TITLE: Strawberry Sunrise
AUTHOR: Bee Slayer
RATING: PG-13
CATEGORY: S, R, X (yes!! It has a plot!!)
SPOILERS: Redux trilogy, Rain King, Memento Mori, Emily, FTF, The Unnatural, Syzygy, Ice
DISCLAIMER: All XF related people belong to the Satanic creature that is CC. Peeps you don't recognise are probably mine, and Domesticated!Mulder belongs to me, no one else can have him! So there :p Song lyrics belong to Electrasy, who are gently rockin.
SUMMARY: New Mexico shakes in it's, um...boots (?) as Mood-Swing!Mulder & Scully arrive...
BABBLE: Yup, I'm doing an actual X file...god help me, it's gonna have a plot.
It's just occurred to me that this is *yet* another fic involving dreams...obsessed? Me? It's not deliberate, I swear g
Thanks to Kris, Adrienne and Rikki for offering Geography help - even if I did eventually decide to ignore it and make everything up g
* * *
So many hearts are tryin to make me stay,
But I'm in two minds,
I find it hard to face another day,
It's easy to die.
I've thought about ending it before. Just getting a scalpel, slitting my wrists - there are worse ways to go.
I remember about a year ago, I actually thought seriously about it. I ran through all of the different options in my head, thinking out the pros and cons for each.
In the end, I decided that to go for the slitting of the wrists would be the quickest and least messy. I mean, shooting yourself in the head's all well and good, but you do tend to get rather a lot of blood on the carpets, and I couldn't do that to my landlady.
Then there's the pill taking, but that's way too risky. It's just too easy for someone to walk in, or for you to not take enough pills, and end up hooked up to an IV for the rest of your life, or - equally as bad - having to face your friends and family if you came out of it alright. Just the thought of having to explain why I would possibly want to end my life makes my blood run cold.
There's the good, old fashioned mysterious drowning, but there's no way I want to go like that. Anything which involves running out of oxygen just doesn't appeal to me.
There aren't really many other plausible ways of doing it...hanging's too clichéd, and the 'oops I fell down the stairs and broke my neck, how silly of me' approach just seems clumsy.
I'm a medical doctor, I know I could do it. Take a couple of painkillers/tranquillisers, run a bath...
No fuss, the minimum of mess.
I was fine with it until the realisation that I'd have to write the obligatory goodbye notes hit me.
I couldn't do that. Not to my family, and certainly not to Mulder.
He doesn't have to worry about me wimping out on him just yet, I'm not going anywhere for the moment. Leaving him now just isn't a plausible option. After all, I don't have a desk yet, and I intend to give that basement office a good clean before I leave him to his own devices.
And seeing as I don't think he's likely ever to let me do anything *close* to organisation of that...bomb site, I think I'm going to be around for quite a while.
Not that I'm complaining.
I walk up to the office slowly, not entirely sure I want to go in there.
He called me this morning, telling me that he had a surprise for me, that I'm gonna love it - honest - and not to ask any questions.
As if I would dare to ask anyway, I prefer to try to delay the inevitable as much as possible.
As I approach the door, I have the feeling that the inevitable is about to catch up to me...
"Make sure you knock first," he'd told me, and -perhaps stupidly - I'd agreed. I should really know better by now. Never agree to a Mulder Plan unless you know roughly what it involves.
So here I am breaking my own rules.
I knock loudly on the door, wincing as I hear a crash from inside. This does not sound good.
"Mulder?"
"Scully, can you just hang on two seconds?"
His voice is muffled through the door, but I can still tell that he sounds slightly worried. I get the feeling that whatever made that crash wasn't actually *meant* to happen.
Sometimes our office really bothers me. It just...even after 6 years, it doesn't feel like *our* office. It still feels like *his* office, with his desk, his mess, and his name on the door. In fact, that annoys me more than anything - the fact that I *still* don't have a nameplate! I swear to god, I've bugged him about this just as much as I have over the desk thing.
Most of the time I'm fine with it, it doesn't really bother me. I mean, it's not as if not having my name on a door is a matter of life and death, is it?
But other times...mostly when I'm angry with him, or upset, this door is--
For the first time this morning I take a look up at the door, and my mouth pretty much drops open.
Oh. My. God.
He's actually done it. After god knows how long of me complaining about it, the man has *finally* got me a nameplate!
Wow. Now everyone who come down into the basement will know that Special Agent Dana Scully works here as well. This isn't *just* Spooky Mulder's office, I'm down here as well.
For some unknown reason, this brings a huge smile to my face, and I'm standing there grinning like an idiot for a good 30 seconds, just staring at the door, before it opens in front of me, and Mulder steps through, purposely blocking my view into the office. However, I'm still too much in shock over having my name on the door that I don't notice.
He takes one look at me and grins, "you noticed then?"
I could hug him, I really could, and with that sweet, 'I'm glad that I made you happy' grin, to be perfectly honest - I could do more than just hug him.
I must look lost for words, because Mulder decides to keep talking.
"You know, Scully, we've been working together for a good 6 years now, and I'd like to take this opportunity to ask you a very personal question."
He raises an eyebrow at me, and I start to feel ever so slightly nervous.
"Would you be willing to wear this?" he asks, pulling out a blindfold with an even wider grin residing on his face.
I open my mouth, all ready to give some witty retort, but find I can't actually think of one, which Mulder takes as the perfect time to tie the blindfold around my head, sending me into a world of temporary darkness.
"Mulder..."
"Don't worry, you can take it off again in a second, I just wanna make sure that my surprise is delivered in the best possible way."
