Six
Mulder held his breath as he pushed the door open. The room itself was large enough to be comfortable in a run-down motel room kind of way. A small desk was against one wall beside the filter, and another stand beside the desk was loaded with gas lamps and battery-powered torches. Shelves bracketed against the opposite wall contained everything from food, water and vitamins to first aid, matches and batteries. Crossword books and novels filled one entire shelf. Underneath and alongside the shelving were fifteen eskies, each with enough food and water for two people rationing carefully to survive for one month. Ammunition and weapons were also stored in locked boxes at the very top of the shelves.
It was a basic but complete survivalist bunker. Scully had supervised the entire operation to ensure the provisions there would keep them as healthy as possible should they need to spend a long amount of time underground. There was enough floor space for basic exercises like sit-ups or jumping around, and Mulder remembered cracking a joke about the sort of exercise they could both indulge in thanks to the comfortable bed they had set up. No expense had been spared, though Mulder suspected the reality of actually living there was far from penthouse luxury.
His shoes crunched underfoot as he stepped into the bunker, and he turned his torch downwards. He was standing on a concrete base covered with sand, though not very much considering what he knew to be overhead. He looked upwards with the help of his light. There were no signs of damage to the metal-plated ceiling and no sand appeared to be trickling in from anywhere. His only conclusion was that it had been tracked in by Scully as she made trips above-ground. He hoped she had waited long enough. Gibson had said about a month, and they had waited a week on top of that. None of them had gotten sick, but what if Scully had left earlier?
Mulder's train of thought was thankfully interrupted by the striking of a match behind him. John, Monica and Gibson had come into the bunker behind him and Monica was leaning over to light one of the gas lamps. It cast a dim yet penetrating glow over the room. It was eerie and silent, and the air was stale. Their torches were turned off.
Mulder crouched down to examine the filter by the desk on the other side of his friends. It looked in good order. He flipped the switch and it gurgled to life, humming steadily once it had warmed up. It was strange to hear any sort of mechanical noise. It had been months since they had heard anything more mechanical than the tick of their analogue watches, which in and of itself had been enough to almost drive Mulder mad with frustration. Time was no longer relevant, and could be measured only by the little date on some of their watches and the size of Monica's belly.
"Got a bin for the match?" she asked as he stood up. He nodded silently, pointing to the three large barrels in the far corner of the room. They were black, cylindrical and imposing, but far enough out of the way that it was hard to really notice them in the soft light. There was a small twist-latch on the top of each which would allow the bin to be opened without needing to remove the entire lid. The opening would allow a can or bottle-sized piece of rubbish through it easily.
"Is it going to smell?" John asked before Monica could act.
"What do you reckon?" Mulder scoffed. Monica, as usual, remained calm and rapped her knuckles lightly into each.
"It's all right," she declared, gesturing to the right bin. "I think this one is empty or near-empty. Hold your breath." She opened the lid quickly and dropped the match in, twisting the lock back into place within seconds. She then waited a couple of seconds before allowing herself to breathe. She smelt nothing but stale air and knew she had picked correctly. "Nice to see I've still got it," she added with a smile, turning back to them.
Mulder turned his attention back to the desk he was still standing beside. The wooden chair was pushed as far in as possible, but the nearby lamp had illuminated something he had missed very much. He reached down and removed a long, orange hair from the edge of the chair, holding it up and testing its length and strength with his fingers. Her hair was so thick and soft, he remembered. He loved the way it got all wavy when it rained. He loved the way it had lightened with age. Age and the occasional blonde highlight, he conceded with a nostalgic smile.
Mulder resisted the urge to pocket the hair. Scully would think that was way too creepy. Instead he let it go and it drifted back to the desk as though in slow motion.
"I just noticed somethin'," John stated, daring to break the respectful silence Mulder had unconsciously requested.
"Yes John?" he asked, his voice soft and emotional.
"Did you have clothes and stuff here? You got everything else, but what about toiletries and underwear and stuff?"
