#And Byers has to team up with Scully to find them and Mulder

[movietonight]

The most unhinged lone gunmen moments are actually not in the x-files or the spinoff they're in the comics and novels where they 1) fake their death to live in a bunker 2) Langly gets really high with Mulder by accident 3) they become besties with the Transformers and worsties with the Ghostbusters

[mollybecameanengineer]

The Home Front

Summary: Mulder, Scully, and William have been kidnaped and their deaths faked. How do their friends and family react?

word count: 6,138 | Teen | MSR | @today-in-fic

Read on AO3 or check out the first chapter below the break

This is part of an episodic series called A Second Chance. All the episodes are collected, in order, using AO3’s series feature. The concept of the series is to rewrite seasons 8 and 9. It deals with Mulder’s return from the dead, the birth of William, and Mulder and Scully trying to juggle family life with impending doom.

If you don’t want to read the whole thing, but want to read this story, here is what you need to know…

Previously on A Second Chance: After Mulder returned from the dead, he moved in with Scully. (Reentry). Scully, while pregnant, was infected with the black oil and somehow neutralized it (Immunidad). The Cigarette Smoking Man (and a new syndicate) learned of this, and became interested in Scully’s baby. After William was born, Mulder and Scully were determined to keep him safe (Sinister). However, after they learned that not only can William neutralize the black oil if infected, but he was also immune to the Super Soldier virus, Mulder planned to go on the run with William, leaving Scully behind due to the chip in her neck (and therefore her ability to be tracked). However, the Smoking Man got to them first. Mulder and Scully agreed to go with the Cigarette Smoking Man because he promised that he would keep them together and protect them from the alien colonists (who want to kill Mulder, Scully, and William) in exchange for letting him make a vaccine from William’s blood. (In the Space of a Day) When Maggie discovers that her daughter and family are missing, Skinner and the rest of the crew start a search, only to find evidence that Mulder and Scully ran, but died in a car accident. This evidence was planted by the Smoking Man and his associates, but no one knows that, and Mulder and Scully don’t know that everyone thinks they’re dead. Meanwhile, Mulder, Scully, and William leave with the Smoking Man, (Loss) who takes them to a remote military installation in Oregon. There, they are given base housing, and William is examined by the medical team. After exploring the facilities, Mulder and Scully decide that Scully will work with the team to develop the vaccine, while secretly trying to find a way to make William no longer immune, and thus no longer special. (The Gilded Cage) In their prison, Scully discovers why William is immune to the virus: he has defective white blood cells. This means that it’s unlikely that anyone could acquire an immunity like he has. In addition, he is immunodeficient. Just when Mulder and Scully start to plan their escape, Krycek appears. (Milestones)

June, 2001

“I’m not going.”

Frohike sat, with his arms crossed, glaring at Byers and Langly. The former was dressed in his usual suit, though one of his darkest colored ones, while the latter was wearing his dress t-shirt: which was still a shirt bought at a concert, it just didn’t have any holes in it.

In response to Frohike’s declaration, Langly threw up his hands. “Whatever, dude,” he said, before walking away.

“Melvin.” Byers walked over, and placed a hand on Frohike’s shoulder. Frohike had to suppress the urge to shrug him off. “I know you don’t believe that it was Mulder, Scully, and William in that car. I understand your doubts, and I promise we won’t stop looking until you’re satisfied. But,” Byers took a breath. “You should go to support Mrs. Scully. I know you don’t agree with having a funeral, but she’s grieving, and we are the closest thing Mulder has to family at this point. If we don’t go…” Byers trailed off. 

Frohike sighed. He understood what Byers was saying: if they didn’t go, it looked like they didn’t care. And Frohike cared. Since they’d gone missing last month, Frohike had tried to come up with any angle that might shed light on what happened. And while the dental records of the body in the burned up car matched his friends, they could be faked. It was all too convenient. He hated that Mrs. Scully had the bodies cremated before he could do a thorough examination. 

It all seemed like a show to make them stop looking.

Byers was still looking at him, a stern expression on his face. “Alright,” Frohike relented. “I’ll go.”

Byers smiled. “Good. We leave in ten minutes.”

***

It was a sunny day. 

Skinner stood next to a folding table that had been placed on the dock. It held pictures mostly of Scully, from childhood on. There were a couple pictures of Mulder, always with Scully, obviously snapped when he participated in some Scully family function. There was only one picture of William. He was in Scully’s arms, Mulder was sitting next to her on their couch. They were both smiling for the camera, which Skinner assumed Mrs. Scully had been wielding.

There was also a large flower arrangement and before that an urn. 

“I know Dana buried him the first time,” Mrs. Scully’s voice came from behind him. “But she wanted to be cremated and put to rest like her father. And I thought he’d want to be with her.”

Skinner nodded. Not to mention there wasn’t much left of them after the car fire. Skinner pushed the gruesome image out of his head. “I think you’re right. Mulder loved your daughter very much.”

“I know. And she loved him. And William –” Mrs. Scully’s voice caught. “Excuse me,” she said, walking away, wiping at her face. 

Skinner sighed, turning his attention back to the pictures. What a loss. Skinner had hoped, before Krycek had brought them the news that the Smoking Man was after William, that the birth of their child might bring Mulder and Scully peace. That their relentless searching would come to a close, and maybe they would be able to rest. To enjoy being a family.

But less than two weeks later they were dead. He supposed there might be a kind of peace in that, just not what he’d hoped for them. 

Skinner could feel tears welling in his eyes, and he blinked them away. He needed to be strong today for Scully’s family – they didn’t need his blubbering. 

“Good afternoon all, if you’ll take a seat, we will get started,” the priest said from the front of the gathering. Skinner recognized him as the same priest that had visited Scully when she was in the hospital. At least that meant he knew her – Skinner hated funerals where it was clear the officiant had no knowledge of the deceased. 

Turning his back on the pictures, walked over to the cluster of chairs where the funeral would take place. 

***

Charlie thanked God that Tara had gotten Bill out of the apartment.

The funeral was two days ago, and their mom had asked them all to help pack up Dana’s apartment. The landlord had asked if they could be out by the end of the month, which gave them a couple weeks. However, Charlie was leaving in a couple days, as was Bill and his family, and it felt wrong to leave his mother to this alone. 

So they’d all come over, but Bill just won’t shut the fuck up about how Mulder had been the cause of so much despair for their family. Charlie got it – if Dana had never joined the FBI, if she’d never gotten involved with Mulder, she and Melissa would likely be alive. But, right now, it really wasn’t helping. 

Thankfully, Matthew needed to run off some energy, so Tara convinced Bill to take him to a nearby park. Charlie didn’t know how she put up with his older brother, but thankfully he listened to her. That left Charlie with his mother and Tara, trying to sort out his sister’s life. 

“Are you going to take the fish home?” Charlie asked. 

His mom sighed. “I think so. They were Fox’s. Dana brought them from his apartment after…” No one liked to talk about the fact that his sister's partner had been dead twice, so his mom didn’t finish the sentence. “Anyway, Dana said they were important to Fox, it seems like I should take them and try to keep them alive.” 

Charlie nodded. He looked around the tank, trying to figure out how they were going to get it and the fish (still alive) to his mom’s place. 

“Anyway,” Mom said. “You should look through Fox’s clothes and see if there is anything you want. He was shorter than Bill, but I think his clothes might fit you.”

Charlie wasn’t too sure about that, nor was he thrilled about taking a dead man’s clothes, but it was an excuse to get things packed up and off to Goodwill. 

In the bedroom, Charlie started pulling Mulder’s things out of the closet. He had a lot of nice suits, but, as Charlie suspected, Mulder had longer arms and legs, and a smaller waist. Well, someone would get use out of them, he thought as he boxed them up.

Moving to the dresser, Charlie opened up the first drawer, and then slammed it back shut. Shit, he thought, then slowly opened it again. Sitting there, on top of his sister’s underwear, was a bright pink vibrator. The kind that’s shaped like a penis. Jesus Dana, this is more than I needed to know, Charlie thought, as he wondered how to dispose of this. 

“Hey, Charlie, I was thinking –” Tara’s voice stopped short as she saw what was in the drawer. 

They both stared at each other a moment, then at the vibrator. “Well, at least it’s not your mom finding this,” she said in a low voice. 

Thank god for small miracles. “Yeah, should we, like, look for more sex stuff?” Charlie whispered back. “So Mom doesn’t find it?”

Tara nodded. “I know I’d prefer if my siblings found this kind of stuff, rather than my parents.”

Charlie grabbed one of the big black trash bags, and gingerly threw the vibrator into it. “I’m guessing no one at Goodwill wants a used one of these.”

Tara laughed. 

After a careful search, they’d disposed lube and expired condoms (which explained William), two smutty novels, five vintage issues of Playboy (which Charlie felt a little bad about throwing away, but with Tara standing right there, he didn’t want to leaf through them to see why Mulder had kept these issues from twenty years ago), and VHS with the title Hand Solo, which was clearly a Star Wars porn parody. 

Charlie kind of wanted to keep the tape. Maybe he’d fish it out of the trash when no one was looking. 

“Well, hopefully that’s all of it,” Tara said, tossing some non-sex related trash on top to hide the contents. 

“Yeah,” Charlie said, going back to what he had been doing, going through Mulder’s clothes. He found Mulder’s drawers, and started pulling out ratty sweats, boxers, and socks, and dumping them in the trash. As he worked, a wave of grief hit him. He’d only met Mulder once, at Christmas in 1998. He had shown up with Dana, late. The combination had riled Bill up, and generally made things a bit uncomfortable. But he seemed like a nice guy, and his sister seemed happy with him. 

