Character: Dana Scully
Fandom: The X-Files
Rating: PG-13
Prompt
: Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go - Good Riddance (Green Day) Vol 2. Week 51 on scifi_muses on LiveJournal
Setting: Season Four Episode: Paper Hearts

The ringing cut through her dead sleep as she fumbled, heart in her mouth, for the plastic receiver by the side of her bed. "Scully."

"I just called a forensic team out to Bosher's Run Park out in Fairfax County, I'll need you here in case they find a body."

"A body?" Sleep dazed her brain as she sat up, rubbing at her heavy eyes, thick and gritty. "Mulder, what time is it?" Her room was still dark, and she couldn't focus on the clock by her bed.

"Little after 5, look, I know it's early on a Sunday, but this came up…"

"Body?" The word finally sunk in. "What's going on?"

"I can't explain now, just get here when you can." Without further explanation the line went dead. Scully stared at the now useless piece of plastic in her fingers, the ringing of the dial tone on the other end digging into her brain. She'd been sleeping…the first time all week, really, since the nasty argument regarding Nathanial Teager. Things had gotten ugly between her and Mulder, the silent sullenness had settled back in the basement again. Neither had felt particularly inclined to budge, and Scully had fled happily to the weekend, grateful that there wasn't a case in sight. She needed time away from the office…from Mulder really…to set her head on straight and think this through. If wasn't the first falling out she and Mulder had ever had, nor by far the first time they'd gone without speaking to one another.

This time felt far too serious though. They had both said harsh truths to one another that day at the Vietnam Memorial. Normally such tiffs between them ended up with one or the other buying coffee and donuts or at least a round of beers. Mulder was right. This was an argument that had been brewing for weeks, now splayed out ugly between them. When she left Friday she thought for certain she wouldn't see or speak to her partner till Monday at the least, when they would resume their war of silent attrition yet again.

She should have known something would come along to push Mulder's hurt feelings aside. The deep, dark, angry part of Scully, the one usually closest to the fore before she had her first cup of coffee, wanted to tell him to fuck himself. He had pushed her the other day, assumed she would blindly stand by his side in all things, and then told her to get the hell out if she didn't think she could handle it. What hell did he think this was, her first day on the job, wandering into his inner sanctum all politeness and skepticism?

That young ingénue was gone some three years ago, closer to four, and in that time she'd pulled his ass from the clutches of death at least twice she could think of, sat by his bedside more times than she could care to recall, mourned his death, covered for him with OPR, drug him back from Puerto Rico, attended to his ailing mother, not to mention the one time she had gotten particularly nice and tried to clean his apartment for him when he was injured. Oh yes, and there was the fish, how many times had she made sure they didn't die while he ran off somewhere without even bothering to tell her. She'd stayed late working autopsies for him, blown off weekends with reports, given up dinners with her mother to work late or to go out of town. And none of this was counting the personal losses of her sister, and hell yes, even her dog. After all of that, he had the audacity to stand there and tell her "you know where the door is."

She needed coffee if she was going to continue this tirade.

With a whimper and forlorn sigh, she stumbled into her darkened kitchen, flipping on the coffee maker by touch without bothering with a light. Crashing into one of her kitchen chairs to wait, she glared at the digital display, as if holding it responsible for her partner's ever vacillating moods. Friday she was persona non gratia, 5 AM on a Sunday and she's needed, vital. And that was the problem, she realized in annoyance, she was always needed, it was always vital. It would always be some other case of some person wronged, another Nathaniel Teager, a man screwed by he system. Mulder could chase these sad tales forever, one dark shadow after another, after another….would there ever be an end of it?

Did he want an end? Perhaps that was the bigger question. Did Mulder ever want to end this? If he found his sister, uncovered the conspiracy, found the truth of what they did to her, would he ever be able to drop any of this? Was there a normal life for Fox Mulder? Even before he took up the X-files, Mulder had reveled in the darkness. His time as a criminal profiler had been legendary by everyone's accounts, but even Mulder admitted it had been harrowing, and he'd run fleeing from it in the end, afraid of what he could become. But the alternative was it much better? Mulder craved that thrill of the quest, the hunt, the puzzle to apply to his insanely agile mind. She couldn't imagine a time when he would want to put it all down. But she could imagine a time she might want to. And what scared her was leaving him behind, alone.

The timer sounded, and she muzzily reached for her old, chipped Navy coffee mug, pouring fragrant, steaming liquid into the cup and sipping from it black before she moved for cream and sugar. She took comfort in the simple, domestic things in life like this, the pleasure of freshly made coffee in the morning. Mulder didn't even own a coffee maker. She couldn't imagine the idea.

If Mulder found all of his truths, what would he do with himself? And what would she do with herself? That was a whole other question, and she wasn't in the mood to even begin probing that one. She returned to her bedroom, finally turning on some light so she could see to throw on clothes, and debated on just what sort of dig sight they were looking at. Should she stick with jeans or something more FBI and professional? And what did Mulder mean by a body anyway? Where would he be at 5 AM of a morning to find one of those lying around randomly? Did he say Fairfax? What was he doing out there?

Her brain finally alert to a sense of urgency, Scully threw open her closet, reaching for the first outfit she could think of. Whatever their personal differences of late, Mulder needed her on this case. She had a feeling that he would have some sort of strange, weird, and probably disturbing explanation for all of this waiting for her when she finally arrived.