#scullyfic

[lilydalexf]

You are welcome for the lists! This one is fics recs for "Orison". They are all related to that episode, though they're not all angsty smut fics. So it's not quite the ask, but I hope you and others enjoy the stories! Another Dark Forest by @aloysiavirgata Post-Orison sex Anyone with a Gun by V. Salmone (Punk and Sab) Mulder, Scully, and a gun. Atomic Split by Pteropod The world is glued together by the strong force, the weak force, the electromagnetic force, and gravity. Better Angels by wonderland (@amplifyme) “She’s okay, Maggie, I promise... No, no, just forget whatever you might hear. Don’t even watch the local news. She’s okay. She’s safe and resting. I got it.” Jesus, how many times had he had this conversation with her, or one very much like it? More than he’d ever wanted to. Black Hole Season by Penumbra (@mashnotesofthemythopoeic) Mulder muddles through the aftermath of Orison. Ceremony by @darwin-xf What’s left when words fail? Cold Comfort by Joann Humby When 3 men die, the killer seems to have a story to tell, but is it the same one that people are hearing? X-Files are dangerous, very dangerous if you're working alone. Exorcist Stairs by Elanor G Scully is adrift and on her own after the events of Orison. A chance encounter forces her to confront the banality of evil... fluorescence and night on all sides by audries (@audriesfic) He steps over a corpse to touch her. Ghast by @leiascully (No summary provided) Glub-Glub-Glub and Calming Spells by PostApocolypticAlien (@scullysexual) “you can stay here, tonight. for as long as you’d like.” / “Hey babe, babe, wake up.” The Devil's Instant by Maria Nicole Post-ep for Orison Incorruptible by Anjou A submission for an epistolary challenge on the Scullyfic/E-muse list in January of 2000. Set mid-season 7, immediately after the events of Orison, when Scully has been faced with an evil from her past. Mytharc heavy. i have your dreams and your teeth marks by audries (@audriesfic) Also in the trunk of the car: the latest edition of JAMA, The Amityville Horror on VHS from Blockbuster, Moby Dick, a Jewel CD, a bag of clementines. Her still-closed Bible. - post-orison. mulder takes scully on a witch hunt. there's nail polish involved. Imperfect Shadow by Nicknoc In a dark time, the eye begins to see, I meet my shadow in the deepening shade. Intuituve Reasoning, I Say Obsessive, You Say Compulsive, and I Can Eat Glass by Mish You can’t fool *all* of the people, *all* of the time. / Kosseff vs. Mulder - one analysis, seven minute time limit. / A late night distress call shatters the calm. The Nearness of You by a_steady_wish Her first night back in her own bed after the events of Orison, and Mulder is there to comfort and love her. Neptune's Ocean by M. Sebasky (No summary provided) Nothing Apart by Dyann Zimmerman What happened after the events in 'Orison'. Noyade by Rocketman Noyade--(french) whirlpool. Of Ladies Most Deject And Wretched by Circe Invidiosa and Helen Quilley (@invidiosa) It wasn't a question worth answering...post Orison. Orison by @scullywolf The aftermath of Pfaster's attack takes its toll in more ways than one. Possession by @mldrgrl Based on this prompt request: Mulder and Scully have both dealt with abductions and kidnappings where they were held against their will. I imagine that it took a while for them to feel comfortable with any type of bondage. I think it’d be interesting to explore how or when they became comfortable with that and if it felt really empowering the first time. I especially see Scully having reservations at first but maybe requesting it. the praxis of a water bed by skuls (@ghostbustermelanieking) Five of the first times Scully woke up in Mulder's bed. Right Here by @smalldisbeliever The soft thud of her duffle bag hitting the floor marks their arrival at her apartment. It’s been a little over a week since Donnie Pfaster tore through the space.

Sedimentation by Maria Nicole Musings on the edge of sleep Sins Remembered by rah What happens after they leave her apartment. soap bubble memories by @softnow five times mulder and scully showered together + one time they bathed. Some Nights by otto_tis_eratai Or "Six times Mulder and Scully slept together, and one time they did something more". A collection of seven one shots, all post/mid episode (although it can be also read as one story). Some fluff, some angst, some hurt/comfort elements, eventual smut, a lot of friendship. Submerged by hellsteeth (@wexleresque) Mulder helps Scully cope with her post-Orison anxiety Taller Than Other Waves by amyhit (mayhit) She read Salem’s Lot at ten years old, was brave enough to kiss her partner by thirty-five. That Was Then, This Is Now by @mldrgrl The difference between how Scully deals with the aftermath of Donnie Pfaster in Orison v. Irresistible.

Unintended Consequences by Sarah Segretti Just when you think you know how you’d react to a horrific event, life steps up to surprise you. Scully and Mulder deal with the aftermath of the Pfaster shooting. Untitled by @aloysiavirgata Prompt: alternate post-Orison where Scully doesn’t get to her gun and Mulder is the one that kills Pfaster. Untitled by @aloysiavirgata Prompt: Scully to Mulder: Make me feel alive again... Untitled by @o6666666 Prompt: can't wait to read their argument for anniversary date. who would win??? Walls by Ellie I can't hold out forever; even walls fall down. An Orison post-ep. The Weight of Water by @dashakay The aftereffects of trauma are sometimes unexpected.

[scenes-in-between]

Underneath

“So how does someone go about catching a killer who hides inside an innocent man?”

Scully takes a moment to collect her thoughts before responding. While the explanation Monica is positing does not precisely match something they’ve seen before, neither is it so wholly without precedent that she can discount it entirely.

Have they ever encountered a person so haunted by their sins that they physically manifested an alternate personality? No. Does she believe Fassl is some sort of shapeshifting alien bounty hunter or that he can cloud minds like Modell could, making people see things that aren’t there? Also no. (Besides, even Modell couldn’t fool security cameras.)

But she also remembers Eddie Van Blundht.

True, they were never able to fully explain his physiology or figure out the mechanism behind his ability to physically alter his appearance so completely. Further, given Fassl’s reaction to the security camera photo, if indeed he is transforming himself into this murderous other personality, she does not get the impression that he is doing it voluntarily or consciously. However, the fact remains that a physical transformation of this nature is possible, no matter how unlikely or inexplicable.

She cannot recall if Van Blundt’s file was one of the ones restored after their office was set ablaze, and explaining the whole thing to Agent Doggett right now is neither necessary nor likely to help much; the man is exhausted and at the end of his rope. She decides to keep things simple, at least for the time being.

“Well,” she says at last, “logically, if Fassl and this bearded man truly are one in the same person, then it stands to reason that we’ll only catch the killer by monitoring Fassl and waiting for the other man to… come out of hiding, as it were.”

“C’mon, Agent Scully, you can’t possibly–”

“Alternatively,” Scully cuts him off, “if this man is working with Fassl, or was working with him 13 years ago, if he somehow got into and out of the prison undetected and committed the murder there, then it also stands to reason that he might try to reconnect with Fassl again now. By surveilling Fassl, we have a chance to apprehend the killer when he tries to make contact.”

Doggett heaves a sigh, leaning forward and resting his hands on the table. Monica reaches across to place one of her hands on his.

“It’s a lead,” she says gently. “Whether or not we believe the same thing about what is happening here, surveillance is the only thing that will get us any answers.”

“Except there’s no way in hell anyone’s going to give us authorization for that. Especially not after what Duke did.”

Scully feels for him. The bitterness in his voice and the betrayal on his face leave no doubt that he is still reeling over the egregious actions of his former partner.

“So we wait until it’s dark,” Monica counters. “Jana Fain may well cry foul if we follow her home now, but she might not notice a car parked across the street from her house at night.”

Doggett shakes his head, standing up straight again. “You’re outta your damn mind if you think I’m gonna step even one toe out of line on this. I’m not Duke. We do this by the book all the way, you got that?”

“There’s nothing illegal about sitting in a parked car, John–” Monica starts, but Scully holds up a hand.

“I think I might be able to convince the DA that Fassl is still a person of interest in ADA Kailer’s disappearance,” she says. “Pressure from his office should be enough to get us the okay from the NYPD.”

***

In the end, it does take several more hours to get all of the relevant parties on board, but authorization for surveillance is eventually granted. It’s fully dark outside as John all but sprints to the car the moment they’re given the okay, and Monica hurries after him. The tension radiating off of him as they drive to Jana Fain’s house is palpable, but so is the undercurrent of complete and utter exhaustion. 

For her part, Monica is hopeful that this all might finally be nearly at an end. She has no doubt that Fassl’s alter-ego is responsible for the ADA’s disappearance, which means that whatever measure of control Fassl maintained while in prison has clearly evaporated upon his release. If they can catch his transformation here tonight, then this can all be put to rest, and her partner can finally put this case behind him once and for all. 

“I’ll take the next couple hours. You should get some shut-eye.”

[lauramkaye]

The Milestones You Didn’t See Coming

So someone commented a really early story of mine today and it made me go back to try to find when I posted it. Thanks to the fact that my first posts were to alt.tv.xfiles.creative and were automatically archived by Gossamer, I was able to pin down the date of the first fic I ever posted.

