"911, what's your emergency?"
"Hi, my name is Destiny Love, I need an ambulance to the Pineview Motor Lodge."
"What's the situation, ma'am?"
"My client… he shot himself. In the head."
The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Skinner stepped in, the weight of the past weeks carved into the lines of his face. His shoulders were squared, but his eyes—his eyes betrayed him. They'd seen too much lately.
Sitting across the table, arms folded and jaw set, was Destiny Love. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray beside her, untouched.
"Good morning, Ms. Love," Skinner said, his voice rougher than usual. "I need you to tell me exactly what happened last night."
She leaned back, lips curling in something that wasn't quite a smile. "I already did. Your people confirmed it—a suicide. I'm not a suspect."
"I have lost two of my best agents in less than two weeks," Skinner said, and the calm he'd been trying to project cracked just enough to let the pain show. "I have a right to know what happened."
Destiny paused, watching him carefully. "So, this Scully…"
"…passed away from cancer about a week ago," Skinner interrupted, voice quieting. He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. He remembered the exact minute her heart stopped, the call from the hospital, the sterile white corridors, the beeping monitors that fell silent. He remembered the look on Mulder's face.
He had offered everything—time, support, therapy. Even sat across from Mulder in his apartment, watching him pretend to be okay.
He'd delivered the eulogy himself not even two days ago. Said all the right things. Held it together.
Barely.
Destiny's brow furrowed. "So she wasn't a figment of his imagination."
Skinner shook his head. "She wasn't. She was quite real. And probably the best thing that ever happened to him."
The sky was too blue the day they buried her. The kind of blue she would've liked. The kind that made her close her eyes and breathe in a little deeper. Mulder had stood still through the entire service, a statue carved in grief, watching them lower her into the earth like it was someone else's life playing out in front of him.
He barely remembered what had been said. He couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears. Just the thud of his own heart, and the steady hum of denial beginning to fray.
Mrs. Scully had hugged him tightly at the end. Her arms around him were warm, familiar—but felt unbearably final. He didn't know what to say to her. Couldn't say anything. Tara had hugged him too, with that soft sympathy people give the truly broken.
Bill had stayed far back, jaw clenched. His eyes were sharp, but not red. Not like Mulder's. Mulder didn't blame him. He didn't feel anything for Bill Scully anymore. Not anger. Not guilt. Just a tired, echoing emptiness.
He hadn't stayed long at the house afterward. Too many faces. Too many memories.
He drove home in silence, windows down, letting the cold wind claw at his skin like penance.
His apartment was still. One of her cardigans still hung by the door. A mug she had used on her last visit still sat in the sink. He couldn't bring himself to touch them.
He dropped his keys on the counter, shrugged out of his coat, and sat down on the couch like gravity had doubled. Stared into the nothing in front of him until time got slippery.
He didn't cry. He hadn't since the hospital. His body wouldn't allow it anymore.
At some point, he got up and found a bottle of scotch in the back of the cabinet. No idea when he bought it. No memory of it being there. Maybe it had just appeared—conjured by grief, like everything else in his life lately.
He drank one shot. Then another.
By the third, the numbness had sunk in like a blanket.
He stood up, grabbed his keys.
No plan. No destination.
He just needed to be anywhere else but here.
"I was at the corner of 11th and K," Destiny Love said, arms still folded, voice flat. "Not the worst spot in D.C., but not exactly somewhere you bring your mother, either. It was still early—sun hadn't even set yet. Spring light makes everything look a little softer, a little less sad, even if it's all the same underneath. I was just starting to get some traffic."
Skinner said nothing, just nodded once, letting her continue.
"The first car that pulled up was a black sedan. Clean. Not new, but taken care of. The guy inside didn't look like the type who needed to pay for company. He looked… clean. Quiet. Nice even. Not someone you'd expect to be cruising that part of town. That's always how it starts, though. The ones who look like they've got it together are usually the ones with the darkest shit going on. He rolled down his window and looked at me real close. Not in a creepy way. Not sizing me up. More like he was… searching for something."
