#held together

they were the type who made no effort to hide their disdain, with sneering comments and dismissive glances. the kind of men who thought women had no place on the front lines, who felt entitled to grunt and laugh when you picked up a weapon or offered strategy.

you’d tried to brush it off. you’d told yourself it didn’t matter. but their constant condescension had worn you down over the course of the day. and then, when it finally happened. when you made that one mistake, their reaction was worse than you could’ve imagined.

you were good at taking out infected. hell, you’d proven it time and time again. clickers, runners, stalkers. you’d faced them all and lived to tell the tale. but today, while climbing through a wrecked pharmacy in search of what you needed, a shelf collapsed under your weight. 

the sound was enough to alert a pair of clickers hiding nearby. your heart had jumped into your throat as you scrambled to draw your knife, but the angle was wrong, and before you could deliver a fatal blow, one of the men had stepped in, firing a shot that brought the creature down.

you’d barely had time to thank him before the yelling started.

“what the fuck were you thinking?” he’d barked, his face a mix of anger and disgust. “can’t even keep quiet? jesus christ, this is exactly why women should stay where they belong, out of the way.”

the others had chimed in, their voices overlapping in a spiral of ridicule. “you’re gonna get us killed,” one sneered.

each word cuts deeper. you wanted to argue, to defend yourself, normally you would but the lump in your throat wouldn’t let you speak. so you’d stayed silent, swallowing your pride and your tears as they finished the run and loaded the truck.

now, as the vehicle bounced along the path back to jackson, you stared at your hands, fighting to hold yourself together. your nails dug into your palms, grounding you as your thoughts raced. you hated how their words lingered, how they made you feel small, like all the progress you’d made since the outbreak didn’t matter. you’d fought so hard to prove yourself, and yet here you were, feeling like you were back at square one.

when the truck finally pulled to a stop inside the gates, you let out a shaky breath, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere. the men climbed out first, muttering to each other as they unloaded the supplies. none of them so much as glanced in your direction. you hesitated for a moment before hopping down, your legs shaky as you made your way toward the main building.

you delivered the supplies to the women, forcing a smile as they thanked you and offered warm words of appreciation. their gratitude eased some of the weight on your shoulders, but not enough to get rid of the gnawing in your chest. once everything was squared away, you made your way back to your house, your steps heavy and slow.

as soon as you got back inside, the exhaustion hit you hard. you closed the door behind you, not bothering to lock it. a habit you’d always maintained but now couldn’t gather the energy for. 

stripping off your gear and clothes, you left them in a heap on the floor, not caring about the mess. you didn’t even change into pajamas, just crawled under the covers and let yourself cry.

the sobs came hard and fast, shaking your body as you buried your face in your pillow. you cried until your throat was raw and your eyes burned, until there were no tears left to shed. 

when the sobs did subsided, you laid there staring at the wall, your mind blank but your heart aching. the room grew darker as the sun set, you didn’t move, didn’t even reach for the lamp.

you barely registered the sound of the front door creaking open. you were too in your head about everything, curled on your side with the covers pulled up to your chin, facing the wall. the house was quiet except for the faint sound of footsteps padding cautiously across the floor.

he called out for you. breaking through the stillness, soft. it wasn’t like him to sound unsure, but there was something in his tone, an edge of worry, of gentleness. that tugged at your heart. still, you didn’t move, didn’t respond. you couldn’t. the weight of the day had hollowed you out, leaving no energy for words.

the footsteps grew closer, pausing just outside the doorway to your bedroom. you felt the air shift, the faint creak of the floorboards signaling his arrival. jesse didn’t say anything at first. you could feel his gaze on you, taking in the stillness of your form, the way your shoulders were curled inward as if you were trying to make yourself smaller.

“you didn’t lock the door,” he said softly, a quiet observation rather than a reprimand. you could hear the concern woven into his words, laced with an understanding that this wasn’t like you. 

the faint rustle of fabric followed as he moved closer, feeling the bed dip slightly under his weight.

