Chapter Text
LANTANA, FLORIDA
“Yo, LV!”
A teenage girl, Elviira, swims in the backyard pool of her friend, her head bobbing against the surface. The water, a crystalline blue—glittering. Clear and perfect, like the day itself. Not a cloud in the sky.
“Get me a soda, please?”
Elviira opens her eyes, rolling onto her belly. Harsh, midday sun beats down on the pair as she pulls herself out of the pool, breaking the tension of the water. Her bare skin lands on the heated concrete with a loud, painful smack. The suffocating warmth of the day is clear once she leaves the pool, her limbs are heavy with an invisible force.
“I'm pruning up out here anyway. Orange or grape?” She grins, standing and making her way to the sliding door. Her sparkly pink flip-flops suction to her feet with each step.
"Orange, you already know!"
(4:03 PM. It is the last time anyone sees Elviira Martinez. Alive, that is.)
She doesn’t hesitate to pull the door open and pad into the house. Toes curling in her shoes, cold invades her every nerve, goosebumps rising in waves over her skin. The AC is blasting; Tara must’ve forgotten to turn it off before they went outside. Her stomach squeezes and gurgles, eyes darting around the room. Corner to corner, ceiling to floor.
Nothing, nobody, is there. It should console her. Her body draws up even more, hackles raised like a dog in a street fight.
She should have toweled off. The water clings to her and cools as it runs, dripping. She has made a trail on her way to her first stop: the guest bathroom, next to the front door.
Elviira does her business, legs drawn up and shivering. Then she scrubs her hands over the sink, eager to get back outside where Tara is waiting for her. Waiting for Elviira and a can of acidic tooth-rotting, burn-in-the-back-of-your-throat orange-flavored soda. Cold, straight from the fridge. Dripping with condensation.
She closes the bathroom door and makes her way into the hall. The shadows in the corners jump out at her.
Elviira lets out a sharp hiss, almost falling over in a haste to grab at her right foot.
“f*ck!”
Wedged in her flip-flop, is a small, rusty nail, the tip piercing a couple inches below her big toe. Extracting the offending piece of metal, she holds it in her hand until she can dispose of it somehow. Shifting her weight to her left leg, she limps.
Thank God for tetanus shots.
Getting to the kitchen is an easy task for her, despite the ache in her sole; it’s beside the patio door.
This is not her house, but it might as well be; Elviira knows it like the back of her hand. She slipped into every nook and cranny as a little kid, all in the name of hide-and-seek. Usually, it would be familiar and comforting. But not now.
Her foot smarts and when she lifts it up again to inspect it, blood dribbles out. Elviira curses under her breath. She needs a bandaid.
The designated junk drawer is next to the stove, she thinks. She’ll get one after getting Tara’s drink. Quick. Easy.
She pulls open the fridge, the jars and various containers in the door rattling at the impact. The nail is still clutched in her hand; its various ridges rub against her palm. Elviira bends forward, eyes squinted as she searches. As her fingers wrap around a can of orange-flavored Crush, a hand wraps around her face.
Elviira Martinez fades into the quiet dark.
FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON D.C.
3 DAYS LATER
The basem*nt is a drab place.
It is, in fact, a basem*nt, and not a top-floor office with views of the White House, you’re well aware of this. But with the way the lights flicker and the thick layers of dust in the hall, you seriously doubt that even the cleaning staff comes down here. You can’t blame them.
Two sets of heels tap against the tile as you and Scully walk beside one another (or as close as you could get in the crowded hallway) in an alternating pattern. A plastic bag hangs in the crook of your elbow, bumping into your hip with each step. Scully has her coat folded over her right arm and a manila folder in her left hand.
“You think he’s gonna want to take the case?”
Scully looks at you, her red lips curved in a slight smile. Her hair bounces above her shoulders, silky.
“After a look at the actual file, maybe. At first glance, it’s nothing he’d find too bizarre.”
“Mulder’s sense of what is bizarre is a little broken, Scully. If it’s not all about the greys and anal probes, he kind of checks out.” His fascination (or virulent obsession, depending on who you ask) with everything paranormal and extraterrestrial reminds you of a car crash: hard to watch, but you can’t look away because you have to see what happens next.
She huffs a reluctant laugh, a wispy lock of red hair brushing against her forehead. “Certainly true. At the very least, I think he’ll find it... interesting.”
“Well, it’s worth a shot.”
“That it is, agent.” Her lips quirk upward.
You hum as the two of you stop, reaching your destination at the end of the hall. Two quick knocks and you’re waiting while your stomach does the topsy-turvy. Flip flop, flip flop.
Nobody calls out from the other side. He must be busy with his unrelated, more than likely dangerous side quest of the week. Or, and this is also equally likely, he's turning off his p*rn frantically and stashing it in the not-so secret stash he keeps in his office.
The plaque on the door stares back at you as you bite your tongue.
‘Fox Mulder, Special Agent.’
Working on the X Files for the past six and a half months has been more enjoyable than you’d thought it would be going into it. You thought it’d be awkward. And it had been. Not on Scully’s part, she’s a pleasure to work with anytime and you had known her previously from the Academy. Instead, it had been the other member of your trio that had caused you some hesitancy.
Your professional relationship with Mulder was heralded with the phrase: “Great, another spy.” Charming first impression, isn't it?
