, stuffing her feet in the discarded shoes and growing an additional three inches in the space of a heartbeat before turning away from him and heading for the door.  She had paused just before stepping through it.

“Oh and fuck you, you complete and utter asshole.”

And then she was gone, leaving him to spend the rest of the morning being taunted by that piece of shitty green tinsel.

Because yes, he was an asshole.  No argument from him there, especially since she had done nothing to garner such an extreme reaction from him aside from trying to share something of herself, something she loved; not Dana Scully the special agent, but Dana Scully who was a person in her own right..  A woman he had come to think of as his friend, perhaps the only human being on this whole planet who would take all the shit he doled out on a daily basis and yet still get to the office at God only what time this morning in order to surprise him with her version of Christmas.

And he had thrown it right back at her as though it were nothing, making her believe it was all down to territory rather than actually admitting that he had stopped celebrating any kind of holiday years ago, that such traditional periods of family unity were just too painful for him to acknowledge. Because it was easier just to lay it on her instead.

Oh yeah.  Asshole covered it quite nicely when he thought about it.

Scrubbing his face wearily with his hands, Mulder turned his attention back to the cardboard box, knowing exactly what he needed to do to set things straight with her no matter how much it didn’t sit right with him, for Scully he would swallow his pride with good grace and if she wanted to do the office Christmas thing then he would do it too.

**********

It was much later in the day when he heard the staccato sound of her heels approaching along the concrete corridor that led to the office and he feigned nonchalance as she entered the room, apparently nonreactive, head bent studiously over the paperwork that littered his desk, but still unable to suppress a smile at her sharp intake of breath at the sight before her.

Because not only were her handful of decorations now displayed around the office but a quick trip to the local mall had resulted in the addition of even more tinsel which was wound tightly around the desk and chair legs, two strings of colorful lights fastened to the window frame and the piece d resistance - a small spruce fir tree that sat resplendent beside the filing cabinets and which now filled the air around them with sharp, winter fragrance.  As yet, its branches were still bare.

“They thought you might like to decorate that one yourself Scully.  You know, put your own stamp on it so to speak”

And there it was.  The patented Dana Scully eyebrow, quirked in his direction as she continued to stare at the virtual grotto that was once their office.

“They Mulder?  Who are ‘they’?”

“Elves.  The elves told me.  You know…the Christmas elves.”

“The elves huh?”

He nodded.

“Yep.  Small guys; dubious taste in leg-wear; funny ears.  Want to know what else they told me?”

He didn’t wait for her to reply.

“They told me they will be back the day after Christmas without fail, to take it all down again.”

Scully reached out to touch one of the shiny, needle encrusted branches of the small tree, trailing her fingers across it before turning back to Mulder, that same dazzling smile he had wiped off her face earlier and which was now back in full force, lighting up the room with more color than a thousand gaudy decorations could ever hope to do.  

“Ahhh well Mulder, I think maybe we will need to talk about that.”

End

If Ever There Is Tomorrow; Chapter 1

An AU in which Mulder and Scully meet three times over the course of their lives; told in a series of vignettes.

Tagging @today-in-fic and fulfilling my @fictober promise. I also wanted to dedicate this one to all the lovely, talented people who helped me out during the @fic-files write-in, because without their support and feedback I probably would not have had the courage to put this out there.

1. As Time Goes By

Spring, 1993

The end of the 20th century is only the beginning. Change hits the nineties at a breakneck speed; Hair is getting bigger, technology is getting smaller, colors are getting brighter while the climate begins to suffer, but in the midst of a new era, some old skeletons are about to be unearthed. The third time they meet is the least bloody, yet opens more wounds. It comes, like the times before, suddenly and without warning.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Mulder had been given plenty of warning when Skinner had informed him he was being assigned a partner; A scientist who was to, no doubt, disprove his work and report back to the kind of men he was fighting. To keep him in line and keep him from going overboard. This hadn’t come as a surprise, he always knew the closer he got to the truth, the more curveballs they would throw his way. What made him almost fall out of his chair was the name, Dana Scully.

A name he couldn’t claim had never crossed his mind.

Dana Scully haunted him like an intrusive thought or the vague memory of a strange fever dream. She reminded him of a time he would much rather forget, yet the feeling lingered; the possibility that maybe one day, their paths might cross again. When he’d heard that she’d enlisted he found himself needlessly frequenting Quantico in the hope and the dread of catching a flash of ginger hair. Her thesis was printed and dog-eared the moment it was published; because challenging one of the greatest minds the world has ever known was something so quintessentially Dana Scully, and he was ever the masochist.

His hopes were not high; he didn’t expect her to accept this assignment, and he certainly didn’t suppose she would darken his basement door that very same day, but suddenly, here she is, smiling down on him from the high road.

“Agent Mulder,” she says quietly, with an air of disbelief, “I’ve been assigned to work with you,”

They shake hands like strangers, his fingers burn at her touch; the sensation lingers even after her hand falls away. She had always run as warm as her complexion, His summer girl had become fall. Her hair is darker, neatly tamed. She teeters precariously on heels that give her precious extra inches, that demand he looks her in the eye. Her ill-fitting tweed suit hangs awkwardly on her slender frame; the whole ensemble reminds him of a child playing make-believe. Hidden is her rebellious heart under sensible attire and a polite smile; the heart he knows he broke, and one he refuses to break again.

So he puts down his slides and puts up his guard.

“Isn’t it nice to be so highly regarded? So who’d you tick off to get stuck with this detail, Scully?”

For a moment she’s stunned, then the next she recovers, “Actually, I’m looking forward to working with you,” she tells him.

He responds with a bitter smile, “Oh really? I was under the impression that you were sent to spy on me.”

A fire sparks behind her eyes, she looks as if she was about to retort before he cuts her off. “I’m surprised you didn’t object to your placement, Scully, what with our tempestuous history,”

She hesitates, he hates that she hesitates, hates that he makes her hesitate. “I can’t say I wasn’t caught off guard,” she admits, “Though I knew it was a possibility we would run into each other when I started working at the Bureau…”

“Yes, this is interesting happenstance isn’t it, Doctor?” She tenses, Mulder stands and brushes past her in order to miss her patented Scully glare.

“If you’re suggesting that you played any part in any decision concerning my career…”

“I’m not suggesting anything, I just always supposed you’d be headed towards a Nobel prize by now, yet here you are wasting your talents in the basement with me,”

Scully blinks and tilts her pointed chin, “You think I’m wasting my talents here, Mulder?”

“It’s just that in most of my work, the laws of physics rarely seem to apply,” he shrugs and hits the lights. In the unearthly glow of his projector, Scully looks like a ghost.

He shows her the dead kids, barely older than they had been, once upon a time. He tells her his theories, she rebukes them with a smirk, slowly the ice begins to thaw and a familiar feeling begins to take root.

Then she leaves, and the basement feels darker and emptier than it ever had before. So Scully was back in his life and maybe, plausibly, this time she would stay. Mulder locks the office door behind him that evening and whistles the whole way home.

Fall, 1978

September in Connecticut, 1978 is record-breaking. The air as thick and hot as soup, her stiff collared shirt clings to her skin and dampens at the base of her neck. She wipes away the sweat beading on her forehead with the end of her ugly striped green tie and ignores the disapproving look her mother gives her.

Dana had always marvelled at how the air was always different in every new place they landed, she secretly ranked them from the icy unforgiving winds of the Scottish moors to the serene and exotic air of Japan. Greenwich so far was not doing too well on this list, however, it looked like she was going to have to get used to it. She had long since gotten used to the routine of neatly packing up her life in matching suitcases and burying a lunchbox in the backyard.

Melissa left a trail of broken hearts behind them like push pins in a map. Her sister had always been better at making friends, she claimed it had something to do with her aura, Dana wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, only that hers was probably broken. Usually, by the time she had started warming to people, her father would sit the four of them on the couch and tell them it was time to start saying goodbyes, so Dana eventually stopped trying to find people to say goodbye to.