And now they were both dead, along with a nephew he’d never met. He’d never met to become distant from Dana, but he lived in Seattle and she was here. And neither of them were good at calling. So they’d grown apart, if not on purpose. So now he got to learn about her by clearing out her apartment. 

Charlie sighed and stuffed more of his sister’s life into the trash. 

Continue Reading on AO3

[slippinmickeys]

Head Canon AU Mulder and Scully as Archeologist and Scientist at a dig in ruins in the Amazon.

Anon! Thank you so much. I saw this this morning and got that rare inspiration wherein I launched myself at this, and kind of love what I came up with. I hope you enjoy it! (It is unbeta-ed)

1. The University was being cheap. That was the first thing. Piggybacking off the hard work he’d put in: years worth of toil to arrange this meticulously set-up dig. If they wanted to send a team to study advanced medical uses of the vast biome of the Amazon rainforest, they’d do far better sending this approaching medical team into the interior. His team -- his dig -- was practically on the outskirts. The forest around them had already been explored and researched, catalogued and referenced. The real biological finds -- the cures for Alzheimer’s, cancer -- would be found in the unknown, in those places even the aboriginal people hadn’t stepped. The University was being cheap, plunking in a science team on a completely separate mission with his own, just to save some cash. That was the bottom line.

If it hadn’t been so oppressively hot so early in the morning, he might not have been quite so irritated. As it was, he stood on the bank of the river and ran an already sweat-soaked handkerchief over the back of his neck, willing the putting little outboard Evinrude to chug a little more quickly upstream. It was hot and stiflingly humid, and he’d wanted to be at the dig two hours ago, before the heat of the day set in. Too late, that.

The incoming medical team -- if you could call it a team -- seemed to consist of only one person. A short-statured wisp of a woman (if the high, top-knotted messy red bun was any indication of sex) who sat low in the backseat of the approaching riverboat, surrounded by expensive-looking boxes filled with technology that probably wouldn’t operate well in the humidity. He blew an irritated raspberry and shuffled his feet in the muddy squelch of the riverbank.

The stout block of the driver hefted a rope at Mulder as they approached, which Mulder caught easily and wrapped around a nearby tree.

“Tudo vai bem?” Mulder inquired as the man cut the engine and grunted an affirmative.

The passenger stood, keeping a hand on the side of the little tin vessel, its stern fishtailing out into the current. Mulder stepped up and held out a hand, which she grasped gratefully. He pulled and she took a confident leap, landing lightly on the ground next to him.

“Dr. Mulder, I presume?” she said on a light breath, looking up at him with a small smile, having to crane her neck to do so. She had astonishingly blue eyes, a color he’d only seen once, in an ice-cave in the far north. He shook his head after a moment and realized that he was still holding her hand. He dropped it, nodding.

“I thank God, doctor, I have been permitted to see you,” she finished, quoting the journals of Henry Morton Stanley.

Mulder outright laughed. He was smitten immediately.

2. “Be careful with that!” she’d barked, as Langly handed out her equipment to a couple of waiting locals that had been working on the project for three years.

Mulder held up a calming hand.

“You’re working with archeologists, Dr. Scully,” he said softly, “my team has the gentlest hands in the Southern Hemisphere.”

She quirked one side of a grin at him even as she threw a worried look over her shoulder at her equipment.

“Come on,” he said, giving her sleeve a gentle tug, “let me show you around.”

He showed her the latrine first, watching her face carefully for a reaction, but she just nodded nonchalantly and kept walking. Then the mess, and the tent where she’d be working when she wasn’t in the field.

“And this,” he said, taking her to an empty patch of jungle, “is where your bunk will be. My apologies that it’s not set up. There’s no female barracks and we were told you wouldn’t be here until next week. The radio communique we got this morning informing us of your arrival came as something of a surprise.”

“I’m eager to get started,” was all she said in response.

Mulder walked on and she followed him.

“I’m afraid the only empty cot is in my tent,” he said sheepishly. “Dr. Byers headed home for a funeral last month and we’re not expecting him back until March. I’ll be sure yours is set up right away, but takes some time as we have to build a platform first. Have you done jungle field work before?”

“I flew here from Borneo,” she said. “It’s not a problem.” With that, she flipped back the tent’s outer curtain and ducked inside like she owned the place.

She never did move out.

3. Scully’s father had been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer and hadn’t lived long enough to see her graduate from medical school. She would not let it happen to anyone else if she could help it, she’d said. She worked like a woman possessed.

Against all advice, she would march into the jungle alone and be gone for days at a time. When her grad students finally arrived, they couldn’t keep up with her, and she’d frequently leave them at base camp to work on the equipment (which, Mulder was not really that pleased to report, did have a tendency to malfunction in the miasmic humidity and heat of the Amazon basin. It wasn’t, he admitted, that easy always being right). Occasionally she could be talked into taking one of the local hires with her, but she felt bad taking workers that Mulder’s project funding paid for, and anyway, they weren’t trained in her science, she would tell him.

“I wish you wouldn’t go out on your own,” he murmured into the cup of her ear one night, a trickle of sweat running from her hairline and onto the tip of his nose.

She turned on the cot, a feat, considering its fairly narrow dimensions, and pressed her forehead against his, the flimsy pillow damp beneath them both.

“I’m careful,” she whispered, and threw a leg over him, her dewy mons pressing into the naked flesh of his thigh.

“It’s not safe-” he began to protest, but she’d captured his lips with her own and he fell headlong into the lush heat of her -- whatever concern that had been on the tip of his tongue lost to her rapacious mouth as it trailed a slick path down his torso and latched, vitae and greedy, around the rigid length of him. It was bliss. She was bliss. If he had ever thought he knew love, he was wrong.

4. The whole camp knew they were together. Her tent had become a kind of catchall storage area, and it’s not like nylon canvas could contain the breathy moans of their pleasure. That and she’d just plunk down and sit on his lap whenever the only camp chair available around the mess tent was the one with the tricky leg.

Anyway, what happened in the field stayed in the field, unless it was up for peer review.

“Are you guys going to get married or something?” Mulder’s newest grad student asked one night when the air had actually cooled enough to take the edge off of everybody’s temper. Beer had arrived with their latest resupply and Frohike had syphoned off some LN2 to cool it and it was frosty and rich and maybe the best thing Mulder had ever tasted aside from Scully’s skin.

Scully, from atop his lap, merely shrugged and took a leisurely sip of brew. Mulder pictured it sliding down her throat, the cold blooming into her belly and he dry swallowed, then leaned forward and kissed her shoulder.

“God, don’t be such a newb,” drawled Langly, pressing his glasses into his face compulsively.

Mulder knew what Langly meant. They’d all seen their share of field romances that fizzled the second your boots stepped back onto University soil, though something about Scully felt different; the way their minds worked together, the way she felt in his arms.

“I’m married to the job, bro,” Scully said, but reached back and squeezed the skin just above Mulder’s hip. He kissed her shoulder again.

“D’you tell her about the helo data?” Frohike asked, looking at Mulder from his own camp chair. The little man sat low and back in it with his shoulders hunched up, and Mulder thought he looked a bit like a toad, or an ogre guarding a burial mound.

They’d gotten the funding from a billionaire alumni to fly a helicopter over the whole of the basin in this sector of the Amazon, using light detection radar. Basically, it shot out billions of lasers as it flew overhead that were able to penetrate the rainforest’s canopy and map the landscape below.

“You had a chance to analyze it?” Scully asked, craning her head to look at him squarely.

He nodded, smiling. He’d been saving this to tell her especially.

“And you were able to combine it with the satellite data?” she asked, excited.

He nodded again. “Sóis,” he said, smiling. The settlements they’d found took their name from the Portuguese word for ‘suns.’ They were round villages, all with remarkably similar layouts, with elongated mounds circling a central plaza. When seen from above, they looked like the rays of the sun. “Pre-Columbian.”

She jumped off his lap, spilling half her beer in the process. It dripped down the bare skin of her knee, unnoticed.

“Are you kidding?!” her excitement made him giddy.

“It gets better,” he said, and she cocked her head, waiting for him to elaborate. “They’re laid out like the cosmos,” he said, giving her a full-watt smile as he rose out of the chair to stand in front of her. “We’re already plotted three different villages, all laid out in the exact design of southern constellations.” Her mouth dropped open. “Canis Major, Hydra, and Crux Australis.”

She launched herself into his arms, practically squealing -- something he’d never heard her do -- and he held her, looking around at the smiling faces of the other scientists in the mess. The find would make his career, and her excitement for him touched him profoundly.

5. Martim, one of their local hires, came careening into camp, breathing so hard he had to put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. His face was a mask of anxiety and fear. Mulder felt dread bloom in his gut, and he dropped what he was doing -- actually dropped the computer tablet he was holding to the wet forest floor -- and ran over to the man, grasping him firmly by the shoulder.

“Martim?” he said, “O que aconteceu?”

“Dr. Scully,” the man heaved, his accent thick. He could still scarcely breathe.

“Where is she?” Mulder didn’t have the emotional wherewithal to translate from English. “What happened?”

“Hurt,” the man wheezed, “she’s hurt.”

It took nearly thirty minutes to assemble a rescue party, and they had to let Martim rest for a bit and give him food and water before he could take them back out into the jungle where he’d left Scully. Mulder was beside himself by the time they finally started off, impatient as a recalcitrant child, sick to his stomach with worry.

It took three hours to hack into the area where she’d been doing her search, and a further twenty minutes of calling her name before they heard her weak call back.

Mulder raced ahead without thought to obstacle or danger, and skidded to a halt when he was practically on top of her. She was leaning back against the base of a large tree, holding onto her right ankle, which she had elevated on her left knee. There was a length of rope beside her and a climbing harness around her butt and waist.

