helga - she/her - 19 - hungarian. february aquarius (beware). horror & gore enthusiast. bookworm. video game lover. i watch at least three movies a day.
fanfictions:
squirrel stapler (the x files): contains descriptions of gore, violence and blood, so read carefully!
radio silence (steve harrington): contains mentions of sh, grief and death, so read carefully!
mayday (steve harrington): continuation of radio silence, just pure fluff
over (steve harrington): continuation of radio silence, bit of angst, bit of fluff
come across the desert with no shoes on, i love you truly, or i love no one (goodtimeswithscar/grian): giggs dnd inspired one-shot, with a little bit of the life series and hermitcraft seasons sewed in, light angst
i heard your song before my heart could hush it (goodtimeswithscar/grian): continuation of "come across the desert" hearmitcraft s11, fluffy
recently posted!
↦ i heard your song before my heart could hush it (GoodTimesWithScar/Grian), one-shot
summary: yeah they are together in every universe (or something like that)
pairing: GoodTimesWithScar/Grian
warning: light angst, spoilers for 3rd life smp & secret life smp
notes: couldn't get the idea of a Grian pov out of my head after writing it. i hope yall enjoy it!
wc: 2.6K
"In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed."
William Ernest Henley
Well, this is weird.
Grian doesn’t understand what’s going on. Scar is sitting on the edge of his bed, looking as confused as ever, and Grian’s just standing in the middle of the small room, unsure what to do. How hard could he have hit his head? How bad of a concussion could he have?
What could even cause Scar to lose his memories just like that?
He decides to make some tea, as promised. He isn’t sure Scar would have any in his house. He’ll try to come up with something nevertheless. He goes downstairs, looks for a pot to boil water in, and searches the cabinets and chests for herbs.
The space is crumbled; everywhere he looks, there is a chest left open. He manages through the mess; he soon finds a small bag of what could be tea. He fills the pot with water, sets it on the small stove, and waits.
Then, he hears a rather concerning “Ow!” from upstairs. He snaps his head towards the direction from which the sound came and rushes up the ladder to see what has happened. He sees Scar still sitting on the edge of his bed, but now holding his head in his hands as if he were in pain.
“Scar, what happened?” He asks, carefully approaching the other man.
The other takes a minute to respond, but then comes his answer: “Grian, I just had the weirdest dream. And I have the most horrible headache now. Ow.”
What?
“Scar, you’re awake, you couldn’t have dreamt,” he scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. Scar lets go of his head and looks up at him, eyes expressing confusion.
“What? No, I’m not joking, I dreamt I was in a circus!”
A circus? What is he even on about?
Grian shakes his head. He really doesn’t have time for these antics. He wanted to take Scar to Tango’s base, to show him what Tango has been working on, how the mountains have started forming, and-
But Scar looks as serious as ever. Grian thinks Scar has never looked this serious in both of their entire lives.
He starts wondering if Scar’s actually sick, or something. If the impact of his landing has actually left him with a concussion.
Then, Scar starts speaking again, still holding his head in his palms, shoulders shrunk, and Grian thinks he looks-
He looks as if he were actually in pain.
“Grian, my head hurts. So badly, and I-“ his words stutter, and he looks up at Grian, squinting. “We were back in the desert.”
We?
“We?” Grian voices his thoughts, but then stays silent. He doesn’t expect an answer.
He still gets one. “Yes!” Scar says. “We were back in the ring and- But I felt like I wasn’t in my body, I felt as if… I don’t know and then I woke up on your dock, and we were fishing, and I got the Mending Book and-“
“Scar, woah,” Grian approaches him, thinking Scar’s hands are in his own. He sits next to him on the bed. “Slow down.”
Scar inhales and winces as if it hurts. Grian forgets about the tea brewing downstairs.
Scar gulps, trying to find the right words. He turns to look at Grian, and there are tears in the corner of his eyes, and Grian wants nothing else to do but to reach forward and sweep them away, leaving no trace on his scarred cheek.
“I did dream. I don’t know for how long,” he sighs. “I was out in front of Rusty, and I don’t even remember what I was doing. I think I was looking for something in one of the chests, but then I felt a sharp pain in my head, and I started… dreaming? It was as if my memories were possessed by someone else, and I had no control over my body and-“
“Breath,” Grian says, his voice not above a whisper. He still hasn’t let go of the other’s hands. He isn’t planning to.
Scar does as Grian says.
“I dreamt about you,” Scar simply says, and Grian grips his hands a little tighter. But he lets Scar continue. “First, we were back in the desert. In the cactus ring. All I could feel was the sand beneath my body, and you were apologizing endlessly. Then you delivered the final blow.”
Grian winces. He doesn’t like to remember that moment. It wasn’t his best, and he feels guilt making a home in his stomach, inviting itself in like an old friend.
“Then, we were on your dock, fishing,” Scar says, and a small smile starts forming in the corner of his lips. Grian thinks back to Magic Mountain, too. He doesn’t miss the smell of fish, though. “And I got the book, and Cub was there. He was laughing, but I couldn’t say anything, and you stabbed me, and everything went black.”
Grian tears his gaze away from Scar’s. Not a great moment, either.
He feels Scar’s hands loosening in his grip. He doesn’t want to let go of them, but he will if Scar wants to.
“Then I was in the field after I won the whole secret thingy. I can’t remember anything else but the scent of flowers.”
“And then?” Grian asks. He wants to reach out again.
“I was here. And then you flew into me, and I hit my head, and that’s all I can remember.”
“Do you remember walking back here?” Grian asks, and Scar shakes his head, now silent. “What I said to you?”
“No,” Scar sighs, and with a sudden move, he lies down on his bed. “My head started to hurt.”
“Yeah, that checks out,” Grian turns his gaze away from the other.
Grian sits still for a moment, wondering what it could all mean. Did Scar eat something weird? Drink something weird? Maybe he could bring him some potions, at least to make his headache go away.
He has seen Scar in a lot of weird situations; he has seen him forget things: entire conversations, plans they made the day before. But never like this, never like as if he weren’t in his own body.
That’s not just a bump to the head.
Grian exhales softly, dragging a hand down his face.
Scar makes a noise from the bed, something between a groan and a laugh. “And do you know those little animated stars that dance around your head when you hit it too hard?”
Grian almost laughs. “That has never happened to anyone before, I’m sure of it.”
“Oh, it definitely did,” Scar’s grin could be heard before it could be seen. “I saw them. I mean, not like actually, but I saw a bunch of stars and- I don’t know. It’s kind of silly.”
Grian turns his body towards Scar. “What?”
Scar stays silent for a minute. He shifts a little, bringing his arm over his eyes to block the light out, almost hiding.
From me? Grian thinks.
“I can still feel the sand between my fingers.”
Grian almost chokes on his own spit. He closes his eyes and thinks that’s wrong. He doesn’t think about these memories anymore; he used to, but if he still did, the thoughts might have eaten him alive.
Every time a memory of their last moments from the cactus ring flashes behind his eyes, it feels as if every spine of every cactus in this world would poke under his skin.
He feels his wings flutter. He feels nervous, all of a sudden.
What could all this mean? Possessed? That’s ridiculous; no one has ever mentioned something like this happening to them. So why did it happen to Scar? Why was he suddenly dreaming of these memories?
It mustn’t have been a dream. It must have been a nightmare.
To feel Grian’s knuckles cracking his skull open, to feel the blade of his sword in his back, gauging him open, to sit in a field of flowers, all alone. Alone, at the edge of the universe.
Grian feels like crying. But he doesn’t. He won’t, not in front of Scar. Maybe when he is alone in his own home, under the end crystals, in the corner of his bedroom, or hiding under his blanket.
“Grian,” Scar’s voice snaps him out of it.
He turns towards the other man. He almost barks out an annoyed ‘What?’.
“You’re doing it again,” Scar says simply, lifting his arms so his eyes could meet Grian’s.
“Doing what?” Grian’s voice is weak. He feels awful. And he wasn’t the one experiencing all of this. So why is he feeling awful?
“That thing where you spiral into ten different worst-case scenarios and don’t say any of them out loud.”
Despite the situation, Grian huffs out a small laugh. Scar is back to his old self, already making jokes, given the situation. His Scar is back. “I don’t do that.”
“You absolutely do.”
Scar grins. But as soon as he does, he winces like even smiling is too much effort. He sighs, “Bad idea.”
Grian shifts closer, instinct overriding everything else. He reaches for a pillow, offering it for Scar to put under his head. “Here. Don’t move so much.”
“Yes, doctor.” Scar mutters and slowly lifts his head until Grian places it under his head. Then, he lies back down, letting his eyes fall shut.
Carefully, Grian reaches out again. Slower this time, giving Scar time to pull away if he wants to. But Grian knows he won’t.
Grian’s fingers settle around Scar’s wrist, grounding, checking. Reassuring himself, he’s still here. In his own bed, between his pillows and blankets.
“Tea’s probably boiling over,” Grian speaks after a moment. Scar doesn’t open his eyes.
“Tragic,” Scar hums. He must be exhausted, Grian thinks.
“Yeah, well. You’re probably concussed, so I feel like that’s slightly more important than burning down your base.”
“Debatable.”
For a second, the bantering almost feels normal.
He decides to stand, letting his fingers fall from Scar’s skin. He thinks it’s wrong. But as soon as he does, Scar reaches out to him, grasping his hand.
“Don’t go too far.” Scar says, quieter now. It doesn’t feel like a joke anymore.
Grian stills.
“I won’t,” he breaths, just as quietly.
He means it. He really does.
Grian shifts, crossing his leg on the bed. His thigh is pressed into Scar’s leg. Who cares about the tea at this point?
He doesn’t lie back on the bed; he watches Scar as his breathing evens out a little. Not quite asleep, too careful for that.
Is he scared of dreaming?
Minutes that feel like hours pass. Every now and then, Scar’s fingers twitch against his blanket, like he’s trying to grab onto something that isn’t there.
Grian watches it happen. Counts the seconds between each breath without meaning to.
Somewhere downstairs, the faint, angry hiss of boiling water starts to creep into the silence. Grian ignores it.
“Grian?” Scar murmurs after a while, voice rough around the edges.
“I’m here,” he answers.
“You’re real, right?”
Grian pushes himself closer to Scar, further into the bed. “Last time I checked.”
Scar shifts, closer to Grian. “Just making sure.”
“Scar,” the other’s name drips from his tongue like sweet honey. He leans forward, bringing his hands to Scar’s face, cupping his cheeks. Just slightly, careful not to hurt him. “Look at me.”
Scar takes a second, like it costs him something, but he does. He pries his eyes open, unfocused at first, then slowly settles on Grian.
Scar huffs out a laugh, interrupting him. “You wish.”
“Very much not a dream.” Grian finishes, ignoring Scar.
Scar studies him for a moment longer than necessary, as if he were trying to memorize Grian’s face.
“Okay.” He says.
Downstairs, something whistles. Grian flinches. The tea.
Grian hesitates, but still doesn’t let go of Scar’s face. He looks back at the ladder, then back at Scar.
Scar doesn’t say anything this time, but his eyes follow the movement. There’s something uncertain in them now. Something small and quiet and afraid.
Grian sighs, and before his movements register, he lets go of Scar. It feels ever so wrong. “I’ll be two seconds,” Grian says. “Don’t- move. Don’t pass out. Just don’t do anything dramatic.”
Scar manages a faint smile. “No promises.”
Grian stands, but before he can fully step away, Scar’s hand catches his sleeve.
Not tight, just enough to make Grian still in his steps.
He looks back down at the other. “Two seconds,” he repeats, softer this time.
Scar slowly lets go of him.
Grian doesn’t waste a second. He ducks down the ladder, almost flies over to the stove in a quick motion, getting the pot off of it before it could make a mess. The smell of the herbs fills the entire kitchen area.
He grabs two cups, pours some tea into them, and immediately heads back upstairs.
He is fast, too fast maybe, but when he reaches the top of the ladder and sees Scar where he has left him, still on the bed, still breathing, something loosens in his chest.
“See?” He reaches the bed and claims his spot next to Scar. “Two seconds, not more than that.”
Scar hums in acknowledgment and tries to sit up on the bed. He doesn’t get far, though; he gasps slightly, and his head falls back down into the pillows. Grian shakes his head, and instead of offering Scar his tea, he places both of the cups down on a chest’s surface nearby. They’re still too hot to drink, anyway.
As soon as he is back between the pillows, Scar’s arms find their way around his middle in an awkward hug, fingers clinging to his sweater like a lifeline. He scoots closer to the other so Scar wouldn’t have to, and he immediately buries his face in the red fabric. Grian lets him. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I’m tired,” Scar muffles into his sweater, and Grian finds himself smiling. He looks so peaceful like this. He always does, when they are under the same blanket, breathing evenly as sleep takes him away. Scar huffs out a little laugh, more to himself than to anything Grian has said, and Grian wonders what he might be thinking about.
Because, as far as he’s aware, there is nothing funny about this situation.
He looks down at the man in his lap. He acts before he can think, letting his hand find the dark brown curls. He weaves his fingers between the strands as if trying to soothe Scar’s pain away.
“I think you should sleep,” Grian murmurs, voice trying to be as soft as possible. Scar murmurs back something in return, but Grian doesn’t quite catch it.
Scar shifts closer at that, if that’s even possible, his grip tightening for just a second before settling again. His breath ghosts through the fabric of Grian’s sweater, uneven at first, then gradually finding a rhythm.
Grian thinks he could get used to this.
He finds himself lying back again, letting his head hit the pillows. Scar shifts slowly and carefully until his head rests on Grian’s chest. It’s uncomfortable for Grian’s wings, but he doesn’t mind. He would never give this up.
The tea has gone cold, but he couldn’t care less. Scar is fast asleep, most likely exhausted, and all Grian could care about is that he rests.
And that he doesn’t dream anymore. Especially not about the past, their past.
But somehow, Grian can’t shake the feeling of sand between his feathers as he closes his eyes and lets sleep lull him away.
RULES: make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous and tag as many people as you have WIPs. people send an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then you post a snippet or tell them something about it!
thank you for the tag @wool-and-writing!
i have 1 million WIPs but most of them dont have titles (im insane and prefer to squint at the previews in order to deduce which fic im looking at). so these are just the ones that have titles. send me an ask if you want to know about any of these. they are all httyd except for 1 and i will not tell you which #mysterious
Evil fic
pass the yuri!!!
road trip fic 1 million ok?
Hehehehohahahhaheahe
all dat shit
amazon basics thigh highs
he who runs cold
the , pe
la cocaina no es buena para su salud
the chesserrr
i am lorde yayaya
rubber room witg rats
eugh ogh uueueuh taking damage like minecraft zombie
tags (no pressure to partake!): @emberphoenixisgoingtolivee @eaterofdust @octolingo-writes @genderlesschaos @rachelteazer @emachinescat @sayorseee @keebwee + literally anyone else who wants to do this!!
Oooooo I've never done this before! Thanks for tagging me @vividcomet :) Many of my WIP fics don't have names, or only reside in rough sketches/google docs/my mind palace, so I'll do my best to give them titles!
• Salt in the Wounds (Mean Gills!) (Limited Life)
• Where The Lines Blur (Flower Husbands! Military Jimmy x Elvish (Ljosalf iykyk) Scott) (Life Series)
• Chernobyl Disaster; Scott & Grian team up (finally) and fight my other dream teams/ships for resources.
Thanks again! No pressure to respond ofc! (Sorry if you've been tagged already)
@doctorletmebebrave @starry-island-ao3 @rindomness @wiltingtu1ips @seriouslycalamitous @zapxd00 (<- for some reason it won't let me tag them, so I'll just send them this post)
Yippee thanks for tagging me @oceandr1ft (also I love your user by the way it’s so cute). I have a lot of unfinished wips…like… a lot. You guys don’t get how crazy it is that CIBYHFC got past two chapters lmao
Anyways, here they are (they are going to be very vague descriptions because I don’t really have titles):
- Not good for them
- Miscommunication love languages
- Epic movie (guard!Grian and queen!Scar)
- Coffee by Chappell Roan
- Vampire warmth
- Giving up the crown
- Watcher immortal Grain falling in love with every version of Scar
- B99 Scarian as Jake and Amy
- “You’re on his mind, I’m on his nerves.”
- RWRB (prince!Grian and “politician”!Scar)
- Partners in Crime by Set it Off
- Wicked but Mumscarian
- Princess and the Frog
- Princess Diaries 2 (best sequel ever) (Mia/princess!Grian, duke!Scar and fiance!Mumbo (Scarian specifically, with platonic Grumbo)
- Hadestown life series (Hermes!Cleo, Orpheus!Pearl, Eurydice!Gem, Persephone!Scar, Hades!Grian and Fates!Big B, Ren and Lizzie)
- Ella Enchanted (can you tell I enjoy Anne Hathaway movies from the 2000s)
- Wall-E
There’s so many, and majority of them are just retellings with changing the characters 😭 also all of them are Scarian (unless stated otherwise), can you tell which mcyt ship is my favourite lmao
(I don’t know many authors, but) I’m going to tag: @luna-the-cretar @edensbookstore @lia-thetulip @appleblocks + literally anyone else!!
oh my god thank you @loonylooser066 for the tag! this is going to be fun, not bc i have many wips but bc they are mostly in Hungarian and some of them (most of them) are original works haha. but enjoy!
(none of these will ever see the light of the day.) (that's not true)
untitled continuation of my most recent scarian fic
the case of the director and the maggots (little hungarian original work, inspired by the magnus archives)
bird song (original work)
midnight mass
since i've been to Vienna (original work)
nehézlábérzés (original work)
névtelen érzések (original work)
radio tower (original work)
the cult (next chapter of my x-files fic lol)
body (original work)
the last of us post outbreak
the last of us
wine and cigarettes (original work)
i don't know many authors either but i'll tag @levendulapiknik and literally everyone who wants to do it!!
come across the desert with no shoes on, i love you truly, or i love no one
summary: together in every universe, am i right? or something like that, at least.
pairing: GoodTimesWithScar/Grian
warning: light angst, character typical death, spoilers for 3rd life smp, secret life smp
notes: listened to only skin by joanna newsom a few days ago and a line (which is the title) reminded me of scarian, so here wer are. this is mostly inspired by giggs dnd, tho! i hope you enjoy!
wc: 3.8K
“Life--give me life until the end,
That at the very top of being,
The battle-spirit shouting in my blood,
Out of the reddest hell of the fight
I may be snatched and flung
Into the everlasting lull,
The immortal, incommunicable dream..”
William Ernest Henley
By the time they reach the circus, it's nightfall. The stars shine brightly amongst the dark clouds in the sky, some reflecting in the ponds. The group walks along a pathway; Max leads the group, behind him walks Ruby, Brodude. Mister Wizard closes the line. Brodude’s and Ruby's quiet conversation can be heard, but Max and Mister Wizard pay no attention to it.
The halfling has not been this quiet ever since he met the others, but he can't help it right now. The feeling of being back at the circus overwhelms him; not in a bad way, but he can't exactly decide if it's good either. He searches for familiar faces in the crowd that has gathered near the stalls and the tent's entrance, but he can't find anyone.
Mister Wizard, on the other hand, is definitely overwhelmed and in the bad way. The crowd is loud; every now and then, someone yells something incoherent to grab another being's attention. He doesn't mind being with the group at all on this adventure, but he wouldn't have minded if they stayed at the inn for one more night.
Maybe he should engage in Brodude's and Nyx's conversation. But no, he doesn't want to interrupt them. Maybe ask how Max is doing with being back where he spent so many years? No, that isn't right either.
Once they reach the tent's entrance, Max spins on his heels and faces the others. His hands fly in front of his chest, as if he were explaining something, when he starts talking. "Listen. I don't care where you go, but I need to do something really important right now-"
"Can we help?" Nyx asks, playing with her dagger in her hand. The blade shines in the stars' light.
Max glares at her. "No."
"Then meet back here in an hour or so?" Brodude chimes in. Max takes a second to answer; the wheels are almost visible as they are turning in his head. He shrugs his shoulders.
"Fine by me," he says, and without another word, he starts pushing through the crowd. The other three stand there for a minute, wondering what they should do.
"Mister Wizard, do you want to tag along with us and treat ourselves to some sweets?" Nyx asks all of a sudden, and the thought of getting something to eat sounds amazing to Mister Wizard, but he is not up for it right now.
He shakes his head, "No, but why, thank you for the offer! I shall look around for a while, see if there is something that could entertain me."
Nyx smiles at him again, then starts walking towards a cart and drags Brodude along with her. Mister Wizard wonders if they have enough coins to treat themselves.
He stands idly for a moment. He tries taking in the scenery again, but something still feels off. Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.
After a minute or two, he decides it might be worth actually taking a look at what the circus might offer him. He walks around the dimly lit tents, and some people shout at him, asking him if he would like to buy whatever they are offering. He ignores them, even though he feels like some bargaining would do him some good.
The night is quiet, except for the chatter of the people and the laughter of children. Two of them run in front of him, almost making him trip on his own feet, but he manages to catch his regain his stance. He smiles fondly to himself and follows their path. They hold sparklers in their tiny hands, which lead them through the dark of the night.
Suddenly, he finds himself standing in front of a tent. Its roof reaches higher than the trees nearby. Its color is different from the rest that surround it, its dark purple with shades of king blue; built from some kind of material Mister Wizard has never come across. There’s no sign that could imply what might await him inside. He takes an interest in it.
With one of his hands, he opens the entrance. Inside, there is not much light, but a table stands in the middle. The crystal ball lies on its surface, and purplish light radiates from the sphere. It captivates his mind, as if he has seen it before, but he can’t quite place the feeling of nostalgia it gives him.
A small, old woman appears from the back of the tent, surprised as if she hadn’t gotten a visitor in a while. Her grey hair is hidden by a scarf, but some strands frame her round and wrinkled face. Her cheeks are flush but the rest of her complexion is pale. Her dark eyes light up when he notices Mister Wizard standing at the entrance.
“Ah, dear traveler! Welcome to my tent! How may I be of service to you?” She asks, and honey drips from her voice. She steps towards the chair that sits behind the table and signals to Mister Wizard to do as well.
Mister Wizard is suddenly at a loss for words. But he obliges still, pulls out a chair, and gets comfortable. After a minute or two, he opens his might. “How could you be of service to me?”
“Well,” the woman laughs. She pulls out a deck of tarot cards from her clothes and starts shuffling them without paying attention to her own movements. “My child, I am a prophetess. I have many talents; you can ask me about anything, and I’ll be able to tell you nothing but the truth. I can show you your future, your past, and see what might lie ahead of you. Even great things you’ll most likely accomplish in the future, and as far as I can tell from your appearance, you’ll do just fine.”
Mister Wizard squints his eyes. His future? His past? He knows his past and the future sure intrigues him, but he doesn’t want to spoil too many things. He looks at the crystal ball in front of him. The woman follows his gaze and smiles. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It shows you everything that you’ve ever questioned, it shows you how to achieve your fullest potential, and it can show you anything you ever wanted to know. The truth, bare, more truthful than you can ever imagine.”
“How many coins?” Mister Wizard asks, already reaching his hand into the pouch attached to his side. He searches for his coins he has saved up.
“Fifteen,” the woman answers. To Mister Wizard’s surprise, she stands quickly, though, and busies herself with a pot of something brewing inside it. “I’m going to offer you a tea. Nothing much, just some herbs, to calm your nerves before the crystal ball shows you what you want to know.”
Mister Wizard nods, even though she stands with her back turned to him. He fiddles with his fingers, awaiting the cup. It soon arrives, the woman places it in front of him on the table. Mister Wizard reaches for it, and a sweet scent hits his nostrils instantly. He sips some of it; he can taste some lavender and chamomile, and something else he can’t describe.
The woman starts talking. “Place your palms on the surface of the crystal ball,” Mister Wizard follows her instructions. As soon as he touches the glass, it lights up with a purplish color that almost matches the fabric that the tent is made of. The light dances under his fingers; it pulses. “Now, close your eyes, child.”
Why is he here? What does he want to find out?
He closes his eyes and sees stars. He doesn’t understand how, it’s something he has never come across before. But the stars are pretty, and they dance behind his closed eyelids, and he finds himself smiling at nothing.
The woman’s voice is now muffled. He focuses on the stars. She might be speaking to him about what he should do next, but he can’t listen anymore; he’s unable to.
He feels like he’s flying. He feels like that one dream he had a month ago, where he could fly away from danger at his own will so easily, escaping whatever was threatening him. He follows the stars that guide him through the darkness.
And soon, he finds himself in the…
Desert?
He lies on the ground; sand stuck to his bare skin like a lifeline. The sun shines brightly on him, but it hurts. He feels like his skin is on fire, and there is nothing to make it go away. But he feels pain elsewhere as well. His ribs and his legs are pulsing with pain he has never felt before in his entire life.
He tries to collect his thoughts, tries to take in his surroundings, but it feels all so strange. Something pokes at his back; he looks over his shoulder and notices a cactus standing tall behind him. He must be bleeding. From multiple wounds, he is sure of it. He looks at his hand, blood smeared on his knuckles, bruised, and the skin is dry, and pearls of blood trickle from his fingertips.
Where is he? Why is he here?
When he asks himself this question, that’s when he notices him. A figure, not quite tall, stands in front of him, not so far away. He wears a red sweater, which must be made out of wool, he thinks. The man stands with his fists tight at his sides, looking ahead of himself. But it’s not anger that lies behind his eyes.
He speaks. “Scar, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” His voice is barely audible, not above a whisper. He himself feels dizzy and nauseous. Who is Scar?
And that’s when the final punch comes.
He inhales sharply, and the sand beneath his fingertips and body disappears, as if someone has flipped the hourglass.
He wakes up in a much nicer environment, but he still doesn’t recognize any of his surroundings. He is sitting on the ground, on the edge of a body of water, fishing rod in hand. Next to him sits a man in a coat that resembles a doctor’s, glasses perched on his nose. He has dark hair. He is focused on what he might be able to catch in the next few minutes. On his other side sits another person, red sweater with holes in the fabric, strawberry blond hair, a little disheveled. His grip on his own fishing rod is strong; his knuckles have turned white.
He recognizes him. Mostly his hands that have delivered a final blow to his face, not only a minute ago, but the color of his hair as well; the sun gives it a kind of glow. It’s almost like…
Mister Wizard looks ahead of himself. The water is still, except for some bubbles, and as he moves the fishing rod, the string disturbs the water, creating small waves around the point it sinks into the water. What is he doing here? The question pops into his mind, once again. What is the purpose of this? Is this body even his? Who are these people?
Then, the tip top starts bobbing in the water, signaling that he’s got a catch, and this sudden urge comes over him. He feels the need to pull the string out of the water and see what he has caught. He does, bringing the rod behind his back. Something flies out of the water and lands behind him somewhere. He gets up and goes to see what it is.
It’s a book.
Behind him, a voice speaks, “They don’t make silly movies anymore.” He slightly looks over his shoulder to see which one of the men is speaking, but from his place, he can’t tell. Then, the dark-haired man gets up and approaches him.
He holds the book in his hand, unsure what to do with it. He looks at the man standing next to him and watches as he opens his mouth and laughs wholeheartedly.
He stays silent, unsure what to say. He hears footsteps behind him.
Then, he feels a sharp pain in his back. The foreign object leaves his body, but returns quickly, and the world goes back.
He wakes in a field of flowers. The grass beneath him is soft, and the smell of the flowers is dizzying. He can hear bees buzzing in the distance. Mister Wizard has never been so confused in his entire life.
When will this be over? When does he get to go back to his life?
There is no one around at this time. No strawberry blonde-haired guy, who murders him, no fishing rods, no nothing. Just the sound of the leaves rustling, birds chirping in the distance. It’s awfully peaceful. He doesn’t understand the sudden change in things. He sits up and takes his surroundings in.
In front of him, not so far away, stands a monument of some sort. It’s huge, and it’s mossy, and it almost looks like it has a mouth. What is this? Some kind of God?
He tries to gather as much information as possible, but nothing is helping him. There’s a bloodied sword next to him, lying in the grass. His own knuckles and clothes are bloodied and bruised, and he doesn’t understand what is happening. He feels like crying. He wants to go home. Back to the tavern, even to the circus, to his companions. He wants to go on stupid quests, help people, and make a fortune for himself.
What has he done to deserve this suffering?
What does he have to do to go home?
He stands. He walks slowly to the hill: Whatever that stone sculpture is. It’s not even a sculpture, just a bunch of stone and moss and grass. There appears to be a cave entrance in front of him. Should he go in? Maybe he should.
And so he does. There’s nothing else for him to do. Maybe if he goes in, he’ll wake up back at the tent, and all will be fine. He gets to see his friends again, he gets to see Ma-
He takes a step forward. The darkness is almost inviting, comforting in a way he can’t describe. It almost calls his name. He slowly starts walking into the cave, letting the darkness consume and surround him.
It’s not long before he feels like falling again.
He wakes up in a different setting, once more. He really wants to go home now. He’s not sure he’ll give the prophetess his coins after this experience.
This time, he is surrounded by beautiful cherry blossom trees, ones that remind him of one of his journeys many years ago. Some leaves fall to the ground, cluttering in small piles on the grass. He turns to look around and takes a step back in surprise. In front of him stands a building, a creature he has never seen before. It has a saddle and it has horns; its neck is long and on its back sits something that could resemble a carriage. It’s enormous.
