Four.
Snow is falling again when he picks her up from the hospital. Tiny little flakes drift from the silent sky, illuminated briefly by the yellow streetlamps before settling softly on the cold white world around them. Scully shivers inside her coat as she waits for him to open the locked car. Snow catches on her black shoulders and dull, burnished hair, and he barely recognizes her. The red seems muted to him now in the wake of all those pictures – her body and Jerse's, catalogued as evidence.
They say nothing on the slow ride home. He drives the icy roads like a new father, like there is fragile cargo in his care. Scully turns her head to look out the window, hiding her bruises, and the heater can barely keep up with the chill inside the car.
He is no one's savior, and so he gets the last room at the Inn. Scully retreats to her room without a word, leaving him alone with the gathering storm. The wind and snow batter the windows, howling in a way that Mulder cannot. He watches as the world erases itself, inch by inch. The lights in his room flicker twice and then go out for good.
He finds his flashlight and goes in search of Scully. The door opens in a few moments to reveal her in her robe, holding her own flashlight. She does not look pleased to see him. "What do you want, Mulder?"
"I want – I came to see if you were all right."
"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
Right. Like she hadn't just nearly gotten herself incinerated. "Okay, forget it then. Good night."
"Mulder, wait." She stops him as he turns to leave, but she still can't quite meet his eyes. Whether she is ashamed or still pissed at him is anyone's guess. "There is one place I could use your assistance."
He follows her into her shadowed room. Her hair is dry but he can smell the remnants of her shower, citrus and flowers and warm humid air. She clears her throat as she retrieves some items from her bag. "The dressing has to be changed," she says, matter-of-fact, "and I can't reach it."
She gestures vaguely at her back, and for a moment he thinks she means the tattoo. But then he remembers the other picture, the one by her left shoulder blade – Jerse's angry red teeth marks in her white skin. He accepts the antiseptic cream and bandages, and Scully turns her back to him.
She drops the robe to her waist, and he crouches down slowly, flashlight in hand. He can just make out the top of the tattoo peeking out over the soft folds of cloth. The serpent's eye, blood red in the flesh, seems to wink at him. He can't help it. He drags the robe perhaps an inch lower so that he can see the entire thing. Scully stiffens but does not pull away. He can feel the tension radiating off her now, and finally he knows – it's anger she feels, not shame. She wants him to look.
The snake is a beautiful mixture of blue, yellow and green. But it is the red of course that stands out, both in the tattoo and around it. Scully's skin is as scorched and angry as she is. He lifts his hand to touch it, hovering so close he can feel her warmth. The snake shimmers, almost hissing as she trembles, and he backs away from the sting.
Wordlessly, he rises to inspect the other wound. She flinches when he removes the old bandage but stands stoic and silent while he applies the ointment and redresses her injury. There are other marks, too, bruises that might have come from the attack or maybe from the evening before. He shifts his light away so he can't see them. "You're all set," he says, and she draws up the robe.
She nods a little but does not thank him. He thinks of Jerse's tattoo, never again, and Scully's, which suggests the futility of such a plea. If he doesn't figure out how they ended up here, they might find themselves back again, and maybe next time they do not survive the experience.
"I'm sorry," he says near her doorway.
She fixes him with a hard stare. "For what?"
And he swallows because he does not know the answer.