This was originally written for the 20th Lyric Wheel for the Talking Heads' "Life During Wartime"

Maybe Tomorrow
by Morrighan Rae Laurent

"Scully?" Mulder knocked twice with his knuckles loosely folded against his palm.

"Yeah?" she said from behind the bathroom door. It was a plain barrier, with distressed paint and peaking wood.

"Come on, we have to get moving," he imposed. He glanced to his left briefly, checking the room again for any misplaced belongings. All that remained were hers.

"Mulder, we've been here for less than eight hours." She sighed, slapped the light switch, and yanked the door open. Mulder was standing just outside staring at his bare feet as if he were waiting in line.

"We have to stay moving now, it's not safe," he explained. Scully shrugged and slipped past him. "This is life during war," he muttered as an afterthought. He followed her to the beds and watched as she grabbed her only remaining possessions and tossed them into a bulky duffle bag.

"Sometimes I wish—" Scully started, frustrated, but stopped suddenly.

"What," he asked and crossed his arms into a comfortable position.

"Nevermind, it's useless."

"Scully, I know you think this—" he tried but she cut him off.

"Mulder, please." Her back faced him, but he knew by the slump in her shoulders and a drooped head that she was internally warring with her emotions.

Mulder walked slowly until he stood at her side, and with one arm surrounded her with his body. "Scully, we just have to take it one day at a time," he consoled in a whisper. It was her undoing, and the tears dripped to the bedspread that shrouded the still-warm mattress below.

"It's just hard," she moaned, turning into his embrace.

"We'll be okay, Scully. I promise."

"You know, I've died my hair eight times in the last three months. Sometimes I don't even recognize myself."

Mulder smiled, "I kind of like it. It suits you." He captured a handful of errant strands and studied them between his fingers. "But I think you're running out of colors." Scully chuckled softly and pushed his chest.

"When you were gone last year, I'd stay at your apartment," she began seriously, running a palm below her nose and bent to sit on the bed. He followed her. Their hands tangled and feet crossed. "And I'd just lay there, staring at that stupid mirror on the ceiling and think, 'Where are you, Mulder? What are you doing without me?'" Scully's eyes fell to her lap and she picked at Mulder's cuticles. "I just wanted to hold you, so bad." The emotion overtook her again.

"I wanted to kiss you," he said. Her head jerked up with one eyebrow raised, searching for a silent explanation. Mulder thought back to the darkest nights he'd ever encountered. He had been alone and cold—though his chest often ached, burning like a furnace. He knew it was the only thing that kept him alive. "I just wanted to stay healthy. I was overly careful, and I didn't take chances unless I had to. I wanted to stay alive, Scully…for you. So I could kiss you again." Mulder's words trailed off into a bare utterance. Scully watched him carefully, unsure what to do. But Mulder stood before she could react.

"We should go," he whispered, standing directly in front of her. He knew the second that he tried to comfort her exactly where it would lead. They had no time for that. Scully wound her arms behind Mulder and pulled him close. Her ear rested just above his waist as she clung to him for the warmth he possessed and the strength he could give.

"One day, Mulder. We will be normal—in a house, lazy on Sundays, and sleepy on Mondays. I have to believe that." Mulder pulled Scully by her arms and lifted her bag to his shoulder. He nodded.

Outside, the moon shone bright, lighting the path to their vehicle. The car was engulfed in a giant shadow provided by a solid-looking oak. The tree stood feet above Mulder's head, yet he searched the sky carefully for its end. Scully ignored the lunar lighting, finding it a nuisance—a spotlight on their night-cloaked escape.

It had taken her days to adjust to the sun while she slept away the mornings and afternoons of their exile. Mulder had no trouble. Sleeping in the daytime, working in the night…it was commonplace to him.

Hours later, and countless miles passed, Scully spoke, "Mulder, you look exhausted, let me do some driving." Mulder stole a look her way and carefully considered the stop required to make the switch.

"We should keep moving," he mumbled past the hand that had been resting over his mouth. "I think there's a rest stop coming up, though." Scully nodded and counted the mile markers as they passed.

"You should get some rest," she offered, taking the keys from his warm hand. They were off the highway for no more than six minutes—he had counted. Scully eyed a payphone in the distance, back by the building, and instantly crushed the thought. There would be no postcards, no letters, and certainly no phone calls. Mulder followed her gaze and touched her arm in apology. Life during wartime, she thought, was breaking her apart. I may never get home.

Mulder silently climbed into the passenger seat holding a bag of provisional groceries: peanut butter, a loaf of bread and two oversize bags of chips. It was all he found within the tiny store housed inside of the highway-side rest area, and it would have to do for a couple of days.

Scully managed an armful of drinks to go with the food. They made a good team like that, one offsetting the other, though neither would outwardly express it; the unspoken communication had taken over years previous to their fugitive movements.

The real food would be acquired from within a thousand anonymous diners across the country at odd hours of the day or night, and only retrieved by their assumed identities—one entering and ordering to-go, the other inconspicuously perched in the captain's chair of their idling SUV.

"You know, Mulder. We aren't fooling these people. They always watch from the windows, wondering exactly who we're running from," Scully had once said.

"What we're running from," came his reply, corrected. He knew she was right, but it was necessary. Not everyone assumed the worst for this couple, and for that very reason, not in spite of it, they maintained their anonymity to the best of their ability.

Try to be careful, don't take any chances, he constantly told himself like a personal mantra, watch what you say. For this was life during war; there was no time to fool around. This had practically become their motto.

END.