Having the Time of My Afterlife 06 By Livengoo Livengoo@tiac.net _______________________________________ "Okay, class. Today's lesson is 'How to Violate Motor Vehicle Regs one-oh-one.'" "What?" Pendrell stopped cold in the middle of K-Mart's parking lot, gaping at Mulder. "Here." His companion barely seemed to notice, shoving their big, plastic shopping bag into his hands. "We need to find a couple of neglected cars, Pendrell." "Mulder!" Pendrell trotted after him, trying to catch his eye. Mulder opened his car door like they'd been discussing the weather. "What are you talking about?" The taller man slung himself smoothly behind the wheel, and waited for Pendrell to bundle himself into the sun-warmed car. "I'm going to cruise behind the store. You keep an eye out for a good, scruffy car. And watch out for anyone in the area, Pendrell. We don't want to get spotted." "Ohmygodohmygod you're serious." Pendrell scrubbed his face hard, as if that could make a difference. Mulder started the car, innocent expression firmly in place. "Mulder, we can't! We're law enforcement officers, or at least you're a law enforcement officer and I'm an employee of--" "Not anymore," Mulder interrupted, peering both ways at the end of a row of cars. "Okay, not anymore but stealing a car is against the law, Mulder!" "Who said anything about stealing a car? We're going to steal their license plates." He could have been commenting on the latest box scores. Pendrell stared at him, frustrated. "Mulder. Stealing peoples' license plates is against the law," he explained with exaggerated patience. "Unh hunh. So what?" He turned into the desolate parking Siberia behind the big, ugly discount store. Pendrell watched him surreptitiously checking for anyone on foot or sitting in their cars. "So we're supposed to enforce the law, Mulder. Not break it. Just because we're not in the office doesn't mean we get to break the rules." "That's what they tell me," he replied absently before pointing to a rusty Chevy Impala. He pulled in, blocking the Impala from view, and reached across Pendrell to take a small tool kit out of the glove compartment. "What a junker. It's perfect!" "I don't believe you're doing this. I don't believe I'm going to WATCH you do this!" Pendrell cringed, but still got out of the car and followed Mulder over to his intended victim. The badge-carrying shameless scofflaw was scoping the lot one last time as he pretended to study the car. Pendrell could tell he liked what he saw when he dropped to his haunches and began applying wrench to bolt. "You're going to get this poor guy in so much trouble. You know, I used to hate it when people did this kind of thing to me." "Someone stole your license plates?" Mulder glanced up at him curiously. "My battery. I wanted to scream." "Pendrell, who the hell steals a battery? Did they at least take your hub caps to give it a little dignity?" He was scowling, working the wrench with both hands to get the dirt-gummed bolts free. "That's the point, Mulder. There's no dignity in stealing pieces of some poor innocent's car." He mustered his most disapproving tone. "Theft be not proud." "But it can be practical." Mulder breathed a curse and twisted the wrench again until the second bolt clattered to the stained asphalt. "In our case it may make the difference between life and death." "Oh, oh! Don't try to pass this off as noble, Mulder. You're stealing some poor kid's car ID!" "You're awfully quick to assume it's a kid, Pendrell." Mulder happily liberated the plate. "Jumping to assumptions can lead you astray." "Who else would work at K-Mart and drive a heap like this?" Pendrell shook his head in disgust as Mulder handed him the plates. "First I die then I become a criminal accomplice." "Yep. Let's make our getaway." Mulder whistled something hideously off-tune as he hopped back into his Crown Vic. "We've got another innocent car to molest." "Oh my God! Not another one!" Pendrell winced in disgust. "Is this some kind of fetish for you? How many license plates are you going to steal in this spree? Did you do this when you were investigating cases?" "Which question do you want me to answer first? Or should I just mix them up and let you guess which I'm answering? No I didn't. No, it's not, and not as many as I'd like but enough to confuse the trail." " . . . okay." Pendrell went over his answers again, mentally matching them to their most probable question. The final answer deserved a bit of mulling. He considered it, turning to Mulder with a slow, dawning apprehension. "The trail. You think people are following us?" "I have absolutely no doubt about it, Pendrell." Mulder found his way down quiet backstreets into a slightly decrepit suburb of shabby ranch houses. "I really love neighborhoods like this. The creative mix of garden gnomes and painted truck tire planters helps me keep in touch with the quintessential American spirit." "Didn't anyone ever teach you to be nice about peoples' homes?" Pendrell frowned at the comment although he, himself, would never have gone for the lawn gnomes. Let alone paint them. "Using truck tires as planters is good recycling." Mulder blinked and his tongue dug into his cheek. "You're right. And I probably shouldn't criticize the artful use of concrete squirrels either. I stand chastised." "Actually, you're sitting." Pendrell sighed. "Do we really have to do this to someone else's car? And if we do it out here, won't the neighbors see?" "That's why I'm looking for a paranoid with a stockade fence. Like that one down the block. See it?" "I bet they've got a dog," mourned Pendrell. "A really, really big dog." "Probably. That's where you come in." He circled the block, studying the fence that barricaded his target from its neighbors. "Oh, it's wonderful Pendrell. They've got a stockade AND a parking pad! Paranoia and convenience and it looks like the neighbors are all at work, too. We're blessed." "Right." Pendrell heaved another sigh. "We'll have to thank the patron saint of license plate thieves." "Is there one?" Mulder pulled up to the curb at the end of the street and got out his tools. "Okay, this is what you do. Go up to the door and ring their bell. I mean, ring it long and hard. If they're there, get them to the door and if not then still ring the bell." "Do I have to help you do this?" Pendrell knew he was whining -- not much, just a little whine, but a whine all the same. "Yes you do. You're covering my back like a partner, Pendrell." He scooped the looted license plates off the floor. "What am I supposed to say to them?" He slumped in resignation and wondered if there was some kind of dispensation for sins committed after you were already dead. "Make something up. If I were you I'd start telling them about God or insurance, whichever you know better --" "That's horrible! You want me to impersonate a Bible salesman?" "Jehovah's Witness if you can do it." Mulder shivered in the brisk breeze, then gave him a lunatic grin. "Ideally, stick your foot in the door and try to talk in one long, run-on sentence so they never get a word in." "How long do I have to keep this sham up? Besides, Jehovah's Witnesses dress nicely. They don't wear blue jeans." Pendrell gestured at himself. Mulder rolled his eyes. "Give me strength. If you start talking and make it sound good they'll want you out of there so badly they won't notice what you're wearing until it's too late. When you hear me honk the horn you can make a graceful exit, and everyone'll be happy." Pendrell watched him start away and sighed. Again. No, Sunday school never covered this. _________________________________________ By the time he got back, Mulder had the second, "new" tags on their car. "Good work, Pendrell. We're now Ohio drivers." "I thought their dog was going to rip my throat out." Pendrell shuddered and brushed again at the trailing streaks of Rottweiler drool on his jeans. "You did a great job distracting it. Really fantastic." It was hard to tell if Mulder was making fun of him or being serious. Pendrell considered whether it might be possible to do both at the same time. The car felt like shelter when he climbed back into it. "Was that really necessary, Mulder? All that stuff with the plates?" The agent visibly gave it some thought as he turned on the ignition. "Maybe. Maybe not. It might slow down a search a lot, though. We're in a late model, inconspicuous car. These people probably won't notice they've got the wrong plates for days, if ever. When was the last time you really LOOKED at your license plate?" " . . . point taken." "And until the first theft gets traced from the junker to the paranoids, they won't know to look for these plates." Mulder's face relaxed infinitesimally as they left the neighborhood and joined heavier traffic. "A little electrical tape and mud and we might be just about invisible for a while, as long as we keep moving." "Okay. That sounds . . . that sounds like a good reason," Pendrell allowed. He looked away, fidgeted a moment then turned to pull his new, unspittled jeans out of the K-Mart bag. Tags fluttered off them like paper flags. He started trying to decapitate the little plastic punch-strings to pull them off. Frowned briefly at the thought of the new outfits in the bag. The question nagged as he studied a price tag. "How much money did the Gunmen give you?" Mulder glanced over. "There's a Swiss Army knife in the briefcase." "Survival gear for the modern agent on the run," quipped Pendrell. The thought of Mulder's sense of humor rubbing off on him made him frown. "So, how much?" Mulder studied him with a skeptical look studied him before turning back to keep the perfect distance between him and the old lady in front of them. "You didn't count it last night after I went to sleep?" Pendrell jerked his head up, shocked. "No! That's -- that'd be prying!" "It was in the back of the briefcase," Mulder commented in a totally neutral tone. "I'm surprised you didn't look." Pendrell paused, trying to figure out what he wanted to say and whether he wanted to let Mulder have it for insulting him. Finally settled back into his car seat and pulled another pair of cheap jeans out of the K-Mart bag. "Are you used to people pawing through your stuff, Mulder? Because I'm not. And what would I do with it?" A slow, delighted smile that met his words. It seemed odd and sad to Pendrell, to be so pleased over a thing like that. "I don't know. I just -- I guess I'm used to people who try to think ahead to what they might need to do." "Does Scully look through your stuff, Mulder?" The question was out before he could stop it. "Sometimes. If she thinks I'm in trouble." Mulder's matter-of-fact reply bothered him on some very deep level. "She's got the key to my place. By now she may have searched it and figured out what happened." Pendrell turned away, staring at the suburban clutter that overran Ohio's gentle hills. "I guess that's a good thing." "It's saved my life a couple of times." That uninflected tone again. Pendrell was starting to wonder at what that tone hid. Maybe Mulder himself wasn't sure of all the ambivalent things that tone might hide. A thin, sour smile telegraphed his mood. "And at least she uses a key." What could anyone reply to that? He just nodded and held his peace, thinking about the files he'd read. "Your cases . . ." "What about them?" Mulder changed lanes without looking, ignoring the horn from the driver they cut off as he took the on-ramp to Rte. 40 a hair too fast. "Well . . . I haven't read all of them yet. I just skimmed the ones dealing with resurrection but they didn't seem like they related to me at all." "True. Most resurrection cases have a significant religious component. Unless I really missed something big there weren't any faith healers or blessed children in the Headless Woman when you got shot. In fact, for once I'll have to accept coincidence. I think you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time." The lecturing tone was comfortable for Pendrell, impersonal and detailed, letting him distance himself from what had happened to him. "Is this going to be like twenty questions? You did have one really weird little note flagged in the resurrection directory to also see the Gauthier file and that it was cross referenced for possession and abduction." "Yeah." Mulder nodded. "What I really wanted was a database but they waste space. Besides, I usually remember most of what I need to know." "Okayyyy -- So tell me about the Gauthier file and whether I'm actually possessed instead of resurrected," Pendrell drawled. "The devil made you do it?" Mulder shot him a lightning grin. "My mom took us to church every Sunday, Agent Mulder." Pendrell pulled out his starchiest, most reproving tone. "I'm sure if the Devil was looking for souls, mine wouldn't have been the first on the list." "Pride, Pendrell, pride. You're straying into some deadly sins there." Pendrell bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from grinning. "But honesty is a virtue, Agent Mulder. False humility would be a lie." "Don't tell me you're the last virgin in DC too!" "No. And not on the technicality of not being in DC anymore, either." Pendrell pursed his lips. The comment hung in the air, leaving both of them feeling almost comfortable with the silence. Or at least, Pendrell felt comfortable until he started considering the road ahead and the X-Files he'd read. "So. Is there anything in the X-Files I should be looking for? Anything like what's happened to me?" Mulder waggled one hand, then draped it back over the wheel. "There are abduction and implant cases. Two overall grades of implants, like the Gunmen talked about. One definitely does not correspond to any terrestrial