TITLE: "Mapmaking" AUTHOR: Meredith DATE: October 1998 CATEGORY: V,UST KEY WORDS: Mulder/Scully UST SPOILERS: Takes place after the movie and before Season 6. RATING: PG-13 DISCLAIMER: Mulder made me do it. SUMMARY: Fox Mulder is lost. Will he ask for directions? AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm sure I'll think of something to explain this by the end of the story. FEEDBACK: I'm begging, as usual: meredith40@juno.com or meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com **************************************** "Mapmaking" by Meredith **************************************** DETOUR AHEAD TAKE STATE 58 EAST TO 281 SOUTH--FOLLOW SIGNS God-damn blinking lights. Mulder squinted into the darkness that had suddenly been punctuated by low-contrast electronic message boards plunked down alongside the deserted stretch of rural highway. Air pollution warnings? Traffic conditions? He knew the flashing beacons were meant to tell him something, but he couldn't summon the energy to care. Hell, if they wanted color-blind people to read the damn things, they wouldn't use orange lights. Must be a conspiracy. He sighed theatrically in the driver's seat, halfway hoping the to-him desperate sound would subconsciously reach his sleeping partner, waking and imbuing her with immediate concern and worry. That would be... nice. A long glance to the right earned him a view of a supremely unconscious Scully slumped heavily against the door, mouth wide open due to a nasty case of blocked sinuses and emitting tiny, stuffed-up snores. Fat chance, buddy. Mulder sighed again, and decided watching the road might not be a half-bad idea in BF Nebraska. You never knew when a stray steer might wander onto the highway waiting to demolish the next unknowing Oldsmobile Intrigue that flew by in the dead of night. Or, god forbid, the road might actually take a turn. Or maybe even veer. On second thought, trash that idea. These were the *plains*, after all. Out of well-honed paranoia, he notched the A/C up to the heavy- frost setting. The odor of ripe manure would have no chance to seep inside the interior of the car if Mulder had anything to say about it. The last thing he needed to bring home from their frustrating case in Scottsbluff was a clothes-clinging souvenir of eau de Holstein. The night was indeed dead. Black as pitch, whatever the hell that was. Black as tar? Asphalt? Asbestos? Scully would know, if she were awake. Whatever pitch was, it was this black. Nothing for the eye to focus on at 11:45 p.m. except the faded lines in the cracked two-lane arrow-straight road that stretched from microscopic cattle town to infinitesimal farming burg, the forever horizon indistinguishable from the starless sky. The meshing shades of black were starting to make his eyelids sticky. It seemed as if he were having trouble closing them, or perhaps the trouble was in opening them... Hmmm. Was that an Angus in the middle of the road? If so, why was it blinking? ROAD ENDS ALL VEHICLES MUST EXIT --> Mulder realized with sudden clarity that electronic message boards were much easier to read from a distance of less than 20 feet. He hit the brakes. Hard. Scully's head bounced off the passenger window. Hard. After a few long moments, Mulder began breathing again. Scully never stopped snoring. Sure. Fine. This looked like a decent exit to take. Whatever. At least his eyelids were behaving again. Shifting into reverse, he backed up and then took the exit, yielding only to a swarm of late-summer moths as he merged onto yet another dark, unmarked rural highway. Somewhere, deep inside his melodramatic soul, Mulder sensed a metaphor. He ignored it. A map of Nebraska was in the car... somewhere. Wasn't it? Or did he leave it on the table at Pop's Eat-Rite back in the oh-so- scenic town of Ord? Hell. He'd drive a bit further and wait for a road sign to appear. To kill time, he fiddled with the radio quietly, keeping one bloodshot eye on the hypnotic asphalt and one on the digital- green display, which was halfheartedly plucking meager pickings from the airwaves. Country-Western wailing. Futures reports. Right-wing Christian preaching. Static. Lots and lots of static. They were due in Grand Island Friday -- tomorrow already? -- for a regional briefing on separatist/terrorist activity in the plains states. Not just as attendees, but as presenters. And Monday... Jesus. He didn't want to think about Monday. Mulder vaguely wondered if they were still traveling east. Mulder vaguely wondered if he even cared. Maybe they'd hit Mexico by morning if he didn't stop for gas. The $47 in