this is a fun/cute fic i wrote a while ago but only recently got around to editing :')


"You could get her flowers. Chicks love flowers."

"This isn't a 'chick,' John, this is Agent Scully."

"Well, hell. I don't know."

"You've worked with her longer than I have. What does she like?"

Monica turns her head over towards her partner, seeing his shoulders shrug, bunching up the crisp sleeves of his suit. He's true to his word—he looks clueless.

"C'mon Mon, you know me. I don't pay attention to that stuff. I know she likes vanilla yogurt with her lunch. That's about it."

"No," Monica corrects him. "She likes strawberry."

It's striking how swift her clarification is. "She only gets vanilla when they're out of strawberry." And, how confident she is of its veracity. She's only had lunch with Agent Scully a few times, but it's been enough for her to pick up on this preference.

Doggett's eyebrows arch, and she is a bit surprised herself. Agent Scully surely has been on her mind a lot lately, but Monica wasn't aware that it's to the point of knowing her favorite yogurt. God, she has it bad.

"'Kay," John continues, and she's grateful that he doesn't comment further on the yogurt thing. "Maybe, maybe you don't need to get her anythin.' Have ya considered that? Why don't you just ask her?"

Monica frowns. No, she can't just ask her. She doesn't want to ask out Agent Scully empty-handed. She needs something. An object they can divert their attention to if this goes horribly, horribly wrong. Maybe flowers could work, after all. She could just change the subject to where she bought them, or offer a fun fact about a particular species. Or would that be stupid?

She purses her lips. She guesses this is yet another way of stalling. She's fixating on what to ask Agent Scully out with to put off actually asking her at all.

"I guess—I don't know how."

"Just ask her out to dinna.' This weekend, some nice cozy restaurant downtown. Easy."

She tips her head back, sighing as she looks up at the grey car ceiling. "Dinner is so cliche."

She's not just asking anyone out, she's asking Agent Scully. Beautiful, smart, talented, phenomenal Agent Dana Scully. Monica wants to propose something more creative, something more impressive than just dinner. Anybody could ask Agent Scully out to dinner. She doesn't want to be just another Anybody.

Doggett shifts around in his seat, and she hears the shuffling of cloth. He's probably fidgeting with his sleeves. "No offense, but do ya know if she even… you know. Uh. Plays for your team?"

"Ha!" Her laugh is crisp as she brings her head back down. "Yeah. I can tell."

"How?" Doggett looks quite embarrassed for asking. He shouldn't be, but it's a wonder to her that they've gotten this far in the conversation at all.

She shrugs. "I just can."

There are a few things she's picked up on—the angle at which Agent Scully tends to sit in her chair, the way she rolls up her sleeves, the energy she exudes when she walks into a room. But it's all too abstract to be able to explain in words, especially to Doggett.

Monica can just tell. If Agent Scully turns her down, it won't be because she's straight.

"Hm." John's still confused, but he has no more baseball metaphor questions for her. He turns his gaze back out through the windshield, and she follows suit. The sun shines brightly against their faces, taunting them with the beautiful weather they're missing out on. One hour down, and who knows how many more to go. At least it's warm inside the car.

"I see her lookin' at you sometimes. When you're not lookin."

What?! Monica gasps, and her head whips around to face him again, eyes wide. "Really?"

Why didn't Doggett mention this before? God. This man. They've been having this conversation for what must be half an hour now. She feels the urge to pick up the case file from her lap and whack him with it.

He turns to meet her eyes, holding a hand up as if he's anticipating the whack. "Yeah. But hey. I don't know if she's actually checkin' you out, or maybe she's just tryna figure out if you're crazy or not."

Monica has developed quite a habit out of sneaking glances at Agent Scully. It's hard not to. Her chest flutters as she considers the possibility of this being mutual. All those times she's let her gaze linger, all those times she's made excuses for herself to catch another glimpse…

"What about Mulder?"

There's no bashful hesitation from John this time. This question is square.

Oh, she saw this coming. "What about him?"

"I thought there was somethin' goin' on between those two."

It's just like John to be polite, to err away from assumptions, no matter how clear the connection is.

"Well, he's gone now."

Doggett shrugs. "I dunno, Monica. Could get messy."

She cocks her head to one side and smirks at him. "And when have you ever known me to be otherwise?"

"That's true. Touché."

Oh, yes. She's given many a thought about Mulder. The void he has left behind is hard to just gloss over. She doesn't want to replace him or anything like that. She's smitten, not sleazy. She wouldn't be thinking about asking Agent Scully out if she thought she was committed to someone else.

Monica doesn't need to stand in his shadow. She just wants to offer Agent Scully her own kind of company.

She looks back out through the windshield, considering her strategy. Right, she needs a strategy for this. God, in all the years she's existed as a human being, she's never been so jittery about another person.

She's a believer of fate, a habitual follower of it is what it is and everything happens for a reason. But she seems to be going against those beliefs lately. That's one aspect of the effect Agent Scully has on her.

Monica doesn't feel like she can rely on fate for this. She wants a date with Agent Scully, and she's going to have to work for it.

She looks back over at John, who's slouching slightly in his seat, one bent arm resting on the driver's side door. Oh John, John, John.

"Do you think you could try and talk to her for me?"

He looks at her, his eyes narrowing and mouth straightening. He's skeptical. "About what?"

