#carpet cleaning in san diego

[carpetcali]

Carpet Cleaning in San Diego: Choosing the Right Company

Hello, San Diego! With so many carpet cleaning options available, picking the right one can feel overwhelming. Your carpets are central to your home’s comfort and style, so you want them clean and fresh without hassle. Let’s break down what you should consider to make an informed decision for carpet cleaning in San Diego. To read more information, Click here!

[monstersteamer]

Expert Carpet Cleaning in San Diego

Transform your carpets with the best carpet cleaning in San Diego! Our skilled staff is intended to restore your carpets' natural beauty while removing dirt, allergens, and unpleasant stains. We provide the best service possible, not only cleaning your carpet but also extending its life. We offer affordable pricing and flexible scheduling.

Contact Monster Steamer Carpet Cleaning today at (619) 201-9480 or visit our website :- https://monstersteamer.net/

[lcsjanitorial]

Carpet Cleaning Services San Diego CA

[brownfamilychemdry]

San Marcos Carpet Cleaning | Carpet Cleaning San Diego

At Brown Family Chem-Dry, trust our technicians to deliver an exceptional cleaning experience. We treat your home with the utmost respect, considering your family as our own. Our services go beyond carpet, rug, and upholstery cleaning; we also offer tile and grout cleaning, hardwood floor cleaning, stain and odor removal, commercial cleaning, and more. We are your comprehensive solution for all home cleaning needs. Contact us today and discover why we are the trusted carpet cleaning company in San Marcos, Carlsbad, Oceanside, Camp Pendleton, and Vista.

[weekendmaids]

Expert House Cleaning Services in San Diego: Achieve a Dust-Free, Shiny Home Today!

Discover how our professional house cleaning services in San Diego can transform your living space into a pristine, dust-free environment. With a focus on detailed cleaning and customer satisfaction, our skilled team provides thorough, efficient services to make your home sparkle. From HEPA vacuuming to surface polishing, learn why we are the trusted choice for house cleaning in San Diego.

[coastalcleaningroup]

Originating from San Diego's luxury short-term rental sphere, Coastal Cleaning Group extends premier commercial cleaning expertise. Marrying the high standards of luxury with cost-effectiveness, we transform commercial spaces into impeccable business havens. From our roots in ultra-luxury property management, Coastal Cleaning Group also delivers top-tier residential care in San Diego. We seamlessly blend high-end service with affordability, turning homes into spotless retreats. Choose us for premium cleanliness in San Diego without the premium cost. Eco-Friendly Cleaning Facility Deep Cleaning.

Contact us: Coastal Cleaning Group (858) 682-1828 Serving San Diego and Surrounding areas https://coastalcleaninggroup.com/

[floormedics]

Floor Medics San Diego Carpet cleaning and carpet repair. Saving carpets everywhere. Bringing your carpets back to life. #carpet cleaning #floormedics#Sandiego

#carpets#carpetrepairs

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

This 1953 Muntz Jet convertible underwent a three-year custom build under previous ownership, and it was purchased by the seller in 2021. The car is powered by a fuel-injected 5.7-liter LT1 V8 engine paired with a four-speed automatic transmission and a Ford 9″ rear end, and it is finished in Apple Pearl with a white Carson-style removable top over gray snakeskin-style Naugahyde upholstery. Features include custom bodywork, an Art Morrison frame, power-assisted steering, four-wheel disc brakes, airbag suspension, Painless Performance wiring, and more modified and fabricated details. This custom-built Muntz is now offered with a copy of Rodder’s Journal magazine featuring a story on the build and a clean California title in the name of the seller’s business.

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

The steel, aluminum, and fiberglass body is mounted on an Art Morrison ladder frame that was boxed and finished in semi-gloss black, and the floor was raised 3″. The exterior was repainted in a Sherwin Williams two-stage Apple Pearl mixed by the late Stan Betz. Features include a chopped Duvall-style windshield, 1950 Chevrolet headlights, dual Appleton spotlights, 1951 Ford Victoria side windows, and a white removable Carson-style top fabricated to match the height of the chopped windshield. Additional equipment includes color-matched rear fender skirts and chrome bumpers. Wear from fitting the top is noted on the rear deck.

