From: rosecampion@earthlink.net
Date: 3 Feb 2003 09:49:24 -0800
Subject: [atxc-pi] NEW: Midnight Train To Georgia -R- (0/2)
Source: atxc
 
Title: Midnight Train To Georgia 
Author: Rose Campion 
Feedback Email: rosecampion@earthlink.net 
Author's Website: 
Archive at Gossamer: Yes to Gossamer 
Status: NEW - Complete 
Size: 36k 
Category: Romance, Angst 
Pairings: Mulder/Doggett 
Rating: R 
Gossamer Category: Story , Romance , Slash 

Summary: A story losely inspired by the classic song "Midnight Train
to Georgia". Mulder comes back home, only to find Doggett is heading
out of town for good.
 
Part 1
Please see part 0 (template) for warnings and summary.

Disclaimers: standard disclaimers apply- not making any money off
this, they belong to Fox, etc. yadda yadda. You know the drill.

warning: sort of au, in that the last half or so of season 9 never
happened in this story. The Gunmen are still alive, Scully didn't give
William up for adoption, etc. Spoilers: I suppose season 8 and a lot
of season 9. 

archive: anywhere, just let me know where.

Mulder wandered back into his life during the garage sale, just cool
as you like. As if the only thing he wanted was the old, probably
scratched Gladys Knight and the Pips album that he was contemplating.
God, the man was still beautiful. No, more beautiful than he'd been
when Doggett had last seen him. Mulder was tan, and his face was
tranquil. It might be Doggett's memory playing  a trick on him, but he
thought Mulder was slightly broader through the shoulders, not that
his athletic figure had needed any help to begin with. Early March was
not the best date for a sale, but what had to be done, had to
be done. It was really too cool for a sale and Mulder had the collar
of his jean jacket turned up against the slightly nippy wind. Doggett
forced himself to look away and a moment later, some stranger was in
his face, wanting to dicker about the price of a couple of pieces of
tupperware he'd bought mostly as a favor to his neighbor who sold it.
Doggett accepted the pennies on the dollar price that was pushed at
him, not caring as he took the handful of change. 

This was the third and final sale. Everything that didn't sell today
would go to Goodwill, or out with the trash. His cousin and her truck
had been up last week to take everything that he wouldn't part with,
besides. He'd close on the house on Monday morning, then by Tuesday,
early AM, he'd be on the train. Leaving DC, probably forever. His
ticket was already bought. 

Temporarily, there was a break in bargain hunters and Doggett was
alone to contemplate the fact that no matter how pathetic the remains
of a life were, there'd always be the bottomfeeders there to pick at
what was left. Mulder had been watching for an opening and suddenly
Doggett was presented with a small stack of LPs and a small pile of
dollar bills, held by the man who had been, for a brief time, his
lover. 

"Mulder, what the hell are you doing here?" Doggett hissed. "I thought
it was too dangerous for you. I thought you were in hiding."

"It's okay, John," Mulder said, setting the albums down on the card
table that Doggett had borrowed from one of his neighbors so he could
have the sale. "The threat's over. I'm not in danger. At least in no
more than the usual sense. What are you doing?"

Doggett had to think a while about what answer to give, the answer
that was accurate and truthful, but gave away to Mulder no more than
he really needed to  know. Mulder caught his eyes and they stared at
each other. Those hazel eyes were soft, more brown at the moment than
green. Mulder smiled, that crack of a grin that made you forgive him
anything he'd ever done and in the silence that held them both, he
said, "I mean, wherever it is you're going, I don't see how
you're going to manage without REO Speedwagon."

It wasn't that Doggett had even been angry at Mulder. Hurt, sure, that
the other man hadn't communicated his plans, though the events of the
past several months had made it clear as crystal that Mulder's heading
to ground was probably not so paranoid. No, it had been a very good
idea indeed. Doggett understood. Still, that didn't mean that the
nights hadn't been long. He wasn't  a man given to examining his
emotions. He hadn't understood just how much he'd missed Mulder until
this moment when the man returned and slipped under his
radar again. Mulder had a way of doing that.  