“you didn’t come see me,” he murmured, quieter this time. there was no frustration in his voice, only a tender kind of confusion, like he couldn’t quite figure out what had gone so wrong. you didn’t reply, your silence stretching thin between you. jesse didn’t push, didn’t demand answers. 

he just waited.

you heard the soft thud of his shoes hitting the floor, one after the other. the mattress shifted again as he climbed in behind you, his movements unhurried. a moment later, you felt the warmth of his body against your back, his arm slipping around your waist as he pulled you gently against his chest.

his touch was firm and careful, grounding without overwhelming you, and it was that small act of kindness that broke something loose inside you.

the tears came before you could stop them, silent at first but quickly growing into heavy, shuddering sobs that shook your entire frame. jesse held you tighter, his hand smoothing over your arm in slow, soothing motions. 

he didn’t say anything. didn’t try to fix what couldn’t be fixed. he just stayed there, his presence unwavering as you let it all out.

“i’m here,” he said finally, his voice low and steady, barely more than a whisper. it wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep you tethered, enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

as the sobs began to subside, your breathing slowed, and the tension in your body began to ease. jesse didn’t pull away, didn’t loosen his grip. he stayed pressed against you, his forehead resting gently against the back of your head.

“you’re okay,” he murmured after a while, his words soft and reassuring. “whatever it is, you’re okay.”

you shifted slightly, pressing back into him in silent acknowledgment. jesse’s arm tightened around you in response, his thumb brushing against your side in a quiet rhythm that matched your breathing.

for the first time all day, the weight pressing down on your chest began to lift. the sting of the men’s words, the shame, the exhaustion. it was still there, but it felt a little less sharp, a little less suffocating with jesse’s warmth surrounding you.

the steady beat of his heart against your back was a quiet reminder that he was with you.

minutes passed, maybe hours. time seemed to blur as you lay there, cocooned in his embrace. he didn’t let go, didn’t shift or fidget. he just stayed.

when your breathing had evened out and the tears had dried, jesse finally spoke again, his voice still soft but a little firmer this time. “you wanna talk about it?”

you hesitated, your throat tight with the aftermath of your sobs. “not yet.” you whisper.

jesse nodded against you, his response a quiet hum of understanding. “that’s okay,” he said. “we’ll lay here as long as you need.”

and you believed him. in the quiet of your room, with his arms wrapped around you and his breath warm against your skin, 

you believed him.

comments and reblogs are appreciated ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

She’d talked to her mother last night, shared gossip, made plans, told her she loved her before hanging up and then calling back because she’d neglected to tell her ‘good night’ as well. At least her mom would know and have no regrets of angry words or harsh toned judgements should she not make it to the next Sunday dinner.

Mulder had been on his way to pick her up, take her to the dentist, the novacaine she would inevitably get always gave her a headache and she preferred not to drive that way. She’d walked to the bank from work to deposit her check and he was going to meet her out front once his meeting had finished.

She’d seen him through the front doors just as the first shot had sounded to get their full attention.

She’d prayed he wouldn’t storm the doors and fall victim to bullet number two.

The gunman, stopping his walk, told them all to get on their knees. Scully dropped like a rock, her kneecaps cracking on the hard slate-tiled floor. She should have felt pain but she did not; she only felt the fear that one of her fellow prisoners wouldn’t adhere quickly enough and she’d see the second body fall in under nine minutes.

Nine minutes.

How had only nine minutes passed? Unlike Oregon, where nine minutes had gone by in a literal flash, these nine minutes had dragged on for millenia, minimum.

Bullet number three caused body number two, this one beside Scully, covering the side of her face with a splatter pattern of warm sticky blood. She hadn’t caught up to reality yet and wasn’t sure why the man beside her was now dead but she realized she’d better begin to pay better attention.

Moments and decades later, she’d lost track of the clock after they’d been moved to the other side of the bank, she heard the gunman talking on a landline cordless to what had to be the police. Mulder must have called them immediately from the street. He was out there, trying to get in, trying to save her, trying to …

The fourth gunshot echoed off the walls and victim number three, another teller, found the ground.

They were down to six now, two employees and four customers.