“Scully,” he panted, falling to his knees beside her.

She smiled at him weakly, her face pale and sweaty.

“I think it’s broken,” she hissed, pointing at her ankle.

“What happened?” Mulder asked, as the rest of the rescue party trundled in behind him, pulling off backpacks and other equipment. Someone handed Scully a bottle of water.

“I saw a fungus I’d never seen before growing on the bark midway up this tree,” she said after guzzling half a bottle of Arrowhead. “The carabiner failed on my descent.”

“Oh, Scully,” Mulder said, reaching out to tuck a damp lock of titian hair behind her ear.

“I got the sample, though,” she said with a tired, but victorious glint in her eye.

They weren’t back into camp until well after nightfall.

Mulder picked her up from the field stretcher and carried her into their tent, depositing her gently onto her cot. Langly came in behind him and handed him two fresh cold packs before ducking back out without a word. Mulder popped them to activate the chemicals and pressed them gingerly on either side of Scully’s ankle.

“I’m going to call for a medical evac,” he said quietly.

“Don’t you dare,” she said, grabbing at his hand and squeezing it. “Mulder, don’t you fucking dare.”

“Scully, we’ve got to follow protocol here,” he said, trying not to sound put out.

“Do not take me out of the field, Mulder. Promise me.”

“Scully-”

“Promise me!”

“How will you even work?” he said a little desperately.

“It doesn’t need setting or surgery,” she said, gesturing to her injured limb.

“How do you know that without an X-ray?”

“I’m a medical doctor,” she said, by way of explanation, “I can secure it with supplies we have on hand. I can work from my cot for a few days and make crutches out of tree limbs. Please, Mulder,” she said, and he could feel himself relenting, even if it would get him in trouble. “Please.”

He sighed, and she smiled up at him weakly, though he didn’t say a thing.

“Thank you,” and closed her eyes, relaxing into her pillow, “thank you.”

Six weeks later the canvas of their tent ripped back and the greenish glow of leaf-filtered sunlight shone into the murky, damp depths. Mulder rose from where he was resting on his cot and looked to the entrance. Scully stood there, armpit resting on her improvised crutch, her hair a rich autumn frizz around her head. Her eyes were wide and shining, and there was something incandescent about her in that moment -- an energy pulsing from her that lit his soul from within.

“Scully-” he started, but she held up a hand to silence him. Her hands were shaking.

“I found it,” she said, her voice breathy with the triumph of discovery, “Mulder, I found it.”

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 22

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

“Five, four, three, two, one, Happy New Year!”

Auld Lang Syne erupts from the speakers at the Gunmen’s, everyone finding someone, or something, to kiss. Scully smiles at the sight of Missy and Byers, snuggled in the corner of the couch smirking around a series of small pecks, whispering something to each other meant only for their ears.

“Sorry, poorly timed bathroom break,” Mulder says as he approaches, putting one hand at the small of her back and the other across her shoulders as he dips like he’s a sailor returning from sea. She squeals, then kisses him in earnest with her hands cradling his face, stopping only when Frohike suggests they get a room. They straighten up, her palms on his chest as his rest just above her tailbone. She beams up at him, optimistic and excited to embark on 1998 as a team. What a difference a year makes, she thinks to herself.

“Happy New Year, Scully,” he says with an affectionate smile.

“Happy New Year, Mulder.”

———

“Ugh, do we have to go?” she whines, curled up on the couch under a blanket.

“Do we have to go to your birthday party? I’m thinking yes,” he says, crouching down next to her.

“I’m sleepy,” she says, tugging on his hand, “let’s take a nap.”

He sighs. “That sounds very enticing, but you already took a nap today and we have to be at your mom’s in forty-five minutes.”

She makes a face. “Fine, but she better have coffee made.”

“She always does,” he replies, pulling her to her feet. “But drinking coffee at 6:00 pm is probably why you’re so tired in the first place. You’re not sleeping well at night.”

She gives him a deadpan expression. “I totally missed you getting your doctorate in medicine, Mulder. You hid it so well.”

He gives her a playful slap on the butt. “Get going, little lady, we’re gonna be late.”

There’s dinner, cake, and a small set of gifts. Missy and Byer’s give her a very fancy set of bubble bath and bath salts, while Charlie opts for a VHS of Weekend at Bernies, which she begrudgingly admits is one of her favorites. Mom gives her two tickets to see Chicago live on Broadway, and insists that she won’t be upset if Dana takes Mulder instead of her. She opens Mulder’s gift last, having already warned him that if it were something inappropriate to open in front of her family, she would punish him profusely. He insisted it was totally safe, so she accepts the large flat rectangular package from him with only a hint of skepticism. She tears the paper away to find a large frame, nearly the size of a poster, with a dark blue circle occupying most of the framed area. Within the circle is a series of white dots and lines of varying sizes. Beneath it is a date and set of coordinates.

May 29, 1996

38.5313718, -77.4456233

She feels her throat constrict with emotion and bites her lip to try and stave off the tears.

“What does it mean?” Missy asks.

“It’s a constellation map,” Byers answers, “it shows the night sky on a specific date and at a specific location. Those are coordinates.”

“For where?” Missy inquires further.

“Quantico,” Scully answers tightly, standing to thread her arms around Mulder’s neck. “Thank you,” she whispers, and he gives her a little squeeze.

“It was written in the stars, Scully,” he whispers back, then holds her while her mother clears the dishes and everyone retreats to the living room.

An hour later, Mulder and Maggie stand at the kitchen sink, washing and drying the dishes while Scully sips a cup of coffee at the counter, her chin resting on her fist.

“Can we go soon, Mulder? I’m exhausted,” she says with drooping eyelids.

“Of course, whatever the birthday girl wishes is my command,” he replies, running a dish towel around the perimeter of a plate.

“Are you okay sweetie, you getting sick?” Maggie asks with a concerned furrow of her brow.

“No, Mom, I’m fine. I’ve just been exhausted lately, no matter how much sleep I get.”

Maggie cocks her head at her daughter. “When’s the last time you had your period, Dana?”

“I don’t get a period, pleasant side effect of my birth control,” she says with a hint of annoyance.

“And you haven’t missed a pill, or whatever?” Maggie clarifies.

“It’s a shot, and I got one in December, I’m not due to get another until next month,” she replies, resting her forehead on the counter.

There is a long silence. Long enough that she lifts her head to see what’s causing it. Mulder is staring at her with wide eyes, his mouth slightly open, and Maggie is staring at Mulder like she’s just come to some kind of realization.

“What?” Scully asks, “you’re freaking me out.”

“I was supposed to remind you to reschedule your appointment in December,” he says softly, his breathing very shallow.

She sits up straighter. “No, Mulder, I got my shot right before we went to California for Christmas.” Even as she tries to convince them all that it’s not what Maggie is suggesting, her face is contorting into one of fear.

“You had an emergency autopsy,” he says quietly, “Trudy was out. You missed it.”

“Oh god,” she says, her mind reeling. “Oh my god.”

“I’m going to give you two some privacy,” Maggie says, exciting the kitchen.

Mulder comes around to her side of the counter, placing a palm in the middle of her back. “Scully?” he asks, though he’s not sure what the question is.

“We need to go to the store,” she says flatly, shifting into problem-solving mode. “We need to pick up a pregnancy test.”

———

They are perched on the edge of the bathtub, the test sitting face-down on the counter next to the sink.

“How long has it been?” she asks, and Mulder checks his watch again.

“Four minutes,” he answers, squeezing her hand.

She pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“What if it’s positive?” she asks quietly.

“Then...we have a baby,” he answers.

She looks at him and he gives her a small smile. She tries to smile back but her chin puckers and turns it into a grimace.

“Okay,” she finally responds.

Mulder checks his watch again.

“It’s been five minutes,” he says, “do you want to look, or do you want me to?”

She closes her eyes.

“You look. One line is negative, two lines is positive. Even if the second line is very faint, it’s positive if there are two.”

“Okay,” he says, moving to the counter.

She opens her eyes to watch him as he picks up the test and turns it over. His face is unreadable as he places it back on the counter and walks over to the tub, kneeling on the floor between her knees. He brings his hands to her hips and looks up at her with a gentle expression, then leans forward and presses his lips to her belly.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, tears pooling in her eyes.

He pulls back and takes her hands in his.

“It’s okay, Scully. Maybe it’s not perfect timing, but I love you and I’m excited to have a baby with you.”

She looks at him incredulously. “You are?”

He smiles at her. “Of course. I’ve thought about us having kids someday hundreds of times. I just always figured it would be a little further in the future.”

She gives him a pained smile through her tears, draping her arms around his neck.

“We’re going to have a baby,” she says out loud for the first time.

“We’re going to have a baby,” he repeats.

That night in bed, she lies awake for a long time, the shock of the news overriding her fatigue.

“I can feel you thinking,” Mulder grumbles from behind her.

“Sorry,” she answers over her shoulder.

He pushes his chin into the crook of her neck, his arm slinging over her waist.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks softly.

“Just the future. What’s going to happen next. Where the hell we’re going to fit a baby and all it’s crap in this apartment.”

“We might have to move,” Mulder offers.

“Even if we do, should we rent someplace bigger? Should we buy a house? Would your name or mine be on the deed? Speaking of names, will the baby have your last name or mine? I can picture my mother’s church friends gossiping about the poor bastard child with a different last name than his mother,” she rambles.

Mulder is quiet for a moment.

“We could get married,” he says with the same casualness as suggesting pizza for dinner.

She freezes. “No, Mulder,” she says coldly.

“Why not?” he asks, pulling away and gently rolling her onto her back so he can see her face.

She shakes her head glumly. “I got married for the wrong reasons once. I’m not going to do it again.”

