#casefile

I started writing fanfic like 25 years ago, when artwork for long works was the norm. So I’m doing what we did for years. I hope everyone enjoys. I’ll be releasing around Thanksgiving, one or two chapters a day. I started writing this story years ago, so it’s a long time coming.

It’s been fun. ✌🏻

CLASSIFIED

DEPARTMENT OF ANOMALOUS INVESTIGATIONS

CASE FILE: DAI-2409

CLASSIFICATION LEVEL: ALPHA-RED

SUBJECT DESIGNATION: “THE GRAVES INCIDENT”

INITIAL THREAT ASSESSMENT: EXTREME

CURRENT STATUS: AT LARGE

LAST CONFIRMED SIGHTING: ?

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY - CLEARANCE LEVEL 4 REQUIRED

This fic evokes such an eerie X-Files mood. It was written for a @badthingshappenbingo "When Bad Things Happen To Good People" challenge, and be warned: this story is very good but it fits that bill! Title: Where the Ice Cracks Author: szxper Summary: A remote Alaskan town reports mass hallucinations, nausea, and vomiting—but no traceable toxin. Scully suspects a pathogen, but Mulder is drawn to whispers of an ancient creature said to poison minds rather than bodies. As the agents begin experiencing symptoms themselves, the lines blur between reality and delusion. Scully battles her scientific training while Mulder dives deeper into mythology, risking his grip on reality. Length: 1,452 words Classification: casefile, angst Rating: Not rated Spoilers: None listed Favorite line: He always smelled truth like blood on water—and this time, he’d caught a scent days before the case file even landed on her desk.

Write a casefile story about a young missing child that disappeared from their yard. The only witness was an elderly man or woman with dementia who insisted the child was taken by a monster. Can Mulder and Scully get to the bottom of the case with the help of only someone who is losing their ability to recall events clearly?

Comments are a forehead kiss guys! A ten second long forehead kiss.

The quiet hum of the hotel room did little to soothe Scully’s restless mind as the morning light, pale and unforgiving, seeped through the curtains. Her hand automatically reached for the toothbrush, but her thoughts were already miles away, replaying the chaotic ballet of the previous night. The memory of Mulder’s body, heavy and warm over hers, still hummed in her veins, a stark contrast to the sterile gleam of the bathroom mirror. His breath on her cheek, the unexpected weight of him, the raw awareness that had flared between them, it all pressed in on her, leaving her breathless even now.

Then there was Danny Potts. His words, delivered with such a gentle certainty, echoed in her head: "That man is in love with you. I ought to know, I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve." The declaration had stunned her, not just for its content, but for its effortless insight into something she had rigorously, stubbornly, refused to acknowledge.

No. It’s not going to happen. It’s never going to happen, she told herself, her reflection staring back, a mask of fierce denial. She gripped her hair, flipping it aggressively, the sudden movement a physical manifestation of her emotional turmoil. She couldn’t take this limbo anymore, this agonizing space between them where everything was felt but nothing was spoken. Yes, she loved him. A truth so profound, so woven into the fabric of her being, it felt like she had always, always had this connection with him. He was the other half of her, the perfect complement to her logic, the wild counterpart to her reason.

The love of her life.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, was straightforward with them. Her dominant left hemisphere, the part of her brain that craved order and predictability, screamed for logic and reason. They would never get along. They already spent way too much time together, their lives intertwined in every conceivable way. If they dared to cross that line, to delve into something more, they would bicker. They would argue. They would eventually, inevitably, end up hating each other. The thought was a cold, hard stone in her stomach, heavy enough to outweigh the burgeoning hope in her heart.

A soft, insistent knock on the adjoining room door jolted her from her turbulent thoughts. She walked over, pulling it open. Mulder stood there, dressed in a crisp gray Armani suit, looking impossibly sharp, better than any human being had a right to at this ungodly hour.

“Ready to go?” he asked, his voice low, a velvet murmur that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. His eyes, deep and searching, held hers for a moment too long, a silent question passing between them. Scully sighed, a sound caught between resignation and something akin to quiet acceptance. She offered him a half smile, a silent admission of defeat, and nodded.

__________________________________

The hum of the rental car was the only sound breaking the silence between them. Mulder gripped the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road, but his mind was entirely on the woman beside him. One of his favorite things on earth was making Scully laugh; even a mere giggle was a massive win. To hear the genuine, unburdened sound of her laughter was, for him, as a burst of celestial fire, piercing the gloom of his soul, a brief, intoxicating draught of nectar from the gods themselves. Honestly, he thought to himself if this is what being in love does to a person, I think I'll stick to global conspiracies. Much less dramatic.

