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sisterspooky1013 · 10 months

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Gaslight, Chapter 44/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

Mulder watches Abby from across the small table in their motel room as she eats a bowl of Frosted Flakes, her newly blonde hair hanging in a tangled curtain over half her face and her one visible eye glued to the TV.

She woke at 6:00 am, as she seems naturally inclined to do, and asked him what was for breakfast, giving no indication of distress despite the sleepless night they suffered. He hands her a vitamin and she wordlessly pops it into her mouth, smiling a secretive smile at the antics of the cartoon character on the TV screen, and he feels something warm blossom in his chest.

Nothing about this situation is ideal. He can’t rightfully say that he’s glad Cal is dead—that seems inhumanely callous—and the stress that Scully is under is painful to watch, but playing the role of “dad” has only confirmed for him that this is something he wants. The chance to do it with Scully, even in these objectively fucked-up circumstances, is, in some respects, a dream come true.

He looks over at the bed where she and Peter are still sleeping, her dirty blonde hair splayed out over the pillow and Peter’s leg flung haphazardly across her hip, and he feels it again. That warm pull. That sensation of rightness. If it feels this good now, he can only imagine how incredible it will feel when they’re no longer in danger, when they can enjoy a lazy morning and then take the kids to the park. His mind is quickly filling up all the empty spaces left by his stolen memories with dreams for the future—a future that will begin in just a few short days.

Thinking about what’s to come helps distract him from his anger towards Diana. When he allows himself to think about her, his jaw tenses and his muscles quake with hatred so intense it frightens him. Each day brings new revelations regarding the depth of her deception, and the lengths she went to in order to deny him his own reality and erase Scully from his life. If she walked into the room right now, he might just throttle her with his bare hands. He might just enjoy doing it.

Mulder shudders, shaking the thought away, and he hears a familiar sound from the bed that makes him smile. Scully lets out a disgruntled little groan and carefully moves Peter’s leg off her hip before she rolls to the edge of the bed and sits up, her lighter hair momentarily catching him off guard. His head aches as a collection of memories burble up: snippets of Scully tired and grouchy early in the morning or in the middle of the night, snatching a cup of coffee out of his hand with an irritated glare.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says brightly, not even attempting to hide his smile when she turns her head and levels him with that very glare.

“You’re chipper,” she croaks flatly, then gives Abby a long look. “How is she?”

“Seems fine,” Mulder says with a shrug. “She doesn’t remember anything.”

“That’s good, I guess,” Scully says, then yawns.

She slowly stands, wincing at her sore back. Hours in the car and muscles full of tension from constant stress aren’t easy on the body, and he’s noticed that she isn’t eating much.

“The tub’s pretty nice, given the establishment,” he remarks as she crosses the room stiffly and steals a bite of his gas station danish. “You should take a bath.”

Scully grimaces, perhaps at the low quality pastry, or perhaps at the idea of taking a bath in a questionably clean motel tub. After a quick glance at both of the children, she leans down and kisses him on the cheek.

“That doesn’t sound terrible, actually,” she says. “Will you be okay with the kids?”

Mulder looks at Peter, who is still asleep, and Abby, who is giggling at the TV, and then back at Scully.

“I think I’ve got it covered,” he says lightly, and she smiles a grateful smile.

“Thank you,” she tells him, squeezing his shoulder before she disappears into the bathroom.

When water starts pounding loudly against the bottom of the tub, Peter sits up and looks around.

“Morning, Bear,” Mulder calls out to him, and the little boy turns on his belly and slides off the side of the bed, then heads straight for the bathroom. “Your mom’s in there,” Mulder warns him, but Peter pushes the door open anyway, and Scully lets out a surprised shriek.

“Jesus, you scared me,” she admonishes him.

“I have to go potty,” Mulder hears him explain.

When Peter returns from the bathroom, he retrieves his stuffed blue dog from the bed and climbs onto the chair beside Abby.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Mulder asks him, peeking into the double-layered paper bag that serves as their traveling pantry. “Cereal, Pop-Tart, muffin,” he lists off.

“What’s a Pop-Tart?” Peter asks, and Mulder feels a surge of joy at the idea of getting to introduce him to something new.

