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agentsofsupernaturalmarvel · 4 years

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Waves On A Beach // Joshua Bassett

IN WHICH: Josh listens to the story of a woman healing from a deep loss and beautiful love story unaware of how his listening would affect his life. It all started on a beach taking a chance on a forlorn girl holding a guitar.

Characters: Joshua Bassett x Reader, OMC!Peter Everett, HSMTMTS Cast (mentioned)

Words: 2.3k

Warnings: Swearing, cancer, death, love, angst and fluff. (it’s a doozy)

A/N: I watched I Still Believe and all I could think about was writing a fic about it but I couldn’t decide between Josh or Tom Holland. I decided to write without thinking and Josh was picked subconsciously. But there are tiny easter eggs to Tom Holland, two infact if you can name them.

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Every year without fail, you managed to find yourself on the beach staring out into the vast unknown looking for something. Something that would confirm that somewhere Peter Everett was okay and not in pain anymore. Life had a way of ripping something sweet and perfect from people’s hands at the very moment they need it most. Often you found yourself in a pew in a church struggling to understand how you had the honour of meeting Peter and then losing him within two years.

A foot behind you was an unopened guitar case that had been hidden in a closet for months now. Untouched from hands that had once itched to pluck the strings. Fingers that had learned chords to countless songs for Peter’s entertainment since you worked up the courage to approach him after working as a stagehand for an infamous local band.

For the first time in two years, you had dragged the guitar to the beach trying to build up the courage to play. Without a second thought, your hands found the familiar vegan leather guitar case holding something so beautiful. Breath taken away from the beautifully designed acoustic guitar with a quote by Peter inscribed on the back. He knew rage would claim the previous guitar that ended in pieces mere days after your parents had to come to Peter’s hospital room to remove you.

Sitting cross-legged on the cold sand just out of the ocean’s reach you strummed a familiar song that Peter had adored since he first heard it.

THEN

The local park the university built was often filled with students trying to relax, but you often found inspiration on lyrics. Your eyes were closed as you sang under your breath to a tune you had discovered early this morning over your cereal.

“You’re really good.”

The deep voice spoke from above to the side of you. Your eyes snapped open to see a male with a kind smile and blue eyes staring down. Your lips opened in a gasp at the newcomer you had made eye contact with and briefly spoken to at that concert.

“Uh, thank you.” You smiled feeling nerves build-up, but you shouldn’t take your eyes off of him, “I’m not overly good.”

“No, you are really good.” He spoke, “I’m Peter.”

“Y/N.” You replied, clenching the neck of the light brown guitar tight. It wasn’t every day some guy you embarrassed yourself in front of willingly starts a conversation.

“Are you busy tonight?” Peter asked, glancing over his shoulder to wear his best friend was scanning his phone.

“No.”

“Meet at the side of the pier. Bring the guitar.” Peter was gone as quick as he had appeared in your sight. A tiny smile tugged at your lips, leaving you to know that this had to be a date.

Oh, how wrong you were. At the pier it was a small group collected around a small fire, at Peter’s side was a brunette girl. Little inquiry brought you that Peter had a problem disappointing people and included the girl hanging onto his every word.

NOW

So, wrapped up in the memories of your love, you had no clue that someone had sat beside you with a friendly smile.

“Hi.” The voice made you jump in surprise, bringing your attention to the side where a curly-haired brunette was sitting. His eyes went to the guitar with a broad smile, “You play?”

“Yeah.” You kept quiet surprised at the zing of attraction you felt at the newcomer. Your solemn expression bringing the boys attention.

“Am I intruding?”

“No. Just stuck in some memories.” You replied, continuing to strum returning your gaze to the horizon, “I keep looking at the beautiful sky and wonder how someone can create something so otherworldly but cause suffering as well.”

“Nothing would be beautiful if there wasn’t anything ugly. Vice versa.” The stranger spoke, “I’m Joshua Bassett.”

“Y/N Everett.” Your smile dipped at the last name before your eyes fell to the simple band encircling your finger.

Josh’s eyes followed, feeling a ping of disappointment, seeing that this subtle beauty was taken.

“Married?”

“Was.” You sighed, stopping your fingers from delicately moving on the strings, “A sad story belonging in a novel.”

Josh’s brown eyes blinked at the sad words bumping his shoulder against yours with words sending you back into a memory, “Would it be too forward to ask what happened?”

THEN

So maybe kissing Peter after singing an impromptu song simply stating you loved him was too much especially when Paige saw it. The girl from the bonfire Peter struggled to let down. That led to whatever between you and Peter shattering. Fall turned into winter and with winter came the holidays where you retreated to.

