Mulder took his coat off and draped it around Scully as he led her out of the house to their rental car. She pulled it close to her chest, allowing Mulder to keep a protective arm around her; thanking the God whom he always questioned that he was there with her, that he had made it in time. She'd given her statement when she pulled away from Mulder, her tears subsiding, and her usual iron-clad mask of emotions was replaced. Mulder listened intently, impressed that she had been unwavering in her account of what had happened. They took the cords from the floor and he undid the cloth from around her neck and placed it in an evidence bag. She allowed her more glaring injuries on her face and wrists to be photographed and documented by a paramedic and crime scene photographer. She stood stock-still, her arms held out in silent compliance as they worked quickly. The process was mercifully short. Mulder opened the door for her and she realized that he'd asked Agent Bocks to come out and crank the car. A rush of pleasantly warm air hit her as she sank into the passenger's seat. Mulder walked around and climbed in, "Is it too warm, are you comfortable?" She nodded, "It's alright, feels good." He smiled at her and reached for the back seat, "Rescued your suitcase, and your purse." She sniffled, "Thank you, Mulder," she said, her voice still small and quiet. He pulled out onto the road in front of the house, she didn't want to look at it; didn't want the image burned into her mind. There was plenty there for her to deal with already without adding more to the mix. They drove along in near-silence for several minutes. The only sound was the road noise and the low voices on whatever late-night sports talk radio show Mulder had managed to find. "You did great with your statement, Scully," he ventured, "I don't know many 20-year agents who could've handled that." She said nothing, just kept her eyes forward, staring off into the night. "Where are we going, Mulder?" She asked. "I got us a flight out, but it doesn't leave until tomorrow at 2:15; I talked to Skinner, and filled him in already. I got us some rooms for tonight, you need to rest." She shifted in the seat, her arms crossed protectively across her chest as she leaned over. He rested a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle and reassuring squeeze, "Glad you're still with me, partner." He saw her look up at him, clearly touched, and pretended not to see a few tears stream down her face before she could wipe them away.
They eased into the parking lot of a small motel, Mulder had planned for a late arrival. Scully was unaware of the time, her mind wandering and lost in the events of the previous few hours. She was struggling to find her center; to regain control as her mind ran through every horrible thing that had happened to her in the past few months like some sadistic scrapbook. Duane Barry's rough hands, her missing memories of her abduction and not knowing what had been done to her, Donnie Pfaster's violent delights...all of it battered her defenses in waves. Mulder helped her from the car, noticing her wince and limp slightly as he grabbed her overnight bag from the back. She stumbled and he caught her with his free hand, allowing her to steady herself, "Scully, you're hurt. You're sure you don't need a doctor? I can take you to the-" She only pulled into him, "No, no, no more hospitals for a while, ok? Please. You can help me though, there should be a small first-aid kit in my overnight bag." He nodded, "Let me help you inside then, here, I've got you." He insisted and let her lean on him as he walked her to her room. He felt her, she was tense, he knew that the initial shock was wearing off and that the pain from the wreck and the fight were likely beginning to set in. He switched on the lights and heard her hiss as she slipped off his coat and her blazer. She started unbuttoning her blouse as he set her things on the bed, he noticed that her hands were shaking and in one motion he was in front of her, her hands in his. "Let me help, I won't look, promise." She looked down at her feet and let her hands fall to her sides. He kept his eyes over her head, looking at a cheap replica of a Van Gogh on the wall. He felt the last button pop free, and she replaced a hand to keep her shirt close around her, "Thank you," she muttered quietly. "You're welcome," he smiled, "Are you hungry? I don't think anything will be open this late, but there's a vending machine." She nodded, "A little bit, I'll need to eat with any pain meds I'll need to take. I'm thirsty, I need some water, a soda, anything to get the cotton taste out of my mouth, please." He nodded towards the bathroom, "Go, take a shower, I'll be right back, ok?"
