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Chapter Text

The flickering fluorescent lights of the bullpen hummed a familiar, dreary tune, a constant reminder of their current purgatory. After years spent chasing shadows and deciphering the impossible, Mulder and Scully found themselves sidelined, officially detached from the X-Files. The dedicated office they once occupied, the heart of their strange investigations, was now just a room down the hall, presided over by Spender and Fowley. It was a bitter pill, no doubt, but there was a quiet, almost desperate gratitude that they still had this: the shared space, the unspoken understanding, the everyday banter that kept the overwhelming absurdity of their situation at bay. Their bond, forged in the crucible of the bizarre, had weathered countless storms. Lately, though, with Diana Fowley's insidious return to Mulder's orbit, a subtle tremor had begun. Scully wouldn't admit it, not to herself, and certainly not to Mulder, but Fowley felt like a clear and present threat to a territory Scully had come to fiercely, albeit secretly, guard. That territory, of course, was Mulder himself.

Mulder, slouched in his chair, tossed a crumpled piece of paper at Scully’s uncharacteristically overflowing trash can. It missed. Again.

"You know, Scully," he drawled, pushing off his desk and walking over to where she was meticulously organizing a stack of reports, "for someone who claims to operate purely on logic, you have a surprisingly chaotic desk accessory." He nudged the overflowing can with his foot.

Scully didn't look up, a small smile playing on her lips. "Yes, Mulder. It's a metaphor for the sheer volume of your discarded theories."

She finally met his gaze, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Your relentless pursuit of the truth is, at times, surprisingly contagious, Mulder. It almost makes me momentarily overlook the time you attempted to posit that the Flukeman was actually a mutated sanitation worker."

Mulder grinned. "And for the record, Scully, I was right. Partially. He was mutated. And he did live in the sewers. You just got hung up on the paperwork." He paused, his gaze growing sharper as he looked around her meticulously arranged workspace.
"The truth often hides in plain sight, camouflaged by the mundane. Like, say, a perfectly ordered universe contained within a single desk drawer. It's almost too neat. What cosmic secrets are you meticulously categorizing in there?"

The sudden shrill ring of Mulder's desk phone shattered the quiet. He straightened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face as he picked it up. "Mulder."

His side of the conversation was clipped, mostly "Yes, sir," and "Understood." Scully watched him, a prickle of unease starting to form. His jaw was tight, his posture stiff, unlike his usual relaxed demeanor. When he hung up, he didn't immediately turn to her. He just stood there, staring at the wall.

"Mulder?" she prompted, her brow furrowing.

He finally turned, but his gaze seemed far away. "I've been... requested. Top priority."

"Requested by whom?" she asked, a touch of weariness in her voice. Their current situation often meant obscure directives and assignments that felt like bureaucratic busywork rather than legitimate investigations.

He shook his head, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "They didn't say. Just that it's 'above my paygrade,' and it came down from... higher up." He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. The words, once a teasing jab, now held a sharp, unfamiliar edge.

She followed him as he moved towards the door. "What do you mean, 'higher up'? What kind of assignment is it?" Her voice was tighter than she intended. She didn't like the look on his face, the vague answers.

He stopped at the doorway, turning to face her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "A profiling assignment. High-level. Serial killer." His voice was flat. "And... I'm going alone."

Scully stared at him, her mind struggling to process. "Alone? Mulder, why? Your insights into these kinds of minds, they're… unique. But you always say we work better together. My medical expertise, the forensic analysis – it's crucial for understanding the whole picture." A cold knot formed in her stomach.

"They said it wasn't necessary for this one, Scully. Strictly profiling. And... they've implemented strict communication protocols. Need-to-know, minimal contact." The words sounded hollow, as if he were reciting them.

Her brow furrowed deeper, a physical manifestation of the confusion and anxiety swirling within her. She could see the controlled frustration radiating from him, the underlying dread in his eyes. He hated being separated from her. This wasn't his choice. "Mulder, are you sure about this?" Her voice was a bare whisper, heavy with unspoken protest. The idea of him going into something so dark, so solitary, without her, was a sharp, unwelcome pain.

He took a step towards her, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "No. I'm not. But the order came down. It was... non-negotiable." He hesitated, his gaze lingering on her face, searching. "I'll call you when I can, Scully. I promise." It was meant to be reassuring, but it felt like a fragile hope, barely articulated, like a secret passed in a crowded room.

He turned and walked out, leaving her standing in the quiet bullpen. The space suddenly felt vast and empty, the silence deafening. As the door clicked shut behind him, it was as if the sun had abruptly left the room, plunging everything into a chilling, unfamiliar dimness. She watched his back disappear around the corner, a wrenching sense of absence already settling in her chest, a premonition of loneliness that made her breath catch. She wanted to call after him, to demand more answers, to pull him back, but the words caught in her throat, choked by a sudden, unfamiliar fear.

Mulder walked briskly down the corridor, his mind already racing with the implications of the new assignment, the restrictions, the unspoken threat behind the "non-negotiable" order. His hand instinctively went to his pocket, pulling out his phone. He scrolled to Scully's name, his thumb hovering over the call button. What could he say? I miss you already? I don't want to leave you? He scoffed inwardly. Don't be a fool, Mulder. She's a scientist, a pragmatist. This is an assignment. Nothing more. She'll be fine. He couldn't. Not yet. He shoved the phone back into his pocket, the familiar weight a cold comfort against his thigh. He had to pack.

Chapter Text

The sterile conference room felt like a cage. Mulder sat opposite Skinner, the air thick with unspoken tension. "Nantucket, Massachusetts," Skinner stated, without preamble, pushing a slim folder across the polished table. "You'll be embedded with a local task force there. A series of homicides. Highly unusual M.O."

Mulder nodded, already mentally sifting through possibilities. "The nature of the request, sir... the 'higher up' designation. What exactly am I walking into?"

Skinner's gaze was unreadable, a flicker of something close to sympathy in his eyes before it was gone. "A sensitive situation, Mulder. High-profile. The Bureau wants a fresh perspective, untainted by local biases." He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Diana Fowley will be... on-site. As a liaison."

The name hit Mulder with the force of a cold draft. Fowley. Here? His jaw tightened imperceptibly. He'd seen her in the halls since their return to the bullpen, a ghost from a life he'd deliberately left behind, but he hadn't expected to be thrust into a working partnership with her. He repressed a sigh. "Understood, sir."

Back in the bullpen, the quiet hum of the lights grated on Scully's nerves. It hadn't been 48 hours. Not even close. But the silence where Mulder's restless energy usually resided felt like a phantom limb, a constant, low throb of absence. Her mind, usually so disciplined, spun with every catastrophic scenario. Was he safe? Was he alone? Why was he alone?

She picked up her phone, then put it down. No, she couldn't call him just to say she missed him. She couldn't, not when he'd been so explicitly vague, so clearly under wraps. But she had to know. She had to.

Her gaze landed on Arlene, Skinner's secretary. Arlene, ever meticulous and possessing a surprisingly keen eye for detail when it came to office decorum, often dressed in a manner not entirely dissimilar to Scully's own professional wardrobe. Scully straightened her blazer, a plan forming.

"Arlene," Scully began, adopting a tone of casual curiosity she hoped sounded genuine, "your new blouse... it's very sharp. I've been meaning to ask, given our similar stature and, well, 'classic' sensibilities, where do you find such well-tailored pieces? I'm always looking for a new reliable source."

Arlene beamed, clearly flattered by the unexpected compliment from Agent Scully.

"Oh, thank you, Agent Scully! It's just a little boutique near my cousin's place. They have the most wonderful sales. I always tell them, Arlene needs practicality and panache!" Arlene, completely absorbed in the unexpected attention from the formidable Agent Scully, began an extensive monologue about the merits of various shopping districts and how to spot a good bargain, completely oblivious to the real motive. Scully, meanwhile, kept one ear on Arlene and the other on the general murmur of the office, hoping for a clue, any clue, about Mulder's whereabouts. She even managed to subtly steer the conversation towards geographical locations, fishing for tidbits. Arlene, convinced she was imparting valuable fashion wisdom, was delighted to oblige. She's so sweet, Scully thought, and utterly unhelpful.

Just then, Arlene's phone buzzed. "Oh, my carpool's here! Duty calls!" She scrambled to gather her purse, leaving her desk momentarily unattended.

Scully's heart gave a jolt. This was it. Her eyes darted to Arlene's open computer screen, a blur of emails and schedules. She quickly scanned for anything, a flight manifest, a hotel booking, a task force memo…

"Agent Scully."

Skinner's voice, firm and resonant, cut through the quiet like a surgeon's scalpel. Scully froze, her hand hovering over Arlene's keyboard. She slowly turned, her cheeks flushing. Skinner stood in the doorway of his office, his expression a familiar blend of exasperation and knowing. He didn't need to ask what she was doing. He knew. Scully felt a hot wave of humiliation wash over her.

"Sir," she managed, her voice tight.

Skinner simply walked over, his eyes scanning the desk, then landing on a crumpled piece of paper that had fallen near Arlene's wastebasket. It wasn't Arlene's. He bent down, picked it up, and looked at it. It was a printout, almost illegible, of a flight itinerary. A destination. A time.

He straightened, holding the paper loosely in his hand. His gaze met hers, softer now, a flicker of something she rarely saw – genuine concern, maybe even a touch of alliance. "Looking for something, Agent Scully?" he asked, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. He knew exactly what she was up to, and a small, almost imperceptible nod passed between them. He was on their side, even if he couldn't openly show it. It was Fowley who pushed for Mulder to go alone. Skinner thought he'd benefit from having her by his side.

Scully, ever quick-witted, took the paper from him. Her fingers brushed his briefly. "Just… tidying up, sir. This wasn't hers." She tucked it into her pocket, the paper still warm from his hand.

As soon as she was out of the bullpen, striding with a newfound purpose down the hall, she pulled out the paper. Nantucket. Her mind began to whirl, connections sparking. She pulled out her own phone, her fingers flying across the keypad. She booked the first flight. The next piece of the puzzle, she would figure out when she got there. It hadn't been 48 hours since he left, and she already felt like she was losing her mind catastrophizing. This was the only way to silence the noise.

