As she stepped in the elevator, Scully couldn’t help wondering what had led Pendrell to the Headless Woman Pub in the first place. She had seen him there before, of course. Its proximity to FBI Headquarters made it a popular meeting spot for agents, so she had seen pretty much everyone there at some point or another. But Pendrell had always been part of a group. It seemed out of place for him to be there alone, and so obviously drunk. Had he been waiting for her to show up that night? Had he been throwing back shots to bolster his courage before asking to buy her a drink? It felt almost narcissistic to believe that, but Scully couldn’t help but wonder. He flagged her down so quickly that night—almost the minute she walked in the door. Surely that meant he had been looking for her.

And if he had been looking for her that made it doubly her fault, didn’t it? Because not only had she led the gunman to the pub in the first place, if it hadn’t been for her, Pendrell wouldn’t have been there at all.

She owed him something, then. Some type of apology.

The elevator doors creaked open and Scully exited into the fourth floor hallway. His apartment was all the way at the end. It wasn’t difficult to spot: a dry-erase board hung on the door with WELCOME HOME printed on it in brightly colored block letters. Scrawled around this message were the signatures of people who had stopped by. Some of the names Scully recognized; most she did not. It reminded her of the crowd of people standing around the ICU waiting room at the hospital, and she felt ashamed of herself all over again for being surprised that Pendrell had so many friends.

Careful not to disturb the Welcome Home sign, Scully rapped on the door. It opened at the second knock, which startled her so much it left her momentarily speechless. But it wasn’t Pendrell who greeted her. Instead, a woman stood there, blinking tiredly into the dim light of the hall. She was small and squat and she had eyes like Pendrell’s. Scully recognized her from the hospital. She was his older sister. He had a big family, she remembered, all with those eyes and varying degrees of red hair.

Scully forced herself to smile at the woman, who seemed to be looking at her a little warily.

“I hope it’s all right to show up without calling first,” she said politely. “I’m here to see Agent Pendrell.”

The woman’s expression soured. “He isn’t well enough to think about work yet,” she began. And immediately Scully realized her mistake.

“It isn’t about work,” she said quickly. “Although we do work together. But I’m here because—because—I wanted to see him. I wanted to tell him—”

The woman’s eyebrows lifted slightly as Scully faltered. Her look became appraising.

“You were there that night.” It wasn’t a question. “You’re the agent—the doctor—who helped him.”

“Until the paramedics arrived,” Scully agreed. “But I’m afraid that I’m also the reason he was shot. The intended target was a man in my custody, and I wanted to tell Agent Pendrell…Well, I wanted him to know how sorry I am that it happened.”

Pendrell’s sister didn’t look at all surprised to hear this, which led Scully to believe that he must have explained to her what happened that night. Yet, she didn’t look angry, either. If anything, Scully’s admission seemed to soften a little of the anxiety in her expression. She glanced over her shoulder into the apartment.

“Sean, there’s someone here to see you. Are you up to it?”

There was an indistinct answer to her call, which his sister appeared to catch even if Scully did not. She nodded at Scully and opened the door a little wider.

“Come in. He’s in the bedroom...at the back there.” She indicated the door with a jut of her chin.

Pendrell’s apartment was a little smaller than Scully’s own, and it was painfully neat. She looked around at the inexpensive furniture, the shelves lined with books. It amused her to see that he had a framed copy of a phrenology chart on one wall and a print of Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man on another. A Todd MacFarlane statue of Spiderman sat in the middle of his coffee table.

Smiling a little to herself, Scully started across the tiny living room, but Pendrell’s sister spoke up and stopped her before she reached the halfway mark.

“Will you be here long?” she asked.

Scully paused, trying to weigh the meaning behind the words. The phrasing sounded almost accusatory, but the woman’s eyes looked nothing but tired.

“I hadn’t thought.” It seemed like the safest reply.

The woman shifted. “It’s just that...I have to run to the drugstore. He needs a prescription. I thought...since you’re here…”

So that’s what it was: sisterly concern instead of suspicion. Well, Scully couldn’t blame her for that. The bullet that invaded Pendrell’s chest had collapsed his right lung, and his heart stopped twice during the thoracotomy performed to repair it. There was a time—days, even—when the doctors seemed certain he would die. The thought of leaving him alone must be horrifying to his family.