"Ask her what she thinks of me."

He hesitates, looking away for a second and then back again. "I think—I think she probably doesn't know what to think of you."

"Well, could you give it a shot? Please, John." She widens her eyes, giving him the look that she knows is hard to resist.

"Alright, alright."

Monica pays him a smile of gratitude. She hasn't expected for the day to go like this—it's a Monday, and she just expected to hear Doggett's commentary on last night's football or baseball or whatever game. But somehow, their conversation turned to the subject of her and Agent Scully. John's more receptive to it than she expected—maybe she's underestimated his support. Either way, now, she has a partner to recruit to her mission.


"I think we should go that way."

Monica lifts an arm up from her hip to point to the path on the right. The fork in the orange foliage is wide—whichever decision they choose, they'll have to commit to it for a while.

"Why?"

She shrugs. "The leaves seem a bit darker there."

Doggett catches up to her and searches her face, apparently to determine if she's serious or not. Whatever his conclusion is, it leads to him nodding his head. "Alright."

They turn right and continue onwards, the aforementioned leaves crunching beneath their feet. The forest seems to swallow them as they continue. The gentle rustling of leaves in the higher branches and the distant chirping prevent the scene from becoming eerie.

Monica's getting tired, but she takes solace in the fact that it hasn't rained yet. She'd much rather trek through these dry, dead leaves than a bunch of muddy mush.

Doggett marches on beside her, his face fixed in a steely line. He's probably just as cold and uncomfortable as she is, but in his own fashion, he does not outwardly complain.

It's funny how similar they can be, despite their larger differences. In circumstances like these, they're both stoic—though she tries to improve her perception of the situation by looking on the bright side, while he probably tells himself to toughen up.

Monica figures this is one of those times where her optimism could prove useful, and she's about to share it when Doggett speaks up first.

"Oh yeah, I brought you up to Agent Scully today."

"You did?" Her mind revs up immediately, and she draws in a sharp breath as she looks over at him. "What did she say?" She didn't expect him to carry out the task so promptly. She's eager to hear his answer, but she's not sure if she's prepared to.

"She said she thinks you're—'interestin.'"

"'Interesting?' In a good way, or a bad way?" Suddenly, time seems to be moving awfully slow.

He shrugs. "I dunno, honestly. It was kinda ambiguous."

Dammit. "Did she say anything else about me?"

"Nah. She found somethin' on the autopsy report right then, so we started talkin' 'bout that. And I thought it woulda been too obvious if I asked again, ya know."

Monica nods, turning her gaze back to the path that continues to stretch ahead of them. "Yeah."

Still, she wishes Doggett was able to elicit at least a little more information from Agent Scully. What the hell is she supposed to make out of 'interesting?'

The optimist in her tells her to take it as a good sign, but the realist reminds Monica of how Agent Scully reacted to her at their initial meeting. The 'interesting' could very well be a watered-down version of those same sentiments. How could she forget? The rolling hills of Montana, the stupid cigarette, the winter wind blowing at her as she was introduced to and shortly condemned by that striking woman.

"So, have ya decided yet?"

She looks back over at Doggett. "Decided what?"

"How you're gonna ask her out."

"No, I haven't."

"I think you should just go for it, Mon. The worst she'll say is 'no.' Well, actually, maybe the worst would be a 'hell no.' But still."

"Yeah, you're right."

She stops to veer off the path slightly, crouching to inspect a large fallen branch that's caught her eye. Doggett follows, watching her.

"How long have ya been thinkin' 'bout doin' this, anyhow?"

"Uh, a month or two, I guess."

"Really? That's too long. You should do somethin' before your head explodes."

Monica chuckles. "Thanks for looking out for me."

"That's what partners are for, right?"

She twists her head to inspect all the angles of the branch, but there's nothing special about it. Monica takes the hand that Doggett offers to stand back up, and they continue on their way. A louder rustling emerges beside them, but it's just a squirrel.

They proceed for a few minutes in silence before Doggett has a realisation.

"Hey, wait… That case we worked in Minneapolis?" He stuffs his hand into his pockets, cocking his head to one side.

"What about it?"

"You asked me to go follow up with Dorsey 'cause you wanted to check out that wild theory about manifestation or whateva.' That was just an excuse to spend time with Agent Scully, wasn't it?"

"No!" Monica purses her lips. But she can't lie to Doggett. "Well, okay, I did want to do more work with her. But that wasn't the main reason."

"Oh, it totally was," taunts Doggett. "I gotta say, I'm sorta impressed. Didn't think you were slick like that."

She swats at an insect that's buzzing much too close to her face. "I swear, it was mostly for the case."

"Sure. You know, Mon, you coulda told me you were crushin' on her. I can keep a secret, you know."

She turns and raises an eyebrow at him, smirking. "Sure you can."

"I can!"

"Without breaking out into hives?" she teases.

"Yes." Doggett shrugs. "I mean, I'm keepin' this secret now, aren't I?"

"Yeah, for now." She's been so caught up in her quandary over Agent Scully that she hasn't paid much mind to the risks of the most honest person in the world knowing her secret.

"Well, more reason for ya to hurry it up and ask her already. Before my uncontrollable honesty compels me to spill the beans that you're in love with her."

The key word here startles Monica, and she jumps immediately to retort.

