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Title: We All Fall Down II Summary: Mulder and Scully must be getting too close to the answers in New Mexico because certain factions will do anything to prevent them from digging too deep. The case seems to be spiraling downhill without much chance that it could get worse. But it does. Interstate 25 "What in the hell are we doing out here, Scully?" Mulder asks me, as he fumbles with the latch underneath the hood of the car again. "Waiting for the tow truck?" I say quietly, knowing that isn't what he meant. It is a question we've asked each other many times, yet the answer always eludes us. We are stranded on the side of the road this time the question is posed. The car mysteriously stopped running somewhere between T or C and Socorro on I-25. After we determined that time had not disappeared on us, Mulder checked under the hood for the first time while I called for a tow truck. "Why do we bother? We aren't ever going to win. Hell, we were lapped years ago, but here we are, still in the fucking game. *Their* game," he says, jumping back as the hood of the car goes up faster than he expected. "Mulder..." I try to interrupt, but he just hands me a flashlight to hold. "Who keeps pulling us back into the fray, Scully? The same people who told us to get out? What in the hell do they want us to do? I knew what was going to happen as soon as that damn senator pulled that vial out of his desk. It was spelled out right then and there. Special Agent Fox Mulder was going to be fucked over," he asks, as he starts to yank wires "Do you know anything about Tauruses, Mulder?" I ask, as I watch some cables come undone. I don't know what he expects to find this time that he didn't find the first time he looked. He steps back from the car and puts his now greasy hands on his hips. "One would think I would, wouldn't they? After all these years of driving around in one, or another crappy car just like it, one might suspect that I would have looked into it, right? No, better yet, on the day I graduated from the academy they should have handed me a Chilton Automotive Manual for Ford Tauruses and said 'Take this, Agent Mulder, because you are going to be spending the rest of eternity driving around chasing nothing in one of these piece of shit cars.' That's what they should have done," he says, his voice nearly rising to a shout. "Mulder," I try again, as I look more closely under the hood "It might be the alternator. I don't think you..." He points a greasy finger at me, and says, "Don't start with me, Scully." "I wasn't trying to start anything. I was just going to explain what I thought the problem was." "Like you know how to fix a Taurus," he mutters. "Actually, I do. My brothers used to take their cars apart all the time. And it seems that you have forgotten that I do hold a degree in physics," I say, adding sarcasticly under my breath, "prissy Oxford boy." "Whatever. When did the towing people say they were getting here, Scully?" he asks, as he takes the flashlight out of my hand and goes back to searching for God knows what under the car hood. "They said they'd get here when they get here," I say. Thunder and lightening roll in the distant desert sky, and Mulder turns to look in that direction before looking at me. "Eleven inches of rain a year?" he asks. "That is what the New Mexico map said. Actually, that includes all precipitation, not just..." "With our luck, ten inches of that will fall tonight," Mulder interrupts, still watching the sky. "Mulder, if that happens, chances are we will be swept away down the Rio Grande in a flash flood," I say as I start to walk to the back of the car. If he doesn't want my help with the car, he can just fumble around in there all he wants. I climb up to sit on the trunk and watch as a few cars trickle by, but no tow truck appears. "Maybe they plan to use the weather to kill us, too. They use it for everything else," he says over the top of the car. The hood then slams down, causing me to slide down the trunk a little. I hear his footsteps come my way through the gravel and debris on the side of the road, and he leans next to me on the car. Although my body is still humming from the sex we had just hours earlier, Mulder looks exhausted, and keeps wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. There is even a tiny smear of grease underneath his left eye. I am tempted to use some saliva on my thumb to wipe it off, like I do when Christopher has something on his face, but I don't know how Mulder would react to such a 'motherly' gesture. It isn't like he hasn't ever reveled in my bodily fluids before. "Figure out what was wrong?" I ask coyly, and he just casts a sideways glance in my direction. "Wasn't this supposed to be a simple twenty-five year old homicide investigation, Scully? Right down the line, that is what everyone said. We would discover Senator Erickson is *spookier* than I am, his mother was murdered and we would be back home tomorrow night. Friday I would be back to work with my crime fighting sidekick, Special Agent Joshua Reid, saving the world from the wrongful use of ammonium nitrate. That was the plan, right?" he says, as he rolls a sunflower seed between his thumb and forefinger. "That was the plan. You never referred to me as your crime fighting sidekick, did you, Mulder?" I ask, knowing he's thinking ahead of anything I might be saying. I know he's sure someone tampered with the car, but there will never be a way to prove it. It will just go into his big 'I know *they* did it to me but I can't prove it' file. "Yet, here we are, sitting between Nowhere, New Mexico and Next to Nowhere, New Mexico, just sitting and waiting. And why are we sitting here? Because someone thinks we are on to something, and if someone thinks we are on to something, then we must be on to something. And what do they do when we are on to something, Scully?" he asks, finally placing what has to be a grimy sunflower seed on his tongue, and cracking it between his teeth. "You tell me," I say, allowing him to go on with his rant for awhile longer. "Bury it," he says, "bury it so deep we would need a fucking steam shovel to dig it up." "Well, let me know when you figure out what is going on. I just want to get this wrapped up and get home to Christopher," I say to him, meaning it fully. I never wanted to be part of this from the beginning and I would prefer to be sitting at home with my son. "You got any wipes on you?" he asks, holding up his hands for me to see. "No, Mulder. I usually don't have wipes with me when I don't have the baby along. I haven't gotten to the stage where the diaper bag is my purse. I assumed that wouldn't happen until we had our fifth child" I tell him, somewhat snippily, and he wipes his hands on the tissues he had in his jacket pocket from the last time Christopher had a cold. "Come here," I say, finally taking the tissue from his hand, applying some spit, and wiping the grease smear from his face. "Thank you, *mom,*" he says sarcastically. Once this job was my life, and I was consumed by it. At first, I would follow Mulder in an attempt to balance his whimsical conclusions with my scientific rationale. Later, I was no a longer follower, but we worked together as equals, trying to bring some sense to all that we had discovered. Now, this job is no longer my life as it was before. I still would like to know all that has happened to me, and to learn how Christopher came into being. But I would like to learn this things without expense to my family. Now that I have it, *it* is my life. "Why do I do it, Scully?" "Mulder, *we* do it because we know what the future holds and we know the only way to prevent it is to analyze and reproduce whatever might possibly be contained in that vial Senator Erickson has in his possession. We keep following these trails with the desperate hope that someday someone will slip up and supply us with the truths we have been searching for all these years, truths beyond what you already know about your sister, beyond Christopher. I believe that *you* personally keep following this path that almost always ends in futility because we both know that on the