Author's Note: For those who left reviews, thank you so much!

Getting Mulder and Scully onto a Scottish missing persons case requires a little stretching-of-reality and some hand-waving. The real FBI does assist foreign law enforcement offices and has Legat offices in major cities around the world, so this scenario isn't utterly far-fetched. It's just ... highly unlikely.

Then again, so are Kelpies. ;)

If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,
Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,
Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,
"He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"?

Afterwards

—Thomas Hardy—

An Eye for Mystery

.

US Naval Memorial
Washington, DC
6 October 1998

It was unseasonably warm.

Bright sunlight burned down on Pennsylvania Avenue, sparkling off the windows of the Department of Justice Building on his right. The tall, greyhound of a man wore a tailored grey suit, his clothes and shoes impeccably arranged. In seeming defiance, his boldly patterned tie flapped rebelliously in the playful afternoon breeze, dancing around his shoulders like a naughty child. Light brown hair rippled its encouragement over his head. Hazel eyes squinted as he crossed a side street against the light, occupied solely with finding the object of his expedition.

Well, that, and the heat prickling his shoulders as the sun glared down disapprovingly on any fool coming out here wearing wool.

"Shoulda left my jacket in the office." Muttering this to no one, the man shook his head at the lapse in preparedness, as if he'd forgotten who his partner was and where she was most likely to be during a free moment. He passed a fine restaurant with white linen on the tables, somewhere he'd never be able to afford, and there in front of him was the modest park he was seeking.

On a hot sunny day like this one, that's where he was going to find her.

Only a few years old, the Naval Memorial was a circular globe pattern set into cement and ringed with fountains and pictorial plaques. Twin masts bearing US military flags marked the breaks in the fountains ringing the central plaza. Executives, lawyers, lobbyists and government clerks sat in small clusters on the steps leading into the heart of the memorial, their sack lunches spread out between them as they ate and decided the fate of their respective worlds. They all looked the same as he did — tailored, neat, uniformly dull.

He recognized the similarity even as he curled his lip at the thought of being mistaken for one of them.

His eyes scanned over the well-dressed strangers, discarding one after another until they settled on one smooth cap of coppery hair. She was sitting apart from the others, her bright head lowered over a slim stack of papers in her lap. Behind her water gurgled over a series of cascading waterfalls, artfully designed to produce a rush of soothing white noise while minimizing the risk of splashing executive finery. Her ivory brow rippled at something she'd read, then smoothed out again. As he watched she raised her eyes from the page and gazed absently across the plaza. Plainly she was looking at the sculpture on the other side, the one of the young sailor just putting out to sea, but her thoughts were probably somewhere else entirely.

Or maybe not.

He wondered if that bronze figure was the reason she came here so often. Surely it brought back comforting memories of her father. He remembered, too, her telling him once that she loved the sound of moving water. The fountains here were almost loud enough to drown out the scream of jets taking off from National Airport just a couple of miles away, so maybe that was the reason. That, and the fact that the Memorial was so very close to their office. His speculation dwindled as he approached her, not really something he wanted to waste his mental energies on. The reasons why she should prefer a particular location to visit in her free time were her own. Of course, as long as she continued to select the same place day after day, that made the task of tracking her down that much easier for him.

"Thought I might find you here."

Dana Scully glanced up at him with unruffled composure, not at all surprised to see him standing there. Picking up the coffee languishing at her side, she let him know without a word that he was welcome to join her. So Fox Mulder took a seat next to his partner and stretched out his legs with a contented sigh. Now, in addition to his heat-prickled shoulders, the sun found cause to attack his legs as well.

"Nice weather today," he observed casually. Inwardly he was cursing the existence of sun, sheep and J. Edgar Hoover's love affair with men clad in worsted wool.

His companion leaned back to rest against the cool granite edge of the fountain, a noncommittal sound coming from the back of her throat as she settled herself in.

"Did you have a good lunch?"

"Umm humm." She took a sip of the tepid coffee, using the action as a punctuation.

"What did you have?"