Your dreams were indescribable, and it didn’t matter when your father, Gary, roused you from sleep in your childhood bed. Bleary eyes grasped at the phone mumbling a greeting of some kind at 2am.

“Y/N? It’s Jacob.” The unmistakable voice of Peter’s best friend was confusing to hear, “Peter’s in the hospital. His sister called me, and it’s bad.”

Time didn’t matter as you scooped up every item into the duffle bag and half-assed brushing your teeth or hair. Gary handed over his station wagon keys to his eldest child receiving shock while his partner was demanding a text when you arrived back in the city.

“Drive safe. It’s a long drive.”

You nodded before you spent the night number of hours on the road only stopping to refuel and use the bathroom. Empty snack bags on the passenger held you over as you arrived at the hospital address sent from Jacob.

A power nap in the waiting room before visiting hours was spent restlessly just before a hand nudged you awake.

“Hey Y/N.” Standing in the flesh was Peter’s sister Heather who you had briefly met on Skype in the early ages of the relationship.

“Hi, Heather.” You sighed blinking, “How is he?”

Heather hesitated debating if it was her place to answer the specifics on why the Everett family was at the hospital. In a moment of clarity, Heather decided to bring you to her brother’s room where their parents had congregated. Sitting up against the pillows in a gown was the handsome honey blonde man.

“Y/N.” Peter breathed surprised to see someone he had hurt with simple words on not wanting to hurt Paige. Now facing the unthinkable Peter wanted to hold your hand forever and proudly declare his love.

“Hey, Pete.” You half-smiled sitting on the edge of his bed while the room emptied, “You gave me a scare.”

“You were at your parents? Isn’t that hours away?” Peter questioned taking in the pale blue bruises under your eyes. You nodded in response, but it sent a warmth brought Peter’s body. His fingers grasped yours tightly.

“You’re worth the drive.” You simply replied, squeezing his fingers.

“Jacob was crashing at my dorm. He called for an ambulance when I was wrenching myself around my bed. Indescribable pain that ended with the surgeons removing a tumour the size of a plum from my stomach. The docs found it spread to my liver. Odds aren’t in my favour.” Peter revealed still holding that smile that drew you in initially.

“You aren’t getting rid of me.” You breathed.

NOW

“So, he has cancer?” Josh asked, turning to give you his full attention as you delved into the story that you had spoken about since that first appointment with the therapist.

“It was first in his stomach and then the liver. The last masses were found in a testicle.” You spoke tapping your fingers reliving the proposal in the hospital chapel and response from your parents, “He did chemo, radiation and finally the last resort was surgery. It was upsetting because Peter wouldn’t be able to have children.”

“It was only one right?”

“The chemo and radiation would deplete the chances of conception.” You medically recounted the words from the doctor, “Peter grew up active in church, and everyone prayed for him. From the people at the gigs I did to the listeners to the radio shows I appeared on.”

“Famous?” Josh questioned, but he only received a shrug in response. He kept quiet as you continued on with your story.

THEN

Heather and you held steadfast in Peter’s hospital room, you had walked holding his hand to the point where you couldn’t continue. He went into the operation room, and you returned to his empty bedside. Heather was your confidant and vice versa. Sleep was pulling when the screams of Mrs. Everett broke the silence.

“Heather! Y/N!”

The two girls scrambled to where a shaking couple stood blinking shocked at having heard the news. Right in the OR despite scans showing a mass when the surgeon opened up their son, there was not a speck of anything not meant to be there.

“It’s gone. There’s no cancer.” Mrs. Everett had no clue, but at that moment, all the hopes and dreams of Peter and you rebuilt themselves, “A miracle.”

A miracle that ended with Peter standing firm at the end of the aisle on the beach you swore you fell in love with him. Your dress was as simple as the wedding where you left to spend your honeymoon at the Everett’s family cabin for the weekend.

“I love you.” Peter breathed, pressing his nose against the edge of where your hairline started. The words flooded your system with love so deep you knew you had a lifetime to feel.

You chuckled seeing a mirage of the wedding party just up the beach from where you were sitting.

“We had a good weekend, but Monday came and so did seeing the oncologist. Peter refused to tell me if he had felt off at the wedding or the honeymoon. He was re-diagnosed, and we spent the week learning how to inject medications, the dosages and the times to do it. It was fine until the end.

You stared out the window of the full hospital room where Peter slept soundly with the IV of pain medication. A slight grimace moved over his face every once in a while, but you couldn’t sleep. Not with the news that Peter’s cancer had returned with a vengeance not even a few weeks after your wedding. Your dress still hung up in your apartment closet next to his tux that you hadn’t been able to return after renting.