Mulder stood in a poorly lit morgue, the sickly sweet, cloying smell of formaldehyde clinging to his clothes and seeming to permeate his very sinuses. The single overhead fluorescent light hummed, casting a wan, clinical glow that made the stainless steel surfaces gleam starkly. Beside him, a grizzled Deputy Sheriff, his face etched with exhaustion and disgust, recited details about the third victim. Her name was Sarah Jenkins, a local college student found posed in a shallow ravine in the woods just outside town, mere yards from the churning coastline.

"Same as the others, Agent Mulder," the Deputy muttered, gesturing vaguely with a gloved hand towards the sheet-draped gurney. "Found her this morning. Looks like she'd been out there about... twelve, maybe fourteen hours." He shook his head, running a hand over his thinning hair. "No signs of struggle, no obvious wounds. Just... gone. And that damn piece of glass in her chest. And the mark." He paused, lowering his voice. "And they're all the same, Agent Mulder. Buried shallow, by the water, wrapped in those rough burlap sacks, the kind you see for saplings at a nursery." The details were gruesome, whispered in hushed tones by officers who clearly hadn't seen anything like this before. The local law enforcement was not just overwhelmed; they were visibly shaken, their eyes holding a mixture of fear and baffled helplessness.

Mulder leaned closer, his eyes scanning the victim's pallid skin. He wasn't seeing enough. He needed more. He needed Scully. He could almost hear her pragmatic questions, her insistence on details, her ability to cut through the noise and find the undeniable truth in the physical evidence. It sharpens his mind like a knife.

"Deputy," Mulder said, his voice quiet, "I need more. A full pathological workup. We need to ascertain the exact mechanism of death, the micro-trauma, the cellular breakdown. This preliminary report is deficient." He turned to a younger officer hovering nearby. "Officer, I want you to get me a list of all local nurseries in the area. Call every single one. See if they've had any unusual sales, any bulk purchases of these specific burlap sacks. Then, get eyes on them, discreetly." He knew, even as he spoke the words, it was a long shot. The killer was too meticulous, too deliberate to leave such a simple trail. This wasn't some sloppy amateur pilfering from a garden center. This was about making a personal graveyard, a consecrated space by the water's edge. But it still had to be checked.

A familiar voice cut through the sterile air, smooth and confident. "Agent Mulder is right, Deputy. We need to leave no stone unturned."

Mulder turned to see Diana Fowley stepping into the room, impeccably dressed, a faint, almost imperceptible scent of expensive perfume replacing the morgue's acrid tang. She offered him a professional smile, her eyes lingering for a moment, a possessive warmth in their depths. She moved to stand beside him, subtly closer than necessary, a hand briefly resting on his arm as if to solidify her role as his partner.

"We'll coordinate with the local coroner, ensure they understand the gravity of these findings."

Mulder stiffened slightly at her touch, a flash of irritation passing through him. Partner. The word tasted bitter on his tongue. He longed for Scully's resistance to his theories, her grounded skepticism that forced him to sharpen his arguments, to push his own boundaries. Fowley just... agreed. It was like working with a shadow, not a counterpart.

For about the hundredth time today, his gaze flickered to his phone, nestled in his pocket. No new messages. He knew he had to keep limited contact with Scully. That was the order. But being separated from her, truly separated, felt wrong. It felt outside of himself, like a vital organ had been removed. The air in the room suddenly felt thin.
Diana noticed his distraction, a flicker of something unreadable – irritation, perhaps – crossing her perfect features before she masked it with a practiced smile. She subtly tightened her grip on his arm. "Focus, Mulder. We're here for a purpose."

Mulder pulled his arm back, subtly. "Indeed," he stated, his voice devoid of warmth. He turned his attention back to the Deputy, pushing the thought of Scully's call, or lack thereof, from his mind. "Based on the limited evidence, Deputy, the assailant demonstrates a profound knowledge of human anatomy, specifically the cardiovascular system. The obsidian shard isn't merely symbolic; it’s likely integral to the how of the killing. This isn't just about ritual; it's about precision. The victims aren't being brutalized; they're being dismantled from within. The signature... the knot... suggests a coded message, possibly tied to an ancient belief system, but the method itself speaks to a terrifyingly modern, clinical efficiency. I believe the coroner's work, while thorough by local standards, is deficient in uncovering this."

"Agent Mulder, we appreciate your insights," Diana interjected smoothly, her voice pitched to appease, "but I'm sure the local medical examiner has done everything in their power–"

The morgue door swung open with a quiet whoosh. A familiar, resolute figure stood framed in the doorway, clutching a large, battered medical kit. Her gaze swept over the room, landing squarely on Mulder. A hint of a challenge, and an undeniable glint of determination, entered her eyes.

"Did someone say they needed a pathologist?" Scully asked, her voice calm, clear, and perfectly timed.

Mulder's breath hitched. In that moment, she might as well have ridden into the dismal morgue on a white stead, bathed in ethereal light, a modern-day Joan of Arc ready to banish the shadows. He felt a profound, almost dizzying wave of relief wash over him, startling in its intensity, like a man parched for days finally finding water. He was Scully-starved, two days of forced emotional detox from her presence leaving him utterly depleted. A wide, irrepressible grin broke across his face, a raw expression of elation he couldn't possibly rein in. Every instinct screamed at him to cross the room, to grab her into a bear hug that would convey the sheer terror of her absence and the boundless joy of her return. But the setting, the observers, and years of ingrained decorum held him captive.

"Scully," he uttered tenderly.

Diana's perfectly composed smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of pure, unadulterated annoyance that vanished as quickly as it appeared, like a shadow briefly crossing a bright window. But as quickly as Diana regained her composure, it didn't matter. Not to Mulder. Not to Scully. They locked eyes, and in that moment, the sterile morgue, the grim case, the hovering Deputy, and the exasperated Diana Fowley simply ceased to exist. It was as if no one else existed in the world. Diana turned, a sharp, impatient huff escaping her lips, completely unheard by the two agents.

Chapter Text

Mulder, still grinning, stepped towards Scully. "Well, what a surprise, Agent Scully. Couldn't stay away, could you?

Scully raised an eyebrow, a familiar, wry amusement gracing her features despite the grim surroundings. "More like I figured the longer I stayed away, the bigger the mess I'd have to clean up."

Diana, having spun back around, inserted herself seamlessly, stepping close to Mulder's side, her posture subtly possessive. "Agent Scully, this is an unexpected development. I wasn't aware you'd been authorized for this case." She smiled, a practiced, almost pitying gesture that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Scully felt a familiar prickle of irritation. It was an old ache, resurrected by Fowley's return. Her mind immediately rationalized it: it was purely professional, the jealousy of turf, of her role being usurped. Mulder is my partner, my friend, nothing more, she fiercely told herself, even as her gaze lingered on Diana's arm, draped casually near Mulder's.

Mulder shifted uncomfortably, caught in the invisible tension. He didn't want to alienate Diana; they had a long, if complicated, history, and he considered her a friend. But his heart, the true core of him, had been irrevocably claimed by Dana Katherine Scully ever since he’d first seen her swiveling in that basement office chair all those years ago. Perhaps even before, when he'd first read her senior thesis on "Einstein's Twin Paradox: A New Interpretation." Yet, a romantic entanglement with Scully seemed a bridge too far, a risk of complicating their bond and losing her altogether. His romantic history didn't exactly bode well for future relationships. Besides, he didn't deserve her. He was just grateful for her presence, for this at least.

Diana, resigned to Scully's undeniable presence but unwilling to tolerate her for long, made her move. "While I appreciate your… initiative, Agent Scully, time is of the essence. We need to get started on these autopsies. Agent Mulder has already provided a preliminary profile."

Scully knew Diana was right. Her gaze met Mulder's, a silent communication passing between them—an acknowledgment of the dynamics at play, a shared understanding of the hurdles. He gave her a reassuring nod. "She's right, Scully. We can catch up later."

Before he turned to leave with Diana, Mulder reached out, his fingers gently tugging Scully's hand. "I'm grateful you came," he murmured, his voice low, for her ears alone. "I'll see you later. Where are you staying?"

"Same motel as you," Scully replied, pulling her hand away. "A few doors down." She added silently, from your room, not the one that has access to your room, knowing Diana had already claimed that spot. The unspoken tension hung between them like the formaldehyde in the air. Mulder wanted to tell her there was nothing romantic between him and Diana, but the words felt out of place, almost insulting to Scully's logic. He was sure she was far too rational to harbor such designs on him. He just needed her safe, by his side, even if only as his steadfast intellectual compass.
Just then, Diana, moving to lead Mulder out, appeared to "accidentally" teeter on her heels. Her long, red-tipped fingers, like claws, grabbed Mulder's arm, sliding languidly across his chest as she steadied herself. "Oh, how clumsy of me," she purred, her eyes momentarily flicking to Scully. Mulder, ever the gentleman, instantly reached out to help her regain her balance. Scully watched, a knot of disgust tightening in her stomach, then turned sharply on her heel to begin her work, already moving towards the first body. Mulder gave one last, lingering look in Scully's direction before exiting the morgue with Diana.

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At the latest crime scene, a small, desolate cove where the sand met the churning water, Mulder crouched low. The faint scent of salt and decay hung heavy in the air. He was trying to get inside the killer's mind, to understand the motive behind such meticulous brutality. Why these women? They shared no obvious connections—varied backgrounds, differing lifestyles. His focus narrowed on Sarah Jenkins, the latest victim. His latest victim. When Mulder was in profile mode, the lines between himself and the killer often blurred; it was a necessary blurring to compartmentalize the horror and truly inhabit the mind of the perpetrator.

He pictured Sarah, vivid as a ghost. The last reported sighting was her walking towards the parking lot of her college campus. She was pre-med, bright, ambitious, but she’d been forced to take an elective on Contemporary English Literature. Sarah hated writing and procrastinated until the last possible moment, but her scholarship depended on her taking every course seriously. The parking lot had only two cameras. One was non-operational. The other showed a blurry, indistinct image of Sarah maneuvering into her Jeep Cherokee. Was the killer already there? Was this a crime of opportunity, or did they have some sinister, hidden relationship? All of this fired off rapidly in Mulder's brain, a cascade of possibilities.

This wasn't a simple rage killer or a dispassionate professional. The meticulous burial, the ritualistic placement by the water, the chosen weapon—it all pointed to someone operating on a deeply personal, almost mythological level. The killer wasn't just taking lives; he was staging them, narrating a dark, twisted story. This wasn't merely about murder; it was about communication. But what was he trying to communicate?