The question caught her off guard. Somehow the inquiry seemed too personal, though she could not have said why she thought so. Considering for a moment before answering, she finally shrugged. "A tuna sandwich and an apple."

"Oh. Sounds good."

She smiled at the lie.

Scully hadn't failed to notice the manila folder with red lettering he held in his left hand, but opted not to inquire about it just yet. He'd show it to her as soon as he'd determined that all the required pleasantries had been duly met, and with remarks upon weather and food out of the way, that left one final inquiry remaining. Etiquette was not a thing to fret over, Mulder would say, but even he understood the value of it. Her lips curved in a smile. That he should take such pains today to stay on her good side, after so many years and so many not-so-politic moments between them, could only mean he was about to propose something outrageous. And he wanted her cooperation.

"You got any plans for the weekend?"

She nearly choked on another sip of coffee. When was the last time he'd asked her about her personal life? He must really, really need her to go along with whatever he was working up the courage to ask her! Scully began to wonder about the contents of that file. Fighting back a self-mocking chuckle, she bit her lip, keeping up the pretense that their small-talk was just that — two ordinary people passing the time during their lunch hour.

"It's Tuesday, Mulder. I haven't planned that far ahead yet."

"Why not?"

She answered with a why-do-you-think smirk.

He knew she could have said, because I work with you, Mulder, and any time I try to make plans you come up with something that'll break 'em, and so he was grateful that she didn't say what she was plainly thinking, that she spared him the verbalization of it. Whatever hopes his partner had for a normal life could not be realized while she worked with him, and as always, the burden of what their partnership was costing her weighed heavily.

Seeing the shadow pass over his features she sighed, felt compassion seeping in as it so often did when she was dealing with him. Life with Mulder was never easy, but she didn't need to add to the already precarious load of guilt he perpetually carried around with him. Her lack of a life was of her own choosing, in no way his fault. Sometimes she forgot he didn't understand that he wasn't responsible for everything that happened to her. Every now and then she had to spell it out all over again, but for the moment Scully wanted to forgo the spelling session. To that end, she lightened the moment with a self-deprecating grin. "No plans. Just the regular stuff."

"What's the 'regular stuff?' "

"Oh, you know: cleaning house, unpacking winter clothes, catching up on some reading. Nothing exciting."

"Mm." He winced as if in sympathy.

She glanced at him sideways, curious despite herself. "How about you?"

"I figure I'll kick back, watch a few videos, maybe make a few phone calls."

"Those videos you told me weren't yours?" she jabbed playfully.

He straightened his spine sharply, cleared his throat. "Not those. I have some stuff I recorded off the Discovery Channel that looked interesting."

"So, the truth finally comes out," she accused. "You watch it too."

"Not as good as the Daily Globe when it comes to alien abduction stories, but their shows on the paranormal are pretty interesting."

"I wouldn't know."

"You don't know what you're missing, then," he enthused. "There's one in particular that I'm looking forward to watching. It's about some paintings they've discovered in Turkey that seem to indicate the earth was visited by aliens over eight thousand years ago."

"The things you'll do for entertainment..." Her smile was indulgent. Scully rested her head against the granite again and basked in the heat, letting the rush of the water soothe her into preparation for his inevitable proposal.

Content merely to be sitting beside her, Mulder watched some of the lunch crowd gathering up their brown paper bags and discarded plastic sandwich wraps, brushing crumbs from impeccable laps and smoothing already perfectly coifed hair. The sun pressed warm on his face, brought out delicate beads of dew on his skin. When he glanced over at his dozing partner he saw that her pale skin was dry. She always took the heat better than he did.

That thought provoked an affectionate grin. Keeping cool under pressure was Scully's specialty. She'd saved his behind with her quick thinking and polished diplomacy so often that he'd finally gotten enough sense to just shut up and let her do the talking when things got rough. It hadn't hurt that Walter Skinner had developed a seriously tender spot where she was concerned, either. If she only knew the power she'd had over her own boss, he mused.

Well, former boss.