The albums, forgotten for a moment, were swooped up by some teenager
who shoved  money at Doggett and fled. The growing pile of small bills
in the cash box and the disappearing piles of possessions were
reminders that this never really had  been his world, only one which
he had inhabited for a while. 

"I'm going home, Fox," Doggett said, as he tucked the bills into the
cashbox. 

***

Mulder hadn't believed what he'd heard from Skinner- that John had
quit the FBI  suddenly. "He resigned for personal reasons, he says,"
Skinner had told him. Skinner knew, Mulder had taken the risk of
telling him of their affair, knowing  he could trust the man. Skinner
would tell Mulder anything important that was happening with John. "I
don't know anything beyond that. I'm afraid of what he won't tell me.
It just sounds like something bad. He's troubled and he won't
talk about it."

Hearing those words had caused Mulder's attention to be drawn back to
DC like a  compass needle being pulled inexorably to the north pole.
All his attention veered towards DC. Towards John. He could not help
but drop everything, abandon  the small apartment he'd rented in Santa
Fe and return to the city that had been the center of his world at one
time. 

He didn't mean to still love John. He'd never meant to fall in love
with him in  the first place. He'd never even wanted to like the man,
but had felt drawn to the fire he saw burning in those blue eyes and
the beautiful line of his strong  jaw. As he'd gotten to know the man,
he couldn't help but admire the integrity that was woven through him,
like the weft in a rug-  essential to the very structure of it. After
the incident on the oil drilling platform, John had reached out to
him, made a pass, then took him to bed. Mulder had let himself
respond only because he was sure it would be a mere physical thing-
the kind of  rough comfort and ecstasy that can be in the arms of
another man. Instead, afterwards, Doggett had held him while they
slept. A few hours later, Mulder had woken, still in Doggett's arms.
Slowly, not even realizing it at first, he had started crying, not
knowing why. Doggett had woken, but didn't say anything. He only
tightened his hold on Mulder and started stroking his hair.
Then, when Mulder had control of himself again, he tried to apologize
and Doggett would hear none of it.

"Hey, I ain't surprised with all you've been through. Losing your job
today was  the least of it and that alone would be enough to make most
men crack," Doggett  had said, then kissed his hair softly. At that
moment, even though he'd yet to admit it to anyone, he knew he'd found
his home in this strong-willed, hard-headed, courageous, slyly
intelligent man. That he'd found his measure. His equal. His true
North. 

He'd done the man wrong, that much was plain to him now. Scully's baby
had been  born, and John had paid no small price and risked no small
amount of danger to see that she and the child were safe. Mulder,
fearing not just the forces that were threatening them all, but how
much his heart ached when he was expected to  leave John's side for
Scully and the child that he had supposedly fathered, had 
run. Scully had understood, she always had. She might miss him, but
she always seemed to know that he was never hers to hold. 

John was the one who hadn't understood why Mulder had to leave, why
Mulder, for  the moment at least, couldn't be held. Mulder had heard
from Frohike about the things John had  done. Going after Kersh.
Facing down supersoldiers. Looking everywhere and asking everyone
where Mulder was. Not letting it rest. It had become plain that even
though John had never said the words either, that the man loved him
and was pained at his disappearance. 

John looked up over the cash box, ignoring the pile of bills left by
the teenager. The naked longing in John's face at the sight of him led
Mulder to the conclusion that John still loved him. That he had never
stopped. 

"I'm going home," John had said. DC was obviously not his home,
probably just another stop along the way, some place he'd gone because
of his ambition. His career. Mulder knew the story. Had heard the
details from others, from Frohike,  Langly. Mulder knew about John's
degrees, his career with the NYPD, his rapid rise in the Bureau. And
that despite it all, John's integrity had caused him to 
be sidetracked into the dead end that was the X-files. Frohike had
theorized that Doggett had been trying for section chief at the very
least, possibly even  AD or DD. He didn't get far on that particular
road of ambition though, did he?  It must have been difficult for him
to discover the hard way that sometimes no matter how much you do, how
good you are, how much you stick to your ideals, that life can be a
dead end street. It was a lesson Mulder had learned long
ago.

So, where then was home to John? Not here. Probably not New York where
his ex-wife still lived, where his little boy had died. Georgia then.

