“So how does someone go about catching a killer who hides inside an innocent man?”
Scully takes a moment to collect her thoughts before responding. While the explanation Monica is positing does not precisely match something they’ve seen before, neither is it so wholly without precedent that she can discount it entirely.
Have they ever encountered a person so haunted by their sins that they physically manifested an alternate personality? No. Does she believe Fassl is some sort of shapeshifting alien bounty hunter or that he can cloud minds like Modell could, making people see things that aren’t there? Also no. (Besides, even Modell couldn’t fool security cameras.)
But she also remembers Eddie Van Blundht.
True, they were never able to fully explain his physiology or figure out the mechanism behind his ability to physically alter his appearance so completely. Further, given Fassl’s reaction to the security camera photo, if indeed he is transforming himself into this murderous other personality, she does not get the impression that he is doing it voluntarily or consciously. However, the fact remains that a physical transformation of this nature is possible, no matter how unlikely or inexplicable.
She cannot recall if Van Blundt’s file was one of the ones restored after their office was set ablaze, and explaining the whole thing to Agent Doggett right now is neither necessary nor likely to help much; the man is exhausted and at the end of his rope. She decides to keep things simple, at least for the time being.
“Well,” she says at last, “logically, if Fassl and this bearded man truly are one in the same person, then it stands to reason that we’ll only catch the killer by monitoring Fassl and waiting for the other man to… come out of hiding, as it were.”
“C’mon, Agent Scully, you can’t possibly–”
“Alternatively,” Scully cuts him off, “if this man is working with Fassl, or was working with him 13 years ago, if he somehow got into and out of the prison undetected and committed the murder there, then it also stands to reason that he might try to reconnect with Fassl again now. By surveilling Fassl, we have a chance to apprehend the killer when he tries to make contact.”
Doggett heaves a sigh, leaning forward and resting his hands on the table. Monica reaches across to place one of her hands on his.
“It’s a lead,” she says gently. “Whether or not we believe the same thing about what is happening here, surveillance is the only thing that will get us any answers.”
“Except there’s no way in hell anyone’s going to give us authorization for that. Especially not after what Duke did.”
Scully feels for him. The bitterness in his voice and the betrayal on his face leave no doubt that he is still reeling over the egregious actions of his former partner.
“So we wait until it’s dark,” Monica counters. “Jana Fain may well cry foul if we follow her home now, but she might not notice a car parked across the street from her house at night.”
Doggett shakes his head, standing up straight again. “You’re outta your damn mind if you think I’m gonna step even one toe out of line on this. I’m not Duke. We do this by the book all the way, you got that?”
“There’s nothing illegal about sitting in a parked car, John–” Monica starts, but Scully holds up a hand.
“I think I might be able to convince the DA that Fassl is still a person of interest in ADA Kailer’s disappearance,” she says. “Pressure from his office should be enough to get us the okay from the NYPD.”
***
In the end, it does take several more hours to get all of the relevant parties on board, but authorization for surveillance is eventually granted. It’s fully dark outside as John all but sprints to the car the moment they’re given the okay, and Monica hurries after him. The tension radiating off of him as they drive to Jana Fain’s house is palpable, but so is the undercurrent of complete and utter exhaustion.
For her part, Monica is hopeful that this all might finally be nearly at an end. She has no doubt that Fassl’s alter-ego is responsible for the ADA’s disappearance, which means that whatever measure of control Fassl maintained while in prison has clearly evaporated upon his release. If they can catch his transformation here tonight, then this can all be put to rest, and her partner can finally put this case behind him once and for all.
“I’ll take the next couple hours. You should get some shut-eye.”
Dr. Preijers: In these situations time is always of the essence. There is a woman in Minnesota who can be saved by your friend's heart. In a real sense, she will live on.
Doggett looks like he's been punched in the solar plexus, like he cannot remember how to breathe. How many times has Scully worn that same expression on her own face? She watches him sway slightly, nearly reaches out a hand to steady him, but he blinks, coming back to himself.
"No," he finally says, taking a step backward and shaking his head. "I'm not signing off on any of that. Not when you've barely even tried to figure out why she's in this condition or whether it's temporary or…"
"Brain death isn't something one can come back from, I'm afraid," Dr. Preijers says gently. "With something like a coma or a persistent vegetative state, we would still see some measurable activity in the brain, and while that alone is no guarantee that the condition might be reversible, it would at least remain a possibility. However, this is not the case with your partner.”
“Well what if there’s something wrong with your equipment?” Doggett presses. “Maybe there’s activity there that it’s just not picking up. Wouldn’t that change the diagnosis?”
“Agent Doggett, I assure you that these monitors are all calibrated on a regular basis and are in perfect working order.”
“And in any case,” Scully interjects, in an attempt to both lend support to Dr. Preijers and also ease Doggett’s mind that nothing was missed, “a diagnosis of this type is usually confirmed by additional imaging scans and consultation with a neurologist.”
“In a less clear-cut case, perhaps,” the doctor counters, bristling slightly, “but that isn’t necessary in this instance. I am more than capable of determining whether there is or is not anything visible on an EEG.”
Scully frowns. “I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. It’s just usually a matter of hospital policy, at least in my experience.”
“Yes, well… at this hospital, that sort of thing is left to the discretion of the attending physician." There is a bitterness to his voice as he adds, "We don't have the luxury of funding for unnecessary procedures here."
"But, surely, when making a decision to discontinue life support, it would be prudent to base that decision on more than just one diagnostic measure." Scully keeps her tone carefully neutral, lest she offend him further.
To be fair, she doesn't disagree with his assessment, and she is not unsympathetic to his concern over the time-sensitive nature of a potential transplant situation. But she also cannot imagine making a call of this magnitude without corroboration, and it strikes her as more than a little odd that any hospital administration would be more worried about procedure cost than about shielding themselves from any sort of malpractice claim.
Doctor Preijers visibly schools his features into the expression Scully recognizes as "humoring the patient's family so they will quit causing a scene."
"If it will make you feel better, I can order a head CT for Ms. Reyes," he says with artificial blandness. "But just so we are completely clear, the results of the scan have no potential to contradict the diagnosis. The only thing they might be able to do is illustrate whatever internal trauma could be the cause."
"Do it," Doggett says, and Doctor Preijers nods.
"I'll go and make the arrangements."
As soon as the doctor is out of the room, Doggett pulls a chair to Monica's bedside and sits, picking up her hand. Scully looks away, feeling like an intruder. She flips through Monica's chart again, though she's read it all a dozen times already. But it gives her somewhere else to look than at the intensely private, yet intensely familiar scene playing out on the other side of the room.
After a few quiet minutes, Doggett clears his throat. Scully glances up to see him wiping his eyes.
"So, a head CT. That's a CAT scan, right?"
"Yes. It uses x-rays to build a series of images of the brain.”
"And that'll show us why she's like this?"
"It might. If there's been a stroke or internal swelling, that could be visible on the scan." She pauses, closing the chart and meeting her former partner's eyes. "But you heard Dr. Preijers. Even if it does give us some answers as to the why, it still won't change anything. Brain death is not reversible, no matter the cause."
“How can you stand there and tell me there’s no hope when you yourself have been right where she is now? Lying in a hospital bed, the doctors telling your family, telling Mulder, that all the medical evidence pointed to you being a goner, but they were wrong. And Jesus, Mulder, Mulder. Everyone was so sure he was dead we buried him, for God’s sake! And you know how that turned out.”
Scully recognizes the look in Doggett’s eyes – the all-too-familiar look of a person desperate to believe they can avoid the loss inexorably bearing down on them – and her heart breaks even more for him.
“John…”
“And don’t tell me this is different! Just because the circumstances aren’t perfectly identical, that doesn’t mean she hasn’t got a chance. It doesn’t mean there’s not something here we’re missing.”
But it is different. Monica wasn't taken. She didn't just appear in the hospital like Scully had, and she wasn't dropped off in a field by a UFO. She was in a car accident. A tragedy for certain, but a perfectly ordinary, utterly non-paranormal one. And there is nothing that any of them can do to escape that fact.
"John," she tries again, "I'm sorry. I truly am. I wish there were something that her doctors and I are missing, but--"
"How can you know for certain that there's not? How can you possibly know that?"
She sighs. There isn't a single thing she could say right now that would convince him.
"Until someone can explain to me, in detail, how she can be brain dead without any physical signs of trauma to the head, no indications on any of her scans that there is an identifiable reason for her condition, I'm not letting anyone pull any plugs or cut her up."
“Listen carefully, Agent Scully. You want to see your son? You come alone, and you follow my instructions to the letter.”
Scully’s pulse pounds in her ears, and the room seems to sway around her. William is alive.
“Go immediately to the airport. There is a flight leaving Dulles for Calgary in two hours, and if you want to see your son, you will be on it. When you have landed in Canada, I will call again with further instructions.”
“Wait, Calgary? Who is this, how do I know–”
There is a rustling sound, and then, faintly, she can hear a baby crying. Her heart leaps into her throat.
“You bastard! If you hurt him, I swear to God…”
“He is safe here with us. We will not let any harm come to him. You have my word on that. But unless you do exactly as I say, we will hide him so thoroughly that the next time you see him, he will have grown up without you, and you will be strangers to one another.”
A tear slips down her cheek, and she brushes it angrily away. A thousand curses stick in her throat.
“The clock is ticking, agent.”
The man hangs up before she can say anything more.
Scully only barely resists the urge to hurl her phone against the wall in frustration. She nearly jumps out of her skin when a hand touches her shoulder; she’d forgotten Reyes and Doggett were there in the room with her.
“I have to go,” she says tightly.
“No, Agent Scully, please listen to me.” Doggett strains to sit up. “You can’t–”
“Trust them. I know.” She turns to Monica. “That’s why I need you to go back to my apartment and get the Gunmen. Tell them to bring whatever equipment they need to track a vehicle, and then get to Dulles as fast as you can. The man on the phone said the flight leaves in two hours, so we have to hurry. I’ll call you with the flight details once I get to the airport.”
Monica nods. “I’m on it,” she says, giving Doggett’s hand a last squeeze and hurrying from the room.
Scully starts to follow, but Doggett reaches for her.
“Damn it, wait,” he says. “How do you know you’re not being led on a wild goose chase? Or worse, right into a trap?”