"Under the bed," Mulder answered, looking at it. It was the first time he had really allowed himself to 'see' the piece of furniture which took up a large portion of the room. Finally, Mulder gave himself permission to look at the double bed. Scully was not in it, which was a good thing. The covers were neatly drawn, and it looked as though she had cleaned up before leaving. Just to be certain, Mulder dropped to his knees and reached under the thin, cotton valance. He withdrew a large wooden box with an open top, which he had built to fit exactly underneath the proportions of the bed.
Inside was one purple backpack with black strapping. He lifted it out onto the floor, his friends backing away to give him room. The sound of the heavy-duty zipper echoed despite the hum of the filter. Inside the pack were his belongings he had chosen to store; clothes and toiletries.
"Christmas comes but once a year," he quipped, more to himself than the others. "She has left," he then declared with certainty. "Her pack is gone. It was identical to mine, but orange."
"What was in it?" Monica asked.
"Whatever she could carry," he answered with a sigh, sitting on his heels and looking at the bed from mattress-height. A few more orange hairs caught his attention. He pushed the box back under the bed and then shoved his pack out of the way, allowing him to then get up and perch on the quilt. His hand rested in the centre of the bed, as though he was trying to feel her. If she had been there, he might have rested his hand on her hip, and she would have turned to him and smiled a lazy, content smile.
'Time to go?'
After they had fled, while they had run and before they had settled, he had disturbed her rest in that manner so many times. He had never had to say anything; one look shared and they both had always just known. Mulder knew he would never find that connection with another person. Not in what was left of his life. And in the next, that person would still be Scully. It had to be. He could never really let her go. He wanted her for always.
Mulder frowned when he pressed down on the quilt only to be met by something much firmer than the pliant mattress he had been expecting. He stood and pulled the covers back somewhat theatrically, tossing them to the floor and revealing the mother-load of messages left behind.
For him.
The first item that caught his attention was a copy of the Bible, the Old and New Testaments bound together with leather.
'No survivalist camp is complete without it, Scully.'
'It's not complete without Playboy either, Mulder. I still say no to your porn.'
'I won't need Playboy. You'll be 'right there'! Wait until you see the bed I ordered.'
She had rolled her eyes and turned away from him then, but before she had thought of a decent comeback he had rushed her from behind, planting a loud, wet kiss on her cheek once she was securely in his grasp. She had giggled and leant back into him, raising a coy eyebrow and smiling curiously.
'Does it have Magic Fingers, Mulder?'
'No, but I do.'
Mulder let his memory fade as he opened the cover of the Bible with a cautious fingertip. He had to hunch slightly from his standing position. She had written in it, and the sight of her familiar cursive broke his heart.
My touchstone.
'You are my rock,' he had told her once. More than once. His constant, his touchstone.
When he had first spoken those words to her, she had pressed her lips to his forehead in a long, lingering kiss that had left him speechless. She had been so close to him that day, resting her forehead against his, sharing his space, his pain. Their souls had been joined in that moment just as they always were when he felt their foreheads touch and their noses align. There was a spirituality in the way they connected that Mulder had never had with another, and yet it had always felt so familiar and natural.
He knew instinctively that in the moment she had written those two words on the inside of the Bible she had remembered that same memory. She had brought sad news with her that day, but time had healed any pain he had felt. Now he only remembered that moment, and the way she had smiled at him when he had woken to find her coaxing him back to her. It was a blurred, disjointed memory but it was there. She had brought him back as gently yet as persistently as the shore caressed the coast on a calm summer's day.
Oh Scully, Mulder thought with a sigh. I'd give anything to see you roll your eyes at that inadequate analogy! I'd give anything to see you smile just once more before I die.
Mulder let his eyes leave the Bible, for there were other items that called to him more. He was simply afraid to reach for the paper with his name on it, which rested on top of a thick, spiral notebook.
Fox. She had addressed her note to Fox, not Mulder. She called him by his first name so rarely, and it had never, ever been used by her in anger. For so long he had associated his name and its use with harsh, pained tones; from his parents, from particularly brash or harsh ex-lovers. He had never seen his name as one that commanded respect or genuine affection.