eve of this...this possible viral contagion being spread to humanity, if you haven't done whatever you possibly could to prevent it, well, you would feel that was unconscionable. Yet, you can't do it all yourself. It is impossible to save the future single handedly," I tell him, noticing he never turned to look at me throughout my whole synopsis. "With as many times as you used *we* in that, do you think I could refer to you as my crime fighting sidekick from now on?" he asks. I say nothing, as I continue to watch the traffic for signs of a tow truck. He climbs up on the trunk next to me, and puts his arm around me, careful not to get any remaining grease on my only jacket. "We could just quit, Scully. Right here and now. Have you ever wanted to visit the VLA radio-telescope observatory? It isn't that far from here," he asks me. I know he's not serious about quiting. It would take more than a stalled car on the side of the highway to get Mulder to quit. "No, I don't want to visit the VLA, because you can't be trusted there. And don't you even suggest a trip to Roswell again, either," I tell him. "Weather control, Scully. It wouldn't be the first incident of it," he says to me. "Hmmf." "No, really. Think about it. What if they could change the weather? What if they could make it, say, cold for extended periods of time? What do they use the cold for?" he asks, his eyebrow waggling as if he is really on to something here. "Mulder, even if they could control the weather, it would have to be on such a large scale, to create a storm that size... no, I won't even go into it. The government cannot create hurricanes or blizzards. And cloud seeding programs, while ostensibly effective in increasing rain fall in small areas, have only speculativly lowered the occurrences of hail storms in North Dakota," I say, my hands gesturing to the cloudy heavens above us. "The State Department, and then NASA? What if Thomas Erickson knows something?" he asks, looking at me. The headlights of a passing car light up Mulder's face and I can see that he is serious. "Why wouldn't he tell his son?" I ask. Mulder only looks forward, his eyes searching the night for answers that don't come easily. "Yeah, why wouldn't a father tell his son these things," he says, turning to look me in the eye. His face shows the pain only felt by a person betrayed for years by someone near and dear to them, someone they should have been able to trust above all others. It is a pain I hope never to inflict on anyone, especially my child. "Are you suggesting that they are releasing Ronald Mulch only as a decoy to get us away from Thomas Erickson?" I ask. "That could be part of it, but, no. I think he saw something out at that campsite twenty-five years ago. I think they are releasing him to buy his silence. Now we just have to figure out who wants his silence. And why. Mulch probably doesn't realize they will most likely kill him after they are through with him, whoever they are," he says. "If we don't even know who is getting him out, maybe Mulch doesn't know either. We could use that to our advantage," I say, hoping the information of how exactly this murderer is getting out hadn't reached him yet. "Yeah. If we could *only* get there," he says, putting his hands up in frustration. "When was Skinner getting back?" I ask, hoping that Reid and Fowley wouldn't spoil the only possible ace we might have up our sleeve. "According to Reid, he should be there soon. And we should be there in time to watch Mulch walk," Mulder says, slamming his hands down on the trunk of the car, "Damn it! Where is that tow truck." "Here it comes," I say, pointing at the yellow flashes lighting up the night sky as we both slide down off of the trunk. Penitentiary of New Mexico Prison is as bad as the uninitiated imagine. Although they aren't bad in that classic, late night movie way where inmates slowly chip their way out of their cells using a chicken bone and a spring from their mattress, the feeling of oppression still permeates the air. Of course, that is the idea. Do the crime, pay the time. I have personally experienced being jailed from two extremes. I've been in what amounts to the local lock-up at the county jail all the way to a Russian gulag. In the former, I did not fear for my life, only my sanity during that whole situation. In Russia, I felt the true fear of not knowing how to find my way out. I've often felt that if I had to choose between the big house for life, or being executed, I would have to go with the latter, because I couldn't take the captivity. I also would not be able to take the fact that I was never alone, always being watched and monitored. Like I'm not always watched now. This prison falls between the two extremes I've experienced. All the amenities are here for the inmates, but they are still captive, unable get out as they please. All but Ronald Mulch. There are only two hours to go before Mulch walks, and we are stuck at the front desk while the guards change shifts. Scully is glaring at the two men who can't seem to figure out why the warden might be in or why federal agents might be there at five o'clock in the morning. The other two are trying hard to explain it with the limited knowledge they possess on the matter. "Boys! Can we hurry it up a little. We are already late," I shout through the tiny screen in the glass. They have our badges and one of them is on the phone with the warden's office. "Hold on a minute, sir. We are still trying to get you and your partner cleared," one of the newcomers announces. "Well, well. It's nice to see you could drag yourselves away from the coziness of a double bed to officiate this fiasco," I hear someone proclaim from behind us. Shit. I put on my best fake five a.m. smile and turn to greet my favorite agent. "Agent Spender. To what do we owe the pleasure?" I ask, and Scully removes her glaring eyes from the guards and instead uses them to stare Special Agent Jeffrey Spender down. Agent Spender has been on the FBI fast track to the top ever since I got the X-Files back. He has had help, of course, and I'm sure if my devotion to uncovering the truth hadn't gotten in my way, I could be in his place. I would never have been able to live with myself, though. "I've been sent here to salvage what I can of this fiasco, Agent Mulder. I think this is a new land speed record, even for you. What has it been? Three days, and already you're fallibility has paroled a convicted murder thirty-four years too soon," the snide little weasel says. "Oh, no. I'm sure I've screwed up much bigger cases in much less time, Agent Spender. You just haven't done your homework," I tell him. "Agent Spender, we would never petition for the discharge of an unpardonable malefactor like Ronald Mulch. We are just here to find out who it is working for his early parole and why. It would be helpful if you shared any knowledge you might have into this matter," Scully tells him in a tone that is all business. "How the hell would I know?" Spender asks, his voice clearly indicating he is going on the defense now. Perhaps he doesn't know why he has been given the things he has, or maybe he has known for years. "Maybe your cigarette smoking buddy told you before he sent you out here. He always seems to be coming through for you, supplying you with 'gifts' so to speak," I tell him. Spender eyes Scully up and down, before stopping at her face. She returns his stare, her lips pursed and serious. "You seem to be getting your fair share of 'gifts' these days, Agent Mulder. I wouldn't complain too loudly if I were you," Spender says, while he tries to get the attention of the guards. "Okay, you two are cleared to go in once your weapons are checked," the guard says to Scully and me, while handing us back our badges. We deposit our weapons with him, and watch as he begins the process over with Spender. Once we are on the opposite side of the door from Spender, Scully mumbles, "Prick." "Scully, I don't think I've ever heard you use that word before," I say to her as we follow the hallways to the wardens office. "That is because it only applies to Agent Spender and it has been well over a year since I've seen him last." The