Wednesday, December 8, 1999.

I have been writing and posting fanfic for more than more than 20 years. My first story is as old now as I was when I wrote it.

In my time in fandom I’ve hopped around, from X-Files to Sentinel to Due South to pop slash to MCU with so many shorter stops along the way and so many other fandoms I loved even when I didn’t write for them. I was accidentally a BNF for about five minutes, mostly because my fic was hosted on the same website as a couple of actual, much more important BNFs. I wrote stories I posted, started stories I never posted, and in one instance started posting a WIP that I eventually took down because I knew I was never going to finish it and I felt bad about leaving it incomplete to taunt people. (If you ever see this, Pat, I’m really sorry I never finished it. I know you liked it and your encouragement and enthusiasm for the project meant so much to me.)  

I made friends. So many dear, dear friends that I treasure to this day, even the ones that I’ve fallen out of touch with over the years. When I got married, one of my bridesmaids was my sister, one was my best friend since infancy, and the other two I met through fandom. Almost all of the close friends that I made in adulthood, I first met through fandom, including the one who introduced me to my spouse.

I was not prolific for all of those years, but even when I went for a while without writing anything new, I was still reading fic and engaging in fannish circles to some degree. In those years, I finally fulfilled a lifelong dream and wrote a novel. When I started, my output was purely fluffy romantic G-rated slice-of-life stories of the type that in the XF fandom of the 90s we called "Vignettes." I loved (and still love) long, meaty, plotty novel-length stories that would last me a long time, and I wanted to write that way, but never thought I could. But time and amazing mentoring from more established fans (shoutouts especially to @cesperanza, the writer that baby writer me wanted to be when I grew up, who was largely responsible for teaching me how to actually edit in a beta and not just proofread) and amazing writing and editing partners have helped me to not only become more prolific but to keep growing as a writer. Writing fanfic is a source of deep creative joy for me, and engaging with slash fandom was one way that I, who grew up in a deeply conservative religious southern family and didn’t even meet an out gay person until college, started the journey to realizing that I was myself bi and not straight like I’d always assumed. (Let me tell you, THAT realization made so much of my life make so much more sense in hindsight.)

Basically what I’m saying is that fanfic has made my life richer in so many ways, and I want to encourage anyone who might be worried that maybe their work isn’t good enough, or that nobody else will like what they like, or that maybe they should have outgrown their hobby by now, or that they’re wasting their time and should be writing “real” (ie, sold for money) stories: hang in there. Things that give you joy don’t have to make money to be valid uses of your time. You aren’t too old to still be reading and writing fanfic.

Here’s the the next 20 years.

[handypolymath]

2, 27 for the shipping meme?

2. Talk about three of the most important ships throughout your life.

Scully and Mulder really solidified my love for the combo of cool hypercompetance + brilliant mess, but I'd say I was way more into the phenomenal writers in that fandom than the pairing on its own merits. The moment I came off the wait list and joined the Scullyfic mailing list changed my life because I was suddenly soaking in all different flavors of meta and writing craft, and I was kneeling at the feet of giants.

Aeryn Sun and John Crichton are such a well written ship in canon that it's not one I would have objectively chosen as the focus of a first novel, and yet... The trick was to write half of it while deluding myself that it wasn't. Then I had momentum and was committed to learning how to do plot and resolution. And now I wrestle alligators for fun.

I never intended to be sucked into writing MCU. It's such a big fandom, I was a casual reader, and my favs, Natasha and Bruce, were tragic or comic enigmas on the periphery. I read niche fic, I started reading back catalog comics, but I really missed writing and being engaged in fandom. I wrote a little bit about my two favs, just scratching the surface of the potential I felt was there. Then they got together in canon, and it kinda blew. I bitched in chat, @thassalia and I got fired up together, and it's been weird getting into this current iteration of fandom, but I'm writing and that's so much fucking better than not writing.

27. Is there a ship you’ve shipped for most of your life?

Morticia and Gomez Addams. Fundamentally formative to not only my idea of a het relationship, but I suspect Carolyn Jones' Morticia is the deep basis for my personal authority style.

[invidiosa]

Fanfic asks: 5, 33, 45

Answering @doctorhelena‘s asks for this post:

5) If you had to choose a favourite out of all of your multi chaptered stories, which would it be and why?

For XF, it would have to be No Earthly Means. I mean, we didn’t have chapters back then. We had to send it out in parts to Ephemeral and I didn’t even really have clear breaks for the parts. This was a Scullyfic Improv piece where people on the list sent you prompts that had to be included in the story. Anyway, it was the longest XF fic I’d ever written and it was fun to fit in the prompts I was given.

For Veronica Mars, I only have two multi-chaptered fics and their both my favourites for different reasons:

Damn, Damn the Circumstance came about with a What If premise of Logan not leaving Shelly Pomroy’s party and finding Veronica in the room with Beaver. and within 2 weeks I’d written 4 chapters. It was so fun to explore an AU but still bring in canon as much as possible. I slowed down a lot after chapter 10 and now it’s been sitting there waiting for chapter 18 for 4.5 years now. The problem is, I outlined up to a point and then I had no idea how I was going to end it. Still don’t.

A Damsel in Distrust was born out of a challenge. A guy I worked with found out I was a big tv nerd and floated the idea of a Sherlock/Veronica Mars crossover.  I was telling another friend about the idea and she pooh-poohed it, saying it couldn’t be done. That got my nose out of joint and I was all, Oh yeah. Watch me.  It had a lot of steam at first but then I let the plot get away from me and it’s all tangled up in my head and more complicated than I’d hoped. I can’t figure out what direction I want it to go so it’s sat for 3.5 years now waiting for chapter 7.

33) What’s the biggest compliment you’ve gotten?

Funny how I don’t remember specific compliments, but, boy, do I remember the negative feedback I’ve received. The best compliments are the ones where people tell me that my dialogue is spot on, that they could totally hear the characters saying what I have them saying. My stories are dialogue heavy so it’s really important to me that I capture the voices.

45) What spurs you on during the writing process?

Lately, asking for and filling prompt requests have helped.  Usually though, it’s thinking up some great lines of dialogue and then making them fit into whatever story/chapter I’m writing.

Thanks for asking!

[handypolymath]

Our paths finally cross, and I can see what folks have been flailing about since the Scullyfic list.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME????? WHATTT!! WHAT! WHAT WHAT? *breathes into bag*

[mulderspice]

i think that one is jersey devil!!! that one would be fun on mulderspice!!!!! the one where she is talking to her friend and the friend goes “i thought u said he was cute” and mulder calls scullyf rom the drunk tank and she takes him to get breakfast and says he has no life and he goes “i have a life” and scully laughs ❤️ soooooo sweet season one im crying. so cute so baby

yes! i cant believe we havent seen this yet, ill deff add it to the list

[lokisgame]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The X-Files Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Dana Scully, Fox Mulder Summary:

So this is a poem, from Mulder's pov, based on a Scullyfic "Reverse Madness" challenge. The challenge was to use only words from a list that was given to us.

Bookmarker's Notes:

Conspiracy of need

@frangipanidownunder last msr poem i read that floored me completely

[scenes-in-between]

Audrey Pauley

Dr. Preijers: In these situations time is always of the essence. There is a woman in Minnesota who can be saved by your friend's heart. In a real sense, she will live on.

Doggett looks like he's been punched in the solar plexus, like he cannot remember how to breathe. How many times has Scully worn that same expression on her own face? She watches him sway slightly, nearly reaches out a hand to steady him, but he blinks, coming back to himself.

"No," he finally says, taking a step backward and shaking his head. "I'm not signing off on any of that. Not when you've barely even tried to figure out why she's in this condition or whether it's temporary or…"

"Brain death isn't something one can come back from, I'm afraid," Dr. Preijers says gently. "With something like a coma or a persistent vegetative state, we would still see some measurable activity in the brain, and while that alone is no guarantee that the condition might be reversible, it would at least remain a possibility. However, this is not the case with your partner.”

“Well what if there’s something wrong with your equipment?” Doggett presses. “Maybe there’s activity there that it’s just not picking up. Wouldn’t that change the diagnosis?”

“Agent Doggett, I assure you that these monitors are all calibrated on a regular basis and are in perfect working order.”

“And in any case,” Scully interjects, in an attempt to both lend support to Dr. Preijers and also ease Doggett’s mind that nothing was missed, “a diagnosis of this type is usually confirmed by additional imaging scans and consultation with a neurologist.”

“In a less clear-cut case, perhaps,” the doctor counters, bristling slightly, “but that isn’t necessary in this instance. I am more than capable of determining whether there is or is not anything visible on an EEG.”

Scully frowns. “I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. It’s just usually a matter of hospital policy, at least in my experience.”

“Yes, well… at this hospital, that sort of thing is left to the discretion of the attending physician." There is a bitterness to his voice as he adds, "We don't have the luxury of funding for unnecessary procedures here."