“What’s the wrong reason?” he asks sincerely.

“Getting married because you’re pregnant is about the most standard wrong reason to get married I can think of, Mulder.”

“I don’t want to marry you because you’re pregnant, Scully,” he implores, resting his hand on her stomach. “I want to marry you because I love you.”

“The timing of the question suggests otherwise,” she counters, and his face contorts into a wounded expression. “Mulder, I’m not saying no forever, I’m just saying not right now. We’re about to go through a lot, I’m going to be insane with hormones, and then give birth and feel fat and awful with a crying newborn and will probably resent you-“

“Well with that attitude,” he cuts her off, though his tone is lighthearted.

She rolls to her side to face him, clutching his hands to her chest.

“Ask me again later, Mulder, when we’ve survived this. When you’ve seen me huge and then deflated and unshowered and weepy. If you still think you want to marry me after seeing me at my absolute worst, ask me again.”

“Okay,” he says, planting a kiss to her forehead. “I will.”

[leiascully]

Fic:  Between A Rock And A Hard Place (Part Three)

Timeline: Season 10 (replaces My Struggle in the All The Choices We’ve Made ‘verse - Visitor + Resident + etc.) Rating: PG Characters:  Mulder, Scully, Tad O’Malley, Sveta (established MSR) Content warning:  canon-typical body horror (mentions of abduction, forced pregnancy, etc.) A/N:  I’m collecting all the related stories that go with Visitor/Resident under the title “All The Choices We’ve Made”, because it felt right at the time.  This story is an alternate My Struggle that reflects M&S’ growth/change in the ATCWM ‘verse. I’m weaving canon dialogue into the stories in an attempt to keep the reframing plausibly in line with canon.  

Part One  |  Part Two

They drop Scully and Sveta off at the hospital.  Driving the limousine into the non-emergency lot at Our Lady of Sorrows feels even more pretentious than cruising the streets of DC, but at least Scully can still leverage a few privileges there.   

"Call me when you're done," Mulder says to Scully.  They're standing in the corner of a hospital waiting room with their heads close together.  It feels like old times.  He's aware of how easy it would be to slide back into that life.  There are some things worth salvaging from their days on the X-Files, but they've worked hard to rebuild the rest.  

"Where will you be?" she said, tipping her face up to his.  It always made him want to kiss her.  It still does.

"I don't know.  He seems to have a plan."  He jerks his head slightly at Tad O'Malley, who is staring into his phone again, conspicuous by the door.  "Divide and conquer, right?"

"We're too smart for that, aren't we?" she murmurs, more than a hint of irony in his voice.  "Mulder, he's got to have something he wants only you to see."

"Don't take the bait," he says.  

"You too," she says.  He leans down and kisses her on the cheek, because what the hell, he can.  Their attachment to each other is no secret.  She closes her eyes briefly.  "Be safe."

"You know me," he says, and winks.

"That's why I worry," she tells him.  He chuckles as he turns away and strides back over to O'Malley.  

"I think they've got this," Mulder says.

"Good, because I've got something to show you," O'Malley says.  "Something for the eyes of true believers."

"And seekers of truth?" Mulder asks.

"Them too."  O'Malley nods at the limo.  Let's get going."

It doesn't take that long to get there, or at least, not as long as it took to get to Low Moor.  They stop at a gas station, and O'Malley reaches into a bag Mulder hadn't noticed and takes out a black hood.

"Top secret," O'Malley says.  "I'm afraid I have to ask you to wear this."

"I'm not signing any dungeon-related paperwork," Mulder jokes.  He reaches for the hood.  "Allow me."

"I expected more resistance than that," O'Malley says.

"This isn't my first top-secret rodeo," Mulder says.  "At least it's not a rubber gorilla mask."

"Didn't see that in any of the reports," O'Malley says.

Mulder slips the hood on.  "Just don't break any fingers," he says.  His voice is muffled by the cloth.  It's hot, of course, but at least it's smooth, and it smells fine.  Could be worse.  He doesn't try to keep track of the twists and turns.  There's no point.  He just sits back and relaxes until the limo stops.  O'Malley opens the door and then helps Mulder out.  Mulder walks obediently wherever he's guided.  He hears the creak of heavy metal doors opening.

"I want to prepare you," O'Malley says, a little too close, "for what you're about to see."

He pulls the hood from Mulder's head.  Mulder blinks and looks around.  It's what he expected: empty space, esoteric equipment, men in blue coats.  A scientist sees them and starts walking toward them.  Somehow there are rarely any women doing this kind of science.  At this point, he's convinced it's because women have more sense than to fall for it.  There's something recognizable, though.  

"A Faraday cage?" he says.  "For what?"

"Do you know what an ARV is?" O'Malley asks in a smug voice.

"That's what you brought me here to see?" Mulder asks.  

O'Malley just smirks.  "This is Garner," he says as the scientist arrives.  "He'll walk you through the science."  

"Right this way, Mr. Mulder," Garner says, and Mulder and O'Malley follow him through a gate into the Faraday cage.  There's a craft inside, triangular and glossy.  It's surrounded by a team of scientists who are making adjustments and taking readings.  The thing is covered with little panels.  

"That's an alien replica vehicle?" Mulder asks.

Garner nods.  "Given your background, I would've thought you'd seen one before."  

Mulder gazes at it.  "Seen the real thing, or as real as it gets.  Seen some convincing fakes too.  Never seen one like this."

"What we're showing you, we do at great risk," Garner tells him.  "Colleagues have had labs burned to the ground and work destroyed by our own government."

"I know how that feels," Mulder says.  "May I?"

"Of course," Garner says, inclining his head.  "Be my guest."

Mulder reaches out to touch one of the panels.  It's smooth under his fingertips, warm and vibrating gently.  The craft hums slightly louder and begins to hover, rising until Mulder's hand slides off it.  One of the scientists is controlling it, he's certain, but it is impressive.  

"It's running on toroidal energy," Garner tells him.  "So-called zero-point energy.  The energy of the universe."

Mulder imagines Scully would have something to say about that. "You're talking about free energy?"

"We've had it since the '40s," O'Malley interjects.  "No fuel, no flame, no combustion."

"A simple electromagnetic field," Garner says, frowning very slightly.  

"Kept secret for seventy years while the world ran on petroleum," O'Malley says dramatically.  "Oil companies making trillions.  The Middle East tearing itself apart.  For nothing."  

Mulder refrains from commenting on the quality of O'Malley's political analysis or the fact that O'Malley profits from every conflict.  He gazes at the craft.  Garner steps to his side.

"What I'm going to show you next is the most unbelievable part," Garner says.  He's talking only to Mulder, Mulder thinks.  O'Malley believes a little too much, tries to build hype around it when the facts are shocking enough.  Garner thinks Mulder will see past the hyperbole to the actual miracle.  Garner waves two fingers at one of the other scientists, who nods and flips a switch.  The surface of the craft flickers and the air around it almost shimmers.  When the glimmer clears, the craft has vanished.  

"Gravity warp drive," Mulder breaths, and Garner nods.  "How?"

"Element 115," Garner says.  "Ununpentium."

"Where did you get it?" Mulder asks.  "We can create it under lab conditions, but not in any stable state, and not in any quantity."

"Salvaged," Garner says.

"From where?" Mulder asks.

"You know where," O'Malley says.  "Roswell.  1947.  Along with the original craft and its pilots."

"Of course," Mulder murmurs.  

"That's where it all came from," Garner says.  Another flip of the switch and the ARV shimmers back into existence.

"It all comes back to Roswell," O'Malley says dramatically.  "Every advance we've made.  Every war we've fought.  Do you see?"

"I do," Mulder says.  It's the only answer O'Malley wants.

"We should be getting back," O'Malley says.  "It's late."

"That sounds like my cue," Mulder says, and O'Malley hands him the hood.  

"You see how important my pursuit of the truth is," O'Malley says in the car, once he's freed Mulder from the hood again.

"I see that it's made you rich," Mulder says.  "Funny how much truth looks like conspiracy."

"You of all people would know," O'Malley says.

Mulder shrugs.  "My pursuit of the truth has never been lucrative.  I lost everything."

"And yet you fought to get it back," O'Malley says.  "I respect the struggle."

Mulder smiles tightly.  There's nothing to say to that.  O'Malley cannot conceive of what he and Scully and their families have been through, to say nothing of the countless people he's interviewed with stories like Sveta's.  Stories of pain and suffering.  Stories of loss.  Not clickbait to spook the masses and sell airtime at a steep markup to war profiteers.  

They drive back to collect Scully and Sveta from the hospital.  Scully looks a little pinched and Sveta looks tired.  Mulder gives Scully a questioning look and she shakes her head almost imperceptibly.  <i>Later.</i>  

"I think we'll just get an Uber back to our car," Mulder says.  "It's a long drive back to Low Moor.  We don't want to keep you."

"Oh, I'm putting Sveta up in a hotel for the night," O'Malley says.  "I've got a show to tape in the morning.  Got to look fresh."

"I could stay if you will need me again, Dr. Scully," Sveta says.

Scully hesitates.  "That might be wise."

"Don't worry about it," O'Malley says, patting Sveta on the shoulder.  "It's my privilege to help her share her story with you."  He hands Mulder a card.  "This is my personal number, if you need me."

"Glad to hear it," Mulder says.  "Good night, Sveta.  Mr. O'Malley."

"Good night," Sveta says.  

It doesn't take long to find an Uber.  Mulder and Scully climb inside and talk about nothing, as if their day hasn't been filled with abductees.  Scully checks her email.  Mulder reads a message board.  Not until they get into their own car does she turn to him.

