XXX
Faceless figures creep through the shadows of the sleeping apartment, clothed in black. Two, maybe three, but they move with purpose towards the first little room in the short hall; they know the layout of this home. They have been watching.
The door creaks only slightly as the first man glides it open, revealing the warm luminescence of a nightlight and the tiny prick of red glowing in the corner, signaling the vigilance of the baby monitor.
It's delicate work, for the child must not be harmed. At first he only coos sleepily, but upon realizing that the arms lifting him from his crib are a stranger's, the boy lets loose a piercing wail, and then there is nothing else to be done. They move quickly for the door, but the baby's mother is roused and up the second she hears his cry, a lioness racing to her cub. She even has her gun, but they have anticipated her.
Dismay breaks across her face when she sees them, but her shout barely has time to form on her lips before the silenced bullet takes her in the forehead. Eyes wide with shock she crumples like a puppet with severed strings, her own weapon never raised.
The baby continues to cry from the murderer's arms as the men step, single file, over his mother's body. They make no attempt to soothe him; it is not the child's feelings they care about, only his mind.
When they have gone, silence falls. Blood blooms across the floor around her head, mingling with the copper of her hair.
XXX
He wakes with an anguished noise somewhere between gasp and sob, feeling instantly sick. For a moment he leans over the side of his little cot, panting and fighting the impulse to retch. The morning is already hellishly hot, but the nightmare's sweat is cold at his hairline.
A pair of pitying, bespectacled eyes watch him from across the small room.
"They're fine, Mulder. I would know if they weren't."
Mulder barely has the energy to be grateful for this insight; he's had similar dreams every night for weeks. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he stands, turning his back on his only companion.
"Get out of my head, kid."
Gibson Praise turns wordlessly back to his tattered paperback, unfazed. He knows Mulder doesn't mean to be harsh. Even without reading his mind, anyone would be able to see the constant aura of worry and helplessness surrounding the stricken man. Gibson had been nearly drowning in it for weeks.
Mulder sighs, rubbing his eyes as if to scrub out the image of Scully dead and their son kidnapped.
"I'm sorry," he mutters, blinking more fully awake.
"I know."
It's not meant to be sass, but Mulder shoots him a rueful smile anyway.
"I need to go for a run," he says. "Clear my head."
Without looking up, Gibson nods. This is also routine. "Make sure you wear your-"
Mulder cuts him off, already reaching for his sweat-stained oversized hoodie and sunglasses. Not the best disguise, but with the hood pulled low it takes a lot to get a decent look at his face.
"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles as he pulls the pungent garment over his head. "Nobody around for a hundred miles anyway."
Gibson says nothing, trying not to be impatient as he waits for the rare space in the day when he has nobody's thoughts to contend with other than his own. Mulder is almost out the door when he finally looks up.
"Hey," he calls before his companion can dash out to his own coveted solitude, and points to the small battery-powered Walky Talky by the door. He holds his own up as a reprimand as Mulder clips its partner to his pants.
Mulder's expression softens a bit. They may be tense with each other from being cooped up out here in the desert, but without Gibson he'd probably already be insane, or dead.
"I'll be back in a half hour," he promises. "And I'll stay in range in case…...in case."
As usual, nothing happens, but when Mulder returns, his head is anything but clear. He washes up the best he can in the tiny bathroom, uncharacteristically quiet all the while. Their battered little trailer doesn't have water, and they are miles from a hookup, so they make do with carefully rationed bottles as they hide out and wait for news, or leads, or anything.
Gibson tries not to pay attention to his friend's thoughts, but their tone still seeps through; where Mulder had been frustrated and scared before he left for his run, now he seems calculating, determined.
After a while, Mulder grabs them each a granola bar and a water bottle before sitting on the edge of his cot close to where Gibson is curled up on the crappy sofa bench.
Oh boy, Gibson thinks. Time to break bread and share this excellent plan of yours, huh Mulder?
He says nothing, though, respecting his friend's need for autonomy enough to not beat him to his own punchline.
After each taking a bite of what they've come to bitterly refer to as their 'fugitive rations', they look at each other, waiting for Mulder to speak.
"We've got no leads," Mulder starts, in his 'just hear me out' tone. "And we can't go digging for them without putting you in serious danger of being caught, which I won't do."
They've argued on this point enough, so Gibson doesn't refute, to Mulder's obvious relief.
"I have barely heard from Scully," he continues, sounding like this lack of discourse with his partner causes him physical pain. "And she can't tell me much anyway, in case we get intercepted. But…..I can't help feeling like what she isn't telling me is more important than staying hidden, more important than whatever truths we might uncover out here, hundreds of miles away."
They're both silent for a moment, simmering in the fear that has been their constant companion since they joined up in exile.
"I know what you're afraid of, Mulder," Gibson says quietly. "Anyone in your position would be. But we don't know if you going back would only put them in more danger."
Mulder shakes his head, his jaw set and determined.
" 'More' being the operative word, Gibson," he says fiercely. "They were in danger before I left, and my leaving didn't change that. At least if I go back, I can protect them. Scully is strong but she can't do this alone. If I go back, we can both be there to protect our son."
The words our son are gravelly with emotion as they leave his lips, and Gibson has to mentally tread water for a moment as Mulder's desperation hits him like a wave.
When it has passed, Gibson's defenses are down, and in a split second he sees the entirety of Mulder's plan laid out inside his own head. He stifles a gasp, eyes wide as he turns back to his companion. He can all but see the gears turning in Mulder's head, and knows that it has been as good as set in motion; there will be no talking him out of this.
"You don't intend to put them in danger," he says softly, simultaneously awed and dismayed by the man's resolution.
Mulder seems to steady himself a bit on these words. He nods, swallowing against the gravity of his plan.
"When they get me back, I will no longer be a threat. I won't be anything."
"But you'll be there," Gibson says in the same hushed tone. "For her. And for William."
"I'll be there," Mulder whispers, hitting Gibson with another wave. "But I'm going to need your help to do it."
XXX