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

Steel wheels sourced from a 1976 Dodge measure 15″ and are mounted with Cadillac Sombrero-style covers and whitewall tires. A matching spare fitted with a BFGoodrich Silvertown tire is mounted within a rear-mounted Continental-style chrome carrier. A Mustang II front end accommodates power rack-and-pinion steering , and the car rides on an electronically-adjustable Air Ride Technologies airbag suspension system along with 2” lowered front spindles, Strange Engineering tube shocks, a rear Panhard bar, and front and rear sway bars. The seller reports that the front control arm bushings were recently replaced.

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

Braking is handled by GM G-body-sourced calipers matched with Ford Granada discs up front and Ford SVO-specification calipers and discs at the rear.

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

The cabin was customized by Jim’s Auto Trim of San Diego, California, and features Glide bucket seats and a rear bench trimmed in gray snakeskin-style Naugahyde upholstery, along with matching treatments for the dash trim, headliner, and door panels. Additional equipment includes a 1952 Lincoln steering wheel mounted to a shortened Lincoln steering column, gray cut-pile carpet, and a Pioneer stereo housed within a custom center cubby.

The engine-turned “Hollywood” instrument cluster houses Stewart Warner gauges consisting of an 8k-rpm tachometer, a 160-mph speedometer, and auxiliary readings for fuel level, battery charge, oil pressure, and water temperature. The five-digit odometer displays 25k miles, though total chassis mileage is unknown. A Lokar pedal assembly was fitted during the build.

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

The Corvette-sourced 5.7-liter LT1 V8 features a polished fuel intake manifold along with billet aluminum valve covers, and additional features include an Opti-Spark distributor, a Griffin aluminum radiator, and a wiring loom sourced from Painless Performance Wiring. A set of long-tube headers are connected to a 2.5″ exhaust system equipped with dual Dynaflow mufflers. The seller reports that the oil was recently changed.

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

Power is routed to the rear wheels via a four-speed 4L60E automatic transmission and a Ford 9″ rear end with with 3.55:1 gears and Strange Engineering 31-spline axles. Additional photos of the underside, drivetrain, and suspension components are presented in the gallery below.

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

The car was featured in issue #36 of Rodders Journal magazine

[piratefalls]

welcome back to the latest edition of biweekly fic recs! as always, mind the tags, if you can't leave a nice comment don't leave one at all, and happy reading!

masterlist.

There's No Problem That San Diego Can't Solve by @historicallysam

Alex doesn’t even bother knocking; he simply twists the knob on the door and shoves it open. His eyes narrow as the door bangs against the wall and he sees Henry on the phone. Maybe (definitely) it’s rude but his blood is fucking boiling so he doesn’t really care.

All the Ocean was Sleeping by @sparklepocalypse

The worst part about being a siren in the modern era, Henry ponders as yet another ship flies past his cove at a speed that he knows will disturb the anemone gardens below, is the yacht bros. Between the sound of their vessels’ motors and the dissonant noise the humans call music, Henry’s singing has no chance of attracting anyone’s attention.

cause you're a classic, and i'm reckless by @firenati0n

“I've, actually, uh. I've never done this before.” At this, Henry stops short, takes a second as his gaze moves up and to the left, trying to recall something. “I've seen your films. You most certainly have done intimate scenes.” Alex clears his throat. He hopes his nerves aren't completely obvious, the slight waver in his voice about to give him away. “Yeah, well. Never with a man, so. Not at this scale, anyway.” “Would it help to, er, practice?" Henry winces a little as he says it, which does not inspire confidence. But Alex is shocked nonetheless. What the fuck?

Over Land and Sea by SatinBirds

Alex and Henry come from very different worlds, and still, they manage to find each other.

