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“Y’know, I think the Beatles did a better job on this.”
You sigh, craning your neck to stare up at Langly from your spot in his lap. His face is passive and matter of fact as usual while he stares out the window, elbow on the sill and chin propped up on one hand. The back windows have been cracked- both to allow for airflow and to drown out your companion’s near constant quips. There’s a barely audible creak as Frohike’s hands tighten on the wheel, and Byers worsens your driver’s dour mood by snorting at Langly’s observation- an action that he knows will trigger some form of unproductive discourse.
“What? You disagree?”
“I think U2 did a great job of paying homage to the Beatles and upping the chaotic nature of the song.” Comes John’s soft, firm reply, accompanied by a passive wave of his hand.
“Okay, but Bono, like… sucks. Major ass.”
“And John Lennon thought he could end the Vietnam War by parading around naked. What’s your point?”
You point a finger toward the passenger seat in agreement, and the blond above you shifts with a huffy sigh of, “Can I drive? Please?”
“You suck at it.” Melvin deadpans, eyes briefly darting to the rearview mirror.
“I’ll get motion sick.” Byers adds with a sage nod.
“And I’m gonna throw myself out the window if I have to listen to any more Ramones.” You sigh, rolling over to hide your face in Langly’s shirt.
The hand that was previously resting on your stomach lifts to allow you to move and then resettles on your waist, nimble fingers dipping below your shirt where it’s ridden up. The gentle brush of skin on skin is juxtaposed against his petulant grumble of, "You suck, d'you know that? The Ramones are a cultural cornerstone."
"Be that as it may," Byers supplies with a tilt of his head, "It's not very good for roadtripping."
Melvin gives a warning grunt when he hears Langly inhale in preparation for another prodding remark, and that puts an end to the discourse. Byers goes back to nodding along with the music until the tape runs out, and, much to Langly's dismay, immediately loads the deck with Chopin. Frohike, to his credit, doesn't express any sort of opinion on the change in music- just keeps his eyes on the road and fords ahead. Langly shifts above you, and you grin to yourself at the first pass of blunt fingers over your scalp. You drift off to the soft sounds of the piano and the ticklish feeling of mindless symbols being gently scrawled on your skin.
"-make it by three if we get them to-"
"-motion sick again-"
"Stay up front, then."
"He's gonna want to switch with me, Frohike. You know it as well as I do."
The sky is a bruiselike purple when you wake, the last shadows of the pine trees out the window flashing across your closed eyelids before you work up the willpower to pry them open. Low, quiet snores fill the cab, and you don't have to look to know whose they are. The car swerves to the right, taking a turn a bit too fast, and the motion shoves the top of your head into the door. You bang against the plastic with a groan, both hands reaching up to cradle your skull, and the snoring abruptly stops as Langly jolts awake. He blinks owlishly, staring down at you through glasses that are slightly askew before his brow furrows and he yawns, “Christ, man, you’re gonna give ‘em a concussion. What’re we s’posed to do without our social liaison?”
The car is thrown into park with the same amount of force as the turn, and all but Frohike are launched forward. All seatbelts lock with a cacophony of clanks, and Langly’s arm over your stomach is the only thing that keeps you from sliding into the rear footwells. Byers is all too happy to disengage his seatbelt and exit the car, and from your low vantage point, you can just see him hurrying around the car to get to Langly’s door. The lock clicks, and a cool wave of pine-scented air caresses your face. Your vision is quickly obscured by John, worried eyes searching yours while he pushes your hands aside to prod the top of your head with his fingertips.
“Does that hurt?”
“What do you think?” You scoff, wincing when he pokes the beginnings of a nasty bruise, “‘M fine.”
“Need help getting out?”
The proposition is ridiculous- you’re an adult, for christ’s sake- but Byers’ brow is knit with such deep concern, and he so badly wants to assist you that you can’t be annoyed with him. You shake your head with a placating smile, suppressing a groan at the dull, throbbing pain that the action causes, and reach for the back of Frohike’s seat to pull yourself up. Getting yourself out of the car is an awkward, laborious process, but the ability to stand and stretch is worth the effort. You’ve just raised your arms above your head and started to arch backward when a different set of hands brackets your hips, thumbs sweeping over your stomach in two firm arcs. You know who it is before you look down at him. Melvin grins up at you, somehow managing to look both apologetic and devious at once, and chirps, “Would our very hot Public Relations Officer take free dinner as an apology?”
