Bridges
by Elizabeth Rowandale

Feedback:  Email: bstrbabs@gmail.com
Rating:  Mature
Relationship:  Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Additional Tags:  Angst, Romance, An X-File Case, Mytharc

Summary: A family in a small town in New Mexico appears to 
be suffering the ill effects of an encounter with Black 
Eyed Children. While in the desert to search out the truth, 
Mulder and Scully find themselves confronting more than 
they bargained for, both in the investigation and in their 
personal relationship. Early Season 11, turns AU after 
"This." Past and eventual present MSR.

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully and the search for the truth 
all belong to Chris Carter and Co. I'm just borrowing them. 
I promise to return them in no worse condition than Chris 
would.

Beta thanks to Annie, without whom I would probably 
still be sitting in a corner feeling sorry for myself and 
refusing to post.

Author's Note:  PROFUSE APOLOGIES FOR THE POSTING DELAY!!!! 
Chapter 2 was actually completed almost two weeks ago, but 
a series of Real Life incidents and a very sick beta (still 
sending love and chicken soup, honey!) made for a crazy 
delay. In better news, I was able to keep writing during the 
delay, so Chapter 3 is already set to go and will post in a 
day or two, while Chapter 4 is half completed. Hope you enjoy!


Copyright (c) 2018

Chapter 2

Mulder still could not figure out why Scully had said yes 
to this trip. But he had decided not to look a gift horse 
in the mouth. Maybe she was just feeling nostalgic about 
their crazy escapades chasing werewolves and chupacabras 
(yeah, right). Maybe she really did just want an excuse to 
visit somewhere warm; he had found out when they lived 
together exactly how cold she could get sometimes. (She had 
said it had gotten worse after her cancer. That her 
internal heater had just never fully recovered.) Either 
way, she was by his side as they moved through the El Paso 
airport, rolling bag rattling behind her. He had learned 
long ago how to pace and temper his naturally long strides 
to walk beside her without making her rush to keep up, 
while still looking comfortable with his own gait. The 
habit returned without conscious effort the moment he was 
beside her. They had their practiced rhythms.

Scully's fingers brushed his as she reached out and turned 
his phone so she could read the reservation confirmation. 
"Did you say Enterprise?"

"Yeah, Enterprise." Her fingers were like ice.

When they emerged into the West Texas sunlight and settled 
wordlessly by the Shuttle stop for car rentals, Scully 
closed her eyes, shook back her hair, and lifted her face 
to the sun. Looking at her like this, freckles showing, 
hair pleasantly tousled from sleeping on the flight, he saw 
in her the 30-something woman with whom he had first fallen 
in love. The fierce, brilliant, kind, stubborn, fiery, 
whirlwind of red hair and resistance and scientific jargon 
who had spun into his life and turned his worldview upside 
down. He wasn't any less in love with the 53-year-old who 
was a little more open, a little more jaded, a little more 
broken, but no less determined to stand up every time she 
got knocked down. No less brilliant. No less beautiful.

For a while he had pretended time could change things, they 
could remember it all fondly, be friends, and move on. Now 
Fox Mulder had accepted his reality. Dana Scully would 
never be "less" of anything to him. For now, he was just 
glad to have her by his side Monday through Friday.

Thrifty. Budget. National. Nope, next shuttle.

Change was on the distant horizon. Their comfortable truce 
was healing rifts. For now. They were finding their new 
normal. But Scully was hanging out at his place more and 
more, lines were blurring, doors opening, then abruptly 
closing. This wasn't a permanent solution. They were living 
as non-exclusive, platonic significant others and 
pretending that was a thing that could work for them.

The truth was, they were really bad at breaking up. So much 
so, that the rest of the world kind of assumed they were 
still together.

*****

Scully took the wheel of the blue Ford Fusion they had 
chosen from the row of options in the Enterprise parking 
garage. She didn't always like driving in the desert, her 
eyes were more light-sensitive than his. But today she 
seemed to want to be in control, and Mulder was willing to 
go along for the ride. Literally. Their first stop was 
hardly fifteen minutes from the airport. The El Paso M.E.'s 
office served parts of Southern New Mexico, which was why 
they were talking to the Coroner first, before making the 
drive up to Las Cruces where the youngest Garcia remained 
in the hospital, and then on to their ultimate destination 
of Verdad, New Mexico. The irony of the name was not lost 
on Mulder. 

