Fic: A Tour of Muted Interests
Title: A Tour of Muted Interests
Fandom: The X-Files
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Mulder/Scully established
Spoilers: Set post-The Truth and bleeds into IWTB. Other spoilers for Squeeze/Tooms, Detour, Emily, The Pine Bluff Variant, Dreamland, Arcadia, Je Souhaite, DeadAlive, William.
Word count: 3,166
Disclaimer: I take no responsibility for what happens to Chris Carter's characters from here on out.
Summary: While on the run, Scully worries about Mulder's obsession with the paranormal.
With thanks to memories_child and hummingfly67.
* * * * * It starts with a magazine in New Mexico.
After three days spent sleeping, making love, and surviving off produce scavenged from the vending machine at the end of the block of rooms, Mulder decides that newly-crowned fugitives need more sustenance and a change of clothes. Calling the funk coming off his grey t-shirt ‘manly’ is only endearing for so long; it’s simply a matter of time before his jeans walk of their own accord.
They head out just before dawn. He wishes he had a ball cap to hide his face. Not for the first time, she wishes her hair wasn’t red.
The ten-minute walk to the store is the most fresh air either has had in far too long but their enjoyment is wrought with paranoia, as if those four flimsy walls they’re renting back at the motel is a panic room in disguise. (Plenty of panicking has occurred since Tom Hensley signed his name in the guest register and paid with small bills, but it’s nothing a warm embrace can’t handle.) His palm is sweaty and Scully grips his hand too tightly; both the roads and the sidewalks are quiet and reassuring, but she doesn’t let go.
The fluorescent lighting inside the store reminds her of morgues and hospitals, of death, of a life she no longer leads. Her world now consists of flea-ridden bedspreads, worry lines, and the man squeezing her fingers, but she is grateful. Mulder picks up a basket and tosses in bread and fruit, cheese and a tin of SPAM. (“Poor man’s steak, Scully. Frontline on-the-run rationing at its finest.”) Over in the meagre clothing section, they grab non-descript jeans, t-shirts and underwear that come in packs of three and five, a couple of pairs of socks. New shoes would be nice but are not necessary, not yet, and they are left on the shelf.
Scully settles on dark brown hair dye while Mulder watches quietly. He doesn’t comment when she tosses a box of condoms in with the toothpaste. There is a time and a place to bring up dead daughters and abandoned sons. This isn’t it.
It’s as they’re standing in line at the checkout that he picks up a copy of the Weekly World News, conveniently stacked next to rows of candy and gum and other cheap items that nobody really needs but buys on impulse; ‘a marketing conspiracy’, he called it once. The cover of the paper - ‘DEAD MCVEIGH ON MORGUE SLAB!’ - is less ludicrous than most but Mulder devours it all and reads out headlines from the inside articles in the same delighted tone he used to reserve for slideshow presentations in a basement office some eighteen hundred miles away. Only he could make ‘astronomer rebuked for endlessly staring into space’ as interesting as a flesh-eating disease manufactured by a militia group.
For a second she thinks he’s going to toss the magazine into the basket as the cashier starts ringing up their things but he puts it back without protest. It is fleeting but she sees the look in his eyes, the hesitancy and the longing.
This, she thinks with no small amount of dread, is how it begins.
* * * * *
Fifty miles outside of Tucson, Arizona, there is a gas station off Interstate 10, just past Benson. Scully, driving for this shift, pulls in next to a pump and jumps out of the car, eager to stretch her legs. Mulder almost falls out of the passenger side and lets out a relieved groan as his vertebrae pop back into place. He never was good at sitting still for prolonged periods.
It’s dusk and they’re going to keep driving through the night, taking comfort in the shadows most fear. The cover of darkness is a precarious one and they both know it offers little more safety than daylight, but all good fugitives sneak around once the sun goes down. There’s less traffic on the roads in the evenings, too, and they zip across state lines without scrutiny. They’re both watchful of suits and SUVs.