"Mulder, whoever that girl is, something has definitely happened to her.  I don't know about alien DNA, but she's traumatized, and her body shows signs of something strange.  She has stretch marks that could have resulted from a pregnancy.  She also thinks she can read minds."

"Can she?" Mulder asks.

"She knew we're together," Scully says, "but that isn't a stretch.  She said that you had been depressed in the past."

"That isn't a stretch either," Mulder jokes, merging into traffic.

"She said we had a child together," Scully says quietly.

Mulder says nothing for a moment.  "I don't think that's a secret," he says finally.  "We were being watched.  Surely that information is out there."

"She doesn't seem like the kind of person who would have dug that deep," Scully says.  

"Did Byers?" Mulder asks.

Scully sighs.  "She also claims to be telekinetic, but says she can't move things with her mind all the time."

"That's the rub, isn't it?" Mulder asks.  "Can't get that Vegas gig bending spoons for the crowd unless you're consistent."

"She says it comes from the alien DNA," Scully says, and he knows she's thinking of William.  

"When will you have the results?" Mulder asks.

"Soon," Scully says.  

"Do you believe her?" Mulder asks.  He pinches his lower lip between his fingers.  God, he could go for some sunflower seeds.

"She seems to believe in her memories," Scully says.  "I've seen strange things in the course of our work.  Inexplicable things.  I'm inclined to accept the possibility that something happened to her that has not been fully investigated."

"But not that it was aliens?" Mulder teases.

"It wasn't aliens who took me," she says.  "At least, I don't think it was."

"There was a ship, Scully," Mulder says.

"There was a light," she says.  "A light so blinding it could have obscured the less-than-extraterrestrial origins of an experimental plane.  Whoever did what they did to me was human, Mulder, starting with Duane Barry and ending with the chip that CGB Spender gave you to put back in my neck."

"I remember chasing the train," he says.  “One of the trains where they did their work.”

"Cassandra Spender was taken to one of those trains," she reminds him.  "If aliens took her, humans took her apart."

"She reminds me of Max Fenig," he says.  "Sveta, I mean."  

"I agree," Scully says.  

They are silent for a moment, remembering Max.

"I don't trust Tad O'Malley," Scully says at last, as they're parking on their street.

"Nobody should," Mulder says, setting the emergency brake.  Just one of the many precautions he takes these days.  "He's a snake oil salesman peddling poison."

"He wants to divide us," she says.  

"I agree," Mulder says.  "And I think you're right, he'll come to you next."

Scully makes a disgusted noise.  

"Not ready for the lifestyles of the rich and famous?" Mulder teases.  "I'm sure he'll offer you all that and more."

"He's a sleazebag," Scully protests.  "Handsome enough, but a sleazebag."

"And what do you say behind my back, Agent Scully?" Mulder asks, reaching for the door handle.

Her face softens.  "I love you," she tells him.  

"The most inexplicable thing," he teases her, and they go into their house together.

[tatooedlaura-blog]

Maggie’s Walter

This third series reads as follows:

Shattered … Desolation … Determination … Us and Ours … Ratty Towels … The Sleepover … Skinner and the Punch … Oregon … Impossibilities … Something from Nothing … Out of the Car … Partners … News … Never Replace You … The Chip … Date Night ... Evidence of Things Unseen

@today-in-fic

First series … Second series

*********************

Really?

Did she really need a damned pancake wrapped in bacon with a pickle in the center?

Weren’t pickle cravings cliché? Couldn’t she crave something unique like Worcestershire sauce, flax seed, banana bread with cinnamon … oooh, she’d have to make some of that the next time she had ingredients and a kitchen on hand … but no, she had to crave the damn pickle.

And not just the Kosher dill ones but the extra garlic, ‘I’m going to reek for the rest of the day and you can’t stop me’ kind of pickle. She’d taken to carrying a jar of them in her bag, she left a jar at work, her mom had a jar, for God’s sake, even Skinner had a stash of them in his office.

Which was where she was now …

Craving a God-damned pickle but trying to listen to some other director guy with a bad comb-over and a mole right in the middle of his chin that waggled with every word …

Would it make her look too terrible if she got up and routed in Skinner’s closed shelving unit for her fix?

Really, would it be that bad?

Stroking the toothbrush handle in her pocket and the travel size toothpaste beside it, she stopped listening to AD Babcock when she felt a hand join hers, thicker fingers gently running over nails, knuckles, palm and skin stretched over joint and tendon.

Mulder could feel the tension in her body and once he saw her hand disappear in her toothbrush pocket, he nearly laughed, knowing her focus was food and not federal. Surreptitious in movement, obvious in movement, not caring about movement, he drifted his hand in with hers, feeling the toothbrush, feeling her fingers, feeling the need to take them out, suck on the tips of them, move up her arm …

Shit, this would be the time not to fantasize about her, regardless of how boring this meeting was.

Well, there was always time to fantasize about Scully but given the look Skinner shot him a moment later, he fumbled around, found a stray mint and pulled it out, giving his boss the nod of ‘just looking for a candy, calm your ass down, sir’ all the while 9/10th of his brain was occupied with memories and future satisfactions of lips on skin and hands on breasts.

When the hell would this damn meeting be over?

Finally, the thing ended, neither Mulder nor Scully having any damn clue what was discussed and fine with this, did their professional handshakes before skirting out the side door of the office, back stairwell their unspoken mutual destination.

Once the door had shut behind them, the cement echoing the clicking of the latch, Scully turned to Mulder, Mulder reached for Scully,

“Can we go get some lunch?”

“How many parts of you will you let me lick in the next three minutes?”

Before either could do more than smile at the other, the door opened up behind them, Skinner holding out a pickle wrapped in a paper towel, “next time, just go get the damn pickle. Babcock has six kids and I’ve witnessed his wife calling to ask him to bring home grapefruit juice and Moose tracks ice cream. He’d be fine with you eating a pickle.” Skinner then disappeared, door shutting behind him, the smell of the garlic dill filling the enclosed space.

Scully ate it on the way to lunch.

Mulder discovered he can lick a good portion of her body in three minutes, efficiency being key.

&&&&&&&&&

Given it was Thursday, they were hip deep in 5-card draw and milkshakes, courtesy of Maggie and her blender, saying it could do more than make Ruth’s punch, which she proved, a gallon of ice cream later, everyone on the cusp of diabetic shock and permanent numb tongue. Skinner, realizing he needed something warm in his stomach, discovered, to his own amazement, that he’d forgotten to buy coffee on their last supermarket run.

As an aside, once he announced he’d forgotten to buy it on said supermarket run, Scully realized Skinner grocery shopped with her mom.

It was the weirdest thing she’d discovered so far about them because, in all honesty, she never really figured on him eating, shopping, cooking and/or doing these mundane things on a daily basis.

Eventually, she’d find his boxers in the corner of the bathroom and that would make the grocery store thing seem like nothing but that is for another time.

Declaring he would be back in fourteen minutes, long enough to run to the corner market and back, he kissed Maggie on the cheek and headed out the door. Scully’s eyes drifted from Mulder, because, seriously, she always seemed to be looking at him and vice versa, to Maggie, who watched Skinner’s retreating figure with a secret little smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“Mom?”

Finally, after another second, she looked over at her daughter, “Dana?”

With a grin that bordered on mischievous evil, “You gonna deal those cards or what?”

&&&&&&&&&&&

A half-hour later, Maggie began glancing at the clock, outright staring at it after 45 minutes had passed, “I wonder where Walter is?”

The rest of the table had been wondering as well, Mulder pulling out his phone, “want me to call him?”

“Yes, please.”

After two attempts and nothing, he stood up, giving Scully his FBI look, “if you want to keep calling, I’m going to go look for him. Maybe his car broke down or he ran out of gas.”

Scully, Federal face descending as well, “get your gun.”

“Dana?”

Ignoring her mother for the moment, she stood beside Mulder, “call me if you find him. If you don’t in ten, I’ll wake up Danny.

Mulder nodded, already retrieving his boots and yanking his hat on, gun in the safe upstairs, “Maggie? Which way would he have gone?”

Giving him concise directions, “and he doesn’t deviate. It’s the fastest route. He wouldn’t go another way.”

Loving Skinner and his set-in stone routines at the moment, Mulder kissed Scully, then headed upstairs quickly, retrieving his weapon and thundering back down the steps, locking the front door as he left. Scully, phone to her ear, waited until it went to voicemail, “hey, Walter, just wondering if everything was okay? You should have been back about 30 minutes ago. Mulder’s out looking for you in case something happened. Call me when you get this.” Once that was done, she looked at the concerned faces around the table, realizing a little too late that they’d been awfully nervous looking since she mentioned to Mulder about his gun, “it’s just a precaution. Mulder doesn’t like us to leave the house without guns and badges.”

Maggie, her stomach twisting in a way it hadn’t since Scully had gone missing five years earlier, “do you really think something happened?”

It was the eighth of a second pause and milliliter air intake that hinted at the entire story, beginning, middle and end, which, naively, Scully smiled to cover, “he’s probably fine. We’re just extra paranoid because … well … it’s what we do.”

The fear, familiar in its complete uncontrollability, shook her bones, “call him again please.”

&&&&&&&&&&

Mulder called Scully seven minutes later, “I found his car in the parking lot of the store but he’s not in it. The guy at the register says he never came in.” Looking in Skinner’s windows, “his doors are locked and I don’t see any blood or damage so he must have gotten out of the car before whatever happened.”

“Want me to call Danny?”

Hating his next words, “give me another five to look around, then I think we need to call Kersch.”

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

Had he said that some other moment in time, she would have snorted at the nonsense of what he spoke but instead, she hung up, dialing Frohike before she had time to realize it, “it’s me. Turn off the recorder.”

“Hang on … okay, what’s up?”

