Chapter Text
His eyes flicker underneath his eyelids as if he were skimming a book while he sleeps, the REM of nightmares. But Mulder isn’t dreaming. Not really. He’s remembering. He’s watching himself reach for his father’s gun. The blinding white light, the trembling Stratego pieces on the floor. Just like his twelve-year old self, he is unable to move, his limbs unresponsive. He stares wide-eyed at the silhouette of his younger sister suspended against the glare coming from the open window like a grotesque, sleeping marionette. It is only when she’s gone and there’s darkness that he is able to scream.
SAMANTHA.
He’s wet. Although he sleeps only in his boxers, he can feel that they’re drenched and sticking to him as if he’d jumped in the water in Martha’s Vineyard as he used to as a child. The Navajo blanket is heavier than usual, laden with the weight of panic exuded through sweat glands. The leather of his couch is slick and slippery and feels like warm blood against his back.
He wants to believe that this is your average pool of sweat that comes with night terrors rather than his own urine. From the ages of twelve to fourteen, both were equally plausible. The bed-wetting had been his private embarrassment. The onslaught of stuttering, a source of public humiliation. He sighs and peels the blanket off himself, hanging it on a chair to dry. He strips off his boxers and leaves them with the blanket and feels his skin prickle with the cool air touching his skin, grateful that with each goose bump he returns further into the present, away from the memory of Samantha’s abduction and his failure to help her.
He sighs and runs long fingers through his hair. Profiling always makes the nightmares a little worse, a little more vivid. He pads naked into the kitchen and doesn’t bother to turn on the light. He puts on coffee and goes to the bathroom in his unused bedroom to shower. Deep in thought, he lets the water run down the tightly wound muscles of his back, allowing the strong patter of drops loosen the knots there. He doesn’t hear the envelope being slipped under the door of his apartment.
Mulder dries off and wraps the damp towel around his waist. Number 42 smells more strongly of coffee than fear now, and for this he is thankful. He feels more grounded, more in control. Twelve years later, and he sometimes still feels like his pre-teen self, especially when he’s alone in the dark. He’s a psychologist and a recognised member of the Behavioural Science Department, yet Sam will always be a source of insecurity.
He turns on the light, pours himself some coffee and turns on the TV putting it on mute. It’s then that he notices the manila envelope on the floor.
He gingerly opens the door to peek outside only to see an empty hallway. He takes off the towel and uses it to pick up the envelope and reaches for his father’s old letter opener. He’ll ask the lab for prints later.
The goosebumps on his skin this time aren’t from the cold, but from the contents inside. The article is short, the paper cheap. It’s clearly a clipping from a small-town paper. His eyes skim the page and sees that whoever delivered this message had underlined missing child, Will Byers, and had written in sharp, block letters: FIND HIM. FIND ANSWERS.
The pull is overwhelming. The image of Samantha is still freshly branded in the back of his eyelids and he thinks back to when he had scribbled theories in his notebook and had checked out every possible book about alien abductions and government conspiracies. He understood the potential monstrosity of man before he even managed to shave his peach fuzz without cutting. No child should have to come to such knowledge. He had dedicated his whole life trying to understand people, to save them, fix them or put them away in prisons and psych wards.
It’s clear to him. It’s time to ask for some time off work. He needs to go to Hawkins, Indiana.
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Dana Scully twirls the phone cord around her finger and looks hopeful. “Ellen, are you sure that it’s alright? I don’t want to impose.” Although she can’t see her friend, she knows that Ellen is shaking her head with amusement on the other side of the phone.
“You’re twenty-one years old. Do you really want to tell me that you want to go back to your parent’s house while you’re considering medical schools? Don’t tell me we busted our asses and took our exams early only so that you could go home. Listen Dana, I’m serious. Come to Hawkins. It’s a tiny, piece of shit town, but it’s got beautiful scenery and we’d have the house to ourselves. My parents are on their we-renewed-our-vows-because-it-was-that-or-a-divorce honeymoon. Bless them. We’d be living rent-free for five weeks. Plus, that job at the school is still open. Mr. Clarke teaches science and helps with the AV club and he’s kind of a dork, but the sweetest man and I’m sure he’d love to have you around as a TA and infect the kids with your unhealthy obsession with science.”
“My obsession with science is neither an obsession nor unhealthy,” Scully says laughingly and hears her friend snort against her ear.
“Spoken like a true Catholic.” Ellen’s voice turns serious as she continues, “Honestly, stop thinking so hard. It’ll probably be the last time we get to hang out before you get devoured by med school and I marry rich and pump out hundreds of babies and fulfill my mother’s hopes and dreams for her only daughter.”
Scully finds herself grinning at the prospect of freedom, of playing the role of her recently achieved legal adulthood before returning to life as a student. She’ll flirt with teaching and see if it’s something she wants to pursue in the future. The challenge sounds interesting. She likes kids, she loves science. This could be an opportunity.
Ellen giggles at her silence and whispers gleefully, “You’re nodding, aren’t you.”
Scully bites her lip and gives a wide, toothy smile. She is.
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Will, Mike, Lucas, and Dustin love Miss Scully fiercely approximately 36 hours after meeting her. They hadn’t been sure what to make of her at first. She was the youngest teacher they’d ever seen and she was super serious. During their first lab they‘d quickly realized that she was fucking rad. And outside of class she was even cooler. They’d seen her ride a bike and hadn’t believed she could ride without using her hands until she showed them. Only Will could manage to do that out of the four of them. He especially loved that her bike was just a little bigger than his.