“Hey. Mrs. Everett.” The groggy voice brought your attention to the dimly lit hall. Standing in the entry was Dr. Johnson with a solemn expression. You left Peter with a napping Heather as you slipped out of the room.

“Dr. Johnson.” You replied, clasping your hands on your arms, “How is he?”

“Peter’s scans gave me insight. The cancer spread throughout his body.”

“Okay, so are we starting chemo?” The doctor’s expression brought you to the answer is that it wasn’t an option, “Radiation?”

“No.”

“Surgery?” You got more frantic unaware that Peter had woken to see you struggling to take the news. The slight shake of Dr. Johnson’s head, “There has to be something!”

“We can make him as comfortable as we can, but I’m sorry to say we’ve done everything we can.” Dr. Johnson wasn’t surprised as you hugged him out of Peter’s view. This often happened when Dr. Johnson broke the news to people.

NOW

“The rest of Peter’s life was spent at our home until he was rushed to the ER vomiting blood. It was short. Maybe a week at most before he passed away without pain, but I believe his pain was shifted to me.” You finished deciding not to go into the grief that almost drowned you. The apartment had sold after a month as you fled to your childhood home.

“I’m sorry that happened.”

“I’m not.” You replied, smiling, “I got the honour of loving a wonderful man for two years of my life. I married him and lived with him. Do I wish he was still here? Sometimes but he was in too much pain. He always told me that the pain was worth it, he was able to touch the lives of people. He made his mark on the world.”

Josh was quiet as you strummed the guitar into the song that Peter had adored and asked to be played countlessly. The song was created by a Christian musician after losing his wife to cancer at an early age. Their story and your story had been so similar that the man was happy to help you move passed the loss into music.

The beach hadn’t changed in the time you had been away, but something sure did. Behind you was the sound of a small group, you had become close with overtime. The breeze was combated when a blanket was wrapped around you.

“You looked cold.”

The corners of your mouth curved at the concern in words coming from Josh. His arms wrapped around you next taking in the beautiful view. A view you only saw on the same day every year, but instead of being alone, Josh was always there.

Another change was your name. At age twenty-three you had had three last names, first the one you were born with Y/L/N, then Everett and now Bassett. Peter and Josh were physically the opposite of each other but both gentle souls.

“Did you think this would happen? That we would meet and fall in love?” Josh asked, pressing a lingering kiss above your ear as he took in the sunset.

“No, but I have a feeling someone knew I needed you.” You softly replied, “Didn’t think it would be an actor, though.”

“Are you coming? We want to hear you sing!” Heather called from the bonfire where your family, the Bassett family, the High School Musical: The Musical: The Series cast and even the Everett clan were stationed.

Was it weird your first husband’s family was spending time with your current husband’s family? Maybe, but cancer and loss created a bond indestructible. Besides, it was the Everett’s that pushed you into a date with Josh, and it ended perfectly. How beautiful was it to have the joyful ability to fall in love twice?

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hitokayamaguchi · 5 years

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I don’t remember the exact moment I became a Taylor Swift fan but I do remember the moment where her music was the only thing that could help me.

It was December 16th, 2008. I went to the doctor that evening and was told the words I’d never wanted to hear. Words I knew were true and had known for a long time but didn’t want to face. “You have cancer.” I went numb. I didn’t say anything. I stayed silent the rest of the night. My mother didn’t say anything either because there wasn’t a thing she could say to cheer me up and she knew it. We didn’t talk at all for the entire car ride home. And when we got in the car, all I knew was that I didn’t wanna listen to the dreadful silence in the car or the thoughts my brain was screaming at me so I turned on the radio. I recognized the song that was playing and it’s words were the only thing that could comfort me in that moment. It felt as if I’d been wrapped in a blanket of comforting vocals and words where their sole purpose was to help me through it all.

“It's hard to fight when the fight ain't fair.” It’s a lyric I still hold onto, 10 and a half years later still dealing with my cancer. Change got me through the first difficult leg of my cancer journey and every other song she’s written since she started has gotten me through the rest.

I’ve listened to her during the long car rides to my oncologists that are 2 hours away. I’ve listened to her during panic attacks as a way to calm myself down. I’ve listened to her during happy times and sad times. I’ve listened to her to help me get through any and all things I’ve had to deal with throughout the years. Her music, her artistry, her mere existence has helped me more times than I can count and I know that that rings true for so many other people too. And regardless of how much money Scooter and Scott earn from all of this, it will never buy the dedication, love, admiration, and pure gratitude that I have towards Taylor. They didn’t save my life. Taylor did. @taylorswift

#taylor swift #westandwithtaylor #scooter braun #scott borchetta

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abloodymess · 7 years

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Tobe Hooper made the best horror movie, he also made the best horror movie sequel (with all due respect to Don Coscarelli and the great Phantasm sequels), and he also made the best made for TV horror movie. Not only that but he made a ton of great idiosyncratic horror movies through his career, some better than others, but all certainly interesting and could not have been made by anyone else (can you believe Lifeforce was made at all!? Who makes a movie like that!?). A true oddball, with a unique vision, that changed the landscape of cinema, not just horror cinema, all cinema with the release of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. So with Tobe passing I thought I would share my favorite bit of writing on that particular film in its entirety.

