Disclaimer/Author's Notes: Still don't own the Files, (damn you Ebay!) but as far as I know the plot's all mine... No real notes, apart from the fact I chose Iowa pretty randomly...

"Mulder."

Mulder paced restlessly up and down the cramped but homely bedroom, pausing only now and then to gather an armful of assorted shirts, pants, and underwear and push them randomly into the ludicrously oversized suitcase that lay propped open the checked bed sheets.

"Mulder."

He suddenly looked at what he'd done, scowled in frustration, and tipped the fresh suitcase contents onto the bed. Muttering, he retreated to the chair that Scully had the night before, curled into a fetal position, and hid his face in his knees so that all she could see was his furrowed brow.

"Mulder."

Miraculously, this third utterance of his name managed to penetrate his formidable shield of selective hearing. He raised his head and pursed his full lips. "What?"

She tapped the space beside her on the bed that had not been taken up by his pitiful attempt at packing, meaningfully. He got up and sat beside her and gave her a baleful look.

"What are you doing, Mulder?" she asked him gently.

"Packing," he muttered gruffly, trying to turn away, but she forced him to look at her.

"Why, Mulder?"

"Gotta go. Gotta get away from Maine," he insisted. "Go to Iowa, maybe. It'd be far enough and that house... But we have to get away from here, that gunman knew we were in New England! We have to get out of here."

That last phrase was a painful reminder of the dream, and Scully took his hand briefly, as if to convince herself he was still there. "Mulder, how do you know that? You can't prove that the gunman was trying to kill us, especially now he's dead. For all we know, he was just a terrorist. A terrible person, but not a specific threat to us. You don't know that man was an assassin. Let's just go back to Washington or something, but please Mulder, let this go."

He was angry now, and he resented her for making him angry. Sometimes, his temper frightened him, and there was already a twinge of fear adding to the unhappiness, frustration and pure inadequacy he felt. He burst out, almost yelling at her, "Then why the hell did he have a sniper, Scully, answer that, why don't you? If you're so damned clever? The only reason one of us or both of us didn't die today is pure luck! I could have been killed, you could have been killed, and there could be surveillance on us right now! I'm not just being paranoid, goddamn it!"

"Fox..."

"My name is Mulder!" he snapped, correcting her, and regretted it instantly as her face crumpled. She attempted to be emotionless over this unfair treatment, giving him an icy glare that was melted by the hot tears gathering in her eyes. When he saw how upset he had made her, he hated himself for it, the self-disgust he felt shocking him and overshadowing his pointless anger. He understood fully that he was unable to take the sentiment back, so he got up and began to repack in the same haphazard manner as before. After a few moments, she pushed him aside.

"If we really have to go, for God's sake let me pack," she demanded in a choked voice. Mulder slipped out the door before he could succumb to his own emotions, and searched for comfort in the kitchen, which he found in a bag of sunflower seeds. He sat at the table and started to eat. Later, he'd need Scully's comfort and she'd need him, but while they were both still angry, comfort food would do.

Three quarters of an hour later, when both the sunflower seeds and the packing were done, Scully came to him and slipped her arms around him. She asked where they were going.

"Iowa," he told her solemnly, and took her to bed.

She slept longer than he did again, although, of course, neither of them actually did much sleeping in the bed that night, and when she woke he had bought the plane tickets.

They arrived, they settled, and for two months, nothing much happened.