Mulder sighed.

Would she be able to do it again? Assistant Director Kersch had thus far proven impervious to her subtle charm, but Mulder was hoping she could somehow worm her way into the affections of their stern new supervisor. Or if not that, at least earn his admiration and respect. Things would be so much easier for the both of them if she could work her magic and soften Kersch up a little bit.

He let his eyes drift over her familiar features—the delicate Roman nose, the finely arched auburn eyebrows, those too-perfect lips. Her face was much thinner than it used to be, he observed wistfully. She still hadn't completely recovered from the cancer that had nearly conquered her last year, and her weight remained less than it had been before the illness. He watched her eyes jumping slightly under paper-thin lids and thought she must have drifted off.

"Scully? You awake?"

Her eyes stayed closed. "Do I have to be?"

"This isn't Mexico," he teased. "You don't get a siesta after lunch."

Her lips quirked. "I'm resting my eyes."

"Resting your eyes?"

"My dad always used to say that."

"I think everyone's dad used to say that," he pointed out. "And everyone knows it's a line of bull."

The lids flickered open briefly, revealing a Peacock-blue gaze that pierced him right through. Always. She reproached him with a single glance before closing her eyes again. Defiantly, her head tilted further back to catch the rays of the sun.

He grinned, leaning his own head against the granite and letting the warmth soak into him. Maybe she was onto something here. His thoughts wandered aimlessly, floating at the surface of his consciousness like leaves on a pond. Laughter rang out from a group of women sitting nearby. A jet roared overhead. Somewhere a seagull sent up a desperate cry. Across the plaza the bronze sailor stood huddled against a bitter wind, his wary eyes focused on an uncertain future. I know how that feels, Mulder thought.

Before he could explore that thought further, three deep-throated bells rang out. Their rich tones floated over the Memorial and across the city, marking the hour. He peaked at his watch, confirming what St. Patrick's was already telling him. "Lunch time's over, Scully."

She groaned and lifted her head reluctantly, murmuring, "Too soon."

"We can stay out here a while longer if you like," he offered too generously.

"In exchange for...?"

"I wanted to show you something." He finally lifted the mysterious file and wagged it at her.

"I figured," she conceded. "What is it?"

"See for yourself."

Taking the folder and opening it, Scully's eyes scanned the top page. The police report was brief and vague, a missing persons incident with nothing to go on. She looked at the jurisdiction printed at the top of the page, one brow shooting up when she spotted the word Scotland there. Under that was a summary of physical evidence found —not much— and interviews conducted: two. Then a follow-up report stated that the missing woman could not be found, and the case would not be pursued further unless more evidence or a solid lead turned up. The final sheet of paper was a formal request for intercession, a desperate plea from heartbroken parents who refused to believe their daughter had vanished without a trace. They wanted someone to investigate, someone who would get results. They wanted the FBI to find their daughter. And since they were US citizens, their daughter a possible victim of the crime of kidnapping, the FBI was going to look into it.

Scully looked to her partner. "This isn't what I was expecting."

He tugged a bag of sunflower seeds out of his pocket, grinning at her bemused expression. "What's a' matter, Scully? Too mundane for your tastes?"

"Where's the 'paranormal bouquet' you're so fond of? This looks like a straight-forward missing persons case."

In Scotland.

"We don't do the paranormal anymore, remember?" He snapped a seed between his teeth, gestured toward the hulking brown building standing one block west of them. "Strictly by-the-book investigating from now on. Background checks. Missing persons. Lost dogs. Important stuff."

She rolled her eyes. "Where did this come from? Kersch?"

"Sort of. I saw it on his desk this morning and sneaked a peak at it. He caught me in the act and assigned us to it as punishment."

Middle-of-nowhere Scotland, to be exact. And yet, for a punishment...? "You don't look very distressed."

"I made it a point to appear appropriately chastened when he yelled at me. Did you happen to notice where Eva Campbell disappeared from?"

Scully flipped open the file once again, searched the police report for the answer. "Says here a small lake near Glen Coe."