"I'm not in love with her."

"Sure you aren't."

"I'm not!" She can feel the blush rise on her cheeks, producing a warmth that clashes with the cold air.

"Okay, okay." Doggett holds his hands up in surrender.

She knows he's just joking, but she can't help getting flustered over it. God, how did she become so high-strung?

There's a period of silence as Doggett gives her space to deflate. The forest ahead of them remains unchanging. Monica wonders how much further they should continue. They haven't yet found any clues to corroborate the lead they have been given, but she also doesn't see a strong reason to turn back so soon. Sure, it's cold, but if they walk a little bit faster, perhaps they can warm up.

Doggett clears his throat before he speaks again. "What about takin' her to a Caps game?"

"Caps?" She's never heard of them.

He shakes his head. "Never mind. Hockey."

"Oh." Monica laughs. "C'mon, you know me better than that." The only way she would ever be at a hockey stadium would be if she died and they needed the ice rink to keep her body chilled.

Doggett shrugs. "Yeah, the Caps kinda suck anyway."


Ow. Monica rubs her temples and pinches the bridge of her nose. The lighting in the basement is certainly taking a toll on her. Not to mention the state of her posture. Yikes. Probably a good time for a break.

She pushes the stack of papers away from her and leans backwards. Flashes of color and white dart across her vision once she closes her lids, creating a sort of light show. A smile spreads across her face as she imagines how Agent Scully would describe this. Your neurons are still firing.

Visual perception is made possible by the photoreceptive cells of the eye. These cells convert light into electrical impulses and send them through neurons and into your brain. If these photoreceptive cells are overworked, they will continue firing signals to the neurons for a while after the light is removed.

She could listen to Agent Scully talk all day. Tell me more, Dana.

The signals are sent to your brain's visual cortex, located in the occipital lobe. There, the signals are converted into information and interpreted by your brain. The involvement of other structures, including the temporal lobe, help you to recognize and identify what it is that you are seeing.

She's still leaned back in the chair, her hands clasped together on her chest and eyes rested shut, when she hears the elevator ding and familiar footsteps approach.

The more showy flashes of light in Monica's vision disappear, and in their place is the usual static against a grey background. Even in the absence of light, your neurons continue to fire spontaneously, creating the appearance of visual noise when you close your eyes.

The footsteps grow louder. "Hey, John." She keeps her eyes shut, not wanting to leave the reprieve of the dark. Just another minute. My neurons just calmed down.

She hears a rustling, and then a light thump as something lands on the desk in front of her.

"What's this?" She sits upright and reaches a hand out towards the sound, and her fingertips meet a cool, smooth surface. She traces the edges of the object, finding it to be flat, rectangular, and paged. A manual?

The parietal lobe allows you to recognize objects with your eyes closed.

"Found this on a bench outside. Thought it might come in handy for ya."

Monica finally opens her eyes. It's a magazine.

A celebrity gossip magazine. Complete with a bright, gaudy design and paparazzi photos splashed across the cover.

She giggles at the sight. "And how exactly do you think the reveal of Jennifer Aniston's darkest secrets will be of use to me?"

John crosses his arms over his chest. "Look at the bottom left corner."

She does as instructed, scanning the smaller marquees that highlight the issue's key articles. Her eyes widen as she comes across the one John is certainly referring to.

"Top 8 Classic First Date Ideas… and How to Guarantee a Second?" Oh God.

"Yeah. Page eighteen. Right up your alley, isn't it?"

Her mouth stays agape as she looks up at him, standing there with his hands now shoved in his pockets. He looks completely serious, but he has to be as amused as she is about this. She imagines him looking around before swiping the magazine from the bench, holding it close to his side in the elevator, praying that no one would see him with it.

She flips to the eighteenth page and is greeted with large, yellow bubble letters and a fuchsia background splattered with stock photos of happy couples.

Top 8 Classic First Date Ideas… and How to Guarantee a Second!

It looks so ridiculous. Monica laughs as she reads the title again. John is right, though, this does pertain to her.

"So you got eight choices here," John says. "At least one of 'em's bound to work, yeah?"

She looks back up at him and sees one side of his mouth finally curve up.

She smirks back. "What makes you think I can trust The Hollywood Buzz for dating advice?"

"Well, it's a list of 'classic' dates, Mon. It's nothin' crazy, I saw the list."

Wow, he's more invested in this than she thought. She shakes her head in exaggerated disbelief, her eyes twinkling. "You even vetted it for me."

"Yeah, well." John shrugs. "Didn't wanna give ya bad intel."

Monica flips the magazine closed, smoothing out its cover. "Thanks, John. I'll give it a read later."

"Yeah, 'bout that." His expression sobers. "It's probably gonna be a lot later, 'cause they spotted our guy hangin' out at a warehouse in Pennsylvania. We gotta get up to Philly."


God, she keeps forgetting to ask maintenance to take a look at her shower. The water pressure is still awfully low.

At least the water heater works, though. There's nothing like taking a piping hot shower after a day like this. Though the process is slower than she would like, Monica feels the grime lift from her skin, washing away down the drain.

She pays extra attention to the area around her wrists. Even in the scorching water, she shivers as she recalls the forces that gripped them earlier today. Yeah, it's a good idea to double cleanse them tonight.

