#msrlibraryboost

There’s a rustling of sheets beside her and soon she can make out his eyes in the dim moonlight. She can see concern warping his features, making him resemble the young man who stood guard at her hospital bed all those years ago. Scully avoids looking directly at him, knows that seeing the combination of worry and love in his eyes will break her, and she can’t let herself crumble. Not tonight.

“Scully,” he whispers, but she turns her face away. “Scully, please…” He’s pleading with her now. He desperately wants to take away her pain. She did not deserve to lose her mother tonight. She didn’t deserve to lose her father or her sister or her children or her dog either. But here she is, a mother without a child and a daughter without a mother, lightly trembling against the headboard of the bed they once shared. All she has left are two estranged brothers and one estranged friend/partner/lover. He knows he is the root of all of her suffering, but he can’t seem to leave her alone.

The tears are coming faster now, like a river coursing down her fine cheekbones, illuminated in the beams of pale light that slip through the curtains. Her body begins to shake, and she tries to suppress the sobs bubbling up in her throat. Mulder desperately wants to reach out, touch her, wrap her fragile body in his arms and tell her it will all be okay. He uses every last ounce of willpower he has to resist, not wanting to cross the invisible line that was drawn between them when she left over a year ago. He pulls himself up and leans back against the headboard with her, making sure to give her the space she needs to feel in control.

Scully doesn’t speak for a long while; the only sound in the room is her feeble sobs and the sound of the clock, ticking off each passing second.

“She hated me.”

Mulder almost jumps at the rawness of Scully’s voice as she breaks the silence. “What are you talking about?” He asks gently.

“Mom. She–she–,” another round of sobs cuts off her sentence. Her arms are still wrapped firmly around herself, desperately trying to keep the pieces of her from falling apart.

“Scully,” he sighs, “you know that’s not true.”

She drops her head and pulls up her knees so her chin is resting against her chest. Scully’s eyes close and a single tear drips off the end of her nose as she whispers, “You hate me too.”

Mulder jerks his head to look at her. She’s trembling, eyes clamped shut. How could she possibly think that? He wonders. Looking at her, though, he knows she believes what she said is true.

“Scully,” Mulder begins, but she curtly cuts him off.

“Don’t,” she says. There’s a sharp edge to her voice that gnaws at him. He so badly wishes to wipe the tears away that stain her face. He knows he shouldn’t, but he thinks she’s beautiful when she cries.

“Dana.” She startles at the use of her first name and turns her head to meet his eyes before she knows what she’s doing. For the first time since they left the lake where they spread Maggie’s ashes, Scully is actually looking at him and he can see how truly close she is to shattering.

“I could never hate you.” Scully looks as though she will protest this. “Never,” Mulder firmly states.

Scully tears her eyes from Mulder’s and squeezes them shut as new tears threaten to fall. Her hand reaches blindly for Mulder’s in the dark and he meets her halfway, intertwining their fingers. He strokes the back of her hand with his thumb, and, as the minutes pass, the lines of tears criss-crossing her cheeks dry.

Mulder hears her begin to softly sniffle, trying to hide her need for a tissue. He gently squeezes her hand before releasing it, throwing the covers off and rising from the bed. Slipping into the bathroom, he grabs a box of kleenex from the back of the toilet. As he advances towards the bed he can see panic in her bloodshot eyes. She thought it was his turn to leave, that despite what he had just said, perhaps he truly does hate her. Hates her for giving up their son, hates her for leaving. He feels a large lump rise up in his throat.

Hearing him approach, Scully turns towards his side of the bed and as soon as he is settled, she begins inching her way towards his warm body. Mulder immediately opens his arms and allows her to lay her head against his chest. Tissues forgotten, he begins rubbing soothing circles on her back, knowing that she will speak again when she’s ready.

It seems as though hours have passed and Mulder is drifting between wakefulness and sleep when he feels Scully’s soft voice vibrate against his rib cage, “I was a coward, Mulder. And I’m sorry.”