materials, but it appears to be encoded with something that looks a lot like genetic code. The other? Maybe. Very interesting stuff. May be human in origin but I haven't heard about one robust enough to verify that." "Ah. Do they burn out when you try to work with them?" "You're thinking too high tech." Mulder ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. "They simply burn and crumble. No evidence. The story of my life." Somewhere in all that there was a hint of a goal. "So we're heading to San Francisco to see Gauthier?" "What makes you think that?" Mulder's look was genuinely bemused. "You've obviously got some idea of where we're headed." Pendrell pulled a folded map out of the door pocket beside him. "I can navigate better if know where you want to go." Mulder was worrying his lip again, nerves apparent in the unconscious gesture. "You might not need the map, Pendrell. How's your homing instinct?" "Homing? Oh." He stared out the window a moment, then back at Mulder. "Why?" "Because you're right. There are some cases in there with similarities to yours but nothing precisely like it." He gave Pendrell an apologetic grin. "If you'd developed cancer I'd know where to start. If you didn't have the chips I'd be heading for San Francisco. I might be wearing lead, but I'd have some idea of where to start." "Lead?" Pendrell was learning how to field those pop flies. "Gauthier." Mulder shoved the pedal down to pass a minivan. "He had what you might call a close encounter and came back hotter than hell. Geiger counters had nervous breakdowns around him." "Oh my God. When did he die?" "He didn't." Mulder shook his head. "Don't ask me why not. I haven no idea why, but he's still alive and well. He just suddenly stopped being radioactive." "What happened to him?" "Hard to say. He claims he found a man alive in a submerged WWII fighter. That's damn close to resurrection, and Gauthier had a period of memory loss." Pendrell sat up, amazed at the adrenaline jolt the met even those similarities. "Did he die? Did everyone think he was dead, like me?" Mulder shook his head, regret plain on his face. "Nope. He was reported ambulatory, though he seemed to suffer a severe, atypical aphasia." "At the risk of sounding stupid --" Pendrell interrupted. Mulder nodded. "He didn't speak and it's unclear if he understood spoken language. There's some testimony indicating he may have been totally impaired linguistically though he made a complete recovery. But Gauthier's not what struck me about you." Pendrell held his breath for a count of five and let it out, puffing his cheeks. "You wanted to be a stage magician when you were growing up, didn't you?" "Not really." Mulder gave him a baffled look. "You have this way of going off on tangents that's really confusing, Pendrell." The only thing to do was bite his tongue and prompt Mulder back on track. "So if it wasn't Gauthier . . .?" "Oh. Umm. Right. It was what he reported when that whole case started." Mulder was paying very close attention to the sporadic midday traffic. Not to any one car, just to anything but Pendrell. "The man in the WWII fighter?" "Trapped diver," guessed Pendrell. "Nope. The pilot. He'd been down there since 1947. If that's not the first cousin to resurrection I don't know what is." The light tone of the comment didn't sound effortless. Pendrell thought about decades alone in the dark, and his stomach did a slow, horrible roll. "Jesus. Did he have the chips?" "No way to tell." Mulder shook his head. "They never retrieved the plane. Gauthier wasn't able to report it until the cerebral incident was over and by then the currents had carried it away. I guess that's what happened. When I tried to follow up I just hit a brick wall." "Sounds like that's about par for the course for you." Pendrell hoped he'd take the gambit, change the subject. "They can only put up so many brick walls, Pendrell." The reply was so gentle it hurt. "They didn't expect what happened to you. They made a mistake. We just have to keep on pushing, keep them making mistakes." "I felt so good yesterday morning." He heard the bitterness in his own voice, unaccustomed and uncontrollable. "For the first time, I thought I was free. That I'd be able to make my life what I want it to be, all because I knew, finally, precisely what the worst thing that could happen to me was and it wasn't so bad." Mulder gave him a concerned look. "Pendrell, everything's a mystery at least once. We will find what they did, and when we do, we'll have part of the key to making them back off." "Part of it. And you don't know what part or how big." Pendrell bit down on his own lip, on sour words he didn't want to unleash. "Look. I know you're trying to help me, but what if you can't? Your computer's full of all these files and none of them have answers, Mulder. Not really. You've piled guesses on top of guesses and they were good ones." Mulder opened his mouth but Pendrell cut him off. "No. No. I want to finish something myself, you know? People always cut me off. Hell, somebody I didn't know cut my life off! And he didn't even mean to, Mulder; do you know how that feels? I don't even know where to begin understanding getting shot just because I tried to hand a cup of beer to somebody!" "You will finish this." The soft words cut through his rising anger and hysteria so fast it left him breathless. "Answers don't come easy, Pendrell. I know they don't. Some of them will eat you alive, take your life and swallow it whole but the only thing you can do is hammer away at it. Maybe I pile up guesses, but like you said, they ARE good guesses. They're usually right guesses. And they take me to the next step, and the next, and sooner or later I'll get the bastards. I'll fucking pin them to the wall and make them answer me. MAKE them give me the truth." Pendrell's temper imploded in the cold, hard breath of Mulder's words. He shivered and nodded. "You mean it, don't you. You do understand." The look that answered him was unreadable, too many things moving too fast. Pendrell shivered again but not from cold. The sudden warmth of trust and something deep and painful and sweet made him glad that he didn't have to answer. Didn't have to keep a steady voice in the face of what he saw. "You'll finish this, Pendrell. You're learning it. I don't know where it ends, Pendrell. All I know is where to start." "But you said you hadn't seen anything quite like this?" Not challenging him, just asking. "I haven't. But that's one thing I do have the answer for." Mulder's smile was full of old shadows. "When you don't know any better the only place to start is the beginning. I'm taking you home." "Home." Pendrell nodded. "I guess if you don't know a place to start that Utah can't be any worse than anyplace else." ____________________________ Having the Time of My Afterlife 07 By Livengoo Livengoo@tiac.net _______________________________________________________ "I'd forgotten this about America." Pendrell focused on what looked like a cow on top of a building. A really HUGE cow. "I never particularly noticed things like plastic cows on top of buildings before." "You never spotted the big insects on vans or the occasional hot rod sticking out of a bar roof?" Mulder leaned back and hooked his heels on the dashboard. It was very distracting. Very. "What are you doing?" "Stretching my hamstrings. I haven't been running since we went on the lam and it's driving me crazy." "Crazier, you mean." Pendrell bit his tongue on the sour note that had crept into the comment. "I'm sorry." "No, you're not." Mulder's philosphical tone actually irritated him more. "But I think you probably are stir crazy and I know that I am." "Yeah." Pendrell shifted uncomfortably in his seat, working his fingers on the steering wheel. "Mulder, why aren't you married?" The other man's eyebrows rose. Pendrell had gotten good enough at reading the face that half the FBI had thought expressionless that he cringed at his own tactless, blurted question. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't pry . . ." "It's okay. You just surprised me." Mulder took his heels off the dashboard and sat up. "I'm not used to people asking me stuff like that." "You're not?" Pendrell stared at him a moment before looking back at the semi he had been following for fifteen miles. "I mean . . . yeah. That was a dumb question but what do you talk about if -- if -- well. I mean -- I know when all Lisa's kids - she's the gas chromatographer . . ." "Please." Mulder held out his hands in the universal STOP sign, "do NOT tell me their names and dates of birth." "Not even their favorite baby foods?" Pendrell shot him a grin. "Well. You get the idea. If you don't talk about yourself, if people don't ask, then what DO you talk about Mulder?" Mulder ran his tongue over his teeth and the look Pendrell caught struck him as a little sly, a little nervous. "I talk. Sports. The weather. You know, the same as anyone else." "Uh hunh. The Redskins and the X-Files." He held his breath waiting for his passenger to reply, waiting to see if he'd pushed too far. Tension bled out fast at the tentative nod that met the comment. "Yes," admitted Mulder, squinting out at the fields with their ruffs of maple and oak. "Sometimes people even listen to me. They don't want to, really. It's scary to believe what I believe; people don't like hearing it." "Mulder, it's not scary. Not like you think." Pendrell shoved his sunglasses up his nose, pinched the bridge, let them drop back into place. "I'm sorry, but it's not really scary. It's just weird." "Yeah. I know that too." Mulder gave him a deceptively bland smile. "But then, I don't have a hole in my chest." "Ouch." Pendrell winced, a little chagrined. "Why does it sound weird Pendrell? You said it sounds crazy and it does, but why?" Mulder's expression had gone distant, eyes staring out over Midwestern cornfields that blurred into a soft green haze. "We used to think it was weird to imagine priests fucking little kids. After all, they were men of God." "Mulder . . ." Hazel eyes focused on him, sharp and flat. The abstract, bitter voice drummed the words. "Denial's wonderful. For a little while we can pretend nothing's wrong but the little kids still get fucked; they still disappear in the middle of the night. The men and women still come back with pieces of metal in their heads. This shit keeps on happening whether you or I want to believe or anyone else wants to believe it or not. It just keeps happening and it's happening faster and faster, Pendrell. So what's weird about it? You tell me. Is it weird that I talk about it or is it weird that it's happening all over the goddamned place and people think I'M crazy because I talk about it? Who taught you it's weird, Pendrell? And where the FUCK do you get off telling me it's weird with what's happened to you." The pedantic, lecturing veneer over his anger had gone thing, scraped through. Pendrell listened to the abrupt silence when he stopped and wished he could make himself look at Mulder. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I -- I should have known better." Mulder almost seemed to collapse into himself. From the corner of his eye, Pendrell could see the heat and anger bleed away, leaving weary resignation that made his voice soft and flat. "It sounds weird. Just like it sounds paranoid when I say 'they tell you not to believe it.' I don't know who 'they' are, Pendrell. If I did I could make them stop. But people have to believe you first. And they have to hear you before they will listen." "When did you start listening?" The question was a little shaky with nerves, tentative. The tired grin he got might have been meant to reassure. Pendrell found himself reaching out, just resting his hand on Mulder's shoulder for a moment, an instant. Just past the subtle flinch. "I started listening when . . . Christ, Pendrell. You don't want to hear this shit. It's old history." There was no expression to read. Pendrell wished he'd left his hand on Mulder's shoulder, almost as if he could understand by touch what was too hard in words. "I do want to hear, Mulder. What made you believe?" "Wrong words, Pendrell." Mulder ran a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. "I want to believe." He swallowed at the itchy lump that caught in his throat. " . . . what do you want to believe?" "You don't want to know." The answer was too quick, too definite. "You've never told anyone, have you? What you want to believe?" He made himself not look, made himself give Mulder that space. The chuckle that answered was forced, for all that it was a good fake. "If I wanted therapy I could get a shrink, Pendrell. Or a talk show host and I'd get a makeover on top of it all." "Why is it okay to talk about the X-Files but not about you?" Pendrell finally glanced over, took in a face that looked calm and relaxed, but skin pulled just a little too tight across the cheekbones. "Didn't you ever read the Jake and Amy studies, Pendrell? Knowledge is power." God almighty, but he had never been good at this sort of thing; never tried to navigate a mine field like this one. "Is that what you wanted the X-Files to give you?" Mulder dropped the seat back, then brought it up too upright. "You don't want to know, and I don't want to tell you." Pendrell took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He wanted to snap but it wasn't that hard to ask gently. "I've got a hole where somebody shot me because of one of your cases. I woke up in a morgue. I am one of your cases. And . . . Mulder. I want to know. You'll go out and make a complete and utter fool of yourself telling people things they don't want to know and will not hear. Why won't you tell me these