“You’ve never had a Pop-Tart?” he asks incredulously, already tearing the shiny foil wrapper open. He sets one of the frosted rectangles in front of Peter and keeps the other for himself. Peter examines it closely, scratching off one of the multicolored sprinkles with his fingernail, and then takes a cautious bite from the corner. “The good stuff’s in the middle,” Mulder tells him, breaking his own Pop-Tart in half and showing Peter the filling.

Peter does the same, breaking his Pop-Tart into two, and then takes a hearty bite from the open edge. His eyebrows lift and he gives Mulder a thumbs up, and again Mulder is struck by the dichotomy of his emotions. He ruffles Peter’s hair and takes a bite of his own Pop-Tart, feeling so completely normal it’s almost obscene.

He watches TV with them for a bit, unsuccessfully attempting to follow the plot of a little girl with a football-shaped head who carries a talking backpack and asks her audience to repeat things back to her in Spanish. There is an occasional splash from the bathroom or a clatter of voices on the sidewalk outside their room, at which Frenchie stands from her post in front of the door and growls menacingly.

“Easy,” Mulder coos at her each time, and she walks in a circle before settling again.

“Is there more Pop Parts?” Peter asks, and Mulder looks over at him to find the child rubbing his knuckles against his eyes firmly.

“I think there might be,” Mulder says, rifling through the pantry bag. “You okay?”

Peter pulls his hands away and looks up at Mulder. His eyelids are slightly puffy, the skin red from his aggressive rubbing.

“My eyes are itchy,” he complains, squeezing one shut.

“Did you get something in them?” Mulder asks, tearing open another package of Pop-Tarts.

Peter shrugs and descends on his second tart. Mulder’s mind is beginning to wander when Peter groans.

“It’s hurting,” the child complains, and when Mulder looks at him, he’s surprised by the significant increase in swelling around his eyes in the space of just a few minutes.

“Come here,” he says, taking the Pop-Tart from Peter’s hand and setting it on the table. “Let’s go rinse your eyes out.”

He guides Peter to the bathroom door and knocks lightly three times, waiting until Scully grants them permission to enter. He pokes his head in and his eyes immediately go to her naked body beneath the water. By the time they wander up to her face she’s smiling at him coyly, her blonde locks piled on top of her head.

“Can I help you?” she asks teasingly. It’s clear that the bath is improving her mood.

“Bear got something in his eyes,” he explains. “Can we sneak in and use the sink?”

Scully’s eyebrows furrow and she sits up, wrapping her arm across her breasts. “What’s in his eyes?” Mulder pushes Peter in front of him, and Scully’s mouth falls open. “Oh my god,” she says in a tone that makes Mulder nervous. “He wasn’t like this when he woke up, was he? I didn’t notice anything when he came in to use the bathroom.”

Scully holds out her hand and motions Peter closer, and he stands at the side of the tub while she gently pulls his eyelids open with her wet fingers.

“No, he was fine when he woke up. This just popped up in the last ten minutes or so,” Mulder explains.

“My mouth feels funny,” Peter says mournfully, and the color drains from Scully’s face.

“Did he eat something?” she asks, standing up and reaching for a towel.

“He had a Pop-Tart,” Mulder says helplessly as Scully steps out of the bathtub. “Why?”

“What kind?” she says even as she’s leaving the bathroom, heading straight for the pantry bag with Mulder hot on her heels.

It hits him like a punch to the chest, making his ears ring. Scully turns around and holds up the empty box, her mouth slightly open and her breath coming out in pants. Strawberry. He bought strawberry Pop-Tarts.

“Fuck,” Mulder says loudly, and Abby’s head snaps over to him.

“That’s a bad word,” she announces.

“I forgot. I didn’t even think about it when I bought them,” he says, crouching down in front of Peter, who is looking increasingly puffy and uncomfortable. “What do we do?”

“I’m taking him to the ER,” Scully says levelly, and when Mulder turns to look at her she’s already half dressed. “I don’t know how severe the allergy is, and he’s already in early stage anaphylaxis. He needs epinephrine.”

