She knows better, she realizes, but only when her palm touches his arm. She shouldn't have reached for him - but it's too late to pull away when he already is. Her arm drops to the side. "See you around."
Scully does see him - it's impossible not to when they live in a town whose population doesn't even scrape a hundred - but they don't talk much. She works, she shoots, and she researches, not always in that order. At some point, she gets the address of the adoption agency to Daryl and spends a lot of late nights trying not to think about it. She describes to Eugene what they need, so Eugene can describe it to Daryl, and does her best to make it sound unimportant at best, pieces of data that will help her in her work at Alexandria.
Which isn't untrue. Anything she can know has the possibility of helping. But between illnesses and injuries, helping with the summer harvest where she can, and every other piece of work before them, Scully has to admit that it's a selfish request. Some nights, she hopes Daryl won't go in search of her truth - but most nights, she desperately wants him to. She'd offer to go with, if she weren't needed in town.
He isn't stupid. Not all the time, at least. He's seen how Dana looks at kids, how the photos in her office don't track a kid after a certain age. He'd assumed dead, that was a common way to go, but the address she gives him is to a place with files for kids. Adoption. She gave her baby away, and maybe once he would have judged. Before he met her, if he didn't know her, maybe. He can't predict the sonuvabitch he used to be. But he does know that he can't judge her now. He's seen the sadness in her eyes, and he's seen the shame. Something happened, and whether or not she fucked up, she regrets it.
Sometimes, all you can do is regret.
He doesn't want to worry her, and, selfishly, he gets some small thrill from leaving without telling anybody. He's always been his own person, relying on himself. People relying on him chafed at first, but he got used to it. What's chafing now is being a part of something so much bigger and so much more intense. Going out without anybody noticing is a small way to still feel like himself. You're more alone, more on your own, if nobody knows you're gone. Sometimes, he needs that.
(He still leaves a note for Carol.)
The journey is long, but it doesn't take more than two days, which means people are neither shocked or worried when he comes back. Yeah, there were some tight spots, close calls, whatever. That's what happens when you leave. What matters is he got what Dana wanted.
It's an uncommonly warm summer, and flowers bloom in abundance. He never thought he'd see some of the shit growing in Virginia outside of Georgia, but he finds it nonetheless. Dana will find her stolen hard drive and sealed manila folders in her office, where someone has recently tracked mud and not noticed. On her desk, Daryl leaves a coke can, half filled with water; sticking out from the top is the wilting face of a Cherokee rose.
Daryl goes, and Scully hardly notices until he's back. He's had more than his share of time spent around her, over the last month or two; she's been disinclined to seek him out and demand more of his attention. And there's always something to do, especially as she tries to research the manufacture of antibiotics - or even just research the materials she'll need in order to do her research.
But when he returns, leaving evidence of his work on her desk, she knows in an instant what it means.
She can't place the significance of the flower; she can't even identify it beyond its color. But it's beautiful, even as its stem loses strength and its petals grow brown at the edges, and Scully knows it means sympathy.
Denise is gone for the night, and no one else has come to ask for help, so she shuts the office door and lets herself weep over years-old documents. They give her a name, at least, and tomorrow, when she can hold herself together, she'll go to Eugene with the hard drive. If there's encryption, she'll need Gunmen-level ability, and he's the closest thing available.
The sky is dark when she leaves the clinic, but the light's still on in Carol's garage, the door still raised. Scully approaches tentatively, still in scrubs, with red-rimmed eyes, but calm enough for now. "Daryl?"
Daryl is changing the oil in his bike, not really thinking of anything beyond the comforting regularity of maintenance. Things always go in the same places, at the same times, for the same reasons. He knows what he's doing; in these small territories of knowledge, the world makes perfect sense.
He hears Dana before he sees her, but doesn't look up until she says his name. Instinctively, he reaches for the rag in his back pocket and wipes grease from his hands. If he tries more to clean his hands than usual, picking at the grease and gunk under his fingernails, that's his business.
"Thank you." Her hands have settled in front of her, one clasping the other hard. Her voice is steady, thank God, and she stands there in the light of a naked bulb and tries to figure out how to say the thing they both know she's trying to get across. "I haven't looked at the hard drive yet, but the documents you found are...exactly what I was hoping to find."