warden's office is crowded with exhausted and confused people. Scully and I aren't in much better shape, only sleeping during our three hour wait for the rental agency to get a new car sent out to the auto service center. That, and she slept on the drive up here. We both look like hell and are still wearing the same clothes we set out for T or C in yesterday. Assistant Director Skinner is present as is Diana. I have no idea where Agent Reid might be. "Good morning, agents. Have a seat so we can get you up to speed on the recent developments," Skinner starts. "I'd like to hear them, also," Agent Spender says, as he appears through the door. Skinner appears to be as taken off guard by his appearance as we were. "Of course, Agent Spender. I had no idea you would be joining us." "It was a judicious executive decision, to make sure procedures are followed during the remainder of this case," he says, and Skinner glares at him. Skinner knows exactly how this man is getting where he is, and doesn't like it anymore than I do. Spender sits down, and Reid enters the room with two cups of coffee, handing one to Diana. He also looks like he had no sleep, and he looks like all of a sudden he is in over his head. I should have warned him better about the troubles that seem to follow me where ever I go. "Now that we are all here, I would like to get this started again. As Agents Reid and Fowley already know, yesterday an order came down for the parole of Ronald Mulch. We have yet to ascertain exactly why anyone would want Mr. Mulch released, and the source does not appear to be forthcoming," Skinner says, flipping through a pile of court orders. "This just can't be a legal mandate," the warden says, "We have never had a prisoner released without a parole hearing or writ or recognizance. How could this be happening?" "The men doing this don't care about laws..." I begin to say before being interrupted by Skinner. "What Agent Mulder is saying is that these men who pardoned Ronald Mulch have an agenda that transcends New Mexico state jurisdiction or authority, and as such act with impunity," Skinner says, resigned to the facts I already knew. "So what do we do now?" Diana asks. "Damage control. We will have Mulch under constant surveillance until he violates the conditions of his parole, and after interviewing him for a short time last night, I believe that will be soon," Skinner says. "Excuse me, sir, does Mulch know why he is being released?" Scully asks. "I am under the impression that he does not. For all he knows, we are doing it. And that is where you and Agent Mulder come in. You two have exactly two hours to convince the man that this is a gift from FBI heaven and find out what he knows about Senator Erickson's mother. I believe he is waiting in interrogation room three," Skinner says, and the warden nods. "I don't understand, sir. Why did you wait until we got here to try that ploy?" I ask. "Because you can get into his head the fastest, Agent Mulder," Skinner says pointedly, and I grimace at his remark. Monster boy. Golden profiler boy. It is all the same. In two hours they want a complete profile of this vicious killer, and they want me to know him well enough to weed out any information I can get. Impossible expectations. I might be good at what I do, but there is only so much I can do in two hours. I can't become Ronald Mulch in that amount of time. "After he walks, he will have to be observed around the clock. Agents Reid and Fowley, you will be the first team to observe him. Spender, you'll be next. I will get someone assigned to assist you from the field office. That shift will be followed by Agents Mulder and Scully tonight. Everybody clear on that?" Skinner asks. A collective and very tired 'yes' is pronounced through the room. Scully and I silently leave the room and find Ronald Mulch lounging in an uncomfortable metal chair in the interrogation room. His Cheshire cat grin stretched ear to ear, Mulch appears maddeningly smug. "Well, the fuck buddies finally decided to show up. I wondered what you all were doing when the rest of the cavalry arrived last night without you," Mulch slurs before we even get a chance to sit down. "Okay, we got the pleasantries out of the way, now we can get down to business," I say to him, as Scully settles into her seat. Her eyes pierce into him, and I know she won't be taking much of his shit today. "It is apparent that you are aware of your parole and subsequent release..." I start to say. "I've been counting down the hours. Got all my personal things packed and I can't hardly wait to get back to real life. I'll need to do a little shopping before I get settled into my new place. After all these years in prison, I got a craving for some meat. Guess I'll have to stop by the grocery store on my way out," the asshole says, licking his damn chops. "Mr. Mulch, your release has been arranged in exchange for your cooperation and information you might have about the disappearance of Ellen Erickson," Scully tells him, sounding rather perturbed by his last statement. "My Jew lawyer said you guys didn't have nothing to do with my getting paroled," Mulch says. "We had *everything* to do with your parole. Even a jail house lawyer like yourself should know that the Parole Commission is run by the Department of Justice. Do you know what other agencies are within the Department of Justice or do you need for me to educate you?" Scully tells him, and he still ignores her. "Here comes my lawyer now. We'll just have to see what that damn Jew has to say about all of this," Mulch says, as the door swings open. Ronald Mulch's 'Jew' lawyer is actually a Native American man wearing a cheap blue suit. "I'm Joseph Greystone," he says, as he extends his hand to both Scully and myself, and we exchange introductions, "Anything you ask my client needs to be asked in my presence." "Mr. Greystone, can we have a word with you outside?" I ask. "Of course. I'll be right back, Ronnie," he says as we walk out into the hallway. We all stand watching Mulch through the glass, and I make the first statement. "Your client isn't being very cooperative. He is getting his freedom. All we need is some information on what he saw several years ago," Scully tells him. "He does not want to risk his release by implicating himself. . ." Joseph Greystone begins to say before I interrupt. "How can he implicate himself? We are convinced he was not directly involved in the abduction of Senator Paul Erickson's mother. Can you talk to your client and see if he will at least let us know what he saw," I say, "Maybe he will be more willing to work with you." "Willing to work with me?" the lawyer says with a grin, "After ten years, the man is still convinced I'm Jewish because I'm a lawyer, and you think he is going to cooperate with me? Okay, I'll try. Give me a few minutes," Mr. Greystone says, as he goes back into the room with Ronald Mulch. Scully and I watch them through the glass for a few minutes until the lawyer signals for us to come back into the room. "My client says you can ask whatever you would like to ask as long as I'm present," Mr. Greystone says, and Scully and I take our seats again. "What did you see on the night of June 13, 1977, Mr. Mulch?" I ask, getting right to the point. "Nothing but dancing bears," he says. "In our previous meeting, you said that had nothing to gain by cooperating. Now we have given you your freedom and would like information about what you saw on the night that Ellen Erickson was abducted," Scully says, obviously agitated with the man. "Hey, the bitch demands attention, don't she? I suppose you'd learn how to be a bitch real fast working with all these cocksuckers. Well, let me see what I have to say after I've been out for a few days. Are you hangin' around town, sweet cheeks? Maybe we can get together and discuss this further and maybe you can ditch the prick you hang out with..." Mulch starts to say, pointing a crooked finger at me, the 'prick.' "Ronnie, please. You are talking to federal agents," his lawyer says, grabbing his arm. "I'm talking to a faggot in a fancy suit and a dyke who likes to fuck G-men on the side," Mulch says to his lawyer. "Ronnie, just