The first time Scully had used it she had sounded so young. She had been young. He had heard genuine affection in her voice and it had scared him. He had brushed her off, unsettled by the way his stomach had turned with surprise and perhaps desire. Not in a carnal sense, but a desire to be known by her, to be accepted and trusted by her. He had liked her and had decided his new partner was worth keeping around, for her intelligence and company, for the passion he could see behind her professionally guarded expression.
He could not have let her go on calling him Fox. She would have eventually used it in anger, and he would have pushed her away. In looking back on that moment, he had already figured out that even though he had tried at the start, he had never really wanted to push her away. He had wanted to share his beliefs with her. He still did.
But Scully had started calling him Fox again, after his release and their escape, first from the military prison and then from New Mexico, nearly ten years since they had met. She only ever called him Fox when they were intimate, in bed or sharing a quiet conversation, and contrary to all the hatred and disappointment he had associated with his name in his youth, whenever it passed her lips it was spoken with love, passion, respect, and trust.
Yeah, real trustworthy 'Fox', he taunted silently. She could really depend on you in the end, eh?
Mulder lifted the note from the bed and unfolded it. He remained standing with his back turned to the three people standing behind him. The note was a single sheet of notepaper folded into quarters, and she had written with a black pen.
Mulder,
If you are reading this, know that I am very, very pissed off with you! Do you KNOW how long I've been down here? That being said, I don't think you will ever read this, and I'm not mad at all, my darling. I should never have let you go that night. I was too tired to stop you.
I've left you my Bible (I took the Playboy, so there) and my journal I have kept down here. I want you to have both. I had a LOT of free time. I have explored the town and everyone is dead, everyone but Yours Truly. I can only assume you are amongst them. Still, a sliver of hope is allowing me to write this.
I am headed to DC. I will follow the main roads. I do not think it will be dangerous, for I see no signs of life at all. Even the trees are gone. Is this how you felt when you made that wish for peace and life disappeared from around you?
Anyway, I want to find mom, so DC it is. When I think about where I might end my life to join you in the next, I can think of nowhere more fitting than our basement – if it still exists. I do not know how long the trip will take me or what may happen along the way.
I just want to be with you Mulder. It's all I ever wanted. Take care of my journal, for it is my heart that I am leaving behind for you. God, that sounds pathetic doesn't it? What would dad say? Hey, maybe when I see you next, you'll have that peg-leg. Can't wait.
Ps. I am taking our photos but I left Samantha for you upstairs; in my haste I forgot to bring her with me. I'm sorry. I have left you one of me. Hopefully it will make you smile.
I love you Fox. Thank you for sharing yourself with me.
Forever yours,
Dana.
Mulder sank to his knees on the cold floor and let his forehead rest weakly on the mattress. Loud, strangled sobs fought their way from inside him, clawing at his throat and blocking his sinuses with tears. His abdomen clenched in pain and the letter fell from his hands as his fingers clutched at the bedspread. It still smelled like her.
Monica approached Mulder and leant over only to retrieve the abandoned letter. She then hurriedly backed away and John followed. They huddled near the lamp to read, but Gibson remained a silent observer. He had no use for the letter; he had heard it in Mulder's mind as he had read, though he had heard Scully's voice as Mulder had heard her. He had heard her part with him one last time.
'When I think about where I might end my life to join you in the next. Take care of my journal. It is my heart. For you.'
She was dead, Mulder thought, allowing the words of her letter to settle at the forefront of his mind. She was dead. It had been three months since they had come. She had left long ago, and it would not have taken a very long time to walk to DC if she had been healthy; maybe a week if she slept regularly at night. She was dead.
Dead. Dead. Suicide. Dead.
"I'm so sorry Mulder," Monica whispered eventually. Mulder did not know how long he had been crying or how long since he had stopped. His tongue felt swollen and his throat ached; he could not speak. "What photo did she leave?" Monica asked.