Scully siphons gas into the car they took before entering Arizona as Mulder wanders the small lot, working the kinks out of his neck. She squeezes his shoulder when she moves past him to pay and he follows her inside obediently, protectively.
The attendant is a middle-aged man with greying hair, tied back in a ponytail, and a salt-and-pepper goatee. He chews tobacco lazily while squinting at a portable television behind the counter, raising a hand in acknowledgement while never tearing his eyes away from the screen. Mulder meanders down the centre aisle and, fairly certain he won’t be pulled away from her in the next two minutes, be it by Government officials, Super Soldiers, or little grey men, Scully heads to the counter.
She is about to hand over the notes when a thump alerts her to his presence. A packet of sunflower seeds sits on the countertop expectantly. When she looks at him, Mulder merely shrugs and gives her a tentative smile, as though a reminder of who they used to be might break her. She rolls her eyes because that’s what he expects her to do.
“Where you folks headed?” the attendant, ‘Mike’ written in scrawling spider-writing on his nametag, asks as he rings up the gas and the seeds.
“Vegas,” Mulder quickly supplies, wrapping his arm around her shoulders like they’re Rob and Laura Petrie again. “We’re gonna get married by Elvis.”
Mike, eyebrows raised, glances at Scully, who smiles indulgently. “It’s always been our dream,” she offers, fighting back a grin. She has to pinch Mulder’s hip to quell his silent laughter.
“All the best to ya,” he says, and takes their money. “Might be headin’ that way myself in a coupla months, check out this Area Fifty-One they’re harpin’ on ‘bout on the TV.” He gestures haphazardly with one hand. “You know anythin’ ‘bout it?”
Too much.
Scully holds her breath. She’s sure the temptation will be too strong and he’ll give in, open his mouth and engage in a debate over the Government’s best - or worse - kept secret. You can take the man out of the basement but Scully knows he keeps a copy of those files with him at all times. She thinks it will be his memories that will lead to him pining for the days when they chased monsters with flashlights and wild abandon.
Mulder surprises her by shaking his head and saying, “Not my kind of thing. I prefer to keep my feet on terra firma.”
Faint scars can attest to that.
Back in the car he commandeers control of the wheel. They’ve been driving again for ten minutes when he reaches over and rests his hand on her thigh. “I would marry you, you know,” he murmurs, taking his eyes off the road for a brief moment to look at her.
“I know,” she replies. If I could is left unsaid.
* * * * *
In Lewiston, Idaho, they eat at a restaurant called Zany’s because Mulder likes the name. The food is fresh and plentiful, and while neither is sure how their stomachs will react to the sudden reduction in grease, they waste no time mourning its loss.
“I never thought I’d be so glad to see greens on my plate,” Mulder confesses between forkfuls of peas and sprouts.
“Your arteries are similarly thankful,” she replies with a smile, the first real one in a week. Being properly fed does wonders for Scully’s disposition.
Conversation between the two is light as they focus on their meals, basking in meat and vegetables that haven’t been deep fat-fried before landing on their plates. In this new life of theirs, it’s the little things that mean the most.
She should be appreciative of Mark Wight’s and Jenny Appleby’s good health and cash reserves, the fact they have (relatively) clean clothes and food in their bellies, but truth be told she feels out of place in a proper restaurant wearing her thrift-store purchases, more at home alongside the long-haul truckers they make small-talk with in roadside diners. Those men are used to creased clothes, bleary eyes, and initial shyness; mile after mile of interstate does that to a person, they say over bacon and scrambled eggs, nodding wisely like they’ve just divulged the meaning of life. She feels like she reeks of transience.
Seeing America from the passenger seat of stolen cars was never high on Scully’s to-do list but the travel doesn’t bother her as much as she first thought it would. What’s worse is the awareness of Mulder’s growing restlessness. He is a lost soul, wandering aimlessly from one Podunk town to the next with no end in sight, condemned to purgatory, and sometimes she feels the ridiculous urge to apologise to him, as though it’s all her fault. She knows his capacity for guilt rivals his martyr complex and in the end she says nothing.