Mulder's mind latched onto the obsidian. It seemed so showy, so gauche for such a precise, hidden method of killing. Why not a silent blade? Why a shard of volcanic glass? Obsidian, a naturally occurring volcanic glass, was historically prized for its sharp edges, used for cutting and piercing tools, but also held profound symbolic significance in ancient cultures. It was used in rituals, as a scrying mirror, believed to possess protective qualities, or to represent darkness, the unknown, and death itself. It was formed from rapidly cooled lava, born of intense heat and pressure, a primal, violent creation.

Was the killer attempting to invoke some ancient power, a dark form of consecration? Was he claiming these women, burying them as seeds in his own macabre garden, hoping for some twisted harvest? Or was the obsidian meant as a message to himself, a ritual to justify his actions, a way to externalize his inner turmoil? Perhaps it was a tool not just for killing, but for purification or transformation, a perversion of ancient beliefs. He was making a statement, a chilling pronouncement of his power and twisted worldview. This man was not just a killer; he was a philosopher of death, a self-proclaimed artist, or perhaps, a misunderstood prophet to his own dark religion. And a man who seeks to wield such absolute, theatrical power must, at his core, feel utterly powerless. This profound insecurity, he realized, was the key. Mulder was on the cusp of making these deeper connections when he was abruptly interrupted.

When Mulder was this deep into a case, on this plane of heightened perception, an interruption felt like being transported back through a psychedelic tunnel, a jarring, unwelcome return to reality. He was near irate, and he shot up, turning sharply to confront his trespasser. It was the Deputy Sheriff. Mulder instinctively grabbed the man angrily by his shirt, a primal growl caught in his throat.

Diana watched Mulder's sudden, raw fury with an almost scientific fascination, a thrill coiling in her gut. This unbridled intensity, this glimpse of the caged animal beneath the rumpled suit, excited her. If she could just get him to lose himself like this more often, to let go of the carefully constructed facade he wore, he might finally see the true benefit of their professional and personal reconnection.

"Mulder! Easy!" Diana's voice, surprisingly sharp, cut through his haze. She stepped in, placing a calming hand on his arm, her presence now useful as she physically inserted herself between him and the startled Deputy, acting as his tamer to his sudden lion-like fury. His fascination with Scully, she mused, it's just a conflation. He sees Samantha in her, a replacement for what he lost. She wasn't even his type, physically or emotionally. He just doesn't realize it. Diana's mind was a calculated machine, and she was confident in her next moves, like a grandmaster chess player seeing several turns ahead. Time. Time is what she needed, and she thought this case would afford her the time to regain Mulder's trust and, more importantly, his singular attention. She knew her place in Mulder's life. She was his queen, and soon she would be claiming checkmate.

The Deputy, pale and visibly shaken, weakly announced, trying to get his bearings, "Agent Mulder... Agent Fowley... there's another body."

Mulder immediately reached for his phone, Scully on speed dial.

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In the stark, utilitarian autopsy suite, the very air seemed to resist her, thick and stagnant, the inadequate ventilation a forgotten sigh of older county facilities. Yet, within this crucible of science and death, Scully was already sweating, not merely from the oppressive heat but from the fire of her own tumultuous thoughts. She yearned to shed her heavy lab coat, to peel away the layers of convention and simply exist in the cool comfort of her tank top beneath. But such a surrender was not medically sound, not professional, and Scully, ever the sentinel of discipline, held fast. Restriction, she mused, a faint, weary smile playing upon her lips. How much of her life, her very essence, was defined by it? She found a strange, almost poetic gratitude for the Irish Catholic stoicism ingrained within her from childhood; it had proven to be the most rigorous, most profound training ground for the epic, often solitary, life she now led.

Yet, even her ironclad discipline could not chain her mind, which, like a relentless tide, kept circling back to Diana Fowley. What role was that woman truly playing in this unfolding drama? Not merely Mulder’s "liaison," but something far more insidious, a shadowy hand pulling strings unseen. Scully remained convinced Diana operated with nefarious sources, a pawn or perhaps even a dark queen in a larger, darker game whose rules were yet unwritten. She replayed the brutal scene in the Gunman's lair, a memory that still burned like a brand upon her soul: Mulder, his face a mask of stone, dismissing her evidence, "Scully, you're making this personal."

A hot wave of fury, swift and unbidden, surged through her, immediately followed by the familiar, searing shame. She told him, “Because it IS personal, Mulder!” but she wanted to cry out, to tear down the walls between them, Every breath we take, every truth we chase, every silent understanding between us — it is all personal! How could he have uttered such words, after every impossible labyrinth they had traversed, every shadow they had faced, every scar they had shared? She had believed, with the quiet conviction of a rising sun, that the charged moment in his hallway, when their gazes had locked with such intensity, had marked a turning point. That they were moving towards something inexorable, like fault lines creeping closer, inch by agonizing inch, with the weight of the world between them—never quite meeting, yet trembling with an unspoken, profound desire to join as one. Apparently, that desire had been a solitary yearning, at least it had felt that way in the barren days that followed. It had taken every ounce of her prodigious strength to re-engage in the familiar, comforting rhythm of their partnership after that, to find her footing on the tremulous ground. She had seen Mulder's efforts, his quiet gestures of repair, and those had helped to mend the superficial wounds. But the deep, visceral pain of that exchange remained as raw today as it had been in that shattering moment.

She reflected on her self-imposed restraint with Mulder, a testament to her fierce, unyielding loyalty, her devotion. So many times, the words of her true feelings had risen to her lips, a silent crescendo of devotion, only to be swallowed by the unspoken. She rationalized, with the cold, precise logic of her scientific mind, that Mulder’s profound affection for her was pure, untainted, born of a brotherly bond, a desperate replacement for his lost sister, Samantha. His feelings for me are purely platonic, she desperately tried to convince herself, purely out of friendship and profound respect for her mind.

Yet, the raw, undeniable memories, like ancient scrolls unrolling themselves before her inner eye, contradicted her carefully constructed logic. She remembered the quiet agony etched upon his face, a raw vulnerability usually hidden, during his unwavering vigil at her side when she was recovering from Ritter's amateur and accidental gunshot. She had not missed the primal, murderous stare he’d given Ritter when he returned to check on her, nor Mulder's low, cold advice that it was "probably best" (and she knew he meant "safest") for Ritter to just call her, never to appear in person again. She could still recall Ritter's grateful, relieved nod, a man spared, a silent testament to the fierce, protective dragon awakened in Mulder.

Then, the phantom touch of "Arcadia," the fleeting, tantalizing dream of normalcy where they had slipped so effortlessly into the roles of husband and wife. A domesticity that felt disturbingly natural, a glimpse into an alternate destiny. Though it was merely pretend, he had seemed utterly engrossed in his role, especially the casual, "handsy" intimacy he'd indulged, making a mockery of her carefully erected boundaries. And the night, the singular night, the one they had non-verbally agreed to erase from spoken memory, yet which resided, indelible, in the deepest, most sacred chambers of her heart. In the terrifying aftermath of finding her on his floor, her shirt soaked with blood, she recalled how he had cradled her protectively to his chest, how he had gently picked her up, a fragile rag doll, and bathed her with a tenderness that defied logic, never implying anything untoward. His clinical and infinitely gentle hands, utterly professional, devoid of any hint of impropriety. Scully was barely lucid enough to be fully aware, her mind a hazy landscape of pain, yet she trusted Mulder implicitly, absolutely, as one might trust a guardian angel. That night, held secure in his arms, she had known in her deepest self that he needed her as much as she needed the reassuring anchor of his physical presence, a profound, mutual solace. They clung to each other, a silent promise whispered into the dark, waking still entangled in the morning light, their bodies a testament to a connection words could never fully capture.

It took more courage, more sheer force of will, for her to get up and walk out of his apartment that morning than it did to fight back Naciamento, knife in hand. Her fight with Naciamento was instinctive, a primal battle for survival. Leaving the comfort and safety of Mulder's bed, severing that tender, fragile connection, was a deliberate choice, a conscious act of self-sacrifice. She had to distance herself, to build the walls higher, to protect them both from the complexities of a love that could unravel their carefully constructed world. It was a different way of protecting her heart, perhaps a more monumental act of self-preservation. She knew Mulder would never deliberately break her heart. But he could, he could, unintentionally, with his own blindness, and with Diana…

Her phone chimed, a small, insistent summons that sliced through the weight of her memories. It was an inopportune time, her hands already gloved, poised over the sterile tools of her trade. But she knew it was him. And she had never, not once, failed to respond to his call.

Chapter Text

The oppressive air of the autopsy suite, thick and stagnant despite the whirring of antiquated fans, clung to Scully like a shroud. She peeled off her gloves, the faint, metallic scent of blood and formaldehyde a stubborn reminder of the meticulous work she'd just completed on the three initial victims. The phone call from Mulder had been terse, adrenaline-laced—"another one, Scully, get down here"—and the urgency in his voice had cut through her exhaustion. She glanced at her watch. The drive to the new crime scene would take time, time she now begrudged, eager to be by his side. A quick, efficient clean-up of her instruments, a final check of the sterile environment, and she was out the door, trading the cool, clinical confines of the morgue for the raw, unpredictable embrace of the Nantucket coast.

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The new crime scene was a desolate stretch of the Nantucket coast, where the churning Atlantic crashed against a lonely patch of pebbles and marsh grass. The air was colder here, carrying the raw, untamed scent of the sea and something else, something metallic and cloying that spoke of death. Mulder stood over the latest victim, his profile grim, the lines of his jaw stark against the pale light of the overcast morning. This was the fourth, but her condition was far worse than the others. She lay partially submerged in the tidal wash, the water having done its brutal work of decomposition.

"No missing persons report for her, until now," the Deputy Sheriff murmured, his voice tight with fatigue and disgust. "But we found ID. Carmine Lovelett. Seventeen. Been living at a local shelter for runaway teens for the past few months."

Mulder knelt, his gaze sweeping over the scene, piecing together the fragmented story the brutalized landscape offered. The placement, the water, the familiar, unsettling ritual. "Another young woman. Another echo," he mused, his voice low, almost to himself. The killer was evolving, not becoming more desperate, but rather, more meticulous. Carmine, with her crude disposal and jagged wounds, appeared to be an earlier victim, a foundational act in his twisted doctrine. It was clear that as his depravity deepened, so did his attention to detail, evolving into the elaborate rituals seen with the later victims. He had found his macabre artistry, and Carmine's crude fate was merely the unrefined genesis of it.

