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“Fox.”
The fog of hard-won sleep dissipated instantly; and Mulder froze, eyes open, lying absolutely still as he listened. Only a handful of people called him by that name.
“Sorry-- Mulder.”
It couldn’t be. He sat up, scanning the gloam of the room for a familiar face. “Who is it?”
“She’s going to call soon.”
“Who is this?” A flash of fear seized him: the threat of Syndicate clones or alien bounty hunters speaking through wires or around corners or from surveillance perches was as jarring as this voice, her voice, rousing him without warning, in warning.
“She needs your help. They both need your help.”
Mulder bolted upright, hit his shins on the end table, backed up into the glare of the fish tank; then flinched away from it, back into the dim. “Melissa?”
“She’s going to be calling soon,” the voice-- the late Melissa Scully-- echoed, behind him, from his answering machine. Its ember light glowed tellingly, this supernatural messenger bearing strange, impossible warnings. His hand was reaching towards it, was pressed against the speaker box before Mulder realized he’d moved.
“Be prepared,” cautioned his partner’s sister; and the omen’s red eye dimmed and closed in the dark as the line disconnected.
Mulder stood there, not understanding, while the silence grew oppressive and suffocating. He needed to play the recording back, needed the Gunmen to trace the call, needed to phone Scully-- knew, somehow, that she must be in trouble-- but he stood there instead, listening for her voice in the forgotten, routine noises of his apartment. The tank gurgled, eerily placid; the leather couch heaved, audibly reshaping its deflated seats; the floors remained silent, no footstep betraying nefarious purpose in the late or early hours.
Then the phone rang, splitting the brewing calm and rupturing the fortifications against his adrenaline. His heart raced, his ears rang, and his fingers buzzed as Mulder jolted sideways, shook himself, and answered with more feeling than dignity. “Hello?”
“Mulder, it’s me.” It was Scully, her voice too high and too quick.
“Merry Christmas, Scully,” he answered-- because what else was there to say?
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