"But, surely, when making a decision to discontinue life support, it would be prudent to base that decision on more than just one diagnostic measure." Scully keeps her tone carefully neutral, lest she offend him further.

To be fair, she doesn't disagree with his assessment, and she is not unsympathetic to his concern over the time-sensitive nature of a potential transplant situation. But she also cannot imagine making a call of this magnitude without corroboration, and it strikes her as more than a little odd that any hospital administration would be more worried about procedure cost than about shielding themselves from any sort of malpractice claim.

Doctor Preijers visibly schools his features into the expression Scully recognizes as "humoring the patient's family so they will quit causing a scene."

"If it will make you feel better, I can order a head CT for Ms. Reyes," he says with artificial blandness. "But just so we are completely clear, the results of the scan have no potential to contradict the diagnosis. The only thing they might be able to do is illustrate whatever internal trauma could be the cause."

"Do it," Doggett says, and Doctor Preijers nods.

"I'll go and make the arrangements."

As soon as the doctor is out of the room, Doggett pulls a chair to Monica's bedside and sits, picking up her hand. Scully looks away, feeling like an intruder. She flips through Monica's chart again, though she's read it all a dozen times already. But it gives her somewhere else to look than at the intensely private, yet intensely familiar scene playing out on the other side of the room.

After a few quiet minutes, Doggett clears his throat. Scully glances up to see him wiping his eyes.

"So, a head CT. That's a CAT scan, right?"

"Yes. It uses x-rays to build a series of images of the brain.”

"And that'll show us why she's like this?"

"It might. If there's been a stroke or internal swelling, that could be visible on the scan." She pauses, closing the chart and meeting her former partner's eyes. "But you heard Dr. Preijers. Even if it does give us some answers as to the why, it still won't change anything. Brain death is not reversible, no matter the cause."

“How can you stand there and tell me there’s no hope when you yourself have been right where she is now? Lying in a hospital bed, the doctors telling your family, telling Mulder, that all the medical evidence pointed to you being a goner, but they were wrong. And Jesus, Mulder, Mulder. Everyone was so sure he was dead we buried him, for God’s sake! And you know how that turned out.”

Scully recognizes the look in Doggett’s eyes – the all-too-familiar look of a person desperate to believe they can avoid the loss inexorably bearing down on them – and her heart breaks even more for him.

“John…”

“And don’t tell me this is different! Just because the circumstances aren’t perfectly identical, that doesn’t mean she hasn’t got a chance. It doesn’t mean there’s not something here we’re missing.”

But it is different. Monica wasn't taken. She didn't just appear in the hospital like Scully had, and she wasn't dropped off in a field by a UFO. She was in a car accident. A tragedy for certain, but a perfectly ordinary, utterly non-paranormal one. And there is nothing that any of them can do to escape that fact.

"John," she tries again, "I'm sorry. I truly am. I wish there were something that her doctors and I are missing, but--"

"How can you know for certain that there's not? How can you possibly know that?"

She sighs. There isn't a single thing she could say right now that would convince him.

"Until someone can explain to me, in detail, how she can be brain dead without any physical signs of trauma to the head, no indications on any of her scans that there is an identifiable reason for her condition, I'm not letting anyone pull any plugs or cut her up."

[handypolymath]

Honestly, this was 78% of my experience on the Scullyfic email list back in the day--"haha, no, but seriously, about Scully and Mulder..."

The XF fandom is like Sarah from the movie Labyrinth and CC is the Goblin King (taking babies away, being generally bad). Sarah/fandom says "You have no power over me," and Goblin King/CC drops his crystal ball, turns into an owl, and flies away. Then we party with all our cool puppet friends. *Sorry, I really love Labyrinth.

Anon. ANONNNNNNNN. Are you in my brain? Because, I am not kidding you, ever since the premiere – actually before the premiere, when I was pretty sure the CSM revelation or something very much along those lines was going to happen – that’s been in my head. That very moment, with Sarah saying it, in that kind of dawning-realization, incredulous voice. I keep meaning to make a post about it, in fact. 

Because, that’s honestly how I feel (and I was thinking of it again while I was writing that other post), and that’s how I’m trying to look at all of this. CC can say what he wants. But the genie is out of the bottle, Mulder and Scully have come to life, and we don’t have to go through his dumb torturous labyrinth of plot twists and retconning if we don’t want to. We just…don’t.

[scenes-in-between]

Providence

“Listen carefully, Agent Scully. You want to see your son? You come alone, and you follow my instructions to the letter.”

Scully’s pulse pounds in her ears, and the room seems to sway around her. William is alive.

“Go immediately to the airport. There is a flight leaving Dulles for Calgary in two hours, and if you want to see your son, you will be on it. When you have landed in Canada, I will call again with further instructions.”

“Wait, Calgary? Who is this, how do I know--”

There is a rustling sound, and then, faintly, she can hear a baby crying. Her heart leaps into her throat.

“You bastard! If you hurt him, I swear to God…”

“He is safe here with us. We will not let any harm come to him. You have my word on that. But unless you do exactly as I say, we will hide him so thoroughly that the next time you see him, he will have grown up without you, and you will be strangers to one another.”

A tear slips down her cheek, and she brushes it angrily away. A thousand curses stick in her throat.

“The clock is ticking, agent.”

The man hangs up before she can say anything more.

Scully only barely resists the urge to hurl her phone against the wall in frustration. She nearly jumps out of her skin when a hand touches her shoulder; she'd forgotten Reyes and Doggett were there in the room with her.

"I have to go," she says tightly.

"No, Agent Scully, please listen to me.” Doggett strains to sit up. “You can’t--”

“Trust them. I know.” She turns to Monica. “That’s why I need you to go back to my apartment and get the Gunmen. Tell them to bring whatever equipment they need to track a vehicle, and then get to Dulles as fast as you can. The man on the phone said the flight leaves in two hours, so we have to hurry. I’ll call you with the flight details once I get to the airport.”

Monica nods. “I’m on it,” she says, giving Doggett’s hand a last squeeze and hurrying from the room.

Scully starts to follow, but Doggett reaches for her.

“Damn it, wait,” he says. “How do you know you’re not being led on a wild goose chase? Or worse, right into a trap?”

“I don’t,” Scully admits. “But Agent Comer crashed at the Canadian border, and this man on the phone said to go to Calgary. And I heard...” Her throat tightens, and the rest of the sentence comes out as a whisper. “They have him, John. And this may be my last chance to get him back.”

Doggett’s mouth tightens, but he nods. “Just be careful. Watch your back, and don’t let your guard down for a second.”

“I won’t,” she promises.

***

With their van totaled, and given the possibility that they might be needed at a moment’s notice to help with the search for William, the Lone Gunmen have spent the past few days camped out in Agent Scully’s living room. Her apartment is, without question, far nicer than their place, but Byers knows he is not the only one starting to feel restless and ready to get home. Langly’s been increasingly unable to sit still, not-so-subtly rubbing his back and cracking his neck and grumbling under his breath about how dining room chairs have no lumbar support. And though Frohike would never in a million years admit it, he hasn’t relaxed for more than a moment since they got here, and Byers is pretty sure he’s barely slept.

For his part, Byers is sick of feeling useless; when push comes to shove, no matter how many years he’s spent with Frohike and Langly, his hacking skills still can’t hold a candle to theirs. Sure, he takes point when it comes to research, and he can dig through a database like no one’s business, but they’ve had so little to go on with this that it’s just felt like he’s spinning his wheels.

All three of them jump when Scully’s phone rings.

Byers gets up to go answer it, but Frohike hisses, “Are you nuts?”

“It might be Agent Scully,” Byers says, eyebrows raised.

Frohike picks up his cell phone from the table in front of him and waves it. “Hello. If it were Scully calling, then this would be ringing instead.”

“It’s probably just a telemarketer,” Langly says with a shrug, turning back to his laptop screen.

The answering machine clicks on, and it is definitely not a telemarketer who speaks next.

“Guys, this is Monica Reyes. Pick up the phone. Now!”

Byers scrambles to the phone and picks it up. “Agent Reyes? What’s wrong, is Agent Scully hurt?”

“She’s fine, but listen. I’m on my way to get you three. Pack up whatever you gear need for tracking a vehicle and meet me out in front of the building in five minutes. Oh, and make sure you’ve got IDs as well. We’re going to the airport.”

“The air--?”

“Look, I’ll explain when I get there. We may have a lead on William, but we have to hurry. We can’t let them get away again.”

“We’ll be ready,” Byers says firmly and hangs up the phone, then turns around to the other two. “Please tell me there was a GPS transponder in with the stuff from the van when we cleared it out.”

“Pretty sure, yeah,” Frohike says, frowning. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Agent Reyes said they may have a lead on William, but we have to leave now, and we’ll need to be able to track a vehicle. She’ll be here in five minutes to pick us up.”

“Well what are we waiting for?” Frohike stands and pushes his chair back so fast it almost tips over. “Let’s get that kid back.”

***

Josepho’s phone trills in his pocket a little after 2:00 am.