He noted the stark absence of the burlap sack, the signature cocoon that had enveloped the previous victims. This woman, Carmine, lay exposed, vulnerable to the elements. His gaze fell upon the jagged cuts on her chest and forehead, stark in their contrast to the surgical precision found on the others. Less time had been taken here, far less attention to detail. The distinction struck Mulder: the serial killer, he intuited, had needed more as his spree progressed, a ceremony of sorts, to fuel his monstrous ego. Was this a dark, satanic evolution, a deepening of his twisted ritual?

"This one... she's different," Diana observed, her voice cutting into his reverie. She stood a little too close, her silhouette a dark shape beside his own, yet her gaze, sharp and analytical, mirrored his own recent conclusion. "Less ritualistic, wouldn't you say, Mulder? The disposal is crude, the cuts less precise than the others. This feels like a foundational act, a nascent depravity. Perhaps his very first offering." She leaned in, her voice a soft, almost intimate suggestion, "The rough genesis of his current macabre artistry, a test of his own limits before he refined his twisted ceremony." Her hand, cool and slender, reached out, her fingers brushing the knot of Mulder's tie, straightening it with a familiar gesture that spoke of shared intimacy, of a long history. "We need to consider all angles, Fox."

All of this, the shared insights, the effortless, almost telepathic dance of their minds, reminded Mulder of how they used to work together. How she could read his thoughts so effectively, anticipating his leaps of intuition with grounded observation, how they moved in perfect concert with one another, a formidable, singular force.

Just then, Scully approached, her steps sure and measured across the uneven ground. She had been delayed, painstakingly cleaning the morgue from her intense autopsy work, a duty she took seriously, leaving no trace behind. But the sight that greeted her—Mulder, intense and absorbed in the scene, and Diana, leaning in, her hand on his tie, a tableau of effortless familiarity—sent a fresh jolt of something akin to betrayal through her. The cold ache in her stomach tightened into a knot.

This is a crime scene, she reminded herself, her breath held tight. I am an FBI agent. I owe it to this victim to put my petty feelings aside. To be rational. To be professional. She squared her shoulders, her expression hardening into a mask of pure, unadulterated purpose.

She stepped forward, her voice cutting through the hushed tableau, clear and devoid of any personal inflection. "What have we got here?" Her gaze swept over the victim, then landed on Mulder, awaiting the cold, hard facts.

Mulder, already turning fully towards her, his face alight with an almost boyish eagerness, immediately launched into his theory. "Scully! Just in time. This is Carmine Lovelett. A runaway. And I think she's his first victim, the unpolished draft of his later work. The lack of the burlap sack, the raw, almost clumsy lacerations on her chest and forehead... this is his 'learning curve.' He needed a ceremony, Scully, a theatricality that grew with each kill. This suggests a deepening ritual, perhaps something with Satanic undertones, a twisted consecration." He gestured wildly towards the brutalized girl, his eyes burning with the passion of his insight.

Scully moved closer, her own gaze sweeping over the scene, assessing the victim with a clinical precision that starkly contrasted Mulder's speculative fervor. "Satanic rituals, Mulder? While I agree this victim stands apart in presentation, the lack of refinement could simply indicate panic, or a less developed modus operandi, not necessarily a progression towards elaborate dark rites." She knelt, carefully examining the raw wounds he'd described. "The jagged nature of these cuts, for example. They suggest a less controlled application of force, possibly an initial lack of proficiency with the weapon, rather than a less revered 'offering.'" She paused, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes as she glanced at the undisturbed sand surrounding Carmine. "And where is the obsidian, Mulder? If this is his first victim, the 'genesis' as you put it, why isn't his trademark weapon present, or why is it missing?"

"It could have been dislodged by the tide, Scully," Mulder countered, gesturing to the churning water. "Or perhaps, being his first, he didn't yet view the obsidian as his signature. He was still finding his voice, his gruesome art." He lowered his voice, "But the need for ritual, for the water, for the hidden disposal... that suggests an inherent belief system, a desire for power. The later victims simply refined the expression of that desire."

"Or," Scully pressed, rising slowly, her arms crossed, "it suggests a simpler psychological compulsion. A need for control, a desire to create a private tableau. The increasing complexity could be a manifestation of escalating fantasy, a need for greater stimulation, rather than a deepening adherence to a mystical doctrine. You're projecting a grand, ancient evil onto what might be a far more mundane, if equally disturbing, psychological profile." Her eyes met his, a familiar challenge in their depths. "The common denominator is a profound pathology, Mulder, regardless of whether it's cloaked in black magic or simple megalomania."

Diana Fowley watched their rapid-fire exchange, her lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. This was the dynamic she knew so well, the intellectual push-and-pull that both defined and, to her mind, constrained Mulder. She saw his obvious reliance on Scully, the way his theories sharpened under her skepticism. She also saw the subtle frustration in Scully’s eyes, the yearning for a deeper connection that Mulder seemed oblivious to, or perhaps, deliberately ignored. Yes, Diana mused, they are so intertwined, so caught in their own separate orbits, circling but never quite colliding. It makes them vulnerable. She was a master chess player, and her pieces were finally in place. She waited, patiently, for the opportune moment to move. She knew precisely how to exploit the fissure between their intellect and their hearts. The game, she thought, was truly about to begin.

"Agent Scully," Diana interjected, her voice smooth as polished stone, yet with an underlying current that felt sharp. "Given your unique expertise, and the... extensive decomposition here, it would be most efficient if you returned to the morgue to conduct a full autopsy on Ms. Lovelett. Agent Mulder and I can continue securing the scene and coordinating with local law enforcement." She offered a saccharine smile, her gaze not quite meeting Scully's, instead lingering on Mulder, as if to imply a shared, unspoken agreement.

Scully's jaw tightened imperceptibly. The suggestion was cloaked in professional deference, yet it was a blatant attempt to relegate her, to sideline her from the active investigation alongside Mulder. Her eyes, cool and steady, met Diana's. "Agent Fowley," she replied, her voice calm, utterly devoid of heat, which only made its precision more cutting. "While I appreciate your concern for efficiency, my role as Agent Mulder's partner on this case extends beyond the morgue. I am not your subordinate to be assigned at will. My presence here at the crime scene, to observe and to consult, is as vital as my medical examination of the body, which will be conducted once the scene has been thoroughly processed and all necessary evidence collected." Her gaze flickered to Mulder, a silent appeal for his backing, a subtle challenge to his authority.

Mulder, sensing the sharp edge in the air, stepped in. "Diana, Scully's right. Her presence here is crucial. But it's also past three in the morning, and we've all been pushing for days." He turned to Scully, a genuine weariness settling on his features. "We're not going to get anything more productive done tonight. This scene is secured. We should all get some rest." He watched her carefully, knowing her penchant for relentless self-sacrifice.

Scully lifted an eyebrow, a skeptical arch that spoke volumes. Rest? she thought, a faint, disbelieving flicker in her gaze. You never sleep, Mulder. Especially not on a case like this. She knew him too well, the way a case like this would burrow into his mind, denying him peace until it was solved. He wasn't suggesting rest for himself, not truly. He was trying to keep the peace, to mollify Diana, to de-escalate the unspoken drama that crackled between the three of them.

Mulder's hand, warm and reassuring, settled gently on her shoulder. The touch was fleeting, barely there, yet it spoke volumes. It was a silent whisper, I am with you. I am always with you. It was a bond that needed no words, no overt declarations.

The gesture, so subtle, so profoundly Mulder, grated on both women. For Scully, it was a confirmation of his loyalty, a quiet comfort, but also a fresh wave of frustration at his inability—or unwillingness—to explicitly acknowledge the true depth of their connection in front of another woman. For Diana, it was a searing indictment, a silent testament to the impenetrable wall that existed between Mulder and herself, a wall made of Scully.

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Back at the motel, the quiet hallway felt charged with the day's unspoken tensions. Mulder fished out his key card, his eyes meeting Scully's across the short distance separating their doors.

"Goodnight, Scully," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

"Goodnight, Mulder," she replied, her voice soft.

Their gazes locked, a silent conversation passing between them that transcended the simple words. In his eyes, she saw exhaustion, a profound reliance, and an enduring warmth that defied all logic. In hers, he saw a lingering worry, an unwavering trust, and a flicker of something he still dared not name. They retreated into their separate rooms, the soft click of their doors echoing in the stillness.

A short while later, a soft knock at Mulder’s adjoining door. He opened it to find Diana Fowley, bathed in the dim light of the backdrop of her room. She was wearing a black silk gown, its fabric clinging with indecent modesty, topped by a matching black silk robe that offered little in the way of true concealment.

"Mulder," she purred, a triumphant glint in her eyes. "I couldn't sleep. Something was bothering me about the victim profile, and I had a breakthrough. You'll want to see this." She stepped inside, the silk whispering against her skin. "My feet are killing me," she added playfully, rubbing one ankle, before gracefully sinking onto the edge of his bed, the robe slipping open to reveal a significant expanse of thigh and the curve of her calf. "You're lucky you're not a woman, Fox. Heels all day." She patted the space beside her, indicating he should sit.

Mulder, still largely oblivious to her suggestive display, merely gestured vaguely towards the desk chair. His mind was already whirring, pulled back into the case. "What is it, Diana?" he asked as he sat in the chair. He looked utterly beat up, his rumpled clothes and shadowed eyes betraying days of relentless pursuit.

Diana’s gaze softened, a flicker of genuine concern beneath her strategic veneer. "You look exhausted, Fox. Like you haven't slept in a week." She reached out, her fingers gently brushing his unshaven cheek. "This can wait until morning. You need to take a hot shower, clear your head. Get some sleep. We can go over everything with fresh eyes in a few hours."

Mulder, surprisingly, considered it. The thought of hot water, a momentary escape from the grim reality, was tempting. "You're right," he sighed, running a hand over his face. "I'm not thinking straight." He headed for the shower, the sound of running water soon filling the room.

Diana watched him disappear, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She moved to the desk, her fingers idly sifting through his case files, but her attention was elsewhere. Just then, a soft, hesitant knock sounded at his main door.