"Are you okay, John? Skinner thought you might be in some kind of
trouble."

Mulder could almost believe that, given the constant wrinkling of the
brow, the  frown that marred his guarded face, the clenched set of his
jaw.

"No, I'm not in trouble," John said. "Troubled maybe. But not in
trouble."

"Would you stay if I came back and stayed?" Mulder all but pleaded. He
leaned forward, resting his hands on the wobbly card table until his
face was only a few inches from John's. Their fingertips were almost
touching, the closest they  had come to touching each other since
before Scully's baby was born. "I missed you, John," Mulder said. "I
was wrong to leave and never send word. I want you back. I've had six
months in the desert with nothing to do but think about how
much I missed you. Stay here."

"I can't," John said, his voice deep and rumbly. The words were a
sharp stab to  Mulder and he couldn't help but turn away. He wasn't
prepared for this like he thought he would be when he'd decided he'd
come here and try and talk John out of leaving. He still had some
pride. He wouldn't beg. He'd just walk through the piles of old
paperback Tom Clancy novels and holiday themed gift tins, the
ones that come filled with three flavors of popcorn, the gift people
give you when they don't actually know you. He walked back to his
borrowed car and to drive away. 

***

Doggett couldn't stand to see Mulder walk away from him yet again.
Some things a man shouldn't have to face more than once. "Mulder, no,"
he called out to the  retreating form. When their eyes met, someone
else tried to distract him, tugged at his elbow, asked him the price
of some ashtray that had followed him around from place to place, even
though he'd never smoked. "Just take it," he snapped at the startled
suburban housewife. She scurried away with her little treasure, as if
afraid he would change his mind.

"Fox, don't go," he said. Mulder had frozen, face turned towards him,
but his body still in the act of walking away. "Let me explain."

So Mulder had turned back to him. He found a spot by the garage and
leaned against it, indicating with a nod that he was ready to talk. 

"My Ma's sick," Doggett said. "Really sick. She's starting to die. I
have to go  home and take care of her. Tell me that makes a difference
to you. She did it for her parents. I have to do it for her. I can't
just stick her in a nursing home."

"I...I," Mulder began, but he was hardly able to start before he ran
out of words. The great Mulder struck speechless was not a common
sight. He finally started again. "I had no idea. Of course you need to
go. How long does she have?" he asked cautiously, as if afraid that
the answer would be that it was immediate, and painful to him. 

"It could be years," Doggett said, thinking over the long duration
ahead of him, the long, slow slope to ruin and death she was facing.
He'd watched his grandma die the same way when he was younger, his
aunt was in the middle of that decline as well. He knew how it went
and it was neither easy nor graceful.  "It's Alzheimer's. She's just
starting to get to be a danger to herself."

"I'm sorry," Mulder said, touching Doggett on the shoulder and
squeezing. "So sorry. I understand. My mom..."

Without really thinking about the intervening steps, Doggett found
himself in Mulder's arms, crying on the man's shoulder. 

Luckily, it'd gotten to the tail end of the afternoon already and they
were alone in the back yard with the detritus of his life, so he could
weep in peace, feeling protected for the first time in many, many
months. Feeling so right, despite the fact that everything else seemed
to be shattering around him. Mulder's body was so solid, so strong. It
felt so good to be allowed to rest in that strength after having to
hold it all in and hold it all together so long.

"You don't have to do this alone, John," Mulder said after Doggett
managed to shut off the faucet of his tears again and pull himself out
of Mulder's arms. Yeah, it felt good to be there, but he couldn't let
himself think that he could  stay there. "You have friends. People who
are worried about you. Skinner. You could have told Skinner. He would
have made sure you got at least some family leave time. The guys.
They'd have auctioned your stuff off on Ebay. I'll bet you didn't
realize that the ashtray you just gave to that woman was a
collectors item. It probably would have got you a hundred or more."

"Fuck the ashtray," Doggett said. "It's just more junk. Doesn't
matter. It's all meaningless."

He checked his watch. Three in the afternoon. He decided to call it
quits even though he'd advertised until five. "Make yourself useful
and start bagging up stuff. My neighbor said I could borrow her car to
take the rest of this to the Goodwill."