Right on time.

“Do you have eyes on her?” he asks without preamble. “And is she alone?”

“I’ve been watching her since she got off the plane,” the man he’d sent to the airport to shadow Agent Scully tells him. “She hasn’t spoken to anyone, just paced back and forth with her phone in her hand.”

“Good.”

He hangs up, then redials the number given to him by his supersoldier contact within the FBI. Agent Scully answers immediately.

“Where are you? I assume you’ve been watching me, so you know I’ve done as you asked. Now where is my son?”

“Patience, Agent Scully. You must think me a fool if you imagine I would come to the airport myself. We will meet somewhere more private. There is a truck stop west of the city off Highway 1. It is the only thing open at this hour, so you will know it when you see it. Go inside, and wait for me there.”

He hangs up without giving her a chance to respond, then puts his phone back in his pocket and turns around, walking over to where the boy sleeps peacefully in Angela’s arms. Careful not to wake him, he brushes gentle fingertips across the baby’s brow. It’s incredible, what the future holds for this child. His own mother may not be able to understand or believe it, but Josepho will make her see reason. God has assured him that all will go according to His grand plan, as long as Josepho remains faithful and overcomes the few remaining obstacles blocking the way.

***

“A woman with dark hair will come here in a few minutes, and I need you to give this to her,” Scully tells the man at the Lariat counter, handing him a note in exchange for the rental car keys he’s just given her. “Her name is Monica.”

He looks momentarily puzzled but takes the note from her with a smile. “Will do.”

Scully doesn’t make eye contact as she stalks past Monica and the boys, who are seated near the door. She and Reyes worked it out on the plane, in a brief, hushed conversation by the lavatory.

Scully is under no illusions that this UFO cult will let her simply walk away with William, not if they believe him to be some sort of messiah. She has no idea why they have offered to let her see him, unless they somehow think they can persuade her to join their cause. There will likely be a threat made, a gun held on her under a table as they take William away again.

But they won’t know about her backup, and they won’t know that she will be ready to track them right back to wherever they have been hiding.

She will get her son back. Tonight.

[scenes-in-between]

Trust No 1 (Part Four)

For the hundredth time in the last 18 hours, Gibson wonders why he agreed to this.

The train is busy and loud in a way he hasn’t had to deal with for a long time. Living for months crammed in a tiny trailer with Mulder’s noisy mind was nothing compared to this. Dozens of people in close proximity, only a handful of them asleep, all drowning each other out and making it nearly impossible to listen for threats. He finds himself trembling with the effort.

Jesus, poor kid, Mulder practically screams beside him.

“I’m fine,” he says through clenched teeth. “Just got used to the quiet.”

“Only a few more hours,” Mulder murmurs aloud, and Gibson nods.

A picture flares to life in Mulder’s mind, something Gibson has seen there before but Mulder’s never spoken about. Gibson doesn’t know if he’s remembering a nightmare or something that actually happened; it feels like the latter, but that’s impossible.

Mulder catches Gibson frowning at him and shrugs, sighing. “Sorry. I know it’s not the same, and I’m not suggesting I know exactly what you’re going through. I just can’t help remembering how it felt.”

“How what felt?”

Now Mulder’s the one to frown, confused. “You don’t know? I mean… You couldn’t see that memory just now?”

“People usually remember things in a kind of shorthand. There’s not always context. This memory of yours… I’ve seen it before, but I don’t know what it means or if it’s even real.”

“What did you see?”

“You’re in a hospital, I think. And you can hear people like I can. But it’s too much. It hurts, and you can’t… you’re not…”

“Yeah,” Mulder says quietly. “Yeah, that was real.”

“But how?”

There was an artifact, Mulder thinks. A piece of a ship, a spacecraft. I don’t know how or why it affected me like that, but it did. I could hear thoughts, but not like you do, not really. My mind couldn’t handle the input. It burned me up, shut me down. I almost died. Only reason I didn’t is that someone cut open my head and took whatever it was out of me.

Gibson can see images again as Mulder remembers waking up in that room, remembers Scully rescuing him. Mulder’s thoughts slide away from the narrative of the memory and latch on to Scully, and how he can’t wait to see her, and William, and there is this swell of affection that is unlike anything Gibson ever felt from his own parents. It makes him a little sad, even though he’s long since come to terms with the fact that his parents were always more afraid of him than anything else.

“They just cut it out of you?” Gibson prompts, hoping to steer Mulder back on course.

Mulder blinks. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I assume so. I used to have, well it was never a big scar, but…” He brushes his fingers over his forehead, almost like it’s a reflex. “Then later, after I came back from the dead, everything just… healed. Way faster and way more completely than should have even been possible. Can’t even feel the scar at all anymore. But yeah, that’s where they cut me open, and then when I woke up afterward, that was that. Only thoughts in my head were my own.”

Gibson wonders what it would be like to never hear anyone else’s thoughts, ever. The only way that ever truly happens for him is if he’s physically isolated, though when he’s not so out of practice, he can choose to turn the volume down by picking one thing or person to focus on. He realizes that as Mulder’s been talking (both in his head and out loud), that’s exactly what has happened; the rest of the mental chatter in the train car has faded into the background, nothing more than a dull murmur at the edge of his mind. He’s grateful for the respite, but it also means he might miss something, if there’s someone or something on this train that wants to hurt them. He really should go back to listening.

But also he’s just so, so tired.

“How much longer until the next station?” he asks, wondering if maybe, since he hasn’t picked up on the presence of any threats on the journey so far, he can afford to let his guard down a little, at least until they stop again and more new people get on board.

Mulder shifts and digs into his pocket for the brochure they picked up at the station the last time they transferred, which has a timetable with all the stops on this rail line. “Hmm, forty-five minutes, give or take? Why?”

“Can you do me a favor and just think about something really boring for a little while? Like, I don’t know, FBI protocols or something?”

Mulder chuckles. “Can’t say I’ve ever really been much of an expert on those. But sure. You gonna try to nap?”

Gibson doubts actually falling asleep is possible, but he nods anyway. Even if he can just rest for a while, that will be good. Just in case, though…

“Make sure I’m awake when we get to the next station, okay? So I can listen to the new people getting on. Just in case.”

Mulder nods, and a jumble of emotion spills out of him: pity, guilt, gratitude, regret, and something else Gibson can’t immediately identify. There’s this sense of he’s way too young to have to have to carry all this and I should be the one protecting him, which makes Gibson want to roll his eyes. Mulder still seems to think of him as the 12 year-old kid he was when they met, but he’s 16 now, and he’s been living on his own for a good long while. He can more than take care of himself. But there it is again, that flash of something else, and then it’s like Mulder makes the conscious decision to stop and focus on that one feeling because it completely takes over. It’s warm and something like affection but not quite, and Gibson puzzles over it some more before realizing, finally, that it’s pride.

Mulder is proud of him.

It’s not something Gibson has felt directed toward him many times in his life, and it makes him squirm a little bit. But it’s also nice.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, and Mulder nods again.

“You got it, kid.” 

All right, let’s see. Now, unfortunately for me, I’ve had to sit through more than a few training seminars on the application of Chapter 119 of Title 18 of the US Penal Code. Fortunately for you, this is just about the most boring subject on the face of the Earth, and as I happen to be cursed with an eidetic memory, I can recite the stupid thing chapter and verse. Consider this your first class ticket on an express train to Snoozeville.

Gibson can’t help but smile a little as he leans back in his seat and closes his eyes.

Chapter 119: Wire and Electronic Communications Interception and Interception of Oral Communications. Section 2510: Definitions. As used in this chapter-- (1) “wire communication” means any aural transfer made in whole or in part through the use of facilities for the transmission of communications by the aid of wire, cable, or other like connection between the point of origin and the point of reception…

The gentle rhythm of Mulder’s bland recitation melds perfectly with the steady rocking and the click-clack of the train, and in spite of his apprehensions, Gibson is asleep in minutes.

***

From the relative comfort of his office, the Shadow Man watches the grainy feed from the station platform’s surveillance camera. It’s not exactly riveting viewing; Agent Scully paces back and forth, having arrived at the station more than an hour before the train is due. But, this is what he does. He watches. All day long, day after day, he watches and he listens.

It’s a form of omniscience, being able to drop into the daily life of virtually anyone he may choose, whenever he needs to, observing unseen from the shadows. (Not the most imaginative moniker, this one these FBI agents have given him, but he supposes it does fit.) Tonight, all he needs is confirmation that Mulder really is going to get off that train.

Scully’s posture belies not only anticipation but also fear. Her guard is fully up, but she need not worry. Not tonight, anyway. Let them have their reunion. He will call tomorrow to arrange a meeting, and then he’ll eliminate Mulder once and for all. He has waited months for this opportunity; one more night is nothing.

That is, until something happens that tosses every one of his carefully-laid plans out the window: someone blacks out the camera lens.