Anecdotal: the concept of one’s own death loiters in the brain of a middle-aged man a lot more frequently than that of his twenty-something counterparts. Once you hit 40 there are, statistically speaking, more days behind you than in front of you, and as much as you try to run in the opposite direction, your mind will always eventually face front to dwell on the non-negotiable black nothingness of oblivion waiting for you at the end.

Not surprisingly, this mindset changes the way one watches the beloved horror classics of one’s youth. Moments of cinematic carnage take on a gravitas that the 18-year-old you couldn’t possibly have absorbed. When we’re young, death is scary but abstract; a dark unknown. In our 40s, death is a fact. It has by now reached out from the shadows and taken a few of our group. It surrounds us, moving toward us as we move toward it. In middle age, we’re always painfully aware that death is waiting, that it’s the one true certainty in life.

Death's inevitability is sitting right there in the title of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. There's no ambiguous "nightmare" or “legend” or "night of terror" in that title. Right there on your admission ticket, it’s printed in black and white: Death is coming. En masse. With that one title, you’ve been told the what, the where and the how. (An opening dateline provides the when; you will never get the why.) The film that follows is not an escapist, spooky funhouse ride. It’s a funeral dirge. And no one gets more existentially fucked up by a funeral than the middle-aged.

That’s an interesting wrinkle, as The Texas Chain Saw Massacre is, through and through, a young people’s movie about death. It stars and was made by people mostly under 30, and was ingested primarily by a young audience who, in 1974, recognized it as the primal fairy tale it was. “What happened to them was all the more tragic in that they were young,” John Larroquette's voice tells us in the opening narration, and a young, draft-age audience nodded in agreement. Certainly that was my take on my first viewing, at age 12. In the VHS heyday of the early ‘80s, I found The Texas Chain Saw Massacre to be unnerving in its visual and aural assault, altogether different from the other movies in my rental pile. Of the many films that sparked an early interest in the craft of filmmaking, Tobe Hooper’s 1974 masterpiece was likely in my top three, though I struggled to articulate what was so special about it. It wasn’t exactly fun, or heightened, or overly stylized with the kind of polish that telegraphed “film production” to the viewer. It felt like you were seeing genuine homicidal insanity onscreen. There were no safe, cathartic thrills to be found. It made me feel small and helpless. That’s probably why it wasn’t on rotation in my VCR the way, say, the Friday the 13th movies were.

As the power (and appeal) of certain slasher franchises faded with my adolescence, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre continued to cast a spell. Time did not render any of its moments cheesy or hokey for me; the film’s unblinking lack of sentiment served it well in that regard. When more advanced moviemaking technology started to throw the rough edges of my other horror favorites into sharp relief, here was a film that never stopped feeling real. With each new video transfer, its deceptively primitive visual style was revealed to be more detailed and sophisticated than we realized, VHS “purists” be damned. Its soundscape never became dated because it is singular in the history of the genre; nothing has sounded like it before or since. The sound design is near-flawless, impregnating even the quiet moments with a droning sense of doom. It’s the heavy silence of a funeral director’s office, or an oncologist’s waiting room. It’s the noisy silence of blood pounding in your ears during a panic attack.

It's the one film that never became "just a movie" to me, but not for my lack of trying. I’ve attended multiple Q&As with the makers of the film. I’ve watched at least three documentaries, and read at least two books on its making. I’ve digested all the outtakes, and I’ve met every living principal cast member. I even once drove an hour to the relocated farmhouse, ate a meal in its dining room and wandered both floors. Despite my many attempts at demystification, its hold on me remains. In my 40s I now find the film resonates most powerfully in the moments leading up to the characters’ deaths. Pondering your own end, that terrible awareness that you’re rushing toward a point in the future where you will no longer exist. Unease, quiet dread, guilt, confusion, panic, abject terror: The Texas Chain Saw Massacre has become, for me, a mosaic of the feelings the idea of oblivion stirs within me. These days, those feelings are where I experience true horror, and I find that the film still delivers on that front.

