Part Two (probably) 

They hadn't wiped for prints. 

They hadn't burned the sheets and pillow cases. 

They hadn't sensibly eradicated all traces of themselves from 
the 50-dollar-a-night semi-dive they'd been staying in for the 
past six weeks.  And it was too damned late now. 

Mulder looked right and left, then smoothly changed highway 
lanes. Keeping the speedometer just above the limit - nothing 
said 'I'm trying to avoid the police' like a middle aged white man 
driving under the posted speed -  he surreptitiously  kept an eye 
on all his mirrors while considering his next move. 

They'd need new paperwork, obviously.   A new car. New 
clothes. New hair.  New shoes.  New back-story.  New lies.  
New everything. 
And just when everything had be going oh-so damned well, too.

Fuck. 

They had unused documents  for Michael O'Neal and Janice 
Kerrigan. If he recalled correctly, Mike was a technical writer, 
and Janice was freelance editor.  If they traveled separately for 
a while, that would -

That would -   

That would what? 

'Think Mulder,' he admonished himself silently. 'Think.' 

He glanced over at Scully. She had been sitting silently staring 
out the passenger side window for the past twenty minutes.  So 
silently in fact that, in his over-adrenalized state, he'd all but 
forgotten that she was even there.  Christ, he was losing his 
edge. 
  
He tried to think of something at once comforting, reassuring, 
and intelligent to say.  Something that let her know he was 
completely in charge of the situation. Something wise. 

All he could come up with was, "You okay?" 

She blinked once, then turned toward him, a frown of confusion 
creasing her brow.   "What" - she jerked a thumb in the direction 
they'd come from -  "the hell just happened?"  

He was pleased to note that she sounded as bewildered as he 
felt.  At least they were on the same page here, which in and of 
itself was a nice change.   

"Not sure," he replied.  "It appears we decided to dress up as 
our old selves, brutally murder two random adults, kidnap their 
three year old daughter, then stop for Slurpees." 

She nodded as if she was giving serious consideration to his 
words.  "Yeah. That's what I thought." 

"I have to be honest with you, though.  They might have been 
Big Gulps.  I'm not one-hundred-percent clear on the whole 
beverage thing.  I was kind of preoccupied." 

He glanced at her again.  No smile.  No scowl.  No *Mulder you 
are such a jack-ass* glare.  

No nothing.

"And do you have idea why we apparently did those things?"  
she asked at length.

Mulder shook his head. "Not a clue. Besides, I thought we 
decided you were the brains of this operation.  I was kind of 
hoping you had it figured out." 

 Scully let out a long slow breath and ran her fingers through 
her blonde-streaked hair.   "Sorry to disappoint you," she 
answered. 

"I'm not disappointed," he answered.  "I'm  just -"  

"Just?" she asked  

"Just -- I'm just  -- I don't know," he answered, because, in all 
honesty, he didn't know.  They'd had a few close calls, years 
back now, when he thought they were going to be caught, but 
they'd always managed to evade everyone.  Their lives, such 
as they were, had settled into a predictable, dull routine - new 
town, new name, new job, same old shit - lather, rinse, and 
repeat.  He didn't know how to categorize what had just 
happened, but it sure as hell did not fall into the category of 
*routine.*
 
Unsettled, he realized.  He felt unsettled.  Which meant he had 
to have felt settled before.  A wanted fugitive, and he'd actually 
felt snug.  Secure.  Settled. 

Jesus.  Forget about losing his edge - he was losing his grip on 
reality. 

'Wouldn't be the first time, won't be the last," he assured himself 
as he checked the rearview mirror again, relieved to see they 
hadn't acquired a following.  "Somebody's just fucking with us, 
Scully."
 
"Obviously.  But who?" she asked, quiet but exasperated. "Not 
to mention why." 

"There should be a road atlas in the glove box there," he said, 
ignoring what he assumed were rhetorical questions.  As far as 
he was concerned, 'who' and 'why' didn't matter.  'Where', on 
the other hand, did, and the answer was unambiguously  'any-
damned-where but here'.   "Can you get it out?" 

Scully dug around in the crowded compartment, shoving aside 
fast-food napkins, individually-wrapped wet-naps, and a wealth 
of paper-shrouded straws. She then sat with the unopened 
book in her lap, running her forefinger back and forth along its 
rounded corner, over and over, frowning in concentration. 

"How does Mexico sound?" he asked, hoping to distract her.  

"Mexican," she replied absently. 

"Pinatas," he added, using his best come-hither tone.  "Tequila. 
Margaritas. Sex on the beach, liquid and otherwise.  Tempting, 
no?" 

