Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Their suspect is cornered in the narrow back alley, arms up, head down, and Mulder, pumped full of adrenaline, already tasting the anticipatory relief, thinks – We’ve got him. It’s over.

Scully steps in, firearm steady, her voice level as she shouts commands in a voice that echoes through the alleyway. Mulder catches her eye and gives her the slightest nod. She’s got this. She always does.

And she does, right up until the suspect lunges.

Mulder watches the next few seconds unfold in slow motion. The man is at least twice Scully’s size and he barrels towards her with all his weight, and hits her like a truck as he body checks her on a slight angle. Scully is driven into a brick wall hard enough that the sound of the impact makes Mulder’s stomach drop. 

She hits the ground, and Mulder sees red.

He moves before he thinks, and slams the suspect down onto the asphalt, chin first. He lands a few blows – more than he should, more than he needs to – until the man bucks and thrashes like a fish out of water and the uniforms move in. Someone grabs Mulder by the shoulders, hauls him off and shoves him aside. There’s a tangle of shouted commands, a blur of red and blue lights, the sharp click of metal cuffs, and the suspect is hauled away, still splitting curses. 

Mulder’s chest is heaving. His heart pounds, and his knuckles throb as the adrenaline surges, and–

Scully.

He spins around, finds her in seconds, and sprints toward her.

She’s on her feet again, thank God, standing off to the side of the chaos, her back braced against the wall like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. She’s pale in a way that instantly unsettles him and as he approaches, her lips part on a shaky breath. For a second he waits – expecting something sharp, something brisk, something matter-of-fact, something justifiably pissed off, something very Scully–

– instead, she whimpers.

Mulder’s knees almost buckle beneath him.

She tries to straighten, and her eyes lift to him, glassy, unfocused, and unsettlingly vacant.

“...Hospital,” she manages.

He nods, his heart still racing, waiting for her to elaborate. And because she’s Scully, she does.

“I believe I have…a dislocated shoulder,” she says, between shaky, measured breaths. “A complete anterior dislocation. I’ll…I’ll need to have it set.”

Mulder glances down, taking in the sight of her right arm, elbow bent slightly away from her body, hand limp and positioned at an angle that makes his stomach turn. He's not about to question her diagnosis, and he's not about to ask any clarifying questions, either.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

Mulder guides her to the car, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back, terrified of hurting her but even more terrified of letting her out of his reach. He helps her into the passenger seat and Scully blinks up at him like she’s trying to pull his face into focus through a world of pain. He tries to smile reassuringly, and he’s about 75% sure it comes out as a nervous grimace. He hopes it translates anyway.

A single tear slides down Scully’s cheek, and lands at the corner of her mouth. In a daze, her lips part slightly and her tongue slides across her lower lip, tasting salt. Her brow furrows slightly and her eyes find his again.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats.

He doesn’t remember getting into the drivers seat. He doesn’t remember starting the car. All he knows is that the city outside is a blur of motion and Scully is making that helpless little sound again.

As he speeds them towards the hospital, Mulder suddenly finds himself absurdly, irrationally grateful that it’s not her left arm that’s injured, because he reaches over without thinking, takes her hand in his, and holds on like both of their lives depend on it. Scully squeezes his hand so tight his fingers begin to throb and by the time he pulls them into the hospital parking lot his hand is numb.

He doesn't complain, and he doesn’t let go until she does.

"I've got you," he says again, as he helps her out of the car.

It's all he's got. It's all he knows.

Chapter Text

Mulder blinks until the ceiling tiles stop swimming and the face above his slowly comes into focus.

“Welcome back,” Scully says, tucking her hair behind her ear as she leans over him with a relieved smile. “How're you feeling?”

 Mulder’s gaze drifts down, sluggish, and lands on the thick white cast wrapped around his forearm. It looks like something that belongs on a kid who fell out of a tree.

“Is that…my arm?”

“Yes,” Scully says patiently. “It’s yours.”

“A cast?“

“Yes.”

“Was that...necessary?”

“Medically so.”

Mulder considers this. Or at least, he tries to. He attempts to lift his arm to examine it closer – it feels about a hundred pounds and he regrets immediately and groans.

“Don’t try to move it,” Scully says. “They had to do an open reduction. You’ll be in a sling for a few weeks."

“An open..what?”

“An open reduction. It wasn’t a clean break, so they had to perform a surgery to realign the bones.”

He closes his eyes for a second. The room spins a little.

"Hey Scully?”

“Yes?

“Why do they call it a clean break?”

“It’s a term used to describe when a bone is broken in two parts and not displaced or misaligned. Objectively, it’s the preferred type of break to have and to treat.” Her gaze flicks to his cast with pointed emphasis. “Unfortunately, you weren’t so lucky.” 

He considers this.

“Huh...”

“What is it, Mulder?”

He squints at her, like he’s trying to form the thought before it floats away again. 

“Well, it’s just…a clean break implies the existence of a dirty break.” He really thinks he’s onto something here. He's just not sure what.

Scully sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose in mild exasperation.