She had her friends, they were called Mom, Ahab, Missy and Charlie. Sometimes Bill, when he wasn’t being a pain in the A Double-S. They were all she really needed. When she was very young, she even had an imaginary friend called Lucy, who took the form of a red squirrel. Lucy would curl up behind her hair and whispered secrets in her ear. Dana liked the fact that nobody else could see her, that she was hers and hers alone.

Sometimes she would pen a letter to the boy who had forgotten her, only to burn it in the bathtub with her mother’s lighter.

But still, her Mom always tried. She heard her arguing sometimes with her father that it wasn’t good for them, that kids needed stability. It looked like this year she had finally won the war and a house was bought, not rented.

She shifts uncomfortably as her bare thighs stick to the Principals rigid leather seats. The Principal in question was a tall British woman with large teeth, a sensible mousey bob and a collection of motivational animal posters. Dana catches the eye of a mournful kitten hanging from a curtain, encouraging her to Hang In There! and somehow feels even less optimistic.

“Now Diana, a little birdy told me that you’re especially talented at Science is that right, dear?” She smiles in a condescending way that makes Scully bristle. Bill snickers to her right, Missy kicks him in the shin on her behalf.

“It’s Dana, Ms Paterson,” Her mother corrects her patiently.

“Oh, my apologies, Dana.”

Dana represses the urge to roll her eyes, instead, begins to fiddle with the brand new chain around her neck. Naturally she was the last of the three to be enrolled, but unfortunately for her, also the one the school was most interested in.

“As I was saying, it seems you are just the model student, and if you don’t mind the extra work, we might be able to sign you up to the tutoring scheme, we have a nice young man who is in need of a little extra help in physics,”

Maggie nods encouragingly at her, clearly ecstatic at the prospect of her troubled young daughter making a friend. Dana tries feebly to muster her mothers’ enthusiasm,

“Sure, Miss, sounds… neat,”

“Wonderful,” she croons, “I hope you don’t mind, but I already took the pleasure of asking Fox to come by the office, so you could get to know each other,”

Dana’s hand stilled at the base of her throat, she felt her mother stiffen beside her, and her siblings’ squabbles fall silent. No. It couldn’t be that uncommon a name. “Fox?” she falters.

“Yes, quite an odd name isn’t it? He’s truly lovely boy, very very bright, unfortunately, he had to be held back a year…” Ms Paterson yammers on, but Dana had long since stopped hearing her words, as a minute later he appeared.

He was taller and lanky, the skin on his cheeks textured and he was in dire need of a haircut, but he was undoubtedly the same wide-eyed boy who had been her first real friend. And with wide eyes, he stares at her from the doorway, as if he couldn’t believe them himself.

“Scully?”

Framed by a halo of light from the hall, the image of him becomes blurred by the tears which spring to her eyes. Her chair falls backwards with a heavy thud as shoots to her feet. She mutters an apology to the baffled headmistress before she hurries from the room.

“Scully,” Mulder pleads, catching her hand as she darts past and clutches it tight. Electricity floods her veins. She looks into those familiar hazel eyes and pauses only a moment before she pulls her hand away and runs.

Summer, 1969

The summer of ‘69 is worthy of its song. Rock and Roll is at its peak, a man walks on the moon, and somewhere in New England, a lonely little boy meets a lonely little girl.

With a startled wail and a resounding thump, she falls out of a tree into his yard and into his life.

The day until that moment had been dull and unremarkable. Having escaped captivity and found refuge in his favourite spot, under a tall oak tree overlooking the tranquil sea; Fox William Mulder, seven and three quarters, jumps with a start and stares at the heap of limbs and hand me downs, as it groans then starts to giggle.

“Are you okay?” he asks, as his initial shock subsides.

“Yeah, yeah,” it says, “I’m fine,”

Dana Katherine Scully, six and a half, sits up to brush off the worst of the debris but lets out a sharp gasp as a lightning bolt of pain shoots through her wrist. However, being the tough cookie she was having grown up playing rough with William Scully Jr, the sprain was not enough to make her cry.

“You don’t look okay, you’re bleeding,” Mulder observes. She touches a hand to her mouth which sure enough, comes away red. Between them on the crisply trimmed grass lies a pearly white tooth. The ruffled girl picks it up and studies it curiously, tonguing the fresh gap in her gums, then tucks it into the pocket of her overalls.

“I guess you’re gonna see the tooth fairy,” he lisps, gesturing to his own missing front teeth. Her freckles dance as she wrinkles her nose.

“The tooth fairy isn’t real,” she replies, spitting scarlet on the ground and wiping her mouth on her arm, staining her skin like war paint.

“Is too, and so is Santa Claus,”

He offers a hand to help her to her feet, which she takes with a bloody, gap-toothed grin. This girl was brand new, he knew every fresh face in this small seaside town, and not one of them had ever smiled at him like that before. She’s all skinned elbows and scabby knees. She looks like she was spat out by the sun, with a fiery rat’s nest of auburn hair and a mischievous gleam in her bright blue eyes. He feels like Isaac Newton, hit on the head with the discovery of the century.

“You’re not from around here are you?” he asks.

She shakes her head, “No, we just moved here this week. My Dad’s gone to sea, I was trying to see his boat from up there when I slipped,” She replies, gesturing to the web of twisted branches above their heads.

“He’s a pirate?” he jokes; she quirks a little brow.

“No. He’s a Captain,”

“Captain Hook?”

Fox Mulder is still at the age where girls are kind of gross, but the sincerity with which this pretty tomboy laughs makes his ears turn red regardless. She was like a breath of fresh air after spending the whole day trapped inside a stuffy room, which incidentally he had.

“Fox,” he blurts at her, suddenly losing his cool.

“What did you call me?” she replies hotly, her un-injured hand flying self-consciously to her mussed red hair.

“No! my name is – “

“Fox!” They jump at the booming disembodied voice calling from the house a few meters away, “What in the hell are you doing?”

“Crap,” he mutters. Scully can’t help but flinch at the use of the word which would have cost her her dessert. “I’m supposed to be grounded, I think I’d better go,”

She tries not to be disappointed, but finds herself reluctant to say goodbye to this curious boy with a strange sense of humor, who believes in myths and fairy tales; but he makes no move to leave, equally unwilling to say goodbye to the girl who dresses like a boy and smells like the sea, who climbs trees and doesn’t cry when she falls. They eye each other hesitantly until finally, she breaks the silence.

“Your name is Fox?” she asks.

He makes a face, “Yeah, but I hate it. I like my last name better. It’s Mulder,”

“Mulder,” she tries it on her tongue and decides she likes the taste. She straightens her back and offers her hand like she’s seen adults do a thousand times before. “Ok. Nice to meet you, Mulder, my name’s Dana, but I guess you can call me Scully,”

“Scully,” he beams and takes her tiny, dirty hand in his. They shake in childish ignorance to how their stars had just aligned.

The Debt He Owes : Collections (1/3)

Joey Drew Studios has fallen into deep debt, and Larry Bower is the collections agent assigned to make Mr. Drew pay up. Of course, that goes about as well as you'd imagine.

Also on Fanfiction.Net (Ava Blook) and Archive Of Our Own (AvaBlook), no links so this shows up in searches.

It was Larry Bower's first trip out on his own. After months of supervising more experienced people on the job, and then be supervised by them, he was finally out on his own. Of course, he was a newbie, so he was starting at the bottom of the pyramid, doing the work no one else wanted to.

Larry was a collections officer, and Joey Drew Studios was one client his boss doubted would ever pay up.

They'd been calling twice daily, and then half a dozen times a day, until the public phone number disconnected. They’d been sending letters for months now, enough that his boss had once joked that they’d spent more on paper than they’d ever get out of the studio. Finally, they’d decided they could spare a rookie to try and lean on the studio a little harder.

So of course, it got passed to Larry, and now he was standing outside the front door of Joey Drew Studios, trying to work up the nerve to knock.

He’d seen their cartoons, pretty much everyone had. They’d gotten a laugh out of him, for sure, even if the quality had been going downhill for the past few years. At this point, his boss was sure Joey Drew was using the studio as a front while he pocketed most of the money—there was no way an animation studio spent as much as Joey Drew Studios did on animation and had cartoons come out months after the advertised release date and with stiff, jittery animation.