tell them what you saw," Greystone says. "I ain't gonna say nothing. My papers are already signed, sealed and delivered. I'm walking outta here today and there ain't nothing anybody can do about it," He says, leaning back in his chair, and smiling. "We will be watching your every move, Mulch. You can trust me on that one. And before you know it, we will bust your smug ass back to prison. Your type prefers it in here, can't live without the prison environment. Hell, you'll probably miss your 'girlfriend' before the week is out and miss meeting your parole officer just to get put back in here," I say, not breaking eye contact with him. "You can't watch me forever, fuckrag. You might not have a life, but she's gotta boyfriend or girlfriend that she's gotta get back to." "We aren't the only agents who can watch you. I'm just telling you to be careful with your surprise gift of freedom," Scully tells him. I look over to her, and she looks tired and worn from all of this crap. "I'm always careful." "You weren't too careful when you murdered those women. Man, you were picked up pretty quickly for those. What a screw up as a criminal you are," I say to him, hoping to elicit anything out of him. He doesn't budge. Anyone can tell you what this man is going to do next. All we will be able to do is watch and wait and hope we can prevent him from doing any more damage to any more lives. Finally, someone comes to out process Ronald Mulch, and Scully and I can do nothing but watch him get up to leave the room. "Hey, don't forget that there's more than just a father and a son. Never forget the holy ghost," Mulch says to us as he goes to leave the room, fluttering his hands like a crazy man at us. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I ask, but Mulch says nothing more as he's led away. He just gives us a malicious wink and a smile. Albuquerque, New Mexico "Fox, get up," I hear someone say, and suddenly realize Mulder and I fell asleep on the same bed in my room. I open my eyes to see an exhausted Diana Fowley shaking Mulder's shoulder, trying to rouse him, probably in an attempt to throw him out of the room so she can get some rest. We got back to the hotel from the prison hours ago, and after making a quick call home, we both were asleep within minutes. Agents Reid and Fowley were the unlucky ones to draw the first surveillance shift. "Mulder, come on, get up. Agent Fowley wants to get some rest. You've got to go to your own room," I say, poking him in the ribs. "He's never been an easy one to wake up once he's out, when he does sleep, that is," Fowley says, and I begin to wonder why in the hell she wants him out of the room at all, considering she takes every opportunity to let me know they have a past. Finally, he wakes up and stumbles off to his own room, mumbling something incoherent. "I'm sorry. I'm just exhausted," Fowley says, as she flops down on her own bed, not even bothering to put on night clothes. Not that it matters. Neither did I. "So, did Mulch do anything interesting?" I ask, as she buries herself under the blankets. "Someone picked him and brought him from Sante Fe to Albuquerque. We don't know why. He then went to the liquor store and then checked himself into the Rosewood Inn and Efficiencies. That was it. Didn't leave there all morning," she says right before she falls asleep. After several more hours of sleep, Mulder comes back to wake me up so we can go to the field office and do some more research into Thomas Erickson. We sit in the conference room, studying all the information that Mulder requested yesterday while we were still in Tor C. So far, nothing about the man is remarkable, if you ignore the fact that his wife vanished and his son would eventually be a U.S. Senator. "Average man. Average job. Average family...well, average for a political family. Nothing in any of these files points to anythin but 'average.' Don't you find that strange for a man who's father had political power, who's only son rose to have a great deal of political power? He did that quickly I might add. It is just odd that this man who held jobs with the government agencies he did is and who's wife vanished into thin air, never amounted to anything. We are missing something here, Scully," Mulder says, pulling off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "I don't know, Mulder. A lot of times in families the extraordinary talents skip generations," I say. "So if Christopher is brilliant, I'm..." he starts to say. "The father of a brilliant kid?" I add, smiling, "Mulder, we aren't going to find anything in these folders. This stuff was white washed before it ever got to us, and we are both *brilliant* enough to know that. Can you imagine what your father's real file would say?" "So what now? We follow around a criminal for a few days, with the hopes we catch him for petty theft before he kills someone? Come on, Scully, one of these field agents could do that. Someone is keeping us here, and sending out Spender to make sure we stay," he tells me as he throws all of the information on Thomas Erickson into a storage box. "Well, that may be so, but we are the ones who have to go follow him around in five hours. Any ideas as to what we should do until then?" I ask. His head snaps up and he looks at me with a cute grin. "I was thinking more along the lines of finding something to eat, Mulder," I say. "And who says I wasn't?" Outside the Rosewood Inn "Take a nap if you want, Scully. I won't fall asleep," I tell her after she lets out a long yawn. "No, that's okay. I'll make it another... five hours," she says after checking her watch. "I can't believe this has come to this," I say, as I crinkle the bag of sunflower seeds on the dash. "Hmm," is all she utters, as she turns her head to look out the window. I'm not sure whether she wants me to continue with my diatribe on why I can't believe this has come to this or not, but I'm going to assume she could care less about my opinion right now. We are parked across the street from the Rosewood Inn on the outskirts of Albuquerque, the newest home of Ronald Mulch. He paid for his stay in advance, and is now the proud resident of one efficiency until the end of May. The source of his money is unknown. "Sunflower seed?" I offer her. "Not in this lifetime," she answers without turning her head from the window. Not another word passes between us for half an hour. "I'm going home Saturday, Mulder, whether this is wrapped up or not. I can fly back here on Monday, but one of us has got to go home to see Christopher, and since I'm the one who is lactating, I guess it should be me," she says to me, finally turning her head towards me instead of watching the road. "That's fine," I tell her. This thing is never going to be wrapped up by the weekend, not with this whole Mulch ordeal. So much for planning. I miss Christopher, too. Yeah, me, who said they would never settle down to this normal life. Fox Mulder, who some days still can't believe this is his life. I still find the love I have for my son amazing. I knew I would love him the moment Scully told me she was pregnant, but I also *like* him. I like being with him, watching him grow and become a person. I love the idea that someday my son and I will play catch and talk about football and girls and cars and normal things. Or whatever is the newest thing sixteen years from now. Until then, I will do everything in my power to make sure he and I have that future, even if that means sitting in a car with his mother watching the front of a cheap motel on the damn whim of a United States Senator. Scully is silent, as she just watches the few cars trickle past on the access road in front of the Inn. Now would be as good as time as any to ask her a few things, I figure. We are rarely ever alone like this anymore. "So, when did you know for sure?" I ask. "Know what?" she asks back. "That you loved me and that you weren't going to fall out of love with me. Again," I say, and I hear her sigh and shift in her seat a little. I break the silence that follows with a crack of a sunflower seed. "Mulder..." Scully says, her tone begging for me to let her out of this. "You said you fell in and