"I heard you sold your truck. I wondered," Mulder said. 

"I don't have a job anymore. I couldn't keep up the note," Doggett
said by way of explanation. Not that he owed Mulder anything, much
less to justify himself.  "I'll be able to use my Ma's car once I'm
down there."

"Don't bother your neighbor, John. I've got a car I borrowed. We can
take your stuff to the Goodwill in that."

Together, they worked silently, to pack up the rest of the junk. As
they worked, Mulder set aside a couple of things now and then,
explaining it might be worth it to let the guys try and auction them
off. "Byers is surprisingly good at running an auction," Mulder
explained as they worked. "He's got a good hand with a digital camera
and knows how to phrase the description just right. He got rid of a
lot of my stuff for me at a really good price."

"Whatever," Doggett said. 

Then after a while, Mulder asked, "I don't suppose you know where
Scully and the baby are, do you? She told the guys not to worry but
she wouldn't tell them  where she was going."

"No," Doggett said, shaking his head as he rocked back on his heels.
He'd been nesting gift tins inside each other to conserve space. "Not
at the moment. There was that trouble while you were gone. Monica took
her down to Mexico. They were going to stay with friends of friends.
Supposedly if something goes wrong, Monica's parents will hear." 

Monica had thought that they might end up in Guanajuato, which was a
lovely old  city. She and Scully would have a nice, quiet life down
there among the colorful, ornate colonial era buildings. 

"They're safe though?" Mulder asked. 

"As safe as anything is these days," Doggett said. Mulder seemed to
relax just a little, a tension that Doggett hadn't even noticed until
it was lifted leaving the set of the other man's shoulders.

***

The old microbus was finally fully loaded and Mulder was in place
behind its wheel. They drove mostly in silence to the Goodwill. John
spoke only to give directions. Mulder concentrated on driving. Though
it was a homely, crotchety vehicle, it was also the prized possession
of his good friends. He was unclear as to whose it had been
originally, but now it was equally shared by the three of them. 

He pulled up to the drop box as John had indicated. They got out and
worked together to toss bag after trashbag of things into the drop.
John finally got to the bag that Mulder had set carefully aside- the
collectibles, the things that he couldn't believe John would just
toss. John was also ditching several suits that would probably pull in
a good penny at a consignment shop.

"John, are you sure that's a good idea?"

"It's gone, Fox. All of it. Tomorrow morning, I sign my name on the
dotted line, then it's gone. Except for a suitcase and my sleeping
bag, everything I still want or need went down home with my cousin
already."

"You're sure?" Mulder said. He ached to see John like this, so
hurting. Pruning  away everything as if by doing that, he could cut
away the thing that was causing him pain. Mulder remembered what it
was like to see his mother die- kneeling at her bedside, torn with an
agony that was far worse because it had no physical cause, knowing
that nothing would ever be the same again. Knowing that the foundation
of his world was crumbling, its very underpinning slipping
away, never to be better, ever again. To see one's parents die was to
have the core of one's world shaken.

"I'm sure," John affirmed. He put his hand on Mulder's and together,
they lifted and tossed the last items into the bin.

***

Mulder had insisted on stopping at a drug store on the way back to the
house. "I need a few things," Mulder had claimed.

So John wandered the aisles while Mulder shopped, looking at this and
that, feeling a certain disconnectedness as he realized that not only
that did he not  need any of this, that it would be foolish to buy any
of it. That he'd stripped  down to the necessaries and all else would
be excess baggage to weigh him down on this important journey. 

He turned down an aisle and came across Mulder who was talking to
someone on his cell phone while contemplating different brands of
toothpaste. Doggett turned away as fast as he could, but he still
caught Mulder saying, "Yeah, it's  not what you think. I'm not saying
don't worry. His mom's sick."

In a way, he was glad it was Mulder making that call. He didn't think
he could stand to make it himself, to tell any of his friends the real
reason for his sudden flight home. To admit the truth out loud again
would only give it more power over him. If he said it too often, he
just might crack. Doggett retreated  to the magazine aisle and flipped
through one of the car magazines. One thing he'd gotten very good at
over the years was pretending that everything was okay, that
everything was normal. After a while he startled as he felt a hand
on his shoulder. Mulder, carrying one bag from the drugstore.