“What if someone recognizes you?” Mulder asks, and the dirty look she shoots him makes him feel like absolute shit.

“The reaction could be fatal,” she says, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull her shoes on. “We don’t really have a choice.”

“Where are you going?” Abby asks.

Scully pulls in a deep breath and her demeanor shifts slightly.

“Your brother isn’t feeling well and I need to take him to see a doctor. You can stay here with Fox and Frenchie, okay?”

“I don’t want to go to the doctor!” Peter objects, and Scully again inhales deeply and lets it out slowly. She rises from the edge of the bed, crouching down beside Mulder without looking at him.

“I know you don’t, Bear,” she says with a sad smile, taking the child’s hand. “But your body is really upset right now and we need some medicine to help you feel better. I’ll be right there with you the whole time, okay?”

Peter nods, his swollen eyes wet and his bottom lip sticking out.

“Do you want me to get him dressed?” Mulder asks, and Scully barely glances at him before she stands and picks Peter up.

“No, it’s fine,” she says curtly, retrieving her purse and the keys to the van. “Hopefully we won’t be gone too long.”

She moves toward the door and he follows after her, feeling useless and guilty. He should have remembered. It’s his job to remember these things now.

“You have your new ID?” he asks, grabbing Frenchie by the collar to keep her from following them. Scully nods. “What if I need to reach you?”

“The burner cell is in the glove box. I’ll take it with me,” she answers, stepping through the open door and into a blue sky morning, Peter on her hip.

“Sc—” he starts, then catches himself. She turns around anyway, her jaw set and a blonde tendril hanging down the center of her forehead. “I’m sorry,” he says meekly, and she sighs, then hikes Peter up a bit higher.

“I know,” she tells him, her tone a touch softer. “It was an accident. I just need to take care of him right now, okay?”

Mulder nods, and she holds his eye for a beat before loading Peter into the back of the van and pulling out of the parking lot. He watches until they disappear around the corner, then pats Frenchie’s hip and ushers her back inside.

In the motel room, Abby is still watching TV, too young to appreciate the gravity of the situation. Frenchie trots over to her, tail wagging, and butts her nose up against the child’s leg. Mulder opens his mouth to call the dog away, but to his surprise Abby plucks a soggy frosted flake out of her bowl and holds it out for Frenchie to lick from her fingers.

“Ew, her tongue is wet!” Abby says with a smile, scrunching up her nose.

Mulder sits heavily on the edge of the bed, overcome with tiredness as the adrenaline begins to fade.

“You wanna take her on a walk?” he asks wanly, and Abby nods.

Scully approaches the front desk in the emergency department, her nerves a jumbled mess. Justin Davenport, Justin Davenport, she repeats in her head over and over, terrified that she’ll call him by the wrong name.

The young woman behind the counter lifts her head and gives them a perfunctory smile that doesn’t reach her seafoam green eyes. “Hi, how can we help you today?” she asks, smoothing her hand over her jet black hair, which is tied up in a bun on top of her head.

“My son is having an allergic reaction,” Scully explains, and the woman looks at Peter’s face and frowns. “He’s allergic to strawberries and he inadvertently ingested some about thirty minutes ago.”

She resists the urge to explain the stage of his anaphylactic reaction or dictate what kind of care he needs. Both because this woman isn’t in a position to provide care, and because Lisa Davenport is not a medical doctor. Scully doesn’t want to draw any unwanted attention.

“Oh no, buddy,” the woman says to Peter, whose face is swollen and uncomfortably tight. He’s not yet struggling to breathe, though his constricted airway is audible by the slight whistle he produces with each inhale. “Let’s get you feeling better, okay? What’s his name please, mom?”

“Justin Davenport,” Scully recites flawlessly.

“And do you have your ID and insurance information, please?”

Scully wrestles her British Columbia ID out of the back pocket of her jeans and watches a flash of irritation cross the woman’s face before she self-corrects and smiles thinly.

“Is this address up to date? We’ll need to mail you an invoice for the cost of treatment.”

Scully has no idea whether the address on her ID is accurate, but she nods nonetheless.

“Okay, Mister Justin, I’m going to give you this really cool bracelet,” the woman says, holding out her hand to Peter.