You couldn’t blame him though, not with him working through the bureaucratic slog that is the X Files and being pushed around by higher-ups. Figured that he was either insane or extremely dedicated. (You have not come to a conclusion yet, but all signs point to a bit of both.) Either way, he was not entirely what you thought him to be at first: an obsessive man who tried as hard as possible to keep people away. (Again, the jury’s still out on some of that statement).
At the end of the day, Mulder’s an intelligent and well-read man, your kind of person, but, his tendency to be sharp-tongued and witty in serious, dangerous situations tends to make the former things dissipate into the air, like pixie dust.
Scully liked him well enough when you first met him, (despite her militant adherence to hard science and medicine) so you quickly figured out his personality was a bit like an infection—it has to grow on you. And possibly fester.
Doesn’t hurt that he has a nice face. Or that you may or may not foster a small infatuation with the man. But you hesitate to call it that—infatuation makes it sound like you cut off locks of his hair and glue them into your diary, while crush, something you’re too old to have at this point, makes it sounds like you write hearts around both of your names and scribble ‘Mr. and Mrs. Fox William Mulder’ in the margins of your reports to Skinner. (Neither of which you do, of course.)
A crush, or whatever you want to call it, is a simple lack of information about a person. Once you got to know him better, this little thing would be dead and gone. An ugly little speck of a memory.
Several more seconds pass before the door swings open.
Mulder’s curious face greets you, his eyes flickering between the two people standing in front of him. You could even go as far as to say he's surprised that the two of you are here. His tie is outstandingly crooked like he picked a fight with it this morning (and lost!), his collar is every which way, and his pants are still as baggy as ever. He definitely hasn't slept in a couple dozen hours, likely surviving off of a Spartan diet of sunflower seeds and suspiciously thick cups of coffee. You really don't know how he sits in here all the time, hunching over files upon files, and doesn’t pass out.
“Brought you a sandwich. Cubano. Extra pickles.” You hold up the bag, depositing it into Mulder’s hands as you and Scully enter the room. He peers into the flimsy plastic thing, delicate eyes flickering between the two of you again and the sandwich as he shuts the door behind you.
The three of you take a moment to get situated, shuffling around the room, discarding coats, and turning on the overhead lights after a moment of deliberation.
“Thank you for," Mulder trails off as he attempts to locate a clock on any of the cluttered surfaces around the room, before finally deciding on, "brunch, agent. But I can’t imagine you and Scully are here just to bring me food.”
He finally sits down in his chair, unwrapping the sandwich like a Christmas present and taking a few eager bites. You sit and watch him like one would watch a bear during feeding time at the zoo, silent. A few crumbs fall onto the desk. When he finally does speak, it’s with a full mouth.
“What'd you find?”
Scully lifts the manila folder, opening it up on the desk so both you and Mulder, whose hands are full, can see.
Yesterday, you'd spent the entire night at Scully's apartment, putting together a case and occasionally asking for your partner's opinion as she pored over a psychology book. Several glasses of wine and dinner were had, but you had managed to gather something you thought was compelling enough to present.
A picture of the latest victim presents itself: a young woman lying face down in a creek, stiff and awkward in her bathing suit.
“And there goes my appetite,” Mulder sighs, sitting the sandwich down woefully.
“Lantana, Florida. There have been a string of people found dead in bodies of water around town—six people in total and four in the last month. A girl is missing from the neighborhood the most recent victim, Gretchen Vonne, lived in. Local PD thinks she may be the seventh.” says Scully.
She replaces the first photo with another: a man in a pond, greenish-brown scum surrounding his sunburned body, darkened water around his hands.
“Not to steal Scully's shtick, but how is this an X File? Alright, it’s summer, it’s nice in Florida. Warm and sunny. What’s so remarkable about people drowning, pray tell?”
Predictable. You give Scully a knowing look, and she gives one right back. You suck your teeth. “That’s the thing, Mulder, they’re not drowning. Someone is putting them in the water.”
Scully shows the other pictures, each victim positioned in a similar form and fashion.
Arm out to the sides. Legs straight. Face down.
“The first victim’s cause of death was ruled inconclusive due to extensive decay. The other five autopsies showed death from myocardial infarction, tissue death in the heart. All were young, healthy individuals.” Scully explains as Mulder twirls a pencil, likely the next casualty in the game “How Many Pencils Can Mulder Stick in the Ceiling?”, as soon as you leave the room.
“And is there a way to induce tissue death in the heart of a young, healthy person, Scully?”
She thinks, lips quirked. “Cocaine can cause vasoconstriction and myocardial infarction in people without plaque buildup.”
“But, let me guess—none of these poor kids were skiing the proverbial slopes before they died.”
“Correct,” You answer, pointing to where Scully has opened the toxicology report, “Other than aspirin in some of their systems at the time of death, they were all clean. No drugs, no alcohol, nothing.”
“And the strangest part is,” Scully says, depositing the photos onto the desk, “every victim had pairs of holes in their palms and feet. It’s quite hard to see them in the photos.”
Mulder leans back in his chair, the pencil perched between his lips. He squints his eyes in thought, an idea percolating in that convoluted brain of his. “It’s stigmata. Like they were literally,”
“Crucified.” You interject, finding pleasure in the way he purses his lips, miffed by your interruption.
“Yes, exactly. Thank you for that, agent.”
“My pleasure, Mulder.”