He knows what she means. He knows that she blames herself for giving up their son, for not having the courage to stand by him, to protect him. She blames herself because Mulder isn’t able to know his son. She blames herself because he never got to hear his first word, teach him how to swing a baseball bat, or even see him smile. He knows that she blames herself for everything that went wrong. He also knows that she feels guilty for the precious little time she did get to spend with their son while he was off searching for the truth. His heart aches for Scully, this strong, beautiful woman who was forced to make an impossible decision. Who he forced to make an impossible decision.

“Scully, listen to me. You made the right decision.”

“Mulder…” He can feel her lip quivering against his chest. “I… I threw him away like… like he was garba–”

“No!” And it comes out more aggressively than he intended. The outburst causes her to start folding in on herself again, pulling away from him. He tightens his grip around her waist. “You didn’t. You didn’t treat him like garbage; you protected him, Scully.” Mulder pauses, swallowing hard. “You saved our son.”

He wants to shake her until she believes his words. He wants to kiss her until her guilt is gone. He was to love her until she is whole again.

She shakes her head “no”, rubbing her cheek against his worn cotton shirt. He looks down at her mussed hair and flushed cheeks and can’t stop himself from leaning down and placing a gentle kiss at her hairline. At this, she tenses and then immediately relaxes her body against his. Mulder resumes tracing soothing circles on her back and she sighs.

Mulder realizes that he has allowed her to carry this heavy burden alone. He hadn’t wanted to deal with the emotions and hurt that surround the loss of their son. That’s why she blames herself so completely; that’s why she thinks he hates her. But that stops now, he thinks. This weight will always follow them, a cross they will carry for the rest of their lives. But now they will shoulder it together.

“I love you, Scully.”

Early morning sun began to creep slowly through the gauzy curtains of the bedroom. A cock crowed distantly, causing Mulder to stir. He pulled the covers up and over his head, trying to block out the growing brightness of the sunlight. When the cock crowed again, Mulder sighed deeply, accepted defeat, and began to rub the sleep from his eyes. He absently reached across the bed, searching for her hand, her waist, any part of her he could use to anchor them both to each other. His hand met crisp, cool sheets. Sitting up he turned towards the empty space beside him, brows furrowed in concern and sad realization.

She had left. Last night she was grieving, covered in salty tears, clinging to his thin, cotton t-shirt. That was acceptable Scully behavior, in the night, where she could hide in the cover of darkness and their thick down comforter. But, after all these years, she couldn’t face him in the light of day. She didn’t – couldn’t – trust him enough to allow herself to be seen vulnerable in the harsh sunlight, where everything seems so real. At night, in the inky shadows, life feels less weighty, less impossible. The day is not as kind, bringing to light all the things you try to forget, try to hide.

He sighed again, this time wearier, heavier. What could he say, what could he do for her? As he fell apart after both his mother’s and father’s deaths, Scully had been there, even when he had pushed her away, yelled, showed up at her apartment drunk out of his mind. She had cared for him, she had held him, she had dried his tears. And he would do the same for her.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he grabbed his keys off the bedside table and slipped into a pair of ratty running shoes, almost as an afterthought as he took long strides out the bedroom door and down the hall. As he approached the main room of the house, his pace slowed.

Coffee. He smelled coffee.

Rounding the corner and stepping into the sparsely furnished living room, Mulder saw the front door sitting open and could hear the muffled noises of coffee percolating. A cold wind whipped into the entryway, causing the screen door to lightly swing on its creaky hinges. He took a deep breath of the chilled air, and stepped outside.

There she was, bed head, wrapped in her favorite flannel throw she had left behind in her hurry to leave him. She held a mug of coffee in her hand, steam rolling off in waves. Hair fluttered around her pale, freckled face, catching on the dry skin of her cracked lips. She hasn’t noticed him standing there and he takes a moment to see her in a rare moment of unguardedness; she was simply existing. No power suits donned as armor. No carefully constructed walls to hide her emotions, to keep him out. She looked calm, but pensive; maybe even a bit wistful. Her freckles and mole that she tries so desperately to hide, as if they are chinks in her bulletproof armor, stand out proudly against her porcelain skin in the soft morning sun.

Lifting her right hand, she brushes away a delicate tear off her cheek and tucks her unkempt hair behind her ear in one smooth movement. Mulder catches his breath as the early dawn rays dust her face with gold. Even in her sorrow, she is beautiful. He takes slow steps towards her from behind, and by the way her posture changes, he knows that she has heard him begin to approach.

