A/N: A very rushed companion piece to "Best Kept Memories," which was essentially a season one au. You don't really have to read that one first, I think, but this would probably make more sense if you did. It's pretty short, shouldn't take long if you decide you want to. Side note: Not sure why all my X-Files fics thus far are second person. I guess it's just how it panned out. Promise that's not how I write everything. ;)

Ah, whatever. Reviews would be lovely. :)

A knock on the door pulls you from your work, your silent, rushing thoughts.

"Ye-es," you answer, a soft lilt to your voice that echoes through the open space. The door opens at that, and a woman walks in, turns her pretty brown eyes and gentle, nervous smile your way.

You just barely hear the small, "Hi," she whispers so quietly.

She says, "I'm sorry to bother you. But Mr. Skinner sent me down here and told me to talk to you. I'm looking for Agent Fox Mulder."

And with your breath briefly catching in your throat, you pause. And you stare. You wonder who in the world this woman could be, with her lovely dark hair swept away from her delicate face and her air of absolute, innocent ignorance.

You wonder how on Earth she could not have already heard. And by the same token, why nobody told her until this moment.

"I don't know why Skinner would do that," you admit, turning your eyes back to your work for just a moment. You'd look anywhere but at that nervous girl, but you force yourself to turn back. "But the fact of it is…"

You start. You pause. You take a breath.

"I would be happy to introduce you to him. However... the problem with that…"

As you trail off once again, you watch her face fall in time with the sinking of your stomach, and you find yourself wishing you didn't have to say it. It's been a long time since you've thought about it, but as you now discover, time doesn't numb pain nearly as well as you once thought it did. The thought still makes your head spin now and again, and in this moment, the words still feel sharp and absolutely wrong in your mouth.

You sigh.

"The problem with that is that he's dead."

You spit it out, straightforward and simple, and you decide that perhaps it wasn't as bad as you thought it would be. Perhaps.

"He's been dead for about two years. He died two years ago, in April."

Something dark flickers across the woman's face, and if you didn't know any better, you'd think you saw tears shining in her eyes for a man she's never met. A strange, sensitive sentiment.

Silence stretches across the room for a while, and every time you think she's about to nod her head and walk out, she doesn't. Instead, she turns her eyes to stare at the floor, making you feel as if somehow you've committed some terrible, guilty sin by telling her the truth.

You feel almost indignant at the unspoken, and possibly wholly imaginary, accusation.

But then she raises her head and carefully asks you, "How did he die?"

And while you know it's not the answer she's looking for, you say the first thing that comes into mind.

"Alone," you say. "He died… alone. He fell unconscious by himself in the middle of the woods, no doubt terrified, and died in a hospital in some town in Indiana. We were working on a case, he insisted on splitting up… and you can imagine the rest, I'm sure."

The look on her face tells you that that's where your sin is. The unsettled grief in her eyes is punishment enough for you, reason enough to make you wish you never said that. But it's no matter. You can't take back words that have already been spoken aloud, in all their miserable truth.

"I-I mean… how did he die? The circumstances."

You nod, having known full well what she meant. And you say what Skinner had you practice, quoting the reports near verbatim.

"The reports say… that an animal had attacked him. He had deep claw marks all across his chest, blunt force trauma to the head, everything consistent with a mauling. Doctors tried to save him, but… obviously, they couldn't."

"An animal."

She seems unconvinced. You sigh and insist.

"Yes."

"But that's not what you think," she says it pointedly, and you wonder how she could have come to that admittedly true conclusion. Perhaps it was something in your tone. Your eyes, maybe. Regardless, she's right and you don't want to admit it. Disclose what you really think.

Hesitantly, you shake your head.

"What do you think happened?"

You take a breath.

"I don't know what happened," you say, and it's all truth. You really don't know, not conclusively. "But… I know there were no animals in those woods capable of inflicting… well, any of it. It's kind of funny… Mulder had been going on about the possibility of a lycanthrope as our main suspect. One of his weird theories. He was always doing that, springing these weird, ridiculous ideas that never really made much sense."

You pause.

"But we always caught a killer in the end. Or… most of the time, anyway…."

Leaving it at that, you turn your eyes away and go quiet. Out of the corner of your vision, you see the woman nod her head.

And with a shuddering breath, she just says, "I'm sorry. Thank you."

As she turns to leave, you turn back to her.

"Wait!" you call after her, and she spins around to face you once more. You need to know. "Who are you?"

She just gives you a sad smile.

"My name's Samantha."

The door closes with a final click behind her as she leaves you alone, back to your work once again.