They treat themselves to dessert and try to ignore the party of eight recently seated next to them. The table is loud and raucous, the alcohol flows freely, and the conversation makes Scully’s stomach churn.
“I’m tellin’ you, it was real! At least seven feet tall, broad shoulders, covered in fur-”
“You’re fulla shit, Gary,” was followed by murmurs of agreement, cries of protest.
“Naw, man. You wasn’t there. It was Bigfoot isself skulkin’ at the bottom of that hill. You jus’ ask Pete Taylor; he saw ‘im, too.”
Scully almost can’t do it, can’t raise her eyes to meet Mulder’s because she’s afraid of what she might see, but she glances at him with her features delicately masked. A bemused smile plays across his lips and as he turns she thinks he’s going to interrupt, to launch into a lecture on Sasquatch complete with case reference numbers from files long since destroyed, but he merely signals to the waitress for the cheque before resting his elbows on the table.
“Well,” he muses, not noticing the relief on her face, “Bigfoot is native to the Pacific Northwest.”
* * * * *
They avoid Wyoming entirely.
* * * * *
She is a blonde when they reach Custer, South Dakota, and Mulder has grown a goatee that can’t be fooling anyone who is seriously looking for them; she thinks he likes this cloak-and-dagger lifestyle a little too much. His hair is longer, too, and several times a day Scully finds her fingers itching to brush back the persistent lock that threatens to fall over his forehead. He’s taken to wearing flannel shirts and sturdy boots for reasons she can’t quite fathom, but she must admit she likes him scruffy, not that there’s an Armani suit at hand if she suddenly changes her mind.
It’s raining as they hike through the woods and the steady drizzle seeps through the gaps in the trees, landing on the muddy forest floor and making it dangerous underfoot; wet leaves are notoriously difficult to walk on even with suitable shoes. The only sounds are the squelching of mud around their boots and the rainfall hitting the canopy above. Mulder and Scully don’t talk.
After five miles they stop for a quick breather. She notices the mischievous look in his eyes seconds before he presses her back against a tree trunk and kisses her senseless. Later, when they pitch their tent in a small clearing, he makes love to her so slowly it’s almost maddening, and she envies his self-control at a time when all she can think about is clawing at him ferociously, letting him seep through her skin and into her blood so she can feel him racing through her veins, keeping her alive.
She leaves crescent moons on his shoulders and back.
When they climb into their sleeping bags she finds he has zipped them together. “It’s raining,” he points out helpfully. “You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”
Of course not.
“Watch out for Moth Men,” he mumbles as he falls asleep, his head pillowed on her breast, her fingers idly running through his sweaty hair.
* * * * *
They indulge in a movie in Chicago, Illinois. He’s Anthony now, the saint of lost things, and Scully finds it painfully appropriate. Her name is Mary, as in miraculous-conception-sacrificed-her-son-to-the-greater-cause-Mary. There is a cruel irony in the connotations of four letters that most of the time she chooses to ignore. (Mary, too, fled her home to escape persecution. At least she didn’t bear the weight of the end of the world on her shoulders; Revelation came too late for her to worry about.)
The movie theatre only offers a cheesy rom-com or a B-grade sci-fi film even Mulder has never heard of; he leaves the choice to Scully. She debates the chick flick just to surprise him but can’t do it to herself, and they settle in to watch terrible special effects and dialogue. The theatre is pretty empty but it is the middle of the day, and they are joined only by an elderly couple and two boys who look like they should be in school. Mulder buys unbuttered popcorn and slips his arm around her shoulders like they’re teenagers again.
She loses nine minutes when he leans over to kiss her halfway through the feature.
Luckily the plot isn’t hard to follow: it’s a typical battle against alien invasion with incompetent officials and heroic civilians, and Scully is sure they could draw more parallels if they chose. She leans against Mulder’s chest and smiles at the low rumblings of his laughter as so-bad-it’s-good lines spew from the actors’ mouths.
They hold hands as they leave the darkened theatre, blinking as the sunlight accosts their eyes and the crowds bustle on the sidewalks.