Ah. So. His little employee has finally started to put the pieces together, has he? He supposes it was just a matter of time, but this is particularly inconvenient. Without eyes on the platform, he loses his advantage. Despite his claims to the contrary, it would absolutely be possible for Mulder and Scully to vanish into the wind, away from his view. He cannot let that happen.

He glances at the clock and scowls. It will be a close-run thing, getting to Alexandria from Bethesda before the train arrives, but the late hour and empty roads are on his side. He’s out the door and on the road in minutes, speeding southward.

Looks like Mulder and Scully won’t be getting their little reunion after all. But they’re the ones who decided not to play along. Now the plan has to change, and that’s fine by him. A predatory grin lurks at the corners of his mouth as he presses harder on the accelerator.

This ends tonight.

***

As the train begins to slow on approach to the station, Mulder’s leg bounces with both nerves and excitement. Beside him, Gibson is still and silent, all of his attention focused on the thoughts of the people outside.

Suddenly he gasps and grabs Mulder’s arm. “You can’t go out there.”

No, please, I’m so close...

“You can hear someone out there?” Mulder asks tightly.

“Yes! There’s a man, and he’s one of them. He wants to kill you.”

“Damnit…”

Scully said we’d be safe. Oh no, Scully… 

“Is Scully in danger?”

Gibson’s eyes are wide. “I don’t know. He’s… he’s got a gun, and he’s not aiming for her, but he doesn’t care that she’s in the way.”

Mulder leaps to his feet.

“Wait! You can’t!”

The three pops of gunfire are muted from inside the train car, but Mulder hears them anyway. He hurtles forward to lean over Gibson and peer out the window. There’s movement on the platform, bodies on the ground, but it’s too dark and they’re too far away for him to make out any detail.

The train picks up speed again, and a ripple of confused chatter fills the car and drowns out the conductor’s words coming over the loudspeaker. Mulder’s insides give a desperate lurch as he catches just a glimpse of Scully’s stricken face through the window. She’s on her feet, thank god. She wasn’t shot. 

For the span of a heartbeat, there she is in front of him, real and solid, not just a presence in his mind. But then she’s gone again as the train whisks him past, and he wants to cry out at the injustice of it. It’s not fair. I was so close. The months of separation feel like an iron band around his ribs.

But it’s clearly still not safe to go home. He knows she wouldn’t have brought him out of hiding unless she truly believed it would be okay, but apparently whoever led her to that belief was either wrong or lying. Will it ever be completely safe? Is this what the rest of his life is going to be, this hiding and running and always looking over his shoulder? Feeling like he’s in this limbo, merely existing while the rest of his life carries on thousands of miles away without him?

It’s not until Gibson grabs him by the arm and shakes him that he realizes the boy has been speaking. He blinks.

“What?”

“He’s on the train! The man who was on the platform. He knows you’re here, and he’s coming after you!”

Mulder snaps to attention. “Can you tell where he is?”

Gibson squeezes his eyes shut, visibly shaking from concentration or fear or both. “He’s… he’s three cars ahead, but under… hanging on to the underside. I think he was on the tracks and then grabbed on to the train as it went over him.” He opens his eyes again, wide. “We have to get out of here!”

Mulder’s stomach tightens as he does a quick mental calculation. While he didn’t plan for this exact scenario, he did look up several potential places he could try to go, in case it turned out that it wasn’t safe in D.C. after all. One of them is a quarry with significant iron deposits, just south of Alexandria. The tracks run near enough that he just might make it, might be able to lead the man there, if he can manage to avoid getting caught first.

Quickly, nonverbally, he rushes to convey his plan to Gibson. He’s got about two or three minutes to jump off the train and hope to god the man follows him. He jerks open the zipper on his backpack and pulls out one of the burner phones he bought, as well as a couple of hundred dollar bills, shoving both into his pocket. 

“I hoped we wouldn’t have to use these,” he says aloud, “but this is exactly why I bought them. Stay on the train for two more stops, then find somewhere to lay low. Let me know where you are, and I’ll come find you. The number for this phone is on the paper in the backpack. Got it?”

“What if something happens to you?”

Call Scully, Mulder tells him telepathically. “But I’m hoping it won’t come to that,” he adds.

Gibson nods, and Mulder gives his shoulder a squeeze before hurrying down the aisle to the door. He moves quickly between cars, into and through the one in front of where they were sitting, and then the next. If Gibson’s right, the man should be there just ahead of him, underneath the very next car. 

Mulder’s heart pounds as he turns the latch to open the exterior door. He certainly doesn’t want to get caught, but he also needs to make sure the man follows him into the quarry and doesn’t get on the train and go after Gibson. Outside the ground rushes past, and he steels himself for how much this next part is going to suck.

I am getting way too old for this shit.

He grips the handrail beside the door and leans forward as much as he dares.

“Hey asshole!” he shouts into the wind. “Looking for me?!”

Taking one last deep breath, he jumps.

***

Only when she is absolutely certain that the Shadow Man super-soldier isn’t coming after her does Scully stop running. She looks around wildly. Mulder has to still be here, somewhere.

“Mulder!”

It’s Arizona all over again, with her shouting his name into the night, hoping against hope for some answering call. 

“Mulder!”

But as was the case in Arizona, she receives no response.

***

The roller coaster of emotion is too much for Gibson. His own feelings are magnified by what he hears in Mulder’s thoughts, a sort of resonating loop that spirals him toward despair and exhaustion.

So he sleeps. It is, mercifully, a dreamless slumber, and it cradles him all the way back to New Mexico. Mulder gently shakes him awake, and they wordlessly disembark, waiting amid the other passengers while Mulder’s motorcycle is unloaded. Once they retrieve it, it’s a quiet ride back to the trailer neither of them had hoped to see again, though once they crest the hill and finally come within sight of it, Gibson lets out a sigh of relief.

[scenes-in-between]

Trust No 1 (Part three)

“Who authorizes you? I mean, what gives you the right? Who ARE you?!”

“I’m the future, Agent Scully. And I risked my life being here.”

“Well then why do it? I mean, why meet me?”

“Because you can reach Mulder. Mulder needs to know what I know or he may have no future. Perhaps no one will. Another car is parked on the main road, half a mile out. If I see that you haven’t contacted Mulder in the next 24 hours, I disappear and you never see me again. Do you understand, lady?”

Scully stalks away, seething. All of the theatrics, all of the waste, and for what? A two-minute conversation that raised more questions than it answered? What was the point of any of it?

Scowling, she pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket - because apparently it was absolutely necessary to blow up her clothes and her gun and inspect her watch, but Mr. Mysterious had no qualms about letting her keep her phone? - and punches the speed dial for Monica Reyes. Monica picks up immediately.

“Dana! Thank god. We’ve been trying to reach you all day. Where are you?”

“At the end of a very long and very stupid wild goose chase,” she grumbles. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get in touch earlier. How’s William?”

“He’s just fine. John’s in the kitchen right now heating up a bottle for him.”

“Agent Doggett stayed with you?” she asks, surprised.

“Not the whole day,” Monica says. “After that couple left, he went to the office for a while, but then he came back a few hours ago when we still hadn’t heard from you. Seriously though, where have you been?”

Scully answers with a groan, then gives an abbreviated account of the day’s events as she continues making her way back to the main road. Her foot catches on something in the dark and she stumbles, cursing. Of all the times to be without a flashlight…

When she gets to the part about the car and the remote detonation, Monica says, “Holy hell, Dana! Do you need one of us to come get you?” 

“No, he said there’s another car parked up the road. I’m heading toward it now.”

“But are you sure that’s safe?” Monica presses. “What if it’s rigged to explode, too?”

“Whoa, wait, what’s rigged to explode?” Scully hears Doggett say in the background, and she shudders at the thought that she spent the entire day driving around on top of a bomb. However, the fact that she’s still alive right now is a fairly good indicator that she’ll be able to get home safely.

“If he wanted me dead, he had ample opportunity,” she says. “No, what he wants is for me to contact Mulder, which I can’t very well do if I’ve been blown up. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

What she’s not sure of is exactly where she is right now. It became harder and harder to track her relative location after she left the interstate. The very notion of spending who knows how many more hours on the road fills her with a mix of exhaustion and dread, and she’s angry all over again at the phenomenal waste of time today has been.

“Maybe you can help me figure out where I am, though,” she says. “It was too dark to read the street signs, the last couple of turns he told me to make, but I was on Route 17 going north for a while, somewhere between Norfolk and Fredericksburg. It’s not much to go on, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment.”

“I’m on it,” Monica tells her. “Can I use your computer?”

“Of course.”

“Here, you can talk to John while I pull up MapQuest.”

Ahead, Scully can just make out the bulk of a vehicle in the darkness. She reaches to unsnap her holster out of habit and grimaces when her fingers catch nothing but the fabric of her waistband.

In her ear, Doggett barks, “What in the heck’s going on? Where’ve you been all day, and why is Monica talking about things being rigged to explode?”

Scully sighs. “I’m going to let her fill you in on the details because I would just as soon not go through it all again right now. Short answer is that I’m fine, just tired and frustrated. I’ll be on my way home soon, hopefully. I want to thank you, though, for helping to look after William. I really do appreciate it.”