Scully let the warm water cascade over her, feeling every cut and every scrape as the water rained down on her. She wanted to scrub Donnie Pfaster off forever, to take his obsessive touch away. She wished that she could wash away the bruising that was darkening all over her body. She hadn't allowed herself to look in the mirror yet; she was afraid of what she might see. She knew that there was a large scrape on her chin, that much she could feel, and a cut on her forehead that must run deeper than she realized; she found it and a knot on the side of her head when she was shampooing her hair. She touched it and winced in pain, it was tender. She stood in the shower in the bright, fluorescent light of the bathroom. She wasn't aware that she had begun to cry, her tears mingled with the hot water and the steam; the fear and dread of the ordeal tempered with the relief that she was alive, and that now, she was safe. Her sobs were quiet; a mixture of silent joy and the overwhelming realization of what could've been. She prayed, thanking God in the shower for sparing her. She wept until her soft sobs gradually subsided into small hiccups. She opened her palms and looked down at her wrists, turning each one over to inspect them over-and-over again. The skin was raw and torn, the water burned it, both them and the backs of her hands were spotted with bruises. She dared to glance down at her bare ankles. They were the same, torn, aching where they had been bound. She noticed that there was a thin line of blood that had run down into one of her shoes, and found the culprit; a deep, pitted gouge torn into her left knee. When she bent down to look at it, pain shot through her ribcage; a sudden, stabbing pain. "Cracked or bruised ribs," she thought, her medical expertise taking over as usual, "Gotta be." She held an arm protectively at her side and leaned against the wall of the shower until the pain subsided. She turned off the water and stepped out. The motel had oversized towels and she wrapped one around her after she dried herself off. She towel-dried her hair carefully, trying in vain to avoid the goose-egg on the side of her head. She dared to look at herself in the mirror as she wiped away the fog; she was right, her chin and hairline looked bad, she even had a long bruise running around her right eye. She looked every bit the part of a "battered-housewife;" seen on billboards and those cheaply-produced PSAs on television. Her entire torso was splashed with deep mottled bruises, all the way down to her hips and thighs. Her back and shoulders hadn't fared much better. She noticed a series of large scrapes on her right shoulder and elbow, no doubt from that nasty fall down the stairs. She noticed a bruising pattern in the shape of a handprint around her arm from where he had pulled her from the closet. She cupped a hand and sipped some water from the sink, swilling it around to get rid of the dryness in her mouth. She pulled herself away from the mirror, wrapped the oversized towel around herself, and ventured out into her room. Mulder was there, sitting in a chair at the small round table, a comically large assortment of snacks and a few cold drinks in front of him. She cocked an eyebrow at him as he shrugged, "I didn't know what you wanted, so I got one of everything…" he said. He cracked open a Diet Coke and handed it to her as she eased down on the bed. She groaned as she sat, her bruised ribs making their presence well-known, "Thanks, I need your help before we get too comfortable," she said, almost breathlessly, "That kit is in my bag, can you get it and pull your chair up here?" He moved quickly, suddenly aware that she was in more pain than he realized. He did as he was bid, and began to roll up the sleeves of his white shirt. He had turned the thermostat up in the room while she showered; it was now comfortably warm. She gripped at the towel and held it close around her, making sure it was tucked in before she let go. Mulder pulled a new tube of antibiotic ointment out of the bag, some rolls of gauze and sterile padding, a small pair of scissors, and alcohol swabs. She rested both of her hands on her lap as he sat in front of her and reached for one of her wrists first. "Shit!" she cursed and bit her lip as the alcohol pad touched them, the stinging sensation ran deep. She only grunted when Mulder cleaned the other one, better braced for the feeling, "I can tell you were a Navy brat." he grinned as he worked. She looked down at him quizzically, tendrils of her damp hair falling into her eyes, "What makes you say that?" He chuckled, "You give the appearance of a lady, but have the mouth of a sailor…" She allowed herself to laugh for the first time that night, it was quiet, more of an amused scoff; but he saw one corner of her mouth turned up in a half-smile, and he knew he could start dismantling the carefully constructed wall brick-by-brick.