Diana’s smile widened, a predatory gleam entering her eyes. She stood, pulling the black silk robe from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a shimmering pool. Now, she was all cleavage and bare arms, the high slit up her leg revealing a long expanse of skin as she moved to the door. She opened it, just a crack.

Scully stood there, her hair slightly disheveled, her face pale with exhaustion and a raw, vulnerable worry in her eyes. She clutched a slim folder to her chest. "I figured you wouldn't be sleeping," she began, her voice a low, husky whisper, "knowing you never do, so I brought you—" Her words died in her throat, her gaze falling, then snapping up, taking in Diana's barely clad form, the strategically arranged display of seductive confidence.

Scully felt it then, a crushing weight of realization. She was gutted. Outmaneuvered. She hadn't slept, her defenses were utterly down, and in this moment, laid bare by her fatigue and unguarded concern, she felt more exposed than she ever had in her life.
Diana merely arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a slow, pitying smile spreading across her lips. It was a smile of a victor, of a woman who understood the silent language of desire and had wielded it with masterful precision. The implication hung in the air, thick and suffocating: you, Agent Scully, with your sensible suits and your earnest folder, could never hope to compete. Scully had never felt more shamed, more utterly ejected, more tragically misplaced. Could this be possible? she asked herself, her logical brain struggling to comprehend the raw, visceral blow. Yes, she deduced, it is. The evidence was stark, undeniable, even without empirical analysis.

With a trembling hand, Scully extended the folder. "I… I found something else in the morgue that might be relevant." Her voice was barely a whisper.

Diana took the folder, her fingers brushing Scully's with a dismissive grace. "Of course, Agent Scully. I'll be sure to give it to Fox as soon as he comes out of the shower." Her gaze, cool and triumphant, swept over Scully one last time before she softly closed the door.

Scully stood there for a long moment, the silence of the hallway pressing in on her, then she turned and walked back to her own room, the weight of the closed door feeling like the finality of a world irrevocably altered.

Chapter Text

Diana Fowley took the folder from Scully’s trembling hand, a triumphant glint in her eyes. Instead of giving it to Mulder, she subtly placed it at the bottom of the stack of cold case files Mulder had been sifting through, hoping to unearth any older connections to the press-dubbed "Obsidian Killer."

Diana saw Scully's late-night delivery as nothing more than a pathetic ploy, a transparent attempt to regain access to Mulder's room, to him. She even considered sharing it with Mulder later, to gauge his reaction, but ultimately decided against it. The truth was, she wasn't entirely confident he wouldn't go to Scully to ask questions, knowing how passionately he immersed himself in his work.

As Diana leaned down, a languid stretch, to retrieve her robe from the floor, the bathroom door creaked open. Mulder emerged, a towel draped precariously around his waist, water beading on his skin. He stopped, surprised to find Diana still there, and even more shocked by her state of dress—or undress, as the case may be. A blush crept up his neck, an awkward flush that he hoped the dim lighting concealed. "Diana?" he managed, his voice rough from exhaustion and sudden discomfort. "Why are you still in my room?"

She smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips. "I thought I'd offer to massage those tense shoulders, Fox. Help you finally get some sleep." Her gaze lingered on his bare chest.

Mulder, for all his renowned obliviousness to a woman's charms, wasn't stupid here. He was utterly exhausted, but the boundary needed to be set, clearly and immediately. He sucked at this, he knew. He took a deep breath. "I appreciate the gesture, Diana, and I'm flattered, but... that's not going to happen."

A flicker of annoyance, quickly masked, crossed her features. "Of course not, Fox. I wasn't suggesting anything else. Merely a professional courtesy." The rejection, subtle as it was, still stung a little. She rose, gathered her robe, and with a tight smile, headed for the adjoining door. When her door clicked shut, Mulder let out a long, slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He immediately walked over and locked his side of the adjoining door.

He pushed the encounter from his mind, his thoughts already careening back to the labyrinthine details of the case. He pulled on his boxers, then a pair of worn jeans and a t-shirt. He wanted to be ready, just in case the phone rang. Tonight? More like morning, he corrected, seeing the alarm clock's glow: 4:28 AM. He lay down on the bed, closing his eyes, attempting to re-enter the twisted mind of the killer, chasing the shadows of motive and ritual.

Meanwhile, in her own room, Scully was brooding, the image of Diana at Mulder's door searing itself into her mind. It smarted, a raw wound to her pride. She was only human, and this hurt her. She rationalized, with the cold, precise logic that was both her shield and her burden, that if Diana and Mulder had rekindled their romance, she needed to accept it. She needed to move on. She set her alarm for 5:30 AM. First light, she'd head to the morgue to conduct Carmine Lovelett's autopsy, armed with her instruments and the rigid discipline that always saved her.

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The next morning, at 6:13 AM, Mulder was relentlessly knocking on Scully's door. Bang. Bang. Bang. He knew she was a deep sleeper, but this was ridiculous. His banging grew so loud that other motel occupants, roused from their fitful sleep, began to poke their heads out, muttering curses and telling him to quiet down. One of them was Diana, already dressed and looking impossibly refreshed, ready to start the day.

"Mulder, what on earth are you doing?" she asked, a picture of calm concern. "Scully is an FBI agent, she can take care of herself. She's probably just getting some much-needed sleep."

"I know she can, Diana," Mulder retorted, his voice tight with frustration and worry. "But she's also my partner, and I'm not leaving until I speak to her." He tried her cell again. Straight to voicemail. With a final, exasperated sigh, he spun on his heel and strode towards the parking lot. Diana, her expression carefully neutral, rushed to keep up.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

At the morgue, Scully was just finishing her meticulous examination of Carmine Lovelett. The old facility's fluorescent lights hummed above her, illuminating the grim tableau. She had already found crucial details, inconsistencies that both challenged Mulder's initial hypothesis and pointed toward a terrifying new direction. She was about to document her findings when the door to the autopsy suite swung open so violently she not only heard the bang, but felt the jarring reverberation through the floor.

It was Mulder. His face was a mask of furious concern, his chest heaving as if he'd run all the way from the motel. He looked wild, untamed, the image of a man driven to the brink by worry.

"Why?" he demanded, his voice low and hostile, barely above a whisper, "Why wouldn't you tell me where you were going? Not even a message, Scully?"

Scully recoiled slightly, taken aback by his raw intensity. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. "I... I didn't want to interrupt you, Mulder," she began, her voice softening, though it sounded strained. Her eyes flickered away, then back to his, a desperate attempt to gauge his comprehension. "I... I didn't want to intrude on... whatever you were doing." The last words were almost a whisper, laced with an unspoken, painful accusation.

Mulder looked utterly confounded. "Interrupt me from what, Scully?" he asked, a sharp edge entering his voice, utterly unaware of the loaded implication of her statement. "You just disappeared. I've been calling your room, your cell..." His eyes narrowed, a mixture of relief and indignation warring in their depths.

Just then, the morgue door opened again, and Diana Fowley stepped in, serene and perfectly composed. She glanced between them, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "Good, you're both here. Agent Scully, what have you learned from your examination of Carmine Lovelett?" she interjected smoothly, diverting the immediate tension between them with practiced ease.

Mulder was still breathing hard, his frustration compounded by Scully's seemingly blithe demeanor, her casual dismissal of his worry. Scully's face, the curse of the Irish, was indeed beginning to flush a deep red. She knew precisely what had "gone down" between him and Diana in his room the night before. The image of Diana's barely-there silk still burned behind her eyes. But she forced it down, reining in her emotions with an iron will. She cleared her throat, regaining her professional composure, and turned to Diana, though her gaze flickered back to Mulder, a silent challenge in her eyes.

"Her full name was Carmine Lovelett. Seventeen. And as I suspected, she wasn't killed at the site where her body was found." Scully's voice was now purely professional, all emotion purged. "The abrasions on her elbows and knees, the faint but consistent pattern of sand and debris embedded in the epidermal layers of her back and the trailing edge of her scalp, all indicate she was dragged. Post-mortem lividity patterns suggest she was incapacitated elsewhere before being moved. There's also trace evidence of freshwater diatoms in her lungs, inconsistent with the saltwater environment where she was found. She was alive when she entered freshwater, likely drowned there, then transported."

She continued, a rapid-fire succession of grim details. "Her fingernails show evidence of defensive wounds, distinct scratches, and torn tissue from her assailant. We'll need to run those for DNA. There are also specific petechial hemorrhages around her eyes and neck, consistent with strangulation, though the drowning appears to be the ultimate cause of death. And the cuts on her chest and forehead, while jagged, were deep, made by a sharp, primitive tool. Not the obsidian we've seen on the others, but a similar type of material, perhaps a cruder version, or even a different, more readily available, primitive blade."

Scully then opened the folder she still clutched. "And this is what I was trying to share last night, Mulder."

"Last night?" Mulder interjected, his head tilting in surprise, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

"It's subtle," Scully continued, pushing past his interruption, her voice firm, "but I cross-referenced the medical examiner's preliminary reports on our previous victims with my own findings. On each of them, I found microscopic evidence, hormonal markers and specific uterine tissue changes, that consistently placed them at the second day of their menstrual cycle." She looked up, her gaze firm. "Including Carmine Lovelett."

Diana, who had been listening intently, stepped forward. "The second day of the menstrual cycle? Agent Scully, what is the medical significance of that?"

Mulder, for his part, was still processing Scully's "last night" comment. Had she come to his room? Had she seen Diana? Is that the reason for her disappearing act this morning, for this sudden emotional distance she was putting between them now? He didn't have time to dwell on it, not with a serial killer still at large, but he made a mental note to follow up on it later, with Scully, alone. His attention had to be on the case details for now.

Scully turned to her, her composure unwavering. "Medically, the second day is typically when menstrual flow is heaviest, and estrogen levels are still relatively low. It's a time of vulnerability, heightened sensitivity, and for some, increased discomfort. It's a physiological peak in terms of shedding the uterine lining."