She glanced down, then met Skinner's eyes. "He asked if my red hair was a wig."
Without breaking eye contact, she reached up and gave a firm tug on a handful of hair. "It's not," she said. "Not natural either. I dye it."
Skinner didn't react.
"Mulder didn't care. Asked for my rates. I gave them. Then he asked if I had a boyfriend special."
She let the words hang a second, then added, almost defensively, "Which I do."
"He said he'd pay for the motel. And breakfast. Seemed like a gentleman about it."
Skinner's brow tensed ever so slightly, but he didn't interrupt.
"I got in the car. That's how it started."
"Mulder insisted on that motel," she said, leaning back in her chair like the memory bored her more than it hurt. "Said something about crappy motels being part of their story. Whatever the hell that meant."
She gave a slight shrug. "I didn't care. It was cleaner than most places I've been taken to. Better than a blowjob in the back alley behind a liquor store, that's for damn sure."
Skinner didn't flinch. He'd heard worse.
"The first thing he did when we got into the room? Turned on the TV. Some old black-and-white thing with monsters in it—creepy but not scary. Looked like something from the fifties. Then he ordered Chinese takeout."
She smirked faintly. "I'm not a fan of Chinese food. Greasy, smells weird to me. But when you're earning more in one night with a guy who wants to eat egg rolls and watch television than you would with six guys in a row just trying to get off…"
She paused, lit another cigarette.
"…let's just say it didn't make me gag."
Skinner was quiet. Waiting. Measuring her.
And she knew the next question was coming.
"After we ate, he asked again if we were still on for the boyfriend special," she said, her tone flatter now, but her fingers tapped absently on the table. "Like he needed to be sure. Like he was waiting for me to back out."
Skinner watched her. She wasn't looking at him anymore—just somewhere past his shoulder, like the memory had taken form in the room.
"He told me to call him Mulder. Made a point of it. Thing is… he hadn't really introduced himself before that. So what else was I supposed to call him?"
She took a drag from her cigarette, exhaled slow. "He said something weird—something about aliens. Didn't make sense, but I played along. I said something like, 'They do not exist, Mulder.' Just trying to stay in the scene, you know? Keep the vibe going."
She paused.
"That's when he leaned in and kissed me."
Her voice went quieter, softer—like the kiss had unsettled her more than anything else had that night.
"I've never been kissed like that before. Not by a client. Not even by ex-boyfriends. It was… tender. Careful. Like he was afraid I'd break."
She looked up at Skinner then, just for a second. "When he pulled back, he smiled and said, 'That's my Scully.'"
Skinner's jaw tensed.
"I smelled the alcohol on him when he picked me up," she went on, almost as an afterthought. "Could barely taste it in the kiss, though. So no—he wasn't drunk. Not enough to be out of it. He knew what he was doing."
"Mulder asked me if he could hold me."
Skinner blinked. "Hold you?"
"Yeah," she said quietly. "Not screw me. Not kiss me. Just… hold."
She paused. "I'm not in the business of cuddling. That costs extra. But there was something in his eyes. Like if I said no, he'd vanish completely."
"So I said yes."
"He lay back on the bed, pulled me against him like I was something precious. His arms wrapped around me tight. And we just… stayed like that. For a long time."
Skinner's voice softened. "Did he say anything?"
She nodded slowly. "Bits and pieces. Memories. Hospital rooms. Airports. Flashlights in the dark. He said, 'You were always there.' And, 'I should've gone first.'"
Her lips parted to say more, but the words caught.
She blinked hard. "Then he asked me to tell him a story. Something nice. Something where nobody dies."
Skinner's throat tightened. "Did you?"
"I told him about when I was a kid. Before the system. When I still lived with my mom. We had this garden out back. Wildflowers everywhere. Bees, butterflies… all that peaceful stuff. I don't know if it was even real anymore, but I made it sound pretty."
She glanced up. "He smiled. Said she would've liked that."
"Then what happened?"