I can hear that grin in his voice, and resisting the temptation to thump him, decide that the safest strategy will be to just play along.
Well, unless he has something *really* weird planned with this blindfold, anyway... Although...
I stop myself from going there, and let him guide me through the office door, his hands lightly grasping mine.
"Stay right there," he orders as I feel him move away from me and hear the door closing.
"Mulder, will you please tell me what's going on?" It's not that I really *want* him to answer, it's only that it would be out of character for me not to ask.
"You really are impatient, aren't you?" he asks playfully, seeming to ignore my best attempt at a frosty glare.
I feel him coming to stand behind me, lifting the blindfold up off my head. This would have been a good thing, if not for the fact that his big hands immediately replaced the black fabric.
"Mulder, you're starting to make me nervous." Did I really think that saying that would make any difference?
"You know, Scully, you really need to learn how to relax. All this stress can't be good for you."
I refrain from mentioning that he's the one who causes the majority of my stress. The rest of it is courtesy of my family - mostly Bill complaining about Mulder.
But now's not the time to get into that.
"Okay," he murmurs into my ear, and despite myself I feel a tiny shiver run through me, "after three, I'll let you look."
"You're too generous."
"One...two...three," and with this he lifts his hands off, making me finally able to take a glance around our office.
Our office? I begin to wonder if I'm in the wrong place.
"Wow."
The office is tidy. It's actually tidy. You can see the top of the desk, and there are no boxes of crap - sorry, *evidence* spread around on the floor.
I think I'm gonna die of shock.
"Mulder, you tidied?" I turn to look at him, as I do so noticing that the shelves full of books actually look organised.
He grins, looking slightly embarrassed, "actually, I blackmailed Skinner into doing it...you wouldn't believe what the Gunmen dug up on him."
He continues to smile even as I hit him on the arm. "Who are you, and what have you done with the *real* Fox Mulder?" I ask playfully, wandering over to my 'area', which has also been cleared of his junk.
"Ah, I knocked him out and shoved him in the stock cupboard with Kimberly. He should be out cold for at least another couple of hours."
I snort, sitting down in the brand new cushioned swivel chair. I've never had one of these before, it's almost as comfortable as my armchair at home. I could get used to this.
"I've got to say, Mulder, I'm impressed."
Even if I still don't have a proper desk.
"Yeah, well. What can I say? Your years of nagging finally paid off."
Now call me suspicious, but I can't help feeling that he's up to something. As sweet as Mulder can sometimes be, there's no way he'll do something like this for nothing.
He sits down on his own chair, wheeling his way over to where I sit, his grin faded slightly.
I sigh, "so what have you done?"
He tried to look insulted, "I don't know what you mean."
Yeah, sure you don't.
I fix him with my best 'don't fuck with me' look, one which I'm finding difficult to keep up, because God help me, I'm actually feeling pretty happy right now.
"Seriously, Scully, you should really have more faith in me."
The glare doesn't shift.
"Can't I do something nice for my long-suffering partner once in a while without being accused of - okay, yeah, you win."
Thank you.
I tilt my head back, staring at the ceiling for a couple of seconds, before looking back at him to find the wounded puppy look residing on his face.
My good mood is fading rapidly.
"Come on Mulder, spill it. What have you done this time?"
At least he has the decency to look genuinely offended at this.
"I haven't *done* anything!" I expect this comment to be accompanied by a pout, but he manages to restrain himself.
Anyway, in Mulder language this means 'I haven't done anything *yet*'
"So what's this all about?"
A slow grin spreads across his face, telling me that whatever excuses he uses, he's gonna enjoy this.
"Have you ever actually *been* to Roswell, Scully?"
He's *got* to be kidding me.
* * *
Unfortunately, I was perfectly serious, which is why we're now in a hot, dusty car, travelling along a hot, dusty road in a hot, dusty state.
I hate New Mexico.
Contrary to whatever Scully might think, we're not here specifically to piss her off. We're here because we have a case to solve, whether we like it or not.
And yes, I really do hate New Mexico.
Desert never was my favourite terrain, it's a bitch to drive through, and even worse to walk anywhere near. Sand does nothing for me, except for maybe aggravate my already terrible eyesight and get underneath my fingernails.
Suffice it to say, I was never a beach person.
And then there's Scully. I don't know what it is, but whenever the weather heats up, the woman is an absolute nightmare to be around.
Especially when she thinks that it's my fault that the weather's like that.
And as much as I try to tell her that I'm *not* the Rain King, she will continue to shoot glares, and continue to bitch at me until we're back in nice, safe DC.
I steal a glance over to where she's sitting in the passenger seat, a pair of designer sunglasses on her face to accompany the designer pout.
She's been pouting since we got on the plane.
The worst thing about that particular pout? It drives me absolutely crazy. She honestly has no idea how incredibly sexy she is when she's in a 'I HATE Mulder' mood, and it's enough to give anyone an instant erection.
Luckily for my manhood, I've learned to control myself over the years.
So here we are in my least favourite state, the sun bright enough to give me a headache the moment I got into the damn car, and Scully isn't speaking to me. Okay, so she hasn't been speaking to me since yesterday when I sprung the news on her, but that doesn't make it any easier.
To say that she's mad would be an understatement. The woman is abso-fucking-lutely royally pissed off.
But this isn't my fault!
Skinner threw the case at us, saying that a week in the sun was just what we needed, and a nice simple case would do us the world of good. Yeah, a whole week of sunstroke, fucked up locals and an irate Scully.
I feel better already.