Scully skillfully maneuvered their car into a parking space 
outside the Medical Examiner's building, shutting off the 
engine with five minutes to spare before their 4pm 
appointment.

The late afternoon breeze was warm and soft as Mulder 
climbed out of the car. Desert air held a presence of its 
own, a prevailing peace that couldn't be matched in moist 
terrain. Maybe Scully had been onto something, bringing 
them here for a break from the relentless D.C. wetness. He 
caught her taking a moment to absorb their surroundings as 
well. Mulder left his briefcase on the floor of the back 
seat, tossed his suit coat on top of it out of habit, but 
the need for security precautions here probably wasn't 
nearly as high as at home. Scully had most of the paperwork 
they might need in her bag.

The building before them was low and long, pale adobe, like 
most buildings in this part of the world. Two stories up 
was considered quite the elevation, and three...well, that 
was practically a skyscraper. Scully shrugged back into her 
suit jacket despite the warmth, and he wondered if she was 
really still cold, or if she were merely anticipating the 
chill of the morgue. He was willing to take his chances and 
soak up some sun.

"They only autopsied the father, correct?" Scully asked, 
eyes on the file in her hand as she fell into step beside 
him, up the building's concrete walkway. No one else was in 
the parking lot; there seemed very little sign of life 
around them at all.

Mulder nodded when Scully lifted her gaze for confirmation. 
"Yeah, the grandmother was in the hospital prior to her 
death, so there wasn't any criminal question of cause of 
death. Illness through bad vibes doesn't play well on 
paperwork. But the father's accident didn't make a lot of 
sense, and the family asked for an autopsy to check for 
medical causes like you were suggesting."

"But we didn't have the report yet. When did this happen?"

"The accident was just three days ago. The autopsy only 
took place yesterday. We had the preliminary tox screen but 
not the full report."

Mulder pulled the main door open for Scully to pass through 
as she continued to scan the information in her hand. 
"Okay. Then hopefully the body's still here."

Mulder cringed at her back as her heels clicked on the tile 
floor of the interior rotunda. He would never be quite so 
practical (or, dare he say, enthusiastic) about inspecting 
dead bodies as Scully.

A desk slightly too small for the proportions of the 
entrance area lay directly in front of Mulder and Scully. A 
woman of no more than thirty, sun-bleached hair tied into a 
loose ponytail, looked up from her phone as they approached 
and seemed perplexed by their presence. They must not have 
gotten a lot of visitors here.

"Can I help you? We're closing in a few minutes."

Scully's eyes narrowed. "Your door says 5pm."

The woman just shrugged and waited to hear more.

Scully took a breath to speak, but Mulder jumped in. He 
pulled out his badge from his pants pocket. "I'm Agent 
Mulder and this is Agent Scully from the FBI. We have an 
appointment to see a Dr...."

"Johanson," Scully finished for him, flipping open her own 
badge.

The woman frowned at them, and Mulder wasn't certain if she 
was weighing the validity of their credentials, or merely 
annoyed at their intrusion upon her social media time. "I 
think he's still here," she said at last.

No one moved.

Scully leaned in a bit, eyebrows lifting. "Could you tell 
him we're here?"

The woman shrugged. "I guess I can go find him."

"That would be helpful," Scully mono-toned, words careful 
and distinct, like she was speaking to someone new to the 
language.

Ponytail woman pushed up from her chair, showing herself to 
be dressed in a full outfit of pink scrubs with purple 
clowns printed on them. Mulder found himself hoping she had 
not been one to assist with this particular autopsy. When 
the woman disappeared down a back hall off to their right, 
Mulder met Scully's gaze and the silent incredulity passed 
between them. Mulder just shrugged, and Scully gave a muted 
scoff.

"I don't think we're supposed to bother her after 3pm," he 
said quietly.