"I figured I'd move things along," she said, flicking ash into the tray. "When you're booked for the whole night and the guy's passed out after getting off, that's easy money. No drama. Just wait for morning."
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table now, more engaged than before.
"So I reached down, touched him. He let me, for few seconds. Guys are all the same—start massaging it right, and they forget who they are. Forget their problems. That's kind of the point."
Another drag. Another pause.
"But then he stopped me. Gently. Hand on mine."
She frowned a little, like the moment still made no sense.
"He said… 'This isn't what Scully would do.'"
Silence filled the room.
"I don't know what I was supposed to do with that," she said after a while, her voice lower. "It wasn't angry. Wasn't judgmental. Just… sad. Like he knew she was gone, but was still trying to bring her back in pieces."
Her eyes finally met Skinner's again. "That's when I started thinking maybe this wasn't just another messed up roleplay."
"He spent a lot of time on foreplay," she said, quietly now. "More than I've ever had from a client. Hell, more than I've had from most men, period."
She flicked her eyes to the side, uncomfortable with how much she was admitting, even if it was just to Skinner, just to get it out.
"He kissed me… a lot. Not sloppy or desperate. Slow. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he was memorizing me. Touched me like I was… fragile. Sacred, almost. He went down on me and didn't stop until I actually came."
Her voice cracked faintly on that last part—not with emotion, but with disbelief.
"That was a first. On a lot of levels."
She didn't speak for a moment. Neither did Skinner.
"When I came down from that high," she said eventually, voice almost a whisper now, "he was lying next to me. Just watching me. Not creepy. Just… sad."
She looked away.
"He was crying."
Skinner didn't move, but something behind his eyes flickered—grief meeting recognition.
"He couldn't really say why. I asked. He just said something like, 'It's all too late.' Over and over. Like if he said it enough times it would mean something else."
She sat back again, arms folding tight over her chest.
"That's when I stopped thinking he was lonely. And started thinking he was broken."
"I let him cry for a while," she said, her voice steady again, as if she had made peace with the oddity of the situation. "I mean, what else are you supposed to do? Some guys, they want you to fix everything. Others just need a minute to let it out."
She took another drag, eyes unfocused for a moment, as though the memory had become blurry.
"After a while, I did my part of the boyfriend special. Not that I'd call it that anymore. Maybe I should call it the 'Mulder Special,' 'cause I've never done so much for a client before."
She glanced at Skinner, noting his reaction—or lack of it—but continued without hesitation.
"He made it easy. Clean. Well-built. Didn't push me anywhere. Didn't make me do anything I didn't want to. He even stopped me when I started to take him in my mouth."
She paused, her gaze shifting to the window, as if the memory itself made the room feel too small.
"He said something then. Something about not knowing how Scully felt about that." She hesitated, lips curling slightly at the edges, like she was trying to make sense of it, too. "Past tense. Like she wasn't here anymore."
Skinner shifted in his chair, but she didn't notice. She was still lost in the words, in the confusion that had settled in her chest when Mulder had said them.
"At the time, I didn't think she was dead," she said, quieter now. "I just thought… it was a bad breakup. You know, a messy one. The kind where you still think you can fix it. Where you don't realize you've lost them until it's too late."
She looked away for a moment, her breath catching as she recalled the next part.
"We made love," she said softly, as if the weight of it changed everything. "And I mean make love. Not just the usual. This wasn't something I could just brush off."
Her voice wavered a bit, but she pushed on.
"He was gentle. So damn gentle. Like he was trying to reach out to something, anything. The way his hands touched me, it wasn't like any client I'd ever had. There was nothing about it that was rushed or transactional. The way he called me 'Scully'… It wasn't about getting off. It was about him needing something more than I could give."
Her eyes dropped to her hands, the flickering memory passing over her features.
"It was soft, slow… tender, even. His kisses were deeper, more connected. I kept thinking that this Scully had been a lucky woman to have a guy making love to her like this. I could feel him. Feel everything—like he was lost, like he thought this might be his last chance to let someone in, to touch someone without feeling like a damn monster."
