#spectography | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leiascully · 6 years ago

Text

Fic: Home Again (Part 5/5)

Timeline: Season 10 (replaces Home Again in its original order in the All The Choices We’ve Made ‘verse - Visitor + Resident + etc.) Rating: PG Characters: Mulder, Scully, Bill Scully, the Trashman (established MSR) Content warning: canon-typical body horror (dismemberment) A/N: This story is an alternate Home Again that cleaves fairly close to the original but reflects M&S’ growth/change in the ATCWM ‘verse and makes reference to past cases. I’m weaving canon dialogue into the stories in an attempt to keep the reframing plausibly in line with canon.

Here’s the end of it, and here’s the link to all of it on AO3:

She spends the entire drive to Philadelphia staring out the window as tears roll down her cheeks. She isn't even actively crying, just leaking. Lachrymose. Lagrimosa. If she were a statue, it would be a miracle. She wishes she were a statue.

At the lab, Mulder introduces her to the lab techs. She smiles politely, eyes dry at last, but she can't remember their names, even when she looks at their nametags. She has one hand in her pocket, worrying the coin necklace like a talisman, and her phone in the other hand, waiting for Bill to call. Their mother may be dead, but her life isn't over. There will be loose ends to tie up, certificates to file, legal documents to be read and analyzed. Her body was, in some ways, the least significant part of her existence, until it failed. It's a lesson Scully has learned over and over as a forensic pathologist.

"I broke down the paint samples you chipped away from the Trashman's signature," says one of the scientists, gesturing at an expensive-looking machine. "I used vibrational spectography to analyze it. It defines binders, pigments, and additives that are in spray paint. The binder present in this breakdown was patented by a brand called Cannonz - that's with a z - and used only in their high-end spray paints."

Scully Googles it. Cannonz with a z makes a lot of spray paint, but when she puts in Philadelphia, the results narrow. "Product locator indicates there's only one store in Central Philadelphia that carries it," she announces.

"Then it's time for a visit," Mulder says, and they're off. The forward motion feels good. It feels productive. When she's still, her insides churn and her mind slips inevitably back to the hospital.

"You want to stake out the store?" Mulder asks.

She opens her mouth to say yes, please, let me work, but then reconsiders. The few times she's been in a hardware store, she's been too noticeable. Men assume she doesn't know what she wants, or that she's a DIY blogger, or that one way or another, she needs their attention. It'll be better if Mulder does it and she stays in the car.

"No," she says. "It's a little conspicuous. Better if I drive."

"Okay," he says.

+ + + +

Mulder lurks in the hardware store, pretending to look at sandpaper and paint. It's easy and absorbing to flip through the paint chips. Maybe they should redo the bedroom. He hasn't, since she moved back in. Maybe it's time for a new look to go with the reboot of their old life. Something to signify that the times have really changed. They've never really lived anywhere that had color on the walls.

He knows she's right and she would be conspicuous. A beautiful woman in a suit in a hardware store is unlikely to be an everyday occurrence, especially one who occasionally weeps in an understated and elegant way that breaks hearts. As far as he's concerned, she's always the center of attention.

Movement catches his eye. There's a young man by the spray paint. He knocks cans of Cannonz Premium into his basket: black, light grey, dark grey, white. There's no hesitation in his movement. Mulder follows him, walking casually with his fistful of paint chips, moving toward the front of the store. The kid looks back over his shoulder. Mulder detours down another aisle, glancing at a display of fans. When he catches up again, the kid has ditched his basket of paint and is headed for the front door. Mulder trails him. He follows the kid out the front door at a reasonable difference. Scully's in the car. Her head is bent, looking at something she's holding, probably the necklace her mother will never get a chance to explain. He whistles, wishing he didn't have to, and her head snaps up. She shifts out of park and follows him.

Mulder runs, wishing he wasn't wearing dress shoes. Scully catches up to him and pulls over a hundred feet away. He flings open the door and climbs into the passenger's seat.

