For Nerdfishgirl, who has been a simply amazing giftee! I hope you have just as much fun reading your gift, as I had writing it!
This was written for Rumbelle Christmas in July 2015.
Prompts: X-Files AU Rushbelle
–Beginning–
He was not sure how long he had sat there and simply stared at his calculations when the doorbell rang. His mouth tasted stale and when he shrank back from the noise the numbers came back into focus without him even having noticed when he had stopped seeing them in the first place. Rush rubbed his eyes and simply hoped that whoever was outside would go away again if he simply didn't answer. His papers were strewn all over the kitchen table and some had dark stains where they had lain in a dirty patch. He brushed off what he could, before he stacked them once again in orderly piles, sorted by the train of thought he'd followed when writing them, or at least as close as he could still manage. All the while the ringing continued. One loud ring, then fifteen seconds of silence, then another ring. And another. And another.
Rush closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair and simply let out a deep sigh. Blindly he groped for his coffee mug, took a sip, and spit it right out, at once alert again. It wasn't simply cold, it clearly had stood there for some time until it was only barely edible anymore. The ringing continued and was echoed by the beginning staccato of a headache behind his eyes.
The taste in his mouth had his throat clenching, but his formerly halfway orderly papers were now sprinkled with coffee splatters, so after a little bit of fumbling where he tried to find some paper towels and the subsequent realisation that someone would have had to have bought them in the first place for any to be there (and that with only him left here, who didn't ever think of such things, the chances of finding any were abysmal) he grabbed a packet of tissues and did his best to at least dry the papers.
The doorbell still hadn't quieted and its rhythm had slowly but surely dug its way into his head.
Wait – wait – wait – wait- wait - wait – wait – wait – wait- wait - wait – wait – wait – wait- wait – ring! – wait – wait – wait …
He wiped the table with a tissue, as he should probably have done before he had placed his papers there, and laid out a thin cover of paper tissues. Then one page next to the other, and another covering of paper tissues. For a moment it looked as if the table was covered by a crisp white tablecloth, waiting to be decked out with their good Sunday china and a new cake she just had to try, but then the coffee seeped through in new dark stains and he turned towards the sink. A glass of tap water didn't exactly counter the horrible taste on his tongue, but it at least made it bearable and Rush filled another one for good measure.
He didn't gulp down this one and as he sipped it he caught himself tapping the seconds until the next ring against the glass. 13 – 14 – 15 – there it was again and he couldn't help but turn to the kitchen watch. 16:20. He frowned. When had it started? Three minutes ago? Five? Ten? He had no idea, but slowly he pushed himself away from the counter he had leaned on, and made his way to the hallway, glass still in hand. It didn't seem as if his visitor would get the drift that he wasn't wanted, after all.
He didn't bother to turn the light on, so he had to squint a little to make out the silhouette of the person outside through the milky glassing of the door, but he saw enough to assure himself that it wasn't Jackson again. The person was much shorter and for a moment, as he turned the key to open the door, he was faced with the very real possibility that he would have to confront an overeager, and doubtlessly also hyperactive girl-scout.
That fear at least proved unfound the moment he had opened the door the littlest bit. On his porch stood a bright-eyed, through truly tiny woman in a sober black costume and black heels. She smiled at him when he met her gaze, as if he hadn't made her wait far longer than could in any way be considered polite. Her unnaturally cheerful countenance in combination with her professional attire made him swallow hard. No it wasn't Jackson, but as the situation looked it might as well be.
"I don't suppose I'm lucky and you're from Jehovah's Witnesses and want me to find God?"
To her credit it had to be said that her smile didn't waver. Instead her eyes crinkled as she shook her head. A brown curl slipped from her knot, but the little chink in her professional façade was too little too late to placate him.
"I fear not" she answered and Rush felt his headache flare up again. Of course not. Instead he would have to listen to another round of Jacksons' delusions, only this time they came in a prettier package- During his musings his eyes had strayed from the woman before him but in an instant his gaze snapped back to her. Rush suddenly felt very cold. He gazed from her undisputable beautiful face to her delicate figure and hot anger pooled in his chest. Had Jackson truly thought of this? Now?! His fury must have shown, because her smile faded quickly. Good, he didn't want to hear another word of this farce.
Without another word he shut the door – or at least tried to. The heavy wood came to an abrupt halt maybe a handbreadth away from the door frame. Puzzled he pushed harder and was rewarded by a stifled gasp. With a start he let go of the door and stepped back. Caught between the door and the frame was a dainty heeled foot.
"Oh shit."
He ripped the door open again, for all the good it could do now. "Eh, are you ok?" He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. Her foot was already turning a garish purple, not to mention that he had just done his best to break her fucking foot. "I mean – "
"No, it's ok." Somehow she actually managed to still sound friendly. Some professional countenance, that. "Nothing broken!" As if to prove her point she wiggled her toes and promptly paled. "Maybe a little swollen", she admitted. "But nothing serious."
Rush actually was left speechless. Not knowing what else to do in the face of such comfort from the woman he had just manhandled however unwillingly, he took another sip of the water he was still holding.
"I'm Special Agent French and I know what Dr. Jackson told you about." She finally started again, undiscouraged despite everything. "And I know what you thought about his offer and even though I could have done without this", she gestured towards her mangled foot. "I think I can at least understand why you wanted to shut the door right in my face again, but please at least hear me out – I'll admit in a way I'm here for the same reason as him, but only in a way. Please…" She looked at him with big hopeful eyes and then she shifted her weight away from her injured foot. Maybe she truly only wanted to lessen the pain while she waited for his verdict, but more likely she was trying to remind him of the injury he had just caused her. Either way, it was working.