Mulder’s eyes, which had been fixed on Scully as she spoke, suddenly widened, a spark igniting in their depths. "The second day," he whispered, a new, chilling theory forming. "Scully, this isn't about biology. This is about power. In ancient folklore, and certain esoteric practices, the second day of the cycle, often the heaviest bleeding, was sometimes seen as a moment of profound energetic discharge. A 'blood tide.' It was considered a period of heightened sensitivity, yes, but also of raw, untamed female power that could be harvested or subverted." He paced, his words gaining speed. "In some agrarian fertility cults, or even darker magical traditions, it was believed that life force, especially female life force at its peak flow, could be drained, or directed, to imbue an object or person with power, to bring about a desired outcome – perhaps even for 'rebirth' or 'renewal' for the perpetrator. The crude nature of Carmine's death, the messy, violent taking... he wasn't just killing them, Scully. He was taking something from them. And the later, more ritualistic killings, with the refined obsidian, the burlap, the specific disposal sites... he was getting better at the 'harvest.' Refining his ceremony."

"So, he's a collector of a specific kind of energy," Scully mused, her scientific mind grappling with his more esoteric interpretation, yet seeing the terrifying logic within its framework. "Which means he has a pattern. He's selecting victims based on a specific biological phase, and then performing a ritual to extract or absorb something he believes he needs."

"Exactly!" Mulder exclaimed, his eyes blazing. "We need to find out where these women were last seen, particularly on the second day of their cycles. We need to identify any places where they might have been abducted from, especially sites with access to freshwater."

Diana stepped forward, seizing the moment. "Very insightful, Agents. Given this new information, our strategy must adapt. Agent Scully, your medical expertise is critical. You need to return to the office immediately. Cross-reference all missing persons reports from the region with known shelters and high-risk populations, specifically looking for women matching the age and physical profiles of our victims, and if possible, track their menstrual cycles. It's a monumental task, but only you possess the medical acumen to do it properly. Agent Mulder, you and I will focus on geographical profiling. We'll revisit all known abduction sites, searching for a freshwater source nearby, looking for any other potential ceremonial areas, and focusing on occult activity in the area."

Mulder bristled, his jaw tightening. "Diana, I need Scully with me in the field. Her scientific perspective is invaluable for understanding these sites. We work best together."

Scully, however, walked up to Mulder and placed a hand lightly on his arm, her voice a soft, almost imperceptible whisper meant only for him. "She's right, Mulder." Her eyes met his, a flicker of something she couldn't quite mask in their depths — a weariness, a subtle ache that went beyond the case. The rational part of her knew Diana’s strategy, however manipulative its intent, was sound. The personal part of her just wanted to escape the suffocating closeness of Diana's triumph.

“I don’t like it either,” she added quietly, “but if we want to get ahead of him, this is our best move.”
Mulder stared at her, jaw tense.

Scully drew in a steady breath, then shifted into the clinical clarity that never failed her. “I’ll reach out to local OB-GYN clinics, especially those that serve low-income or transient populations — the kind of victims we’ve been seeing. Most of them track menstrual data in patient intake forms or follow-up logs. Shelters for at-risk teens and women’s outreach programs also often monitor reproductive health as part of their intake assessments.”

She paused, watching him absorb it.

“If the victims were abducted during a specific window, there may be caseworkers, nurses, or social workers who remember them mentioning cramps, heavy bleeding, or needing supplies. Even school nurses, in communities where these girls might have been enrolled, could have documentation of related absences or notes.”

Mulder gave a short nod — not because he was fully comfortable with splitting up, but because he knew she was right.

“I’ll build a database,” Scully continued, “tracking the last known sightings of potential victims, cross-referenced with clinic logs and intake records, to establish a timeline. If this pattern holds, we can anticipate his next move before he makes it.”

Her voice was calm, methodical — but he could see the storm behind her eyes. She was stepping back, letting Diana in, for the sake of the case. And he hated it.

Not taking his eyes of of Scully Mulder says, "If you'll excuse us, Agent Fowley, I need a word with my partner."

Diana's smile thinned, but she retreats out the door.

Mulder turned to Scully, his gaze softening, then hardening with resolve. "Scully, whatever you think happened last night between Diana and me—"

She cut him off, quietly but firmly. Her voice was even, but her eyes — those eyes — told a different story.

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Mulder.”

She paused, as if the next words had been waiting for years.

“It’s not my business… I know that.” Her gaze dropped for the briefest second, then met his again with quiet strength.

"It is your business, Scully, I want it to be your business," Mulder countered, his voice low, urgent. His hand reached out and touched her face gently, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone with a reverence that made her heart ache. His eyes searched hers — not for evidence, not for logic — but for understanding. The kind only she could give him. There was too much to say. Too many years between them. Too many almosts.

Was she hurt? Betrayed? Was it jealousy over Diana, or something deeper? Was it the mistrust she’d always harbored, or concern masked as cold professionalism? Or was it all of it, tangled and raw, as unreadable as his own heart had become?

Scully held her breath, frozen under his gaze. His vulnerability matched her own. She felt something shatter — the carefully constructed emotional distance she’d maintained for years now trembling, exposed. Her chest tightened. The room felt too quiet, the air too charged. She couldn’t look away.

Mulder leaned in, barely a breath between them now, not for a kiss — not yet — but for something more dangerous. The truth.

“Scully,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “You must know. You have to know—”

Brrring!

The shrill eruption of his cell phone tore the moment in half.

He flinched, muttered, “Fuck,” under his breath — a guttural sound of frustration and loss. Mulder contemplates- First a sting, now a call. Always the same. The spell snapped, and Scully took a measured step back, the fire in her chest fading into a slow, aching thud.

Mulder ripped the phone from his coat pocket and answered sharply. “Mulder.” He listened for a beat, his posture stiffening. “Another one? Where?” He clicked the phone shut, his jaw tight.

“They just found another victim,” he said, voice clipped. “On the other side of the island.”

He turned to her, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “This conversation isn't over.”

Scully arched an eyebrow, a ghost of a wry smile playing on her lips. "Conversation, Mulder?" she murmured, a pointed allusion to their near-kiss. "Maybe when it rains sleeping bags." The reference to their shared night in the Florida forest with the Mothman was clear, a flicker of their old banter.

Mulder, however, wasn't having any of it. His eyes, though still burning with the urgency of the new call, bore into hers with an unyielding intensity that cut through her attempted deflection. His voice dropped, raw and deliberate, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "No sleeping bags required."

"What?" Scully didn’t recognize her voice; it sounded husky. She was also losing the thread of the conversation, thrown by his sudden shift.

"Sleeping bags imply sleep." He knew, and she knew, that there was no time for this now, not with another victim. The urgency of the case was a cruel, relentless tide, pulling them apart even as their raw emotions sought to draw them closer. He felt torn, the pull of the investigation as vital as the desperate need to resolve the charged air between them. With a final, lingering look, acknowledging the unfinished business in her eyes, he was gone, striding out of the morgue, leaving Scully alone with the humming lights, the lingering scent of disinfectant, and the profound, echoing silence. She could swear the lights dimmed.

Chapter Text

The air in the temporary task force command center, a repurposed conference room in the local police station, was heavy with the stale scent of coffee and the sharper tang of exhaustion. Every agent and officer looked worn thin, their eyes dulled by another report, another dead girl.

Mulder stood at the front of the room, his ugly plaid tie askew and dark shadows under his eyes. He looked like hell, but he was razor sharp, anchored by adrenaline and obsession. This was where he thrived, in the dark core of terrible truths.

"We have identified a fifth victim," he began, his voice low and precise. "Marilyn Garcia. Twenty-eight years old. Speech pathologist. Newly married. Her body washed up just north of town this morning. Same markers. Same ritual. No message. No note. Just silence."

He turned to the whiteboard behind him, where the victims' names and forensic details formed a grim mosaic.

Lisa Harrison, 25, freelance artist. Found three weeks ago.
Angela Chen, 32, marine biologist. Found two weeks ago.
Sarah Jenkins, 20, college student. Found earlier this week.
Carmine Lovelett, 17, runaway. Found yesterday. Now believed to be the first.
Marilyn Garcia, 28, speech pathologist. Found this morning.

"We are dealing with an evolving offender," Mulder continued, his voice rough but steady. "Carmine was the first. The others were more polished, more deliberate. He is getting better."

Mulder's finger rested on Carmine's report.

"She had defensive wounds. Her body was dragged after death. The weapon was crude. It was a mess. But then it changed. The killer replaced the crude blade with obsidian. He started using burlap to wrap the victims. He learned how to submerge them in freshwater and move the bodies later to the ocean. It is not cleanup. It is design."

He looked out at the room, eyes hard.

"This is not rage. This is method. He is perfecting something. These killings are ritual acts, each more calculated than the last. They are not crimes of passion. They are rehearsals. This is someone who feels powerless in the world, and he kills to assert control over it. Each murder is an attempt to master what terrifies him."

Mulder stepped closer to the whiteboard and circled a line of text.

"The timing matters. Each victim was taken on the second day of her cycle. It is not coincidence. In certain belief systems, that day is seen as the peak of feminine power. Biologically and symbolically, it is a moment of raw potential. Creation. Fertility. The possibility of life."

He paused.

"But to someone filled with shame and self-hatred, it is the most threatening moment imaginable. I believe this man was deeply wounded by his mother. A woman who made her femininity into a weapon. She likely blamed him for being born. Humiliated him for what he was. And he has never escaped that shame."

Mulder's voice softened but lost none of its precision.

"These women are not random to him. They are reflections. Stand-ins. Every one of them is her. And each one contains the potential to create someone like him. That is what he is trying to erase. He is not just killing them. He is killing what they represent. What he fears he still is."

The room was silent. Even the hum of the overhead lights seemed to recede.

"There is one more detail," Mulder said. "One that confirms the pattern."

He drew a line connecting the victims to a broader profile.

"Our suspect is in a relationship. Possibly married. His partner is much younger. Likely less educated. Financially and emotionally dependent on him. She is not his equal. She is his shelter. And here is the critical part. She cannot have children."

A ripple moved through the room.

"That is not a footnote. It is central. She cannot create life. Which means she cannot betray him the way his mother did. In his eyes, she is safe. She is proof that he is in control. That he has finally rewritten the narrative. While she plays the role of devoted partner, he slips away at night to hunt the women who still represent a threat."

Mulder's gaze swept the room slowly.

"She does not suspect. Not really. She might feel something is wrong, but she will not confront it. Because he has built the entire relationship to shield him. To make him feel invincible."

He stepped back and let the weight of it settle.

"This is not just pathology. It is permission. And until we shatter that illusion, he will keep going."