“I don’t,” Scully admits. “But Agent Comer crashed at the Canadian border, and this man on the phone said to go to Calgary. And I heard…” Her throat tightens, and the rest of the sentence comes out as a whisper. “They have him, John. And this may be my last chance to get him back.”
Doggett’s mouth tightens, but he nods. “Just be careful. Watch your back, and don’t let your guard down for a second.”
“Listen carefully, Agent Scully. You want to see your son? You come alone, and you follow my instructions to the letter.”
Scully’s pulse pounds in her ears, and the room seems to sway around her. William is alive.
“Go immediately to the airport. There is a flight leaving Dulles for Calgary in two hours, and if you want to see your son, you will be on it. When you have landed in Canada, I will call again with further instructions.”
“Wait, Calgary? Who is this, how do I know--”
There is a rustling sound, and then, faintly, she can hear a baby crying. Her heart leaps into her throat.
“You bastard! If you hurt him, I swear to God…”
“He is safe here with us. We will not let any harm come to him. You have my word on that. But unless you do exactly as I say, we will hide him so thoroughly that the next time you see him, he will have grown up without you, and you will be strangers to one another.”
A tear slips down her cheek, and she brushes it angrily away. A thousand curses stick in her throat.
“The clock is ticking, agent.”
The man hangs up before she can say anything more.
Scully only barely resists the urge to hurl her phone against the wall in frustration. She nearly jumps out of her skin when a hand touches her shoulder; she'd forgotten Reyes and Doggett were there in the room with her.
"I have to go," she says tightly.
"No, Agent Scully, please listen to me.” Doggett strains to sit up. “You can’t--”
“Trust them. I know.” She turns to Monica. “That’s why I need you to go back to my apartment and get the Gunmen. Tell them to bring whatever equipment they need to track a vehicle, and then get to Dulles as fast as you can. The man on the phone said the flight leaves in two hours, so we have to hurry. I’ll call you with the flight details once I get to the airport.”
Monica nods. “I’m on it,” she says, giving Doggett’s hand a last squeeze and hurrying from the room.
Scully starts to follow, but Doggett reaches for her.
“Damn it, wait,” he says. “How do you know you’re not being led on a wild goose chase? Or worse, right into a trap?”
“I don’t,” Scully admits. “But Agent Comer crashed at the Canadian border, and this man on the phone said to go to Calgary. And I heard...” Her throat tightens, and the rest of the sentence comes out as a whisper. “They have him, John. And this may be my last chance to get him back.”
Doggett’s mouth tightens, but he nods. “Just be careful. Watch your back, and don’t let your guard down for a second.”
“I won’t,” she promises.
***
With their van totaled, and given the possibility that they might be needed at a moment’s notice to help with the search for William, the Lone Gunmen have spent the past few days camped out in Agent Scully’s living room. Her apartment is, without question, far nicer than their place, but Byers knows he is not the only one starting to feel restless and ready to get home. Langly’s been increasingly unable to sit still, not-so-subtly rubbing his back and cracking his neck and grumbling under his breath about how dining room chairs have no lumbar support. And though Frohike would never in a million years admit it, he hasn’t relaxed for more than a moment since they got here, and Byers is pretty sure he’s barely slept.
For his part, Byers is sick of feeling useless; when push comes to shove, no matter how many years he’s spent with Frohike and Langly, his hacking skills still can’t hold a candle to theirs. Sure, he takes point when it comes to research, and he can dig through a database like no one’s business, but they’ve had so little to go on with this that it’s just felt like he’s spinning his wheels.
All three of them jump when Scully’s phone rings.
Byers gets up to go answer it, but Frohike hisses, “Are you nuts?”
“It might be Agent Scully,” Byers says, eyebrows raised.
Frohike picks up his cell phone from the table in front of him and waves it. “Hello. If it were Scully calling, then this would be ringing instead.”
“It’s probably just a telemarketer,” Langly says with a shrug, turning back to his laptop screen.
The answering machine clicks on, and it is definitely not a telemarketer who speaks next.
“Guys, this is Monica Reyes. Pick up the phone. Now!”
Byers scrambles to the phone and picks it up. “Agent Reyes? What’s wrong, is Agent Scully hurt?”
“She’s fine, but listen. I’m on my way to get you three. Pack up whatever you gear need for tracking a vehicle and meet me out in front of the building in five minutes. Oh, and make sure you’ve got IDs as well. We’re going to the airport.”
“The air--?”
“Look, I’ll explain when I get there. We may have a lead on William, but we have to hurry. We can’t let them get away again.”
“We’ll be ready,” Byers says firmly and hangs up the phone, then turns around to the other two. “Please tell me there was a GPS transponder in with the stuff from the van when we cleared it out.”
“Agent Reyes said they may have a lead on William, but we have to leave now, and we’ll need to be able to track a vehicle. She’ll be here in five minutes to pick us up.”
“Well what are we waiting for?” Frohike stands and pushes his chair back so fast it almost tips over. “Let’s get that kid back.”
***
Josepho’s phone trills in his pocket a little after 2:00 am.
Right on time.
“Do you have eyes on her?” he asks without preamble. “And is she alone?”
“I’ve been watching her since she got off the plane,” the man he’d sent to the airport to shadow Agent Scully tells him. “She hasn’t spoken to anyone, just paced back and forth with her phone in her hand.”
“Good.”
He hangs up, then redials the number given to him by his supersoldier contact within the FBI. Agent Scully answers immediately.
“Where are you? I assume you’ve been watching me, so you know I’ve done as you asked. Now where is my son?”
“Patience, Agent Scully. You must think me a fool if you imagine I would come to the airport myself. We will meet somewhere more private. There is a truck stop west of the city off Highway 1. It is the only thing open at this hour, so you will know it when you see it. Go inside, and wait for me there.”
He hangs up without giving her a chance to respond, then puts his phone back in his pocket and turns around, walking over to where the boy sleeps peacefully in Angela’s arms. Careful not to wake him, he brushes gentle fingertips across the baby’s brow. It’s incredible, what the future holds for this child. His own mother may not be able to understand or believe it, but Josepho will make her see reason. God has assured him that all will go according to His grand plan, as long as Josepho remains faithful and overcomes the few remaining obstacles blocking the way.
***
“A woman with dark hair will come here in a few minutes, and I need you to give this to her,” Scully tells the man at the Lariat counter, handing him a note in exchange for the rental car keys he’s just given her. “Her name is Monica.”
He looks momentarily puzzled but takes the note from her with a smile. “Will do.”
Scully doesn’t make eye contact as she stalks past Monica and the boys, who are seated near the door. She and Reyes worked it out on the plane, in a brief, hushed conversation by the lavatory.
Scully is under no illusions that this UFO cult will let her simply walk away with William, not if they believe him to be some sort of messiah. She has no idea why they have offered to let her see him, unless they somehow think they can persuade her to join their cause. There will likely be a threat made, a gun held on her under a table as they take William away again.
But they won’t know about her backup, and they won’t know that she will be ready to track them right back to wherever they have been hiding.
“Frohike! Thank God you’re there. I need… I need your help. You’re the only ones I can trust.”
Frohike straightens in his chair. Truth be told, more than a few of his fantasies starring one Dana Katherine Scully begin with her saying something very similar to this.
But in none of them does she ever sound this scared.
“What’s going on, Scully? Are you hurt? Is Mulder… Did something happen?”
“It’s William,” she says, her voice cracking. “A man tried to kill him yesterday, and now--”
“Wait, what?”
“Look, I’ll explain it all later but right now I need to get him somewhere safe. You guys helped Mulder hide, and now I need you to do the same for William. Just for a little while. Just until I can figure out why they want to hurt him.”
Frohike has about a thousand more questions, but he closes his mouth around them and nods. “We can be there in twenty minutes.”
“Not here,” Scully says quickly. “I’ll meet you, um… you know the pizza place on the waterfront?”
It’s a code, established shortly after Mulder went off the grid. They set up a number of pre-arranged drop sites just in case Mulder needed fresh fake identification documents or something like that. Each location is coded as a different type of restaurant, and the “pizza place” happens to actually be a dry cleaner in Adams Morgan.
“Yeah, I know the one,” he says.
“I’ll meet you in the alley behind the restaurant.”
“We’ll be there.”
Byers and Langly have both stopped what they were doing and are looking at him with worried expressions when he hangs up the phone.
“I don’t have a lot of details,” he says, pushing back his chair and standing, “but Scully needs us to take William somewhere safe. I don’t know for how long, but we’d better plan for at least a few days.”
“Wait, William? As in baby William?” Langly asks, his eyes wide.
“No, her jackass brother Bill,” Frohike deadpans. “Of course baby William. Someone’s after him. She said a man tried to kill him yesterday. That’s all I know,” he adds, holding up a hand to forestall the shocked outbursts he knows are about to come from the other two, “but I say that’s all we need to know, right? So let’s move! Grab half a dozen burners and the go bags. I’ll throw some food and water into the cooler and meet you out at the van.”
“You ever visited Novi before?”
“No, I never have.”
Monica can feel Van Allen’s gaze on her back as she continues toward the car. It’s unsettling, but she resists the urge to look back over her shoulder; she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing that he’s unnerved her.
It’s not clear what exactly his deal is. Certainly he wouldn’t be the first small town detective with a chip on his shoulder about the FBI coming around to ask questions. Nor would he be the first man she’s encountered who thinks women don’t belong in law enforcement. But it feels like something more than that; the energy coming off him is dark and almost predatory. Monica learned long ago not to ignore those energies and impressions, even (or perhaps especially) when they are at odds with the way things appear on the outside.
When she rounds the front of the car and reaches for the driver’s side door, she lets herself look up again. Van Allen is still watching her, but to her relief, John exits the church just then, and the detective turns toward him instead.
“What’d I tell you?” he says. “Waste of time.”
John glances across the driveway at Monica before responding. “A man was murdered, Detective. Now he might not have been a Boy Scout, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do what we can to find his killer.”
“Funny. I would’ve thought the FBI had bigger things to worry about than why some low-life nobody got himself killed. You must be real busy if you go chasing after every little thing that comes your way.”