Clean Slate by smc_27

“Henry.” Pez comes over, puts both hands on Henry’s cheeks and looks him dead in the eye. “You are not a sad man who’s gotten dumped. You’re in the prime of your life, and I quite desperately need you to act like it.” “The prime of my life,” Henry scoffs, more incredulous than questioning. “I’ve just gotten out of a 15 year relationship, endured a divorce, am suffering an almost impressive case of writer’s block, and your hands are like bloody icicles.” Pez grins, doesn’t take his hands away. “Explain to me how this is my prime. Please.” Pez tilts his head, and sounds entirely serious when he says, “Literally anything can happen from here.”

in bloom by stutteringpeach

Yoo, can u hook me up with some flowers?? It's the busiest day of the year for florists. Alex texts Henry with a last minute request.

here is a map (with your name for a capital) by @alasse9

That day at the Rio de Janeiro Olympics, Alex comes across the very same Prince Henry who just dismissed him having a panic attack in a bathroom. The choice Alex makes then has ripple effects neither of them could have ever expected. What's the story like, when they actually are friends all along? “So, you’re going back to England tonight, and you’ll spend the next three days pretending you two are the closest and best of friends until we can put this mess behind us.” And there are reasons he hasn’t told anybody this, good reasons, even though he’s sure June and Nora saw through him ages ago. Faced with his mom’s disappointment, though, and with the realization that the entire world apparently thinks he hates Henry and would willingly shove him into a fucking cake, he can’t stay quiet. “But we are friends,” he says, vehement and serious. “We have been for years. He’s—he’s probably my best friend, actually, along with Nora.”

thoughts of you consume by yrsonpurpose

Henry sees Alex appear on the red carpet in a blue suit that screams sex on legs and is ready to throw away all attempts at concealing their secret relationship in the name of dropping to his knees at the first available opportunity.

eyes on me by matherine

Alex’s hips buck back against Henry’s mouth the moment his tongue does more than tease, and Henry squeezes his hip in gentle consternation. But before he can say anything, Alex is already rambling. “Sorry, I’m — I’m sorry, I know you said not to move, and I’m trying, I — I’m trying to be good, I promise,” he blurts, voice shaking ever so slightly from something that certainly doesn’t sound like pleasure, resolutely refusing to turn his head so that he can meet Henry’s gaze from where he’s positioned behind him. Henry’s heart aches. “Alex — love, it’s alright. Where’s your mind?” Or: Sometimes, Alex needs a distraction. Something to take the edge off, to scrub away at the stress of the day. Some days, it works better than others. 

the evolution of intimacy by Poutini

There’s no spontaneity anymore. One might think this boring. That the novelty had worn off. The spark snuffed. Absolutely not

Want Me by OrchidScript

Henry had always been weak for a nice smile, but his was impossible to ignore. Blame it on summer heat and a fresh flush in his cheeks. Blame it on sunset painting the outdoor bar sweltering, romantic colors. Blame it on two healthy glasses of albariño thrumming in his bloodstream, or the good music floating on the air. Henry could blame it on anything liked if he thought long and hard about it, but that didn’t change much at the end. The core remained the same: he had been gone from the jump. -- Henry and Alex hook up on a vacation in Spain. Henry falls a bit deeper.

fill my lungs with sweetness by @priincebutt

Henry George Edward James Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor wakes up at 3 AM on his birthday to an empty bed. What could Alex possibly be getting up to at 3 AM the night before his birthday? The possibilities are endless.

got myself in quite a tangle by coffeecatsme

"It seems I've gotten myself in quite a tangle." "Tangle?" Henry's voice is hoarse, eyes darkened as they travel over Alex's body. They stop at his crotch, and Alex can see it even under the dim lights—Henry's growing hard too, a visible bulge pushing at his sweatpants. Alex's cock gives a desperate twitch. "Y'know, I was trying to put them around the tree," he starts, gesturing at the plain tree at the corner. It's clear he didn't even attempt to touch it. "And somehow I've managed to completely trap myself. Can't even move my hands." Henry makes a desperate noise at the back of his throat as his eyes snap up to Alex's face. Alex flashes him a suggestive grin, teeth biting down on his lip. "Seems I'm completely at your mercy."