Make no mistake: the movie still offers plenty of straight-up terror for all age groups. Unpredictable, unknowable chaos reigns in Hooper’s film, a marked contrast from the subgenre it helped birth. Later slasher films would evolve into a rigid set of rules by which characters would live or die; abstinence was rewarded, vice and promiscuity were punished. In a way the slashers came to really epitomize the ‘80s mindset, nearly right-wing in their code of conformity. They reassure a status quo; they're downright comforting in their predictability. This is not the case with The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. There are no ground rules as per Wes Craven’s Scream; no one is safe. Our heroes don’t fit the stereotypes of slasher victims, and aside from Franklin’s wheelchair-bound whining, the characters are fairly nondescript. But beyond that well-trod observation, even more unsettling is that these are good kids. They’ve heard reports of grave-robbing in the area, and they’ve gone out of their way to make sure their grandpa’s remains are undisturbed. They are checking on their dead grandpa. It’s a sweet, human, honorable goal. The film does not care. 84 minutes later, they’re all fodder for a saw that’s still swinging when the screen cuts to black.

This is a horrifying notion in more ways than one. These characters - good, bad, indifferent, pretty, fat, annoying, carefree - are all going into the sausage grinder. WE’RE all going into the sausage grinder. Like dumb cattle, oblivious to the signs all around us, one by one we willingly march toward our own screaming, bloody ends, slaughtered without ever understanding what’s happening to us. But part of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre’s enduring power is the horrible glimpse of omniscience it gives us, and in that clarity is revealed a universe prodding us down the cattle chute from day one. Right from the opening frames, the protagonists’ deaths have been set in motion. The Hitchhiker (Ed Neal) rattles those bones and displays that skeleton, and it’s a beacon. Relatives from miles away descend on the graveyard to check on their loved ones’ remains (who knows how many of these well-meaning people ended up as furniture in that house, their cars piled up under that tarp in the backyard). With his cemetery folk art, the Hitchhiker has summoned Sally (Marilyn Burns) and her friends to their doom, with neither side even aware of it. Later, Franklin (Paul Partain) tells the group that his and Sally’s grandpa sold cattle to the slaughterhouse where Leatherface (Gunnar Hansen) and his family worked, and eventually we come to find out that the two families were essentially next door neighbors.

On recent viewings, that last detail chills me the most. The film is rife with omens - the astrology readings, the ramblings of the graveyard drunk, the radio station that broadcasts literally nothing but reports of carnage and mayhem. But more than anything I can't shake the weird angle of these characters dying horribly simply because of where their grandfather happened to live (and die). That vanload of victims had been tied to their cannibalistic murderers for decades before August 18, 1973. Whatever it is that’s gonna kill you, the film reminds us, has probably happened already, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You were always going to end up on that meat hook.

Movies, we like to tell ourselves, are a kind of immortality. Films last forever, and sequels and reboots keep things alive long after the end credits. In the world of cinema, we're seldom asked to confront the actual end of anything. But discarding all the sequels, the remakes, the sequels to remakes and remakes of sequels, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre remains one of the most confrontational films about death ever made. Forty years on, the film offers no comfort in its bleak message: you might live or die at any given moment, and when you finally take the dirt nap it will likely be an unsentimental, arbitrary bit of happenstance. But sooner or later you will end. Once you are dead you will no longer matter to the world at large, and odds are most people on Earth will never know about your experiences. Moreover, time will eventually claim not only you and everyone you love, but the entire planet. The whole of human existence will be nothing but an imperceptible blip on the universe’s radar as our tiny planet of cruelty and chaos is one day swallowed by the angry sun we see erupting in the film’s opening credits.

@PhilNobileJr

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thatfragilecapricorn30 · 7 years

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All Things Begin to Appear: Chapter 5

What happens when Scully starts having visions while her and Mulder are hunting a serial killer?

season 5 case file | 30k words | tw: some depictions of violence

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

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“You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after.” – J.R.R. Tolkien

“Yeah, Agent Callahan? It’s Agent Mulder. Agent Scully and I have a phone meeting with our supervisor so we won’t be coming in just yet. Can I call you back later to reschedule…”

“Hi, I’m one of your patients calling because I’m away on business and I need to find a good oncologist in the area... Yes, I’ll hold…”

Mulder and Scully were both on the phone, each trying to focus on their respective conversations while talking at the same time. They probably could have gone into their own rooms and closed the connecting doors for some quiet, but that thought never crossed Scully’s mind and she didn’t think it crossed Mulder’s either. She really didn’t want to be alone, even if Mulder would have been right next door. After Mulder had found her in the bathroom, he sat on the floor with her while they waited for the bleeding to stop. It only took a few minutes and when Scully was ready he helped her to stand and handed her a damp washcloth to wipe her nose clean. She threw the ruined towel in the trash and hoped that housekeeping wouldn’t notice. When she exited the bathroom Mulder passed Scully her cell phone and they both started their calls.

