Dana Scully loved hotels.
Growing up in base housing with three siblings, hotel stays had been a rarity in the Scully family. Scully could count on one hand the number of times she had stayed in a hotel as a child, and some part of her had always treasured its small luxuries: the tiny shampoo bottles, the coffeemaker, even the ice bucket.
In her first few months on the X-Files, it had quickly become evident to Scully that — judging by his choice in travel accommodations — Fox Mulder did not love hotels. This was probably owing to the fact that there was no empirical evidence that Mulder ever actually slept in one.
Scully had seen her partner sleep through bone-rattling turbulence on airplanes, ear-splitting horn blasts in cars and, on one memorable occasion, a particularly excruciating Bureau training on sexual harassment in a nondescript field office.
But judging from the low hum of the television in his hotel room and the fact that he seemed to relish going out for long runs through strange towns under cover of darkness, he had an aversion to sleeping at night.
Scully, who had survived her senior thesis, medical school and sharing a room with Melissa in their teen years, had no aversion to sleeping anywhere.
The John Winthrop Motor Court in Waltham, Massachusetts had scratchy towels and a shower curtain Scully was hesitant to touch with her bare hands.
But it also had a bed, and Scully intended to use it.
Med school had been tiring, the FBI Academy had been grueling, but working with Mulder redefined exhaustion. In contrast with the stark, sterile work she had done as an instructor at the Academy, working with Mulder was messy and visceral: physically demanding, mentally challenging and emotionally draining.
She loved it.
Mulder was unorthodox, but his mind worked faster and more effortlessly than that of anyone Scully had encountered. And for someone who so pointedly believed he was right so much of the time, he seemed to be surprisingly invested in her opinion.
Out in the field, Mulder walked faster and talked faster but also listened faster than any male agent she had worked with. When she finally returned home each night, Scully found herself poring over obscure research journals in search of the hard evidence she craved in order to go toe to toe with him the next day.
The case that had brought them to the grimy John Winthrop Motor Court was different — "less of an X-File and more of a favor," Mulder had said on their flight to Boston; something about how occasional forays into straight-shooting investigations were the price he paid for keeping the lights (but evidently not the heat, Scully thought ruefully) on in their basement office.
For three days they'd been investigating a string of brutal but entirely unsupernatural murders in the cold, gray suburbs of Boston, and for three days Mulder hadn't spun a single outlandish theory. Scully had never seen him work like this before: silently and methodically, absent any wisecracking, gesticulating or theorizing.
The local agents were an unexpectedly jovial crew. While they cracked jokes and guzzled coffee, Scully kept one eye on Mulder, who had zero interest in their camaraderie and zero patience for their small talk.
She hadn't thought it possible, but she yearned to hear just one awful pun or wild hypothesis or even to watch with distaste and mild fascination as Mulder scarfed down some terrible local delicacy.
Instead he sat in one corner of the field office with a yellow legal pad, a tape recorder and scores of crime scene photos. It was unnerving. Even...spooky, her mind taunted.
They had called him Spooky long before he had opened the X-Files. Scully was only now beginning to understand why.
She shifted restlessly against the John Winthrop's coarse sheets and fell into an uneasy sleep.
She awoke with an odd feeling of expectancy, her body tensed as though it were aware of something her mind was not. Several hours had passed; the room was dark and still.
She strained to hear the drone of Mulder's television through the wall, but it was as if the silence itself was ringing in her ears. She was about to roll over and go back to sleep when she heard the shattering, crashing sound of something breaking in the next room. Something substantial.
She was out of bed before she was aware of getting up, her knuckles rapping against the door that connected her room with her partner's.
"Mulder?" she called, disturbed by the silence that followed. If there was an intruder in Mulder's room, he had recovered himself quickly. She tried the doorknob and was surprised when it turned; unlike her, Mulder evidently didn't keep his side locked.
"Mulder?" she called again as the door swung open.
Also unlike her, Mulder had left his blinds open, and the moonlight helpfully illuminated the scene for her. As she quickly scanned the room, Scully was relieved to see that there was no intruder. There was, however, the remains of a heavy — and ugly — lamp laying in pieces on the floor next to the bed, atop which her partner sat. He was clad incongruously in a white T-shirt and his dress slacks, as if he had failed to fully divest himself of his suit before falling asleep.
His head was bowed, but Scully could see his chest heaving, his breath coming in noisy gasps.
A nightmare? That would explain the insomnia, or the way his eyes sometimes glittered too brightly in the mornings under fluorescent lights. He looked uncharacteristically defenseless, sitting there in the dark, and Scully felt a startling rush of empathy for him.
"Mulder?" she said in a low voice, stepping forward.
He drew in a shuddering breath, and as his hands came up to scrub at his face Scully could see that the left was pasty with something wet and thick. Blood.