At its foot sit a bunch of frozen statues, small and green. In their hands, they hold spears, which he has obviously seen before (and has felt their sharp blades, to him being unfortunate), but it’s still surreal. They almost look alive, but they aren’t moving.
The scenery is the most beautiful he has ever seen. The trees and the sky complement each other nicely, which gives such a comforting feeling. It’s much nicer than the other places he has been so far. He just hopes it doesn’t end like the others.
He starts walking around and notices some beautiful flowers. He picks one, mindlessly fiddling with its stem between his fingers. He could imagine a life here, if it wasn’t only a dream, a vision. The grass is soft beneath his boots. It really is nice.
In the distance, he notices some other buildings. This whole place looks well-lived in; it’s quiet. He looks up to the sky and the sun and watches some geese fly by.
That’s when something, or someone, collides with his body, and he goes stumbling down to the ground. He hits his head on the ground, but the impact is softened by the cherry tree’s leaves. He scrunches his eyes in pain, though, taking a moment to collect himself.
When he opens his eyes again, there is a man above him. And wings. He has wings. The most beautiful Mister Wizard has ever seen, as well. His mouth falls open. It’s the same man again, the one he has seen before, the one who has ended his life on two different occasions now. But he doesn’t seem to be carrying any weapons right now.
His wings are mesmerizing. He can’t look away.
But the man has other plans; he stands quickly, smoothing the wrinkles out of his red sweater and his pants. He tries to shake off dirt and dust from his wings, with a little bit of success. “Sorry about that,” he mutters, and it’s the first, not the first, but the second time Mister Wizard has heard him speak. “But, Scar, you’ve gotta see what Tango has been working on! It’s impressive, and I don’t know how he has all these materials, or how much time he spent collecting them, but, oh my God, it’s amazing.”
As he talks, he exaggerates with his hands, and all Mister Wizard can do is watch. His voice is familiar. As if he had heard it before. Then, he remembers.
“I’m sorry,” he snickers. “But who is this Scar?”
The man stops gesturing and talking altogether, and this weird and confused expression takes over his face. “What?”
Mister Wizard sits up. He’s only now noticing the clothes he’s wearing. Brown shorts, a white tank top and a brown jacket, sleeves decorated with images he doesn’t recognize. Then, he directs his attention back to the other. “I’m serious. And this Tango? You must be confusing me with someone else.”
The man takes a step towards him and looks down on him. “Scar, are you okay? Did you hit your head again, or is this some kind of prank?” He reaches towards his face with one of his hands and places it on his forehead. His skin is soft against Mister Wizard’s own. He retreats it after a moment passes. “You don’t have a fever, so that’s out of the calculation. This has to be a prank.”
Mister Wizard furrows his brows and looks up at him. “It’s not, I’m sorry, you’re definitely confusing me with someone else. But what’s your name?”
He really isn’t trying to be funny, but the other laughs, and he doesn’t understand why. There’s nothing funny about this situation. He wants to go home as soon as possible. He hopes this dream ends soon.
“Oh, silly Scar,” he swipes away a tear from the corner of his eye. “Why don’t we go inside your home and I’ll make you some tea, or coffee, whatever you’d like and then talk to someone who might be able to help?”
Mister Wizard can do nothing but nod. He stands, brushing off grass strands from his clothes. He looks at the creature-like building and points towards it. “There?”
The other looks at him with disbelief in his eyes, but he nods. “Yeah, there,” he starts walking, and Mister Wizard follows him. He hears the other whisper, though, “I’m still convinced this is some kind of-“
But he can’t hear the rest of his sentence, because as soon as he tries taking another step, the world goes blurry and after a minute: completely dark.
He sees the stars again and tries to follow them again.
The next time he opens his eyes, there are three funny-looking people looking down at him.
“Hey, Mister Wizard, you’re finally awake! Thank Heavens! We thought we lost you!” Ruby exclaims, then grabs his arms gently and helps him sit up. He’s on the ground, and they are still at the circus.
“No, we didn’t.” Max snickers and looks away from him with an annoyed expression. Mister Wizard looks at him, really looks at him. Max snaps his gaze back and barks, “What? Do I have something on my face?”
Mister Wizard feels like his dinner might be making its way back up through his throat.
“Mister Wizard, what happened?” Brodude asks with a concerned expression on his face. “We found you here on the ground, a bunch of people were surrounding you and-“
“You’ve been robbed,” Max cuts in and shakes his pouch of coins in front of his face. It makes Mister Wizard dizzy. It sounds suspiciously empty, though. “What did you do? Where did you come from? Who did you talk to?”
He looks around, then notices the purple tent. He points towards it. “From there.”
“Oh, God,” Max sighs. “You talked to Bethany? What did she do to you? Did you drink the tea she offered you? No wonder she robbed you.”
He looks at Max again. He seems familiar. They have spent months traveling together now, so it shouldn’t be unusual for him to feel like he’s familiar, but something is definitely different. He just can’t wrap his head around what it could be. He chooses to stay silent.
He decides to try to stand up, but he’s still unsure of his movements. Ruby catches him by the arm and supports him. “Easy now, Mister Wizard.”
He nods and mutters a ‘thanks’ under his nose. The circus is still lively; he can still hear the children laughing in the distance. Can they go back to the inn now?
As if Max was reading his mind, he started speaking, “I suppose we could go back to the tavern. I did what I had to do, so the job is finished. Not so much of a job, though-“
“Thank God,” Ruby says, and she starts slowly dragging Mister Wizard with her, which might look ridiculous from the outside, considering their height differences. “I’m ready to sleep for at least twelve hours!”
“Me too!” Comes from Brodude. They start making their way along a path that seems to be leading out of the area where the circus is. Mister Wizard is relieved.
They walk side by side; they bicker all the way to the tavern that’s nearby. Once he’s in his room, he can’t shake off the feeling of whatever he has witnessed in the past hour or so. He just hopes he gets some answers in the near future.
He rests his head on his pillow and goes to sleep with the feeling of sand between his fingers.
summary: It's March 1987 in Hawkins, Indiana and Steve Harrington is pretty sure he's in love with his best friend, but messes it up (at first).
pairing: Steve Harrington/Original Female Character, Steve Harrington & Original Female Character
warnings: kissing, angst, fluff, use of third person, no use of y/n or any names
notes: it gets worse before it gets better right? third part of radio silence, i hope you enjoy it!
wc: 3.3
"i'll be your morning bright good night shadow machine
i'll be your record player baby if you know what i mean
i'll be a real tough cookie with the whiskey breath
i'll be a killer and a thriller and a cause of our death"
Paul by Big Thief
She’s freezing. All of her clothes are soaked, even her hair that has been slightly protected by the hood of her jacket. The water has already slipped through her shorts, into her shoes, drowning her socks. Don’t let her start on the contents of her bag. The book she has been carrying around for the past few weeks is most likely ruined.
She has been waiting for four hours. Four hours for Steve to pick her up. She checks her watch but the numbers are unreadable due to the raindrops falling on the glass display; she keeps wiping it clean, but the raindrops reappear after seconds.
She’s mad. Beyond mad. The first hour was fine, she was reading her book, but by the second hour, the rain has started dripping from the clouds, and by the thirds, it was a full on thunderstorm. What a lovely weather in the beginning of March, 1987 in Hawkins, Indiana.
She can already feel the sickness creeping up in her lungs. Her throat hurts and she can feel the migraine burying itself deep behind her forehead and eyes that will probably last for the rest of the week.
And what is even Steve Harrington doing? They made sure his schedule was clear, he made sure that he’ll be able to pick her up, right after her bus arrives, so where is he? It’s Sunday, everything is closed, she has no way of finding shelter, and she didn’t even bring an umbrella. Maybe that’s actually her fault and not Steve’s
Then she hears a car in the distance and she starts hoping. The familiar sight of the Beemer at the end of the road appears, with the speed of light, and she almost jumps up and runs towards it in happiness, but doesn’t in the end. The car parks in the middle of the read and she sits, still staring at it.
And Steve definitely knows he won’t hear the end of this for at least a month, or two. When she doesn’t move an inch of her body, he pulls down the window of the passenger seat and yells “Get in!”. She does get up then, makes her way to the car and sits in the passenger seat where a towel is already laid out on the cushion. She slams the door and drops her bag in the back.
“I’m so sorry, you have no idea, but something came up, and I’m so sorry.” Steve rambles, constant train of thought never stopping. She doesn’t say a word, just stares ahead of the road through the window. “I really am, I’ll do whatever you want, I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t even realize he’s speeding, they are in her street in less than five minutes. When he parks in front of the side walk, she fishes out her bag from the back, unlocks her seatbelt and gets out of the car without a word. Steve is scared for his entire life.
She can hear the car stopping, his door closing as well, and she can hear him trying to catch up with her. She unlocks the front door and thanks God that her mom isn’t home. Because she’d be worse, she’d murder Steve on the spot. Steve is apologizing still when she rips the wet jacket off her body, kicks her shoes off and heads for the stairs. He follows her through her bedroom dor and claims his spot on the edge of the bed, head in hands, still muttering endless “sorry-s”.
She takes off her socks and shorts in front of him without shame, grabs a towel and her pyjamas from the wardrobe and slams the bathroom door behind her.
And Steve is staring at the white door in disbelief. He’s sure she’s never going to forgive him for this and slaps himself mentally. He was stupid for letting Dustin drag him to the video store to pick up movies for the movie night the next day. It was supposed to be a quick detour on his day off, letting Robin deal with the morning show on her own for once, but he completely lost track of time, and realizes that it might have been the worst mistake of his life. Because knowing her, she’d forgive him in an instant in any other case, but not unless it was because of his own damn stupidity.
He hears the shower running, and after what feels like forever, she reemerges in her pyjama shorts, hair half-dried and what hurts Steve the most is that she’s wearing one of his shirts. She goes around him, avoids him, gets under her blanket and turns away from him. Steve turns to her, though and continues with his speech. He can feel her shiver under the duvet, even though he is not near her and after a while, he hears a small whisper “I’m cold.”
He jumps at that, body and mouth reacting before his brain could and he slides next to her and wraps his arms around her. She doesn’t oblige. The nickname comes out before he could think twice, even though they are not dating, they are not in a relationship and Steve is sure they’ll never be, not after this. “I know, baby, I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault.”
She freezes at hearing the nickname and Steve considers jumping out of the window.
The thing is, they have long crossed the line between best friends forever and whatever this is, just in four months. The thing is, when they were four, Steve has decided to come into her life, make a home for himself in it, and never leave. And she has never complained. Not a day in her life, because she loves him, she knows that, as her best friend. And she might be able to learn to love him as something else too, but she’d be too terrified to throw away more than fifteen years of friendship.
Steve must have noticed how still she went in his arms, because the next thing she knows, Steve lets her go and can tell by the way the bed creaks, he sits up. She tries to glance at him. His head is in his hands, elbows on knees. He runs his fingers through his hair in a nervous movement.
Then, he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’m… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
She doesn’t reply, at all.
He gets up suddenly, almost falling face first into the carpet while doing so. “You know what? I’ll go, I’ll let you sleep. Okay? I…”
It’s dumb that she hasn’t said anything, yet. It’s dumb of her and she knows it. She should have said something along the lines “I didn’t mind”, but she didn’t. And this time, she feels like she is the one who messed up.
By the time she turns around, Steve has left the room.
-
The next time they meet at the movie night, the air is charged with something. Steve feels like running out of the Wheelers’ house every time his gaze falls on her. The distance he accidentally put between them is making him nauseous. It’s different, it’s sudden, something that has barely happened in their friendship over the years; it’s putting him on edge.
What’s even weirder for him is that he wasn’t greeted with a long hug from her when he arrived; no, she was already sitting in an armchair by the time he stepped into the living room. Will sat in the one next to her and the two of them engaged in a conversation.
Nancy greeted him at the door, though, which should have made Steve feel a little better, but somehow, he couldn’t care now. Which he found weird. After all this time, his eyes didn’t light up when Nancy stepped into his frame. Somehow, her smile wasn’t the one he wanted to see.
The movie began. No one was really watching; everybody talked over A Nightmare on Elm Street. Dustin was frantically explaining something to Lucas that Steve tried to listen into but didn’t really catch his attention. Robin, Jonathan and Nancy were talking as well and at some point, Jonathan got up to get some more popcorn from the kitchen. In the corner of the room, Mike has joined Will’s and her conversation.
For a moment, for the first time in years, Steve felt out of place.
In the middle of the movie, the phone rang. Nancy picked it up and announced that their parents will be arriving home soon, so the movie night must come to a halt. Steve was a little relieved because this gives him an opportunity: he can offer to ride her home. Maybe he should have come up with a speech to apologize.
Everyone begins gathering their belongings. Jonathan helps Nancy collect all the blankets and pillows from the floor, while Robin and Lucas gather the empty snack bowls and bring them to the kitchen. Will, Mike and her sit still though, still talking about something that Steve’s curious to find out what it could be. Robin has disappeared somewhere else, he has no idea where. Dustin doesn’t even bother to get up and help the others, just sits on the sofa next to Steve, suddenly interested in the movie.
Then, everyone begins leaving. The kids go for their bikes; Robin stays behind to talk with Jonathan and Nancy for a while. Steve doesn’t question. That leaves the two of them. She puts on her jacket, gets her bag from the leaving room and stands on the porch for a minute, watching everybody take off, then starts walking.
That’s when Steve’s brain turns back on. He shouts a “Bye!” to Robin, but he’s sure she didn’t hear it. He picks up his pace and races after her. She stops in her steps when she notices Steve, jiggling the keys to his car between his fingers. “I’m taking you home.”
“Why?” She asks. There is no harm behind it, but Steve feels a little hurt by the question. It should be obvious that he is taking her home. It was always obvious that he’d take her home. He just shrugs his shoulders and point towards his car. She agrees.
The ride home is quiet.
On her porch they stand awkwardly. At first, she struggles to find her keys, but when she does, she unlocks the door in a swift motion. She turns back to Steve. “Do you want to come in?”
Does he want to come in? The answer should be obvious, just like when he offered to ride her home. There shouldn’t have even been a question. Steve would always come in after he had taken her home, sleep over, not only for one day, but for three or more, never leave her side, not even for one moment. Now he stands on the porch. He does want to come in, he’s just scared that she won’t let him stay longer. And it eats him alive.
He nods. She opens the door further and goes immediately upstairs after taking her shoes off, she doesn’t even wait for Steve. He follows her like a scared puppy. He waits for the bomb to go off. Even though he’s been over just yesterday, he feels like a stranger in her room after their argument.
Every corner of the light pink walled room is filled with Steve: sweater on the back of her chair, his backpack by the foot of her bed, unwashed clothes in her laundry basket. He even has his own drawer, his own corner of the room. His favourite vinyl on the table where the record player is, next to her favourites. Empty cans of his favourite soda in the trash can.
But even after their little fight, Steve feels out of place. The sudden distance between them has taken a toll on him and he’s not even sure he should be here right now.
They weren’t always like this, no. Back in the day, they were king and queen of Hawkins High, keeping their heads high. Nothing could deflate their happiness, their pride. Now they are quiet, more peaceful, but it’s still weird. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
She sits on the edge of the bed and pats the place next to her, signalling to Steve that he should sit. He obeys. He still wants to apologize for the hundredth time, and this might be his chance.
“So…” he starts. He tries to find the right words, not scare her off. “About yesterday. I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven,” she says. Steve is surprised by her words. He turns his head to look at her and she’s already looking at him. She’s smiling. “I wasn’t really angry,” she continues. “I was just a little hurt. But seeing you like that; it hurt me more. I didn’t want you to feel like you have to take care of me, I know I’m not your responsibility. I don’t want you to feel like I am.”
“But it’s not like that,” Steve grunts and runs a his fingers through his hair. He lets his head rest in his hands. She takes one of his hands and interlinks their fingers. “I do want to take care of you,” he admits. It’s not a confession, but it’s a start. “I was stupid for letting myself be distracted when I promised I would take you home from the bus stop. It’s-“
“Steve,” she says, softly. He looks at her. “It’s okay. Why don’t we grab something to eat and watch a movie?”
“Can I stay afterwards?”
“Always.”
Well into the evening, they lie awake in bed; Steve in his side turned over to her, one hand under his head and she on her back, staring at the ceiling. They didn’t talk much during their dinner or the movie, just kept passing looks at each other. She took a shower after the movie and now they are here. I Won’t Share You from the newest The Smiths album quietly plays from the record player.
Steve gets an idea in his head. He feels dumb and bold at the same time, but it might be worth it. Or at least he hopes it will be worth it. He hopes she feels the same, or at least something. He slowly lifts his free hand and drapes it over her stomach. She barely reacts, just turns her head towards him by an inch. He raises an eyebrow. If they have unconsciously cuddled before in their sleep, why would this be different?
“Is this okay?” He asks. She nods. After a while, she turns on her side too, lifts an arm, but instead of letting it fall on his pyjama shirt, she picks at the fabric, pulls it upwards and touches skin. She looks at Steve with curious eyes that are asking: Is this okay?
She is going to be the death of him, Steve thinks. And this is where he gets really bold.
He removes his hand just to replace it a second later, slipping it under her pyjama shirt, urging her to move closer to him. He places his palm between her shoulder blades, exposing way more in the process than he should have. He slowly starts running his fingers up and down her spine, pulling her even closer. He can hear her sigh, one of relief. She draws figures on his ribs.
This is something they have never done before. Of course, they have shared long hugs, slept in the same bed or cuddle a hundred times before, but this feels heavier. More intimate. Steve looks at her with half lidded eyes, trying to search for whatever reaction she might give him. Her eyes are half closed, yet he can still see that her pupils are blown wide, mouth slightly agape as Steve caresses over her stomach.
He wants more.
Suddenly, her fingers stop dancing on his skin. Steve blinks once, twice, but she moves faster: she removes Steve’s arms from her body and before he can react, she pushes him into the pillows by his shoulders and straddles him.
This. This is completely new. And Steve isn’t sure what he should do with it. She runs her fingers through her hair and looks at him. Really looks at him. She reaches for the hem of his shirt then, and Steve feels his cheeks burning. He shouldn’t be nervous. But they haven’t even kissed. Before she continues any further, she looks him dead in the eyes. His jaw slightly drops. He has never seen her like this.
“Tell me to stop,” she says. Steve has never shut his mouth so fast in his entire life. Not a word leaves his throat. He gulps, not sure what to expect, but he lets her take control. She tugs at his shirt then, he raises his arms and she removes the shirt. It ends up somewhere on the other side of the room.
And of course, she has seen him shirtless before, but this is different: this is new and Steve is nervous. Scared a little. All of his scars are visible, he thinks the hair on his chest is unkept and messy, but she doesn’t seem to care. Her eyes are fixated on the body in front of her. She slowly raises one hand and puts his palm over his heart. Steve is sure she can feel just how fast his heart beats. For her.
He places his hands on her waist to steady her. She dips her head low, brings their foreheads together. Steve’s breath hitches from the sudden closeness. Their breaths mingle, and he closes his eyes for a second. He really wants to kiss her.
“Steve,” she whispers. He opens his eyes. He sees the light in hers. “We don’t say it a lot, but I love you. As a best friend, as anything.”
He doesn’t know what to say. He stares at her dumb founded. He wants to ask her if she really means it, he wants to ask her a million things. His brain malfunctions completely. He swallows hard, throat dry, words refusing to come out in the correct order. For a second, all he can do is stare at her, chest rising a little too fast under her palm.
“I…” he laughs softly. He might start panicking. Then, he finally finds his voice. “I love you too, a lot. You can’t imagine how much.”
Her expression softens. She leans down just a little more, noses brushing. Steve feels the world narrow down to them. He doesn’t dare to move.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then, she presses the faintest kiss to the corner of his lips. It’s barely there, soft, it’s more like she’s testing the waters, but Steve’s skin burns with want. Wanting more, wanting her, wanting anything that has something to do with her. Steve exhales.
Steve laughs again, but it’s strained because he’s nervous. “I want to… Can I-“
“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, please.”
That’s when Steve finally breaks. She tastes like the cherry slushie they drank with their dinner and something else, something sweet. It’s careful and soft, ever so slow. It’s not rushed. They part for a moment, just to connect again like they are figuring out how to make it work. Steve lets a shaky breath into the kiss, slipping one hand up her back, spreading his fingers like he’s scared she’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold onto her.
She hums softly against his lips and that sound sends shivers down Steve’s spine. He tilts his head just to deepen the kiss, just to hear that sound again. Nothing wild, nothing messy, just enough to say that I’m here.
When they finally pull apart, they stay close to each other, foreheads touching, both of them breathing a little too fast.
summary: It's February of 1987 in Hawkins, and Steve Harrington doesn't realize when he and his best friend have started constantly falling asleep together.
pairing: Steve Harrington & Original Female Character, Steve Harrington x Original Female Character
warnings: none, just pure fluff, a little angst if you squint your eyes, use of third person, no use of y/n or any names
notes: i have an exam tommorow, release me. also, this is a continuation of radio silence, i hope you enjoy it!
wc: 2.4
"i'll follow you into the park
through the jungle, through the dark
girl, i've never loved one like you"
Home by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeroes
Whatever this is (none of them can put a name to it) starts on a snowy evening in February of 1987, in Hawkins, Indiana. Steve is over at her house, pretending to read a magazine he found lying around, when in reality, he is close to dozing off at any moment. She is at her desk, catching up with whatever schoolwork she missed during December, currently working on her late assignment.
Sometimes, she throws crumbled pieces of paper at Steve’s head, just to keep him awake. He stirs awake only to look at her and then the piece of paper she threw at him, then go right back to dozing off. She shakes her head in disbelief and goes back to her work.
After a while, Steve would go downstairs to grab a snack, greet her mom (who is not at all surprised that he is over at their house for the fourth time this week), who is just a little baffled by how casually Steve moves through the kitchen, then go back to her room. Of course, he’d grab a snack for her too, and a refresher. She wouldn’t say ‘thank you’ out loud, but she would smile at him ever so sweetly.
Steve can almost see the light reappear in her eyes, and it almost makes his heart flutter.
Later, when she would finish scrambling whatever she had due that evening, Steve would scoot over in her bed, and she would take her usual place next to him. The bed has already memorized their shape, side by side. Steve would carefully place an arm around her shoulders, inviting her to lay her head on him. She doesn’t mind, doesn’t mention the closeness, but she turns on the radio on her nightstand before letting herself rest. Steve hums the lyrics to whatever song is being played under his nose. In less than an hour, they both drift to sleep.
It's the following morning that’s awkward; limbs tangled under the duvet, her head tucked under his, bodies pressed to each other. Steve is basically wrapped around her, one arm under her back, the other around her waist, his chin resting in her hair. His face is soft, unbothered; hers is hidden in his neck.
Steve is the one to stir awake first, almost panicking (totally panicking) about the position they are in and tries carefully removing his arm from under her back, but he’s unsuccessful: she wakes up. And after that, it’s a quick detangling of limbs, apologies, and Steve hurrying off to the bathroom to wash his face to completely wake himself up. He still thinks he is dreaming.
She doesn’t seem so bothered about it, though: they switch each other in the bathroom, she changes her pajamas to something more civil, brushes her hair and teeth. Steve doesn’t have any change of clothes, though, so he comes up with the excuse that he must go home to change and get ready for the day.
She shrugs her shoulders and says, “See you later.”
Steve doesn’t understand how she is so calm about this.
Later that week, they are at The Squawk. Steve and Robin had gotten this job earlier in January, and thus the making of the Crawl plans. She would hang out with them most of the time, cuddle up with a blanket and a mug of hot chocolate on the couch they have placed in the break room. Steve would sometimes check on her in his breaks, sit with her, talk about nothing, complaining about how Robin loves ordering him around with his mouth full of his breakfast and she would laugh whole heartedly.
It happens again, though; after Robin finishes her morning show, she leaves the two of them alone. Steve would make her hurry to gather her things and that they should leave too, because he is tired, but she wouldn’t even move. That’s when he notices that she has fallen asleep; completely covered in the blanket he had bought for her previously, hot chocolate completely forgotten.
Steve knows he shouldn’t, but he still sits down next to her and stares. Not in a creepy way, definitely not, but as if he’s trying to memorize the features of her peaceful face. He knows they should leave, but somehow, he finds his eyelids getting heavier by the minute, and soon himself falls asleep.
They woke up hours later, not mentioning how Steve had absent-mindedly rested his head on her shoulder.
The next time something like this happens is a movie night they host at the Wheelers’. Because you still must have a little distraction in the middle of the chaos, right? All the kids are sprawled across the floor or the armchairs; the couch is theirs. Holly sits in front of her on the rug, and she braids her hair. Steve watches her fingers work, sometimes looking at her to see if she has noticed that he’s not paying any attention to a movie, but she doesn’t seem to have caught on to him.
But Robin did, though. She eyes Steve from one of the armchairs and tries signalling to Nancy, who is in the kitchen preparing more snacks, but she doesn’t seem to notice whatever is going on between those two, especially Steve. So, Robin files this in her brain for later.
Some of them fall asleep after a while, they don’t even notice Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler coming home; the only one who is still awake is Dustin, scrambling something in the notebook in front of him, and Robin, who is half paying attention to the movie, half paying attention to Steve and her.
But they have fallen asleep too; her head resting on his shoulder, him resting his on the crown of her head, her legs draped over his thighs, and one of his arms draped around her waist.
Robin throws the last pieces of her popcorn at the boy to grab his attention, and Dustin almost starts screaming at her. But then he notices them and raises his eyebrows so high that Robin is scared it might disappear from his forehead. He looks back at Robin in disbelief, and she shrugs her shoulders.
When they wake up, none of them mentions the position they were once again in. Steve drives Robin, Dustin, Lucas and her home. The silence through the car ride is a little strangling for Steve, he has no idea why any of them lost their ability to speak, suddenly.
He drops her off second-to-last, Robin sits in the car, waiting for Steve to walk her to the porch, say his goodbyes. She watches them as they hug, a little longer than usual, and she knows she must ask Steve what is going on on their way home. When Steve sits back in the driver’s seat and steps on the gas, Robin chooses to stay silent, though. She notices a kind of light in Steve’s eyes, which she can’t place anywhere. But he’s beaming and grinning ear to ear and the way he is taking turns towards Robin’s house, she figures she’ll have to ask him later.
Later into the night, Steve finds himself in her bedroom again, in pyjamas he didn’t even remember leaving at hers, eating fast food he picked up for them on his way back to her house.
She is hanging upside down from her bed, long hair brushing the floor. She picks up some fries and tries throwing them at Steve one by one, and Steve tries catching them.
“You keep hitting me square in the chest!” Steve laughs, and she grins. “You can’t aim for shit!”
“Maybe that’s what I’m aiming for,” she says and Steve suddenly shuts up. His brain stops functioning for a moment but restarts the moment an idea settles in his mind. He gets up suddenly and almost jumps on her and starts tickling her anywhere he can reach.
“No, no, no, God,” she almost cries, tears of laughter already starting to pile up in the corners of her eyes. “Steve, stop, stop, please, stop!”
She yells between laughter, shrieks when Steve terrorizes her with his fingers, and Steve stops breathing for a minute. He stares at her, and his brain completely fogs: maybe the best thing he ever heard in his life is her laughter.
“What?” She asks as her laughter lies down and turns into soft giggles. She stares up at him, with glistening doe eyes and Steve feels his heart beating against his ribcage. As if it’s threatening to jump out of his chest.
He brushes the thoughts away, and climbs off her, shaking his head. “Nothing, your yelling was horrendous.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Ouch?”
Steve shrugs his shoulders and goes back to his burger that he has forgotten about.
Close to midnight, they lay next to each other, but Steve doesn’t even dare to move, doesn’t even dare to touch her; he lies completely still, hands kept to himself on his chest, like a Victorian ghost. He turns his head towards her, though; she is fast asleep, curled up at his side, breathing peacefully.
The Starcourt Mall has burned down. Steve has been sitting in the back of an ambulance, letting the medics take care of his injuries, watching as the kids reunite with their families. Robin stands next to him, awkwardly stepping from one leg to the other, glancing at him.
“Is someone coming to pick you up, kid?” The medic asks Steve, but he just shrugs his shoulders. He watches as Joyce embraces Will and Johnathan in a hug.
“The police said that they called his parents,” Robin answers instead of him. “But they couldn’t reach them.”
That’s when a car with the speed of light pulls up not so far away, and somebody jumps out of it, almost stumbles on the ground. The person yells a “Dad, we’re coming in a second!” and starts running towards the ambulance.
The girl stops before Steve, doesn’t even seem to notice Robin. The medic moves away after putting the last bandage on Steve’s eyebrow.
She says some curses, then falls to her knees in front of him and takes his hands into hers. Steve looks as if he’s about to cry.
“Are you okay? What did the doctors say? What happened?” Steve doesn’t say anything, just pulls her up from the ground and into a hug. He grabs at the back of her sweater, hides his face in the crook of her neck, doesn’t even care if his blood gets on the fabric and he knows she doesn’t as well. He feels her fingers coming up to his hair and combing through the locks, soothing out knots. The other caresses his back in slow, careful motions. He wants to get out of this stupid uniform, right now.
Steve doesn’t even realize that he started crying, only when she starts shushing him and telling him ‘It’ll be okay’ in a voice that’s sweet like honey.
Robin coughs a little, still pacing awkwardly. She turns her head towards the girl, looks her up and down quickly.
“I’ll be going, if it’s okay,” Robin says. “My mom’s here.”
