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“So, it’s not enough that you drag me to El Paso to go birdwatching…"
Mulder aborts his sip, the glass inches from his lips, and places his drink back on the bar.
“Scully. Really. Birdwatching?” He turns to Scully, scrutinizing her blank expression.
She returns the favor. “How else would you describe hunting down—sorry, not finding—a giant bird that apparently flies into a mountain? An entirely mythological one at that, with nothing even pinpointing its habitat to that specific mountain range.”
“They named the mountain after it!”
Scully crooks her elbow on the bar and uses the leverage to better face him, upping the ante of her scrutiny. Mulder gulps, still not having taken a sip.
“And the fact that said mountain range has had hundreds of lights illuminating it all night every night for decades with nary a sighting does nothing to dissuade your belief?”
Mulder shakes his head. “Ah, but there’s the kicker, Scully. That little light display is precisely why it hasn’t ventured out—”
“Little? It’s a four-hundred-foot st—”
“—Due in part to the risk of being spotted, the unnatural bright lights, and its elusive nature, the Thunderbird likely went into a dormant state, some sort of extended hibernation. Sort of like-”
“Don’t say it,” Scully groans. “I was just starting to enjoy my drink.”
Mulder holds his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright.”
They both take advantage of the momentary ceasefire and drink. Over the clamor of patrons, the door’s tinny bell announces the entrance of more. Above the shoulders of those cluttering the standing tables, two heads bob into Mulder’s view. A blonde in a smart skirt and blouse, her hair pulled back in a low bun, hoists herself onto a seat at one of the unoccupied tables. She’s joined by a man who sits across from her. He’s swimming in an oversized brown suit a shade darker than his hair, which flops around animatedly as he weaves his hands through the air in conversation.
“Cool, right? Right?” Jimmy holds his hands up in a showcase—jazz hands.
Jimmy had waited until after they ordered their drinks but couldn’t resist any longer. He’d noticed Kim scrutinizing his new duds when they met up and decided it was finally showtime.
“So? How d’ya like the new suit? Well, new to me. My new old suit. I spent the better part of the afternoon hitting up thrift shops for some swanky threads so I don’t have just the one. Laundry day, y’know? This one was certified ‘not-haunted’ by the cashier.”
Kim squints and purses her lips. “Do they charge extra for not-haunted?”
“Absolutely. I’m wiped,” Jimmy laments with a shake of his head.
“Hm. Maybe you should’ve sprung for the haunted discount.”
“Probably, huh? I get a lawyer’s suit straight from the mortuary, maybe I don’t even learn the ropes. I’ll absorb their powers, ready to be unleashed.” He throws his hands out in a flourish.
“Absorb their powers?” Kim echoes.
“Yeah, I’ll know everything from osmosis.”
Kim grabs her chin. “And how exactly will that work?”
“Genetic memory. On some level, people are still scared of wolves even though their numbers have long been dwindled and attacks on humans were hardly commonplace before that. Where does the perception of danger come from?” Mulder holds his fists in front of him then splays his fingers, which Scully suspects is meant to be a dramatic final flourish, but it’s stilted and could only undercut any point that follows. “We were once cavemen fending off predators.”
She sighs, realizing the point that followed actually undercut his stiff attempt at theatrics.
“Mulder, I think you’re conflating survival instincts that all species share, like fear of natural predators, with the transference of physical effects from tangible harm. You know, there are epigenetic studies being conducted on survivors of famine and their descendants to assess the relationship between early exposure and measurable consequences long after the risk of starvation abated.
“But these are physical changes, and any learned behaviors would be because of, well, the immediacy of the event in relation to the generation—a parent to a child. What you’re suggesting is something entirely learned, with no immediacy whatsoever to its supposed origin.”
“Yeah,” Mulder responds, “or so we think.”
Scully blows a strand of hair out of her face.
“Even the parting of the Red Sea is theorized to have been an actual weather phenomenon which roughly lines up with the timeframe,” Mulder marches on. “If that could be recorded for time immemorial, who’s to say the Thunderbird hasn’t had its fair share of witnesses?”
“But then that by its very definition isn’t immemorial, Mulder. And you’re comparing what could potentially be a one-time event with an oral tradition concerning the purported continued existence of what would otherwise be a long-extinct creature. Not to mention, I'm under the impression that the Thunderbird you’ve been describing is more closely aligned with the beliefs of more northern tribes, not southwestern.”
“Much like the mighty Thunderbird, Scully, you attempt to rain down upon me,” he sulks.
“There was no attempt, Mulder. Nothing was there. And it didn’t even rain.”