“We have a problem.”

Frohike woke Byers and dragged Langley from the kitchen, explaining then carrying out Scully’s request to no avail. Scanning all the bands but not finding any chatter about suspicious activity, police action in the area or 911 calls pertaining to their situation, Frohike called her back, “what do you want me to do?”

“Track his phone if you can and if you can’t, hack his computer and see if he’s gotten any messages. I want a pair of eyes I trust in those files.”

“Later, when this is all over, I’ll be declaring my undying love and adoration for you.”

“Thanks, Frohike. If you find him, I’ll declare it back.”

The Gunmen now on the case, she waited for Mulder to call her back.

When he did, she clenched her teeth and told him to stay there, she’d be calling Kersch and having a team sent his way.

The nightmare began.

Only it wasn’t Mulder but Walter.

Her Walter.

Betsy’s Walter.

Her mother’s Walter.

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

Someday Your Child May Cry

Previous: Question | Preparations | Irrational | Confession | Collateral | Thoughtless | Interrupted | Recovering | Irresponsible | Possibility | Devastation | Confrontation | Generous

14. Confirmation

Autopsying and identifying every single body recovered from the hangar at El Rico Air Force Base takes three full days and an entire team of pathologists. By the end of it, Scully’s feet are covered in blisters in spite of her comfortable shoes, and she’s relatively certain that the cramps in her neck, back, and shoulders are going to be with her for at least a week.

(She's also had to leave the table to vomit in the bathroom three times today alone. She could put it down to the horror of having to autopsy the bodies of small children who had been burned alive, but, she’s never gotten sick over an autopsy before, and anyway, she’d been nauseous before she’d even picked up her scalpel on the first day.)

Two weeks ago, Scully would have whispered her suspicions in Mulder’s ear, savoring his excitement over the idea that this time, it might work… but right now, even though he’s been buzzing around the morgue constantly, getting underfoot, it feels like there’s miles of empty space in between them. Scully assumes that all of Mulder’s attention is focused on waiting to find out whether or not any of the remains will be identified as having belonged to Diana Fowley (they won’t, of course), and it’s unlikely he has any space in his head for her just now.

When the last victim has finally been identified, Scully peels back her gloves, tosses them into the biohazard bin, and approaches Mulder, who is leaning against the wall near the door, having given up his restless pacing at last.

“She’s not here, Mulder,” she sighs. “None of these bodies were hers. You’re sure she went to the hangar when she left you?”

“Completely,” he says. Scully nods and looks down.

“Well, then… either this all happened before she arrived, or… she found some way to escape it.” She pauses.  “The smoking man isn’t here, either.” Mulder scowls.

“Doesn’t mean anything, Scully,” he says stubbornly. “So if you’re gonna start in on that crap again, you can just-” Scully holds up her hands, forestalling him.

“Mulder, I don’t want to fight with you,” she says. “I just want to go home, wash this stink off of me, and sleep.” She rubs at her neck as Mulder continues to glower at her. Another surge of nausea begins churning in her gut, and she knows she needs to get away from him before he realizes anything is wrong. “We’ve got an early meeting with Spender, Skinner, and Kersh tomorrow morning. I suggest you go home and try to sleep, too.” She turns and walks quickly away before he can say anything else, and makes it to the toilet in the changing room just in time.

Scully doesn’t go and find Mulder before she leaves the morgue; she doesn’t have the stamina to get drawn into another argument just now, not when the hurt of his accusation and his dismissal of her at the Gunmen’s is still so fresh. She buys a pregnancy test at the pharmacy near her apartment and uses it as soon as she gets home.

It’s positive.

Scully picks up the phone, about to call Mulder... when suddenly, his voice sounds in her head again, telling her that she’s wrong, telling her she’s making all of it personal.

Very slowly, she puts the phone back down.

———————————

They’re busy reclaiming their office when Mulder’s cell phone rings, and much to his surprise, it’s Frohike. He and the Gunmen hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms after the scene in their offices over a week ago, when, according to Frohike, he’d behaved like “a self-righteous, self-centered, stubborn son of a bitch.”

“Mulder, we need you to get over here,” Frohike says, his voice grim. “Bring Scully with you.”

“What’s going on, Melvin?” Mulder asks.

“We’ve done some more digging, and we found something that we think you should see. Both of you.”

A half hour later, the five of them are standing in a semicircle around one of the Gunmen’s computers. On the screen is what appears to be a hospital hallway.

“What is this?” asks Mulder, frowning.

“This is from a security camera at Holy Cross Memorial Hospital,” says Byers. “Where Agent Fowley was taken after she was shot last summer.” Mulder scowls.

“Come on, guys, not this again,” he grouses, but Byers talks over him.

“This footage is from the hallway outside of her room in the ICU,” he says. “The day that she was admitted.” He leans over and sets the footage rolling with a click of the mouse, and Mulder heaves a sigh and turns his attention to the screen.

For about a minute, there’s nothing but the normal bustle of a hospital corridor, nurses rushing this way and that, doctors carrying charts, and the occasional visitor. But then, at the top of the screen, two figures come into view, walking towards the camera, their faces completely visible for ten full seconds before they turn left and enter Diana’s room. The one on the right, whose face is completely unfamiliar to Mulder, is built like a linebacker.

The one on the left is unmistakably C.G.B. Spender.

Byers reaches down and clicks the mouse again, fast-forwarding the recording.

“They stay in there for maybe five minutes,” he says as he returns the recording to normal speed. “And when they leave, Spender is on his cell phone, and the tall one is clearly slipping something into his pocket.” He pauses the tape and, with several more clicks of the mouse, he zooms in on the man’s right hand, which is tucking a cylindrical object out of sight.

“That’s a syringe,” says Scully. “They gave her something while they were in there.” Byers nods.

“We think,” says Frohike, watching Mulder carefully, “that they slipped her something to speed up her recovery, and that’s why she got better so quickly.” Byers shuts off the computer monitor and stands, turning to face Mulder.

Everyone in the room is waiting for him to speak... but the realization that he’s just come to is even worse than the truth that Scully had been trying so hard to convince him of.

“It was her,” he says, almost to himself. “She told them.” He looks up at Scully, barely able to meet her eyes as the guilt crashes through him. She merely looks perplexed for a moment... but then, understanding breaks, her face going from confused to horrified to downright furious in seconds.

“You told her?” Scully’s anger fairly explodes outward at him, and it’s all he can do to keep from cowering under the intensity of it.

“It slipped out,” he says, fully aware of how pathetic of an excuse it is. “I didn’t mean to. I knew it was a mistake the second I said it.” Scully opens her mouth to speak, but her rage seems to be beyond words. She turns sharply on her heel and races for the door. Mulder has just enough time to see the identical looks of disgust on all three of the Gunmen’s faces before he turns and races after her.

“Scully, wait!” he calls, as he runs out of the door and sees her striding down the sidewalk towards her car. He doesn’t think she’ll listen, but quite suddenly, she turns and charges at him.

“How could you, Mulder?” she shouts. “I didn’t even tell my own mother what we were doing, and you, you go and tell some woman I don’t even know?” She’s so livid that she actually reaches out and shoves at his shoulder. “And then you treat me like I’m nothing more than a petulant, jealous girlfriend when I have the audacity to question her loyalties? And I was right, Mulder! She was with them all along, and you refused to see it!”

“I know you were right, Scully,” he says. “I know that now. But you have to understand, I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t believe that of her, not after-” He cuts himself off. This is the final secret, the one he’s never told her, at first because it didn’t seem important... and later, because he knew how hurt she’d be that he’d kept it from her for so long.

“After what, Mulder?” Scully asks. “What possible reason could you have to trust her that much?” Mulder looks down, the shame of it all pressing heavily on him. He’s failed her so thoroughly that maybe, just maybe, he can’t possibly hurt her any worse.

“Diana is my ex-wife, Scully,” he says quietly. And when he looks up and sees her face, he knows immediately that he was wrong, that his capacity to inflict pain onto the people he loves may well be limitless. She says nothing, and he doesn’t try to call her back as she turns and rushes back to her car, climbing in and taking off so fast that the tires actually squeal. 

His shoulders slumped, Mulder digs his cell phone out of his pocket and calls for a cab.

[scenes-in-between]

Within

“Mulder? Are you in here?”

Her heart is still racing from the mix of adrenaline and fierce, fierce hope. Could he really be back? Is he moments from stepping out of the shadows and wrapping her in his arms and telling her everything is going to be okay? Her entire body is bowstring-taut with anticipation as she listens for any sign of movement within the apartment.

When her gaze lands on the desk, on the space where her laptop is now conspicuously absent, the sight is so unexpected that she stares in disbelief, the truth of the situation not really hitting her fully until she physically walks over and picks up the disconnected power cables. That’s when she knows, for certain, that of course it was too much to hope for.

Whoever her landlord saw, it wasn’t Mulder.

Something in her deflates, and all at once she feels shaky and nauseated again. She barely makes it to the bathroom in time, but it doesn’t even matter; nothing comes up. Unsteadily, she sits on the edge of the bathtub and rests her head in her hands. Is this how her body is going to respond to every strong emotional moment now?  

She tells herself it’s her investigator’s instinct that leads her to grab a jacket and keys and head out through the rain to Alexandria. She rationalizes that whoever stole her computer might also want to take Mulder’s and that going to his apartment might either help her catch them or prevent it from happening. Her decision has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that misses him so badly the thought of spending tonight alone in her own bed is suddenly unbearable.

(It’s not as though she will be any less alone at his place. The very notion of feeling closer to him merely by surrounding herself with his belongings is completely irrational.)