Scully just turned and let her gaze take in the details of 
their surroundings. She had wandered over to look at a 
community bulletin board and scan a rack of brochures, and 
Mulder had been about to follow her, when the clown-scrubs 
woman reappeared. She returned to her desk (and her phone) 
without a word, but she was trailed by an older man, sandy-
haired, slightly plump, wearing a lab coat, oddly formal 
shoes, and a wedding ring that appeared painfully small for 
his thick finger.

"Agent Scully," the man said, approaching Mulder with a 
confident gait and an outstretched hand. "Nice to meet 
you."

Mulder instinctively shook the man's proffered hand, but 
his return gesture lacked commitment as he scrambled to 
make the correction. "Oh, no, actually, I'm Agent Mulder, 
this is--"

"Agent Scully." She had stepped up beside him faster than 
he realized and Mulder nearly poked her in the chest as he 
turned to direct Dr. Johanson's attentions.

Johanson glanced between them, looking confused for half a 
beat, then quickly caught up with a self-deprecating 
chuckle. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought...Of course, Agent 
Mulder. Agent Scully, good to meet you." He held out his 
hand. "You're the forensic pathologist?"

Scully shook his hand briefly, offering a tight-lipped 
smile. "That would be me."

Oh. That's why she was pissed.

"Please, come with me," Dr. Johanson offered, tone a bit 
placating. At least the man was smart enough to know when 
he'd stuck his foot in his mouth. He gestured down the back 
hallway from which he had come.

"Did you have any trouble finding the place?" Johanson 
asked as they followed him down a second hallway toward the 
small silver doors of an employee only elevator.

"No, it was fine," Scully said. "So, you performed the 
autopsy on Joseph Garcia?"

"Indeed, I did. Have you been to our part of the world 
before?"

"Only briefly. What was your official cause of death?"

The three of them crowded into the surprisingly small 
elevator, and Johanson pressed a button for the basement 
level. Scully pushed herself into Mulder's zone to keep due 
clearance between her body and Johanson's and Mulder 
pressed a subtle hand to the small of her back.

"Impact wounds consistent with the crash," Johanson 
replied.

"And did you find anything suspicious in the condition of 
the body?"

"Well, not especially, I..." Mulder watched Dr. Johanson 
fidget just a bit, but his read wasn't that the doctor was 
hiding anything about the findings. Rather that this wasn't 
how things were done around here. They had hardly been 
together two minutes and Scully was pushing for the facts, 
the vital information she had come to obtain. Johanson 
expected small talk, pleasantries, then a ramp up to the 
technical exchange.

As the doors to the elevator slid open, Mulder offered a 
middle ground. "Have you lived in this area long? Worked 
this same job?"

Dr. Johanson nodded. "15 years in the job this spring. I 
grew up just north of the city, but I live up in Cruces, 
now. Been there over a decade."

He was leading them down a broad hallway, toward a set of 
double doors off to their right.

"You commute from Las Cruces down here every day?" Scully 
asked, following Mulder's lead, because she might be 
impatient by nature, but she was nothing if not an 
intuitive partner. "How long a drive is that?"

"No more than an hour, even in traffic. You can't ask for a 
more scenic commute."

"I would imagine so," Mulder replied. As far as he could 
tell on the map, the drive from El Paso to Las Cruces was a 
whole lot of nothing.

Through the double doors into the cramped but functional 
autopsy bay, Johanson crossed to a neatly stacked metal 
desk and lifted a folder which he held out in offering to 
Scully. "That's not my final report, but you can read the 
summary of my findings."

"Thank you, Dr.. Is the body still here? Would we be able 
to have a look?"

"It is."

"Did you happen to know the Garcia family personally?" 
Mulder asked, settling himself against the edge of an empty 
table, establishing a safe distance between himself and the 
examination area.

Dr. Johanson pulled on disposable gloves from a dispenser 
on the wall and moved toward the cadaver drawers on the far 
right wall. "Not personally, no," he said, "but I had heard 
Mr. Garcia mentioned. He taught at the grade school my 
daughters attended. He was well liked by the children. His 
death has been quite a shock to the local community."