No big deal, though, Larry tried to convince himself. Almost every business owner the collections officer had dealt with had been doing something shady if not downright illegal with the money they owed. Joey Drew was no different.

Larry squared his shoulders and knocked on the door.

“Ruthford Collections Agency!” he called.

He could hear scurrying behind the door, and then a frazzled-looking young man wearing a shirt stained with ink opened it for him.

“Here to see Joey?” he asked. Larry nodded, startled by the man’s appearance. He could understand getting ink on your clothes if you worked with it all day, but this man looked like he’d had a bucket of the stuff dumped on him.

Still, he let Larry inside, which was more than he’d been expecting. A narrow hallway plastered with posters for Bendy cartoons opened into a larger room, with machinery whirring on the walls and a projector showing off rough animation that a couple people were murmuring over. There was an animator frantically working at a desk haphazardly placed in one corner, as if whoever was in charge of these things had run out of room elsewhere.

“You okay waiting in the break room? I’ll have someone find Joey and send him over,” the animator asked.

“Oh, uh, sure,” Larry said. “I can wait for him.”

“Great,” the man said, taking Larry down a somewhat twisty path into the studio. He opened a door near the end of a hall and gestured down the stairs. Larry got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the fact he was being ushered into a basement or from the simply awful grinding noises coming through the thin wall to the left of the break room door.

Still, this was his job. He didn’t have much choice.

Larry began descending the stairs, and the animator headed on his way.

“Franks!” the animator screamed.

“What?” came a muffled shout from down the hall.

“Find Joey and send him to the break room!”

“That’s not my job!”

“Well it’s sure as fuck not my job either, and I’ve got a deadline!”

There were a couple other people in the breakroom, thankfully. One man slouched over in his chair, smoking a cigarette and scowling, while another stood near the wall doing some odd stretches with his arms. Both barely spared Larry a glance, keeping their eyes on the clock. Larry noticed a shiny new punchcard machine near the bottom of the stairs, with a poster encouraging employees to punch in. It seemed that Joey was quite demanding of his employees’ time, so it didn’t make much sense that the studio was in such bad shape for its budget—unless Mr. Drew was spending more on punchcard machines and similar waste than on his employees. How he ever expected to turn a profit like that, Larry didn’t know.

It took a while for Mr. Drew to show up. The stretching animator punched back in and returned to work, and the smoker started up a new cigarette and put the old one out. He started scribbling at a piece of scrap paper, nonsense gibberish Larry couldn’t quite make out. He began to wonder if that Franks fellow, or anyone else, was even looking for Joey Drew at all.

Finally, when the smoking man had finally gathered his papers and stormed out, Joey Drew showed up at the top of the stairs. He seemed confident, put together, and he wasn’t short of breath—Larry fumed a little internally that he’d been kept waiting longer than necessary—yet his suit was rumpled and the sleeves were stained with ink up to his elbows as if he’d dipped his arms partway into a vat of the stuff. Larry wasn’t quite sure what he had been expecting from the man, but this wasn’t it.

“Sorry for the delay!” Mr. Drew boomed in a deep, loud voice—a showman’s voice, for sure. “Ran into a few problems on the way, you know how it is when you’re running your own company! Well, maybe you don’t, but I’m sure you can imagine it’s incredibly busy!”

Larry pushed himself out of his seat and made for the stairs. He felt nervous to have the man he was supposed to be putting pressure on towering over him at the top of the stairs, but as he came to the top he saw why; Joey Drew was on crutches, and obviously favoring one leg over the other. Health issues, a more common reason to funnel money out of a business, and Larry had seen it half a dozen times at least. Still, he felt a little sorry for the man; Joey winced when he shifted his weight to free one hand for a handshake, and yet he was still on the premises, doing his job.

“Perfectly understandable,” Larry said. “I’m Larry Bower, from Ruthford Collections Agency. You’re Mr. Joey Drew, I trust?”

Mr. Drew’s face paled a bit at that, but he nodded.

“That’s me, all right,” he said. “I imagine you’re here to try collecting on some of the company’s debts?”

“That’s correct,” Larry said, slipping into a more cool and collected persona. “Mr. Drew, my company has been sending requests for collection for over six months now, but we haven’t heard from anyone at your company.”

“Ah yes, well, paper letters don’t tend to last long around here,” Joey said. “There’s all the ink, and it’s only so long they can go without any of it spilling on them, you know.”

“So you acknowledge you’ve been receiving the letters?”

“Well, yes, but they’re usually illegible by the time I see them personally.”

“And you didn’t hire a secretary or mail handler to ensure that didn’t happen?”

“We’re in enough debt as it is without hiring another employee! We’ve had to cut a lot of costs lately, you know.”

“Like your phone service?”

Joey’s face paled again, and he shifted his weight and readjusted his crutches.

“That’s the least of it, I’m afraid,” he said. “But! I do believe we’re on the edge of a breakthrough! Within the year, Joey Drew Studios is going to be back on top again, with cartoons like no one has ever seen before. Faster releases! Higher-quality animation than ever! So, with that in mind, I do think I will be able to write your company a check today. Not for all I owe you, of course, but a good chunk of it.”

Larry didn’t really know what to say to that, and he was fairly certain his surprise was showing on his face. No one, no one, had thought Joey Drew Studios would ever so much as pay its interest, and here Joey Drew himself was offering to write a check!

Joey laughed.

“Don’t look so startled, boy! Half the trouble your company has had with me has been miscommunication! Now, I just need to fetch my checkbook. Care to come with me?”

Larry nodded, not quite trusting his own voice. If he missed this chance to get a payment out of Joey Drew, there was no way his boss would ever let him hear the end of it.

And of course, if he got the payment, he might even get a promotion. This was a nightmare account, and Larry was handling it like a pro!

Larry followed Joey as he made his way down the hall, back through the main room and down a hallway on the other side. They turned and took a set of stairs across from an old, abandoned desk covered in cobwebs and sheets of rough paper, and it seemed Joey wasn’t kidding about needing to cut more than the phone if they’d fired an animator to make ends meet.

“Ah, that was Henry’s desk,” Joey reminisced. “He was one of our best animators, kept the whole department in line, you know. But when the money got tight, we couldn’t afford to keep him around. I keep hoping he’ll come back one day, and leave his desk; I’ve become something of a sentimental old man, I’m afraid.”

Larry tried to catch Joey’s face, because it almost sounded like the man was about to cry, but Mr. Drew’s back was to him, pointedly looking at the stairs. After a moment, he ventured forward and started climbing them, an awkward affair with his crutches, as if nothing had happened.

Larry followed a few steps behind, wondering if he should be ready to catch the man if he tumbled backwards. If was hard to reconcile that stubborn, extravagant Joey Drew was a man getting on in years who couldn’t even walk without crutches. Why had it taken the agency so long to send someone out here and get this whole mess cleaned up?

They reached the second story, and Mr. Drew paused at the beginning of a long hallway.

“My office is on this floor, but it’s a bit of a maze, I’m afraid. You don’t mind following, I assume?” he asked.

“Of course not, sir,” Larry answered, and Joey took off down what very much resembled an actual maze, hallways splitting and twisting. The building hadn’t seemed as big on the outside as it was on the inside, and Larry hoped Mr. Drew would lead him back out again, because he was hopelessly lost.

"Just through here," Joey said, pushing open a seemingly random door, and Larry found himself on a catwalk overhanging an enormous machine. He couldn't help but gawk at the sheer size of it – it had to be taller than a person, and weigh thousands of pounds. An enormous, open vat of ink bigger than a bathtub standing on one end was hooked to one end, and the other dripped traces of ink onto the wooden floor below.

This was where all the money went. It had to be. But what did an animation studio need with a machine like this?

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Joey asked, his voice momentarily tender. "This is the big project we’ve been trying to keep secret for a while now; the Ink Machine. It supplies all the ink the animators need, directly to their desks! And it does a few other things, too, but we have to keep some secrets around here!” Joey chortled, even though Larry didn’t think he’d said anything funny, and then his tone grew serious.

“With this Ink Machine, we're going to revolutionize the animation industry - hell, the whole world!"