It isn't my fault that this case just happened to coincide with her mother's 60th birthday party, the birthday party that Scully and Tara have been planning for about 3 months. (Although if you ask me, there's no way that woman's sixty. Mind you, if that's what Scully's gonna look like at that age, you won't hear me complaining.)
I really don't deserve the wrath of Bill over this, although I'm sure I'm gonna get it the next time I see him. He'll shoot me his best 'Mulder = Satan' glower and start mouthing off at me about how I ruined his sister's life *and* his mother's birthday. Boy, I can't wait for that.
Maybe I should try to talk to her again.
"According to Sheriff Molko, we're in the best motel they have."
Silence.
Damn, maybe I should have got her a desk after all.
"Look, Scully, as much as you might want to, you can't ignore me forever. Like it or not, we have a case to solve, and it'll be a hell of a lot easier if we can be civil to one another."
Should I have put that more politely?
She turns slowly to me, not looking as if she particularly agrees with me.
"We have a case to solve once we get there," she comments icily. "Until then, I'm perfectly happy to keep on ignoring you."
It's a start. That's the most she's said to me all day.
"Scully, I am not going to keep apologising to you. This isn't my idea of an ideal case either, despite what you might think. I'd much rather be somewhere a little less..."
"Clichéd?" She offered snidely.
I can't stop a frustrated sigh form escaping, "as I said before, we're not actually *in* Roswell, it's just...in the same state. Shoreville's not even particularly close to Roswell."
Shoreville, that's a laugh. There isn't a shore in sight for at least a couple of hundred miles.
"Fine, whatever."
Oh, so we're starting this again, are we? Fine, Scully, two can play at this game. If you wanna be a bitch, go ahead, but don't expect me to fuss around you.
It occurs to me that I should have said that aloud.
I remember once seriously considering suicide. To tell the truth, it was more than just considering it. If the phone hadn't rang, I wouldn't be here now.
It all seemed so clear cut. Just one pull of the trigger, and it's all over. No more days of being a pawn in the government's little games, no more sleepless nights.
And no more causing pain to Scully. I was just so sick of endangering her life. The thought that I was to blame for her cancer was almost more than I could bear, I just thought that maybe if I was no longer a danger to them, they might take back them disease they gave to her.
She could have a normal life, she could meet a normal man, settle down, maybe they'd even go as far as to allow her to have a kid.
A real kid, not some human/alien hybrid *thing.*
Something tells me that I was being naïve. Even then, even when I knew what they could do, I still hoped they would show some mercy, once they didn't have to worry about me anymore.
And did I really think that Scully would just give up without me? That she wouldn't keep working no the x-files herself?
Did I really think that I could ever bring myself to leave her?
As it turns out, Molko was taking certain liberties with the truth when we were told how good the motel was.
If this is the best that Shoreville has to offer, I don't want to think about what the rest of the town looks like. Although, there's less peeling paint and cockroaches than some of the places we've stayed in over the years, and the roof looks strong enough to stop a cow from crashing through...maybe.
I finish packing as Scully walks in through the adjoining door (at least we got that), leaning against the doorframe and studying me, the glare absent from her face.
I frown, "what?"
She kind of shakes her head, shrugs and opens her mouth to speak at the same time. She then closes her mouth, shakes her head more vehemently and walks back out into her own room.
Strange. Very strange.
I sometimes wonder if she spends too much time with me, she's becoming a little weird recently.
I stand there, just thinking for a couple more minutes, before a knock on the door jars me back to reality.
And joy of joys, it's Molko, looking about as happy as my lovely little partner.
"Sheriff, how nice to see you, I-"
I'm cut off as he strides past me into my room. Great, please don't say that I've managed to piss him of as well.
"Jayne Gibson wants to see the two of you five minutes ago."
I resist the urge to quote Scotty at him.
"Well if you give me a minute, I-"
"I said, five minutes ago."
You cannae change the laws of physics... Was that Scotty? Was it even Star Trek? I think the sun's gone to my head, because I can't quite remember.
I make a point of scowling at him as I shout for Scully, who in turn makes a point of throwing her own scowl at me.
Oh yeah, this case's gonna do me the world of good.
"So," I say in a vain attempt to get something resembling a conversation started, "tell us about Mrs Gibson."
"Her husband, Mark, disappeared about a month ago, leaving behind a loving wife and two gorgeous kids."
Jesus, this guy's enough to make you vomit.
"Could it have been suicide?" Scully asks - nice to see that she's willing to talk to *someone.*
"Nope. I'd agree with you miss-" ooh, she ain't gonna like that "-but his body's never been found. Now I'm thinking-" let me guess "-something extra-terrestrial. Cos he ain't the only person to have gone missing round here recently, and this is a small town. No, there's something more going on than simple suicides."
So suicide's simple, is it? Could have fooled me. Scully seems to agree with me, her slightly raised eyebrow saying everything.
"And you think they've been abducted?" she somehow manages to get a perfect mix of disbelieve and scepticism into her voice, even though she's read enough of the report before hurling it back at me to know what he thought.
"Yup, that's what I think. As far as I can see, there doesn't seem to be many other explanations."
Wow, I can feel myself relaxing already.
* * *
I think Mulder misunderstands why I'm not being overly friendly towards him. It isn't because we're here on a case when I should be celebrating my mother's birthday with my family. And it certainly isn't because we're in New Mexico. I'm mad because he felt he had to 'soften me up' somehow before telling me.
It felt almost like emotional blackmail, like he was saying 'I did something nice for you, now you have to go along with me like a good little special agent.'