So he launched into niche questions, delving into the philosophical absurdities he knew sometimes caught her off guard. “Scully,” he began, “if a tree falls in the forest and an alien is there to observe it, but the alien’s perception is based on vibrational frequencies rather than sound waves, does the tree still make a ‘thud’?”

Nada. Not even a flicker of amusement.

He switched to jokes, then puns, each one falling flat in the charged silence. Nothing was working. Her profile remained impassive, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery. He sighed, deflating slightly. There was only one way to break this impenetrable silence.

“Scully,” he said, his voice softer than he intended. “I’m sorry. About last night.”

That did it. Her head whipped around so fast her hair momentarily obscured her face, her eyes wide with surprise, a sudden vulnerability in their depths. “Apologize for what, Mulder?”

He scrambled, his mind racing. This was a high stakes question. If he got it wrong, she’d freeze him out, perhaps for weeks. Was there more than one thing he should be apologizing for? He did a quick, frantic inventory of his misdeeds.

“I’m sorry for my obnoxious behavior to Puppy,” he blurted out, then quickly corrected, “I mean, Potts.”

Scully shook her head, a slow, deliberate movement that sent her hair swaying across her face like a curtain. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips, gone before he could be sure it was real. She turned her attention to the hospital entrance now visible in the distance.

“Alright, Mulder. About these four incidents, and Potts’s neurological findings…” she began, her voice all business, pulling him back to the familiar ground of the case.

It worked! A wave of relief washed over him, so potent he nearly sagged.

When Mulder cut the engine, she turned to him, her hand reaching out to grasp his. Her touch was firm, serious, yet a spark of warmth ignited where their skin met. “Potts…” she started, her gaze intense, a silent warning in her eyes.

Mulder quickly cut her off, a reassuring smile on his face, determined to smooth things over. “Don’t worry. I’ll be on my best behavior.” He squeezed her hand, a silent promise.

Scully squeezed his hand in return, her half smile deepening into something more genuine, a hint of the playful teasing he cherished. “Yeah,” she said, her eyes twinkling as she held his gaze, a quiet challenge in their depths, “but you need to be on my best behavior.”

He grinned, a genuine, easy smile that reached his eyes, feeling a lightness he hadn’t realized he’d lost. “Deal,” he confirmed, squeezing her hand in return, the fleeting intimacy a secret language between them.

__________________________________

They stepped off the elevator into the hushed quiet of Dr. Potts’s office suite, the early morning light filtering softly through the blinds. Their footsteps echoed faintly on the polished floors as they searched for him. As they rounded the corner into the main consultation area, Scully stopped.

Her eyes widened, taking in the sight before them: a large, gleaming table laden with an extravagant spread of breakfast delights. There were baskets overflowing with every imaginable bakery item—flaky croissants, glistening danishes, muffins studded with berries. Platters held perfectly sliced fruit, alongside bowls of yogurt and granola. A gleaming coffee urn steamed invitingly next to an array of exotic smoothie options, vibrant colors promising a burst of flavor.

Potts emerged from an inner office, a professional smile already in place, but it brightened considerably when he saw Scully. He gestured grandly to the table, his eyes twinkling. “Dana! Agent Mulder.” He moved towards them, a confident ease in his stride.

Scully, still staring at the culinary abundance, raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Potts,” she began, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Are you expecting guests? Royalty?”

Potts chuckled, a warm, resonant sound. He paused beside the table, sweeping an arm over the feast, his gaze fixed solely on Scully. “In a manner of speaking, it’s for you, Dana,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, intimate and earnest. “I thought you might be hungry. And I want to treat you right, because I truly hope you’ll come again.”

Both Mulder and Scully were taken aback, each for their own complicated reasons. Scully felt a strange, almost overwhelming sensation. It had been a long, solitary time since anyone had made such a grand, openly romantic gesture for her. A soft, unexpected warmth bloomed in her chest, quickly followed by a familiar flicker of unease.

Mulder, on the other hand, was hit hard with a visceral pang of jealousy so sharp it stole his breath. He saw the genuine care in Potts’s eyes, the unmasked adoration, and it ignited a fierce, protective instinct he usually kept buried deep. But he had promised Scully he would be on his best behavior—or rather, her best behavior. He drew a deep breath, forcing a placid expression onto his face.

He stepped forward, his voice remarkably even, a thin veneer over simmering frustration. “Well, Dr. Potts, this is… quite the spread. Agent Scully and I were just discussing the metabolic benefits of complex carbohydrates and sustained glucose release for optimal cognitive function. This array certainly provides ample caloric density and a diverse macronutrient profile, essential for maintaining peak investigative stamina.” He even managed a polite nod toward a towering stack of pancakes, a masterclass in forced civility.