Larry took another look at the machine, this time doubtful. Sure, it was impressively big, but what use did it serve outside of animation? How many other industries needed ink delivered throughout a building so often?

"Take a closer look if you want, it's perfectly safe turned off like this," Joey said, gesturing for Larry to look closer. He decided it couldn't hurt, worst he'd do was stain his shirt, so he leaned over the railing a bit to look.

“If you look into the ink supply, you’ll see what makes this machine so revolutionary. Think you can guess?” Joey asked playfully, like some of Larry’s seniors at work when they were showing off new cars. Larry decided to humor him, trying to look at what lay in the ink tank, but he couldn’t see anything past the solid black surface of the ink.

"I don’t know, Mister Drew,” Larry said. “It’s hard to see with all the—“

But before he could finish his sentence, Joey lunged forward, all traces of limp and joint pain gone. He grabbed the belt of Larry’s pants and, with surprising strength, tipped him over the railing of the catwalk, into the ink.

At first, all Larry could feel was how thick it was; thicker than any liquid he could think of. Maybe quicksand could compare, he thought vaguely as he tried to kick and claw his way to the surface to take a breath, only to get sucked deeper in. But with every passing moment, it pressed on him more, and he could feel the cold. It wasn’t like ice, wasn’t chilly or freezing; it was cold because it was sapping the warmth out of his body, swiftly and surely. Larry raised a hand for the surface, thought he felt air against ink-covered fingers…

Up on the catwalk, Joey winced as the gears snagged on Larry's body and struggled for a moment. They were built to work through thick chunks of pigment and goo, not human bones and organs, but after a little whirring and grinding, the Machine seemed to find its stride, and it worked through Larry's body in no time, spitting out a thick and gooey glob of ink before returning to gushing the normal liquid ink.

Joey flipped the emergency stop back off. It was regrettable, killing the man, but he couldn't have the studio collapse because of monetary debt of all things. Not when they were so close to success, to immortality.

At least he'd had time to disconnect the machine from the main pipe system. Saved Wally having to fix a clogged pipe later on, which could easily be a day or more of work for the man. He really should consider firing him... but no, he couldn’t risk him spreading the Studio’s secrets.

Joey climbed down the service ladder to the level of the machine and set about reconnecting the outflow pipes that supplied the studio.

As he worked, the thick puddle of ink that held Larry's earthly remains bubbled. Then it writhed. Finally, a shape broke the surface of the puddle, a surprisingly human hand, and slapped onto the floor. Joey dropped the wrench he was holding at the sudden noise, and turned in awe to watch as another hand emerged, then arms, pulling up a torso and a head with a familiar face

"--ink," Larry finished saying, before he seemed to realize the change in surroundings.

First he looked up, at Joey himself. Then down, at the floor, and then at the base of his own body, which seemed to stop and melt into the floor at his waist. He held his hands out in front of himself, flipping them over time and time again as ink started to drip and splatter off of them.

“No, no, no, what happened, what happened!” he muttered, flying into hysteria as the ink making up his body lost its solidity, started dripping. But Larry didn’t dissolve into a puddle.

Joey watched, stock-still, his face unreadable. It wasn’t anywhere near perfection, but it was an enormous improvement over his previous experiments with the machine.

"Larry, I do believe you've just solved an enormous problem we were having here at the studio," Joey said, an unsettlingly wide grin spreading across his face.

What was that saying, about two birds and one stone?

Teamwork Makes the Dream Work:

A Criminal Minds Fan-fiction Case 1 Part C

Featuring: Female Reader as she joins the Team

Setting: Early Season 12

Parts A B

A/N: This is a piece about how someone with some quirks fits into the BAU. I realized I haven’t tagged anyone in this fic yet, so you might want to go back if you want the really awkward stuff. xoxo Stu

Your name: submit What is this?

“Garcia, please tell me these people don’t think I am psychotic!” You had broken down after you had gotten into your hotel room. There was spotty wifi and scratchy comforters, but you got your own room, thank Turing.

Penelope was still cranking away with all the work the team constantly sent her. Reid should put his brain to use and find a way to clone the woman already. “Y/L/N, no one thinks you’re psychotic. Though I did hear something about high anxiety and possibly PTSD?” Her voice lifted as she was trying to rush through the gossip, but also needed to be honest with you.

“Ugh, I just don’t like being touched. I almost elbowed Alvez in the face and now I have some tragic backstory, aces.” You mumbled.

“Don’t worry, as long as you don’t actually hit anyone? I am thinking they will forget it after the case. First day jitters and what have you. But, well, JJ thinks you’re good though.”  You were pacing the room, wearing your extra large Galifrey Academy tee shirt and some socks. Your hair was wet and you were debating between Hearthstone or Peggle before lights out.

“Jareau likes me?” You were surprised. “Huh, guess I don’t give myself enough credit. Alright, thanks for listening to me Garcia, feel free to ignore me at any point.”

“My newest comrade-ette, no. I am here for the whole team. Well, minus the other newbie.”

“Nighters Garcia!”

The small town cop had pulled over a pick up going 62 in a 45 mile per hour zone. He was pissed that these people couldn’t get it through their heads that the law was the law. It wasn’t even seven in the morning, where did they need to be in such a hurry? He sauntered up to the driver’s side eyeing the man in the side view mirror. When the officer was level with the window, he saw the girl’s face pinned in fear. The driver had a knife to her throat and a rag tied around her mouth.

The officer instinctively pulled his gun. “You drop your weapon!”

The man in the driver’s seat laughed and popped the door on the cop. Knocking him back in to the traffic on the two lane highway. The young woman screamed into her gag. The driver couldn’t react fast enough, the policeman was roadkill. As she slammed onto her breaks, the pickup did a U turn and left the traffic stop like nothing had happened.

You were waiting for the team at the SUVs when Hotch called you. “Why didn’t you answer your wake up call?”

“Sir? I am no longer in my room. I have been up for an hour.”

“Right. I guess I will see you at the cars.”

“Yep.” Anxious bird may not be getting the worms, but at least you hadn’t overslept. Rossi was surprisingly the first one outside. He nodded at you, you waved sheepishly back. Once Hotch was outside, it was all business.

“We have a call from a sheriff in Shawano County. Apparently an officer was pushed into traffic during a speeding ticket. The driver that struck the officer says he had his gun drawn and was pointing it at the driver and passenger. The dash cam footage is silent, but there was clearly a female restrained by the assailant.”

“Any indicators it was Abigail Brown?” Lewis asked.

“Nothing certain.”

“I am assuming Garcia is already tracking the plate?” You followed up.

“He probably already changed vehicles.” Alvez pointed out.

“The unsub would have to search for another vehicle out here. Especially with a victim to control. Chances are someone spotted them or the ditched truck.” JJ added.

“Reid I want you and Alvez to head south, talk to the driver and see what you can get from the footage they have.”

“Y/L/N, Lewis and Rossi I want you back at the precinct in case Garcia finds something.”

“JJ and I will head up to the campus and meet with the roommate.”

The car ride was much more reserved than the one with Jareau and Reid. Rossi drove, playing generic elevator music in the background. Lewis asked about his car. Rossi asked about hers. The drive was only about forty minutes of you listening and not speaking.

The evidence boards were intense and necessary. After examining the autopsy photographs you noticed weird marking on each of the bodies. One of the women had a tattoo so it hid the reoccurring image. It appeared to be a brand of some sort.

“Jareau?” You had dialed without sharing with Lewis and Rossi, but they were listening anyway. “I think these are rituals. There is the same symbol on each of the bodies.”

“Alright, I will tell Hotch. Nice catch.” She answered and hung up.

Rossi was on his phone once he understood your discovery. “Garcia, I am sending an image, see if it belongs to a cult or religious sect.”

Lewis pursed her lips while glancing at the photographs. “If this is ritualistic, then we have to be prepared for anything.”

“Suicide by cop?”

“Worse, martyrdom.”

Hotch put the whole team on the line for an update. “Abigail Brown’s roommate confirmed she had been involved in some new activities. But she didn’t know anything about it being a cult.”

