Five Times Mosely Drummy Wishes He'd Never Met Fox Mulder
by Amal Nahurriyeh

Email: amalnahurriyeh@gmail.com
Summary: The exsanguinated bodies were the easy part. It's 
the consultant who's the problem.
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13 (coarse language)
Timeline/Spoilers: Post-IWTB. Exists in the same universe 
as my stories The Keeping of Secrets and Whiteboard, but 
not necessary to have read them.
Disclaimer: Intellectual property is a capitalist fiction 
designed to oppress the working fic-writer.  That said, I 
don't own them either.

Author's Notes: Why, you might ask, should someone write 
fanfic about Special Agent Mosely Drummy? Well, because 
black characters get the shaft in XF canon, and fic is one 
of the ways we fix screwed-up canon; because he's a 
potentially interesting character, and is still alive 
within the universe, unlike a lot of folks; because the 
poor guy's name is MOSELY, which buys him my sympathy.

There may be further stories in this universe. We'll see.  
Many thanks to idella and wendelah1 for amazing and 
super-fast betas.

Oh, and I made a small bunch of Drummy icons, since I 
wasn't able to find any others. They're from anniemarie75's 
screen grab archive, and anyone can take them, alter them, 
whatever. My icon skills are of fail, but, well, it's 
something.


1.

Dakota's funeral was boring in a way that only white 
people's funerals can be boring. He's a terrible friend for 
thinking it, but he was, the whole way through. Her 
parents' understated crying, the priest's amazingly 
monotone voice, the organist having to talk everybody 
through all that Catholic stand-then-sit-then-stand-then-
kneel, the truly, truly terrible singing. She had come to 
his mother's funeral, two years back. Six months later, 
when they were both deeply drunk one night when they'd 
failed to catch a kidnapper in time, she had confided in 
him that she'd had too much fun at it to consider it a 
funeral at all. "Clapping, Mo," she'd said. "There was 
applause."

"The choir was doing percussion," he'd argued back.

"Applause," she had said, waving her double scotch around 
so the tiniest bit sloshed down her wrist. "I want people 
to clap at my funeral. And shout things. It was fantastic."

There was no applause, and no shouting. Michelle held his 
hand and he tried not to feel like it was his fault, like 
she'd died because he hadn't noticed that Russian fucker 
sneaking around with a head in a box. At the cemetery, he 
took time to look at all of the flower arrangements as he 
waited to say something pointless to her parents. Michelle 
ran a gloved finger over one bunch, some strange spiky 
orange things. "Birds of paradise," she said. "Why doesn't 
this one have a card?"

He stared at it for a while, and knew, deep in his gut, it 
was from Mulder. Him, he had no trouble blaming; if he'd 
just stayed with his fucking girlfriend and left the hell 
alone Dakota would have been in the office with him; she 
probably would have seen the Russian, too. The flowers are 
dusted with snow from the flurries settling around them. 
It's snowed too much this winter. It's weird. He hated 
weird. "How should I know?" he said, and dug his fingers 
deeper into his coat pocket.


2.

He didn't even let AD Skinner get the sentence out. "What 
use would he be?"

"Look, Agent Drummy," Skinner said, not unkindly. "You 
haven't made any progress on the case. The physical 
evidence isn't getting us anywhere and the profilers' can't 
make anything of the signature. I know that your situation 
is less than ideal--" 

Drummy snorted. Yeah, having your partner impaled on a 
spike tends to put a dent in your solve rate.

"But Mulder has experience working cases like this. We no 
longer have access to the X-Files themselves to check for a 
pattern, which means a consult is our only option. And, 
frankly, he was a damn good agent, and he was useful to you 
on the Bannon case." Skinner closed the file and slid it 
across the desk. "Call him in for a consult on the latest 
crime scene."

"How do we even know he's still there? He's got a passport 
now. For all we know he's decamped to Cuba or the middle of 
the Amazon or something." He took the file and stood to go.

Skinner smirked. "Because I had dinner with them last week. 
Trust me. He'll take your call." 

Drummy managed not to curse out loud until he was alone in 
the elevator. Back in his office, he stared at Dakota's 
desk for ten minutes before he picked up the phone. Was 
this how it was going to be? Poor Mosely on the third 
floor, he lost his partner, better get him some old-timer 
to help him out. Don't put him on important cases; after 
all, he was the one working that weird-ass case, the one 
they said might reopen the X-Files. Not like he solved it 
anyway. 