Mulder knew to return to the Bible. He sat on the bed facing the door but kept his head bowed as he fingered the delicate pages of the book now resting in his lap. He knew she had taken comfort from its words, the origins of those words irrelevant to her in the end.
A page was folded and his heart lurched in his chest. Opening to the spot, the photo was turned down, and Psalm 27 was circled. He put the photo beside him for afterwards. He knew instinctively Scully had wanted him to read first, and he was surprised to hear his own scratchy, broken voice as he read passages of the text aloud as he quickly skimmed it for any hidden meaning.
"The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? Though a host encamp against me, my heart shall not fear. Though war rise against me, yet I will be confident. For he will hide me in his shelter in the day of trouble; he will conceal me under the cover of his tent; he will set me high upon a rock. I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage."
A long period of silence enclosed him as he finished and then reread the words silently.
He found the meaning he had sought easily. The war they had fought for so many years, the shelter he had built for her, her concealment underground, her freedom, and finally her message to him to stay strong for her, for them.
She had asked him not give up on the goodness of people, to not give up on life, but in a way that made no sense to Mulder. She had gone to DC thinking about ending her own life, so what was she doing telling him to have faith? Where was her faith? Had she really left it all behind on the slim chance that he would return to seek it? Had she taken no comfort from the very words she had intended to comfort him?
"Did she want you to read that?" John asked. Mulder nodded, folding the page of the Bible back down and shutting the book. He would ponder Scully's motivations in private later, he decided, though he knew instinctively by her recommended reading she had not left in a truly suicidal state. She had been contemplative and sad, and she was stubborn when she decided to do something, but in leaving that note she had reassured him that at the time of writing it, she had not yet been ready for the end.
He chewed on his bottom lip cautiously as he reached for the picture, almost forgotten amidst the confusion he felt as her partner and as a psychologist. What had she meant? Had she been serious? She had taken her pack, so he knew she had the means to end her life with her, but to then proclaim her confidence against the war to him through a Psalm was a direct contradiction to her own written intention to surrender.
Mulder shut his eyes and took a deep breath, ridding his mind of all thoughts, before simultaneously turning the picture over in his hand and opening his eyes.
He started to laugh. Scully did not have many photos of her past, but her mother had given her a handful when they had met briefly in New York to assure her of their safety despite the vanishing act and long absence.
The photo in front of him was beautiful. Scully was perhaps only four, and her blue overalls and white t-shirt were smeared with brightly coloured paint. She had a smudge of pink on her white chin, and her plump, red lips were pursed in mock anger. Her dirty hands were up by her head and in a clawed position. Mulder remembered seeing the photo in the album. 'Dana, the lion cub,' he had teased. But she had grown up to be a pretty imposing lioness, in his mind; fiercely protective, intelligent, a hunter, a fighter, frightening in anger and a compassionate, humorous preserver. A preserver of his life.
She had picked the perfect picture. He could almost hear the little growl from between her tiny lips. He could see the tilt of those lips and the twinkle in her blue eyes, which at that age seemed so wide and large against her small face. Her red hair was wild and curly about her head. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. So cute, he sighed.
Four year old Dana had been teasing even then, playing up to the camera, amused by her mother's interest and her own abilities, uninhibited and absolutely covered in paint.
She really must have been a handful back then, he thought. Poor Maggie. He marvelled at both the wisdom and innocence in Scully's expression, and he allowed himself the brief fantasy that had their lives been completely different, he might have been staring not at a picture of his partner in her youth, but of their beloved daughter.
"Can I see it?" Gibson asked suddenly. They were the first words he had spoken in a long time. Mulder realised Gibson had been listening to all his thoughts, and was probably desperately intrigued. Reluctantly, Mulder parted with the photo. Gibson swallowed a laugh when he saw it and quickly handed it to Monica. John looked on beside her.
"That's the most adorable thing I've ever seen," Monica gushed, her maternal instincts in high gear. "Look at that curly red hair and that face. Oh Mulder, she's beautiful." Monica handed the photo back with a wide but sad smile. "Is it all right if I sit down?" she asked. Mulder had a brief moment of clarity in which he realised his three friends had been standing the whole time, for however long that had been.