She nods. “That’s okay, I got him. See you around?”
“Yeah, sure,” Robin answers and starts walking towards her mom’s car. From the corner of her eyes, she sees them still; she is helping him to stand up, and he won’t let go of her. A man comes up, occupies the other side of Steve and helps them towards a car.
Robin still hears her voice in the distance when she reaches their car. “Hey, it’s okay, Stevie! You’ll stay with us for a while, okay?”
Steve wakes up suddenly, sunlight blinding him. He looks around, looking for anything that could help him remember where he is.
“Morning,” he hears her voice, not so far away. He looks to the side and finds her sitting cross legged on the bed next to him, with a mug of something between her fingers. “You were talking in your sleep. I think you had a nightmare.”
“What time is it?” Steve asks, voice hoarse. He rubs at her eyes with the palms of his hands, trying to banish sleep from his body.
“Late enough that Robin will bust through my front door in an hour and yell at your head for another,” she smiles sweetly down at him, and Steve groans. He doesn’t want to deal with that right now.
“Shit,” he says.
“Shit, indeed, my friend,” she chuckles, then stretches her arms towards her desk, reaching for another mug and another plate. Steve only now notices the empty one next to her leg. “Mom made us breakfast and coffee, figured we’d want some when we woke up.”
“She knew I had work today, and she made me breakfast?”
“She also must have known that you were not going to wake up in time to get to The Squawk,” she replies. Steve sits up, resting his head against the headboard. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at the ceiling, thinking about his dream. Then, he feels a hand reaching for his slowly but surely, interlocking their fingers. “Are you okay?”
Steve doesn’t know how to answer her question. No, I dreamt that I was waiting for my parents to pick me up after the mall burnt down but you came instead, with your dead, and you held me all night and wouldn’t let me go, and whispered so many things to me, promised me so many things as I was crying into your shoulder and I can’t get the feeling of you holding me out of my stupid head.
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Fine.”
“Sure thing,” she says, then lets go of his hand. Steve misses the contact, immediately. She climbs over him, careful not to spill any of her coffee on him, and comes to stand at the edge of the bed. She looks down at him, and he looks up at her. For a moment, Steve thinks his body is going to stop listening to his brain and decides to pull her back into the bed, but the alarms go off in his head. He gives her a weak smile. She smiles too, “Stay as long as you want. I’m gonna take a shower, then we should either go out or stay in and watch something. You in?”
“Yeah,” Steve breaths, as he watches her place the mug on her desk, then heading towards the bathroom, long hair swaying slightly, brushing the small of her back.
radio silence - songs that would save me from Vecna
note: hi! made a little something for my one-shot instead of studying, but had so much fun doing it! enjoy! (FREE ME)
btw if you squint your eyes and look REALLY closely, you can notice that all of the vinyls are the actual albums' not just random ones (or stereo in bowie's and the smiths' case because i couldn't find vinyls for the SAKE OF MY LIFE for those)
summary: it's winter of 1986 in Hawkins, and Steve Harrington tries to help his best friend deal with grief.
pairing: Steve Harrington & Original Female Character, Steve Harrington/Original Female Character
warnings: death, subtle mention of sh, grief, angst before fluff, written in third person, no use of y/n or any names
notes: hey,,, so uhm new stranger things season am i right,,, anyways enjoy whatever this is!
cw: 3.5
"today is another day to find you
shying away
i'll be coming for your love, okay?"
Take on Me by a-ha
It’s the winter of 1986 in Hawkins, Indiana; the trees are bare, the air is cold, but snow has yet to fall. It’s a Saturday of anxious waiting for a phone call, warmed by the fireplace that threatens to go out any minute now. The Queen is Dead record plays in the corner; her mom is wrapped up in a blanket by the phone. She thinks her daughter doesn’t notice her chewing at her fingernails, but if she does, she doesn’t dare to mention it. It’s an evening full of guessing, debating, and waiting for that damn phone call. It’s already completely dark outside, which she still hasn’t gotten used to. Her journal and a pen rest in her lap. Her hot chocolate has gone cold, sitting half empty on the coffee table; around it are countless commercial magazines scattered on the surface of the table.
Steve and Robin sit on the other side of the room, in two armchairs. They feel out of place, rightfully so. The Queen is Dead record skips a song; it’s old, but they don’t mention it. None of them moves to set the needle back. Steve eyes her from across the room, trying to read her mind. It doesn’t work; he can only try to analyse her face. Her eyes are red from the sickness she has been sent home from school, a box of almost empty tissues sitting next to her on the sofa. Her lips are chapped; she bites at them restlessly. Her fingers are restless too, clicking the pen ever so often, the sound of it breaking the silence that has been gnawing at Steve’s skin.
Truth to be told, Steve and Robin are only here for emotional support; they just don’t know why. She called them late in the afternoon, asking if they could come over because she and her mom hadn’t heard from her dad since the morning he left for work, and she had a bad feeling. An awful feeling, as she has described it. She just couldn’t place it anywhere and thought that if they watched a movie, it would calm her nerves.
But watching a movie has turned into whatever this is. Steve feels wrong for being here. He feels out of place. He turns to Robin for a moment, checks if she’s still awake. She just blinks back at him sheepishly.
Then, the phone rings. Her mother jolts, and she almost jumps up from where she’s been sitting. She picks up the phone with shaking fingers, lifts it to her ear, and listens. They can’t hear anything from the other end. But from the way pain finds its way into her expression, they all know it’s bad. The phone call ends a minute after it has started. She stays silent, looks at her daughter, then Steve and Robin, and says: “Kids, I think it would be best for you to leave now.”
She snaps her head towards her mother. “What? What, what? What happened?”
She doesn’t even pay attention to Steve and Robin anymore, doesn’t address them as they put on their jackets, gather their stuff, and slip out the front door quietly. When Steve and Robin close the door behind them, they look at each other, a silent conversation happening between them.
Then, Robin speaks, quietly, almost a whisper: “Stay in the car? Until we know what’s up?”
Steve doesn’t answer, only nods. He fishes his keys out from his pocket and unlocks the car, slips into the driver’s seat in an easy and measured movement. Robin sits in the passenger seat, doesn’t buckle her seatbelt. She stares back at the house.
In an hour, a cop car pulls up. Two men, not dressed in uniform, but in suits, get out of the car and approach the front door. A third one is left behind. He notices Steve’s car, and by the time they could do something, he knocks on the window of Robin’s side. Robin opens the window, and he looks in, measuring the kids up and down.
“You kids looking for trouble?” He asks, but there is no real harm in his voice. He looks tired. Hasn’t shaved in days, judging by the dark stubble on his face.
“No, sir,” Steve says, immediately. “We are friends of the daughter. We were just waiting here to find out what had happened.”
The cop’s expression immediately shifts. “Oh, so you’re not aware.”
“Aware of what, sir?” Robin asks, voice tiny, bracing for the worst, but the answer doesn’t come.
“It’s best if you don’t hear it from me,” he says, and with that, he leaves. He goes back to the car, and they watch him as he lights a cigarette.
Steve and Robin look at each other, worry painting both of their faces.
The funeral is held a week later. Everyone from the group is there, almost; Nancy had some work she couldn’t miss. Mrs. Wheeler holds her mother by the shoulders as she cries. Everyone is dressed in black; everyone is either crying or trying to silently wipe away tears before they could escape, because what could you do at a funeral other than that?
She doesn’t, though. She stands at her mother’s side, next to her is Steve. Robin is in the back. She is not crying; she is just boring holes into the coffin that’s being lowered into the ground. She has thrown roses and dirt onto the coffin, but she hadn’t said a word, not like there would be any words to say. But she hasn’t cried either, which Steve should find weird, but brushes it off. He’s scared to wrap his arms around her, scared to comfort her, in any way, because he thinks he does, she might shatter and break. He looks at her from the side, and she looks as if she has been glued to the ground beneath her feet. Her arms are stiffly at her sides; she is playing with the edge of her dark coat. Steve tries to hold her hand, at least, but it doesn’t get any reaction out of her.
After the ceremony is done, everyone is saying goodbyes or engaging in small talk before leaving. She is off to the side, not saying anything to anyone. Steve is next to her, won’t leave her side. The kids won’t dare to approach, wouldn’t know what to say.
Max’s hair is bright among the figures dressed in dark.
After almost everybody has left, Robin still stands in the back with Max and Lucas, waiting for him to drive them home. But now, Steve feels like he’s the one whose feet have been glued to the ground. He wants to say so many things, but only the right words. He doesn’t trust himself right now, thinks that if he opens his mouth, only the wrong thing will come out. Instead, he stands in front of her, waiting for her to speak, to shoo him away quietly.
But she doesn’t.
When the silence stretches too long, and Steve can feel Robin’s eyes staring a hole into his head, he touches her arm carefully and softly, trying to grab her attention. She blinks up at him through long lashes, her cheeks kissed red by the winter air.
His mouth goes dry, suddenly losing his train of thought. Whatever he was meant to say, he forgets and ends up with “I’ll see you on Monday, right?” instead.
She smiles, and Steve wants to cry. The brightness from her eyes is gone, like somebody has ripped it away. From her heart, too, probably. And Steve feels like he can’t do anything about putting it back.
The thing is, they have been best friends forever. Almost literally speaking. He can’t remember a day he wouldn’t have spent with her, ever since they were little kids. She was there every weekend when his parents went away, she was there throughout his King Steve era, his dethroning, through the whole thing with the Upside Down, she was the one who drove him home after the mall had burnt down. And he was there with her, through the first heartbreak, through every fight she had with her parents.
Now, he feels like he can’t do anything to help her.
She nods; a movement Steve almost misses. “Yeah,” she whispers. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
He doesn’t see her on Monday. Which he understands, but what he doesn’t understand is that he finds her at Tina’s trashy house party that weekend. By the time he finds her in the crowd of sweaty bodies, she is already hammered. She is speaking to someone Steve doesn’t recognize, but when she sees Steve, her eyes immediately light up. Steve knows it’s the alcohol.
She goes to hug him, throwing her arms around his waist, and with a smooth motion, Steve takes the cup from her grip and hands it to someone else. She smiles at him, and it’s as if nothing had happened the week before. Like he has just gotten the old her back. Steve wants to smile but knows this is wrong. She shouldn’t drink the pain away.
Steve is sober enough to lead her out of the house, saying sorry to everyone they bump into. He is sober enough to hold up her hair on the front lawn as she pukes the contents of her stomach. But Steve doesn’t complain. He is sober enough to drive her home, to help her walk up the stairs, and get into her room. He tucks her in, places a glass of water and a painkiller on her nightstand. He kisses the crown of her hair, but she is already fast asleep to notice. Steve goes for the door but turns back for a moment to see how peaceful she looks. He wishes it were like this, always. But it isn't, and Steve feels like there’s still nothing he can do about it.
After that weekend, it’s nothing but radio silence. She doesn’t come into the video store anymore; she doesn’t give any signs of herself, if she’s still alive. And Steve worries. He worries so much, he trips over some scattered VHS tapes he forgot he left on the floor to stack later. Robin laughs at it, and Steve smiles awkwardly, trying to push the worry into the back of his mind.
Her mother is different, though. They see her shop for groceries once a week and run errands on others. She is mostly always in town, working through it. Sometimes she comes into the store, asking how Steve and Robin have been. Sometimes, she brings home-baked goods for them. But every time they try to softly interrogate her, she doesn’t answer directly, just says she sleeps a lot and that she needs to get through this alone. Not her mother’s words, apparently, but her own.
Which Steve finds weird. And the worry finds its way back into every part of his body. And now, as he looks at Robin from the other side of the store, he can see that she is worried too.
After another week, the plan is simple: somehow drag her out of her room, out of the house, take her out, do anything just to see her, be with her, help her somehow. Even if it means involving her mother or anyone from the friend group. Max and Lucas have already been at her house, but she wouldn’t open the door. When her mother pulled up into the driveway, she said that she was probably asleep.
Steve has been wondering how someone could go this much time without caring about their child and then realised. He has been in the same boots for as long as he has gained consciousness at the ripe age of 14. But he wants to help because she has been there for him through his lowest, and he wants to be there for her.
Max and Lucas were unsuccessful, and neither was Robin. She was on day 3 of throwing pebbles at her window and getting no reaction at all. Dustin tried contacting her through their walkie-talkies, but realised the battery had probably been taken out weeks ago. And now, Steve has had enough. Not because he was angry at her for going completely off the map, disappearing, but because if he were in the same situation, he would hope she’d do the same for him.
So, Steve finds himself on her porch with Robin on a late December night. Snow has fallen (Robin almost tripped when she got out of the car), painting the town in a beautiful white glow. Steve is about to do something he swore he would only do if there was an emergency: using his spare key.
She gave it to him in their freshman year, saying her parents allowed it. He is sure her mother doesn’t know about it. But her car isn’t parked in the driveway; she must be working late. Steve hopes this will go well.
He looks at Robin for reassurance, and she nods. He unlocks the door, and what greets them is complete darkness in the entire house. Or almost, he’s pretty sure they can see light coming from upstairs, most precisely, from under her door.
Robin goes for the kitchen as soon as they set foot into the entrance. Robin knows she must be hungry; she probably hasn’t eaten a proper meal since the funeral. Steve goes instantly for the stairs, skipping every second one. He arrives at her door and hesitates for a moment. He observes the stickers they put on the wood when they were still in elementary school. Some of them have faded, some of them still look colourful. The light seeping through the door gives him some kind of reassurance.
He raises his hand and knocks. Nothing. Complete silence. Is she dead? She can’t be. Steve wouldn’t survive it; he doesn’t even survive the thought of it. So, he decides to speak.
“Hey, it’s me,” he says, and he’s a bit taken aback by the wobble of his own voice. “Can I come in?”
Still no answer. He tries the doorknob, but it won’t even budge. He feels his hands starting to shake. He rests his forehead against the door, trying to collect his thoughts. Then, he rushes down the stairs and goes to the kitchen.
“Robs, do you have a bobby pin?” He asks. Robin looks at him with a weird expression on her face.
“Why?”
“The door is locked. No answer.” Robin’s hands still, pancake batter forgotten. She searches her pockets, then goes for her hair. She takes one out and hands it to Steve.
He almost runs back up the stairs. He kneels in front of the door, trying to break his way into the room. He just hopes it works; he has never done this before. After what feels like eternity, the door unlocks with a click. He stands but doesn’t dare to move. He knows he should. He suddenly feels a bit dizzy, suddenly out of breath, and he feels sweat collecting at his hairline. Just please be okay.
He swings the door open and takes a step in, trying to peek into the room. It’s not completely dark; the lamp on her desk paints the room in a warm orange. He sees the pile of clothing first, scattered across the entire floor, the wardrobe open, more clothes spilling out from it. Then, he notices some bottles, and his heart aches.
From where he’s standing, he can’t see the bed and her, so he finally gathers all his courage and steps inside, closing the door behind him. And what greets him shouldn’t surprise him, because he knows her. Really knows her.
She is sitting in the middle of her bed, paper and pen in her hands, but she wouldn’t even bother to look at who has disturbed her. Steve feels his heart stammering in his chest. There are more bottles, and an almost full ashtray. The air is stiff; it almost makes him choke. He is standing awkwardly in front of the closed door and doesn’t know what to do or say.
She doesn’t look at him, just continues scribbling whatever on the piece of paper that sits in her lap. Steve notices the bandages around her calves and forearms. She’s wearing her pajama shorts, a white tank top stained with whatever, and a black cardigan over it.
After a minute passes, his legs move before he can oblige; he goes for the bed and sits on the side from which he can see her. He hears Robin downstairs turning on the stove. She still won’t look at him, and he kind of starts feeling bad about it. Does she not want his company? Does she not want to be friends with him anymore? Any of them? Anyone else? Does she still love him? Does she still care about him? About their friendship?
Before he can think, his hand moves, and he softly, ever so carefully, goes for the pen in her hand, which might have been a bad idea, because as soon as he takes it, she finally looks at him.
“What are you doing?” Is the first thing she says to him, and he just realizes how glad he is to hear her voice. It’s been weeks, and Steve might have gone crazy if he had to go another week without hearing it.
“Taking the pen from you,” Is what he answers, and slaps himself mentally for saying it, because it’s such a dumb thing to say. He doesn’t really care anymore. He looks back at her, and the light in her eyes is still gone.
He goes for the paper next, which he kind of regrets, because as he tries to rip away, her grip finds his bicep and stops his movement. “Why are you taking my things away?”
“Because we’re going downstairs to eat, and then we are going out.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You do,” he says. He holds her gaze, and for a moment hers falters. She does want to go out, but just won’t admit it.
“I really don’t,” she answers. “I’m fine.”
“Are you, though?” She finally lets go of the paper. Steve doesn’t look at it, just sets it aside. She lets go of his arm and retreats. “I miss you.”
She doesn’t say anything after that, just stares at the things that have been taken away from her. Steve feels a little hurt. He slowly brings his hands back and rests one on her knee. She doesn’t say anything, but he can feel how her body jolts a little when skin touches skin.
“I miss you,” he repeats, trying to look into her eyes, but this time she purposely moves her gaze away. “I’m not going to leave, and I’m not going to stop saying it, unless you do or say something.”
And what he does next might be bold. He wraps his other arm around her shoulders. Disregarding the one on her knee, he wraps it around her waist and pulls her in. The position is uncomfortable for both of them, but Steve doesn’t care. He feels her entire body stiffen at his touch, but he himself releases a soft sigh. Oh, how much he has missed this.
Minutes pass with them staying like this. None of them says anything, but after a while, Steve can feel cold hands crawling up his jacket; he feels her rest her head in the crook of his neck. She straightens her legs on the bed, tries to set her arms free, just so she could wrap them around his neck. He lets her, doesn’t oblige.
At some point, Steve doesn’t know when, she ends up in his lap, legs locked around his back, arms locked around his neck, her head still resting in the crook of it, pulling him even closer if it’s even possible. He wraps his arms around her back, sighing into her hair.
“I’m sorry.” She whispers after a while. Steve can’t hear Robin making a mess down in the kitchen anymore, and he’s glad. The silence might have killed him before, but sharing it with her is different.
“I’m sorry for not coming sooner,” Steve answers. He can feel her body shake, he can feel the tears running down her cheek, on his neck. Then, he lets go of her for a moment only to take her face into the palms of his hands. He swipes away the tears from her cheeks and leans in to kiss her forehead, then her nose softly. A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “You know, I’m always here for you. Through all of it. Anytime, anything bothers you, call me, I’ll be here in a heartbeat. Just talk to me. Please.”
She smiles fully now, and she raises her finger to swipe tears from his cheeks as well, “You’re crying too, dingus.”
“If I’m dingus, then you’re dingus two,” he says and flashes her with a bright grin. This time, he is the one to bury his head in her neck, chuckling a little. “Oh, how I have missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” she whispers. “So much, you can’t even imagine it. We are okay now, though, right?”
“I think so,” Steve answers, although the sound of his voice is muffled by her cardigan. “We will be. We always are.”
summary: A body that is not hers, a different time, a different setting. Yet, the feeling and security of something familiar yet so new. Something that could happen in the far future, but isn't likely to.
pairing: Walter Skinner & Original Femalaűr Character, Walter Skinner/Original Female Character
warnings: none! okay, maybe a death
notes: something short, could be called a filler chapter because uni started and i also moved out so i'm not sure how much i can keep up with updates. BUT. i really wanted to write something romantic, not sure if it worked, though. but i love mixed media and also wanted to write something similar to the Triangle episode. anyways. here it is.
wc: 2.6K
"I dream of another soul,
in quite a different garb: while shifting between dole and hope,
it burns up, like alcohol,
and goes away, casts no shadow and just leaves as mementoes,
the lilacs smelling of meadow.
Run on, my child, do not lament the fate of poor Eurydice,
just keep on driving to globe's end your copper hoop for all to see.
As long as answering to your step,
however slight might be a tone,
the earth sends signals gay and pep to every energetic bone."
Mirror, 1975
OAKMONT
PENNSYLVANIA
4TH APRIL, 1995
7 PM
The tub in the bathroom to the touch was incredibly cold. Like a snowy winter morning, or a late night in the summer. When she touched the surface, it felt like her skin was burning. Nothing new, nothing she hasn’t experienced before, but somehow, this time, it was different.
She didn’t know what came over her. It was supposed to be a small murder case, with her supervising two just-out-of-the-academy agents out on the field. Report back on their work, close the case as soon as possible.
So, she didn’t know how she ended up in her motel room’s bathroom, fully clothed, laying in the bathtub. She let her head fall back. She didn’t remember how she got here.
The room itself was spinning. The mirror looked foggy, the tiles on the wall were spinning, making up shapes she has never seen before in her entire life.
She knew that her last case, her “disappearance” and the healing would take a toll on her, she even left for a month on mandatory leaving, yet she didn’t think she would become tired. This spent, eyelids already closing.
She hated feeling like this, like she couldn’t work anymore, too paranoid, too scared of the fact that someone could be still following all the aspects of her life like a loyal dog. She hated that everyone was always at her heel, asking how she was doing, the young agents side-eying her every time she turned away, whispering behind her back.
She just wanted to be normal again, not that she could be, but she was willing to try.
The bathtub is empty, cold. She can hear the crickets outside the motel, but the whole room is still spinning like a never ending nightmare. A bad trip she experienced when she was still a teenager. She was dizzy and she was sure that her blood-sugar is spiking, she just wasn’t sure why.
She closed her eyes, just for a moment, let her head fall sideways.
SAN FRANCISCO
CALIFORNIA
1958
The space is unfamiliar. Not cold anymore, like the bathroom and the tub, but unfamiliar. She wakes up in a bed, without her clothes on and it rings alarm bells instantly.
Where the fuck is she?
She sure as hell isn’t in her motel room anymore. The wallpaper is colorful; there are paintings decorating almost every four of it. A wardrobe in the corner, a door opening to a bathroom on the left. A lamp and a nightstand sit from the right of the bed.
A phone rings somewhere from the house, and she sits up instantly. She feels different. She hears the voice of a man answering it but ending the call shortly.
Then she hears measured footsteps approaching the doorway and a man appears.
Skinner stands before her, goes to sit on her bed, and she immediately backs up, scared. He reaches for a peace of clothing, and offers it to her.
“Oh…” he starts, but closes his mouth just for a moment. The red dress lays between them on the bedding. “You’ll want this.”
He gives her a reassuring smile and nods. Then, he gets up from the bed, leaves the room while closing the door behind him.
She’s alone again. She stares at the dress for a minute, then decides to put it on. She goes to look in the mirror which stands next to the wardrobe, and she staggers back.
This isn’t her, she is not herself. Unfamiliar blonde hair hides her shoulders, pale skin sitting on her body. This isn’t her. There is a beauty mark on her skin, which was never there.
Who is she?
FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
4TH APRIL, 1995
8PM
“Any word from her? The agents?”
“No, not yet, sir,” Scully answers, pacing in the office with a not-so unfamiliar sense of worry. Mulder sits in one of the arm chairs, staring ahead of himself. Not his usually chipper self.
Skinner falls back onto his own seat, bringing his palms to his face, trying to swipe the worry, the tiredness off himself. It doesn’t work.
“Shouldn’t have the agents called if they noticed she wasn’t present on the field?” Mulder asks suddenly but wouldn’t lift his eyes on either of them. He stays fixed on the window behind Skinner’s head.
It isn’t dark outside, yet. But from the open window, cold air blows in, making the room feel cold. Different.
Mulder continues speaking, “Something could have happened, you know. She could have gotten injured, ran away like the last time, there are endless possibilities.”
“She promised not to do that again,” Skinner half-whispers, really, to himself.
“Sir, don’t get me wrong,” Scully says. Stops her pacing, suddenly facing the Director. “I know you trust her, you have trusted her before, but you know it could have been an empty promise.”
Skinner removes his hands from his face and lifts his gaze to Scully. She stands behind the desk, arms crossed over her chest, like she knows she is right. Maybe Skinner thinks she is too.
Maybe, it was an empty promise.
SAN FRANCISCO
CALIFORNIA
1958
The next time she wakes up she’s still blonde, still in a different body, with a different name she hasn’t figured out yet. A different time, a different place, somewhere far-far away from where she should be. Doing her job, eating, reading or walking in the park.
Not here.
She lets the body take control of her actions; she raises a hand to ring a doorbell. She doesn’t remember how she got here. The door opens after a minute or two, and Skinner appears again.
But he looks different as well, she thinks. He would never wear these kind of clothes, wouldn’t live in an apartment like this. Wouldn’t have a fire place, or maybe he would.
She questions how well she knows him.
She feels like she doesn’t know anything, anymore.
He looks like he just woke up from a deep sleep. She wonders what he’s been dreaming about.
“What’s the matter? What’s the time? Madeline… Did something happen?”
Madeline. Not her name, but a different one. Is she Madeline? She doesn’t even remember her own name anymore.
Maybe she is Madeline.
Skinner draws her in and closes the door behind them, leads her into the room.
She then speaks, for the first time that felt like ages. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I should have phoned, but I wanted to see you… Be with you…”
“Why? What’s happened?”
She feels her hands trembling and she feels dizzy again. She goes to sit down on the couch. “I had the dream again… It came back.”
He sits next to her, his arm falling to her back like routine, like they have done this thousands of times. “It’s all right, it’s okay. You’ll be fine.”
The arm leaves her body, leaving a cold impact behind. He goes to a cabin nearby, gets out a bottle of something that looks like Brandy. He fills up a glass halfway and gives it to her. She stares at it for a moment, then takes a sip and sets it down on the coffee table.
“Where is your husband?” Skinner asks and she lifts her gaze over to him. He stands in front of her, arms regarded at his sides.
Husband? The words left her mouth before she could stop them.
“I didn’t wake him, I don’t want him to know…”
He sits down next to her again, but this time, he takes her hands into his own. “It was a dream, you’re awake, you’re all right now. Could you tell me what happened in the dream?”
FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
4TH APRIL, 1995
9PM
The clock is ticking and there are still no signs of her. He starts thinking that he should alert all his agents to be on the lookout for her. He starts thinking that what happened a few months ago could happen again.
He hopes they don’t.
Because truth to be told, he’s scared.
He knows why he is scared; he exactly knows that his worst nightmares could become reality in a second. He knows he could lose her any day. Left all alone in this world, without an understanding shoulder that he could lean on.
And he’s afraid of betrayal. She could leave again, without a word, without a message, exactly like last time. And he knows that would mean betrayal, the betrayal of their life-long friendship, their partnership. Betrayal of the empty and childish promises they made when they were six, and then twelve, and then seventeen.
Scully bursts through his office door without a warning. Her hair looks messy and she holds a piece of paper with iron grip between her fingers. She adjusts her costume and goes to stand before his desk. She sets down the paper on the surface.
“Word,” she simply says. “From the agents on the field.”
SAN FRANCISCO
CALIFORNIA
1958
She’s staring ahead, gaze lost in the distance.
“Madeline, try!” he says firmly. “Try for me!”
She doesn’t answer. But she looks at him and when she does, their lips connect in a frantic move. Not impulsively as before, but still with passion and a deep hunger for each other. Their lips part, she breaks the connection, but he still holds her close, his head pressed down against hers. She is looking anxiously past him, again.
“Try for me,” he says again, but this time it’s a whisper instead of a shout. “My love… Because I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she whispers, lets her head fall to his shoulder. “But it’s too late, too late… I have to do something.”
He holds her gently now, fingers brushing her cheeks. “Nothing you must do, no one possess you, you’re safe with me.”
She looks up at him with deep regret, and she makes an escape for it, running past him, towards the church. A building she has seen in her dreams before, but never set foot in. But she remembers it, being all so familiar. He catches up with her.
“There are things I must tell you,” he shouts, but she is still running.
She enters the building, looks around for a second, then takes her first steps upon the stairs. She takes two at a time, and she can hear him following behind her, but she doesn’t turn back. Not even when he shouts her name repeatedly, trying to grab her coat, anything he could reach.
The pin falls from her hair, letting it free.
He finally catches her when they reach the top, holding her close to his chest. The bell stands alarmingly beside them. They are close to the edge.
“Let me go!” She shouts, but he wouldn’t budge. She tries breaking her arms free, but it’s no use.
A moment later, the struggle ceases. She stops trying to break free. She didn’t even notice the tears slipping from her eyes. His eyes study her face.
Suddenly, she speaks again, “You believe that I love you, right?”
“Yes.”
“And if you lose me, you’ll know that I loved you and wanted to go on loving you.”
He takes a second to answer, “I won’t lose you.”
When she thinks he finally loosens his grip, she breaks free, takes a step and falls.
And just like that, she’s gone.
Without a scream.
Gone.
GAMMA MEDICAL CENTER
OAKMONT
PENNSYLVANIA
5TH APRIL, 1995
She wakes up in a bright room, even though the blinds are closed. She can hear the beeping of machines, all too familiar. She was in a room just like this not too long ago.
Her hair is a mess; her bones are aching. There is another body lying beside her. A hand holding hers in a firm grip, not letting go. She goes to sit up but is unable to do so. The body stirs beside her, awakens, lifting his head to look at her.
“You’re awake,” Skinner says quietly.
Déjà vu.
She nods, doesn’t even try to speak. She knows no words would come out. Instead, he continues speaking.
“We found you in your hotel room,” he starts while getting up from the bed. His hand leaves hers. He stands, adjusting his tie, his shirt. She notices that his blazer’s disregarded on the back of a chair. He goes to grab it and puts it on a swift motion. “You were passed out, God knows for how long, dehydrated, completely out of it. The agents don’t know what happened, we ran a tox screen, but nothing has come back yet.”