Once he'd gotten his bitter on to full strength, he picked 
up the phone and dialed. After the answering machine 
beeped, he said, as calmly as he could, "This is a message 
for Fox Mulder. This is Special Agent Mosely Drummy, trying 
to see if you're available for a consult on a serial murder 
case with ritualistic overtones in Virginia and North 
Carolina. You can reach me at 202--"

"Yeah, hey, I'm here," said a voice, and Mo hated him for 
not even granting him the dignity of just letting him leave 
a message.


3. 

Mulder had his hands in his pockets, his parka unzipped, 
his eyes focused on the ground. Why doesn't this fucker 
ever wear a hat? Mo thought, leaning against a tree twenty 
feet away. The snow had melted in a freak warm snap the 
week before, and Mulder was pacing around the crime scene, 
trying to glean any sort of detail that the forensic team 
had missed.

"Is that him?" Agent Rajagopalan said, coming up next to 
him with the results of her Starbucks run. 

"In action," Mo said, fishing his coffee out of the paper 
tray.

"I heard he caught a pedophile who escaped from custody 
once, because he figured the guy's address from his prison 
library records." She sipped her coffee and watched Mulder 
crouch next to where the body was found, fingers tracing 
through the leaves.

"Yeah? I heard he was the one who let him escape," Mo said, 
and walked over to the forensic van, where the photos were 
splayed out on the back hatch. "Matt, anything good?" 

"Exact same MO--the body placement, the series of cuts on 
the body, the repeated carving of the letter alpha into the 
palms of the hands," Matt said, tucking his hands into his 
armpits. "Christ, I wish I hadn't forgotten my gloves."

"That's why you need a husband, man, someone to put them in 
your pocket so you don't forget." Mo pushed through the 
photos, pulled up one of the body which showed the way the 
leaves were disturbed. There was something there, he just 
couldn't see it yet.

"So that's Spooky Mulder," Matt said, nodding towards 
Mulder, who had stood now and was walking towards the tree 
line. "You know, I've read the Propps monograph, but I 
never pictured him so...I don't know...rugged. Those BSU 
types, not the sharpest lookers in the Bureau, know what I 
mean?"

"I don't know, he seems psycho enough," Mo said. 

"All the best ones are," said Matt, with an actual touch of 
longing in his voice. 

Honestly, at this point Mo would rather talk to Mulder than 
hear anyone else talk about Mulder's awesomeness, so he 
went over to where Mulder was kicking up the leaves. 

Mulder looked up as he approaches. "Anything off the 
forensics?"

"Nothing conclusive, just that it's the same guy," Mo said. 
"What do you have?"

"Not much. Mostly I'm just trying to avoid hearing the word 
"spooky," Mulder said, and Mo almost felt bad for him for a 
minute. "There's something about the leaves near the body, 
did you see that?"

"Yeah, yeah I did," Mo said, and followed Mulder as he 
walked back over there. 

"I don't know. I'm going to need to see the whole file, but 
I think we can get something out of how he's transporting 
the bodies." Mulder kept staring at the ground, like it was 
going to just appear to him, like magic or something. 

Mo rolled his eyes. "What?"

"Nothing," Mulder said quietly. "It's just. I've gotten 
unused to looking for dead bodies everywhere I go. I guess 
you never lose the touch." He kicked the leaves again and 
looked up. "Look, bring me the full file the first chance 
you've got. I've got to head home. There's nothing more to 
see here." He walked off without saying goodbye, fumbling 
in his pocket for his cell phone. Mo watched him until he 
realized everyone else on the team was, and then pointedly 
looked somewhere else, just out of spite.


4.

He was pissed he drove all the way out here, pissed that 
he's three hours from DC and won't be home for dinner, 
pissed that he couldn't just fax this out (but no, the 
photos needed to come), pissed that he knew that Mulder was 
probably going to break the fucking case sitting in his 
little shack in the country. The gate was the last straw, 
and he seriously considered turning around and driving 
back. Sorry, Assistant Director Skinner, but I refuse to 
consult with survivalists.

Also, there's a sign that told him, fairly specifically, to 
go away.