Miss Scully knew how to use all of the equipment, and not just simply use it. She was a pro at it, like a mad scientist out to do good. She was impressive to look at and the boys would find themselves staring at her in awe. Plus, she didn’t talk down to them like some of the other teachers, like they were stupid or too young to understand how things worked.
She didn’t think they were weird for staying after class to talk to her and Mr. Clarke.
She knew everything about Einstein and had even rewritten his twin paradox theory for her thesis. Will, who was really into science and electricity and anything to do with relativity, would often go to school early just to sit with her while she had coffee and he would tell her about his ideas and ask her questions related to science.
Dustin had been seconds away from inviting her to play Dungeons & Dragons at Mike’s house after she told them that her younger brother Charlie had played too and she had helped join some of his campaigns. Lucas had elbowed him before he could lisp out a “Do you want to play with uth, Mith Thcully?” and embarrass them all.
Dustin’s love for Miss Scully had reached its boyish peak when he had started to explain his lisp. “I have clei-“
“Cleidocranial dysplasia,” she stopped him. “Your teeth will come in really soon. You’ll see,” she said with a smile.
The boys thought Will had arrived earlier to class to talk to Miss Scully about the previous night’s game. When she comes to them to ask if he’s sick, genuine concern on her face, they share a look with each other that isn’t lost on her. She gives them an inquisitive quirk of an eyebrow, and informs them that Mr. Clarke has a surprise for them and that they should check it out. The kids yelp and bolt out of the room, their sneakers squeaking against the floor. Scully sneaks a peek through the door and sees the three boys playing with the radio and chuckles. If before she was flirting with the idea of becoming a teacher, now she’s been doing some serious thinking. She loves these boys, their sweetness and their unrelentless thirst for knowledge.
She’s on her way to the teacher’s lounge to grab coffee when she swallows a groan. Jim Hopper is making his way down the hall, his badge catching and reflecting the bad fluorescent light, his hat practically glued on to his unwashed hair. It’s not that she doesn’t like him. He’s handsome, in an older, rugged sort of way, but far too old for her. He’s already asked her out on three different occasions, despite her politely declining the offer each time. It appears that in Hawkins, Indiana, you have to be a bitch when you turn men down or it just means you’re playing hard to get. She squares her shoulder and sighs, but stops short when she sees the man walking behind the chief.
He’s tall, lanky, and seriously handsome. His jaw is set, but somehow not severe looking. There’s an alert intelligence to him that she finds even more attractive than the swelling dip of his lower lip…although not by much. Granted her knowledge of suits is limited, she’s certain his are expensive, despite the gaudiness of his tie.
His trenchcoat flies behind him and she finds herself staring, not realising that he’s staring right back at her.
She snaps out of it when Hopper blocks her view and says “Dana, sweetheart, we’re looking for Will Byers’s friends. Do you know where we can find them?”
Scully focuses her attention on the chief, studying his tired face, the aura of old cigarette smoke and lowkey hangovers that seems to always blanket him.
“They’re with Clarke,” she answers briskly, and feels apprehension starting to pool in her stomach. “Jim, what’s going on? Where’s Will?”
“He’s missing,” says the man in the trenchcoat simply. Hopper’s annoyance at the intrusion is obvious as he introduces them.
“Dana Scully, this is Fox Mulder. He’s here, I don’t know why, but he’s here, from the Behavioural Science Department in Washington D.C.”
“I’m a profiler.” Mulder says ruefully, “I’m here to help.”
Hopper makes a lazy effort to not roll his eyes at the statement. “And this, this is Dana Scully, teacher’s aid and breaker of hearts.”
Mulder’s eyes have an impish, mischievous gleam to them when he repeats, “Breaker of hearts?”
Scully feels her face get hot, half with embarrassment and half with anger. “I guess in Indiana if you say no to dates it means you’re out and about shattering all hopes and dreams of romance.”
When she sees that Hopper is going to say something she interrupts him with pursed lips and a carefully contained smile while uttering the question on everyone’s mind.
“Fox?”
It’s Mulder’s turn to flush slightly and he shakes his head slowly. “Mulder. Even my parents call me Mulder.”
Scully juts her chin and retorts, “Well. Mulder, Jim, if you’re going to interview the boys I’m going to be there with them. They’ll need a friendly face.”
Hopper looks like he’s going to object when Mulder steps in. “I think that’s a great idea. No need to scare them. We just need to know the facts. We’ll have a better chance of knowing what’s happened if the kids don’t feel threatened. That will only incite them to lie or hide what they know.”
Chief Hopper sits on one of the chairs facing the overstuffed couch holding Lucas, Mike and Dustin. Mulder is about to sit on the other one but offers it to her first. She declines. She’d rather stand for this. She’s listening to the boys squabble about Mirkwood, and only half-listens to what Jim is saying while she studies Mulder’s profile. His nose is large, but not unattractively so, and he seems to be quietly taking in what everyone is saying. He’s listening carefully and she can practically feel the wheels turning while he’s dissecting what everyone is saying. She wonders why he doesn’t take any notes.
“This isn’t some Lord of the Rings nonsense,” Hopper states gruffly. Scully smiles despite herself when she sees Mulder mouth “The Hobbit” with Dustin. After Hopper warns the kids to stay put, he puts his hat back on and steps out, leaving her, Mulder, and the boys inside the principal’s office.
Dustin shoves Lucas again and lisps, “See? Even the guy in the thuit knew it wath The Hobbit.”
Lucas shoves him back and repeats, more slowly this time, “God, Dustin. Who. Cares?”