And then the strolling legs stopped in front of her, “who do you work for?”

She’d been asked that earlier, when one of the other hostages had been told to pat everyone down and hand in anything of interest. The man had mouthed an apology when he found Scully’s gun and turned it over. The gunman had asked then, in a screaming fit, who she worked for and replying ‘security for the Air and Space Museum,’ he had let it go.

Now, wracking her slugging brain for her answer, she hesitated a moment too long and was pulled out of line for her trouble, yanked by her arm, falling flat on her face, being pulled back upright with a shoulder pop that would ache for weeks–provided she lived long enough to feel it–, then spinning to face him, the whole time being screamed at, “don’t lie to me! I’ll kill you if you lie!!”

“Security. For the history museum.” The moment the answer left her lips, she realized her error and before she could take another breath, his hands were groping her, searching then finding her badge, which the original man had neglected to mention when his hand skimmed over it in her inside pocket.

That man’s head exploded moment’s later, then, as the body lay twitching a few feet from her, Scully realized her gun was now in the madman’s hands, and swallowing hard, she answered his quiet question of, “who do you work for?”

“FBI.”

And that’s when everything shifted from low gear to high, the swearing, the gun waving, the pistol butt connecting with her cheekbone in a spectacular crunch, the searing pain, then one gun pressed into the bone above her left eye and her own gun pressed above the right, “I should see if I can use you to get what I want. Sure as shit, an FBI agent ought to get me a little more; then again, might be fun seeing what’ll be left of your head once I fire both of these.”

She was going to die.

Shutting her eyes, she asked God one final time to please let it not hurt and to take care of her family and Mulder before sighing out a small breath and letting go, accepting the inevitable and removing herself from any connection to it.

Her hair moved as the bullet flew past her and, given the gunmen had, for a split second, been leaning over for a closer look at her, it cracked his skull wide open.

Some sharpshooter had been waiting for a clear shot and had taken whatever he could get, even if it meant singeing off some of the hostage’s hair. Scully wasn’t going to argue.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Mulder was the second person through the doors and the first to slide to a stop on his knees beside her, scramble around to get in front of her, his hands on her cheeks, thumbs by her ears, holding her head steady to look at him, “Scully.”

She wouldn’t open her eyes.

“Scully. It’s me. Can you look at me, please?”

With effort, she shook her head.

“Scully … Dana … Honey, I need you to look at me.”

Shaking it again, she managed to get her hands up to grip his wrists, nails digging in.

He moved his forehead to hers, knowing she’d recognize the gesture if not the voice, “Scully, please, I need you to look at me right now; I need to know you’re back with me; I need to know that you’re alright.”

Her eyelids fluttered, opened once, caught sight of him, closed again, “it’s not my blood.”

Whispers couldn’t cut it right now with all the chaos surrounding them, “what?”

Voice an octave higher, “it’s not my blood.”

One mystery solved, he moved on to another, “you’re already bruising up. Did he hit you?”

Single nod.

“Fist or gun?”

Back to near silent words, “gun.”

“Okay. We’re going to the hospital. Can you walk?” Mulder started to stand, to help her up but when she didn’t budge, still kneeling amidst the insanity, he went back to her level, “can you walk?”

“He had … he had two guns aimed at my head.” Finally opening up her eyes to look at him, blue rings thin around dilated pupils, “are you sure he’s dead?”

Leaning forward, he kissed her quickly, “I promise you, he’s dead. His head’s in two pieces behind me. Humpty Dumpty will not be put back together again.”

Scully reached out, one hand on either of his arms but trying to stand, she cried out, her left leg twisting under her, “fuck.”

This she said loud and clear but everyone ignored it, except for Mulder, “what hurts?”

“Knee. He made us … I dropped down on it.”

“I can carry you.”

Already checking out of the whole situation, she shook her head, “just help me up.” Finally standing, gingerly testing her knee and finding it holding her weight, she didn’t know what to do or where to look, but, on accident, her gaze landed on what remained of her captor, and her stomach turned, “I need to go outside.”