"The Glen of Weeping. Know what happened in Glen Coe, Scully?"

"Who doesn't? Some Campbells rose up against their hosts, the MacDonalds, and slaughtered half the clan one cold February dawn."

"Technically, there were about a dozen Campbells among a military garrison temporarily quartered with the MacDonalds. On the 13th of February 1692 they executed their orders to kill the entire MacDonald clan because the Chief of the clan had not given an oath of fealty to King William III by the deadline of January 1st that year. Of over 300 clansmen, only 38 were killed — hardly 'half the clan.' But the fact that Captain Campbell turned on his hosts after staying with them for ten days was the real scandal."

"Is there a point to this history lesson?"

"Happen to notice our victim's name?"

"Campbell." She laughed. "You can't be serious! That happened over three hundred years ago."

"You've heard of the Hatfields and the McCoys. Maybe some Scotsman is holding an incredibly long grudge." He shrugged, then smiled ruefully. "Well, look on the bright side. It's more interesting than what we've been doing lately, and it won't get us into trouble. It'll be like a vacation."

"I guess I'll have to start unpacking those winter clothes tonight."

"Aye, lassie. 'Cause we fly tae Bonny Auld Scotland on the morrow."

Laughing, Scully lightly shoved her partner and his waggling eyebrows away. "Oh, that's terrible."

.

Glasgow, Scotland
7 October 1998

It turned out driving in Scotland was a far worse experience than Mulder's mangling of a Scottish brogue.

The first thing she noted about Scotland was the fact that everyone drove on the wrong side of the road (of course, the surly gentleman at the car rental counter had insisted they had the right of it and the entire rest of the world was wrong). Worse still, they drove on the wrong side of the car. Not that Scully was the type of person to antagonize an entire nation over how they chose to do things but the 'wrongness' of driving on the left side did make for a rather stressful first afternoon as Mulder adapted to shifting gears opposite of expectation and tangled roads that only a drunken cow could have 'planned.'

"When in Rome, Scully." Mulder grimaced, gripping the stick shift awkwardly in his left hand and Scully, riding shot-gun, found herself in the ridiculous position of looking at him sideways ... from her right. It just felt wrong.

"Glasgow," she corrected.

"Right. Because we're never getting out of here."

Biting back a smile, his partner in all things returned her attention to the road map that was proving less than adaptable to their on-the-street experience. Unhelpfully, she noted, "We need the M-8."

"Yeah, but does that mean heading towards Paisley, Dumbarton, Kilmarnok, Stirling, or Falkirk?" These names flashed by on signs planted randomly at the edges of an enormous round-about where cars whirled and eddied in and out, and taking a wrong spoke outwards ensured they'd never return to this particular cross-roads again. (They knew this by now thanks to three previously dizzy experiences involving wrong-way-after-all ejections from traffic circles.)

"Well, uh, where's Kilmarnok...?"

"Look on the map."

"It's not on the map."

"Well then, which way should I go?"

The signs buzzed by again, while Scully frowned over the paper in her effort to track which towns lay along their desired route to the western Highlands. "Northwest."

"Which way is that?"

Gloomy, sunless skies certainly weren't helping her orienteering skills. "Maybe we should ask for help."

"Who are we going to ask? I can't even figure out how to get off this merry-go-round."

"Technically, it's a traffic circle."

He growled.

She chuckled. "You're the one who wanted this case..."

It took them two more hours to get out of Glasgow and by the time they stumbled into a humble Bed and Breakfast in Onich that evening, Scully wasn't chuckling any longer. Stowing their luggage into cramped rooms made out of converted garret attics, the partners trudged wearily into a pub across the street and ate silently enough that the server asked how long they'd been married.

"Five years," Mulder muttered.

"Almost six."

Raising a brow, he nodded her direction. "Every minute a match made in heaven, honey."

"You surprise me, darling. I was sure you were going to say hell..." But lest the server walk away thinking theirs was an unhappy union, Scully softened the tease with an affectionate smile.