"I'm sure it has."

Scully was scanning the report in one in hand and pulling 
out her own set of disposable gloves with the other.

"Honestly, Mr. Mulder, we're grateful for the FBI taking an 
interest in this case, and I am certainly happy to help you 
in any way I can...but," he scanned the drawer labels for 
the relevant name, then gave a heft to the drawer, bringing 
the sheeted body into view, "is there a particular reason 
the FBI is interested in this case? Anything I'm unaware 
of?"

Mulder nodded, folded his arms across his chest. "It would 
seem quite a series of traumatic events has befallen the 
Garcia family in recent weeks. The case came to our 
attention when it was suggested these events, though 
seemingly unrelated, might all have a single catalyst 
event."

Johanson took the few steps back toward where Mulder 
hovered. "Suggested by whom, if you don't mind my asking?"

"By Mr. Garcia's daughter, Mariela. She's spoken at length 
about her family's plight on her online vlog."

Mulder tried his damnedest not to look at Scully, could 
feel her glaring a dent into the side of his head. She had 
been a little distracted this morning when he had presented 
the case, and she had neglected to ask him directly just 
how this case had come to his attention and he had let her 
assume he had been contacted either by the family or by 
local law enforcement, and she was just now putting 
together that Mulder had stumbled across this situation all 
on his own, surfing the internet for spooky phenomena, and 
then started making phone calls.

Dr. Johanson's brow furrowed. He was looking at Mulder as 
though he were reassessing how he should approach this 
whole encounter with the Federal government, an expression 
Mulder had seen one too many times in his life, and he was 
just asking, "Just exactly what kind of theory are you 
considering here, Mr. Mulder?" when Scully conveniently 
interrupted by asking, "To what did you attribute these 
burn marks, Doctor?"

The two men turned to find Scully already well involved in 
comparing the report's findings to the body before her, the 
arm of Mr. Garcia's body lifted into her cradled hand as 
she closely inspected something near the wrist.

With one last glance toward Mulder, Johanson returned to 
stand opposite Scully, overlooking the body. "I saw those 
as well, and I haven't been able to reconstruct the source 
from the description of the accident. But if the burns pre-
date the accident, it's not by more than an hour or two."

"They're not acid burns, not like battery acid or...," Scully 
was speaking softly, mainly thinking out loud. "May I?" She 
reached for the magnifying lens on the nearby tool cart.

"Please." Johanson nodded.

"They don't seem chemical in nature, it seems like heat, 
and yet... It's almost like a sunburn. Like...radiation. Have 
you tested the body for residual radiation?"

Johanson blinked. "No, I never even thought of it. I had no 
reason to believe Mr. Garcia had been exposed to any kind 
of hazardous radiation."

"It might be worth investigating,"Scully offered, gingerly 
returning Mr. Garcia's arm to rest on the table.

"All right. I'll look into it and let you know."

Scully nodded, hands resting on the edge of the gurney, 
expression thoughtful as she kept her gaze on the body. 
"The rest of the injuries seem consistent with the 
description of the crash."

"I agree," Johanson said.

"But why did he crash?"

He shrugged. "I cannot come up with signs of anything 
medical. Either it was environmental...the malfunction of 
the car or something on the road...or it 
was...psychological."

Scully lifted her gaze to meet Johanson's. "You believe Mr. 
Garcia might have tried to take his own life? There are 
less traumatic and more reliable ways than a crash that 
might leave a person a quadriplegic before it killed him."

"I agree, it's extremely unlikely."

"Do you believe Mr. Garcia had any reason to want to kill 
himself?" Mulder interjected, pushing off the table and 
venturing a step nearer to the body.

"Like I said, I didn't know the family personally. But they 
had been through a lot."

"The man's son was in the hospital, his life in the 
balance."


"It's hard to imagine a parent abandoning a sick child 
before learning the outcome," Scully finished the thought 
for him.

"Indeed it is," Johanson agreed.

"Are police looking into defects in the car, do you know?" 
Scully asked, glancing toward Mulder as well.