You snort at the use of your unofficial-official job title and quirk a brow, years of experience telling you that Frohike never offers something without the hope of having the favor returned, and deadpan, “You’re gonna ask me to drive the rest of the way, aren’t you?”
There’s a disappointed hiss of, “Shit,” from the man in front of you, and you have to stifle a laugh as he glances to one side and seems to contemplate a different method of persuading you, lips pressing into a thin line.
You lean forward to place a kiss on the bridge of Melvin’s glasses and mutter, “I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”
The smile returns, wider this time, and Frohike rises onto his toes to kiss you properly before he lets you go to lead the way into the service plaza.
It goes as well as you’d expected it to. Langly loads up on every sweet food group except fruits and vegetables, and you spend most of dinner mentally preparing yourself for the onslaught of questions, quips, and fidgets that you know will precede his crashout. But it seems luck is on your side this evening. When the blond inevitably demands the front seat, reciting Langly’s earlier insistence that the brunet didn’t need to bring dramamine on an eleven-hour-long drive., Byers is surprisingly stubborn in arguing for his right to keep it, bringing up Langly’s earlier insistence that he, “Didn’t need to bring dramamine on such a short stint,” and neglecting to tell the poor brunet that helping Mulder was going to be a twelve hour road trip and not a drive around the block. Langly deflates at that and admits defeat surprisingly easily, and it’s only after the four of you have loaded yourselves back into the car that you learn why: he’s realized that he has the perfect victim for his rambles trapped in the backseat with him.
And so it goes. You and Byers switch out tapes, the car’s darkened cab alternately filled with romantic piano and grunge on low volume, and Langly infodumps to a very stoic, very silent Frohike. After the first hour of suspicious silence from your older coworker, you check the rearview mirror to see that he’s fallen asleep sitting up, glasses slightly askew where his temple rests against the doorframe. Langly hasn’t noticed- he just continues to stare forward and gesture wildly with both hands, sure that his audience is listening attentively- and you don’t bother to point anything out to him, content to let him ride out the rest of his sugar high uninterrupted. He finally falls asleep when you cross the border into Maine, sometime around one in the morning. The trees shift from deciduous to coniferous, crowding in on all sides and seeming to loom over the highway just out of range of your headlights. You watch the road, but any movement in your periphery draws your eyes toward the treeline, Mulder’s frantic case report playing through your mind unbidden. You find yourself searching for creatures that you’re only slightly sure are not really there, the swirling darkness playing tricks on you. Something heavy lands on your thigh, and you’re tense enough that it scares you into swerving. The car’s left front tire barely crosses into the oncoming lane before you gather your wits and course correct. Thankfully, no one wakes, and the weight in your lap doesn’t move, either, but it does whisper a soft, “Sorry.”
Byers has repositioned and laid across the bench seat with his feet up on the cushions and his knees hanging over the footwell. He gives you an apologetic pat on the knee that you acknowledge with a gentle pass of your hand through feathery brown hair. John sighs- a long, heavy sound that reminds you of a dog settling into its favorite spot- and wedges both hands under your thigh to keep his arms from falling off of the seat.
“I’m blaming you if we crash,” You quip, and then, a little less confidently, you add, “Or if these damn monsters get us.”
“Unlikely. From what we’ve gathered, they’re semiaquatic. Nothing like that would journey this far inland. And if it did, I doubt it would want to take on a Buick Roadmaster going…” Byers lifts his head to check the speedometer, tired eyes widening a fraction as he processes how much you’re speeding, “Eighty-five miles an hour. Jesus. I’m gonna pretend like I didn’t see that.”
“You want me to switch out with Langly?”
“Oh, christ, no.” He yawns, settling in again with his cheek pressed against your leg, “This is definitely preferable, thank you very much.”
Your hand returns to his hair, making slow runs through it while you drive. Another check of the rearview mirror reveals Langly and Frohike leant against their respective windows, snoring away. With any luck, you’ll reach Bar Harbor by sunrise. For now, you allow the last tape to run out and let the cacophony of snores from the backseat serenade you as you journey deeper into the forest with no one but the stalwart firs and cedars to note your passing.