things?" The silence hung so long that he thought Mulder wasn't going to answer. When the reply came it was so soft he'd have missed it if he hadn't been sitting there with every nerve waiting. "There are so many things I want to believe, Pendrell. I want to believe it'll work out. That Sam's alive. That if I can just learn and know enough, I can make it work out. If I can just show everybody enough, they'll believe before it's too late." "Do you believe?" "In things that scare me so bad that I can't sleep with the lights off, Pendrell. I believe in things that I don't understand, and if I could prove they were superstition I would. But everything I find tells me they're true. I believe. I believe in the things I don't want to, and I can't believe in the things I want to believe in." The soft, toneless voice trailed off, leaving them sitting alone together in the hum of rubber on asphalt and the whisper of wind in early corn. __________________________________________________ "Why don't you let me drive for a while." Mulder's voice was raspy from silent hours. "Are we going to try to go straight through tonight?" Pendrell wasn't able to keep the despair from his voice. "I mean, I want to get to Utah in one piece, Mulder. Nebraska is . . . is . . ." "Flatter than road kill?" Mulder arched an eyebrow and grinned, visibly relieved to leave the melancholy silence behind. Pendrell grimaced. "That's sort of what I'm afraid of. I almost fell asleep in daylight." "Road hypnosis. Next thing you know you'll be seeing the Strip Joint of the Gods and other well known Midwestern mirages." Mulder's deadpan was so perfect it took Pendrell a moment to realize he wasn't serious. "I'm too tired for this." He yawned for emphasis. "Can you give me a break and do Three Stooges or something I'd recognize for a change?" "Pendrell!" Mulder sat upright in mock horror. "A Stooges fan? I'd somehow thought better of you. I thought Scully was the only Stooges fan I'd get saddled with." "Slowly she turned, step by step?" Pendrell couldn't even get close to Mulder's delivery. He didn't have the control to keep from grinning like a demented chipmunk. "Yeah." Mulder leaned back, at ease. "The first time she said 'nyuk nyuk nyuk' on a case I thought I was going to choke on my coffee." His wistful smile left Pendrell feelings somehow . . . lonely. "I was always a little more of a Mel Brooks sort of guy." "Candygram for Mongo?" Pendrell smiled back, "'Mongo loves candy,'" yawning, "Mongo also wants one of those bedbug motels." "You're becoming a real connoisseur." Mulder caught his yawn, jaw stretching like a cat's. "I hate to admit it, but I think you're right. We'll have to wait for tomorrow to see Omaha in the rear view mirror. And we were making such good time before . . ." "We made good time across states that weren't nearly as wide as this one. And we've still got a long drive. Especially since you won't let us take the most direct route." "Don't blame me." The response was as good natured as the gibe. "I'm not the one they're chasing for once." "Ah -- I guess I'll have to get used to that, won't I?" Pendrell swallowed hard, trying to hold onto the light mood. He could feel dark eyes searching his face. Wondered when he'd become so aware of their color, of tiny flickers of expression that weren't intended to be read. "I wish I could tell you different, Pendrell." "Will you tell me one thing?" Glancing over, finding a smile somewhere and hoping Mulder would believe it. "If I can." The certainty in the answer almost shook him. Pendrell took a deep breath, looked out at the highway and the oncoming headlights. "Do you believe in love?" " . . . I'm not sure I follow you, Pendrell." Soft, hesitant words. He wasn't used to hearing Mulder off balance. Glanced over into intent curiosity and away, back out to the dull glow of Omaha's lights, orange in the high, thin clouds. "I mean, do you . . . earlier, I didn't mean to insult you." "I know that." He could hear Mulder waiting. "I mean. I meant . . . I wanted to know if you'd -- ever been in love." "Why?" Pendrell couldn't keep it up. He let Mulder's question lead him astray, just a little. "You know, I always just figured I'd meet someone. Someone I'd love and we'd fall for each other and just know, or something like that. I don't know. But get married and settle down? I don't think I really wanted to know how I'd get there but I just thought that was what would happen. I was so sure." Mulder nodded, the motion catching at the edge of Pendrell's peripheral vision. Didn't interrupt the babbling words but made a small noise that somehow invited him to keep going. "Well." He sucked in another deep breath, face tingling just a little he was so lightheaded. "Well. I guess that won't happen now. Will it?" "You don't know that. Maybe it still can, Pendrell." Mulder's voice was soft, reassuring. Somehow, his words made it worse. Pendrell bit down on his lip, trying to think and not feel the way he was feeling. Not even sure how he was feeling, if he really wanted to be honest. "I don't think I want it to happen that way anymore Mulder." Glancing over to the shadowed face next to him and looking back, still seeing the slightly crooked, imperfect profile with the slightly-too-big nose and slightly-too small chin. And the eyes, wide and black in the shadowy car. "I don't think that's how it will happen. It hasn't happened for you." "I thought it did, once." A tone rich with the texture of an old ache that had faded to become more pleasure than hurt. "I don't know if I believe in true love or love at first sight, Pendrell. I know that I used to. And I believe in -- in soulmates. People you're meant to be with." "That sounds right." He hadn't wanted to say it out loud, bit down cruelly on his tongue. "I mean . . ." Mulder saved him, all unknowing. A soft laugh that belonged in the velvety dark. "Sometimes you just meet them, Pendrell. Never trust love. It slips away in a heartbeat; it leaves you alone. But fate. You can trust fate. Sooner or later you find what you need to find." Pendrell looked over at him then, wanting to see the memories he saw and seeing only the man in his car. "I guess you're right. Like I found you." _______________________________________________________ The Spice Girls wanted to talk about life after Ginger. Ralph Fiennes was having a left-brain day. Minnie Driver was the Hollywood pick of the year. Brian Pendrell had no idea what he was doing there. Well. No. That wasn't strictly true. He did know what he was doing. He was looking for help. It was more a matter of not knowing why he was there. Well. No. That wasn't true either. He was there because every time he turned his head he smelled Fox Mulder's scent on his skin; it smelled good. When he closed his eyes he saw Fox Mulder's face shadowed by headlights, eyes dark and warm. And, God help him, it made him hard. He knew what that meant, and he knew why. But he didn't know how to deal with it. So maybe it was more a how than a what or why kind of thing, and of course when and where would look after themselves. Pendrell swallowed and the apparition of his third grade teacher asked him who had picked up that copy of Blue Boy if it wasn't him. Actually, it had been Playboy she'd found and he'd admitted who picked it up right away, figuring that the only option left was to try to mitigate his sins by confession. It hadn't appeased her and now, decades later, he just couldn't do it. And Playboy would be a relief to pick up. He only wished it was Playboy. That would make life so much simpler than . . . Blue Boy. The Advocate. He just couldn't make himself pick them up and walk up to hand them to the bored sales clerk. If they were even for sale in a Nevada convenience store, which they weren't, which was a relief if he were honest with himself though he was still going to be confused. Good word for it. Confused. Pendrell finally settled for Cosmopolitan's 'All About Men' issue and fumbled his way through dollars, change and excuses about fictional wives before he was able to escape the magazine stand with his purchase clutched to his chest. Mulder. Wasn't in the Burger King anymore. Pendrell hadn't been good at surreptitious when he'd been a child -- he'd always been the first one found in hide-and-seek -- and he wasn't a lot better at it now, but he did manage to spot his quarry before Mulder could spot him. He stopped just to watch, wondering dismally what he'd done to make God do this to him. It wasn't like he'd asked to fall in love with Fox Mulder. It wasn't like he didn't know how big a disaster this could be. And common sense had nothing whatsoever to do with the relief of seeing the lanky shape leaning against the metal frame of a pay phone, white and red and yellow bags huddled at his feet as he . . . Talked on the pay phone? Who would he call that he'd use a pay phone instead of the phone in the sleazy motel room? Pendrell had never been a spy. He wasn't even a field agent, although he was an excellent civil servant and all around whiz with trace evidence, but he drew on every James Bond movie he'd ever seen, and every case file he'd ever read and simply walked up behind Mulder just like anybody else. Sneaky is obvious and obvious is sneaky. Or so he told himself. Then again, the hum and whine of traffic and the shrieks of small children howling for burgers did a lot to cover his unstealthy stealthy approach. "I'm at a payphone. Scully, please. Don't try to trace me. I need to . . ." Mulder was studying his watch. Pendrell studied the motion, the easy way the phone was braced between shoulder and ear while he turned his wrist to see. Guiltily winced when something caught the agent's eye and he turned, stared at Pendrell with an expressionless face but caught-in-the-headlights eyes. Disappointed tone of voice, too. "No. Scully, I can't come in. That's just not an option right now." Whatever had been in Mulder's eyes was gone in an instant as he flinched from the phone then put it back to his ear. "Look, I'm sorry Skinner's pissed. I can't help that. But something's come up and I can't . . ." Pendrell bit his lip hard, waiting. His magazine curled in his hands. Mulder kept glancing from his watch to the road, frown etching deeper between his brows. He didn't raise his voice but the muscles along his jaw bunched and he kept drumming his fingers on the phone's metal casing. "I'm not asking you to follow me Scully, or to lie for me. I know they're asking you questions. I can't tell you right now." He turned abruptly away, leaving Pendrell with his back. Soft words, broken, reached him anyway. "Yes. Of course I trust you . . . I'm not the only one involved. No. I can't tell you that." Pendrell shifted foot to foot, trying to sketch in what he couldn't hear; watching headlights, flinching at turn signals. Finally, "Scully. I'm sorry. I promised. I promised . . ." It was enough and too much. Pendrell stepped forward and reached around Mulder. His fingers found the cradle, clicked it down and broke the connection. He looked up to meet Mulder's stare. Mulder's hand rested on the buttons, almost hovered. Pendrell let his hand fall gently to cover it, wove his fingers through Mulder's and would not let himself break the now-startled gaze meeting his own. "Thank you for not telling her." "She's trying to help us, Pendrell. We should tell her. I should . . ." He tightened his fingers just a little, tugging Mulder's hand away from the phone. He crushed what he wanted to say and chose his words carefully, "I know she's trying to help. But there are things she just can't do, Mulder. How could she follow you here?" Whatever he said hit some nerve, hit it hard. Mulder barely moved but Pendrell could feel it in the twitch of his fingers, the hand that he didn't let go. "She's followed me so far . . ." "Followed you, Mulder. For once she deserves the chance to find her own way." Pendrell tried to find the right words for what he wanted to say, words that curdled and wouldn't come true. "I need to talk to you, Mulder. Right now. About this and, I guess, about Scully and -- and a lot more." _________________________________________________ Traffic on Omaha's straight, long highway kept blurring into a river of light in Pendrell's eyes, turning back into cars when he blinked away tears from the chill wind. Mulder was slowly mangling the Burger King sacks into pulp. Pendrell almost reached over and took them from him, but the focused, over-controlled look on Mulder's face stopped him. He blinked again, vision blurred even though the breeze wasn't really blowing just then. Blurted "I'm sorry, Mulder." Eyes colorless in the stark glow of the streetlights studied him expressionlessly. "Why?" Pendrell blinked, looked away trying to sift through the meaning of a single word. "I -- I'm sorry about . . . Jesus, Mulder. I'm not sorry I hung up on Scully but I am sorry I made you feel like this." "You don't know how I feel." Mulder's words, his expression, were terrifyingly mild. "I know how I feel about this, Mulder." Pendrell ran his fingers through his short, crinkly hair. "I know you're mad at me and I don't want . . ." "I thought you wanted to wait until we got to the room for this, Pendrell." Mulder's observation would have stung less if it he'd had any tone at all in his voice. Pendrell sighed. "If I could avoid ever talking about this I would, Mulder, but I did it and I'd rather not walk a mile to a motel with you . . . I don't know, condemning me the whole way. I'd rather talk to you now." "Where you don't have to look at me?" The humor in his voice wasn't a lot better than the flat, toneless words had been. "No." Pendrell shook his head, turned to look Mulder