Mulder stands directly behind her, wraps one arm around her waist, and places a gentle kiss to her cheek, still damp from tears. She closes her eyes and leans into the kiss, letting out a soft sigh.

“Hey,” she breathes, her throat tight and raw, but the smallest curve of her lip reveals she is happy to see him. He takes a step back, but leaves his hand resting on her hip, light as a feather. She passes him the mug of coffee, without looking at him. It is silent except for the gusts of wind blowing through the bare trees.

The mug warms his stiff fingers. He knows before he even tastes the coffee that it contains two sugars and the smallest splash of whole fat cream. It’s one of the only indulgences she allows herself in her strict diet, her regimented life. He sips the coffee slowly, relishing the warmth it trails down his throat and into his empty stomach. He hands the mug bag to her, clears his throat.

“I woke up and you weren’t there.” She stands next to him, staring straight ahead, giving no reaction to his words. “I thought that…,” he trails off, not knowing what he’s trying to say to her, what he so desperately needs her to understand.

She slowly turns towards him and leans in. He can feel the warmth of her body radiating from her, the smooth flannel of the blanket wrapped snugly around her petite frame. She smiles sadly and looks at his chest, avoiding his eyes.

“The house looks spotless. Have you hired a maid?” She attempts a joke, to lighten the mood. It’s a pitiful attempt; her heart isn’t in it, and it falls flat. She frowns. “I’m sorry,” she says simply. “I wanted to let you sleep. And… I needed coffee.” He shifts his hand from her waist to her upper arm, trying to make eye contact and failing. “And…I needed….I needed time to think.”

“Scully, listen, I know…I know that we aren’t really on the best terms and that…well I’ve really fucked up and, I just…,” Mulder’s throat begins to close up, tears sting his eyes. “I don’t want you to go through this alone.”

Scully inhales deeply, but says nothing. Her shoulders begin to tremble, so subtly that if he wasn’t holding onto her, he would never have known. He’s glad he knows. He holds her tighter. “I want to help you through this. I’m going to help you through this.”

Her entire body has started trembling, coffee starting to slosh out of the cup with her efforts to tamp down building sobs. Mulder extracts the mug from her iron grip and places it on the rail of their front porch. He turns back towards her, trying desperately to catch her eyes, but she just clamps them shut, trying to maintain control.

Her hair has begun to fall from its place behind her ear; Mulder takes a step closer to her, reaches out to tuck the errant strands back, and tenderly brushes his knuckles against her cheek. It’s all it takes, skin to chilled skin, for Scully to fall apart. She rushes hard into his arms, burying her face into his chest in a way that reminds him of a green special agent with some nasty mosquito bites he knew years ago.

Her tears begin to wet his grey shirt. He makes large, soothing circles on her flannel covered back, pulling her closer.

“Mulder, I...I...” she quietly whispers between gasps for air.

“Shhhh, Scully. I’m here,” he soothes, “I’m here.”

The coffee cools on the railing as Mulder rocks her back and forth, gently, whispering into her mussed hair. And as her sobbing turns to cries and her cries turn to whimpers, he continues to hold her close, arms wrapped tightly around her. She’s letting him hold her broken pieces together, a rare relinquishing of control, and he will not let her down.

When her cheeks have dried and her breathing has regulated, they continue to stand in silence, Mulder holding on to her as if she may dissolve right in front of him, disappear. Scully has been still and quiet for so long that Mulder wonders if she has fallen asleep standing up. Losing your last living parent, your last relative who truly loves and supports you despite your alien-loving partner and questionable life choices doesn’t lend itself to a good night’s sleep. He’s just about to gather her into his arms, blanket and all, when she withdraws her arms from against his chest and wraps them around his body. The strength of her embrace surprises him.

He feels her chest expand as she inhales deeply. “Mulder?” She breathes, a hint of nervousness, maybe even desperation. He doesn’t know if she wants a response, to assure her that he is listening. As if he could stop himself from hanging on her every single word since they met all those years ago in a musty basement covered in newspaper clippings and an unhealthy amount of dust.

He’s about to answer when he feels the vibrations in his chest as she says, “Mulder, I want to come home.”