Now it was Potts’s turn to be taken aback. He blinked, clearly thrown by Mulder’s sudden, overly formal, and surprisingly scientific assessment of his breakfast offering. The usual Mulder would have scoffed, perhaps made a crack. But Potts was sharp; he saw right through the forced decorum, the thinly veiled possessiveness in Mulder's unusual politeness. A slow, knowing smile spread across Potts’s face. Oh, this was going to be fun. He was going to have a lot of fun testing Mulder today, breaking him today.

Scully, perhaps to diffuse the sudden, heavy silence, reached out and plucked a glistening chocolate danish from a basket. She took a large bite, the pastry flaking deliciously around her lips. Both men were openly staring at her now, one with a subtle admiration that bordered on reverence, the other with a silent, desperate plea in his eyes that she recognized all too well. Scully swallowed quickly, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks, acutely aware of the unresolved tension.

She cleared her throat, pulling herself back to the reason they were there. “Right,” she said, wiping a crumb from her lip. “Dr. Potts, you mentioned more data on the neurological symptoms. Where should we begin?”

__________________________________

Five hours later, Mulder was dying a slow, agonizing death by a thousand paper cuts of charm. The relentless hum of the hospital room, coupled with Potts’s unwavering focus on Scully, had become a special kind of torture. It had been like this all day: Potts constantly vying for Scully’s attention, the unending stream of flattery, the way he leaned in, nodding so attentively at everything she said, as if her every utterance was a revelation etched in stone. Mulder had finally had it. He was ready to pull out a white flag and wave it.

He pushed back from the table, not even bothering to interrupt their ongoing, intense discussion of patient vitals. He simply tuned them out completely, the droning rhythm of Potts’s voice and Scully’s methodical questions fading into a meaningless buzz. He reached for the stack of patient files, ignoring the conversation that continued to flow over his head. He skimmed, then read, then re read, looking for anything, any pattern, any anomaly that might pull him from this purgatory. His eyes darted across dates, times, fragmented symptoms, geographic coordinates.

Then, a flicker. Not a pattern, not yet. More of a resonance, a faint echo of something he’d encountered before, buried deep in the archives of his mind. A subtle correlation between the missing time incidents and localized, low frequency atmospheric disturbances, readings that would typically be dismissed as background noise. It was a long shot, a wild theory, but it sparked a familiar thrill, a sense of purpose that cut through his earlier frustration.

“Scully,” Mulder interrupted, his voice sharp, cutting through Potts’s detailed medical explanation of a patient's aphasia. He pushed a file across the table. “These atmospheric readings, correlated with the disappearance times. They’re too consistent to be coincidental. What if the ‘shimmer’ isn’t just some optical anomaly, but a localized temporal distortion, possibly a byproduct of an unknown energy source?”

Potts scoffed, a dismissive sound, his face already contorted in objection. “Agent Mulder, that’s highly speculative and entirely without scientific precedent here. We’re dealing with neurological trauma, not science fiction.”

Scully turned to Mulder, then back to Potts, her expression one of quiet determination. “Perhaps, Dr. Potts, but on the X Files, we have found that many cases go beyond what can be conventionally imagined. That is no reason to dismiss the extraordinary.” She paused, her eyes meeting Mulder’s, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. A shared history, a shared understanding etched in their very bones. “In fact,” she continued, her voice steady, “on our very first case together, Mulder and I experienced a loss of time. Nine minutes.” In her mind, she replayed that bewildering moment, how in the terrifying void of lost time, they had paradoxically found each other, truly found each other.

Mulder and Potts both looked at her, stunned, for wildly different reasons. Potts’s jaw hung slightly ajar, his disbelief evident. He saw her as utterly irrational, bordering on delusion, his scientific mind unable to reconcile her words. Mulder, however, was struck by a different kind of shock. He was stunned, not by the revelation itself, but by her willingness to admit it, here, now, to Potts, and most importantly, to herself. It was a concession, a raw, undeniable truth she rarely spoke aloud. Potts recovered, a harsh scoff escaping him in a mix of defense and frustration. “Agent Scully, with all due respect, that sounds like pure conjecture! We have patients with real, measurable symptoms, not… nine minutes of lost time!”

Mulder started to interject, a sharp retort forming on his tongue, but he knew Scully well enough to let her handle this on her own. He watched, a quiet pride swelling in his chest, as she stood her ground.

Scully’s gaze was firm, unwavering as she looked at Potts. “Dr. Potts, Agent Mulder and I are going now. We need to follow up on Mulder’s lead.” She stood, moving with a decisive grace that brooked no argument, and walked towards the office door.

Mulder leaned in towards Potts, a sly, fox like smile playing on his lips. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes gleaming with a victory that had two distinct meanings. “That’s my girl.”

Scully turned just outside the doorway, her voice clear, pulling Mulder back into their orbit, back to where he belonged. “Are you coming?”