Mike’s face is drawn and introspective. Dana catches him looking at Mulder, who doesn’t shy away from his gaze.
“Who are you?” Mike asks and tries to hide his overwhelming curiosity by sounding authoritative.
“Yeah, where’d you come from?” demands Lucas, glaring at Mulder defensively.
Dustin scratches his hair underneath his hat and grins. “I bet he’th Mith Scully’th boyfriend.”
Mulder turns to smile at her and she feels her breath hitch. There’s something about this guy. There’s more to him than psychology and a suit. There’s something about the glint in his eye and the way his jaw clenches and unclenches while he’s thinking. She looks down at his bare forearms, his shirt sleeves rolled up, the muscle and sinew there, and swallows slowly.
“He’s not my boyfriend, Dustin. This is Mr. Mulder, a psychologist. He’s here from Washington D.C. to help find Will.”
Mulder nods gravely and looks at the three boys. Lucas frowns and grumbles, “What, you’re going to find him by asking people about their feelings?“
Mulder chuckles good-naturedly. “I’m not that kind of psychologist. I work in something called Behavioural Science,” he pauses and grins at the boys who still look confused, “You guys wanna see my ID?”
Scully shoots him a questioning glance as the boys nod their heads.
He reaches into his pocket, and flashes a badge, the bold blue letters spelling F.B.I. Four sets of eyebrows seem to shoot for the ceiling, three in delighted surprise.
Mike exclaims, “You’re F.B.I? That’s freaking awesome!” and then turns to Scully, concern seeping into his babyish face. “Miss Scully, is it OK if we go now? My mom will be waiting.”
She nods gently and informs the boys they’ve done well. Mulder notices that she’s careful not to tell them any kind of assumptions about Will and his well-being. “Be safe and see you tomorrow.” She turns to Mulder and catches him studying her face. He makes her feel naked, as if he can see past the freckles and the young face and the red hair.
“Miss Scully,” he says tentatively, dragging out the “S” sounds in his tongue as if savouring the sound of her name.
She frowns slightly and murmurs, “Don’t Miss me.”
He quickly quips, “We haven’t known each other long enough, Scully, no Miss.” He pauses and steps a little closer and Scully is awed by his lack of personal space. “Not yet, anyway. But I bet I would. Miss you.”
She feels like she’s back in middle school, his easy flirting unfamiliar and yet very, very pleasant. She tries to ignore the fluttering in her stomach which is mimicking the seemingly teenage spasming of her heart beat. Cooly, she scribbles her number on a pad and rips out the page. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, Mulder.” she says quickly and passes him the paper while avoiding his eyes, which are teasing.
She leaves the room quickly, professionally, her heels clicking down the hallway while she makes her way through the crowd of students leaving their classrooms. Mulder steps into the hallway and watches her go, her small frame blending in with the sea of people. She could pass for one of the students.
He looks down at her scribble and feels oddly triumphant.
Above her number she has written, Scully. No Miss.
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Chief Hopper is leaning against the car watching the kids get on their bicycles through slitted eyes. The cigarette in his mouth feels hot between his lips but he doesn’t feel like putting it out. His eyes narrow further when he sees Mulder walking towards him. It’s not personal. Not really. God knows he can use the help-- he’s stumped so far-- but he still thinks it strange that some government suit has come all the way from D.C. to look for a single mom’s kid. Everyone knows that in most cases it’s a relative who’s taken them.
He drops the cigarette to the dirty asphalt, grinding it out with his heel. This Mulder guy. He’s quiet but looks like he could use a drink. Or maybe it’s just him who needs a drink and he’s doing that thing that men like Mulder would say he’s doing: projecting. Who gives a shit? He closes his eyes and for a second and sees the smiling face of his little girl behind his eyelids and he quickly opens them again, pained. Mulder’s looking at him patiently, if not a little curiously.
“Alright, Samwise,” Jim says as he avoids his eye and opens the squad car, “let’s go to Mirkwood.”
Mulder looks surprised. “Given the conversation with those boys, chief, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Tolkien man.”
Hopper merely glances at him and mutters, “Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit. Same shit, different name.” They drive in silence, the sun’s cold rays breaking through the branches of the forest drawing shadows on the car’s windshield.
Mulder taps his knee, and Jim recognises the movement as one not of nervousness, but of eagerness, of excess energy. “How long have you been in the police force, Mr. Hopper?”
His fingers start drumming on his thigh as he looks out the window at the foliage, the autumn leaves shifting towards winter, more dead than yellowing.
Jim reaches for another cigarette and searches his pockets for his lighter. “Call me Jim.”
He finds the zippo and turns it on with a satisfying click of metal, the smell of freshly burnt tobacco filling up the car. “Too long,” he retorts and notices that Mulder has closed his eyes and is inhaling deeply. “Sorry man. Lost my manners today with this kid missing. Do you want one?” nodding at the pack of Marlboros on the dashboard.
Mulder smirks and replies, “That obvious, huh? I do want one, thank you, but I’m trying to quit.” He picks up the pack and holds it to his nose before returning it to the dashboard, his fingers lingering. He then reaches for his pocket and retrieves a handful of sunflower seeds. “A poor substitute that I learned from my dad. It helps though.”
Jim shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Mulder pops a seed into his mouth, eyes closed, savouring the nicotine in the air. When he opens his eyes again he watches the woods closely, ignoring it’s beauty and trying to find something that doesn’t belong.
“Stop.”
Mulder looks like he’s about to jump out of the car. “There’s something out there.”