“I can stay with him until you get back,” she offered.

Pendrell’s sister smiled with obvious relief. “Well, if you’re sure,” she said, as she pulled on her jacket. “But don’t tell him I asked you to do it,” she added. “He’s the baby of the family, and we’ve been driving him a little crazy with our coddling.”

She went out, leaving Scully to cross the last few steps to the bedroom alone.

The door was partially ajar. Through it, she could see a sliver of his bed, as well as a glimpse of bare feet. Television jabber and canned music drifted from inside the room, but Scully barely noticed that. Her attention was caught, suddenly, by the sound of his breathing: a labored sort of rasping that told her he wasn’t as far into his recuperation as she might have hoped.

She tried to prepare herself for that before pushing the door wider and stepping into the room. She prepared herself for his sickroom pallor and the dark smudges that ringed his blue eyes.

But she had not prepared herself for how sunken those eyes would be, nor for his lost weight. When she saw him in ICU, tubes and wires had masked the thinness. It hadn’t been terribly noticeable. But this….

Scully stood in the doorway a moment, unsure of how to proceed. Because he didn’t even look like Pendrell. All the boyish roundness was gone from his face, and his frame looked lost in the loose t-shirt and pajama pants he wore.

He saw her, though, and a familiar smile lit up his face.

“Agent Scully!” His voice was a hoarse whisper—a result of the long stint with the bronchial tube—but she detected genuine pleasure in it.

She heard surprise, too, and that made her own throat ache with a renewed rush of guilt. Did he really believe she thought so little of him, she wondered. Had she really shown him so little regard in the past that he would be surprised to see her now?

“Is Mulder with you?” His gaze moved to the hallway behind her, but Scully knew only politeness made him ask. More than ever, she was glad she had not asked Mulder to come with her. She was gladder still that she hadn’t told Mulder that she was coming.

“No, it’s only me this time. And it’s Dana,” she reminded him. “We talked about that at the hospital...remember?”

“Oh.” His sheepish expression told her he didn’t, but Scully didn’t mind. Given the amount of opiates he was on at the time, it was a wonder he remembered seeing her at all.

“So, unless we’re at work, you’re welcome to call me Dana.” It came out awkwardly, like a badly read bit of script, but Pendrell didn’t seem to notice. He looked pleased.

“And I’m Sean?” He said it like a question, so she answered it as one.

“Unless you would rather remain Agent Pendrell.”

It was a joke, of course. She knew he wouldn’t want that. But Pendrell wasn’t familiar with her sense of humor the way Mulder was; he took the dryness of her tone at face value.

“I like Sean, myself,” she added, noticing his crestfallen expression. “It suits you.”

That smile again. As sweet as ever, although something about it made her suddenly want to cry. Because he looked so young lying there in his pajamas. Somehow, she hadn’t expected that. He was always so competent at his work she had forgotten how young he was. How—well, it seemed odd to call a grown man, an FBI special agent, innocent, but there you were. She had no other word for it. What else would you call a man who smiled like that? Who blushed when he invited you to sit down on the edge of his neatly made bed?

He blushed deeper when she actually did it. As if, despite everything that had happened to him, he couldn’t quite help reverting to type.

Of course, neither could she. She hadn’t sat there ten seconds before she asked him if she could take a look at his stitches.

Pendrell seemed a little shocked by this, but he nodded a yes. And he leaned forward to make it easier for her to pull the tail of his t-shirt up to his shoulder.

“It looks really good,” she murmured. And in a way, it did. The thoracotomy incision was on his side just below the armpit, an angry-looking red divot zigzagged with black thread. It stood out rather appallingly against the backdrop of his otherwise smooth skin, but it was healing well. Scully forced herself to focus on the positive.

She moved her hands a little higher to his right pectoral. She wanted to examine him there, too. But it would mean unwinding his dressing and pulling the gauze not just from the bullet wound on his chest, but also the exit wound at his back, which would be, at the very least, uncomfortable for him. So she didn’t ask. But she probed gently, feeling for signs of heat or swelling in the area surrounding it.