It's been two weeks since they came back from deer hunting, and the molten lava that had replaced Daryl's blood has mostly eked out of his system. This is always how it goes. Give him enough time, and he gets used to the heat. And if he can get used to it, he can forget it.
Still, it takes a while. Something about fluorescent bulbs makes women's hair shine. The bright color of Dana's makes the light look like fire stretched thin. He breathes in and out. She's so goddamn sad. How can he be thinking of beauty?
"Didn't read 'em," he says, because it's the truth. "Glad you got what you needed."
"I appreciate it." She hadn't realized she was worried about that until he confirms he hasn't read anything he brought her. It had been obvious - everything was sealed - and yet it's a relief.
There's a moment, looking at him, when she knows she needs to say something more. But she's caught in a moment of quiet that she can't quite explain.
"I...know I asked a lot of you," she finally says. Getting through all the dead, finding what she'd needed, doing all of it with discretion. "And if you have...questions...I'm willing to try to answer them."
He ducks his head, staring at his scuffed and muddy boots. After a moment, he shakes it, no, not for him. "Ain't my business," he says. He looks up. "Unless you want me to know."
Her silence lasts just a little too long, and she knows it. What starts as a profound sense of uncertainty devolves into self-consciousness. A kind of rueful embarrassment pervades her, until she puffs out a nervous little laugh. "It's been so long since I told anybody. I don't know what to say."
Everyone she'd cared about already knew. They'd known better than to bring the subject up. And they'd known far more than she can possibly tell Daryl - he'd think she was insane.
He wants to reach out to her, and can't bear the thought of it. Instead, he scratches the back of his neck, and looks just over her shoulder. Clearly, she wants to tell him. She wouldn't be here otherwise, would she?
"C'mon," he says, and leads her further inside the garage. There's a shitty table in the corner, with a cooler on top. Flat soda rests inside, nestled between chunks of real honest-to-god ice. He hands her a year old Doctor Pepper. "Sit."
He slumps in a lawn chair that's seen better days.
She does as she's told, taking the drink from him. The plastic bottle's cold and wet; if it hissed when she unscrewed the cap, she could nearly imagine they were back in a time before all of this.
"He turned ten in May," is what she tells Daryl, forcing herself to say something before she lets herself take a drink. (Just think, once she would have insisted on diet. Now - who cares?) The flavor of it pulls a surprised, slightly disgusted look from her. "This tastes like battery acid."
He's trying to be thoughtful and attentive, all the things so many people have been for him, and she makes him laugh. "More for me." He takes the soda off her hands.
(He can't stand candy, or chocolate, and sometimes Carol's baking makes his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, but flat soda's fine.)
"The files tell you where he is?" He can guess where this is going.
She shakes her head, looking down at her empty hands for a moment. He can have the soda, but having something to hold onto would have been nice. "If it's anywhere, it's in the hard drive. I'll know tomorrow."
One more sleepless night, possibly spent with the hard drive nearby, near enough that she can glance over at it and prove that it's real.
"They told me," and she has to close her eyes against the weight of the memory. Just for a moment or two, holding those awful days in focus. How she'd signed any of the paperwork is beyond her; she remembers her hand shaking. "He'd be in another state. Somewhere far from here. But I've never known where."
Why is he gone? But that isn't his business. The only thing that matters, in this moment, isn't some lost and distant child. It's the woman right in front of him.
"I can't ask you to do that." But now that he's put it out there, she wants to take him up on the offer - to treat it as an offer, not just an expression of sympathy. More than anything, Scully realizes, she wants not to be alone; after losing every person she's ever loved, she desperately wants a partner at her side again. If she's going to confront the reality of her son's whereabouts, and the possibility of his death, she doesn't want to do it alone.
What scares her is that she doesn't know just what she means by partner - like Mulder or like Mulder. But now's not the time to reflect on it; she sets the entire thing, need like a gunshot wound that's been oozing blood since Mulder's death, aside. She can't think about anything but the conversation she's having right now.