Without question, he put one arm firmly across her back and under her arm and half-carried, half-guided her through the crowd, telling uniforms with questions that they’d have to wait. Outside, however, was no better, cameras, reporters, news vans, and tourists all craning to see who was the first to come out.

She should have stayed on the damned floor.

“Go back in! Go back in!”

He knew the feeling and turning them, he split the difference and sat her on one of the benches in the foyer, out of the roving eye of the media but a double set of doors away from her personal hell.

“Scully-”

“Just … just don’t talk to me for a minute .. just don’t say … just don't say anything.” Her hand was on her forehead, finding it still sticky with someone else’s blood but not knowing anything else to do at the moment, she kept it there, rubbing the two spots the gun had pressed against, with thumb and pointer fingers.

Her other hand was clenching and squeezing the air in a random configuration of digit  twisting, nail digging repetition and not able to handle it, Mulder reached out, touching her wrist, “let me see.” Taking the hand, he wrapped his two around it, bringing it up to his mouth and bumping his lips over and against each knuckle and dip in turn.

Skinner didn’t help by suddenly appearing, having been at the bank since Mulder had raised the cavalry some two hours earlier. “How is she?”

Mulder looked up at him, “not real good.”

“Can she answer some questions?”

She had drifted off again, blocking out pain, blocking out fear, blocking out everyone around her. It took Mulder saying her name three times and finally tightening his hold on her wrist to get her to respond, “Skinner wants to know if you can answer some questions. No one else is in any shape to talk.”

One, two, three deep breaths in and out, she mashed every feeling, every ounce of herself down before finally looking at Skinner, who was by now crouched in front of her, “what do you need me to tell you?”

It took another ninety minutes for her to finish her account of things. Mulder was, by then, crawling the walls, itching to get her the hell away from all this … get her someplace quiet, safe, get her off the adrenaline that continued to course through her veins and show itself in her still dilated eyes. About to step in and tell them all to go to hell, Skinner announced she was done and turning to Mulder, “I suggest you get her to a hospital.”

Belaying that order with her own, “Take me home, Mulder,” she stood and walked slowly towards the outside doors, where the crowds had thinned somewhat.

“She needs to see a doctor.”

Mulder could only shrug, “it’d be easier to bring the hospital to her. She’ll go if she needs to and I sure as hell can't make her go before then.” Scrubbing his face with his hands, Mulder gave his boss one final look, “make sure no one bugs her for a few days.”

“Let me know if she needs anything.”

Nodding, he headed after his partner, who, once he caught up with her, never even noticed he was there.

&&&&&&&&&&&&

“Are you sure?”

By now, she was down to nodding, the quiet car and Mulder’s hand on her arm serving to slow her heart and begin to empty her system of the fight or flight drug that she’d been flooded with since the moment she saw the stranger’s gun. Her eyes kept slowly shutting, stuttering back open, unfocused closing yet again.

He had just asked for what would be his third and final time if she’d like to go to the hospital, just to have them check her out.

“Where do you want to go then? Your place or mine or your mom’s?”

“Mom’s at Charlie’s tonight with the kids.”

Executive decision to go to his place, simply because she was going to be asleep way before they got to hers, he navigated around corner and down straightaway, his hand on her wrist the whole time, until he parked once again.

Getting her upstairs was easy, but she stopped just inside the front door, quiet but unmoving. Skirting around her, he locked the door then, hand on her upper arm, “are you awake enough to go get changed, then go to the bathroom so I can clean you up?”

Her eyes were rolling again as she watched the room fade and reappear, drift sideways and back upright, wobble and calm, “what?”

Repeating himself, he added, “I can help with whatever you need.”

“I need clothes.”

She managed to undress and redress herself while he went and found a bag of frozen vegetables for her face. Hearing her footsteps towards the bathroom, that’s where he headed, finding her seated on the closed toilet, staring at the wall. Without a request for permission, he soaked a washcloth and began cleaning the blood from her face, avoiding the blossoming bruise on her possibly broken cheekbone. Pulling crusty bits from her hair, he told himself they weren’t brain fragments but simply clumps of dried blood.