“There was a drizzle.”
“Okay. So I lost my Friday night to a drizzle. At least it wasn’t the Marfa lights,” she says, to which Mulder contorts his face. “And I’m losing my weekend to drive up here instead of boarding a plane home because…?”
Mulder’s eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, somehow. “Scully, we have to hit Pie Town. I think they’re having their Pie Festival tomorrow. We have to try some.”
“I’m sure you can find a slice of near-equivalent caliber in the DMV. We could even take it to-go. You know, to our apartments. Where we live. Could the pie there really be that great?”
“They named the town after it!”
“So you’re telling me the legal profession doesn’t operate on Highlander rules?”
Kim snorts. “Aside from the fact that wearing someone’s clothes is not the same as defeating them in battle, no, unfortunately, it does not.”
Jimmy sighs. “Well, I’ve got pie on my face.”
Kim leans back slightly, replaying the statement in her head to double-check. “Egg.”
Jimmy’s brow furrows. “Egg?”
“Egg on your face,” she confirms.
“But…people get hit in the face with pies.” Jimmy motions slapping his face in demonstration, stopping a few inches short. “Who’s throwing eggs?”
Kim shrugs. “Ne’er do wells.”
“Ah, I know the kind,” Jimmy says in a gravelly voice, as if there was still a secret to keep.
A smirk breaks across Kim’s face out of a hopeful anticipation that there’s still an unheard story to be found. “You ever throw eggs?” she probes.
Jimmy holds up his hand as if he’s being sworn in again. “I plead the fifth.”
Kim doesn’t point out that it’s his left. “Oh, so you did crush the Con Law essay.”
“Had to! Someone said there wasn’t gonna be a Corps essay this go-round,” Jimmy accuses.
“I told you I was hazarding a guess,” she defends coolly.
“Emphasis on hazard,” he mutters.
“And the MPT was a memo, right?” Jimmy nods. “But hey, no Contracts,” Kim points out.
“My other saving grace.”
“You still would’ve passed.” Jimmy grips the tabletop, eyes downcast. Kim puts her hand over his. “This was all you, Jimmy.”
Jimmy looks up to her, locking eyes. His lips flatten out, a restrained attempt at a smile.
Kim huffs through an unrestrained smile of her own. “And now you’ll defeat other lawyers in battle, in the courtroom. Test your theory,” she nods.
Mulder nods his head in the direction of the table with the blonde with the bun and the guy with the forehead.
“What do you think their deal is? Finance?”
Scully takes the scantest of looks. “Lawyers. Definitely lawyers.”
“I’m definitely taking out the big fish first. Prison rules. Gotta get the most imposing threats outta the way, y’know? Not like Lurch over there.” Jimmy nods in the direction of a brooding man in black seated at one end of the bar counter. “Talk about lanky.”
Kim holds her drink forward, making a little choking sound. Jimmy flinches, suppressing the instinct to reach for her. “And you are…?” she prompts.
“Perfectly proportioned in every way. Mom said so. That’s why the suit looks so tailored—everything fits me just right off the rack.”
“Uh-huh,” Kim says. “Just try not to lose a single pound or you might drown.”
“Don’t worry, Kim, I’ve still got a whole box of ramen to get through. My nutritional needs are met. My food pyramid is set. And I don’t plan on flying to the Andes to play soccer anytime soon.”
“Rugby,” Kim corrects. “Oh man, you wanna watch that again?”
“Already returned it.” Kim pouts slightly at this. Jimmy suppresses the butterflies fluttering in response. “By the way, you might want to consider going to Hollywood Video for your next Ice-Capade. You’re starting to build a reputation at Blockbuster. Last time we went, the clerk pulled me aside and asked if I was planning on going skiing with you anytime soon. I think he’s concerned for my well-being.”
Kim sloshes her drink around. “Well, he should be.” She takes a swig, leaving Jimmy in suspense. “You don’t know how to ski.”
Jimmy puffs out his chest and leans forward. “You don’t know how to ski.”
“No, you don’t know how to ski.” Kim juts a finger against his sternum, pushing him back.
“Well, yeah, I don’t know how to ski,” he relents, “but you don’t know how to ski.”
“I mean, that’s a given. But you don’t know-”
“God, I bet they go skiing every season. Probably went every year as kids. I bet they got their jobs so they could keep up the cushy lifestyle.” Mulder shakes his head. “Meanwhile, us humble civil servants…We’d be water skiing at our summer place in Rhode Island like jerks, dreaming of snow.”