“When will Hollywood learn the inaccuracies of little green men?” Mulder sighs.
“That’s your biggest problem with that movie? Next you’ll be complaining that the only thing wrong with 'Armageddon' is the soundtrack.”
“That’s a classic,” he argues. “Besides, physics is your speciality, Mary, not mine.”
“Unless it’s in disregarding it, Anthony,” she replies pointedly.
He kisses the side of her head and loops his arm around her waist. “Touché.”
* * * * *
The house in Virginia looks like it belongs in a horror movie, although Mulder is quick to reassure her that it’s not haunted and, as far as he’s aware, nobody has ever died there. The overgrown weeds and the tiles falling off the roof do little to assuage Scully’s initial discomfort but somehow, if she had to choose a place for Mulder to live, this would be it. It screams ‘paranoid paranormal researcher lives here!’ It’s his self-chosen job title these days; it sits easier with him than ‘total nutjob’ or ‘government puppet’.
He picks a room on the ground floor to be his office. It’s not quite the basement he’s used to but there’s enough space for a desk and pencils stick in the ceiling tiles. He is relatively easy to please in those respects.
They shift furniture and scrub floors and order flat-pack bookcases from IKEA. He cuts the grass and never ventures beyond the front gate. She buys cheap artwork and displays it in frames to make up for their lack of photographs. Mulder quietly watches her nesting.
When Scully returns from a grocery run one Thursday she presents him with a battered cardboard tube, a red bow tied around the middle.
“It’s not ticking…” he muses as he holds it to his ear, rattling it suspiciously.
“Just open it, Mulder.”
He decides the gleam in her eye is more anticipatory than dangerous - and he can’t think of anything he’s done recently to piss her off - so he pops the lid off the tube and pulls out the contents. His eyes grow suspiciously wet but he laughs in delight.
“Scully, this… how did you find one of these?” he asks, admiring the familiar poster.
She shrugs, smiling, pleased at his reaction. “I used to work for the FBI,” she says offhandedly. “I might be rusty but I can still get results.”
It is the first thing to decorate the walls of his office. It doesn’t stay that way for long.
She finds him spending more and more time behind that closed door. He grows pale - like the dead, her mind helpfully supplies - and he gains weight, putting on the pounds he had lost as they dashed from state to state. He still runs occasionally, darting through the woods at the back of the property, and he often shuffles from the chair in front of the computer to the fridge or the bathroom, but he doesn’t exercise like he used to.
He haunts online forums using nonsensical usernames and has magazines and newspapers sent to a PO Box in the nearest town. Twice-weekly trips are made to check for new bounty; the office walls become gilded with clippings torn from journals. Scully worries that one morning she’ll wake up to find her liver missing, or - worse - him.
When they were on the run - really on the run, moving from car to car, motel to motel, town to town - he had been able to suppress his fascination with the weird and wonderful, more intent on keeping moving and staying alive. But now they have a place of their own, a house if not a home, his guard is dropping more with each tick of the clock. Despite his office looking like a Tooms-nest, he is awakening from hibernation, and Scully fears he will soon leave. Not forever, but for just long enough to make her bite her nails and contemplate wearing black again.
Mulder remains squirreled away while her name is cleared and she takes an internship at Our Lady of Sorrows. She isn’t sure what he does all day but his muscles keep their definition and the laundry is done when she gets home, although she walks through the door to find him hunched over the computer screen five nights out of six. He has books and scrolls and maps, and yet he never goes anywhere, instead conversing with the world via the Internet like a misguided prophet.
He is there every time she comes home. Scully starts to relax.
And then the FBI stick their noses in and six years unravels in a heartbeat. Mulder likes a challenge, feels the need to prove himself after being in almost-solitary confinement for so long, and he delves into the fore eagerly, immersing himself in the world of priests and psychics and paedophiles, in someone who is all three. She can feel him slipping away like a dream upon waking.
Mulder makes it home in one piece, albeit showing a little more wear than when he left. She scolds him for scaring her and, as he takes her in his arms, he vows not to do it again.