But he rang the buzzer, and was a little surprised they let 
him through without interrogation. They must have a 
telescope on the gate or something. He pulled up behind a 
little white sedan that needed some serious paint work, 
climbed the rickety stairs, and knocked on the door. 
Honestly, he doesn't have the time to install a doorbell. 

Dr. Scully opened the door, cordless phone pressed to her 
ear. Her hair was in a messy braid, she was wearing scrubs, 
and she had on these little glasses balanced unevenly on 
her nose. There is no way a man as batshit insane as Fox 
Mulder should get to bang someone that good-looking, he 
thought uncharitably. She let loose a stream of 
incomprehensible German into the phone, and gestured him 
in. 

"Is Mulder--"

She held her finger to her lips and pointed towards a door 
on the other side of the room.

Mulder was putting things in a filing cabinet over by the 
window labelled "Scully's Area" with a crooked permanent 
marker sign stuck on with a magnet from Bermuda. "Agent 
Drummy." He gestured to a chair near the cluttered metal 
desk. "Sorry, I just wanted to get this last file away so I 
can focus." 

"What are you working on?" Mo asked, checking the chair for 
structural integrity before he sat in it. 

"Nothing I'm particularly interested in telling the federal 
government about, thanks," Mulder said, closing the cabinet 
and locking it. "You bring the file?"

He handed it over as Mulder settles in at his desk. 
"Skinner managed to get you full clearance."

"Yeah, he's useful like that." Mulder offered a bowl of 
sunflower seeds which Mo refused to acknowledge. "Is there 
new tox stuff on this latest victim?"

"It's all in there. And the photos. No one else has been 
able to see anything in the leaves."

"Doesn't mean it's not there." Mulder braced one booted 
foot against the edge of the desk and started to pick at 
seeds. Mo watched him, silently, as he flipped back and 
forth between different reports. There wasn't even a 
ticking clock, just the sound of the occasional honking 
goose, Scully's one-sided German conversation which he 
couldn't completely follow, and the shuffling of reports. 
The room doesn't have much to recommend it--just piles of 
paper pinned to the walls and covering every available 
surface. He doesn't even have a picture of himself with 
Scully in here, Mo realized, just that girl on the back of 
the door--the dead sister, maybe?--and a crappily lit 
polaroid propped up on the desk of Mulder holding a little 
newborn baby. Must be a nephew or something; neither of 
them have kids, their files said so. 

Scully appeared in the doorframe, phone held between cheek 
and chin, and rolled her eyes. Mulder waved her over, 
silently, and held out the tox screen. She said ja into the 
phone a bunch of times as she read it. He pointed to 
something. Not interesting, she mouthed. He pointed to 
something else. She shrugged, pointed to something further 
down the page, handed the report back, and wandered out, 
muttering nein this time.

"I don't think it's a body dump," Mulder said, holding up a 
crime scene photo. "I think he's killing them at the site." 

"But they're exsanguinated."

"I know that."

"And there's no blood at the scene."

"I know that."

"So it's impossible." 

Mulder put both feet on the floor again and leaned over the 
photos spread out on the desk. "He's collecting it. There 
are lots of occult reasons why he might be, or it could be 
garden-variety serial killer psycho logic of some sort. My 
guess is the latter, since I think if it were ritualized 
we'd be seeing more signs. I don't know, though, he could 
take the ritual elements away with him." He pushed the 
photos around, trying to find an order he liked. Mo 
repressed his desire to tell him to that they had an order 
before.

A soft knock on the doorframe. Scully was holding a 
whiteboard. She's wiped something out, and written DO YOU 
WANT TO GO TO GENEVA in red marker. "Sure," Mulder said out 
loud. 

"Ja, ich et funf andere," she said to whoever was on the 
other end. 

"Scully's winning the Nobel Prize or something," Mulder 
said, examining the photos.

The red marker hit Mulder in the head. Both men turned to 
look at her again. Written in bigger letters on the white 
board was DON'T EVEN JOKE ABOUT THAT MULDER. She shook the 
board emphatically. "Nein, vier Zimmer," she says, and 
stalks away.

"Or something," Mulder said, and turned back to the photos. 
"At least in Stockholm, there would be Swedish girls."