The sneer in Van Allen’s voice gives Monica a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Victor Potts didn’t just piss somebody off in a bar fight and end up shot,” John says. “Even you have to admit the way he died was pretty unusual. I haven’t seen something like that since I was working a lot of gang cases, and I wouldn’t think you get a lot of that kinda activity out here in Novi.”
Van Allen shrugs. “A little here and there. This isn’t exactly South Central. But it doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots and figure out Potts probably made himself some enemies in prison. You drove here from D.C. yourself, Agent Doggett. You know the city’s not all that far away.”
It’s not lost on Monica that this is, essentially, the very same argument John made last night. She’s grateful, then, that he doesn’t simply agree with the detective now.
“Maybe so,” he says. “Maybe there’s something else goin’ on. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not close a case based solely on an assumption of the facts.”
Instead of answering, Van Allen turns his head to look right at Monica, sending another chill down her spine. “Well, it looks like your partner is waiting for you, Agent Doggett. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your important work.”
Monica breaks eye contact, not even caring in that moment if it makes her look weak; she can’t bear another second locked eye-to-eye with him. She opens the car door, sits down inside, and puts the key in the ignition, not looking up again until John gets in the car.
***
Doggett reaches for his seatbelt as Monica starts the car.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
“For what?”
“I know you think Van Allen’s right, that Victor Potts probably just got on someone’s bad side, maybe while he was in prison. But I appreciate that you’re willing to see the case through anyway.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Since when do you need to thank me for doing my job? Now I might not understand what it is about this particular case that’s got you all tied up in knots, but I meant what I said to Lisa Holland in there, that there’s justice to be served. Regardless of whether or not he’s right, Detective Van Allen clearly hasn’t done his due diligence, and you know that sort of thing is never gonna sit well with me.”
She looks over at him, smiling, before turning her attention back to the road. “And that’s one of the reasons you’re not just a good agent, but a good man, too.”
“Well, no need to act all surprised,” he says, and she laughs.
He has to admit, though, that he’s still puzzled as to why they’re on this case at all. Lisa Holland said that Monica contacted her about it, not the other way around, as Doggett had assumed.
“Tell me something,” he says. “If Lisa Holland wasn’t the one who contacted you about this case, how did you find out about it?”
He sees her shoulders tense. “I… I read about it.”
“What, over the wire?” he asks, frowning. “Talk about a needle in a haystack. Were you looking for something in particular or what?”
“No, it’s more like… this case found me.”
He waits for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t say anything more. She gets like this sometimes, clearly holding something back, but he knows it’s not because she’s trying to keep the upper hand or keep him in the dark about something important.
No, when she gets like this, it’s because she’s afraid of looking foolish.
Doggett can’t honestly say he buys a lot of the stuff that she talks about, feeling “energies” and that sort of thing. But he knows Monica is a good agent. She’s smart and cares a hell of a lot more than most people. So it doesn’t matter, most of the time, if she wants to believe in auras or ghosts or whatever. More often than not, they end up on the same page by the time a case is closed, even if they don’t agree on how exactly they got there. No matter how this case ended up on her radar, it’s here now, and he’ll see it through.
Would’ve been nice if she could’ve waited until morning to bring him in on it, though. He stifles a yawn.
“Well, where do you want to go next with this? Back to the office to run backgrounds, or is there anything else in Novi you think we should check out first?”
“I think backgrounds are the logical next step, yes,” Monica says, nodding. “We need to know more about Potts’s connections, in prison and otherwise. I’ve also asked Dana to look for any cases with a similar M.O. or cause of death.”
“You think there’s a chance we’re looking for someone who’s done this before and was never caught?”
She’s quiet a moment, then says, “I think it would take a certain type of person to do something like this. Not just the cruelty of it, but the precision. This is someone who has either done this before, or they’ve been planning for a long time, maybe after they saw someone else do the same thing.”
The precision, Doggett has to admit, is the one thing that has given him pause. Sure, he’s seen skinnings before, but they’ve generally been rushed, sloppy, and more often than not, inflicted after death. Whoever killed Victor Potts was skilled, and patient, more interested in prolonging the victim’s torture than just leaving a threat to some rival gang.
“Yeah, you may be right,” he says. “Last thing we’d want is for this to be someone just getting started.”
He sees a shiver go through Monica. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” she says quietly.
***
Background checks are tedious even under the best circumstances, but by early afternoon, Monica can see that the tedium combined with the lack of sleep is really taking a toll on John. His eyes keep drifting closed, and he’s had the file on his desk open to the same page for the last fifteen minutes.
As much as she hates to admit it, they aren’t making much progress. Even sustained as she has been by caffeine, adrenaline, and nicotine gum, Monica knows that the sleepless night is starting to catch up with her, too. She wants to solve this case -- needs to solve it -- but sheer force of will is only going to get her so far.
“Okay,” she says, clicking ‘print’ on the document she’d been reading, a report about potential instances of death premonitions. “I think we’ve hit a point of diminishing returns here. I say we take some work home with us and call it a day.”
John looks up. “You go on ahead. Truth be told, I don’t think I’m in any shape to get behind the wheel of my truck right now. I’ll grab a nap here and head home a little later.”
Guilt hits her then. If he’s willing to freely admit that he’s too tired to drive safely, he must be completely exhausted. And it’s her fault. This case is important, yes, but did she really need to haul him out of bed in the middle of the night to come look at Victor Potts’s body, or could it have waited until morning? It had felt critical and urgent in the moment, but now she’s not so sure.
“You know what? I have a better idea. Come with me. My apartment is all of ten minutes away, and my couch is way more comfortable than the floor in here.”
“It’s fine, really, I just need--”
“Please, John. I owe you. Let me buy you dinner to make up for dragging you out of bed in the middle of the night. After we’ve both had some rest, I’ll get something delivered.”
He opens his mouth like he’s about to argue more, then pauses. “Yeah, all right. Gotta admit, that sounds pretty good to me.”
Skinner: Sir, Agent Reyes is still in San Antonio. She was raised in Mexico. She could offer the Federal Police some on-site help.
Kersh: She can help them all she wants. But from this side of the border.
“Sir, with all due respect, that’s not--”
“My decision on this matter is final,” Kersh says, Skinner’s jaw clenches even tighter. “There is nothing Agent Reyes could do in Mexico that she cannot do from Texas. The field office in San Antonio has telephones, and they have fax machines, as do, I am certain, the offices of the Federal Police. Agent Reyes is free to avail herself of these tools until such time as we have concrete information about Agent Doggett’s exact whereabouts and condition. When that happens, I will decide on the next course of action. Is that understood?”
Skinner shakes his head, disgusted. Everything about this is wrong, but he knows that continuing to argue with the Deputy Director will get them nowhere. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. That will be all, then.”
As soon as they are in the hallway with the door closed behind them, Skinner says, “I’m going to get a cup of coffee. Can I bring you back anything, Agent Scully?”
“I could use some air,” Scully replies. “I’ll come with you.”
It shouldn’t have to be like this; they shouldn’t have to worry about being watched and listened to at every moment inside the Hoover Building, but that is unfortunately a very real concern. If they don’t want whatever they’re discussing to get back to Kersh, they will have to take it outside.
And what he has to say to Scully now definitely qualifies.
The traffic on Pennsylvania is light at this time of day, but it still provides enough cover to keep his words from carrying. “If this were any other division, the FBI would not just sit back and watch while another agency handles the disappearance of one of our own. Jurisdiction or no, the idea that we shouldn’t send someone down there to liaise in person is asinine.”
“You think that’s why Kersh is shutting down the task force? Because this started as an X-File?”
“I think if it were up to him, there never even would have been a task force in the first place. Agent Doggett crossing the border into Mexico just gives him an excuse to disband it.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” Scully says. “Agent Reyes said they determined fairly quickly that there was no reasonable indication of paranormal involvement. The only reason Agent Doggett went to Texas in the first place was to follow up on the victim’s potential connection to organized crime.”
“And Kersh has said he thinks they should have handed the case over to the CID at that point. He’s pissed Doggett went to Texas and even more pissed he carried on into Mexico without authorization.”
“So this is, what, punishment for insubordination?”
“It’s wrong. And I’m not going to let it happen. Not on my watch.”
When he lost Mulder in Oregon, there had been nothing Skinner could do. But this is different. Doggett isn’t aboard some ship. It is going to take hard work and dedicated investigation to find him, but he can be found. Skinner is sure of it. And he’ll be damned if he is going to sit idly by and count on the Mexican Federal Police to treat this case like the priority it needs to be.
“So what do we do?” Scully asks.
“If you can, I think you should join Agent Reyes in San Antonio. She’ll need all the help she can get if Kersh is recalling the task force.”
Scully nods, slowly. “My mom can watch William for a night or two. What are you going to do?”
“Kersh may have ordered Agent Reyes to remain in Texas, but he can’t stop me from getting on a plane to Mexico City,” Skinner says. “Particularly if I don’t tell him,” he adds, dryly.
It’s a long way from Laredo, where Doggett crossed the border, but Skinner figures he will have better luck leaning on the right people if he goes straight to the PF headquarters.
“I’ll keep you updated on anything I’m able to find out, and you and Agent Reyes do the same. Kersh claims he wants Doggett found, well, this is how that’s going to happen. Not sitting around and waiting.”
“I agree.” Scully looks down at her watch and stops walking. “Okay, I’ll run home and tend to a few things, but I should be able to get to the airport by noon. I’ll be in touch once I’ve landed in Texas.”
“Good. I’m going straight to DCA now, so with any luck, I may already be in Mexico by the time you get to San Antonio.”
Skinner heads for the curb to try and flag down a taxi.
“Sir?” Scully calls after him. When he looks back, she says, “We’re going to find him.”
For the hundredth time in the last 18 hours, Gibson wonders why he agreed to this.
The train is busy and loud in a way he hasn’t had to deal with for a long time. Living for months crammed in a tiny trailer with Mulder’s noisy mind was nothing compared to this. Dozens of people in close proximity, only a handful of them asleep, all drowning each other out and making it nearly impossible to listen for threats. He finds himself trembling with the effort.
“I’m fine,” he says through clenched teeth. “Just got used to the quiet.”
“Only a few more hours,” Mulder murmurs aloud, and Gibson nods.
A picture flares to life in Mulder’s mind, something Gibson has seen there before but Mulder’s never spoken about. Gibson doesn’t know if he’s remembering a nightmare or something that actually happened; it feels like the latter, but that’s impossible.
