One.
Scully is lying alone in her motel room, curled on the very edge of the ugly brown bedspread as though clinging to a raft. Captain Ahab has sailed away and left his youngest daughter at sea. The knock at her door makes her sit up with a jerk, because there is only one person who could be knocking, and he isn't supposed to be out of bed.
"Mulder," she says when she sees him standing there, leaning on one crutch, a large paper sack clenched in his other hand, "they let you out of the hospital on the condition that you would remain resting in bed."
"Yeah, that's what they always say – 'the patient is resting peacefully' – but that's just a little too close to 'resting in peace' for my taste." He raises the bag as he smiles. "Besides, I brought dinner."
"That's very kind of you," she says as he limps past her into the room. "But the point stands – you were shot less than two weeks ago. You should be in bed."
He winces as he lowers himself down onto the spot where she was lying only moments before. "There, I'm in bed." He rattles the sack at her. "Supper's on."
Grudgingly, she shuts the door and goes to sit cross-legged next to him on the other side of the bed. He props himself up against her pillows and hands her a paper-wrapped sandwich and a can of soda. "Mulder, please tell me you did not go out by yourself and get these."
"Nah, the deli down the street delivers," he said, as he unwraps his own sandwich, a thick ham-on-rye with mustard. He digs in with the relish of a man who's been eating hospital food for the past eleven days.
She sits with her head bowed, the sandwich on the bed in front of her. She has not eaten much in the past few weeks, so filled as she's been with grief and terror. There seems to be no room at her middle.
"Go ahead and eat," he says, nudging the sandwich at her. "It's the least I can do, after you came all the way back down here to get me."
It never occurred to her that she had a choice. She is his partner, in sickness and in health, 'til death-do-us-part, amen. She remembers her mother's quiet desolation at Ahab's funeral and wonders if she will ever love anyone like that.
"Boggs warned you this would happen," she says to Mulder. She is unable to look at him because she knows he thinks this is all foolishness, and she dreads looking foolish more than anything else. "He said your blood would be spilled and you went out there anyway. You must have been deeply convinced that he was a fraud to risk your personal safety."
She feels him lower his sandwich as he considers her words. "We were pursuing a highly dangerous suspect," he says at last. "There was always the chance that blood could be spilled – mine or anyone else's."
He is so cavalier, despite the bullet that passed right through him. Death had come and gone. So why does she feel like the ghost?
Mulder is chewing again, and he speaks around a mouthful of rye. "Besides, I figured I would come out okay."
She turns her head to look at him, and his gaze his full of tender humor. "How could you be so sure?"
"Oh, if I was going to die, Boggs surely would have gloated about it. The arrogant little snot wouldn't have been able to help himself."
She feels a smile pulling at her, tinged with relief. Perhaps Mulder had believed a bit more than he let on. She takes up her sandwich as he feels around for the remote control.
"Do they get HBO here?"
"I am sure I don't know," she says with a sigh. She is beginning to wonder if he ever plans to go back to his room.
When she takes a bite of sandwich, she pauses in surprise and draws it back to study it – turkey on wheat with sprouts and lettuce, just a hint of mayo. It's just the way she likes it. "How did you know my order?" she asks him.
He is busy drinking soda and flipping through the channels. "I'm a trained investigator," he says without looking at her. When she does not reply, he gives her a glance. "I know some things about you."
He turns his attention back to the TV, and she ducks her head again, her hair falling down to hide the fresh sheen in her eyes. She has been so focused on her loss that she did not stop to notice – maybe she has gained a friend.
"Ooh, hey, check it out," he says, dropping the remote on the bed between them. "It's final Jeopardy, and the category is 'Myths and Mysticism.' I'm going all in, Scully. What about you?"
She picks up her sandwich and tastes for the first time. It is delicious, and she leans back with it against the pillows, almost but not quite touching his arm. "Okay, Mulder. I'm going all in too."