out of love with me several times. When did you fall for good?" I ask, reaching for another sunflower seed and brushing up against her in the process. She pulls back a little, and I wonder what is up with that. "I loved you for a long time, Mulder. Love, as in friendship. Now, as far as being *in* love with you..." she says, then stops. "Well? Yesterday you said something about 1998?" I ask again after she says nothing for a few minutes. "I guess I knew it was for real, for forever, when I was pregnant, and all you did was sleep on my couch. You didn't push me into anything, didn't try to dictate how I should live my life. Every night you showed up faithfully and camped out on that uncomfortable couch, while I went to bed. It was sweet," she says. "Uh huh," is all I can think to say. I was hoping she was in love with me when our child was conceived, but I guess that would be a lot to hope for in our case. "One day, I woke up, went into the bathroom to vomit, and when I came out, you looked so concerned, but you didn't coddle me or baby me. You treated me with respect, instead of hovering over me..." "Well, you did smell pretty bad through some of that morning sickness crap, Scully," I say, smiling at her. "I looked at you that day, and I knew that even if you were to disappear from my life at that very moment, after all we've done and seen, my last thought this side of the grave would be of you and our child," she says seriously, her eyes so expressive and full of light. I can say nothing to that, for no words justly express what is shared between the two of us. I love her and it doesn't matter who fell first or the hardest. "I love you, too," I finally say, leaning over to kiss her lightly. She smiles at me and looks out the window again. No other words are spoken for the rest of the night until my cell phone rings at 4 a.m. "Yeah. Mulder," I answer. "Agent Mulder, we've got a problem. I suggest you get down here right away," Skinner tells me. "Problem?" I ask, not having any idea what he's talking about. "Agents Charno and Mosely will be there to replace you and Scully in a few minutes. I need you two at a crime scene. And we need to know exactly what you two have been watching for the last several hours," Skinner questions. "Sir?" I ask. Scully is looking at me quizzically, and I realize I haven't said more than three words in this whole conversation. "It would seem that Ronald Mulch is suspected in the murder of one Tina Ahrens. Her friends say she went out to a convenience store about two hours ago, and never returned," he says with a sigh. "Agent Scully and I have been watching the motel all night. He hasn't come or gone. Do you want me to go knock on his door and see if he is still there?" I ask, my mind not able to fathom what exactly Skinner is implying. "The field agents will take care of that. I need you here before this gets out of hand," he says as he gives me the address of the latest victim. Her body was dumped off on what is now historic Route 66. After the other agents arrive, we make it to the address Skinner gave me within twenty minutes. By then it is a full-blown crime scene, and we flash our badges as we cross the police tape. "I'm looking for Assistant Director Skinner?" I ask a crime scene technician, and she aimlessly points me in the direction of an investigative unit truck. "What's going on, sir?" Scully asks first, while Skinner grabs several evidence bags holding what appears to be photographs out of a box. "Come with me. We don't need any more people involved in this," he says, and leads us away to his rental car. We are illuminated only by the flashing blue lights and an old flickering street lamp over head. No one else pays much attention to us as they go about the tedious work of gathering evidence from the scene. "I need to ask you both some questions first. At any time did you see Ronald Mulch at all tonight, or any thing that would indicate that he was ever in his room? A light going on or off, a shade being pulled?" Skinner asks. "The room was dark when we arrived for duty, but it was eleven o'clock at night, so we figured he was just in bed by that point. No one came in or out of his room at all, and only one car came into the motel all night. A couple checked into a room down from Mulch's, but that was the only activity we saw," I tell him. "Agent Spender confirms that he saw Mulch leave his room at nine p.m., go to the vending machine and return to his room. He never saw him leave again. Agent Charno just called in to report that Mulch is no longer in his room, and appears to have packed up. So, what I want to know, Agents Mulder and Scully, is how exactly he got out undetected?" Skinner asks. I look to Scully, who now has her eyes shut and her hand up to her forehead. "And I would like to know how these ended up on the victim," he says, handing me a pile of evidence bags, each containing a single photograph. I lay them all out along the trunk of the car, and Skinner turns away as not to look. Scully comes over and I hear her gasp. Scully and I are the main attraction in each of the five by seven glossy, black and white photographs. The first shot was most likely taken from between the blinds of the hotel room in T or C. It is the most revealing of the photos, leaving nothing to the imagination. She is propped up on one arm next to my naked body, looking me in the eye, her index finger on my mouth. I know exactly what moment that picture was taken, and I'm sure anyone else might be able to guess that we weren't discussing the Yankees' pennant chances. Another one shows us sitting on the trunk of the car on Interstate 25, my arm around her. The last two photos are even more recent. The two of us fast asleep on the bed in her hotel room, fully dressed. We are holding each other intimately, my arm draped over her. And last but not least, a blurry, telephoto lens shot, of me giving her a kiss in the car just a few hours ago, with the Rosewood Inn glowing in the background. Scully puts her hands on her hips and turns away from the images. Her lips are pursed and I'm sure she would have plenty to say if that first photo didn't exist. Skinner reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out another bag. He holds it up and what looks like a compact disk shimmers under the street lamp. "Would either of you venture to guess what this is?" he asks. I reach for it, and turn it over in my hand, looking at the manufacturer's label. It is the only identifying mark on it. "It looks like one of those recordable video disks..." I start to say, and Scully and I both look at each other nervously. "That is exactly what it is. It's amazing how much information can be stored on one of these, and the picture quality is excellent; great clarity and fine resolution. Would either of you care to guess what was on this disk?" he asks, quietly. "I'm guessing it isn't the lost episodes of 'The Honeymooners,'" I say. "Not unless you and Agent Scully got married in Truth or Consequences yesterday and forgot to tell me. If it were up to me, I'd make this one disappear. Unfortunately, Agent Spender was standing behind me watching as it ran," he says quietly, so no one can overhear that he suggested evidence should ever disappear. "Ran, sir?" Scully asks, a bit of panic rising in her voice. "Agent Scully, I assure you it was only on for several seconds, until I told them to turn it off. The agents watching it are professionals and have handled sensitive evidence before. The two of you should have no problem with them. I made that clear," Skinner says, suggesting that he already implicitly told them that there will be no problems or else. "What the hell does this have to do with Ronald Mulch? He did not have the capability to take these last pictures or that video or to put it to disk. He was still in prison when these were taken," I say, gesturing at the first two photos in the series. "It has everything to do with Ronald Mulch. The murder victim was apparently abducted from an all night convenience mart between two a.m. and three a.m., then a road crew came upon her body at four a.m. It's Mulch's style, right down to leaving her body on Route 66. Why would