Chapter Text
There’s a lot to talk about, those first few weeks on the run. Not just logistics – where are we going, who will we be when we get there – but feelings, which, to them, are honestly scarier than the impending alien apocalypse. Why didn’t you just come home? How much do you hate me, Scully? Was this worth it?
They don’t talk about any of those things.
Those first few weeks are aimless. Except for their visits to various safety deposit boxes and storage units, filled with cash and forged papers and everything else to be associated with a life on the run, their route is convoluted, a mess of dirt roads and cracked-out towns that don’t appear on any maps. They’re heading vaguely east. They’re heading vaguely north. It’s harder to foil the plot when there is no plot to foil. So they don’t create one.
They’re kinder to each other. Gentle. Those first few weeks. The sensitivity training they went through at the Bureau comes in handy; they exploit those hard-earned tactics with a tenderness they will, upon looking back, both cringe and marvel at. They hold hands, he’s always kissing her face. With the exception of a single night, a stolen thing marked in their memories forever by the scents of breast milk and baby powder, their first month on the run is the most in love they have ever allowed themselves to be.
Mulder is a sentimental fool, though, who wishes beyond reason they had afforded themselves this luxury before, when it wasn’t a necessity.
***
They don’t stand out at the Salvation Army thrift store, with his five o’clock shadow and her sleep-rumpled sweater. Everything feels more dangerous this way, like they’re hiding in plain sight. They want to be in and out. They’re just picking up more blankets and a better cooler for the long drive ahead.
But it feels too good to be out of the car, out of a motel room, so they end up taking their time. He thumbs through novels they’ll read to each other in the car, anything, horror, romance, sci-fi, mystery, historical fiction. Young adult. They giggle through the bodice rippers and she tears the science fiction apart. One time, Mulder was halfway through Roald Dahl’s The BFG before Scully had begged him to stop through clenched teeth.
He throws a few books in his shopping basket and finds her looking through the women’s clothing. Pasting himself along the firm lines of her back, he reaches out to stop her hands from flipping past a truly horrible leopard-print slip.
“You know what I like,” he says lasciviously. She slaps his hands away and rolls her eyes.
“Help me find sleep clothes. I didn’t pack enough.”
Silently they search together, wondering at how terribly the store managed to sort everything. All the sizes blend together and Mulder finds girls’ bathing suits mixed in with work slacks.
It’s a while before something catches his eye, certainly not sleep clothes. He pulls it from the rack to inspect it more thoroughly.
It’s a brown skirt suit, something Scully would’ve worn maybe two years into their working partnership. It’s neatly pressed and smells like detergent, but there are small holes in the jacket pockets and the plaid skirt frays at the hem. Looking at it, he remembers her fluffy hair and her darker lipstick. Her hands on her hips while she looks on at him an exasperation untinged by world-weariness. Even her voice was lighter then, higher pitched, a sound that had annoyed and delighted him to no end.
“It’ll be too big,” Scully warns from behind him. Taking the garment from his hands, she studies it with a wary eye. “And it’s not my color.”
“Just like old times - hey!” He giggles and arches back when she elbows him sharply. But then a sincerity spreads over him like whitewash and he tries hard to hold her gaze. “Get it.”
For a moment she doesn’t answer, letting her eyes travel the worn, gaudy fabric. She seems to be remembering something, too. When she finally responds, it is only with a stiff nod, and the pair haul all of their findings off to the cash register.
***
At their motel room that night, they microwave their dinner and play cards until Scully throws them all on the floor. It’s a joke for sure, but it’s meant to cover up what a sore loser she really is. Mulder imagines little Dana upending a Monopoly board onto the ground in a huff, her brothers yelling at her and Melissa laughing until she cries, and promises himself to pick that game up before their life on the run comes to its most likely devastating end. She’ll kill him. He looks forward to it.
She brings up the suit while he’s playing 52 pick-up and she’s treating his bent-over back like a footrest. “So when am I wearing this thing? Don’t tell me we’re meeting Skinner.”
He bucks her legs off of him like he’s a wild bull, luxuriating in her surprised, breathy laughter. Crawling over to her and resting his chin on her knees, he tries to look as seductive as possible. She raises an eyebrow in suspicion. “Mulder?”
“I was thinking… tonight.” The kisses he presses to the tops of her thighs are in no way meant to be persuasive, no way, not him. He rubs his stubbled cheek against a sliver of belly peeking out from under her t-shirt. “Before we cross state lines.”
Before they cross state lines. Before she loses her name and dyes her hair is his unspoken truth. The box of dye sits in her duffel bag with all of her other on-the-run purchases. She tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls him a little closer, so his face is tucked underneath her breasts.
“I’m assuming you have a particular scenario in mind, then.”
