Hate is always foolish and love is always wise

As she feared, Mulder’s apartment is dark when Scully enters. She does a thorough inspection of each room, taking note with her investigator’s eye of any oddities that catch her notice. Because it’s Mulder’s apartment, however, there are plenty of strange things that stand out to her, none of which point her towards any obvious conclusion as to his whereabouts.

After this, she calls him again, and again receives his voicemail, which irritates her so badly she considers leaving. But then she sees his poor fish circling the top of their tank, hungry and abandoned, and feels a stirring of pity. Sprinkling a dash of food into the tank, she watches dejectedly as they fight over the crumbs.

A call to the Lone Gunmen proves fruitless, as none of the men have heard from Mulder in weeks. Frohike offers to join her in keeping vigil over Mulder’s apartment, but she politely declines. After hanging up, she thumbs the phone for a few seconds, wondering whether she ought to call Diana for an update. But when she dials the other woman’s number, there is no answer.

And so she waits, collapsing onto Mulder’s familiar leather couch and listlessly flipping through his T.V. channels. After an hour, she digs out a stale sleeve of crackers from his pantry and attempts to eat, but she has no appetite and ends up tossing them in the trash. Another hour sees her pacing the length of his apartment, redialing his cell number every few minutes. When midnight strikes, she settles back onto the couch, jacket and shoes discarded, and eventually falls asleep to the drone of a documentary on the history channel.

**

Scully jolts awake in the darkness, her skin crawling with the certainty that someone is watching her. She’s reaching for her weapon when she spies the door, which is open, spilling hallway light across the floor. A stranger’s silhouette looms in the doorway, straining under the weight of a second person. She turns her gun on the intruder, who yelps.

“Sorry, sorry! I’m just a driver.” The cabbie’s voice is high and quick. “He—he paid me to bring him up, wouldn’t let me call anybody! Please don’t shoot me!”

Mulder. She’d know him before she knew anything else on this earth. His arm is hooked over the cabbie’s neck and his head rises unsteadily to find her eyes. He tries taking a step forward, tugging the driver with him, and Scully lunges forward, gripping his coat right as his knees buckle. Grunting, she struggles to lower him to the floor as the cabbie backs slowly towards the door.

“I swear I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” he says apologetically, raising his hands in surrender, his eyes trained anxiously on her weapon.

“Where did you pick him up?” Scully demands, even as her fingers search for Mulder’s pulse point. “Thready,” she mutters to herself.

“I got him in Maryland, ma’am, I swear I don’t know anything more!”

“Did he say anything to you on the ride here? Was he with anyone?” She moves her hand to Mulder’s eyelids, which have drooped shut, and checks his pupils.

“Nothing, ma’am, nothing but this address. And no one with him.”

Before she can ask anything else, he retreats fully into the hallway and the door clicks shut behind him.

“Dammit, Mulder,” Scully curses, surveying her partner.

His eyes open slightly, flitting uneasily between hers, before he pulls his legs into his chest as if he’s in pain. Her hand moves to his forehead, feeling for fever. Finding none, she continues her examination, confusion rising when nothing flags as physiologically alarming.

Sitting back on her heels, she studies him, curled in on himself, radiating misery. Instinctively, she reaches for his hand, noticing that his fingers are trembling.

“What happened?” she asks, squeezing his hand. When he doesn’t reply, she frowns. “Can you talk? If you can talk, Mulder, you need to tell me where you’re hurt.”

Mulder’s eyes are still doing their uneasy dance, and she levels him with a serious look. “Can you sit up?”

He nods unevenly and she watches him warily as he strains to pull himself to sitting, draping his arms across his bent knees and tipping his forehead into his hands. 

“My god,” he whispers with uncharacteristic anguish, and she ducks her head closer to him.

“Are you hurt?” she repeats more urgently, a hand settling on his knee.

With great effort, he turns his head towards her and grimaces. “It feels . . . my chest,” he moans. “So much pain.”

Alarmed, Scully forces Mulder’s eyes up with a firm hand to his chin, and a full body shudder ripples through him. Sweat breaks out on his forehead.

“Mulder?” she asks, her palm pressing against his chest. His heart beats erratically and he shoves her hand off him.

“Mulder, you have to tell me where you’re hurt,” she demands, leaning closer. “If you’re injured, we need to get you to a hospital immediately—”  

“Nowhere, no hospital,” he grits out, even as his head tips to his chest and his body folds into a protective ball. “My heart.”

Automatically, she reaches for her phone to call an ambulance but seeing her movement, Mulder shakes his head furiously.