Now in my mind I know that wasn't his intention. I think he was just hoping that I wouldn't be too mad at him and in a good mood when he told me.
But unfortunately, life isn't that easy, and I'm not letting him off lightly.
My mother cried when I told her I was going to miss her birthday. She actually cried. Tara pulled a guilt trip, and Bill went off on a Mulder = Satan rampage.
After that, I was almost glad we were escaping to New Mexico.
I think the heat must be going to my head, because when I walked into his room, seeing him folding clothes had a strange effect on me. I suddenly had this image of a domesticated!Mulder, cooking and cleaning, and it threw me a little.
I could actually *see* him leading a normal life, and to make things even more frightening, I had the feeling that this normal life wouldn't involve me, that I'd be left alone when our time on the X Files finally ends. That scared me more than I'd thought it could.
But at the same time, I had a flashback to the time when I was fighting my cancer. I remembered Mulder stopping by my apartment one time, and looking in horror at the mess that had built up on my floor. He shot me a mildly disapproving look as I lay there in bed, not able to find the energy to get up and tidy myself, and he started to pick things up.
I have this really strong memory of falling asleep to the oddly comforting sound of him opening and closing drawers, and seeing him there in the motel room, folding...
Which is probably why I opened my mouth a few times like a fish starved of oxygen before retreating back to my room, not sure what I would have said, but sure that it would have been the wrong time to say it.
Sometimes I worry myself.
So now we're in Sheriff Molko's car, heading over to the Gibson's house. Mulder's discussing some of the more obscure baseball rules with him, and looking thoroughly relaxed beside me.
Bastard.
How anyone can look as calm and in place as he can in 95 degree heat in a car without air conditioning is beyond me, but somehow my partner seems to manage it.
I, on the other hand, am pretty sure that I'm beginning to resemble some kind of drowned rodent, I can practically *feel* my make up melting.
And I swear Mulder hasn't even broke into a sweat.
The worst thing about this whole situation is that I don't think he *is* enjoying himself right now. It would be so much easier to hate him if I knew he feels as comfortable as he looks, but I think he's as miserable, tired and irritable as I am, only he hides it better.
Bastard.
I drag myself back to the conversation, relieved to find that they've moved on from the dreaded male ritual of sport-talk.
"So what's Jayne Gibson like?"
Molko exhaled heavily, "she's, um...interesting. The thing is, inside she's a nice person once you get to know her. But she's not at her best with strangers."
Oh, great, so she's a bitch.
"Plus, she, um, she comes across as a bit of a-" whatever word he wanted to use, he stops him self from using it, "she flirts a lot."
It gets better. So not only is she going to be a bitch, she's going to be a bitch who flirts with my man.
I freeze as I realise what I just thought.
My man? Since when do I think of Mulder as 'my man'?
Mulder gives me a weird look, which I pretend not to notice.
*I* might be ignoring him, but I hope that Jayne Gibson doesn't think that *she's* getting her hands on him.
Not that I want him, of course.
I just don't want anyone *else* to have him.
The interview with Ms (she was very adamant that we called her Ms) Gibson proves less than helpful.
Her main priority seems to be convincing us that she didn't kill her husband, and to be honest, she doesn't seem particularly convincing.
But tell that to Mulder.
"I don't think she killed him," he says, folding himself into a booth at the only café we could find that didn't look like a risk to our health.
"Why not? It's the best explanation we have so far."
"For this death maybe. But it doesn't explain the disappearances of the other 5 people, does it? And if she was going to kill him, I don't think she'd be stupid enough to pretend it was aliens."
I decide not to point out everything wrong with that sentence, and instead settle with the more subtle approach.
"Why not? You certainly seem convinced."
"I didn't say that." Not in so many words. "All I said was that I don't think *she* did it."
Ugh, this is annoying. We're getting nowhere here, and I don't think that's going to change as long as we're sniping at each other.
"You know, maybe you were right," I grimace as I look at him, "we can't do this while we're arguing." I'm going to regret saying this
Now he's wearing his self-satisfied smug expression. I really shouldn't have expected him to suddenly turn understanding on me, should I?
"Oh, so you're agreeing with me now?" He asks, and I have to stop myself from throwing the menu at him.
"Don't be a-"
"I'm not! Scully, you were the one who decided to be awkward, don't expect me to come snapping at your heels."
Excuse me? When has the man *ever* snapped at my heels? If anything, it's been the other way around for the last 6 years.
"Grow up."
"This coming from you."
I open my mouth to retaliate, but our mature discussion is interrupted by the waitress coming to take our orders. I ask for a hot chocolate, while Mulder orders a burger and fries. As long as I don't have to sit and watch him, he can eat what he wants, whether it's going to kill him or not.
"Sometimes I can almost hear your arteries clogging," I mutter, causing him to raise an eyebrow at me.
"At least I *eat*. I don't think I've seen you eat anything other than your fingernails for about a month."
Okay, so I've been biting my nails. And I'm very sensitive about it, so thank you very much for mentioning it, Mr Health-Conscious.
"I eat! Just because you don't see me shovelling crap down my throat like it's my last meal, does *not* mean I don't eat."
Well this is weird, me defending *my* eating habits.
"Whatever."
Oh yeah, that's mature. I'm not going to waste any more breath arguing with him, so out of my purse comes my book, which I start to studiously read, trying to block out the filthy looks being flung at me.
Two can play at this game, although whether or not it's the right game to be playing is yet to be discovered.
An hour later I'm lying on the squeaky bed in my motel room, with a tub of Ben & Jerry's, trying to watch the tv. Unfortunately this is easier said than done, because the volume of the television can't quite compete with Mulder's voice when he's having a none-too pleasant phone conversation. Most people would probably be able to ignore him, but most people haven't worked with him for six years.
