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Summary
“Hey Scully, you alright there?” comes a concerned voice from the other side of the door.
She thinks about it carefully before answering. The water, a bit cooled now but still pleasantly warm, is covering her like a blanket, and the bubbles smell like Mulder’s ridiculous three-in-one shampoo. There is no wound in her chest, and the memory of the incident is fading like watercolors in the rain.
“Yeah, I'm good," she replies, and means it.