When she’s in his brain he feels it, a pleasant pressure, her high heels clicking over synapses and nervous tissue like they have done in basement hallways. And isn’t that what this is really all about?
He tells her his scenario.
***
“So, what is this?” She’s standing before him in heels and cheap pantyhose and his mouth is too dry to really respond. The suit looks just as frumpy as they used to and it makes his heart flutter a little, like he’s just seen a cute kitten. A sexy kitten. One he wants to fuck into next week. “I walk into the office and - what? Drop to my knees? Give you hints to my completely uncharacteristic lack of panties?”
“Miss Scully, where are your underpants?” He chastises. Running his hands up the back of her skirt and finds her to be true to her word, finds nothing but hose. And soft skin. Soft, wonderful skin. “That wasn’t part of the game.”
“Oh, Agent Mulder, you look so tense,” she coos, leaning over him to rub at his shoulders. He laughs throatily and bats her away, slipping his hands out from under her skirt to rest on her hips.
“That’s not what this is about, no. You’re not… seducing me, so to speak.” She starts playing with his tie anyway, the little tease. “Scully. We’re working. On a case. This isn’t professional.”
“Gonna report me to HR?” Her little kisses on the top of his head, the only part of him he’s letting her reach, might ruin this whole thing. He pushes her away.
“You’re at your workstation, I’m at mine,” he starts, straightening his tie and fixing his hair. She’s pouting as she walks backwards to her makeshift work table, played by Random Motel Nightstand #3. “We just finished a slideshow.”
“Trying to set the mood, Mulder? You shouldn’t have.”
“Yes, and the slideshow is about…” he pauses to look at the tabloid magazine in front of him. “Severed Legs Hop to Hospital.”
“Oh no,” she groans.
“That’s the spirit!”
“Are you telling me you used Weekly World News to find cases for us? For legitimate work purposes? You didn’t. Right?”
“Scully, when the entire world refuses to believe you, where might you turn for the slightest chance at validation? These people are desperate, tired of being ridiculed - “
“I’m being serious, Mulder. Did or did you not find cases in Weekly World News and convince me to defend their legitimacy to Skinner? Because if you did, I swear - “
“No, I didn’t,” he lies. Now he’s wondering how these severed legs hopped over to that hospital and her feathers are getting ruffled and they’re both ridiculously off topic. “Anyway, we’ve seen this before. Or something like it. Leonard Betts?”
“He regrew his body,” Scully points out. “That’s different. Does the article say anything about regeneration?”
“Um,” he scans the article for a second and finds nothing about spontaneous limb regeneration. “No, it doesn’t. I don’t think it’s exactly the same thing, but the cases show similarities. I don’t think this is a case of regeneration, though. Some squid and octopi-”
“Octopuses,” Scully supplies.
“Some squid and octopuses, after death, still reach out and suck at anything they interpret as prey. Even upon removal, octopus tentacles will wiggle around and try to bring food to their phantom mouths. It’s a standard party trick at several high-class Japanese restaurants. What if we’re dealing with something similar, where the limbs aren’t making a conscious decision to move, but are reacting to some kind of repeated nervous stimuli after death?”
“The situations aren’t comparable; octopus tentacles contain complex nervous systems that almost function as separate little brains that allow them to sense and pick up food. Human legs don’t work that way.”
“Okay, witchcraft.”
“Mulder, it’s not witchcraft. None of this ever happened.”
“But if it did, I’d place my bet on witchcraft.”
“I-” she is exasperated, and this is exactly what he wants. She’s leaning against her desk with reddened cheeks and her arms are crossed over her breasts and she well and truly wants to tell him to shove these severed legs right up his ass. “Cadaveric spasm.”
“You’re saying cadaveric spasm caused two severed legs to get up, walk themselves out of the morgue and three miles over to the nearest hospital?” He shakes his head. “That’s wild, Scully. Wild.”
“Damn it, Mulder!” She bangs a fist against her table and she’s in this. She’s so in this. It’s like being back in the office. It’s 1993 and he’s trying to scare her out of the basement but she won’t leave and they’re getting further than he’s ever gone before. It’s 1994 and she’s just been returned to him and he’s so grateful he can’t even speak right around her. It’s 1995 and he’s pretty sure he’s in love and he’s terrified, and it’s 1996 and he knows he’s in love and he knows that it’s doomed, doomed, doomed.
“Skinner approved my request yesterday,” he says. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Agh!” In three quick strides she’s crossing the room and hauling him up by his tie to kiss the life out of him. Although he had told himself to expect it, he’s caught completely off-guard, unable to do anything but close his eyes and moan as she dominates the hell out of his mouth, forcing his lips open with a jab of her dainty tongue and squeezing her fingers in his hair to hold him in place.