She nods again and tears her gaze away from him. He sits in the chair where his blazer was just moments before.
“What happened?” he asks suddenly. She doesn’t answer.
The silence settles in. But this time, it’s cold. Colder than usual, not something she has gotten used to. The sheets are still warm beside her, where he has slept. She lifts her hand and puts it on the sheet.
He doesn’t look away from her but doesn’t recognize the movement either. There is something behind her actions, but he just can’t figure out what.
“I think I’ve seen Vertigo a lot more times than I should have.”
“What?”
She shrugs her shoulders, finally turns her head towards him.
“I had a bad dream.”
NOMA
WASHINGTON, D.C.
7TH APRIL, 1995
10PM
Almost two days later, she’s back in her apartment, hospital papers in hand. She drops her travel bag on the floor by the shoe-rack, goes to the fridge immediately. She grabs a bottle of orange juice, gets a glass from the cupboard and fills it up to the top. She drinks it in one take.
Skittles emerges from her bedroom, rubbing her fur against the legs of her jeans. She wonders if anyone fed the cat while she was away.
She drops the files on the dining table, lets her coat fall off her shoulders and back. She sits on the couch, empty glass still in her hands. She can’t let it go.
Her mind drifts, to the last conversation they had, in his office, just a few hours ago.
“So, will you tell me what happened?” he asks in a firm voice. Distance. There is distance between them, she just doesn’t know why. She feels uncomfortable.
“You’ve seen the records,” she says simply. She puts out the cigarette in the ashtray. The “NO SMOKING THANK YOU” sign stares back at her, alarmingly. “I’ve been drugged. It happens to the best of us.”
“Yes, but you’re above the best.”
“I take that as a compliment,” she smiles, but it isn’t returned.
“Don’t, actually,” he says. “It wasn’t.”
That raises a question in her head. What is going on?
“What did you dream about?”
She sighs. She really doesn’t want to tell him. But she must. She wonders if it could be off record. “Like I said in the hospital, I watched Vertigo too many times. It was a bad trip.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question.”
She goes to stand, ready to make a run for the door. She didn’t want to have this conversation, not now, not in the future. This shouldn’t have happened.
But she turns back, “If you must know, if you’re so eager to find out, I dreamt that I was Madeline. You were Scottie. Does that answer your question?”
His mouth hangs open. He closes it quickly. He nods, at her, then towards the door. She leaves and the wood closes behind her with a loud bang.
She sets down the glass on the coffee table. She gets up and turns to the DVD player. She finds an old DVD she rented years ago but never returned. She puts it in the player and starts the movie.
summary: What does one do when they get pictures of themselves sleeping? They, of course, follow the clues that lead to nothing dramatic, no euphoric feeling when the case gets solved, just a hollow body that's left of them, and guilt.
pairing: Walter Skinner & Original Female Character, early!Mulder x Scully (season 2-3)
warnings: explicit description of violence, corpses, blood and gore, mentions and description of su1c1de, just be careful while reading!!
notes: mulder and scully are literally only hear for comedic relief. kinda. they bring the comfort and fun. in a way. also i'm itching to write something romantic, but i just can't bring myself to do it. anyways. also, i literally wrote this instead of sleeping? i wish i was joking.
wc: 11.4K
“With your very eyes, my brethren, see what in truth we are:
We are but dust and ashes.
Like pieces of old cloth our memories fall apart.
Do you still have St. Margaret’s Isle by heart?
It is all odds and ends now, splinters, fusty lumber.
The dead man’s beard has grown, your name is just a number.”
Sándor Márai
NOMA
WASHINGTON D.C.
4TH JANUARY, 1995
06:32
It starts as something she would never have noticed if she weren’t so superstitious. But Skittles meows at her very angrily one morning, when she is still half asleep in her bed. She gets out of bed and paddles on the cold tiles over to the kitchen, where she opens a cupboard.
Her body goes completely still.
“Skittles, what the fuck,” she says out loud, doesn’t even care that she’s talking to the cat. Skittles makes a weird noise that comes from the back of her throat. Every last one of the cat food cans is gone, except one that sits in the far back of the cupboard.
This can’t be possible. She restocked the cat food last week; the cupboard should be filled to the top with it, but it’s not.
She pays no attention to it. She starts getting ready for the day.
FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON D.C.
4TH JANUARY, 1995
01:23 PM
“And how do you feel about that, Sydney?” asks Agent Kosseff. This is not the first time she has set foot in the FBI-employed psychologist’s office. She can’t shake off the feeling that the room feels colder than usual.
She shrugs her shoulders. “I dunno,” she says simply. “It’s dumb, really. But the more I think about it, the more I worry.”
“Is this related to what you told me at the beginning of our conversation?”
“The cat food?” she almost laughs. She finds it silly. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, I can imagine my cat going through that much food in a week and me not noticing it.”
“No, I meant your conversation with Assistant Director Skinner last week,” Kosseff answers. She stares ahead of her. “You mentioned it today, again. Would you like to talk about it?”
The room is dimly lit. Outside the windows, the clouds are dark, and the air is chilly. She wishes it were spring already. She’s curled up on his couch in her pajamas; she’s been sleeping over for the last couple of days, only out of habit at this point. Something about co-dependency, as someone said once.
But the air is different right now, she just finished talking about what she has found back in Tennessee. The letter, the potential case, surrounding her family once again. She wouldn’t be surprised if her name appeared in one of Mulder’s so-called X-Files.
He stands with his back to her, leaning on his hands that are on the counter. He looks puzzled, she can tell just by how the muscles on his back tighten with every breath he takes. Now, as she breathes in the scent of hot chocolate that she holds in a mug in her hand, she wishes she hadn’t told him.
“You know, you shouldn’t take it,” he starts and turns to her suddenly. His eyes are sad. “If there is a case. And I assure you, it will eventually turn up as one.”
“But what if I want to? Take it, I mean,” she asks, voice suddenly small. She stares ahead of herself, eyes fixed on the small box of the TV. “Would you stop me?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “I would like to,” he lets out a sigh. Walks over to the couch and sits down next to her. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to.”
“Is it really annoying that I follow my heart instead of my mind most of the time?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation because he knows his words won’t hurt her. It’s simply honesty, decades of honesty that won’t stop now. “And you make my work harder.”
She takes a sip of the hot chocolate and lifts her eyes to him. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not,” he says and holds her gaze. She smiles.
“I’m really not.”
She wakes up next to him in the morning.
“I mean, my father’s death is hard,” she starts. Doesn’t know how to form her sentences in a way Kosseff would understand, like she does. “Don’t get me hard, it’s been a burden since it happened. But now, finding out what actually could have led to it makes me wonder. What if I could stop someone from taking their own lives? So they wouldn’t end up like my father? Traumatizing their children for the rest of their lives?”
Kosseff doesn’t answer her, just scribbles down something in her notepad. She watches her fingers gripping the pencil carefully as she writes. Then, she says, “Did your father have any mental health conditions?”
She furrows her brows and frowns, “I don’t think he did.”
“And your mother?”
“Now,” she says and tries to pick her words carefully. “I’m not so sure of her. I never really knew her side of the family.”
FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON D.C.
5TH JANUARY, 1995
04:12 PM
She is at her desk, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She bites down on the rubber part of her pencil, trying to find the perfect words that she could use in her latest case report. She sighs and puts down the pencil and flips through her notebook, but there is nothing that could help her with this easy task.
She stretches her arms, shirt riding up on her torso. Her office is quiet. Doggett had already gone home, claiming that he was done for the day. Lucky bastard, she thinks.
She suddenly remembers that she has something that could help her finish work early as well. An old report she pulled from the archives when she started working on the case and forgot to return. Like a library book, really. She opens her desk drawer and starts looking through every folder that she has piled up since she got this office.
But it’s no use, it’s not there. Even though it should be there.
She heads to the basement.
“Mulder, did you take a report from my desk?” she asks, without knocking. Scully isn’t there, only him, and he almost falls out of his chair but catches himself at the last minute. He shoots her a weird look.
“Are you psychotic?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“I didn’t take your report,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Might have been the elves who forgot to go back to the North Pole after Christmas. I’d start locking those drawers if I were you.”
She squints at him suspiciously but decides to leave it at that. She returns to her office upstairs, packs up, and leaves for the day. She’ll finish the report tomorrow.
NOMA
WASHINGTON D.C.
6TH JANUARY, 1995
05:43 PM
It’s not so subtle anymore. She battles with a bunch of piled-up unopened letters over some Chinese she ordered. A pile she hasn’t touched since they came back home from Tennessee. Skittles is cuddled up in her lap, sleeping and purring softly.
She throws envelope after envelope in the nearby bin, and only keeps the important ones. Rent, bills from the vet, some of it is just commercials, a letter from her Aunt Kelly and some letters to some newspaper agencies.
Then, she notices it. She notices the yellowed letter that she has accidentally left out. It sits in front of her on the table, and she thinks she hears it speak to her, open me, open me. She puts down her chopsticks and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
She reaches for the letter opener and cuts it open in one swift motion. Something falls out of the envelope, but the letter inside it sits still. She leans down to get the other thing that has fallen on the floor, which looks like a polaroid and- She gasps and pulls her arms back to her sides like she has burned something.
A polaroid, and a strand of fucking hair attached to it with a pink ribbon.
What the fuck?
She leaves it on the floor, already thinking about it as evidence, because this might as well be a case. It probably is. She fishes out some plastic gloves from her coat’s pocket and takes the letter out of the envelope. She unfolds the paper and starts reading it.
Dearest Sydney Denver,
I was wondering when you’d come back home from Tennessee. I debated delivering this letter in person, but that would spoil the fun, wouldn’t it? The anticipation. The art of it all. I trust recovery from your latest cases has been… illuminating.
You’ll want to pay close attention to what comes next.
Scattered across this country, seven states to be specific, are several graves: unmarked, unknown, unseen. It’s been a while, I’ll admit, the details are hazy, even for me. Memory is such a fragile thing, don’t you think? But I’ve left a thread to pull: a lock of hair from the first victim. She had hair like silk. I suppose I kept it as a reward, but now it has become practical.
Treat is a gift. An offering. A starting point.
I imagine you’ve found the Polaroids by now; if not, look at them. All of them, moments of your stillness: walking, reading, sleeping. I do apologize for the intrusion during that nap. You looked… undisturbed.
There is something about you, Sydney. You’re not like others. You are sharp, your cheekbones are chiseled, your eyes heavy. You carry something within your bones that I can’t quite wrap my head around. You remind me of a fractured crystal: elegant, jagged, impossible to look away from. I often wonder how you’d look wrapped in something softer than your blanket. But I digress.
This is a game, and like all good games, there are rules. You have three months, starting from tomorrow. There are seven of them, as I previously said, seven souls buried in seven different states in forgotten places. Find them, give them names. Restore what was taken. But if you fail…
You will make a lovely eighth.
Yours.
The letter’s dated today, but it has no address, no name, no nothing on it. She stares at the handwriting for a while, processing the words. It very much sounds like a threat, and she debates calling Skinner right away, but she doesn't. Not this time.
She fishes out the rest of the pictures from the envelope and picks up the one from the floor. Places them on the table in no particular order. There are five of them, one of a corpse she doesn’t recognize, the one that has the lock of hair attached to it. The other four are her, one of them sleeping on her couch not so long ago. She knows it was probably taken last week, because since then, she’d been sleeping in her bed, careful not to fall asleep on the couch because it made her back ache the next morning. The third is her shopping in a grocery store, in the vegetable aisle. The shop isn’t too far from her apartment, just across the street. The fourth is her on the stairs of the Hoover Building during a lunch break, a cigarette in one hand, and a sandwich in the other. The last one was probably taken last week as well. It shows her sitting in a booth at a bar they usually go to on Fridays after work. She can’t remember who she was with.
She sits still for a minute, Skittles still in her lap, yawning. She looks down at her cat and lets her palm caress the animal’s fur.
She gets up from the dining table and starts packing a bag.
FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON D.C.
9TH JANUARY, 1995
10:00 AM
“Assistant Director Skinner, are you aware that one of your agents has gone off grid?” The FBI Director starts in a monotone voice, not even looking at him. It’s his day off, yet he’s been called in as there was something going on. The man sitting behind the desk keeps writing on the paper that’s spread out across his table.
“Agent Mulder?” Skinner asks without thinking about it too much. He wouldn’t be surprised; Mulder and Scully pulled this little stunt once or twice in the past few months.
But the man’s answer makes Skinner’s blood freeze.
“No,” he simply says, finally looking up at him. “Agent Denver.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You heard me,” the man says. “Agent Denver didn’t come into work today, didn’t call in. We couldn’t contact her; her phone had probably been turned off. Her car’s still at her apartment, but there is no sign from her.”
Skinner doesn’t move for a moment. Then slowly, his posture straightens. “Her car’s still there?”
The Director nods. “We sent Agen Doggett by. No sign of forced entry, no movement inside. No answer at the door.”
Skinner’s jaw tightens. He’s seen so many cases like this before, but this time, it’s her.
“We haven’t issued a BOLO yet,” the Director adds. “Frankly, it could still be a misunderstanding. But knowing her record and history, we thought it would be to loop you in. She’s still under your jurisdiction.”
Skinner bristles at his words- history. A word used like a scalpel. “She’s a senior agent; she doesn’t make mistakes. If she’s missing, it’s because someone wanted her to be.”
“Then, find out who,” the Director says simply, returning to his papers. Skinner’s already halfway through the door.
SOMEWHERE IN NORTH CAROLINA
9TH JANUARY, 1995
01:10 PM
The cold air messes up her hair as she pulls into the gas station. She lights a cigarette before pumping the car full of gas; she takes slow hits from it, letting the smoke burn her lungs.
She puts the cigarette out when the tank is full, locks the car, and goes inside the station to pay. She picks up a few things: two bags of chips, instant coffee and noodles, an umbrella, and some hand sanitizer.
She stands in line for the cashier and waits impatiently for it to be her turn to pay. When she stands in front of the counter, the sleepy cashier nods to her, and she nods back. Grabs another bottle of water, two protein bars, and a pack of gum and puts everything on the counter.
Her legs ache from the hours on the road. She thinks about the evidence she’s gathered so far, how the first body might be buried near a dried-up stream just a few miles out. The cashier works slowly, and a small television mounted in the corner comes to life. It catches her attention.
“…no confirmation yet, but sources inside the Bureau believe she may have gone rogue or is working on an unauthorized case. Agent Denver has not responded to any communication attempts. A BOLO has been issued-”
Her hand stills mid-reach for her wallet. She turns slowly towards the screen; it shows her badge photo, neat hair, and stern eyes. Clean, presentable, missing. The words crawl across the bottom of the screen.
FBI AGENT MISSING – SYDNEY DENVER LAST SEEN IN WASHINGTON, D.C.
Her badge photo changes to another one, from a crime scene two years ago. Then, another from a press conference she barely remembers attending. The voice of the young gas station worker snaps her out of it. The young girl looks up at her. “Hey, that’s you, ain’t it?”
Her pulse spikes, “No.”
The girl squints, “Looks like-”
She cuts the girl off before she can continue, “I get that a lot.” She grabs the bag the girl has put everything in, throws the price on the counter, and murmurs a “keep the change” under her nose.
She doesn’t turn the engine on right away after she gets in the car. She sits still, looking ahead of her, the things she has bought thrown on the back seat. Her phone is buried somewhere in the glove compartment, turned off, battery removed, a decision she made before even leaving D.C.
She swallows hard. They’re looking for her. She knows what Skinner’s doing right now, she knows him like the back of her hand. She can picture it: room dimly lit, Scully pulling files, Mulder pacing in that weird way he usually does. And Skinner, focused, quiet, unraveling.
Her hands tighten on the steering wheel. She should have called or at least left a message. But she didn’t want to alarm anyone, and it’s not that she doesn’t want to tell them, she really does, but she can’t. Not yet, not until she gets to the bottom of this herself.
And she’s not ready to say the words out loud: He’s been following me, possibly for years. He knows where I live, how I like my tea, and what type of cat food I feed my cat. He sent me pictures of me.
Because once she admits all of this, it might become too real. And she didn’t even wrap her head around it yet, didn’t even admit the danger to herself.
She starts the car and pulls out of the gas station. She still has time, a lot of it. She drives off.
MARVIN
NORTH CAROLINA
9TH JANUARY, 1995
09:54 PM
She miscalculated. It wasn’t near the dried-up stream she originally thought where it’d be. It’s in a tiny public park in the quiet and unbothered town of Marvin. She hates disturbing the peace of the town like this.
The park is too quiet, too still. Not eerie, but it looks like it has been waiting for her. She finds the spot easily, a tree marked with a red cross on its bark. An envelope was nailed to it. She stands before the oak with a shovel in one of her hands, ready to get dirty.
And she does, she digs until she’s unable to. The smell hits her suddenly, the corpse wasn’t even put into a coffin, it was just wrapped up in plastic and thrown into the pit. Her breath hitches as she tries pulling it out of the ground, but it’s no use; it wouldn’t budge.
But she’s found it, one of the bodies. A chill climbs up her spine, and her hands won’t stop shaking.
Get it together, Sydney.
She climbs out of the pit and pulls the prepaid burner from her pocket. She wipes the dirt off her forehead with the back of her hand. She dials the local police station.
She doesn’t speak when the operator answers, just draws in a breath and starts talking carefully. She informs the dispatcher that there has been a body discovered in one of the parks in Marvin, maybe a woman. The dispatcher doesn’t say anything for a second, then asks: “Do you want to leave your name?”
She hangs up before the operator can say anything else. She makes sure no one sees her leave the scene, she puts on a pair of sunglasses in the already blinding dark, and steadily walks back to her car that’s parked across the street.
NOMA
WASHINGTON D.C.
9TH JANUARY, 1995
11:00 PM
Scully and Mulder move swiftly and carefully across the apartment, careful not to set any alarms off; if there are any. Her cat, whom Scully knows well now, meows at them angrily. Scully inspects the living room and the kitchen, finds the scattered mail across the dining table. She puts on her gloves and goes through them, but there is nothing that could be useful for them.
Until Mulder’s voice comes from the bedroom. “Scully, come here!” Mulder yells, and she enters the bedroom. It’s neat and tidy, something she didn’t expect from her. But she’s not surprised, she’s gotten to know her in the quiet well in the past few months, she knows how she likes to keep a neat environment around herself.
Scully braced herself for the worst when she entered the bedroom, specifically to find Mulder going through her underwear drawer. But she finds him sitting on the edge of the bed, holding two notebooks in his hands, all worn down by time. “Look what I found!”
He sounds just like an excited child in the toy store.
“Her diaries?” She asks as she sits down next to him. He nods.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Starting from high school.”
He starts flipping through the pages, stops at some of the scribbled lines across the pages, and starts reading out loud.
I’m not going to lie: these past few months have been hell. But we finally managed to break into the swimming pool.
If Dad finds out, I’m going to be grounded for at least a month! It was good to feel free, though.
“Boring.”
“Mulder, don’t be rude!” She says. “We’re already invading her privacy.”
“But Skinner asked us to, so I don’t think it counts as breaking and entering, and you even had a key. So really, we’re helping.”
He continues reading.
Chase and I had sex today. I think I hate him now. It wasn’t really sex either, I think. He was forceful, and I didn’t like it. I feel disgusting.
Dad died today. I found his body; he had hung himself. The funeral will be held on my birthday. I don’t think I’ll have a birthday ever again.
“Oh, Jesus…”
I punched the ever-loving shit out of Cindy today. She made a comment about Walt’s glasses, and then about us, so I did what I had to do. Walt had to drag me away, and I got a week of detention. I don’t know why he still wants to ask her out on a date.
The next paragraph is barely readable. They’ve skipped to senior year.
Prom was fun! I’m really drunk and I wanted to kiss him so badly. Walt, if you’re readi- The rest of the sentence is smudged.
Every jackass who thinks we’re together should kiss my sweet ass, or get fucked in the ass and disgustingly enjoy it. Such stupid people.
Mulder lets out a laugh before he can stop himself, and Scully swats at his shoulder. He skips through some empty pages.
Walt got enlisted, I found out today. I punched him in the face. Is he going away because he doesn’t love me anymore? Or is it because his parents act so shit towards him, but not me? But my parents, I mean my mother loves him and he knows that. I do too. I can’t believe he’s leaving. He’s already left, and we were supposed to go to college together, what the fuck. He didn’t even tell me he was planning to do this. It shouldn’t have ended this way. This isn’t how it was supposed to end. How can I lose so many people in such little time.
I got accepted into Oxford psychology, and the letter came today. I also wrote Walter a letter, telling him the good news, but I don’t know if he’ll ever get them. I never missed a person so much in my entire life. I can still smell his cologne on my sheets.
“Okay, this is really sad and everything,” Mulder starts. Scully looks at him with a weird expression. “But I think these two definitely fucked at least once.”
“God, Mulder, you’re like a teenage girl,” she rubs her face. They exchange glances, and she can tell he thinks about stopping reading, but he doesn’t.
My biological psychology professor is really nice. He offered me a private lesson. I know where this is going, but I don’t mind it.
I’m so lonely. I miss him more every day.
A letter came in the mail today, and it smells like gunpowder, mud, and death. I just hope he’s okay.
Empty pages follow throughout the last part of the book, but there are still some entries from last year of college scattered here and there. Mulder opens the next notebook.
He came home. He’s actually here in my room right now, staring at my stupid ass degree on the wall. He looks so rough and distant. Mom moved away, and he doesn’t want to stay with his parents, so we’ll be here until we figure out what’s next.
He doesn’t sleep. I don’t know how to help him.
It’s been like two weeks, and I still can’t believe he is alive and here in my house at my dining table, eating the dinner I made. His touch is the same, ever so sweet. He doesn’t smile anymore that much. He was all laughs and jokes before. He still can’t sleep, so I’ll stay awake with him. We have tried everything, but nothing works.
We got accepted into the FBI Academy, and we are starting next month. We are moving to Quantico for those to years, he has some friends there. Then to Washington. He has the audacity of insisting we buy two apartments in separate parts of the city! Unbelievable.
We agreed on the same neighborhood for now.
Mulder skips forward, leaves out a few months, years.
He is getting married tomorrow! Sharon is nice, I like her a lot. It’s sad I can’t be his best man. Devastating.
Work is good enough, life is good, but if he keeps pacing through the office every time we can’t find enough evidence to prove who the suspect is, I’m going to shoot him in the head. Fair and square. His pacing is annoying.
Years of empty pages, almost two decades, then the most recent entries, from the past two years or so.
He got promoted to assistant director. I’m not jealous. But every time he hands me an assignment, I really want to punch him in the face.
Sharon is serving him divorce papers after seventeen years of marriage. He’s broken. I don’t know how to help him, I feel useless.
“Wait, look!” Scully points at an entry from 1993.
I killed my mom. It’s over. What did I do? Why did I do it? I know it was self-defense, but what the fuck, how could I? I have no parents. How do I even bury a person on my own? And what the fuck is wrong with me? Was I some part of a cult my whole life? Walt swears he didn’t know anything about Mom being involved when he handed me the case, and I believe him, but what are the chances? What the fuck. I’m staying at his place for a few weeks, and I don’t know what to do. I’m devastated. I didn’t want to make Lily an orphan; I want to adopt her. Walt says I can’t. I think there is something wrong with me.
The next entries are almost a year later. Blood smeared on the page.
I had a breakdown yesterday over the case. Hassan brought me hot chocolate. He doesn’t know I sneaked out to the rectory. I slept with Paul. He kisses so softly, fucks like he is desperate. Hungry. He bit my fucking hand, and it won’t stop bleeding. It was nice, though. Bev almost walked in on me dressing this morning. She would have been furious. It would have been fun.
He talks so passionately at Mass. He calls me his Angel. I don’t understand a word he says during Mass anymore, but his voice is nice. I think I’m in love.
Then Mulder stops in disbelief.
Paul is a vampire. Or I don’t fucking know what to call it. Bev is too, I think. I found out Sarah is his daughter. His real name is Monsignor John Michael Pruitt. I feel betrayed. Most of the people are vampires, but I can’t find out who. I feel unsafe.
It’s easter and there is something happening. I failed. Hassan is scared. He gave me a shotgun, and I didn’t even know we had one. He made me promise to protect Leeza, Warren, and Ali at all costs. I don’t know what’s happening. The power line has been cut, I think. It’s dark on the whole island.
The church is on fire.
I managed to get Leeza and Warren on a boat. I only have this notebook and my tape recorder. I’ve lost every piece of evidence regarding this file in the fire. They burned down the station. I failed. I don’t know if rescue will come. The whole island is burning, and everyone on it. I hope Hassan and Ali are okay. The last time I saw him, he had his kneecap shot.
I’ve been sleeping at Walt’s since I’ve been back. I told him everything except Paul. He knows he was the main suspect, but I just can’t tell him I failed because I fell in love, and it blinded me. He wouldn’t forgive me.
I miss Paul. Walt won’t let me work again until August. I feel useless.
Mulder skips forward to August.
Vermilion Parish is such a stupid little city. Rust and Martin are such little bitches. This is impossible. I don’t know why Walt keeps sending me away on these cases. He feels so distant yet so close. I can’t read his mind like I used to be able to. I’m afraid he’s distancing himself from me.
I think Spooky should be on this case instead of me. Yesterday we found a labyrinth. I have a really bad feeling about this one.
September.
Recovery has been hard; Walt keeps watching over me like I’m a child. I hate everything. There is something wrong with me. I don’t know what.
He keeps promising that he is here and I’m safe with him, and I know I am, I always knew, it just all feels so different. I feel so different. I don’t know what is happening to me or to him, but we are changing, and I’m unable to stop it from happening. I don’t want to ever lose him. I couldn’t bear the thought of not being always with him.
I keep hearing this noise in the apartment. Walt’s been sleeping here now for a change of scenery. It’s nice, but I can’t sleep. He offered to take me to a psychologist, but I laughed in his face that I am one, but he is concerned, I think. For me and for him. I am, too. Times are changing.
Mulder skips to the aftermath of the last case she and they worked on. Oregon.
I keep hearing the clicking noise every second of the way. It’s eating me up. I hate this, I hate feeling this way, and I want to tell Walt all my concerns, all my fears, but I’m really scared that if I tell him, he won’t look at me the same. I want him to know that I can be okay. I am okay. Just not tonight.
Then, when they traveled to Tennessee for the high school reunion.
I found his letter today. I can’t tell Walt what’s written in it. I don’t feel betrayed, I feel concerned. Another family secret surrounding another family member. At least this time, I didn’t kill anyone. A relief. I can’t stop crying, though. I miss you Dad, with my whole heart.
By the time they have come to the most recent diary entries, Scully and Mulder are snuggled up on the bed, eyes darting over every piece of writing. Every piece of detail, hoping to find something that could lead to her disappearance.
“Look at this one, the last one,” Scully says, pointing at something that appears to be the last entry. Mulder checks to see if it is the last one. He nods. “It’s interesting.”
“Just a sentence,” he murmurs.
“With your very eyes, my brethren, see what in truth we are: We are but dust and ashes.”
Mulder turns his gaze to his partner: “You don’t think…”
“No, that’s impossible,” she says. “Skinner would have noticed. She would have told him.”
“Yeah, but also, we know that she has been unstable for the last few months. It’s written down in these notebooks. What if she didn’t tell him?”
“Mulder,” Scully starts, takes the book from him, closes it, and puts it down on the sheets. “There is no possible way she would have killed herself.”
“And how are you so sure?”
“Because I know her.”
“Knowing her doesn’t mean you know her. Skinner knows her, I know her as well.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. That’s why I’m saying she wouldn’t do this,” she opens the notebook again at the entry. “This is a funeral oration. An ancient one, as I know, the first ever monument in Hungarian history and literature. I’d rather think that this is a reminder that we are only human, rather than saying goodbye to humanity. It’s often interpreted as the nation’s upcoming death as well. Like, an omen.”
Mulder stays silent, considering her point. “Okay, let’s look around a little more.”
They sweep through the apartment. There isn’t much left to look for, a few boxes with stuff inside them. Mulder hears Scully asking him if he thinks she was planning on moving in with their boss eventually. Mulder doesn’t know what to think. Until he stops in the kitchen and looks at her fridge, which has sticky notes all over its door.
“Look, here it is again!” he rips off the yellow paper and inspects it closer. Scully comes up next to him. “With your very eyes, my brethren, see what in truth we are: we are but dust and ashes.” he looks at Scully. “I think we should ask Skinman about this.”
Scully agrees.
COLUMBUS
GEORGIA
15TH JANUARY, 1995
11:05 PM
She didn’t miscalculate. This time, she stands on the shore of a muddy, partially dried-up stream. The rain falls heavily and fast; she doesn’t have much time until it fills up with water again. She bought rubber boots for it; she knew she had to get her hands dirty.
The mud soaks through the knees of her jeans as she digs deep into the soil. She swallows hard, wipes the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. The crowbar she brought along with her comes in handy; it hits something solid, most likely the wooden coffin.
She’s glad it’s not only wrapped in plastic, like the first one. She tries to clear away the dirt from the surface of the wood, but it’s almost impossible: the rain washes the sticky mud back, almost instantly.
Something catches her attention in the dirt, something shiny. She digs for it and picks up a small metal box. She pockets it and fishes out another burner, dials the police once again, still kneeling in the mud.