Johanson nodded. "Sheriff Aster suggested as much when he 
escorted the body in. You'll know more after you talk to 
him, I would think."

"We plan to meet up with him as soon as possible," Mulder 
confirmed.

Scully went over a few more details of the preliminary 
report with Dr. Johanson, reviewing the injuries from the 
crash, the general state of the victim's health and primary 
organs -- Scully reading the story of a person's life, 
carved onto a scroll of flesh and bone.

They had said their thanks and were back at the car, Scully 
once again heading toward the driver's door, when she said 
across the top of the vehicle, "YouTube, Mulder? You found 
our case on YouTube?"

Mulder conceded a small, tolerant smile, and said openly, 
"I stumbled across something that might be of interest, I 
then did some research, contacted local law enforcement, 
and Sheriff Aster turned out to be quite grateful to hear 
from me. He's been concerned about the spreading rumors of 
a threat, and unsure exactly how to handle the situation. 
He welcomed the outside help."

She regarded him for a moment over the stop of the car, 
squinting against the low sun angling over the building. 
Then she gave a small nod and said simply, "All right."

Mulder debated mentioning the recent rash of UFO sightings 
that had been reported in the area as well. He decided this 
was a time to take one victory and be happy with it.

*****

The Organ Mountains rose in the distance to the east, peaks 
red-gold as the sun fell to their level in the west. An 
East Coaster by both nature and nurture, Mulder was always 
struck by the vast distances one could view in the 
Southwest. The vistas were undeniably beautiful if a bit 
disorienting. Concepts of mileage could be confusing in 
such wide-open and seemingly endless spaces. He had often 
thought life in environments like Virginia's, littered with 
closely grouped and vertical trees, must have seemed 
unbearably claustrophobic to one raised in this desert 
expanse. Like life in a high-walled rat maze. Mulder, 
though he appreciated the natural aesthetic of the desert, 
felt a little like he might just fall into space with 
nothing to hold onto and nowhere to hide. Maybe it was that 
second part. Mulder had spent his adult life needing 
somewhere to hide.

He was surprised by how at home Scully always seemed to be 
in this type of climate. Scully was a burrower by nature. 
She cocooned herself under blankets, chose the bed nearest 
the corner of the room, liked the window seat on late night 
planes where she had coverage on as many sides as possible. 
Yet the desert seemed to speak to her in a way he had yet 
to understand.

"Where would you want to live, Scully?" he asked without 
preamble.

"Hmm?" Scully glanced his way, eyes unreadable behind her 
Gucci sunglasses (and when had that happened, by the way, 
he couldn't remember when she had first shown up in those), 
but he could tell from her tone her thoughts had been miles 
away.

"If you could live anywhere, if your location weren't 
dependent upon your job. Where would you live?"

Scully shifted a bit, settled her right hand on top of the 
wheel and propped her left elbow on the door. She seemed to 
be giving his question genuine consideration. That was one 
of the things he loved the most about where they had come 
to in all these years together. She indulged him more, 
listened to him more. He didn't have to fight for these 
glimpses into her psyche.

"I mean...two years ago, I would have said I would still 
want to live near my mother. But now...I don't have that 
family tie to the D.C. area. It's really just the job. A 
few friends I hardly ever have time to see, anyway."

Mulder nodded quietly, letting her follow her train of 
thought.

"I guess...I would move somewhere warmer," she offered. "I 
would still want to be by the water, though. I love the 
desert, but...I grew up by the sea. And it 
feels...weird...to be too far away from the shore. Like I 
can't...," she gave a small, embarrassed laugh that was so 
preciously rare it warmed Mulder's chest, "...I 
can't...escape, or something. I don't know, that sounds 
stupid. I don't know where I'd be going."

"No, it's not stupid, I get it. I was just thinking that I 
tend to favor terrain with lots of trees because I need 
somewhere to hide, and this kind of openness, " he gestured 
toward the expanse stretching out around them, "seems too 
exposing. And like I might fall over if I couldn't hold 
onto a tree."

Scully gave an indulgent chuckle, eyes still on the road 
stretching out so very far ahead. "I can see that," she 
said softly.