"No need to fear," Mulder said, opening it and showing him that it
contained shampoo, a stick of deodorant, toothpaste and a small bottle
of Listerine. No condoms or lube.

"I think I'm disappointed," Doggett found it in himself to say.
Actually, even if it was just one more night, he wouldn't mind
sleeping with Mulder again, losing himself in that beautiful body. He
wanted that touch, if only for one more time. 

Mulder touched him on the chin, lifted his chin a little actually,
then stared him in the eyes, direct and brutally honest need in them.
Doggett realized suddenly that Mulder had been holding back, holding
out, not for his own sake, but because Mulder was worried about him.
About his mental state. That he thought that Doggett must be too
clouded by grief to allow that kind of sunshine to get to him.

"Well, if that's what you want," Mulder said, "We might as well get
the stuff while we're here."

They went to the right aisle together. Mulder's hand went unerringly
to Doggett's favorite brand of condoms, only hesitating between the
three pack and  the twelve. Doggett had reached out for the lube. But
as he watched Mulder try and decide between sizes, he realized that
the box of single use packs might be  a better idea. Then Mulder
grabbed the twelve pack.

Doggett tried not to wince as he thought about who Mulder might use
the extras on once he was gone. Mulder took the pack of single use
lube packets from Doggett and put it back on the shelf, picking out a
medium sized bottle instead. Then he took his selections back up to
the register and paid for them without any comment.

***

Back at John's house, Mulder walked around from empty room to empty
room while they waited for their pizza to arrive, it finally sinking
in that John really was leaving. The house already seemed abandoned.
John had been camped out in the living room, the only room beside the
bathroom that had any of his possessions left in it. The bathroom had
only John's shaving kit open on the toilet tank.

When it arrived, they sat on the floor and ate pizza. When Mulder set
his slice  down, John said, "Hold on."

Then he reached out with one of the napkins the delivery guy had
brought and wiped away a tiny smudge of tomato sauce from Mulder's
lip. It turned, somehow,  naturally, into a kiss, which melted down,
in turn to them coupling right on the floor. Grief, Mulder had
learned, can be transmuted, transformed into nearly any other emotion,
even into the shuddering lust that possessed them both, made them cry
out with passion that sounded like agony as their embraces
lasted into the lengthening night. 

Passion spent at last, they were chilled already before they
discovered that two naked men couldn't find shelter in one mummy style
bag. Mulder started gathering a few clothes. "I think the guys have a
couple of blankets in the van. I'll go get them."

John shook his head. He remained huddled in the sleeping bag, making
no move to  get out. "Just go on home. You should probably be getting
the van back to your friends anyway. "

When John turned his back, as if he were rolling over to fall asleep,
Mulder finished pulling his t-shirt over his head, then said,
surprised at the righteous fury that seemed to roll from his lips,
"That's it? You're going to send me on my way again? Not even tell me
where you're going? Not even going to  tell me when you're leaving so
I can see you off?" He turned on his heel, paced  a few steps so he
stood just over John's sleeping bag. He crouched down then
said, "Uh-uh. No way, mister. The story doesn't end this way."

"How else can it end, Mulder?" John said impatiently, sitting up.
"Let's end this gracefully. Tomorrow night, right after midnight, I'm
on a train to Georgia. It was nice, but this just ain't happening."

"Yes," Mulder said. He'd never before spoken with such conviction, he
was sure.  He could not afford, would not allow this to happen the way
John was envisioning. "It is. I'm going with you."

"Oh, that's rich," Doggett said.  "You got any idea what neighbors in
rural Georgia are gonna do if I bring home a man like he's my wife or
something? What  my family would say?"

"Are you ashamed of us? Of what we are? Of what you are?"

"No, but..."

"But what?"

"Give it a rest, Mulder. It's not going to happen. Just go on, get on
with the rest of your life. It's too late." He gathered up the last of
Mulder's clothing  and threw it at him.