Finally, as clean as he was going to get her, he focused on her bruise, holding the towel-wrapped bag to her cheek, noticing not so much as a wince from her when the cold met her skin. Taking one of her hands and placing it so she could hold the bag herself, he then wiggled up the pant legs of her/his pajamas to check on her knees.

Two large bruises were forming, the left knee looking swollen as well. Catching her eye, “how are they feeling?”

She had to think about it but eventually an answer of ‘I don’t know’ came back.

He didn’t dare touch them in case one of the kneecaps was cracked but that would be a problem a minute, an hour from now. “Let’s get you in bed then. I think you need to lay down.”

“Couch … please.”

&&&&&&&&&&&&

Complying with the couch request, he settled her in the corner, legs propped up on pillows on the coffee table–pulled forward to accommodate shortness–, blanket tucked around her, head resting where the cushions met. “You hungry?” Hand still holding vegetables to face, he could just make out her head shake of ‘no’ so he continued, “Would you mind if I eat?”

“Go ahead.”

Sandwich in hand, he carefully sat on the opposite end of the couch, back to the arm so he could watch her. He stared quietly while he ate until Scully finally shifted her eyes in his direction. He expected her to yell at him for staring but instead, she stared back, eyes blank and flat. Not about to push her yet, he waited, swallowing his last bite, then shifting a little to rest his head on the soft back of the couch, never blinking, never deviating from her gaze.

Ten more minutes they sat like this until Mulder reached his hand out, “time’s up for ice. I don’t want to freeze your face off.”

Surrendering the now malleable bag of barely frozen peas, “I’m going to need a haircut. The sharpshooter bullet singed off some of my hair.”

He’d smelled the burning hair when he got to her in the bank but hadn’t said anything, “I didn’t realize you knew what happened.”

This avenue of thought died then and there for another, “was I really in there almost two hours before … during …” she couldn’t find the end of that sentence but Mulder understood.

“Yeah. Longest two hours of my life.”

He had the kind of eyes that women locked onto, vibrant green to muted hazel depending on light and mood. The first victim has an emerald green pin whose color had mesmerized her, made her think of him, thank God he wasn’t inside, thank God he wouldn’t be hurt. His eyes now, however, were paled to dark sea glass, shadowed by the gathering clouds and graying skin of exhaustion.

“Scully?”

The room was noticeably darker than it had been a moment ago … or was it an hour … would time always work like this for her from now on? “What?”

“You haven’t blinked in five minutes. You okay in there?”

“Time isn’t working.”

He sat up, concern instant, “what?”

“Nine minutes felt like a lifetime in there, then two hours passed, I only started looking at you a moment ago and you say it’s five minutes.” Swallowing hard, she could feel her hands beginning to twitch, “something’s wrong.”

Thinking back to the aftermath of August Bremmer, “the shock’s setting in. Tell me what to do.”

Her hands were beginning to jump and she was getting cold. Forcing her memory to sort through med school detritus, “I need to lay down. Put my feet above my head.”

Mulder did as told, gently sliding her legs around and then her body down the smooth leather. Legs over the opposite end of the couch now, he then covered her with the blanket once again, running to fetch his comforter as well. Once she was buried, “do you need any water?”

A sheen of sweat had broken on her forehead and he could see the blankets move as her hands rattled and shook, her arms joining in, “no. I … just hold my hand.”

Doing more than that, he first found her hand, holding it under the covers and against her belly while his other hand reached up, stroking her forehead back and forth with his thumb, palm resting on the top of her head, “do you need a hospital yet?”

His hand shook with hers.

“No. I’ll tell you if I need to go.”

“Well, I’m reserving, right now, the right to override you if I get too freaked out.”

Quiet for a minute, he noticed that she visibly turned green, then grey, then white. Already moving for the trashcan by his desk, he had it beside her just as she leaned sideways, the words ‘sorry’ passing her lips before the vomit did. Sitting up before the second round shook her soul, she leaned over, back arching, pain in her face exploding, knees protesting, pulled shoulder pinching, blood vessels breaking across her face and chest.