"For all I know, William's in Alaska." Scully pulls her feet up beneath her, curling up as much as she can without feeling undignified about it. "I asked them to find someplace remote, if they could. And far away from Washington."
Why would you sell your baby down the river? But even Moses' mom'd had a good reason. Daryl remembers that from Sundays spent huddled in the church basement because it was the coolest free place in town.
"So we'll go to Alaska." He sips his soda. It's not about finding the kid, Daryl realizes suddenly. It's about making sure Dana knows for sure, because the not-knowing is killing her. "Always wanted to hunt moose."
It's not generally in his temperament to try to cheer people, but he can't help it.
"Daryl." Her mouth curves up, despite herself, into a sad-eyed smile. "Alaska's...God, three thousand miles from here? Four?"
In an age of airplanes, it still would have been a ten-hour flight. When they travel by horse and by foot, they might as well imagine paddling the ocean over to Europe. It'd take at least a year, possibly longer.
Of course, he might be nearer by. Maybe he's in Kansas. Maybe they found a family living so deep in rural Maine that they'd assumed that would meet expectations. But he's felt so distant from Scully, so impossibly far away, that she can't help but imagine the worst-case scenario.
"I said what I said." He sucks down the last of the soda, and resists the ceremonial urge to burp. Crushing the can, he tosses it into a bin on the other side of the garage. "We'll find him. Nobody has to do it alone."
She wipes at her eyes, where tears are threatening to fall, wanting to stop the entire business before it starts. Crying is fine, and natural, and something she just did fifteen minutes ago - and Scully's done with it for the night. Hopefully.
(When she goes to bed, she'll find that she isn't, but no one will hear her sobbing into her pillow, and that makes a difference. Stiff upper lip until then, Dana.)
"Well," she says, letting go a breath that shakes. It's closer to an embarrassed laugh than anything else. "Thank you - for being willing to travel years in search of little boy you've never met."
He wants to say... something. Something that'll comfort her, or give her peace, or express the cluttered and sticky mess that sits between his lungs, all buzzing emotion. But he can't do any of that.
"You're with us, no matter what," he says. "That's just part of it. Don't gotta thank me for nothing."
It feels like more than that, something above and beyond what she could reasonably expect anyone to do for her. Even a friend. But she's not going to argue the point when she knows Daryl's mind is made up - and since she hasn't yet found out where William went, it's all moot anyway.
"You're right. I don't have to. But I mean it anyway." That's as much as needs to be said. Scully makes herself take a deep breath, glancing up at the light. "Would you like to go for a walk?"
The thought of spending more time with Dana is always appealing, but her request sends a pin-sharp jolt through his heart. She wants to spend time with him. She asked. He can't say no.
So Daryl stands and looks around the garage. Everything will be fine; he's not leaving anything undone. He's just at a loss for what to do next, before he realizes he hasn't even agreed. He just stood up and stared at the wall like a dumbass. What the hell is wrong with him?
Scully stands as well, assuming this means yes, I would love to go for a walk, and it turns out she's right. Daryl seems...surprised? Perturbed? He seems like a man who's never been asked to go anywhere and doesn't know what to do when it happens.
Fortunately, she has eyewitness testimony to his ability to propel himself forward on his own two legs, so she's not too concerned. As they escape the garage, the sky spreading out above them, she feels...less constrained, perhaps. Less like she's being interrogated in an old movie. Not that she was, except by her own sense of purpose, but all the same.
And in the starlight, out from under bare bulbs and the smell of motor oil, it's easier to murmur, "His name is William. William Fox Scully."
It makes Daryl think Scully's a married name, and then he wonders who she'd married. He remembers her saying we never married with such finality he can't imagine her marrying anybody, and that's probably for the best. She clearly loved that guy like air, and the thought of her marrying anybody else seems kind of sad. But, no, Dana never married, that makes the most sense; she's one of the women Merle would call women's lib when he wasn't calling them coozes and lesbos.
But what he says is, "Billy Fox? Damn, sounds like some of my old neighbors."
"William," she corrects immediately, though there's a note of humor in there. It probably would have been a losing battle, to insist on his full name past kindergarten, but they'd never gotten to a point where other people were calling them what they would.