Mulder catches Gibson frowning at him and shrugs, sighing. “Sorry. I know it’s not the same, and I’m not suggesting I know exactly what you’re going through. I just can’t help remembering how it felt.”
“How what felt?”
Now Mulder’s the one to frown, confused. “You don’t know? I mean… You couldn’t see that memory just now?”
“People usually remember things in a kind of shorthand. There’s not always context. This memory of yours… I’ve seen it before, but I don’t know what it means or if it’s even real.”
“What did you see?”
“You’re in a hospital, I think. And you can hear people like I can. But it’s too much. It hurts, and you can’t… you’re not…”
“Yeah,” Mulder says quietly. “Yeah, that was real.”
“But how?”
There was an artifact, Mulder thinks. A piece of a ship, a spacecraft. I don’t know how or why it affected me like that, but it did. I could hear thoughts, but not like you do, not really. My mind couldn’t handle the input. It burned me up, shut me down. I almost died. Only reason I didn’t is that someone cut open my head and took whatever it was out of me.
Gibson can see images again as Mulder remembers waking up in that room, remembers Scully rescuing him. Mulder’s thoughts slide away from the narrative of the memory and latch on to Scully, and how he can’t wait to see her, and William, and there is this swell of affection that is unlike anything Gibson ever felt from his own parents. It makes him a little sad, even though he’s long since come to terms with the fact that his parents were always more afraid of him than anything else.
“They just cut it out of you?” Gibson prompts, hoping to steer Mulder back on course.
Mulder blinks. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I assume so. I used to have, well it was never a big scar, but…” He brushes his fingers over his forehead, almost like it’s a reflex. “Then later, after I came back from the dead, everything just… healed. Way faster and way more completely than should have even been possible. Can’t even feel the scar at all anymore. But yeah, that’s where they cut me open, and then when I woke up afterward, that was that. Only thoughts in my head were my own.”
Gibson wonders what it would be like to never hear anyone else’s thoughts, ever. The only way that ever truly happens for him is if he’s physically isolated, though when he’s not so out of practice, he can choose to turn the volume down by picking one thing or person to focus on. He realizes that as Mulder’s been talking (both in his head and out loud), that’s exactly what has happened; the rest of the mental chatter in the train car has faded into the background, nothing more than a dull murmur at the edge of his mind. He’s grateful for the respite, but it also means he might miss something, if there’s someone or something on this train that wants to hurt them. He really should go back to listening.
But also he’s just so, so tired.
“How much longer until the next station?” he asks, wondering if maybe, since he hasn’t picked up on the presence of any threats on the journey so far, he can afford to let his guard down a little, at least until they stop again and more new people get on board.
Mulder shifts and digs into his pocket for the brochure they picked up at the station the last time they transferred, which has a timetable with all the stops on this rail line. “Hmm, forty-five minutes, give or take? Why?”
“Can you do me a favor and just think about something really boring for a little while? Like, I don’t know, FBI protocols or something?”
Mulder chuckles. “Can’t say I’ve ever really been much of an expert on those. But sure. You gonna try to nap?”
Gibson doubts actually falling asleep is possible, but he nods anyway. Even if he can just rest for a while, that will be good. Just in case, though…
“Make sure I’m awake when we get to the next station, okay? So I can listen to the new people getting on. Just in case.”
Mulder nods, and a jumble of emotion spills out of him: pity, guilt, gratitude, regret, and something else Gibson can’t immediately identify. There’s this sense of he’s way too young to have to have to carry all this and I should be the one protecting him, which makes Gibson want to roll his eyes. Mulder still seems to think of him as the 12 year-old kid he was when they met, but he’s 16 now, and he’s been living on his own for a good long while. He can more than take care of himself. But there it is again, that flash of something else, and then it’s like Mulder makes the conscious decision to stop and focus on that one feeling because it completely takes over. It’s warm and something like affection but not quite, and Gibson puzzles over it some more before realizing, finally, that it’s pride.
Mulder is proud of him.
It’s not something Gibson has felt directed toward him many times in his life, and it makes him squirm a little bit. But it’s also nice.
“Thanks,” he says quietly, and Mulder nods again.
“You got it, kid.”
All right, let’s see. Now, unfortunately for me, I’ve had to sit through more than a few training seminars on the application of Chapter 119 of Title 18 of the US Penal Code. Fortunately for you, this is just about the most boring subject on the face of the Earth, and as I happen to be cursed with an eidetic memory, I can recite the stupid thing chapter and verse. Consider this your first class ticket on an express train to Snoozeville.
Gibson can’t help but smile a little as he leans back in his seat and closes his eyes.
Chapter 119: Wire and Electronic Communications Interception and Interception of Oral Communications. Section 2510: Definitions. As used in this chapter-- (1) “wire communication” means any aural transfer made in whole or in part through the use of facilities for the transmission of communications by the aid of wire, cable, or other like connection between the point of origin and the point of reception…
The gentle rhythm of Mulder’s bland recitation melds perfectly with the steady rocking and the click-clack of the train, and in spite of his apprehensions, Gibson is asleep in minutes.
***
From the relative comfort of his office, the Shadow Man watches the grainy feed from the station platform’s surveillance camera. It’s not exactly riveting viewing; Agent Scully paces back and forth, having arrived at the station more than an hour before the train is due. But, this is what he does. He watches. All day long, day after day, he watches and he listens.
It’s a form of omniscience, being able to drop into the daily life of virtually anyone he may choose, whenever he needs to, observing unseen from the shadows. (Not the most imaginative moniker, this one these FBI agents have given him, but he supposes it does fit.) Tonight, all he needs is confirmation that Mulder really is going to get off that train.
Scully’s posture belies not only anticipation but also fear. Her guard is fully up, but she need not worry. Not tonight, anyway. Let them have their reunion. He will call tomorrow to arrange a meeting, and then he’ll eliminate Mulder once and for all. He has waited months for this opportunity; one more night is nothing.
That is, until something happens that tosses every one of his carefully-laid plans out the window: someone blacks out the camera lens.
Ah. So. His little employee has finally started to put the pieces together, has he? He supposes it was just a matter of time, but this is particularly inconvenient. Without eyes on the platform, he loses his advantage. Despite his claims to the contrary, it would absolutely be possible for Mulder and Scully to vanish into the wind, away from his view. He cannot let that happen.
He glances at the clock and scowls. It will be a close-run thing, getting to Alexandria from Bethesda before the train arrives, but the late hour and empty roads are on his side. He’s out the door and on the road in minutes, speeding southward.
Looks like Mulder and Scully won’t be getting their little reunion after all. But they’re the ones who decided not to play along. Now the plan has to change, and that’s fine by him. A predatory grin lurks at the corners of his mouth as he presses harder on the accelerator.
This ends tonight.
***
As the train begins to slow on approach to the station, Mulder’s leg bounces with both nerves and excitement. Beside him, Gibson is still and silent, all of his attention focused on the thoughts of the people outside.
Suddenly he gasps and grabs Mulder’s arm. “You can’t go out there.”
No, please, I’m so close...
“You can hear someone out there?” Mulder asks tightly.
“Yes! There’s a man, and he’s one of them. He wants to kill you.”
“Damnit…”
Scully said we’d be safe. Oh no, Scully…
“Is Scully in danger?”
Gibson’s eyes are wide. “I don’t know. He’s… he’s got a gun, and he’s not aiming for her, but he doesn’t care that she’s in the way.”
Mulder leaps to his feet.
“Wait! You can’t!”
The three pops of gunfire are muted from inside the train car, but Mulder hears them anyway. He hurtles forward to lean over Gibson and peer out the window. There’s movement on the platform, bodies on the ground, but it’s too dark and they’re too far away for him to make out any detail.
The train picks up speed again, and a ripple of confused chatter fills the car and drowns out the conductor’s words coming over the loudspeaker. Mulder’s insides give a desperate lurch as he catches just a glimpse of Scully’s stricken face through the window. She’s on her feet, thank god. She wasn’t shot.
For the span of a heartbeat, there she is in front of him, real and solid, not just a presence in his mind. But then she’s gone again as the train whisks him past, and he wants to cry out at the injustice of it. It’s not fair. I was so close. The months of separation feel like an iron band around his ribs.
But it’s clearly still not safe to go home. He knows she wouldn’t have brought him out of hiding unless she truly believed it would be okay, but apparently whoever led her to that belief was either wrong or lying. Will it ever be completely safe? Is this what the rest of his life is going to be, this hiding and running and always looking over his shoulder? Feeling like he’s in this limbo, merely existing while the rest of his life carries on thousands of miles away without him?
It’s not until Gibson grabs him by the arm and shakes him that he realizes the boy has been speaking. He blinks.
“What?”
“He’s on the train! The man who was on the platform. He knows you’re here, and he’s coming after you!”
Mulder snaps to attention. “Can you tell where he is?”
Gibson squeezes his eyes shut, visibly shaking from concentration or fear or both. “He’s… he’s three cars ahead, but under… hanging on to the underside. I think he was on the tracks and then grabbed on to the train as it went over him.” He opens his eyes again, wide. “We have to get out of here!”
Mulder’s stomach tightens as he does a quick mental calculation. While he didn’t plan for this exact scenario, he did look up several potential places he could try to go, in case it turned out that it wasn’t safe in D.C. after all. One of them is a quarry with significant iron deposits, just south of Alexandria. The tracks run near enough that he just might make it, might be able to lead the man there, if he can manage to avoid getting caught first.
Quickly, nonverbally, he rushes to convey his plan to Gibson. He’s got about two or three minutes to jump off the train and hope to god the man follows him. He jerks open the zipper on his backpack and pulls out one of the burner phones he bought, as well as a couple of hundred dollar bills, shoving both into his pocket.
“I hoped we wouldn’t have to use these,” he says aloud, “but this is exactly why I bought them. Stay on the train for two more stops, then find somewhere to lay low. Let me know where you are, and I’ll come find you. The number for this phone is on the paper in the backpack. Got it?”
“What if something happens to you?”
Call Scully, Mulder tells him telepathically. “But I’m hoping it won’t come to that,” he adds.
