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

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?"

"Being an asshole isn't enough?" He glances around in hopes of ensuring he's not going to be told off for swearing, but the waitresses at the diner have better things to do than harangue him. There's a booth open, so he slips past her and starts walking toward it, assuming she'll follow. "He doesn't care about anything - except work. And if I have to hear about going to Georgetown University one more time, I'm going to lose it."

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."

"It's just not very specific."

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.

"Stuff for the government." It occurs to him that he might have said too much already. It's such a relief, though, to just say things. That he doesn't like his dad, that the feeling's mutual, that everything about his life is at least a little fucked up - it's better than sitting silently and pretending everything's fine.

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.

It's not much less vague, but at least it's a direction. She nods to acknowledge it, considering what it might mean. Top-secret government stuff seems like it could be distracting to say the least. All in all Dana is a relatively neutral observer-- but she understands the lure of duty, even if it's a different sort.

When the waitress comes by she straightens up and smiles automatically, like they're not discussing classified government jobs and serial killers. (Who would care in Craiger, anyway?) She orders a chamomile tea-- less exciting than Carinda's herbal blends, but it sounds pleasant.

She waits for the woman to leave-- which gives her a moment to consider it.

"How about your mom?"

He orders coffee and a basket of fries for them to share - because no matter what else might be true in his life, he's almost always hungry. Once they're alone again, she asks what might, in retrospect, be an obvious question. It's one he doesn't know how to answer, though.

With Dad, it's easy. He hates everything Fox likes. They butt heads constantly, provided neither of them is currently ignoring the other. But Mom...he's simultaneously angry at her, at the way she's just given up in favor of pretending things are normal, and worried about her. At least she acts like she cared at some point. At least she still seems upset, even if it's weird and distant. Going to her house feels like visiting a stranger for dinner, but she's not actively picking apart everything he does, all the time.

It's another question he takes too long to answer, his brow furrowed, and eventually he gives up. "I don't know. What's your mom like?"

It's hard for her to describe Maggie Scully any other way than as a mom. Archetypally maternal, or at least that's how it feels to Dana. She shrugs her shoulders as she considers it.

"She's not as strict as Dad," is where she lands, though maybe it's only half-true. The better way to put it is probably that she keeps the house and the family to her husband's standards. But if she says that to Fox it'll sound like a complaint, and it isn't, not really. It's just how things are, especially when her father ships out.

If anything it's strange how much he's been here in Craiger. She doesn't entirely understand the nature of his special assignment-- it's none of her business, she knows, which is maybe something she and Fox have in common. A lack of security clearance that goes beyond not being included in grown-up business.

"She's a good mom, I think."

"You're lucky," he says, and the waitress comes back with a mug for each of them. It occurs to him that he doesn't know what chamomile tea tastes like - but it looks pale and kind of bland to his eye. He takes a sip of his coffee, grimacing at the burnt flavor of it. "You're really lucky."

Easy to say when he's known her for ten minutes and met no one she's ever associated with, but Fox Mulder's used to making snap judgments. More importantly, he's used to shooting his mouth off without any consideration whatsoever.

"I know," she admits. Which-- what else can she say? They have the normal kinds of disagreements, she thinks, her parents. It could be a lot worse. At least she knows they love her no matter what.

She takes a sip of her tea, eyeing the fries but not trying to steal one. (Yet.)

"Though I don't think they'd be very happy with me if I ran off trying to solve murders."

"No," he agrees, letting himself be led back to the subject they're ostensibly here for. He squeezes a blob of ketchup out onto one corner of the pile of fries as he goes on. "It's dangerous, it's stupid, and it's getting in the way of the police. But if you don't -"

And here, he meets her eyes again, utterly intent.

"- then a kid's going to die. She was taken from her own home, while her mom was in the basement. She should have been safe." It's been months now, and he's still never quite shaken that sick feeling he got the first time he saw Sarah Lowe's picture on the news. Not when he really thinks about the stakes. "And the cops don't know how to find her. You'd look for her then, wouldn't you?"

You'd think, having been the one to raise the topic, that she'd be better steeled to talk about it. But she isn't. Though the truth is it's not the words that give her a chill-- it's the look in his eyes. He isn't bragging, though you might imagine someone who-- allegedly-- stopped a serial killer would. It's more an echo of--

Of some desperation, the way he must have felt to go off and do that.

She lifts her chin, trying not to seem too shaken.

"I don't know," she admits, softly. "I can't imagine what I could do that the police couldn't."

[ 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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