Usually, she wouldn't wash her hair so late in the evening. Today's an exception—the grime necessitates it. It takes a while to rinse out the coconut conditioner, but that's alright because it means she gets more time in this sauna.

Her body protests immediately as soon as she shuts off the water and swings the shower curtains aside, exposing herself to the colder air. She quickly finds rescue in her bathrobe, engulfing herself in the thick cloth and securing it tightly around her waist.

The white cloth is bright against her brown sofa as she sinks into the cushions, curling her legs up underneath her. She reaches over the right armrest for the object of the hour on her side table.

Oops. Monica frowns as drops of water fall onto the magazine, rippling its cover page. She reaches across her neck to pull her hair back behind her shoulders.

Page eighteen is still here for her, in all its gaudy neon glory. Monica feels another rush of amusement run through her as she sees the article again, and she giggles.

Top 8 Classic First Date Ideas… and How to Guarantee a Second!

To its credit, the article seems somewhat comprehensive. There's a simple list at the beginning, followed by one that contains further discussion under each item. It starts at 8, the least recommended idea, and goes up to 1. Monica sweeps her eyes over it.

8. Cozy up at the movies.

7. Hit the bowling lanes.

6. Take a walk in the park.

5. Pretend to be tourists for a day—go sightseeing.

4. Museums, museums, museums.

3. Clink clink. Get drinks.

2. Coffee—easy.

1. Dinner—always a winner.

Hm. John is right—these are all pretty ordinary. The only one she didn't think of before is bowling—because it isn't particularly interesting.

Unlike herself, according to Agent Scully. 'She thinks you're 'interesting.'' God, what does that mean? Monica's thoughts begin to drift back towards the comment, and she reminds herself to stay on task. Focus, Monica.

She crosses movies off of the list quickly. Going to the movies is much too… passive. First date, and to go sit in darkness, not able to talk to each other for hours? And to have to focus their attention on the movie? Nah.

A walk in the park also seems too underwhelming. Sightseeing… Agent Scully has lived in DC for over a decade now—the novelty of any tourist attractions has surely worn off.

Museums could do, maybe. Not science museums—that would probably remind her too much of work. Maybe art, then? Did Agent Scully like art?

Drinks are usually a go-to for Monica, but she knows Agent Scully can't drink at the moment because of William. She crosses coffee off the list, too. They have had coffee plenty of times already. Not on a date of course—on cases. But still.

Dinner—always a winner. Monica chews her lip as she reaches the end of the list. Yeah, she figured dinner would be at the top.

Unsatisfied, she flips through the pages of the magazine until she finds one that contains an ample amount of blank space. It's an ad for a fancy perfume. It comes with a scent sample—Monica peels the purple sticker open and breathes in a sweet, flowery aroma.

She grabs a pen from the side table and clicks it open, tapping it against her finger in thought. She's going to write down her own ideas.

picnic

apple-picking

watch the sunset - from a rooftop?

candle-making

stargazing

whale-watching

antique market

jazz concert

dancing

pottery class

Once she has a good number of items scrawled down, she pauses to look over her list. Yeah, these sound a lot more unique than what the magazine suggested.

But it's mostly things she knows she would like to do. She's not sure if Agent Scully would feel the same. Do she and Agent Scully have anything in common at all, besides The X-Files? She begins to worry. What if there's nothing to talk about?

Come on, Monica. Pull yourself together.

As she did with The Hollywood Buzz's list, she goes through and evaluates each idea, crossing off the ones that no longer seem ideal. Too cold for that. Not the right time for that. Too far away. Too niche. Too risky. That's best saved for later, if there will be a 'later…'

All of the contemplation makes her hungry, and she takes a break to get a snack from the kitchen. The almonds crunch noisily between her teeth as she sits back down and stares at the paintings on her living room wall, giving her eyes a rest from the boisterous colors of the magazine.

She hasn't been out dancing in a while. Definitely not since moving to DC. Monica wonders what the scene is like in the nation's capital. There's almost certainly less soul here than in New Orleans, but probably more variety.

She would love to take Agent Scully out dancing one day. She imagines that the other woman would be shy about it at first. Reluctant. But they would go somewhere comfortable—somewhere populated enough to not feel self-conscious, but lowkey enough to not feel pressured. It would be a place with a good selection of music—a fair balance of classics and new songs; alternative, rock, pop. Perhaps one of those speakeasy-themed bars. She's been to a few in New York that were interesting.

They would go kind of early, because it wouldn't be the only stop of their night. She would wear her flowy white blouse with the wide sleeves, light vintage jeans, and comfortable shoes. Whatever Agent Scully chose to wear, she would look gorgeous in it.

They would dance and laugh and dance some more, and her slightly (or very) tipsy self would have to lean on Agent Scully more than once to keep from falling. Maybe Agent Scully would be tipsy too, if this was far enough in the future. They could lean on each other.

She would have a front-row view of Agent Scully's beautiful face all night, and it wouldn't be strange. To look into her pretty eyes and hold her as they danced, to take her hand and be her anchor. Or her flight. Whatever she needed. To let her know, whether with words or just a look, that she's absolutely incredible.

Afterwards, they would move on to get a late-night dessert, and perhaps take a walk along the Tidal Basin. They would talk about nothing and everything. From the smallest matters to the deepest intricacies of life. She would learn if Agent Scully always wanted to be a doctor, and whether she's ever dyed her hair a crazy color. She would relish the chance to experience Agent Scully's soul outside of the lab, outside of the FBI, outside of The X-Files.