Gibson nods, and Mulder gives his shoulder a squeeze before hurrying down the aisle to the door. He moves quickly between cars, into and through the one in front of where they were sitting, and then the next. If Gibson’s right, the man should be there just ahead of him, underneath the very next car.
Mulder’s heart pounds as he turns the latch to open the exterior door. He certainly doesn’t want to get caught, but he also needs to make sure the man follows him into the quarry and doesn’t get on the train and go after Gibson. Outside the ground rushes past, and he steels himself for how much this next part is going to suck.
I am getting way too old for this shit.
He grips the handrail beside the door and leans forward as much as he dares.
“Hey asshole!” he shouts into the wind. “Looking for me?!”
Taking one last deep breath, he jumps.
***
Only when she is absolutely certain that the Shadow Man super-soldier isn’t coming after her does Scully stop running. She looks around wildly. Mulder has to still be here, somewhere.
“Mulder!”
It’s Arizona all over again, with her shouting his name into the night, hoping against hope for some answering call.
“Mulder!”
But as was the case in Arizona, she receives no response.
***
The roller coaster of emotion is too much for Gibson. His own feelings are magnified by what he hears in Mulder’s thoughts, a sort of resonating loop that spirals him toward despair and exhaustion.
So he sleeps. It is, mercifully, a dreamless slumber, and it cradles him all the way back to New Mexico. Mulder gently shakes him awake, and they wordlessly disembark, waiting amid the other passengers while Mulder’s motorcycle is unloaded. Once they retrieve it, it’s a quiet ride back to the trailer neither of them had hoped to see again, though once they crest the hill and finally come within sight of it, Gibson lets out a sigh of relief.
“Who authorizes you? I mean, what gives you the right? Who ARE you?!”
“I’m the future, Agent Scully. And I risked my life being here.”
“Well then why do it? I mean, why meet me?”
“Because you can reach Mulder. Mulder needs to know what I know or he may have no future. Perhaps no one will. Another car is parked on the main road, half a mile out. If I see that you haven’t contacted Mulder in the next 24 hours, I disappear and you never see me again. Do you understand, lady?”
Scully stalks away, seething. All of the theatrics, all of the waste, and for what? A two-minute conversation that raised more questions than it answered? What was the point of any of it?
Scowling, she pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket - because apparently it was absolutely necessary to blow up her clothes and her gun and inspect her watch, but Mr. Mysterious had no qualms about letting her keep her phone? - and punches the speed dial for Monica Reyes. Monica picks up immediately.
“Dana! Thank god. We’ve been trying to reach you all day. Where are you?”
“At the end of a very long and very stupid wild goose chase,” she grumbles. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get in touch earlier. How’s William?”
“He’s just fine. John’s in the kitchen right now heating up a bottle for him.”
“Agent Doggett stayed with you?” she asks, surprised.
“Not the whole day,” Monica says. “After that couple left, he went to the office for a while, but then he came back a few hours ago when we still hadn’t heard from you. Seriously though, where have you been?”
Scully answers with a groan, then gives an abbreviated account of the day’s events as she continues making her way back to the main road. Her foot catches on something in the dark and she stumbles, cursing. Of all the times to be without a flashlight…
When she gets to the part about the car and the remote detonation, Monica says, “Holy hell, Dana! Do you need one of us to come get you?”
“No, he said there’s another car parked up the road. I’m heading toward it now.”
“But are you sure that’s safe?” Monica presses. “What if it’s rigged to explode, too?”
“Whoa, wait, what’s rigged to explode?” Scully hears Doggett say in the background, and she shudders at the thought that she spent the entire day driving around on top of a bomb. However, the fact that she’s still alive right now is a fairly good indicator that she’ll be able to get home safely.
“If he wanted me dead, he had ample opportunity,” she says. “No, what he wants is for me to contact Mulder, which I can’t very well do if I’ve been blown up. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
What she’s not sure of is exactly where she is right now. It became harder and harder to track her relative location after she left the interstate. The very notion of spending who knows how many more hours on the road fills her with a mix of exhaustion and dread, and she’s angry all over again at the phenomenal waste of time today has been.
“Maybe you can help me figure out where I am, though,” she says. “It was too dark to read the street signs, the last couple of turns he told me to make, but I was on Route 17 going north for a while, somewhere between Norfolk and Fredericksburg. It’s not much to go on, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment.”
“I’m on it,” Monica tells her. “Can I use your computer?”
“Of course.”
“Here, you can talk to John while I pull up MapQuest.”
Ahead, Scully can just make out the bulk of a vehicle in the darkness. She reaches to unsnap her holster out of habit and grimaces when her fingers catch nothing but the fabric of her waistband.
In her ear, Doggett barks, “What in the heck’s going on? Where’ve you been all day, and why is Monica talking about things being rigged to explode?”
Scully sighs. “I’m going to let her fill you in on the details because I would just as soon not go through it all again right now. Short answer is that I’m fine, just tired and frustrated. I’ll be on my way home soon, hopefully. I want to thank you, though, for helping to look after William. I really do appreciate it.”
“Well, you’re welcome, but I didn’t do all that much. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
She approaches the car, again wishing she had a flashlight. It’s too dark to see anything through the rear windows, but the front of the car at least appears to be empty. Cautiously, she reaches for the door handle; it’s unlocked, and the interior light comes on when she opens the door. There’s a piece of paper on the driver’s seat.
“Son of a bitch,” she murmurs, picking it up.
“Agent Scully?”
“You can tell Agent Reyes that I don’t need her help after all. I’ve been left a map.”
“A map?” Doggett asks. “So where are you?”
Thirty miles. She is all of thirty miles from Fredericksburg. It is going to take her less than two hours to get home. It could have taken her less than two hours to get here. Of all the stupid, pointless, absolutely and completely asinine...
“Just a bit southeast of Fredericksburg,” she says tightly, glancing at her watch. “I should be home by nine.”
“All right then. Be careful.”
“Yeah.”
***
This isn’t the first time Monica has been asked to watch William, but it is the first time she’s had to try and put him to bed.
And he is not having it.
She’s never seen him like this. She’s never felt him like this; William’s energy is always vibrant -- she’s known that since the night he was born -- but it’s usually contained, like the potential energy in a compressed spring. Tonight, it’s like a storm, howling around him as he wails in her arms.
“I don’t know what’s wrong. Should we call Dana?”
John chuckles at her, evidently unconcerned, because of course he can’t feel what she feels.
“There’s nothing wrong. And there’s nothing she could do even if there was. He’s just tired.”
“No, John, I’m telling you, something is--”
“Here,” he says, holding out his hands. “I’ll show you.”
She passes the squirming baby to her partner and steps back, nerves jangling. John gathers William against his chest and starts to walk around the living room, gently bouncing him while murmuring softly. At first, Monica can’t hear what he’s saying over the sound of William’s cries, but as the boy gradually quiets, John’s words become clearer.
“There you go, easy does it, your mama’s gonna be home soon, don’t you worry, atta boy…”
He’s asleep within minutes, energy storm subsided. Monica shakes her head, a little abashed at having so comprehensively misread the situation.
“You were right,” she says quietly.
“Eh, nothing I hadn’t seen before, that’s all.” He doesn’t meet her eyes, his gaze still trained on the top of William’s head as he slows the bouncing to a gentle sway. “Luke certainly did his share of fussing.”
She didn’t know him then, of course. She’s only ever known him as a grieving father; this is the first time she’s gotten a glimpse of what he was like as a dad, and it makes her unexpectedly emotional.
“I’m gonna see if I can go put him down,” he says, and she nods, watching him go before turning to pick up the few scattered toys and take William’s dinner bottle back to the kitchen.
***
By the time she has retrieved her own car from where she left it parked this morning, after stewing on the whole drive home and running through the day’s various cryptic conversations over and over, Scully has come to three conclusions.
Number one: nearly everything that man claimed to know about her, he could have learned by bugging her apartment and going through her garbage bins. What did he really give her that was concrete? Knowing her clothing size seemed eerie at first, until she remembered the receipts she’s thrown away from a handful of recent shopping trips. Her childhood clown phobia? She and her mom were laughing about that in her living room a month or so ago. The rest of it -- resting heart rate, ATM pin, college boyfriend, et cetera -- was only specific enough to seem unnerving without actually proving that he knew any of it.
Her emails to Mulder would require some additional access, but that could be as simple as someone following her to the cafe. It’s probably one of the “regulars” that she -- blithely, it would seem -- dismissed as a potential threat.
Number two: while her apartment has definitely been under surveillance, apparently for quite a while, Mulder’s has not. The “one lonely night” the man mentioned? She’s reasonably certain he was referring to the night she asked Mulder to stay after the IVF failed, and that was not their first time together. If, as he said, the events of that night surprised him, then he could not have known about what they had already been doing at Mulder’s place. Or, for that matter, what they had been doing at her place before that night. So now she also knows approximately when the surveillance actually began.
Number three: if this man genuinely does have useful intel about super soldiers -- and that is an extraordinarily big “if” -- then it may in fact be worthwhile to call Mulder home. The idea terrifies and thrills her in almost equal measure. On the one hand, there is nothing she wants more than to have him home. Nothing. But on the other, if she has miscalculated, and calling him out of hiding only ends up getting him killed, she will never forgive herself.
In the end, it is Agent Doggett’s words from yesterday that settle the issue for her. If we know who these super-soldiers are we can go after them. This is somebody giving us a way that can make it safe for Mulder to come home.
How else are you going to get him home?
It’s a risk, possibly a big one, but ultimately, it’s one she has to take. He has been gone for almost seven months. This is the first time in those nearly seven months that there has even been a chance he might be able to come home. If she lets this chance go by, how much more time will pass before they get another one?
She walks into her apartment having made up her mind. There is a giddy, fluttery feeling in her stomach that is only temporarily eclipsed by ravenous hunger as she steps through the door and the smell of Thai food envelops her. Reyes and Doggett look up from where they’re sitting, at her kitchen table, takeout cartons amassed between them.
“Hope you don’t mind, we got takeout,” Reyes says, standing. “We didn’t know if you’d have a chance to eat, but if you’re hungry, there’s a bunch left.”
The last thing she ate was a bag of almonds from the gas station, hours and hours ago. To say she’s hungry is a massive understatement.
“Mind? I could kiss you both right now.”
Doggett’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and Reyes laughs. “I’ll get you a plate.”