Hopper kills the engine and walks out without bothering to close the car door after himself as he trots after the tall psychologist. He immediately notices what he had initially missed. “Good catch, Mulder. I’d bet you money that this is Will Byers’s bike.”
Mulder looks around the forest, studying it as if seeing one for the first time. “Do you think he crashed and walked away?”
“I don’t think so. Bike like this is like a Cadillac for these kids.”
Mulder nods and thinks back to the days where there would be pick-up games of baseball in the afternoons. Samantha hadn’t wanted to ride her own bike over to the game because she’d thought the boys would tease her. Her bike was pink, with a white basket and colourful streamers and Mulder knew his little sister had good instincts. She would’ve gotten creamed by the boys and the girls alike. He’d always mock -complained but had sat her on the handlebars and he’d drive them both to the lot while she sang loudly and he’d join in the chorus. The other kids in the Vineyard were always waiting, wielding their weathered baseball gloves and favourite pieces of ash in the summer sun.
He had watched E.T. at the movies three years ago and had wept violently in the darkness while Eliot rode his bicycle into the heavens with his friend in the handlebar basket.
Hopper realises that Mulder isn’t going to speak again and grabs the bike. “Aren’t you going to look for some kind of forensic evidence or something?”
Mulder touches the wheel and spins it, seemingly entranced with the spokes. “I’m just a profiler,” he says softly and walks away. Hopper follows him, stops to pick up the bike, and they return to the car.
“We should go tell Joyce.“ Hopper says, regret rasping the back of his throat.
“Is that the mother?” Mulder asks and Hopper nods grimly.
“Tell me about her,” Mulder says while drumming his fingers on his thigh again. Jim sighs and leans back on the driver seat, and attempts to narrate the sad life and times of Joyce Byers as best he knows how.
As they near the house, Mulder is overwhelmed with a strange sense of oppressiveness. Their house has something he recognises. There’s a shroud of mourning that surrounds it which reeks of surrender and despair. The air around it seems gloomier, the colours faded. He knows this house all too well. He had spent his teenage years in a similar home where pain was a palpable, living thing.
Joyce and Jonathan are outside by the time Hopper gets Will’s bike out of the car. Mulder studies them curiously. She’s a young mom, aged early by too many second and third jobs and the obvious string of bad boyfriends. She looks harried and exhausted, the grim lines at the sides of her mouth are deep from clenched jaws and cigarette smoke. Mulder sees the bitter combination of dread and hope that all mothers with missing children experience. It’s a face he grew up with.
He shifts his eyes to the boy, Will’s older brother, and his stomach plummets. The parallels are painfully obvious. Just like him, the kid’s eyes are serious, stained darker by too much responsibilty, by shouldering too much for someone his age. Mulder doesn’t have to look too hard to find the familiar slump, the tight fists. There’s guilt festering there and Mulder feels the old pang of frustration he felt in his youth that had faded but not left him. His heart goes out to the boy. No child should have to live through this.
Joyce’s voice is shrill when she asks, “Where did you find his bike? Was it just lying there? Was there blood on it?”
Hopper shakes his head and Jonathon inquires, helplessness cracking his voice, “If the bike was out there, why are you here?”
Mulder chooses this moment to step forward and hold out his arm to introduce himself. He shakes Jonathon’s hand firmly, hoping to transmit reassurance and support through his grip.
“My name is Mulder. I’m here to help find your brother. We think it’s a good idea for us to look around and see if there’s anything here that could help us locate Will.” He turns to Joyce and she can see genuine empathy there. When Mulder says, “We’re going to do everything to bring him home,” she believes him. She looks into his hooded eyes and doesn’t see pity there, but understanding. She nods, tries not to cry and moves aside to let them in.
The house greets them with the solemn, unkempt disarray of a home to boys and a mother who is seldom around. It has been cleaned and tidied with tired hands. There are ashtrays overflowing with cigarettes smoked all the way down to the filter and Mulder’s chest tightens when he sees the hand-made signs asking for Will. He had made his own once, using Samantha’s magic markers, while his parents watched him through glazed eyes, saying nothing.
Both men scan the room and look at each other pointedly when they see the dent on the wall by the door. It had been opened full force--the question was by who; if by a very frightened little boy or by someone or something else,
Once in the backyard, they walk towards the shed and both feel a sharp bite of foreboding, but neither decides to mention it. Mulder follows Hopper inside while he fumbles for the light switch, the naked bulb glaring brightly but illuminating the room with the weak futility of cheap wattage. Jim picks up an open case of bullets and starts to say something but the bulb flickers then, as if there had been a sudden surge of electricity.
The light flutters again and goes out.
Hopper grabs a flashlight from the counter and turns it on. To his surprise, Mulder has removed his own penlight from his coat pocket and they shine their lights to opposite ends of the room, their beams crossing.
“What a scout,” Hopper teases, trying to lighten the mood. Mulder’s outline grins in the semi-darkness and he raises his fingers to give the Boy Scout salute.
“Be prepared,” and then after a beat, “but if we’re being truthful, my father and I were Indian Guides.”
Despite their banter, their flashlights seem to be losing their battle against the inky night inside the shed and so does their attempt at humour in the midst of the grimness within. Mulder bends to look at a hole on the corner with a furrowed brow. He crouches, intent on getting a closer inspection and both men freeze with the overwhelming feeling of unease. Jim’s palms suddenly feel clammy and he wants to wipe them on his trousers but is too afraid to move. His heart is pounding in his ears and he stares at Mulder who has blanched noticeably.