"That way," he says, panting. They run the kid to ground at a warehouse in a fenced-off wooded lot. Mulder jumps out of the car and regrets it as his knee twinges. Some parts of them are getting too old for this. But he glimpses the kid and takes off in pursuit, Scully close behind him. They clamber through a hole in the chain-link fence. The kid stops to unlock a door. He's polite for a vandal and potential murderer.

"Federal agents!" Mulder calls, just as the kid gets the door open and vanishes through it. Mulder shares a look with Scully and they go in. It's dim inside the warehouse, like most of the warehouses he's been in, but his reflexes are still sharp and he reaches for his weapon almost without thinking as he sees the kid draw a gun. Scully has the kid in a headlock almost before either of them can react. He wonders if she took up jujitsu in the time they were apart. She's impressive. Then again, she always was. She hands him the kid's gun and cuffs the kid.

"We're looking for the Trashman," Mulder says.

The kid sighs. "Why would I know where he is?"

"You had the paint," Mulder tells him.

"Is it a crime to buy paint?" the kid snarks.

"No, but it's a crime to deface other people's property," Scully says.

"With the same paint the Trashman uses," Mulder points out.

"Why are you looking for him?" the kid asks.

"We believe he may be a key witness in a murder case," Scully says, looking at Mulder.

"There might be compensation in it for the person who could help us find him," Mulder says.

"Lead with that next time," the kid grumbles. "You want the Trashman? Take the cuffs off and I'll take you to him."

"How do we know we can trust you?" Scully asks.

"You're the ones with the guns," the kid says.

She raises her eyebrow at Mulder. He shrugs. They've had this discussion more times than he can count. It hasn't needed to be verbalized for decades. The potential reward outweighs the risk. He's pretty sure Scully could throw this kid. She uncuffs him and the kid rubs his wrist.

"We kept our end," Mulder says.

"Right this way," the kid says, like a sarcastic maitre d'. He leads them through the warehouse to another door that he unlocks with his jingling ring of keys. There are stairs dimly visible beyond it. The kid points down to them. Mulder pulls out his phone and turns on the flashlight. He should have brought a real one. There were years when he never went anywhere without a flashlight. The one on his phone is brighter, but harder to balance across his gun. Twenty-first century skills.

"I'm just letting you know," the kid says, "from here on down, there's no light. Power's out."

"Crime doesn't pay the bills," Mulder jokes. The kid pretends to laugh. The three of them start to ease down the stairs. It's dark, but the stairs seem to be in good condition, and they're even. The light from their phones casts dizzying shadows around their feet, but that's something Mulder can deal with. He spent decades in the shadows. When they're what must be most of the way down, the kid shoves them suddenly into the wall and pelts back up the stairs. Mulder sighs. Scully shoots him a sideways glare.

"What?" he says. "I wasn't going to shoot him. He's a kid and it's dark. You want to do the stairs, be my guest. I'm too old for that shit."

She rolls her eyes. "Mulder, back in the day, I used to do stairs in three-inch heels."

He glances at her feet and shines his phone at them. "'Back in the day', huh. Three inches not enough for you anymore?"

She rolls her eyes again.

"Go for it, G-Woman," he tells her.

"I'm not leaving you alone in the dark," she says.

"By all means, ladies first," he tells her, making a sweeping gesture. She comes down the last few stairs and steps onto the warehouse basement floor. They make their halting way across it, but the floor is mostly clear. It's the dark that's the danger. The light washes it away, but it flows back around them as they move. Mulder's shoulders tense. There's something down here, or someone; he knows it with a certainty he can't shake. His nerves twang. Suddenly, there's a flicker of white at the edge of their pool of light. It freezes as the light touches it, and then flees, straight into a wall. It hits with a thud and falls to the ground. They run to catch up, but it's gone. There's only a pale puddle, a muddle of cloth. He nudges it with the toe of his shoe. It leaves a smudge.

"What the hell?" Scully says.

Mulder shrugs, already proceeding. At the end of the corridor, there's a locked metal door. Mulder locks eyes with Scully and then bangs on the door with his fist, hoping his phone won't fly out. "Federal agents! Open up! If you're in danger, we're here to help."