Scully nods. “I’m just going to change and wash up.”
On her way to the bedroom, she grabs a plastic bag from the closet. The likelihood is slim that there will be much in the way of usable trace evidence on the clothes she’s wearing, but it would be irresponsible not to even look. She opens the bedroom door quietly so as not to wake William; by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, she can see him sleeping peacefully in his crib, and she smiles, some of the tension from the day melting away. Though she would love a shower, she's too hungry, so she settles for changing into sweats, carefully folding and bagging the "borrowed" outfit, then washes her hands and face before heading back to the kitchen.
Doggett and Reyes have tidied up their dishes and are in the process of putting on coats and shoes.
"We'll let you get some rest," Reyes says, though she’s looking at Doggett when she does. “Whatever else you might have to tell us about what happened today can wait until tomorrow.”
“Unless,” Doggett adds, in a tone that sounds like he’s continuing an argument from earlier, “there’s anything you think we need to know now. Or if you don’t feel safe staying here alone, knowing that this Shadow Man may well have eyes and ears on you.”
“Is that what we’re calling him?” Scully asks, arching one eyebrow. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be fine. As violating as it feels to be surveilled by some NSA creep--” she emphasizes the words, fully assuming that she’s being listened to right now “--I don’t have any reason to believe that William and I are not safe here.”
“Well I still don’t like it,” Doggett says, frowning. “Why don’t you let us post a couple agents out front, just in case?”
“I really don’t think that’s necess--”
“That’s a good idea, actually,” Reyes interjects, then drops her voice to a murmur. “Especially in light of what happened this morning. We know you can take care of yourself, Dana, but we also don’t know exactly what we’re up against, here. Maybe the answer is to try and watch the watchers, find out who they are, see if we can figure out who else the Shadow Man is working with.”
Scully sighs but has to admit that’s a sensible course of action. Either the knowledge that she’s being watched over will deter this so-called Shadow Man and his associates, or it won’t, in which case they could be exposed and identified.
“All right,” she agrees.
“Good,” Doggett says. “I’ll take first watch until I can get someone else over here.”
As soon as they leave, Scully makes herself a plate of food and takes it to her computer desk. If the Shadow Man is able to access her emails even when she sends them from the internet cafe, it seems pointless to wait until morning to write to Mulder. The giddy feeling from earlier comes rushing back as she types.
Mr. Hale,
I am overjoyed to tell you that circumstances appear to have changed. Exercise caution, but put the plan in motion. I cannot wait to see you.
All my love,
Dana
She clicks “send” with her heart in her throat, wondering where Mulder is and when he’ll be able to read her message. How long it might take for him to make the necessary arrangements and begin the journey home. He could be in her arms as early as tomorrow, a notion that seemed impossible just 24 hours ago.
She powers down the computer -- according to their plan, his next communication will come via text message from a burner phone -- and picks up her plate to finish eating in the kitchen. A glance out the window as she stands up reveals Agent Doggett sitting in his truck across the street, cell phone held to his ear. She sighs, regretting the additional work and worry she’s given her former partner but also deeply grateful that he’s got her back, he and Reyes both. She appreciates them more than she can say.
With any luck, all of this will soon be over. Mulder will come home, the Shadow Man will give him the information they need to take down the super-soldiers, and things can go back to… well… “normal” for them, anyway. It’s maybe too much to hope for, but right now, she will allow herself to be comforted by the fantasy, at least for a little while. When she finally crawls into bed, later, she falls asleep with her cell phone on the pillow beside her, imagining the sensation of being wrapped securely in Mulder’s arms.
***
“Holy shit,” he breathes, reading her email for the third time.
The library’s just about to close, and he had checked his email one last time before leaving, more out of impulse than any actual expectation that there would be anything there. The surprise of a new email was immediately eclipsed by the surprise over its contents.
Home. He can go home. He and Gibson both, even. No more hiding in the desert. No more ache of longing binding his stomach and keeping him from sleep. It almost sounds too good to be true, but she called him Mr. Hale, the code phrase they established before he left so he’d be able to tell a genuine summons from a trap. This is the real deal.
Which means the threat is past. Maybe Skinner cut a deal, hell, maybe Kersh did. Who knows? Who cares?! He gets to go home!
The grin on his face is massive as he logs off and heads for the door.
***
“You’re leaving," Gibson says, before Mulder has even closed the front door behind himself. "You promised you wouldn’t. But I guess I shouldn’t have expected you to keep that promise.”
It's still weird, Gibson knowing what he's thinking about before he's even said anything, but it doesn't throw him for a loop the way it used to.
“No, we’re leaving, Gibson. Both of us.”
Gibson scoffs. “You know I’m not going anywhere. It’s not safe. You might be able to outrun them if they catch us, but I--”
“Scully said it’s safe. And yes, I’m sure the message really was from her.”
Gibson stares hard at him and Mulder thinks as forcefully and loudly and clearly as he can.
We can both be free. I swear. I will protect you.
“I believe that you believe that,” Gibson says finally. “But I don’t think either of us knows for sure whether that’s really true.”
“Look, I know you’re scared. And you’re right that there are no guarantees. But for the first time since I left Washington, there is at least a chance that it’s safe for us to get out of here. If we don't take it, I don't know when another one is gonna come along. Do you really want to hide here for the rest of your life?"
"If it doesn't mean dying horribly and having my head karate chopped off by an alien replicant? Yeah. I'm fine with that."
Mulder’s thoughts flicker, involuntarily, to Dr. Parenti’s severed head in a jar, to the gash in Skinner’s forehead, to his own memory of being hurled across Parenti’s lab by Billy Miles.
“Exactly,” says Gibson. “I’m not letting that happen to me.”
“I trust Scully,” Mulder says, thinks. “She wouldn’t call me home if it wasn’t safe. She’s too smart and too cautious to take a risk like that.”
This, at last, seems to convince him, if only somewhat. He may not trust Mulder’s judgment, but he apparently trusts Scully’s, at least enough to finally sigh and say, “Okay. I hope you’re right.”
Despite Gibson’s reluctance, it takes almost no time at all to pack. They don’t have much to take, not bothering with spare clothes. Mulder shoves the stuff he printed about Mount Weather into his backpack, along with a little food, the fake IDs from the Gunmen and all of their remaining cash. They’re out the door and on the road in less than twenty minutes.
On the way to the train station, Mulder stops to gas up the motorcycle and buy four prepaid cell phones from the convenience store. Two hours later, as they’re getting ready to board the train that will take them eastward, Mulder types Scully’s number into the first phone and sends a single-word text message.
“Midnight.”
Once the message sends, he opens the back of the phone, pockets the battery, and tosses the phone in a garbage can.
“You will continue driving west until I tell you otherwise.”
Lips pursed in annoyance, she heads toward the freeway on-ramp, wondering how far he’s going to make her go with her phone held up to her ear. As if he’s read her mind, the man speaks again.
“I am going to hang up the phone now. I will contact you again with further instructions at the appropriate time. If you make any outgoing calls, or you answer a call from anyone but me, we’re done. You got that?”
“Look, I have a child at home--” she begins to protest, but he cuts her off.
“And I’m certain that Special Agent Reyes is more than equal to the task of looking after him. These are my terms. Take them or leave them.”
She almost tells him exactly where he can shove his terms. But Mulder…
“Fine,” she barks, and she hangs up before he can.
***
Scully has been on I-66 for over an hour and has nearly run out of west when the phone finally rings again.
“Take I-81 southbound.”
She bites back a groan, mentally calculating how far she’s already traveled and how long it will take her to get home.
“And then what?”
“And then you continue south until I tell you otherwise.”
She takes a glance down at the fuel gauge; nearly half the tank is gone already.
“Am I going to be driving far enough to need to stop for gas?”
“You will continue south until I tell you otherwise.” He hangs up the call.
“Guess that’s a ‘yes’ then,” she mutters.
It’s still early in the day, not even nine in the morning, but she is already growing impatient with the secret squirrel nonsense. The surveillance, the voice distortion, the multiple cars, and now apparently driving almost to West Virginia… it’s completely over the top, even for the NSA.
If this man really does have information about the super-soldiers, though -- information that will help eliminate the threat against Mulder and allow him to come home -- then all of this will have been worth it, right?
What lengths won’t she go to, if it means bringing Mulder home?
***
If she was impatient at nine, she is fuming by noon. At three, she has begun to question whether this whole thing wasn’t an elaborate plan to draw her away from William.
She did, indeed, have to stop and refuel the car, which was accomplished with cash from the glove compartment and accompanied by more threats and warnings against attempting to contact anyone or deviate in any way from the instructions she was given. She drove south all the way to Roanoke, and then just as she was about to throw her hands in the air and abort the whole damned thing, he had her go east. She’s now approaching Norfolk, which would have taken three hours if she’d come directly from DC, instead of the eight it’s taken her to go almost all the way around the perimeter of Virginia.
She has missed three calls from Reyes, one from Doggett, and two from Quantico. When she asks permission to at least check her voicemails, she is told that he has “already taken the liberty” and that the messages “contained nothing worthy of concern.”
“And why should I believe you?” she says, exasperated. “How do I know this wasn’t a setup from the beginning, you promising information as a means to draw me away and send me driving all around Virginia?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Agent Scully. The people you’re up against could take you out of the equation any time they wished. And remember, you are the one who asked for this meeting, not me.”
“I asked for a meeting, not to be sent driving around all damned day for no reason.”
“If you want to meet in person, then this is what is required. I will not compromise my safety.” There is a long pause before he speaks again. “I’d be more than happy to wait until I can speak to Mulder directly, if you’d rather go home right now.”
If it is a calculated attempt to push her buttons, it works flawlessly. Indignance flares, even as she recognizes rationally that she could well be getting played.
“Is that what this was?! Did you think if you made me waste the whole day I’d just give up?”
“Take the next exit and turn left at the intersection.”
The abrupt change catches her off-guard, before she remembers that the only reason she’s on the phone with him now is that he called a few minutes ago to give her updated instructions. This is the first time, aside from the fuel stop, that she’s being taken off the major highways. Maybe this stupidity is nearly at an end.
***
It’s not.
She continues on back roads for another three hours, slowly winding her way northward through rural Tidewater Virginia. The early darkness of January means the sun has completely set by the time she is finally told to turn on to a gravel road that opens up into a field.