these compromising photos of the lead agents show up on the victim?" Skinner asks, and I'm not sure whether he is questioning us or attempting to work up a defense for us. "If Ronald Mulch is indeed the murderer, the photos and video had to be planted on the victim by someone other than Mulch," Scully says. "Yeah. Those images showing the two key agents on this case otherwise occupied. Doesn't look good, does it?" he asks, his eyes flickering down to the photos quickly before meeting my eyes again. He has yet to look at Scully. "We weren't working when three out of four of those were taken, and the last one was nothing. It isn't like this is some secret affair, sir. On the other side of the country, we live together and have a kid. We are not partners anymore and our relationship certainly does not interfere with our ability to fulfill our duties," I say, the pitch of my voice rising as I gather the pictures back up, putting the most sensitive one on the bottom of the pile. Someone has been that close this whole time. Close enough to look between the blinds of a hotel room. I know the one person who was. Unfortunately, I don't know him at all, don't even know who's side he is on. "Don't even bother with concealing that one, Mulder. The patrols that showed up first on the scene already passed them around, followed by homicide. Then when they finally figured out to call us, the agents that first arrived identified the *subjects* of the photos and that is when I was called out. At least they had the good sense not to stick the disk into anyone's laptop computer" Skinner says, his voice displaying embarrassment. Whether he is embarrassed for us, himself or the FBI, I'm not sure. "Sir, I think now would be a good time for Agent Mulder and myself to back out of this whole mess. Someone doesn't want us here..." Scully begins to say quietly, before he interrupts her. "Yet, Senator Erickson does. So the two of you will remain professional at all times from now on, and for God's sake, shut the damn curtains, okay? It isn't like you haven't been paranoid about being followed half your life, Mulder," Skinner says, a smirk crossing his face for a second. "Yes, sir. We'll be more careful in the future," Scully says, and he looks at her for the first time since the pictures were presented to us. "I have to return these now. I want both of you out here. I think this mob has it covered. Agent Scully, we are trying to arrange for an autopsy bay for later this morning. I will call you when your services are needed. And then you two are scheduled to watch the Rosewood Inn again tonight, in case Ronald Mulch doesn't know he killed someone and decides to come back home. Can the two of you handle it?" Skinner asks. "Yes, sir," I tell him. "Good. If someone is trying to use this as a ploy to split the two of you up as partners, it isn't going to work. I'll see to that," he says to us as he heads back to the crime lab truck, evidence bags in hand. Scully and I head back to our car, my hand on her back, leading her in some gesture of support. We both cross under the gazes of Agent Spender, who is looking quite pleased, and Diana, who looks slightly amused. They are standing side by side, whispering something to each other. God damn partners in dirty work again, for all I know. "I'd call that a land speed record if I've ever seen one. Nothing faster than minute man Mulder. And what had you so preoccupied that Mulch got by you?" Spender calls out as we walk by. "Are you talking about the case again or that video you got the pleasure to see? Because if you are talking about that video, Agent Scully can testify to that *not* being my land speed record. Christ, Spender you really got to do your homework more often," I say to him, wishing I could punch that damn grin off of his face. "Mulder," Scully says, as she pulls me to the car. As we leave the crime scene, and head back towards the hotel, Scully is the first to speak. "I wonder how long until the video makes it onto the 'Busted on the Job part XI'?" she asks. "I really thought we'd be featured on the Justice Files first, Scully. Well, maybe that is a little too lofty. At least we might have made it to Strange Sightings before we were relegated to a Thursday night spot on the Fox Network," I tell her, hoping to lighten up this *crisis.* "Until then, I'm sure it will be the screen saver of the year for some creep down in evidence," she says. I look at her and she does have a slight smile on her face. Of course we will survive this, too. We both have known for a long time that nothing we do in our life goes without notice. We live in a fishbowl simply because of what we do, or used to do. As much as we watch *them,* they watch us. They just seem to have a little more control over what we do than we can ever gain over them. "I'm surprised you didn't ask for a copy," she tells me. "I didn't want to do that while you were there. I'll have to get one from Skinner later," I say back to her with a wink, glad that this didn't upset her too greatly. She looks at me, slightly shocked. "I'm kidding," I tell her. "Seriously, Mulder, who is it?" she asks, the playful tone totally absent from her voice. "I think my *informant* is up to no good, Scully. I think it is time he and I had a little chat about exactly who he is working for," I say, as I try to figure out exactly how I'm going to find this man. I guess I could try by opening up the window blinds and seeing if he is there. "Let's just let the storm pass on this one for now. I have an autopsy to do this afternoon, and then you and I get to spend the night in the car together again. Just don't look at me this time, okay?" she says. "Yes, ma'am," I say as we pull into the hotel parking lot. Scully and I try to catch up on our sleep, in separate rooms this time, until Skinner calls Scully about coming down to the morgue to perform the autopsy. She looks exhausted as she leaves me behind. Two hours after Scully leaves, Diana knocks on my door. "What do you need, Diana?" I ask, hoping she wasn't here to comment on the way this investigation is going or the latest evidence found this morning. "I just got a call in my room from Senator Erickson. He was looking for you or Agent Scully. He says his father wants to meet you, this afternoon, at the Sandia Peaks Tramway," she tells me, as she walks past me into the room, holding a scrap of paper with her notes on it. "Let me call Scully," I say as I walk over to the room phone. "Fox, I really think you two should go separate ways on this one. You don't need any more photos showing up on a victim somewhere, do you? I will go with you to talk to Thomas Erickson. Besides, Agent Scully has got to get that autopsy done, since she's the only one who can do it. The meeting is set for in an hour. It is just a simple interview," she tells me, her eyes as pleading as they ever were. "A simple interview, on a mountain? There is no such thing, Diana," I tell her, trying to figure out exactly what she is planning. She isn't worthy of trust, not after what she has pulled over the last several years, and I *should* know better. I should call Scully, tell her to postpone the autopsy. I should not follow this woman. "Fox, come on. The man knows something and is scared of them finding out he's talking to someone. He obviously trusts you. That is why he wants to meet with you. That is why he doesn't want to meet in public" she says, and I know down to my core that something isn't right. "Why up here in Albuquerque? What is he so afraid of?" I ask. "Senator Erickson said his father feels someone is following him, that his life might be in danger He told his father to come up here to where we were, so he'd be safe. The senator told his father to contact you, and you would know what to do to help him," she says.