"Well what exactly do you want me to do, Molko?" His irritated voice cuts right through me, and I can't help but pity the person on the other end of the phone.
"Half an hour? Since when is half an hour a big deal? He could have went out with some friends or-"
Someone managing to stop him mid-tirade? I'm developing a liking for Molko, if this conversation's anything to go by.
"Look, sheriff, I appreciate that there have been some strange goings on around here, and I'm sure that Ian *is* a nice boy, but name me one teenager who never came in late?"
This seems to have some effect, because when Mulder next speaks, he sounds almost calm.
"If he isn't back by tomorrow morning, we'll look into it, okay? Until then, there's really nothing we can do."
Say what you will about Mulder, but the guy sure has a talent for delaying things.
A moment later he comes storming into my room and sits next to me on the bed. I give him a look, but as usual it doesn't seem to have any effect.
"I think the people of Shoreville are overreacting somewhat," he states, dunking a finger into my ice cream, oblivious to my indignant expression.
"And you don't think that we might just be contributing to that by being here?"
Oh great, please don't say we're going to start *this* argument again.
"Maybe. But there has been an abnormal amount of disappearances around here, we can't deny that."
We could try.
"I'm guessing you have a theory?" Could it be that we're actually going to have a civilised conversation? I feel a twinge of guilt as I remember that it's mostly *my* fault that we're not on the best of terms right now.
"Scully, I *always* have a theory. After six years you should know that."
"Correction: after six years, I should know better than to ask."
He shrugs, "same difference." He takes a lecherous look down at my ice cream, "you know, that's gotta be bad for your figure..."
I shift the tub to my other side, just in case he tries to dive for it, "you're not getting any."
He looks kind of despondent for a second, "haven't heard anyone say that to me for a while."
I resist the urge to giggle, "you were saying something about a theory?" Let's try getting back to a safe subject, shall we?
"Right. My theory. I, uh," he pauses, "Jesus, Scully, I'm just as stumped as you are. Now gimme some of that damn ice cream."
How can I resist such a kindly worded request?
"Bog off and buy your own ice cream."
He throws the puppy-dog look at me, and I make a face back, "what makes you so sure that *I* don't have a theory?"
He rolls his eyes, "let me guess, there's a perfectly rational exp-"
"Mulder, shut up." Sometimes, there's only so much you can take. "Look, people can *not* just disappear into thin air-" no matter how many cases suggest evidence to the contrary. "-they have to be somewhere. And considering the people we met today, my first guess would be that they just ran off."
He looks sceptical, "all 6 of them? In a town this size?"
"Well maybe we're just seeing a connection where there isn't one. Mulder, there could be any number of reasons why these people have disappeared! Murder, suicide, tax fraud." I see his next comment coming from a mile off, "and alien abduction isn't even an option here, okay?"
"What about government abduction?" He doesn't look serious, thank god.
"But you don't believe that."
"No, in fact I think you're probably right."
"You what?"
Could anyone really blame me for dragging this out?
"I think you're right. Do you want it in writing?"
"That would be nice, actually. Then when you go into one of your strops, I can just go hang it on the wall or something."
He narrows his eyes at me, "I do *not* have strops."
Right.
I'm about to answer when I realise that getting into yet another argument with him isn't the answer.
Besides, I'm starting to smell.
"Whatever, Mulder. I'm going in the shower, " I say, standing up and putting the lid back on the ice cream. I walk over to the cheap little fridge that couldn't hold more than a day's worth of food and throw the tub in there.
I turn to give him one last glare before continuing to the bathroom, "touch my ice cream and you're a dead man."
I can't see him, but I'm pretty sure he's giving me the finger.
* * *
Despite what I told my lovely partner, I do have a theory. My theory is that I did something very bad in a past life, and the disappearances of these people were orchestrated solely to put me through hell.
Sometimes I think Scully may have a point about my narcissism.
I don't actually agree with her theory, I basically just said that to shut her up - a little white lie, if you will. It's not that I have my own ideas as to what's going on, I just don't share hers.
There's more than what meets the eye happening here, that's for certain, but what it actually *is*? I'm at a loss.
Today's interviews told us nothing, except for the fact that I wouldn't have blamed any of the people for running off. Well, that's not entirely true, but for the most part this town is a scary place.
Let's just run through the 'victims,' shall we?
Vanisher number 1, Todd Pratt. He could commit suicide just for the name alone, but if he was going to, he wouldn't wait until he was 51, with a kid just about to go through college.
Number 2, Jill McDonald. 17 years old, and let's face it, who *didn't* consider running away form it all when they were 17? I'll have to remember to ask Scully about that, because at 17 my home life was far from average.
Number 3, Heather Douglas. I've seen the photos, the woman was *not* pretty. Apart from that, she seemed to have it good from what we could tell by interviewing her husband/widower.
Number 4, Elizabeth Marsh. So far we know nothing about her, we're scheduled to meet her teenage son tomorrow. Can't wait for that.
Number 5, John Johnson. I frown, that *has* to be a made up name. This guy was 87, you'd think that by that age you'd *want* to die, so he could have just found a cliff to wander off or something.
And lastly, Mark Gibson, with the wife anyone would run away from.
So they're our alleged 'abductees.' I can definitely see where Scully's coming from, if they were isolated cases, suicide would be my first thought. But they *aren't* isolated cases. You just don't get 6 people committing suicide over a period of two months in a town this size! The odds on that happening would be any bookie's nightmare!
