Wait.
Had he been driving?
His eyes snapped open and he flew upright in the seat. A kaleidoscope of colors exploded in his vision and he groaned.
When his vision cleared, he dropped his head into his palms and waited for the merciless pounding to stop. It didn't, and he stopped hoping.
At least the car didn't appear to be damaged. His last memory was that of a blinding flash and the almost certain knowledge that they were headed for the tree... but the tree was a good five feet away. Close call. He was grateful; the last thing he needed to do was fill out yet another report to Skinner.
But when he looked over to Scully, he forgot about being grateful. He forgot how to breathe.
She was slumped over in the seat, a cascade of hair obscuring her face from his view... but thankfully, the strands in front of her mouth were moving with each of her long, steady, deep breaths. She was asleep... just asleep.
He checked her pulse just in case, but it was strong and regular.
He remembered how to breathe himself and set about getting them back to DC.
He hadn't so much as moved an inch in reverse when he realized that the odd angle of the car was not due to the terrain, but instead to a flat tire.
Son of a bitch.
This was turning into a really shitty day.