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The cheap motel room appeared to sway like the helm of a ship with each passing car, pale stripes wobbling and crumpling across furniture and yellowed wallpaper. A ghostly mildew scent lingered in the bed sheets, and somewhat in the carpet. The smell’s culprit, a patchy popcorn ceiling, appeared to dip and swell as if it had engorged itself. The shadows began to stretch again.
Mulder willed his eyes to focus.
Pressing a hand to the stiff mattress, he propped himself up just in time to spot a black ‘81 Cadillac. It looked shiny; utterly pristine. The moonlight bounced off it loudly, hardening the edges and shrinking the tires. It slowed to a crawl. Gravel crackled beneath it like laughter. It lingered.
It couldn’t be. Mulder held his breath. Something illuminated the car’s leather for a split second, and he dug into his lip, tasting metal. A murky silhouette in the driver’s seat gestured up ahead. Mulder’s gaze fell to Scully now. She lay fast asleep, a balled fist next to her head, the rest of her shrouded under a thick heap of soft purple and the smell of mold. God, what would they do? He looked at the suspicious vehicle again and weighed the risks of running out there with a gun. Mulder’s hand fumbled to his waist instinctively.
It hit worn elastic.
If they were here...they were here. Mulder geared away from the bullpen, and back to reality, where the ceiling bared a pregnant bulge, and the carpet jumped with nats. Take me, he thought, anything but her. His face paled.
Then, hand in the cookie jar, the Cadillac zipped just out of sight of the dusty window. The AC wedged in the corner behind the door coughed.
Being on the run felt otherworldly.
Scully roused briefly, muttered something, then lapsed back into sleep. Her freshly dyed brunette head had begun to stain the motel pillow lightly, just like it had with her forehead already. He felt bad about the hair, really--he did--but this was simply what one had to do when they were running, not fighting, anymore. Mulder had volunteered in the camouflaging effort also, actually. But Scully simply waved a dismissive hand up to him, and looked him dead in the eye. No, this was something he could not do. No, it would not help make her any feel better. No, Mulder. No, not after what they did to your head, she stated matter-of-factly, hot tears brimming.
Mulder's heartbeat slowed. Relaxing his posture, he felt his eyelids droop. He would finally collapse and only dream of static. He wouldn’t be conscious for a few hours, and it would be a beautiful respite. Except, that’s when he heard it. It.
It gurgled low, rising from the ground like blue smoke, and traveling from his left ear to his right. Mulder’s jaw clenched and his eyes frantically jumped to the window. No sign of the Cadillac. The sound moved again. It pitched higher, ascending to the ceiling that bowed above them both, and echoed off thick fabric that wasn’t there. Wood joined the sound and clacked, as if a gate were being opened. Shit, his head killed. A female voice rose above the sound, and the wood settled. Her speech was indistinct, low and careful.However, despite the voice, It only raised its volume. Panic butterflied in his gut.
He dashed to the bathroom as quietly as possible, cold fear wringing his head mercilessly. He stared into his reflection and left the door ajar. The last thing he wanted right now was to risk having Scully awaken by a telltale click.
Mulder had gone in here for privacy, but he might as well have simply closed a curtain. The walls were reed-thin; the carpeted floors loudly protested with each careful footstep. Even the pictures on the walls seemed to have it in for him, a painting of a young girl in a sunhat pointed an accusatory digit straight to the bathroom. Mulder sighed.
I’m not crazy, he gritted silently into the mirror. Mulder’s head buzzed, and he suppressed a groan. He tried to swipe the dampness from his hands on his pajama bottoms, shaking his head. The familiarity scared him.
A cool palm pressed into his shoulder blade, then sharply withdrew itself as he spun around. Scully eyed him worriedly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Mulder avoided her line of sight. “Go back to bed, Scully.”
She kept examining him, and he pictured her with her scrubs on. He’d probably never see that in person again. He crossed his arms.
“What’s wrong?”
“Just go back to bed. I’m alright.”
Scully eyed him further, then tapped the wall, searching for a light switch. The room glowed a sickly caution tape yellow. This light made her eyes look green. “You don’t look ‘alright,’ Mulder. Please.” She sighed, getting closer to him. She could feel the heat emanating from his body like a sauna. Mulder’s hair was slicked with sweat by this point, pink tinting his ears and his eyes glassed. His mussed hair reminded her of the time they had spent at the beach near the motel earlier today. They had both gotten drenched. It had been a nice break from the running, or so she’d thought. She opened her mouth to speak.
Mulder shushed her.
“It’s not...it’s not what you’re thinking, Scully,” he whispered hoarsely, wincing as another shard of pain dug into him.
Her eyes widened. “And how do you know that?” She questioned sharply, a hand flying to his forehead. “How long has your head been hurting?”
“It’s been hurting all day. And yesterday, a little bit...but not this bad. I promise. It’s just a migraine,” He stopped himself short, looking down to his feet. The linoleum creaked.
Scully laid a finger to his chin and made him look at her again.
There was a long silence, until the pitter-patter of fat rain drops buoyed them back to one another. Both of them swallowed. The rain expressed itself better than they did.
“I heard him, Scully.”
“Who?”
He stared at her.
“Mulder.”
“Don’t ‘Mulder’ me. I heard him. You’ve got to believe me,” he pleaded, his eyes watering with hers. “Scully, I heard our son.”
His words sunk into her goosed flesh like quicksand, slow and lethal. She couldn’t hear the rain anymore. She looked up into him. The faint yellow glow of the bathroom softened his features. She reached, and rubbed her palm against his stubble, slowly, back and forth. Mulder knew the questioned she wanted to ask of course, but let her say it rather than rip it from her lips. He brought her closer.
Scully began to murmur into his chest, then stopped herself. Pulling herself away, she had to look at him when she said this.
“What did William sound like, Mulder?” The question sounded daft to her ears, but she wanted to believe it. She wanted more than anything to.
“He was wailing. I know it wasn’t a neighbor. There’s a--there’s a distinct difference. Between the right here and omnipresent,” Mulder breathed. “He was upset...but then a woman, she, she came over. And comforted him. It took a while, but, he’s, or he was...he was laughing.”
Scully hesitated, then smiled weakly. “Laughing?”
Mulder grinned back at her a little, and he rested his head on top of hers. She wiped a tear away.
“I’m glad he’s happy, Mulder.”
A tear fell into her dirt-brown hair, revealing a strand of copper. He buried his nose in it, the ache in his head receding with each second they shared.
“Me too.”