Dread is a tangible thing. It creeps on the body like oiled fingers. Hopper doesn’t need to ask Mulder if he is feeling the same thing. He can sense the tension rolling off the agent in waves. Something is coming, he thinks and fights the urge to bolt out the door. His body tenses in fight or flight mode when another thought screams in his head: Something is here.
The door flings open and Hopper is about to take a swing, but the bulb flashes back on suddenly and he sees that Jonathon is standing there looking upset.
“You’re wasting time!” he exclaims and Hopper nods his head at the boy, grateful for the extra light streaming in through the doorway.
“We’re starting a massive search party tonight,” he informs Jonathon and turns to Mulder who looks deep in thought and still a little shaken.
Both men climb back into the patrol car and sit in uncomfortable silence, gathering themselves. Hopper lights another cigarette with slightly trembling fingers before starting the car.
Mulder looks like he wants to say something but as he opens his mouth, their eyes meet in the rearview mirror and Hopper is stone-faced, his expression adamant. Don’t. Mulder knows better than to try to spark a conversation about something that feels unexplainable with a person who doesn’t want to hear it.
He still remembers the whispers in the hallway and the notes passed around in class after Samantha was gone. Half of the school thought he was crazy. The other half thought he had killed her. The police had thought so too, for a while and Mulder liked to think that this is what lepers felt during their miserable lifetime. He might as well have chunks of skin missing from his body. Those who weren’t staring at him simply wouldn’t look at him. For years he kept “I bet you fucked her before you killed her you spooky piece of shit” tucked in his wallet. The note had been slipped into his locker his very first day back to school after her disappearance.
He was thankful that “you spooky piece of shit” had been shortened to just plain Spooky for the rest of his time in junior high school. He saved the note because once he read it, it occurred to him that his sister might actually be getting raped, wherever she was. He kept the note because the thought of this haunted him and fuelled him to keep looking. He savoured the pit in his stomach because it felt like a well-deserved punishment.
But he also kept the note as a reminder that things could always be worse, to be careful, to not make the same mistakes again. But most importantly, he kept it to be reminded that people can be wrong about the truth, and that the truth is all that matters.
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Night settled and the people of Hawkins who had volunteered for the search party are lined up side by side bordering the outskirts of the forest like front line-men prepped for battle. Wielding flashlights like weapons, Hopper watches the older folk tighten their grip on their torches, trying to brace themselves for what they might find. The college and high school students seem more festive, shining the lights into each other’s eyes, giddy with the strange adventure of looking for a boy or a body in the woods. The chief sighs, knowing that youth and lack of experience isn’t something to be recriminated. It’s not the kids’ fault that Stephen King’s Stand by Me wasn’t an epic, modern-day detective story but rather a tragic coming of age tale, where you were forced to grow up too damn quickly when faced with life’s cruelties.
Once within the forest, Mulder can hear the buzzing of people talking and occasionally calling out Will’s name. He and Hopper are walking silently and Mulder knows that the man is still thinking about that moment in the shed. His skin prickles with the memory and he snaps out of the reverie when a familiar voice calls out his name. Both Mulder and the chief turn to look at the small red-head approaching them drowning in an oversized purple-blue parka with a pink and green collar. She’s closely followed by a tall wiry man sporting a moustache that Mulder can’t help but associate with 70’s porn. He would know, he had an embarrassingly large collection at home.
Porntache nods towards Mulder and smiles. “I’m Scott Clarke, I’m Will’s science teacher and I have to say, I think it’s great that you’ve come all this way to help. Will’s a great student, really a special kid, lots of potential.” Mulder begins to introduce himself when Clarke laughs and shakes his head, “No need. Dana’s told me all about you,” and glances at Scully, who, despite the lack of light, Mulder can tell is blushing deeply. She tugs a stray strand of hair behind her ear and very carefully averts her eyes and shines her light into the blackness of the forest night.
He feels a stab of thrill and tries to suppress a smile. This is the first time in ages that he’s felt so intrigued and attracted to someone he barely knows. He thinks of Phoebe back in Oxford, his unhealthy addiction to her. Phoebe was fire, and had consumed him until his insides felt raw. He had never felt more alive than when he had been with her, but the life she breathed into him was like getting resuscitated by a starving dragon. He had finally walked away, broken, after he had seen her riding his roommate like one of the horsemen of the apocalypse. It certainly had felt like the end of the world at the time.
As Mulder looks at Scully he squints his eyes, watching her speak. Although her hair should remind him of fire, there’s something about her that is soothing, peaceful. If Phoebe was fire, then Scully is the sea. Vast and mysterious, with depths he finds himself aching to swim in. The way her tongue flicks over her upper lip when making a point pulls him like the tide, and he wonders if she’s salty like the ocean, or if she’s sweet to the taste. He tries to shake these thoughts and goes back to listening. Hopper is telling Scully that his daughter was into science, and truth be told, he’d never seen, “an honest to god woman scientist before.”
“Sarah, my daughter…galaxies and the universe and whatnot…she always understood all that stuff. I always figured there was enough going on down here, and never needed to look elsewhere,” Hopper mutters in a low voice and Mulder is surprised by the statement. He hadn’t realised the chief had a daughter, his impression of Jim and the idea of fatherhood didn’t add up. Then again, the ever-present cigarette, the boozy smell—this was the scent of Bill Mulder. His eyes widen slightly when he realises that both fathers share the same thing: the loss of a daughter.
Mulder cringes with Scully’s next question, “You have a daughter? What grade is she in? I might know her,” and her enquiry sounds painfully naive. Hopper answers in a clipped voice as he walks away from them, “She lives in the city with her mother.”