He had to swallow hard to control his own gorge from rising.

But he held her thigh and the can in front of her, waiting until the universal all-clear sign of head nod/lean back/I need to get away from the smell shift in posture. Once she’d made it all the way back to cushions, he stood up, “I’m going to go clean this out. Will you be okay for a minute?”

Suddenly, exhaustion took over, and opened her eyes to find him, feeling empty and drunk and weightless, “can you get me to bed first?”

Really wanting to clean out the nastiness in the can in his hand, he set it on the coffee table, reaching out to help her, “yeah. Hand me the comforter on your way up.”

Shuffling her to the bed, he got her in, thick covers back in place, and thankfully, her hand shakes back down to minor twitches. Resting his hand on her shoulder, he leaned in, “do you still feel sick?”

“No.” Her eyes were already closing, “just come back when you’re done.”

Kiss to temple, he went and cleaned up, trying his best not to puke himself while he scrubbed the can. Finally, all clean, he went back to the bedroom to find her fast asleep. Setting down the can, he retrieved the book he was reading, opting to quietly climb up beside her on the bed, hearing the faint sounds she was already making in the back of her throat, the nightmare already forming in the forefront of her mind.

She’d be awake soon enough.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

It came out of nowhere, the lightning unnoticed but the booming clap of thunder loud enough to shake the room. He jumped at the sudden noise, but Scully bolted up, arms flying out in both directions, catching him on the chest with one while smacking the edge of the nightstand with the other. Shaking, eyes tightly squeezed shut, she began moving her lips in what took Mulder a moment to figure out … she was whispering the ‘Our Father’ as she quaked, caught in a waking nightmare.

“Scully, it’s me.” His voice was barely louder than her offered prayer, and he said it again, “it was just thunder. It’s just me and Mother Nature, I promise.”

No response, so he reached over, tentatively scooting to sit beside her, legs vee-ing around her, hand running lightly up her arm, mouth on her shoulder, “I’m right here. Nothing’s gonna happen to you, I swear.”

If that sank in, he didn’t know but soon, she turned her head to look at him, her cheek swollen, skin bruised and tight, “is it still today?”

“It’s only been about a half-hour since you fell asleep so yeah, it's still today.”

Taking in deep breath after deep breath, she scooted out of bed, away from him, her knees protesting as she tried to stand and ended up leaning on the mattress, shoulder a dull ache. The breaths came faster now, her fist pounding the pile of covers, “God Dammit! It needs to be tomorrow so this can all be over and done with!”

He moved to sit in front of her, pressing her hands against his thighs, “it’s not going to be over for a long time, you know that.”

“I just want today to be over …” switching from anger to heart wrenching sobs, “I just want today to be over. Just … can it be over? Please?”

“The only way to do that is to go to the hospital and get those ‘happy’ pills they like to give people for pain.” Critical look aimed at her, “why don’t you want to go? Just get checked out?”

Defeat was now evident and as the fight left her, however miniscule it had been, she made her way painfully back onto the bed, “because they’ll make me talk to someone. Skinner will need to know and he’ll call in the trauma psychologist and they’ll make me talk to them about what happened and I don’t want that and I don’t need that right now and I just want to sit here with you and,” her voice wavered, “just be here with you.”

Tapping his index finger against her foot, “give me two minutes.”

He reappeared with a granola bar, a spoonful of peanut butter, a bottle of Ibuprofen, and a glass of water. Taking charge, he held drugs and water out to her and after she swallowed without argument, he unwrapped the granola bar, dipping it in the peanut butter, “eat this. It’ll settle things down.”

Not sure she cared which way was up anymore, she did as told, handing him the empty spoon a minute later.

Taking it, he set it on the side table, “why don’t you come back out to the couch and we’ll find something to watch and we can watch for lightning so we’ll know when the thunder’s coming. We can prop your legs up like before and if you’re upright, maybe your face won’t hurt and while we’re out there, I’ll hold you really tight and nothing will be able to get you and you can sleep if you want without worrying.”

Honest to God, she relaxed a little, “that was a lot of ‘and’s.”