Scully knows there will be a next time. There always is.
Four years.
Fandom: The X-Files
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Mulder/Scully established
Spoilers: Set post-The Truth and bleeds into IWTB. Other spoilers for Squeeze/Tooms, Detour, Emily, The Pine Bluff Variant, Dreamland, Arcadia, Je Souhaite, DeadAlive, William.
Word count: 3,166
Disclaimer: I take no responsibility for what happens to Chris Carter's characters from here on out.
Summary: While on the run, Scully worries about Mulder's obsession with the paranormal.
With thanks to memories_child and hummingfly67.
* * * * * It starts with a magazine in New Mexico.
After three days spent sleeping, making love, and surviving off produce scavenged from the vending machine at the end of the block of rooms, Mulder decides that newly-crowned fugitives need more sustenance and a change of clothes. Calling the funk coming off his grey t-shirt ‘manly’ is only endearing for so long; it’s simply a matter of time before his jeans walk of their own accord.
They head out just before dawn. He wishes he had a ball cap to hide his face. Not for the first time, she wishes her hair wasn’t red.
The ten-minute walk to the store is the most fresh air either has had in far too long but their enjoyment is wrought with paranoia, as if those four flimsy walls they’re renting back at the motel is a panic room in disguise. (Plenty of panicking has occurred since Tom Hensley signed his name in the guest register and paid with small bills, but it’s nothing a warm embrace can’t handle.) His palm is sweaty and Scully grips his hand too tightly; both the roads and the sidewalks are quiet and reassuring, but she doesn’t let go.
The fluorescent lighting inside the store reminds her of morgues and hospitals, of death, of a life she no longer leads. Her world now consists of flea-ridden bedspreads, worry lines, and the man squeezing her fingers, but she is grateful. Mulder picks up a basket and tosses in bread and fruit, cheese and a tin of SPAM. (“Poor man’s steak, Scully. Frontline on-the-run rationing at its finest.”) Over in the meagre clothing section, they grab non-descript jeans, t-shirts and underwear that come in packs of three and five, a couple of pairs of socks. New shoes would be nice but are not necessary, not yet, and they are left on the shelf.
Scully settles on dark brown hair dye while Mulder watches quietly. He doesn’t comment when she tosses a box of condoms in with the toothpaste. There is a time and a place to bring up dead daughters and abandoned sons. This isn’t it.
It’s as they’re standing in line at the checkout that he picks up a copy of the Weekly World News, conveniently stacked next to rows of candy and gum and other cheap items that nobody really needs but buys on impulse; ‘a marketing conspiracy’, he called it once. The cover of the paper - ‘DEAD MCVEIGH ON MORGUE SLAB!’ - is less ludicrous than most but Mulder devours it all and reads out headlines from the inside articles in the same delighted tone he used to reserve for slideshow presentations in a basement office some eighteen hundred miles away. Only he could make ‘astronomer rebuked for endlessly staring into space’ as interesting as a flesh-eating disease manufactured by a militia group.
For a second she thinks he’s going to toss the magazine into the basket as the cashier starts ringing up their things but he puts it back without protest. It is fleeting but she sees the look in his eyes, the hesitancy and the longing.
This, she thinks with no small amount of dread, is how it begins.
* * * * *
Fifty miles outside of Tucson, Arizona, there is a gas station off Interstate 10, just past Benson. Scully, driving for this shift, pulls in next to a pump and jumps out of the car, eager to stretch her legs. Mulder almost falls out of the passenger side and lets out a relieved groan as his vertebrae pop back into place. He never was good at sitting still for prolonged periods.
It’s dusk and they’re going to keep driving through the night, taking comfort in the shadows most fear. The cover of darkness is a precarious one and they both know it offers little more safety than daylight, but all good fugitives sneak around once the sun goes down. There’s less traffic on the roads in the evenings, too, and they zip across state lines without scrutiny. They’re both watchful of suits and SUVs.
Scully siphons gas into the car they took before entering Arizona as Mulder wanders the small lot, working the kinks out of his neck. She squeezes his shoulder when she moves past him to pay and he follows her inside obediently, protectively.