"Mulder," she said again, more forcefully this time. She was both relieved and alarmed when his head snapped upright so that they were suddenly face to face. His face was white and his eyes were somehow both vacant and wild. She was certain that in the moment he didn't know who she was.
"Mulder, it's Scully," she said, trying to make her voice low and firm. The agitation in Mulder's eyes collapsed abruptly into recognition.
"Scully?" he said hoarsely. "What are you doing in here?"
She gestured to the wreckage on the floor. "I heard a crash," she said.
Mulder closed his eyes briefly; she could almost feel him willing his innuendo to return quickly.
"I, uh…" He sagged back against the pillows, his usual defenses failing.
"Do you want to tell me what happened?" she said, hoping her tone conveyed compassion rather than interrogation.
Mulder tipped his head back and issued his reply toward the ceiling.
"No. I don't," he said, his voice soft but firm. His eyes met hers. "I'm sorry I woke you."
"You hurt your hand," she said quietly. "At least let me take a look."
Something in his eyes flashed. "Why, so you can include it in your report?"
Her insides burned. He'd read every one of her reports, and she had yet to write one that cast aspersions on his sanity or his integrity. For months, she'd given him no reason not to trust her, and yet sometimes — when he was feeling particularly under attack himself — he still seemed to relish throwing her job responsibilities back in her face as if he were accusing her of betrayal.
Scully refused to flinch as she held his gaze. "So I can make sure it's not broken," she said steadily. "But if you'd rather call up SAC Berrios at this time of night and ask him for directions to the nearest emergency room, go ahead."
An uncomfortable silence bloomed between them, broken only by Mulder's hiss of pain as he flexed his injured hand.
"OK," he said finally, drawing in a breath. "But I should warn you, I'm not known to be a cooperative patient."
"I assure you that as a pathologist, my experience with uncooperative patients is unmatched," she said drily.
She pulled a chair close to the bed and laid a hand on Mulder's forehead, studiously disregarding the way he recoiled when she drew close. Some of the color had returned to his face, but his hair was slick with sweat and she resisted the urge to smooth it aside.
"Did you hit your head?" she asked.
"No. I don't remember," he amended uneasily.
"Hold out your hand," she told him.
When he did so, it was trembling. He swallowed.
"You don't have to do this. My hand is fine. I'm sorry I woke you," he said again.
Her mind flashed back to the day she had entered his office for the first time, all proferred hand and perky smile, and the way his sweeping bravado had seemed designed both to amplify and protect him. She didn't need Mulder's psychology degree to intuit how much he must detest feeling vulnerable now.
"You've woken me in the middle of the night before," she said calmly. "I just assumed it was a regular perk to being your partner."
"Ha ha," he responded automatically, but his eyes darted away from her.
"Can you make a fist?" she continued, reaching out to probe his knuckles as he did so. "I don't think anything's broken, but let me clean it and stop the bleeding. I'll get a washcloth."
She rose to her feet and headed to his bathroom before he could object. When she returned, Mulder was gazing dully at his bloody hand, looking decidedly gray.
"Don't do that," she warned him loudly, regretting her harsh tone when he jumped. She took a deep breath.
"I don't want you passing out on me," she said as she grasped his hand with the washcloth as gently as she could. Mulder winced.
"I'm going to hold this firmly in place for a few minutes to stop the bleeding," she explained.
Mulder's eyes slid shut. "Scully, it's the middle of the night. You don't have to stay in here," he mumbled.
"The Hippocratic Oath says otherwise," she answered firmly. "Lean back before you fall forward."
Mulder settled himself back against the headboard. Some of the color had returned to his face, Scully noted, but his breathing still seemed to echo raggedly through the room. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments. When Mulder opened his eyes, he seemed mildly surprised to find that she was still there, squeezing his hand between both of hers.
"I, uh...I was having a dream," he admitted finally. Scully sat very still, sensing how much this admission was costing him. He glanced at the lamp shards on the floor. "I guess the lamp took the brunt of it."
"Must have been some dream," she observed. "Not a good one, I take it?"
For a man she had witnessed show such compassion to victims, he looked uncommonly awkward on the receiving end of it himself. He cleared his throat and glanced away again, as if he couldn't bear to make eye contact and confess weakness to her at the same time.
"I, uh...I usually sleep with the TV on, but the set was on the fritz." He swallowed. "Next time I'll try the radio."
"Usually?" she observed pointedly. "How long have you been having trouble sleeping?"
He gave a short laugh and looked away.
"Look, Mulder," she said, a shard of impatience coloring her voice. "I'm not asking as a spy. I'm asking as your partner."
"I've had a lot of partners," he said grimly. "Not all of them believed in the work. Even fewer believed in me."
He was gazing straight at her, as if daring her to look away. She met the challenge, lifting her chin slightly.