The Forces of Chance and Coincidences by @stellarm

Bad weather leads to a late flight that leads to no one being where they wanted to be, but maybe everyone was where they needed to be.

I've never felt safer (than when I'm with you) by viciouslyqueer

Alex takes the bag and opens it slowly, careful not to rip it, and gasps quietly as he sees what’s inside. “H, you didn’t…” Strong arms wrap around his waist from behind, Henry’s chest warm against his back. “Do you like it?” Henry asks in a whisper, resting his chin on Alex’s shoulder. Alex doesn’t know what to say. Gingerly, like he might ruin it with even the smallest touch, he takes out the silky fabric and holds it up in front of them. It’s a gorgeous dress, fancy too, in a deep red color with thin straps and an open back. It’s long, almost touching the floor even as Alex holds it up and has a slit on the left side that would probably end a little above Alex’s knee.

An Amateur's Guide to Professional Gift-Giving by anincompletelist

Alex, a former-law-student-taking-some-time-off turned professional part-time gift giver, is tasked with finding a gift for the most high profile client he's ever worked with, both in and out of the world of law. It turns out finding the perfect gift for the Prince of Wales might be easier than he'd anticipated.

Love At First Bark by everwitch

“I still don’t know your name, do I?” Henry watches Alex where he’s crouched down in front of David and gently scratching David below his chin. David absolutely loves Alex. Henry can relate. “It’s David,” Henry supplies. “Cool,” Alex says. “And what’s the dog’s name?” Henry blinks at him. “... David?” “What?” Alex exclaims. He looks from David to Henry and then back at David again. “Wow, okay, that is a choice.” Henry wants to sink through the earth and never come back up again.

don't let me get drunk again by headabovethewater

Alex had never wanted to cancel plans as much as he had while watching Henry pull a pair of light wash, tight jeans over his stockinged legs and bare ass. Christ, he’s getting hard thinking about it now.

The Beginner's Guide to Floristry by clottedcreamfudge

As if there's anything romantic about it; as if it's not the most humiliating death Alex can imagine. This is why he doesn't do relationships. This is why he never will. The risk, as far as he fucking sees it, is too great. -- Hanahaki Disease is a fictional disease where the victim of unrequited or one-sided love begins to vomit or cough up the petals and flowers of a flowering plant growing in their lungs, which will eventually grow large enough to render breathing impossible.

Everything you take, you make it better. So go on, take forever by @hgejfmw-hgejhsf

It's 2024, and nobody knows they're engaged. But they will, just as soon as Alex can decide what to wear to his birthday dinner. Henry has an idea and a special gift to match.

false pretenses by rizcriz

Henry spins around, glaring at Alex. “For christs sake,” He hisses, holding a hand out between them. “Can we just not? I do not have the capacity to pretend to hate you today.” Alex splutters as Henry turns on his heel and starts to walk away. He stares after him helplessly. “Pretend?” After a beat, he starts to follow after him, “What the fuck do you mean pretend?” Three years of breathing down each others necks, fighting every time they come in contact with each other. And if Henry is saying every single thing on his end has been pretend, Alex Claremont-Diaz is going to have a fucking breakdown. Because he has been harboring this stupid fucking crush and burying it beneath false antagonism, meeting Henry where he’s at, for three years, and if Henry is implying that they’re both faking it— -- or, Alex learns better.

turn the desert to glass (you would be the one) by @taste-thewaste

Henry and Alex's domestic bliss has lead to some changes in Henry's body. Henry doesn't really mind being a little chubby, but he wonders if Alex does. Alex, it turns out, does not. Not one bit. He does not mind one bit, and he is more than eager to prove it.