"I am in danger," say a voice inside. It's a baritone, slightly raspy. "Go away."

Mulder glances at Scully. She nods. He kicks open the door, creaky knees be damned. He's just lucky this one opens in. He's made the mistake before of trying to kick in a door that opened out. They burst into the room like they're on a movie set. There's a statue in the middle, human-sized, of a human-shaped figure with a trash bag shirt and a Band-Aid on its nose. Mulder gets chills down his spine, remembering other statues with other faces inside them, wet clay plastered slashed-open faces, a muse like a demon that drove an old mentor to murder. He takes a step toward the statue.

"Put the guns down!" says the voice. "They don't work on them! Put them away! They don't work. I've tried. I've tried to shoot them."

Behind the statue, there's a man. He's hiding behind a shopping cart full of spray paint cans. The shadows stripe his face, cutting him into checkers. They aim at him, guns and lights trained toward him.

"You the Trashman?" Mulder asks.

"Turn down the light, man," the Trashman says. "Turn down the light. If they don't see me and I don't see them, they can't hurt me."

"What's the opposite of hiding in the light?" Scully murmurs. She points her light toward the floor but holds her weapon steady. Mulder turns his flashlight off.

"Thanks, man," the Trashman says. "Hold on, I've got a candle. Candles aren't enough to attract them."

He straightens up from behind the cart, pulling himself up on the wire frame, and shuffles over toward a workbench. He strikes a match and lights three little candles. Scully reluctantly turns off her light, but she doesn't holster her weapon.

"We can place you near the scene of two different murders," Mulder says. "Why don't you explain that to us."

"The people on the streets - the homeless people, the street people - they ain't got no voice, right?" the Trashman says, leaning against the workbench. "They get treated like trash. I mean, actual trash. It's like this. You throw your grande cup or your Coke bottle in the right trash can under the sink - if it's recyclable, if it's not - you tie it in a bag, you take it outside, you put it in the right dumpster. You feel good about yourself. You saved the world, a little bit. Kept global warming at bay, spared a sea turtle or two. Garbage truck comes to take the trash away. One way or another, it's not your problem. Just like magic. But it is your problem, because it piles up in a landfill, or it gets floated out to sea on a barge, or it gets incinerated, and now there's toxins in the water and in the land and in the sky. But you don't see the problem, so there is no problem."

"Is someone incinerating the homeless population?" Scully asks.

"It's a metaphor," the Trashman says. "People treat people like trash, like if they can just sweep them somewhere else, there's no problem. They don't fix the problem. They just try to eliminate the symptoms."

"So you fixed the problem?" Mulder asks.

"I did my part," the Trashman says, some kind of pride in his voice.

"By killing Joseph Cutler and Nancy Huff?" Mulder asks.

"There were two art thieves too," the Trashman says. "The ones who stole the billboard. They've been taking my work for months, selling it to the people who cause the problem. That's why I switched to brick. Can't steal brick." He pushes a hand through his hair. "I was just trying to give those people a voice the only way I know how. Through art, not violence. I wanted something I could put around town so they wouldn't be forgotten. A stencil that looked over the Bad Suit Building Man, the Lawn Gnome Suburban Lady. A reminder for them. A stop sign."

"Why'd you put up the art after the fact?" Mulder demands. "We've got footage that shows that the graffiti on the billboard wasn't painted until the morning of Cutler's murder."

"I didn't do it," the Trashman protests. "That wasn't me. I made the stencil, but I didn't paint the billboard. I only thought him up, you know? Those people who got killed - that was him. Only him."

"Who, exactly, is him?" Scully asks.

"You saw those things in the hall," the Trashman says. "I heard you."

"Yeah," Mulder allows.

"I made them," the Trashman says. "I didn't mean to, but I made 'em. They'll go away, eventually. They're kind of fading out, the less I think about it. But the Band-Aid Nose Man...he's different. He's got a life of his own."

Mulder turns to look at the statue. It doesn't move.

"Tibetan Buddhists would call him a Tulpa," the Trashman continues. "A thought form using mind and energy to will a consciousness into existence."

