Every one is the same—the same threadbare comforter over the same scratchy polyester blanket. The same reproduction oil painting covering the same stains on the same ripped wallpaper. The same standard-issue sheets, thin and faded, the color of ghosts. The same broken air conditioning in the same unending summer heat.
The myriad of ugly motel rooms blur together in a patchwork of everything they've lost; their jobs, their freedom, their son.
She turns over, tries not to disturb him, but it's impossible; the bed echoes every movement tenfold, down to the very vibration of her discontent. They're expert at pretending to sleep.
She counts three months on the run at midnight, an anniversary of sorts. Three months of hiding and driving and fucking. They're expert at all of that, too.
He sighs in his not-sleep, and she stares at the ceiling. It would be easy to hate him, and sometimes she wonders if she does, but she tries not to think about it. He is all she has.
Her scalp itches, a paltry distraction, and she imagines bedbugs, fleas, and lice. She checks religiously, and there's no sign; only dry skin, protesting the chocolate brown layered on bleach blonde layered on chestnut, washed with cheap motel soap.
She lets herself fantasize about her old clawfoot tub, filled to the brim with scented oil and bubbles, the luxury of a bottle of Aveda to massage into her over-processed locks, for a conditioner that doesn't reek of cheap perfume.
Mulder's arm comes around her, and he must truly be asleep, because he doesn't hold her like this in waking hours. Like magnets, their bodies draw closer without their consent, and she wakes to find her legs entwined with his, her head pillowed on his shoulder, seeking comfort and familiarity despite the godawful heat.
He's clean and smells of home; the only trace of her former life in this faceless room, unless you count the few belongings she keeps in her suitcase. Always packed, always by the door, in case they need to run.
She shifts, restless, finally peeling his arm off her shoulders to go to the bathroom, for no other reason than to be alone with her thoughts. The door sticks, the lock is broken, and she doesn't bother turning on the light.
She sits on the toilet seat, staring at the wall until memories manifest in the shadows, her mind compensating for the lack of light. She shuts her eyes, but the images persist, and every single one looks like him. She wonders if there will ever be a time when she doesn't close her eyes and see him—his face, wide-eyed and solemn as a stranger buckled him into a car seat that wasn't his, and drove him away in a car that wasn't hers.
She muffles the sob that follows with a towel, pressing it to her face until all she can smell is dust and bleach. Three months, and they haven't spoken his name.
William.
The same mildewed bathroom in the same old motel. The same tears shed into the same thin white terry cloth, and the same hollow ache in her heart.