The attendant is a middle-aged man with greying hair, tied back in a ponytail, and a salt-and-pepper goatee. He chews tobacco lazily while squinting at a portable television behind the counter, raising a hand in acknowledgement while never tearing his eyes away from the screen. Mulder meanders down the centre aisle and, fairly certain he won’t be pulled away from her in the next two minutes, be it by Government officials, Super Soldiers, or little grey men, Scully heads to the counter.
She is about to hand over the notes when a thump alerts her to his presence. A packet of sunflower seeds sits on the countertop expectantly. When she looks at him, Mulder merely shrugs and gives her a tentative smile, as though a reminder of who they used to be might break her. She rolls her eyes because that’s what he expects her to do.
“Where you folks headed?” the attendant, ‘Mike’ written in scrawling spider-writing on his nametag, asks as he rings up the gas and the seeds.
“Vegas,” Mulder quickly supplies, wrapping his arm around her shoulders like they’re Rob and Laura Petrie again. “We’re gonna get married by Elvis.”
Mike, eyebrows raised, glances at Scully, who smiles indulgently. “It’s always been our dream,” she offers, fighting back a grin. She has to pinch Mulder’s hip to quell his silent laughter.
“All the best to ya,” he says, and takes their money. “Might be headin’ that way myself in a coupla months, check out this Area Fifty-One they’re harpin’ on ‘bout on the TV.” He gestures haphazardly with one hand. “You know anythin’ ‘bout it?”
Too much.
Scully holds her breath. She’s sure the temptation will be too strong and he’ll give in, open his mouth and engage in a debate over the Government’s best - or worse - kept secret. You can take the man out of the basement but Scully knows he keeps a copy of those files with him at all times. She thinks it will be his memories that will lead to him pining for the days when they chased monsters with flashlights and wild abandon.
Mulder surprises her by shaking his head and saying, “Not my kind of thing. I prefer to keep my feet on terra firma.”
Faint scars can attest to that.
Back in the car he commandeers control of the wheel. They’ve been driving again for ten minutes when he reaches over and rests his hand on her thigh. “I would marry you, you know,” he murmurs, taking his eyes off the road for a brief moment to look at her.
“I know,” she replies. If I could is left unsaid.
* * * * *
In Lewiston, Idaho, they eat at a restaurant called Zany’s because Mulder likes the name. The food is fresh and plentiful, and while neither is sure how their stomachs will react to the sudden reduction in grease, they waste no time mourning its loss.
“I never thought I’d be so glad to see greens on my plate,” Mulder confesses between forkfuls of peas and sprouts.
“Your arteries are similarly thankful,” she replies with a smile, the first real one in a week. Being properly fed does wonders for Scully’s disposition.
Conversation between the two is light as they focus on their meals, basking in meat and vegetables that haven’t been deep fat-fried before landing on their plates. In this new life of theirs, it’s the little things that mean the most.
She should be appreciative of Mark Wight’s and Jenny Appleby’s good health and cash reserves, the fact they have (relatively) clean clothes and food in their bellies, but truth be told she feels out of place in a proper restaurant wearing her thrift-store purchases, more at home alongside the long-haul truckers they make small-talk with in roadside diners. Those men are used to creased clothes, bleary eyes, and initial shyness; mile after mile of interstate does that to a person, they say over bacon and scrambled eggs, nodding wisely like they’ve just divulged the meaning of life. She feels like she reeks of transience.
Seeing America from the passenger seat of stolen cars was never high on Scully’s to-do list but the travel doesn’t bother her as much as she first thought it would. What’s worse is the awareness of Mulder’s growing restlessness. He is a lost soul, wandering aimlessly from one Podunk town to the next with no end in sight, condemned to purgatory, and sometimes she feels the ridiculous urge to apologise to him, as though it’s all her fault. She knows his capacity for guilt rivals his martyr complex and in the end she says nothing.