coming on fast like good dreams do by cricketnationrise

When Henry recovers from his unexpected factory reset, he still can’t really breathe properly and somehow Alex is still standing in front of him with a hopeful and excited expression on his face. “Run that by me again?” he asks faintly. “I need your help.” “Right…” “I need you to edge me. Like a lot,” Alex says with a shrug. Nope, it’s not any clearer a second time around.

as always, let me know if you want to be tagged in future lists, whether you're a reader or writer!

tagging @starkfridays @stilesgivesmefeels @midnightsfp @sarahjswift @enablelove

[carpetcali]

Chimney Cleaning In San Diego

Elevate home safety with Carpet Cali's exceptional chimney cleaning in San Diego. Rely on our expert team to remove creosote and debris, ensuring a secure and efficient fireplace. Trust in quality care.

[monstersteamer]

Professional Carpet Cleaning in San Diego

Refresh and renew your living space with our premier carpet cleaning in San Diego. We specialize in restoring the vibrancy and freshness of your carpets, resulting in a clean, inviting environment. Let us restore your carpets to their original glory! Our trained team uses modern methods to revive your carpets, removing deep-seated dirt, dust, and allergies.Contact Monster Steamer Carpet Cleaning today at (619) 201-9480 or visit our website:- https://monstersteamer.net/

[brownfamilychemdry]

Carpet Cleaning in San Marcos | North San Diego County

Discover the exceptional cleaning services at Brown Family Chem-Dry of San Marcos, a locally owned and operated business run by a family of six – mom, dad, and four sons. Our goal is to extend our family values to you by providing top-notch service.

What sets us apart from other carpet cleaners is our proven hot water extraction cleaning method. Unlike traditional steam cleaning, our process delves deep into carpet fibers, eliminating stains and odors while using significantly less water. This ensures quicker drying times for your carpets and promotes healthier indoor air quality.

[weekendmaids]

Effective Odor Removal in San Diego: How Our Professional Cleaners Ensure Your Home Smells Fresh

Discover the secrets behind effective odor removal with our professional house cleaning services in San Diego. Learn how Weekend Maids tackles stubborn smells using advanced techniques and natural remedies to ensure your home remains welcoming and fresh. From identifying odor sources to employing innovative cleaning solutions, find out how our experts help maintain a pleasant indoor environment. Read Our Blog:-

[figthefruitfaeth]

written on a lonely, friendless day. nancy wheeler x-files au character study taken from s3ep15. angst ahead.

-

It’s raining when Nancy wakes up. It pitter-patters weakly against the window, barely heard under the creak of the waterlogged floorboards as she dresses.

White blouse, dark blazer, clean cut and sharp. Snappy sensible heels and curls teased high and delicate. Thin gold chain around her neck. The clasp is loose, by age, by damage—snipping at the hair on her neck, digging into sweaters and leaving holes. Barb’s. Before.

It’s raining as she pays for her coffee, as it slips down her throat and a hiss of pain whistles past her teeth. More than a drizzle, less than a storm. It doesn’t beat against her skin, doesn’t leave her soaked. It sinks into her hair, catches the heel of her sock. They’ll be frizzy and wooden respectively by lunch.

The train is quiet. Her car is only half full, other sleepy commuters unrestful in their seats. She can’t hear it this deep underground, can’t hear it over the rush of wind and grinding of steel as they all hurtle deep into the dark. All, but not together.

She can’t hear it, but she feels it. Hot, humid. The warm wet squelch of her shoe against the linoleum floor, the uneven drip down the line of her back, a pinprick of cold sinking into her skin just as quickly as it appeared. The car and its sleepy passengers all drying at once, all trying to shed water and only getting halfway. A compromise of liquidity, of body and temperature.

It’s not like home. Summers hot and clawing, winters that bite and draw blood. Virginia—DC—it’s mild. Rain which falls but does not thunder, heatwaves and snow days which creep in and pass quickly. The Goldilocks zone. That’s what she’d said, voice low over the phone, a false cheer Nancy could feel wrapped in the tangled cord even a thousand miles away. It’s supposed to be a relief. A compromise.

