Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The projector lights up the dark office with a soft, whirring hum. Mulder is staring at me expectantly, half smiling, the clicker gripped in one hand. In the projector light, the ends of his hair are tinged white, like an aura. The shadow of his glasses casts strange, undulating forms across his face. He looks good like this. Spooky.

“Are you ready for this, Scully?” he asks.

What he could possibly show me, at this point in our relationship, that I wouldn’t be ready for, I do not know. I cross my arms and do my best not to betray any amusement at his theatrics. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Ready for what, Mulder?”

“Scully,” he says, adopting a serious tone, “what I’m about to show you may be our most disturbing case yet. This is the kind of thing you can’t unsee. I just want to make sure you’re prepared.”

“Mulder, how many dead bodies have I cut open since we started working together? I’ve seen far worse than you.”

Mulder shrugs and raises his hands defensively. “Okay, Scully,” he says. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Click. The first slide appears on the projector screen. It’s a photo of a high school football team. An old photo, judging by the team’s haircuts and the faded tone of their purple uniforms.

“When was this taken?” I ask.

“Oh, about 1976,” Mulder says.

I squint at one of the boys in the front row – brown hair, shaggy bowl cut, frowning. He looks like he wants to crawl out of his uniform.

“Mulder, is that you?”

“Go Vineyarders,” he says, with a muted fist pump.

“You played football?”

Mulder laughs. “Only in the most technical sense. I was a benchwarmer. I only tried out because I had a crush on this redheaded cheerleader – Maureen Macnamara. She got a boyfriend halfway through the season, so I quit.”

“You give up easy,” I say.

Mulder smiles wryly. “At some point, I realized her opinion of me wasn’t likely to improve after she saw me on the field.” He stares at me for a moment longer, clearly enjoying my disbelief. “I think I looked pretty good in purple, though. Don’t you, Scully?”

I just clear my throat. Mulder rolls his eyes.

Click. The next slide loads. It’s a crime scene photo. Nighttime, in the woods somewhere. A teenage boy in a football uniform is splayed out on the ground, face down. Dead.

“This is Pete Keller,” Mulder says. His voice is quieter now. “Varsity quarterback at Laurelwood Regional High in Laurel, Pennsylvania, about thirty miles south of Allentown. He was seventeen years old.” He looks at the slide, then back at me. “You notice anything?”

I study the photograph, taking in the remoteness of the forest, the thick green carpet of ferns, the unnatural angles of Pete Keller’s limp white limbs.

“His arms,” I say. “They’re both broken.”

“I noticed that too,” Mulder says. “What do you make of it?”

“It looks like he fell and tried to catch himself,” I say. “But he must have hit his head on the way down. I would say the cause of death is blunt trauma.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Mulder says.

Click. Another photo. An overhead shot of Pete Keller’s body on an autopsy table.

“Look at the scrapes on his knees and shins,” Mulder says. “And on the underside of his forearms. He didn’t just fall – he fell with velocity. He was running from someone.”

I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at this. “Mulder, that’s a bit of a stretch,” I say. “I’ll agree that it looks like he was running when he fell, but to say he was running from ‘someone’ – that’s pure conjecture.”

“Isn’t all of this conjecture? Scully, this kid was a varsity athlete. Football is all about balance, control, footwork. I find it hard to believe that a kid with that kind of athletic ability could be felled by something as ordinary as a loose rock, even if he was running in the dark. Unless he was scared.”

“Even if he was scared, if he was running from someone – I fail to see how this is an X-File, or even a criminal case.”

Mulder doesn’t say anything for a minute. He lets me marinate in my own skepticism just long enough that I begin to question myself. I’m so sure – I’m always so sure – but I can tell from his slight smirk that I don’t have the whole story yet.

“Here’s what makes it a criminal case,” Mulder says. Click. Another boy in a football uniform, face down in the woods, dead. “Curtis McElroy. Varsity wide receiver, Laurelwood High. Both arms – broken.” Click. A third boy. “Steve Cutter. Varsity running back, Laurelwood High. Both arms – broken. The three star players on Laurelwood’s football team, all found dead, with the same injuries, in the same stretch of woods – all in the last month, since the school year began.”

Mulder lets the projector linger on the image of the third boy’s mangled body. Poor Steve Cutter. He looks more like a kid than the other two, with knobby knees and elbows and big hands and feet, like a puppy.

“And here’s what makes it an X-File,” Mulder continues. “All three boys were autopsied at the Laurel County Morgue. Blunt force trauma was determined to be the cause of death in all three cases, just like you said. But the county won’t release the autopsy reports – not even to the FBI. They insist that there’s no indication of foul play and that the FBI is overreaching its authority, given that the case doesn’t cross state lines. They’re chalking this up to hazing. They want it to go away – quietly. And that tells me that there’s something they don’t want us to see.”