Here’s hoping that a new school year and return to routine will help me keep this series updated more regularly again. ;) Updated through the first part of Trust No 1.
Season 1
Pilot
Deep Throat
Squeeze
Conduit
The Jersey Devil
Shadows
Ghost in the Machine
Ice (and bonus ficlet!)
Space
Fallen Angel
Eve
Fire
Beyond the Sea
Gender Bender
Lazarus
Young at Heart
E.B.E.
Miracle Man
Shapes
Darkness Falls
(A Darkness Falls-Tooms Interlude)
Tooms
Born Again
Roland
The Erlenmeyer Flask
Season 2
Little Green Men
The Host
Blood
Sleepless
Duane Barry
Ascension
3
One Breath
Firewalker
Red Museum
Excelsis Dei
Aubrey
Irresistible
Die Hand Die Verletzt
Fresh Bones
Colony
End Game (bonus drabble series!)
Fearful Symmetry
Dod Kalm
Humbug
The Calusari
F. Emasculata
Soft Light
Our Town
Anasazi
Season 3
The Blessing Way
Paper Clip
D.P.O.
Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose
The List
2Shy
The Walk
Oubliette
Nisei
731
Revelations
War of the Coprophages
Syzygy
Grotesque
Piper Maru
Apocrypha
Pusher
Teso Dos Bichos
Hell Money
Jose Chung’s From Outer Space
Avatar
Quagmire
Wetwired
Talitha Cumi
Season 4
Herrenvolk
Home
Teliko
Unruhe
The Field Where I Died
Sanguinarium
Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man
Tunguska
Terma
Paper Hearts
El Mundo Gira
Leonard Betts
Never Again
Memento Mori
Kaddish
Unrequited
Tempus Fugit
Max
Synchrony
Small Potatoes
Zero Sum
Elegy
Demons
Gethsemane
Season 5
Redux
Redux II
Unsual Suspects
Detour
The Post-Modern Prometheus
Christmas Carol
Emily
Kitsunegari
Schizogeny
Chinga
Kill Switch
Bad Blood
Patient X
The Red and the Black
Travelers
Mind’s Eye
All Souls
The Pine Bluff Variant
Folie a Deux
The End
Fight the Future (Sidetrips drabble)
Season 6
The Beginning
Drive
Triangle
Dreamland
Dreamland II
How the Ghosts Stole Christmas
Terms of Endearment
The Rain King
S.R. 819
Tithonus
Two Fathers
One Son
Agua Mala
Monday
Arcadia (bonus!)
Alpha
Trevor
Milagro
The Unnatural
Three of a Kind
Field Trip
Biogenesis
Season 7
The Sixth Extinction
The Sixth Extinction II: Amor Fati
Hungry
Millennium
Rush
The Goldberg Variation
Orison
The Amazing Maleeni
Signs and Wonders
Sein und Zeit
Closure
X-Cops
First Person Shooter
Per Manum Flashback #1
Theef
Per Manum Flashback #2
En Ami
The Gift (bonus journal entry)
Chimera
all things
Brand X
Hollywood A.D.
Fight Club
Je Souhaite
Requiem
Mulder’s Journal
Season 8
Within
Without (Part one) | (Part two)
Patience
Roadrunners
Invocation
Invocation-Redrum Interlude (three drabbles)
Redrum
Via Negativa
Surekill
Salvage
Badlaa
The Gift
Medusa
Per Manum (Part one) | (Part two) | (Part three)
This Is Not Happening (Part one) | (Part two) | (Part three)
Deadalive (Part one) | (Part two) | (Part three) | (Part four) | (Part five)
Three Words (Part one) | (Part two) | (Part three)
Empedocles (Part one) | (Part two) | (Part three)
Vienen (Part one) | (Part two)
Alone
Essence
Existence (Part one) | (Part two) | (Part three)
Season 9
Nothing Important Happened Today (Part one) | (Part two)
Nothing Important Happened Today II | (Post-Ep)
Twelve Days
Daemonicus
4-D (Part one) | (Part two)
Mulder-on-the-run Fictober Drabble Series (on AO3)
Bonus Mulder/Gibson Dialogue Only Ficlet
Lord of the Flies
Trust No 1 (Part one)
“I got a motorcycle,” Mulder announces as he walks into the trailer. “Now I won’t need to bother Michael for rides anymore.”
Gibson blinks, stone-faced, his back ramrod straight.
“It’s okay, I paid cash,” Mulder adds, with a bit of an internal eye-roll. Like I’d be dumb enough to use a credit card and put myself back on the radar. Relax, no one’s going to trace anything back to us.
Mulder frowns, confused. And then it dawns on him what Gibson’s actually worried about.
“What, leaving? No, of course not. Jesus, Gibson, you really think I’d do that to you?”
“I know you’re thinking pretty loudly about getting on that bike and not looking back. And I don’t even blame you, but--”
“Oh, hell.”
Mulder shuts the door and walks over to where Gibson is sitting. No matter how much practice he’s had at policing his thoughts, he still slips up all the time. And yes, of course he’s been thinking about going home, pretty much from the moment he saw the bike sitting parked at the gas station with a “For Sale” sign stuck to it. Of course he has. But it’s a fantasy; he’d never actually do it. No matter how little regard he has for his own safety, how much he’d be willing to risk if it meant seeing Scully again, he owes Gibson way too much.
“Gibson, I am not going to abandon you. Okay?” He concentrates, so there is no disconnect between his thoughts and his words. “I promise. Not after everything we’ve been through, everything you’ve done for me.”
Gibson studies him for another long moment, then gives the barest nod of his head and finally relaxes his shoulders. Mulder punches him lightly on the upper arm and gives a lopsided grin.
“I mean, I know I’m kind of an asshole sometimes, but come on. I’m not that big of an asshole.”
***
Fifty-seven days. Just over eight weeks. That’s how long it’s been since Mulder’s last email, the one in which he warned her that he wouldn’t be able to write again for a while.
Not that his warning has stopped her from checking.
The internet cafe has become part of her routine. On Saturdays like today, when she’s not helping Doggett and Reyes in the field, Scully stops by with William on her way to run errands. A couple of days a week she doesn’t need to be at the Academy until noon, so she takes a morning walk to the cafe before her mom arrives to babysit. The baristas know her order by now - chai tea on the weekends, coffee with milk during the week - and are friendly but not chatty. It’s honestly probably too routine and predictable, or it would be if she were the one in hiding. She’s identified a handful of other “regulars,” but none that give her cause for concern; everyone here tends to keep to themselves.
Chai in hand, she finds an empty computer and parks the stroller. William is dozing, bundled up against the late December chill outside, and the coffee shop is cozy and warm without being stifling. Scully has removed her gloves but doesn’t bother taking off her coat; that would be an acknowledgement of the hope that this time she will be staying longer than a minute or two. She tries to convince herself that she expects the empty inbox, that she won’t be disappointed by another day of radio silence, that her stomach won’t do a backflip at the sight of “3 new messages” because she knows they will all be spam.
It is a futile exercise.
Fifty-seven days. She’s managing. Raising this baby of theirs and molding young minds at the Academy and praying every night for Mulder’s safety. She has to believe this is temporary, and that eventually they can be a family again. A real family.
Suppressing a sigh, she logs off and tries to turn her focus to the day ahead.
***
The day after Mulder comes back with a bike of his own, it pours. Gibson is guiltily, but deeply, relieved. He wants to trust that Mulder won’t abandon him, knows all too well how people’s inner thoughts can be complicated and contradictory, but at the same time, he can’t help worrying.
The rain, however, does not dampen Mulder’s fervor. His trips to the larger library have been fruitful, and he has been hard at work on a plan to breach the facility that the old man in Gibson’s dreams spoke about. He spends the entire rainy day poring over everything he has printed at the library, papers carpeting the floor, seed husks piling up on the table.
***
The New Year arrives without fanfare. Scully doesn’t turn on the TV to watch the Times Square coverage (she hasn’t managed that since she and Mulder watched together, two years ago, in a hospital waiting room). For that matter, she doesn’t even make it to midnight. After William goes down for the night, she takes a bath, drinks a glass of wine, and crawls into bed.
On the surface, this year looks much the same as the last. She’s still alone, still wondering where Mulder is and hoping he’s all right. In truth, though, so much is different. She has William, for one thing, which on its own is a bigger difference than she can properly express. For another, up until a couple of months ago, she was hearing from Mulder somewhat regularly, receiving assurances that he was, at least, alive. She still worries - of course she does - but it’s nowhere near the same. She has good cause to believe, far more than she did a year ago, that he is going to be okay, and that they will eventually be together again.
That doesn’t make the waiting any less frustrating or the loneliness less sharp. But the absence of a constant, exhausting undercurrent of despair is both notable and welcome.
Next year, she vows to herself as she drifts off to sleep. We are going to figure this out and eliminate the threat, and next year he’ll be home.
***
For all that Mulder intends, truly, to keep his promise to Gibson, the temptation to flee home to Scully continues to gnaw at him. Now that he actually has the means to do so, that he can envision concrete steps toward a way out of exile, it’s almost painful to pull off the highway in another town, heading toward another library, instead of just pressing on. But he did promise.
What he can’t resist doing, however, is writing to her.
It’s been almost ten weeks since their last correspondence, and even if it means he can’t return to this particular library again, he has to do it. His fingers tremble as he opens a blank email.
As I continue to put the finishing touches on the ficlet for Trust No 1, I figure I can link to some related stuff that’ll provide context.
Nothing Important Happened Today II - Mulder leaves, but quickly realizes he’s being followed
NIHT2 Post-episode - How Mulder gets to where Gibson is hiding
Fictober Drabble Series - Series of 100-word drabbles about Mulder and Gibson in the desert (I didn’t make it through all of October, but I got pretty close!)
Mulder/Gibson Dialogue-Only Ficlet - Why Mulder has to stop writing to Scully for a while
Set between NIHT2 and Daemonicus. Originally published in @msrfanzine
***
Maggie Scully has made a point of visiting her daughter and new grandson nearly every day since they came home from the hospital. Each time, Fox has made himself scarce, stepping out for an errand or going who-knows-where. She appreciated it at first, relishing the opportunity to have Dana and sweet baby William all to herself, but it is beginning to weigh on her that she hasn’t had a chance to clear the air with him after their unpleasant phone conversation the night of William’s birth. She is not sorry for the things she said, but forgiveness is just as necessary as it is difficult. He is, after all, in his own unconventional way, family now.