Two down, five more to go, she thinks. She gives them the coordinates, says she saw something strange on her hike, and smelled something foul. She gets up from the ground and tries to clean her jeans with her gloved hands, but it’s no use; she only smudges it.
She looks for any more clues before leaving, but can’t find anything else except the box. She could hear the police cars approaching once she was inside her car, already driving off.
SOMEWHERE ON THE BORDER OF ALABAMA AND MISSISSIPPI
21ST JANUARY, 1995
03:21 PM
She had a harder time finding the third grave; there were fewer details in the metal box than in the envelopes. The lines on the highway blur if she stares for too long.
She blinks hard, gripping the wheel hard with one hand while the other holds a cigarette out the window. She rests her head against the car door and tells herself over and over again not to fall asleep. She’s been on the road for too long; she had to make an unnecessary stop at a motel once, because she couldn't bear it anymore without any sleep. But she didn’t want to risk getting caught either. So, she slept in her car in an abandoned parking lot, using her dirty coat as a pillow.
She curses the Bureau for that, but knows she shouldn’t, because she’s dumb for doing this and that it’s their job. She adjusts her rearview mirror, the road behind her empty, except for the occasional car that speeds past her. Every time one does, her heart stammers in her chest.
Because she has to admit it now, she’s scared. Terrified even. She’s scared that the next time she looks in the rearview mirror, someone will be sitting in the back seat, watching her, waiting.
She thinks about calling Skinner. But what would she say? Hi, I’ve been digging up corpses in state parks for a man who has been watching me sleep for God knows how long. How was your day?
Her knuckles turn white from grabbing the wheel too hard. Panic sets in, slithering up her spine. She wants to push it down. She’s scared she won’t make it out alive.
MISSISSIPPI
22ND JANUARY, 1995
07:11 PM
She has to stop for fuel again, and she’s mad about it. Because why wouldn’t her car last for a few more miles?
The clerk doesn’t even look at her when she walks in to pay, he murmurs something and gestures towards the card reader. She doesn’t have a card. She pays with cash instead and asks for the bathroom key.
When she sets foot in the small room, the fluorescent light of the bulb turns on. She splashes cold water on her face, trying to wash away the sleepiness. She stares at herself in the mirror for a minute.
God, she’s unrecognizable. Bloodshot eyes, her skin sickly and sallow. Her hair is greasy and darker than usual. She’s sure she’s lost a few pounds in the last few weeks. But there is an advantage to this: if they’re looking for her, they won’t even recognize her.
She wipes her face with a paper towel and leaves the bathroom. The TV in the corner is playing static and something else. She squints at it as she walks between the aisles. Then she sees it again, her badge photo.
“The FBI has issued a BOLO, be on lookout, for missing federal agent Sydney Denver,” the voice says in the box. She wonders when they’ll hold the press conference. "Sydney Denver was last seen on the fifteenth of January in the state of Georgia, driving near Columbus. She’s considered endangered or in distress.”
“Sorry, do you know any nearby motels?” she asks when she walks up to the counter. The clerk lifts his eyes to her, then to the TV screen, then back to her again. She smiles softly and doesn’t wait for an answer; instead, she walks out before he can say his answer.
She’ll find one on the map.
VICKSBURG
MISSISSIPPI
23RD JANUARY, 1995
05:37 PM
She had to stop at a motel; she really couldn’t keep up without sleeping anymore, and she needs all her energy to succeed. She thanks God that there aren’t any TVs in the motel lobby. She asks for a room with a single bed, pays with cash, and disappears into the hallway looking for her room number.
The room is small, but perfect, because all she really needs is a bed. And a bathtub, because God, does she smell awful. All she can think about is that the third grave should be in this empty and abandoned town. She steps out of her clothes that she has been wearing for longer than she should have.
She thinks about throwing them away, but doesn’t; instead, she fills the sink with water and lets them soak for a while. She draws herself a bath as well, giving her a little time to clear her mind. But she keeps circling back to the metal box and what it contains.
It’s a lock of hair again, and a hand-drawn map. She can’t use any labs to identify who the hair belongs to. She thinks about giving up for a second, but shakes her head to chase the thoughts away. She can’t give up now when she’s already this deep in this mess.
The bath does help, though. She lets her skin soak just like her clothes, all the dirt and blood washing away. She’s not surprised when the water turns almost brown. She doesn’t flinch at the sight, just watches the small waves around her body.
She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her hands around her calves. She rests her chin on the bone. She’s shivering, though the bath is still warm. The flickering light above her casts a yellow tint across the tiles, and it hums like a dying wasp.
She hasn’t cried since it started, but now it comes suddenly and without a warning in the form of a hiccup. Then, another. Her grip tightens around her legs, and she presses her head into the flesh of her knees. The sob rips free before she even knows what it is.
It sounds like something breaking, something old and rusted snapping in half.
She tries to stay quiet, tries to muffle the sounds by biting into the flesh on her arm, but it’s no use. Her shoulders start to shake, her chest seizes, and she feels like she can’t breathe. Another sound breaks from her chest, but it’s high-pitched, almost like a wounded animal.
She sinks deeper into the water, wishing it would swallow her whole. Wishing she could disappear beneath the water, but she has already done that, hasn’t she? Disappeared. A missing person.
She claws at her scalp with trembling fingers, short nails digging into the skin. She thinks about the photos, the ones of her sleeping, and how the man was inside her apartment. She thinks he could be watching right now. She shouldn’t let herself lose control like this.
The shaking turns into spasms, uncontrollable. She lets go of her knees and slides down the tub until her back hits the cast iron. It hurts. She feels like she’s breaking open.
She thinks she was stupid for going after him without warning anyone; she could have at least left a note. Left something, doesn’t matter what, just something. She should have called in sick that morning, asking for a mandatory leave. She curses herself.
“Why hasn’t he come for me yet?” She covers her mouth with both hands. She doesn’t mean that. She doesn’t want to die.
Minutes pass. She lies still in the tub as her cries become quieter. Her body is limp and hollow, like there is no soul left in it. Just void, endless.
Her eyes flicker to the sink where her clothes sit, the water dirty around them. She collects herself and stands. She grabs a towel and wraps it around herself.
She finds the third body later that night.
FBI HEADQUARTERS
30TH JANUARY, 1995
08:43 AM
They did it. They found something. Something that was stacked between pages of books, something she left on accident or unconsciously, by mistake. Yet, it provides them with hope of finding her. The first photos, the letter, and the hair with the ribbon.
Scully leans over the table, flipping through the photographs. “These are meticulous. Careful.”
Mulder nods, agreeing with her. “He’s not obsessed, he’s methodical. Playing some kind of game.
Skinner says nothing, just stares ahead of the board, his hands balled into fists. A map of the United States covered in pins.
Seven pins across seven states, but there is no order. They’re just guessing. Or trying to.
When he speaks, it’s low and steady, yet his words sound a little unsure. Unsure of what to make of all this. Unsure of what to do. “Run the hair in the lab, look for fingerprints. Run the handwriting as well, see if there are any matches. Give me every case that went cold.”
He picks one up, the one where she’s asleep on the couch, and stares at it for a long time.
SOMEWHERE ALONG THE BORDER OF LOUISIANA AND TEXAS
10TH FEBRUARY, 1995
03:21 PM
She found the fourth one easily, but the fifth was even harder than the other ones. As she gets closer to the end, it becomes nearly impossible to locate the graves.
Yet, she succeeds. Maybe, she hasn’t slept in over 39 hours again, but she doesn’t care anymore. She just wants to get to the end line, no matter what. She can’t give up now.
She spends her days in the car, hunched over her notebook and the clues he has left, trying to find logic, trying to make sense of it all. Yet, she sees no pattern.
It’s her birthday. Which makes it worse, she can’t stop thinking about her father, his funeral, how she wishes she could be curled up in her bed right now, eating cheap store-bought birthday cake and sipping on a bottle of wine.
But she knows she shouldn’t let these thoughts interfere with her investigation, not when she’s so close to the finish line. Not when she’s so close to going home.
She stumbles upon the fifth one when she has parked her car at the bottom of a little valley, surrounded by trees. She didn’t even mean to find it just yet. But she’s glad she did.
But it’s more disturbing than the others; she doesn’t find a grave; all she finds is the body of a woman stuffed into a bin in an empty parking lot. She has been cut up into pieces, face distorted, beyond recognition. She throws up. She calls it in. At this point, it has all become a routine. One, that she hates.
She gets back on the road as soon as possible, the next piece of clue stuffed away in her coat’s pocket.
SHAW
WASHINGTON D.C.
11TH FEBRUARY, 1995
It’s a dead end. There is nothing else he could do. The lab couldn’t help them at all; they pulled no DNA from the photos or the letter, only hers. The hair was a dead end as well; it led to a case, but it’s been solved years before, the victim happy and alive, living somewhere in Oklahoma. He sent Mulder and Scully after the woman to question her, but she didn’t know how it could have happened; she doesn’t even remember her hair being cut by someone other than her hairdresser.
The quote Mulder and Scully found in her apartment doesn’t even mean anything.
Now, he stands in his apartment, which is too quiet. He misses her rare but rich laughter filling the rooms. He misses how they’d sing the songs from their mixtape, or from a record she’s discovered recently. Chinese orders, expensive scotch, and wine. Talking about anything and everything on the couch, filling the silence with jokes, even arguing.
Waking up side by side or her waking up in the guest room, getting ready for work together on weekdays, and eating breakfast at the tiny dining table.
Lunch breaks where she breaks down his office door, just to be able to eat her sandwich in his office while he works on paperwork. Friday nights in the nearby bar, where they laugh with coworkers or by themselves.
Or even fighting over nothing, a disagreement over a case. Calling in the middle of the night because one of them had a nightmare, and driving over each other’s apartments half asleep.
He misses all these little moments that shape most of their lives.
He breaks down in the doorway. And he doesn’t cry often.
UTAH
20TH FEBRUARY, 1995
She is running out of time. She is so far away from Washington that it worries her. And she’s sure they stopped looking for her a week ago, as the broadcasts had stopped the last time she was at a gas station. She feels like she’s close to the end, but she’s sure they’ve hit a dead end.
And it makes her stomach hurt because what if something goes wrong when she finds the last body? There is a high chance she’ll find the stalker as well, when she discovers the last grave. But she has no backup, no one who could help her out in a life-or-death situation. No bulletproof vest.
The sixth body was surprisingly easy to find back in Colorado, a paper heart led to it, cut out from an old history book. She almost laughed at how easy it was to dig up the corpse on the outside of a town.
But now she sits in her car, in the passenger seat for a change. She stares at the last clue he has left for the last body: a picture of her in the bathtub back in Mississippi. It makes her ribs tighten around her lungs, knocking the wind out of them. She desperately wanted to believe she was alone at that moment.
Another clue sits in the envelope, but she hasn’t touched it yet; she stares at herself in the photo, naked body, full of scars that resemble each case she has ever worked on, hair slick with water, skin red and hurting. Unrecognizable. Missing.
She pulls herself together and reaches for the envelope. That’s when she hears it. A click. One sound that’s too familiar to her, yet so different. A camera. Her heart starts pounding, but when she jumps out of the car, holding her loaded weapon, ready to shoot, there is no one to be found.
Only the sounds of late winter, the leaves rustling against each other, the soft ground beneath her feet.
She has one last body to find.
The envelope contains nothing but the name of a town she’s unfamiliar with. And a small, simple drawing of a barn in the corner of the paper, circled in red. It’s too easy.
Maybe it’s supposed to be easy. Maybe it’s a trap. But she’s blind now, blinded by success and the thought of going home. Blinded by the fact that she could be flying home tomorrow if possible, leaving everything behind, this car, these dirty clothes, the almost torn gloves she wears every time she buries herself knee-deep in mud.
She doesn’t think about it too much, though. She pulls the map out and starts looking for the town. It’s not too far from where she currently is, just a few miles north.
PAROWAN
UTAH
27TH FEBRUARY, 1995
09:18 PM
It’s already dark when she pulls up outside the barn. It’s eerily quiet; the whole town is asleep, undisturbed. She doesn’t know what to expect. She holds her gun close to her chest, bracing herself for the worst. She takes careful steps towards the door and pushes it open with ease. Yet, it creaks until the hinges are unable to let it open further.
Inside, it’s dark, even darker than the night outside, if that’s possible. The hay rustles under her boots as she takes slow steps inside, her flashlight flickering.
At first, she doesn’t even notice it, because she doesn’t look up. She looks at her surroundings, looks at the stacks of hay, a pitchfork in one of the heaps. But after a few moments, after she finds it safe to lower her guard while she looks for the body, she finds it.
It’s unmistakable. She should have noticed as soon as she entered.
The corpse of a middle-aged man hangs from a bass bar. Rope wrapped tightly around his neck. He only wears pants, no shirt. A bloodied cross is cut into his chest, almost glowing in the dark as she flashes her flashlight at it. She takes a step back in disbelief. Is this her stalker or someone else entirely? She doesn’t know how to react.
Then, a voice comes. It sounds funny. “You found the last one!” The voice says, and she hears him giggle. “Oh Lord, that was a long journey from home, wasn’t it? You must be tired!”
“Who are you?” Her voice comes out steady, but inside, she feels her bones rattle with every word she speaks. She draws her weapon, ready to defend herself.
“No need for that,” the man simply says. She doesn’t see him. It feels like he’s everywhere, his voice coming from every direction inside the barn. He doesn’t say anything for a minute, then speaks again. She can hear his breath hitch before he starts talking. “Doesn’t it remind you of something?”
It does, she wants to say, but won’t. She won’t play games anymore. She’s tired. And the sight of a hung corpse doesn’t disturb her anymore, in any way.
“I know it does,” the man says. “It reminds you of your father, right? That early afternoon, when you discovered his lifeless, pale body in the garage. Your scream echoed through the entire neighborhood, and your mother couldn’t get away from the body while they dragged you away. Doesn’t it remind you of that?”
She shuts her mouth. How the hell does he know all of this? She’s sure these specific details are written down somewhere in her file, but she knows those have been classified since the case in Enoch, where she lost her mother. He shouldn’t have access to those.
She looks for who the voice belongs to, her flashlight’s beam searching for every possible movement.
“Come out,” she shouts, trying to command the space. “If you wanted me here, then show me your goddamned face.”
Silence.
Then a quick, deliberate clap above her. She looks up, aiming her gun into the rafters.
The voice coos, “I never thought you’d be this beautiful when you’re terrified. God, I waited so long for this moment. Do you know how hard it is to stay in the shadows? To hide when all I wanted was for you to see me?”
She feels sick.
“Step out into the light,” she says. Doesn’t want to play along, feeds into whatever crazy obsession this is. “Right now.”
“Sure,” comes the answer from behind her, but as soon as she turns on her heels, smearing white pain cuts through her entire body, making her fall to her knees in a scream. She feels blood running down her leg, pooling around where she kneels, painting the hay surrounding her, red. It bleeds fast and heavy.
“I’m the reason you’re unable to sleep at night for the rest of your life. The reason you’re unable to go home, even though you want to, so badly. The reason you’ve been running for miles. Through states to find bodies that are not even important, because they’re nobodies. People who don’t matter, never did in their lives. And for what? To feel what, exactly? To feel that you’ve sold another case successfully, all on your own, without killing the partner that’s been assigned to you? To prove something you thought you could never? To feel fulfilled?”
She can’t answer, her mouth stuck in a painful frown. She tries to press down on the cut, but it just won’t stop bleeding.
“Did you really think this would give you closure?”
Her flashlight catches a flicker of someone moving through the heaps, like swimming in the sea. “Stop moving!” She grits her teeth through pain. “Hands where I can see them!”
She fires twice at something, doesn’t see at what exactly, but she fires. And probably misses. Her hands are trembling, flashlight unsteady.
“I liked watching you,” he continues, and God, does she want to scream right now for him to stop. Is this supposed to be some kind of torment? A lesson? “You looked so strong, yet so tired. I wanted to reach out and cradle you. Isn’t that what I promised? To wrap you in something soft?”
She thinks, this is it. This is where I die. In an unmarked barn somewhere buried in Utah, probably cut up into pieces like one of the corpses she found, left in a dump.
But then, she sees someone step into the light.
He looks ordinary. He’s average, disarmingly so. A face you’d forget in a crowd.
“What are you?” she breathes, looking up at him in disbelief. He grins, and she feels bile building up in her throat.
“I’m your mirror,” he shrugs his shoulders. Like it’s a joke, like it has been a prank all along. “You didn’t even notice the corpses I gave you resembled some of your past cases, didn’t you? Did you even look? And here I was, thinking you were actually smart. Unless that Oxford degree is fake.”
“It’s not,” she spits. He doesn’t answer anymore, just stares down at her.
The silence stretches too long. Minutes go by until he speaks again, “Well, I’d hate to say goodbye.”
“I’m sorry?” she looks up at him. “You’re finished?”
“I am,” he starts walking towards the exit. “It’s been real fun, but I think you’ve learned your lesson.”
She blinks once. Twice. Is it over? Just like this? What was even the whole point of this, if it’s over with a simple goodbye? No life-or-death fight over the truth, just simple words. She can’t believe what she’s hearing.
He turns back. “I mean,” he starts, trying to articulate his words. He gestures with his hands towards her. “Sydney, didn’t you think that this was a trap all along? To leave you injured in the middle of nowhere until you bleed out? To lure you away from home to right into your death? To remind you not to follow your heart and your instincts in every case?”
“No, this can’t be it,” she cries. It’s not tears; it sounds like a call for help.
“But it is!” He says aggressively, his voice rising. “I’m alive, but you’re barely standing on your feet! You are supposed to die!”
“But why?” She can’t stop the tears from streaming down her cheeks, and she clutches her gun close to her heart.
“God!” He says, and he sounds almost annoyed. “Because you’ve cost so many people their lives! And they didn’t even matter! They all died for a lost cause! You are the lost cause!”
She lets the words sink in. For a while, there is silence again, and this time, it stays. She hears the barn door close behind her, darkness surrounding her.
He is gone.
FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON D.C.
1ST MARCH, 1995
08:00 AM
She doesn’t even remember how she managed to get back home. All she remembers is the back seat of her car where she tried to close up the wound on her torn Achilles heels, without any sedatives, blood smearing all over the seats and her.
She does remember she abandoned her car at Salt Lake City, got on a flight back to D.C. without alarming anyone; she has become so unrecognizable that no one even turned their heads after her as she walked through the gates.
And she remembers opening the door to her apartment, Skittles running to her, and rubbing her fur against her muddied jeans.
She hasn’t alarmed anyone that she’s back. She’s still considered a missing person.
But now, she steps into the small office area outside of his office, where Arlene sits behind a desk, making a call, but when she sees her, she gasps. Arlene claps a hand in front of her mouth.
She smiles at her. She goes to stand in front of the door, and she considers two options: she knocks on the door like any other person would or busts the door down. But she hears voices from inside, so she decides to knock. She opens it after a moment passes.
Everyone in the room stands when she pokes her head inside. Scully yelps in surprise, and Mulder’s eyes widen. Skinner stands, and she can see him visibly start shaking.
“How dare you,” he says, and without a warning, he’s in front of her, gripping her arm like it’s a lifeline. She almost flinches, but doesn’t. His voice is heavy. “Agents. Out.”
“But Sir-”
“I said out,” the way he says those words makes the hair rise on her limbs.
Mulder and Scully scurry out the door, but for a moment, she can feel Scully grab her other forearm, her touch radiating warmth and comfort. You’re home and you’re alive.
When the door closes behind them, she stares up at him. Really stares, takes in his features, how his hands turn into fists, how he straightens his back. How his glasses fog up with every breath he takes.
“I’m sorry?” she asks. “How dare I what?”
He takes a deep breath, swallows hard. She watches his Adam’s apple jump in his throat. “How dare you not call. How dare you leave without a word, a note, a goddamn phone call,” he is still gripping her arm, and it kind of hurts now. His voice is trembling, not with fear, but with rage, grief, disbelief. “Without letting anyone know if you’re dead or alive.”
She almost laughs and says, “Did you want me to send smoke signals?” but controls herself. But she’s tired to her core. Bones and scars aching with every move she makes. With every step she takes.
Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
“You vanished, Sydney,” he grits, and she closes her eyes for a moment. He lets go of her and goes to stand in front of the window behind his desk. “Do you understand what that did to us? Did to me?”
He slams his fist down onto the desk, and she flinches, bringing one of her hands in front of her, almost like defense. She has no right to. She understands his anger, and he has every right to be angry with her.
She can not stop herself before the words leave her mouth: “No one asked you to care.”
His eyes dart to her, “Don’t you dare.”
“I told you before, Walt,” she steps in front of him, pointing a finger into his chest. “This isn’t something you can control. I was hunted. I was being watched for years! I was-”
“You should have come to me!” he snaps. “You should have called me the minute you found those pictures! I could have helped!”
“You would’ve tried to stop me! And you said it yourself, that you wouldn’t be able to, no matter what? So, what’s your point?”
He doesn’t say anything, just stares holes into her eyes, the bags beneath them, her pale skin. The freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose aren’t as visible as they used to be. Her chapped lips, a little blood bubbling from one of the cracks.
Her voice grows louder, “Do you think that with your help, he could have been stopped? Well, you’re wrong. You know what he did? He laughed in my face, called me stupid, and walked away like nothing ever happened. Like I wasn’t digging up corpses in nameless towns just to find out what it was all about, to put an end to this. And I failed! I fucking failed! Because he got away, and I’ve nothing! Nothing to prove that he killed all those people!”
“I didn’t have a choice!” She screams, finally, letting all the air escape her lungs. “I had to do it. If I didn’t, I’d be the next one in the ground or-”
He watches as her chest heaves, her face reddens with anger. “And now what? You come back here expecting this to go all back to normal? Sydney, you put your work and your entire life on the line, without even thinking about it, for a minute. Without hesitation. Don’t you think you’ll have a hearing, because you went to work on an unauthorized case, endangering yourself and others? You’re going to get suspended!”
She lets out a laugh, but it’s bitter. “You don’t get it,” she smiles painfully. “I expected you to understand, but you never did, did you? You just want me alive to feel like your job is complete.”
“That’s the worst bullshit I’ve ever heard in my entire life,” he snaps. “I want you alive because I-”
He stops himself. But the rest of the sentence hangs in the air, unsaid.
And she slaps him. Because she can’t take it. She can’t and won’t hear it. Doesn’t want to wrap her head around it. Her action even surprises her, because she’s never done this; if it wasn’t for her job, she’d never hurt a soul, and she just did, and she retrieves her hand as fast as possible, and she takes a step back.
She looks at her hand, and he stares at her, eyes widening in disbelief. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, but he can’t even hear her words over his ringing ear. She feels tears collecting in her waterline. “Walt, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have-”
“Get out.”
She does, she takes one final look at him, and she can see the outline of her palm on his cheek. She feels her heart clench in her chest, and she thinks she’s going to have a heart attack.
The door closes behind her with a loud BANG! Like she’s been kicked out. Maybe she has been. She stares at the ground, but when she lifts her head to look at Arlene, she notices Scully and Mulder sitting on the couch with widened eyes. Like deer caught in headlights.
She doesn’t say another word. Not for the rest of her life, she decides. She turns to Arlene, who is perched on the edge of her seat, also looking at her with disbelief reflecting in her eyes.
She walks away without uttering a word.
NOMA
WASHINGTON D.C.
1ST MARCH, 1995
10:00 PM
The guilt eats at her guts. It stabs her in the abdomen but pulls the dagger out just to strike again. She hasn’t gotten up from her bed in hours, too exhausted to even go to the toilet. Or to feed Skittles, which she also feels guilty about. She just lies sideways, letting her endless tears wet her flowery sheets.
She shouldn’t have slapped him. She never did once in her life, or she did once, but it was more like a punch, and at that time, it felt reasonable. She had done it out of betrayal. This time, she didn’t have the right to, she didn’t have any reason or logic behind her actions, she did it because she didn’t want to hear two simple words.
Ones that they said thousands of times before, but in the morning in his office, those words radiated with a different energy, one that she couldn’t quite place anywhere.
She listens to the quiet purrs of Skittles as she lies between her arms, content with having her owner back.
She wants to get up to at least change out of her clothes; she can feel her jeans clinging to her skin where the cut lies, probably infected, slick with blood.
But she couldn’t care less.
That’s when the quiet knock on the door comes. She doesn’t raise her head to see who it is, doesn’t say “it’s open, come in”. But she hears keys, and the lock turns. She wants to bury herself between the blankets and the pillows and let the bed swallow her whole.
She hears how a bag drops on the ground, then a jacket being pulled off a body and being placed on the hanger by the door. Then come the steps, approaching her bedroom.
The door opens with a quiet and slow creak. She turns away from the light that seeps in through the living room.
He still came back after what she’d done. He’s here and he sits on the edge of her bed, near where her legs are pulled up into her chest.
She caresses Skittles carefully; the cat lifts her head to look at him in the dark. “Couldn’t sleep.”
She whispers, “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” he says. A pause. “I’m sorry, too.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“Maybe I am,” he whispers, then tries to search for her face in the dark. “Is it working?”
“Not really.”
“Will you forgive me?”
He climbs beside her, asking for permission by letting his arm hang in the air, and when she nods, he lets it fall to her waist, burying his face in her head. Her shoulders begin to shake, and she can’t control it anymore, but he doesn’t mind.
summary: High school reunion in December, back in their hometown. What starts out as a vacation, turns into a triple-murder investigation; thanks to Spooky Mulder.
pairing: Walter Skinner & Original Female Character
warnings: EXPLICIT description of blood, gore, death, corpses, mentions of SU1C1DE (in the form of a letter), be careful while reading!!!
notes: this is actually the most recent chapter, i've just finished it today. also, the longest one so far.
wc: 12.7K
“or will he crush me to a grain
a dark abandoned piece of grit
and never light my soul again
when infant stars are newly lit”
Sándor Kányádi
MONTEAGLE
TENNESSEE
7TH NOVEMBER, 1994
High school reunion, back in their hometown, four nights to spend in her childhood home. His has been sold right after his parents’ death. Hers hasn’t; she didn’t have the heart to put it up for sale, and her aunt would have killed her in her sleep if she did.
It had been almost a month since her last case. The long ride from Washington to Tennessee had drained the energy out of them, her bones, her scars aching, even though they stopped for a night at a motel between states. When they arrive, they pass the church neither of them has ever stepped foot into by their own will, only if they had to. Their old high school, the gymnasium, the park they used to play hide and sneak in when they were ten.
Then, they arrive at the house. The white paint of the outer wall peeled in various places; a swing hangs by only one chain in the garden, long abandoned. The wood of the front porch has yellowed over the years, with a hole stretching between the cracked planks.
They settle in surprisingly easily, but she cannot miss how he glances over to the next house through the windows of the living room. She knows what he is thinking about. Who moved into his home? A family? Or is there only one person accompanied by a pet? She doesn’t ask him what he thinks, but she knows.
She takes her old room; he takes the guest bedroom down the hall. It’s weird, unfamiliar, after all those decades. She feels old. They both are now, she thinks. They get ready to head out for the event. She wears an elegant black dress, hidden by her long coat, and he wears one of his work suits.
7:30 PM
The night air is sharp when they exit their rental and approach the gymnasium. Her heels click on the floor. For the first time in hours, she speaks: “You know, I saw a little boy running around in the garden next door.”
He nods. She continues, “I wonder if they changed the wallpaper in your old room.”
They enter the place, light music filling the spacious hall. She suddenly feels eighteen again; she thinks he does too, because suddenly it all feels like they are back at prom, all heads turning towards them as they claim a desk and write their nametags.
“Do you think I should write Assistant Director Walter Skinner?” he asks, and she chuckles. He hadn’t heard her laugh in months.
“Yeah, show them who’s the boss here,” she smiles, as she writes her name down on a piece of paper, then pins it to the strap of her dress. “You know what, we could have pinned our badges to our clothes. Would have been the same as these stupid nametags.”
He laughs. Then, they decide to head to the bar. He orders red wine for her and a scotch for himself. They savor their drinks slowly, not wanting to talk to any of their old classmates just yet. Then, she notices some familiar faces, some old friends sitting at a table not too far from theirs, her first fling chatting with a woman she barely recognizes anymore, but when she looks at Skinner, his mouth is slightly agape.
“What?” she asks.
He points at the woman she has also noticed. “Is that… Cindy?” She turns her head towards the person and slowly nods. “God, she looks…”
“Someone who has given birth to at least four children. Yeah,” she giggles at her own words, but he doesn’t pay attention to her anymore. She turns to him again. “Oh god, Walt, no. No, keep it in your pants. Please.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, shaking his head slowly, like he’s trying to get rid of his thoughts. She frowns. But before she can continue paying attention to her drink, the woman comes up to them with a widely stretched smile plastered on her face. Lips painted blood red.
She can barely focus on Cindy’s words; she doesn’t care. What she cares about is already getting out, even though they have just arrived. She thinks they have wasted enough time here. But Skinner doesn’t even budge. When she puts a hand on his, he is already wrapped around the blonde’s finger. She sighs and decides to step out for a smoke.
She leans against the wall of the building and takes out a cigarette from her pack. She lights it, inhales the smoke, and blows it out slowly. She hears laughter from inside but doesn’t care. She has almost finished her cigarette when she hears footsteps approaching, and she turns her head expecting Skinner to be there, but it’s not him.