“Just come on.”

They first perused the weather channel to find that storms were lined up one after another until well into the wee hours of the morning. Forewarned, Scully gingerly held the refrozen peas to her face, “what would you like to watch?”

“You.”

He said things like this at times, just to mess with her and it worked, half a genuine smile ticking up the unswollen side of her face.

He then grinned himself, “or we could just flip through until we both agree?”

They did and as the next storm knocked on the door, they watched reruns of ‘I love Lucy’ and ‘Three’s Company,’ interspersed with ‘The Flintstones.’ The rain and thunder made it loud at times, the TV no match for the lashing of wind and water against the windows. She searched for and found his hand under their blankets, holding tight until she came back to reality, to the understanding that he was still there, the only one in the room, the one who would never hurt her.

Once another episode of whatever had ended, Scully reached for the remote, clicking the TV off, sending them into relative darkness and quiet, the latest storm having rolled past and the next not here quite yet. By now, she had her head in his lap, lying on her side, pillow between her knees to relieve the pressure on the now noticeably less swollen but still painful joint. Given the pillow under her head, her face was still elevated, the drugs having kicked in to bring all her pain down to manageable, except for one …

Mulder’s hand had been playing absently with her arm, running up and down, starting at shoulder and moving to wrist, in slow, steady rhythm …

And it took a moment for him to realize she was crying.

One sniff gave her away.

Moving his hand from arm to neck, he began stroking his thumb over her ear, behind, along her jawline, not saying a word, waiting on her for all eternity if he must.

It didn’t take quite that long.

“I gave up … at the end. I never tried to fight him or overpower him and … I gave up at the end.”

He hadn’t expected that.

“What do you mean, ‘gave up’?

She didn’t move to blow her nose or swipe at fast falling tears, instead gripping his thigh, kneading muscle, “in those last seconds, with both guns to my head, I asked God that it might not hurt too badly; that he would take care of you and my family; and then I just … floated away.”

“Floated?”

“I said goodbye to my life, then, accepting that I was going to die, I retreated.” Rolling to her back, carefully, painfully, she looked up at him, eyes still streaming, “I watched him pointing the guns at me from outside of … myself.” Going quiet for awhile, thinking, debating, the tears slowed while Mulder watched her, studied her, before she continued, “I saw the body on the floor on the other side of the counter, I saw everything … from … above. I think … I think maybe God was already taking me but then decided to shove me back in my body once the bullet left Harper, it was Harper, right?” Mulder nodded, “Once the bullet left Harper’s gun.” Shutting her eyes, another tear ran out and down through her ear to disappear into her hair, “am I crazy? The FBI trauma guy would have gotten that out of me and I can’t …you’re the only one I could ever tell that to.”

A few moments later.

“Mulder?” She slowly sat up, fear in her eyes, “why are you looking at me like I’m crazy? You’re not supposed to do that.”

“I’m not. I promise.” Standing, he motioned for her to lie down again, pillows back in place, then, kneeling beside her, “you didn’t give up. You accepted your fate. They are two very different things in my opinion.” Toying with the flyaway hairs framing her forehead, “you’re kind of running in familiar territory right now.”

In the decades she’d lived through today, she had forgotten about Bremmer and that field, “What did you think about?”

“At the end or the whole time?”

“Both, I guess.”

Shifting his other arm up beside her so he could rest his head on his hand and continue touching her, “at the beginning of the walk, I thought about your laugh and how it always makes me smile, and as I kept walking, I thought about you in that blue dress you have hanging in your closet, and by the time I was kneeling in the dirt, gun hovering, sweat pouring off of me, all I could think of was that one time I danced with you.” He didn’t look embarrassed at his declarations, statements of fact more than deep confessions, but he turned pink anyways, slight shrug and smirk, “can’t control what goes on in your head.”

They had somehow missed the lightning, and the corresponding thunder made her jump, whimpering when her teeth clenched together and put pressure on her cheekbone. Leaning forward, he ran his lips lightly over her forehead, “I’ll go get another round of Ibuprofen.”