“Well, you’re welcome, but I didn’t do all that much. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

She approaches the car, again wishing she had a flashlight. It’s too dark to see anything through the rear windows, but the front of the car at least appears to be empty. Cautiously, she reaches for the door handle; it’s unlocked, and the interior light comes on when she opens the door. There’s a piece of paper on the driver’s seat.

“Son of a bitch,” she murmurs, picking it up.

“Agent Scully?”

“You can tell Agent Reyes that I don’t need her help after all. I’ve been left a map.”

“A map?” Doggett asks. “So where are you?”

Thirty miles. She is all of thirty miles from Fredericksburg. It is going to take her less than two hours to get home. It could have taken her less than two hours to get here. Of all the stupid, pointless, absolutely and completely asinine...

“Just a bit southeast of Fredericksburg,” she says tightly, glancing at her watch. “I should be home by nine.”

“All right then. Be careful.”

“Yeah.”

***

This isn’t the first time Monica has been asked to watch William, but it is the first time she’s had to try and put him to bed.

And he is not having it.

She’s never seen him like this. She’s never felt him like this; William’s energy is always vibrant -- she’s known that since the night he was born -- but it’s usually contained, like the potential energy in a compressed spring. Tonight, it’s like a storm, howling around him as he wails in her arms.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. Should we call Dana?”

John chuckles at her, evidently unconcerned, because of course he can’t feel what she feels.

“There’s nothing wrong. And there’s nothing she could do even if there was. He’s just tired.”

“No, John, I’m telling you, something is--”

“Here,” he says, holding out his hands. “I’ll show you.”

She passes the squirming baby to her partner and steps back, nerves jangling. John gathers William against his chest and starts to walk around the living room, gently bouncing him while murmuring softly. At first, Monica can’t hear what he’s saying over the sound of William’s cries, but as the boy gradually quiets, John’s words become clearer.

“There you go, easy does it, your mama’s gonna be home soon, don’t you worry, atta boy…”

He’s asleep within minutes, energy storm subsided. Monica shakes her head, a little abashed at having so comprehensively misread the situation. 

“You were right,” she says quietly.

“Eh, nothing I hadn’t seen before, that’s all.” He doesn’t meet her eyes, his gaze still trained on the top of William’s head as he slows the bouncing to a gentle sway. “Luke certainly did his share of fussing.”

She didn’t know him then, of course. She’s only ever known him as a grieving father; this is the first time she’s gotten a glimpse of what he was like as a dad, and it makes her unexpectedly emotional. 

“I’m gonna see if I can go put him down,” he says, and she nods, watching him go before turning to pick up the few scattered toys and take William’s dinner bottle back to the kitchen.

***

By the time she has retrieved her own car from where she left it parked this morning, after stewing on the whole drive home and running through the day’s various cryptic conversations over and over, Scully has come to three conclusions.

Number one: nearly everything that man claimed to know about her, he could have learned by bugging her apartment and going through her garbage bins. What did he really give her that was concrete? Knowing her clothing size seemed eerie at first, until she remembered the receipts she’s thrown away from a handful of recent shopping trips. Her childhood clown phobia? She and her mom were laughing about that in her living room a month or so ago. The rest of it -- resting heart rate, ATM pin, college boyfriend, et cetera -- was only specific enough to seem unnerving without actually proving that he knew any of it.

Her emails to Mulder would require some additional access, but that could be as simple as someone following her to the cafe. It’s probably one of the “regulars” that she -- blithely, it would seem -- dismissed as a potential threat.

Number two: while her apartment has definitely been under surveillance, apparently for quite a while, Mulder’s has not. The “one lonely night” the man mentioned? She’s reasonably certain he was referring to the night she asked Mulder to stay after the IVF failed, and that was not their first time together. If, as he said, the events of that night surprised him, then he could not have known about what they had already been doing at Mulder’s place. Or, for that matter, what they had been doing at her place before that night. So now she also knows approximately when the surveillance actually began.

Number three: if this man genuinely does have useful intel about super soldiers -- and that is an extraordinarily big “if” -- then it may in fact be worthwhile to call Mulder home. The idea terrifies and thrills her in almost equal measure. On the one hand, there is nothing she wants more than to have him home. Nothing. But on the other, if she has miscalculated, and calling him out of hiding only ends up getting him killed, she will never forgive herself.

In the end, it is Agent Doggett’s words from yesterday that settle the issue for her. If we know who these super-soldiers are we can go after them. This is somebody giving us a way that can make it safe for Mulder to come home. 

How else are you going to get him home?

It’s a risk, possibly a big one, but ultimately, it’s one she has to take. He has been gone for almost seven months. This is the first time in those nearly seven months that there has even been a chance he might be able to come home. If she lets this chance go by, how much more time will pass before they get another one?

She walks into her apartment having made up her mind. There is a giddy, fluttery feeling in her stomach that is only temporarily eclipsed by ravenous hunger as she steps through the door and the smell of Thai food envelops her. Reyes and Doggett look up from where they’re sitting, at her kitchen table, takeout cartons amassed between them.

“Hope you don’t mind, we got takeout,” Reyes says, standing. “We didn’t know if you’d have a chance to eat, but if you’re hungry, there’s a bunch left.”

The last thing she ate was a bag of almonds from the gas station, hours and hours ago. To say she’s hungry is a massive understatement.

“Mind? I could kiss you both right now.”

Doggett’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and Reyes laughs. “I’ll get you a plate.”

Scully nods. “I’m just going to change and wash up.”

On her way to the bedroom, she grabs a plastic bag from the closet. The likelihood is slim that there will be much in the way of usable trace evidence on the clothes she’s wearing, but it would be irresponsible not to even look. She opens the bedroom door quietly so as not to wake William; by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, she can see him sleeping peacefully in his crib, and she smiles, some of the tension from the day melting away. Though she would love a shower, she's too hungry, so she settles for changing into sweats, carefully folding and bagging the "borrowed" outfit, then washes her hands and face before heading back to the kitchen.

Doggett and Reyes have tidied up their dishes and are in the process of putting on coats and shoes.

"We'll let you get some rest," Reyes says, though she’s looking at Doggett when she does. “Whatever else you might have to tell us about what happened today can wait until tomorrow.”

“Unless,” Doggett adds, in a tone that sounds like he’s continuing an argument from earlier, “there’s anything you think we need to know now. Or if you don’t feel safe staying here alone, knowing that this Shadow Man may well have eyes and ears on you.”

“Is that what we’re calling him?” Scully asks, arching one eyebrow. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be fine. As violating as it feels to be surveilled by some NSA creep--” she emphasizes the words, fully assuming that she’s being listened to right now “--I don’t have any reason to believe that William and I are not safe here.”

“Well I still don’t like it,” Doggett says, frowning. “Why don’t you let us post a couple agents out front, just in case?”

“I really don’t think that’s necess--”

“That’s a good idea, actually,” Reyes interjects, then drops her voice to a murmur. “Especially in light of what happened this morning. We know you can take care of yourself, Dana, but we also don’t know exactly what we’re up against, here. Maybe the answer is to try and watch the watchers, find out who they are, see if we can figure out who else the Shadow Man is working with.”

Scully sighs but has to admit that’s a sensible course of action. Either the knowledge that she’s being watched over will deter this so-called Shadow Man and his associates, or it won’t, in which case they could be exposed and identified.

“All right,” she agrees.

“Good,” Doggett says. “I’ll take first watch until I can get someone else over here.”

As soon as they leave, Scully makes herself a plate of food and takes it to her computer desk. If the Shadow Man is able to access her emails even when she sends them from the internet cafe, it seems pointless to wait until morning to write to Mulder. The giddy feeling from earlier comes rushing back as she types.

Mr. Hale,

I am overjoyed to tell you that circumstances appear to have changed. Exercise caution, but put the plan in motion. I cannot wait to see you.

All my love,

Dana

She clicks “send” with her heart in her throat, wondering where Mulder is and when he’ll be able to read her message. How long it might take for him to make the necessary arrangements and begin the journey home. He could be in her arms as early as tomorrow, a notion that seemed impossible just 24 hours ago.

She powers down the computer -- according to their plan, his next communication will come via text message from a burner phone -- and picks up her plate to finish eating in the kitchen. A glance out the window as she stands up reveals Agent Doggett sitting in his truck across the street, cell phone held to his ear. She sighs, regretting the additional work and worry she’s given her former partner but also deeply grateful that he’s got her back, he and Reyes both. She appreciates them more than she can say.

With any luck, all of this will soon be over. Mulder will come home, the Shadow Man will give him the information they need to take down the super-soldiers, and things can go back to… well… “normal” for them, anyway. It’s maybe too much to hope for, but right now, she will allow herself to be comforted by the fantasy, at least for a little while. When she finally crawls into bed, later, she falls asleep with her cell phone on the pillow beside her, imagining the sensation of being wrapped securely in Mulder’s arms.