Mulder glances at Scully. Motor oil and coffee grounds, he thinks, red footprints staining the plush white carpet in a perfect suburban McMansion. "Tulpa is a 1929 Theosophist mistranslation of the Tibetan world 'tulku', meaning 'a manifestation body'," he says. "There is no idea in Tibetan Buddhism of a thought form or thought as form. And a realized tulku would never harm anyone. That's antithetical to the Buddhist tradition."

"A thought form made of trash seems unlikely at best," Scully murmurs, and Mulder knows that she remembers it too.

"Okay," the Trashman says. "But Buddhist or philosophist or whatever, I'm telling you, I spend a lot of energy on my art. I meditated on it. I put all my energy into the Band-Aid Nose Man, and somehow, I willed it to become what the street people needed. Someone who didn't see them as trash. Someone willing to deal with the problem."

"That's a powerful wish," Scully says.

"I thought about what I wanted him to look like, what I wanted him to be, and why I wanted him," the Trashman says, shuffling through a pile of papers. He holds up a sketch of the Band-Aid Nose Man, beaming like a proud parent, and Mulder feels a pang in his heart. He remembers Maggie holding up a photo of William like that. Their son, no less a miracle, no less a thought made form. They wished devoutly for him, prayed for him, and he was made flesh.

"I didn't bring him here," the Trashman says. "He came to me. I didn't expect him, but he told me what he wanted to be. What he wanted to do. All we do is hold the pencil, or the clay, or the words, or whatever the medium. I think there must be spirits and souls floating all around us. And if you think real hard or you want them so, so bad that you can't think of anything else...they come to you. They pass through you on their way to existence. And then they become alive with a life of their own."

Scully's breath hitches like a hiccup and Mulder knows she's thinking of William and of her parents, of the spirit she saw when her father died and of the way her mother slipped away.

"This is what came to me in my dreams," the Trashman says earnestly. "From some other place I can't fathom. It's more powerful than I even imagined. But now it's alive and it's out there, right down to the Band-Aid I used to hold the clay in place while it dried. Who would copy this? Who could? And did you smell it? It smells like nothing on this earth. It has its own life now. Does what it wants. Goes where it wants. I just wanted to scare anyone who took dignity away from the homeless, who treated them like trash. I just wanted them to know that fear. That's where the violent idea popped into my head. It was just an emotion, just a notion that went through my head while I was making it. They treat people like trash, so they should know what it feels like. But ideas are dangerous. Even small ones. It uses that violent thought now. It thinks that's what it's supposed to do. Put them in the trash."

Scully looks mesmerized. She shakes her head. "You are responsible," she says. "If you made the problem, if it was your idea...you're responsible for whatever destruction it causes. You put it out of sight, so that it wouldn't be your problem. But you're just as bad as the people you hate."

Mulder doesn't think the Trashman can hear the ache in her voice. He wants to tell her that their son was never a problem. But it isn't the moment, and he wasn't there. She's told him of the moving mobile, of the powers their son might have shown, of the danger inherent in those abilities. He can't believe that Scully's child would have used those powers to destroy or to harm, but he could believe it of his child. Maybe they called to the universe and a spirit answered, and they just didn't have the time to understand its purposes. Benign or malign, William is out of their life, but Mulder isn't sure if that kind of connection can ever be broken. He kept looking for Samantha. Maggie asked for Charlie. The act of creation is powerful. Maybe that tie can't be severed.

"If what you believe is possible," he says, returning to the Trashman, "the last person involved in the relocation would be Landry."

"He got the injunction lifted," the Trashman says. "He was bragging about it in front of the HUD office, letting everybody know. They're moving people out to Franklin Hospital tonight. There's signs posted and everything."

"Don't leave the state," Scully says. "We may need to speak with you again."

The Trashman laughs. It's a hollow sound. "Got nowhere to go."

"That's what they all say before they run," Mulder says dryly. "I think we'd better bring you along with us."