Scully presses her cheek into her hand. “If you’re still dreaming of snow, we could try and get out of this desert...”
“God, Howard asked how many times I’d been. Can you imagine?” Kim laughs at the thought, as if hitting the slopes was something she could even dream of in an endless flat landscape. The funny thing about moving around Nebraska, she’d found, is no matter how many places you went, the land, like everything else, was still mostly flat.
“That asshole,” Jimmy grumbles. “What’d you say?”
“I didn’t.” Kim takes a quick drink. “Say anything, that is. He rolled right past it. As if there couldn’t have been any other answer but the one he expected.” She taps her finger. “Maybe I should’ve told him you were taking me. That would’ve been good.”
“Think I’d have the coordination?”
“Well, I’m told it’s really about falling over and over again until you get the hang of it.”
Jimmy beams. “I’m real good at that.”
“Check out the googly eyes he’s giving her.”
Scully follows his line of sight and takes a peek. Barely.
“It would seem the feeling is mutual,” she concludes.
“I don’t know how the people in Law Review and Moot Court found the time, not even getting into the ones that were more obsessed with their class ranking.”
Jimmy splutters mid-drink. “I was ranked?”
As the burn trickles down his throat, Kim ponders the question—he can tell by the furrow of her brows, the slight pout of her lips, just so.
She takes her time, perhaps debating the merits of a University of American Samoa legal education. Kim had helped him apply but it was still outside her personal field of expertise with more upstanding institutions, no doubt.
Finally: “Huh. I don’t know, actually."
“Well, what does this suit say? Ranked pretty high? Bottom of the class? Solid straight Bs?”
“Well, it’s very…brown.”
“You said no black. Never black!”
“Hey, that’s what the associates said. But charcoal is still fine. Black is for funerals.”
“And weddings.”
“Sure, and weddings. You’d be the expert,” Kim says playfully.
Jimmy shoots her a look of faux offense. “And…G-men.”
“And G-men,” she agrees.
“Speaking of…” Jimmy gestures toward a striking redhead seated next to the slouchy guy who looks like he took a weedwhacker to his hair, the both of them rocking long black coats. “Look at the lovely gal Lurch is running with. Total feds, right?”
Kim arches her neck forward to look. “She is beautiful.”
“And you’re gorgeous,” Jimmy says with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Something in the tap. Makes all the ladies in this joint beautiful.”
Kim hums. “Do you think people would go in on a class action for that? ‘There’s something in the water—no, we’re not sick, we just all look like models.’”
“’Course they would. I have a right to be ugly.”
“And you’re not exercising it?”
The heat spreading across Jimmy’s cheeks overrides the burning in his throat. “Har har.”
Kim looks pleased with herself.
He coughs to let the hot air escape from his face more than his throat. “Whaddya think their pay is?”
“Hmm.” Kim taps her nails on the table. “They’re on the federal pay scale, so it should depend on their rank.”
“Jesus, is everything ranked and no one was gonna tell me?”
“Yeah, right,” Mulder grumbles sarcastically.
Scully emits a deep sigh.
Mulder leans in, clacks his shoulder against hers. “I’m telling you, something’s going on here.”
She pushes back, the two of them swaying in tandem. “On the contrary, Mulder, nothing is going on here. That’s the problem.”
Mulder taps his drink against the bar. “No, no. There’s definitely something amiss. Out of place. Incongruent with time, even.”
Scully looks to the ceiling.
“But hey, things are looking up.” Jimmy throws his head back for a shot, only for an itch to prickle along the back of his neck. “What the—”
“What?”
“Look at his suit. It’s from the wrong decade. I mean, double-breasted? Really?”
“I have a double-breasted blazer,” Scully gripes.
“And you pull it off so well,” Mulder backtracks.
Scully cranes her neck, mercifully preoccupied. “Wait, he’s taking his jacket off. Maybe he heard you.”
“From thirty feet away?”
“Maybe he has incredibly acute hearing, like a bat,” she indulges. “We’re a few hours out from Carlsbad Caverns—maybe giant bats emerge from the caves, not unlike your bird, and take the form of a human for a night of merriment and lollygagging.”
Mulder blinks. “Lollygagging, Scully?”
She nods resolutely, finishes off a drink with her eyes closed. “And pies.”
Jimmy scratches at his wrist where the too-long sleeves had ostensibly scraped against his skin.
“What are the odds that I’m allergic to this thing?”
“Depends. What are the odds that that non-haunted certification came with a dry cleaning?”
“Mm,” is all Jimmy manages, now scratching his neck where he’d brushed against the collar.