It’s Charlie.
She forces the bile back down her throat when she realizes that he is coming her way. “Sydney, is that you?” the voice asks, unfamiliar. Disgusting. But she puts on a polite smile, puts out her cigarette, and extends her hand towards the man. He shakes it. “It has been so long!”
“Yes,” she laughs, but it’s not real. She looks at her watch on her wrist awkwardly. “How have you been, Charlie?”
“Good, good,” he says. The atmosphere between them is awkward, to say at least, considering their past. He asks her about where she lives now, she answers “Washington”, he asks her if she is still in contact with her mother, she answers “She died last year.”, he asks how life has been treating her, she answers “Well enough.”. She wishes the ground would open and swallow her whole.
Or for Skinner to come to his senses. For them to go back home. Not to her old house, but back to Washington.
Then, her phone rings and she thanks whatever God is up there for saving her. She steps away, “Sorry, probably work stuff.”
“At this hour?” he laughs. “Aren’t you an FBI agent now?” she looks back at him, with a strange expression on her face. He looks unfazed. How does he know that? She doesn’t have a reputation back in this town; she made sure of that, and she is sure she didn’t mention her work in the past ten minutes.
“I am,” she says simply, then answers the call. “Denver. Oh, Spooky, what’s up?”
She feels Charlie’s gaze on her back. It makes her uncomfortable, but she tries not to pay attention to it. “What? Here? Are you sure? Okay, whatever. Will the two of you come up here? No? Well, that’s okay, but considering this is a favor, you owe me something. Not funny. Okay, see you in a few days. Take care, bye.”
She hangs up and turns back to the man, but he has already left. Strange. She heads back into the building and starts looking for Skinner. She finds him still accompanied by Cindy, who touches his arm a bit too comfortably, his tie loosened. She frowns and walks up to them.
She touches his other arm to get his attention. When he looks down at her, she can see behind his eyes the amount of alcohol he has consumed in the little time she was gone. She rolls her eyes and looks at Cindy.
“Sorry to interrupt you, but we have work to do,” she says and tries to pull him away. She bats her eyelashes at her.
“We do?” he asks, words slurring a little. She waves goodbye and drags him out of the gymnasium.
“Yes, we do,” she answers and tries to help him into the passenger seat. “God, you are such a lightweight. The first part of our work is getting you sobered up so you can play the role of the assistant director again. Mulder just called, and he said it’s important.”
“And you trust him?”
“Yes, I do, just because what he said and what he’ll be faxing over tomorrow is off-putting.”
He nods, letting her words sink in, trying to process them. The drive back to the house is quiet and short, but he still almost manages to doze off. She helps him inside and up the stairs, peeling off his clothes, helping him put on some sweatpants and a tee. She wonders how many shots he took in under fifteen minutes. He gives him a painkiller and a glass of water to drink before putting him into bed. Sometimes, she wonders how some of his coworkers would react to seeing him in this way. She’s glad she’s the only one witnessing him in this state.
8TH DECEMBER, 1994
8:13 AM
The next morning is even stranger than the encounter she had with Charlie last night. The unfamiliar setting of her room scares her at first, the light pink walls, the band posters plastered all across them, a brown desk in one of the corners, a wardrobe in another one.
Freshly made coffee fills the house, and that gets her out of bed. She puts on a shirt and some work pants and heads downstairs. She finds him standing in front of the kitchen counter, head in his hands, almost asleep. But he stirs awake at the sound of her footsteps and murmurs a quiet “morning” to her. She chuckles.
“Hungover?” she asks while she pours a cup of coffee for him and herself. She slides the mug across the counter.
“Don’t even start,” he sighs, then tries to gather all his willpower to look up at her. She is already buttering a toast. “So, what’s this case about?”
“I’m surprised you managed to remember that we have a case.”
“Very funny.”
She ignores him and starts eating. “But honestly, I don’t know. Spooky said he’ll fax it over to the sheriff’s department, so I guess we’ll have to visit.”
She takes the upstairs bathroom; he takes the one downstairs. They get ready in silence, moving around Sydney’s house like they did decades ago. But it’s different now, the whole town is different. The streets are silent as well; the toaster doesn’t make the usual clicking noise like it did when they were fifteen. She makes another cup of coffee, but before she can finish her breakfast, he signals that he is ready to take off and start the day.
God, she wishes their vacation wasn’t ruined like this. She curses Mulder.
The car ride over to the sheriff’s department is also silent. The only thing she can hear is his breathing; she sees from the corner of her eye how his chest rises and falls steadily with every breath he takes. At least, this is constant in my life. They park outside and make their way through the glass doors.
They are greeted by a person they haven’t seen in decades, like everybody else, old man Beckett. His figure has shrunk since the last time they saw him, hair and moustache graying, but his shoulders are still broad, wrinkles decorate his face, mostly around his eyes. He smiles at the two of them, shakes hands with Skinner, and grits his teeth at her in a grin.
“God, kids, you really did grow up,” he starts walking towards a room, turning away from them. They both follow him into a small office space. A coat hanger stands in the corner next to the door, and a desk takes up most of the space in the whole room. The man sits behind it, resting his elbows on the surface, and gestures for them to sit. They do; Skinner pulls out a chair for her to sit down. She gets comfortable, crossing one leg over the other, and watches Skinner almost do the same. “How have you been?”
“Thank you, Sir, life is treating us well,” he answers for both of them, and she nods along. “You?”
“Well, my health has been acting up for the last couple of months, but other than that, I’m fairly okay,” she can’t help but notice how his eyes shift towards a window, looking out to the park. She wonders what he’s thinking about. Probably how he once caught them sneaking out one night in junior year, her smoking stolen cigarettes, and him holding her hair while she threw up after she drank too much liquor. Which was also stolen from her father’s cabinet.
“And other than…” she starts softly, not finishing her sentence. Beckett nods, and suddenly, his gaze turns darker.
“Other than?” Skinner asks and turns his head towards her. She doesn’t look at him, keeps her eyes on the sheriff. “Would you mind filling in the details for me?”
“I thought you already did, Miss Denver,” Beckett says and suddenly stands to retrieve a few pieces of paper from the fax machine. The ones Mulder sent over this morning for them. “As you know, your co-worker sent this over to us a few hours ago.”
He hands them to Skinner. He fixes his glasses on his nose and starts reading through it. She watches as his face shifts into something similar to disbelief. “This happened just a few days ago?”
“Yes,” Beckett says, and sits back down. He pulls out some more files from a drawer and slides them across the desk. She takes them. “It’s something like we haven’t seen before. Not since I’ve been working here.”
Not since you took over my father’s job, she wants to say, but tries to control herself. She looks at the photos attached to the folder, studies them carefully.
It isn’t something she hasn’t seen before, but she knows the sheriff is correct; it’s something this town hasn’t seen before. It’s grotesque and disgusting. It almost amazes her.
The picture shows a woman, completely gutted out, her intestines tied around her limbs, her neck. She hangs in a barn, surrounded by bloodied hay. She hears him clear his throat, but keeps her gaze fixed on the crime scene photos in front of her. The victim’s face is completely distorted, beyond recognition. She wonders who she could be.
“Isn’t that the barn just outside town?” he asks, and she suddenly lifts her head to look up at Beckett, awaiting his answer.
“It is,” he says. “One of the farmer boys found him one morning, but says that the night before, she wasn’t there. That there was no sign of anyone breaking in before that morning, because he was the one who locked the barn.”
“And have you identified the victim yet?”
“No, we are still waiting for the forensics report,” he sighs, massaging his forehead with his chubby fingers. “They said that they’ll only be able to make a profile by dental record, and that takes time around here.”
“Do we have any idea who she might be? Did someone come forward, a parent, a sibling? Family? Anyone?”
“Nope, but I’m sure she is from around here. You could call it a feeling.”
“You better be wrong, though,” she interrupts. “I feel like I have seen that dress before.”
“You have?” Skinner turns to look at her, but she avoids his eyes like the plague. She nods.
“Yes, it’s familiar.”
The phone rings. Beckett picks it up, quickly says to hold, because he’s in a meeting. Another police officer comes to knock on his office door, but he dismisses him and asks him to close the door on his way out.
“You will help us out on this one, right?” he asks. She starts thinking about her options. She wishes Skinner could somehow telepathically hear her thoughts.
She has two choices, two easy ones. Ditch the case, don’t even accept it, get out of town and back home as soon as possible. Or offer their help, find the suspect before he commits again, get into it, stay in her house for a few more days, even weeks, inside those dreadful walls she has come to hate, even though she has been here for a day, after long decades. Try to solve it, try to get to the bottom of it.
But she knows it’s not her call. She finally looks at Skinner, and she finds him looking right back at her. She slowly nods.
“We will try to help,” he says, and she sees how a calm washes over Beckett’s face. Relief. “But we won’t promise anything. We might not be able to be as much of a help as you would like us to be.”
“That’s completely fine with me,” Beckett says, and he stands, holding out a hand to Skinner, then to her. “You don’t have to start right away, take as much time as you need, can’t imagine how hard it can be for you to be back here.”
She knows his words are directed at her. She ignores them. “Thank you for your understanding, Sir.”
“Let me walk you out.”
11:02 AM
“God, I missed this shitty food,” she says, her mouth full of cheap fries. She takes a bite out of her greasy cheeseburger, then washes it down with some Diet Coke. He doesn’t pay attention to her; his face is completely buried in the file spread across their table. He hasn’t touched his food yet.
“Yeah, me too,” he murmurs, and she shoots a strange expression at him.
“You haven’t even touched your order yet.”
“I know.”
“What’s up?” she pushes her tray to the side, wipes her lips with a napkin. She pulls out her notebook and a pen from her bag. Opens it on an empty page, and starts to scribble out some scenarios regarding the case. He turns his head towards her.
“It doesn’t sit right with me,” he exclaims, but before he could continue, she interrupts him, not even looking up from whatever she’s writing.
“It doesn’t sit right with me, either,” she shrugs her shoulders.
“Yet, you don’t seem so bothered.”
She puts her pen down at that and looks at him in disbelief. “That’s nice. I am bothered, for your information. But I have seen things like this before, not even a month ago, and you know that,” she scratches at the scar tissue on her left wrist and looks away. The waitress elegantly sways her hips as she goes up to a family to take their order. She could hear the chef yelling from the kitchen. “But give me a day, at least. Like Beckett said, we are supposed to be on vacation. We were supposed to be on vacation.
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Sorry.”
“You are forgiven.”
“I’m just as irritated as you, because you are right, we aren’t here to solve this case,” his body relaxes, and he lets his head fall back until it makes contact with the booth’s wall behind it. “I don’t even know why I accepted it.”
“I was the one who promised Mulder to look into it,” she tries to comfort him, an apologetic smile forms on her lips. “So really, it’s my fault that we’re stuck here for god knows how long.”
“Probably until we catch this guy.”
“Let’s say, we put the case aside, just for today,” she picks up some fries and chews on them slowly. With her other hand, she pushes his tray towards him, a little closer to encourage him to start eating before it gets too cold. “Then, we’ll start bright and early tomorrow, we’ll go over the whole file, visit the scene, even the lab if we have to. You have authority here, you know that, you can make them work a little faster.”
He nods along with her words and brings his food to his mouth. They eat in silence after that, split the bill, but before they leave, she excuses herself to the bathroom.
She steps into the washroom and places her bag on the counter before washing her hands. She dries her hands, then fixes her nose with some powder. Before she could step out, she bumps into someone, someone familiar. She looks down on the somewhat shorter woman in front of her, who, upon their collision, starts fixing her blouse. She lifts her hands to straighten out the wrinkles on the fabric.
“Cindy?” she asks, voice suddenly small. She hates this woman.
“Oh, Sydney!” the other says, with a far too excited voice. The woman smiles at her sweetly, blonde curls framing her reddened cheek. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
She forces a polite smile on her face. “That’s okay, my bad.”
“How come you’re still in town?” I swear to God, don’t make me do small-talk.
“We were originally planning to leave tomorrow, but we have work to do here,” she wants to leave immediately.
“Really?” Cindy looks surprised. “Are you staying longer? Is Walter here too? I'd better say hi.”
“I’m going to break your nose,” she murmurs, voice not above a whisper.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” she steps to the side, opening the door with one hand while she clutches her bag to her side with the other. “He is out at the car, but we’re in a hurry, hope you don’t mind.”
Cindy acknowledges her sentence and, with a nod, turns to get inside the bathroom. She lets out a long, shaky breath and almost skips through the old diner.
He is already in the driver’s seat by the time she opens the car door.
“What took you so long?” he asks, starting the engine. They pull out of the parking lot and start heading back towards the house. The town is awfully quiet, even though it’s a weekday. She lights a cigarette.
“Ran into Cindy,” she answers between puffs. He sneaks a glance at her and asks her to put out her cigarette. She doesn’t. “She was interested in saying 'Hello' to you.”
“She was?”
9TH OF DECEMBER, 1994
6:21 AM
She snaps one last picture and gets up from the ground.
“It’s all the same,” she says, not looking away from the corpse. “I can clearly see the pattern, I just don’t know when he’s going to take one again. But blonde hair, probably single, passing through town, or just moved in. I don’t exactly know why this location, though, or the barn from the previous one, but it might have significance. I’d probably say that the body has been here for a couple of days now. I just don’t know why they didn’t call it in sooner. Maybe this is a part of town people don’t visit too often anymore.”
“It’s disturbing.”
“You haven’t been out there in the field for ages,” she scoffs and turns away. She starts walking towards their car, passing under the police tape. He waves goodbye to one of the police officers. “So, what’s our next stop? The lab?”
“Yeah,” he nods and enters the car. She puts her camera in the backseat and sits in the front. “They called yesterday to say that they might have found something promising.”
“Did they? Was I asleep?”
“Yes, you already were.”
7:14 AM
The lab is rushing for such an early hour. There are people in white coats with folders and coffee in their hands, running around the whole building. The hallways are painted with neon blue lights, shutters drawn high up. They are following a man with glasses and short hair through a corridor until they reach a quieter room.
“So?” Skinner asks in an impatient voice; she almost chuckles at his tone. The man fixes his glasses and pulls out a folder from a drawer. He hands it to Skinner, and he starts flipping through it.
“We’ve got the victim’s identity,” he starts. Quickly gestures two more and gestures to them to follow him once again. They exit the room and start heading downstairs to the morgue. “Jesse Miles, 39 years old, lived here all her life.”
Her face goes pale as she hears the name. Skinner’s does too. She takes the file from his hand while they enter the morgue. The body is covered with a white cloth. She looks at her charts, the cause of death is strangulation, high traces of LSD in her bloodstream, and internal organs are missing. Bruises on her wrists, her throat, her ankles. The skin on her abdomen was cut off entirely. The man uncovers the body. The face was also cut off.
The woman looks unbelievably pale, paler than a corpse could be, like she’s been out in the winter air for far too long. The bruises are visible; they have taken a darker shade of purple, almost black. The blood has been cleaned from her skin; what’s only left is an empty stomach. The dermis is the only visible layer of skin on her face, but it has taken a lighter pink color, almost completely drained of blood.
With a name matching the body, she remembers half-spoken confessions over a campfire, out-of-breath PE lessons, sharing each other’s lunches at the cafeteria, group projects in English class, lying on the side of the pool during summer. She lifts her gaze to Skinner, and he looks just as terrified as she. They didn’t even notice she wasn’t present at the reunion.
“You all look like you have seen a ghost,” the man comments, and she snaps back to reality and mutters a quiet “We might as well have.”
“Classmate,” Skinner says, but his voice trembles for a moment, and she doesn’t miss it. The man doesn’t seem to notice, though. He clears his throat. “What about the other body?”
“They hadn’t brought her in yet,” the man answers, and fixes his glasses again, probably a nervous habit. “That’s all for now, but I’ll make sure to give you a call when we identify the next victim.
The car ride back home is eerily quiet.
9:54 AM
She clears the dining table to make room for all the evidence so far, not like there is much. But they’ve already got two bodies, but no suspect. They have decided to visit the victims, Jesse’s mother, later in the day, as soon as they can come up with at least something that could be helpful. But as she looks at the crime scene photos laid out and scattered all over the wooden surface of the door, she can’t help but think that this could have been her.
He enters the dining room in a hurry, his phone pressed against his ear. “They identified the next victim,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Elizabeth Ranks.”
“Shit,” she mutters, falling into a chair. Another classmate. He hurries over to support her and sits down next to her. He ends the call and puts the phone on the table.
“Pathologist says we don’t have to come down if we don’t want to. Every injury, cause of death is the same, he doesn’t think we would notice anything else.”
“Fuck me,” she says, completely ignoring what he has just told her. “This can’t be happening right now. Who the fuck is hunting down our class? Why ours? Why not the other two, or I don’t know.”
“I have no idea either. But we now also have to visit Mrs. and Mr. Ranks.”
“Let’s start with Jesse’s mom. I think we’ll get done with her quickly.”
“You look worried,” he says out of nowhere. She looks at him with a surprised expression, brows furrowed.
“Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know…” he gets up from the chair and heads to the kitchen. “Ever since we’ve been in town, you look… Different.”
“I suppose I am kind of disturbed, more than usual,” she admits and picks up a crime scene photo. The barn and the corpse lai out, hay mixing with blood on the muddy barn floor. “We are talking about our classmates, people we have known throughout the most important years of our lives, our childhood.” she holds up a picture of Jesse’s body, now in the morgue for him to see from the kitchen, “This could have easily been me, or you, for that matter.”
He comes back over with two mugs in his hands and sets them down on the table. He gathers the evidence and puts it back into the folder. She takes a sip of her tea, and smiles at how sweet it is.
“I think it’s a coincidence,” he starts, also savoring the taste of the green tea. “I think it’s a coincidence that we are back in town while all of this is happening. I think either somebody we know really wants to get our attention or we’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He might be right, she thinks. “There is something…”
“Yeah?”
She takes a deep breath. She didn’t think about this much before, but now, it might mean something. It might be useful, or at least she hopes it to be. “When you were still inside the gym on the reunion, and I went outside for a smoke, Charlie came up to me.”
“Charlie?” he looks surprised. “That Charlie?”
“Yes, that Charlie,” she nods her head. She hates the memories that start to flood her brain. Like a river overflowing after a storm. “He was casual, asked how I was, how my mom was, I told him she died, but then he asked something weird. You know how we never made a big deal about what our work was? What we decided to do after you came back? We never told anybody, basically. Mulder called me while he was still asking questions, and I said I had to take it, because it might be work, and he asked if I was a federal agent. I thought it was weird.”
He shrugs, puts his mug down on the table. “I don’t think that’s relevant. Charlie is pretty harmless; we both know that.”
She frowns at his remark. He is wrong. He knows what he’s saying is wrong, yet he still stands by it. But she goes along with it. “Sure,” she suddenly gets up and takes both of their mugs to the kitchen. “I’ll get ready, and let’s go visit the families. I don’t want to postpone it.”
10:22 AM
She feels dreadful when she knocks on the door. They hear someone yell a “Coming!” behind the door, and a few minutes later, an elderly woman appears in front of them. She has an apron covering her torso, and she’s wiping her hands with a towel. She takes a long look at them both before realization hits her.
“Sydney? Walter?” she says, her mouth forming a small “o”. “My God, look at you two! What brings you here? Would you like to come in for a drink?”
She puts her hands into her coat’s pockets, and the wooden porch under her shoes suddenly becomes very interesting. She doesn’t dare to look into the woman’s eyes. She decides to let him do the speaking.
“Mrs. Miles,” he starts, he looks at her for a moment, and she can hear his thoughts: Please don’t let me deal with this all alone. But he continues. “We come here for work today,” he flashes his badge, and she does too. “We work as federal agents, and we came to deliver some heavy news. Ones that might require you to sit down.”
The blood leaves Mrs. Miles’ face instantly. Her hands start to shake, her breathing becomes heavier, more rigid. “Oh, God,” is all she says before she turns her back to them and stumbles back into the house. They look at each other, then follow her. She sits on an old couch in what they assume is the living room. Tears have already painted her face.
“We are so sorry, Mrs. Miles,” is all she manages to say. The woman’s loud sobs fill the silence that follows her sentence. She picks at her nails awkwardly, can’t think of anything else to say.
“We are currently leading an investigation. We assume your daughter has been a murder victim, and sadly, there has been another one,” he says, looking down at the rug. He can’t hold the woman’s eyes; he can’t look at Sydney either. “The two cases are probably connected, so we’re trying to stop whatever is happening before it could be repeated and get out of hand.”
The woman nods and goes to grab a tissue. She murmurs a quiet “Sorry for your loss” and a “That’s all.”
She stands and gestures to Skinner to follow her to the door. Before he joins her, he exchanges a few more words with the mother, but he doesn’t think she’s listening to him or that she can understand him. He leaves her in the living room.
“That was hard,” she says as soon as the door closes behind them.
“And we still have to repeat this with Lizzie’s parents,” he answers and stares at his shoes.
“Let’s get done with it as soon as possible.”
10:54 AM
By the time they are at the other end of the town, she can already hear the crying and screaming from inside the Ranks’ house. Somebody got to them before they could, he says, the police car parked in front of the white picket fence. Skinner kills the engine and helps her out of the car; they approach the front door and knock.
A man opens the door. His eyes are red and watery, and there is such sadness in his face that she wouldn’t know how to decide. She has never lost a child, and could never imagine how that must feel for a parent. But she has lost both of her parents, so the two must be a similar pain.
Mr. Ranks stands in front of them, hands shaking. He opens his mouth to say something, but no words leave his mouth. He, instead, steps aside to let them enter.
They found Beckett already at the kitchen counter, comforting Mrs. Ranks. Her head is in her hands; her shoulders are shaking. Her husband goes to stand beside her, and Beckett joins their side.
“We are sorry for your loss,” is all Skinner manages to say once again.
“Let’s go have a word outside,” Beckett whispers to them, and they leave the scene. Her heart clenches at the sight of the grieving parents. She would never wish this pain on anyone.
She wasn’t exactly friends with Lizzie Ranks, but they chatted once or twice. Went to parties together, shared a couple of drinks, and laughs at sleep-away camp. Lizzie asked for her math homework once, that she can remember, because she told her dog had eaten hers. It turned out to be true.
They step back out to the torch, and Beckett takes off his hat, scratching at his scalp awkwardly.
“So, you have told them everything?” Skinner asks, watching the man carefully.
“Yes,” the other answers. “As soon as the lab called me with the news, I got in my car and drove here. They’re great friends of mine.”
Skinner nods understandingly. They stand in silence; all she can think about is getting back home and continue looking through the files to get to the bottom of this. She can’t bear the thought of telling other parents of the classmates the death of their children.
“Have you had a breakthrough yet?”
“No, sir, but we are working on it,” Skinner reassures, but she thinks that they won’t have anything unless the murderer messes up something that could be helpful to them. But she knows another person would have to die for that. She knows there is going to be another case.
“Good,” the sheriff says and starts walking to his car. “I’ll get going now, I have much work to do. I bet you do, too.”
He says his goodbyes, but their feet won’t move towards their car.
“Wanna get burgers and fries?”
03:21 PM
“So, we have already covered what he goes for,” she says, with a mouth full of fries. “Blonde women. But that’s not enough. Was there something else we didn’t see?”
Skinner fixes his glasses. He skips through the pages in one of the files until he stops. He puts the folder on the table and points at a text. “They all left town, right after graduation. Work, school, starting a family, for whatever reason. They all moved out of Tennessee.”
“I did too,” she says.
“Yeah, but you are not blonde.”
“Thank God for that,” she chuckles, but her face gets serious suddenly. “There wasn’t anything special about Lizzie or Jesse. Straight A's aren’t special. Having a high school sweetheart isn’t special,” she slams the notebook in her hand on the dining table angrily. “Fuck this BS, it doesn’t make any sense.”
“Hey,” he says, a hand covering hers. She looks at him. She looks at his face, a small but comforting smile appearing on his lips. “Don’t give up on this yet, we have just started.”
“You’re right,” she groans, retreating her hand. “I shouldn’t.”
She picks up her notebook again and flips through the pages, trying to make sense of her writing, but nothing seems out of place. The killer is precise, didn’t leave any signs on either of the bodies, just the gruesome way he ended their lives. She knows she isn’t a “candidate” for his sick game, but can’t shake the feeling off of her, that tells her something is going to go wrong, as always.
06:00 PM
She dozed off on the couch. A file on her chest, blanket draped over her legs. She dreams about horror movie screenings in the local theatre, late-night conversations on a rooftop. Hugs, warm arms embracing her after she had come back from camping with her father.
She wakes up suddenly, hands shaking slightly at her shoulders. She almost jumps out of her skin when she opens her eyes. The folder falls down to the floor.
“Do not fucking scare me like that again,” she mutters, and collects the fallen-out pages. He helps her, but laughs.
“Sorry, you were out cold,” he says between chuckles, and she can’t help but smile. She remembers being awakened like this once, not by him, but by her dad, one afternoon. She fell asleep on the couch after coming home from soccer practice. Her sports career was short-lived. Her dad woke her up by shaking her shoulders, and when she opened her eyes, he sprinkled some water in them and laughed. She wasn’t mad at him for it, but screamed so loudly she was sure Skinner heard it next door. “I tried calling your name, but that didn’t work.”
“I hate you,” she groans and gets up from the couch. She stretches her limbs, but flinches slightly when the scars on her wrists stretch.
“No, you don’t,” he answers and walks away to the kitchen. He fills his mug with coffee and takes a huge sip.
“You shouldn’t be drinking coffee at this hour,” she says while walking over to him. She takes the mug from his hands and downs the black liquid in one go, then puts the mug in the sink. He murmurs an almost inaudible “what the fuck”. “Why did you wake me, by the way? I was dreaming about when mom kicked both of us out after she found us going through dad’s liquor cabinet.”
“Ah, yes, such a sweet memory,” he nods, and she laughs. “I wanted to tell you that the lab called me, because they found something interesting in Lizzie’s body.”
“Did they?” Her eyes almost sparkled.
“Yes,” he says and goes to grab his coat. He puts it on, and his hands are already on the knob when he sees her putting on her boots and her coat. He stops her mid-motion, takes the coat out of her hand, and puts it back on the hanger. “No, you don’t have to come. I’d like you to go through Jesse’s charts again, to see if there was something we didn’t notice. I’ll call you when I get there.”
She pouts but unlaces her shoes and takes them off. He leaves, but promises to bring dinner back when he returns.
09:11 PM
He never called, never came back home with takeout. She knows better than to call, she still does, and it goes to voicemail immediately. She knows he has probably gotten caught in something. He’s probably still at the lab. But she does find it weird that he didn’t call her with any updates.
She has already taken a bath, eaten a salad for dinner, and gone through both files three times, paying close attention to every typed letter on the paper. Still nothing, still no motivation, no murder weapon, no suspect, no nothing.
Her skin itches at the thought again that they should give up and fly back home, leave it all behind once again. She walks through the house in a robe like it’s not hers, like she didn’t grow up in it. Like she didn’t spend most of her time at the kitchen counter, studying for exams while her mother made dinner. Or when she and her father repainted the entire living room, in one afternoon, completely covered in sage green paint.
She stares at the windows, the walls, the stairs that lead up to the second floor, the fireplace, or the corner where the Christmas tree used to be put every year. The rug that has a dark spot in the middle of it, where she once spilled her cereal on it in an accident.
She walks up the stairs, looking at the darker rectangular shapes on the wall, where family pictures used to hang. She touches one of those spots but retrieves her fingers quickly and swipes the dust off them on her robe. When she arrives at the top of the stairs, she looks around, looks to the other end of the corridor, and starts walking towards her room.
Her door is white, and a sign with her name on it hangs in the middle. It’s surrounded by stickers and paper stars. She turns the knob and steps inside. She gets out of her robe and throws it into her old chair. The pink room surrounds her, and the moonlight shines through the window. She smiles at the old band posters and climbs back into bed. She lets her head hit the pillow and waits for sleep to get her.
Click. Click. Click.
Her eyes shot open, and she rose out of bed in an instant. She reaches for her holster, but it’s not on the nightstand. She forgot it downstairs. She opens drawer after drawer until she finds a small pocketknife.
Click. Click.
“Walter?” she breathes quietly, holding the knife in front of her in defense. But no answer comes from the darkness. She reaches over to the nightstand again and turns on the lamp. She releases a shaky breath as she sees no one is in her room. But for a second, she thought she had seen the face of Raymund Spikes in the corner. Her mind must be playing tricks on her.
Still, she leaves the lamp on for the rest of the night.
10TH DECEMBER, 1994
5:21 AM
She wakes up to the sky still being dark outside and curses the winter weather. She’s cold, her limbs hurt for some reason she can’t wrap her mind around. She goes to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. After she’s done, she goes back to her room to change into something more comfortable; she decides to wear one of her blouses that she stole from her mother when she was younger. It still fits. She puts on some work pants as well and heads downstairs barefoot.
She finds him behind the kitchen counter, at the stove, cooking something that smells delicious. She sits at one of the bar stools and waits for him to notice her. “Morning,” she says when he turns around. “When did you get back?”
“Around ten,” he says while chopping some tomatoes up. He sprinkles some salt over them and places them on each plate. “I checked on you, but you were already asleep.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” she mutters. He places one of the plates in front of her and gives her some utensils. She starts eating. “So, what happened at the lab?”
