'I don't think anyone has been near this place in years,' Maggie stated, as she drove up the long, winding drive.
An air of abandonment surrounded the house. Paint pealed off the exterior walls. Once they might've been pallid yellow or deep cream. Shutters had disintegrated with time. Faded, flaking green window surrounds hinted at the original colour. The roof had seen better days, softening into a washed out green-grey.
Running a finger over the accumulated grime on the porch railing, Maggie began to understand the amount of work needed to bring this house back to its former glory. Their feet left prints in the dust gathering on the wooden steps and boards. Unable to wipe the dirt from their shoes, it added to the air of gloom inside the small farmhouse.
'I don't think Mulder has done anything or been near it from the day he brought it,' Skinner commented, running a hand over non-existent hair in frustration. He wondered if his plan deserved further time and effort. 'Maybe you should take William and return to your home.'
In answer, Maggie opened a curtain which disintegrated in her hand. Picking up a cover from the nearest chair, the motes danced in the sunlight before the material also turned to dust. Turning back to her companion, she stated emphatically, 'I will not subject William to this.'
'There is a motel in the nearest town,' Skinner commented, no more pleased with his observations. Taking out his cell, he walked outside to make several calls. 'Help is on the way,' he informed Mrs Scully at the end of the conversation.
'You'll need a small army to put this place into any form of semblance before tomorrow afternoon,' she stated emphatically. The expression shining out of her brown orbs displayed her revulsion at the neglect. Yet she knew it must be remedied if her grandson were to call this his home.
'Once the word gets out, that's exactly what we'll have,' he stated, continuing to himself, let's just hope it doesn't attract the wrong kind of attention.
An hour later the first of his retired marine buddies arrived with his spouse in an RV. Striped of his tie and jacket, Walter Skinner's cuffs, rolled back to his elbows, displayed the work he'd achieved. Off to one side of the house, a small fire consumed most of the affected material objects and several pieces of furniture.
Maggie returned with cleaning supplies to find a hive of activity. The men decided to leave the outside for the new occupants to repair. They concentrated on removing the years of accumulated dirt and grime. The wives and partners placed their efforts in sustaining their men. Maggie's arrival signalled a new phase as they drew rosters. Three women would stay in the RV to prepare food while the other commenced on the kitchen, bathroom and nursery. These rooms had been selected as the most important. The rest of the house could be put right at a more leisurely pace.
For his part, William seemed to know this would be his new home. He crawled in the dirt, never far from his Grandmother but exploring his new boundaries. Maggie felt helpless. These people she didn't know had answered the call to help her daughter and Margaret Scully could do little to aid their efforts. As happy as he appeared to be outdoors, William wailed if he lost sight of the only familiar face. His separation anxiety knew no bounds.
'Ma, ma, ma, ma,' he called, pointing to yet another car pulling into the yard from the long drive.
'Your Mommy will be home tomorrow afternoon, William,' Maggie soothed.
She found it more difficult to keep the emotions from her voice. As the time drew near, Margaret Scully discovered her anger with her daughters actions increased. Anger at surrendering William to strangers, anger at abandoning her family, anger at her partner for allowing her to follow him god knew where and into what danger. Yet Maggie knew Dana chose this path, believe it to be the best course of action at the time and understood her reasons. Still, the anger welled and built.
After four hours and almost three hundred miles, Scully forced Mulder to surrender the steering wheel. The switch occurred, their silence unbroken. Another half hour and forty miles down the road, Mulder finally spoke.
'Tell me what you're thinking, Scully?' he demanded, uncomfortable with the weight of the stifling atmosphere. For the first time, Mulder couldn't sense the thoughts travelling along his partner's neural pathways. Scully seem closed, aloof and untouchable.
'I never thought I'd be driving across country with you again,' the words came from nowhere. They surprised Scully with the amount of venom. After stewing on her feelings, anger lapped the other emotions competing in this race.
'Just like old times,' the sarcasm laced Mulder's voice. He'd seen the gradual build up in his partner's body language, yet felt powerless to do anything about it. Scully needed this, she needed to do this. They needed to clear the air. Only then could they start over in their new life.
'No, not like old times,' Scully bit back, the emotions she'd held back for so long finally discovering an out let past her shattered mental defences. 'I followed you blindly for so long, Mulder. It stops now. It all stops now.'
'Pull over, Scully,' he demanded.
'No,' the anger in her voice could never be mistaken, 'four hour stints, no exception until we reach our goal. That's your rule, Mulder,'
'Not at the expense of getting us killed,' he backtracked softly, 'before we see our son again.'
The wrong thing to say, he realised as Scully's anger launch into the stratosphere. Pulling over, her cheeks becoming redder by the second, the engine barely stopped before she turned her rage on him. 'Our son, Mulder,' it emerged as an accusation she felt powerless to stop. 'Where were you when They attempted to kidnap him, or when Spender injected him or when I couldn't protect him any longer and had to give him into the keeping of complete strangers. The child you knew I always wanted. The child you helped me conceive. The only person I felt I could trust abandoned me when the going got too rough.'
Amazed at the outburst, his own anger welling, Mulder knew she had to get this out. It didn't make it any easier to sit and listen while letting her spew forth her feeling of outrage and abandonment. The mental effort to stop accusatory words leaving his lips almost beyond his capacity, yet Mulder knew he had to find the strength not to retaliate. Their future depended on it.
The psychologist in him understood the woman at his side grieved for her losses, what she felt went well beyond pain. This wasn't personal. It wasn't directed at him, not really. These were Scully deepest hurts and insecurities. Normally she wouldn't allow anyone to see her like this, not even him. So Mulder forced himself to sit and listen, to hear her anguish, to understand it, without making it his. When the words eventually failed, he reached across, removed her seat belt and dragged her into his embrace.
'I'm sorry, Scully, I'm sorry,' he muttered into her hair, which only made her cry harder.