Kim’s brows pinch together in sympathy. “Can’t you borrow one of Chuck’s old suits?”
Jimmy shakes his head. “No-go.” He sighs. “They probably wouldn’t fit right anyway.”
“Oh, yeah, because this one’s…” Kim hesitates and lets the thought peter out, uncertain if this a thread she should pull when the whole situation is delicately patched together.
“The epitome of tailored, right?”
Kim smiles, relief washing over her. “The epitome of something.” She brushes her thumb across Jimmy’s cheek, blotting out an imaginary smudge. “Really,” she breathes out. “You look nice, Jimmy. Very Maltese Falcon.”
Jimmy smiles, and it looks both relieved and ebullient, as if it’s suddenly clear there was never anything to worry about at all. She hopes he understands how true that is.
Jimmy lets out a low whistle. “Overcoming a record, solo practice, and allergies to boot. I’ll be the next bestseller in the Chicken Soup for the Soul line.”
“Hm…I think I’ll wait for the TV movie.”
“Lifetime or Showtime?”
“You better be on Showtime.”
“Deal.”
She holds out her glass, expecting a clink to seal the deal.
Instead, Jimmy turns his hand over and mimes spitting into it. He looks down at his palm, as if assured by the presence of phantom saliva, and holds it out to Kim.
Kim instinctually scrunches her nose in disgust, but a smile quickly emerges. She mimics the process and slaps her hand to Jimmy’s. The handshake is firm, as is customary for the exchange of (phantom) saliva, and lasts much longer than what she suspects is playground precedent.
They drop their hands and Jimmy smirks. “There’s gotta be an easier way of doing that.”
“I think there is,” Kim says.
She cups Jimmy’s face with her now-free hand and pulls him forward, leaning with the momentum so they can meet in the middle.
This time, there’s nothing phantom about it.
“I think there are powerful forces at work here,” Mulder continues, then carps on and on about ghost town residents in stasis and vampires and Roswell-based extraterrestrial scouts and haunted pollen and God only knows what. He’s still fervently theorizing at this hour, which would be admirable if Scully weren’t so damn tired.
As he drones on, she looks back to the subjects in question with nearly half-lidded eyes. The man under scrutiny starts readjusting himself, grabs the back of his chair to move up in the seat. He stretches his right leg, bends it a few times before leaning on the thigh and slowly returning his foot to the chair rest.
“Hm,” she realizes, satisfied with her evaluation. “And tell me, Mulder, are these all-powerful entities of yours usually afflicted with joint pain?"
“Bad today, huh?”
Jimmy knows Kim can recognize the tell-tale signs of his knee ache by now, so there’s no point in denying it. “Had to do a lot of kneeling to really scour underneath the racks,” he confesses. “That’s where all the good stuff gets stashed, y’know.”
Kim cocks a thumb behind her. “We can grab a booth.”
“No, no, it’s okay. Taller chairs should be good for stretching it out.”
Kim lightly pats his hand, flat on the table, two times.
Scully’s diagnosis tells Mulder the two of them are truly tuned in now. They’re bound to make great headway—everything’s always better when she’s involved, when he’s not at it alone. If they put their minds together, they can really figure this thing out.
And they certainly have their work cut out for them, as the so-called man and woman in question were now practically holding hands.
“It’s a ploy,” Mulder declares.
“A ploy? Leading to what? A future game of footsy?”
Scully’s exasperation tells Mulder that she might not be as invested in this investigation as he thought. “Why is she so into him? Of her own volition?”
“My God, Mulder,” Scully feigns, “Mind control.”
“That would explain the forehead,” he mutters.
Kim slowly waves the dollar bill flattened between her two fingers, as if she can hypnotize Jimmy, burrow into his mind.
“You know, it’s been a while.” She twists her wrist. “Show me again.”
Jimmy looks at the dollar bill, then turns his focus to her. His eyes are glistening, hypnotized already.
Kim raises an eyebrow.
He grins.
She grins back.
“Oh, please,” Mulder huffs. “That’s not so hard.”
They watch as the source of Mulder’s ire repeats the trick. The blonde lawyer (Scully is sticking to her guns) holds up a stack of quarters as her companion carefully centers and balances a dollar bill on an opened beer bottle. Both satisfied, she places the quarters on top. Again, he practically karate chops the bill and it comes straight down, free of the quarters’ grip.
“You try, then,” Scully challenges.
Mulder gawks at her. “Uh…”
“Come on, try it,” she insists.