Diana Fowley stepped forward, tablet in hand. Her heels clicked softly against the tile.

"If Carmine was the first, then her location is our best lead," she said. "She was staying at a transitional shelter. They keep visitor logs."

She tapped the screen.

"One name comes up repeatedly. Walter Simms. Fifty-five. Former maintenance volunteer. Socially awkward. Reclusive. Severe acne scarring. He has a pronounced stutter. Lives alone near a defunct freshwater reservoir."

She looked up. "He fits."

Mulder stared at her, absorbing the detail.

"A stutter," he repeated quietly. "A speech pathologist was his last victim."

Diana nodded. "We think it is significant."

"It is," Mulder said, his tone shifting.

He turned back to the board.

"A stutter is not just a speech disorder. For someone like this, it is a symbol of everything he hates about himself. Especially when it happens in front of women. It makes him feel small. Weak. Powerless. Just like he did in front of his mother."

He glanced at Diana.

"And Garcia's profession? That is not incidental. He chose her because she represented correction. Healing. She was someone who might have seen the stutter as something to fix. But to him, it is sacred shame. He protects it with violence."

Mulder's face was unreadable now.

"She did not just trigger his insecurities. She threatened his mask. And he destroyed her for it."
"Let's go," he said suddenly. "Deputy, assemble a response team. Agent Fowley, with me."

____________________________________________________________________

Minutes later, the Bureau SUV was cutting through the early morning haze. The trees thickened, the roads narrowed. Mulder pulled out his phone, calling Scully.

She picked up on the first ring. "Mulder?"

He exhaled. "We have a lead. A possible connection to Carmine. Walter Simms. Former shelter volunteer. Stutter. Acne scarring. Lives by a freshwater site. Fits the profile. Diana and I are en route."

"Simms?" she echoed, analytical. "That tracks with the freshwater diatoms, but Mulder, the scratches on Carmine’s fingertips. They were not random. They were upward. Like she was clawing at something above her. And there were fibers beneath her nails. Synthetic, uniform. Like netting. Or rope."

Mulder blinked, picturing it. "A net. Like on a boat."

"Exactly," she said. "Not just brute force. A mechanism. A controlled drowning. He is not overpowering them. He is submerging them. Holding them in place."

"And the obsidian," Mulder murmured, half to himself. "There is a reason he chose it. It is primitive. Ancient. Volcanic glass used in ritual. Sacrificial."

Scully’s voice softened, serious. "Mulder. He sees them as offerings. Not just victims. Each one a stand-in for whatever twisted debt he thinks he is paying."

He was silent for a moment. Then said, "He does not want these women to create life. Not because he fears it. But because he hates it. Because he wishes he had never been born. And killing them at the height of their fertility is his way of making sure no one ever creates someone like him."

Just then, Diana leaned over and without warning ended the call.

Mulder’s expression darkened. "What was that?"

"She is trying to derail this," Diana said tightly. "She always does. It is pathological."

Mulder yanked the SUV to the side of the road. Tires screeched.

He turned to her, slow and deliberate. "You compromised this case. And you compromised me."

"Fox"

"No," he cut in. "The folder. The one Scully brought last night. You buried it. You made it about your ego instead of the evidence."

Diana’s face flushed. "She was emotional..."

"She was right," he snapped. "And whatever we had, Diana, it is over. You are not my partner. Scully is. And from this moment forward, we keep this strictly professional."

The car roared back to life. They drove in silence.

Then, barely audible, Diana asked, "Fox, are you in love with her?"

_______________________________________________________________________

Back in the morgue, Scully stared at her phone, the dead silence a slap.

He hung up on her. Mulder, who always wanted her opinion, who lived for her insight, had ended the call. In front of Diana.

Her jaw clenched. A heat rose in her chest, equal parts hurt and fury.

But no. No spiral. Not now.

She turned back to Carmine’s file, her eyes scanning the data. What didn’t fit?

She laid out the files. The same obsidian cuts, the same disposal. But Carmine’s wounds were different. A struggle. A fight. Upward claw marks. Synthetic fibers.

"A net," she said aloud. "A trap."

She turned to the map. Freshwater reservoirs connected by narrow channels. And then, the ocean.

"He uses the boat like a weapon. Subdues them in freshwater. Drowns them. Then drags the body to the ocean for disposal. The burlap bags. Ritual. Burial."

She paused.

"This is not about anger. It is about erasure."

She cross-referenced boat records, fishing licenses. Then something pinged. A new suspect. Not Simms.

A marine biologist. Forty-nine. Severe acne scarring. Unmarried, but cohabitating with a much younger woman. She worked part-time at a women’s health clinic in town. Front desk. Records access. No formal medical training, but full administrative clearance. Enough to view intake forms, cycle data, even fertility notes.

Scully's eyes narrowed. That is how he was choosing them.

Not random. Not luck.

He had her pulling names.

And she never asked why.

And he had a boat.

Scully’s blood ran cold.

She dialed Mulder. No answer. Just voicemail.

Her hand tightened on the phone.

Time was of the essence before anyone else ended up dead.

Chapter Text

Mulder kept pressing redial. Still no signal. The call to Scully wouldn’t go through. Not even voicemail. His phone flashed “No Service” again and again like a taunt. He stared at the screen, jaw tight, as if sheer will could force a connection. It couldn’t.

Beside him, Diana sat rigid in the passenger seat, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, radiating tension like heat off sun-scorched pavement.

“I asked you a question, Fox,” she said evenly, the note of entitlement unmistakable. “You never answered me.”

Mulder didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on the road. “My relationship with Scully is none of your business.”

“You blew me off.”

He exhaled, tired and sharp. “We’re chasing a killer. That’s the only thing that matters right now.”

A beat. Then Diana turned toward him, her voice dropping. “You didn’t say no.”

Her mouth tightened, but he was already gone—mentally miles away.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t said no. He hadn’t needed to. The answer was carved into his marrow, woven into the sinew of his silence. The answer had been living inside him for years.
Scully.

Mulder loved Dana Scully with a quiet, brutal permanence. It wasn’t the cinematic kind of love—loud, possessive, adorned with grand declarations. No, it was something older, deeper. Cellular. Coded into his DNA like a second truth. She lived in him—in the stillness between thoughts, in the locked places he’d long since buried.

And he could never tell her.

Not because it wasn’t real. But because it was too real. Too sacred to risk contaminating with the wrong timing, or the wrong words, or the wrong version of himself. Because Mulder knew he wasn't enough. Not for her. Not in the way she deserved. She was disciplined and had mercy, fury and grace.

And he—he was all rough edges. Half-spoken apologies and haunted obsession. A man too often ruled by ghosts.

He loved her, and it was the one truth that humbled him. She erased every other possibility. Even when she wasn’t in the room, every other woman faded into static.

What kept him up at night wasn’t uncertainty about his own feelings—it was uncertainty about hers. Sure, there were moments. Moments that burned bright and then vanished, like lightning over water. Glances held too long. Breath shared too close. But he’d convinced himself that if all he ever got from her was partnership, friendship—her—that would be more than he’d ever deserved.

So he loved her in silence.
_______________________________________________________
Scully stood outside the suspect’s modest home, a salt-weathered cottage just beyond a coastal ridge. A name was etched on the mailbox: R. Chester Cain.

She knocked. A moment later, the door cracked open.

A young woman stood framed in the doorway—early twenties, pretty in a muted, worn-down way. Her eyes were wary but polite.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

“Dana Scully. FBI.”

The girl’s eyes widened. Her grip on the door tightened just slightly.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing urgent,” Scully said quickly, softening her tone. “There have been a few deaths in the area, and we’re talking to local residents—just trying to narrow things down. It’s routine. I just have a few questions, and then I’ll be out of your way.”

The girl blinked, then slowly nodded. “Okay. Sure. Come in.”

The inside of the house was spare but tidy. The living room smelled faintly of the sea and something medicinal. Scully noted a low humming—freezer, maybe. Or filtration equipment.

“Would you like something to drink?” the girl asked, already moving toward the kitchen. “Water? Tea?”

Scully hesitated. Her mouth was dry, her body sluggish. She hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink since morning, and it was well past five.

And accepting something small, like a glass of water, might lower the girl’s defenses even further. She seemed nervous and it may help make things less formal. She learned at a behavioral interrogation seminar back at Quantico that accepting a drink could lower someone’s defenses. It created a sense of hospitality, of shared space.

“Water would be great,” she said with a small nod.

The girl gave a faint smile and stepped into the kitchen.

Scully let her gaze sweep across the room. A nautical chart was pinned on the far wall. There was a photo of the girl and a man—Cain, presumably—on a small sailboat. Her pulse picked up, just slightly.

Out of sight in the kitchen, glass clinked. A cupboard opened. A faucet ran.
___________________________________________________________________
Back in the SUV, Mulder glanced at his phone. A missed call.

Scully.

He tapped her name, frown deepening as the line rang.

Voicemail.

He swore under his breath.

“Something’s wrong,” he muttered.

Diana arched an eyebrow. “She’s capable, Mulder.”

He shot her a look. “That’s not the point.”

His fingers moved quickly, calling again. Still no answer.

He started to turn the car around.
___________________________________________________________________
Inside the house, Scully’s eyes drifted to a closed hallway door.

“Mind if I use your restroom?” she asked.

The girl hesitated. “It’s down the hall. Last door on the right.”

Scully rose slowly, passing framed photos. A high school diploma. A boating license.

She reached for her phone again, trying Mulder one more time.

No bars.

Something cold moved in her chest.

She opened the door.

And froze.

Inside was a row of burlap sacks. An obsidian blade gleamed from a worktable.

The room wasn’t a bathroom.

It was a preparation site.

A shrine.

A kill room.

And she was already inside.
___________________________________________________________
Mulder’s wild eyes searched for the small, temporary workstation where Scully had been. He found it in the back corner, a mess of papers and a forgotten coffee cup. His gaze landed on a legal pad, the top page torn off, leaving a faint indentation.

His hand shot out, grabbing a discarded pencil from the desk. With frantic, almost desperate movements, he laid it on its side and began to lightly scratch the surface of the exposed page. An old trick. A ghost of an address, a name, began to appear, shimmering into faint legibility. R. Chester Cain. A coastal ridge.