Peter moves his mouth close to Scully’s ear and whispers, “You telled her my spy name.”

Scully flashes her eyes to the woman, who quirks her head at them curiously.

“Let her put the bracelet on,” Scully encourages Peter, pulling his puffed-up arm away from her waist. The woman secures a plastic hospital bracelet around Peter’s wrist, and he examines it closely.

“Does this say my spy name?” he asks, and Scully resists the urge to chastise him.

“It says your legal name,” she explains, offering the woman a smile that she hopes conveys that children say the darndest things.

“Do your mommy and daddy call you something else?” the woman asks, leaning forward on her elbows, and a spike of adrenaline rings in Scully’s ears.

“We’re big on nicknames,” she explains curtly. “Should we sit down or do we go directly to triage?”

“You can sit right there in those yellow chairs and the triage nurse will be with you in just a few minutes. You should be seen pretty quickly for an allergic reaction,” the woman says with a bob of her head towards a small cluster of chairs upholstered with mustard yellow fabric. Scully begins to turn away when the woman speaks again, directly to Peter. “What do your mommy and daddy call you, honey?” she asks.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t want to delay his treatment,” Scully tells her, and the woman’s face sinks into a chagrined smile.

“Of course, sorry,” she says meekly, and Scully breathes a relieved sigh as she walks away.

She sits in one of the ugly yellow chairs and sets Peter in the one just beside her. There are a handful of other people littered throughout the expansive waiting room in various stages of distress, including a man in a dirty bomber jacket who is clutching his stomach and groaning loudly. There’s a familiar antiseptic smell to the air, paired with stale cigarette smoke and body odor that clings to the upholstery on the chairs.

“How are you doing?” Scully asks, resting two fingers over the pulse point on Peter’s wrist. “Are you able to breathe okay?”

Peter nods, though he looks miserable. His eyes have been reduced to slits and his mouth hangs open to accommodate his swollen tongue.

“You telled her my spy name, Mommy,” he lectures her, his nasally voice rounding out the consonants.

Scully gently pries his eyes open to check the dilation of his pupils.

“Remember what Daddy said? We only use spy names when we’re around other people,” she reminds him. “Your real name is the one that’s a secret,” she says quietly, though there is no one else sitting in the triage area.

Peter looks at her for a beat and then smacks the heel of his hand against his forehead.

“I forgot!” he exclaims, smiling though he looks like a bloated marshmallow.

“Justin Davenport?”

Scully turns to the triage nurse, who has skin the color of henna and long box braids pulled into a high ponytail.

“Here,” Peter says, holding up his hand as though she’s taking roll.

The nurse smiles a wide, pearly smile and holds her hand out to Peter.

“Hi Justin, I’m Cynthia,” she says brightly, taking Peter’s hand and shaking it while he looks at her bemusedly. “You look pretty uncomfortable. Let’s see what we can do to help.”

Scully stands guard in the corner of a curtained-off area while Cynthia takes Peter’s vitals and asks him a series of questions.

“So what did you get into, Justin? What was for breakfast today?” she asks as she presses her stethoscope to his back.

“Tart tarts,” Peter says, then sucks in a big breath, per her direction. “My daddy gived it to me.”

“It was a strawberry Pop-Tart,” Scully elaborates. “My husband forgot that he’s allergic to strawberries.”

“Let’s try and have Justin answer for himself,” Cynthia says firmly with a warm smile. “I’ll let you know if I need more information.”

Scully nods and swallows, flop sweat dampening the underarms of her T-shirt.

“Open up your mouth really big like an alligator,” Cynthia tells Peter, then shines a penlight down his throat. “Definitely looks like an anaphylactic reaction,” she says to Scully while she palpates Peter’s lymph nodes. “The doctor will likely treat it with epinephrine, and then we’ll need to monitor him for a few hours to be sure the reaction has subsided.”

A few hours. Standard protocol, but they don’t have a few hours to waste. Scully wants to get out of this city as soon as possible.

“We have a plane to catch this afternoon,” she says, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “Is there any way I can monitor him myself?”

Cynthia gives her a long, appraising look.