***

“Holy shit,” he breathes, reading her email for the third time.

The library’s just about to close, and he had checked his email one last time before leaving, more out of impulse than any actual expectation that there would be anything there. The surprise of a new email was immediately eclipsed by the surprise over its contents.

Home. He can go home. He and Gibson both, even. No more hiding in the desert. No more ache of longing binding his stomach and keeping him from sleep. It almost sounds too good to be true, but she called him Mr. Hale, the code phrase they established before he left so he’d be able to tell a genuine summons from a trap. This is the real deal.

Which means the threat is past. Maybe Skinner cut a deal, hell, maybe Kersh did. Who knows? Who cares?! He gets to go home!

The grin on his face is massive as he logs off and heads for the door.

***

“You’re leaving," Gibson says, before Mulder has even closed the front door behind himself. "You promised you wouldn’t. But I guess I shouldn’t have expected you to keep that promise.”

It's still weird, Gibson knowing what he's thinking about before he's even said anything, but it doesn't throw him for a loop the way it used to.

“No, we’re leaving, Gibson. Both of us.”

Gibson scoffs. “You know I’m not going anywhere. It’s not safe. You might be able to outrun them if they catch us, but I--”

“Scully said it’s safe. And yes, I’m sure the message really was from her.”

Gibson stares hard at him and Mulder thinks as forcefully and loudly and clearly as he can.

We can both be free. I swear. I will protect you.

“I believe that you believe that,” Gibson says finally. “But I don’t think either of us knows for sure whether that’s really true.”

“Look, I know you’re scared. And you’re right that there are no guarantees. But for the first time since I left Washington, there is at least a chance that it’s safe for us to get out of here. If we don't take it, I don't know when another one is gonna come along. Do you really want to hide here for the rest of your life?"

"If it doesn't mean dying horribly and having my head karate chopped off by an alien replicant? Yeah. I'm fine with that."

Mulder’s thoughts flicker, involuntarily, to Dr. Parenti’s severed head in a jar, to the gash in Skinner’s forehead, to his own memory of being hurled across Parenti’s lab by Billy Miles.

“Exactly,” says Gibson. “I’m not letting that happen to me.”

“I trust Scully,” Mulder says, thinks. “She wouldn’t call me home if it wasn’t safe. She’s too smart and too cautious to take a risk like that.”

This, at last, seems to convince him, if only somewhat. He may not trust Mulder’s judgment, but he apparently trusts Scully’s, at least enough to finally sigh and say, “Okay. I hope you’re right.”

Despite Gibson’s reluctance, it takes almost no time at all to pack. They don’t have much to take, not bothering with spare clothes. Mulder shoves the stuff he printed about Mount Weather into his backpack, along with a little food, the fake IDs from the Gunmen and all of their remaining cash. They’re out the door and on the road in less than twenty minutes.

On the way to the train station, Mulder stops to gas up the motorcycle and buy four prepaid cell phones from the convenience store. Two hours later, as they’re getting ready to board the train that will take them eastward, Mulder types Scully’s number into the first phone and sends a single-word text message.

“Midnight.”

Once the message sends, he opens the back of the phone, pockets the battery, and tosses the phone in a garbage can.

[scenes-in-between]

Trust No 1 (Part One)

(Pre-episode)

“I got a motorcycle,” Mulder announces as he walks into the trailer. “Now I won’t need to bother Michael for rides anymore.”

Gibson blinks, stone-faced, his back ramrod straight.

“It’s okay, I paid cash,” Mulder adds, with a bit of an internal eye-roll.  Like I’d be dumb enough to use a credit card and put myself back on the radar. Relax, no one’s going to trace anything back to us.

“Us?” Gibson says, stiffly. “So you’re… you’re not…?”

Mulder frowns, confused. And then it dawns on him what Gibson’s actually worried about. 

“What, leaving? No, of course not. Jesus, Gibson, you really think I’d do that to you?”

“I know you’re thinking pretty loudly about getting on that bike and not looking back. And I don’t even blame you, but--”

“Oh, hell.” 

Mulder shuts the door and walks over to where Gibson is sitting. No matter how much practice he’s had at policing his thoughts, he still slips up all the time. And yes, of course he’s been thinking about going home, pretty much from the moment he saw the bike sitting parked at the gas station with a “For Sale” sign stuck to it. Of course he has. But it’s a fantasy; he’d never actually do it. No matter how little regard he has for his own safety, how much he’d be willing to risk if it meant seeing Scully again, he owes Gibson way too much.

“Gibson, I am not going to abandon you. Okay?” He concentrates, so there is no disconnect between his thoughts and his words. “I promise. Not after everything we’ve been through, everything you’ve done for me.”

Gibson studies him for another long moment, then gives the barest nod of his head and finally relaxes his shoulders. Mulder punches him lightly on the upper arm and gives a lopsided grin.

“I mean, I know I’m kind of an asshole sometimes, but come on. I’m not that big of an asshole.” 

***

Fifty-seven days. Just over eight weeks. That’s how long it’s been since Mulder’s last email, the one in which he warned her that he wouldn’t be able to write again for a while.

Not that his warning has stopped her from checking.

The internet cafe has become part of her routine. On Saturdays like today, when she’s not helping Doggett and Reyes in the field, Scully stops by with William on her way to run errands. A couple of days a week she doesn’t need to be at the Academy until noon, so she takes a morning walk to the cafe before her mom arrives to babysit. The baristas know her order by now - chai tea on the weekends, coffee with milk during the week - and are friendly but not chatty. It’s honestly probably too routine and predictable, or it would be if she were the one in hiding. She’s identified a handful of other “regulars,” but none that give her cause for concern; everyone here tends to keep to themselves. 

Chai in hand, she finds an empty computer and parks the stroller. William is dozing, bundled up against the late December chill outside, and the coffee shop is cozy and warm without being stifling. Scully has removed her gloves but doesn’t bother taking off her coat; that would be an acknowledgement of the hope that this time she will be staying longer than a minute or two. She tries to convince herself that she expects the empty inbox, that she won’t be disappointed by another day of radio silence, that her stomach won’t do a backflip at the sight of “3 new messages” because she knows they will all be spam.

It is a futile exercise.

Fifty-seven days. She’s managing. Raising this baby of theirs and molding young minds at the Academy and praying every night for Mulder’s safety. She has to believe this is temporary, and that eventually they can be a family again. A real family.

Suppressing a sigh, she logs off and tries to turn her focus to the day ahead.

***

The day after Mulder comes back with a bike of his own, it pours. Gibson is guiltily, but deeply, relieved. He wants to trust that Mulder won’t abandon him, knows all too well how people’s inner thoughts can be complicated and contradictory, but at the same time, he can’t help worrying.

The rain, however, does not dampen Mulder’s fervor. His trips to the larger library have been fruitful, and he has been hard at work on a plan to breach the facility that the old man in Gibson’s dreams spoke about. He spends the entire rainy day poring over everything he has printed at the library, papers carpeting the floor, seed husks piling up on the table.

***

The New Year arrives without fanfare. Scully doesn’t turn on the TV to watch the Times Square coverage (she hasn’t managed that since she and Mulder watched together, two years ago, in a hospital waiting room). For that matter, she doesn’t even make it to midnight. After William goes down for the night, she takes a bath, drinks a glass of wine, and crawls into bed.

On the surface, this year looks much the same as the last. She’s still alone, still wondering where Mulder is and hoping he’s all right. In truth, though, so much is different. She has William, for one thing, which on its own is a bigger difference than she can properly express. For another, up until a couple of months ago, she was hearing from Mulder somewhat regularly, receiving assurances that he was, at least, alive. She still worries - of course she does - but it’s nowhere near the same. She has good cause to believe, far more than she did a year ago, that he is going to be okay, and that they will eventually be together again.

That doesn’t make the waiting any less frustrating or the loneliness less sharp. But the absence of a constant, exhausting undercurrent of despair is both notable and welcome.

Next year, she vows to herself as she drifts off to sleep. We are going to figure this out and eliminate the threat, and next year he’ll be home. 

***

For all that Mulder intends, truly, to keep his promise to Gibson, the temptation to flee home to Scully continues to gnaw at him. Now that he actually has the means to do so, that he can envision concrete steps toward a way out of exile, it’s almost painful to pull off the highway in another town, heading toward another library, instead of just pressing on. But he did promise.

What he can’t resist doing, however, is writing to her.

It’s been almost ten weeks since their last correspondence, and even if it means he can’t return to this particular library again, he has to do it. His fingers tremble as he opens a blank email.

“Dearest Dana…”

[scenes-in-between]

Trust No 1 (Part Two)

“You will continue driving west until I tell you otherwise.”

Lips pursed in annoyance, she heads toward the freeway on-ramp, wondering how far he’s going to make her go with her phone held up to her ear. As if he’s read her mind, the man speaks again.

“I am going to hang up the phone now. I will contact you again with further instructions at the appropriate time. If you make any outgoing calls, or you answer a call from anyone but me, we’re done. You got that?”

