Crossover snippet: because I don't have enough stories on my plate
Okay, first, I gotta say: WG is a troublemaker.
Second, hmmm.
But the timeline would be all screwy. Hmmm.
Someone had been on the scene already, Scully realized. Someone who wasn't the local cops, or even the coroner. Things had been disarranged, the woman's lingerie drawer--she nudged Mulder out of the way--had already been searched. If the victim, one Edwina Slater of Cable Falls New Hampshire, had owned any Victorian hair jewelry, it was gone now.
It was harder tracking X-Files without the FBI's or Gunmen's resources; in the last few years they'd rebuilt their contacts, but it was more difficult now, on the road the way they were. Thank heavens for wifi and satellite cell phones. Scully sometimes thought wistfully of the days when she'd roll into her apartment at 11 pm and leave again at 6 for a flight to Topeka--at least she had an apartment then. But then Mulder would roll over, wrapping a long arm around her softening abdomen--the road was hell on her diet--or she'd step on his toe in the woods and he'd retaliate by kissing her breathless, back pressed against the sticky bole of a pine tree. This wasn't perfect, and she knew it had to end; but she'd finally learned to take her joy where she could.
"Scully!" hissed Mulder from the back door. She slid the drawer closed and crossed the room, using her flashlight at its lowest setting to guide her across the cluttered living room.
"What is it?" she asked as she came up behind him.
He didn't speak, but looked up at her from where he was crouched in the open doorway, and raised a hand toward her. She frowned, bending closer to look. It was mud on his hand, she realized: as she touched his finger, it clung to her. Fresh mud. The flashlight, carefully angled downward, revealed a partial footprint on the step just outside the doorsill: a large boot, muddy from the puddles the rain had left in the yard.
Mulder put his hand on hers and turned off the flashlight, then tugged her down toward him. "It's still wet," he breathed into her ear. "They could still be here."
"The car!" she whispered back. There had been a car parked out at the edge of the lane, an old sedan with mud-spattered plates. She had assumed it belonged to the neighbor across the way, whose yard was full of battered vehicles; now it had a different significance.
Mulder twitched a finger towards the left; she nodded, slipping her weapon out from her shoulder-holster. Staying low, he edged out the door and to the left. Scully went right.
It was 2 am when Mulder and Scully had arrived at the Slater house, and probably close to 3 now. The air was chill and damp from the rain, and rich with the smell of a northern spring. Frogs cheeped, the chorus drowning out the sound of Scully's own breathing as she worked her way along the side of the house. Nothing, and she couldn't risk using her flashlight to look for footprints in the mud.
She was nearly at the front of the house when she froze; someone was moving in the brush off to her left. There was a rustle, and a soft thump, and then another rustle, followed by a mutter that might have been someone swearing. Then, very clearly, a low voice: "Sam, shut up!"
"What are we doing here?" whispered another voice, this one sounded aggrieved. "We're wasting our time. Nothing's going to happen."
Boys, thought Scully in disbelief. The hell?
She was pretty sure they were crouched in the bushes about thirty feet away. Close enough. Straightening, she took her flashlight in one hand and her weapon in the other, and then turned the beam on. "Whoever you are, come out of there now."
Three things happened at once.
First, one of the boys yelled, "Shit!"
Second, Mulder hissed, "Scully?" from around the corner of the house--he must have gotten to the front and was coming around to meet up with her.
Third, two tall figures broke out of the bushes and went dashing down the driveway, splattering heedlessly through the puddles.
Mulder yelled, "Hey!" but the two running boys didn't stop. Scully wasn't in the mood for a footrace in the muddy darkness, and their old Chevy truck was three hundred yards down the road. By the time she and Mulder got to it those boys would be gone. So she just stood there, watching, as they disappeared into the darkness.
"Scully, you okay?" Mulder touched her arm briefly with the hand that wasn't holding his weapon.
"I'm fine, Mulder," she said. "Just a couple of kids, checking out the murder site."
"Huh," he said. "You sure? It's a pretty scary legend. They could be, I dunno, looking into it."
Scully cocked her head as the engine of the sedan started with a roar. "Pretty sure," she said, and listened to the tires squealing as the car took off down River Road. "Your legend--which I haven't bought into yet, by the way, is very obscure, and we didn't find any proof, anyway. Can't think what else a couple of boys would want, out here in the dark."
"Okay," he said, his voice still dubious. He holstered his weapon and they began walking back down the driveway. "We can be in Manchester in an hour," he said, implicitly giving up the hunt. He steered her around a deep puddle. "Diner breakfast? Scrambled eggs and home fried potatoes?"
"Motel first," Scully said firmly, slipping her hand into his. "Let's find a place with a decent bed."
"Right," he said, and the warmth in his voice told her everything she needed to hear. What they had wasn't perfect, but it would do, for now.
*
Damn you people, anyway.
It occurs to me that the revival of low-waisted jeans would make it a lot harder for a woman to carry a gun at her back.
