so the inspiration for this fic comes from a request i believe i saw on twitter a few weeks ago. i pondered the idea and then tried to find the tweet again but couldn't, so it is possible that i dreamt it.

if the person who requested this is out there, though, this is for you!


The first time he sees her, he thinks he's hallucinating.

God dammit, Langly. You said this shit would wear off before I got to work.

Mulder pauses to stare at his hands in front of him. Through the clear plastic gloves, they look real enough. Lanky, kinda dry, but not disgustingly so. Normal enough.

He blinks and stares back out through the window. The sight that was throwing him off is still there.

So he guesses she's real, after all. It isn't actually Clarice from The Silence of the Lambs passing in front of the window–it's a real woman with real flame-red hair, taking a walk with her dog.

His eyes follow her as she crosses the span of the glass, intending to take in as much of the sight as he can.

"Hey, bro."

But, he's interrupted.

Mulder whips his head back towards the front.

"What?" he snaps.

"Damn, chill bro. You gonna finish my sandwich?"

Oh. Right. Mulder looks back down at his normal-enough hands and sees them hovering above a split sub of honey oat, so far decorated with a few measly slices of turkey.

He shoves some more meat onto the bread and moves forward to the topping station.

"What else ya want on it?"

By the time the lunch surge ends, the redhead is long gone.

"Thanks," he says as the last customer drops a few coins into the tip jar. For nothing.

Not one second after the bell above the door jingles to signal the patron's departure, Mulder hears heavy, shuffling footsteps approach his side.

"Mulda,'" the gruff voice bellows. "How many times do I gotta tell ya? Ya gotta say, 'Thanks for comin' to Timmy Tom's Sub Shop.'"

"Sorry," he says, but his apology sounds too half-assed to be taken seriously.

"I know it sounds unnecessary," his boss continues. "But the more ya say it, the more the name gets ingrained in people's minds. Betta' for business. It's like, psychological, ya know?"

He does–his whole fucking degree is in psychology. But of course, ol' Barney here doesn't know that.

So he just nods. "Yeah, yeah. I got it."

The image of the redhead sticks with him for the rest of his shift. He's been working at this joint for a few months now, and he hasn't seen her around before today. He would have remembered her brilliant hair. It's redder than the peppers they have in stock, the ones he initially suspected of being artificially engineered.

He wonders who she is. Is she new around the neighborhood? Had she just found a new walking route for her dog? Why had she been dressed so sharply to go walk a dog? Is that her real hair color?

Questions fire off in his mind like Pop Rocks, and he finds himself wiping down the same circle of steel countertop in his reverie.

He hopes she'll come back again.


His wish is granted. The very next day, around the same time, he sees her again. This time, he's luckier–there's no customer in front of him to distract him. From his stance behind the shop counter, he sees red hair shining brightly in the sun, and he knows it is her.

He can see her face better today, too. It's fucking beautiful. In the ten seconds it takes her to walk past the shop, he absorbs the sight of her pale skin, tall nose, sharp cheekbones, plump lips. He can't really see her eyes, but it's a given that they are beautiful, too. God damn.

Maybe she's a model. It would explain her snazzy wardrobe. Today she wears a long, powder blue coat and shiny black boots. The cognac purse she carries looks like it cost a pretty penny.

And her dog seems like the type of dog a model would have–small, yappy, most likely annoying but still terribly cute. A Pomeranian, it seems like.

She does seem kinda short, though, to be a model. Or is she? It's hard to tell from afar. Short or not, she looks intimidating as hell.

On the third day, he rises again. Rises from his sofa, replies to Frohike's insanely encrypted emails, puts on his blue Timmy Tom's uniform, and hauls his ass to work hoping to see Her again.

She's a few minutes late today. The powder blue coat has been switched out for a camel-colored one, and today her neck is adorned with a patterned scarf–a thick one that looks kinda like a strange cobra around her neck.

Also today, she looks into the shop. He's already frozen watching her even before she turns her head. When her face peers into the glass, their eyes meet, and Mulder feels like he is ascending into the stratosphere.

Holy shit.

Her eyes are a light, light blue. Fucking beautiful, like he predicted.

She looks at him for a whole five seconds before turning her head away and continuing on her walk, her little dog by her side.

He isn't fazed by being caught staring. She's probably used to it, anyhow, looking like she does.

Maybe she's a dentist. Could be. She has that fear-inducing air to her. Mulder can imagine the woman standing over him with power tools, ready to jackhammer his teeth. She wouldn't need to sedate him because her eyes would already be numbing enough. He probably wouldn't even notice if she took all his teeth out. Or he would, and he would let her do it anyway. God, what else would he let her do to him…

The next day, it rains. Still, around the expected time, she makes an appearance, gliding past the window with a dark umbrella, her little dog donned in a yellow poncho and matching boots. Wow, she's really committed to this walking route.

It's harder to see her today because of the rain stippling the air and the glass. But there's enough visibility for Mulder to catch her looking into the window again, and he swears it's at him. This time, it's six seconds before she turns away. Perhaps it's because the wind is blowing against her, slowing down her pace. Or, perhaps, she actually wants to see him. Probably the former.

Today, he considers Accountant. Perhaps that's what she is. Even in the mess of the rain she remains sharp, collected, stylish. Poised. Her persona screams precision. Planning. Order. So, an accountant.

What accountant would be walking her dog during office hours, though? Surely she wouldn't have time to drive home from work during lunch just to take her dog around this stupid shopping plaza.

