XF Fic: Gonna Be Different This Time, part 7
Scully raised an eyebrow at Gibson. *You're sure this is the one?*
He nodded in confirmation.
Well, then. She'd come this far on the strength of his word. She could go a little farther. She pulled out her lockpick again, and set to work by the intermittent flash of Gibson's flashlight. She was trying to be as quiet as she could, and it was a more complicated lock; as a result it took a lot longer than she would have liked, and her hands were wet with sweat by the time she heard the final soft *click*.
Although she knew Gibson would have warned her of anyone approaching, Scully cast a long look up and down the hallway before easing the door open.
It was a small room and looked more like an office than anything else. Scully kept the beam of her flashlight pointed at the floor as she thumbed it on. A metal desk was pushed against one wall, and a set of bars had been bolted over the window. On the right side of the room was a cot, the same awkward wood and canvas make they'd slept on as children when there were houseguests. The cot was occupied, the dull blankets wrapped around an unmoving figure topped with ginger hair.
Scully shone her flashlight on the cot. There was a grunt, and the blankets moved, and a grumpy voice muttered, "What is it *now*, you fucking nazis?"
The cot swayed dangerously, its joints creaking, as its occupant rolled over. A broad hand pulled the blanket down to reveal thinning hair over a winter-pale Irish complexion. But the eyes were brown, not blue, and the face was thinner than Bill's, the nose sharper.
"*Charlie?*" Scully hadn't dropped a flashlight in a very long time; instead she stepped forward. "Oh, my god. Charlie?" Her voice cracked, a harsh whisper.
"Dana? Jesus, Dana! What the hell are you doing here?" Charlie wrenched at the blankets around his legs and stumbled to his feet. And then his arms were wrapped around her and it felt so good she almost wept into his grimy T-shirt.
But she didn't have the time. She was already pulling away when Gibson hissed at her from the door. "Miss Scully!"
Scully swiped at her eyes with the palm of her hand. "I know, Gibson. Charlie, we have to go now. I'll tell you everything but right now we have to leave. Is there anything you need here?" She looked around the room, but was anonymous, empty of character or personality: a cell.
She looked back to see Charlie staring at her. Then he blinked and shook his head. "No, nothing but my shoes." He dropped onto the bed and pulled on a decrepit pair of sneakers, stealing glances at her as he tied his laces.
What did he see? Not his little sister the doctor, Scully thought, but a lean and tired woman with a gun at her back and spare cartridges in her pocket. A woman who had seen too many people die--oh god I'll have to tell him about Mom but not yet not yet--and whose lover was a mile away setting explosives around a power plant. A fugitive, a guerrilla. Her lips twisted; they were dry and chapped.
She pulled a sweater off a shelf and stuffed it into her pack, while Charlie finished tying his shoes. "Where we going?" he asked, as he stood up.
Scully looked to Gibson, who lingered in the door, his glasses reflecting the minimal light emitted by her flashlight beam. He shook his head. They didn't have much time left but the hall was clear.
"Out of here for now," she said. "I'll tell you everything later, but for now we have to move."
Charlie blinked, but stood up obediently. This was Charlie, this thin, shadowed man? Dana's darling younger brother, who had flirted with Mulder that night they had visited him in Missoula? Less than a year ago, but Charlie had aged as much as she had. They would have a lot to talk about--if they survived the next four hours.
Oh, God, Scully thought, as she turned off the flashlight and slipped out the door after Gibson. If they captured Charlie, what had happened to Bill?