Mulder picked up socks and a sweatshirt, but he didn't put them on
yet. "I don't believe this. How can you do this to us? I want to be
with you for this. For the rest of forever. I was wrong to walk away
in the first place. After today, I thought maybe you'd be willing to
give me a second chance."

John just turned his back to Mulder and wouldn't face him again, no
matter how he pleaded, no matter what imprecations he used, how he
cursed him or wept. In the end, there was nothing to do but wipe his
face off and get dressed. The goddamn stubborn jackass that he'd had
the misfortune of falling in love with was doing a good imitation of
being asleep, though Mulder could tell he was faking. 

He left the empty house. Even though there was still one inhabitant in
it, the man's sorrow had caused him to turn in on himself so
thoroughly, that it was as  if he'd left it already. Mulder got back
in the Microbus and did the only thing  he could do. He drove back to
Maryland and turned to the friends that he did have left. Part of his
world, though tattered and incomplete, still existed. That would have
to suffice. He would get by. Broken hearts mended themselves
with time, and a little help from one's friends. 

The door to the Gunmen's headquarters opened even before he had to
start the usual rigamarole of waiting for entry into the inner sanctum
of the three stooges. They must have been waiting for him, because the
dented metal door was  flung open as soon as he hit the stoop.

"How did you..." he started.

Langly ushered him into the building hurriedly and slammed the door
behind him.  As Langly threw the deadbolts closed one after the other,
he said, "Know you were here? Our parking space is even more closely
surveilled than the front door, Mulder. I take it your evening with
the Dogman did not go well."

"You could say that," Mulder said, feeling not so much tired as
utterly crushed. 

"Mel made huevos rancheros again. We had extra salsa. Maybe he'll whip
up a few  eggs for you," Langly said, leading the way into the main
room of the Gunmen's headquarters. 

Once they were inside, Frohike rose to his feet, drew himself up to
every inch of his short stature and took charge of Mulder, taking him
by the arm and leading him across the room. He sat Mulder down in a
chair and turned to Langly. "Langly, go play Doom or something," he
said, dismissing the blond. Then he turned the not inconsiderable
force of his personality on Mulder. Like many short men, Frohike was
six feet of person somehow put into a body that couldn't have that
been much taller than five feet. Yet, Mulder had never found 
that the man's confidence was anything less than justified, except in
the matter of a certain redhead. The man was brilliant, empathic, and
the best friend a guy could have. Langly shrugged, flipped his hair
over his shoulders and settled himself at one of the many computer
screens scattered all over the place. Byers had looked up briefly from
his own computer screen, nodded, and then left them alone. Always a
quiet one, keeping his own counsel was one of his better practiced
traits.

"I take it by your presence here and the look on your face that John
is going to his mother's alone," Frohike said gently. "God, I'm sorry,
guy. You don't deserve that."

Mulder stood up, "I know what you're trying to do, Frohike, but forget
it. Look, I just wanted to thank you for the car. I'll be on my way."

"Not so fast, Mulder. You're not going anywhere in this state. You
look like you're about to fall over. You're taking our offer of a bed
for as long as you need it," Frohike said. And he stepped in Mulder's
way, blocking him from leaving the room, ready to enforce his offer by
physical force if necessary, it  looked like. 

Mulder sighed. Why not? He'd rather not inflict his misery on his
friends. An anonymous hotel room would be better for that, but it
didn't look like he'd be able to make his escape, at least not for a
few days, until the three of them judged that he was better. "A space
on the couch will do," he said. 

"You'll eat first," Frohike said. Frohike guided him by the elbow to a
table and with great fuss and flourish, eventually a dish of poached
eggs topped with  salsa and cheese was pushed at him, with the order
to eat. 

"You said his mom has Alzheimer's?" Frohike asked as Mulder pushed the
food around on his plate and even ate a few bites, more to appease
Frohike than from  any hunger.

"That's what he says," Mulder said.

"He thinks he's sparing you," Frohike pronounced. "That's a long, hard
row to hoe, Mulder. He knows it's his duty to go, but he's not going
to impose it on you, or anyone else."

"It doesn't matter. I need to be with him."