"My wife spent a year in Geneva in college," Mo said. "She 
made us go there on our honeymoon."

Mulder tilted his head noncommittally. "I suppose it has 
its charms."

Two hours later, he finally managed to pry enough coherent 
leads from Mulder to be able to leave. Mulder tried to get 
him to stay for dinner, but he declined as politely as 
possible as soon as it was clear that Mulder was the chef. 
He regretted it once he got out on the state road, driving 
through hill country that was not some place a black man, 
even with a gun and a badge, was advised to stop and nose 
around. He rumbled around through the bag with his notes in 
search of a protein bar, and stopped dead when he found a 
plastic bag he didn't recognize. He pulled it out. In the 
bag was a sandwich, with a post-it note saying YOU WERE 
HUNGRY, I KNOW THESE THINGS. The tuna salad with pickles on 
rye was actually pretty good, he decided as he ate and 
drove. But still, it was the principle of the matter; a man 
says he's not hungry, you don't sneak a sandwich in with 
his crime scene photos. 

Four weeks later, he got a postcard of Lake Geneva 
delivered to his office. There was a marker sketch of some 
sort of lake monster drawn in the back corner, and on the 
back was written WE CAN DREAM. M. Somehow, he couldn't 
bring himself to throw it out, and dropped it into the 
bottom of his least-opened desk drawer. 


5.

The deputy director shook his hand a tad too long. "An 
excellent solve, Agent Drummy," he said, in a voice that 
seemed to be intended mostly for all the upper management 
in the room. "You deserve this commendation."

"Just doing my job, sir," Mo said. Mostly, he's glad he 
would never have to think about blood transport tubing ever 
again. Hopefully.

"We all appreciate you bringing a killer to justice," the 
deputy director said, clapping him on the shoulder. By 
which he means, Mo thought, he appreciates that now the 
media will shut up about the FBI's incompetence until they 
are next proved incompetent. "And there was some 
fascinating detective work in there from you, Drummy. The 
hospital supply records in particular. I'm impressed with 
your creativity."

Mo wished for a minute he didn't have to say it. But it 
wouldn't be right, and he's too damn fair-minded to just 
let it pass. "We had a lot of assistance on the case. Other 
agents. There was a consultant who was particularly 
useful."

"I know we all are impressed by Agent Drummy's work," 
Skinner cut in. He gave Mo the death glare, and Mo 
wondered, not for the first time, exactly what Mulder did 
to make so many enemies upstairs. Given the quality of 
upstairs, he got the feeling it was something fairly 
badass. "Agent, I'll have a new assignment for you 
tomorrow."

Mo could recognize a dismissal when he heard one, so he 
took his commendation letter and got the hell out of the 
conference room. Back in his office, he put his feet up on 
his desk. Dakota used to yell at him for that. He looked 
over at her desk. Still empty; they hadn't managed to find 
him a partner yet, something about budget cuts. She had 
earned them a stack of commendations in the four years 
they'd worked together. It had all been her. She was the 
flashy one, the one given to bursts of inspiration, the one 
who followed weird hunches and ended up cracking the case. 
He was the follow-through guy, the one who made sure they 
got it done. 

Mo opened his desk drawer and put the commendation in. He'd 
take Michelle out for dinner tonight to celebrate, 
probably. He'd get a new partner next week or the week 
after, who would sit at Dakota's desk, and he'd have to 
have the insight from now on. And upstairs might have their 
heads up their asses, but, as much as Mo hated it, right 
was right. He picked up the phone and called Mulder.

The machine beeped. "Mr. Mulder, this is Mosely Drummy. I'm 
calling to let you know that we've caught the suspect in 
the case."

A fumble as Mulder picked up the phone. "Drummy? Hey, 
that's great news. Congratulations."

"I couldn't have done it without your assistance. Everyone 
here appreciates the work you put in."

"That's bullshit, but thank you," Mulder said, sounding 
amused. "Well, I mean, feel free to give me a call the next 
time there's something freaky going down at the FBI. My 
dance card is pretty open."

Mo thought of the cabinet of files. "Seems like you have a 
lot of projects going on. Anything interesting?"

"Well, that depends. Do you believe in the existence of 
extraterrestrials?"

And Mo regretted that he ever met Fox Mulder, because he 
was pretty sure this was going to get complicated.