full in the face. "That's one thing I can do." Paper crumpled in fisted hands. Mulder turned square to face him, ignoring the traffic, the breeze. Pendrell shivered in the tight focus of his attention and crossed his arms over his chest, magazine hugged close. "You want to get into this, Pendrell? Okay. You hung up on my partner in the middle of a discussion. Queasiness is one thing but we've run halfway across the fucking country without backup and without a word to anyone who's -- who's --" Mulder almost waved his hands, frustration clear on his face, and had to catch one bag when the paper finally gave way. "Do you want to tell me what this shit is all about?" The flush of anger and confusion in the other man's face was a relief. Something he understood. Pendrell took a deep breath and straightened his back, collecting himself. "Mulder, why didn't you call in the FBI? You tell me." Blink. Blink. Blink. He could see the wheels turning, the slow bleed of tension from Mulder's shoulders and back as his mind worked the question. No one slowed for two men on the side of the road. They were as alone in a room the size of the night. Mulder finally gave a rueful little smile. "I didn't call the FBI becauase -- at first because it seemed so damned outrageous, Pendrell. I mean - I'm used to seeing strange stuff but there are limits." Pendrell mustered a small smile in return. "Too weird for Spooky Mulder? Well, it's not really how I wanted to distinguish myself. I didn't even see all that many cases like mine in your files." "As far as I know there aren't many. Maybe not any." Mulder cocked his head to one side. "Look, there's a donut shop over there. I don't know about you but a cup of coffee's not likely to keep me awake and I'd rather not go back to orange and brown and green drapes." "I kind of like them. They remind me of my Aunt Grue's couch." Pendrell felt his smile grow, heading towards the donut shop. Mulder's chuckle was wonderful in the dark, acid and warm all at once. Sweet and sour laughter. _____________________________________________ The donut shop was almost empty; a trucker sullenly wiring up on tar-black coffee and jelly-filled blintzes in the warm, bright aura of sugar and vanilla. Pendrell tried not to think about the lard and cholesterol that he'd seen lining arteries in physiology dissections. Especially not when he was watching Mulder munch his way through a honey-dipped death bomb of a donut and a cup of high octane French roast. "How do you eat those?" "Long practice. It's part of Quantico's training." Mulder licked a bit of sugar off his lips and Pendrell found himself rolling his magazine in his hands, trying not to watch. Mulder tore off a bit of donut and studied it. "So. Why did you hang me up?" The question sounded gentle, off-handed. Pendrell didn't mistake it for either. "Why haven't you called the FBI? Or Mr. Skinner?" Mulder tore another bite of donut off and ate it slowly. Pendrell watched the analyst study him, fidgeting and twisting up his magazine under the table. He finally couldn't stand it anymore. "Mulder, I -- You and I really haven't talked a lot about -- about what we're going to find or what you think you can do." The donut was slowly, languidly being dismembered. Mulder nibbled it and watched him silently. Pendrell squirmed. He hated himself for it, but he squirmed. This was worse then school with his teachers. Worse, though not by much, than when his parents used to do this to him when he brought home anything less than a "B" on his report cards. Donuts and coffee didn't make it any better. He'd hated inquisitory silence then and he hated it now. He was also damn well determined that for the first time in his life he'd out-wait his tormentor. He had been practicing with his neighbor's cat and if he could out-wait the Bird-inator he could darn well out-wait Mulder. The paper bag on the magazine was beginning to get pulpy with the sweat of his hands before one corner of Mulder's mouth twitched and he popped a big chunk of donut in his mouth. "All right, Pendrell. This is getting silly." "You started it." The words were out before he could stop them. He bit his tongue and blushed, slumping back and recognizing that the point went to Mulder. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I just -- this is so hard to say. I don't really think I know how to put it in words to myself even, and I don't know if I can explain it to you." The agent leaned forward on his elbows, expression taking on that professionally kind mask that was comforting but bugged Pendrell all at the same time. He'd almost rather see the open curiosity or irritation just because he absolutely and for sure knew that those were real. The silky voice was just as bad, smooth and practiced. "Just start trying, Brian. That kind of idea tends to gel as you work through it." "You know, I think I like it better when you call me by my last name." He hadn't meant to let himself lash out like that but there was something satisfying in seeing Mulder jump just that little tiny bit, in surprising the guy and shaking that mask. "You keep trying to play psychologist, Mulder, and it doesn't work when I've seen you do your Spooky act." This time it wasn't surprise he saw; it was the sudden, total blank of raised defenses. Pendrell's stomach flipped over and he slumped a little more in his seat as if making himself smaller would make a difference. Mulder stared at him, motionless. Then nodded a little. "Wouldn't assertiveness training have been easier than coming back from the dead? What's the matter Pendrell? Scully remind you too much of that bar?" "That's not fair." No matter how hard he tried he couldn't make his voice louder than a whisper. "She hurt me, Mulder. I don't want her with us." His stomach curdled at the sound of the whine in his voice. A bit of donut crumbled between long fingers. Pendrell couldn't look away. Wouldn't look back up at Mulder's eyes. He didn't want to see what was there. Mulder brushed the sugary mess from his fingertips and audibly sighed. "It's not enough anymore, Pendrell. We might be okay. We might be able to do this on our own. But that's a big risk. Way too big. This is an X-File. Even I don't run my cases by the seat of my pants like this." "It's not." He had looked up by instinct and was caught by the warm concern in the other man's gaze. "Mulder, this isn't just some case for you to write up and file. It's my life." A long sip of coffee gave Pendrell a moment's respite. Mulder turned, staring out the window and sighed again. "It's your life. All of them are somebody's life, Pendrell. Why should you be any different?" "Because I'm me, Mulder. Because I'm here. I'm not just a victim for you to fix." The paper bag on the magazine was stained with sweat. The agent turned back from the window. "You came back from the dead, Pendrell. Whatever you may want to believe, it's a case. I'll ditch Scully for personal business but not on a case." "Isn't this personal business for you, Agent Mulder? It is for me." "I'm sorry, Pendrell. I wish you didn't have to go through this. But she's my partner. She can help us. She can help you. And Pendrell, I need her help." "We don't!" Oh. Oh. Pendrell bit his tongue and lunged for a bit of Mulder's donut. "We, Pendrell? What do you mean?" "I shouldn'n talk wit' my mout' full . . ." He desperately gobbled at the sweet. It tasted like sugared cardboard but maybe it'd keep him out of trouble. Maybe Mulder's diet of junkfood would deteriorate enough neurons that he'd forget what Pendrell has just said. Please let him forget. "You ready to explain yet, Ace?" Pendrell gulped and swallowed the horrible thing, wishing that for once the aliens might have enough timing to abduct Mulder before he asked the question again. Or maybe the sound of the donut hitting the bottom of Pendrell's stomach would distract him. It sure felt like a lead balloon and God knew it tasted like one. "Pendrell . . ." He'd never imagined that faint, New England accent could turn into a drawl. A nasal drawl that made him wince. "You could use some work on 'Evasion one-oh-one, Pendrell. I'm not going to forget the conversation." The faint smile on Mulder's face might have been an improvement, but he had his doubts. Pendrell chased the glazed-lead-ball with a swallow of truly vile coffee and wondered how his childhood heroes would have handled this. No. Underdog wasn't going to help him out here. Maybe the grad school heroes? "Let me sketch this out for you, Pendrell. We're probably being pursued by armed men, possibly the group responsible for the implant in your neck." Sonny Crockett. He wouldn't let some FBI psychologist-ghost buster intimidate him. But shooting Mulder didn't seem practical, especially not when he didn't have a gun with him. "Scully's a medical doctor, and she's more than familiar with the implants. She's been involved with most of the research I'm aware of on their actual construction and source. If we remove yours, she's got a better chance of recognizing whether it's . . . well. Whether we made it or someone else did." Someone else? Maybe Super-Hypnosis, like in Lois and Clark? Pendrell wished fervently that he had power like that. Or even that he could imagine Mulder was sitting there naked so he'd feel like he had a little edge on him. No, maybe he didn't wish he could imagine Mulder sitting there naked after all. No, he really didn't now that he thought about it. "Pendrell?" Mulder leaned forward, trying to catch his eye. Pendrell gulped and wondered how Fox Mulder could still look great even with powdered sugar on his lips. Oh gosh. He could not, would not get a stiffy, but Mulder looked so good with powdered sugar on his lips. He must have been staring because Mulder suddenly licked his lips; that was even worse. "Pendrell. If you don't give me a good answer I'm going back out there and calling Scully and she'll be meeting us in Logan." Jean Luc Picard would have something brilliant and wise to say but Brian Pendrell was drawing a complete blank except to wonder how that powdered sugar would taste . . . "That's it." Mulder started to slide out of his seat. "Wait!" He didn't know what he'd say but he had to say something. "Please wait." Mulder paused, half out of the booth. "You ready to tell me why you hung up on my partner?" Oh gosh -- oh no he was gonna hyperventilate, and he couldn't slow down but he'd get the "hic!" and this was "hic!" worse than he'd ever possibly thought conceivably possible. "Please, Mulder can't you just trust me?" And, oh please, why couldn't God help him out just once when he wanted to sound firm and convincing and help him not whine and hiccup? But God didn't help, and whine he did. "Please." Mulder didn't sit all the way back, but he didn't get up either. "Please doesn't cut it, Pendrell. And you have to earn trust." Pendrell ducked, wishing he could hide the sudden heat of his face. Screwed up the magazine again and its poor, soggy paper bag gave up the ghost and shredded in his hands, sliding over slick paper. "Mulder, I trusted you. I trusted you when I woke up in the morgue." Maybe it got through. Maybe it didn't. He couldn't tell from the still way Mulder sat and the look on his face was just thoughtful, nothing else. Pendrell took a deep breath and hiccuped again. "Mulder, she never even knew my name!" "She's a good agent. She's a good woman." His voice was low, soothing. Not professionally calming anymore, he sounded like he was really trying to persuade, convince. Like he believed. "Pendrell, she's my partner and *I* trust her. We need her help." "But she won't." He sagged miserably back, shaking his head. "She won't." "Is this about the cocktail napkins?" "No. Yes. No. It's not. Not really." He couldn't help it, he scratched at his chest; winced at the ache in a wound that wasn't raw and fresh anymore, but that might never really heal. "Please don't call her." "I don't trust anyone else, Pendrell. I don't think we CAN trust anyone else." Mulder ran his fingers back through his hair, messing it up. "There might be a leak. We just don't know." "What makes you think there's a leak?" He tried to focus, thumb still gently rubbing the dimple he felt under the bandaid. "Why can't we call Mr. Skinner? He'd help us." Mulder's dry smile was so familiar. Pendrell relaxed a little. His dry voice, familiar and warm despite the ugly words he was saying. "I think we can trust Skinner but I don't know. And we can't trust the phones. He'd ask for more than we can tell him. Scully . . . she's my partner. She trusts me. She'll back my play." "Would Lucy Householder think so?" It was out before he could stop it, blurted and then hanging there between them. Not -- definitely NOT -- how Captain Picard would handle it. Pendrell could feel every lousy calorie of that donut roiling in his belly and firing the rotten coffee into pure lye. Maybe if he just shut up, just pretended he'd never said it, just maybe with the traffic and noisy kitchen and all maybe, just maybe Mulder hadn't heard, wouldn't hear wouldn't . . . Mulder hadn't moved. It was more than just sitting still and Pendrell almost groaned out loud. The sudden flicker of muscle along Mulder's jaw was warning enough for what was coming. "You little shit." He cringed. Couldn't help it. He didn't even want to try to defend himself. "I'm sorry." Mulder opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. Pendrell didn't have to look up from the table. He could just feel the breaths Mulder took, counted them without looking, feeling the heat-lightning tension. Acid and sugar, coffee and cream and the sour, sour taste of self-loathing, simmered at the back of his throat. The brittle voice that