“Boarding a plane would be relatively irresponsible,” she says coolly. “If his reaction worsens, you’d be stuck at thirty-thousand feet with no way to treat him.”

Again, Scully nods and swallows.

“What’s this?” Cynthia asks, leaning forward to look at the back of Peter’s neck, where Scully knows there are two small sutures over the site of his exorcized chip.

“It’s—” she begins to explain, not even entirely sure what she’s going to say, but Cynthia holds up her hand.

“Please let Justin answer,” she says sternly, and Scully clamps her mouth shut.

“That’s where Mommy cutted my bug bite off,” Peter says, and Cynthia raises her eyebrows, throwing Scully a quick glance. She bites her lip to resist speaking.

“Mommy cut your bug bite off?” Cynthia repeats incredulously. “Why would she need to do that?”

“We drived in the van aaaaaall night,” Peter says in his thick, nasally voice, miming his hands on a steering wheel. “And a bug bited me, but just a small one, and Mommy cutted it off.”

Scully waits, her heart hammering, and finally Cynthia turns to her.

“What’s the story there, mom?” she asks, making a note on Peter’s chart.

“He did have a bug bite,” Scully explains. “He wouldn’t stop scratching it and it became infected. His doctor decided to treat it with surgical debridement, but I did assist with keeping him still. That’s likely why he thinks I performed the procedure.”

“No,” Peter says, shaking his head with a confused frown. “Hickey’s not a doctor.”

“Hickey?” Cynthia asks, and Scully heaves a sigh.

“It was rather traumatic for him, and now we’re dealing with this,” she says with some frustration. “Justin has a very active imagination.”

There’s a beat of silence. Cynthia looks at Peter, and then at Scully, deciding whether the child’s seemingly fantastical story is worth closer examination. Scully holds her breath, her heart pounding in her ears, and waits.

“I’m going to move you to an open bed,” Cynthia says. “The doctor will be in shortly.”

“Thank you,” Scully says, closing her eyes briefly as tension drains from her shoulders.

In the three hours since Scully and Peter left the motel, Mulder and Abby have walked Frenchie five times, played enough Tic Tac Toe to cover the front and back of half a dozen sheets of paper, and made a blanket fort.

After lunch, Abby falls asleep on top of the bed with a book in her hand. While she naps, Mulder takes every item out of the pantry bag and scours the ingredients for strawberries, burying the empty Pop-Tart box at the bottom of the garbage can so he doesn’t have to look at it. He keeps waiting for the phone to ring, or for Scully to come through the door. Without Abby to distract him, his mind turns to worst case scenarios.

The second-to-worst case scenario is that they’ve been discovered somehow. Maybe someone recognized them, or maybe Scully called Peter by the wrong name and aroused suspicion. If the police were called, they could be in custody. Scully could be on her way back to Washington. He shudders to think what would happen to Peter.

The worst case scenario is that Peter is dead. If he is dead, it is categorically Mulder’s fault. Scully would never forgive him, and even if she did he would certainly never forgive himself. Abby would lose her father and her brother in the space of just a few days. The trauma of her new life might start to rival that of whatever came before.

He feels anxious and nauseated, hungry but too worried to eat. He calls the front desk and asks for a late checkout, buying them another hour, and then crashes onto the other bed and manages to fall into a fitful sleep.

She looks pale, even for her. Her skin has a slightly gray cast that reminds him of her battle with cancer, when her hugs were so weak it felt like embracing air. He watches the flash of her heartbeat on the monitor, the rise and fall of her chest, and reminds himself of what the doctor said. A long road to recovery, but she’ll be okay. She’s strong.

Her eyelashes flutter and he springs out of his chair, sending it clattering against the sink behind him. When her eyes open, he’s right beside the bed, her small hand wrapped up in both of his.

“Hi,” he says with a smile.

At some point this became their standard greeting for hospital bedsides, though they never discussed it.

“Hi,” she rasps, then grimaces. He fetches her a cup of water and helps her take a drink. “I’m alive,” she says, her voice still rough. She sounds surprised.

“Yes, you are,” he says as he perches on the edge of her bed, raising her knuckles to his lips and dropping a chaste kiss to each rounded joint.