Mulder flicks the switch on the projector. The light dies. Another flick and the fluorescents on the ceiling hum to life. I’m still leaning against Mulder’s desk, arms crossed, chewing on the inside of my cheek. Mulder tosses the clicker aside and returns to his desk chair. I turn around and sit across from him.

“You have to agree that something strange is going on here,” he says. “The circumstances surrounding these deaths are not normal.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re paranormal,” I counter.

Mulder shrugs. “Maybe not. But these boys deserve justice, and their families deserve the truth.”

The truth. Truth is Mulder’s religion – the one thing he really believes in. But I often feel it means something different to him than it does to me. The truth is that these boys are dead, and nothing can change that. Their bodies have already been cut open, taken apart, stitched back together. Their families are already grieving. Mulder sees truth as an antidote to pain. I don’t. Sometimes the truth is worse than anything you could possibly imagine. Maybe these families are better off believing their sons were killed in a series of tragic accidents. Anything Mulder and I find is certain to be worse than that.

Still, it’s hard to resist that glint in Mulder’s eye.

“If we can’t access the bodies or the autopsy reports, how are we supposed to prove anything?” I ask.

“Through good old-fashioned sleuthing,” Mulder says. “A high school student body is like an organism. All the different parts are working together, affecting each other, even if they’re not consciously aware of it. The FBI has arranged for Jack and Diane Lamont, Laurelwood High’s married English and biology teachers, to take a two-week vacation to Bermuda. A second honeymoon, they’re calling it. You and I – or rather, Mr. Hawthorne and Ms. Franklin – will fill in in their absence. Jack Lamont also happens to be the coach of the high school football team.”

Mulder leans back in his chair, mischief dancing across his face. “You did cheer in high school, right, Scully?”

“Ha, ha,” I say. Mulder knows as well as anyone that I spent most of high school with my eye glued to a microscope.

Mulder feigns surprise. “You didn’t?” he asks. “Well, you’d better learn fast – Ms. Franklin is filling in as the coach of the cheerleading team.” He barely suppresses a smirk, delighting in my visible discomfort.

“Rah, rah, rah, Scully,” he says with a grin.

Chapter Text

We’re on Route 301, heading north to Philadelphia, in yet another FBI-issued anonymous rental car. I couldn’t even tell you the make and model of this one. I used to be more sensitive to the differences – pissed off when it was a Ford and over the moon when it was anything else – but now they all blend together, united in their boringness. It astounds me that this is a type of car seemingly every auto manufacturer has invested in: the boring car. Gray plastic interior, no acceleration, handles like a lunchbox on square wheels. Still, a part of me feels a perverse affection for them. I’ve had a lot of memorable moments in these unmemorable cars. And there’s something about their dinginess that makes Scully stand out in stark relief. She seems most vivid to me on these long drives to unremarkable places. Then again, maybe that has nothing to do with the car. Maybe it’s just the proximity.

Scully’s been unusually quiet this ride. My attempts to draw her attention through my eclectic music choices and excessive sunflower seed consumption have so far been unsuccessful. She’s thinking about something – very hard. I’m thinking about how, on this highway, we could be mistaken for a pair of leaf-peeping tourists on our way to a bed and breakfast. I’m thinking about how the orange trees flashing past us look like hundreds of Scullys. I’ve been having a lot of these thoughts lately. It’s like my mind has been taken over by a virus. It’s a familiar affliction – I contracted it for the first time when Maureen Macnamara walked into my sophomore year biology class. This case couldn’t have arrived at a more fortuitous moment. Lately, I feel fifteen again.

I glance over at Scully. It’s strange to see her like this, wearing jeans and an old University of Maryland sweatshirt instead of her standard G-woman power suit. Her hair is pulled back, and her face somehow looks both vulnerable and defiant. I feel like I’m seeing through to a past version of her, before college and med school and Quantico. This is the Scully who spent hours roaming the woods with her brothers, the Scully who argued passionately over the dinner table, maybe even the Scully who might have mouthed off at school. I bet people were scared of her back then – scared of her intelligence and her fierce sense of self. I can relate.

“Want to take a break, Scully?” I ask. “There’s a rest stop in a couple miles. We could pull over, stretch our legs.”

Scully’s brow creases as though I’ve insulted her gravely. “What?” She sounds a little dazed but quickly collects herself. “No, I’m fine. It’s barely a three-hour drive, Mulder.”

“Okay,” I shrug. “What’s on your mind, Scully? Don’t you like bebop?” We’ve been listening to the same jazz song for about forty-five minutes now. Or if it’s not the same song, it’s impossible to tell where one tune ends and another begins.

Scully sighs. “This may come as a shock to you, Mulder, but I did not enjoy high school. I’m not exactly looking forward to being back in that environment, even as a ‘teacher.’”

I laugh. “This may come as a shock to you, Scully, but high school wasn’t my peak either. Most people weren’t familiar with me from my brief stint as the backup quarterback’s backup. I was the kid who said his sister was abducted by aliens.”