“Are you having any pain?” she asked.

Pendrell shook his head and gulped. No pain at all.

An obvious lie, but not necessarily a deliberate one, Scully thought with amusement. Because whatever pain he might be feeling clearly came second to the novelty of her hands on his torso. Yet, it warmed her, a little, to see how much of a gentleman he remained in spite of it, and how valiantly he tried to hang on to his reserve. There were no innuendoes, no jokes, no attempts to take advantage of the situation—the last time she’d seen a man hold himself so still for an examination, it was a corpse.

Pendrell has a crush on you.

Mulder often teased her about it, but Scully had never given the matter much consideration before now. Pendrell was just…well, Pendrell. The lab guy. She never thought of him as a man, not in that way. If she were being honest with herself, not in any way at all.

But now, as her fingertips trailed over the rise of a too-prominent ribcage, she found herself startled by the depth of her own concern for him.

“You’ve lost a lot of weight, Sean.”

He shrugged as if unconcerned. “Well, I had a little pneumonia.”

The way he said it made Scully want to laugh in spite of herself. As if anyone could have a “little” pneumonia. Still, the answer worried her. Hospital-acquired pneumonia could be a killer, particularly if his doctors made the mistake of discharging him too soon. She wished she knew what his chest x-rays looked like. She wished she had thought to bring her stethoscope.

She smoothed his shirt back down and looked at the jumble of medical supplies on his night table. Sure enough, a pulse oximeter lay amongst them.

Pendrell gave a crooked smile when he saw her reaching for it.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Really. I’m keeping an eye on it. I have a chart and everything.”

Nevertheless, he held out his finger so she could clip it on. She liked that about him. The easy, obliging way he had, which was so unlike anyone else in her life. Especially herself.

“Your oxygen saturation is a little low.”

He tilted his head and peered down at the monitor. “Ninety-three percent. It’s hanging in there.”

“That’s usual for you since you got home?”

He nodded, and Scully persisted. “Is your doctor aware of that?”

“She’s aware. She’s a good doctor,” he added. “I mean…government insurance, best in the world, am I right?”

He was smiling again, trying to draw a smile out of her. But Scully refused to be drawn.

“I need to tell you something, Sean. I came here to tell you something.”

He widened his eyes a little at her leaden tone. “You say it like that, and I’m not sure I want to hear it.”

“No, it isn’t anything terrible. I just…want to apologize to you.”

“For what?”

He seemed so genuinely puzzled it made her angry. Stop being so damn nice, she wanted to tell him. Stop letting people trample all over your good will before it gets you killed.

Except, of course, that niceness was the very thing she liked most about him. And Pendrell's current state of injury was her fault, not his.

“Has Skinner talked to you about that night?”

He nodded. “A little. They took a statement at the hospital after I woke up.”

“Then you know that the man I was with that night was a federal witness awaiting transfer. He was in my custody and I…I made a mistake.”

Pendrell frowned. “What kind of mistake?” he asked.

“I brought him to a public place. I left him alone when I went to the bar. I let you get involved with it all. Actually, thinking about it, I made a lot of mistakes. And you got hurt as a result.”

“Oh, well…” He shrugged.

“You saved my life that night, Sean.”

At that, he finally met her gaze. But he didn’t seemed pleased. He was shaking his head.

“Don’t say that. I didn’t do anything. I was drunk—it was stupid—”

“It was stupid. And a waste. It was…” She shook her head, overcome by the enormity of what it had been. “I just want you to know how sorry I am about it.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said. “I might be a lab rat, but I’m still an FBI agent. Getting shot isn’t outside the parameters of the job description. You know?”

Maybe not, but that didn’t do much to alleviate her guilt in the matter. It occurred to her to tell him that things hadn’t ended too well for Frish, either; but she didn’t want to burden him with that. Instead, she reached down and plucked the pulse oximeter from his finger.

“I hope you don’t mind me doing that,” she said, nodding to the instrument. “I guess I can’t help myself. Medicine…”

“I get it. My sister is a dental hygienist. She’s always asking to look at my teeth.”

Scully surprised herself by laughing.

“Is that your sister I just met?” she asked.

“No, that’s Finola; she’s an attorney. Cara is the one who works in teeth.”