After Mulder made up a story about talking to Skinner to explain why they wouldn’t be at the precinct on time and Scully found a reputable oncologist that could see her right away, they were ready to head to the hospital. Scully couldn’t think of a car ride filled with more tension than this one. She wanted to talk in order to fill the silence but every time she opened her mouth, her mind went completely blank. Mulder appeared to be in the same boat: he was silent and intensely focused on driving, which was unusual for him as he was normally fiddling with the radio, eating sunflower seeds and talking Scully’s ear off when they were in the car.

It was fitting (and a little off-putting) that Scully and Mulder ended up at St. Luke’s, the hospital that all of the victims were connected to. It wouldn’t have been her first choice, but the hospital was close and had an oncologist that was able to see her right away (even if she did have to use her FBI connections for a little pull). The medical complex where the hospital was located was huge: large emergency department, doctors’ offices, a pediatric wing, to name a few of the amenities the hospital had to offer. Scully was starting to understand how difficult it will be to find the serial killer if he or she is someone that accesses the hospital on a regular basis, just based on how many people she saw coming and going through the parking lot.

Scully checked in at the oncology department for her MRI and made her way to the section of hard chairs and outdated magazines. Sitting in the waiting room was almost as bad as the car ride. Mulder remained silent but his leg jiggled noisily against the tile floor. Scully tried to pay attention to the TV tuned to some morning talk show but it was so loud it was actually hard to focus on more than the forced laughter of the studio audience. She glanced over at Mulder again. He looked very tense and Scully felt the need to comfort him. He was probably just as upset and concerned as she was. Scully smoothed a hand down his back to get his attention.

“Mulder, why don’t you go to the station and try to get some work done?” Now that they were in the hospital, Scully felt a tiny bit more relaxed and figured she could survive the wait on her own. She had spent so much time in hospitals during medical school that they had started to feel like home, the complete opposite of how most people feel when they are in a hospital. Those feelings must still be buried somewhere in her memories, not that Mulder’s visible anxiety was helping to quell her nervous feelings.

“I’m not leaving you here alone,” he replied.

“I appreciate that,” she said with a slight smile. “But this isn’t really productive,” referencing his anxious foot jiggling, “and there is a killer on the loose.” As much as she wanted and needed him, she was feeling a little overwhelmed by her own fear and to see that same fear reflected on Mulder’s face was making it worse.

Mulder seemed to agree somewhat. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Because I don’t mind staying right here.”

“Go,” she stated. “I’ll call you after I get the results.”

“No,” he said, “I want to be there. Call me before you hear them.”

“Okay,” she smiled, her heart a little fuller than when she arrived.

After Mulder left, Scully picked up one of the old magazines and attempted to read an article about how women should eat super foods like blueberries. After reading the same sentence three times in a row, she stuck to just looking at the pictures. It hadn’t been that long since she was in this same position and she tried not to dwell on how horrible a time that had been. Not only was Scully physically weak and in pain while battling cancer, but her spirit was weak too. She was afraid of dying and her life had felt unfulfilled. There was so much she had wanted to accomplish and suddenly she would never be able to. Now, mere months later, the same thing could be happening again. Scully wasn’t sure if she could go through it twice.

Luckily she didn’t have to wait long before the nurse called her for the MRI. She took a lot of deep breaths to calm herself on the walk to the machine, knowing she would have to lie still during the scan and she wanted to be somewhat relaxed. After the scan, she was sent back to the lobby to wait for the results. Normally a person would have to make another appointment and come back a different day but Scully flashed her FBI badge when speaking to the nurse. The doctor was going to put her ahead of the line, which Scully felt a little guilty about. There were other sick people who needed their appointments as much as she did, some maybe even more, but they also weren’t trying to catch a serial killer either. As soon as she was back in the waiting room, Scully phoned Mulder, who naturally didn’t pick up. She assumed he was going over his profile with Agent Callahan and left a message, hoping he got it soon. He was pretty fastidious about checking his voicemail, especially when they were on a case. That was an hour ago and now Scully was getting anxious again, knowing that at any moment the doctor would be coming to get her. She was staring at the TV and was startled by a middle aged woman in a lab coat walking towards the lobby.

“Ms. Scully, I’m ready for you,” the oncologist announced, holding a folder that held the MRI results, and as it would be, Scully’s fate.

She stood up but didn’t move. Mulder still wasn’t here.

“Do you mind if we wait a few more minutes for my partner to get here? He should be here any second and he wants to hear the results with me,” Scully responded.

“Of course,” the doctor smiled a little, probably used to that request. “Just pop in when you’re ready. I have about twenty minutes until my next appointment.”