finally cut through the silence was worse than he'd ever expected. "Excuse me. I have a phone call to make. Then we'd better get back. We'll be starting early tomorrow." Mulder's back was rigid with fury, his pace graceless with it when he slammed out through the glass doors. The woman at the counter stared after him, then at Pendrell. He fumbled a dollar out for a tip and climbed from the booth on numb, tingly legs, trying to force himself to hurry. Rushing, faster and faster. He needed to catch Mulder. He'd never realized anything could be as potent as humiliation, but this witch's brew of dread and fear and anger and -- maybe, love was curdling his blood and it left shame in ashes in its wake. -- Having the Time of My Afterlife 08 By livengoo Livengoo@tiac.net _______________________________________ Pendrell kept walking, hands dug into his pockets. He didn't really think about it, but after a minute he knew he'd hunched his shoulders like he always did when he felt somebody watching him. Not that it happened all that often but it was a memorable feeling. He wasn't sure why he hunched them. What he really wanted to do was to cover the top of his head where that third eye, what he called his lizard eye, sensed light and dark like it had for his scurrying little ancestors when hawks or other, even older predators loomed up and . . . Pendrell shook himself and stopped that train of thought. But it didn't stop the itchy feeling and the motel was just far enough way that ignoring it was worse then sneaking a peek to his right to see that his lizard eye was right and Fox Mulder really was eyeing him. Both of them looked away. He knew both of them did because he caught Mulder looking back when he sneaked a look back himself. This time he made himself keep looking while Mulder stared back, the agent's face flickering through quick, subdued speculation and irritation and consternation. Lots of -shuns and he really wasn't sure what he thought of it except that he really, truly hated being studied like one of Mulder's profiling projects, as if Mulder could predict every thought and move . . . Mulder blinked. The psychologist sighed and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. Pendrell thought his shoulders must be sore from being cramped up in the car. Mulder wasn't in practice; he didn't hunch over a lab table all day. Practice helped. Though it didn't help figure out what to say. Pendrell would have pulled up his jacket collar, but he'd have had to do something with that rotten magazine he was still carrying around because you couldn't just litter up the highway with a thing like that but the very, absolutely and totally last thing on earth he wanted to do was to make it noticeable and have Mulder ask him why he had a thing like that anyway. Well, almost the last thing he wanted to do. If he thought about it there were other things even worse but none of them seemed likely to happen on a chilly Nebraska highway when they were almost back to the motel but not - quite - far enough. And he still didn't know what to say. He looked at Mulder's feet, trying to decide if they looked like the feet of someone walking decisively, like he knew what to say and was waiting for an opening or something. The didn't. Not really. Not that they looked indecisive or anything. They just looked like Mulder's feet in those cheap, K-Mart sneakers that were sort of glow-in-the-dark white to go with the Brand-X K-Mart blue jeans that still, for all that, looked like a designer label on Mulder. How he did that Pendrell had no idea. He hadn't found anything in Mulder's files about transubstantiation of cheap clothes into designer labels, or even on how to make bad haircuts look good. He sighed. Maybe Cosmo had some tips on that. He sighed heavily and his chest ached. A lot, now that he thought about it. He rubbed at the achy dent, stopped when he felt THAT spot under his fingers and shuddered. Glanced up and saw Mulder watching him with that speculative look on his face again and grimaced. The other man scowled, glancing away at the rubble and wondering if it really did grow by itself the way it seemed to do along roadsides. Pendrell eyed it a moment, then shook the thought out of his head. Why was he here? Why was he putting himself through this? Heck, why was Mulder here? He could guess at a lot of it, but it was so much simpler to just ask, "Mulder, what ARE we looking for?" Mulder looked up and blurted, "huh?" It warmed Pendrell to know Mulder -- even Mulder, for cripes sake -- could be as dumb as everyone else sometimes. Pendrell felt his shoulders unhunch just a little and copied Mulder's speculative look. Or hoped he did at least. "When we started out it was scary and it made sense to keep running but why are we running now? Why aren't we just calling the FBI or the police or whoever takes care of this kind of thing?" "I tried to call for help, E.T. I seem to recall that you hung up on the cavalry." Mulder's dry reply almost made Pendrell hunch up again, but not quite. He looked sideways at Mulder, licking his lips. "Why didn't you call Skinner?" The opaque expression that met his question rankled, hinted at answers but gave nothing away. Pendrell sighed. "I'm remembering why I dreaded seeing you walk into the lab, Mulder." A chuckle thawed the chill between them. "So what the hell does that mean? I brought you the best stuff, Pendrell. Wasn't everyone boring after me?" "Sometimes boring is just what the doctor ordered." He scritched at a spot behind his ear and returned to the scent. "You didn't tell me about this great plan of yours. And you're not calling the boss. What are we looking for that the A.D. wouldn't approve of?" "You got me, Pendrell." Mulder grinned and delivered the compliment in the tone of a teacher congratulating a slow pupil. "What are we looking for? I'm looking for the truth. What about you?" It set Pendrell's teeth on edge. There were many things that Brian Pendrell had not been as a child, but the one thing that he always HAD been was the smartest kid in class. He turned to glare at Mulder. "What truth? I don't know what that means, Mulder. Why can't you just answer the question? What are we looking for?" "You're looking to freeze your ass off if you don't start moving again." Mulder sank his hands a little deeper into his pockets and gave Pendrell a theatrically exasperated look. Pendrell stared back at him, molars grinding. Wanted to shout at him, and caught the very faint hint of tension in the other man's face as a truck rumbled past, washing them in light. Pendrell sucked in a hard breath through his nose, counted and forced himself to relax. He really didn't want a fight, not if he was honest with himself. What he really wanted to do was back away from all this just a little. To find something small and harmless about the whole situation that would let him back down, maybe let them both get off this road and back to a world that was normal and boring and sensible. Mulder didn't look ready to back down. Pendrell wondered for a moment how many face-offs he'd stood through, stubbornly holding this point or that. And knew that Mulder wasn't going to be the one to back down here. Pendrell thought about what to ask, what wouldn't force a fight. "I don't think bigfoot shot me. Or aliens. So we're looking for an evil mastermind, or the godfather, or something like that, aren't we?" A low chuckle answered him as they broke the tableau and started walking again. "I love it. Who knows. If we're lucky we'll find a mad scientist with a nubile assistant." "I don't see what's so funny about mad scientists," Pendrell huffed. It got the grin he'd been hoping for. "I mean, you hunt down little green men --" "Gray." "Okay, gray. And you talk about conspiracies, and there's all this stuff about government agendas in your files, so what's silly about evil masterminds and sinister godfathers? Don't they fit that bill?" Mulder nodded thoughtfully. "I guess they do, though I usually don't think of old guys in tuxedos or nehru jackets running things. Okay. I'll give you an evil mastermind or two. But we're looking for smaller fish." "What kind?" "Why haven't you asked before?" An arched eyebrow inflected the question where the calm voice didn't. "Do you always answer a question with a question?" Pendrell scowled back at him. "They don't let you graduate with your psych degree unless you do that," grinned Mulder. "Blame it on the Freudians. I just wanted to know why you didn't ask this back when we started out." "Oh. Well . . ." He hesitated, flustered. Worked the question back and forth in his head. "It was so scary before. It was too real and not real enough, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I think maybe things need to be less real before you can talk about them or even think about them." Mulder stared at him for a moment, too intent to be blank but utterly unreadable even so. His words veered back onto safe ground, familiar ground. For him at least. "I can see that. But it's sort of hard to wait for a hole in your chest to be less real." The comment brought a sour taste to the back of Pendrell's mouth. He shuddered a little. "I wish you wouldn't do that." "What?" "Lecture me, or throw me off with something sick like that. Why can't you just say it's scary or you don't know?" Now the look meeting his was blank. Really blank, totally controlled and meaningless. "I don't know. And it is scary. We're looking for where this started, Pendrell. If we find that maybe we'll find why it started and when." Soft words, focused and flat but they put a sudden chill in his bones. Pendrell tried to see the funny, assured man he'd been traveling with, who seemed to have all the answers. Instead all he got was Fox Mulder's hard, unrevealing eyes. He looked away, blinking fast. "I'm cold." The still-soft voice answered him. "I know what you mean." Pendrell wondered how, when half the time he, himself wasn't sure what he meant or how he felt. But maybe he did, this time. He knew he felt lonely, too far away from anything that made sense. Cold. Nothing he really wanted to think about, though. Nothing he wanted to be that real. Pendrell made his feet move, one in front of the other, watching them to be sure he didn't trip. And then his own feet were all he saw. Mulder had stopped. Pendrell stiffened, back braced, not sure what he was waiting for but knowing it was bad. He took a deep breath and turned to find Mulder, eyes narrowed, puzzled, face drawn into that intent, "I'm the 'I' in Eff-Bee-Eye" expression. Mulder stared past him, slowly edging into the dark, high grass away from the headlights of the cars. "I think you should get away from the road, Pendrell." "What?" He shook his head, baffled and nervous at the wary look on Mulder's face. Followed his gaze back towards the motel and frowned, seeing nothing. Looked back. "What is it?" Mulder lifted his chin, nodding towards the parking lot. "Do you remember those panel vans being parked out front?" A sudden prickling ran up his back as he looked behind him, taking in the featureless vehicles. He shook his head slowly, staring. "No. I don't." When he looked back, the crazy, cocky grin on Mulder's face made his stomach sink. "Well, either our friends have caught up or five serial killers just rented rooms in our motel." ____________________________________________ Two hours later Brian Pendrell huddled, miserable and shivering, in the front seat of another stolen sedan. The cold wasn't the worst of it. He was sure that years later, long after this night's details had faded into a warm glow of hide-and-seek nostalgia, long after his curly hair had lost the ongoing battle with male pattern baldness, he would remember the smell. He'd probably remember that smell on his deathbed. His second deathbed. He hoped he wouldn't remember it after death, whether or not he came back to life yet again. If he could have taken his skin off he would have. Mulder had rolled the window down and both of them were sitting there with their teeth chattering in 40 degrees, plus a 60 mile per hour wind chill, and even so Pendrell was absolutely sure that neither of them would be fool enough to try to roll up his window. Pneumonia looked good by comparison. "I'm sorry about the smell." It was true. "Is that an apology or an observation, Pendrell?" Mulder's eyes were squinched up the way Pendrell's used to get when he had to use some of the really stinky reagents and esters. His nose was red and running. "I think it's both. I feel sorry for the people we stole the car from." "Don't. The insurance adjuster will take one whiff and write it off. They're getting a new car after this." He wanted to say it wasn't that bad but lies never came easily to him. Instead he just sighed and breathed through his mouth. "We need to stop somewhere soon, Mulder. We ought to go to a hospital. You need that bullet wound looked at." It might have been the passing headlights but Pendrell thought he saw a manic glint in the other man's eyes. "It's just a flesh wound, Pendrell." "What other kind of wound is there?" It came out before he knew it and the answering grin was shiny and bright in the dark. "Hey Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat . . ." Pendrell started to laugh. It had a really thin, ragged edge but God, did it feel good. He handed Mulder the next line. "That trick never works!" "Must have been my other hat. This one smells like all the trash in Nebraska." Mulder's laugh kept getting caught on a little hitch of indrawn breath when his ribs hurt. Pendrell had to work to smother the laughter before he couldn't stop it anymore. The utterly calm, rational tone that had once been his normal voice sounded