“I have news,” he says, mouth full of scrambled eggs. He swipes his face with a napkin, then continues speaking. “They found some strange substance in Lizzie’s bloodstream. I stayed at the lab until tests confirmed that it could also be found in Jesse’s. Just a smaller dosage, that’s why they didn’t notice it at first.”
“What was it?” she puts her fork down.
“Ridocaine.”
“Wait,” she runs to the living room where she left her notes last night and comes back with her notebook and a pen. She scribbles down the name. “Isn’t that a muscle relaxant for dogs?”
“Yeah,” he answers. He gestures with the pot in his hand that he could fill her mug up. She nods. “It’s not approved for human use.”
“So, this drug paralyzes humans,” she confirms. She stares at her notes. “Let’s say, our suspect has a dog and uses it as an excuse to get the drug prescribed. Then, goes to pick up these women, drugs them, brutally guts them, end of story.”
“Too easy.”
“You should be glad, if it’s that easy,” she says, and she downs her coffee. “But we still don’t have a suspect or a motive.”
“What I’m thinking is what if he doesn’t have a dog.”
“I think that would be too suspicious, even for a vet. He’d have to see the animal at least once before prescribing medication for it, and then he could just get refills without bringing the animal in.”
“Well, let’s find out.”
9:03 AM
They pull up just as the veterinarian opens his place. He looks old, with almost fully white hair. They look at each other, and she’s sure they’re thinking the same thing. This man wouldn’t even question if someone came in without a dog, asked him to prescribe the drug. He’d just give it to them and be glad he didn’t have any more work to do.
They exit the car, and as they enter the building, a little bell rings above their head.
“Welcome!” the old man says behind the counter, and she flashes her badge. His face instantly drops, and the blood drains out of his already pale and wrinkled face.
“Sir, I’m Agent Denver and this is Assistant Director Walter Skinner with the FBI,” she says, voice monotone. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Oh, yes, sure,” the old man stutters and starts fidgeting with the sleeves of his white coat. “What would you need?”
“We’re leading an investigation. I’m sure you’ve heard about the murders that happened not too long ago. We’d like to know if anyone in the past few days, weeks, or months has asked you to prescribe Ridocaine.”
“You’d like to see my logs?” he asks, voice still small, almost frightened. She can tell this man has never had business with authority before. She nods, and he gestures for them to follow him to what they assume is his office. It’s small, there is only one window, near the ceiling. He turns on the blinding LED lamp that hangs from the ceiling, and then a smaller one that sits on his desk. He starts opening drawers and looking through unorganized papers. “I don’t have much business these days, y’know. Just this guy that comes in occasionally, asking for that medicine you just mentioned. His dog must be very sick.”
Her eyebrows furrow. “You haven’t actually seen this dog? Didn’t you examine the animal?”
The man shakes his head. He pulls out a folder and starts inspecting it. Skinner lowers his body and whispers in her ear a quiet “told you so”. He is grinning like an idiot. He pushes his shoulders with her arm.
“This is it,” he says, holding out the folder to her. Skinner looks over her shoulder while she flips through it. She finds the most recent logs and points at a name. Edward C. Howard.
“That has to be a fake name,” she scoffs in disbelief. “I swear to God, no one actually names their kid Edward with that family name. No one would curse their kids like that,” she looks over her shoulder to look up at him. “Right?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “I’ll make a call and tell the sheriff that we have a possible suspect. Let’s see what he can pull up under that name.”
He steps out, and she leaves the office as well, the old man following her.
“Will you be taking that?” he asks. They reach the counter; he walks back to his place behind it.
“Yes, Sir,” she nods and looks at the logs again. “It counts as evidence, sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” he smiles for the smile. “It’s your duty.”
She doesn’t say anything. She looks outside and sees Skinner waving by the car for her to come out already. She starts walking, but as soon as she sets a hand on the door handle, the man starts speaking.
“You remind me of someone,” he says, and she freezes. She slowly looks back at the man. He’s still smiling. It’s eerie. “You are Daniel’s daughter, aren’t you? You have the same eyes, same hair.”
“You-” she stops before she can finish her sentence. Tries to find the right words. “You knew my father?”
He nods. “I did, when he was still a child. He was so full of life, he had so much curiosity and energy in him.”
She gulps and doesn’t say another word. Nevertheless, he continues. His smile becomes more painful. “How is he, by the way? We moved out of state with my wife after we finished school, and only moved back when she got sick and wanted to come back home. He’s doing okay, right? Does he still live in this town?”
Her hands start to shake, and she feels a lump forming in her throat. But she doesn’t let the tears roll down on her cheeks. “He died when I was sixteen,” she answers, and the words make her stomach do somersaults, not the good kind. The man nods understandingly. She thanks him for his help and finally opens the door to leave.
Just as she sets a foot outside, she bumps into someone who isn’t a body she’s familiar with. She looks up at the man, eyes covered by cheap sunglasses and a baseball hat pulled down all the way on his forehead, covering almost half of his face. Before she can process anything, the man turns on his heels and skips down the stairs. He starts running, loses his baseball cap.
“Fuck!” she yells at runs to the car. Skinner had already started the engine before she could have fastened her seatbelt. They pull out of the parking lot, make a quick turn to follow the man, but they find that he has already turned the corner and disappeared behind the buildings. She holds the folder tightly between her fingers. “Fuck me.”
She gets out of the car and walks around the building on the corner to see if the man has left any tracks that they could follow. She only finds the baseball hat. She pulls out some gloves from her pocket and puts them on. She picks the hat up and inspects it, but there isn’t anything unusual about it. She walks back to the car with it.
“DNA,” he says when she sits in the passenger seat.
“Yeah, I know,” she mutters. “I can’t believe he just outran our car.”
“We were too slow,” he answers and starts driving. “Let’s take that to the lab.”
10:11 AM
By the time they arrive at the lab, there’s already a third body. Her hair was still stained red by her own blood. She looks disgusting, and it makes her almost hurl.
The pathologist opens the door, with files in his hands, and he doesn’t even greet them; he starts speaking immediately. “Cindy Moore, aged 40, same drugs in her bloodstream, missing internal organs, face distorted. Everything’s the same as the previous two, fits the pattern.”
At hearing the name, both of their faces went completely white. The man fixes his white lab coat before speaking. “Don’t tell me she was another classmate.”
“All of them were,” Skinner answers, voice quiet. He leaves the room suddenly, but she doesn’t go after him, just stares at the body laid out before her. The woman who made most of her teenage years a living hell, is now dead.
Oh, God.
“Where was she found?” she asks.
“Just outside of town behind a bar,” the man says, and hands her the victim’s charts.
“Is it closed?”
“No,” he covers the body with a white cloth. “But it only opens on Mondays and Fridays.”
She takes a mental note of that. She leaves the room and finds Skinner standing outside, face still pale. He’s resting his head against the wall.
“You okay?” she asks, one of her hands coming to rest on his arm. He nods slowly, unsure. “Doc said that she was found behind the bar outside of town, but it’s only open tomorrow or Friday. We should check it out.”
He doesn’t say anything. She lets her fingers linger a little longer on his coat, soothing out some wrinkles in the fabric. He pushes himself away from the wall, and she retrieves her hand. “Let’s go home,” is all he says, and he starts walking towards the exit.
She follows him.
09:55 PM
Their ride home this morning was silent. When they arrived home in the morning, they immediately started working, looking into old documents, going through files. They spent the rest of their day in silence, until Beckett called to tell them that they couldn’t pull anything from the name they had given him, so it must be a fake. They couldn’t progress with anything else until the lab pulled DNA from the baseball cap.
Now, she lies awake in her bed. He is on the other side of the hallway, and he probably can’t sleep either. She fiddles with the edge of her pajama shirt, looking up at the ceiling where little stars glow in the dark. They are barely visible.
She rests her other hand on the key on her necklace, absent-mindedly cradling the chain. She picks it up and brings it closer to her face, inspecting the engraved “D. D.” on it. She wonders what would happen if she opened the study.
And she acts on her thoughts, gets out of bed, and slips into her robe and slippers. The window at the end of the hallway has been left open, the cold winter air flooding in. It makes her shiver; she closes it in a swift motion. She walks down the stairs, once again looking at the dark spots on the walls.
She arrives at the wooden door, stares at it for a while. She slowly brings her hands to unclasp the chain around her neck and takes off the key. It fits perfectly. The lock turns, and the door opens with a creak. She doesn’t go in at first, just stares at the darkness that lies ahead of her. She finds the switch next door and turns the lamps on. The warm orange light paints the whole room, welcoming her in.
She was never allowed in here, only after her father passed and left the key to her. But she never actually went inside, the pain too unbearable for her. She doesn’t know what took over her.
She sets foot inside the room, and she immediately smells the dust that has collected over the years on the surface of the furniture. It almost makes her gag.
It’s unfamiliar territory. A desk sits in the middle of the room, the walls are covered in shelves, which are covered in books, almost reaching the ceiling. Behind a desk is a set of double windows; the curtains are drawn closed. A rug covers most of the wooden floor, a Persian one, with a beautiful pattern. Two leather armchairs sit in front of the desk, another one behind it.
She wanders behind the desk and touches the surface lightly with her fingers. She doesn’t wipe off the dust this time, though; she lets it stain her hands. She notices a bunch of yellowed papers, old documents of something, with his signature written all over them.
She never actually knew what his work was. She also discovers a file cabinet in one of the corners. But doesn’t go through it, not yet. She sits down on the rug behind the table, opens one of its drawers, and starts searching. She doesn’t know what she’s searching for, but she is doing it.
She finds folders, records, and after she’s finished looking through the first one, she opens the one above it. She empties it and throws away everything that doesn’t seem interesting to her.
Until she finds an envelope. With her name written on it, in her father’s handwriting.
She gets up from the floor and looks around to see if she can find a letter opener, holding the envelope in her hand very tightly. She finds a silver one.
Her heart is about to jump straight out of her chest.
She cuts it open delicately and goes to sit in one of the armchairs in front of the desk. She finds a handwritten letter and starts reading, tears already filling her eyes.
My dearest Sydney,
When I first laid my eyes upon you, you were such a small human being. I knew you’d change the trajectory of my life. I knew you’d become the center of it, in an instant. My only daughter, the most beautiful soul that has ever walked on this Earth. Eyes like stars, brain like the most unsolvable puzzle I’ve ever seen. Yet, I’d like to believe that I know you.
I know I knew you, because we are one. You cherish relationships like I do; you greet every stranger with kindness in your gesture; you offer your heart to people like it’s free. I’d like to think I raised you well. I did raise you with all my heart, with my best intentions. And now, you are older, I’m older as well, but you’re only turning seventeen in ten days.
You have such a beautiful life ahead of you. You have potential, courage, and patience, one that many people envy. Even I envy it. But I was the one who passed it on to you; it’s in our genes. It’s in our brains, our hearts, to help people in ways no one would have imagined. You, my Sydney, my dear daughter, are going to change lives.
But I must leave you. And I’m saddened to do so, because I didn’t think my life would turn out this way. Even though I believe I gave you everything I could in my power, I failed. I failed as a son, as a husband, as a father. I failed my job. I failed you; I failed to protect you. I would never have thought that it would come to this, but here we are. I’m going to do it tomorrow.
I just hope you are not the one to find me.
But before I do it, I must tell you some things. What to do in your life, what could lead you to the right path. And I won’t be able to tell you in person anymore, so I’ll write it down for you.
Take care of your mother. I know that you never had the best relationship, but I also know that it can be fixed. Just give it time, be patient with her, because it will be hard for her from now on. You might not understand the things she has done, and I could never wrap my head around it as well, so be patient. Patience is one of the many important things in life.
Never stop caring for Walter. You have such a unique bond, one that I have never seen in my whole life and only wished to achieve with one another. Intertwined. Help each other, guide each other, take care of each other. The most important thing is trust. I know you trust him now, but if that trust comes to doubt just once, think of how he was there for you through your whole life. At your best, at your lowest. You saw each other grow up, you saw each other through all the layers that divide each person from one another. It’s special, it’s something to hold onto. So, hold on to him.
And at last, me. I know you’d never dare to forget me. I know you’ll visit me and bury my memory deep inside your heart. I know you wish to be like me, but don’t; be different, be your own person. Pursue your dreams, the ones that you have always dreamed of achieving. Not for me, but for yourself. Always for yourself. Sydney, you have made my life better; you have made it bearable. I’m not telling you why I’m doing this; you’ll probably find out eventually. But no, it wasn’t because of you. It never will be. It wasn’t your fault.
I will always love you,
Dad
PS: I'll leave you the key to my study, you’ll find it on the kitchen counter, don’t let your mother take it. But if you’re reading this, I know you found it. In my office, you will find hundreds of reports and charts of patients, patients I saw and tried to help during my time working for a church. Or a cult, whatever you want to call it. I deeply regret what I’ve done in the past, and as you can see, it has caught up to me, so beware, don’t let the same thing happen to you. With those files, you can form a history that will help you on your journey if you ever try to find out what happened to me. I’m sorry.
10:29 PM
He hears a sob at first. A sound that he doesn’t know where to place in this house, because he hasn’t heard anything like it in years. A sob, a cry.
Then, a guttural, brutal scream. He jolts up in bed, puts his glasses on, slips into his robe, and sprints down the hallways and the stairs. He notices the open study door. He doesn’t dare to move, but he can’t control his body as it takes over and makes him poke his head inside the room.
“Sydney…?” The door creaks further until its hinges won’t let it. His voice not above a whisper. He sees her. “Oh, God.”
The scene is definitely something. She sits on the floor in front of a wooden desk, arms discarded at her sides, a paper in one of her palms. The letter opener thrown away to the other side of the room. Her eyes wild and big and filled with tears as she looks up at him, mouth agape. Disbelief. Heartbroken.
Completely and utterly shuttered.
He hasn’t seen her like this in years. Maybe decades. He isn’t sure when the last time he saw her cry her entire heart out was. He isn’t sure what to do, how to approach her.
Yet he does; he takes slow but steady steps towards her, and when she doesn’t react, he kneels beside her. Doesn’t touch her, just offers his presence.
Then, he finds his voice, a whisper. “Sydney, what happened?”
She doesn’t answer him, but he can see how her fingers tighten around the paper until her knuckles turn white. She slowly brings up the letter to his chest, waiting for him to take it from her.
“Am I allowed to read this?” he asks, but she shakes her head. She lets the letter fall from her fingers to the ground. She brings her hands back to her head, combs through her dark hair until he hears something rip. For the first time, he touches her and forces her hands away from her head. “Jesus, Sydney.”
“I’m okay,” she whispers, but her voice breaks. She sobs and claws at her thighs over her pajama pants. He slowly brings up a hand on her back, carefully massaging circles into the fabric of her shirt. His other hand comes up to wrap around in front of her, pulling her into his body, rocking her slowly.
She cries, and cries, and cries. Tears never stop flowing. It doesn’t matter. He lets her lose herself until she calms down a little. He scoops her up and takes her to her bedroom upstairs.
11TH DECEMBER, 1994
07:21 AM
When she wakes, her eyes hurt. Her entire body hurts. She doesn’t remember how she got back to her bedroom, to her bed. She barely remembers anything. Or she wishes she didn’t remember anything at all.
She turns over and sees him curled up by her side, sound asleep. She doesn’t want to wake him just yet. She crawls out of the bed as quietly as possible, but leaves the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
The weight of yesterday crushes her as she stands, and the floorboard creaks beneath her bare feet. Her throat is sore and her head aches. She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders like armor. She heads downstairs.
She doesn’t get far, though; she sits on the couch and stares in the direction of the study. She doesn’t even think, just completely turns off her brain, eyes dull, almost lifeless.
She doesn’t even hear the footsteps approaching or the warm hands wrapping around her body. Her ears are ringing.
Skinner stands after seeing that she won’t react to anything and goes to close the door of the study. She follows him with her eyes but doesn’t say anything when she sees her shut the door, just holds out the key for him. He takes it and locks it for good. He hands it back to her.
She hears her phone ring. She picks it up and presses it to her ear, but doesn’t say a word.
“Hello?” comes the voice of Fox Mulder through the device. She still doesn’t speak. “Syd, are you there?”
She holds out the phone for Skinner, and he takes it, goes to the kitchen to talk to Mulder. She hears the muffled sound of his voice, telling Mulder that something happened and he’s thinking about pulling her off the case and sending her back home. When he ends the call, he comes back to the living room, puts the device on the coffee table, and sits next to her.
She finally looks at him, tears already filling her eyes. “Please don’t send me back,” her voice breaks. “I don’t want to go back until we haven’t solved it. Please don’t leave me alone again.”
“Come here,” is all he says, and pulls her into a hug again, and she sobs, wetting his tee with her tears. He doesn’t mind. After a while, he speaks again. “Will you tell me what happened?”
She shakes her head against his chest and whispers a “later”. He doesn’t press any further. “But are you good to go?”
She nods this time and gets up from the couch. They have work to do; she shouldn’t let personal matters interfere with their work, it wouldn’t be fair.
She goes to the bathroom, runs cold water over her wrists until it stings to make her feel something other than the devastating pain in her heart that she hadn’t felt in years. Her reflection in the mirror looks distant, unfamiliar. Her hair is a mess; her eyes are glassy and bloodshot, like she hadn’t slept for the last few days. Maybe she didn’t, maybe sleep is something you can fake until your body believes it’s real.
She puts on her clothes from yesterday, too tired to look for anything else. She emerges from the bathroom and finds him also dressed and ready for the day. They sit at the counter this time, for a change of scenery, but the files and folders are spread out across the marble in the same way they had been over the dining table. They bury their noses in the texts, the charts, and the reports, desperately trying to find something.
Until the phone rings again. Skinner is the one to answer the call. It’s not Mulder this time, checking in on how the case’s going, but Beckett. She can hear his voice over the phone. He says only a sentence: “We’ve got our guy.”
She is already halfway to the door, grabbing her coat off the couch. He’s tying his shoes. She runs back to the kitchen to get the car keys and tosses them over to him; he catches them without looking, without fumbling like they have been doing this their whole lives. They were out the door in seconds, slamming it behind them.
08:20 AM
“We still don’t have any evidence that would tie him directly to the murders.”
“But he is our only suspect. You heard the vet, he didn’t have any business, only him.”
“Do you think he still lives in his parents’ house? Or somewhere else.”
“Best way to find out would be if we alerted the people, see if somebody knows anything at all.”
The debate on how to catch Charlie Bingham has been going on for almost an hour in Beckett’s office. He doesn’t speak much, just listens to the two agents bicker about what they should do.
“That’s actually a great idea,” Skinner says. “You can do that, right, Sir?”
“Yes, obviously,” Beckett answers. The agents get up to leave, and they shake hands before leaving his office.
“Also,” she continues, not letting go. “He wouldn’t have run if he didn’t know he would get arrested. That makes him rather suspicious as well.”
“You’re right,” he sighs. “I’ll get a team ready, wait for Beckett to see what he has found out, then we’ll bust Charlie’s ass.”
She giggles, even though it sounds so unfamiliar from her. Especially right now. “You wanted to do that through all of high school, didn’t you?”
“You bet your sweet ass I did.”
04:19 PM
It’s already dark when they surround his house. One of Charlie’s neighbors called Beckett, saying he just saw Charlie go into his home and that he didn’t see him leave, not through the front door or the back door. They got the house surrounded, covering every window and way he could escape if he tried to.
They are both wearing bulletproof vests; they just couldn’t be careful enough. They don’t know what to expect from him, whether he has a weapon or tries to harm them in any way.
Skinner goes in first after the team breaks the door down, he insisted. She rolled her eyes at him. The inside of the house is eerily quiet; none of the lights are on, and the rooms are completely dark. She follows behind him, gun drawn and close to her chest. Their footsteps are barely audible on the floorboards. The air smells like old wood and stale beer, and dust.
“Clear right,” Skinner says, sweeping into the living room. She nods and heads right, to the kitchen, which is also empty. Sink full of dirty dishes that haven’t seen water or soap in days, maybe weeks. A half-eaten dinner was decomposing on the counter. She remembers when Charlie used to come over to her during lunch break, chewing too loudly on his sandwich that his mom had made for him.
Now, everything is dead quiet, just the low murmur of tactical radios from the team outside. The sound of her breath.
Skinner signals toward the hallway. They tandem down the narrow corridor, lit only by their flashlights slicing through the dark. The house looks smaller than she remembers from the nights she would spend here. The beers he would hand her.
They reach the master bedroom. Skinner turns the knob slowly; the door opens with a creak.
There he is.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, a gun in front of him on the ground. One of his boots is untied.
“Charlie,” Skinner says, low and firm.
He doesn’t look at them, he simply says: “I figured it’d be you too.”
She raises her gun slightly, steps closer. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not going to run,” he answers. Skinner kicks the gun away from his feet and crouches to cuff him.
“We’ve got him,” she says into her radio. She freezes for a moment when Charlie doesn’t even resist, doesn’t even try to defend himself. Deep down, she had hoped that this was all a mistake, that they would find something else, that it wasn’t actually him who killed Jesse, Lizzie, and Cindy. But she was wrong.
Skinner pulls him to his feet and starts leading him out. “You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have a right to an attorney; if you cannot afford one, someone will be appointed for you.”
As they leave the house, the cold air bites her skin and makes her eyes sting. For the first time since they’ve been in town, the snow has started falling, soft and slow. The red and blue lights of the cruisers cut through the dark clouds. The neighbor who called in watches from behind a window.
They load him into a car.
When it’s just two of them, she leans against their rental for a moment, staring back at the house. “Jesus, Walt… I just thought we’d be wrong.”
“I know.”
She breathes in through her nose, feeling the cold in her lungs. She lets out a pained chuckle, “I’m never doing any favors for Mulder, ever again.”
12TH DECEMBER, 1994
09:09 AM
“Do we have everything?” Skinner asks as he loads his own duffel into the car’s trunk. She nods along, not really listening to his question, locking the front door. “Want me to drive the first few hours?”
“Sure,” she says and sits in the passenger seat. She throws her handbag on the back seat. He starts the car, but before he can turn onto the road, she places a palm on his hand, stopping him. “Can we make a stop first?”
The cemetery is abandoned, and most of the graves and tombstones are overgrown with ivy. The winter air is damp and heavy. Somewhere in the trees, a crow calls once, then falls silent.
She stands before one grave, with two names on the tombstone. Not so far from her, he stands at an almost identical one. They don’t speak to each other, just stand in complete silence, thinking about what lies beneath their feet.
He walks over after a minute, yellowed leaves crunching under his boots. He places a grounding hand on her shoulder. He doesn’t speak, but his gesture screams: I’m still here. She doesn’t shed tears, just observes the names engraved into the stone.
“Are we going to attend their funerals?” she asks suddenly, breaking the air with her quiet voice. She doesn’t say their names. He shakes his head.
“I’m not going to. I don’t want to come back here for a while, unless I really have to,” she acknowledges his words, but doesn’t answer him.
After a while, she pulls away and begins walking towards a rusty gate. He follows her, matching her silent stride for stride. The car waits for them on the other side of the road, alone on the gravel path like it has been abandoned too. She doesn’t get in right away; she looks back at the cemetery, the rows of forgotten headstones behind them. He reaches the driver’s side, but doesn’t get in either; instead, he looks at her.
summary: And she thinks this is it; Death has finally layed his hands on her.
pairing: Walter Skinner & Original Female Character, early!Mulder x Scully (s1-s2)
warnings: VERY explicit descriptions of blood, A LOT of gore, mentions of kidnappings, mentions of insanity, be careful while reading
notes: another fav media, my favourite video game, squirrel stapler. there is just something special about this game. maybe it is the squirrels. also, yayy msr!! and the first long chapter, who cheered?
wc: 7K
“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
Dylan Thomas
FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON D.C.
24TH OCTOBER 1994
11 AM
She is running, not for her life this time, but for something she desperately needs. She almost skips through the hallways as she reaches his office, and ignores Arlene’s yell at her that “Syd, wait, Skinner is in a meeting!” and she bursts through the door.
“I need this case!” she yells, slamming down the folder on his desk, a challenging look on her face as she waits for him to respond. But he gestures at the people sitting across him, at the other end of the table, and she shuts up, turning her head over to the other agents. “Oh, shit, sorry.”
It’s them again, just her luck, because the last time they saw her, she came crying and fuming out of his office. The redhead sizes her up and she straightens her back. The man waves awkwardly at her.
“Agent Denver, this is Agent Scully and Agent Mulder,” Skinner says, with a monotone voice. She ignores him because their reputation has already betrayed them.
“Walter, I need this case,” she hears the man whistle.
“When do I get to call you Walter, sir?” the man asks, and the woman chuckles. Skinner shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and she smiles at that. She’s already loving this. He lets out a sigh.
“Agent Denver, I already gave them the case. Just before you broke down my door,” he says. Oh, so we’re playing professionals, okay. Then his words register in her brain.
“Wait, what?” she asks, and snaps her head back to him. “Fucking traitor.”
“You refused it!”
“But I changed my mind!”
“You can’t just do that!” he says angrily. The other two agents stay quiet. The air is tense. “If you really want it, partner up with them.”
“What?” the three of them say in unison, looking at Skinner with a bewildered expression on their faces. She can see the grin forming at his lips, and oh no, there is a plan forming in his head.
“This is not a good idea-” the redhead says, and she nods in agreement. It is not a good idea. She will get them killed, considering her luck.
“Look, sir,” she starts, and pulls a chair next to the other two agents. She is considering putting her legs on the table again, but doesn’t do it out of respect this time. Maybe at the next meeting, when they are together in the same office again. Show them that she has the upper hand. But it would end with Skinner turning awfully red out of anger and chasing her out of the entire building, she thinks. “If they die, their blood dries on your hands. Surely you don’t want two of your best agents to turn up dead at the end of the case.”
“Fucking go to a church and confess your sins, and then maybe your bad luck won’t chase you to the grave,” he grits out through his teeth. I’ve tried that and you know that, she almost says, but doesn’t. She nods, even though she knows he didn’t think before speaking that sentence. We are playing professionals. He lets out a heavy sigh, massaging his forehead. “Team up with them,” he continues. “It would be great for all of you. Get your head in the right direction. Take it or leave it, but if you deny it, the case stays theirs.”
She groans. “Okay.”
“Don’t we get a say in this, sir?” Agent Mulder asks, and Skinner shakes his head. Scully nods in defeat.
“Now get out of my office,” he says, and all of them get up, but he points at her. “Not you. We’ve got to talk.”
“OOO, trouble in paradise!” they hear Agent Mulder singsong as he lets Agent Scully ahead of him, before closing the door behind him.
“EW, NO!” they yell at the same time, but neither of them is sure if they heard it. She sits back down.
“You’re rude,” she starts. He gives him a look. “You could have given me the case. Only me.”
He shakes his head. “It would have been unfair, considering that I’ve already promised it to them. Because you did refuse it at first. What changed? It’s been barely two months since the last incident, and you’re still recovering. Slowly, might I add.”
“Yeah, but it’s an interesting case.”
“What’s so interesting about it?” he asks as he opens the folder on his desk. He skims through the documents, then stops. She knows what he has read. Thirty disappearances in a small town in the rural area of Oregon, a quarter of the population, without a trace. Without any evidence. He sighs and closes it. “I bet it tickles your brain in all the right places.”
She nods frantically. It does. She thinks that it’s better than nothing; she gets a say in whatever happens out in the field. She gets to be a part of it when they successfully solve it. “You know what picks at my brain?” he turns his gaze to her. “Chinese take-out, tonight’s game, two bottles of beer, or a bottle of whiskey, your choice of weapon.”
“Count me in.”
NOMA
WASHINGTON D.C.
24TH OCTOBER 1994
11 PM
She lies on her back, legs in his lap, on her couch. The small apartment is dimly lit; a CD is playing that they made during their years in the academy. She knows the setlist by heart, Bennie and the Jets is playing, next in the queue is Hotel California. She takes a slow drag from her cigarette and notices how he frowns at her for doing so. But he hands her the bottle, and she gladly washes down the smoky taste.
There are empty paper plates plastered all over the coffee table. She’ll clean them up in the morning. His glasses sit next to one of the plates.
“So,” she starts, and he already fears what her next words are going to be. “Fuck, marry, kill.”
“No!” he yells, putting his head in his hands, folding over her legs. “We are too old for that.”
“Speak for yourself, old man,” she says. She takes a last drag and puts out the cigarette. “We are never too old for this! And it’s fun to play with coworkers.”
“Yeah, they are your coworkers and I’m their boss, for fuck’s sake,” She lets out a laugh.
“It’s even funnier that way,” she says. She takes the last piece of spring roll in her mouth. Starts speaking before swallowing it. He takes back the bottle, takes a big sip, and braces himself. “So, fuck, marry, kill. Agent Mulder,” he yells out of disbelief. She holds up a finger to sign that she’s not finished. “Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, and Arlene.”
“Poor Arlene,” he sighs, and lies back, almost hitting his head on the wall behind him before doing so. “Kill Mulder, fuck Scully, and marry Arlene.”
“Devoted to your work, as always,” she laughs, and she shakes his head.
He takes the guest bedroom later that night.
DAYVILLE
OREGON
30TH OCTOBER 1994
4:53 PM
“Yeah, yeah sure,” she says into her phone. She takes off her sunglasses and looks at the sign that they had
passed. “No, no, we just rolled in. Yeah, take care. Feed my cat,” her voice gets smaller and quieter, so the other two won’t hear. “Love you, too.”