It takes a moment to summon up the explanation, but only a moment. Mulder is dead, and he has been for some time now; if not for the materials Daryl found her, Scully would like to believe she'd be able to talk about Mulder more easily. Tonight is simply more sensitive than most. "His father's name was Fox."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Scully does see him - it's impossible not to when they live in a town whose population doesn't even scrape a hundred - but they don't talk much. She works, she shoots, and she researches, not always in that order. At some point, she gets the address of the adoption agency to Daryl and spends a lot of late nights trying not to think about it. She describes to Eugene what they need, so Eugene can describe it to Daryl, and does her best to make it sound unimportant at best, pieces of data that will help her in her work at Alexandria.
Which isn't untrue. Anything she can know has the possibility of helping. But between illnesses and injuries, helping with the summer harvest where she can, and every other piece of work before them, Scully has to admit that it's a selfish request. Some nights, she hopes Daryl won't go in search of her truth - but most nights, she desperately wants him to. She'd offer to go with, if she weren't needed in town.
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He isn't stupid. Not all the time, at least. He's seen how Dana looks at kids, how the photos in her office don't track a kid after a certain age. He'd assumed dead, that was a common way to go, but the address she gives him is to a place with files for kids. Adoption. She gave her baby away, and maybe once he would have judged. Before he met her, if he didn't know her, maybe. He can't predict the sonuvabitch he used to be. But he does know that he can't judge her now. He's seen the sadness in her eyes, and he's seen the shame. Something happened, and whether or not she fucked up, she regrets it.
Sometimes, all you can do is regret.
He doesn't want to worry her, and, selfishly, he gets some small thrill from leaving without telling anybody. He's always been his own person, relying on himself. People relying on him chafed at first, but he got used to it. What's chafing now is being a part of something so much bigger and so much more intense. Going out without anybody noticing is a small way to still feel like himself. You're more alone, more on your own, if nobody knows you're gone. Sometimes, he needs that.
(He still leaves a note for Carol.)
The journey is long, but it doesn't take more than two days, which means people are neither shocked or worried when he comes back. Yeah, there were some tight spots, close calls, whatever. That's what happens when you leave. What matters is he got what Dana wanted.
It's an uncommonly warm summer, and flowers bloom in abundance. He never thought he'd see some of the shit growing in Virginia outside of Georgia, but he finds it nonetheless. Dana will find her stolen hard drive and sealed manila folders in her office, where someone has recently tracked mud and not noticed. On her desk, Daryl leaves a coke can, half filled with water; sticking out from the top is the wilting face of a Cherokee rose.
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But when he returns, leaving evidence of his work on her desk, she knows in an instant what it means.
She can't place the significance of the flower; she can't even identify it beyond its color. But it's beautiful, even as its stem loses strength and its petals grow brown at the edges, and Scully knows it means sympathy.
Denise is gone for the night, and no one else has come to ask for help, so she shuts the office door and lets herself weep over years-old documents. They give her a name, at least, and tomorrow, when she can hold herself together, she'll go to Eugene with the hard drive. If there's encryption, she'll need Gunmen-level ability, and he's the closest thing available.
The sky is dark when she leaves the clinic, but the light's still on in Carol's garage, the door still raised. Scully approaches tentatively, still in scrubs, with red-rimmed eyes, but calm enough for now. "Daryl?"
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He hears Dana before he sees her, but doesn't look up until she says his name. Instinctively, he reaches for the rag in his back pocket and wipes grease from his hands. If he tries more to clean his hands than usual, picking at the grease and gunk under his fingernails, that's his business.
"Yeah?"
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Still, it takes a while. Something about fluorescent bulbs makes women's hair shine. The bright color of Dana's makes the light look like fire stretched thin. He breathes in and out. She's so goddamn sad. How can he be thinking of beauty?
"Didn't read 'em," he says, because it's the truth. "Glad you got what you needed."
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There's a moment, looking at him, when she knows she needs to say something more.
But she's caught in a moment of quiet that she can't quite explain.
"I...know I asked a lot of you," she finally says. Getting through all the dead, finding what she'd needed, doing all of it with discretion. "And if you have...questions...I'm willing to try to answer them."