So it's back to square one. Hopefully tomorrow's interviews will be more helpful.
There are times when I really hate this job.
I stand up, ready to go back to my own room and leave Scully and her ice cream alone before she carries out her threat.
If I was dead, who would be here to annoy the hell out of her every day?
I grin, closing the door in between our rooms with a bang.
I awaken with a start, a sound piercing my subconscious and rousing me out of whatever dream I was in the middle of. A fleeting memory of being chased by a giant ice cream tub passes through my mind before disappearing for good.
I sit up, waiting to see if whatever woke me happens again, and after about 15 seconds of silence, I decide to get up and check on Scully.
Call it paranoia, call it spending too much time together, hell, call it men's intuition for all I care, but I have a horrible feeling that something's going on in there.
I burst through the door, realising too late that I don't have my gun (some FBI agent *I* am) and look around the room to see...
Nothing.
I breathe a sigh of relief as my gaze falls on Scully, fast asleep and doing her little half-snore thing that for some reason, I've always found cute.
I always was a sop.
Now normally, when Scully sleeps, she looks peaceful, calm. Thanks to me, it's the only time she does. But right now, calm is the last thing she looks.
Her face is all scrumpled up, and if anything I'd say she looks...unsettled.
There's something about that expression that convinces me to wake her up, because I'm suddenly in no doubt that is was Scully making whatever noise it was that woke me up.
I stride over to the bed, sitting on the edge as I softly call her name, hoping vainly that it'll be enough to wake her.
It isn't, and I lean over her, allowing myself a quick grin at the thought of her reaction when she wakes up and sees me in this position before placing one hand on her shoulder and shaking gently.
"Scully?"
She gasps, eyes flying open, and visibly has to stop herself from screaming as she sees me hovering above her.
Now granted, I'm not exactly a vision at 4 am, but I hadn't expected quite that reaction.
"Jesus, Mulder, you scared the shit out of me!"
I give my best sheepish grin, "uh oh, it's pre-caffeine Scully," I joke (probably a bad move, I admit), trying to ignore the death-glare being directed at me.
"Why are you in my room?" she asks in a voice barely above a whisper. A fairly savage whisper, but a whisper all the same.
"Something woke me up...a noise. I was just checking that it didn't come from in here."
Is it me, or does that sound weak?
"And I'm awake why?" She glances at the clock and makes a face.
"You looked like you were having a nightmare, I..."
I what, exactly? God, she's looking at me like I'm some sort of psycho. Who knows, maybe she's right.
"I just had a bad feeling, that's all."
"Nice to know. Can I go back to sleep now?"
Jeez, she really isn't a morning person.
I frown, something's not quite right about her, but I can't put my finger on it... "Scully, are you sure you're okay?"
She heaves a sigh and smiles weakly, "Mulder, I'm fine. I don't even remember *having* a nightmare. If I did, it's long gone now. I'm okay."
Normally I'd accept her 'quit worrying so much and get lost' speech, but there's something not quite right.
She's lying.
And I don't know why, or even how I know, but she is lying to me, and I really don't like it.
"I'll see you in the morning then?"
She nods, getting herself comfortable in the bed again, and a fleeting thought passes through my mind as I leave the room:
I wish I was in there with her.
The early morning wake up call arrives right on time, an obnoxious sounding telephone ring, metres away from my head. I groan, slipping my head under the pillow in the hope that it'll shut up.
After about 10 rings, I hear the connecting door open as Scully pads through the room, picking up the phone and slamming it back down.
"Let me guess," she says dryly, "you won't be happy until you've woken up the whole motel."
I merely groan in response. Pre-caffeine Scully humour is really not appealing.
I feel the bed dip as she sits down, and I don't need to see her to imagine the amused look on her face. "You know, Mulder, I should be the one lying in bed with a pillow over my face. After all, you're not the one woken up in the middle of the night by some half-dressed weirdo."
It takes me a few seconds to realise she's talking about me.
"Urg," I groan in response, feeling way too comfortable to face the world just yet.
I hear a disgusted noise from Scully before she rips the pillow away from me, exposing my face to the sunlight streaming through the window.
I open my eyes slowly to see Scully looking at me with a mixture of disgust and amusement in her eyes, "good morning to you, too," I manage to force out, making a face at her.
"We've got an appointment with Eric Marsh in about an hour and a half, and I want some breakfast first, so don't you even *think* about going back to sleep when I leave."
"Yes boss," I sit up.
"And don't you forget it," she says, not entirely joking.
Oh, it's going to be one of those days.
And it is. Eric Marsh, eighteen year old son of the recently deceased Elizabeth Marsh, is every bit as obnoxious, insolent and useless as I'd dreaded.
I may not be a perfect human being, but if I was Elizabeth Marsh and *I* had a son like that, one of us wouldn't have lasted the eighteen years.
I know I was a nightmare at that age, the few times when I did venture into the same room as a parent, I didn't last 10 seconds before getting into an argument.
But at least I had an excuse.
I can't help thinking how different my life would have been if Sam had never been taken. Maybe I would have had - god forbid - a life vaguely resembling normal, without the global conspiracies, psychotic insects carrying alien viruses and mutant serial killers, not to mention the EBEs themselves.
But where would that leave me? More importantly, who would it leave me *with*?
Because something tells me that without the woman sitting next to me now, I wouldn't have been happy, Samantha or no Samantha.
I'm pulled out of my depressing little reverie by that same woman looking at me expectantly.
"Huh?"
"I *said* where to now? Are you even alive in there today, Mulder?"