“Boyfriend?” They heard. Her face burns; that’s embarrassing. Mulder turns his head back to look at her in the backseat. She lets out a loud laugh, he turns his head back to the road, but Scully looks at her.
“No, no,” she says quickly. No way. “Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Don’t know if you’ve heard of him.”
Mulder chuckles. They roll up to the motel where they are staying, and she stretches her limbs after getting out of the car. That was a painfully long drive. She looks at the motel, and it looks alarmingly abandoned. Like it was built in the 1500s and stayed in that time. Mulder comes up to her.
“What’s up with you two, anyway?” he asks. It won’t hurt to get to know each other, since the three of them will be stuck together on this case, for at least three months, tops. “Considering the last time the four of us were in his office together, it seemed to me that you’re on first-name basis.”
She giggles. Helps Scully with their bags while thinking about her answer. “We grew up together. Went to the academy together. Joined the FBI together, yadayadaya. We were even partners for a while before he became my fuckass boss.”
“Really?” Scully raises her eyebrows. She nods. They carry their bags to their rooms while Mulder checks in and gets their keys. They settle in, three separate rooms. She starts reading over their case, puts pictures up on her room’s wall. Gets out the almost-used red cotton and starts connecting the dots.
Later, they talk about the case over dinner. But one too many drinks later (or at least she and Mulder drink, Scully decides to be the responsible one), they start talking about more personal things. It might be because the drive was too long or tiring, or it might be because the younger agents are curious about her and her own reputation.
“I heard on the last case you were assigned to, your partners died,” Mulder starts, chewing on some fries. In Scully’s eyes, curiosity flickers. “I also heard a rumor that you are death. Incarnate.”
She chuckles and sips her coffee.
“The truth is,” she answers, eyes fixated on the cup in her hands. She remembers everything, especially the cases from last year and their aftermath, guilt. “I am not. I just have an awful case of bad luck following me around. One time I was walking into a bar where agents drink off-duty, and everyone started whispering “Jesus Christ, she’s real!”, or “I heard she took down an entire cult by herself” and another man followed “I heard she just outlived the rest”. When Skinner walked in behind me, everyone shut their mouths up. It was the funniest thing ever.”
They don’t laugh, but it’s nice to share this moment with the two of them. She fears they end up like the rest.
31ST OCTOBER 1994
7 AM
The real work begins. They wake early, or at least she and Scully do; when they knock on Mulder’s door, they find him still asleep on his bed. They shake him up.
“So, what do we have to deal with exactly?” Mulder asks when he is awake. They are now walking to the car. She and Scully previously debated where they should start their investigation first, the most recent victim’s family or the sheriff’s office. They settled on questioning the family to get a better understanding of the case.
“We are going to the most recent victim’s house,” Scully explains as she gets in the passenger seat. She claims her place in the backseat, and Mulder starts the car.
“How many disappearances?”
“Thirty,” she answers, file clinging between her fingers. Something just doesn’t click in her head as she reads over the details. “Thirty-one, including this one.”
None of them answer her, so she keeps reading. Thirty-one victims. They disappeared from their houses at night. All races, all genders, no age range. Anyone, really. Like somebody wants to clean out this small town. Like somebody wants to start over completely. The murderer or kidnapper doesn’t leave fingerprints at any of the crime scenes, and doesn’t leave clues.
But when they pull up to the victim’s house, she senses something. Because something is different, but she can’t wrap her head around it. When the mother of the victim lets them in, she immediately notices it: a small note on the fridge. She doesn’t say anything, just walks up to the refrigerator, puts on gloves, and takes it off the cold surface.
“Notice this?” she asks the mother, but she shakes her head. She accepts that because neither Scully nor Mulder noticed it. The decades of experience make good use. She hands it to them, and they observe it. A single sentence, written lazily on the yellow sticky note.
God is coming.
“What is this?” Scully asks, and she can hear the gears turning in her skull. Mulder shrugs. It unsettles all of them. She notices how Scully touches the base of her neck, a golden cross sitting idly on her pale skin. Oh, she’s religious. They question the mother, but she is not useful.
They walk back to their car, where Scully slides the piece of paper into a plastic bag. Labels it as evidence. “We could send this back to forensics to see if it’s a match with any residents in this town.”
They all agree on it and silently drive down to the sheriff’s department. They are welcomed warmly.
“It’s so good to have your help on this,” the sheriff says, swiping at the sweat on his forehead. He must be stressed out, she thinks. They have already lost a quarter of their population, and that’s worrying. They try to ask him about the disappearances, if they have come up with anything, if he has anything helpful. He comes up with a name, and she takes a mental note of it. “Man in his fifties, Raymund Spikes. Lives in a cabin in the woods, outside of town. Divorced, wife moved out of the state months ago, before it all started. She’s lucky not to witness any of this. But Raymund mostly keeps to himself, only coming in occasionally for groceries or town meetings. The last time we held one, he seemed calm, not like the others, obviously,” he chuckles nervously. “But I wouldn’t think he is behind it, because he’s harmless. Only hunts ducks and squirrels, carves wooden toys for the children.”
“But the forest is definitely a place where I’d hide the bodies,” Mulder murmurs under his nose. Scully shoots him a glance. They talk to the sheriff for a little while, and he asks if their sleeping arrangements are okay, if he could do anything to help them.
They retreat to the diner they went to last night, but this time with the intent to only talk about the case, nothing else.
“So,” Mulder starts, coming back to their table with plates of fries and burgers in his hands. He places down each before them and starts speaking with his mouth full. “We should check that forest out. If not for the guy first, just to see if anything’s suspicious.”
“I agree. But I’m mostly curious about the man, to be honest,” Scully says, eating her own food. She herself hasn’t touched anything yet, eyes scanning over their notes. Something about this guy keeps picking at her brain in all the right places. “He’s our most likely suspect; if he wasn’t, the sheriff wouldn’t have mentioned him.”
“True,” she says, still not looking up. God is coming. What could that even mean? She had her fair share of cult related cases, religious symbolism, all that shit. She wasn’t a believer, but she understood how these people’s brains worked. But something deep inside her says that it’s going to be different this time. More sinister.
After they plan how they will travel to the forest tomorrow, first thing in the morning, Mulder calls it a road trip, like they are going on vacation, and they all retreat to their rooms. She stares at her wall of pictures in silence for at least two hours before she goes to bed.
She sleeps restlessly that night, nightmares flooding her dreams.
“You weren’t supposed to leave me!” she yells, shoving at him hard. He stumbles back but finds his balance. She tears the letter away from him, tears streaming down her cheeks, as she stands in front of him, in disbelief. She shakes the letter in front of his face frantically. She whispers, “You weren’t supposed to leave me.”
He looks behind her, and she turns her head in the same direction. She notices her mother standing on their porch, arms crossed over her chest. She can’t decide if she looks relieved or sad.
“I’m sorry,” that’s all he says. He stays silent for a minute, then continues. “This isn’t a goodbye. I’m coming back. I’ll write you.”
She wipes her face with the back of her hands, angrily. “But what if you don’t?”
“I always will.”
1ST NOVEMBER 1994
3:47 AM
She wakes up suddenly; the room is awfully quiet. Darkness surrounds her; only the moon shines through the blinds. Her hair is sticking to her forehead, and it makes her skin uncomfortable. She gets out of bed and reads the clock. Almost 4 am. She washes her face in the bathroom sink and decides to start packing a backpack for the morning hike.
9:12 AM
It’s quite refreshing to be surrounded by nature. If it were under different circumstances, she would even enjoy this outdoor activity. But now, they have a job to do. The trees reach up into the sky, almost never ending. Insects buzz under their boots. Scully and Mulder almost talk through the whole walk, keeping each other sane and awake. Mulder jokes, Scully chuckles, and scolds him. She admires their partnership. But she stays behind a little, listening to them, and the happy chirping of the birds.
Then, a loud noise cuts through the woods; someone fired a shotgun. They draw their weapons and follow the sound's path. They find a man, in a flannel too big, hair and beard graying. He stares at them, his hands holding the shotgun and a dead squirrel.
“Tourists?” he asks, without introducing themselves. Just when he starts to walk away, Mulder draws his badge.
“Raymund Spikes? We are federal agents with the FBI,” he says, and the two women do the same. “I’m Special Agent Mulder, this is Special Agent Scully, and Special Agent Denver. We would like to have a few words with you.”
“And you hiked all the way out here to have a chit-chat with me?” the man questions, and he starts to walk in front. They follow him. Uneasy. “Should have made the sheriff ring me up, I would have come done to the diner.”
He leads them to a camping spot. He settles on a log that has been made into a chair, puts down his shotgun next to the wood. The agents keep their distance; they don’t sit down. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Sir,” Mulder starts. “I’m sure you’ve been aware of the multiple, concerning number of disappearances in your town, isn’t that right?”
“Yes?”
She walks around a little, observing the logs of the trees. She finds one with a red mark on it. She thinks it’s marked to be cut down for firewood. But something stinks. Like bile, like something rotten. Like something dead.
“We’d like to ask you if you’ve noticed anything strange in these woods,” Mulder says. “We’ve started an investigation, and we’d like your help with it, if you’re willing.”
“I see,” the man scratches at his beard, lost in thought. He looks at the dead squirrel in his hands. Blood drips onto the ground from its fur. It’s a bigger one than usual. “I mean, there isn’t much in these woods, my house is up ahead, just a mile from here. There is also an old building that was bombed during World War II. It’s something that you might want to check out, though, as people like to make up scary stories about it. That’s probably all.”
“Thank you, sir,” Scully says. Then he leans into Mulder, whispering something only the two of them could hear. Mulder nods and searches for something in his pocket, then pulls out his contact info. Scully then turns back to the man. “May I ask what the field of your work is?”
The man doesn’t answer for a beat. Then another. He finally says, “Taxidermy. For museums, people who order from me. It’s like a business.” Scully hums in acknowledgement.
Mulder walks up to him, and she doesn’t miss the way Mulder’s nose scrunches up as their fingers make contact for a moment. “If anything else comes into your mind, feel free to contact me. We’d be thankful.”
“Sure,” the man stands, grabs his gun. “You folks know your way back?” They all nod. “Then excuse me, I’ve got work to do. Winter’s coming up.”
He walks away with that, in the direction he pointed, to his house to be in. They stand in silence for a moment. Then, she speaks. “Did you two smell that?”
“Yeah,” Scully frowns. They start walking back on the way they came. “I thought I was going to be sick.”
“Same here,” Mulder stops. “Even though we don’t have any proof yet, I think we’ve got our guy. I think we should check that building out.”
“But,” Scully starts. “What if he said to check out that building to distract us?”
“Maybe,” she shrugs her shoulders. “But it might help us out. Hopefully. And we still have daylight.”
They start to walk in its direction. Halfway, Scully pulls out a map from her backpack, (Mulder asks her: “This whole time you had a map and didn’t think it would be helpful to us?” and Scully answers: “Nah, it was funny to see you trying to find your way.”) and guides them. They arrive shortly, and Scully explains if they follow a shortcut from there, they will easily get back to the main road and hopefully find their car there, waiting for them.
2 PM
The building isn’t large. It’s mostly built from brick and not stone like the man said, but it’s seen better days. None of the walls are intact; they threaten to collapse any minute. Yet, they still wander into it. Flashlights get turned on, and they start exploring. Cobwebs surround them, and that strange smell again, and she thinks Scully will run out to throw up, but she doesn’t. None of them do.
They work in silence, looking for anything, anything, that could navigate them. She’s in one of the rooms on the first floor (not like they could reach the second one, as the stairs are beyond repair) when she finds something. A wooden chest, locked with a metal lock. She calls out to them.
They all gather around it, examining the box. It’s not large, but it isn’t small either. They wonder how it could still be in one piece if this place had been bombed. Or could someone place it in here after the bombing? They decide to open it, first by trying to see if the wood is old enough to break if it hits the ground. When it does, it doesn’t even budge. She pulls her gun out, aims at the lock, and fires. It breaks.
They crouch beside it. “What is this?” Scully asks as she takes a bunch of pieces of paper that have been bound together. She takes it from Scully, flipping through it. The story written in it is familiar, something she had seen before.
“Oh, god,” she says.
“What is it?”
“I know this story,” she shows it to them with a bewildered look on her face. “This is a story about an artist who wishes his artwork was alive. Buys a paintbrush that has been made from a beautiful woman’s hair, paints the woman, later finds out it was made from boar’s fur. Still falls in love with his painting, wishing she were real. An old woman grants his wish. But it’s an abomination. Because he only painted her from the torso up. He kills it with an axe, but the corpse still screams. The old woman makes soup from her remains, and they both eat it. They die,” then she uses air quotes. “The art will kill the artist.”
“And look,” Mulder says, holding up a notebook. He flips through the pages. “These are… reports. Only three days’ worth. But the ink looks somewhat fresh in the last report.”
“Could this be someone’s hideout?” Scully asks, gaze shifting from one to the other.
“We don’t know yet,” she answers, and gets up from the ground. The others follow. “But if it is, I’d very much like to get going. I don’t want to meet them.”
They take the whole chest with them, Mulder carrying it, the gentleman, and they soon make it back to the rental. When they start their drive back to the motel, Mulder turns to her. “Where did you read that story?”
“At Oxford.”
“How come I haven’t heard of it before? You majored in psychology as well, right?”
“Yeah, I did,” she says. She lets her head fall back. “But in my time, there was a specific course you could take. We studied the minds of famous killers in famous killings, and the professor made us read it. It wasn’t connected to any case, just for fun. After somebody read it, they threatened to kill themselves, and the course finished. The professor was expelled.”
“What about the reports?” Scully cuts in.
“We’ll read it over dinner.”
8:13 PM
Scully and Mulder joined her in her room, with takeout in their hands. They pushed together two tables to comfortably lay out the supposed evidence on it. They tore the book and the notebook so the pages could be viewed separately. She reads the story aloud, but makes them promise that none of them would feel the sudden urge to end their career upon hearing it.
After the bedtime story, she and Scully try to break down the reports from the notebook, while Mulder divides the book into chapters and tapes them to the evidence wall. He asks her about the red string, and she says it keeps things sufficient. He stares at the wall for a while, then makes a conclusion.
“I think we can confidently say that the book and the reports have nothing to do with each other,” he says. He starts pacing around the room. “The notebook has obviously been written by someone who hides out there, like Scully said before. The question is, why? Is it the man we talked to earlier? Is it someone else?”
“You are asking the right questions,” she murmurs, eyes fixated on one of the reports.
It’s here. He is here. He wants my brain, and he wants to take her away. I won’t let him. My brain is inside my skull; she is inside the house. He cannot get to me. He peels all my skin off and crawls into my body. I peel all your skin off, bury myself deep into your bones, your ribcage, and I live there. He is in the walls now. I hear them at night, find them in the morning, on the porch, all limbs torn off, their necks twisted, and they lie there. Still. I will break you open. You are already stretched apart into pieces. Your head is already twisted off your spine, just like theirs. God is coming.
“This makes no sense,” she says after finishing reading. “It mentions a house, though.”
He shows them, and they agree. It must be the old man’s house. Scully takes the page from her and inspects it closely. She finds something. “Wait, look!” She tapes it to the wall, right next to the yellow sticky note they found yesterday. “The last sentence, you missed it. It’s the same.”
“God is coming?”
“Yeah…”
“How nice,” Mulder breaths out under his nose. “I think we should go back to the ruins tomorrow, get a warrant for the man’s house, and question him.”
“What was his name?” Scully asks, and she gets a piece of paper to write it down.
“Raymund Spikes,” she says, and gets up from her chair. “I’ll call Skinner to get us a warrant.” Scully nods and scribbles it down. The term “God is coming” has appeared twice now, which cannot be a coincidence. One of them makes a comment about the red string being sufficient.
She goes out to the hallway, dials his number. He picks up on the second ring, as usual. Her first question is: “Did you feed my cat?”
“Yes, I did, ma’am,” he says on the other end of the line. “What’s up? It’s almost two am.”
“We might have a possible suspect,” she says, leaning back against the motel’s yellow-stained walls. She turns her head to check if there isn’t anyone listening. “But we only have a little bit of evidence, and it’s not enough, and it doesn’t make sense, but we need a warrant-”
“You’re rambling,” he says. She stops mid-sentence. She hears him shuffling, and she knows he is writing down her request. Raymund Spikes, full search, tomorrow. “I’ll fax it over.”
“Thanks,” she mumbles, and she finds herself smiling. They talk for a while, but not for long. “I’ll better go now; I’m kind of sleepy, which is rare. I’ll see you in a few days.”
“Make it back in one piece, please,” he says instead, and she lets out a breathy laugh.
“I will.”
She goes back to her room, and Scully and Mulder are still there. When she enters, they look up. “Got it,” she sits down on her bed. “He'll fax it over to the sheriff’s department, the authorities will meet us outside of the forest, then we go in together.”
“But are we going in first?” Mulder questions. She smiles.
“Always.”
2ND NOVEMBER 1994
2:02 AM
She falls asleep quickly. Dreamless night, or what is left of it. She thinks about getting up early, taking a shower, and wasting no time to get this over with. She thinks this might be the easiest case she's had in a while, if their assumptions are correct. She hopes they are. But she still wonders where the missing people might be, and she’s sure the man will tell them if they pressure him into it.
Because if they are correct, this ends tomorrow. They could fly back to DC early, hand in the report early, and get on with their lives.
It doesn’t end, though.
She wakes up in the middle of the night, and something is wrong. The blanket she covered herself with isn’t on her anymore, and the bed she slept in isn’t under her anymore. Something is so terribly, horribly wrong. She is not in her room; she is somewhere else.
She panics because it’s dark and she can’t see anything. She is definitely not in the motel anymore, but how did she get here? Where is even here? Where is she?
There are no lights, just blinding darkness. All-consuming. Endless.
There is a sharp pain in her wrist and ankles, on her Achilles heel. She tries to move but can’t. Are her hands and legs tied together?
It clicks.
This must have been the fate of the other victims. It’s not a dream, because the pain feels too real, and she feels her own blood dripping down her body. It’s not a dream, because if it were, she would be awake by now, screaming and panting for air. Lights turned on. The clock on the nightstand reads the exact time. There are no lights, no clocks. It’s not a dream, because she hears footsteps approaching.
She feels the presence in the room, or wherever she is. She wants to speak but can’t find her voice. The footsteps are closer now; she feels something next to her. Her breath quickens. She tries to move her limbs again, but every movement sends hot pain through her arms and legs. Her wrists feel too slick with blood; no use in creating any resistance towards whatever is binding her together. Her feet, God, it feels like someone carved into her skin.
Her body is horizontal. Not lying. She is hanging. Not hanging, but pierced to a wall. She is suddenly very aware of what has pierced through her wrists and ankles, forming holes. Probably a rusty screw. Right through the skin, the flesh, the bones.
This is not happening right now, she thinks. This has never happened before. Yes, she has been attacked countless times on the field; cut, shot, stabbed, choked, someone broke her arm, punched her in the face, hit her in the head, burned her, put an axe in her stomach, but she has never been taken hostage. This has never happened before.
Something breathes down on her. Or someone. She tries to take in her surroundings. Tries to make her eyes get used to the darkness. She tries to calm her breath and her blood pressure. As she takes a deeper breath, she smells it. That awful odor from before. The one that makes her feel like she has been locked in the morgue. Like she has stepped into a house full of- Oh god, no.
She knows where she is. So, they were right. Their instincts were right.
She tries to listen because the man has stopped breathing down on her like she’s the prey. She hears this constant noise, click, click, click, click, click. Click.
“Didn’t you hear?” There is a voice. She snaps her head in the direction from which it could be coming, but sees no man standing there. “God is coming today. I’ve got to make my wife beautiful.”
“What?” she manages after a beat, voice hoarse, all wrong. Like her vocal cords have been ripped out and put back into place. The man doesn’t answer her. She stays still, stops fighting after a while.
Did death finally catch up to her?
She doesn’t want to die here. Not like this. Not in some cabin in the woods. She doesn’t want to die.
The man starts to talk again. She doesn’t know if she’s glad for him keeping her awake with his voice, so she doesn’t pass out from blood loss. “You know, it was different before. It was peaceful.” Click. “But the flies made her ugly and rotten. I wanted to make her just as beautiful as the squirrels of the wood.” Click.
“I don’t understand,” she murmurs. Her eyelids feel heavy, and she doesn’t have the strength to move her limbs anymore. To fight back.
“You don’t know how to understand,” he replies. “None of you do. But I’ll tell you anyway.”
“Why?” she cries. “Why are you telling me all of this?”
“Don’t you understand?” he laughs, and it’s bitter. Click. She feels cold. “You are her now. Her body was beyond repair. Yours isn’t. You are still pure, still unshaken. You are still alive.”
This has got to be some ridiculous prank.
A beat. Another.
“It started with the squirrels. I stopped counting after twenty.” Click, click. What is he doing? “Then the squirrels weren’t enough; it demanded something else. Something entirely new. That was rare. That was inhuman.” Click. “I fulfilled that wish, his wish.” The people of the town. The missing people. They are here, right next to her. Click.
Click, click, click.
“What are you doing?” she asks. The sun is coming up, peeking through the cracks in the walls. She is able to make out pieces of what’s surrounding her, where she is. She must be in the house, but there is no furniture. Just a mattress, a bloodied, brown mattress in the corner of the room. A bucket next to it. A corridor leads to another part of the house. A desk, a shotgun, and a rifle on it.
The man.
He looks different. Different from when they saw her during the previous day, he looks tired. Bewildered, bloodshot eyes. Shaky hands. He is holding something, something that makes that clicking noise. He stops his movements when she sees her lift her head towards him, allowing her to get a better look at him in the morning sun. He is holding a stapler, somebody’s arm between his hands. A wall in front of him, another corpse, surrounded by broken limbs, arms, legs, and body parts that are beyond recognition. Some hair. The tail of an animal. An ear. Teeth peeking through all that flesh. Flies. So many flies.
He is stapling them to the wall. Next to her, and the other corpse that is in the center of it all. His wife.
She stares into his eyes. She doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink, just stares. It’s her brain that acts first; she wants to jerk back, to get away, but she can’t. She’s in pain. But her stomach lurches, and she feels the familiar taste of her takeout making its way back up through her throat.
He’s building something, no, someone. From scrap. Piece by piece, part by part. Brick by brick. Sewn from squirrels, strangers. Is she next? The man turns back to the wall, gently presses another piece of flash into it. He raises the stapler. Click.
“Do you see it now?” he asks. He smiles as his eyes shift between her and his creation. “It’s almost ready. God is coming, and he is going to witness what I’ve made for him.”
“You are wrong,” she croaks. He doesn’t listen, doesn’t answer her. Her head drops, and she stares at what’s in front of her, on the ground. More flesh, more blood. Click. She wants to scream. She is the finishing touch in his project, his vision. He truly thinks that every one of those stapled limbs and shattered bones are part of something divine. Something that will make God bring him up to Heaven, forgive all his sins, feed him, and care for him, like he cares for all the others.
The room tilts. She forces herself to focus, to hold on.
“This is wrong,” she speaks again. He walks away to get another part of somebody. She pleads, something she has never done before. “This is wrong, this is just insanity. Please don’t do this, please.”
“You cannot understand,” he says. “You won’t understand, you never will.”
She watches him sift through the pile of remains with delicate care, like he’s choosing a wine for dinner. Like it’s art. Her head spins. The metallic scent of blood clogs her nostrils. Her own is the freshest.
He looks back at her, his expression tightening. Something else flickers in his eyes. Devotion. He starts walking towards her.
“No, please don’t,” she wails. “Please.”
She starts to struggle as a hand comes up to her side, placing something warm on her skin. Click. She starts to struggle, the jagged metal in her ankle tears skin, but she pushes, pulls, fights. Or at least tries to. She bites down on a scream and keeps moving, even when her vision darkens for a moment. There is a possibility she’ll bleed out if she gets free, but she’ll die for sure if she doesn’t.
“I know you’re scared,” he murmurs. How many hours has it been? Are they even looking for her? Is somebody coming to get her? “But you won’t feel a thing. She didn’t either. It’s peaceful, like sleep.”
His voice drifts far away. Before she passes out, someone breaks down the door of the house, letting light through it.
ROUTE 26 – SOMEWHERE NEAR MT VERNON
OREGON
2ND NOVEMBER 1994
1:02 PM
The next time she gains consciousness, the ground is moving underneath her. She blinks fast, trying to make her eyes focus. She can hear words but can’t make sense of them.
She hears someone dialing a phone. Then voices.
“Sir, we fucked up,” the voice of Scully says, and she doesn’t swear much, but this time, she doesn’t care. Mulder rips the phone from her fingers and frantically yells into the device.
“Sir, we fucked up so badly that you’re going to fire us on Monday,” from the other end of the line, she hears a yell loud, which sounds just like a “WHAT?”
“You tell him,” says Mulder, and shoves the phone back to Scully, who barely catches it. Her other hand rips the wheel. Mulder points in a direction in front of them. “Take a right turn here, we’re almost in Canyon City.”
Scully takes the turn, then speaks into the phone again, “Sir, I can’t speak right now,” she starts, trying to sound put together. Sweat drips down her forehead. “We’ll be back on Monday!”
And she ends the call. Mulder stares at her with bewildered eyes. “You didn’t just do that. You didn’t just scare the ever-loving shit out of our boss and then hang up on him.”
Scully doesn’t answer him; instead drives as fast as she can.
Darkness floods her mind once again.
BLUE MOUNTAIN HOSPITAL
CANYON CITY, OREGON
3RD NOVEMBER 1994
10:30 AM
When she awakens, the first thing she hears is the faint sound of her heart beeping on a machine. Constant. A reminder that she is in a hospital, alive.
How did she get out of the house? It all feels like a bad dream.
The world is quieter and warmer. The coppery scent of blood is gone, so is the ache in her limbs. She is in a hospital bed. The ceiling above her is too bright, the light floods her eyes like an interrogation lamp. Her throat is raw; when she tries to speak, nothing comes out but a dry rasp.
She doesn’t know how long she has been out for. Hours? A day?
The door creaks open.
It’s him. He’s still in his travel clothes; coat lazily draped over his arm, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. No tie. There is tension in his shoulders and exhaustion behind his glasses, but when he sees her awake, something shifts in his eyes, in a visible but quiet way.
He’s at her side in an instant.
“I’m here,” he mutters, like a confession. Softly and carefully brings his hands around hers. She wants to say his name, but her body betrays her- her mouth, her throat, her lungs. Nothing comes out. “You’re alright now. You’re safe.”
She lets the words sink in. She’s out of the house.
“I should have been here sooner,” he says, voice hoarse. “When they called- I booked the first flight I could. I got here last night.”
Her eyes sting. She’s not sure if it’s from the light or from the sound of his voice as it cracks on the word called.
“They found you,” he continues. “Just in time.”
She nods, a fraction of an inch. It’s all she can do. He brushes his thumb over the back of her hand. He brings her palm to his lips and presses a kiss into it. Gentle, barely there.
“Scully’s downstairs talking to the doctors, Mulder is asleep in the hallway, I think,” his voice softens. “They wouldn’t leave.”
She wants to thank them, but everything feels stuck inside her, coiled in her chest.
“I saw the scene report that has been written so far,” his voice is quieter now. “The house, what he did.”
Her fingers twitch in his grip. The memories of last night surge to the front of her brain. She closes her eyes for a moment.
Click. Click. Click.
When she opens her eyelids, she tries to focus on his face, on the man who wasn’t there when it happened, but who came anyway, who came the second he heard.
She tries to mouth what’s on her mind. I thought I was going to die. I thought it finally caught up to me.
“I know,” he says. “But you didn’t.”
She holds on to those words and to him.
The next few days blur together in a haze of painkillers, antibiotics, whispered voices, and the soft, reassuring beep of the machines. She sleeps often, more than she used to. Sometimes wakes disoriented, unsure of where she is, if the darkness is back. But each time, she finds the light on. A nurse checking vital. Scully is sitting in a chair next to her bed, reading a book. Mulder asleep in the corner, legs resting on the windowsill.
And Skinner. He never says how long he’ll stay, only that he’s not leaving until she is cleared for transport. He’s the one who sits with her when her IV gets changed, the one who keeps his hand steady on hers while the doctor checks on her injuries. Who doesn’t flinch when she finally breaks down. It’s not loud, but sudden and quiet, tears slipping down her cheeks while she stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched to stop the scream forming in her throat.
“I’ve got you,” he always says, low and steady.
They don’t talk about what has happened. Not yet. He doesn’t pressure her, doesn’t ask her to make a statement. The wounds are still too fresh; her voice isn’t the same. Neither is she. But he doesn’t ask her to be okay.
He’s just there.
2 DAYS LATER
11:21 PM
She wakes to find him standing in the window, eyes fixed on the outside. He doesn’t notice she’s awake until he hears her voice, still scratchy, “You should go back to the Bureau.”
He turns and walks over to her. Sits in the chair next to her bed. “I’m not leaving you here.”
“I’m not alone,” she answers, nodding her head towards the door. Scully and Mulder are probably asleep in the hallway chairs. “But you have work.”
He leans forward, reaching out. “I’m exactly where I need to be. Where I want to be.”
She closes her eyes, breathes. It will take time. Her recovery isn’t fast. The nightmares haven’t started yet, but they will. The scars won’t fade quickly, she knows that.
But for the first time in what feels like forever, she feels like she doesn’t have to brace for the worst. She doesn’t have to be the strong one, not now, at least.
