Earlier this summer, I read your concept for a WWII-era AU fic, where Scully is a Frenchwoman who owns a cafe and is secretly a member of the Resistance, and Mulder is a disillusioned German soldier who spends all his free time in her cafe. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I did some research, outlined a story, and here’s the first chapter. It starts out slightly fluffy, but don’t be fooled; some real-life historical tragedies are incorporated later, so shit’s gonna get dark.
A note regarding names: I really wanted to keep each character’s name the same as it is in the show, even though Scully is not a French name, Mulder is not a German name, and so on. For most of them, I’ve managed to come up with an explanation for that character’s surname not matching their nationality, but for a few- namely Skinner and the two Spenders- I couldn’t come up with anything that felt organic. So please, I know Skinner’s not a German name, but go with me on this, okay?
Au Cafe Pequod, Chapter 1
ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE EARLY DECEMBER 1943
He has been coming to this tiny corner cafe every night for weeks, and every time he’s here, he notices something new about her.
At first, it’s superficial things, general things anyone would notice: the red of her hair, the way it constantly tries to escape the kerchief she often ties over it, her narrow waist with her apron cinched around it, her tiny size, the way she barely comes up to his shoulder in the low heels she wears to work.
Later, it’s smaller things: the intense blue of her eyes, the little mole above her lip, the girlish dusting of freckles across her nose, the thin brows that arch so expressively.
Now, after two weeks’ nightly observation, he’s begun cataloguing more minute details. She is markedly cool to the many German officers who frequent her cafe, but never rude, which is wise. Her business is surprisingly well-stocked with provisions, especially given the current food shortages that abound, so she must be a resourceful and savvy businesswoman. He’s well aware that many women throughout occupied France have reached “arrangements” with German officers in a desperate attempt to feed their families, but she does not appear to have resorted to such measures. He’s heard her addressed by locals as “Mademoiselle Scully,” which intrigues him, because Scully is not a French name.
And judging by the way her jaw clenches every time the soldiers dining in her cafe make crude remarks to one another regarding the lovely shape of her ass, he’s fairly certain she speaks quite a bit more German than she lets on.