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One is one

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"They're sending me to Quantico to teach." Her voice was dark and controlled. "I feel like I'm being sent to my room."

"At least you have a room." It was as close as he'd get to mentioning the burned-out space down in the basement. And it wasn't entirely fair; it had been hers, too, but she had a retreat that was hers, that fitted her, where she was respected, whereas he—

"Don't tell me they've got you transcribing wiretap tapes again." He didn't answer, and she sighed, and then touched his hand, just once, fingertips brushing his knuckles.

Later, when she was gone, he sat and tried to work, pored over possible evidence of insurance fraud and wondered about the meaning of life, tried to shut out the noise all around, to make a place in his own mind at least where he could concentrate on what would happen next.

"Agent Mulder." He looked up. "I've been assigned to work with you on the Frobisher case. Martin Hamilton."

This one was a strawberry blond with large blue eyes and a few freckles across the bridge of his nose. Wide smile, good teeth. He tried not to laugh, tried very hard not to laugh. What to do with this one: ignore, be rude to, pretend to be friendly? Ditch, bring along, take home and fuck silly like the last one?

No imagination, he thought, they have no imagination.

"I work alone."