They rode in companionable silence for a few minutes, 
speedometer pushing 80, and then Scully said to the 
horizon, "Maybe New Orleans. It's a beautiful city, so much 
old and elegant architecture. And I like its resilience. 
It's like...they just keep buying that 'I Want to Believe' 
poster and drying out the files and insisting they can 
rebuild."

*Damn, Scully. You really do always keep me guessing.* 

"You think you could handle all the bugs?" Mulder asked.

Scully shrugged. "It's not as bad in the city." And Mulder 
couldn't help but feel she had given this more thought than 
he had been aware.

They rode for a while in companionable silence. Mulder 
fiddled with the radio and landed on something vaguely 
contemporary that both he and Scully seemed to tolerate.

He pulled out the paperwork on the case and put in a phone 
call to Sheriff Aster who had left word for him that he was 
out of the office for the night but looked forward to 
meeting with him in the morning. A call to the hospital 
where Christian Garcia was being treated followed a similar 
theme, telling him, well, yes, they could still visit the 
boy this evening, but a visit in the morning would allow 
them to speak with the primary doctors and nurses 
responsible for his care.

"Apparently nothing happens here after 5pm," Mulder said, 
tossing his phone back into his open briefcase.

Scully sighed, eyes still on the road. "Guess we go with 
the flow. Get some sleep and start as early as possible in 
the morning."

Mulder nodded, and he began silently entering the address 
for their motel into the GPS.

They arrived in Las Cruces in what should have been the 
thick of rush hour, but Mulder was finding it hard to 
believe traffic was usually lighter than it was now. There 
were distinct advantages to smaller towns. Verdad was 
another twenty minutes outside of this town, and Mulder had 
gotten them reservations at one of the only two motels in 
Verdad itself. They found the state road that would take 
them off the Interstate and toward their destination.

The large wooden sign, "Welcome to Verdad," was weathered 
but better cared for than some. "Look Scully, if you lived 
here, you'd be home by now." A small cactus garden thrived 
at the sign's base. "Welcome to Verdad," Mulder read aloud, 
"population just under 2,000 souls, elevation just under 
4,000 feet." Scully wasn't the greatest at adjusting to 
increased elevation. In the past, they had traveled so 
much, her body seemed to have developed a sort of lingering 
tolerance and adaptability. But in recent years their work 
had not often carried them too far from sea level, and 
Mulder was quietly cognizant of her status. 4,000 feet 
wasn't enough for full out altitude sickness, but it was 
enough to make Scully a little more irritable than usual 
and a little lightheaded after dragging luggage up stairs. 
He spoke from experience on both counts. His own awareness 
of the elevation change didn't usually kick in until about 
8,000 feet, unless he was trying to push himself running.

Buildings began emerging from the nothing around them, but 
there seemed to be no more than a few blocks that made up 
the essence of Verdad's "downtown." By mutual consent, they 
stopped for dinner at the first decent looking diner they 
passed, only a block shy of their hotel according to the 
GPS. If they liked the diner, they might be able to walk 
back for breakfast.

The atmosphere of the place was lacking, but there was no 
wait and the food was decent. Standard fair, with a little 
bit of local flavor. Neither of them spoke much during 
dinner. Fatigue seemed to have set in after their long day 
and the two hour time shift that meant it was closer to 
bedtime than dinner in their heads. Silent agreement said 
there had been enough case discussion for the day and their 
brains needed to be in "off duty" mode for a while. Scully 
ordered a small salad with chicken strips that she didn't 
finish, but she did steal a few fries off of Mulder's plate 
and dip them in her ranch dressing. She drank an apple 
juice. He got her to smile when he realized "Flying Purple 
People Eater" was playing softly over the diner speakers 
and started singing along.

The sun was well gone behind the mountains when they 
arrived at the motel parking lot and the evening breeze was 
pleasantly cool through the open door as they checked 
themselves in at the cramped little office with the 
Pakistani man behind heavy glass and the hanging plants and 
wind chimes and the little pamphlet on the counter about a 
near death experiencer's journey through hell and back that 
lead him to Jesus.