“How many sisters do you have?”

“Four. And two brothers.”  He smiled at the look on her face. “My mother is Irish, in case it wasn’t already obvious by the hair.”

“Your father isn’t?”

“He’s English. I mean, originally. He was born in Boston.”

“You’re from Boston?”

He shrugged. “I’m from everywhere. Army brat.”

That surprised her. He seemed too well adjusted to be an Army brat.

“I was a Navy brat.”

“I know. You told me before.” He saw her curious expression and added, “In the lab. We were waiting for reports to print…remember?”

She didn’t, and it amazed her that he did. Had she asked him about himself during the same conversation? If so, why didn’t she remember any of his answers?

“Your sister seems like a good nurse.” It was all she could think of to say.

“She’s great, isn’t she? They’ve all been taking turns with me since I got home. It’s Finola’s turn tonight. Everyone else is staying at a hotel. If I had the room, I guess they’d all be here.”

Scully thought so, too. Everything about him screamed big, happy, loving family. It scared her a little to realize how close she had come to shattering that for them. Sean, the baby of the group, dying in a puddle of beer after a gunfight.

“I should probably go.” She spoke without thinking, but she knew the impulse was right. She should go now that she’d apologized. She should leave him to the safety of his family and his normal life. She had no right to poison him with her presence. Or, rather, with her proximity to the X-Files, which poisoned everything in their orbit.

Pendrell was staring at the television set as if he hadn’t heard, although she knew he had. She watched the knot of his Adam’s apple move up and down as he gathered his courage to say, “You shouldn’t have come just because you feel guilty.”

She felt her face heat at his words. “I didn’t.”

“You don’t have any reason to feel guilty. You’re not obligated to do anything.”

The earnestness in his tone unraveled her in the strangest way. If he’d sounded the least bit angry—or even hurt—she knew she could have left with her resolve intact. But he didn’t. If anything, he seemed determined—if a little unwilling—to absolve her of responsibility. She could walk out today and never look back, and she knew he wouldn’t think less of her for it.

Which was exactly why she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Her eyes traveled the line of his gaze to the television. Two men in white coats striding down the hall of what appeared to be a hospital.

“Is that Dick Van Dyke?”

She felt, rather than saw, Pendrell’s eyes turn toward her.

“Diagnosis Murder,” he said. “You ever watch it?”

She shook her head.

“It’s pretty good. See, Dick Van Dyke is a doctor who solves crimes in his spare time. His son is a police detective.”

“Sounds interesting.” It didn’t, really, but that didn’t matter. It was something to talk about, something on which to focus her attention so she didn’t have to go.

When the show broke for commercial Pendrell nodded at the ad—Red Lobster—and asked her, “Have you eaten dinner?”

“Not yet.” She knew what he was gearing up to do. And while she wouldn’t exactly encourage him, she couldn’t bring herself to impede his efforts, either. She stared at the flicking television screen and waited.

And sure enough.

“There’s a really great Chinese place down the block if you like Sichuan.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And they deliver.”

Scully turned her head a little to hide her smile. “That must be convenient for you,” she said innocently. “Especially now.”

“I was thinking…if you’d like to stay…”

She liked the tone he used—low and just a little tentative, as if he were coaxing a cat out of hiding. If he’d been Mulder, he would have just ordered the food and expected her to enjoy it.

She looked over at him.

“Are you asking me to have dinner with you, Sean?”

His face reddened, although he met her eyes bravely when he said, “Well, I still owe you a birthday drink.”

“Yes.”

“Only I’m not allowed to drink with the medication I’m on. So I thought I’d treat you to a meal instead.”

She couldn’t look into those blue eyes anymore. They were too eager, too without guile. She shifted her gaze to his hands, now fiddling nervously with the remote. For a small man, he had surprisingly long fingers, like a piano player. His left hand had an ugly bruise on the dorsal side, as if the nurse had been too rough removing his IV catheter.

Scully reached out and touched the bruise lightly with her fingertips, surprising them both. She could feel Pendrell watching her, the question written all over his face. But she didn’t look up to see it. Not even as she said, “I would love to have dinner with you, Sean. Thank you for asking me.”