Calm determination sustains her for the drive over, her resolve only slipping momentarily once she’s standing in front of his apartment door, force of habit and muscle memory causing her to tap out their knock against the wood. The sound makes her breath hitch, and she can’t help the irrational surge of hope that somehow this has all just been a terrible dream.

But of course there is no answer, and she swallows back the bitter disappointment as she pulls out his key and unlocks the door herself.

***

“I’m just trying to find him.” “Then what are you doing here?” “Trying to figure these out. I found them in his desk there. Car rental receipts on Agent Mulder’s Visa.”

Damn it. Those receipts have nothing to do with Mulder or where he is right now, but she absolutely cannot explain to Agent Doggett how she knows that.

“Four consecutive weekends in May. Same mileage each trip -- 370 miles, 375 miles. Where was he going?”

Mulder wasn’t going anywhere. The first weekend in May, they were on a stakeout in front of that godawful night club. The next one, he was chasing crop circles in England. The one after that, they were both in L.A. for the movie premiere. And as for last weekend… she has to force herself not to unwittingly glance toward his bedroom.

Byers was the one taking the car trips. Something to do with the woman he ran into in Las Vegas last year, the woman he and Langly and Frohike helped go into hiding. Scully’s not entirely sure of the details, didn’t need to know beyond the fact that it was important enough for Mulder to help him cover his tracks. If Doggett does his homework well enough, he will figure out the discrepancy eventually; Scully doesn’t need to help him get there any sooner.

She probably should invent some explanation, give him an answer so he’ll stop looking, but she can’t seem to come up with anything plausible on the spot. Instead, she does her best to look as genuinely clueless as possible. “I don’t know.”

“Like I said, maybe you really didn’t know your partner.”

It is only by the grace of God that he’s interrupted by his phone just then. Indignation and sudden rage at his smug assertion nearly make her contradict him with admissions she will one hundred percent regret.

“John Doggett. Agent Mulder at the FBI?”

Her stomach flips, and the emotional whiplash is almost enough to short-circuit her brain. She pins her gaze to his face, searching for anything that could possibly explain the words that just came out of his mouth.

There’s no way.

If Mulder had been returned, he would have come home. Or gone to her place. He would not have gone to the office, especially not without so much as calling her.

“I see.” Doggett shakes his head ever so slightly, still holding her gaze, and she can barely keep from rolling her eyes. She is so goddamned sick of the games, of feeling like she’s ten steps behind on every aspect of this investigation. “Thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He finally looks away from her and down at his phone as he hangs it up. “Seems Agent Mulder may have visited headquarters last night. His pass-card was used to access the task force base of operations.”

This time she does roll her eyes. “And I don’t suppose anyone actually witnessed him.”

“They’re checking security camera footage as we speak. May I ask where you were last night between one and two AM?”

She stares at him. “Are you serious?”

“It's a simple question, Agent Scully.”

“No, it's an insulting question, Agent Doggett. I am sick and tired of being treated like a suspect, here.”

His demeanor is infuriatingly calm; it is especially galling considering she's barely holding herself together. “Maybe you should consider trying not to act like one, then. Maybe instead of fighting me at every turn, you can start cooperating. See, because otherwise, it starts to look like maybe you don't want Mulder found.”

A bitter laugh bubbles up out of her. “If you think I don't want to find Mulder--”

“Or maybe you know exactly where he is and what he's up to, only you don't want me to find him.”

She crosses her arms, glaring at him. “I was at home. Asleep.” It’s not exactly a lie; Mulder’s apartment feels more like home than her own place does, right now. Besides, if Doggett contradicts her claim, it will prove he had her under surveillance.

He studies her a moment, almost as if he’s deciding whether or not to challenge her. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he says at last. “Okay. We’d better get back to the office and see what’s on those tapes. That is, if you’re finished here.”

They’re not going to find anything on the security cameras. Whatever’s going on with the apparent use of Mulder’s pass-card, she knows without a doubt that he wasn’t at the FBI last night. It’s just another dead end that will get them no closer to actually finding him. While Doggett and his team run around chasing their tails, Mulder is slipping farther and farther away.

It occurs to her, then, that she doesn’t so much as have her own work ID with her; she didn’t exactly think things through when she ran over here last night. She also hasn’t eaten anything, either, and if she has to put up with much more of Doggett’s condescension without having any breakfast, she just might lose her cool entirely.

He’s still waiting for an answer, she realizes, and she quickly nods. “I, um, I need to run an errand on my way back to the Hoover Building. I’ll meet you there.”

***

“They are looking to find the whereabouts of good, hard proof. That in this case exists in a person. In a boy named Gibson Praise.”

Skinner’s eyes widen in understanding. Clearly he remembers Gibson, which is good, because Scully’s mind is running a mile a minute right now, and she doesn’t want to stop and rehash everything.

“The chess phenom?” Frohike pipes up. “I thought you said he was some kind of mind reader.”

Right. She forgot that she consulted with the Gunmen on Gibson’s case, too. That will make this even easier.

“We determined that a genetic anomaly was the most likely cause of his ability. Specifically, there are segments of his DNA that appear to be extraterrestrial in origin.”

“No freaking way,” Frohike breathes, and Byers lets out a low whistle.

“But the point,” she continues quickly, “is that the last place we saw him was Arizona. If someone were looking for him, and all they had to go on was our report -- the report in Gibson’s file -- that’s where they would go.”

“You’re saying that’s the file that was stolen from the FBI?” Skinner says.

“I am saying that it would go a long way toward explaining a lot of what’s been going on around here the past couple of days. They’re trying to get us looking in the wrong direction, to make it seem like Mulder’s orchestrating everything.”

“Because if we think he’s here, running around stealing computers and case files, then there would be no reason to keep looking for him elsewhere.”

“Exactly.”

It’s even bigger than that, though. If the point is to discredit Mulder and cast doubt on his motivations, then of course the medical records are also fake. Of course Skinner was right when he said Mulder would have told them about something that big. The headstone Mulder supposedly purchased, which threw her so completely into turmoil this afternoon, seems so over the top now as to be downright laughable.

She hates herself more than a little bit for doubting him, for even considering that he might have been capable of such deceit.

“Well, then I’ll get us booked on the first flight to Phoenix tomorrow morning,” Skinner says, leaning forward to gather the maps and satellite data. “With any luck, we’ll get to them before they move on again.”

She paces from room to room for a while after Skinner and the Gunmen have left; they’ve already lost so much time, and now that they finally have a potential lead, she can hardly stand the fact that they have to wait until morning to follow up on it. It's a helpless sort of feeling, and she hates it. So she paces. Some ridiculous part of her is tempted to go back over to Mulder's apartment again, as if she might be better able to find calm there, but that's completely impractical. Skinner will be back here in just over six hours to pick her up on the way to the airport.

Even though exhaustion does eventually send her to lie down on her bed, she never does manage to fall asleep.

[slippinmickeys]

The Earl (10/13)

10/13... heh. If you’d like to read this on AO3, you may do so here. 

CHAPTER TEN

Barry stuck his head in her door after lightly knocking on it about an hour after he served her dinner the next day. They had talked as Scully laundered her clothes and he’d opened up to her, explaining that his mother had taken on an indentured servitude the year before and had boarded a ship bound for the new world. How he had gotten word from her that she’d landed in Maryland, but hadn’t heard from her since. He desperately needed money for the voyage to go and look for her and when he’d been approached by CBG Spender, the man had offered not only a handsome payday but a ticket to America besides.

When Scully told him that her husband would more than double whatever it was that Spender had offered him, Barry had only looked to the heavens and mumbled to himself. The man had demons, and Scully wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t belong in Bedlam.

“Would you care for tea, my lady?” he asked her.

When she accepted, he closed the door behind himself and she heard him descend the stairs. What she hadn’t heard was the scrape of the key in the lock of her door. She rose and tentatively turned the handle. It clicked open.

If Barry already had tea steeping, it would take him only minutes -- perhaps less -- to collect it and bring it back up the stairs and to her room. She steeled herself. If she moved quickly, there was a chance she could make her escape.

She hurried to the staircase and padded quietly down. Once on the landing, she heard the clopping approach of horses and looked out the landing window. A carriage had pulled through the gate and into the drive. She could make out the figure of Barry closing up the gate after it. It pulled to a stop and the coachman jumped down and opened the carriage’s door. A young lady in a light green dress descended the stairs, followed by a tall gentleman -- Spender.

Scully flew down the stairs, her heart in her throat, and made for the kitchen, darting through the scullery door just as she heard the large door at the estate’s entrance open and voices enter. She ran past the washing bin, which was still set up in the small scullery yard, and on past the hedgerows where she’d dried her clothes only the day before. Darting to the servant’s door in the wrought iron gate, she tried the handle. It opened easily. It had not been latched.

She ran.

XxXxXxXxXxX

They arrived at the coaching inn on the south end of the village as night fell. A boy ran forward to collect their reins as soon as they dismounted. Mulder had had Alex riding Queen, who had been getting restless in the stables.

A cold drizzle had started a few minutes after they left Ashford Park, and Mulder’s trousers were soaked through by the time they reached their destination, making his mood even darker, if that were possible.

Before entering the building, Mulder turned to Alex.

“I intend to question the proprietor about his involvement in collecting the ransom that has been put upon my wife,” he said. “I do not yet know the extent of the man’s involvement, if he is even yet involved. While I speak to him, I may signal you. If I do, I’d like you to go out to the stables and see what horses and conveyances are there and to… do whatever you have to do to make sure no one leaves should they be tipped off by our arrival.” Alex nodded and squared his shoulders. “Good man,” Mulder finished.

They stepped through the establishment’s door shaking rain from their shoulders and stamping warmth into their feet. The innkeeper came forward and met them, looking between the two men in curiosity. He was a pale man -- short, with a sweaty bald pate and dirty hands he wiped on an equally dirty rag.

