Chapter Text
“Mulder can’t know. He can’t be brought back into this. He can’t be brought back into the FBI. It’s just too dangerous for him right now.”
“It’s too dangerous for everyone.”
Scully wraps her arms around herself and wonders for the thousandth time if maybe Mulder was right after all, about the threat against him being an act of misdirection. She had been so certain that she and William would be safe, had put so much faith in the fact that they had been left alone on the night of his birth. (“Maybe he isn’t what they thought he was,” Mulder had said, and she had clung to those words like a lifeline.) Now, though, she is not so sure. After what she witnessed yesterday, she isn’t sure of anything.
That isn’t entirely true; she is absolutely certain that she wishes Mulder were still here.
Of course, what she didn’t tell Skinner is that she can’t get in touch with Mulder no matter how much she wants to; the measures they put in place for emergency contact prioritize security over convenience, and he has to be the first one to reach out, from an anonymous email account he probably hasn’t yet had the chance to set up. Whether she likes it or not, she is on her own with this.
No. Not entirely on her own. Agent Doggett is still fighting for answers, and she’s grateful now that he refused to drop the investigation after she asked him to, before. Without him and Agent Reyes, she doesn’t know how she could find out what exactly is going on with William, and why. What he is, or isn’t.
Whether they will be coming for him.
Her gaze is pulled to the bassinet. He looks so peaceful, sleeping there. So normal. But she cannot deny what she saw yesterday afternoon, the mobile over his crib spinning wildly and seemingly at his (possibly unconscious) command. It was deeply unnerving and anything but normal. She cannot begin to guess at what it means, and there is no pediatrician in the world who would be able to give her any answers. The only place she might hope to find those answers is in the X-Files, but the very act of looking for them will be dangerous. The best chance she has of doing so without drawing too much scrutiny on herself and William is to seek them through the context of Agent Doggett’s investigation. Even that will be risky, but what choice does she have? She needs to know.
Unfortunately, there is nothing she can do tonight but wait, which makes her feel both helpless and restless. With a worried shake of her head, she surrenders to habit and walks toward the kitchen to make some tea.
***
24 HOURS EARLIER
Mulder’s eyes fly open as the bus comes to a stop, air brakes hissing. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. His heart pounds as he struggles, briefly, to determine where he is, how long he slept, and whether he’s been found. A quick check of his watch answers the second question (about half an hour), and he squints into the darkness outside, trying to answer the other two.
“Rest stop,” says the tired-sounding driver over the intercom. “You got fifteen minutes.”
The bus’s interior lights flick on, and Mulder glances warily at his fellow passengers, under the guise of stretching his back. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, but it’s not as though anyone following him is going to be super obvious about it. Picking up the backpack tucked between his feet, he stands, easing his way into the aisle and off the bus. He hefts the backpack onto his shoulder and looks around, breathing in the crisp night air.
The rest area parking lot is far from empty, despite the hour. The bus is parked amid a line of big rigs, and a handful of smaller vehicles sit on the other side of the lot, along the curb near the restrooms. What draws his attention, however, is the motorcycle idling a few yards away. Not just because it’s out of place among the large trucks, but because he’s seen it before, outside the station when he changed buses a few hundred miles back, the rider recognizable by the long hair streaming out from under his helmet.
So much for a tail not being obvious about it.
He pretends not to notice and starts walking toward the restrooms, wondering what his options are, here. With that hair, the guy’s not FBI, so chances are slim he’s one of the men Kersh warned about. Doesn’t mean he’s not working for them, though, or that he’s not like them. Doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. Mulder’s odds of survival, if he tries to bolt now on foot, are not great. If he gets back on the bus, the guy will undoubtedly keep following, but maybe Mulder will be able to lose him in a crowd at the next big station. It’s not ideal, but it might be the best he can hope for.
“Hey! I need to talk to you!”
The words are muffled by the helmet and the engine noise, but Mulder can just make them out anyway. Again, he pretends not to notice and just keeps walking.
“Stop, please! You’re in danger, and I’m trying to help you!”
This gives him pause. Could certainly be a trap, but… what if it’s not? Cautiously, he stops and turns around. Half a dozen bus passengers are headed his way, though none of them seem to be paying attention to him or the long-haired man on the bike. The man slowly rides up beside him and tugs his helmet off.
He’s just a kid. Now Mulder’s really confused.
“Who are you? Why are you following me?”
The boy looks nervously toward the parked cars, then back at Mulder. “My friend sent me to find you. You helped him before, and now he’s worried that your life is in danger. I’m supposed to bring you to him. But we’ve got to go, now. I’m not the only one who’s been following you.”
He jerks his chin toward the cars; frowning, Mulder turns to see a gray sedan with the driver’s side window rolled down. Even at this distance, he immediately recognizes the person behind the wheel. It’s Agent Crane.
“Shit,” he says, his stomach plummeting with dread and disbelief.
“Come on, let’s go!” says the boy, quickly strapping his helmet back on.
Mulder hesitates only for a moment before climbing onto the bike. His suitcases are, of course, all still loaded under the bus, but there’s no time and no way to carry them now. He’s got the backpack, at least, which is carrying the various fake IDs he got from the Gunmen and a not insubstantial amount of cash. It’s still a risk to take this kid at his word, but it’s one he’s willing to accept given that the alternative is a confrontation with Agent Crane.
Just before they speed off, he shouts, “Who’s this friend of yours who sent you looking for me?”
“Gibson!” the boy calls back. “Gibson Praise!”