“Sir?” Garcia interjected. “It was definitely a cult. The symbol is ancient, but surprise surprise it has been “re-branded” for the internet age. The screen name loops back over many servers, but the credit card for the chat service used for the “Night Owls” site lands us right back to Langlade County. And not many people have internet service there, it is too expensive to install the fiber-optics.”

“Garcia tell me you have an address.”

“Sending it to your phones.” Garcia confirmed. “Please be safe!”

“Alright, everyone head back to the hotel. We are all going in together. I will have JJ coordinate with the locals as we drive back.”

The drive down the dirt road was a horror movie in action. You had been assigned to Reid and Alvez’s SUV. The Sheriff that had called the team onto the case was driving Rossi and JJ because he knew the area. Hotch and Lewis were in the last vehicle, trailing three squad cars.

Reid was going over building records that Garcia had sent. “It appears to be a large house with a garage and two other out buildings.”

“Plenty of room for an ambush, great.” You muttered.

“We’ll be fine, just focus on getting the victims out and we will handle the rest.” Alvez explained.

“I hope you’re talking to Reid, because I am not on damsel duty here, Alvez.”

Alvez and Dr. Reid exchanged a look. The taller man shrugged, his lips doing that motion from the first trip. Was it annoyance or was it amusement?

“Noted!” Alvez chuckled. “Hotch will give the actual assignments once we park anyway.”

The large green space was surrounded by miles of forest and marshland. If one of the captives had managed to escape you doubted they would have survived without some help. The space around the buildings was hilly and strewn with pine trees. You thanked Babbage that it was still daylight, you strapped on your standard issued vest and felt like a jock for the first time, ever.

“Do we huddle and get a pep talk, too?” You mused to yourself, but Rossi heard you.

“Not usually, but I think it’s because Morgan was the one with the whistle.” He hinted. Your head tilted with interest, but Jareau shook her head meaning ‘wrong time and place, children.’

You followed Alvez to the main house. Reid and Lewis took one of the out buildings. Jareau and Rossi took the garage. Hotch and the Sheriff took the building on the farthest end of the clearing. The infiltration began simultaneously. Doors flying open and calls of “FBI!” or “Federal Agents”.

The house was a bungalow style with a ‘Silence of the Lambs’ style stone basement, luckily it did not come with the signature hole dug below. The rooms were well kept, but abandoned. After clearing all the rooms, you followed onto the garage. Alvez kicked the fender of a pick up truck, “This is the truck from the dash cam footage.”

You nodded, “You see Jareau or Rossi?”.

“Here!” Jareau’s voice called from the back of the unlit room. There were tables of Bunsen beakers, torches, and distilling equipment. “No sign of the unsubs, but I think we can say that it was Abigail Brown in the truck this morning.”

Rossi mused, “I am guessing the chemistry set is how these guys are funding their little ‘family’.”

The four of you dispersed to the remaining buildings when shots broke out. You readied your weapon, moving to secure an entrance. The buildings were identical from the outside. Carmel brick work with obscured glass block windows. Entrances on the northern and southern walls only. Suddenly you heard someone scream, “Go!”

Recalling your training: you kicked in your door, “FBI!” The room was arranged like a classroom, with desks in rows and some computers lining the far wall. Alvez came in the other side, sweeping the area for the unsubs or victims or any movement at all. The server they had set up was pretty sick, but you held yourself back from drooling. “We’re clear, Alvez.”

“Alright, we need to keep moving. Catch up with the team.”

You closed your door behind you and followed the muscular man out the door he entered. When you stepped outside it was chaos. Reid was limping outside with a young woman under his arm. JJ was holding the door screaming, “Out! Everybody out!”

There was smoke wafting out the door and Hotch and Lewis carried the Sheriff out between their strong shoulders. There was a moment of panic when Rossi wasn’t accounted for, but finally he staggered outside with the rest of the team. In his arms was a three year old girl, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Daddy! Daddy! No!”

Your heart tore, this little thing was the unsub’s daughter. Once the door swung shut a group of thuds rolled through the brick building. Was that an explosion? It must have been a poorly executed one. Hotch was on the comms with the locals, calling medics. You regrouped, checking on each team member and confirming the victims had been secured.

You took a minute to calm down from your first big case against the house. You were watching Reid, JJ and Alvez smile and play with the toddler.  Rossi and Hotch were having serious conversations for serious grown ups. Lewis was taking notes while talking with Abigail Brown. Suddenly a hand came up and clamped down on your mouth. Instinctively you dodged and spun out from the attack. You kicked the unsub’s knee in and pulled your firearm. “Hands! Hands in the Air, Asshole!”

The BAU was there in a fraction of a minute, six guns trained on the second unsub. “Dey found you Un-Craig, dey found you!” The little girl sing-songed from behind the row of agents. She giggled at the apparent game. You holstered your weapon and made the arrest. After loading the unsub into the back of the squad car, you turned and looked at the crime scene.

It was a good day: your team saved some people and neutralized some big bads. “Hey Jareau, you think that little girl will be all right?”

Her big blue eyes searched you and nodded. “Yeah, they will find her a good family. Little one like that is already so tough.” You accepted the answer, though more questions flitted through your mind.

“Hey, Y/L/N?” Jareau asked. “It’s J.J. My friends call me J.J.”

@dontshootmespence @penelope-garxia @reiding-and-writing @milkandcookies528 @criminal-minds-fanfiction @rachficrecs @reidbyers @holagubler @speedreiding

Difficult Homes

1. The House That Didn't Like Anybody

(posted on Reddit)

The real estate firm I work for specializes in difficult homes. Not homes with leaks or creaking floors, mind you. We focus on buildings that have been on the market for months or even years because they have a particular reputation.

Usually, that means they were once the sites of gruesome murders and meth labs, but I occasionally get the chance to sell a haunted house. Well, allegedly haunted. Sorry to disappoint, but I have yet to be proven that there is such a thing as ghosts. I have been to many creepy shacks and cobweb-covered barns and I can tell you that it all just comes down to superstition and faulty pipes.

None of this matters, though. If a house has a reputation, and if enough people believe in it, then ghosts are real and demons crawl out of dark closets at night to take your children. Normal people don't want to live in places like this, so these homes tend to sit on the market forever or sell extremely cheap.

I am proud to say that that is not the case when I'm in charge. I don't care if a family of five was murdered in their sleep or if a kindly grandmother had been secretly harvesting human organs in the basement; I can still make the sale, for the price of a significant commission, of course. I was never the kind of man to shy away from a challenge; besides, I have an eye for detail and – I've been told – a trustworthy face.

The last house I sold, however, was a little tricky. My boss assigned it to me with a dismissive, “We got another one, Tony,” but kept the details to herself. Honestly, I thought it was going to be an easy, boring sale. It was just an inconspicuous two-story home in the middle of a cul-de-sac, the mirror image of the other houses beside it, with a little porch, a blue door and two large windows on its ivory facade that made it look like a friendly face, welcoming you in. Not at all the kind of home I usually got my hands on and I was a little disappointed.

Coming into the house for the first time, nothing warned me against it. There was no creeping feeling on the back of my neck, no sixth sense flaring at something I couldn't quite put my finger on, no demonic voice whispering for me to get out. All I could see was the hardwood floors that had been recently polished, the pristine white walls, the kitchen cabinets with brass handles, the fireplace strategically located in the corner of the living room. That house was a beauty. It made very little sense for it to have been on the market for eight months, so I immediately asked the owner, an elegant woman in her forties who asked me to call her Angela, if any violent crimes had been committed on the premises.

After a moment that only lasted a heartbeat, she said, “No.” The house had once belonged to her uncle, who'd died of a heart attack months before. He had been a recluse man who'd spent all of his looking after his home. She never really visited him and she knew very little about the old man. If a particularly strong wind hadn't cracked the kitchen door open, allowing for the neighbor to catch a glimpse of his rotting body on the floor, the old man might have gone months undiscovered instead of only a couple of weeks.

I sniffed the air, but the putrefying smell had long vanished. Good. Then this was a two-bathroom, three-bedroom home that had been well looked-after and smelled nice. On top of that, it was located in a family-friendly neighborhood.