"Jeez, of course Mon," he insisted, gesturing to the end of the bed. "Hey John, that desk drawer you're near, what's in it?" The drawer slid out easily on its runner and John hummed thoughtfully as he observed.
"A big pencil case, it looks full, and some scattered sharpening from pencils. Uh, there's a calculator, a few clocks and a calendar."
"Is it marked?" he asked. Scully had not mentioned time in her letter. John retrieved the cheap paper calendar and looked it over closer to the lamplight.
"Yeah, it's marked off for nearly five weeks after it happened, but I wouldn't be surprised if she lost track of a day or two down here all on her own. Why'd all the clocks be in the drawer? How did you know?"
"Watching time can make you crazy," Mulder sighed. "Let's uh, get all this stuff back upstairs. She's not coming back. I'd rather open this book um...upstairs."
xxx
That night Mulder looked up from his position on the couch when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Monica's lean legs appeared in his torchlight wrapped in familiar denim and she approached him cautiously, one of her hands caressing the swell of her abdomen.
"Still up?" she asked. "I thought I'd come down to throw a blanket over you."
"I'm reading," he sighed, leaning back against the cushions and covering his face with large hands. He dragged his fingers over his cheeks and through his thick, brown beard in an effort to wake himself up. "John asleep?"
"He could sleep through a hurricane. Me getting up is no big deal," she assured him. "I, on the other hand, am having a bit more trouble."
"Oh?" Mulder asked, concerned as she sat down next to him and rested her hands back on her belly where her shirt had ridden up. "Anything more serious than heartburn?"
"No heartburn. He's moving around a lot, that's all. It's distracting." Mulder laughed. Monica had been referring to the baby as a boy for about a month, and she seemed content and positive about the whole process despite the lack of any medical exams past an initial consultation prior to the invasion. Gibson had not even known she had been pregnant. Neither he nor Mulder had been prepared for that news, delivered in haste. Mulder hoped Monica's instincts were right and all was well. For all their sakes. "So how is the book?" she asked seriously, gesturing to the spiral notebook now closed in his lap.
"Thorough," he answered. "Scully always wrote thorough reports, she liked her written records and she told me she kept a diary when she was young for a while. In this one, she's tried to keep track of dates. At the start it's mostly letters to me about what she witnessed, and how we left things. How she wanted it to be instead of how it was. There are stories from her childhood she never told me. Funny things. Things that changed her. Then it turns into a recount of all these cases we worked together, sharing her memories of those experiences and telling me things she might not have had the chance to say."
"I see," Monica whispered sadly, shivering with grief.
"She got pretty sad for a long while," Mulder shared. "She was lonely, but she was healthy. She kept records of what she ate and drank and how she felt. And then, when she got the courage to go outside about a month in, she made drawings, sketches of the sand and the bodies. She wrote down medical notes, possible theories. She tried to find explanations for what she had seen, to reconcile it with what she knew. This book, it's like...a mixture of everything she is. It's beautiful and smart, but she was so lonely."
"Could I see the drawings?" Monica asked, not game to ask to read any of Scully's private thoughts. Mulder nodded, sliding closer to her on the couch. He hoped she understood why he had to keep holding the journal. Scully had entrusted it to him as the most precious part of herself; he would never let it go.
He let Monica flick through various entries, poems, doodles and stories Scully had shared with him. Towards the end it was as though Scully had suddenly remembered she had coloured and lead pencils at her disposal, for the small pen doodles in the margins had become large drawings, in colour and black and white.
"I didn't know Dana could draw," Monica whispered, staring at a picture of the house amidst sand. A female figure was in the foreground, sketching, and though her back was partially turned and her head bowed, it was an incredible likeness. Scully had drawn herself into the picture as though she had been outside herself. Perhaps that was a reflection of how she had really felt, Monica recognised.
"I didn't know either," Mulder admitted softly, his voice filled with shame. "I never asked." Monica flicked the page.