"Mulder, try and get some rest."

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he grumbles.

“It wasn’t a question,” she points out, raising an eyebrow.

“Hey, Scully?” 

“What now?"

“Will you sign my cast?”

She fixes him with a stern look. 

“Mulder, you’re not six years old.” He pulls a face, and she rolls her eyes. “Alright, so you’re pouting like you’re six years old, but I’m still not signing your cast.”

“You could draw a picture..”

“No.”

“A UFO?”

“No.”

“A tiny alien giving me a medal for my bravery?”

“Mulder...”

He sighs, defeated for all of ten seconds, and then his gaze slides across the room and towards the door and whatever lies beyond it – the bustle and movement of the hospital wing. He slowly turns to face her again and does his best to throw her a pleading look.

“Sculllyyy...will you at least steal me some of the good Jell-O?”

She stares at him, expressionless.

He tries to make his face even more pleading. His mouth tilts into a lopsided little smile that says: Come on, not even for me?

Scully’s expression holds for a long beat, and then she sighs and reaches towards the chair behind her to reveal three Jell-O cups, lining them up on the tray table at his bedside. She pulls a plastic spoon and places it carefully next to them.

Mulder looks down at the spoon and then back up at her. He grins.

“Scully, will you f—”

“Absolutely not.”

Chapter Text

He’s not sure how long she’s been there. She’s just suddenly present, a shape in the edge of his vision, appearing on the other side of his desk seemingly out of nowhere. Scully looks down at him, head tilted, brows pinched with worry.

Mulder lifts his head and blinks up at her. 

"Hey, Scully,” he croaks. “When did you get here?”

His voice doesn’t sound like his voice. Maybe it’s not his voice. His throat feels like he swallowed glass and followed up with a chaser of desert sand.

Scully’s frown deepens, and then softens. She steps closer and sets her briefcase down.

“Mulder, have you been here all night?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s not sure how to answer. He doesn’t remember. He looks down at his clothes and has a vague recollection of putting on this particular tie…yesterday? He starts to turn behind him to consult his wall calendar but the world spins and he gives up.

Scully’s face is right in front of his now, leaning in, her blue eyes narrowed in concern and clinical assessment. She’s close enough that Mulder finds himself starting to count the freckles on the bridge of her nose because they’re suddenly so vividly there and his brain doesn’t know what else it’s supposed to be doing – and then her hand is on his forehead and he suddenly forgets what number comes after eleven. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s leaning into her touch until he feels her steady herself imperceptibly against his weight. His eyes flutter shut with relief at the coolness of her skin against the heat beneath his own. 

He can’t remember the last time anyone did this for him, checked his temperature with the back of their hand. Maybe when he was small, a clingy, gawky thing, before everything shattered. Before Samantha. Before all the long, empty years of forced independence. 

“Oh, Mulder,” she gasps softly. “You’re burning up.”

He barely hears her. Scully’s hand is small and cool steady, fingers brushing lightly against his hairline, her thumb near his temple. She holds it there for a beat, then shifts – her palm, then back of her hand again. He can feel himself drifting, drifting off into the fog again, and then her hand is on his cheek and suddenly his eyes fly open with alarm. 

Why is her hand so cold?!

He reaches up without thinking, wrapping both of his clammy hands around her wrist, fingers grasping clumsily at her knuckles and pulling them against his chest, as if to warm them. 

“Scully,” he rasps urgently, “Your hand…you’re so cold. Are you okay?”

Her lips twitch with something gentle and fond as she gently extricates herself from his grip and closes her fingers around his hands, bringing them to rest on the surface of his desk.

“Mulder,” she says patiently, “I’m fine. Your temperature perception is off because you have a fever. You’re sick, and you need to be at home in bed. I think you may have the flu.”

“The flu,” he echoes feebly as she starts guiding him upright. “The flu...Scully, did I ever tell you about my theory about the 1918 flu pandemic?”

“No,” she replies, helping him to his feet and steadying him with one hand on his shoulder, the other on his back. “You haven’t, but you can tell me all about it in the car. Come on, Mulder. I’m taking you home.”

Chapter Text

“There’s so much more you need to do with your life. There's so much more than this. There has to be an end, Scully.”

They fall into familiar silence together.

Scully’s lips stay pressed against his knuckles. She keeps her hands clasped firmly in his, as if it’s the only thing anchoring her in place. Mulder kisses her cheek again, his lips soft and warm. She sniffles. Another chill trembles its way through her whole body and the tiny motion is enough to make her world tilt again.

“You have the chills,” Mulder breathes into her hair, echoing Scully's self-diagnosis. She sniffles again and nods. “You still feeling cold?”

“A little,” she admits. “But this is…better.” She shivers again, and he shifts a little closer.

“You know, Scully,” he murmurs, voice low and close and shifting into something lighter around the edges, “I just so happen to know the best way to regenerate body heat…”

The sound that escapes her is an involuntary little hiccup of a half-laugh, half-sob as she recalls another impossibly long night all those years ago.