Not tempting enough, apparently, because she chose to ignore 
him.    "Seriously, Mulder," she said, "this is a hoax, obviously, 
but it's a pretty elaborate hoax, don't you think?" 

Mulder shrugged.  "I guess." 

"I mean, that was broadcast on national TV.  No one had any 
way of knowing we'd be in there this morning, right?" 

"Right." 

"So it's out there on the news services, where any Pulitzer-
hungry journalist can get a hold of it in an effort to tear it apart.  
So who would orchestrate something like this?" she asked.  
"And to what end?" 

Mulder took in her thoughtful expression. On one hand, it was 
good to see Scully interested in something - anything.  He had 
been trying to avoid admitting the fact to himself, but It had 
been a while since he'd seen any spark of genuine interest in 
her.  Or genuine curiosity. Or genuine anything.  She tried to 
hide it, but she'd been bored for so long it was hard for him to 
remember a time when she hadn't been. On the other hand, if 
he had to pick something for her to be interested in, this crap 
would be a long, long way down the list.

He shrugged again. "I don't know," he said.  "I'm not entirely 
sure I care. " 

That got Scully's full attention. She turned toward him. "What do 
you mean?" 

"Who cares who did it, or why," he replied.  "It's not like we're 
going to turn ourselves in and say, 'oh, pardon me, officer, a 
dreadful mistake has been made!  We're just wanted felons, not 
murderous, kidnapping wanted felons!'" 

Scully didn't answer.  They sat in tense silence for a few 
moments, until Mulder got up the nerve to glance over at her 
again.  She was running her finger along the atlas's edge again, 
her upper lip caught between her teeth. 

"Scully," he said as evenly as he could manage, "we are most 
definitely not turning ourselves in." 

"I know that," she shot back.  "But think about it.  We've been all 
but off the radar for ages and suddenly we're right back on it." 
  
"Scully -" 

"Seriously. It's almost seven years.  Why now?" 

"Scully-" 

"Humor me," she snapped.  "As a purely intellectual exercise, 
okay? Why? And why now?"  

Mulder's intellect wasn't in the mood for any exercise, but he 
wasn't in the mood for the inevitable headache yet another 
argument would bring at the moment, either, so he found 
himself considering her questions.  "Okay, fine. There's a great 
deal of mystical significance to the number seven - seven 
shows up all over the Bible, old and new testaments, and the 
Qu'ran.  There were seven days of creation, on the seventh day 
He rested, seven heavens, seven thrones, seven earths  -"

"You think this is something mystical?" Scully's tone made it 
clear she did not. 

"I don't think it's anything.  I'm humoring you, remember?" He 
continued.  "On the slightly more profane side, you've got seven 
seas, seventh sons of seventh sons, seven days in a week, the 
Mystical Seven fraternity, seven wonders of the ancient and 
modern world, seven as a prime number, seven hills of Rome, 
seven suns, seven-" 

"Seven years,"  Scully interrupted. "What's significant about 
seven years?" 

"Itch?" Mulder suggested. 

Scully scowled. 

"It was a pretty good film for its time," he said.  "Hey, I'm trying." 

"Try harder," she said. 

"Fine."  Mulder searched his memory, looking for something 
that might be noteworthy.  "Okay, there were seven years of 
plenty followed by seven years of famine in the story of Joseph 
and his tacky coat.  There was the Seven Years'  War.  Seven 
years of bad luck for breaking a mirror, sev -"  

"Seven year cycle," Scully said. "Every cell in your body 
changes over the course of seven years." 

"Swapping out old cells for new," Mulder added, nodding.  
"Maybe there's something to that," he said, warming, 
reluctantly, to the subject.   

"But what?" she asked. "Someone wants us to know we've 
been replaced?" 

"But like you said, no one could have known we were going to 
be there this morning." 

"So whatever is going on, it's not directed at us," she 
concluded. "Or not primarily at us." 

Mulder chewed on the inside of his cheek. There was 
something just on the edge of his awareness, something he 
could glimpse but not fully see.  Why thrust the two of them into 
the public consciousness now?  It didn't make sense. 

Unless-

"Maybe -"    

"Maybe?"

"It just occurred to me," he said, "that after seven years, 
someone can be declared legally dead." 

Scully blinked, then her expression cleared.  "Or in our 
particular case, two someones."

Mulder nodded.  "Two someones.  You and me." 

"And if we're suddenly at the center of a nationwide manhunt - " 

"- there's not much chance of us being declared dead," he 
concluded. 

Scully nodded. "So I guess the question now is-" 

"Yeah," Mulder said. "Who wants us alive?" 

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