Chapter Text
The first time.
She was sitting cross-legged on the motel bed when he came in, shrugging off his trench coat and tossing himself down on his back on the bed beside her with the usual utter disregard for personal space. A tired groan escaped him, and she felt a tug of sympathy which she immediately pushed away.
He was the one who had insisted on going back out to the crime scene to search further for more evidence of a supposed man-beast, based on little more than a few partial footprints in the mud, she reminded herself. If he was sore and tired after traipsing through the scrubby growth along the highway doing that, even after she had declared the likelihood of his success virtually nil, that was his own fault.
“I have my autopsy findings here,” she announced calmly. “You ready to hear them?”
“Hit me with it, doc.” He did sound tired. And he had, she noticed as she glanced down, a handful of leaf litter in his hair, as if he had brushed by multiple overhanging branches in his search. Absently, she reached out to tease a particularly large piece loose, dropping it neatly on the bedcovers beside her as she began to talk.
“There was nothing in the external visual examination…”
Her voice was measured as she continued methodically detailing her findings. No outward injuries or evidence of a crime. No gunshots, needle marks, incisions of any sort.
The file was open on her lap, but she had only completed the autopsy an hour ago, and the facts were fresh in her memory, leaving her gaze free to wander back to his hair. Her fingers followed, picking out one piece, then another. Fir needles, tiny bits of dry, bony twig, some sort of small nut. He had half the forest in there. Piece by piece she went, not missing a beat as she recited the details, the neat pile of detritus on the bed beside her growing.
“There was no sign of trauma to any of the internal organs. There was systemic cardiovascular damage and blackened lung tissue consistent with his pack-a-day smoking habit…”
She combed her fingers through his hair lightly, checking there wasn’t anything buried closer to the scalp that she’d missed.
“…and signs of steatosis in his liver, consistent with his heavy drinking…”
Another pass, this time her nails lightly grazing the scalp. Whatever product he’d used this morning had long vanished, and his hair felt soft and fluffy, gently tickling the sides of her fingers, like long grass. It was oddly satisfying, hypnotising in its own soothing way, like running your fingers back and forth along a clothing seam.
“…but no other damage to organs that might indicate cause of death.”
“So we’re waiting on the tox screen?”
“Yes, and I ran a full panel. The big question is, if it is some sort of toxin, how it was administered? I checked thoroughly for needle marks, and there was nothing indicated by the stomach contents. It could have been absorbed through the skin, but if it was, there was no resulting irritation…” She went on, thinking aloud, walking him through her thought process. He didn’t interrupt; he’d learned long ago that chances were, whatever questions he may have, his ever-methodical partner was on her way to addressing them.
Instead, there was small sigh from him. He shifted just slightly, into her hand - an action that could easily have been ascribed to him stretching out his long form on the bed – and her hand stilled as it suddenly dawned on her what she was doing. That for the last few minutes she’d been running her hand through his hair in a way that was undeniably fond and tender.
But if he’d noticed, it certainly didn’t appear to have bothered him. The opposite, in fact. The tired irritability that had been radiating from him when he’d entered the room had faded, the tension seemingly receding under her touch. The furrow in his brow had eased and as he gazed up at the ceiling she could see the gleam in his eyes that told her his mind was going a million miles an hour, filtering through their existing data and trying to assimilate her findings, looking for the patterns only he could see with a reborn enthusiasm that never ceased to amaze her.
Without a word, she resumed the gentle scratching. “I’ve asked the state crime lab to put a rush on it, so we should have results back by midday tomorrow. I’ve also asked them to run the same, more extensive tox screen on the two previous victims.”
He angled his head to look at her, eyes bright. “The other two vics were heavy drinkers too, weren’t they?”
Her fingers paused, still sunk into the depths of his hair, rested warm against the crown of his head. “Yes.” She didn’t do either of those earlier autopsies, but they had both read all the paperwork thoroughly. “It’s not statistically improbable, given their other similarities – laid off steel workers, mid to late sixties, single men – but we could look into it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow might be too late, Scully.” Suddenly, the warmth of his scalp against her hand was gone. He was on his feet, reaching for his trench coat, glancing at the time on the bedside alarm clock. “There’s only one bar in town, right? What’s the chance all three of our vics were regulars there? It’s only nine o’clock, I’m going to go see who I can talk to.”
This was the way he worked, and she was used to it after all these years; these sudden leaps, the charging out into the unknown on half a hunch. She knew this about him, pretty much expected it, just as he expected her to sigh before climbing off the bed herself and reach for her shoes.
“Give me a second, Mulder.” Not a request. “I’m coming with you.”
Shoes on, then her jacket. She turned back to straighten the bed spread out of habit and spotted the small, neat pile of detritus. Scoops it up, dropping it into the waste-paper bin under the desk, her fingertips tingling in a way she elected not to analyse. As if some part of her that hadn’t even been looking for something was still disappointed not to find it. “Okay. Let’s go.”