Frances

April 2002

The coffee machine produced the usual horrendous noise as it filled the plastic cup to the brim with the caffeinated beverage that would save her brain for the day. Humming the "old brigade" song from Roisin Duhb that she had heard in the plane, Frances tried to focus her eyes. Damn jet lag getting the better of her! Still, it was better than being stuck in France working on maths and physics with her mother. Thank God that Interpol had extended to her the courtesy of finishing her internship with Mulder and Scully even if they operated from the States.

As they had picked her up from the airport, she had noticed the warmth in Mulder's eyes. The bond they shared was as strong as ever, even if now, they didn't get to see each other so much. And there was nothing like a little investigation in the states to spice up the Easter holidays. Her parents didn't even bother to protest since the plane ticket was paid by Interpol, they just had to drop her off at the airport and pray that she returned to them in one piece. Hopefully, they would never know all the near-death experiences she had had while investigating with Mulder and Scully. And she could still relate a few minor adventures when possible.

"When being just, a boy like you, I joined the old brigade….

Where was the lad, who stood with me, when history was made?

Oh gra mo croidhe, I long to see, the boys of the old brigade"

Frances loved singing, and this particular lore she enjoyed very much, albeit it took her a while to understand the blasted Irish accent. Not that it was ugly, a far cry from it. But being French, it bordered on being unintelligible. Carried away by her song, and half vanquished by the late hour, Frances failed to realise the very still figure that pondered on approaching her.

A few feet away, hidden by the darkness of the corridor, stood a very stunned Carlisle Cullen. His golden eyes, fixed on the young woman, could not have widened more. And no amount of warning from Alice – you will know, she had said this morning. You cannot fail to recognise her – could have prepared him for that, for seeing her again. For this woman had walked his memories for more than three hundred and fifty years. How could it be, here, now? Stunned, Carlisle's golden eyes roamed her silhouette avidly. Something felt off.

Her long hair fell in waves on her back, a sea of silky strands where warm brown seemed mixed with a dozen other chestnut shades. Carlisle frowned; his memory bothered by the lack of red in her colouring. She was so shockingly similar, but also much younger than the lady he remembered. Her scent, so familiar yet a vague remembrance of past days long gone, called forth many memories. He could clearly distinguish the strong and lively fragrance of her blood, like any other human, mixed with the discreete panel of scent that was purely her and could not be mistaken. For even if his eyes struggled to believe, the memory of her smell was carved in the very depths of his soul. It was her, and no other.

Her body lean, muscles efficient, her bearing as noble as the ladies of old, but her features kinder somehow. He knew, also, that she was selfless, daring and blunt. Yet so gentle, so moved by the plea of others. She was the same, and yet different. So young, only a teenager, but as grounded as his adopted children. As if, already, she had lived a thousand years.

The song that stumbled from her lips was an Irish lore from the war of independence. Her voice was low, but not enough that he couldn't pick her the words, and the lack of accent as she went through the chorus. The same song, over and over again…

The machine beeped, and Frances sighed.

— "Enfin !", she said, impatiently snatching the cup and wincing at the heat. (Finally!)

Turning around to join her colleagues in the morgue, she was startled to find a doctor in her path. No other than he could have shocked her into silence, for despite her young age, she had seen and lived more weird things than the average teenager. The man, though, was enough to stun her mind into oblivion. He was shockingly beautiful, inhumanly so, and the golden hue of his eyes did not help his case. Added to the fact that she had not heard him, nor seen him, Frances was suddenly very wary. His gaze, though, held much fondness, and she wondered if he knew her somehow. Something in her chest ached, as if her very life depended on him. The feeling was as unsettling as it was exhilarating. In this very moment, Frances felt like he could ask anything of her, and she would comply. But then, the doctor smiled, his features enlightened by the slight quirk of his perfect lips, and her knees buckled.

— "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

His voice was deep, and so rich that Frances felt like kneeling at his feet to beg for more attention, more words from him. Her hazel eyes couldn't detach from his fair features. He was so impossibly perfect like a statue carved in marble. So cold as well. The young lady gathered what was left of her sanity, shaking her head in an effort to get her bearings back. Something was very, very wrong. And since the strange man wouldn't relinquish his hold on her, Frances chose blunt honesty to untangle herself from his imperious gaze.

— "So … what are you?"

A pair of very shocked golden eyes stared at her, and the doctor eventually chuckled, the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.

— "Always so perceptive… Do you recognise me?"

— "Should I?" she shot back.

The doctor's shoulder sagged, as if an invisible weight had settled upon them. Frances frowned, aware that her answer wasn't the right one. But if her senses still screamed at her to step back, the disappointment in his eyes was enough to make her heart bleed. Had she met the man somewhere in Washington? Interpol? And what was he, really? An alien in disguise? A supernatural creature ready to crush her?

His voice, though, was so soft, like velvet on her ears.

— "Pardon me for my straightforwardness."