His large hands were surprisingly light in their touch. She admired how he applied the ointment so deftly, gently turning her small hands in his as he wrapped them lightly in gauze. "You have doctor's hands, Mulder; you might've missed your calling." She said as she watched him, sipping slowly at the cold can in her hands. He didn't move from his task, she eased the towel up over her knee and gripped his shoulder tightly, hissing through her teeth as the alcohol swab ran over the deep-seated gouge missing from her knee. "I know, I know this one hurts," he said, "I'm sorry." She let out a pained breath, feeling relief as he carefully wrapped it. He examined her legs, "Did you sprain anything, you think?" She shook her head, "No, I don't think I did; some deep bruising is likely on that knee and shin, that and the knee explain why the limp is there. I think I slammed it into the steering column when I ran off the road." He moved his attention to the reddening scrape on her chin, he lifted her head gingerly with two fingers. "Airbag?" he asked, his hazel eyes full of pain and worry in the soft light of the motel room. She had been afraid to look him in the eyes; afraid that she would fall apart when she saw them. They were the eyes of someone who had grown to know her so well, someone who cared deeply for her and she for him, eyes that she trusted above all others. She nodded, meeting his curious gaze, "Yeah, the powder burned me a bit." He smiled sadly, his eyes showing a moment of intensity when his hazel ones met the steely blue of her own. His hand moved to her cheek, a thumb running across the blackening part beneath her eye, "How's it look?" she ventured, her voice trying to hide the emotion building in her chest. He smiled, the same crooked smile that he made when either of them cracked a joke with the other or at the other's expense, "Like you won the title fight, Scully, like you won the whole thing; gonna start calling you Scully Holyfield." He moved back to applying ointment gently on her chin, his fingertips feather-like on her damaged skin. He brushed her hair behind her ear gently as he moved to the cut in her hairline. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard as Mulder ran the cool swab over her forehead. He kept making small-talk as he ministered to her, "Wanna talk about it?' She kept her eyes closed, feeling relaxed under his touch. "You heard me give my statement, Mulder…" she started as he politely cut her off, "I did hear it, but that's not really talking about it," She sighed and opened her eyes, and found him looking directly into hers, "If you don't want to, that's ok too. I knew this case was getting under your skin, I saw it, and I didn't push too hard. I feel responsible; I should've pushed you away, no matter how badly it burned you." She looked down at the can in her hands, her thumb running absentmindedly over the lip of it. She wanted to shut down like she always did, to push it all out of her mind and maintain the trademark stoicism that she was known for. It served her well in medicine, but now she questioned how well it would serve her in the FBI. Would it get her killed? Her voice was small, "Don't do that, Mulder," she started not looking at him. "Do what?" he asked. "Blame yourself," she said, looking up at him at last, her eyes troubled, "There's no blame or fault to hand out...none." His eyes narrowed, "What makes you say that?" She reached for his arm to squeeze it; reassurance as much for herself as for him, "Who could predict the plans of such a monstrous man, Mulder? How could anyone have known what would happen, that I'd find myself in this guy's crosshairs?" He cringed at that, she felt him tense. "And you know damn well that I would've only fought harder to stay if you'd tried to make me go…" she continued. "With everything that's happened to you in the past few months…" he ventured, she stopped him as he trailed off, his voice thick with emotion. "I didn't get a chance to tell you that I spoke to Karen Kossof back at the Bureau. I wanted to start working through some of this. Mom and Melissa have been hounding me about it on an almost daily basis. Missy seems to think that regression therapy is a good idea. This case troubled me enough that I felt like I should talk to someone." She trailed down his arm and put her hand in his, and felt him close slowly around it, his eyes never leaving her face. "Mulder," she started, "I didn't want you to know how badly this was bothering me, I didn't want you to worry." He tilted her chin up slowly, "Why?" his voice was almost a pained whisper. Her eyes were sad now, tears threatening to spill over, but her voice unwavering, "They told me how you were when I was in the hospital, and when you were looking. Mom and Missy told me that you were broken, so desperate, that you didn't sleep or eat. That's why I didn't want to let you know, I don't want to put you through that again, Mulder, I can't." He sighed deeply, and pulled Scully's hand to his chest, pulling her into a soft embrace. She held onto him, clinging to his shirt, a hand resting gently at the nape of his neck, her tears flowing freely onto his white shirt, her damp hair brushing against him. He held her carefully as she cried softly, eyeing the bruises on her back as he eased away from her. She managed an embarrassed laugh as they broke apart, "I guess I should get dressed," she said as she braced against him to stand, "Don't go far, ok?" He let her steady herself before he left, "I'm going to get you some ice for that eye, I'll be right back." Her hand moved to touch where it was turning black, it was tender to the touch "That bad, huh?" He grinned over his shoulder as he opened the door, "It's a nice shiner! I told you, I'm gonna start calling you 'Scully Holyfield."