#todayinfic

“ - so yes I’d say this beats even that.”

“But it’s Comic Con Scully! Who doesn’t love Comic Con?”

“I think if you spend even a moment considering the last 30 plus years that you’ve spent with me you’ll realise that the answer to that question is very clear.”

“I have failed in my duty to convert you to the dark side Scully.”

“Never mind Mulder. Three quarters of our family are geeks.”

“Talking of which – where is the little Uber Scully?”

“Will said he’d take her to some Star-something panel.”

“Trek or Wars?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Oh my God woman! Have I taught you nothing?”

“Relax Mulder I’m kidding. Star Trek is the one with Yoda right?”

“That’s it. I’m filing for sole custody of the kids. They are not safe in your hands.”

“Shut up Mulder or I won’t wear your Spock ears next time our daughter is away on a sleep over.”

“Ooh I’m listening!”

“What I don’t get is why we’re here though. I thought Comic Cons were all about superheroes and scantily dressed pre-teen Japanese animation fans. Why would anyone want our signatures?”

“We’re famous Scully! Within an albeit small but highly vocal corner of the geek universe, we’re considered oracles. Modern day prophets. You should be honoured to be so highly regarded.”

“I would be if it was because of our many years of work and deep sacrifices on the X-Files. Or our still unacknowledged role in preventing the 2012 alien apocalypse. Or even our mind-boggling fertility. But the fucking Lazarus Bowl Mulder?”

“It’s the 25th anniversary Scully. That makes it a bonafide classic in the eyes of Gen X. Or Y. I forget which.”

“The movie is a travesty Mulder. An abomination. The greatest X File of all is why we ever agreed to take part. Or why it wasn’t immediately consigned to the reject bin of cinematic history.”

“True but you got to admit we had a very fun evening on the Bureau’s dine after the Premiere.”

“Well yes. But we were young and irresponsible.”

“I’m old and irresponsible. Think we could get the organisers to spring for a motel for tonight?”

“We’re here with our kids Mulder remember?”

“Ah well. You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“Anyway, if the movie is so highly regarded why are we here? We weren’t even in it. It should be Gary Shandling and Téa Leoni and sitting here, not us.”

“Well he’s dead and I reckon she’s out of their budget. We’re the next best thing apparently.”

“Remind me what we’re supposed to do again?”

“Smile. Sign anything that gets put in front of you unless it’s a body part in which case call security. Try to pretend you don’t regard everyone here as a sub-intellectual cretin. Think of the kudos it’ll give you with our daughter.”

“First of all, if anyone asks me to sign a body part I will most definitely be leaving. And second of all, our daughter is far too young to have seen the movie. Mulder? Isn’t she?”

“Umm…”

“You didn’t!”

“It wasn’t me! Will apparently let her watch it the last time she stayed at his.”

“Oh God!”

“Relax Scully. I’m almost certain she didn’t understand the more risqué lines. She may have changed her opinion on Skinner though.”

“We are terrible parents. You know that right?”

“Of course love. But as neither of us are planning on sacrificing our children to an alien conspiracy, we’re still doing a hell of a lot better than my parents.”

“Well that’s true. Oh god I think they’re about to open the queue. I was hoping they’d forgotten us.”

“Smile Scully. Think happy thoughts.”

“Like how I want to kill you for getting me into this?”

“Serves you right for agreeing to it during sex.”

“I did not!”

“‘Yes Mulder. Oh God yes. Whatever you want Mulder just don’t stop. Yes yes yes!’”

“Mulder, I swear to God if you don’t shut up right now … Hello. Thank you for coming. Yes of course I’ll sign your program. Oh that’s very kind of you. No actually I’m Dana Scully. The character that Téa Leoni played in the movie. Well no it wasn’t actually a biography. No Téa Leoni isn’t here today. Yes that is a shame I agree. Have a nice day now. Mulder I am going to kill you. Slowly. Painfully. And without leaving any evidence behind … Hello. Thank you for coming. That’s a very interesting costume. You made it yourself? Well I’d never have guessed. A photo? Of course. Well actually I’m not Téa Leoni. I’m Dana Scully. Yes, from the movie. Yes, I am real. It is a surprise isn’t it. Have you met Fox Mulder? He’d love to tell you about his flashlight … Hello. Nice to meet you. Hello. Hello. Nice to meet you. Yes, I am Téa Leoni. Well thank you, you look great for your age too. It’s your grandparents' favourite film? How wonderful … ”

“Well that was fun.”

“Mulder that was possibly the most painful experience of my entire life. Including childbirth. If I have to sign one more paper mâché Lazarus Bowl I will not be held responsible for my actions. Let’s go find the kids and get out of here. I feel a strong urge to be in the company of people who went on at least one date in High School.”

“Right behind you Scully. That last fan asked me to sign her tattoo and it wasn’t on an easily accessible body part.”

“Prude.”

“Dork.”

“Look there’s Will over by that blue police box and … oh no. Mulder please tell me our daughter is not holding a light sabre!”