"Is that the photo from upstairs?" she asked. Mulder nodded. Scully had copied the photo in a full page colour pencil sketch. He had never seen a more welcome sight in all his life. It was a near perfect, though casual, replication. Scully was beaming at him from under her Knicks cap, and his arms were around her. He was smiling too. "You both look so happy," Monica commented gently, noting the words down the bottom.
'Sorry I took the real thing Fox...and the Knicks rule all.'
"Yes," Mulder hissed, his eyes and nose stinging. He had smiled the first few times he had seen the picture and read the apology, but tears were fast approaching. He tried to focus on Monica, on letting her in. He needed to talk. "We were getting there, still running at that stage, but we were very happy. It was an emotional time. You wanna see my favourite?" He sounded so hopeful and innocent Monica could not refuse him. Mulder was not easily drawn into conversation about Scully, he held his emotions close, and in making such an offer he was giving her a gift she would treasure forever.
She smiled, nodding and allowing him to turn the page. The drawing was on the very last page. Monica could not believe Scully had filled more than two hundred pages in just one month. She had obviously said every last thing she had needed to say, the completion inadequate only because she would never say those things to his face, and because she would never know that he came back for her.
Monica did not fight her tears as she looked at the last drawing. It was so simple and small. It took up only a quarter of the page, top left. Using lead pencil, Scully had sketched two figures holding one another. The tall man's head was bowed and his hand cradled the shorter woman's head to his chest. Her face had been drawn facing away, her long hair loose beneath his fingers. There were no distinctive facial features visible, but Monica could see from the posture of the couple and the way they had been drawn that it was Mulder and Scully. Even without colour to redden the woman's hair it looked like them. Monica could feel Scully as she observed the sketch. She could see her drawing it.
Around the drawing, Scully had concluded her journal with the neatly written lyrics to Amazing Grace, penned in black ink. Towards the end, a patch of the paper was slightly uneven and Monica let her fingertip graze it. It felt tougher than the rest of the pages. Water damage, she determined; just a drop or two smudging the final words to the song.
"I wonder," Mulder whispered, his voice pained. He had seen Monica touch the spot he had also touched before she had come downstairs. "If she cried when she wrote this."
"If we are," Monica answered. "Then I think she did. I think she cried a lot."
"She wrote that a few times," he admitted. She could barely hear him. "I lost her Monica. I lost her."
Monica helped him close the book as he broke down, not wanting it damaged by any more tears. She wrapped an arm around Mulder and held him tightly, pressing her own face to his shoulder and weeping softly against his warm shirt. They cried together for several minutes until Mulder ran short of breath and Monica short of tears. She tried to cover a sudden yawn but failed, and Mulder smiled at her tenderly.
"You should go to bed mommy," he reasoned.
"I feel uncomfortable in your bed," Monica mumbled, blushing. "It's her bed too. I can't sleep there."
"Well I'm not slipping between the sheets with Doggett," he teased. Monica only stared at him helplessly, her brown eyes wide and begging. "Okay," he continued. "You can have the couch, and I'll sleep on the floor."
"Mulder, no!" she gasped. "No, I-I-I'll go back upstairs, I-"
"It's okay, I'm up," Gibson interrupted from above them. "Monica, you have the spare room if you want, and I'll sleep with John. Just be warned the mattress isn't very good."
"Thank you Gibson," Mulder called only a second before Gibson disappeared to his new room. "I think we woke him."
"Poor kid," Monica sighed, rubbing her face tiredly. "You know I'm surprised you even have a spare room."
"It's a dodgy single Scully sometimes crashed in if she was on call. Apparently it was just too hard to drag herself out of her real, ultra-comfortable bed at two in the morning."
