#Tavi ​<< has almost been hit by 4 cars in my life

[lyndsaybones]

All These Years, Part 6

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Spring, 2002, Dallas, TX

At first, at very the very first, she was just waiting...waiting for symptoms to emerge, for a trickle of crimson to tickle her lip. She didn’t count on living long enough to use any of the falsified credentials that had been compiled for her. Her lease in the the studio apartment in Dallas was month to month. The car wouldn’t last through the end of the year. She assumed she would not either.

But then she didn’t get sick, at all. Not so much as a head cold.

There were moments when she contemplated reaching out the to Gunmen, finding a way to get back to Mulder and William. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. There was no way to know if her scheme had panned out, if she was truly dead in the eyes of those that would use her to get to her son. Or if they were waiting for her to slip up.

So she did the only thing she knew how to do. She went to work. Her placement in Dallas had been no coincidence. There was a job there waiting for her, pathology at Mt. Hope hospital.

Her PA, Kate, was pleasant enough. Smart, competent, a little long-winded for her tastes, but that had more to do with the fact that she had no desire to create any meaningful connections if she could help it.

“That’s a proper Irish name,” Kate declared when she introduced herself as Sarah Sullivan.

“I suppose so,” she agreed.

“Anyone ever call you Sully?” she asks with a smile.

She hopes the horror doesn’t show on her face. “No,” she says softly. “Just Sarah.”

She manages to keep to herself, for the most part. She goes to work. She goes home. She goes to the gym four days a week. She goes to the gun range twice a month.

Her first time there, a man with broad shoulders and a questionable facial hair configuration offered to lend her a hand. As if she needed help with her stance, her weapon or anything else for that matter. He watched in utter disbelief as she unloaded round after round in a perfect center of mass cluster.

He placed a meaty palm on his chest and sighed.

“I do believe I’m in love,” he announced.

“Sorry, Romeo,” she sighed as she secured her weapon. “I’m taken.”

He greeted her with an enthusiastic “Annie Oakley!” every time he saw her after that. It’s the only place she feels something of herself still thriving. Everything else is rote, automatic. Go to work, go home. Go to work, go home. Eat salads, run a mile, pretend like life has any meaning or purpose.

“Sullivan?” a voice calls her from behind.

She removes her ear protection and slides the safety on her weapon before turning around. She recognizes him, of course, but can’t quite remember his name. Aaron, Alan, something like that. She doesn’t interact much with other departments, never attends the social events. But she’s spoken to him a few times, he’s in neurology, she thinks.

“Dr. Hamilton,” she says with a forced smile.

“Just Adam, please,” he says with a grin. His teeth are too white. And too straight, she notes.

“This guy botherin’ you, Annie?” Travis- his name is Travis- asks as he moves to get between them, she’d only need to nod and Dr. Hamilton would be out on his ass.

“No, Tavis, it’s fine,” she says, patting his arm.

Travis appraises Hamilton, juts his chin ever so slightly and then slowly moves away.

“I thought your name was Sarah,” Hamilton says in a not so subtle whisper.

“It is,” she says, half-smiling. “He calls me Annie Oakley.”

Hamilton looks impressed and nods his approval.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your practice, Sullivan. I just wanted to say hello,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

When Dr. Hamilton makes his way down to her corner of the hospital a week later, she is instantly suspicious. She is suspicious of anyone trying to get close to her at all.

“Hey there, Sullivan,” he greets, cordial enough.

“Dr. Hamilton,” she says. “How can I help you?”

“I-uh...I was planning to go hit the range this weekend. I wondered if you might be going too?” he asks.

“No.”

“Not this weekend?” he asks. “How come?”

“Can I ask you something?” she asks, taking off her glasses and setting them aside. “Why do you do that? Call me by just my last name?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“I’m not saying it bothers me, I’d just like to know what precipitates it,” she clarifies, even though it does, in fact, bother her.

He smiles, almost shyly, which is when she decides that his eyes are too blue as well.

“It’s a measure of distance,” he says. “When you find someone absolutely captivating, but you’re not certain of your chances, or if it’s even appropriate to approach...you put up an extra layer.”

“Who’d you piss off to get stuck with this detail, Scully?”

“I see,” she says, the memory sitting on her chest like the weight of a newborn, impossible to put down.

“I uh...I’m not usually so…” he fumbles. “There’s something about you, Sarah,” he says very deliberately. “I’d really like to get to know you a little, if you’ll let me.”

She nods, and tries to convey very little of the inner turmoil, although she’s never had a very good poker face.

“I’m sorry,” she says gently. “But I can’t.”