They take the candles as they climb back up the stairs. The Trashman seems convinced any more light will attract more of his ghouls, or tulpas, or whatever they are. They don't seem to have as much power as the Band-Aid Nose Man. Still, Mulder would rather avoid any delays. He gets out his phone and looks up the number for Landry's firm. The secretary, alarmed, gives him Landry's cell phone number, and Mulder dials quickly.

"Mr. Landry," he says when his call goes to voicemail, "this is Agent Mulder with the FBI. I need you to call me back. It's urgent."

Scully's on the phone with the Philly PD. "We're looking for Daryl Landry," she says as she opens the door and gestures the Trashman into the back seat. The GPS sends them on a convoluted route back to the HUD office. Mulder checks his watch. By the time they pull up in front of the office, the yellow school bus is gone, leaving only a cloud of diesel fumes. Scully, with a grim set to her mouth, puts Franklin Hospital in the GPS.

"Just trash," the Trashman says. "That's what he thinks of them. Put them in the right bin and they'll disappear, like magic. Put them in the right bin and they'll be somebody else's problem."

"Thank you," Scully says. "Very helpful."

The hospital is a big building, half of it lit in the dim of the evening. They run in through the doors, the Trashman behind them.

"Landry?" Mulder bellows. "Where's Landry?"

"He took my dog," a man says. "He sent my dog to the shelter. I need my dog. I told him I wasn't coming if I couldn't have my dog."

"I tried to tell him," a woman says. "I tried, but he kept going."

"Which way did he go?" Scully demands.

The woman points. They clatter down the hall, dress shoes noisy on the tile.

"Ugh!" Scully says. "That smell!"

"Like nothing on this earth," the Trashman says. "I told you."

There's a scream. They burst into a room. It's tiled, lined with showers, with benches down the middle. There's no exit except the one they came through. On the floor of one of the showers is a heap. That's the best way Mulder can describe it. The heap was a person until recently - that much is clear - but that person has been...disassembled. Next to the heap is a phone, blood splashed across the illuminated screen.

"There's only one way out of this room," Scully says, easing forward, peering into the stalls. "He screamed just seconds ago. How did we not see whoever did this to him leave the room?" She scuffs her foot like there's something on her shoe. "Mulder," she says.

When she moves her foot, there's a Band-Aid stuck to the floor.

"I told you," the Trashman says.

"How do we find him?" Mulder demands.

"How the hell would I know?" the Trashman says. "I didn't plan this. I didn't tell him to do it."

"Are you willing to say that in a sworn statement?" Mulder asks.

"Yeah, man," the Trashman says. "Call me in."

"We can hold him overnight," Scully murmurs. "Talk to him in the morning."

"Let's do it now," Mulder says. "There'll be somebody to talk to him at the police station. We'll turn him over to them." He looks at her. "Let's go home, Scully."

He sees the gleam of tears in her eyes. "Home," she says quietly.

"Yeah," he says. "Let somebody else write the report. We'll fill in what details we can, but...." He shrugs. "It's an X-File. It's unexplainable. I'm learning when to let go."

"It's not easy," she whispers.

"I know it's not," he says.

"Are you letting me go?" the Trashman asks.

"No," Mulder says. He picks up his phone. "Can I speak to Detective Dross? We've got a situation out at the Franklin Hospital that relates to his case."

They wait at the old hospital until Dross shows up, fielding questions about dogs and when people will be able to go back to their usual spots. The Trashman seems calm. Maybe the Band-Aid Nose Man's murder spree is over, the violent notion having run its course. Maybe the Trashman's a sociopath. Either way, they're turning over the case. Someone else can run the truth down to its burrow. He's taking Scully home to their own house, where she can cry her eyes out in peace, and he can hold her in his arms and cry too for a kind woman who held him close when no one else understood what he might lose.

+ + + +

The funeral is sweet, but short. Bill gives a speech. It's surprisingly gentle. Scully gives a speech too. She stands at the lectern, hands braced on the sides.

"Mom was always there for me when I needed her," she says, keeping her voice deliberate and low. "She was always there for all of us, no matter how far away we went. And I know that she's still here for us. For her children, her grandchildren, and all of us. Her heart...her heart was so big. And I'm going to miss her so much."

