Dana Katherine Scully (
faithfulskeptic) wrote in
what_wings_dare2022-09-09 06:57 pm
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🅧 Please explain to me the scientific nature of 'the whammy'

[ n a m e ; ] | Dana Katherine Scully |
[ c a n o n ; ] | The X-Files |
[ g a m e ; ] | spicy times in ![]() |
{ ACTION / NETWORK / VOICE / WHATEVER WELCOME }
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"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."
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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?
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It's not like they asked when they stole contact information for a suspected ritualistic killer.
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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?"
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(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."
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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."
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"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.
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"How do I know you're not a serial killer?"
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"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.
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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."
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"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."
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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?"
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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."
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What living on a military base is like, he has no idea.
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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."
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It doesn't feel the same as what she's describing.
"What is it like?" is the inevitable follow-up.
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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.
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"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."
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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.
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"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."
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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?"
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Which probably sounds petty, but you can't tell a girl my sister disappeared and my dad doesn't even look for her before you've even sat down. He takes a menu and unfolds it without actually looking it over. His eyes are still on Dana's, sitting across the chrome-and-formica table. "Maybe if he was gone more, I'd like him better. Maybe if you didn't have to worry about your dad getting shipped out, you wouldn't like him as much. I don't know."
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Honestly she's a little taken aback by his stating it so baldly, but the last thing she wants is to seem like she can't handle whatever he has to say. Since they're here for him to tell her about things which are, objectively, much worse.
The college thing, she thinks, is not that odd. Maybe he's fixated on one in particular, but of course it'd matter to the mysterious Bill Mulder that his son had his future in order, right?
"What kind of work does he do?"
It sounds like small talk, but she's genuinely curious-- trying to figure out what sort of work could so consume someone.
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And she doesn't seem to mind. She seems concerned, but not put off.
"He's high-level," he adds, since what does he do for the government is the kind of question that's easier asked than answered. "But it's not like he'd be a better father if he didn't have top-secret clearance. He's - oh. Hi."
The waitress doesn't care about anyone's shitty father. She just wants to know what they want to drink, and do they want to look at the menu a little longer.
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BUT THEN, IN THE 90s . . . .
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