Scully nodded, feeling even more nervous now that she was so close to finding out the truth. She turned back to the corridor and as luck would have it, Mulder was rushing in. He widened his eyes and Scully gestured to the office, “She’s ready for us.”

As Mulder approached, he put his hand on Scully’s shoulder and squeezed. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Scully took a deep breath and nodded. “Let’s get this over with.”

Mulder searched her face for a second and let go of her shoulder, seeming satisfied with her demeanor. He followed her into the office and they took the two chairs next to each other, across from the doctor seated at her desk.

“Okay, great, looks like we’re all here,” the doctor smiled. “I haven’t met you yet. I’m Dr. Hardy.” She extended a hand to Mulder and they shook.

“Alright, let’s check out these results.” Dr. Hardy pulled out the MRI scans and placed them on the lighted box. She examined the pictures for what felt like hours but was probably only seconds. She pointed to the scan, specifically the region just above Scully’s nose, in between her eyes.

“So this is where your tumor manifested when you had cancer but I’m not seeing anything now. It looks clear. Do you want to take a look?”

Scully shook her head, too in shock to respond verbally. She wasn’t sitting that far away and from her seat she could see that the image was clear. She had seen enough MRIs of the tumor to know what she was looking for.

“How long have you been in remission?” Dr. Hardy questioned.

“About 7 months,” Scully replied, still not believing that she was cancer-free. What was with the headaches, nose bleeds and lack of appetite then?

“Well you know you’re not out of the ballpark just yet, but these scans are clear. You are still in remission,” stated Dr. Hardy.

“So she doesn’t have cancer,” Mulder asked, sounding surprised. His hand found his way to Scully’s knee and squeezed. Before Mulder could remove it, Scully placed her palm over his hand, her entire body flooded with relief.

“At this time, no. Dana you are still cancer free,” Dr. Hardy smiled, clearly pleased to be offering good news to a patient. “You said you recently got a nosebleed?” she queried.

“Yes, nosebleeds were one of the main symptoms of my tumor which is why I was concerned.”

“Of course you would be worried. It’s good that you’re taking all the necessary precautions because reoccurrences of cancer are common. Luckily, nosebleeds are nothing to worry about if that’s your only symptom. It’s most likely caused by the dry air. However, I’d still like you to check in with your oncologist back home too. I’ll send over a copy of these results to your doctor's office to be included in your medical file.”

“Thank you so much, doctor,” Mulder once again leaned forward to shake the woman’s hand.

“You’re welcome. I’m sure your wife was happy to have you here.”

Mulder looked quickly at Scully who just smiled thinly back at him. Neither of them corrected the doctor.

Instead Mulder grinned. “Oh she is.”

As they walked back to the car, Scully felt about ten times lighter. She hadn’t realized just how afraid she had been.

When they got in the car, Mulder looked over at his partner. “I feel like I aged ten years in five minutes and then de-aged back to normal.”

Scully could only nod; that was exactly how she felt, too.

“One of these days, Scully, you’re going to kill me,” Mulder retorted but he was smiling.

Once again, Scully nodded solemnly. He was joking but she understood what he was saying. She swallowed against the lump in her throat, the one that sometimes appeared when she looked at her partner.

“Thank you,” was all she was able to manage.

“For what?” Mulder seemed genuinely puzzled.

“For worrying,” she stated simply.

Mulder appraised her like he was looking for another answer, but ended up smiling broadly. “Anytime.”

He put the car in drive and they exited the parking lot.

They ended up back at the police station. Mulder had wanted Scully to go back to hotel to rest but Scully scoffed at that idea. As evidenced by the MRI results, there was nothing wrong with her and she wanted to keep working on the case. Mulder eventually gave in, as he didn’t really have a leg to stand on. While Scully was at the hospital, Mulder had returned to the precinct to go over the profile he had come up with so far. But while they were in the car, Agent Callahan had called and wanted the two of them to return, stating that he had some other things he wanted to go over with them. Scully wondered if it was a break in the case and was hoping for more good news.

They walked through the lobby to the back part of the station; the other officers just nodded and let them through. They must have recognized the two FBI agents, or at least they recognized Mulder because Scully hadn’t been around as much.

Agent Callahan was sitting at the big meeting table they had used the first day. That area of the station remained the headquarters, so to speak, of this particular case. It was the most important thing on the docket right now, as most other cases were put to the back burner in order for the serial murderer to be caught.

“Hello agents,” he greeted them. “Got everything squared away this morning?”

The two exchanged quick glances before sitting down.

“Yes, we did, thank you,” Scully responded, trying to act nonchalant.