"I take it you've had this conversation before."
Mulder gave a soft snort.
"You really do keep out of the rumor mill, don't you?" he said disbelievingly. "There isn't a shrink in EAP who hasn't gleefully had me drugged up, shot up or written up. The way this goes is you drop a line to Blevins, he thanks you for your concern, I get a letter in my jacket and you get to ride the elevator all the way up from the basement."
His eyes were blazing, but she held his gaze. If they were going to play this game again, she'd be damned if she were the one who would back down.
"I have no intention of tattling to Blevins," she said evenly. "And I have no intention of walking away from this assignment."
"Some assignment," he said bitterly, looking down again at his hand between hers. The washcloth was beginning to soak through with his blood, and he hissed in pain. "You should've gotten on board with Tom Colton when you had the chance."
"Tom Colton is a weasel who couldn't catch a suspect with both hands," she replied calmly. "Now if you're finished throwing this little pity party for yourself, let me take a look at your hand again."
Something like admiration flickered in his eyes. She avoided meeting his gaze as she unwrapped the washcloth.
"It's long, but not deep. It won't need stitches," she concluded as she probed the long cut across his knuckles. "It'll need to be bandaged, though."
Mulder tossed his head in the direction of his suitcase. "First-aid kit in the front pocket."
She blinked at him in mild surprise
"You travel with your own first-aid kit?"
"These field office pickup basketball games can get pretty rough," Mulder replied, deadpan. "I've found it's best to be prepared."
She resumed her seat in the chair next to the bed. Mulder, obligingly this time, stuck out his hand as she unwrapped the gauze.
"You know," she started tentatively, "it's not surprising this case would give you nightmares."
"It's not this case," he said automatically. His eyes had closed off again, his gaze gone somewhere she could not reach. "It's...an old dream."
"About your sister," she concluded softly. She wound the gauze around his hand. She had never noticed before how long his fingers were.
"Sometimes." He smiled wanly, but there was little warmth in it. "I've…" He sighed, as if about to divulge a secret. "I've always had nightmares. Since even before Samantha...since I was a kid. My parents thought I'd outgrow them. Eventually I started chasing them instead. I guess it's why I joined the Bureau."
Scully realized she was still holding Mulder's hand in her own. Since she'd met him, Mulder was the one who seemed to crave human contact, his fingers brushing against her shoulder as he held open the door for her or his arm grazing hers as they huddled over a piece of evidence. At first, she'd thought it was his attempt to unbalance her; then later, just the way he worked.
Most people would want to outrun their nightmares, not chase them. But most people weren't Fox Mulder.
He may have been arrogant, defensive and prone to mistrust, but he was as intriguing as he was infuriating. Seeing him hunched over himself on the motel bed, she was struck by the sudden thought that it seemed as though Mulder had been taking care of himself for a very long time.
She made a pretense of smoothing down the gauze with tape as she let go.
"Keep it dry for the next day or so," she said. She glanced at the clock. "Will you be able to get some sleep?"
Mulder's innuendo was obviously still rusty; there was no immediate retort as he got to his feet.
"Actually, I might head out for a run," he said. Scully was aware that she was making a disapproving face. Off her look, he continued, "It helps me...stay focused."
"I'm not sure you need focus at 3 a.m.," she said wearily. "But you're a grown federal agent, so...try not to slam the door when you come back in at 4."
"Do I do that?" he said absently, looking around for his sneakers.
As she headed back toward her own room, his voice stopped her. "Scully," he said.
When she turned around, he was gazing fixedly down at the floor, suddenly looking much younger and more vulnerable than she had ever seen him.
"Thank you," he said in a low voice.
She let out a long breath. "Mulder," she said. "If you ever wake up after...and you need someone to call…"
Gratitude flashed across his face, so fleetingly she might have missed it if she hadn't been training herself to look for breaks in his usual deadpan expression.
"Even if I haven't broken any lamps?" he said.
She allowed herself a quick smile. "Even if you haven't broken any lamps," she agreed. "But you're buying the coffee tomorrow."
She retreated into her own room and practically fell back into the bed, where her exhaustion made the rough sheets feel like 300-thread count silk. She didn't dream, and Mulder must not have, either, because suddenly sunlight was streaming in through the blinds and she could hear the sound of running water next door.
She was yawning as she got out of bed and then a flash of orange color caught her eye. It was a small envelope slipped under the door of her connecting room.
Curiously she slid it open. It was a Dunkin' Donuts gift card. They were ubiquitous in New England, Scully remembered; Mulder had probably passed four on his late-night sojourn.
On the flap Mulder had scrawled: I bought the coffee. And below it: Thanks. -M
She felt an unexpected flash of tenderness toward her new partner and her lips curved into a small smile. She hoped he would remember this gesture the next time he woke her in the dead of night.
She hoped she would, too.