There were a few remnants of an accent in his words, and a touch of old-fashioned phrasing. His cryptic answer, though, was enough to deter her, and Frances' sense of danger kicked in. Her hazel eyes flickered to the exit, hoping that Mulder would eventually come and join her if she was missing for too long. There were no words to express her surprise when, seeing her unease, the doctor stepped out of her path.

— "Do not let me keep you from your investigation."

Frances fiddled with the brim of her cup, her eyes narrowed at the doctor as she struggled against the urge to launch herself in his arms. Damn him for being so tempting! Her instinct screamed, trying to restrain her silly brain that wanted more closeness. He was dangerous, dangerous like a predator could be. She could feel it in her bones now that she started to recover from his enchantment. His gaze did not blink as much as it should, his body so still, on the prowl, his eyes aware of her every moment, and maybe more. Could he hear the frantic beating of her heart, the blood rushing into her veins? Smell the adrenalin that started to flood her as she prepared to strike back?

Yet, he was willing to let her go. Was it a ruse to have her turn her back on him? For he knew, as much as she did, that he was no mere human. Was he waiting for her guard to be down to kill her? His eyes, though, conveyed so much warmth that it confused her even more. The young lady sidestepped him, intend on running to the morgue the minute she was out of his sight. But then, as she walked away, she heard his voice once more.

— "Your hair would look great in red."

Turning around in shock, Frances was stunned to find the corridor empty. Damn! How did he know that she had been considering a mahogany henna for months now? If the guy was a psychic or a mind reader, she was in a deeper pit that she initially thought! Frances couldn't wait to be away from this horrible town. Forks had a nice but debonair sherif named Charlie – that earned him brownie points at least – that had called the feds after finding a body in the woods, a body with not a drop of blood left and no apparent wounds. Perhaps she should have stayed home, and studied biology instead!

A few days followed where Mulder hunted around for some information on the Quileutes clan of La Push while Scully rambled about his obsessions with supernatural beings. All was well in the world for Frances; she was so used to their quarrels and the never-ending back and forth scientific arguments that if felt like the purring of a cat to her ears. Some kind of anchor in the crazy world they lived in.

Presently, Mulder was driving, arguing about the book he had found on the Quileutes legends and very intend on digging into them for an explanation on what they called the "cold ones", whatever they were. Scully, of course, rolled her eyes and tried to call him back to reality. Yet, she didn't have much to offer. Her autopsy had been unsettling, showing a body drained of his blood with puncture wounds on his arms. The word vampire was but a breath away; yet Mulder knew her enough not to push his conclusions … not at the moment anyway. Scully always needed some time to come to terms with whatever inexplicable things they stumbled upon.

Night was falling, painting the place in subdued colours. From the backseat, Frances watched the greyish sky turn darker. Forks was rainier that any place in America, a town she'd rather not live in on a daily basis. Without warning, Mulder slammed on the breaks, the tyres screeching in protests as the car stopped awkwardly on the side of the road.

— "What the …?"

The road was as deserted as the Sahara, a slight drizzle soaking it wet as dusk settled. But something was crossing, a human form running so fast that it seemed impossible.

— "There!" came Scully's strained voice.

Her head turning instantly to the woods, Frances watched as a human figure disappeared in the trees so swiftly that her eyes struggled to follow. Excited, Mulder sprang from his seat in pursuit.

— "Stay close!" he yelled at the two women behind him.

Scully rolled her eyes, but didn't comment on the necessity to launch themselves in the forest at night. Her instincts were as good as they come, and she turned to Frances.

— "Keep your gun at hand."

— "Noted."

Then she darted off to the woods, Frances close on her heels. The agent knew that her intern could hold her ground, and would not have trouble following her short legs. They'd been working for two and a half years together now, and she knew what extensive training Frances had been put through in Interpol. The teen was strangely resilient, and was now quite proficient in hand to hand combat and shooting. Needless to say, that Scully was less worried about her than about Mulder who had the terrible tendency to jump into troublesome situations. So she ran, following Mulder's muffled sounds as he climbed the hill with his long strides. Rain, dark and forest did not sit well with her, but in the end she settled her heart by remembering that they only tracked a human figure. A very sneaky, and very fast human. And that two pairs of hands would be better than one. Frances' presence on her heels was a welcome reinforcement.

The suspect led them on a merry chase, never once showing his face as the three agents followed. Very soon though, there was no trail to be found anymore. Fishing out his torch, Mulder puzzled over the disappearance of the suspect's tracks. It was as if the man had just vanished into thin air, or jumped into the trees and continued his mad dash like a squirrel. Scully's arrival interrupted his musings, and the agent lifted his eyes to her. Her auburn hair askew, her cheeks flushed and face coated in sweat and drizzle, he found her lovely. Silence descended upon them, and Scully frowned, her blue eyes widening slightly. The flash of concern reflected in Mulder's gaze as he pointed his flashlight behind her.

— "Where is Frances?"

— "She was right behind me!"

But the young woman was nowhere to be found, and darkness had settled. Fear pooled in the pit of Mulder's stomach. If something happened to her, he'd never forgive himself.