His eyes meet hers and there’s so much pain in them that she drops her mobile phone, which skitters across the room. Her heart lurches in her chest and Mulder flinches violently, his face draining of color. Scully grabs for his wrist to feel for his pulse again, cursing when it flutters rapidly against her fingertips.

“I need you to tell me what happened to you,” she commands as calmly as possible, even as her own heartrate picks up. Almost as if in response, Mulder’s pulse ratchets up.

He shakes his head futilely, moaning incoherently.

She bites her lip, weighing her options. Giving Mulder one last look, she rises to standing and grabs his landline, punching 9-1-1. Just as she’s about to put the call through, Mulder raises his head.

“Not the ambulance,” he croaks in what can only be called agony. “I need Diana.”

Outrage, hot and slick, sluices down her spine at the suggestion, but her fury cools the moment Mulder falls to the hardwood with a roar of anguish.

“Mulder!” she gasps, falling to her knees and grabbing his arms.

“Stop it, stop it,” he protests weakly. “Stop being scared,” he gasps, his eyebrows creasing in desperation. “Call Diana! Please! Please.” The last word comes out feebly, as if he’s used all his remaining energy.

His eyes meet hers with a fervor she only knows to trust. Swallowing tightly against her own reservations, she nods. She doesn’t know that she’s ever seen Mulder in this much pain and if he thinks Diana is what he needs, then she’ll get him Diana, despite her own misgivings.

Fumbling in his coat pocket, she pulls out his mobile phone, hopeful that Diana will be responsive if the call comes directly from his cell.

She’s right. Agent Fowley answers on the second ring.

“Fox?” the other woman asks breathlessly.

“It’s me,” Scully interjects, hopefully shattering Diana’s illusions of a frisky reunion with Mulder. “It’s Scully. A cab driver just returned Agent Mulder to his apartment. I’m here with him and he’s asked me to call you.”

“What does he need?”

“Something’s very wrong. He’s afebrile but his pulse is erratic, and he seems as if he’s in an enormous amount of pain.” Scully pauses, glancing at Mulder, who’s rubbing his face with his hands. “His condition suggests to me a possible cardiac event, or some sort of psychotic episode. I’ve also considered the possibility that he’s encountered or ingested a—a substance of some sort. I’d like to get him to a hospital for a tox screen and an EKG. I’ve—I’ve never seen this before—”  

Diana’s voice cuts sharply through Scully’s words. “Ask him if he contacted Daniel Parsons.”

Who? she thinks, wracking her brain for that name and coming up empty. Although the request confuses her, Scully relays it to Mulder, who shuts his eyes tightly before nodding once.

“He said yes.”

“Dammit,” Diana mutters with such vitriol that Scully briefly moves the phone from her ear. She hears the noise of car keys clanging against a countertop. “Ask him if the pain is worse with you in the room.”

“Ask him what?” Scully asks incredulously.

“Just ask him, Agent Scully.”

Scully glances over at Mulder, considering this possibility. He squints at her through distressed eyes and suddenly, despite everything he’s put her through over the past few weeks, she has an intense longing to go to him and hold him, comfort him.

As she watches him, Mulder’s face briefly seems to relax, his hands uncurling from fists and limbs loosening. His eyes fall closed and Scully kneels beside him to study the sudden change in his demeanor. Although she can’t conjure any known medical condition that would connect his behavior to her proximity, she considers Diana’s words.

Does Mulder truly seem affected by her closeness? For a moment, Scully considers whether Diana is simply trying to stir up trouble by digging into an open wound, exploiting the obvious tension that’s emerged between her and Mulder.

Mulder moans beside her, bringing her back to the present. The open pain on his face reinvigorates her, and she reminds herself that she isn’t a pawn in Diana’s game, but a trained investigator and she’ll approach this problem as such. She shakes her head, ridding herself of any ridiculous notions that her presence alone could be causing him pain. As a medical doctor, she must trust herself and her judgment when it comes to Mulder’s health and safety. If she can put her faith in anything, it’s hard evidence.

And Mulder.

“Mulder,” she says gently but insistently, carding a hand through his hair, which is soaked with sweat. “Agent Fowley wants to know if your pain is worse around me.” She hesitates briefly, her words catching on the absurd suggestion. “Am I causing you pain?”

Mulder’s eyes open, his body going rigid again. His jaw works, and she watches him try to form an answer. He turns pleading eyes up at her, an apology written in his expression. Her stomach drops as she realizes what’s coming. Mulder winces, as if struck.