And anyone who wants to follow up on this is more than welcome to. Go wild!
Second, hmmm.
But the timeline would be all screwy. Hmmm.
Someone had been on the scene already, Scully realized. Someone who wasn't the local cops, or even the coroner. Things had been disarranged, the woman's lingerie drawer--she nudged Mulder out of the way--had already been searched. If the victim, one Edwina Slater of Cable Falls New Hampshire, had owned any Victorian hair jewelry, it was gone now.
It was harder tracking X-Files without the FBI's or Gunmen's resources; in the last few years they'd rebuilt their contacts, but it was more difficult now, on the road the way they were. Thank heavens for wifi and satellite cell phones. Scully sometimes thought wistfully of the days when she'd roll into her apartment at 11 pm and leave again at 6 for a flight to Topeka--at least she had an apartment then. But then Mulder would roll over, wrapping a long arm around her softening abdomen--the road was hell on her diet--or she'd step on his toe in the woods and he'd retaliate by kissing her breathless, back pressed against the sticky bole of a pine tree. This wasn't perfect, and she knew it had to end; but she'd finally learned to take her joy where she could.
"Scully!" hissed Mulder from the back door. She slid the drawer closed and crossed the room, using her flashlight at its lowest setting to guide her across the cluttered living room.
"What is it?" she asked as she came up behind him.
He didn't speak, but looked up at her from where he was crouched in the open doorway, and raised a hand toward her. She frowned, bending closer to look. It was mud on his hand, she realized: as she touched his finger, it clung to her. Fresh mud. The flashlight, carefully angled downward, revealed a partial footprint on the step just outside the doorsill: a large boot, muddy from the puddles the rain had left in the yard.
Mulder put his hand on hers and turned off the flashlight, then tugged her down toward him. "It's still wet," he breathed into her ear. "They could still be here."
"The car!" she whispered back. There had been a car parked out at the edge of the lane, an old sedan with mud-spattered plates. She had assumed it belonged to the neighbor across the way, whose yard was full of battered vehicles; now it had a different significance.
Mulder twitched a finger towards the left; she nodded, slipping her weapon out from her shoulder-holster. Staying low, he edged out the door and to the left. Scully went right.
It was 2 am when Mulder and Scully had arrived at the Slater house, and probably close to 3 now. The air was chill and damp from the rain, and rich with the smell of a northern spring. Frogs cheeped, the chorus drowning out the sound of Scully's own breathing as she worked her way along the side of the house. Nothing, and she couldn't risk using her flashlight to look for footprints in the mud.
She was nearly at the front of the house when she froze; someone was moving in the brush off to her left. There was a rustle, and a soft thump, and then another rustle, followed by a mutter that might have been someone swearing. Then, very clearly, a low voice: "Sam, shut up!"
"What are we doing here?" whispered another voice, this one sounded aggrieved. "We're wasting our time. Nothing's going to happen."
Boys, thought Scully in disbelief. The hell?
She was pretty sure they were crouched in the bushes about thirty feet away. Close enough. Straightening, she took her flashlight in one hand and her weapon in the other, and then turned the beam on. "Whoever you are, come out of there now."
Three things happened at once.
First, one of the boys yelled, "Shit!"
Second, Mulder hissed, "Scully?" from around the corner of the house--he must have gotten to the front and was coming around to meet up with her.
Third, two tall figures broke out of the bushes and went dashing down the driveway, splattering heedlessly through the puddles.
Mulder yelled, "Hey!" but the two running boys didn't stop. Scully wasn't in the mood for a footrace in the muddy darkness, and their old Chevy truck was three hundred yards down the road. By the time she and Mulder got to it those boys would be gone. So she just stood there, watching, as they disappeared into the darkness.
"Scully, you okay?" Mulder touched her arm briefly with the hand that wasn't holding his weapon.
"I'm fine, Mulder," she said. "Just a couple of kids, checking out the murder site."
"Huh," he said. "You sure? It's a pretty scary legend. They could be, I dunno, looking into it."
Scully cocked her head as the engine of the sedan started with a roar. "Pretty sure," she said, and listened to the tires squealing as the car took off down River Road. "Your legend--which I haven't bought into yet, by the way, is very obscure, and we didn't find any proof, anyway. Can't think what else a couple of boys would want, out here in the dark."
"Okay," he said, his voice still dubious. He holstered his weapon and they began walking back down the driveway. "We can be in Manchester in an hour," he said, implicitly giving up the hunt. He steered her around a deep puddle. "Diner breakfast? Scrambled eggs and home fried potatoes?"
"Motel first," Scully said firmly, slipping her hand into his. "Let's find a place with a decent bed."
"Right," he said, and the warmth in his voice told her everything she needed to hear. What they had wasn't perfect, but it would do, for now.
*
Damn you people, anyway.
It occurs to me that the revival of low-waisted jeans would make it a lot harder for a woman to carry a gun at her back.
And anyone who wants to follow up on this is more than welcome to. Go wild!