Whether she likes it or not.
“Now Dana,” she says, as she hugs her daughter goodbye after another lovely visit, “I want you to tell Fox not to run away tomorrow when I stop by. It’s time for him to stop avoiding me.”
At the slightly ashen look on Dana’s face, she continues, “Oh, you don’t need to worry. I’m not going to read him the riot act. We’re just going to talk. I want to thank him for taking such good care of you since you’ve been home.”
“Mom, I…” Dana looks down, almost as if she is ashamed, and Maggie’s heart sinks. If that man has let down my little girl again, so help me…
“I haven’t been completely honest with you.” Dana directs her words at her mother’s feet, the same way she did whenever she was scolded as a child. “Mulder’s not… he had to go away for a while.”
Seemingly contradictory though it may be, Maggie finds herself equally disappointed and relieved. She has had a bad feeling about things ever since Fox “came back from the dead.” She has prayed and prayed over it, trying to view it as the miracle Dana said it was. She has wrestled with guilt over having such misgivings when her daughter believed her prayers had been answered. Yet no amount of prayer or guilt has allowed her to completely shed the feeling in her gut that something about his return was wrong, and she has spent the past month or so just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It seems, perhaps, that now it has.
“Dana,” she says tightly. “Did you and Fox have a fight? Did he make you feel unsafe?”
“No, nothing like that.” Dana looks up then, and the sadness in her eyes is heartbreaking. “Neither of us wanted him to go. Everything was wonderful, and then… and then I…”
She drops her gaze again, and Maggie pulls her in for another hug. They stand that way for a minute, Dana wordlessly clinging to her while Maggie strokes her hair.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Dana shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“But of course it does. If he’s abandoned you, abandoned his son , how can you say that it doesn’t matter?”
“He didn’t abandon us, Mom. I made him go. And not because I was afraid of him. I was afraid for him.”
Maggie frowns, confused. “Dana, I don’t understand.”
“I know,” Dana says with a sigh. “And I’m sorry I can’t… explain everything to you. The point is that he’s gone, and I’m the one who convinced him to go, and now I don’t know if that was the right choice, or if he’s even okay, or…”
“When did this happen?”
“Twelve days ago.”
Confusion gives way rapidly to dismay.
“Twelve da-- Dana! Are you telling me that you have been on your own with a baby for almost two weeks, and I am only now hearing about it?”
After they buried Fox, Dana had leaned on her. Had let herself be tended to and taken care of. Had let Maggie feel like her mother again, damn it all. After his return, she went right back to closing herself off and keeping secrets. Maggie thought, after William’s birth, they were getting back to a place of closeness in their relationship, a place where Dana trusted her enough to open up about her struggles and her worries. It seems, however, that she was wrong.
“I’m fine, Mom. We’re fine. I didn’t want to worry you.”
“This is not fine. I cannot believe you kept me in the dark. Again!”
“Mom, please. You’ll wake the baby.”
Maggie clamps her mouth shut against the words threatening to escape, dark words propelled by the anger and hurt roiling in her chest. She wants to rage and scream, to throw things, to take her daughter by the shoulders and shake her until she understands.
“I am your mother,” she says at last, her voice strained. “I have seen you through cancer and heartbreak and one tragedy after another. It is not up to you to decide what information I can or cannot handle. Do you understand me?”
“And what about what I can handle?” Dana snaps, and there is a sharpness to her words that knocks Maggie back a little. “Look, I am sorry that it has taken me this long to tell you about Mulder being gone, but part of why I didn’t is because it was nice, for just a few hours a day, to pretend that he really has just gone to the store. That we are a normal family, and I am having a normal visit with my mom. I am sorry if that was selfish. But if you think the only reason I didn’t tell you was because I thought you couldn’t handle it, then you are very much mistaken.”
And just like that, Maggie feels the fight go out of her. The hurt is still there, but the anger drains away. "Oh, sweetheart. I am so sorry."
However complicated her own feelings about Fox might be, there is no denying how much her daughter loves that man. Maggie may not understand anything about why he’s apparently had to leave, but she certainly knows a thing or two about what it’s like to sit at home with a baby, wondering if this will be the deployment from which her husband doesn’t return. How many times did she put on a brave face with the children, or stay up late into the night finding ways to keep herself busy with household chores, all to avoid succumbing to the worry that inevitably rose to the surface the moment she let her guard down? The pained look on Dana’s face right now is the same one she has seen countless times on the faces of the other Navy wives in her social circle, and on her own face in the mirror.
It is, she realizes, the same look she also saw on Dana’s face last year, when Fox went missing. But that time he disappeared without warning; this time, it sounds like her daughter asked him to go. She was scared for him, she said, and sent him away in an effort to protect him. Protect him from what?
“Are you and William in danger?” she asks quietly.
Dana shakes her head. “I don’t think so. The threat was directed at Mulder, and… and it looks like he has drawn it away.”
“But who would threaten--?”
“I can’t,” Dana says firmly. “I’m sorry, Mom. I know this is hard to understand. Please just trust me that I would tell you if I could. But for your sake, and for mine, and William’s, I just can’t.”
Asking for trust is a pretty big request, given the circumstances, and Maggie purses her lips in frustration. “I don’t know how to help you if you won’t confide in me.”
“But you have been. Your visits, making me lunch and watching William and just sitting here talking to me… it helps. More than I can say.”
It is not the response she wants, but knowing her stubborn daughter, it is likely the best she is going to get, at least for now. She sighs, resigned.
“All right. But you have to promise me that you’ll let me know when there is more I can do. And I don’t just mean fixing meals and looking after the baby. It isn’t healthy to bottle everything up and try to hold all of your worries inside all the time. Believe me, I did that for years and had the ulcers to prove it.” She puts a hand on Dana’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “I am here for you no matter what. So promise me you’ll talk to me, when you’re ready?”
After a pause, her daughter nods. “I will.”
It is, however, not lost on her that Dana doesn’t meet her eyes as she says it.
Check out the latest issue of Touchstone (@msrfanzine) for an exclusive Scenes in Between fic (about Maggie Scully finding out Mulder's gone on the run)!
“How does one direct bugs?”
“I don’t know, but we’ve been running down a long list of witnesses. A loner who was present at every Dumb Ass stunt and who had a run-in with this kid Winky at school just prior to the lice attacking. We’re going to want to talk to him.”
“And while we’re doing that, why don’t you and Dr. Bronzino see what you can come up with as far as how these bugs might be getting their marching orders,” Doggett says.
Scully raises her eyebrows. “Frankly, I’m not sure how to even begin answering that question.”
“Well, maybe it’s like you said,” Reyes offers. “If the behavior is biological, if unusual concentrations of a hormone or other chemical could theoretically induce the bugs to attack, then it’s possible that whoever’s responsible for the attacks would have that chemical in their possession. Once we know what substances might cause the bugs to act that way, we’ll know what to look for.”
“It’s a place to start, anyway,” Doggett adds. “Take it up with the good doctor, see what his thoughts are.”
An expression flits across Scully’s face so quickly that Reyes would have missed it if she hadn’t been looking right at her, but it’s one she instantly recognizes. As Doggett turns to leave the lab, Reyes reaches for his arm.
“I’ll catch up with you.”
With a nod, Doggett heads for the door; when he’s gone, Reyes turns back to Scully.
“Everything all right?”
Scully looks surprised. “What do you mean?”
“Rocky Bronzino.” Reyes levels a significant look at Scully. “He wasn’t exactly subtle about hitting on you yesterday. If he’s been inappropriate or made you feel uncomfortable--”
“No,” Scully interrupts, shaking her head with the barest hint of a smile. “Doctor Bronzino may be… a little obnoxious, but he’s harmless.” Her smile broadens. “I appreciate your looking out for me, though.”
“It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable of handling things yourself. I have no doubt you could absolutely kick his ass if he tried anything,” Reyes says with a grin. “It’s just, when Agent Doggett mentioned him, for a second there you looked… perturbed.”
“Ah.” Scully gives a quiet chuckle. “Well, you know what it’s like to work with men who are experts in their field and are very eager to remind you of their expertise at every opportunity.”
Reyes nods. “It can be exhausting.”
“Exactly. And as much as I hate to admit it, it’s been a long time since I had to work late on a case in the field and fly home only to grab a few hours of sleep and catch the first shuttle back out in the morning,” Scully says with a rueful smile. “I guess I’ve gotten spoiled working at the Academy.” She shakes her head. “Anyway. It’s nothing a cup of coffee won’t fix. I’ll be better able to tolerate Dr. Bronzino’s… enthusiasm with a little caffeine.”
Relieved there’s nothing more worrying at play, Reyes nods again. “Well, I can certainly relate to that. Though I’m not proud to say it’s usually nicotine for me, in that situation.” She ducks her head with a shrug, and Scully gives her a mock stern eyebrow raise before her expression softens back into a grin. “I know, I know. I’ve ‘quit’ I don’t know how many times. One of these days I’ll kick it for good.”
“Don’t believe anyone who tries to tell you it’s easy,” Scully says, then angles her head toward the door. “You’d better get going. I’ll give you a call if Dr. Bronzino comes up with anything that might help the investigation.”
“Sounds good. We’ll keep you posted after we interview Dylan Lokensgard.”
“Okay. And Monica?” Scully adds when Reyes has her hand on the door to leave. “Thanks again.”
Going off this prompt list. I figure on any given day I’ll pick from one list, the other, or both if I can swing it. ;) Today’s prompt is: Treasure / Sleep
“Mulder!”
He sits bolt upright, squinting through the dim light to see Gibson doing the same, across the trailer.
“I think I’ve got something.”
Gibson dreamed about the old man again. This time, the man was thinking about a place.
“Some kind of bunker. Big. Built into the side of a mountain. Important people go there to evacuate.”
“Sounds like Mount Weather maybe. Government facility built to protect the president and members of Congress from nuclear attack. What about it?”
“It’s all there. Proof about what they’re planning. What the government knows, who’s involved. There’s a timeline.”
){kind=link}