I asked the owner how much she was asking for. She told me.

“Oh, we can do better than that,” I said, offering a different, more accurate figure.

The owner opened her mouth as if she was going to fight me on it but then shook her head. “Whatever you can get for it, I don't care. I just want it off my hands.” I didn't ask, but she still told me. “This house just makes me uncomfortable.”

That suited me fine. Sentimentality can get in the way of business sometimes and I didn't have time for that. This was supposed to be an easy job.

I examined every inch of that home, jotting down its best features, which formed a rather long list. There wasn't a scratch on the hardwood floors, not a single leak, not even a quiet creak when I opened the basement door – recently renovated, no mold, brightly illuminated by surprisingly large windows. Shit, I don't think there was a single speck of dust in that house.

Advertising through the usual means, I got an immediate, positive response and in less than a week I was showing the home to a young married couple. They were both lawyers that had been recently promoted and felt ready to start what the husband called “an actual adult life, and that involves being tied down by a mortgage for the foreseeable future.” I chuckled as if I thought it was funny and, as I walked them across the lawn towards the house, I felt confident that I wouldn't have to show the house to anyone else. They were going to fall in love with the place immediately and then-

The front door didn't open.

I frowned, then smiled reassuringly at the both of them. The wife had lifted an eyebrow at me, suddenly suspicious. I forced the lock, puzzled. It had worked just fine the day before.

“I'm sorry, it's an old key,” I said, which was bullshit. I pull the key out, then tried again, pressing just a little harder until the lock gave in and the blue door opened into a small but charming foyer.

“This is quite lovely,” said the wife.

I smiled at her. “Isn't it just? Let's start upstairs. You mentioned you both wanted a home office and I think this is exactly what you-”

My foot had barely touched the first step of the stairs when I heard a loud creak. For a moment, I thought it had been the stairs, maybe I had finally found a loose floorboard by stepping on the one place I shouldn't have. Nothing I couldn't recover from, no home is perfect, but then I heard a second creak and I realized I hadn't come from the stairs at all, but the entire house.

“What was that?” asked the husband.

I tried to tell them that it was probably nothing since the plumbing had been recently updated, but the creak turned into a loud rumble that sent a violent vibration through the floor.

Over the growing sound, I tried to reassure them that this had never happened before and that it was probably coming from the property beside us, but they wouldn't hear of it. In the blink of an eye, they had turned on their heels and left, the husband telling me that the house just wasn't for them, the wife not even bothering to look at me and muttering something about it all being a waste of time.

The door slammed shut.

The rumble stopped.

“What the-” I said to myself, looking around as if the explanation would present itself to me. It didn't.

I examined every nook and cranny of that place once again, looking for something I might have missed, but there was nothing. I called Angela and relayed what had happened to her.

“Yes, it does that sometimes,” she said. “Do I need to find another agent?”

Her tone wasn't resentful, it was just very tired.

“No, no. I'm sure a plumber can-”

“It's not the pipes,” she told me.

I knew she was right, of course. Even old, terrible pipes didn't make you feel as if you were standing directly above a roaring train. Still, my brain was grasping for something rational.

“It's not the pipes, nor the floorboards, it's not anything. The house just... it doesn't like anyone.”

I raised an eyebrow at the empty room. She must have felt the skepticism through the phone line because she sighed.

“I know I sound crazy.”

“Not at all.”

“No, I do, I sound like a lunatic.” She paused. “My uncle sounded like a lunatic too. He talked about that house as if it were a goddamn person! I always thought it was because he felt so melancholy after his divorce, you know? Holding on to the past. But I don't know, I always felt there was something creepy about this place.”

“Angela, this isn't my first haunted house,” I said, trying to be kind but not wanting to encourage her fantasy. “I have heard every ghost story there is and I can tell you that there's always a rational explanation behind everything. I am sure that, if I get a contractor and we look inside the walls-”

A loud thud shook the house violently. It was so sudden and so much stronger than before that I lost my balance and fell against the stairs. Then, the house was quiet again, as if nothing had happened. Now, I've never really believed in ghosts, and I still don't, but as I sat on my ass, feeling the bruises on my back and the thundering of my heart in my chest, I couldn't help but think that the house had just shouted “No!” at the idea of being pulled apart.

Actually, no. It hadn't simply told me “no”; it had screamed at the top of its non-existent lungs, “Don't you fucking dare!”

Now, it was laying quietly again, waiting to see what I was going to do next.

“Tony?” Angela's voice called from my phone, which I had dropped on the floor. “Tony? Are you there?”

Wide-eyed, I fumbled for my phone and told her, "Yes, yes, I'm here. So..." I struggled to put my thoughts in order. “So it's a... ah... a difficult house.”

I was breathless and I think she could hear the tremor in my voice. Angela asked, “Do you want me to find someone else?” already resigned that she would have to do just that.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and shook my head. Then, realizing that she couldn't see me, I said, “No, it will be fine.” I'm not sure I meant it, but as I said, I never shy away from a challenge.

I hung up the phone and stood up, paying attention to the sudden, absolute quiet that had fallen around me. Houses aren't quiet. Not completely. That much silence was unnatural and I didn't like it.

“I'm gonna sell this house,” I said. It sounded as if I were asking for permission. “I'm going to find a nice family for it.”

Underneath my feet, I could feel a gentle vibration. It wasn't a protest, that much I could tell. Perhaps the house was considering my request. Then, it went quiet again.

“If I'm gonna find a good family for it,” I added, cautious, “I'm going to need the house to be... receptive.”

I told myself I wasn't talking to the walls. That would have been crazy. Still, I paused and waited for an answer. It came in a single, gentle rumble that sounded almost like a resigned huffing sound. Something that felt angry but otherwise contained. As far as I could tell, the house wasn't a threat to me or anyone, but I still sighed with relief when the front door opened and I was allowed to walk away.

Over the following weeks, two things happened. One, I took several people to see the house. Two, I threw any pretense of sanity out of the window and started addressing the house directly. I didn't actually believe I was having a conversation, but I really – really! - needed to vent my frustration because Angela was right. The house didn't like anybody!

It creaked and rumbled at the boyfriend and girlfriend who had been looking for a place of their own. It mimicked the sound of mice in the walls until the retiring couple who'd been looking for a quiet place scurried away, the wife shaking in fear and disgust. It shook so violently at the architect who threatened to tear down its walls that I thought the whole house was going to collapse. And it stood impossibly still when I brought in a group of paranormal investigators in search of haunted headquarters for their organization.

That was the day I finally threw my hands up and shouted in the foyer, “Are you fucking kidding me?! They were perfect for you!”

The house made its pipes growl in protest.

Not them! Not any of them!

“Oh, you are a picky bitch!” I snapped.

Somewhere above me, I heard a window fall shut with a loud bang.

And fuck you too!

“Fine! I'll find you someone else!”

I didn't. Not for another two months. People came and went, but the house simply wasn't satisfied. I know I should have been a little more freaked out about the whole thing, but mostly I just had a bruised ego. Never had I ever failed to sell a house before. For fuck's sake! I once sold a funeral home that had been owned by a cult of cannibal Satanists – and the blood hadn't been fully scrubbed off the walls! Yet, this little suburban home was proving to be a challenge. I considered cutting my losses and letting Angela find someone else to deal with her picky home, but that was when the Reyes came along.

Mr. Reyes brought his three daughters, ages six, seven and nine, when he came to meet me. Upon seeing them get out of the car, I was worried.

“Sorry,” said Mr. Reyes, seeing the look on my face. “I couldn't find a sitter.”

People usually don't bring children the first time they come to see a home, but what worried me was that the house might protest a little too harshly at having three excited little girls running up and down. However, there wasn't a single sound from the house that day. Not a tremble, not a growl. I didn't want to be optimistic, but I dared think that the house actually liked them.

We went from room to room, the girls barely paying attention to anything we were saying, as they made delighted little sounds at everything.

At one point, they came running from the backyard and oldest daughter said, “Papi! The house is so beautiful! Can we buy it?”

Her sisters joined the choir, pleading and whining.

The father smiled at them. I could tell he had already fallen in love with the home and could see himself raising his daughters there.