"You should take the ashes," Bill says at the end. "You knew her the best. You were at Dad's funeral. Just take them to the same place."

"I will," she says.

Mulder holds out his hand. "Sorry to see you under these circumstances," he says.

Bill, after a moment, reaches out and shakes hands. "Maybe next time there will be better ones."

"Let's hope so," Mulder says.

"I've got to get to the airport," Bill says. "I couldn't take any more time away. But I know you'll do the right thing."

"Thank you," Scully says.

Bill hugs her, a little stiffly. She hugs him back.

"I wish Charlie had come," she says.

"It's a little far," Bill says.

"I know," she tells him. "Still. You made it in from Germany."

"You of all people should know that Charlie's different," Bill says.

"Melissa was different," she says, her words curling into each other with remembered affection. "Charlie's just...Charlie."

"You're all different," Bill says. "I guess we're all different. But you're the one who went the farthest, Dana."

She scoffs. "I'm the one who stayed home."

"Not physically," he says. "You're the only one who did the unexpected."

She draws back a little. "Bill, I don't know what to say."

"I was a little envious," he says. "We all were." He hugs her again. "Take care of yourself, Dana."

"You too," she says. "Give my love to Tara and the boys."

"I will," he says.

She looks at Mulder helplessly. He shrugs very slightly and hands her a handkerchief as Bill strolls away. She picks up the urn.

"Where are we going?" Mulder says, pulling out his keys.

"I'll tell you on the way," she says.

They drive to the beach where Scully once watched her father's ashes being scattered. She cues up "Beyond The Sea" on her phone as they tip Maggie's ashes into the waves.

"We should have gotten a boat," Mulder says.

"It's all right," Scully says. "Mom always liked to stay close to shore." They sit on a log and watch the waves wash up and over the sand, distributing the dark smudge.

"I know she's still with you, Scully," Mulder says, putting a gentle arm around her shoulders.

"She is," she says. She sighs. "I've been thinking about thought forms."

"I thought we agreed that the thought form was a stretch at best," he says.

"I know now why Mom asked for Charlie, even though he was out of her life," she says. "She wanted to know before he left that he'd be okay. She gave birth to him. She made him. In a way, isn't that a thought given form? He was her responsibility. And that's why she said what she said to us."

"We gave him form," Mulder says softly. "William."

"Didn't we?" she says. "We wished for him. Mulder, we wished for him so hard. Maybe that's how he came into the world. And she wanted to know that we were okay, that he was okay."

"I'm sure he's okay," Mulder says. "You made sure of that."

"We gave him up to keep him safe," Scully says. "But I can't help but think of him, Mulder. I can't help it."

"Neither can I," he says.

"I'm so happy that we're back on the X-Files," she says. "I knew I would miss it, but I didn't know how much. And I believe we will find the answers to the mysteries we're seeking, side by side." She turns to him. "But our mysteries - some of them can never be answered. I won't know if he thinks of us, or if he's ever been afraid and wished that I was there, the way I wished for my mom so many times. Does he know that he's adopted? Does he doubt that we love him? I have this necklace, this quarter, and I have so many questions, and I'm sure I'll only have more as we go through her effects. Does he have questions? Does he look in the mirror and see us?"

"I'm sure he knows that he's loved," Mulder says. "By us, by his parents. By everyone who knows him, probably."

Her voice falters. "I just have to believe...Mulder, I have to believe we didn't treat him like trash. Our son, Mulder."

He pulls her against his shoulder and she bursts into tears.

"You didn't have a choice," he says as she sobs, her tears soaking into his lapel. "Scully, he knows. You did the right thing. When you meet him, that won't be a mystery." She feels his lips mumble against her hair. "He'll know how hard we wished for him, how wanted and cherished and treasured he was. He couldn't not know that, seeing you."

She cries until she can't cry anymore, and it helps, as much as anything could, and then they go home.

#octoberficfest #xfiles fic #the x-files fic #xf alternate season 10 #mulder x scully #my fic #atcwm verse

70 notes · View notes