Chapter Three: Beer and Blondes
As Mulder drove through rush hour traffic, his mind raced with countless scenarios that lie ahead. As the traffic became thicker with thousands of commuters, the scenes in Mulder's head became progressively worse.
What if her cancer had returned?
The tires screeched as Mulder slammed the brakes, stopping his 2003 Chevy Tahoe mere inches from the rear bumper of the car ahead of him. His thoughts distracted him from the stop-and-go traffic of morning rush hour. He waved his apologizes to the driver ahead of him.
His fingers gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles an unnatural white, as he glanced at the digital clock. 9:23 AM. "Damn," he cursed. Four more hours until he reached his destination. Mulder shook his head; he could not keep thinking of worst case scenarios if he planned to reach Virginia all in one piece. Mulder switched on TalkRadio as he settled down for the remainder of his drive.
Five hours later, Mulder pulled into the parking lot of a local diner. He had given up trying to find Franklin Street by car. He had spent an hour driving through the small town of Hampton. In fact, he had driven through it a total of five times.
Mulder slammed the door of his SUV in disgust. Mulder was not used to being lost. He had maneuvered through the streets of D.C. and Oxford alike with the best of them. He was proud of his uncanny ability to drive into Anytown, U.S.A. and find himself at the foot of the local PD. Of course, Mulder had not actually been on assignment with the exception of huge cases that involved a dozen or so of his agents (yes, his agents) in almost four years.
Mulder walked into the nameless diner clutching the tattered envelope on which he had scribbled the address. The Post-It notes that Kate, his secretary, had ordered for him had gone to little use. Not that she had to go out of her way to submit the order; she was always ordering more pencils for him, so she just added to the order. Old habits die hard. He sat at one of the cracked-vinyl stools and ordered a cup of coffee and the manager's special. As the waitress returned to refill his mug, he pushed the ripped envelope toward her.
She told him Franklin Street was two blocks down. Mulder thanked her and tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table for his 4.95 meal before exiting the restaurant. Fifteen minutes later, Mulder realized how little the waitress had actually helped her. It seemed that Franklin Street was second only to the main drag of the town as far as buildings were concerned. To make matters worse, Hampton, Virginia, did not advertise building numbers.
As Mulder walked down the rather crowded sidewalk, his face turned upward toward the faces of the buildings, he neglected to notice the woman walking towards him. He into her, and apologized. The old lady smiled up it him.
"No problem, dearie. You don't look familiar. Are you visiting someone?"
"Well, uh, yes. Do you know which building is number 457?" Mulder inquired.
The woman nodded and pointed behind Mulder. Mulder turned around and stared at the building behind him. "She's not much more help than the waitress," Mulder thought, not believing that this was 457 Franklin Street.
"Are you sure?" Mulder asked.
The woman nodded, "Lived here all my life. That's number Four fifty-seven."
"Franklin Street?" Mulder asked, not convinced.
"Yes. I hope you've found what you're looking for," the woman smiled before turning and walking away.
Mulder cursed (not for the first time that day) and remained on the sidewalk for another five minutes. With nothing else to do, Mulder entered the building, which turned out to be apartments. He read the last names on the mailboxes, only to find that "Scully" was not listed among them.
Resignedly, Mulder began knocking on each of the doors, one-by-one, asking if they lived with or knew of a "Dana or Katherine Scully," wondering if she now went by a different name.
On the fourth (and final) floor, Mulder stood at the second-to-last door. Weary, he waited for the inhabitant to answer the door. An old man, fifty or so, answered, and Mulder plastered his "polite smile" on as best he could. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but my name is Fox Mulder. I am looking for Dana Scully, though she may be going by Katherine now. Does she live here?"
"Dana?"
Mulder nodded.
The man shook his head, "She lives next door, last apartment."
Mulder smiled and thanked the man before walking to the final door. He knocked and waited, staring patiently at the crooked number 49 on the door. Then, a fear consumed his body. Mulder had been so intent on finding Scully, he had not planned what to say. Too late now. The door swung open as Mulder drew in a breath, only to let it out in disappointment. "Waddaya want?" the dirty owner of the apartment addressed Mulder.
"Baby, who is it?" A middle-aged, hard, fake blond woman appeared behind the man, wearing nothing but a sheet. Mulder could not hide the grimace that formed on his face.
"I, uh, was told that a Dana Scully lived here," Mulder stumbled over his apologies.
As he turned to go, the man's reply stopped him. "Dana? Yeah, she's here? What do you want with her? Are you a cop?" the man narrowed his eyes at Mulder suspiciously.
"No, I'm not a cop. I used to know Dana."
The man grunted a response. Mulder stood waiting for the man to actually speak. "She's out right now, you can wait until she gets back."
Mulder peered into the apartment suspiciously. "Um, okay. How long should she be?"
"How the hell should I know?!" the man asked, unusually incredulous.
Mulder sat at the kitchen table, unable to comprehend that Scully lived in this…dump. Dirty dishes and half-empty beer bottles littered the countertops. Three bags of garbage stood by the overflowing garbage can. And that…man, whoever the hell he is, sounded like he was, well, "indisposed," for a lack of a better term. That fact that he had company, besides the blonde, did to serve to quiet the noise coming from the bedroom.
Twenty minutes later, Mulder was awakened from his reverie by the turning of the deadbolt latch. A hunched over person, loaded with shopping bags, entered the apartment. Mulder hoped against hope that the person standing with his or her back to him was not Scully. No such luck.
"Jack, I'm home," the woman said as she knocked on the bedroom door. Thirty seconds later, Jack came out of the bedroom, zipping up his jeans. The blonde sneered at the other woman as she walked around the other two and out the apartment door.
"Digya get the beer?" the man asked.
The woman nodded and placed three of the four brown paper bags on the floor. "Five six packs."
"Oh, you got company," Jack said offhandedly when he saw Mulder standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the main room. The woman whirled around, taking off her oversized sunglasses. Mulder's stomach lurched. The woman sucked in a breath before turning around to face Jack.
Mulder finally spoke. "Dana?"
Scully nodded, her back still towards him.
"Are you, are you…" Mulder trailed off as she turned to face him, unable to utter "okay."
She stared at the carpet in front of his shoes.
Jack, unaware of the situation before him, popped open a beer and slumped into the recliner.
"Is he..your…husband?" Mulder asked.
"Uh huh," Scully replied.
"Can we, uh, talk, somewhere…" Mulder once again left his words hanging in the air. With no indication whatsoever that she had heard him, she turned and walked into the bedroom.
Mulder followed her, but Jack's voice stopped him.
"Dana!" the man hollered, "I want half of whatever he gives you for your services!"
Once again, Mulder felt like vomiting. Scully continued to avoid eye contact. He fought the urge to punch the pig that sat in the recliner, and instead grabbed Scully's hand and took her out into the hall.
He closed the apartment door behind them and watched as the 9 flipped upside down into a crooked 6. Scully watched the rusty number swing as if it was the most exciting thing in the world. No one spoke.
Finally, Mulder waved his hand in the air as if about to demand an explanation, but his arm fell mid-wave. His shoulders slumped to match hers. "I'm taking you away from here," he concluded.
Scully nodded.
Mulder stared at the broken woman in front of him. He could not comprehend that this was the remainder of his strong, assertive, competent parter.
And he did not know what to do.