what_wings_dare | 🅧 Please explain to me the scientific nature of 'the whammy'

"San Diego." She smiles, tinged with nostalgia that's just the right side of homesickness. Chances are she just hasn't been here long enough yet to really miss home-- who knows what the school year ahead will bring. For now she's trying to stay hopeful.

"How did you end up here, though? We're a long way from Massachusetts, there must be some place closer that has books about psychics."

It occurs to him then that he shouldn't have shown her the ID. Even if she doesn't recognize Chilmark, she has the state he's from, and she can look up the rest. He probably shouldn't have told her his real name at all - I'm Tony Blake.

(Why does it matter? It probably doesn't, really. She obviously doesn't recognize his name or face from the newspapers, and it's not like she has any connection to local child murderers; she won't pass his name off to the guy's brother to finish the job. But a momentary paranoia grips him, and he wonders just how bad an idea it was to come back to a place he nearly lost his life.)

He's quiet just a moment too long, and he knows it. A lie doesn't come to him half as quickly as the truth, so he doesn't bother with a cover story. "Last time I came here, I learned...way more than I expected. I thought they might be able to help me again."

Fortunately for him, Dana's blissfully unaware of local scandals-- it's not the kind of thing she'd think to seek out, and no one's mentioned it. (And when people start gossipping, Craiger will have its fill of its own tragedies. No reason to go outside their own town.)

"I think that's what they try to do here," she says, with a little smile that's somehow sympathetic, though she has no idea why the moment feels like it merits that. If anyone in this world is actually psychic it probably is Carinda; she's not surprised that he'd want to come back, if he ended up talking to her somehow.

"Do you--" You can't just ask someone if they think they're psychic, Dana.

"Did you have some kind of.... strange experience?"

Do you dream about the Devil, Fox Mulder?

Devil's not real, Dana. His dreams are worse than that.

"You could say that," he says, realizing in that moment that she really doesn't know. "You really don't know?"

Okay, it would be smarter to keep his mouth shut, but Fox Mulder would never. He only sees it a moment later and feels a vague sense of regret, from which he never actually learns. Nothing about that is likely to change this afternoon.

So instead of spending more than a moment regretting saying anything, he moves a step closer to her and drops his head towards her, voice quiet. "My friends and I used this place to track a serial killer."

Half of her wants to back up as he steps closer, but most of her is too curious to miss out on whatever he's alluding to. Her hand curls tight around a book she's barely looked at.

The way her eyebrows shoot up should make it obvious that she really, really doesn't.

"You're kidding," she says. If he's kidding, that's a terrible thing to joke about. But-- that can't possibly be true.

In Craiger? A killer here?

"On my honor as an Indian Guide," he answers, gaze steady on hers. Her eyes are so big and light, staring up at him in disbelief. "It's...kind of on a need-to-know basis. As in, I don't know if Carinda knows."

It's not like they asked when they stole contact information for a suspected ritualistic killer.

He seems earnest. Really, really earnest. But... it's crazy, right? Maybe he's crazy. Maybe she should have tried a little harder to find Carinda for him and stayed out of this.

But she squares her shoulders and fixes him with a skeptical look.

"You're barely older than I am, why would you be tracking serial killers?"

She probably shouldn't believe him without question. That's probably smart of her - but he's a little piqued at the way she looks like she's trying to decide if he's trying to brag about nonexistent brushes with danger. He didn't get put in a cage just to have some girl look at him like he's crazy.

(Maybe he is. How would he know?)

"Because the cops didn't know what to look for." Obviously. This isn't getting him anywhere nearer to Samantha, but the store's staff are nowhere to be found. "Somebody had to pick up the slack."

Being a teenager who willingly chases down serial killers sounds pretty crazy. Maybe more crazy than if it was all a delusion-- she's not sure, honestly.

But more than anything-- somewhat shamefully-- she's terribly curious.

"I don't even know what to ask," she admits. "Or if I believe you at all."

Fox can't help but smile. She looks so doubtful - but she sounds like she kind of wants to believe him, and that means something. No one ever listens to him on the first round. They only come around when there's no other choice.

"I could tell you the whole story -" and he's tempted, if only to see how wide her eyes can get - "but not here. I don't want to risk getting banned from the premises if it gets back to Carinda."

And that, he assumes, is the end of it: she won't go someplace with him, not when he's basically a stranger. The thought disappoints him, for reasons he can't really place.

Considering she's essentially accusing him of lying-- or of being delusional-- he's surprisingly non-defensive. She's not sure what to make of it, but it does nothing to sate her curiosity.

"How do I know you're not a serial killer?"

He laughs. This answer, he's certain, means I'm considering the offer, and that's nearly yes. If he can't learn anything useful today, at least he can do it with company. "I'm barely older than you are. I've been too busy taking the SAT."