Good question.
"Sorry I was just...somewhere else. Umm, I think Molko wants to speak to us over lunch."
She shrugs, "lunch. I like the sound of that. A morning with Eric the terrible is enough to make anyone hungry."
"Amen to that."
* * *
I think hypocritical is a good word to describe me calling Mulder a space cadet. I've hardly been with it myself today.
I just...I lied to Mulder. It wasn't a big lie, but it still felt wrong, even as the words left my mouth. I *was* having a dream when he woke me up, but even now, even after 7 hours of thinking about it, I still don't know if it was a good dream or not.
I don't remember details. Just that I was talking to someone about Mulder. I don't know who that person was, she didn't seem to be anyone I know, but Christ, she was beautiful.
She was the kind of person who could get anyone - male or female - to do anything she wanted them to do. Even me, if I'm honest. And I'm a long way off being a lesbian. Although, I think I'd have to think twice about that if I ever saw this woman in the flesh...
I allow myself a grin - that's probably one of Mulder's regular fantasies.
But that's neither here nor there. The point is that I was talking to this woman, this beautiful woman, about Mulder, and I mean *really* talking. I was telling her things that I've never told anyone, about that time in his hallway, about playing baseball with him, wanting to feel him even closer than that, even as we swung that bat (and no, that is not a euphemism for anything).
I told her - and it might have been a dream, but it still makes me colour slightly when I think about it - about the occasional dreams I have about him.
Okay, not so occasional.
And she listened, saying nothing at first, just listening to me whine. But then I got on to...less pleasant subject, my abduction, my cancer, the fact that the one man I love above all else is the one man I can't have. Hmm, so I sound like a trashy romance novel in my dreams. That *has* to be a bad thing.
Then...I don't know, after that she seemed to be trying to turn me against him, listing all of his bad points, cataloguing all the times he's ditched me, dumped me or betrayed me...I must admit, it's all pretty damning evidence when put together like that. But what she forgot - what *I* forgot, is all of the times when he's been there for me, when he's supported me, held me, all of the times he understood like no one else did.
Then she brought up the 'S' word - suicide. That has me a little freaked out, because in those moments before Mulder woke me, probably from the time he heard whatever noise I was making, I was convinced. If I had been awake, I would have done it.
Okay, so it wouldn't have been in the preferred method, (pieces of brain coating random surfaces have never appealed to me), but it all seemed like such a good idea.
Like it was the only solution.
Oh, a dream analyst would love me.
For a few seconds, I hated him. Now what exactly my subconscious is trying to tell me here I don't know, but it presented quite a strong case.
And despite all my efforts to ignore it, I've found myself thinking today...wondering why I put up with it, why I *don't* just do it.
I've had to snap myself out of the 'well it's not like he'd miss me' mind frame several times today.
I just hope it'll pass, otherwise he's going to have to start hiding our guns.
I hate New Mexico.
So here we are, in the Shoreville Diner (a high class joint, as I could tell as soon as I set eyes on the tacky neon sign outside), deep in a highly intellectual conversation with Sheriff Molko.
"Oh, it was good," says the man responsible for Shoreville's safety, happily eating a disgustingly greasy cheeseburger.
"Good?"
"Oh yeah."
"How good is good?" Asks the man, more disturbingly, responsible for nation-wide safety.
"Coming in my pants good."
These sensitive male-types were discussing Heather Douglas' one time appearance in a porno movie. Actually, it was more than an appearance, she was the star.
All I can say is that she must have had *good* implants, because she wasn't the most attractive of women, from the photos I've seen.
"Hardly a motive for murder though, is it?" I ask, trying to get the testosterone monsters back to the point.
Mulder shrugs, "people have been killed for less."
On the list of possible scenarios, we have now moved on to serial killer. I must admit, it doesn't seem likely, but it's the best explanation we have right now.
"But that doesn't explain the other 5"
Or should I say 6? As it turns out, Ian Calderwood didn't return home last night, and has now officially joined the ranks of the missing. We're going round to interview his mother when we've finished eating. Isn't it reassuring to know that we've got our priorities straight?
I look down at the salad in front of me, over to Mulder's burger and fries, and then to Molko's 'jumbo-burger.' Why do I have to be so health conscious? The tightening of the blood vessels might be worth it, because those burgers look delicious, grease and all.
"Maybe not, but neither does anything else."
He sighs, knowing that I have a point.
"Maybe the meeting with Mrs Calderwood will help," he says, sounding about as hopeful as I feel.
Molko, however, nods enthusiastically, "if anyone can help, it's Elaine Calderwood."
Mulder and I exchange glances, "what exactly do you mean?"
"I mean, that if something is happening, Elaine knows. Hey, so maybe she is an interfering busybody-" don't hear that phrase very often "-but she knows her stuff."
"I think it's going to take more than a local gossip to get this sorted," Mulder comments glumly, all of a sudden eyeing his burger with a look of contempt, as if it alone was responsible for the disappearances.
*Give me the burger, give me the burger,* I will him, trying not to let the word 'cholesterol' enter my brain.
Mulder turns to Molko, "you want this burger? I don't think I can force myself."
Great. Move over Uri Gellar, Psychic Scully has arrived.
I tune out again at this point, not expecting anything more interesting than 'pass the ketchup' to be said.
I wish I hadn't as I remember that I haven't called Mom to wish her a happy birthday yet. Bill's gonna kill me, I'll be given the 'he's taking you away from your family, Dana' lecture again.
Whoopee.
Just to prove that variety really is the spice of life, four hours later we're *back* in the diner. By the end of this case we'll be able to recite the menus backwards.