They treat themselves to dessert and try to ignore the party of eight recently seated next to them. The table is loud and raucous, the alcohol flows freely, and the conversation makes Scully’s stomach churn.
“I’m tellin’ you, it was real! At least seven feet tall, broad shoulders, covered in fur-”
“You’re fulla shit, Gary,” was followed by murmurs of agreement, cries of protest.
“Naw, man. You wasn’t there. It was Bigfoot isself skulkin’ at the bottom of that hill. You jus’ ask Pete Taylor; he saw ‘im, too.”
Scully almost can’t do it, can’t raise her eyes to meet Mulder’s because she’s afraid of what she might see, but she glances at him with her features delicately masked. A bemused smile plays across his lips and as he turns she thinks he’s going to interrupt, to launch into a lecture on Sasquatch complete with case reference numbers from files long since destroyed, but he merely signals to the waitress for the cheque before resting his elbows on the table.
“Well,” he muses, not noticing the relief on her face, “Bigfoot is native to the Pacific Northwest.”
* * * * *
They avoid Wyoming entirely.
* * * * *
She is a blonde when they reach Custer, South Dakota, and Mulder has grown a goatee that can’t be fooling anyone who is seriously looking for them; she thinks he likes this cloak-and-dagger lifestyle a little too much. His hair is longer, too, and several times a day Scully finds her fingers itching to brush back the persistent lock that threatens to fall over his forehead. He’s taken to wearing flannel shirts and sturdy boots for reasons she can’t quite fathom, but she must admit she likes him scruffy, not that there’s an Armani suit at hand if she suddenly changes her mind.
It’s raining as they hike through the woods and the steady drizzle seeps through the gaps in the trees, landing on the muddy forest floor and making it dangerous underfoot; wet leaves are notoriously difficult to walk on even with suitable shoes. The only sounds are the squelching of mud around their boots and the rainfall hitting the canopy above. Mulder and Scully don’t talk.
After five miles they stop for a quick breather. She notices the mischievous look in his eyes seconds before he presses her back against a tree trunk and kisses her senseless. Later, when they pitch their tent in a small clearing, he makes love to her so slowly it’s almost maddening, and she envies his self-control at a time when all she can think about is clawing at him ferociously, letting him seep through her skin and into her blood so she can feel him racing through her veins, keeping her alive.
She leaves crescent moons on his shoulders and back.
When they climb into their sleeping bags she finds he has zipped them together. “It’s raining,” he points out helpfully. “You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”
Of course not.
“Watch out for Moth Men,” he mumbles as he falls asleep, his head pillowed on her breast, her fingers idly running through his sweaty hair.
* * * * *
They indulge in a movie in Chicago, Illinois. He’s Anthony now, the saint of lost things, and Scully finds it painfully appropriate. Her name is Mary, as in miraculous-conception-sacrificed-her-son-to-the-greater-cause-Mary. There is a cruel irony in the connotations of four letters that most of the time she chooses to ignore. (Mary, too, fled her home to escape persecution. At least she didn’t bear the weight of the end of the world on her shoulders; Revelation came too late for her to worry about.)
The movie theatre only offers a cheesy rom-com or a B-grade sci-fi film even Mulder has never heard of; he leaves the choice to Scully. She debates the chick flick just to surprise him but can’t do it to herself, and they settle in to watch terrible special effects and dialogue. The theatre is pretty empty but it is the middle of the day, and they are joined only by an elderly couple and two boys who look like they should be in school. Mulder buys unbuttered popcorn and slips his arm around her shoulders like they’re teenagers again.
She loses nine minutes when he leans over to kiss her halfway through the feature.
Luckily the plot isn’t hard to follow: it’s a typical battle against alien invasion with incompetent officials and heroic civilians, and Scully is sure they could draw more parallels if they chose. She leans against Mulder’s chest and smiles at the low rumblings of his laughter as so-bad-it’s-good lines spew from the actors’ mouths.
They hold hands as they leave the darkened theatre, blinking as the sunlight accosts their eyes and the crowds bustle on the sidewalks.
“When will Hollywood learn the inaccuracies of little green men?” Mulder sighs.