At the car, Mulder retrieved their luggage from the trunk 
as they juggled briefcases and bags and abandoned jackets. 
"I'm 104," he said, glancing down at the envelope in his 
hand with both their key cards. "I thought you were 106, 
are these not all even numbers on this side? You're not 
next door?"

Scully nodded. "No, I think I am, isn't that 106 there?"

"Oh, is that just a maintenance door?"

"No, that one is, 106 is on the other side, just there."

"Okay. Have we got everything?" Mulder turned for a last 
scan of the back seat of the rental before closing the 
door. Scully was waiting with key fob in hand to lock the 
car behind him.

"I think...yeah...I..."

Mulder looked up when Scully's voice faded off. Her gaze 
had wandered to something over his shoulder.

"Did you lock the car?" he asked.

"Yeah, I..."

"Scully?"

He glanced over his shoulder to where something in the 
distance seemed to have captured her attention. "What is 
it?"

"Hmm?"

"Scully?" He looked again, but saw nothing but a street 
lamp in the far corner of the motel parking lot.

Scully drew a breath through parted lips. "I--It's nothing. 
I just...did you see...?"

"Did I see what?" He glanced between the distant circle of 
light and his distracted partner. The key fob still dangled 
from her fingers mid-task. "Did I see what?" he repeated.

But Scully just shook her head. "Nothing." She clicked the 
remote a last time to be sure the car was locked. "Never 
mind. It's locked. Let's go."

Mulder lingered a moment, giving one last futile glance 
toward the streetlamp, then followed his partner across the 
lot toward their doors.

"Breakfast at 6:30?" Scully asked, sliding her card into 
her door lock and popping the latch.

Mulder wrinkled his nose. "Sure, why not?"

"Take advantage of the time zone change, Mulder. It'll feel 
like 8:30."

He tossed her a wry smile as he opened his own door. The 
universal smell of painfully average hotel room wafted 
toward him.

"Goodnight, Mulder," Scully said with a little genuine 
warmth in her brief smile.

He returned the gesture and their gazes lingered for a 
comfortable moment. "'Night, Scully."

She pushed her way forward into room 106, suitcase gliding 
in neatly behind her, then closed the door with a 
distinctive snap. Mulder stood several moments more in the 
New Mexico evening air before he embraced the average and 
entered room 104. Maybe there would be something good on 
HBO.


//////////

On the morning she is meant to go for the job interview at 
Our Lady of Sorrows, Scully almost throws-up in Mulder's 
kitchen sink. She stayed at his house the night before, 
even though it makes for a hell of a commute to arrive for 
her mid-morning interview, but Mulder knows she is nervous 
and wanted the distraction. He is happy to oblige. He 
doesn't like the idea of her having a place in the city in 
the first place, he's gotten too accustomed to her constant 
presence in his world. But he can believe it is just for 
the job. 

What he can't believe is that he has seen this woman face 
down murderers and monsters and fanged supernatural 
predators, unarmed, out-manned, tied-up, and blinded, and 
walk away steady and solid and fully in control. Yet the 
prospect of a job interview at a private hospital in D.C. 
has her standing at his sink, white-knuckled to the edge of 
the counter. 

"Breathe, Scully," he says softly, open hand steady on the 
small of her back. She's sensitive there, responsive. He 
cups his other hand to the back of her neck, fingers cool 
against her flushed skin. "Don't think for a minute. Just 
breathe. You're okay. Listen. Do you hear the birds 
outside? The robins are back." 

She draws a shaky breath. She is dressed and ready to go, 
though she has a little time. Straight black skirt that 
hugs her hips enough to make him think lustful thoughts, 
even at this most inappropriate of moments, elegant cream 
power blouse, heels high enough to be intimidating, not 
high enough to seem vain. Her hair is pulled back into a 
low ponytail held by a wide black barrette. She looks 
exactly the part she is trying to secure. Except for the 
pale green cast to her complexion. 

"God, Mulder, I can't do this... How can I do this?" 

"You're still thinking. Just breathe for a minute." 