strange in his own ears. "The dumpster seemed like a good idea at the time. How could I know they pick up trash in the middle of the night?" "There's just something about a man with french fries mashed in his hair, Pendrell . . . oh crapcrapcrap don't make me laugh!" "Don't blame me. We'd still smell like roses -- or donuts at least -- if you hadn't tried to steal our car." "You can't steal your own property." Mulder must have practiced that sanctimonious tone with Scully because it came off without a single slip into laughter, even though he was biting his lips with the effort. "Here's your magazine, by the way." Oh God. He'd forgotten. Oh God, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy will be done and let Mulder not have read the thing and, "Mulder, how the HELL did it get a bullet hole through it?" A quick glance of eyes a little too dark in a pale face. "Oh that? That's what Tactical called creative use of assets when they were training us in hand to hand." He was NOT going to rise to the bait. Yes he was. "Did they tell you that's a good way to get your assets shot off?" Mulder laughed and bit his lip on it, tears bright in his eyes. "Fuck you, Pendrell. I told you not to make me laugh. I wreck and it's your fault." "I'm not the one who got shot." He took a quick glance over, caught Mulder biting down hard and then relaxing with visible effort. "Jesus, I'm sorry Mulder. Pull over and I'll take the wheel." Mulder bit down on his lip harder, shaking his head and took a little, tense breath. "Fuck no! I stop and the wind stops coming into this car. I'll be fine, Pendrell." Pendrell shifted, caught another whiff of himself and winced. "We'll have to stop some time, Mulder. We lost them, it's safe. I mean, if we hold our breaths --" a quick grin answered the effort, "you need to let me look at that." "It's okay." He drew a deep breath with visible effort. "Really. It looks worse than it is." "Just what do you think it looks like?" Pendrell couldn't keep the incredulous tone out of his voice. Mulder might have thought his expression was a grin. "I think it looks like maybe a cracked rib. It hurts like a bitch but it's not very dangerous." "Thank you Dr. Mulder." Pendrell sighed. "I didn't think you were Catholic." "Huh?" The startled, uncomprehending look was almost reassuring. "I guess you are okay if you've got the energy to look stupid." Pendrell briefly relished having the upper hand. "If you want to give your suffering up to God that's your business Mulder, but do me a favor and let's stop at the next motel so I don't have to give MY suffering up when you run us off the road because your ribs hurt." "No faith. Repeat after me, 'I want to believe.'" "I want to believe that Holiday Inn has a vacancy!" He pointed, heart thrilling to the idea of a hot shower. ___________________________________________ "I don't believe how dirty those are," Pendrell mourned, turning his back on the greasy clothes soaking in the tub. Mulder eyed him a moment, then went back to prising open the childproof cap on the ibuprofen bottle. "One of the first things you learn in the X-Files is that there are more things 'tween heaven and earth, Horatio." "Right now half of them are ground into my blue jeans. Let me do that --" reaching for the bottle Mulder held. "I can manage." The glare was mild enough but it backed Pendrell off. "Sorry. I just wanted to help." "Believe me, I'll take your help in a minute," growled Mulder as the cap finally let go, flipping across the bed. He sighed audibly and dumped several tablets into his hand. "I really hate this. Can you get that bag for me?" Pendrell eyed him a moment, wrapped his towel tighter around his waist and grabbed the bag he'd gotten at an all-night drugstore. "Are you used to doing this?" The hoarse chuckle answering didn't have much actual humor in it. "I don't generally have to do it for myself. I usually travel with my own physician, Pendrell. Of course, I usually manage to avoid getting shot too." "Except by her?" He bit his tongue but Mulder just quirked one of those off-center grins that were getting to be so familiar. "That's how I know she likes me." He tugged the blood-stained shirt out of his jeans, grimaced and stopped. Pendrell twitched in sympathy as Mulder took another shallow breath and held it, half peeled the shirt up and stopped again. He badly wanted to just reach over and pull the turtleneck up for the other man. Mulder must have seen it because he shook his head. Pendrell stopped at his determined expression and waited while he tried it again. When Mulder just took several more small, patient breaths Pendrell finally, tentatively, offered, "can I give you a hand?" "Yeah," it was small and strained. "That'd be good." The shirt felt stiff and sticky when he touched it. Pendrell tried his best to be gentle and flinched when Mulder hissed anyway. He tried it again but Mulder folded protective arms over his ribs and Pendrell stumbled over his own apologies, "sorrysorrysorry . . ." A tiny shake of the head cut off the litany of useless apology. "S'okay. It's stuck. You're gonna have to soak it off." Pendrell stared at him, the hem of the stiff, too-heavy shirt wadded in his hand. "Soak it?" The effort to grin was visible. "Just like a bandaid, Pendrell. You soak it or you rip it off, and if you rip this one off, I'll probably kill you." "No -- I just . . ." He stammered to a stop, mind blank. Mulder took another of those shallow breaths and held it, letting go of his own ribs with hesitant little motions. Pendrell had to lean close to hear the tiny voice. "Just like a bandaid. I hate bandaids." "Okay. Okay." He forced himself to move, clutching his towel as he went to the bathroom to get a wet washcloth. He eyed his wet clothes mournfully, wishing he hadn't left the rest of his stuff in the Motel of Doom. Mulder was sprawled on the bed when he came back with the warm, dripping cloth. "Sorry. This'll hurt a lot, won't it?" The answering nod made him feel like shit. He could hear Mulder gritting his teeth when he pressed the washcloth over the bloody, stuck patch. "I'm so sorry. I wish you'd let me take you to a hospital, Mulder. What if something's really wrong and I hurt you and we have to go anyway but then they'll -" "Sh'dup." Mulder's eyes were closed tight. "S'okay. Just keep doing that. It's not that bad, it just hurts." It took forever. Even for something he knew wasn't taking very long it took forever. In the back of his mind Pendrell thought about Einstein and interminable history classes, and anything else at all but really, really what he wanted to be able to do was to stop hurting Fox Mulder. The skin under his hands was sweaty and warm. He could smell the blood and Mulder's sweat, felt every shiver of discomfort under his hands. When the shirt finally softened the two of them got it up and over Mulder's shoulders, dropping the wet thing on the floor. "Christ, Mulder!" The breath whoofed out of him. Mulder's eyes glittered through his lashes. Pendrell slumped down on the bed next to him. "You look like hell." The huffing little laugh barely moved the agent's chest, but even that caused a visible wince. "Yeah. I hate this. I don't think they're cracked but it hurts." A long, violent, scored patch over his ribs simmered red. "I just bet that hurts. God, it looks like a burn." "Probably is. He was standing awfully close. Give me the peroxide, okay?" Pendrell held it out, then ventured "are you sure you're okay? I mean, we really ought to get you to a doctor." Mulder brought long fingers up gingerly to massage the long wound. "We might as well call them and tell them to come get us, Pendrell. It'd save us driving to a hospital. And this is sort of like the common cold, anyway. All you can do is clean it up and take pain killers." "I wouldn't know." He toyed with the edge of the towel wrapped around his waist. "The worst I ever did was break a finger." The inquisitive look wasn't as focused as usual. "How?" "Football." Pendrell flushed, then wondered why. "I was rotten but I liked it." "Keep talking. It's better than television." Mulder scooted back, carefully got his back against the headboard and started dabbing his side with peroxide on cotton balls. Red ones piled up on the floor. "So. Cosmo. You read it for the articles or the pictures?" Pendrell felt his cheeks go from flushed to flaming. Stammered out, "a-are you sure you don't want help doing that, Mulder?" Mulder's grin stretched wide. "I don't think they covered this in 'All About Men,' Pendrell. What were you doing with that? You're already supposed to know everything that's in there. Not that I'm not grateful for the distraction. I ought to write to Helen Gurley Brown -- 'Cosmo saved my life!'" He waved another stained cotton ball in a big, stretched-out-headline motion. It made him wince but Pendrell sighed with relief, feeling the topic slide into comfortable farce. Until Mulder circled back around with "but couldn't you find anything better, like Hustler?" It was freezing in the hotel room. It had to be because Pendrell's skin went all goosebumpedy as he felt the hook sink in just a little deeper. He fidgeted with the towel again, staring at his freckled knees with their scruffy red hair as Mulder finished up cleaning the messy graze. Mulder didn't have freckles, he thought, and scratched idly at the bandaid on his chest. Stilled, hand over his heart, and felt the faint, precious pulse. Mulder was watching him neutrally when he looked up. Maybe waiting for another line in the game, just trying to distract himself. Pendrell didn't know, couldn't guess. There were lines around Mulder's eyes and his mouth -- faint ones, but still there. Warm, hazel eyes and that mobile mouth. Pendrell sucked in a hard, long breath that rattled all the way to the bottom of his lungs and said "I bought the stupid thing because I couldn't figure out what to do." Total bafflement. Utter and complete. Mulder stared at him, raised eyebrow asking the questions for him. Pendrell sucked in just a little bit more, held the breath and let it out slowly, slumping into it and fidgeting. "Mulder. Nothing ever happened to me like this before." "Yeah." He nodded. "X-Files are like that." "No." Softly, nervously. He looked away then made himself look back up. Forced himself to keep looking into Mulder's face. "I've never fallen in love." Blink. Blink. Blink. Mulder finally cleared his throat, loud as heck in the hotel room. Pendrell wanted to get up and hide in the bathroom, wanted to pull the coverlet off the other bed and make a tent and hide in it, or maybe even just pull on all his soaked clothes and go out and freeze solid with mortification, but he just took a deep breath and let it out. Mulder nodded once, thoughtfully. "I think you need to repeat that and give me more details, okay Pendrell?" "Umm . . . what kind of details?" Oh please God in heaven don't let him ask about what he thought he was going to do and . . . "Let's start with 'fallen in love.'" Mulder's voice was low, calm. Very calm. "Why don't you run that one by me again." Pendrell's stomach rolled, and he couldn't keep looking the guy in the face. He stared down to where his fingers were trying their best to shred the edge of a Holiday Inn bath towel. "Well --," he squeaked. "It just sort of happened. I mean, at first I thought you were a real a-hole if you know what I mean but then you helped me so much and saved me and all and it's not like when I thought Agent Scully might fall into my arms some day but --" "Wait." Mulder was patting the air when he looked up. That professionally understanding expression was back on his face, like the one the agent used to use when Pendrell was so nervous he stammered because he was sure that telling Mulder that his evidence didn't make any sense would piss him off. "Wait a minute, Pendrell. Take a deep breath and calm down." "I'm not upset. I'm in love." There. He'd said it twice. And it really didn't sound all that stupid after all. "With --" Mulder coaxed with a gesture of his hand. "You." "Ah." The agent leaned back against the headboard again, nodding to himself. Once. Twice. Then shook his head. "You're going to have to run that one by me again, I'm afraid. I think I just misheard you again." Pendrell put his face in his hands, the looked back up. "Mulder. I love you. I want to make love to you. I want to make you feel wonderful. I spent my whole life too scared and now that I'm finally starting to live--" He reached out, gently touching one of Mulder's bare ankles where the pants legs ended. Steeled himself. "I had to die to figure out how to care about somebody real, Mulder. I love you." Blink blink blink. Fox Mulder stared back at him without a single flicker of expression or comprehension but the muscles under his hand flexed, tensed, held very still. Pendrell heard him swallow. "Mulder? Please?" Mulder threw back his head, looked at the ceiling then shut his eyes and gave a long, slow sigh. "I think we need to have a talk, Pendrell." "Oh God." Pendrell slumped, face in his hands. "Don't say it. I know the 'let him down gently' speech already. God," he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes wondering if he could just have a good, well-timed heart attack for once in his life, "bad enough to screw up when I'm alive but I can't even be dead without messing it up!" He was rocking, sick with embarrassment, and couldn't even bring himself to stand up. God help him, if he slid off the bed his towel'd probably get pulled off. That would be it. The final stroke. He almost did it just so he could actually maybe die of humiliation in peace and have it done with. He was so sick that the hand that landed on his