“You like the house, mijita?” Mr. Reyes asked, scooping up his youngest child.

“It's a funny house, daddy!” she giggled. “It winked at me!”

“Did it now?” said Mr. Reyes, smiling warmly at his daughters' silliness.

“Yeah, with the windows! I saw it!” swore the eldest.

“Oh well, I always wanted to live in a winking house, didn't you know?”

I could have kissed the man. Was he really about to take that hellish building out of my hands?

Mr. Reyes came to the house one more time, without his children, but still, the home was silent. Not a single sound of protest.

“You know, I hadn't seen Lídia smile like that since her mother left,” Mr. Reyes told me, looking to me like a man who had just found some much-needed peace. “Maybe there's something special about this house.”

“There's definitely something,” I said, not sounding as bitter as I thought I would.

In the end, everything had turned out fine. The Reyes would have a home to call their own, and the picky house would have a family to keep it company. Angela would be overjoyed.

As I walked away from it, I even whispered, “Told you I would find someone perfect for you.”

For once, the house made a sound that I took as agreement, a low, gentle rumble that felt satisfied. Perhaps even grateful.

Documents were signed, commissions were paid, and I was all too glad to move on to the next complicated building my boss had in store for me. Something that didn't protest every time I brought home someone it didn't like.

By the time the police came to talk to me, I had already learned about the girls' disappearance from the news. Well, they called it disappearance, always trying to sound hopeful that the three girls might be found someday. In truth, I have no doubt that the girls are as dead as their father.

I didn't tell the police this, obviously. I answered their questions, which were brief and ultimately pointless, then provided an alibi for the night of the disappearance. I don't think they considered me a serious suspect, but by that point, the trail had gone cold and I suspect they had been interviewing every adult they'd come into contact with, even if they didn't seem to pose a threat.

I honestly couldn't blame them. Mr. Reyes had been disposed of most violently. Whoever the kidnapper had been, they had slammed his head between the kitchen door and the doorjamb, over and over again. The news claimed it had been a quick death, though a detailed autopsy report that had subsequently been leaked claimed that he had remained alive for at least several minutes, his broken skull too damaged for him to get up and get help, but not damaged enough to allow him a mercifully quick death.

People didn't linger on that detail too much, though. You see, when Mr. Reyes' body was found, he had been clutching Lídia's severed hand in his, her little fingers curled and bloodied in her father's grasp. No one could explain the marks around what was left of her wrist. They looked like teeth marks, it was said, as if a predator with sharp fangs had bitten the rest of her off while her father tried to pull her free... but that was impossible, of course.

I didn't mention the house to anyone. What was I going to say? Even if I leave aside the absurdity of the situation for a moment, all I have is a broken theory I'm still trying to put together. I tried to call Angela one last time, but she didn't answer. I don't think she wants to deal with this shit again; after all, she never mentioned her missing cousins to me. I had to learn it from a thorough news report that unearthed a missing case from the 1980s that had happened at the same address. A boy and a girl, taken in the middle of the night while their parents slept. They didn't draw much of a parallel, though. Angela's uncle had been spared, after all.

I do wonder, though. I thought the house had been looking for a family, but now I wonder if it hadn't been looking for a meal. Children, it seems, are its food of choice. And after such a hearty dinner, I wonder if it will go dormant again. Maybe it will be quiet for another forty years before it has to eat again.

Or maybe – and I don't like to think about it, but I can't help it – maybe Angela's uncle did cherish his house as much as she claimed he did. Maybe he cherished it enough to keep it fed.

Maybe, if we had torn those walls apart, we might not have liked what we would have found.

Descension, Part 3

Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: Takes place towards the beginning of season 2. Confusion and memory blanks plague Scully one Monday morning. Things don’t seem to line up. Why’s everything seem so annoyingly bright?

Genre: Angst/Drama/Mystery…..idk

Rating: PG

           Pathetic, hazy strings of yellow spilled across Mulder’s worry-grooved forehead through closed blinds, while the dizzy fishtank in the corner bubbled on, casting a cold tint to his hunched back. His feet muzzily socked some stray masking tape, and then he was idle once more.

 A whirlwind of anxiety had ransacked the small room. Discarded file folders, their contents empty, settled beneath his leather couch like moths, their paper wings tired. Hurled books dotted the disaster’s perimeter. An ancient library copy of The Hunter’s Guide to Trolls sat cracked open, the spine hanging by mere thread on the edge of the leather couch. There was no doubt, that by morning the book would split in two, one side dangling from the leathery cliff, the bright innards struggling to hold on to what little bonding it had left, before finally descending to the wood in a broken cloud of dust. More fuel for the eternal tumbleweed of overdue library books to never be brought up again. When this case was over, he had to find another library to roam. Which meant another stupid library card. A fully stocked drawer of them hid in his desk, this was yet another thing to be ashamed of. Guilty of. Another thing to never share with his partner.

 Said storm also had a deviance for tossing exhausted bystanders into beaten desk chairs.

           Mulder was trapped in the throes of a fitful REM slumber. His heart screamed, rapping in his chest like clenched fists, trying to break free. Dream trolls roamed his mind, gyrating to the rhythm of his fear. Bump-ba-bump. Bump-ba-bump. Fear for his partner kindled.

             The back of a head came into view, as mysterious fog parted over the silhouette. Distant strawberry-blonde hair flogged limply like a torn flag.

 Scully!

             The library book on the sofa snapped. Half of its severed corpse thumped loudly next to the coffee table. The shock winded him, and he panted into stillness, his jaw sore from excessive clenching. He tore his face from the disheveled desk, and he noted the sweat plastering his brows.

 Another nightmare, Mulder silently moaned, rousing himself from the desk chair. Still, he thought, it wouldn’t hurt to call her. To talk about the case again, of course. Just that. Only.

 What sounded to be a newspaper slugged the base of his apartment door as he blindly felt for a light switch. He suddenly paused. Confusion struck him. It couldn’t be. Cryptid Weekly never arrived at 5 AM befo…

 Mulder caught a glimpse of his wristwatch.

 “Shoot!”

 Fresh adrenaline blinded and stung the corners of Mulder's eyes. He blinked the salt away. She's fine, she's fine, she's fine, he crooned to himself.

 He tore the blinds up and open, shaking his head to clear the mind. To make the paranoia fall out like the parasite it was. Crisp morning light now flooded the apartment, as overcast as it was. One by one, he jerked his limbs through his work uniform--a fine Armani suit he'd bought with three months of pay. And a little help from dad, of course.

 Mulder's lip bled slightly from anxious nibbling. Though this was lost on him, as he put on a bright green tie adorned with red and blue diamonds, leaving his apartment behind with an obnoxious slam. The drive over to the bureau thankfully loosened the paranoia chokehold.

 A sigh of relief exited his lips when Scully's head flew up to meet him.

 She raised her eyebrows. "You're late."

 "I know, and I'm sorry..." He panted, gritting his teeth to stifle it.

 "Did you run here?"

 "...Yeah, across the parking garage," Mulder said, a grin slowly taking over his features. "anything for you, Scully."

 Scully's cheeks flushed a highlighter pink.

 “Well…” She trailed off, suddenly losing her train of thought. “Good. We can still catch our plane then, right?”

 “Right.”

 An unseasonal, bittersweet draft slinked in from a cracked basement window. Both subconsciously read that as a cue to move in the direction of the door. Mulder lingered, hesitant to let Scully out of his sight. He knew it was foolish, it was just a dream, after all. Just a dream.

 Scully eyeballed her neatly packed leather suitcase that sat by her toes. She couldn’t help but feel she was failing to recall something. Then her gaze fell to the blank notebook. Innocent yet seemingly complacent, there it sat washed in saturated basement light on Mulder’s desk. She bit her lip.

 “Hey, what did you do with those notes you took?” Scully casually broached, gesturing to the notepad. She awaited his response eagerly, but at the same time ashamed. It was clear Agent Mulder didn’t want her to see the notes. He’d likely ripped them out after she stormed from the office the other day. There was nothing to read into. And yet, she found herself staring deeply into him, as if he were a specimen she’d been assigned to prod and dissect.