The office is a nagging buzz, no breaking case or celebration, just a few people milling around chatting. This might be the usual for them, she doesn’t know, doesn’t care. It’s not her department, not her floor. The only reason she’s up here is for the coffee maker. They’ve got their own, down in the basement. Old, paint chipping off at the bottom. But Robin’s been out sick since yesterday, and it doesn’t work for anybody but Robin. Not really theirs at all.

Her second coffee drips, drips into the mug. Pitters against the ceramic blue base, stains the beige countertop in dark liquid. Sputters and spits mostly tap water.

“Agent Wheeler.”

She turns around.

Owens. Standing in the doorway, one hand at his hip, the other in a pantomime of a knock. It’s a strange little thing, a tired whisper of a joke played when you don’t know someone very well or when you’re trying to keep twitchy fingers occupied.

Owens knows Nancy very well.

“Can I see you in my office?”

It’s not a question or a request, even though it tilts like one at the end. Not a demand either, despite her lack of choice in the matter. A lukewarm duty.

She nods, grabs her coffee. Freshly brewed, but barely hot enough to warm her stiff fingers. Tastes like dirt, like rain. Choking on mud.

Her heels don’t clack along the hallway, a sharp echo announcing where she’s going. Instead, they’re muffled, mixed in with the whirring of a nearby printer, lost to the jangle of Owens’ keys, and then altogether silenced in the carpet of his office.

He offers her a seat, which she doesn’t take. She’s never taken a seat in here and he knows that.

“Alright, straight to it then. A memo came across my desk last night. Thought I should call, but I figured, better to hear it in person.”

“Is this about the ship?”

Their most recent case. A salvage vessel off the coast of San Diego with big claims of dragging up a UFO and no explanation for the crew littered in radiation burns. A case, whether extraterrestrial or not, Nancy could sink her teeth into.

“No, no,” Owens shakes his head, shifts his weight to the right.

Nancy squints. He’s dragging this out, taking his time with an uncomfortable truth instead of just telling her. A misplaced care for her feelings turning whatever bad news he has for her into a pity performance.

He runs a hand through his hair, tries to lean against his desk which Nancy can tell is further away than he expected—stumbling half a step before he hits wood.

She doesn’t have time for this.

A tight smile, “I’ve got my hands full today, Owens. So if you just wanted to talk about last night’s game, then—“

“It’s about you. And, Barb.”

Barb.

A drop hits the top notch of her spine, slithers down a few inches, bleeds into her blouse.

He doesn’t say anything, he just looks at her. Looks, like it’s the last time he’ll see her. Looks, like she’s already gone and buried.

Barb.

Sudden and violent is the urge to slap him, to feel the sting of the terrible secret he’s got red against her palm. Needs him to yell, to scream, to do anything but try and coddle her. To look at her like she’s breakable. Like she’s already broken.

But her throat won’t work, tongue heavy behind teeth that won’t open. Her hands won’t move, won’t pry free from their place on her mug. Indiana State University. Barb’s blue mug.

“It’s been five months and neither the DC police team or the Bureau have found any new leads or evidence for her murder. I’ve been told—I’ve been told the case is to remain inactive until further notice.”

Inactive until further notice. A polite way to say over. A bullshit, sugar coated way to say it’s another cold case file shoved into a cabinet left to rot.

Nancy wants to laugh, wonders what would happen if the little bubbling tendril inside escaped. Would it come out right? If she could speak, tongue pushing speech past the bite of her mouth, would it sound human? Would it even make any noise at all?

She takes a sip of her coffee. It’s not hot, and the day is too warm, too wet to have it go cold just yet. When she sips, there’s no sensation, no punishment in either direction. It’s just an action, just a movement without meaning. The grit of mud between the grind of her teeth for nothing.

Her hands are trembling, she realizes, ring clinking against her cup just enough to drown out the rain tapping against the office windows.

