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

"Commonly found in Oregon graveyards," he says, snorting. "We're going to need a better explanation for Soames' family. X-rays, tissue samples, blood type, toxicology, a full genetic workup - how fast do you think we can get them?"

"Genetic--" She looks up at him, a little incredulous.

"I'd be more interested in figuring out where Ray Soames' body actually is-- doesn't it seem obvious that this was buried so that someone could dispose of the evidence another way?" And by someone she means, probably, the medical examiner.

"There's two of us," he says brightly. There's nothing energizing like potential proof of extraterrestrial activity on Earth. "I'll keep looking for Ray Soames, and you can prove this is an ape. C'mon, you know you want to be right. This is the only way to know for sure."

Maybe that's not fair, but if playing to her skepticism works, then he'll do it.

"I don't want to be right, I want to know what's true."

This is, at least, mostly true; it's just that she can't entirely conceive of a situation where they find the truth and she isn't correct about this body not being Ray Soames. It'll take a lot more than one weird corpse to convince her that aliens exist.

But he's got at least most of a point. Step one, prove that the body is strange but mundane; step two, determine what happened and how it ended up in his grave.

"Some of it might have to go to another lab, I don't think their facilities are very advanced." Doubting Dana can stick her hands right into the Y-incision while Agent Mulder goes looking. Probably better if he doesn't stay around for the fun.

"So we'll send those samples out." Simple enough, completely worth the time, effort, and expense. He's going to be walking on air for the rest of the day. "Do whatever you can here. The X-rays are possible, right?"

He's too wired to get any rest that night, and he knows it before he's even left the morgue. After they're finished for the day, he goes for a run. Even offers to let Scully join him, despite the fact that it'd mean a slower pace. She doesn't take him up on it, though, and he pushes himself until he's sweaty and panting, flying through the sleepy streets of this tiny town.

The next day is even more exciting: time loss, more information on the missing Ray Soames, a thunderstorm so powerful it blacks out the motel. Mulder finds a candle - incredible, inexplicable, unless this happens more often around here than the proprietors would like to admit - and is ready to settle in for a night of listening to the rain and maybe jacking off when he hears a knock at the door.

Scully's on the doorstep, and while he doesn't remember most of the French he took in high school he's pretty sure the term for her just then is déshabillée. His eyes remain on hers, his expression exactly as casual as it'd be if she'd come over in one of her suits. "Hi."

It's not until he opens the door that she realizes how bad this might look. Must look. Her hand clenches in the fabric of her robe slightly, reflexively, but Agent Mulder doesn't really react which is-- well, it's good, of course. Maybe he just thinks she's crazy. (Maybe she's crazy.)

She tries to force a smile, but can't quite manage it.

"I need you to look at something for me," she says, as if she means evidence. In a sense she does. This is fine and normal-- aside from the darkness and the fact that she's in her underwear-- it's just medical.

He moves away from the threshold, so she can come in. The candle gives a warm sort of glow to her face, her big eyes and round cheeks - or maybe it's just the fact that everything else is pitch black right now. Any light looks good at the moment. "What's wrong?"

There's something a little desperate in the glance she gives him before she comes inside. On paper this might look like something else, but in the moment-- the flickering candlelight, the set of her shoulders-- the anxious tension in the air is anything but seductive.

She turns away from him, takes a breath, and slips the robe off her shoulders, pulling it around to clutch in one arm tight against her front. As vulnerable as the moment is, she isn't shy about all the bare skin; it's all forgotten in favor of the constellation of little bumps on her lower back. She looks back over her shoulder at him, her wide-eyed stare betraying panic she's tried to suppress, and reaches a hand around to frame the marks with her fingers.

"What is it?" she asks, barely above a whisper.

Dear Penthouse, I never thought this would happen to me...

He kneels, holding the candle close to her skin, wondering if she can feel the heat cast by the flame. Nothing touches her - the wax, his hand, his lips - but he can't help the awareness of just how long it's been since he was this close to a scantily clad woman.

The bumps, Fox. Pay attention to the bumps. He peers at them in the candle's glow, comparing them to his memory of autopsy photographs, refusing to let himself notice the soft curve of her hip, hugged by her panties, any more than he already has. It takes a little longer than strictly necessary, but Scully waits for his answer. He can nearly feel the tension running through her - excepting, of course, the part where he really can't feel any of her, if he wants this partnership to lead to anything good.