 Mulder’s brows lifted briefly. He then squinted, not quite looking at her, but not quite past her, either. His lips parted as if to speak, but then he stopped.

 His silence was beginning to annoy her now. She dove in, slapping her latex gloves on. “That notebook. I assume you tore out the pages you wrote on. What did you do with them? I was hoping to review them on the plane, if that’s alright.”

 Mulder looked at her quizzically.

 She continued, “Look, I know you don’t want me to look at it. For whatever reason. But I need to see it to help get a better understanding. So if you could just-”

 “I never took any notes, Scully. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He said with a chuckle that shook her. Picking up his suitcase again, “If I had written any, I’d certainly let you see them. You don’t think I’m that petty, do you?”

 She simply stared at him, as the edges of the room took to blurring as if it were in a kaleidoscope.

 “Scully?”

 And that’s when it went dark.

Fic: Cherry Blossoms, 1992

Notes: Short piece of fluffiness initially inspired by prompt 204: “There’s a leaf in your hair.” Thanks to @lilydalexf for the request!

Rating: G

Timeline: Early Season 1. I plead willful ignorance to any and all time/continuity errors :)

Warnings/Triggers: None

Summary:  It’s remarkable how comfortable they’ve become with each other in the few weeks they’ve been partners. ****

“Where are you going?”

Mulder asks the question as she’s putting on her coat. She looks over to where he sits at his desk. He’s still poring over the same collection of blurry photographs from earlier this morning. UFOs, he’d claimed as she entered the office, to which she’d rolled her eyes and promptly buried herself in her own work. Now, after three hours of hovering over a microscope, she’s itching to stretch her legs.

“I thought I’d take an early lunch and walk down to the Tidal Basin to see the cherry blossoms,” she replies. “They’re in full bloom, now.”

To her surprise, Mulder leaps up from his chair. “I think I’ll join you,” he says, grabbing his own jacket from the coat rack. He also reaches for the umbrella sitting next to the office door.

“Weatherman says there’s a chance of rain.” He winks as says it, like he’s letting her in on some vast meteorological conspiracy (nevermind she heard the same forecast on the radio this morning), and she thinks - not for the first time since joining the X-Files - that Mulder could stand to get out of this musty basement office more often. This will be good practice, she thinks, as they climb the stairs to the exit.

It’s nearly a mile to the Tidal Basin, but they take their time. The sky is overcast, and it’s cooler than she anticipated, but at least it’s not yet raining. They fall into a companionable silence as they cross Pennsylvania Avenue - something that’s become a habit of sorts, she realizes. It’s remarkable how comfortable they’ve become with each other in the few weeks they’ve been partners. Despite their obvious differences of opinion, it seems to her that Mulder has come to respect - even appreciate - the perspective she brings to their investigations. And unlike some of the agents whom she’s worked with in the past, he’s not once questioned her ability to do her job on the basis of her gender. Perhaps it’s for these reasons that he’s the first male colleague with whom she doesn’t feel the need to prove anything, with whom she can be herself. Sure, Mulder drives her crazy with his stubborn insistence on proving the existence of paranormal phenomena, but she appreciates his genuineness; he’s not out to climb the Bureau ladder or earn professional accolades - the Tooms case made that abundantly clear. And while Mulder seems to embrace his position as the FBI’s “Most Unwanted” Agent and willingly accepts the ridicule of his peers, he is sensitive to how her association with him affects her reputation and standing in the Bureau - a fact she appreciates, but whose importance has diminished of late.  

Eventually, they reach the Tidal Basin. The threat of rain is enough to dissuade most of the tourists, so they have the path practically to themselves. The still water of the Basin reflects the blossoms of hundreds of cherry trees, giving the illusion of an endless pastel Rorschach test.

They pause at a break in the trees and she glances over at Mulder. He’s absently cracking a sunflower seed between his teeth as he stares across the water towards the Jefferson Memorial.

He’s probably thinking about those photos, she figures. She wouldn’t be surprised if she walked into the office the next morning to discover that he’d spent the night there.

From the handful of cases they’ve worked together, it’s clear that Mulder is obsessed with the X-Files. She doesn’t use that term lightly. Just the other week, she’d found herself driving to New Jersey to bail him out of jail. The cops cited vagrancy; Mulder claimed he was on a stakeout - of the mythological Jersey Devil, of all things, as it made clandestine raids on the back alley Dumpsters of Atlantic City. She called the whole thing crazy. Despite that, she’d somehow found herself choosing to accompany him to the Smithsonian to follow up on the investigation instead of agreeing to a second date with Rob.

I’ve changed, she muses, staring up at the blossoms. Something shifted when she moved into Mulder’s basement office. The X-Files, these unexplained cases deemed too strange for the Bureau mainstream, have reawakened something in her. Call it a love of intellectual challenge, the thrill of discovery, or just plain curiosity: whatever “it” is, it’s something she thought she’d lost when she made the decision to leave medicine and dedicate her life to the noble (yet admittedly more mundane) pursuit of public service as an FBI Agent. To rediscover this passion now is unexpected, but not unwelcome; it feels like a homecoming of sorts, a latter-day reminder that the world is as weird and mysterious - if not more so - as when she was a child. Mulder’s willingness to dive head-first into these mysteries acts as a catalyst; his theories are so crazy, so “out there,” that she feels duty-bound to prove him wrong. And yet, in her striving to lay out a scientific and rational explanation, she finds herself sharing in his desire and determination to uncover the truth of what they’re investigating. She recalls a certain passage from ‘Moby Dick,’ in which Ishmael describes his affection for the misunderstood Queequeg: ‘And those same things that would have repelled most others, they were the very magnets that thus drew me.’

A gust of wind picks up, troubling the waters of the Basin before it reaches the two of them beneath the trees. The space around them suddenly becomes thick with pink and white petals, and for a moment, her eyes meet Mulder’s in mutual wonder. Then, as quickly as it arose, the wind subsides, and they’re left standing alone amid a carpet of fallen blossoms.

“Your weatherman didn’t say anything about it raining flowers, did he?” she asks, unable to hide a playful smile.

Mulder laughs. “No, he didn’t.”

He suddenly holds a hand up to prevent her from moving. “Just a sec,” he says. “You’ve got a cherry blossom in your hair.” She feels his fingers gently pressing on her head as he works to remove the wayward blossom.

It’s an intimate gesture on his part, one that would’ve shocked her with its presumptiveness prior to her assignment to the X-Files. But she knows better now. He might be the laughingstock of the Bureau, but if she’s honest with herself, she’d admit that she’s never trusted someone to the degree that she trusts Mulder. And if you pressed her further, she’d acknowledge that trust was gained on their first case together - when she’d gone, trembling, to his motel room, asking him to look at some marks on her lower back which she’d feared were connected to their investigation. She’d felt incredibly vulnerable as she undressed in the dim candlelight in front of a man she’d only known for two days, but Mulder didn’t balk, didn’t even bat an eye at her semi-nakedness. He’d matter-of-factly bent down to examine the marks, gently prodding the area with his fingers. And after he’d confirmed they were just mosquito bites, Dana Scully, who’d earned the nickname “Iron Woman” for her unfailing composure at the Academy, collapsed into him with relief. That seemed to have broken the ice between them; Mulder bared his soul afterward, telling her about his missing sister and what he believed had happened to her. It was a powerful moment, one they’ve never since acknowledged out loud, but whose effects seem to seep into all their interactions. Like this one.

“Thanks,” she says, brushing her hair in an attempt to appear nonchalant. “We should probably get back to work.” Mulder merely nods, and together, they turn down the path.

They’re halfway to the office when the first drops start to fall. “Told you it would rain,” he says with a self-satisfied grin. He opens his umbrella and holds up in invitation.

“Thanks for planning ahead,” she replies, ducking under the umbrella.  It’s big enough to cover them both, but she finds herself walking close beside him, as if it is Mulder, and not the umbrella, that keeps the rain at bay.

“So tell me more about these alleged UFO photographs you’ve been examining all morning,” she says as they cross the Mall.

“I thought you’d never ask, Scully.”