"I can't just stop thinking." Her voice is quivering, 
fingers trembling as she shakes out her hand, unable to 
keep still. 

Mulder moves in closer, wraps a reassuring arm across her 
breasts, snugs her back against his chest. He places a 
tender kiss on the top of her head and whispers, "Dana. You 
know you can do this. You know you can. I'll be right here. 
I'm with you every minute." 

She is quiet for a moment, and her breathing is still 
uneven, but something in her softens a bit. He can feel the 
shift in her thoughts through the lines of her body. "I 
wish you could come with me," she whispers, and there's a 
little ring of guilt in her voice that makes his hair hurt. 
Like she's not supposed to say it. She's not supposed to 
wish it. He still has to be in hiding. She's safe enough 
now, but he's not, he can't just parade through downtown 
D.C. with her. He can't drive her to this interview, hold 
her hand until the last possible second, hover 
inconspicuously in the hospital lobby, and catch her the 
moment she walks out. And she never asks, never asks for 
dinner in the city, a night at the movies; invariably says 
it's all okay. But in this moment of uncensored 
vulnerability, when she's had nothing but some dry toast 
and green tea and even that seems in danger of return, she 
lets the words slip. 

Mulder sighs heavily into her hair, the sound deep and 
painful in his throat. "I wish I could, too. But my heart's 
with you all the way. You know that." 

"I know." 

They're quiet a moment more, Scully drawing deliberate 
breaths, in through her nose, out through her mouth. She's 
quivering less under his steady hold. "Why are you so 
scared?" he asks. "If this doesn't work out there are other 
jobs." 


"I just...I guess...I'm afraid...I've been away from normal 
life so long...away from traditional medicine for so 
long...that I don't know how to be that woman, anymore. 
That I can't. That...what skills I had aren't there, 
anymore." 

"That's crazy, Scully. So, you may have a few rusty spots, 
you'll get it back in no time." 

"What if I don't? What if I get the job and I make a 
mistake? I'd be responsible for children. Children who are 
fighting for their lives..." 

Her chest is still shaking when she breathes, and Mulder 
moves a hand up to press just below her throat, warm and 
steady. It registers in the logical, observant part of his 
brain that this is a panic attack. Scully is having a panic 
attack. And he wonders if this is something that she does, 
something that is a part of the scope of her personality, 
and he just never got to see them before. The whispers of 
it had been there all along...from the nefarious mosquito 
bites on their first case together to the uncertain ground 
of a haunted house on Christmas Eve. It was believable that 
this full blown version was visible only to her most 
intimate confidantes behind closed doors. 

He lets his fingers give a slow massage to her upper chest, 
leans down and kisses her ear. "Were you this nervous when 
you interviewed for the FBI?" 

"Yes," she says simply. 

"Med school?" 

"Worse." 

"10th grade concert band?" 

"I threw up in the school parking lot. Cathy Gilecki saw me 
and told everybody." 

"But you made the band." 

"Third chair. I fucking hated Cynthia Amarado and her 
goddamned brown-nosing." 

"So...that bitch Cynthia took first chair. Who was second?" 

"Tom Stringer." 

"You didn't hate him?" 

"No." Another trembling breath. A little restless shifting 
in her heels. "He was really nice and he practiced really 
hard. He deserved second chair." 

Mulder chuckles against her hair. Then he presses his lips 
close to Scully's ear, breathes in her shampoo, her 
perfume, the very class and elegance that is wafting off of 
her even in her semi-panicked state, and he whispers. 
"You've got this, Scully. Take a deep breath, stand up, put 
on that expensive blazer over there, and go show 'em how 
fabulous my girl is." 

"I'm not a 'girl', Mulder." 

"There she is," he says, affection warm in his voice. 

Her next breath sounds enough like a reluctant laugh that 
he knows everything is going to be okay.

////////// 


Mulder stared at the ceiling in the humming darkness of 
Verdad, New Mexico, the last dregs of late-night television 
flickering across the room, and a locked door and a 
maintenance room between himself and his partner.

Scully? Is everything going to be okay?

*****

(End Chapter 2)