"Cain!" Mulder roared, the name echoing in the suddenly hushed office. He was already sprinting towards the exit, his voice barking orders over his shoulder. "Sheriff! Get me a team! Uniformed officers! Now! Cain! R. Chester Cain, on the coastal ridge!"

Diana, who had followed him inside, stepped forward, her face a mask of exasperation. "Mulder, you're overreacting! You accused me of being unprofessional but this is wildly unprofessional!"

But he was already gone. The door slammed behind him, the roar of his car engine erupting seconds later as he peeled out of the parking lot, leaving Diana and the startled deputies in his wake, his mind singularly focused on the address, on Scully, on getting there before it was too late.
___________________________________________________________
The cold was the first sensation, a damp chill seeping into Scully's bones. Then the throbbing in her head, a dull drumbeat against the inside of her skull. She was vaguely aware of rough fabric beneath her, a pungent, earthy smell. Her eyes fluttered open, but darkness enveloped her. Not just the absence of light, but a thick, oppressive blackness that pulsed with her headache. She tried to move, but her limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, as if encased in lead.

Her mind, usually a fortress of logic, began to fray at the edges, pulled into a swirling vortex of memory as unconsciousness claimed her.

She was sixteen. The sun beat down on the cracked pavement of the military base, shimmering off the endless rows of identical houses. This was Northwood, the longest they’d stayed anywhere, and home to her most devastating crush. Silas Reed. A senior. The most popular boy in school, all easy confidence, charm and a dazzling smile.

And now, he was walking towards her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic hummingbird. He moved with a languid grace, his hand extended, a solitary yellow rose held delicately between his fingers. Her breath hitched. Oh, God. If only she’d known he was coming. She’d have dressed nicer, maybe even risked trying some of Missy’s forbidden makeup. She didn’t own any herself.

A shaky smile bloomed on her face. He gestured for her to take the rose. "Thank you," she managed, the word barely a whisper, a blush hot on her cheeks.

Silas grinned, a casual, devastating charm in his eyes. "So, I heard you had a big crush on me."

Scully’s blush deepened, three shades darker, scorching her entire face. She was mortified, absolutely beside herself. "Who? Who told you that?" she stammered, frantically searching for an escape route, for the earth to open up and swallow her whole.

"Your sister," he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. Then, his smile faltered slightly. "You know, the color yellow... it's symbolic of friendship."

"Oh?" The single syllable was all she could manage.

He nodded, suddenly serious. "Yeah. Look, I'm really flattered, Dana, I am. But... I just want to be friends."

Scully nodded, a tight, painful movement. It was all she could do. The world blurred at the edges, her carefully constructed teenage composure crumbling. Silas, oblivious to the internal earthquake, turned and went up the steps to her house, knocking on the door, presumably for Missy.

Just then, twelve-year-old Danny Potts, everyone just called him Potts, ambled over. He was the neighbor kid she indulged by tossing a baseball with, mostly because it was rumored his mom was cheating on his dad, who was never around. "Well, that must have been embarrassing," Potts said, tossing his worn baseball glove into the air.

Embarrassing? Dana thought, her head dropping into her hands. It was traumatic. She prayed for the earth to open up and swallow her whole.

The front door burst open. Silas came storming down the steps, past her, Missy hot on his heels. "You're hot, Missy," Silas snarled, his voice loud enough for the whole street to hear, "but you're stupid."

Missy, looking genuinely contrite, tried to put her arm around Dana’s shoulders. But Dana brushed her off, fiercely, shame burning. "Let's toss the ball, Potts."

Missy wasn't giving up that fast. "Danes, I am so sorry, but Silas is an asshole, you are better off!"

Dana looked at her sister, incredulous. "He's all yours," she spat, venom lacing her voice.

"I don't want him!" Missy cried, genuinely distressed. "I told Silas you were interested to get him to stop pursuing me! You always go for older, emotionally unavailable guys, Dana, and it will never end well!" Missy turned, walking away dejected, leaving Dana on the steps, reeling.

She was actively tossing the ball with Potts now, the familiar thud against her glove a small comfort. "Don't worry," Potts said, his small face serious. "Missy's right, that guy is all wrong for you."

"Oh, yeah?" Dana said, still stinging, but a flicker of curiosity stirring.

He nodded gravely. "Yeah. Because I'm gonna marry you one day." He paused, then added, "I know the age gap doesn't work now, but when I turn eighteen and you're twenty-two, I'm gonna seal the deal."

Finally, a faint, genuine smile cracked across Scully's lips, a tiny beacon in the vast, dark emptiness of her current reality.
___________________________________________________________
Mulder's foot slammed on the brake, the SUV skidding to a halt a hundred yards from the salt-weathered cottage. The address. Cain. Scully's address. He cut the engine, the sudden silence deafening against the frantic pounding of his heart. Enraged, yes, but a cold, tactical part of his mind knew this wasn't about blind fury. This was Scully. And risking her life with a head-on assault was unthinkable.

He exited the vehicle, moving with a predator's quiet grace, casing the house from the cover of the sparse coastal scrub. The wind whipped at his clothes, a cold whisper against his ear. Then, he heard it. A man's voice, raw with fury, slicing through the air from an open window.

"You stupid bitch! What did you do! What did you do!"

A whimper in response. "I was trying to help you."

"By drugging a federal agent?" The man's voice was tight with disbelief, fear, and a chilling rage.

"We could just give her more drugs and drag her off somewhere away from here to overdose." The female voice, younger, devoid of emotion, sent a shiver down Mulder's spine.

He saw them then. A dark shape, limp and undeniably Scully's form, being half-dragged, half-carried across a patch of dim light within the house. His heart leaped into his throat, a cold fist squeezing his windpipe. No. Not again. Not her.

Mulder moved. He didn't hesitate, didn't think about procedure or backup. He circled to the back of the house, his eyes darting, assessing. He found a loose window latch, forced it open with a silent, practiced motion. He slipped inside, a shadow amidst shadows, drawing his weapon. He heard muffled grunts, the dragging sound growing closer.

He burst from the kitchen, a whirlwind of controlled force. The man, Cain, was struggling with Scully's unconscious body near a back door, the younger woman hovering nervously. Cain looked up, his eyes widening in shock. Before he could react, Mulder launched himself forward, a primal scream tearing from his throat. He used the element of surprise, delivering a swift, brutal strike to Cain's jaw. The man crumpled. The young woman shrieked, but Mulder was already past her, his focus entirely on Scully. He scooped her limp body into his arms, pulling her away from the threshold, shielding her.

The wail of sirens grew louder in the distance, a welcome chorus. He had called it in from the car, a premonition gnawing at him. He backed out of the house, Scully cradled securely, just as uniformed officers flooded the yard. An ambulance, its lights flashing, pulled up the driveway.

Mulder didn't let go. He held Scully's limp body close as the paramedics descended, gently taking her from his arms onto a stretcher. He watched, numb, as they worked, his eyes never leaving her face.
________________________________________________________
The sterile scent of antiseptic filled Mulder's nostrils, a familiar, unwelcome comfort. He was slumped in a hard plastic chair beside Scully's hospital bed, his head resting against her mattress, his mouth near her hand. The adrenaline had long receded, leaving him utterly spent, exhaustion seeping into every bone. He had been there for hours, a silent vigil, finally succumbing to a heavy, dreamless sleep.

A soft, groggy whisper drifted into the quiet room. "I think you drooled on me."

Mulder's head snapped up. His eyes, heavy-lidded moments before, flew open, wide with a rush of emotions so potent they stole his breath. Relief, a dizzying wave of pure, unadulterated elation. And fear. The terror of almost losing her again, a familiar phantom limb ache in his soul. He had put her in danger. Again. It was like his sister, yet profoundly not like his sister—a terrifying Schrödinger's cat paradox of loss and survival that he lived with every day. This cycle, this perpetual dance with death, it had to end. But not now. Now, he just had to be here.

"Scully," he breathed, his voice rough with unshed emotion. He pulled his head back, his eyes searching hers, memorizing the subtle flicker of returning consciousness. "How are you doing?"

He gently took her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. "You were drugged, Scully. That girl, Cain's… partner, she gave you something. A sedative, the paramedics think. You were out cold." He paused, his gaze tightening. "Cain, the man from the house, he was the killer. He kept them in... a room. A kill room. You found it." He squeezed her hand, a silent apology for the danger she'd faced. "The police have them both. You did it, Scully. You found him."

No words now.

Only a conversation between their souls, carried in a gaze that had spoken countless times before, perhaps across lifetimes.

A well-rehearsed, choreographed dance.

It’s not your fault.

I thought I’d lost you.

You didn’t.
I’m here.
I’m afraid.
I’m afraid too.
I’m no good for you…
But I’m too fucking selfish to let you go.

You can’t let me go.
I am yours.
And you are mine.

Their eyes said everything.
And everything hurt.

Just then, Scully’s mother walked in.

Mulder rose instinctively. “You don’t have to go,” both women said, nearly in unison.

He gave them a half smile. “I’m parched. Thought I’d grab a drink.”

Then, turning to Scully with a playful glint in his eye, “If you promise to be a good patient, I’ll bring you back a root beer.”

A root beer, she groaned inwardly, watching him disappear through the door
.
Somewhere, in the quieter recesses of her mind: Emotionally unavailable men.

Always offering just enough sweetness to make you stay thirsty.

Outside the hospital room, Mulder leaned against the vending machine, forehead pressed briefly to the cool metal. He closed his eyes. The fluorescent lights buzzed above him, indifferent. Still, his heart beat steady now. She was alive. She had come back to him again. And this time, he had gotten there in time. He shoved some coins into the slot, listening to the hum and clunk of the root beer dropping.

Inside the room, Scully tilted her head toward the door, her pulse syncing to something she couldn't quite name. She wasn’t sure what came next, what would become of the case, or them, or the darkness that always seemed to travel with them. But she felt something shift. Like a thread had pulled tight between them, and held. Not broken. As Mulder walked back in, holding the soda like a peace offering and a promise, she gave him the smallest, knowing smile. And despite the IV in her arm, despite the ache in her chest and the shadows that still haunted the corners of her vision, she knew they were still tethered by something invisible but unyielding, stretched across silence and time. Both of them ached to pull closer, to reach across the space and hold on, but the distance felt safer, a way to stay connected without risking collapse. That rope between them had held through so much grief, doubt, the weight of things left unsaid.