The answer makes her cock her head to the side, one hand on her hip, her eyebrow arched in that way that will, someday, become a sort of trademark of her skeptic nature.

"But not so busy that you can't track down killers and end up here?" Either you're a Hardy Boy or you're not, Fox Mulder.

But she softens a little.

"There's a diner around the block," she says carefully, then prudently adds-- "I have an hour, and then my sister's coming by here to pick me up."

That last part is a lie, but it's plausible enough, and she wants him to think she'll be missed quickly if she disappears.

He's a Hardy Boy, not a Hardy Murderer. Important clarification.

There's a split second while he's thinking of what's in his wallet, what's in his gas tank, and how far it is from his father's house - but he'll be fine. And she'll be back here before her sister picks her up, and he'll be pestering Carinda for the information he can't find on his own.

"I'll buy you some coffee." And then, because he can't help it, giving her an easy smile - "You drink coffee, right? It stunts your growth."

Now, her eyebrows both shoot up in melodramatic mock-surprise.

"A short joke? I've never heard that before."

But on the other hand if she got offended every time she did, it'd be exhausting. She slides her random paperback onto the shelf, and nods toward the door before walking that way.

"C'mon."

"I thought it'd be new territory for you," he says, unperturbed, and follows her to the door. "Now you're entitled to tell me to watch my head when we walk into the diner."

She's interesting, he's decided - and more importantly, she's probably going to grill him about the murders in about three minutes, so he might as well prod at her first. "Do you miss California?"

"Sure, though I'd have to shout for you to hear me up there."

It's fine, she's used to having to crane her neck up at her peers. They must make a funny picture, walking down the block together.

"A little. I think the strangest part is not living in base housing here, though."

While he's not unfamiliar with stooping a little, he has to tip his head down more than usual. Not a hardship at the moment - she's piqued his curiosity. "Why's that?"

What living on a military base is like, he has no idea.

"I guess it's like-- it's not just that you know your neighbors, because eventually I'll get to know the neighbors here."

Her brow knits as she tries to find the way to word it.

"But everyone knows what it's like-- having your father deployed, or having to move. You have something big in common the first time you meet. Like you're on the same team."

He considers that for a moment or two - and realizes that he's not sure he's ever felt that kind of instantaneous camaraderie in his life. No one's ever been in the same missing-sister camp. Even before that, though...he'd been friends with kids, but not because they had lives in common. They were nearby and liked baseball.

It doesn't feel the same as what she's describing.

"What is it like?" is the inevitable follow-up.

"I mean-- it's what I'm used to." This is unusually close to civilian life, for her. "I guess-- things are always different, like if your dad's shipped out than if he's at home. And you know you might have to move, or your friends might have to. So you keep everything neat-- it's just easier."

It's harder to explain the specifics of what it's like, when her father's home or when he isn't. That Ahab is strict-- but it's less and more than that; it's not as though her mother doesn't run a tight ship. But it's different; the house is full, differently, when he's home, and when he's gone she can't help but think of the ocean.

That's logical enough, but it's a disappointing kind of logic. Fox is left with the sensation that there's more to it, that he's standing on the other side of a window without a full picture of what she means. On some level, he's aware that it doesn't really matter, but not knowing something never sits easily with him.

"I wish my dad shipped out," he says, for want of anything else to say. Must be nice. "Even when he's on business trips, it's usually only for a week."

"You don't get along with him?"

It's not really a question. It is, she thinks privately, rather a sad thing to know. Bill Scully is strict and he's particular and when he's angry-- which he is, perhaps, more often than she'd rather admit-- it has the electricity of a thunderstorm. But she loves him, fiercely, and she's never had to wonder whether he loves her.

"I'm not sure it'd be easier. When he's gone you'd always be waiting for him to come back."

Safely, she doesn't say, because it's understood. Because she can't help being a little superstitious.

He shakes his head. Maybe it's disloyal, and maybe he'd regret it - but it's hard to imagine missing his father. Once, he would have, but that day was a long time ago.

"No one gets along with their parents," is what he says, though his thoughts are briefly of Gimble trying his best to shield his father from a world unequipped to handle him. As they approach the diner, he pushes the door open for Dana. "Especially not when they're stuck with Bill Mulder."

It doesn't bother her that he disagrees; after all, her whole point was that it's different, that she doesn't know how to explain it. You don't have to miss someone to be waiting for them. Maybe it'd be worse, if you didn't; knowing it was inevitable as the tide, and having to wait, anyway.

She can't help but laugh a little; enough men are called Bill that you can barely call it a coincidence, but still.

"I don't always get along with mine," she admits, quietly-- as if anyone around here cares. "I think it makes it easier to get past little things, though." A beat, and she adds-- curious, but shy-- "Why don't you get along, though?"

[ n a m e ; ]	Dana Katherine Scully
[ c a n o n ; ]	The X-Files
[ g a m e ; ]	spicy times in noctiumrp

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