shoulder and held him still sent a jolt through his whole frame and he shrieked. "Pendrell!" The hand lifted, then settled again and squeezed gently. "Pendrell. Look at me." He was gonna die he was gonna die right here on the spot. The papers would write it up as the man who died and then was found naked in a Holiday Inn in deepest, darkest Utah. Heaven only knew what everyone would think or say about it but he held his breath and wondered if he could defy all the medical literature and be the first man in existence to asphyxiate by holding his breath. Warm, oddly gentle fingers closed around his chin urging his face up and around. Pendrell kept his eyes shut tight, not wanting to look. His ears were ringing -- maybe he'd be lucky and it'd be a heart attack and he wouldn't have to beat the odds on holding his breath until he died. Because he knew most people didn't die from holding their breath. They just passed out. That fact duly noted and categorized, Pendrell found himself letting out his breath in a long, hopeless whoosh that sounded suspiciously like a pitiful little sigh. The fingers didn't let go of his chin. They tightened a little and shook him just a bit. "Hey. You got up to bright red Pendrell. Are you ready to keep breathing and look at me?" He wasn't laughing. That's what really got through to Pendrell. That Mulder wasn't laughing. Slowly, cautiously, he opened one eye and looked at Mulder in a little bit of a blurry way, past the side of his nose. And Mulder was smiling sadly, but he really, truly was not laughing and it didn't quite feel good, but it didn't feel quite as horrible as it had. "It's okay, Pendrell. You can open both of 'em. I'm not going to shoot you." "I'd probably thank you if you did." He wished the words hadn't been shaky. The comment would have sounded better. Mulder let go of him and scooted back to lean against the headboard again. "I admit. It's a new twist on -- it doesn't happen everyday." Pendrell couldn't look up, even though he wasn't laughing. "God. I should have just shut up. I mean -- I'm sorry." The big, gusty sigh that answered did finally make him look up into warm, patient eyes. "No. I'm sorry. I didn't handle that very well." He couldn't help it. He bridled, just a little. Stiffly answered, "you don't have to let me down gently. I understand." "That's not what I mean," comfortingly edged with exasperation. "Look Pendrell. First, it's -- okay. It's a little flattering in a really weird way." "Flattering. But I'm not your type." "No," Mulder stated bluntly. "You're not. But that doesn't mean I'm stupid. You're a really sweet guy, Pendrell. And you've been under a lot of stress and I don't think you ever knew that a lot of people thought of you as their friend." "They did? I mean --" He stopped and wondered what he DID mean. Or what he would mean if he could figure out what to say, or whether that ought to be the other way around. "No. No no no. Mulder," he looked up finally into the too-understanding expression and sighed. "It's not just loneliness and shock or whatever you think it is. I know how I feel." A gentle, inquisitive tilt of the head in answer. "God knows I'm not a Freudian, Pendrell, but Freud wasn't all wrong. I know you're going through a lot. You've got to have all these," he gestured, hands open expansively, "big feelings that just about knock you off your feet. It's not unusual to feel like you're falling in love with someone who helps you at times like that." The words ached, pushing him further away, boxing how he felt. Pendrell finally shook his head and looked over into Mulder's eyes. "I understand. But that's not how I'm feeling. Mulder, haven't you ever been in love? When was the last time you let someone love you?" He stopped, not knowing why he'd asked what he'd asked, but knowing that it was right. Whispered the question again, "when was the last time, Mulder? Why not let me?" Mulder pinched the bridge of his nose, ran his hands over his face and finally looked back up. "I don't know, Pendrell. Brian. I just know I'm tired and this is too -- this is more than I'm up to tonight. I tell you what. Just let it go for a couple of days and we'll talk again, okay? We'll -- maybe things will be clearer then. Deal?" Pendrell listened, heard nerves and worry and something sad and lost and small in Fox Mulder's voice that had nothing to do with his words. And finally nodded. And didn't have to ask this time. "Okay. But we will talk again, Mulder. I know what I feel." Even if you don't know what you feel, he added silently. Maybe not love. Maybe not anything. But they'd have to figure that out together before he'd be able to do -- anything. Move forward. Move on. Whatever. He laughed softly at the thought and Mulder looked up at him with an expression somewhere between curiosity and apprehension. "You have another surprise for me, Pendrell?" "No. Not this time." He grinned. "I was just thinking about the ghost stories I read when I was a kid. You know, how ghosts are stuck in places because they can't figure out how to move forward or back?" A slow smile of understanding eased the tension from Mulder's face, lightened his eyes. "Yeah. That's not that funny." "Yes it is! Look at you laughing!" "Hysterics, maybe," but it was a clean, fine sound. Pendrell stood up carefully and didn't lose his towel. "I think we both need some sleep, Mulder. And," he hesitated, "I'll try not to have nightmares." Mulder sighed, a calm, ironic smile curving his lips. "Teddy bear virtue?" He grinned back, "get stuffed." "Try it and you'll end up on your ass." But said lightly, the tension gone. The smile faded but didn't totally drop. "It's okay, Pendrell. It'll be okay." Brian Pendrell padded into the bathroom to hang up his clothes and, if he was very lucky, he'd be able to figure out just what had happened and why he suddenly felt like the world was, just maybe, a place where magic might happen. Having the Time of My Afterlife 09 By livengoo Livengoo@tiac.net ______________________________________ Pendrell hadn't really been surprised that Mulder was up, showered and dressed before he woke up. It felt a little -- stiff maybe. Like Mulder had set the alarm clock to wake him up early or something but maybe it was just his ribs. Maybe. But Pendrell didn't dawdle about getting cleaned up and dressed himself. Mulder was studying a road map on the computer he'd risked his life to liberate from their old car. Pendrell shook his head and comforted himself with the thought that there was a lot more than grainy road maps on that computer. "You don't need that. We'll get there today." A button click and the map melted away. "Back on home ground?" The carefully neutral tone didn't really put Pendrell at ease. He paused, scratched at the now-itchy spot in his chest where the bullet hole's edges were starting to turn a shiny, pale pink. Girded his loins. "I'm sorry about last night." "I understand." Mulder smiled nicely. A Sunday-best smile is what Pendrell's mom would have called it. "It's okay, Pendrell." Right. Pendrell pulled a sour face. "It's not okay if you're going to be walking around trying to be Mr. Politically-Correct all the time." Mulder's instant bristling actually made Pendrell feel better. "Politically correct is far too broad, Pendrell. The word you're looking for is 'transference.'" Pendrell dropped heavily on the foot of Mulder's bed, looking for a flinch. If one had been there it was sharply controlled. "Transference. Is that what you call it?" "If you and I were in a therapeutic relationship that's what I'd call it," grumped Mulder. Pendrell snorted, heard himself and shook his head. Copying Mulder-mannerisms. He sighed. "We're not in any kind of a relationship, except that you're driving me relatively crazy." "I didn't DO anything!" Mulder was glaring at him now, except that he seemed to be looking at Pendrell's ear instead of his eyes. Infuriating. Definitely infuriating. Pendrell frowned. "You sure did get up early, Mulder. And I really hate that 'I'm a shrink, trust me' voice." Hazel eyes finally looked directly back at him. Mulder's lips had thinned and he was almost spluttering with exasperation. "I AM a shrink. And I do get up early. I just skipped running today. Do you want me to give you a point by point of what I'll do today, Pendrell? I'll go out and get in that car with you and we'll go hunting coffee, and maybe some food so loaded in cholesterol that it threatens our lives. Then we'll drive to Logan. And I'll keep talking to you and . . . and . . ." he finally gave up, waving his hands in frustration. "And you'll do your best to make me feel at ease and let me know it's okay if I think I love you, because sooner or later I'll come to my senses?" Narrowed eyes and thinned lips really weren't Mulder's best look. "No. I'll do my best not to strangle you before I let you drink your first cup of coffee. When did you become so confrontational? You picked a hell of a time to learn self-assertion." Pendrell deflated, looking away. Then consciously straightened his back. "Maybe I just want you to treat me like you did before, Mulder. Okay? And if anyone's going to get strangled it WON'T be me. After all, I'm the one who comes back from the dead." Mulder stared blankly at him, then his face just melted into a laugh. "You have no idea how stupid that sounds." "But it's true," pointed out Pendrell. "I guess it is. Although I've known several agents I'd argue come back from the dead with the first cup of --" "I get the idea." Pendrell reached over and scooped up Mulder's computer. "You're in caffeine withdrawal." "Ah, the instincts and observational skills of a trained forensic investigator at work." "Thing of beauty, isn't it? So, what'll it be? Denny's? Mr. Donut?" "Whatever we hit heading towards Utah." Mulder grabbed his jacket and shrugged into it. "And we'll just cross our fingers and hope that the bad guys sleep late." Pendrell nodded, plucked his still-soggy pants off his skin and took a last look around for orphaned toothbrushes or clothes, not that they really had much left after the exodus from Motel 8. "Hey, Pendrell --" Mulder's suddenly serious voice made him turn around. "The assertiveness thing -- it works for you." He couldn't stop the wide, silly smile that splashed over his face. "Thanks. I bet we can find a buffet if we look." ____________________________________________ "You've gotta love grease." Mulder jingled the car keys in his hand as they left the IHOP. "The genetic luddites who want us all to do low-fat are out of their minds." Pendrell paused, shook his head and reached out for the keys. "Why don't you let me drive. And what the heck is a genetic luddite?" A wolfish grin answered. The keys came flying over the hood of the car as Mulder sidled to the passenger side of the scruffy white Mustang. "Luddites. Retro-Industrial political dissidents --" "Got that part." Pendrell nodded. Mulder leaned on the roof of the car watching Pendrell, who flinched as he opened the car and waved the residual stink away from his face. The agent opened his own door once the car had aired out for a minute. "Still pretty ripe? Good thing I got a little tree or we'd freeze to death. Genetic luddites want us to go back to our pre-omnivorous ancestors and start eating nothing but bean sprouts and tofu." "Oh. I remember that fossil tofu find. Didn't they write it up in 'Nature'?" All things considered, Pendrell found the UFO's and beastwomen more credible than Mulder's dietary theories. Not that he would ever question Mulder's sanity. When they'd filled the tank that morning and the agent had come back with the little air freshener, he'd proved that he might be eccentric but he wasn't crazy. "Tell you what, maybe food theory should be another of those forbidden topics, okay Mulder?" "What?" A too-studied, bland, academic look was plastered on Mulder's face as Pendrell buckled in and backed them out of the parking spot. "Not interested in extrapolating EBE biochemistry and planetary ecosystems based on their proven preference for long horn steers in cattle mutilation?" Pendrell blinked and revved the engine, pulling out into traffic. "Do you do this to Agent Scully too? Is that what happened to her?" "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," demurred Mulder with perfect, unctuous solemnity. Pendrell ran his tongue over the surface of his teeth and shook his head. "What are we going to do when we get to Logan? My mother bakes a mean apple pie." "And the judges give him solid eights for changing subjects." Mulder laughed softly. Out of the corner of his eye Pendrell could see him turn, look behind them, then settle comfortably back in his seat. He eyed the rear view mirror, checking the cars behind them. "What are you looking for? You could just ask me to shut up instead of making me uncomfortable." "I'm not." Mulder didn't sound surprised. Pendrell wondered which question he was comment he was answering. Probably both. "I'm bored, Pendrell. The Midwest is where most of the shit I investigate takes place. After a while fields and cars stop having any novelty." He glanced sideways. "You just got jumpy. All of a sudden. That's all." "Maybe you're just sensitive to it today." Mulder studied the traffic. "You might want to slow down a little. We are driving a stolen car." "You're probably right." "About which?" Pendrell smiled cryptically and let Mulder decide. "What do you think we'll find in Logan?" Mulder tensed, then relaxed. "You'd have made a good field agent." "Thank you. I learned from the best." Pendrell tapped on the wheel, sneaking looks at the other man. Mulder was tugging at his lower lip, staring blankly out the windshield at the chicken truck