North Florida. A sky full of stars. Her voice in the dark. His head on her lap as she cradled him and kept him warm. He had finally, finally slept. She had stayed awake and thought about living and about dying. Sometime before dawn she had arrived at a quiet realization: neither without him.

Scully’s chin quivers against their entwined hands and for a long moment she’s not sure whether she’s going to laugh or cry or both. Her tears from earlier have yet to dry where they've come to rest on her cheeks. She closes her eyes and is struck with the sickening sensation that she's being hurtled through the stars at an unfathomable speed.

She shivers again, and this time the shaking doesn't stop. She exhales his name on a shuddering, uncertain breath.

“Mulder…” 

He nuzzles her shoulder, squeezes her hand, and shifts his weight slightly.

“I’m going to get you another blanket.”

“No--”

She surprises herself with how unguarded and raw the utterance slips out. It’s too much. Too honest. Too panicked. She clings tight to his hand. “...No. I'm fine, I just…I need…I want you to stay.” 

Mulder hesitates for a moment and then rolls back to cradle her again, curling his body tighter around her. He kisses her shoulder, her neck, her cheek, her hair. Scully closes her eyes, sees constellations she doesn't recognize, and lets herself be held.

“Okay,” he says, warm and steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter Text

The drive back to the motel is the strange kind of quiet that tends to follow the immediate aftermath of particularly unsettling or unresolved cases. Scully is exhausted, but far too tense to think about relaxing, let alone sleeping.

“You know, Mulder,” she sighs, staring out the passenger window before turning to face him, “I think I really could use some caffeine.” 

Mulder glances over, brows raising slightly. She offers a small, wry smile and he returns it in kind. 

“I hope you don’t have your mind set on soda, because to be honest, Scully, I think I've suddenly developed a temporary aversion.” 

Scully winces a little, and then sighs, thinking of the bullet they both dodged only a few hours prior. Or more specifically, of the death-by-Digitalis they had narrowly dodged. She licks her lips absently, recalling the syrupy taste of the poisoned cup of soda she had sipped from. 

“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a strong, black coffee.” 

He glances over at her, a flicker of playfulness dancing across the lines of his profile.

“…What, no sweetener?” 

“Mulder,” she groans.

“Too soon?” 

“Maybe a little,” she mutters, looking out the passenger window again.

“Sorry,” he says, unapologetically. “I think there’s a cafe just up the road from the motel. We’re nearly there.” 

About a mile down the road, Mulder pulls the car into the parking lot of a 24-hour cafe and jogs in without a word, returning moments later with two to-go coffees. She nods her thanks as he hands her one and for a few minutes they sit quietly and comfortably in the dark.

Again, Scully breaks the silence first.

“Mulder?” 

“-Mmm," he replies mid-sip of coffee. "Yeah?”

“How did you know the girls had poisoned our drinks? In hindsight they were unusually sweet, but was it just a hunch?”

Mulder takes a slow sip of coffee and nods thoughtfully.

“To be honest, Scully, I didn’t suspect a thing at first. When I went back into the restaurant to grab my keys I saw green residue on the counter where our drinks had been, and I remembered what you said back at the hotel about Digitalis having a sweet flavor. So, I tasted it, and —”

Scully almost chokes on a mouthful of coffee as she swallows, very nearly dropping the cup in her lap. 

“—You what?!”

“I, well, I just dabbed a little bit of the powder with my finger and sure enough it was sw—”

“—Mulder! Do you have any idea how—”

“—Scully, relax! I’m fine. You actually drank some, and you’re fine. You said so yourself.”

“I…I...that’s not the point, Mulder! It’s the...my god, how many times have we had this conversation?!” Scully shakes her head and turns to face the passenger window, feeling her cheeks flush with the heat of familiar exasperation and the cumulative emotion of the last several hours. 

Mulder says nothing, his expression guileless and unbothered as she continues.“You can’t just go around sampling unidentifiable substances like you’re…like you’re at a wine tasting,” she finishes, voice pitched high with incredulity and agitation. “You could have been poisoned, Mulder. For real.”

Infuriatingly, he chuckles. She whips her head around to frown disapprovingly at him.

“Scully, what about me suggests to you that I’m a wine tasting kind of guy?” He’s smiling, that crooked little Mulder smile that always softens her, so often against her better judgement. Scully closes her eyes for a moment and then looks down at the pleasantly bitter coffee in her hands, sobered by his gentle deflection.

She could still continue to lecture him – yell at him, even, just a little – but it hits her that all she wants at this moment is to sit in this ephemeral stillness with him a little longer. She takes a long, slow breath and exhales.

“Mulder,” she says, quieter now, “one of these days you’re going to touch or inhale or - god forbid - ingest something at a crime scene and it could have serious consequences for your wellbeing. Promise me you’ll be more careful going forward.” 

Mulder appears to consider this for a beat, nodding ever so slightly. They share a look. He smiles. She does not.

“I’ll be just fine, Scully,” he decides, raising his coffee towards her in a cheerful little salute. “I just so happen to know an excellent medical doctor.”