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Everyone she'd cared about already knew. They'd known better than to bring the subject up. And they'd known far more than she can possibly tell Daryl - he'd think she was insane.
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"C'mon," he says, and leads her further inside the garage. There's a shitty table in the corner, with a cooler on top. Flat soda rests inside, nestled between chunks of real honest-to-god ice. He hands her a year old Doctor Pepper. "Sit."
He slumps in a lawn chair that's seen better days.
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"He turned ten in May," is what she tells Daryl, forcing herself to say something before she lets herself take a drink. (Just think, once she would have insisted on diet. Now - who cares?) The flavor of it pulls a surprised, slightly disgusted look from her. "This tastes like battery acid."
It's been a while since she tasted a soda.
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(He can't stand candy, or chocolate, and sometimes Carol's baking makes his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, but flat soda's fine.)
"The files tell you where he is?" He can guess where this is going.
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One more sleepless night, possibly spent with the hard drive nearby, near enough that she can glance over at it and prove that it's real.
"They told me," and she has to close her eyes against the weight of the memory. Just for a moment or two, holding those awful days in focus. How she'd signed any of the paperwork is beyond her; she remembers her hand shaking. "He'd be in another state. Somewhere far from here. But I've never known where."
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"Whatever you need," he says. "We'll find him."
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What scares her is that she doesn't know just what she means by partner - like Mulder or like Mulder. But now's not the time to reflect on it; she sets the entire thing, need like a gunshot wound that's been oozing blood since Mulder's death, aside. She can't think about anything but the conversation she's having right now.
"For all I know, William's in Alaska." Scully pulls her feet up beneath her, curling up as much as she can without feeling undignified about it. "I asked them to find someplace remote, if they could. And far away from Washington."
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"So we'll go to Alaska." He sips his soda. It's not about finding the kid, Daryl realizes suddenly. It's about making sure Dana knows for sure, because the not-knowing is killing her. "Always wanted to hunt moose."
It's not generally in his temperament to try to cheer people, but he can't help it.
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In an age of airplanes, it still would have been a ten-hour flight. When they travel by horse and by foot, they might as well imagine paddling the ocean over to Europe. It'd take at least a year, possibly longer.
Of course, he might be nearer by. Maybe he's in Kansas. Maybe they found a family living so deep in rural Maine that they'd assumed that would meet expectations. But he's felt so distant from Scully, so impossibly far away, that she can't help but imagine the worst-case scenario.
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And it won't be like Sophia.
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(When she goes to bed, she'll find that she isn't, but no one will hear her sobbing into her pillow, and that makes a difference. Stiff upper lip until then, Dana.)
"Well," she says, letting go a breath that shakes. It's closer to an embarrassed laugh than anything else. "Thank you - for being willing to travel years in search of little boy you've never met."
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"You're with us, no matter what," he says. "That's just part of it. Don't gotta thank me for nothing."
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"You're right. I don't have to. But I mean it anyway." That's as much as needs to be said. Scully makes herself take a deep breath, glancing up at the light. "Would you like to go for a walk?"
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So Daryl stands and looks around the garage. Everything will be fine; he's not leaving anything undone. He's just at a loss for what to do next, before he realizes he hasn't even agreed. He just stood up and stared at the wall like a dumbass. What the hell is wrong with him?
"Uh," he says, "yeah."
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Fortunately, she has eyewitness testimony to his ability to propel himself forward on his own two legs, so she's not too concerned. As they escape the garage, the sky spreading out above them, she feels...less constrained, perhaps. Less like she's being interrogated in an old movie. Not that she was, except by her own sense of purpose, but all the same.
And in the starlight, out from under bare bulbs and the smell of motor oil, it's easier to murmur, "His name is William. William Fox Scully."
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But what he says is, "Billy Fox? Damn, sounds like some of my old neighbors."
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It takes a moment to summon up the explanation, but only a moment. Mulder is dead, and he has been for some time now; if not for the materials Daryl found her, Scully would like to believe she'd be able to talk about Mulder more easily. Tonight is simply more sensitive than most. "His father's name was Fox."
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