Mulder laughs, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He tightens his grip around her, holding her close, feeling the rise and fall of her breath, the beating of her heart.

She feels him fumbling for his wallet. He passes a few bills to the driver and brings his free hand to rest on her back, between her delicate shoulder blades, more prominent than they have ever been, but he doesn’t mention it, simply slides his warm hand up and down her back. 

He leans into her further, whispers, “Scully, we’ve got to go.”

She sighs into his jacket, laughing and nodding. He smells so damn good and she thinks to herself that she could stay here all night, in his arms in the back of this dingy cab. But she isn’t that lucky and that isn’t how life works. She takes in a deep breath, sighs, and draws her head away from the safe haven that is his broad, muscled chest.

He’s looking at her, eyes sleepy but sparking with mischief and lust and one too many glasses of boozy, tannic wine. The corners of his mouth flicker, a shy smile spreading from ear to ear. Then, his eyes fall to his lap, the cracked leather of the passenger seat, a used cigarette, burnt and crumbling into the stained carpet. It’s his turn to feel heat rise to his face, feel the improbable joy and jubilance and dread of permanently crossing this invisible boundary they’ve constructed between them. Feel the weight of it wash over him, run through him.

Her manicured hand reaches out, falters, just barely. A quaver so slight, there and gone almost before he can register its existence, like so many of the beasts and ghosts and little grey men he’s chased over the years, that he would have dismissed the idea outright if he didn’t know how swiftly and decisively she moves. Always graceful, always confident, even in these past months, blood leaking from her nose, a constant ache behind her eyes. She doesn’t just face the world, she confronts it. But her hand, it halted its movement for a single heartbeat, less, before resting gently on his chest.

This is how he knows she feels it too.

The cabbie throws the car into park, lifts his foot off of the brake, sick of holding pressure on the pedal. The car jerks with the abrupt movement. He says nothing, looks out of his window, clearing his throat once more.

Their moment cracked, but not completely broken, Scully pats his sternum once, without lifting her palm, just those thin, delicate, impossibly skilled fingers. Moving her focus from where her hand can feel the steady cadence of his compassionate and so deeply abused heart to his eyes, she rubs a gentle circle on his chest and nods her head towards the door.

“Thanks for the lift,” Mulder throws to the front seat, voice catching in his throat.

“Yeah.” Unimpressed.

The door clicks open and Mulder’s warm thigh leaves hers. She’s no longer flush with his sturdy frame. Sangria pulses through her veins, but she knows that even if she hadn’t had three glasses on an empty stomach, she would still feel the loss of contact as deeply as she does in this moment. She’s felt it in her bones, stone cold sober, when he’s standing just inches from her. Close enough to touch, but she’s so rarely brave enough to reach out.

He can hear her skirt slip across the seat behind him, rustling softly, and then something brushes his pinky. Scully catches his left hand loosely with her right as he begins to slide out of the open door. He keeps her hand in his, helps her from the cab. She thinks her glances to his face are stealthy. 

Painfully earnest, he thinks.

Their hands stay joined as she reaches back and pushes the cab door closed. She keeps darting looks his way as their cab merges back into the flow of traffic; he can feel nervousness radiating through her palm against his, growing and shifting into a cloud, much like the car exhaust that now floats around them, ephemeral. Her heels click on cracked pavement, irregular at times as she sways on alcohol softened legs. It’s beginning to fester, all the signs are there. Shoulders tensing, almost imperceptibly, a slight purse to her wine stained lips. She’s only a few steps (two of his, five of hers) from starting to close off, fold in on herself, regret finally, finally reaching for him. He can feel her gaze on him once again, sees them out of the corner of his eye. 

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Her hand begins to slacken. This won’t do at all.

As the automatic doors of their hotel slide open, artificially chilled air pours out around them, chilling the sweat on his upper lip, on her delicately curved brow. He leans towards her, bumping his shoulder into hers, lacing their fingers together, all in one fluid motion.

She smiles, sweet and soft and dazzling. A rare smile, a genuine grin, full of teeth and dimples. She shows it to the ground and then turns it on him. He doesn't turn to her, though. He knows it’s too bright of a smile for the dark, muggy night that surrounds them. His eyes have adjusted to the evening light and he knows seeing her smile, that special and enigmatic smile, an X File in its own right, will blind him.