She paused, letting the silence stretch between them.
"When he finally collapsed on top of me," she went on, her voice softening, "he trembled. His whole body shook like he was holding onto me for dear life."
Her eyes met Skinner's for a split second, then lowered again.
"He cried again, right there, on me. Not quiet tears—hard, ragged sobs. And he said it again, 'It's too late. I should've acted earlier. Shouldn't have let her push me away.'"
She exhaled slowly, as if releasing something heavy from her chest.
"He held me for a while after that, his arms wrapped around me tightly, like he was trying to hold on to something real before it slipped away. His words were jumbled, not making sense, but desperate.
"We'll live together," he muttered, eyes half-closed. "Go on holidays. Hunting aliens. No one—especially not Skinner or the Syndicate—will ever know. Just you and me. We'll be free."
She looked at Skinner then, her expression hardening for just a moment.
"I knew it didn't mean anything. He was just talking. But when he said it, it sounded real. I don't know… maybe he really believed it."
Skinner's jaw clenched for a second, and he looked away—he was clearly affected by the mention of himself, though he didn't let it show much. She noticed, but didn't care to dwell on it.
"I tried to play along," she said, her voice lowering again, distant now. "Just to make it easier. I told him something like, 'I'd love to go up to Maine for a weekend, just getting some rest.'"
She looked down, biting the inside of her lip.
"He snapped out of it after that," she continued, shaking her head. "Like he'd been lost in a daydream and I just yanked him back to reality. He got up, grabbed his clothes, and went straight into the bathroom. Showered."
She shook her head slightly, as though trying to make sense of it.
"I thought—he's a nice guy. He deserves something nice. So, I followed him into the shower."
She took another drag, exhaling slowly. Her eyes darkened for a second, remembering the feel of it.
"We made out for a while, yeah, and I let him wash me too. I figured, if it helped him snap out of whatever this was, I'd go along with it. He needed something clean. Something real."
There was a pause, and she exhaled deeply.
"He got dressed while I stayed there, wrapped in a towel, and then—" She hesitated, almost as if it pained her to repeat it, but the words came anyway.
"He apologized to me. Said, 'I shouldn't have betrayed Scully like that.'"
Skinner's eyes narrowed sharply, and something flickered in his gaze—anger, confusion, maybe even a tinge of guilt—but he didn't say anything.
She shrugged, her tone even. "It didn't make sense, though. He'd been calling me 'Scully' the whole time, had moaned her name when he came, and then he says that to me like she wasn't even real anymore. Like I wasn't the one he'd been pretending with."
She took another slow drag, eyes flicking away again.
"Anyway, he handed me more money. Said it was for breakfast—'the breakfast I promised,' he said. And then… he left."
She paused. The weight of what came next lingered in the air.
"I heard the car door shut. And then... the shot."
She let that hang there. Her eyes met Skinner's, almost daring him to question her any further.
Skinner stood up slowly, the weight of the conversation visibly heavy on him. Every movement was measured, but there was a stiffness in his posture—a physical manifestation of how hard it was for him to process what he had just learned about Mulder. About Scully. The air in the room felt thick with the truth, and Skinner's face was strained.
"Thank you, Ms. Love," he said, his voice measured but filled with a quiet strain. "For this detailed account of the events of last night. As you were correctly informed, you are not a suspect and are free to go. I do appreciate, though, that you took the time to talk to me."
She watched him with an almost curious look, eyes sharp, not letting any of the discomfort slip past her. The way he held himself now—so carefully, so rigid—spoke volumes about the toll this conversation had taken on him.
"So, this Scully..." She leaned forward slightly, her curiosity piqued. "What was her first name?"
Skinner hesitated, a quick flicker of emotion crossing his face before he answered.
"Dana."
She smiled faintly, her eyes lighting up as the irony hit her. "That's funny. That's my real name too."
For a moment, there was a strange, almost uneasy pause between them.
"Did she like good old diner food for breakfast?" she asked, a trace of humor in her voice, but it was laced with something deeper.