It would be a wonderful night. Well, could be. Monica knows very well it could go the other way, too. Maybe they would go out and find that they don't like each other after all. Or maybe she would continue to be smitten, but Agent Scully would feel differently. She knows she would have to be alright with that. It would hurt, but that's how it would be. God, it would really do a number on her, though…

The ring of her cell phone pierces the air, and Monica's eyes dart towards it on the coffee table in front of her. She places the rest of her almonds down on a napkin and reaches for the device. When she sees the caller ID, she freezes.

It's Agent Scully.

What is Agent Scully doing calling her at this hour?

She suddenly feels embarrassed, self-conscious, at the prospect of speaking to the woman right as she's sitting here in her apartment pining after her. But she doesn't want to let the phone ring for too long, lest it sends Agent Scully to voicemail.

She clears her throat before pressing the green button. "Hello?"

"Agent Reyes? It's Scully."

The voice makes her smile. "Oh, hi."

"I'm calling about the medical records you sent over."

Work. Right. Of course.

"Oh, yes. What did you find?"

"I was looking at the scans you sent, and I found a small area of hyperdensity in the medial temporal lobe." There's no mistaking it—Agent Scully's voice is all business.

"Yes?"

"It's really small. I can see why it may have been overlooked before. It's possible that it could just be an artifact—I need to consult a radiologist to see."

"Okay." Monica has no intention of rushing her to the point. She likes listening to her expertise too much.

"The hyperdensity in that area may indicate an amygdalar lesion."

"Amygdalar?" She knows what the amygdala is, but she's more than open to hearing about it some more.

"Yes. They are groups of neurons in the brain that are involved in processing different emotional responses, including fear. They are also significant in memory and decision making."

"Ah, right. So a lesion of the area could explain Miller's behavior."

"Yes."

"How about the hyperthermia?" Monica realises that she is still sitting on the edge of her sofa, hunched over towards the table as she was when first reaching for the phone. She inches backwards into the cushions again, her legs curling back up.

"The scans showed no abnormalities of the hypothalamus, as far as I could tell. But the amygdala does share nerve connections with it, so it's possible that there are changes which just aren't showing up on imaging."

"I see. Is there anything else you found?"

"No, that was all. I'll fax copies to a colleague at Hopkins tomorrow to get his opinion on the scans."

"Great. Thank you, Dana."

"Sure."

The case matters end there, but Monica doesn't want to hang up just yet. She rushes to inject casual conversation before Agent Scully can conclude the call.

"It's quite late, Dana. Why are you calling me at this hour?"

"...My apologies." Agent Scully's voice is flat.

Oh, crap. Monica meant to sound lighthearted, not offended. That was a stupid thing to ask.

"Oh—"

"I guess it was rather rude of me to bother you with work so late."

"No!" Monica dashes to clarify. "It's—"

"I have an early class tomorrow, so I thought I would let you know now rather than delay it."

Oh no, this makes it even worse. Monica cringes and tilts her head backward, mouthing an expletive.

"No, no. It's not a bother at all." Please, you can call me to talk about brains anytime. "Was just… wondering."

There's a period of silence on the phone. Monica doesn't dare ask another question, still mortified by how the first round went. Why did you ask that?!

"How are your wrists?"

She had begun to wonder if Agent Scully hung up. "My wrists?"

"Yeah, Doggett told me that Miller injured you."

"Oh, he worries too much. I'm fine." She looks down at the wrist of her free hand, examining the dark purple and brown shadows wrapped around it. "Just some bruises."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you're alright."

"Yeah, thanks for asking." Monica decides to quit while she is ahead. "I don't want to keep you any longer, Dana—you should get some rest before your class tomorrow."

"Yeah. I'll get back to you later with what the radiologist says."

"Great, thank you. Bye."

"Bye."

She lets out a sigh of relief as soon as she hangs up. She's still cringing at her question to Agent Scully. But, she takes solace in the fact that she asked about her wrists. And overall, she's pleased to have had the chance to talk to her at all.

For a moment, she considers calling John to tell him what has just happened. But she refrains—she will see him tomorrow. It can wait until then. No need to bother him at this hour. She could already predict what he would say, anyway.

You asked her why she was callin' ya? C'mon, Mon. Get ya head in the game. Don't you want her callin' ya?

Monica finishes the rest of her almonds and sets aside the magazine for the time being. She rises to finally get ready for bed, hoping that her brain won't tease her with more dreams of Agent Scully tonight. She has already done enough dreaming for the day.


God, even in the low light of the room, she is dazzling.

Monica shifts her weight from one leg to the other, feeling the consequences of standing in place for so long. Agent Scully has the right idea, wearing those comfy sneakers of hers. The white ones with the chunky grey soles. They are very much ordinary on their own, yet Agent Scully makes them adorable.

She dislikes autopsy rooms. Despite her line of work, she hasn't become desensitized to death, and it's still unsettling to absorb the massive feeling of emptiness, of departure that comes with it. Her heart has broken over and over upon seeing firsthand what has become of the victims, and she doesn't expect this to ever become anything less than wrenching.