“Thanks.”

&&&&&&&&&&

He’d coaxed her back to bed around midnight and at her request, had slid in beside her. No idea how long he’d been asleep, he woke up to something. Listening carefully, he only heard silence but reaching over he found Scully gone, the sheets still warm but cooling fast. Looking around, he saw the bathroom dark so she had to be in the living room or kitchen. His feet hit the carpet a moment later and shaking his head to wake up, still feeling mostly asleep, he headed out of the bedroom.

Living room was also dark and empty so walking around the corner to the kitchen, he found her stockstill in the middle of the floor, standing amidst the wreckage of what had to be at least two of his cereal/soup bowls.

And she was shaking.

“Scully?” Sliding his feet along the floor, he pushed luckily large ceramic chunks aside, “Scully.”

He watched her chest rise and fall, grasping for any bit of oxygen that floated by. Fists balled and pressing into her temples, she had her eyes shut, caught in her own little world of terror. Not sure if he should touch her or not, he instead said her name again, “Scully, it’s me. You’re safe. It’s just me.”

No reaction on her end so he finally reached out, hands on her wrists, trying to pull her arms away, down, but there was a fight, her muscles locked on one task only and they’d be damned if they’d quit now.

“Fuck.” She began swaying forward as he pulled so giving up that route, he instead put his hands on her neck, thumbs back at her jawbone in a reflection of earlier and leaning in, kissed her, saying her name every time he broke the connection.

After a good fifteen times, she finally responded, her hands moving to hold his head, the veneer cracked, the tears falling, the air moving, the muscles relaxing. Holding him to her this time, she kissed him back, then, whispering into his mouth, “I thought about you. I thought about my family, too, but mostly, it was you.”

“What did you think about me?”

Tears were flowing now, her voice becoming soggy and slurred, “about how I would never get to tell you how much I love you; that you mean the world to me; that I should have kissed you years ago when I first realized I wanted to.”

He kissed her again, this time with a purpose other than distraction. Knowing he had to let her breathe, he pulled back, moving her head so she could see him and understand him without question, “I love you  and you mean the world to me and I should have kissed you years ago when I first realized I wanted to.”

With a wet chuckle that made her cheek hurt, she winced but smiled, “those are my lines.”

“No they’re not.” Kissing her again, “I didn’t only think about you in that blue dress.”

Even though her shoulder protested, she wrapped her arms around him, being careful to rest the unbroken side of her face against his chest, “we’re so stupid.”

Maneuvering, he picked her up, “yeah, we are. Come on. I don’t want you walking through here and slicing a toe off.”

He could only make it to the couch given he discovered he had a piece of bowl embedded in his foot after all. Putting her down, he sat on the coffee table, trying to use the streetlamp reflection to dig out the shard. “Do you want me to turn on the light?”

“No.” Holding up a piece so small she couldn’t see it, “I’ve got it.”

“Do you need me to go get you a bandaid?”

He grinned at her, “you’ve slipped into doctor mode. I think you’re gonna be okay.”

Not smiling back but giving him a good look, “you think so?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen floor was clean, Mulder’s foot was Neosporined and Bandaided, and they were both on the couch, Scully’s knee propped up yet again.

The rising sun was just beginning to turn the sky purple-gray and Mulder, his hand wrapped well around hers, “you made it to tomorrow.”

Tightening her grip for a second, “I honestly never thought it would get here.”

“But it did and it will be infinitely better than yesterday was.”

Another moment or three passed before, “I'm sorry I broke your bowls. I was debating which one to use then one must have slipped and hit the floor and …” shugging, “the next thing I knew you were kissing me.”

Turning on the cushion, he gave her a long look, “there were several minutes in-between.”

She heard his silent request, “give me a little while, okay? If it keeps happening, I’ll go talk to someone.”

“Deal.”

“Also, if you wouldn’t mind, could we maybe go to the hospital later on? I think my knee is worse than I thought.”

A second smile in her direction, he leaned forward, kissing her again, “you are a mess, young lady.”

“But still here … held together with luck and stubbornness but still here.”