Scully nods, fingers already reaching for the door handle and stepping out into the biting cold. She retrieves her overnight bag from the backseat, and before she has a chance to lean in and say a polite goodnight or thanks for the ride or drive safe, the wind catches the car door and slams it shut. She winces, knowing that Mulder has likely interpreted that as a deliberate act, and she can’t blame him. She looks at the ground, feeling chagrined. 

They probably both could have handled that better.

Bracing herself against the wind, Scully pulls her coat tighter, adjusts her bag, and starts up the walkway toward her building. She makes it halfway there before she slips on a patch of ice and goes down – hard. 

For a second she sits there in the snow, slightly stunned. It takes a few seconds before the pain catches up to her. She’s rolled her ankle – a sprain, she realizes with immediate clinical certainty. Her hip and elbow, which took the brunt of her fall, will undoubtedly be bruised by tomorrow, and her ankle is probably already swelling in her boot.

Instinctively, she turns toward the road just in time to see the taillights of Mulder's car disappearing around the corner. Of course. When have they ever had good timing?

Scully’s chin wobbles involuntarily. She presses her lips together and carefully pushes herself up, cursing under her breath as she tries to put weight on her ankle. She’s suddenly freezing, the wind whipping at her face, the snow finding its way into the gaps of her clothing. Mercifully, she manages to make it into her building without slipping again, and limps her way up to her apartment.

There’s a note taped on her front door – rarely a good sign. She reads it once, twice, and then laughs, a hollow, dry sound in the cold hallway.

ATTN RESIDENTS: BUILDING HEATING SYSTEM DOWN. EXPECTED REPAIR BY MONDAY AM. APOLOGIES FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.

It’s Friday night. Of course, this is how the week from hell would end. Of course, this would be her weekend.

Scully tosses her bag on her bed, and doesn’t bother to unpack. Instead, she changes into sweatpants and a cozy sweater, and pulls on the thickest socks she owns. Her ankle throbs as she limps to her linen closet and retrieves two thick blankets, then hobbles over to her freezer for an ice pack, before settling on the couch.

With her ankle propped up on a cushion, the ice pack tucked against the throbbing joint, Scully wraps herself in both blankets, and turns the television on to some black-and-white movie she barely pays attention to. She has to turn the volume up twice to hear the dialogue over the storm hammering against her windows, and still her focus is elsewhere. 

It’s not the first argument they’ve had that’s left her feeling like shit, and it probably won’t be the last. But this one is getting under her skin – not even the words that were exchanged, just how…unnecessary it all was. Clearly what they’d seen over the last few days had upset them both, so why couldn’t they have just…talked about it? Why can’t they ever just talk about the heavy things?

She knows the answer. It’s just not something they do. She resents that more than the stupid fight itself.

With each gust of wind outside Scully can feel the draft creeping through her windows. She shivers, and pulls the blankets tighter. Despite the layers, she hasn’t warmed up since taking a tumble in the snow. The ice pack isn’t helping matters one bit.

Scully is considering hobbling her way back over to the kitchen to put on the kettle when the lights flicker once – twice – and then go out entirely. The picture on the television shrinks and disappears, the hum of her fridge fizzles into silence, and she’s left in a sudden, absolute darkness. 

All at once she feels impossibly small and alone in the shadows. Her living room window rattles in its frame, and her chin wobbles again.

She’s not going to cry. She’s not going to cry. 

Her throat tightens. Her eyes prickle with tears, and she sniffles.

She’s not going to cry because her power went out. She’s not going to cry because her ankle hurts. And she’s not going to cry because she had a ridiculously unnecessary fight with Mulder. 

She’s going to cry because of...all of it

She gives herself three minutes. Three minutes to sob silently into the safety of her non-judgemental fortress of blankets before she shakes her head, wipes her eyes and her nose, and forces herself to take a deep, steadying breath. She fumbles for her cell phone, her fingers clumsy and cold as she dials the number of the one person she’s still irrationally pissed off at, but the one person she wants more than anything in the world. The one person who could possibly make things better right now.

Mulder answers on the first ring.

“Scully? Everything okay?” His voice is wary and slightly guarded.

She opens her mouth, and what comes out is smaller and more honest than she expects. 

“Not…not exactly.”

There’s a subtle shift in his tone toward that quiet alertness she knows so well.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Scully sniffles and wipes her nose with the blanket again, fighting back more tears.

“I’m...I slipped on the ice when I got out of the car. Twisted my ankle. It’s not…it’s not broken, but it’s bad.” She pauses, and then the rest pours out of her unguarded. “And my building just lost power, the heat’s been broken – it’s been down for a few days, I think. I’m freezing, and I just…” She trails off into a shaky laugh that ends up halfway to a sob, and continues. “I don’t want to be alone in the cold and the dark, Mulder. Not after this week. My mother’s out of town, and I don’t know where I...I have nowhere to go.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. She can picture him sitting on his sofa, arms crossed, still pissed about the way they left things, and for a second she fears the worst, expects a flat, cold, 'gee, that’s too bad’ in response, when – 

“Say no more,” Mulder declares, his voice low and decisive. “I’m coming to get you. I’ve got power, heat, and a bag of frozen peas in my freezer that have seen me through more injuries than I care to remember.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to…impose.”