Agent Scully makes it better, though. Monica loves watching her work, loves witnessing the cogs turn in her head, loves feeling the energy of her whole system working to find a plausible arrangement for the disjointed puzzle. Behind all the clinical speak and steely objectivity, she knows Agent Scully cares for all of these victims. It's part of what drives her to be so meticulous. She feels a bit better, knowing that the victims are in the care of someone so diligent. It doesn't help bring them back, but it does help to find answers.

"These excoriations are quite unique." A grey limb is held up for her to see, and gloved fingers twirl in the air around the lesions in question. "At first glance they looked like claw marks, but I believe they are actually from an object. The patterns look random, but they may actually be superimposed…"

The light blue color of Agent Scully's scrubs contrasts nicely with her hair that's gathered up in a ponytail. It makes it appear even more saturated than it already is. And even though the attire seems a size too big for her, she still looks graceful in it. Powerful. Agent Scully, commander of the Quantico autopsy room. Queen of the Scalpels.

God, she's so pretty. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

Oh, stop, Monica. Of course she does. Mirrors exist, you know.

It was one of the first things she told Agent Scully when they first met. Well, not one of the very first, but one of the first in the relative scale of things.

You look amazingly beautiful, Dana.

That was months ago, and she hasn't had the courage to repeat it since. It was so easy to say it back then—she simply voiced her thoughts aloud, uninhibited. It was before she realised the effect Agent Scully would have on her. Before she had to fret about what Agent Scully thought of her.

She thinks you're interesting.

Monica suppresses a smirk as Doggett's voice rings in her mind. She still hasn't figured out if Agent Scully meant this with a positive or negative connotation.

Even now, standing not three feet away from her, she can't tell. She's usually quite good at picking up on people's feelings. But Agent Scully is tough—she's had a lot of practice cloaking hers.

"Moving on now to the abdominal lacerations." Agent Scully moves further down—further caudally —and Monica follows.

"There is substantial damage to the peritoneal wall, small and large intestine, and the kidneys. I also think this was done by an inanimate object, not an animal as previously thought. It's as if whatever did this was made to mimic the claws and teeth of a carnivorous creature."

Monica nods as Agent Scully concludes this section of her report. "Or," she points out. "On the other hand, could it be that there is a creature out there that possesses teeth and claws like this?" Her mind has become quite adept at multitasking—it can effectively absorb case information simultaneously with Agent-Scully-amazing information.

"I'm still waiting to hear back from the lab, but the material seems to be some kind of metal. So, it is unlikely."

"But not impossible."

Agent Scully looks up at her and sighs, but not so dramatically as to convey irritation. By now, she knows better than to be surprised by Monica's theories. "No, I suppose not. I could be wrong about the material's composition."

"Perhaps it's an organic metal."

The wheels of her mind continue to turn. "Possibly. All organisms naturally have metals in their bodies in small amounts. Iron, zinc, copper, among others. We need them to function, but a rise in levels can cause toxicity."

Monica nods. "Right. Could it be that this creature has developed a resistance or adaptation to these higher levels?"

Agent Scully cocks her head to one side and thinks for a second. "I suppose so. But I have never heard of such a creature."

"Well, this is The X-Files, Agent Scully." Monica smiles. "It would be more of a surprise if you had."

The Queen of Scalpels nods in response. "Of course. We'll see what the DNA analyses show."

Monica told herself that today would be the day. She knew that she would be seeing Agent Scully today, one-on-one. That she would have the opportunity.

She and Doggett have talked it over, and they have decided that dinner is still the most solid choice. Dinner—always a winner. She's shown Doggett the perfume-scented list of her own ideas, and he's expectedly shot most of them down.

Those are cute and all, Mon, but I'm tellin' ya, they're kinda much. Start with somethin' simple and go from there. Agent Scully seems like she could be kinda skittish 'bout this stuff. You don't wanna scare her off.

Yeah yeah, I know. I'll ask her to dinner.

Except, here they are now, and she still can't do it. They have left the autopsy room by now, which was obviously not an ideal place to ask. That excuse can't be used anymore. Now they are heading down the hall together, and there's no one around to disrupt them.

Monica knows her window is closing. They'll be parting ways soon. The corridors remain empty aside from the two of them. The elevator is empty, too. The universe is setting things in place for her. This is really the time to ask.

She looks over at Agent Scully, who's staring straight ahead at the doors as they make their descent. She's back in her sharp professor attire now—Monica found an excuse to wait for her while she changed out of the scrubs. Oh, Dana. I have another question for you.

She proceeded to ask her about the potential effects of metal toxicity on metabolism. But, of course, the real question still remains unasked.

And it looks like it will stay unasked, because Monica can't bring herself to speak. She opens her mouth, but no words are produced.

Her throat feels tight, collapsed, like something is compressing it. It seems Agent Scully has her in a chokehold of sorts, without actually having to lay a finger on her.

This is your chance, Monica. Do it.

Her throat squeezes, the elevator dings, the doors open, and her eyes meet Agent Scully's as the woman turns to her and politely dips her head.

"Agent Reyes."

She can only nod in response.

And then Agent Scully steps out into the hallway, and Monica resigns to watch as the red in her vision shrinks more and more, narrowing as the doors close. Into a rod, a line, a sliver, and then nothing.


"So, what is it about Agent Scully that has you all tied up?"

Monica laughs. "Is it that obvious?"