"I can imagine," Monica groaned. Wasn't it about that time now, she wondered? "Will you be all right down here by yourself?" she asked. Mulder nodded. "I mean it," she warned, though her voice was soft. "Get some sleep."
xxx
Gibson was sitting at Mulder and Scully's kitchen bench the next morning, watching John and Monica prepare breakfast, which consisted of tomato soup heated on the kitchen's gas stove. They rarely got hot meals and everyone was excited. Everyone but Mulder, Gibson knew, who could not have cared less. Monica was nibbling on a cracker as she leant against the sink supervising John's stirring, when Gibson finally spoke up.
"No," he stated, staring at her. John turned around in surprise and Monica grimaced. She had that determined look in her eye, John realised. Whatever it was Gibson was against, Monica was going down fighting. "No way," Gibson emphasised.
"Oh come on," Monica argued. "What's the harm?"
"What's the harm?" Gibson scoffed. "It's insane. He's not going to find her Monica."
"How do you know?" she pressed, gesturing outside the kitchen window to where Mulder was walking aimlessly around his desert backyard. "Look at him! He needs this."
"It would take too much time, and Scully wrote that letter nearly two months ago, probably while we were busy first voting on whether or not to come here."
"Hang on," John interrupted. "Mon, you're not suggesting we go to DC are ya?"
"No," she replied, surprising him. "I think you and Mulder should go. It would only take a few weeks. Gibson and I can stay here. It will give us all some space, and John I know you have your differences with Mulder, but you'd be helping him. Look at him okay? He's like a lost dog wandering around out there. He has no idea what to do with himself."
"We should head south as planned-" he started, but was quickly cut off.
"We'd never make it," she huffed. "I'm six months pregnant John. It took us maybe more than two months to get here, nearly twice as long as we thought it would because I was so sick at the start. I'm not sick anymore but it will take that same amount of time to get back, maybe even more, seeing as how I'm not as fast as I used to be and I'll just get slower. It would be much easier to make that trip with a baby on the outside. I think we should stay here or near here until then, and since that's decided, it makes sense for you and Mulder to clear out for a while and just, I don't know, get some headspace."
"Look I like the guy Monica," he replied. "And I like the way you just 'decided' all of that, but I don't wanna go with Mulder to look for Scully. Why can't Gibson go with him? Gibson is his mate."
"Gibson needs space too," Monica reminded him softly, causing John to stare at Gibson, who blushed. "Don't forget a few years ago he spent months alone with Mulder in what I can imagine was only a slightly more optimistic frame of mind. You and Mulder are also the strongest and fittest. You would make much better time without us." John sighed.
"Food's ready anyway. You better go and bring him in then."
xxx
Monica smiled hopefully at Mulder after explaining her idea.
"Me and John," he stated thoughtfully, eyeing John briefly. John looked more caught off-guard than unwilling.
"Yeah," Monica continued, as positively as possible. "You never know Mulder. Coming here got you so much. You might find something else. Gibson and I will be fine here. It's not a long walk to town considering, and Scully said everyone was dead, so we shouldn't run into any trouble."
"You know the consequences of what you're suggesting though, right?" Mulder asked. "It means that me, John and Gibson, when you went into labour, we'd be...it."
"Pretty sure I'd be there too," she teased. "I'm not afraid. I trust you all, and everything will be just fine."
"None of us knows anything about having kids," Gibson stated cautiously. "If something went wrong we wouldn't know what to do. However...Monica is right. I don't think we would make it across the border before then anyway, and certainly not to safety."
"Yes!" Monica declared with a wide grin. "So I win? That was way easy!" She laughed as John rolled his eyes. Even Mulder smirked, and it was the first real reaction he had given them all day. "So the two of you can leave tomorrow then," she added.
"When did you become the boss?" John teased. Monica pressed her lips together coyly.
"Oh please," she hummed. "But there is a condition, Mulder."
"What's that?" Mulder asked curiously. Monica levelled him with an insightful, serious gaze not dissimilar to the one Gibson was displaying.
"Only John takes a weapon," she told him. "And you come home. Back here. Alive."
"Monica-"
"Alive," she repeated insistently. "Am I understood?" Mulder sighed, but nodded. She was right, he realised. He had started this mess; he had to see it through and live with the consequences. Scully had followed him for years. It was time he followed her.