Clarke walks in silence with Mulder and Scully, clearly debating with himself. Mulder decides to put him out of his misery and asks him flat out, “She’s dead, isn’t she? Hopper’s daughter?”
He hears Scully suck her breath in quickly and hears Clarke click his tongue once and utter a monosyllabic “Yeah.”
“Oh, god,” Scully whispers more to herself than to the others and Mulder glances out of the corner of his eye to see her pinch her forehead, as if punishing herself.
Clarke speaks again, “Leukaemia, two years ago.”
“I’m such an idiot,” Scully mutters.
“You’re not,” Mulder replies soothingly. “You couldn’t have known.”
She looks up at him then, and studies his face with curiosity and respect, “But, you did,” and watches Mulder stare at his feet as if minding his footsteps. Scully nods slowly, agreeing with the appearance of a thought in her head. “It’s because you recognise it, isn’t it? It’s personal. It happened to you too?”
Mulder doesn’t speak and Clarke knowingly slows his pace, quickly falling behind the two until he’s only a weak beam of light at a distance. Scully waits patiently, listening to the crunch of twigs and leaves under their feet. Despite their size difference, she manages to keep up, his rhythm somehow matching hers.
“My sister,” he finally mumbles simply and Scully fights the overwhelming urge to hold his hand.
“What happened to her?” she asks, and quickly adds, “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t mind, Scully, but you won’t believe me,” and his certainty is pained.
“Try me,” she whispers and moves closer to him, her arm brushing his as they walk together, With a soft honesty that overwhelms him, she follows her gentle challenge with, “I want to know.”
The voices of the others fade as they walk in silence, with the only sounds of the rustle of her jacket brushing against his sleeve and the cracks and whispers of the trees. He feels a surge when her hand accidentally touches his and he blurts, “I want to trust you, Scully,”
“But?”
He shakes his head slowly, “I’m afraid you’ll think I’m crazy.”
Scully smiles and tilts her head up to meet his eyes. “What does that matter? I already think you’re a little crazy.”
Mulder quirks his eyebrows and tries to brush off the sting of offence. His mental health is still a sensitive subject. She sees the wounded expression on his face and raises her hand to stop him before he can say anything.
“Oh no! I don’t mean in a bad way. You’re just different from everyone else I’ve ever met. And I know we don’t really know each other and I could be wrong, but I think your mind is wired, I don’t know, unorthodoxly. You think outside the box, you’re quirky… I believe that’s a kind of crazy. It’s the kind of crazy that comes from being too smart for your own good.” Afraid that she’s hurt Mulder’s feelings, Scully reaches for his hand and squeezes, surprised at its warmth.
Mulder stuns himself by squeezing back and lacing his fingers with hers, the sensation of her hand against his felt ancient, familiar.
“Her name was Samantha.”
Scully is listening, head cocked, face blushing. Mulder’s grip on her hand is firm, he has no intention of letting go. But that’s not the real reason why she’s blushing. The warmth spreading from her chest to her forehead is from the knowledge that she actually doesn’t want Mulder to let go. Quite the opposite actually. That walking in the dark woods with him is alluring and exciting. The wind is starting to blow harder and the air smells of rain. She listens for the others but hears only the sound of his breathing. She chides herself for being immature and shifts her full attention to Mulder, who seems to be searching for the right words.
“My parents were next door having dinner with the neighbours and I was at home babysitting my sister.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve. Sam was eight.”
Scully tugs at his arm to indicate that he should keep going, “What happened?”
Mulder sucks in his lower lip and looks down at his feet again. He begins to explain in his gruff monotone, “We had been playing Stratego. I didn’t let her win a single time. She’d gotten sulky and wanted to stop. The TV was on, I was waiting for The Magician to go on, but Samantha said that our parents had told her she could watch a movie. I told her to shut up.”
“Mulder, what happened?” her eyes soften at his chin which is quavering like a small boy about to cry, despite the fact that his eyes are dry. “It’s ok, you can tell me.”
“She just disappeared that night. Just gone. Vanished. No note, no phone calls, no evidence of anything.”
“You never found her,” Scully whispers, a statement more than a question.
He nods. “It tore the family apart. No one would talk about it. There were no facts to confront, nothing to offer any hope.”
She feels her chest tighten at the though of something like this happening to her brothers or sister and asks, “What did you do?”
“Eventually, I went off to school in England. I came back, got recruited by the Bureau. It seems I have a natural aptitude for applying behavioural models to criminal cases.” He looks embarrassed but seems determined to continue.
“In my research, I’ve worked very closely with a man named Dr. Heitz Werber and he’s taking me through deep regression hypnosis. I’ve been able to go into my own repressed memories to the night my sister disappeared. I can recall a bright light outside and a presence in the room. I was paralysed, unable to respond to my sister’s calls for help. Listen to me Scully, this presence….it wasn’t human. It was alien. And I know that the government is protecting this information. I need to know. Nothing else matters to me. There’s classified government information I’ve been trying to access, but someone has been blocking my attempts to get it.”
“Who? I don’t understand.”
“Someone at a higher level of power. But the reason I’m here is because someone is trying to help me. They slipped a note under my door leading me to this case. There’s something that the government is hiding here.
She stares up at him and his face is as set as she knows his mind is. Science and rationalism are screaming up at her, quoting passages of the DCM IV, of schizophrenia, of defense mechanisms, of manic narcissism. Yet she does not turn away. She does not run. She locks eyes with him as he’s about to speak again when they are both blinded by a flash that stains the woods into an unworldly daylight.