“Don’t worry about it,” Callahan brushed it off. “I know a thing or two about overbearing supervisors.”

Mulder and Scully laughed at that, though Scully quickly sobered at the thought that Skinner was long due a field report. She wondered if there was a terse email waiting in her inbox and vowed to get to work as soon as they returned to the hotel. She definitely planned on omitting the parts about the psychic visions and her visit to the hospital.

“Okay, so I just wanted to go over some reports and show you our updated timeline and the collation of data now that we have another victim. On the board behind me we have the visual representation of the case.” He pointed to a white board that was similar to something you would see in a police procedural: pictures of the victims and the crime scenes, with some connecting lines between them. Agent Callahan started going over the crime scene evidence from the latest victim, which they had yet to hear. Mulder was taking notes to add to his profile, but Scully’s mind wandered. She looked at the white board and at the pictures of the four women who had been murdered by their serial killer. It made her both angry and sad to see four smiling women, whose lives were taken too soon. She really wanted to solve this case and see the killer brought to justice. Scully felt a tingling at the base of her neck. She looked down at her feet and she was standing in the grass, no, in the woods. There were trees around her. She was looking down but those weren’t her feet since they were too big and she was wearing work boots, which she didn’t own. The feet kept moving, leaving footprints in the mud…

“You found footprints!” Scully announced, coming out of her reverie.

Both Callahan and Mulder turned to look at her. She had interrupted Callahan mid-sentence and now felt embarrassed. Her cheeks flushed. What had she just blurted out? Something about footprints?

“How did you know that?” Agent Callahan asked. He pulled a photograph out of a folder. It was of footprints in the mud, clearly located in a forest setting.

“Men’s size 10, some type of work boot,” he added. “It’s another lead that the crime scene unit just discovered. Agent Scully, how did you know about this? Did another officer tell you?”

Mulder glared at her and she felt tongue-tied. “I – uh, I don’t know. I mean, it was just a guess,” she concluded lamely.

Agent Callahan just looked puzzled, but seemed to decide to let it go. “You must be very intuitive. I’m sure it’s very helpful on your cases,” he offered, trying to smooth over the current awkwardness.

Mulder said nothing and Scully could tell that he was annoyed. She didn’t want to advertise what was happening to her but the visions lowered her inhibitions in such a way that now she was just blurting things out. Everyone is going to think I’m crazy, she thought miserably.

“Yes, it is,” she said meekly and Mulder rolled his eyes.

After Scully’s little outburst, there was a weird tension between the three of them. Unfortunately, they all sat around the table, working on their respective tasks: Mulder adding more to the killer’s profile, Scully writing notes for her report to Skinner, and Callahan filling out his own report. Scully wanted to go back to the motel but Mulder had the car keys and she was afraid to ask him for anything after what had happened earlier.

A few moments later, Mulder offered to go to the kitchen to get the three of them coffees, leaving Scully and Callahan sitting at the table. Scully was tired of only hearing Mulder’s opinion on psychic visions so she decided to do some research.

“Agent Callahan? Can I ask you a question?”

He looked up from the papers he was rustling around, rearranging them into new folders. “Shoot,” he responded, looking a little surprised at her request.

She looked around quickly, just to make sure that Mulder wasn’t in earshot. “Do you believe in psychic abilities?”

His eyebrows shot up, but he actually considered her question.

“Is this about the case?” he asked.

“No. Yes – no, it’s just theoretical. Sometimes psychics are brought in to help police solve cases and I was just curious about your opinion on that,” she amended.

He looked thoughtful. “Police psychics are tricky. I don’t put much stock in them and I don’t use them on my cases. But not everyone feels the same way, as you’ve probably seen on TV.” He turned the question around, “What do you think?”

She hesitated. “I’m not sure. Mulder believes in psychic abilities, but…” she trailed off.

“But?” he questioned.

She paused again before responding, “But not all the time,” trying to remain as vague as possible.

“I see. Well if you’re asking me about general psychic abilities I do believe that some people have those.”

“You do?” Scully asked, surprised.

“My grandmother,” he explained. “She definitely had some sort of sense. Not so dramatic as what you see in the movies, but she knew things. I believe certain individuals are more in tune with that sort of thing.”

“Right,” Scully nodded, feeling slightly better. She turned back to her notepad.

“Agent Scully, are you sure there isn’t anything else?” He was looking at her expectantly.

“Uh, no, that was it. Thanks for answering my question.”

“Of course,” he answered, looking slightly confused.

Luckily, Mulder returned, juggling three cups of coffee, so the conversation ended as quickly as it started. But Scully was glad to hear that not everyone on the case was as close-headed as Mulder was acting. It was also good to have a potential ally.

Read Chapter Six

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