(It finally feels like it could, like Scully could be convinced. He won't jeopardize the work because his thoughts keep flitting places they shouldn't.)

"Mosquito bites," he finally breathes, grinning up at her.

While he examines her back she screws her eyes shut, trying to gather the courage to deal with-- with what? She has no idea what. That's the problem-- if she's been marked by whatever nefarious force or person is operating here, then her fate is unclear but presumably tragic. They know just enough to know it's not good.

The only silver lining is there's little room to feel shy, or worry that he'll take this the wrong way. To her rational mind-- which, admittedly, is only barely keeping hold of the reins-- her body is only a body; right now an open question, a piece of evidence, not a vehicle of desire.

It takes forever for him to look over the patch of skin. She tries to even out her breathing, lower her heart rate; it doesn't do much good. The heat of the candle almost itches, the ghost of his breath-- even and calm, better than she's doing-- a reminder in the darkness that she isn't alone.

It takes her half a second to process that he's spoken, and then--

"Really?!" All the panic she's been trying to swallow is audible in the word. Her eyes snap open and she twists to look at him, the shadows jumping around them, the candle a point of impossible brightness. "You're sure?"

She's already fumbling for the sleeves of her robe, but she needs him to swear to it before she can even think about relaxing.

Her body should be only a body, and he knows it. The fact that he keeps thinking of the form of her is proof that it's been a while. If he keeps it swallowed down, hopefully she won't notice, and none of it will make a difference.

"Positive." On the outside chance he's wrong, they'll handle it after that point. For now, he's breathing a sigh of relief, and hopefully she will, too. "You'll itch for a while, but that's all."

And now that they know, there's no reason for him to kneel in front of her ass and stare at her spine. He gets up, wandering over to his bed and flopping down on it.

"Oh my God," she breathes, half embarrassed but mostly relieved. It makes her feel, at least, a little ludicrous to be standing here in her underwear. (Thank God it's at least practical, reasonably conservative-- the last thing she wants is for him to imagine she's angling to seduce him.) She slips the robe back on, crossed high on her chest and belted, and stands, shifting her weight slowly side to side. She ought to leave, she thinks, arms crossed over her waist.

"I'm sorry-- I just thought-- and with the lights out I could hardly see..."

Dangerously close to babbling, Dana. She chides herself to get it together, but she's still trembling with adrenaline and uncertainty, and if she were honest with herself-- which she often isn't-- she's not eager to be alone.

"It's fine. They were eating us alive out there." He gives her an easy smile, setting the candle on the bedside table. Would it be inappropriate to pat the mattress and suggest she stick around? Probably. Instead, he says, "You sound a little shaken. Want to sit down?"

There's a chair. There's also the rest of the bed, and the floor. Hell, there's the rest of the bed, and he can sit on the floor.

"I--"

She should go, right? But the desire not to be alone is intense enough that she can't ignore it. With a little sigh, she steps further into the room, tries to unclench her hands from the fabric of her robe. (The robe, too, is blessedly unsexy; a flattering crimson, but thick rather than silky.)

"Maybe that's a good idea," she relents, heading for the unoccupied chair. "I'm not going to get work done with the power out, anyway." Her heart rate is finally slowing, her breathing a little less ragged. After a moment, she adds--

"Thank you."

Mulder leans lazily on one side, and if there was a moment of sexiness in the bug bite examination, it's disappeared into something merely friendly. Slumber-party-esque, even. "Any time. I'll let you know if I have any bumps to investigate, but so far all my itches are highly visible."

He lifts an arm, as though to demonstrate.

This time she does manage to smile. It's a little watery, but it should still count for something. In the wake of her small-scale nervous breakdown over a bug bite-- bug bites, Dana, really-- she might have feared he'd turn patronizing, but his support seems genuine, any teasing gentle and good-natured and, admittedly, deserved.

"I feel a little silly." She looks at the floor, wills her cheeks not to flush. "Maybe if I'd been able to get a better look myself-- but by candlelight it could've been anything. I don't even know what I thought..."

It's too dark to catch her cheeks darkening - and even if he could see it, he'd never see the red. It's impossible to miss the awkward shape of her body, though, or the way she looks away. Embarrassment colors her clearly, and unnecessarily.

After all, if she was that concerned by the bumps on her skin, she's at least somewhat convinced of the situation. It might be unconscious belief on her part, or conscious hedging of bets, but it's an improvement over pure skepticism. He'll take it, gladly.