Once she’s recovered from the split panic of associating the light with his story, she counts the seconds the way her father taught her and the crack of thunder is so deafening that they both jump at the sound. She finds herself having stepped closer to him so that she has to crane her neck to look at him and remembers what it’s like to tilt your face in expectation, like when you’re waiting for a kiss. The rain is pouring on both of them then, buckets of rain water that seem to ignore the canopy of leaves above them; and it seems to her, strangely, that the forest is being washed away of tragedy, that it’s just her and Mulder here and she can’t help but feel strangely alive.
When she opens her mouth to speak, she sputters as if dog-paddling in a pool. “What you’re trying to tell me then, is that you believe your sister was abducted by aliens, that there is a conspiracy to hide this information from you and from the general public, and that Will’s disappearance is connected to alien abductions hidden or even supported by our government?”
Mulder nods solemnly and she nods back at him, mirroring his action more from stunned reaction than belief. Mid-nod, she smiles close-lipped and the rain slicks her hair against her cheeks, her shoes are getting wet and she realises that she’s freezing cold and that the hand not being held by Mulder is going numb. She stares at the thick drops of water that are dripping from his beautiful nose, the small droplets on his eyelashes as he peers curiously down at her and her face turns into a toothy grin-- and before she knows it she’s laughing. She’s laughing like that time, the first and only time, she smoked pot. With utmost abandonment. With near hysterical joy. She throws her head back into the night sky and she’s brightened by another stroke of lightning. Trust God to use a flash when taking pictures of life’s most bizarre moments.
Mulder is filled with awe. He just told this red-headed woman, stranger really, one of his most intimate, painful secrets and he’s soaking wet in the middle of the forest while she’s cackling with laughter, seemingly impervious to the rain. He stares as she throws her head back and practically howls, and another flash of light turns her skin to marble, her full lips starting to turn blue with the cold. She’s closer to him now and he can count the individual droplets streaking the side of her face like impromptu tears. She looks at him then, her eyes filled with delight, as if he’s just told her the best story she’s ever heard. She tightens her grip on his hand and he’s surprised to feel a gleeful smile creep on his own face. Mulder finds himself laughing with her, their chuckles drowned with the rainwater and the unearthly rumbling of thunder. He looks at how her neck curves gracefully as she lets the pour stroke her cheeks and drip down the hollow of her throat, and suddenly he feels stupidly jealous of the rain.
He smiles ruefully down at her and mumbles, “You don’t believe me.” She looks up and on her face he can read realms of possibility there that make him want to hold his breath, or breathe even greater realms into the curve of her mouth.
“I want to believe,” she whispers and he knows she means it.
Still smiling, Scully squeezes his hand and says, “Come on. It’s freezing cold and we’re soaking wet. I live nearby,” and bolts in direction of the main road, fast little legs, he watches, fascinated. He trails after her, trenchcoat billowing despite being heavy with water and wonders why running after this woman through the middle of the woods feels so much like home.
--------------
“Will!”
“Will!”
“William!”
The bikes are abandoned and Lucas, Dustin and Mike trudge their way through the forest, their sneakers sinking into the mud sludge, soaking their socks. Mike walks slightly ahead, his forehead furrowed with worry and with the attempt to squint through the rain.
Behind him, he hears Dustin yell out, “I’ve got your X-Men 134!” He pauses, as if making a silent decision and says, more quietly this time, “Guyth, I really think we should turn back.”
Mike stiffens and pretends he doesn’t hear him. He knows Dustin is right, but he keeps thinking about Will, and how he hadn’t used up his protection spell. He was always looking out for the group, always smoothing out potential spiffs. Is, Mike corrects himself, appalled at the thought. IS.
Mike can practically hear Lucas’s jaw clenching as he admonishes Dustin roughly, “Seriously man, if you’re going to be a baby then go home now.”
Dustin has to shout to be heard over the rain pounding on them, his lisp exarcerbated from the water trickling into his mouth. “I’m just being realithtic, Lucath.”
And Mike has to agree. Dustin is being realistic. They can barely see out here and even if Will is out there somewhere, the chances of them finding him in the thick downpour is just…freaking impossible. But there’s something about the woods. He’s felt it the minute he tossed his bike on the side of the road and ran into the darkness, Lucas and Dustin following in his footsteps. He’s felt a strange pull this entire time, a tug of curiosity and compulsion and finds himself cocking his head trying to listen past his bickering friends.
There. Something.
“No! You’re just being a big sissy!” Lucas yells furiously, and Dustin dutifully ignores the insult and tries to explain.
“Don’t you realithe that Will ith mithing becauthe he ran into thomething bad? And we’re going to the exact thame thpot where he wath latht theen? And we have no weaponth or anything?”
Half of Mike’s brain is agreeing, the other half is trying to hear something that isn’t Lucas or Dustin or the rain.
“Dustin, shut up,” Mike murmurs, listening harder.
“I’m just thaying….doeth that theem thmart to you?!”
“Do you guys hear that?”
The cracking of twigs is like a gunshot and cannot be pinned to thunder. The boys twirl quickly towards the sound and their flashlights flood over the face of someone their age, hair shorn off. She squints against the blare, staring tiredly into their lights and pants heavily with the exertion of running. The boys drink in the soaking shirt, the knobby knees, the long legs and shaved head.
Dustin states what the three boys have realised at the same time: “It’th a girl.”
Lucas won’t speak, or can’t, and just stares at her and at the water dripping torrentially from her nose and ears. She can barely keep her eyes open from the downpour and she’s breathing hard. She’s clearly been running for a while and Lucas fights the impulse to back away and run in the opposite direction.