"Um, okay. Let me get dressed and I'll let Scully know where I'm going," I say, and the look on Diana's face lets me know she wishes I didn't call Scully. "We've got to go," she says, as she walks towards the door. "I'll be there in *one* minute, Diana," I tell her as she shuts the door. I start to get dressed in my G-man uniform and dial Scully's cell number. Bernalillo County Medical Examiner's Office "Scully," I say, picking up my cell phone after disposing of my gloves into the biohazardous waste can. "Scully, it's me. I've got a meeting with Thomas Erickson in half an hour," Mulder says, and he sounds like he's in a rush. "I can't be there that quickly, Mulder. I just started on Tina Ahrens. There was a big mess-up here and I didn't have an autopsy bay until a few minutes ago. Can you schedule it for another time?" I say, leaning up against the locker doors and looking up to the clock. "No, no... you just finish up there. I've got this end taken care of. I just wanted to let you know. If I don't catch up with you before hand, I will meet you at the Rosewood Inn at eleven," he says, his voice moving away and closer to the phone as if he is getting dressed. "Mulder?" I ask, as I watch Agent Joshua Reid enter the room. He was helping me straighten out the problem of finding Tina Ahrens' body after it went 'missing' for a few hours. "Yeah, Scully? I've got to get going," he tells me. "Who are you going with?" I ask, already knowing the answer to the question. Someone is trying to divide us, and it is working. The photos and now this. Mulder is going to follow Agent Fowley. I can feel it. "Um, nobody so far. I'll try to meet up with Agent Reid," he says. I look up at Agent Reid, who is standing by the door waiting for me to hang up to answer a question or sign some papers. "Okay," I say, holding the tone of my voice as even as I can. "I'll see you tonight, Scully," he says as he hangs up on me. "Agent Reid, were you supposed to meet Agent Mulder for a meeting this afternoon?" I ask, setting down my phone and digging more gloves out of the box. "Not that I know of," he says, as he comes forwards with those papers in his hand. Sandia Mountains "What exactly did the senator say?" I ask Diana as we head for the Sandia Mountains right outside of Albuquerque. "He said his father had something to tell us, and that since you talked to him the other day, he thinks he's being followed. That was it. He didn't get too specific," she tells me, as she flips through some case files. And I'm following her based on this? I have followed her before, with more than that to go on, always with disastrous results. "How did you get involved with Senator Erickson, Diana? You never did tell me how you knew I should contact him when I found you in Miami," I ask her. She turns to look out the window, so I can't determine if her answers are going to be true or not. "He came to me, Fox. He wanted help and somebody told him I used to work on the X-Files in late '90s. I don't know why he didn't contact you first. I mean, they've always been yours. He told me he wanted help finding out what happened to his mother. I never took it any further, and then you showed up, asking me who was behind trying to re-open the X-Files again. I guessed it must have been him," she tells me. "He told me he never met you, Diana," I say to her. "Why would I lie about it, Fox? When you asked me for his name, I had met with him several times. I have no idea why he would tell you otherwise," she says. Do I believe her? I don't know. I don't know which of the two is less believable. "Do you have the notes on where to meet Mr. Erickson?" I ask as we get to the entrance to the park. "I've got them right here," she says, as I park the car. She tells me he is meeting us at the top of the tramway, so we purchase our ticket and enter the car for our ride up. There are several tourists with us on the car, but it is not overly crowded. A perfect place to meet someone who is paranoid. "Can I ask you something, Diana?" I ask, needing to know what she said to Scully the other night. "What?" she asks, not looking at me, instead looking out at the view as we ascend. "When you and Scully were discussing married life the other night..." I start to say. "Don't worry. I didn't let any of your secrets out of the bag," she says, placing her hand on my arm. "Thank you," I say.
"You've got to tell her, Fox. I know it was a long time ago, but she deserves to know," Diana tells me, her hand still placed softly over my arm. "I know. I will as soon as we get back home," I say, moving away from her slightly to break any contact we have. Nothing else is said between us until we are almost near the top. "Why is somebody going to all this trouble?" she asks, "Why would somebody murder someone to plant those pictures?" "The only thing I can think of is to make us all look bad. Maybe to get Scully and me split up. I didn't know we were that close to anything. I was just hoping that Mulch would come clean and tell us what he saw, and we could get this resolved," I tell her, as we approach the top of the mountain. "Maybe the senator's father will be willing to tell us something," she says, "Maybe he has known what happened all the time. It wouldn't be unheard of for a father to lie, would it, Fox?" "Let's go," I tell her, as the tram stops and the few other passengers start to get out. "He gave me directions for what trail he wants us to meet him on," she says, looking at a scribbled on piece of paper. "Diana, a trail? What in the hell is going on here?" I ask, as I begin to grow just more than a little suspicious. "Good afternoon, Agent Fowley. And I believe it is Agent Mulder, right?," someone asks from behind us, and I recognize the voice immediately, "Don't turn around. You know I'm armed. I need for you to put your hands where I can see them and then follow those directions given to you to the letter. Do you understand me?" I cast a glance over at Diana, and fight back the urge to say 'I told you so,' but I'm the idiot who went for it. "I don't understand. I thought we were supposed to meet with Thomas Erickson. Is he here?" I say to the person behind us as we walk down a trail. "You are going to meet him in a minute. I'm taking a few security precautions here. Now just keep walking," he says. "Diana, next time you arrange for one of these nature hikes, let me know so I can dress appropriately," I say and she looks over to me quickly. She is either just as confused as I am, or a damn good actress. I look around, hoping someone would notice this, but it is between winter season and summer season, and there are very few people here in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. "Okay. Stop there," he says as we reach a small, but we secluded clearing, "Now, put your hands on your heads. Thank you." He takes both of our weapons and frisks us both down before taking my gun out of my ankle holster, too. "You can turn around slowly. If you try anything, this meeting will not happen. Do you understand?" he asks. We both turn around and I discover it is who I had guessed it was by the voice. My 'friend', informant, personal photographer. Whatever. I also discover Thomas Erickson on the ground behind him, bound and gagged. So the meeting wasn't bogus after all, but somebody really doesn't want us to find out what that man might have to say. Just like they don't want us to find out what Mulch has to say and gave him his freedom to assure that we never would. "What in the hell is going on here?" I demand, stepping between him and Diana. "You want to know what he knows? Here is your chance," the man says, before walking over to Thomas Erickson and pulling the tape off of his mouth. "Why are you doing this? Why did you call me here?" is the first thing to come out of his mouth. He is talking to me. "We didn't call you, Mr. Erickson. We thought you wanted to meet with us," Diana says and all of our eyes go to the man who brought us here. "You are wasting time, Agent Mulder. Ask what you need to know," I'm instructed. "Before any more people die, what happened out there that night, Mr. Erickson?" I ask, and his eyes snap shut. He still doesn't want to talk about it, even though we might all be dead any time here. "Come on, Mr. Erickson. You can tell him. Just don't get too specific on the details leading up to that night," says my 'informant.' "They did it. Those bastards that my father had me work for did it. They made me do it because they thought I knew more than I did," he says quietly. "What did they do, Mr. Erickson?" I