{Ch-shink}
The shovel sank into the damp sand, pushed further by a heavy boot. Well-muscled arms levered the tool, and dropped the last load onto the pile. Sweat was wiped off of a dwindled brow, wiped onto jeans, and the man bent to retrieve his prize. A few minutes hauling brought an old, waterlogged trunk to the ground beside its panting rescuer. Hastily, he fumbled with the latches and flipped the top open.
He grinned greedily, then snatched up the tiny package from within, bringing it to his lips. Standing up, he proceeded to leave the scene, trusting the tide to cover up any evidence of his presence there.
Fifteen minutes later, he was at the office of Sail Away Industries(TM), pulling his car up in the employee parking lot. Five minutes after that, another man had been shot by the first, who left only a dead man and a small amount of sand and moisture behind to show that he had ever been there.

***

Scully popped the last bite of her cookie into her mouth and licked a finger. "I swear, Mulder," she said, leaning over the desk to grab a file from the other side, "you have got to stop bringing these sweets in. I'm going to gain about a hundred pounds." She leaned back into her chair, opening the folder.
Deft fingers flipped through the files still in the cabinet. "C'mon, Scully, you got nothin' to worry about. All those diet foods you've been eating–you must weigh, what, a hundred and ten?"
She burst out laughing, and in a desperate attempt not to spray cookie crumbs all over the documents in front of her, she covered her mouth. Mulder smiled behind her, and selected a file at random from the hundreds in front of him. He positioned himself in his chair, opposite Scully's, and watched her let out her amusement.
When she finally settled down, with a few odd chuckles slipping out, he glanced down at the folder in her hand, then back at her. "Find anything interesting in there?"
"No." She looked down as well. "And I'm about to give up. Almost all of these cases are dead ends; I don't think there's anything here worth pursuing."
"And unless we want to look at..." he paused, looking down at his gamble. "Unless we want to look into the sighting of a floating dog in Red Banks, New Jersey..." His eyes met hers again.
"...we're out of luck," she finished for him, sighing. "I never thought I'd say this, Mulder, but...the X-Files have gotten boring."
"*Boring?* Scully, you wound me with your claims of 'boring.'"
"If saying 'boring' can wound you, I wonder what would happen if I said your," she caught sight of something behind him, "your 'I want to believe poster' is unseemly."
Mulder tipped back in his chair dramatically, clutching his chest. "A jab that goes straight to my heart!" They were both laughing lightly now, under their breath, but just then, the phone rang. "Mulder," he picked up the phone, straightening his posture, instantly solemn. That glance he shot toward her, however, reassured Scully that he was still amused.
"Am I speaking to..." a man on the other end started, before continuing as if he was reading with some difficulty. "'Special Agent Fox Mulder' with the FBI?"
"Yes, this is he."
"Really?"
Mulder shot a slight smile at Scully before answering, "Yes, really."
"Wow, I thought the guys were joking when they told me about you."
"I'm sorry–who is this?" Reaching for a pad of paper, Mulder looked frantically for his pen before realizing that Scully was holding it out for him. With a look of gratitude, he scribbled down the man's reply.
"Arnold Jenkins, New Orleans Police Department."
"New Orleans *Louisiana*?" Scully raised her eyebrows at him across the desk.
"Yeah. We have a case here...it's a bit out of the ordinary. Well, quite frankly, it's weird."
Pen poised, "Can you describe it to me?"
"Well, it's a murder case, but we can't figure out a point of entry, or find a weapon. Or even a suspect. Frankly, we're stumped. Nothing's been stolen, nothing's been moved, even."
"Ah–thank you. Thank you, Mr...Jenkins, was it? We'll probably be along to assist in a day or so. Thanks again."
"No, thank *you.*"
"Goodbye."
"'Bye, then." The phone hit the cradle with a resounding click.
"Well?" Scully prompted.
"Well...we're going to Louisiana."
"And...?"
"And it's too bright in here." Scully rolled her eyes. "Do you want to tell Skinner we're going, or shall I?"
"You do it. I'll book the tickets. How long are we staying?"
"Few days. No more than a week." Mulder was at the door, now, walking out.
"At least we can see our hands in front of our faces!" A call followed him into the hallway. He chuckled, and headed towards the elevator.