"We lost time," he points out lightly. "Under the circumstances, we have to consider all possibilities."

"We can't prove that," she reminds him automatically, but softens. "Though I'll admit it was... a strange day."

Understatement of the century, really. It's exhilarating, in a strange way-- discounting this moment of panic. Whatever is happening here, she's sure there's a scientific explanation but that doesn't have to be mundane. She hadn't quite known what to expect from the case, but so far-- she's fascinated.

(Is that gruesome, to be fascinated?)

(Was it gruesome, all those years ago?)

"Are all of your cases this... surprising?" It's the wrong word, but the best she can do.

"The best ones are." Some come to nothing, there's no denying that. Some end up having an explanation so mundane that it feels pointless to have X-filed them in the first place. This feels like a major breakthrough precisely because it's full of surprises.

And because there's someone else at his side, someone who hasn't yet betrayed him or his principles. He can't bring himself to trust, but part of him wants to.

After a moment, he adds, "This probably isn't where you were hoping to end up when they handed you your badge. What were you really aiming for?"

There's certainly a way in which that's the truth. She didn't join the Bureau with any intention of looking him up, and certainly never dreamed she'd be autopsying-- whatever that was in Soames' grave. Not human, certainly, but maybe not so easily written off as she'd imagined.

"When I was recruited, I don't think I really expected a field assignment at all. Not with my specialty. I joined because I wanted to help make a difference," she says, regarding him thoughtfully. "But I meant it, when I said I was looking forward to working with you."

And because she was running away from certain choices, but never mind that. She draws herself up a little in the chair, shifting so she's leaning toward him.

"I probably should have told you this earlier... But we've met before, actually."

That catches his attention - of course it does, the notion that he could spend days with someone and fail to recognize them as familiar. It knocks his polite curiosity about Scully's shoulda-coulda-wouldas straight out of his head. Mulder sits up a little straighter, peering at her through the gloomy night.

Not from university, he'd remember another American. Not from around town in Alexandria or D.C., unless she rates standing in the same deli line as meeting. Not from the Vineyard, obviously, but when he was living with Dad -

Maybe then. It seems like a long shot, but you can't antagonize a girl's brother and forget her completely. Wasn't she named Dana, too? Dana or maybe Diane. It feels like an awfully long shot.

"Was it a while ago?" he asks carefully. He's burning with an intensity he can't control, the curiosity that always snatches him up when he's presented with a puzzle.

It doesn't surprise her that it piques his interest-- even if it's just a piece of trivia, it's trivia he didn't figure out on his own. And privately, she rather likes even that moment of having the upper hand. People might call him Spooky, but no one disagrees that Fox Mulder is pretty brilliant; she could tell he thought he had her wholly figured out from the beginning, so it's nice to have a card up her sleeve, no matter how unimportant.

"1979?"

The memories of Craiger are... difficult, to say the least, but distant enough that she can talk about it. At least some of it. In spite of herself, she feels a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Mulder's eyes light up. "The New Age girl!"

Which is to say: He does remember her, given sufficient context clues. With those details - and with her hair a little fluffier than it was when they started the day - he can see the girl she was. He might be kicking himself for not figuring it out earlier, but at least he has it now.

"Did I end up getting you into hot water?" he asks, since it's not like he ever got the answer at the time. "With your family, I mean."

She can't help laughing at that-- though from his perspective it's a sensible enough thing to call her.

"You're only saying that because you didn't meet my sister," she says with a smile that's small but suffused with warmth. Melissa would've been a better encounter for him than Bill, though she might not have lived it down either way.

"But no-- it was fine. Bill didn't say anything." Which she'd half expected. "Anyway-- I've never me another Fox, so it stuck in my memory."

Danas are a dime a dozen, probably. She's not offended that he didn't remember.

"Neither have I," he says wryly, and in the back of his mind, he realizes he has to think back months to remember anyone other than his mother calling him Fox.

If she'd ended up getting bawled out for their afternoon together, it wouldn't have made a difference in the long run - she's made it to the FBI, she's fine - but it's nice to know that her brother seethed for a while without letting his issues boil over on her. At the time, it seemed like it just ate him up to see his sister talking to a boy.

After a moment, he adds, "I thought about going back, seeing if I could find you again. But I ran out of time - and after a few years out of the country..."

Priorities change. Dana becomes an odd little summer memory, and Mulder moves on with his life.

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

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

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