“Scully,” he murmurs, “you could never impose. I’m on my way.”

She closes her eyes and nods, and lets the familiar warmth of his voice settle over her like a third blanket.

“No, that’s…I can drive. It’s fine, I can—”

“Scully,” Mulder cuts in firmly, “you just told me your ankle is busted. You’re obviously in no shape to drive. The roads are awful, so let me come get you before it gets worse out there.”

Scully closes her eyes, tears falling silently as the tension eases out of her shoulders. There’s rustling on the other end of the line – she can picture him tossing on his coat in one fluid motion, his phone pressed tightly against his shoulder – and the slam of his apartment door.

“Okay,” she whispers into the darkness. "Okay."

“Okay,” he echoes. 

"Mulder? I'm...I..." Scully trails off. It's not often she's at a loss for words, but she doesn't know how to say what she wants to say. What she needs to say. 

"Monica…" His voice trails off like he wants to say something more, but he can't seem to find the words.

She supplies a few of her own instead. "I stopped by the precinct."

"Ah." His hand finds his face, fingers tracing the lines of his forehead.

"You weren't going to tell me you applied to the academy at all, were you?"

He takes a moment, then answers with a shrug. "I didn't wanna jinx it."

A laugh bursts from her then, full and bright and loud in his ear as it blows through the receiver. His chest tightens at the sound, memories of the slivers of light it'd brought to some of his darkest hours flashing through his mind.

"Now that's funny," she says as her breath settles. "You're a model candidate, John. Exactly what the FBI looks for."

He can feel the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. "Yeah, well, I'm here now, ain't I?"

"That's what they tell me…"

His head shakes a little. "'They' bein' Duke."

"Who else? He's proud of you, you know."

He huffs. "Coulda fooled me."

"Can't blame him for wanting to keep his best detective around." He can tell she's smiling on the other end, and he's surprised by the slight ache he feels at the thought that he's missing it. "So, how's it going, trainee?"

"Beats the hell outta boot camp," he starts, pacing in small, slow circles as he speaks. "But I'll tell ya, I feel like an old man joinin' up this late. Feels like everyone else came outta the womb plannin' to apply on their 23rd birthdays."

"Like me?" she says, and she can hear him snort. "You're not old, John, you're experienced. It'll serve you well."

"Yeah, hopefully." He's shrugging again, but this time nodding too. "How 'bout you, Agent Reyes?" He emphasizes the title, respecting and teasing her all at once—but she just hears the way her name sounds on his tongue, the lilt of his accent in each syllable. She'd miss it if it hadn't been lost to the intimacy of her first name instead. "How's the Bureau treatin' you?"

Ever the gentleman—he says the Bureau but she's sure that's not all he means.

"Can't complain," she offers, and of course she could, but—

"Like hell!" It's his turn to laugh now, and she's thrilled to hear it—a deep, throaty sound she'd only just started getting to know as he finally found it within himself again.

"Okaaay fiiine," she relents, drawing out each word for effect. "What can I say, it's tough out here for a ritualistic crimes specialist." A dash of levity with her truth, and she hopes that will be enough to satisfy him for now.

"Yeah, I'll bet." She can tell his words came through one of his crooked smiles, so it will indeed.

There's an irony, she realizes, in wanting to keep it light, when she recalls the question she wants to ask him—the reason she called in the first place. It's dangling somewhere between the tip of her tongue and the back of her throat, waiting for the right moment to drop.

Another trainee runs past him, shouting an apology as they knock him briefly unsteady. Glancing at his watch, he realizes he should be doing the same if he wants to eat. "Sorry Monica, but I gotta—"

"John." She cuts him off, and the words tumble down. "Are you doing this for you, or are you doing this for Luke?"

They land like a pile of bricks, but there's too many miles between them to hear an echo, so all that's left is a long, heavy silence—until finally it's broken by a deep sigh breathed into her ear.

That's all she expects, really, so she's surprised when he mumbles, "What the hell's the difference?" She's not entirely sure whether he means the difference to him or to her, and she doesn't press him to find out. But he surprises her again when he adds an even more quiet truth. "I just—I needed to get out of there."

There has many meanings, she knows. So she lets his honesty breathe for a moment before speaking again, exposing her own through a touch of banter. "I guess New York won't be making the top of your field office rankings then?"

His silence speaks louder than words, spelling out the confirmation she already wishes she didn't ask for.

"Well hey, don't let me keep you," she deflects, before he tries to soften the blow. "I just wanted to see how you're doing down there."

"Yeah." The sun is warm on the back of his neck as he stares at his shoes, scuffing his toes lightly against the path. "Thanks, Monica."

"Anytime, John. Just let me know where you do end up, okay?"

"Okay. I will." He hopes it won't be too far, just far enough, but he doesn't tell her that. Instead, he takes a page out of her book, sprinkling in a pinch of humor. "And if I come across any satanic cults out there I'll give you a call."

That earns him another laugh, sharp in the best way, slicing through the lingering tension between them. "Looking forward to it," she says, her lips pinched in a grin as she holds back the pending Agent Doggett.