ask. "They made me deal. I had to choose. Ellen couldn't so they just took her," he says, as tears begin to stream down his face. "Choose what?" Diana asks. "Between my children, my wife or myself," is all he says, "All to save my father's reputation." My eyes go shut, realizing that he had to make the choice my parents made. Only he was presented with more choices. Then again, maybe my mother could have gone, too, but was too selfish. Or maybe not. I'll never know. All I do know is that Samantha wasn't her choice anyway. Finally, I look at the man who arranged this meeting in the woods, and ask, "Why have you been working so hard to keep me from finding that out? What else does he know?" "I know exactly how far Project Weather Control goes back," is all he says. "Shut up! Now!" the other man snaps, as he puts the tape back on his mouth. "What in the hell is Project Weather Control?" I ask, "And what do you have to do with it?" "I'm not who you think I am, Agent Mulder. There are more of us. I know that you have been talking to another one, and that he has been steering you in certain directions. Unfortunately, he has steered you far from home, where you should have been looking all along. Now I'm here to solve everybody's problems. Quickly and efficiently," he says in voice filled with no emotion at all. "How do you intend to solve our problems?" I ask. "By neutralizing them," is the last thing I hear before I feel incredible, searing pain rise through my body and my world turns black. Outside the Rosewood Inn "Damn it, Mulder, where are you?" I say out loud to myself. I glance at my watch to discover it is exactly thirty seconds later than the last time I checked. I look down at the newest picture to be found on a body of a young woman discovered earlier this evening. I was called to the crime scene from the morgue and spent several hours there. The other agents and homicide detectives kept silent around me, and I'm sure most of them have been privy to a quick view of the photos of Mulder and myself. I just did my job as always. I put off the autopsy until morning, hoping to catch up with Mulder at some point, and let him know he's being followed and photographed. I never did find him. The latest picture is another blurry, black and white telephoto lens shot, only this time I'm not the woman featured in it. Actually, from the distance and angle the shot was taken it is almost impossible to tell who the woman is, but I know. I certainly know who the man is. How could I not? I told Skinner that Mulder had a meeting with Thomas Erickson, and I had no idea where it was scheduled. He told me that the picture was of Mulder and Agent Fowley on the Sandia Peaks Tramway, and that just sounds so much like Mulder. Can't meet with the guy at the local coffee house. No, he has to go sightseeing, too. I turn the overhead light on and hold the picture up. Mulder is looking at Agent Fowley intently, and her hand is on his arm. I haven't a clue as to what they would be discussing that would require such contact. I'm sure Mulder will be here soon. He said he'd be here by eleven and it is only ten minutes after eleven. I should have never sent the other agents off as quickly as I did, as I realize how desolate it is at this time of night around the dive Mulch called home for a day. Actually, it doesn't look that far off from any of the long strings of dives Mulder made us stay at over the years. It even looks better than half of them. That life seems so long ago now. Everything has changed. Except for the fact that Mulder apparently ditched me to go mountain climbing with Agent Fowley. He could have told me he was going with her. Agent Reid and I were busy. I would have understood, but some things never change. His trust in her never changes, even after everything we know about her. I just don't get it. If he isn't here in the next half an hour, I'm going to call Agent Reid and tell him to get out here with me. After working with Reid for the first time today, I discovered he's smarter than Mulder made him out to be, and I'm sure that if he gets away from Mulder soon, his rise in the FBI will be inevitable. I wonder who he ticked off to get assigned to Mulder? That is sad that I have to think such things. What if I had gotten away from Mulder years ago? Where would I be sitting today? Of course, it couldn't have been any other way. *They* would have never allowed it to be any other way, and now it is up to me to figure out why. The car Mulder was driving earlier today pulls up in front of me, lights shining in my eyes. I can barely make him out in the driver seat and he doesn't make a move to get out, instead fumbling with something under the passenger seat. Probably dropped a bag of sunflower seeds. I flip off the overhead light in my car, get out and walk over to him. It is too late when I realize that it isn't Mulder, just someone who looks startling like him. There is also a weapon trained on me, pointed at my head. "Put your hands where I can see them, Agent Scully," the man says as he steps out of the car, never failing to keep me in the sight of his weapon. He roughly pushes me against the car, pats me down and he takes my weapon, depositing it in his own pocket. "Where is Agent Mulder?" I ask, realizing that this is indeed the car he was driving. His trenchcoat in the back seat. I can hear the panic begin to fill my voice, and a hollow opens up in the pit of my stomach. "That is inconsequential now, Agent Scully. I want you to follow my directions to the letter. Do you understand?" he says, as he pushes me harder against the car. "Yes," is all I can say and the little bit of hope I might have had that Mulder is going to show up fades quickly. He isn't going to be here. I don't know where he is. Damn it, Mulder. Please show up. Someone, please just show up. My head begins to spin with the realization that Mulder could be dead, and I may soon follow. This wasn't supposed to happen this way. The man reaches for something in his coat pocket, and roughly binds my hands together with tape. I hear a deafening *rip* signaling he is done, and he pushes me towards the back of the car. "Not the trunk," I plead, the thought of being taken away somewhere in the complete darkness of a car trunk bringing back too many memories. This can't be happening again. This just *can't* be. "Get in the car. I don't want to hear a thing out of you. Do I make myself clear, Agent Scully?" he says to me, talking to me as if I were a child. Mercifully, he opens the door to the back seat. "Yes," I say, knowing I cannot escape right now and not expect to be gunned down in front of this dirtbag motel. I will have to go along, and pray that my opportunity for flight comes before long. He locks the back doors and gets in the driver's seat. I move towards that familiar trenchcoat, and pat it down behind my back. Damn it. Nothing in it that could help me get out of this. Not even a spare key. Nothing except that little package of tissues from Christopher's cold. Christopher. Mulder. Me. This can't be happening. I need to get home to my baby. This can't be happening to both of his parents. Jesus, Mulder, what in the hell did we get dragged into? All because of some damned nosy senator. I'm never going to see my baby again over some woman who has probably been long dead. I contain an urge to scream that so powerfully has risen to my chest with the thought of not going home again. I know it isn't the way out. I shut my eyes. I want to be home. I want to be with Mulder playing with our baby on the living room floor. I want to be back just a few days ago, rocking our baby in my arms, Mulder standing at the door watching us. I hold back any tears that come to my eyes with the thought of Chrisopher. I will not let this man think he's gotten the better of me yet. I reach again for the coat behind me. You can't be dead. No. Not after we've come this far. I will get out of this. I used to have so much to fight for, but now there is so much more. I will get out of this and I will find you, Mulder. We will get home. In the dark of the night, we head silently into the desert.
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