“Ritter?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he tells her. “But you won’t be working together again.”

Scully’s eyebrows raise in an attempt at a disappointed expression.

“Pity,” she says lightly.

“Cryin’ shame,” Mulder echoes, holding her hand against his cheek.

She considers him for a long beat.

“Are you okay?” she finally asks, and he scoffs.

“I’m not the one who needed six units of blood to stay earthside,” he says, reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear. “I’m fine. Just worried about you.”

Scully sighs and blinks a slow, sleepy blink. “I’m exhausted,” she says, her tongue thick.

“Get some rest,” he says, standing. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

“No,” she says, tightening her grip on his hand and then wincing at the exertion. “Will you stay?”

He’s struck by an odd feeling of elation. Odd because he didn’t expect to find it here, in these circumstances.

“Of course,” he says, dragging over his abandoned chair and sitting at her bedside. “I’ll be right here.”

She smiles weakly and squeezes his hand. He watches her eyes fall closed, and quickly her breathing becomes shallow and even. She doesn’t wake again for another three hours, and he’s right there the entire time, listening to the steady beat of the monitor measuring her heart rate. It’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

Scully taps her shoe against the weathered linoleum floor and checks her watch again. It’s been two hours since Peter was given a shot of epinephrine, and while the skin around his eyes is still red and raw-looking, the swelling in his face has subsided. He’s currently asleep, curled up on his side with his hand tucked under his cheek as a pillow.

She knows that Mulder must be worried, but there is absolutely no cell reception inside the hospital, and the curtained area that serves as their room doesn’t have a phone. She’d have to ask permission to use the phone at the nurse’s station and call the front desk of the motel to be connected to the right room, then speak to Mulder with an audience. Alternatively, she could leave Peter alone and exit the building to see if the burner cell can find service outside. She’s already nervous regarding their interaction with Cynthia, and she just can’t bring herself to risk arousing further suspicion.

“Knock knock,” coos their new nurse, Megan, as she pulls the curtain back and pokes her head in. “How’s our star patient?”

“Just sleeping it off,” Scully says with a weak smile. “I’m hoping we can be discharged soon. My husband and daughter are waiting for us back at the motel.”

Megan averts her eyes uncomfortably as she approaches Peter’s bedside and checks his vitals. She’s middle-aged and short-statured with graying curly hair and an ample backside.

“Doctor G should be doing rounds soon,” she says, a friendly smile plastered to her mouth. “You’ll have to ask him about that.”

“Of course,” Scully says, unsettled by Megan’s clear discomfort.

Peter opens his eyes, squinting at the fluorescent lights overhead.

“Well hello there, Justin!” Megan says brightly. “You’re looking much more like a kid than a puffer fish!”

“I’m hungry,” Peter whines.

“That’s a good sign,” Megan tells him, throwing Scully a wink. “Mom can order something for you from the cafeteria. Just fill out that form there and bring it to the nurse’s station,” she says with a nod towards a small table covered in pamphlets.

Scully orders macaroni and cheese with a side of applesauce, and with each bite a bit more of Peter’s personality comes back to him, though he is still lethargic and weak. They roll into their fourth hour since leaving the motel, and nervous energy mounts and mounts until she begins pacing the small curtained area like a caged animal.

“Mrs. Davenport?”

Scully wheels around to see the chief resident, Dr. Gerlick, standing in a gap in the curtain. He’s tall and blonde, thirtysomething, the kind of chief resident she used to resent as a first year, because her cohorts spent more time flirting with him than applying their education. Beside him is a woman in a blouse and slacks who bears a striking resemblance to Diana, enough so that Scully’s heart skips a beat before she realizes it isn’t her.

“This is Eugenia,” Dr. Gerlick says, gesturing to the woman. “Justin is just about cleared for discharge, but before we do that Eugenia is going to talk with him for a bit.”

Scully’s eyes flash to the badge pinned to the waistband of the woman’s slacks. Eugenia Parker, Social Worker. A wave of nausea hits her so hard that she rests one of her hands on Peter’s bed to steady herself.

“May I ask why?” she asks gently.

