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“What were you most afraid of when you were a kid?”
I’m reaching to turn off the light when he asks the question. I look over to the corner of the room where Mulder sits in an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair. Papers and photographs of the case we’re currently investigating lay haphazardly on the table next to him.
Lately, we’ve gotten into the habit of spending evenings in each other’s motel rooms - most often mine - when we’re working a case. We order take-out, go over the details of the case, discuss what we’ve learned over the course of the day (which often leads to some good-natured arguing as to what, exactly, it is we’re investigating), and lay out a game plan for the following one. Mulder often stays late, pouring over case notes long after I’ve fallen asleep. I don’t mind his lingering; the quiet shuffling of papers, the muted crack of a sunflower seed between his teeth, the occasional sniff or gentle cough lends an ambient quality which I find comforting. He’s always gone by the time I wake up.
Mulder is looking at me expectantly, waiting for my answer.
“I was afraid of losing one of my parents. Disappointing my father was a close second,” I say after a moment of reflection. I had to face both of those fears when Dad died four years ago, so I’m not perturbed by his asking. Besides, asking a personal question is often Mulder’s lead-in to his sharing something equally - if not more - intimate. He normally doesn’t do that unless something’s bothering him. And judging from his remarkably distracted behavior today, something is definitely weighing on his mind. This morning, he contaminated a crucial piece of evidence and nearly given himself Hepatitis C when he went to pick up a syringe with his bare hands. I’ve kept a worried eye on him ever since.
“What about you?” I ask, trying to hide the concern from my voice.
He’s quiet for a moment and stares down at the floor before he responds. “Before Samantha was taken, I had a vague yet ever-present fear that one day, I’d wake up and discover that my entire family had vanished - that I’d been left all alone. When she disappeared, that nightmare became a crippling anxiety. My parents took me to several psychiatrists, and while my anxiety eventually subsided, that fear of being alone never went away. It’s one of the reasons I’m a night owl.”
He pauses, worrying his bottom lip, as if searching for the right words. “It’s what led me to start looking for her. The desire to find her was my coping mechanism, I suppose. Knowing that she’s out there, somewhere, keeps my fear at bay.”
Something - perhaps it’s intuition - urges me to glance at clock on the nightstand. Of course, I realize with a sinking feeling. 11:21pm, November 27, 1998. The anniversary of Samantha’s abduction. Twenty-five years later, and he’s still searching for her.
Mulder mistakes my looking at the clock as a signal that he should leave. “It’s late. I’ll let you get some sleep,” he says. He stands and hastily gathers the papers on the table into a folder. I get up and walk over to him.
“Mulder.”
I put my hands over his, forcing him to drop the folder and look at me. He’s fighting to hold back tears.
“You’re not alone.” I squeeze his hands as I say the words. I say them as a benediction and as a promise: You’ll never be alone as long as I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.
Mulder sighs wearily, raggedly, then rests his head on my shoulder. His arms wrap themselves around my waist, clutching tightly. We hold each other in silence.
“Let’s get some sleep,” I whisper after a few moments.
With one hand on his back, I gently guide him to the bed. He doesn’t protest, pausing just long enough to remove his tennis shoes and sweatshirt before getting under the covers. He reaches for me as I turn off the light and lay down beside him. He holds me close, his face nuzzling my hair. I listen to his breathing slow to a sleeper’s untroubled cadence until I, too fall into a dreamless slumber.