Dana Katherine Scully (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
faithfulskeptic) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
what_wings_dare2022-09-09 06:57 pm
faithfulskeptic) wrote in what_wings_dare2022-09-09 06:57 pm
Entry tags:
🅧 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 noctiumrp |
{ ACTION / NETWORK / VOICE / WHATEVER WELCOME }
carryover from @ noctium TDM
She'll allow it... as long as he behaves himself overall. But you're on notice, mister.
With a soft sigh she sips her own tea, leaning back into the cushions. At least her couch is reasonably comfortable for human anatomy. She hadn't really considered the alternative possibilities-- most of her furnishings had been bought while she was still in disbelief about the transformation issue. It does well enough to drape the long coils of a serpentine tail over. If nothing else Mulder's state is a reminder that they need to be ready for anything.
"I spent most of the week hiding on my couch the first time," she confides.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
She'd taken it in stride when she'd been told an FBI agent had some questions about one of her autopsies-- it's not usual, but you never know when a death is part of something bigger, and it's not that far from Federal stomping grounds. But then she'd heard which body it was, and... it's one of the weird ones.
The thing is: she is very good at her job. That's all. Simple. Years of medical training and an overzealous attention to detail-- plus a streak of workaholism that means she's always on top of new techniques and studies-- have made her an expert. She starts from the evidence at hand, she considers what could have caused the damage, she reports her findings. Simple. It's literally her job; lots of people across the country do it.
It's just that she happens to be very good at it.
And if sometimes, she can almost picture it-- like someone's telling her a story-- that's just her imagination running away with her. Because she is very good at her job.
Simple.
And sometimes simple isn't enough. Tool marks can be inconclusive; and even a six-inch knife with a serrated blade only goes so far, unless there's a weapon to compare it to. She might think it was the boyfriend, she caught him in the kitchen with his side piece, he grabbed the first thing he could find and they ran after while she choked on blood, but that's just a wild guess. She doesn't know, because the dead don't speak. It's a fantasy born of too many case reports and news stories.
And sometimes-- sometimes, you've got wounds that look like they were inflicted by an animal, but no animal she can guess at. Something huge; if the on-scene reports were to be believed, paired with what she can infer from lividity and angle... It was something taller than the victim, chasing him down. And that, really, is all she could say. No plausible theories-- only flights of fancy more informed by late night B-movies and old wives' tales. It's a pity the dead don't really speak, because all her too-vivid imagination could provide for this one was total nonsense.
So she's not looking forward to answering his questions. But this, too, is her job; so she squares her shoulders, looking across her desk (and up) at him, trying to fix a polite smile on her face.
"How can I help you, Agent Mulder?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
It's an awkward silence. After everything, that isn't surprising, but it makes something twist in her chest nonetheless. Standing here close enough to touch, feeling like he's still miles away; it isn't right. But, God, getting to see him again-- real and whole and healthy-- she never could have imagined getting this chance. Miracles heaped on miracles.
She should be happy. She is-- happy isn't the word-- she's relieved, she's overjoyed, she's filled to bursting with gratitude. Like a cosmic wrong has been righted, but it's still just slightly out of focus. Half of her wants to shake him until he cheers the fuck up, because how can he not be awestruck and elated?
(But she knows that's irrational. It's a lot to take in. It's-- impossible, even for Mulder, who has always believed the impossible.)
Clearing her throat, she takes a deep breath, trying to center herself.
"I could--" she starts, but she isn't sure what she's about to offer. I could stay. I could leave. Either one, leaving it up to him, carries the terrifying weight that he'll ask her to go. It seems impossible that he would, but today she's not ruling anything out. So she swallows and tries again, tries to stack the deck in her favor.
"I'd like to stay for a while." Gentle, but less neutral. The if that's okay is implied, as is the fact that if he tells her to leave, she's not going to make it to the elevator before she breaks down. Does he understand-- can he guess that she's probably spent more time here than in her own apartment, since she lost him? Feeding his fish, changing his sheets, keeping the untouched clutter on his desk reasonably dust-free?
Trying to bring their son closer to his father?
(Their son. Doesn't that mean anything to him?)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
Sitting up with a yawn confirms the theory, a few things of his still strewn about her room. She slides out of the bed, loose-limbed and well-rested, and fishes his shirt off the chair. The fabric is soft and smells like him, and Mulder is tall enough that she's almost decent in it, after a fashion. (She doesn't feel the least bit decent; she feels satisfied and debauched and seductive.)
She slips into the bathroom to brush her teeth and run her fingers through her hair before heading into the living room to look for her partner. Probably he's on the couch, she figures, or if he's angling for sainthood, putting on a pot of coffee...
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
teenies au.
It's late summer now, sweltering in D.C. and probably gorgeous back on the Vineyard. Mulder's taken more and more to driving the hell away whenever he feels like it; after the first time he slept in his AMC Gremlin and caught hell from his father, he's only been more enamored of the notion. It's awkward, given just how tall he is, but it pisses his dad off, and the freedom of knowing he doesn't have to answer to anyone is as intoxicating as any liquor.
Today, he finds himself drawn back to the little New Age shop he, Gimble, and Phoebe visited months ago. The reasons hasn't quite formed, but he'd like to say it has something to do with Samantha. There are secrets that Beyond Beyond hasn't given up, he suspects, and he wants to know what they are.
Once he gets there, the shop owner - Carinda? Carinda - is nowhere in sight, though. It might be harder to delve deeper into Beyond Beyond's beyond.
"Hi," he says to the girl at the tea counter. She's small, with a snub nose and brilliant red hair. (If he profiled her the way Agent Douglas does, what conclusions could he draw? Religious, judging by the necklace. A little younger than him, maybe a local? He can't decide.) "Do you work here?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...