Doggett shakes his head. "I mean, jeez, Monica. I get that she's a very… accomplished and attractive woman. But I swear, I've neva' seen you so carried away. It's like you're under a spell or somethin.'"

"I don't know, John. It's hard to explain." She takes a swig of her drink. Maybe it is some kind of spell.

He raises an eyebrow. "Try me."

"Well," she averts her eyes in thought, fixing her gaze on the blur of other bar-goers behind him.

"She's just so incredible. I've never met anyone like her. She's smart, she's sharp, she's strong." An image of the woman arises in her mind, and suddenly there's so much to say, she can't keep track of what her mind wants to pick first. "She's… she's beautiful. She's puzzling. I feel like she can tell entire stories with just her eyes. She should narrate audiobooks—her voice is so soothing. I admire how confidently she carries herself. How diligent she is with her work. I admire her devotion to her son. Her faith. How she's weathered such horrible storms and still has it in her to continue doing what she does."

A wave of affection rushes over her as she gushes about Agent Scully. Monica feels every word she speaks, loud and certain in her mind.

"But," she concludes. "Above it all, I just have this feeling, you know? Something I can't really put into words. There's just this feeling that propels me towards her."

"What, like destiny?"

"No, not like that. Well, kinda, but not. In the sense that… Well, I can't just let things happen. I guess that's why I've been so worked up about it."

Doggett nods slowly, making sense of her words. "'Cause for once you actually want somethin' so bad, you don't trust it to just work out."

"Yeah." He knows her well.

She watches as he downs the last of his beer, signaling to the bartender for another one. Behind him, a small crowd cheers at the TV. Apparently, something important has happened in the basketball game.

This is nice. She had felt a little guilty earlier, for moping. For being sad that it's the weekend and she's out with John, not Agent Scully. Another week has come and gone, and she hasn't yet completed the task of asking her out.

But it's alright. She still has time. And, right now, she has a drink.

"So where do ya see this goin'?"

"What?" Monica shakes her head a bit, shifting her attention back to the man. He's looking at her now, fresh dark bottle in hand, eyes narrowed in interrogation.

"If she says yes. And you two date, or whateva.' What are you expectin' out of it?"

She doesn't need more time to answer, because this is something she's already asked herself. "I'm not sure."

He gives her a stern look. "Mon. Like I said, it could get messy."

"Yeah, I know." She shrugs. "That's okay."

"Really?"

"I mean, it has to be, right?"

"I'm kinda confused." Doggett pauses, knitting his eyebrows together and scrunching his mouth to one side. "So ya got the hots for Scully so bad that you're freakin out about askin' her to dinna,' ya want everythin' about it to be perfect. But once that's ova' with, you're fine with throwin' caution to the wind?"

She guesses it does sound contradictory. Monica takes a moment to think.

She retrieves a pen from her jacket pocket and slides the napkin out from under her drink. The condensation from the glass causes the ink to smear as she scribbles on the paper. It looks like blood.

"It's like this," she says, pointing towards the squiggly line that branches off of the longer one she has drawn. "Dating Agent Scully is the entrance to a new path. And I really wanna get on that path. I don't know where it's gonna go, exactly, but I really want to go down it and see."

Doggett hands her another napkin to wipe the ink off of her hand. He purses his lips as he inspects her illustration. "'Kay. So you're fussin' 'cause this first date, if it happens, could determine if you get on the path or not."

"Yeah. Exactly."

When he looks back up at her, he's frowning. "And what if this 'new path' takes you through a dark forest with goblins and ghouls and whateva?' Ready to eat you up?"

Monica shrugs again. "That's the risk I'll choose to take."

Doggett sighs, disapproval radiating from him as he shakes his head. "Jeez Louise, Mon. You know, I didn't even expect you to even like Agent Scully. Rememba' when y'all first met? In Montana? God, I thought she was gonna grab ya by the throat then."

Her mouth curves slightly upward as she recalls the encounter. The crisp cold air; the barren mountains, the somber landscape interrupted by Agent Scully's fiery head.

"Yeah. I remember."

She tips her head back to finish her beer. Instead of ordering another one, she opts for a glass of rum. Doggett holds up a hand to decline one of his own.

"Y'all are so different. She's all science and logic and numba's. Cold—I don't mean that in a bad way. Maybe cool is a betta' word. Like, she keeps her head on straight, she stays in line. While you're ova' here drawin' all these squiggles. I was surprised to find out that you've taken a likin' to her."

"Yeah," Monica rolls her drink glass around in her hands, watching the waves of amber liquid. "I was, too."

She knows there's much more to Agent Scully than that, though. There are layers underneath her 'cool' exterior, layers of feelings and experiences that Agent Scully keeps hidden. Layers that Monica wants to see.

Doggett usually isn't a man of flowery words—she's struck by his query about the path leading into a dark forest. He has a good point. She hasn't even asked Agent Scully out yet, but she's already so invested in this. She already knew that this all came with risks, but now she has the image of a malevolent forest to sink in the acknowledgement that she has a lot to lose.

But the dark forest is just one of many possibilities. On another hand, the path could wind through a beautiful, lush, bright and nurturing forest instead.

"Do you think you can, like…" Doggett pauses to find his next words. "Help her, or somethin?' Like, balance her out?"