“It’s standard procedure for accidental injury,” Eugenia says, stepping forward to offer her hand. “Nothing to worry about, we just need to make sure that Justin will be safe after we discharge him.”

Scully’s mind begins racing as she tries to recall what kinds of questions these hospital social workers usually ask, and how Peter might answer them. She realizes that Eugenia is still standing there with her hand extended, her megawatt smile slowly fading.

“Sorry, I haven’t eaten in a while, I’m a little out of it,” Scully says, accepting Eugenia’s hand. “Am I able to be present while you talk with him?”

Eugenia’s eyes dart over to Dr. Gerlick.

“Let’s step right outside, Mrs. Davenport,” Dr. Gerlick says, gesturing to the other side of the curtain. “I’ll provide discharge instructions for Justin while Eugenia chats with him. We’ll just be a few feet away.”

Scully hesitates, but, seeing no other option, she leans over the bed and kisses Peter on the forehead.

“Be good,” she says, offering him a smile.

They step through the curtain and Dr. Gerlick pulls it closed, obscuring Peter and Eugenia from view. Scully tries to keep one ear on Eugenia and one on Dr. Gerlick, which is challenging.

“It will likely take a couple days for Justin to fully recover,” Dr. Gerlick tells her in that patronizing way that male doctors speak to women. “He’ll need extra rest, and extra fluids.”

Scully nods. On the other side of the curtain, she hears Eugenia ask Peter how he ended up eating strawberries.

“My daddy gived me a tart tart for breakfast,” Peter says matter-of-factly.

“Is your daddy a nice daddy?” Eugenia asks. “Does your daddy ever hurt your body when he’s upset?”

“...anaphylaxis is essentially an out-of-proportion immune response,” Dr. Gerlick is explaining, and Scully nods along, only half listening.

“How about this ouchie on your neck, how did that happen?”

“...for an allergy as severe as Justin’s, I’m surprised that you don’t carry an epipen,” Dr. Gerlick says, frowning at her.

“We do,” she interjects. “We just forgot it. Of course the one time we forget is when we need it,” she adds with a self-deprecating laugh. “We certainly won’t make that mistake again.”

She strains to hear Peter over Dr. Gerlick’s lecture regarding what might have befallen him if they’d not been so close to a hospital.

“...and me and my sister Bunny had to ride in the van with Hickey, Dryers, and French Toast. And we drived aaaaaall night while Daddy and Motor looked for Mommy on the train. A bug bited me, and Mommy cutted the bite off.”

“Wow. Did that hurt, when your mommy cut the bite off?”

“Nope, but when Mommy cutted Bunny’s bite off, it hurted a lot. Hickey and Dryers had to help hold her, and Motor too. I mean Daddy.”

Scully begins to feel lightheaded.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Gerlick, I think I need to sit down,” she says, and the doctor ushers her into a chair beside an empty bed adjacent to Peter’s.

“Let me get you some juice,” the doctor says before hurrying away. Through the curtain, Scully can hear Peter divulging every sordid detail of their perilous trip.

“We all have to be super spies now, with secret names. And I have a rainbow hat so nobody can know I’m me. And Bunny got new hair so nobody knows she’s her. And we’re going to Camada to swim in a lake.”

“Oh my,” Eugenia says. Scully can hear the scritch of pen on paper as she takes notes.

“Here you go,” Dr. Gerlick says. Scully takes a small bottle of apple juice from his hands and cracks it open, downing the sugary liquid in a few gulps. She figures her next stop is the police station, and it will be a long while before she has a proper meal.

The doctor is now kneeling on the floor in front of her, his fingers pressed to her carotid artery.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Mrs. Davenport?” he asks, his soulful blue eyes showing genuine concern.

“I’m fine,” she says weakly. “I just didn’t have a chance to eat breakfast with everything going on with P—Justin.”

On the other side of the curtain, Peter is telling Eugenia that his daddy died in a terrible accident.

“I thought you said your daddy was the one who gave you the strawberry Pop-Tart?” Eugenia asks.

“That was my other daddy,” Peter explains.

“I’m going to be sick,” Scully says urgently.