Rush sighed. "Come on in then, Agent French." He left the door open and walked back into the kitchen, but slowly enough to let her follow comfortably. He didn't look back in order to see if she was following him. If she was desperate enough not to say a word about him crushing her foot, she surely wouldn't let said foot stop her now. He could her the click-clack of her heels as she hobbled after him anyway and he felt his face grow hot with shame. He made a point of not looking at her, as he crossed the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was not much in there except for a plate with leftover pizza and a yoghurt he wouldn't open anymore if he was paid for it, but he dimly remembered an ancient package of peas in the freezing compartment.
Grabbing the bag, he gestured vaguely in her direction. "Take a seat." He gave her a few moments to manage her injured foot while sitting down, before he finally turned around, when he couldn't hear the shuffling anymore. Agent French had taken a seat at the table, and Rush forced himself to meet her gaze. "I fear I don't have any ice, but this should help, too." He raised the hand with the peas and felt completely foolish, even as she nodded earnestly.
"It's perfect, really. Thank you."
He'd felt much better if she had let at least a bit of derision show, but she was still her friendly, unperturbed self, so there was nothing for him to do but to pull another chair out for her foot and look at her expectantly. He couldn't say the words, but she didn't need any prompting to slip out of her shoe and slowly place her foot on it. Rush kneeled before her and carefully laid the package on the injury, taking his time in lowering it on her foot and smoothing the plastic out so that as much of the bruised skin was covered as possible.
Still, there was only so much stalling he could get away with, even in front of himself, so he finally got up again and sat down opposite of her. He didn't look at her again, but smoothed out the tissue on the page in front of him. A stain had soaked through the whole left side of the paper. "So what was it you wanted to talk to me about and how is what you have to tell me different from what Dr. Jackson had to say?"
There was a slight rustling of clothes, and Rush didn't need to look up from the table to know that she had sat up straighter. Keeping her height, or rather lack thereof, in mind it probably was a mannerism that was to be expected, when she made a point of seeming professional. He could relate to that.
"First of all, unlike Dr. Jackson, I'm not working for the military. My name is Belle French and I'm with the FBI. I work on a certain kind of abandoned cases – the X-files."
He already knew that he didn't want to hear the answer, but he simply had to ask, if only so that it wouldn't have to be dragged out. Reluctantly he looked up from the mess on the table and met her gaze. Agent French met his eyes squarely. He had been right. She had truly drawn herself up to her full height, even though the position left her outstretched leg in an awkward angle. "What sort of abandoned cases?"
She parried his resigned tone with a wry smile. "The unexplainable kind." She held her hand up, stopping him from the derisive answer he hadn't even thought of by then. "Or rather the kind that stays unexplainable, as long as the military doesn't relinquish access to certain files." Agent French folded her hands, disentangled them again and finally laid them flat on the table. She breathed in deeply. "I understand that you don't believe in extra-terrestrial life, your conversation with Dr. Jackson made that all too clear, but whether you believe in it or not, there definitely is something the military is hushing up, and I simply need this information!" She had scarcely stopped to breathe during her heated speech, and now she had to gasp for breath, while she looked at him imploringly. Despite himself Rush found himself asking: "And what part do I play in in your quest for knowledge?"
She smiled at him and her rigid pose softened a little. "After you, ehm, refused Dr. Jackson's offer" -Rush had to scoff at that rather tame description of him sending Jackson packing rather despairingly, a flash of mirth that broke through his numbness . "he approached me. He knew that I had tried to gain access to a certain kind of classified information for some time now and we made a deal. If I managed to convince you, he'd see to it that I'd be made the FBI-contact for the Icarus project and get full clearing."
As fast as it had come the spark of mirth was gone again. Rush let his gaze wander around the kitchen, from the clock in the corner to the cobweb under the ceiling, before he finally rested his gaze on her face again. "And how exactly are you going to go about that? And why should I even let you try?"
"I'd ask you to work for the FBI as a consultant and take you along on my more extraordinary cases." She smiled at him again, that surprisingly earnest smile he couldn't quite understand. "And you'll agree because Dr. Jackson promised to leave you alone if I haven't managed to change your mind in six months."
"You sound quite certain that I'll agree to your scheme. I won't give up my job at the university, if I can just as easily shut the door in Jackson's face when he turns up again." He looked down at the table again. In some spots the coffee had soaked through so thoroughly that it had turned the paper tissues almost transparent. He traced the numbers on a note he had written in what felt like half a lifetime ago, before it had started gathering dust on his desk like all the rest.
"You wouldn't have to. I'll do the research during the week and we can go investigate on the weekends when you are free. Even if we have to go out of state we should easily manage it."
He looked from the old notes to her, then he shrugged. "As long as you can promise me that Jackson will leave me be after I'm done with this, I'll agree."
Her face lit up with a radiant smile, all thoughts of cool professionalism clearly forgotten. "Thank you! You have no idea how much this means to me!"
Rush smiled wryly. "Don't thank me yet. I only said that I'd come along, not that I'd take your stories seriously. Don't celebrate yet."
Still Agent French smiled and for a split moment he almost forgot all about the suffocating pressure of empty pages and half-forgotten notes.