"Oh, guy. You don't know what you're getting into there. And maybe
he's afraid that when the going gets tough, you're just going to
disappear on him again."

This would be different. Before, that was another situation entirely.
He wouldn't screw it up this time. He'd gathered his strength during
his retreat. He was ready to face whatever life brought to him this
time. He had the reserves again. And he knew that just being able to
stand by John would be enough for him to face whatever life brought
on. He thought about a case he'd worked once. A fungus from Asia. When
given in closely controlled doses, it worked a miracle cure on senile
dementia. They'd arrested the man who'd been giving it. He could find
it again. He would do anything for John. If only John would allow it.

"No, not this time," was all he said. "I don't care how bad it is. I'd
rather live in his world, than live without him in mine."

"I know that, buddy, but I don't think he trusts easily. Just like
you. The pair of you are so like each other in some ways," Frohike
said. "Eat now. It'll  get cold."

Then, finally, after shovelling food that he didn't taste into his
mouth because it was easier to do than arguing, he was allowed to get
up from the table. He found his way to a couch that had surely been
purchased from the same  Goodwill that John had dropped off his
unwanted possessions at. It seemed to make a certain sense to lie down
on the rough herculon plaid and lie there bonelessly, not really
watching the TV that was on in front of him. The both of 
them, he and the couch, became alike in his mind, both of them somehow
John's unwanted castoffs. Eventually, a blanket was thrown over him, a
crocheted throw  of the kind made by someone's auntie and the remote
control taken from his limp  hand. The TV was turned off. It didn't
matter. He'd been too busy obsessing over his internal misery to be
really watching it. The room lights darkened. 

Eventually, the lights came on again. Eventually, he found the remote,
left on a table nearby. He turned the TV on, and while his eyes were
glued to it, he was millions of miles elsewhere. Over the course of
the day, food was pushed at  him. Sometimes he ate some of it,
sometimes he pushed it around the plate. Sometimes his bladder
demanded attention and he got up and took care of it in
the grungy, cramped room that the Gunmen called their bathroom. There
were clumps of blond hair stuck to the wall in the vicinity of the
trash, kind of like hairballs that had been projectile vomited. Mulder
surmised that Langly probably had gathered them out of the drain of
the shower stall and just flung them in the direction of the trash,
without bothering to see if they made it. After that, he returned to
the couch again. 

Suddenly, the television was turned off and the crocheted granny
blanket pulled  off him. Frohike was the cause of the interruption of
his contemplation of his own misery. "Get out of the way, Mel," he
snapped. "You know, I really was interested in seeing which bachelor
she was going to kick to the curb."

The only response Mulder got was Frohike thrusting his jean jacket at
him. When  Mulder didn't sit up, Frohike said, "Hurry. It's already
past eleven but I figure we have just enough time to get you to the
station."

"What?"

"Just get going, Mulder. You can thank me later," Frohike said.
Suddenly, all three of them were there. Langly finished stuffing the
last of his things back into his bag. Byers held out a paper envelope
with an Amtrak logo printed on it.

"Both broadcast radio and the police frequencies seem to indicate that
traffic is light," Byers said. "We should be able to make the trip to
Union Station in well under an hour." 

"If it's as important to you as you say it is, Mulder, you'll be on
that train,  whether he says he wants you there or not," Frohike
said.

"And I'm not having you cluttering up my sofa, watching my TV
forever," Langly said. "Obsessing about the should have beens."

And so he allowed himself to be bundled into the Microbus, Frohike at
the wheel, sharing the bench seat in the back with Langly. Frohike
drove fast and furious, making Mulder wonder how the hell the man
managed to coax so much speed out of the little engine. They darted
among traffic on the expressway like a sparrow, hoping from open spot
to open spot. Mulder was sure several times that whether they would
catch the train or not would be an entirely moot question, that
instead, he would end up as Mulder-butter, smeared across the
beltway. With a dramatic squeal of wheels that was entirely
unncessary, they pulled into the kiss and ride at the train station.
Mulder found himself standing on the curb, blinking and confused
still. 

"Godspeed, my friend," Frohike said.

"Good luck, Mulder," Byers said.