He squeezes her hand instead. She squeezes back.

They take the final steps into the hotel lobby and the doors slide shut behind them.

They don’t do this, yet here they are, fingers still entwined, now on the other side of this swampy, Florida hamlet.

They don’t do this.

But maybe they should.

She can feel him turn his head and look down to her.

“My feet are killing me, but three flights of stairs may be preferable to this death trap.”

He’s smirking. She’s rambling.

There’s a pause when his fingers grip her waist.

“If we had taken the stairs, then I couldn’t do this.”

He’s leaning down now, and she wants to roll her eyes, because what a line, but there’s not enough time because their lips meet and her eyes are closing instead, just as he closes the remaining space between their bodies, just as she closes her mouth around his tongue.

He tastes like dark wine and orange slices and when she runs her tongue over his bottom lip she can taste his sweat. Mulder breathes deeply, not quite panting, as he smooths both hands from her waist down to cup her ass. They kiss and kiss and kiss, Scully’s hands roaming his back, his chest, and finally land at the waist of his slacks. He inhales sharply when her nails slide against bare skin, untucking his shirt. They’re making out like teenagers in the backseat of an old Cadillac DeVille at the drive-in, instead of two thirty-somethings standing in a hotel elevator with shag carpet that almost surely hasn’t passed a safety inspection since the Reagan administration, and Mulder feels like the luckiest person in the entire world.

She bites at his lip and he grabs two handfuls of her ass, hard. Scully moans at the neediness in his grasp, at the pinch of pain it causes. She hopes he leaves bruises. She wants him to leave something behind, some evidence, some quantifiable proof she can discover tomorrow, perhaps in the mirror while stripping for her morning shower, like dusting for hidden fingerprints at a crime scene. She is a scientist after all.

Her moan turns to a breathy laugh as he grabs for her again, apparently choosing his need of her touch over balance, and they both tip backwards and hit the wall. Mulder’s head cracks against the fake wood paneling and their lips separate. His eyes are still closed, face scrunched up, as he lifts one hand from her body to rub the back of his head.

She huffs another laugh when he finally looks down to her and widens his eyes. “Ow.”

His glance catches on the curve of her lips as she laughs, high and goofy, so antithetical to the Scully she projects to the world. Her prim suits and glares as sharp as her stilettos send a clear message to most - “Though she be but little, she is fierce!” He’d said that to her once. She had been in top form that day, white blouse pressed and tucked snugly into a black pencil skirt that fit like a glove. The police sergeant in Round Top, Texas had been referring to her as Little Lady and variations thereof since they had graced his front door five days earlier. Her speech was level and succinct, but there was fatal venom behind it as she laid into Mr. Misogyny after a buccal swab from the crime scene had been contaminated. She sent him home with a bruised ego and his tail between his legs. The daggers she’d thrown Mulder’s way at his whispered comment made him want to turn on his heel and follow in the sergeant’s footsteps. Maybe the message she sent the world was more like, “Fuck you.” The next day, the sergeant extended a coffee, a powdered donut, and his hand with a mumbled, “Apologies, Dr. Scully.”

That Scully, the no-nonsense FBI Special Agent née Medical Doctor with the clipped but prompt email responses and sleekly tamed bob, was for everyone else. His Scully, Mulder’s Scully, was a different creature entirely. She bantered and argued and threw soft smiles his way. She made him get a side salad or steamed vegetables at least once a day on the road and leaned into him when discussing a theory. Her eyes shone with excitement when she spoke about a new article she’d read in one of her medical journals and she scowled when he flicked sunflower seeds onto the floor of their rental car. She had wavy hair and flannel pajamas and talked in her sleep. She was his toughest critic and his fiercest ally and she let him rest his hand on the small of her back as they roamed the country in search of the truth.

This is the Scully blinking up at him now, cheeks flushed, lipstick smeared, dark bags under her eyes. She is beautiful. Heart-achingly beautiful. And there’s that goofy as hell giggle again, the giggle that makes him crack a smile just thinking about it. They are opposites in every way except those that matter and he can’t take his eyes off her smile. This time it’s Scully that leans in, his Scully.