Mike is the first to react. She’s only wearing a yellow shirt from Benny’s diner which is soaked through and sticking to her body. It’s freezing out here. She’s not Will but she needs help “We need to get her somewhere warm.”
Lucas shakes his head slowly and gives the girl the up-down, suspicion darkening his face, “I bet she escaped from a mental hospital. That nuthouse in Curly County.·
Dustin gives him a sideway glance and smirks, his lips trembling slightly from the cold. “You got a lot of family there?”
“Shut up, Dustin. I bet she’s an escapee. A total psycho. She hasn’t said anything! I bet she can’t even talk. Mike, we came out here to find Will…NOT another problem.”
Mike looks at the girl in the yellow shirt and steps closer to her. She startles with his movement, like a frightened deer, but does not run. She is as curious about them as they are about her, and seems to understand that they want to help her despite their seeming inability to get out of the stupid rain. He touches her arm and is surprised to find that it is so soft, despite being soaking wet and covered with goosebumps
“We can’t leave her here,” Mike says determinedly and stares defiantly at Lucas while Dustin wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
“I think we should tell your mom,” Dustin says seriously as he inspects his hand to see if what he’s wiped is water or snot. It’s too cold to know the difference. Frankly it’s too cold to matter.
Mike twists his face with disapproval and disbelief. “Are you insane?? My mom will tell your mom, Lucas; and her mom will tell your mom, Dustin. And then all of our houses will turn to Alcatraz and we’ll never be able to get out again and find Will.”
The boys nod in agreement while they stare at the girl in silence, who is shivering quietly and only presses her lips together to keep her teeth from chattering.
Lucas glares at her groaning in frustration, “You want to adopt a freak, Mike? Fine. But where the hell are we going to take her? Who even lives around here anyway?”
Mike narrows his eyes thoughtfully and clenches his fists, his face set with decision. “I have an idea. Let’s go.”
-------------
Scully tries to look nonchalant when she hands Mulder a towel, a pair of jeans and a grey t-shirt from the master bedroom, which Ellen had insisted she take, stating: “Dana, do you really think I’d feel comfortable bringing someone home and having sex with them on my parent’s bed?”
It turns out Ellen felt even more comfortable re-connecting with her high school boyfriend and going with him to Bloomington for a romantic getaway…two weeks ago. Scully didn’t mind having the house to herself, she loved it, really. She’d sit on the porch with an afghan blanket and read while drinking tea. She loved the crisp air, the smell of autumn, she’d watch the light filter through the trees and think about what the future held for her.
Will Byers would ride his bike past and let go of the handlebars to wave at her, smiling and singing The Clash at the top of his lungs. He had taken to stopping for a while and she would welcome him to sit as he spoke of his mom and his brother, Joyce's multiple shifts and how she always got him the good coloring pencils, Jonathon's love for photography and music. Sometimes Will brought over drawings he had made for her and she recognised the tell-tale signs of a boyhood crush. He’d blush comfortably as he pointed things out from his art and she would find herself smiling tenderly down at him, at his sweetness, his inordinate loneliness.
Scully had gone to the bathroom and had stripped off her soaking clothes, feeling the air tighten her drying skin. She now stares at herself in the mirror, inspecting her freckled body, the constellations there, and fleetingly wonders what would happen if she were to enter the room to meet him like this, naked. Ready. She brushes off the thought like errant hair and reaches for her robe, tying it firmly around herself. As she opens the door to the bedroom she sees him standing against the window, the night sky illuminating his silhouette in deep shadows. She stares as he slides the shirt over his head, and Scully finds herself riveted by the the taut muscles across his shoulder blades, the dimples on his lower back.
As if he can feel her behind him, he turns and quickly smirks at the red robe clashing beautifully with her hair. She ignores him, throws him a look that says “don’t even start” and takes his wet clothes with practiced detachment to the laundry room to dry. When she returns, she sees that he is sitting on the floor, his back leaning against the wall, the grey shirt snug across his chest. She toys with the idea of sitting next to him, but decides that it’s a good idea to put some distance between them, and stretches on the bed instead, the exhaustion of today’s events suddenly hitting her. Her heart tightens when she thinks of Will, of where he might be. If he’s safe, if he’s scared. Mulder’s hands sit on his knees, fiddling with the fabric there and he looks like he’s trying to find the words to say something when she hears a faint voice outside go,
“This is your genius idea? Are you trying to get us expelled or something?”
“Shh, Lucas. Shut up. This won’t get us expelled.”
“Why are you shushing me?! Isn’t she supposed to find out we’re out here?”
“Thtop it, you’re thcaring her.”
“Well, Mike? What now? Are we gonna ring the doorbell? Just the hunky dory three of us soaking wet with the hairless freak?”
“Don’t call her that, Lucas. Just give me a minute, I’m thinking.”
“Oh my god, thith ith tho thtupid.”
Mulder locks eyes with Scully and she can tell that he has also recognised the voices. Their eyes widening, they move to stand at the same time, when a “Helloooooo. Mith Thcully! Mith Tchully, hello!” is yelped loudly up at them from outside, like a bizarre variation of a Shakespearean tragedy.
Their hips graze and still as they lean into the window and stare down. One story below them, they see four children huddled together underneath the rain, peering up at them from raincoats, faces pale from the cold…except for one who is only wearing an oversized t-shirt. Mulder stiffens and his knuckles tighten on the window frame as he sees the girl, the raw vulnerability there. Scully senses his consternation and turns to look at him.
“Oh hey look! I TOLD you guyth he wath her boyfriend.”
End Chapter 1.