An emesis bag is placed in her hands. She doubles over in the chair as the apple juice passes over her tongue a second time, still cold from the fridge but sour with acrid bile.

“Is somebody throwing up?” Peter asks. “My sister throwed up all her Easter candy once.”

Scully dry-heaves into the bag, tears in her eyes and knots in her stomach.

Someone is knocking on the door.

“Housekeeping!”

Mulder bolts upright and looks around. Abby is just opening her eyes, similarly confused and disoriented.

“Who is that?” she asks, pushing her abandoned book off her chest and sitting up.

The door snicks open and Frenchie lowers her head and growls a low, menacing growl. A middle-aged woman begins backing into the room, pulling a cart behind her, and Frenchie, identifying her as a stranger, charges the door with her teeth bared. Mulder grabs her by the collar as the woman startles violently, turning to face him with her hand pressed to her chest.

“Sorry, we’re still here,” he says, holding Frenchie tightly as she continues to snarl.

“Jesus, you scared me,” the woman says, somewhat angrily. “Checkout was at 11:00.”

“I know, we asked for a late checkout,” he explains.

“It’s almost 2:00,” she says, propping a hand on her hip. “You’re gonna have to pay for another night.”

He looks at the nightstand to confirm the time. He and Abby have both been asleep for hours, and Scully and Peter still aren’t back. His heart sinks, and his throat immediately becomes tight.

“I’ll call the front desk and let them know,” he says, and the woman glowers at him as she begins to push the cart back over the threshold. “Sorry,” he adds, and she shrugs.

“One less room to clean. Don’t bother me none,” she grumbles.

He’s reaching for the phone when Scully appears in the still-open doorway, Peter asleep against her shoulder.

“Oh my god,” he says, rushing across the room to meet her. “Why didn’t you call?” he hisses, quickly shifting from worry to anger as he takes Peter from her arms and lays him down on the bed. “I’ve been worried sick.”

“I just want to get out of here,” she says, and he notices how depleted she looks, like she’s been through hell. “Let’s just go, please.”

“Is Bear okay?” Abby asks, and Scully nods.

“Yeah, he’s okay, sweetpea,” she says as she bends down to pet an overly-excited Frenchie, her tone softening. “He’s going to be extra sleepy for a bit, but he’ll be okay.”

They quickly pack the room and check out, and when Mulder explains the situation to the woman at the front desk she takes pity on him and doesn’t charge them for a second night. They stop at McDonald’s for Happy Meals, and to his surprise Scully asks for a cheeseburger and wolfs it down in four bites. He steals glances at her as they get on I-94 and continue west toward St. Paul.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now, Mulder,” she says, twisting in her seat to look at Peter, who is munching on a french fry with weary, reddened eyes. “I just need a minute.”

She rests the side of her forehead against the window and sighs. He desperately wants to know what happened, and whether they are at additional risk. He desperately wants to tell her how sorry he is, how badly he fucked up. How he’s afraid that he’s not cut out for this parenting thing. But she’s already fading in and out of consciousness, and he can’t bring himself to cajole her into conversation. He reaches behind his seat and grabs a sweatshirt he picked up in Indiana, then sets it carefully in her lap. She opens her eyes and gives him a questioning look, given that it’s over 80 degrees out.

“To use as a pillow,” he says, offering her a smile.

She smiles back, reaching across the console to squeeze his thigh.

“Thank you,” she says, carefully folding the fabric into a square which she wedges between her head and the door jam.

She falls asleep quickly, and the children are surprisingly somber and quiet in the back seat, watching the midwestern landscape rush past their windows. Mulder turns on the radio, keeping the volume low so it won’t disturb Scully.

Desperate for changing,

Starving for truth.

I’m closer to where I started,

I’m chasing after you.

They drive, and drive, and drive. Each mile brings them that much further away from danger. That much closer to home.

I’m living for the only thing I know,

I’m running and not quite sure where to go.

And I don’t know what I’m diving into,

I’m hanging by a moment here with you.

There’s nothing else to lose,

There’s nothing else to find.

There’s nothing in the world,

That can change my mind.

There is nothing else.

Tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #x files fanfic #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #xf fanfic #x files #the x-files #xfiles

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