She sighs quietly at the meeting of their lips, gentle this time, soft. It’s tender and it’s delicate and it’s heavy with emotion and the weight of four years’ worth of struggle, pain, and heartache. Scully thinks for one indulgent moment that maybe it isn’t too late, maybe they’re just in time. But then, there’s a soft “Ding!” and a loud, metallic screech and suddenly they are not alone.

Bodies in sync, they both turn their heads toward the sound. A man, woman, and two young children stand at the now open entrance to the elevator. Mulder is suddenly very aware of his hands on her ass. Her face is scarlet.

Scully decides she cannot take the embarrassment and buries her face in Mulder’s chest. So much for “Fuck you,” he thinks. The two children are having an animated conversation about the latest episode of Scooby-Doo as they enter, none the wiser. The parents, though, seem to be sizing them up. Mulder sees the woman raise her eyebrows, widen her eyes, and realizes he’s still gripping Scully in a not-so-family-friendly place. He slides his hands up to her waist and then continues to move the other to the middle of her back, making small comforting circles. She shakes her head into him, her arms wrapped around his torso, grabbing the back of his shirt underneath his suit jacket.

The couple stay near the front of the elevator. The man punches a button and then looks over his shoulder to Mulder.

“What floor?” The man is smirking and Mulder’s eyes go wide as he glances up to the arrow still pointed at the letter G for Ground Floor.

He clears his throat. “Three.”

The man punches that button too and soon the elevator doors are squeaking shut. The children continue their conversation, their parents silent and stiff as boards beside them.

Scully whispers so quietly he feels the vibration in his chest more than hears it, “We forgot to push the button?”

He huffs out a laugh into her cinnamon hair and nods. He can feel her smile.

There’s another off-key “Ding!” as the elevator jerks to a halt. Third floor. Mulder grimaces as he realizes they have to walk past the family to gain their freedom. Hand reaching for Scully’s he strides forward, passing between the two children and their parents. Scully’s head is down and her steps quick and wobbly as he pulls her behind him.

As they finally leave the most pleasurable and embarrassing elevator ride of Mulder’s life, the man gives a sharp clear of his throat, as if trying to grab their attention. Scully plows forward, not looking back, but Mulder turns his head and receives a sly wink and a-okay hand gesture from him. His wife swats at his hand as the doors close.

Their hands are still tangled together as they turn to face each other. Scully has a death grip on his left hand and throws him a look of sheer horror, the likes of which he’s only seen in the presence of Flukemen and Jersey Devils. The expression on her face, one reserved for the aberrant and anomalous, is so desperately out of place in the hall of this grungy, though unremarkable hotel, he can’t stop the laugh from escaping his lips.

A direct flight to the nearest Florida metropolis and then an endless drive in whichever rental car had the most leg room was generally their modus operandi, but it hadn’t been in the cards last night. Lady Luck had gifted them a last-minute assignment, “urgent” and “of the utmost importance,” Skinner had crackled into her ear at 5:21 PM, seconds after she had slipped out of her chunky, black heels. Too urgent and important to wait for the following day, to wait for a direct flight, to eat dinner and chase a few hours of sleep, sleep that seemed so often to elude her these days.

Mulder had been worried about her when he saw her walking towards him at Dulles, dragging a wheeled carry on bag behind her, jacket hanging off of her shoulders and flowing behind her like clothes on the line, drying in the wind. All of her clothes seemed too large these days, billowy and spacious, enveloping her body completely in expensive fabric, as he wishes he could, as he wishes she would let him. Though you would think the clothing would add weight to her presence, allow her to take up more space, it did the opposite, emphasizing how small she had become - something he had previously thought was impossible, her shrinking. Even from across the lobby, even in a throng of evening travelers, he could see the gauntness of her cheekbones, pallid complexion, dark circles under hollow blue eyes. He was concerned, but he wasn’t going to let her in on that carefully guarded secret. Just like so many other feelings he had about her, had for her, he kept his worry to himself.