Scully finally smiles. The next question leaves my mouth before I can stop it. “Do you think we would have been friends in high school?” I ask. It’s a stupid question, but I still can’t bear the vulnerability of waiting for her response, so I quickly answer myself. “Probably not,” I say. “I was kind of a nervous wreck until I got to college.” I was also deeply insecure and intimidated by anyone who seemed like they knew more about life than I did. I’m certain Scully would have fallen into that category.

“I didn’t have a lot of friends in high school,” Scully says.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Too busy studying,” she says.

“Not all eggheads are lone wolves,” I counter. “Hence the existence of the chess club.”

Scully rolls her eyes. “I don’t know why, Mulder. I just know I always seemed to be on the periphery.” She laughs quietly, as if realizing something. “It’s funny,” she says, “even as a kid, I was obsessed with learning everything I could about the world through science. Science, I understood. But I never understood the way other kids behaved. What they talked about, cared about, fought about. I still don’t understand.”

I look over at her with a smile of my own and deliver the punchline she so elegantly set me up for. “Some things just defy explanation, Scully,” I say. “Take it from my degree in psychology – teenagers definitely fall into that category.”

The next morning, I’m reminded of my own least favorite part of high school – waking up. When I arrive at the school, five minutes late and stifling a yawn, Scully is already waiting for me at the front entrance. To preserve our cover, we aren’t staying at the same place – Scully’s being put up in a house across the street from the school, and I’m in an apartment about ten minutes away. As far as the students and faculty are concerned, we’re just two substitute teachers who barely know each other.

Scully hands me a cup of coffee by way of greeting. She appraises my outfit with a skeptical eyebrow. “When’s your tee time?” she asks dryly.

I look down at my argyle sweater vest, then back at her. “This is how Mr. Hawthorne dresses,” I say.

“I see,” she says. “Does Mr. Hawthorne always refer to himself in the third person?”

“He prefers to. He finds it to be more… literary.” I tug at my vest with my free hand. “Feel it, Scully,” I say. “It’s angora – rabbit fur.”

“I’m not feeling your sweater, Mulder.”

“Come on,” I insist. “It’s really soft.”

But she’s already turning away from me, and I watch as a gust of conditioned air ruffles her hair as we step into Laurelwood Regional High School, a strange world all its own.

We’re greeted almost immediately by Principal Myers, a large and mustachioed man in a disastrously ill-fitting suit. He looks like a former linebacker himself – his broad shoulders strain the sleeves of his jacket so tightly that you can almost hear the stitches screaming. He offers us each a clammy handshake.

“Mr. Hawthorne. Mrs. Franklin.”

“Ms. Franklin,” Scully corrects him.

The principal only grunts in response. He waves for us to follow him. As we wind through the silent halls – students aren’t due for another thirty minutes – Scully and I exchange a glance. Every corridor is draped in bright red banners that read: LET’S GO HELLBENDERS! And below the battle cry, dressed in their red and white armor, are three familiar faces: Pete Keller, Curtis McElroy, and Steve Cutter. Looking at them now, I feel a strange sense of unease. In their autopsy photos, they look innocent, childlike. Here, with their fierce grins and an artificial gleam in their eyes, they seem almost sinister.

“It’s a shame what happened to those boys,” Scully says, as conversationally as she can.

“A damn shame,” says Myers. “Last year we won at state. Doubt we’ll even make regionals now.”

I can see Scully struggling to keep her poker face. “Hellbenders,” I say. “That’s an unusual name.”

“It’s the state salamander,” Myers says, with a dismissive wave. “Not my idea.” Then he stops so abruptly that Scully and I nearly run into him. “Mrs. Franklin, this is you – room 403. Mr. Hawthorne, you’re just down the hall, room 509.” He reaches into his pants pocket and produces two small keys, then hands one to each of us. “Teacher’s lounge,” he says. “Good luck to you both.”

He turns to leave us, but Scully calls after him. “Principal Myers?”

He looks back at her reluctantly. “Yes?”

Scully steps toward him again, lowering her voice. “Principal Myers,” she says, “I understand your students must be going through a difficult time. Are there any practices I should implement in my classroom? Any services I should be aware of?”

Myers smooths his mustache. “Our students will be just fine, Mrs. Franklin,” he says. “So long as you don’t talk about it.”

He wastes no time in leaving us now. When I can no longer hear the thunderous click of his cowboy boots on the linoleum, I turn to Scully.

“Nice guy,” I say. “Warm.”

Scully lets out a short, frustrated sigh. “It’s unbelievable, leaving these banners up,” she says. “It’s bad enough that these kids have to grieve three of their classmates, without having to look at their faces all day long.”

“I guess football’s a pretty big deal here,” I say. Scully scoffs. “What were you going to say to him?” I ask. “When he said that thing about regionals?”

“You don’t want to know.”

I lean suggestively against the door frame of Scully’s classroom. “Tell me in the teacher’s lounge later?”

Scully moves in closer. She looks up at me and whispers––

“Get lost, Mr. Hawthorne.”

She closes the door in my face.