Chapter Text
It should’ve been a quiet Saturday.
Bill Scully hadn’t really wanted to come to D.C.—not at first. Work had been hectic. Travel was a hassle with a toddler. And truthfully, he still didn’t know what to make of her anymore—this tight-lipped, sharp-eyed version of his sister who moved through every room like a threat assessment. She wasn’t warm the way she used to be. Wasn’t soft. Always alert, never quite there. Like her life was happening behind bulletproof glass—and they were on the outside looking in. Maybe that was the job. Or maybe that was him.
But Tara had insisted. Dana was in town. His mother missed seeing Matthew. And Matthew had never seen the Library of Congress but had somehow memorized every page of Goodnight Moon . A weekend in the city felt overdue. Ordinary. A break from schedules and deployments and all the unspoken distance that had crept in over the years.
Normal. Human. Like something families were supposed to do.
Tara had found the event online.
“There’s a Saturday story hour at the Southeast Neighborhood Library,” she said, phone wedged between chin and shoulder as she folded laundry. “It’s perfect. Cozy, low-pressure. Dana can meet us there. Matthew will love it.”
Dana had arrived just before the reading started—meeting them out front with the practiced ease of someone who was always moving. She carried too many things: Maggie’s scarf, her coffee, and Matthew’s backup diaper bag all slung across one arm like it was nothing. Her hair was windblown. Her coat half-unzipped. But her eyes were sharp, scanning the street even as she handed the bag off to Tara.
“Sorry—forgot to bring this earlier,” she murmured with an almost sheepish smile. “My phone’s in the side pocket—I got a call on the way and just dropped everything in there.”
“No problem. We’re just about to go in. You can leave that bag in the car. I have the other,” Tara said. Dana placed the bag back in the front seat of her car, and they made their way into the library.
The children’s floor was bright and warm, full of sunlight and soft chaos. It smelled faintly of glue and crayon wax and the paper of a hundred well-loved books. Foam alphabet rugs blanketed the floor, and tiny chairs lined up in rows like polite little soldiers.
Bill had watched Dana—watched the way she moved, efficient but alert, always half-tuned to a different frequency.
He remembered her at twelve, curled up in an armchair reading late into the evening, utterly lost in her books, trusting the world enough to let it fade away. It struck him how long it had been since he'd seen her that unguarded.
She didn’t sit right away. She stood off to the side, eyes sweeping the space once, then again—pausing briefly on the exits, the other parents, the man behind the desk, the cluster of kids near the window. A quiet once-over. Not dramatic. But thorough.
He hadn’t said anything at the time. Didn’t want to poke the bear. But it stayed with him.
That she was always watching.
That she never really let her breath all the way out. Like her life existed in a half-inhale, always ready to pivot.
She used to lean into moments like this—he remembered that. Dana, before the Bureau, would’ve scooped Matthew into her lap, pointed out the pictures, whispered the rhymes along with him. Like she had with Charlie’s kids. But this version of her stayed standing. Coffee in hand. Shoulders just a little too square.
Like she was waiting for something.
Like she was ready.
And for the first time in a long time, Bill wondered if maybe she always was.
The families gathered around the circular rug. The reader was a local actress—enthusiastic, expressive, a blur of bright scarves and exaggerated voices that kept the children giggling.
Tara was right. Matthew loved the event. He clapped along gleefully, enchanted by the colors, the movement, the magic of it all. He sat crisscrossed on the rug, bouncing with every rhyme, eyes wide, thumb tucked into his mouth like punctuation.
About 15 minutes in, Matthew started to fuss. Tara whispered something about needing the pacifier and it not being in her bag. Dana reached toward the bag she’d had instinctively, then paused. “We left it in the car. It’s in the front pouch,” she said, fishing out her keys.
“I’ll get it,” Bill offered, already stepping toward the elevator. Just two minutes. Down the stairs, across the lot, grab the bag.
He never made it back in.
It happened fast. Too fast for his mind to catch up.
The scream cracked through the stairwell like a breaking bone.
Bill froze. The keys bit into his palm, sharp and sudden. His heart jackknifed in his chest.
Children’s voices—shouting, crying—followed by the unmistakable crack of something heavy hitting the ground. Then the sound that turned his blood to ice:
A single, sharp gunshot.
Bill dropped the bag and bolted.
The front doors were already locked. He could see it through the glass—people scrambling, ducking behind chairs and shelves. Mothers shielding their kids. A man shouting something, gesturing wildly. And Dana—calm, focused—ushering Maggie, Tara, and Matthew behind the reading desk.
Then the windows were blocked—paper, cardboard, something fast and chaotic—and the world outside went silent.
Bill staggered back, breath caught in his throat.
He yanked the phone from the bag with shaking hands. Not his. Dana’s. The screen lit up. First contact in the call list: Mulder.
He didn’t hesitate.
It rang once.
“Mulder.”
“It’s Bill. Bill Scully.”
A pause. “What’s wrong?”
“Story hour. Southeast Neighborhood Library. Dana’s inside—my wife, my son, our mother, too. Other families. A man’s got a gun. He fired a shot.”
“Jesus,” Mulder breathed. “Are you safe?”
“I got out. Dana sent me to the car. I think—God, it’s like she knew something was coming.”
“Is she armed?”
“No. She wasn’t working. She didn’t bring anything. But she—she was already moving when it started. Shielding our mother. My wife. The kids.”
Mulder was already moving. Bill could hear the engine start, tires screeching as the line shifted. “I’m on my way. You stay outside. Stay on the line with D.C. Metro if they arrive before me. I’m calling Skinner.”
Bill swallowed hard, knuckles white around the phone. “Just get them out. All of them.”
“I will,” Mulder said.
The line went dead.
Bill stood frozen beside the glass, heart pounding as the first sirens wailed in the distance.
And inside, his sister was already moving. Already calculating. Already doing what she’d always done—putting herself between danger and the people she loved.