***

The pillows were nearly nonexistent, the leg space was minimal, and that cloth belt *grated.* Scully never thought she'd even think this, but she was sick of riding in planes. Mulder saw her shifting. "Uncomfortable?"
"I'll admit that extraterrestrials exist, just to give them credit for designing these *seats.*" She leaned forward, cracking her neck and shoulders, then looked over at Mulder. If there wasn't enough leg space for *her,* well, let's just say the person with the window seat was feeling a little crowded.
"Peanuts, hon?" a passing flight attendant offered. Scully glared the woman into moving on, then crossed her legs, then uncrossed them again. She looked back to Mulder, who was still looking at her.
"What?" she asked irritably.
"Nothing. Just wanted to point out how beautiful you are when you're angry." She elbowed him in the ribs. "Ow! Geez. Try to pay a lady a compliment."
Watching him nurse his wounded side, Scully cracked a tiny smile.
"What's the matter, here, Scully? I thought you loved flying."
"Loved. Past tense." Her response was less terse than before.
"Why the change of heart?"
"Look around, Mulder." He did so, then shrugged at her. "A woman can only enjoy flying coach class in the middle of the night so many times before she cracks."
"Well, maybe you should try getting some sleep. It is–" he checked his watch "-eleven thirty-eight. A good time to be catching some shut-eye, I'm told."
She looked at him. "I can't get comfortable to stay awake, let alone sleep."
"Want my pillow?"
With her eyes, she searched for a pillow on or nearby Mulder's body. Seeing her quest, Mulder bent awkwardly, reached between his back and the seat, and pulled forth something approximately the size of a bean bag, only flatter. He held it in front of her with a hopeful expression, and she had to smile. "Thanks, Mulder, but I don't think that's going to cut it." She took it anyway, enjoying the warmth across her chilled hands.
"There comes a time in a man's life," he faked a noble look, staring mock-proudly somewhere past the 'No smoking' sign, "when he has nothing else to offer but himself. Now is that time." Dropping these mannerisms, and turning back to her, he saw the look in her eyes and stretched his arm behind her head, pulling her towards his chest. "Come on, Scully. All work and no rest makes for a dull FBI agent." He was rewarded when she settled against him, an armrest making an ungainly impediment between them. Pressing the button, she popped it back and settled against him as best she could manage.
It was these moments when Mulder was most gratified to work with her. Not those times when she was being strong–although that was certainly something to appreciate, Mulder was certain of that–but these moments when she relinquished all that control she forced on herself for just a tiny bit of self-abandonment. That was what made Mulder happy.
_You're too hard on yourself,_ he wanted to tell her sometimes. _Why not indulge for a while._ Along with his own pursual of the truth, and his desire to make it known, there was something else gracing the top of his list of priorities: get Scully out of her shell for awhile. Hell, he was happy if he could manage it once a month, but he'd managed to make it happen twice today: once when she was laughing, and now twice.
Shifting to get more comfortable on the narrow seats, Mulder was inclined to agree with her, that the seating had indeed been designed by beings fourteen inches tall and half as wide. Scully's face was pressed against his still-tender side (that jab had really hurt), and Mulder rubbed his hand lightly across the smooth fabric covering her back.

God, was he warm. It was like hugging a portable heater. Scully let him massage her chills out, wondering if she should wrap her arms around his abdomen to make their positions less harsh. It was moments like these that made Scully realize why she stuck by him through the hard times. Not those times when he stood up for the both of them, and for what he believed in–that was all well and good–but times when he was calm and attentive. Passion for his certainties could go hang–this was what made it worthwhile.
At first Scully had thought that he cared for nothing, for no one, besides himself and his work. Then she saw his empathy. And he had let her in...there he was, all locked up by himself in the basement, isolated from everyday life. And there she was, sent down to make sure he didn't dig up any secrets all alone down there...and she had realized that he really didn't mind people in general; it was the laughter that drove him downstairs.
She leaned against Mulder and let her weighted eyelids drop.
And didn't wake up until the deboarding signal went off.

***
Scully pondered the previous night on the plane as she pretended to look intently at the crime scene at Sail Away Industries(TM). As the two agents had left the aircraft, the flight attendant who had been serving peanuts had bid them 'Have fun partying, you two,' causing a simultaneous puzzled look to be passed between the two travelers before they filed out the door. Of course, they had experienced this kind of misunderstanding before, with people suggesting that they were married, even, but every time it happened it led Scully to thinking. Were their actions not merely friendly? Had they crossed the line?
"What do you think, Scully?" Mulder's voice jogged her from her thoughts. He had been surveying the scene with hands on hips, examining the residue left under the door closely. All the windows and doors had been locked, the police report read, and there was no modern ventilation system in the building.
"I don't know what to think, Mulder. Maybe the victim was working a late night in his office and left the window open for some fresh air." This sent her partner to the window to jimmy the handle.
Maybe their friendly connection was just a little stronger than some shared by other people, and that set people off track. Maybe–
"Nope, I don't think that would've worked, Scully. This window can only be locked from the inside."
Her brow creased, and she fought the urge to yell, _I'm busy thinking about you, so would you please shut up?_ but there was really no cause for that, so she just sighed. Meanwhile, Mulder was crossing the room to inquire about the analysis of the sand under the door.
Maybe she was just fooling herself. There was one thing she knew for sure: their interests in each other were purely platonic. Weren't they? Just because they had few other friends, and spent most of their time with each other, they–
"You can do the autopsy, right?" Mulder stopped in front of Scully, and she looked up from the floor.
"Right. No problem, Mulder. Where will you be?"
"Interrogating witnesses." He waggled his eyebrows. "Fun."
"I'll meet you later, then."
"Yeah," he said, already distracted, laying an unreflective hand on her shoulder. His hand felt heavy through her shoulder pad, and she unintentionally directed all of her attention to it. It was bigger than her shoulder, warm, dull. Before she could assess the appendage further, however, Mulder turned and walked out the door. Sighing, she headed towards her rental car.
Maybe...