ahead of them. "Did you go to the doctor a lot when you were a kid?" The agent's question seemed to come out of nowhere. "Yeah, I guess so. Why?" Pendrell shook his head, baffled. "Because somebody had to put that implant in there. What was the doctor's name?" Mulder's tone was soothing, coaxing. Pendrell looked at him suspiciously. "Armbruster. Doc Armbruster." Unconsciously he scratched at his arm. "Doc A treated me for everything from runny noses to eczema." "Mmhmm." Mulder gave him a sleepy, patient smile. "Nice old white haired guy?" "Not really. Have you ever considered just asking me outright for what you want? We're on the same side, aren't we?" A rueful look answered him. "If I ask you to trust me, and tell you I've got my reasons, will it matter?" "Sure. If you tell me your reasons." Pendrell frowned out at the truck and the feathers that fluttered up over the hood of the dirty, white Mustang. Chicken stink and the lingering miasma of Nebraska garbage perfected his day. "We interrogate people for a reason, Pendrell. When crimes happen to cops we interrogate THEM." "And you're interrogating me?" Pendrell glanced over at him again. "More or less." Mulder coughed. "Any chance we've got a passing lane coming?" "Maybe. I hope so." He sighed. "So why do aliens always mutilate cattle? Don't they know chicken's better for them?" The low chuckle from next to him put a pleasant shiver up his spine and Pendrell concentrated on chicken stink, feathers stuck to the windshield, and the possiblity that effective marketing might work like brainwashing. Gap ads, maybe, or Jockey underwear ads surreptitiously sent in email gifs. He snickered to himself. "How's subliminal advertising work, Mulder?" He glanced over to catch one of those arched-eyebrow looks. Cripes, he was developing a whole catalogue of Mulder looks. If he hadn't already known he had it bad . . . "You don't know, Pendrell?" "Your degree's in how the critter behaves, Mulder. Mine's in how the critter's bits and pieces behave. Blastocytes don't care about advertising." "What IS your degree? I never quite figured that out. It seemed like any time I had something weird I just took it to you." Mulder eased a heel up to the dashboard, stretching his hamstrings, Pendrell guessed. It was . . . distracting. He made himself not look. "I'm a molecular biologist by training." He pulled over a little, looking for a passing lane, praying to God to help him escape the miasma of chickens. "And you wound up in my lab on purpose." "Whose? I used to spread the joy around." Mulder switched legs. "Blame Martha Haggerty." "The Paint Lady?" Mulder delivered the title straight-faced. He'd probably had to sit through some of Martha's lectures on the intricacies of car enamel. Pendrell grinned and wondered what Martha would have said about their car, with its oxidized paint and poultry patina. "Martha told me she knew the 'light of love' was in my eyes." Pendrell let that comment sit for a heartbeat, then finished it. "She said that sooner or later Agent Scully couldn't help but fall into my arms." Mulder's heel slipped off the dash and he almost brained himself doubling over in laughter. "Ohmygodohmygod oh you're SHITTING me Pendrell!" "Nope." He shook his head. "She liked palm readers too. There's one special one, Madame Suzy or something. Martha'd go at lunch time and come back and tell us all how we were going to find love and we ought to buy this lottery ticket." "Oh, crap! And you and Scully . . ." Pendrell's grin grew, "were going to fall madly in love, get married in a Catholic ceremony and have lots of babies. Martha has a real thing about babies." " -- shitohshit!" Mulder was making little noises in between whoops of laughter, hands wrapped over his ribs. "Stop, oh it hurts --" Pendrell shook his head ruefully. "See. All that promise shot down in flames. Martha never once told me to stay away from redheads in bars. My faith in the supernatural is gone." Mulder sagged back in his seat, gasping for breath, little snorts of laughter still erupting now and then. He wiped his fingers across his eyes and solemnly turned to Pendrell. "You can't let this disillusion you. I have seen the power of the Other Side. Every time I do a budget projection, I run it by my Magic 8-Ball. It's always said that no, I won't get what I'm asking for. Pendrell, it's never been wrong. The spirits speak to me." Pendrell almost choked, sat coughing and laughing, trying to clear where a swallow had gone down the wrong way. "I guess I can believe after all, Agent Mulder! How can I deny evidence like that? Does your 8-ball ever say yes to anything?" "I wouldn't know," came the sententious reply. "I've never squandered the wisdom of the ancient dead on anything but serious questions like whether Skinner will rake me over the coals for losing too many Mag-lites." "Wish you had that thing now." Pendrell swung out again, "ah, the heck with it. No one's coming." "Thank god for scofflaws. I'm beginning to crave marigold petals," muttered Mulder. "I think Frank Perdue would probably turn you down. He likes his chickens tender." murmured Pendrell, glancing back and checking, then pulling out. It was just as they finally felt that first breath of fresh, poultry-free air come through the vents that he heard it. A quick, synthetic burp of sound, and the flash of lights in the rear view mirror. Mulder spun in his seat, staring out the back. "Fuck. There's never a cop when you need one, but try to pass a chicken truck --" "I guess you'd better get the registration out." He hadn't really thought about what he was saying until Mulder turned to stare at him. "You're out of your mind! Pendrell, we're driving a stolen car! Step on it." "But that's illegal!" "So's driving a stolen car!" "If we tell him the truth . . ." "He'll lock us up and have us committed." "But you've got your ID." Pendrell glanced frantically between the lights that were getting bigger in his rearview mirror and the man next to him, who looked like he wanted to shove his own foot down and floor the gas. "And it won't matter. It's still illegal to steal a car. At best they'll radio us in, and then those motherfuckers from the conspiracy will be all over our asses," hissed Mulder. "Floor it!" Back. Forth. Lights. Mulder. Back. Forth. Lights. Mulder was practically frothing. "Fuckfuckfuck." "I can't do it." "WHAT? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?" Pendrell sighed. "I can't, Mulder. I've never gotten a ticket in my life. I just can't do it." "Oh crap," moaned the agent. "I don't believe this!" "It's one thing to steal a car, Mulder. But I can't defy the law." "But . . ." the protest spluttered off into incoherent sounds as Pendrell sadly pulled over to the shoulder and rolled down his window. The chicken truck roared by, stinky feathers blowing in the open window. Dispiritedly, he brushed one out of his hair and ignored the disbelieving groan from Mulder, in the passenger seat. The cop pulled up behind them, sitting there for what felt like a very, very long time. Mulder hissed and swore and begged him to floor it but he couldn't. Brian Pendrell had not come back from the dead to run from the law. _________________________________________ "Let me see your registration." Pendrell frowned at the curt tone of voice. Mulder was holding out the registration. His condemned-and-waiting-for-the-blindfold expression didn't do anything to cheer Pendrell up. "Here you are officer. Is there a problem?" "Let me see your license." Pendrell blanched. Mulder sniggered in a resigned way, if there was such a thing. "Umm," stalled Pendrell, patting himself down. "Let me see where, did I put it --" The cop had his hand firmly planted on the butt of his gun. "Step out of the car, both of you." "We're doomed," muttered Mulder. "If you just give me a minute, officer . . ." Pendrell looked desperately at Mulder, who just shrugged. "Mulder, my driver's license --?" "You were dead. Since when do dead guys drive?" The agent reached for the door handle, keeping his hands in plain sight. "I'm stepping out, officer." Pendrell turned back and froze, his breakfast congealing in his stomach as he looked down the enormous maw of the officer's weapon. "Okay! Okay! Just let me open the door." No such luck. The cop yanked his door open, gun still pointed in a very threatening and 'unhelpful' way at Pendrell's face. "You will step from the car NOW!" He couldn't help it. Pendrell wailed, "I thought the police were supposed to HELP people!" as he awkwardly got out, hands held up like a movie bank robber. Mulder had already planted his hands on the roof of the car and was mournfully watching the sky. "Next time I drive." Even if Pendrell could have thought of a reply he wouldn't have had the chance to deliver it as he was spun, shoved at the car, ordered, yelled at and patted down. Humiliating. Mortifying. And the cuffs were really uncomfortable when they clamped around his wrists. The cop, gun still in hand, dragged him stumbling around the car. Not that Mulder was resisting in any way. He'd kept his hands in plain sight and leaned forward, assuming the position like a pro. It was enough to make one wonder whether the FBI's investigative support was always welcome where X-Files were concerned. In any case, Mulder gave no sign of alarm or surprise. Unlike Pendrell, whose head was still spinning as both of them, handcuffed and divested of ID and weapons, were shoved into the back of the squad car. It smelled like sweat but, thankfully, not chickens or garbage. Mulder sighed and squirmed around. "Somehow, getting handcuffed never lives up to my fantasies." "You fantasize about this?!" "Not quite like this." Mulder let out another of those long, wistful sighs. "The last time I had this fantasy I didn't imagine a muzzle burn on my ribs, and the cop didn't look like Erik Estrada. In fact, she looked a lot like Kathy Ireland." Pendrell wrinkled his nose. "But she's got such a squeaky, awful voice!" Mulder shrugged philosophically, if a little awkwardly. And winced. Having his hands behind his back probably hurt. "I didn't have to worry about her voice, Pendrell. Her mouth was full." "Oh." Pendrell blushed and distracted himself by watching the cop do a cursory search of the Mustang. "Didn't he look at your badge? Why is he treating us like this?" "Do you really want me to answer that, Pendrell?" Mulder squirmed around until he found a spot that must have worked because he relaxed, head tilted back on the seat. "Now what?" Pendrell couldn't keep the anxiety out of his voice. "Will they book us?" Mulder opened one eye and looked, briefly, back at him before shutting it again and shaking his head. "What makes you think we'll get that far?" The bland question put a chill up his back as Pendrell considered its implications. "Maybe," he ventured, "maybe it's not that bad. I mean, they wouldn't dare to tackle a cop, would they? If we're arrested we'd be safe from - well. From THEM. Wouldn't we? And if they book us, we can get a public defender and a phone call and Mr. Skinner will know we're here and so will other people." He was picking up steam. "And it'll be in the papers and the FBI will investigate and we'll be released and -- and --" "And you really are crazy," sighed Mulder. "I almost hate to burst that particular bubble, Pendrell, but we're in deep shit and it's getting deeper." "Should we run?" Mulder's laugh was dry. "That would be resisting arrest. Not to mention that it's hard to run fast when your hands are cuffed behind your back. I know. And it won't help. He's already radioed in about the car. Car missing in the right time frame. Two suspects. Nope, our friends are on the way." Pendrell stared at him, appalled. "If you really think that, why are we sitting here?" "Why?" Mulder let his head fall sideways, looking back at Pendrell. "Our chances with the cop suck. Our chances without him are nonexistent. They've figured out we're here. If we run, they can pick us up with almost no risk. The cop MIGHT slow them down. Maybe." The spit dried up in Pendrell's mouth. Tonelessly, he whispered "I should have floored it." A nod answered that. "Yes. And run like hell. Now we play this hand for all it's worth." _____________________________________ The hand wasn't worth very much. That was obvious from how the state trooper had treated them when he'd gotten back into the car and reviewed Mulder's ID. "FBI. Feeb." "That's Special Agent Feeb," murmured Mulder softly. The following exchange was brief, unpleasant, and punctuated with comments that Pendrell didn't think were funny no matter how hard the trooper laughed. Mulder didn't even bother to look. Pendrell tried to explain. Tried to tell the trooper how relieved he was and that they really needed police help. Mulder had kicked him a little but -- well. Cops had always been polite to him before. Then again, he admitted to himself as the trooper glared at him in the rearview mirror, usually he wasn't talking to them from the backseat of a prowl car. The radio's static scratched along his nerves, discussion confirming the license of the Mustang. Mulder looked relaxed but when Pendrell had brushed the man's arm he'd felt like a coiled spring. Pendrell swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and unconsciously flexed his foot against the imagined gas pedal of an entirely different car than the one in which he sat. The silence was so sudden it stunned him; the radio and engine falling dead in the same instant. Looking around, Pendrell saw Mulder, eyes wide in his shock-white face. His lips moved. As the world faded out, the last words Pendrell remembered might have been Mulder's or might have been his own. "Oh crap. Not again."