“That’s your biggest problem with that movie? Next you’ll be complaining that the only thing wrong with 'Armageddon' is the soundtrack.”
“That’s a classic,” he argues. “Besides, physics is your speciality, Mary, not mine.”
“Unless it’s in disregarding it, Anthony,” she replies pointedly.
He kisses the side of her head and loops his arm around her waist. “Touché.”
* * * * *
The house in Virginia looks like it belongs in a horror movie, although Mulder is quick to reassure her that it’s not haunted and, as far as he’s aware, nobody has ever died there. The overgrown weeds and the tiles falling off the roof do little to assuage Scully’s initial discomfort but somehow, if she had to choose a place for Mulder to live, this would be it. It screams ‘paranoid paranormal researcher lives here!’ It’s his self-chosen job title these days; it sits easier with him than ‘total nutjob’ or ‘government puppet’.
He picks a room on the ground floor to be his office. It’s not quite the basement he’s used to but there’s enough space for a desk and pencils stick in the ceiling tiles. He is relatively easy to please in those respects.
They shift furniture and scrub floors and order flat-pack bookcases from IKEA. He cuts the grass and never ventures beyond the front gate. She buys cheap artwork and displays it in frames to make up for their lack of photographs. Mulder quietly watches her nesting.
When Scully returns from a grocery run one Thursday she presents him with a battered cardboard tube, a red bow tied around the middle.
“It’s not ticking…” he muses as he holds it to his ear, rattling it suspiciously.
“Just open it, Mulder.”
He decides the gleam in her eye is more anticipatory than dangerous - and he can’t think of anything he’s done recently to piss her off - so he pops the lid off the tube and pulls out the contents. His eyes grow suspiciously wet but he laughs in delight.
“Scully, this… how did you find one of these?” he asks, admiring the familiar poster.
She shrugs, smiling, pleased at his reaction. “I used to work for the FBI,” she says offhandedly. “I might be rusty but I can still get results.”
It is the first thing to decorate the walls of his office. It doesn’t stay that way for long.
She finds him spending more and more time behind that closed door. He grows pale - like the dead, her mind helpfully supplies - and he gains weight, putting on the pounds he had lost as they dashed from state to state. He still runs occasionally, darting through the woods at the back of the property, and he often shuffles from the chair in front of the computer to the fridge or the bathroom, but he doesn’t exercise like he used to.
He haunts online forums using nonsensical usernames and has magazines and newspapers sent to a PO Box in the nearest town. Twice-weekly trips are made to check for new bounty; the office walls become gilded with clippings torn from journals. Scully worries that one morning she’ll wake up to find her liver missing, or - worse - him.
When they were on the run - really on the run, moving from car to car, motel to motel, town to town - he had been able to suppress his fascination with the weird and wonderful, more intent on keeping moving and staying alive. But now they have a place of their own, a house if not a home, his guard is dropping more with each tick of the clock. Despite his office looking like a Tooms-nest, he is awakening from hibernation, and Scully fears he will soon leave. Not forever, but for just long enough to make her bite her nails and contemplate wearing black again.
Mulder remains squirreled away while her name is cleared and she takes an internship at Our Lady of Sorrows. She isn’t sure what he does all day but his muscles keep their definition and the laundry is done when she gets home, although she walks through the door to find him hunched over the computer screen five nights out of six. He has books and scrolls and maps, and yet he never goes anywhere, instead conversing with the world via the Internet like a misguided prophet.
He is there every time she comes home. Scully starts to relax.
And then the FBI stick their noses in and six years unravels in a heartbeat. Mulder likes a challenge, feels the need to prove himself after being in almost-solitary confinement for so long, and he delves into the fore eagerly, immersing himself in the world of priests and psychics and paedophiles, in someone who is all three. She can feel him slipping away like a dream upon waking.
Mulder makes it home in one piece, albeit showing a little more wear than when he left. She scolds him for scaring her and, as he takes her in his arms, he vows not to do it again.
Scully knows there will be a next time. There always is.
Four years.