Barb.

He sighs, scrubs at his face.

“I don’t like it either, Nancy, but I don’t think there’s anything behind this. With all the other shit this department is handling—badly, I might add—I think it’s simply just a case of not enough people for the job.”

Nancy blinks.

Nothing behind this.

As if Nancy’s placement in the X-Files wasn’t just a thinly veiled excuse to spy on Robin. As if she didn’t start getting turned away from resources and contacts because she wouldn’t outright call Robin a crackpot. As if case after case of concrete evidence of a government conspiracy going up in smoke was just coincidence.

Nothing behind this.

A fucking platitude, that’s what Owens is selling her. Does he think she needs this? That she’d be happy with half assed excuses and empty promises? That she needs her hand held? They’ve worked together for two years and somehow, she finds he doesn’t know her at all.

He’s saying something else, talking about going to Brenner’s office and talking some sense into him, getting the case back open, but she can’t hear him, not really. The world zeros down to the sharp clink against her mug, vibrating in her hands. Zeroes down to her borrowed necklace tight on her throat and dripping hair and the white hot, blind rage curling in her gut.

Barb, Barb, Barb.

“Nancy—”

She stops, half out the door unaware she’d ever started moving. Her coffee is half empty, and she’s not sure whether it’s splashed across his carpet or lying in the pit of her stomach.

“Right. Because that makes sense.”

Her voice works. Quieter than she wants. Softer than she feels.

“It makes total sense, that a man can blow up a building halfway across the country and we can still pull enough evidence to put him away for life. Right? That makes sense to you. But in the case of a woman, my—”

Friend. Pinkie promises in twin sized beds, lingering glances on double dates, and phone calls with more said in the static of a bad connection than ever in person. Nothing behind this.

“Barb. Barb, murdered in cold blood in a well-lit, reputable hotel with multiple, reliable witnesses and fingerprints clearer than the ones you get at the fucking bureau. All that, but we can’t even put together enough to keep anybody interested. That tracks, right?”

He sighs, “I don’t think this has anything to do with interest.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit!” This time she does laugh, and it’s human, and unlike anything inside herself.

“You can’t believe that, I know you don’t. Tell me you don’t.”

Tell me you haven’t left us here to rot. Tell me you have and let me crawl my way out.

Owens holds her gaze, then looks away.

That’s her answer, isn’t it? Right.

“This has everything to do with interest. Just not yours, and not mine.”

Her heels are silent against the hallway, as is the swing of the women’s restroom door, and the lock latching into place.

She slams the mug against the sink, rips the necklace from her throat and watches it clatter against porcelain.

Compromise.

The last five months spent either on a case or on her case, scrounging data reports and paper trails and eyewitness accounts. Bed and fridge empty as she spent every night calling contact after contact, dead end after dead end.

Nothing behind this.

The case that could’ve meant the end of the X-Files or the end of Them—but didn’t. Where nobody died and nothing changed for anyone of consequence.

Barb.

Her first visit to the city since the sticky, wet summer after training. The phone call Nancy had made, telling her, I want to see you. And the phone call when she finally landed, Stay. Stay in the hotel room and order room service by herself while she tried to save the X-Files, while she tried to save Robin.

Stay. And then she hung up, rushed out the door by the whirlwind nature of it all. Line gone cold, last word hanging in the static.

Nancy is never going to know what Barb might’ve said.

She lets the curling, festering thing in her gut grow, lets it eat at her, lets her body bite and bleed itself dry and full, wet and hungry until all that’s left is rage. Hot and fast, water evaporating from her body and finding nowhere to escape, clinging to the lining of her jacket, the creases of her palms. Her mouth opens, parting for a blood curdling scream, a cry of injustice and retribution, for something, for fucking anything—

Nothing comes out.

On the sink, the mug stares at her, blue and unscratched. The chain lies stuck in mud.

It’s raining. A weak pitter against the vents. It’s raining as Nancy hunches over a bathroom sink, and weeps.