"Hey, we got to get out of here before the parking Nazis come by,"
Langly said,  throwing Mulder's bag at him. "You know the number of
the casa if it turns out you miss the train."

There was nothing else for it but to gather his bag off the pavement
and, as the Gunmen sped away, turn towards the big, ornate building
that was DC's train  station, past the big fountain, with its statues.
Inside, the station was almost quiet. Few trains left at this time of
day and the police, thinking of appearances, kept the homeless from
populating the space like they did in a lot  of city's stations. He
set his bag down at his feet when he came to a screen that announced
departures. He examined the ticket Byers had handed him- it was
a one way ticket on a midnight train to Atlanta, Georgia, leaving from
platform  3B, in ten minutes. He found himself suddenly feeling light,
almost hysterically happy. Fuck what John thought he wanted. It would
be okay. They would make it. It had to be. He picked up his bag again
and started walking to the right platform. Then he couldn't stop
himself from running. 

(Continued in part 2)


Part 2
See part 0 for header information.


He made the train in plenty of time. He boarded, then started walking
the cars until he found the seat indicated on the ticket. It sure beat
the last time he traveled by train, Mulder thought. As the conductor
called, "All aboard!" Mulder entered the last car, the one that had to
have his seat. About midway down the aisle, he found it. Someone had
already claimed the window seat and was staring out the window out
into the dark station, even though he certainly saw was his own
reflection in the glass. Yes, the Gunmen had more than come
through, Mulder thought, recognizing the man who was his seatmate
instantly. Admittedly, it probably hadn't been that hard to arrange on
a mostly empty train, but it was the thought that counted. 

The man looking out ranhis hand over his forehead, as if warding off
a headache. He didn't look up right away as Mulder took the seat next
to him. Instead, his hand clenched and he lightly pounded at the
glass. Finally, some small motion caused him to look up at Mulder.

Instead of the anger Mulder had expected, John choked up. He wasn't
crying, quite. But it was a long time before he could talk, and when
he did, he seemed grateful, like Mulder's presence was some kind of
benediction, some prayer made  and wished for without conscious
thought. "You came," he whispered, finally. "You came."

"I came," Mulder said. "Did you think you were going to ditch me that
easily?"

"I shoulda known better," John said. His voice was still harsh and
quiet. 

"Whatever happens, no matter how bad it gets, I'll be right there by
your side," Mulder said, meaning the promise with every ounce of
conviction he possessed. "I'm with you on this train, and I'll be
there for as long as you'll  have me. You can trust that much."

"I know," John said. "I...I'm sorry. Your friend, Frohike. He tracked
me down. Right before I was supposed to go in and close on the house,
he found me and gave me seven different kinds of hell. Told me exactly
what I'd done to you. Told me I didn't deserve a man like you. He's
right."

"I don't know about deserve," Mulder said. "All I know is about what I
need. And that's to be with you, wherever you are."

"You ready to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, Bumfuck, Georgia, for
me?" John asked. 

As the train pulled out of the station, Mulder grabbed John's hand,
not caring that they weren't the only ones in the car. "Anything," he
said. Then, with that manic happiness that had struck him earlier, he
laughed and smiled. No, suddenly, the lightheadedness was gone,
replaced by a certitude that seemed to go down to his bones, lacing
him through right to his very soul. Yes, they would share one world,
one strength, one love. They would face down the tragedy 
of John's mother's impending death together. He thought ahead: to
nights where John would rage and cry, to an inevitable day by a
graveside, to the long years  that would stretch between, to learning
to love a woman for John's sake, only to know she was slipping away
even as he grew closer. They would know together that the price for
loving is, in the end, always pain and loss, but also that
the price is always worth it, indeed, a bargain in comparison. He
squeezed John's hand and reached over and kissed him. "Anything.
Besides. It's too late now. You're stuck with me."

Mulder saw some trace of a smile cross John's face, and he was sure he
heard the man mutter, "God help me," under his breath. But he kept a
hold of Mulder's  hand and said out loud, "We'll be there before
morning. My cousin's meeting me in Atlanta. I suppose I'll figure out
some way to explain you before then. What  else am I gonna do?"

What else indeed?

END



### The End ###