On that final flight she had taken the aspirin he proffered to her, the two pills looking small and inconsequential in his large palm. He knew that, to her, accepting help was admitting weakness. He also knew she was anything but weak. The Ice Queen of the Hoover basement was all scalpel sharp edges and cool stares, could slice and dice and outrun anyone and do it all in five inch designer heels, scuff marks be damned. She did not ask for help, never needed to. Her reputation, almost as legendary as his, told all who would listen at the water cooler that she was invincible - a superhero - and he believed it. That is, until she discovered a malignant mass growing between those steely blue eyes, until she had called him to the oncology ward, until she had cried in his arms, terry cloth robe between his fingers.

Too nauseous and achy from her latest round of chemo to actually be annoyed by his offer of help, however small, she took the aspirin with a swallow of his water and winced as it caught in her dry throat. One more sip and she handed him the crinkly, plastic bottle he had purchased just before boarding in one of those vending machines they keep in the tiny, tucked away terminals where the planes destined for Rapid City, South Dakota or Independence, Kansas hide. She thinks that’s where he got the aspirin too, for her, always thinking of her. But she says nothing. Won’t acknowledge his kindness or her weakness, her ability to be human, just like everyone else. Perhaps, she too had believed in her invincibility, before.

As the aspirin breaks down in her acidic, queasy stomach, Scully can feel the drug doing its work. The ache behind her eyes dulls, the throbbing subsiding as the prostaglandin production in her body is slowed. It’s a temporary fix, and not a strong one. Her prescription pain medication, in its shiny orange bottle that usually mocks her from the nightstand, is deftly wrapped in nude pantyhose and tucked into a pair of fuzzy socks her mother had gifted her at the hospital last friday. She had told herself she wouldn’t need them on the plane, couldn’t possibly think of a reason for them to be within easy reach. No, she hadn’t slept in 48 hours or kept any food down besides two slices of buttered toast this morning - or was it last night? No, she was not doing well, her body frail and sickly with its pale skin and prominent ribs. Still, as she packed her suitcase hours earlier, feeling the beginnings of a headache, she couldn’t envision a pain so bitter and sharp that she would let Mulder see that bottle. She didn’t want him to ever see it. So she clenched her jaw and closed her eyes against the setting sun during their first flight and she delicately threw up in the bathroom during their 15 minute layover - “Mulder, I need to use the restroom. I’ll be quick.” - and she accepted his offer of aspirin and water.

She tastes metal in her mouth, salt from her tears and bitter regret burning in the back of her throat that her life didn’t end on the floor of that fucking hospital room two hours and twelve minutes ago. She’s still here, still drawing ragged breaths through her bruised trachea, blood pumping through her battered limbs, thoughts racing through that injured, beautifully brilliant brain of hers.

“Her brain is on fire,” the doctor had said. In that room, she’d thought she was finally going up in flames, as she had always thought they would. She’d just never imagined that she would be burning down all alone, cold tile pressed to her shoulder blades, calloused hands pressed to her throat, a nameless man panting above her as he squeezed the life from her lungs.

She’s still here, though. Which means, she realizes, releasing a sigh that originates somewhere deep in her old bones, that she must continue to fight.

Another drop of blood pools on her cracked bottom lip. She runs her lip across it, catches it before it can fall. A rush of tears overtake her, surprise her, piss her off just a little. She huffs out a breath, something between a sob and a strangled laugh.

And suddenly he is there.

He’s standing just to the right of the couch, eyes wide and wet and red. He’s been crying, she thinks. A tear falls down her own cheek.

“I thought you were making us tea…,” she whispers, not meeting his eyes.

He says nothing, simply takes the seat next to her on the couch. 

Another tear falls and she doesn’t have the strength to try and stop it. Mulder, gently, as he does all things involving her, reaches out and brushes the tears away with the pad of his thumb. Her face softens. He cups her cheek. She closes her eyes.

They remain there a moment, still, each relishing the presence of the other. Then, Mulder’s arms are around her, lifting her battered body into his lap. His arms wrap around her, embrace her fiercely.

He whispers into her neck, “I was worried about you.”

She shudders as she breathes him in, adjusts to her new position, to his words. Pulling from his embrace, she rests her head on his shoulder, places her hand on his forearm and squeezes as she replies, “I’m okay, Mulder.”

He bends to kiss the top of her head, lingering there. She nuzzles into his chest.