Mulder scrambles for his pockets, feeling around for loose change. He pads along his waist—none in the coat, clearly. None in his pants either. Scully produces quarters of her own, clanking a neat stack onto the bar. She’d been hoping to use some on the Magic Fingers at the motel.
Mulder mirrors the steps, then chops away.
Nothing.
Scully raises her eyebrows at him.
“The first one doesn’t count,” Mulder proclaims.
He tries again, and—
Fails once more.
Scully snickers.
“Hold on, I’m getting the hang of the motion.”
She crosses her arms. Mulder makes another attempt and ends up with another failure.
“Got the hang of it?” Scully sneers.
Mulder stops mid-chop and side-eyes her. “Fine, then. You try.”
Scully uncrosses her arms and takes off her coat. She flaps her hand a few times to get the circulation going. “There’s a perfectly scientific explanation behind it. Your fingers need to have some moisture in order to grip the dollar.”
She touches the bottle to transfer droplets of condensation onto her hand. Now adequately moisturized, she positions herself, goes for the chop—
And the dollar doesn’t budge.
“Got the hang of it?” Mulder parrots.
Scully chops again to no avail.
“Wet your finger, Mulder.”
“Agent Scully.”
“Wet your finger!”
Mulder dips a finger in some of his drink and rubs his hands together.
A chop—and the dollar remains under the stack of quarters.
She huffs.
So does he.
They’re having a really good night, so he knows he should decidedly not talk about it.
“I know we don’t really talk about it, but…” Jimmy scratches at the back of his neck. No itch is responsible this time. “Can this be one of those ‘just for tonight’ nights?”
“Jimmy, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh.” He can’t help but deflate when the air feels like it’s been punched out of him, but he knows he shouldn’t.
“At least, just for tonight I don’t.”
He perks up. “Oh?”
“It can’t be done,” Mulder concludes. “It’s not humanly possible. Do you know what this means, Scully?”
“That he’s some sort of alien creature whose outer epidermis exudes a layer of some lubricating substance which enhances the traction of his hands beyond that capable of a normal human being?”
Mulder gapes. This is even better to see in-person than just hear, although that means a telephonic proposal is out of the question this time.
He clears his throat. “Well, yeah.”
Jimmy fumbles with the knot of his tie, loosening it away from his throat. “Wanna grab a bite to eat?” It was incredible sometimes how quickly he went from looking like a kicked puppy to one headed to the park.
“I thought you said you spent your last dime on this number,” Kim gestures at his ensemble. “Now you want to go out to eat?”
“Well, we could head back to my place.”
“To dine on ramen?”
“Yeah! Or, no. Not exactly. Nachos? I just mean, we don’t have to eat out, we can…I can—“
“Eat out?” she interjects.
Jimmy’s cheeks flush. He lets out a strangled laugh, then flips his hair—a nervous tic Kim prides herself in eliciting.
“Yeah.” Scully lifts her drink. “Why the hell not?”
For her, anything.
“So now you see something’s not adding up. A gorgeous young woman and some schlub.”
“I don’t know, Mulder. He’s kind of cute, in his own way.”
“Scully, please, say it ain’t so. Don’t tell me he got to you too.”
“I’m simply trying to present an objective assessment of the situation.”
“Objective, huh? Is it your objective to convince me that we were right with the mind control angle?”
“I think it’s the energy. Like an excited puppy-dog.” She shrugs on her coat. “I can see the appeal.”
Mulder scoffs. “Next you’ll say you go for the sad puppy-eyed types.”
Scully stares at him for a moment, a sly look creeping across her face.
She puts a few dollars down and dismounts the barstool, leaving Mulder to close out.
“It’s the hair, isn’t it?” Mulder calls out before rushing to trail after her. “I’m telling you, Scully, that’s not long for this world. The dollar trick? It’s the slime, we’ve established that. Get a closer look—I’ll bet he has buck teeth.”
Caught up, Mulder stops in his tracks just as Scully goes for the door. He turns to see the blonde hovering her hand above another dollar secured on a bottle, then successfully chopping it down. The slime-man claps for the briefest of seconds before his applause is suddenly broken by her kiss.
“Of course. I should’ve seen it from the very beginning. It’s been right in front of us all along. She’s the one—
Kim parts from Jimmy, looks to the spot by the door where she could swear one of the “feds” had lingered in her periphery. “Were they…staring at us?”
“Hm?” is all Jimmy can muster, his eyes half-lidded. Clearly there had only been one thing Jimmy was staring at. He gets tunnel vision when he’s hungry sometimes.
“Never mind.”
And she thinks: she could eat.