eldritch basement offices

He did go to Nevada looking for a UFO, so maybe that part is more or less his fault. But he didn't expect there to be another assassin. (Maybe there will always be another assassin, even if this one is more or less out for revenge instead of actively working for someone. He honestly can't decide what's better.)

He comes to on hard, cold sand, bright lights dancing in front of his eyes. He groans, rolling over and trying to sit up, and feels a hand close over his ankle. Jackson reacts on instinct, kicking out and catching the guy in the nose. He feels something snap under his heel, and the guy yowls. Jackson scrambles to his feet, stumbling forward on the sand. The guy tries to jump him from behind, and Jackson feels a sudden sensation not unlike tearing along his arm, pain shooting through and hot blood dripping down to his wrist. He screams, mostly in pain but partially in frustration. The assassin grabs him by the tail of his t-shirt and yanks him back. 

“Freeze, FBI!” An all too familiar voice roaring from the darkness of the desert, followed by the cocking of a gun. There is enough time for Jackson to think, Shit, they found me, followed by, What the hell is she doing in the field? The asshole's bloody knife grazes his Adam's apple just before a gunshot whizzes past them, a warning. The asshole swears and shoves Jackson forward; he lands facefirst on the ground, throwing out a few swear words himself. 

Someone who looks like Mulder jumps on the assassin and starts handcuffing him. Jackson sits up, grimacing, and presses a hand to his wound. He's probably really pissed them off this time; he hasn't actually talked to them in weeks, he stole the money for his plane tickets, and he ran off to Nevada without a word because of something he saw when he hacked into Mulder's email about strange UFO activity and people popping up claiming to be from the future. It wasn't something Mulder intended to check out, but it definitely interested Jackson. He came to save his parents, if he could. 

It just turned out that an assassin whose brother Jackson killed in self defense has been stalking him, looking for a moment wherein he was vulnerable. Such as the Nevada desert. Just his fucking luck.

Scully—he can tell it's Scully now, how the hell did they find him here?—runs to his side, skidding to her knees on the ground. “Are you okay?” she asks, and it's then that Jackson notices something that shocks him to the core: Scully is not pregnant. Her stomach is certainly flat. 

“What happened to the baby?” he says without thinking. 

It's subtle, but Scully flinches. “You're going to be okay,” she says, pretending she didn't hear him or something. Her voice sounds different in a way that Jackson can't place his finger on. “We're going to take you to the hospital and check you out…” 

“Did something happen to the baby?” he asks, genuinely nervous. He hasn't quite sorted out his feelings towards them, but he never wanted something like this to happen. Never wanted to lose someone else, weird as it sounds. 

Scully tenses all over, yanking her hand away from him. “Excuse me?” she says in a cold voice. 

And the pieces start to fall together, slowly. Scully isn't acting as nearly as protective and maternal as she usually does—and considering that he's injured, he'd think she would be, right now. Her voice sounds different. She isn't pregnant, or at least not as pregnant as she was the last time he saw her. Jackson turns towards the lights coming from the car parked on the road and sees Scully's face and grits his teeth together. “What the fuck,” he says, near annoyed. 

Scully opens her mouth like she's going to say something else, but Mulder calls her name before she can. He jogs over to where they are, having stuck the douchebag in the car. “Guy says the kid broke his nose,” he says, and as he approaches, Jackson sees that he, too, looks younger. “We should probably take him by the hospital before we question him.”

“He's bleeding a lot,” Scully says in a surprisingly stiff voice. Jackson grimaces at that, pressing his hand hard against the wound. 

Mulder crouches on the ground in front of Jackson, and Jackson sees the lack of recognition in his face. “What's your name?” he asks, not unkindly. 

He can't believe this. He can't fucking believe it. “I, uh… Jackson,” he says uncertainly. “Jackson Van de Kamp.”

“Why was that guy attacking you, Jackson? Do you know who he is?”

“I don't know who he is,” says Jackson, telling the truth. But he tops it off with a lie: “And I don't know why he's trying to kill me.”

“We don't need to question him right now, Mulder,” Scully snaps. “Did you call an ambulance?” 

“Yeah, they're on their way.” Mulder rocks back on his heels and stands, offers his hand to Jackson to help him up. Jackson grimaces at the pain reverberating through his arm as he stumbles to his feet. Part of him is protesting being treated like a little kid, again, but the rest of him is wondering how the hell this is happening. Why are his birth parents pretending not to know him? Or do they… is it possible that…? 

Scully examines the wound, motioning impatiently at Mulder until he shines his flashlight on Jackson's arm. “You'll need stitches,” she says stiffly. “Is there anyone we should call for you? Your parents? Guardians?”

Jackson doesn't answer. If he's where he thinks he is, then there really isn't anything they can call. If they were in another situation, then he'd give their names. He can hear the sirens in the distance. 

“What year is it?” he asks. “1998, 1999?”

Scully gives him an incredulous look. Mulder looks a little overeager, like he's just had a theory confirmed. (It's weird to see them like this, so much younger.) “It's 2000,” he says. “October, 2000.”