his wallet could keep them happily stewed on tequila and tropical fruit for days; maybe Scully had some cash in her purse to get them some shorts and sunscreen. The thought of rummaging around in her handbag shot through his subconscious like a streaker - the exhilarating titillation quickly succumbing to mortal embarrassment. Canada would be just fine. Fuck. Where the hell were they going? That was the question, wasn't it? There was no murmur on whether they'd be assigned back to the X-Files during Monday's review meeting, although the section had officially been reopened a month ago. There was no guarantee they would get the assignment, and hushed whispers were circulating that they might be separated again. He wondered, less vaguely, if he even cared about the former possibility when the latter scared the shit out of him so badly. Worst of all, there had been no murmurs or hushed whispers between the two of them since Antarctica, which left him feeling more lost than any deserted highway. He thought they were heading in a new direction, although nothing had been explicitly said. They didn't need to *talk*, did they? When had they ever needed to talk? He shrugged off the thought with a depressed roll of his aching shoulders. To his right, Scully snored on in an oblivious Sinutab-induced coma. Moths were performing crude kamikaze maneuvers onto the windshield. The radio emitted a low-frequency buzz. The apathetic road droned on and on, providing no clues to their whereabouts. Mulder stopped the car. In the middle of state highway something-or-other, the engine of a black Olds gurgled in park, the driver's side door open -- a faint yet insistent "bing-bing-bing" emitting from the interior, fighting valiantly to be heard over the sucking silence of a Nebraska night. A lone figure sat at the side of the road, his head resting woefully in his hands. God, Nebraska smelled bad in August. The crunch of gravel under unsteady feet forced him to raise his head and look up into the creased and bleary face of his partner. She rubbed a tender spot on the right side of her head in consternation, further sending her hair into static hyperactivity. Her expression begged the question. "We're lost." His eyes, sticky and stinging and miserable, answered more of her questions than he even realized. "Nonsense." Scully's voice was scratchy and thick. "Did you take the detour? I reminded you about it back in that greasy spoon." "I don't know. The road ended. The sign said we had to exit here." "You shouldn't follow so blindly, Mulder." She gazed into the sky, then pivoted left and right, taking in the warm breeze and breaking cloudbank like a trained meteorologist. "If the wind hasn't changed from earlier this evening, we're probably heading north. If this was the final exit before the bridge construction, we're on Route 92. If we keep going, we're bound to hit Farewell, which is 15 minutes from the regional office. That's fine, because I called ahead and reserved us a room at the Stay-Rite Inn off the highway. We didn't pass a town yet, did we?" Mulder shook his head in befuddled awe. Or perhaps it was worship. "Good. Then let's keep going. I told the night manager we'd be there by 1 am." "*A* room, Scully?" His voice was unabashedly pathetic. She looked down, a patient-but-not-for-long look on her fatigued face. "Mulder, Monday we're facing one of the most important meetings of our careers. The decision they're handing down is going to affect whether we stay together, are split up yet again, or ever have any chance in hell of working on the X-Files. Until then, we're stuck making presentations and sitting in focus groups about White Supremacist terrorist activities in Grand Island -- which is nowhere near water, I might add -- Nebraska, of all places. So yes, if we're going to be stuck here for the next three nights, I called ahead for one room." If he wasn't mistaken, Mulder felt his smile light up the star- starved sky as he handed her the keys. "Then I'd better let you drive." ******************** "For this is the beginning of forever.... and ever... It's time to move on." -Portishead ******************** END Oh, you want an explanation? Sorry, it's fluff. Light and breezy and completely unredeeming. I still hope you liked it. Please let me know if I should flee back to the angst dungeon: meredith41@hotmail.com or meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com THANKS: To Mesa for great beta and the ego boost! And to those of you who heard I was procrastinating with another short piece and told me to hurry up. Your support means everything to me!