The annoying thing is, we can't even talk properly about the case while we're in here, because every time we open our mouths there's a waitress hanging over our shoulders.
One in particular, actually, and she's starting to get on my nerves just a little bit.
So today we've spoken to Elaine Calderwood and Gavin Pratt. I grimace at the memory, Elaine Calderwood is easily one of the most annoying people I've ever met. And since working with Mulder, I've met a *lot* of annoying people.
Elaine took us on a trip down to her son's old hang out, a gorgeous spot on the river bank about a mile out of town. I can certainly see why he liked to go down there, even if the walk did take twenty minutes. Just standing there made me feel somewhat...I don't know, calmer. And for something to make me feel calm after a walk like that, complete with sweating to death and my blouse sticking to my back, it must be good.
Elaine mentioned that he used to go there a lot at night, and she was worried that he might have slipped, fell into the deep water below.
It didn't *look* that deep, but apparently the stream/river's been there for thousands of years and has worn it's way pretty far down.
I stood there for a few minutes listening to Mulder and Elaine swap theories, just watching the water drift by. It's almost hypnotic, seeing it lap up against the sides, the current dragging leaves and the odd tree branch along with it.
But still, despite all of this, it was almost - and I know this sounds stupid - inviting. I can imagine many a person disappearing in that spot, misjudging the current and the depth. Or perhaps just wanting to get away from it all...feeling as if there was no alternative. It seemed almost undeniable that people had gone missing here. The spot had that almost eerie sense of foreboding, there was just something in the air.
We managed to convince Elaine (she insisted that we call her Elaine) that there was only a slim to none chance of Eric having fallen in. The river comes to an end a few miles away, any body would have washed up somewhere by now.
Which doesn't really help *us*. We're still for the most part theoryless (Mulder's description) and we need to solve this case. Skinner called earlier on, I don't know who put him in such a bad mood, but I really hope he gave them as hard a time as he gave us.
A pissed off Skinner is not a nice thing, especially not when he's on the phone demanding results.
I don't think Mulder helped by telling him he believed it was the fairies.
And then there was Gavin Pratt. Seems like a nice guy from what we saw, although he seemed more upset about no one else being able to pay for college than about his father's disappearance.
He seemed to imply that this was just the kind of thing his dad *did.* Just disappearing into thin air for a while, but there was something about him...
He was more worried than he was letting on.
Mulder disagrees with this, he thinks he's hiding something, but I really don't think that's the case.
Ugh, this case is messed up.
"So does this mean we're officially abandoning the serial killer theory?" I ask, taking a sip of my chocolate milkshake. Hey, what can I say? I had a craving.
He nods slowly, "I think so. Too many variables, Scully. Both sexes, no discernible time intervals, no apparent motives. The 'victims" he makes quote marks "seem to have no connection whatsoever. Add that to the fact that serial killers are rare in this sort of town..."
"Which leaves us where?"
I've noticed over the years that Mulder and I work best when we're using each other as sounding boards.
"It leaves us..." he sighs, "exactly where we started. With no clues whatsoever."
I swirl my straw around thoughtfully, "but there must be *some* connection between them, because I think we've pretty much ruled out coincidence here. They must be somewhere."
I spot the glint in his eye, "and before you suggest it, I still don't think alien abduction is an option, no matter what Sheriff Molko's opinion is."
"And I still agree with you. The circumstances are to varied. There's..." he trails off in frustration, "there's just no pattern here, Scully. It seems to be just random deaths, and that just doesn't make sense."
"Wild animals?" Okay, so it's a stretch.
He snorts, "the worst thing is that it's the best theory we've got right now."
I smile absently, trying desperately to make some connections.
"Unless..."
He perks up, "unless what? Tell me you have an idea."
"Mulder, are we sure we can completely rule out suicide?" I see the skepticism on his face. "Look, bear with me for a second here. Todd Pratt was due to contribute towards his son's college education sometime soon. What if he couldn't afford it? What if he felt as if there was noting else he could do? Jill McDonald and Eric Calderwood are both teenagers." I can't believe I'm saying this, ageism was never my thing, "anything could have sparked something like that off. Bullying, bad exam results, boyfriend or girlfriend trouble. Mark Gibson...Mulder, we met Jayne."
"Don't you think you're assuming just a little bit too much here?"
"Yes. And to be honest, I'm not convinced, but...Mulder, people commit suicide every day. Some for less than the reasons I've just listed."
"It's just not plausible, Scully. Not in a town this size. I think the only assumption we can make so far is that somehow these disappearances are connected."
I sigh, he's right.
"Cult?" He suggests hopefully, rightly earning a less than friendly glance from me.
"I really don't have the energy to get into the whole cult discussion again."
Especially if it involves the two psychotic teenagers and a horny detective.
"Think Jill McDonald was a virgin?" He asks, a teasing grin on his face.
"Haha."
It's nice to be back to normal, even if it is only for a moment. I miss this when we're fighting - the good-natured teasing, the brainstorming, the flirting.
We sit in silence for a while, the odd snatch of song lyrics reaching us from the jukebox in the corner:
"Over and over I see you,
That's all I do,
I fade it all away."
"So what's next on the agenda?" It's one of those questions you ask when you really don't want an answer, but feel you have to ask.
"I have no idea. I suppose we should just…interview the locals?" He looks as lost as I feel. Usually on cases, there's at least the odd crime scene to check out. A few days consisting of only interviewing locals quickly gets tiring.
"I can't wait."
* * *
Continued in part 2...betcha can't wait, huh?