“Do you gentlemen require lodging?” the man asked, looking at Alex while he said it.

Though he was wet, Mulder was clearly a ranking member of society and expected a deference to his station. He took a menacing step forward and the innkeeper, realizing his mistake, stumbled.

“Sir,” the man fumbled.

“My lord,” Mulder corrected him.

“My lord, my apologies,” he straightened himself, “will you be needing rooms, then?”

“We will be needing information,” Mulder said shortly.

The innkeeper looked to Alex, as if for help. Mulder turned to his footman and pointed subtly at the door. Alex nodded once and turned on his heel, going back out into the rain to search and monitor the stables.

“What… what kind of information?” The proprietor asked.

“Is there an older gentleman staying here? Tall; as tall as me. A man with gaunt, craggy features? He might be in the company of his daughter -- a young woman dressed in a light green frock.”

“We are empty at present, sir. I mean my lord,” the man said. “There is no one staying here. I can offer you the finest suite-”

Mulder cut him off.

“I’d like to see your guest register.”

“My-?”

“Your guest register,” Mulder snapped. Was the man dense? “Go get it.”

When the innkeeper returned, he handed Mulder the leather-bound book, which he scanned for the name Spender. He found none. There were no names under today’s date, but there had been two guests the night before. An M. and S. Beauchamp.

“These guests,” Mulder said, pointing to the names, “who are they? What did they look like?”

“A young French couple, my lord,” he said, looking puzzled, “just come over from the continent.”

Mulder snapped the book closed in frustration and handed it back to the man.

“What do you know of a trunk that you are to collect on Friday next?” Mulder asked him.

“A trunk?”

“Yes, a trunk,” Mulder said crossly, “a rectangular receptacle you pack clothes and other items in. With a lock.”

“On Friday next?” he said, and Mulder stared at him. The man, who stared dumbly back, finally answering, “I know of no such thing, sir.”

Mulder’s jaw clenched. He was getting nowhere. He pulled out a calling card from his pocket and pressed it into the man’s grubby hand.

“If anyone approaches you about it, or you suddenly come to remember what I’m talking about, ride immediately to Ashford Park and ask for me. You will be handsomely rewarded.”

The innkeeper looked at the card in his hand greedily.

“Of course, your grace,” he said.

“I am not a duke,” Mulder said, turning away from the man. “Merely an Earl, looking for his Countess.”

He exited into the rain and found Alex waiting, holding the reins of Hercule and Queen. The footman handed over Hercule’s.

“The stables are empty, but for a spare coaching team. The hostler told me that they have no guests this night.”

Mulder nodded, frustrated. “The proprietor either is an actor worthy of The Bard, or he yet knows nothing of the ransom he is meant to collect,” he said.

Alex nodded back toward the stables. “The hostler was limping about after a horse stepped on his foot -- he can barely walk,” he said, “he’s offered me several days of work. If you would like, I can stay on here for a bit and see what might come of it?”

“You would do that?” Mulder asked, touched.

Alex nodded earnestly.

Mulder reached out and put his hand on the footman’s shoulder and squeezed. “I shall have Mr. Bixby double your pay.”

XxXxXxXxXxX

She ran as fast as her legs would carry her, her insubstantial footwear slipping on mud and wet grasses, her skirts catching on her legs as she pumped them. She ran across a meadow, toward the first clump of trees she could see. If anyone looked out the window of the house they would surely see her, and so she needed to get in amongst the trees. Once there she could gather her wits and her breath and take stock of her situation. She was sweating and struggling for breath by the time she burst through the treeline, startling a murder of crows and sending them into the air, cawing raucously.

She bent forward, catching her breath and willing her heart to slow. When she felt she could, she moved behind a tree and looked toward the house, surprised at how far she’d come. She saw no sign of pursuit.

Scully looked to the sea, orienting herself. Judging by the location of Ashford Park and the amount of time she’d been in Spender’s carriage, she had to be somewhere near Dover, which would place Byers’ estate north and very slightly west of where she presently was. She did not think it was possible to walk all the way to Ashford Park, but at the very least, she would be able to find a village or perhaps a passing carriage for help. She looked down at the shabby, ill-fitting borrowed dress and tried to be optimistic that any passersby would believe her when she told them she was the Countess of Wexford.

Pointing herself in the general direction she needed to go, she closed her eyes and thought of her husband. She walked.

XxX

It had been hours. Miles. And Dana Katherine Mulder, The Countess of Wexford, had not seen a soul. Nor a village. A few sheep, but no shepherd. And night was falling fast.

While she saw no sign of pursuit and anything would have been better than being under the thumb of CGB Spender, her circumstances had not exactly improved. She was without water and shelter, and for the most part without food -- she had found a hawthorn bush with almost-ripe berries and had eaten what she could. But that had been hours ago. She was hungry. She was thirsty. She was beginning to despair.

There was no moon to speak of and it was becoming harder and harder to see as the sun sunk below the horizon -- colder, too.

She wrapped her arms around herself trying to preserve some heat. Her shoes, lightweight house slippers which were already ill-fitting, having been one of the borrowed items of clothing Duane Berry brought to her, were drenched, and her feet felt like blocks of ice. She would need to stop soon, rest, and warm herself. Somehow.

She was at the bottom of a large hill, and decided she would climb to the top to find out what she could see and make a decision when she got there. Perhaps there would be a village. Dear God, she hoped there would be a village.

Slipping several times on her ascent, the front of her dress and hands were covered with mud (and Lord knew what else, as she could see hoofprints in the grass even in the meager light) by the time she crested the rise. And when she stood tall at the apex of the hill and made a full turn… there was nothing. She took a deep breath and willed the pinprick of tears she could feel forming in her eyes not to fall.

A breeze came out of the west and lifted the hairs that had pulled loose from her pins, sending shivers through her. She was becoming concerned that she might take a chill from which she wouldn’t recover. Seized by another shiver, she squeezed herself tight.

Mulder. She would think of Mulder and warm herself with the memory of his embrace. She could almost feel the hard plane of his chest against her back, his large hands wrapped around her, whispering words of comfort in her ear.

As she stumbled down the other side of the rise, heading toward a low rock wall that she thought she could perhaps use to shield the wind, she wondered how Mulder was faring without her, if he was beside himself with worry. She missed him; his voice and his touch and his scent.

When she reached the rock wall, she was about to kneel down beside it when she heard a horse whinny nearby. She was suddenly alert. Where there were horses, there were people. She tried to figure out the direction she’d heard the sound, when she heard it again. A high, excited whinny that was somehow familiar. She began trotting toward it.

She ran past the fence and over a small rise and then pulled up short. She could hardly believe her eyes. There, hobbled outside of a tiny, ramshackle gamekeeper's hut hidden behind a copse of trees, stood her mare Queen, who again whinnied and was bobbing her head excitedly. Scully rushed over and pet the animal’s soft, warm nose. She couldn’t believe her luck. The horse must have caught Scully’s scent when she came down the hill. And if Queen was here, that meant-

“Mulder!” she shouted, and rushed to the hut’s door. It flew open as she reached it, and there, standing before her holding a single flickering candle and wearing a look of absolute shock, stood their footman, Alex.

“Alex!” she gasped, and, nearly weeping with relief, threw herself into his bewildered embrace.

XxXxXxXxXxX

The Earl paced through Ashford Park as though he were a spirit roaming the halls.

“I worry for him.”

Melvin Frohike was not born a gentleman, and now barely qualified. Born to a mother in the poor house, he knew struggle and pain. And the Ninth Earl of Wexford was struggling. Even an aristocratic blue blood still leaked red when you cut him, he thought, shaking his head. He had never seen a man more devoted to his wife, he had never seen a couple more obviously besotted. Mulder’s pain was as real as it got.

“As do I,” Byers said glumly. “I was with him at school when he received the news of his mother’s death. And even then he was not so affected as he is now. If we do not find the Countess soon, I worry what he might do.”

Langly silently poured several glasses of brandy and pressed one into Frohike’s hand. “I expect he’ll kill Spender. One way or the other,” he said, pressing his spectacles further up his nose.

“You mean whether he is able to bring his wife home or whether he is unable to?” Byers asked, staring darkly at the mahogany depths of his cut crystal snifter.

Langly grunted.

Frohike took a breath and shook himself of the thought. “Let us hope it is ‘one way,’ my friend,” he said, and took a healthy swig.

XxXxXxXxXxX

“My lady!” Alex exclaimed, “What are you -- how is this? Are you well?”

Scully released him and stepped back.

“I’m-” she began, and then was seized with another chill, “I’m cold,” she finished.

Alex shook himself and stepped back into the tiny hut, escorting her inside. There was a cheery fire burning in a small fireplace, and a straw-filled mattress on the floor upon which sat several rumpled wool blankets.

“Sit,” he instructed, pulling a rough-hewn stool from against the wall and setting it in front of the fire. Scully sat, and Alex grabbed one of the blankets from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she said, gratefully, pulling the blanket tightly around herself.

“My lady, what-”

“Kidnapped,” she said, staring into the flames. “And I’ve escaped. How is the Earl?”

Alex looked at her. “Not well, my lady. He is beside himself with worry. He has not slept. He barely eats.”

Scully rose, casting about impotently. “I must go to him.”

Alex held up a hand. “Stay,” he said, “warm yourself.” He handed her a small bladder of water and several biscuits wrapped in a linen handkerchief. He pulled a hat low over his head. “I shall ride for Lord Wexford,” he said, “I shall bring him here this very hour.”

It wasn’t until she could hear Queen’s hoofbeats pounding off into the distance that she thought to ask him why he was there at all.