“Look, I have a child at home--” she begins to protest, but he cuts her off.

“And I’m certain that Special Agent Reyes is more than equal to the task of looking after him. These are my terms. Take them or leave them.”

She almost tells him exactly where he can shove his terms. But Mulder…

“Fine,” she barks, and she hangs up before he can.

***

Scully has been on I-66 for over an hour and has nearly run out of west when the phone finally rings again.

“Take I-81 southbound.”

She bites back a groan, mentally calculating how far she’s already traveled and how long it will take her to get home.

“And then what?”

“And then you continue south until I tell you otherwise.”

She takes a glance down at the fuel gauge; nearly half the tank is gone already.

“Am I going to be driving far enough to need to stop for gas?”

“You will continue south until I tell you otherwise.” He hangs up the call.

“Guess that’s a ‘yes’ then,” she mutters.

It’s still early in the day, not even nine in the morning, but she is already growing impatient with the secret squirrel nonsense. The surveillance, the voice distortion, the multiple cars, and now apparently driving almost to West Virginia… it’s completely over the top, even for the NSA.

If this man really does have information about the super-soldiers, though -- information that will help eliminate the threat against Mulder and allow him to come home -- then all of this will have been worth it, right? 

What lengths won’t she go to, if it means bringing Mulder home?

***

If she was impatient at nine, she is fuming by noon. At three, she has begun to question whether this whole thing wasn’t an elaborate plan to draw her away from William.

She did, indeed, have to stop and refuel the car, which was accomplished with cash from the glove compartment and accompanied by more threats and warnings against attempting to contact anyone or deviate in any way from the instructions she was given. She drove south all the way to Roanoke, and then just as she was about to throw her hands in the air and abort the whole damned thing, he had her go east. She’s now approaching Norfolk, which would have taken three hours if she’d come directly from DC, instead of the eight it’s taken her to go almost all the way around the perimeter of Virginia.

She has missed three calls from Reyes, one from Doggett, and two from Quantico. When she asks permission to at least check her voicemails, she is told that he has “already taken the liberty” and that the messages “contained nothing worthy of concern.”

“And why should I believe you?” she says, exasperated. “How do I know this wasn’t a setup from the beginning, you promising information as a means to draw me away and send me driving all around Virginia?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Agent Scully. The people you’re up against could take you out of the equation any time they wished. And remember, you are the one who asked for this meeting, not me.”

“I asked for a meeting, not to be sent driving around all damned day for no reason.”

“If you want to meet in person, then this is what is required. I will not compromise my safety.” There is a long pause before he speaks again. “I’d be more than happy to wait until I can speak to Mulder directly, if you’d rather go home right now.”

If it is a calculated attempt to push her buttons, it works flawlessly. Indignance flares, even as she recognizes rationally that she could well be getting played.

“Is that what this was?! Did you think if you made me waste the whole day I’d just give up?”

“Take the next exit and turn left at the intersection.”

The abrupt change catches her off-guard, before she remembers that the only reason she’s on the phone with him now is that he called a few minutes ago to give her updated instructions. This is the first time, aside from the fuel stop, that she’s being taken off the major highways. Maybe this stupidity is nearly at an end.

***

It’s not.

She continues on back roads for another three hours, slowly winding her way northward through rural Tidewater Virginia. The early darkness of January means the sun has completely set by the time she is finally told to turn on to a gravel road that opens up into a field.

[scenes-in-between]

Daemonicus

(pre-episode)

In the week after the explosion on the ship, Scully barely sleeps. When her fears about William aren’t keeping her awake, she is bolting upright at every little sound coming from the hallway outside her apartment. When she does sleep, her dreams are a parade of one calamity after another befalling Mulder, out there on his own.

Oddly, she takes some comfort in the fact that these dreams are always different; she still can’t explain the dreams she had when he was missing before, the ones Mulder quietly confirmed were somehow representative of what he had endured, but they were always the same. This time around, it is possible to convince herself that these are normal nightmares, mere products of stress and worry, nothing more.

She forces herself to leave the apartment, once a day, to check her anonymous email account from an internet cafe in Georgetown. Her stomach knots tighter and tighter each time she accesses an inbox that is as empty as it was the day before. Sometimes, if William is asleep in the stroller, she finds herself ducking into the church on the way home, praying that tomorrow will be the day she finally hears from him.

It takes two and a half weeks for those prayers to be answered.

Her heart leaps to her throat at the sight of the bolded You have 1 new message notification. Tears of relief and longing spring to her eyes as she reads the single line of text within.

“Safe for now, though I can confirm the threat was genuine. Are you safe?”

She doesn’t know how to answer that. Between the incident with the mobile, what she found (and didn’t find) on the Navy ship, and everything that Shannon McMahon claimed, two weeks ago she had serious doubts about whether she and William were safe. However, looking over her shoulder constantly since then has revealed no indication of an imminent threat. That doesn’t mean there isn’t one, but if she shares her worries with him, he might try to return prematurely, and it is clear from his message that that would be a dangerous mistake.

Her fingers tremble as she taps out a reply.

“I cannot tell you what a relief it is to read your words. Not hearing from you for so long, I feared the worst. Please keep yourself safe, and do not worry about us. I miss you very much, but I am thankful beyond measure that you are alive.

Yours, D”

That night, for the first time since he left, her sleep is deep and dreamless.

***

Two months pass.

They manage to establish a delicate correspondence; there is no pattern or regularity to it, and each time she hears from him is a gift she does not take for granted. The ability to maintain this link with him, however tenuous, affords her a measure of strength through their separation that she might not otherwise have had. Life moves on in a way that could almost pass for normal. 

As her maternity leave nears its end, she finds herself feeling conflicted about returning to work. She misses it, without question, but she also knows too well the dangers that exist out in the field, and the thought of one day not making it home to William is utterly terrifying. (Never mind that the X-Files unit really only requires two agents, and she has no wish to displace Monica, who seems to be thriving in the assignment.) It comes as an unexpected relief, then, when AD Skinner hesitantly suggests, as though he’s afraid of offending her, that she might consider taking a position at Quantico.

***

“Where are you going, Monica?” “This man Kobold can help us, John. I’m going to prove it to you.”

Monica stalks out of the autopsy bay, and after a pause, John heaves a frustrated sigh and starts to follow.

“Agent Doggett?” comes a quiet voice from behind him when his hand is on the door.

He looks back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

Agent Scully’s tongue touches the corner of her mouth, an obvious tell that she’s nervous about saying whatever she’s about to say. “I know you’re frustrated. That you feel like… like the answer here is obvious, only no one can seem to see it but you.”

“Gee, can’t imagine why I’d feel like that.” He releases the door, turning fully and crossing his arms over his chest. “Look, if you’re gonna try and tell me that I should ignore evidence, ignore what my gut is saying on this guy Kobold--”

“I’m not. I’m not suggesting that at all.”

“Well what, then?”

He can see her choosing her words carefully, and it irks him. He doesn’t need to be patronized, least of all by her. Once upon a time, they were comfortable enough with each other to forego all this dancing around and careful tending of egos.

“The cases in the X-Files… you know as well as I do that they often require… a different approach than a standard investigation.”

“The hell they do. I’ve been at this for almost a year and a half, and not once has a case required me to believe in voodoo, or demonic curses, or aliens in order to solve it.”

“That’s not what I mean, exactly.”

Well now he’s confused. “Okay. Well, what do you mean?”

“When I worked with-- When you and I worked together, we didn’t always share the same theories about whatever we were trying to solve.”

It’s not lost on him that she was about to start with a Mulder story and then course-corrected. 

“Right…” he says, not entirely sure where she’s going with this.

“And very often, those differing theories and perspectives were what kept the investigation moving forward, when it otherwise might have stalled out. In fact, that’s exactly why many of the cases became X-Files in the first place. The standard approach wasn’t enough to solve them.”

“Come on, I don’t buy that. Just because local LEOs, or even some other agent in the Bureau, couldn’t get the job done, doesn’t mean the approach is wrong.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” She’s giving him the full, earnest, Dana Scully Serious Face and goddamnit if his heart doesn’t skip a beat. “How many times did we get a break in a case just because one of us was looking in a direction the other one didn’t think of? Even if the final result was something completely ordinary.”

She’s not wrong. But…

“Yeah, and how many times did we waste days or even weeks barking up the wrong tree?”

“I guess my point, Agent Doggett, is that you get better results when you…  bark up as many different trees as possible.”

“Even when I’m damned sure my tree is the right one?”

“Yes. Even then.”

He sighs. “You can’t ask me to ignore the fact that Monica is being led around by her nose on this case. Being manipulated by someone who is definitely out of his mind and very possibly also a murderer.”

“Don’t ignore it, no. And keep watching her back. But don’t stop her from pursuing her own line of inquiry, either, even if whatever she’s pursuing doesn’t make sense to you right now.”

“I don’t like it,” he says with a scowl, shaking his head. “But all right. I’ll try to give her some room to do her thing. But if I think she’s putting us in danger listening to this guy, I’m pulling the plug.”