Maybe she used to be an accountant, but has now moved up to being the head of her department. A manager or director of some sort. That would make sense. A director could fuck off to go walk her dog any time she pleased. And the woman's intimidating air matches up with this. Yeah, she looks powerful alright. Oh, what he would give for her to just come in, cut the line, and slap him in the face.

He sees the guys tonight, both to work and to watch the game, and during a Pepsi commercial he tells them about her. They don't really believe him, of course. No way would a woman like that be walking around Crossways Shopping Plaza every day at 12:55pm with a Pomeranian.

Frohike is the least doubtful, but for the wrong reasons. Suspicion. She sounds too good to be true, he says. He should watch her more carefully. See if he can spot any signs of surveillance devices on her. Timmy Tom's is much too pathetic a place for innocence.

And then, the next day, his four-day streak of spotting her comes to an end. He thinks she might just be late at first. But then the clock hands turn more and more, and the lunch rush becomes the dinner rush.

Perhaps he had just missed her walking by, despite the thousand fucking times he has glanced out the window today. Hm.

Maybe something came up at work and she had to skip her walk. Maybe her dog is sick, or it had an appointment at some hoity-toity groomer's downtown.

But he knows the reality is that she's probably just done with the walking route. He figures she can do the same lap around the shopping plaza only so many times before getting bored of it. She's probably moved on to somewhere else. Somewhere greener, prettier.

God, she hadn't even come in to buy a sandwich. That's what he had been hoping for all week. It would have given him a chance to finally talk to her, to learn her name, even if it was only to call her when her order was ready. He doesn't have the guile to flirt or anything like that, but he likes to think he might have tried, with her.

He's reaching for the jumble of keys in his pocket to lock up the store for the night when he hears someone come up behind him.

"Sorry, we're closed," he says, turning the lock.

"I'm not here for a sub."

The voice makes him jump. It's rich and velvety, soft yet bold. It's a beautiful, alluring voice.

It can only belong to her.


He spins around to see the red hair, the little dog on a leash. The woman. She's standing in front of him now, wearing a long black coat and a dark brown pantsuit underneath. She's in shiny black heels, but she's still a head shorter than him. Yet, he feels like he's two inches tall next to her.

"I'm Dana Scully," she says.

He's glad she doesn't extend a hand to shake, because he's pretty sure his smell like onions at the moment.

"Mulder," he says.

"Mulder who?"

Oh, she's demanding. "Just Mulder."

"Okay, Just Mulder." She straightens up even more, which he didn't think was possible, and clears her throat.

"Would you like to go out with me sometime?"

Fuck, that was some heavy shit that Langly put him on! He had really been convinced, up until this moment, that this was all happening. Mulder looks up at the sky, waiting for it to morph into the ceiling of the Lone Gunmen's lair, or maybe that of his apartment bathroom.

But the sky stays solid, dark, slightly sparkly with lights of planes and who knows what else.

"Uh." There's a sound of a throat clearing again. "It's fine if you're not interested." Her voice gives evidence of her continued presence, proof that she hasn't disappeared into a puff of smoke.

"Huh? No," he says, looking back down at her.

"Okay, well–"

"No," he says again, and then he shakes his head. "Yes. Yes, I'd like to go out with you."

"Are you alright?" She arches a sharp eyebrow, looking concerned. Damn, he's fucking this up already. Obviously, he can't just tell her, 'Yeah, I just thought I was still tripping out of my mind. 'Cause it seems so implausible that a woman like you would actually come here at closing time just to ask me out.'

He decides to divert attention instead.

"What's your dog's name?"

She looks down fondly at the little creature that is dawdling around her ankles.

"Queequeg."

As in Moby Dick? Fuck. Was she an English professor?

He looks down at Queequeg and then back up, staring at her stupidly.

"So," she says. "When are we going out?"

Mulder brings a hand up to the back of his neck, rubbing it as he waffles over whether he has the guts to actually do this. She keeps staring at him with those fucking eyes.

He averts his gaze, turning it towards the other side of the shopping plaza. His eyes single out the chain Irish pub at the corner.

"How about right now?" he asks.

He sees her face move just a little, her eyebrows raising a millimeter, the corners of her lips moving two. She turns her head towards where he had been looking, sees the pub, and understands his proposal. Queequeg begins to zigzag between her legs, growing impatient.

"They allow dogs in there," he offers.

This is enough to seal the deal. "Okay," she says. "Let's go."

They make their way towards the pub, cutting through the parking lot that's dwindling in occupancy. Queequeg scurries along eagerly in front of them, happy to be on the move.

As they walk under the light of the street lamps, he turns his head to take in the sight and the reality of this woman.

"So," he begins. "Dana Scully, what do you do?"

The wheel of guesses spins in his mind. Model. Dentist. Accountant. Director. Professor.

"I'm a doctor."

Oh shit.

"I don't currently practice, though."

"Oh. What are you doing currently?"

Her pace slows and she turns her face up to him before answering. She's eyeing him even more closely now. She seems to be sizing him up, like she's judging to see if he's worthy of knowing this.

"Well," she says. "I'm working to expose government conspiracies."

No fucking way.

Now it's his turn to surprise her.

"What a coincidence," he says. "So am I."


hope you enjoyed this fun little story! the request was for an AU where Mulder meets Scully while he's working at a Jimmy John's sub shop. i saw it and was like, "this needs to happen." and so here we are.