"What?" Monica frowns. "No, of course not. I can't change who she is. That's not how it works."

Doggett shrugs. "You're talkin' to a divorced man ova' here, Mon."

She gives him a sympathetic smile. "I do want to help her. But more so in terms of providing support. And company. And other things."

He nods, his eyes softening. "She'll be lucky to have you."

Monica takes a sip of her drink, feeling the liquor burn its way down her throat.

"She already does."


Today's the day, the moment of truth.

The hallway is empty and quiet aside from Monica's boots clicking on the cold white tile. She's chosen to wear the black ones with the thick heels—figured the height could give her extra confidence. She marches on ahead with them now, determined to follow through on her mission in spite of the nerves that threaten to take her out. The world around her begins to seem hazy.

The corners of her mouth tickle as she recalls the conversation she had with Doggett in the car two weeks prior. Here she is, not empty-handed. But it isn't flowers that Monica is bringing to ask Agent Scully out—it's murder case reports.

She meant to do this much earlier. But, things seem to be working out in her favor so far. Because if she did do this earlier, it would have been before she saw that bus ad while stuck in traffic on M Street. Before she had the time to look into it and determine that it's a solid idea.

Her heart is already pounding—she realises that she's walking a lot faster than she thought. As she approaches her destination, she slows to catch her breath, making sure she's far enough away from the windows to be out of eyeshot.

She stops and stands there for a few more moments, and then she accepts that stalling will only make her more nervous.

A shiver runs down her spine as she walks up to the door and crosses the threshold into the dimly lit office.

Agent Scully is exactly where Monica expects to find her—poised at her desk, accompanied by a small lamp and surrounded by stacks of papers. She looks up as Monica enters the room.

"Agent Reyes," she says with a nod.

"Hey, Agent Scully."

Monica makes her way over to the desk. "Here are the reports. We just need you to initial and sign the last three pages or so. I highlighted where."

"Alright."

Monica can see that at least some of the stacks are student assignments, judging from the letters that are circled on top in blue ink. Agent Scully's a tough professor, but Monica suspects she still avoids using red to grade. Helps maintain student morale.

Agent Scully swaps the pen in her hand out with a black one as she accepts the reports. Monica watches as she signs them, her strokes large and loopy. Time is ticking down.

The designated fields are highlighted as she has promised, so it's a painless task. In just a few moments, Agent Scully's magnificent eyes are looking up at her again, pale arm outstretched to return the papers.

"Here you are, Agent Reyes."

Monica nods as she accepts them. "Thanks, Dana."

"Of course."

She takes a few steps away from the desk before turning around to face it again. Monica has no intention of leaving without doing what she's really come here for, but she still feels the need to get a bit of distance around her beforehand.

Okay. Moment of truth.

She opens her mouth, and this time words are produced.

"Dana, would you like to have dinner with me? This Saturday? The National Gallery of Art just opened a new restaurant as part of their evening hours program."

God, she has actually done it. Finally.

"Oh." There's a pause. Monica can hear the blood pounding in her ears.

Then, Agent Scully nods without looking back up from her papers. "Yes, sure, Agent Reyes. That sounds nice. I'll ask my mother to watch William."

She said yes! Monica almost settles with just this, growing excited about spending time alone with Agent Scully at all.

But she reminds herself of her objective—she has to be direct. Explicit.

"Uh, Dana, I think you should know that… I'm not asking as a friend."

This prompts Agent Scully to slowly look up, her eyebrows arching at a comparable rate. Her eyes widen, red lips part, and her mouth drops open ever so slightly.

"Oh?" she asks. Her head reaches its destination but her eyebrows keep going, digging further up into her forehead. "Well, who are you asking as, then?"

"As someone who is interested in you."

Her words fly through the air like an arrow, and the world starts to feel hazy again. Monica's bottom lip begins to quiver.

The target's expression stays frozen in place. Agent Scully's eyes remain wide, her eyebrows raised, mouth slightly agape, as she takes in Monica's words. Monica freezes herself, anxious to find out what her conclusion will be.

She resists the urge to shut her eyes, to shake her head, to say "Just kidding." No, she can't back down now. She has wanted to do this so badly, wanted Agent Scully so badly. And now it has been done, and she will weather the consequences like the grown woman she is.

Finally, she sees Agent Scully's face relax.

"Alright."

"Alright?"

Alright!

"Yes. I'll ask my mother to watch William," Agent Scully says again. Her piercing eyes remain fixed on Monica, her expression neutral. She doesn't betray whatever it is that she's feeling at the moment, but this doesn't faze Monica.

Monica breaks out in a grin—one that she tries to keep from growing too wide. She doesn't want to seem so eager—even if she is.

She has finally shattered the ceiling. She's done it. She has asked, and Agent Scully has accepted.

"Okay," she says, her voice coming out a pitch higher than usual. The excitement is making her throat constrict. She should leave soon, lest she starts choking.

Maybe she's becoming delirious now, but she can swear she sees the corners of Agent Scully's mouth curl up, just the tiniest bit.

"So," says Agent Scully. "What time are we going?"

"Um, how about—seven?"

"Seven it is."

The grin is still stuck on Monica's face like glue when she makes her way back down the hall. Oh, John's not gonna believe this.

She has a date with Dana Scully.


hope you enjoyed this, thanks for reading 3 scully and monica 4ever