Skinner nodded, though the motion seemed heavier than usual.
"I think so. From the receipts I received, Mulder and Scully went to a lot of diners while on cases."
She let out a quiet laugh, the sound almost mocking, but not quite cruel. "Well, I guess that's fitting. People like Mulder... they like their routines."
She paused, studying Skinner again, almost like she was sizing him up, before the question slipped out with a bit of a playful edge.
"Mr. ...?" she trailed off, waiting for him to clarify.
"Skinner," he replied, his voice flat. "Walter Skinner."
She raised an eyebrow. "007, Skinner, Walter Skinner–has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" The comment hung in the air for a moment, but her expression softened. It was teasing, but there was an understanding there, too.
"So, Mr. Skinner," she continued, her eyes scanning him with a mix of curiosity and knowing. "I can't help with your loss, but… Mulder gave me way too much money for breakfast, and you look like you could use some fuel." She stood up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Is there a diner around here that Mulder and Scully liked?"
Skinner paused, caught in the sudden shift from the weight of the conversation to this lighter, almost absurd moment. But after a moment of silence, he gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.
"There's one not far from here," he said, his voice soft but steady.
"Well then," she said, a slight smirk curling on her lips as she made her way to the door, "let's go. It's on me."
Skinner hesitated for a moment, his thoughts heavy, but then he nodded. The gesture was almost reluctant, but there was something familiar in the offer. In the kindness she extended, in the moment of small normalcy.
As they stepped out of the room, the weight of everything Mulder had shared, everything he had lost, seemed to follow them, like a shadow in the distance.
The hallway outside the interrogation room smelled faintly of old coffee and cleaning solution, and the fluorescents flickered like they were just as tired as everyone else who worked beneath them. Skinner walked a half step behind her, unsure if he was following a woman offering him breakfast, or the ghost of something he'd already buried.
They didn't speak in the elevator. She stood with her arms crossed, staring ahead, and he stared at the floor numbers ticking by, slow and steady, like a countdown.
Outside, the city had shaken off the night, but not the weight of it. The streets were already pulsing with life again—horns, engines, voices. But for Skinner, everything still felt muted. Like he hadn't quite come back from wherever Mulder had gone.
She pointed toward a place on the corner. Retro red signage, half-lit, promising "COFFEE – EGGS – PIE." The kind of spot you drive past a hundred times and only notice when you're grieving or trying to stay awake at 3 a.m. Skinner nodded again and let her lead.
They took a booth in the back, away from the windows. The waitress didn't ask questions—just handed them laminated menus and poured two cups of coffee that tasted like they'd been brewing since last night. Destiny—Dana—added cream and two sugars. Skinner drank his black.
"So," she said eventually, stirring slowly, eyes watching the swirl of white in her cup, "what was she like? The real Scully."
Skinner didn't answer right away. When he did, it was soft, reverent.
"She was the smartest person in the room. Always. But it never made her arrogant. She was steady. Brave. She… believed in the truth, even when it hurt. Especially then."
Destiny nodded, her expression unreadable.
"She must've been something," she said. "For a man like that to fall apart like this."
"She was," Skinner said. He looked out the window, at nothing in particular. "They both were."
He hesitated, then added, "Mulder... he was relentless. Brilliant. A pain in the ass sometimes. But he never stopped fighting for what he believed in. Even when everyone else told him to quit. Even when it cost him everything."
For a while, they just sat there. Two strangers in a diner, each carrying pieces of someone who wasn't coming back. The world moved on around them. Orders were shouted. Plates clattered. Coffee refills flowed.
But in that booth, something like understanding settled between them.
"You ever wonder if people like him…" she started, then paused. "If maybe they were never meant for the world we live in?"
Skinner's eyes met hers. "I used to think he just saw too much. But now I think… maybe he just felt too much."
She gave a small nod. "Yeah. That tracks."
The waitress came with their food. Destiny had ordered pancakes and bacon. Skinner got eggs and dry toast. It didn't matter what it was. It was something.
They ate in silence.