TRIGGER WARNING*TRIGGER WARNING*TRIGGER WARNING

Reference to rape(non-descriptive)

Descriptive language of physical violence and injuries

I don't own Scully, Mulder, The X Files, AirOne or FirstCom so none of this is for money or fame - it's for me and for you and for fun!

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Driving to the hospital was nearly as disastrous as the gut-wrenching exit she'd pulled at the house. The tears fell like torrential rains, blurring her vision to near-blindness until she lost count of how many horns had blared to bring her back to task.

Were there even words that existed to describe the enormity of her emotions? She seriously doubted it. Guilt. Shame. These were simply too small, not painful enough, not anything compared to the self-loathing she felt at the moment. All those months, all that time thinking she had moved them on. So much time wasted so stupidly blind to Mulder's struggle.

What kind of love was that? What kind of love let a woman become so focused on everything else but the man she cared for the most in life? She fought so damn hard to go back to work after her recovery, desperately needing to return to normal and convincing herself that she was trying to spare him more pain. If he'd known how wrecked she had really been it would have driven him mad. He'd go crazy trying to fix it, to save her from herself. He didn't need that, right?

But that wasn't it at all. It wasn't about being fine. It was about Mulder – but not about sparing him from fixing her once again. It was about not telling him the truth. The truth about what he saw in the tiny room. The truth about why he found her in the condition he had.

Finally arriving at the hospital, she did what she'd been doing for the last year – she let the sounds and the smells override her memories and put every brain cell to work focusing on the health and well-being of her patients. On a good day, she could almost convince herself that she was back to normal.

But this was not to be one of those days.

Scully drove home in silence, one hand on the steering wheel while she tried unsuccessfully to rub away the pounding in her head with the other. The shift had passed without incident, almost without her even realizing time passing at all. Everything was unconscious habit. Work, driving, and the kneading fingers – nothing took a force of will anymore. She was on autopilot twenty-four-seven. She had become very good at not feeling anything at all, determined to keep the pain away.

But pain came anyway, her head constantly feeling like it was a pressure cooker. Post-shift headaches had become the new norm. So had pre-shift headaches, mid-shift headaches, all-the-damn-time headaches - she couldn't remember the last time she hadn't had jack-hammers between her ears.

Massaging her temple, she absently thought about how much she missed music. Strange, since she couldn't remember the last time she noticed it anywhere. She couldn't recall even hearing it in the lobby at the hospital. God, what a pitiful existence she was leading.

But she did miss music. She did miss the concertos. Bach's Brandenburg Concertos had been her favorite since childhood. She used to listen to them all the time. They calmed her - steadied her. Mulder had even given her the complete collection once for her birthday. But that was before.

With a jolting stab of familiarity, the scars on her ankles and wrists began to burn and the thudding in her head intensified. The left side of her face went numb. Flashes of light danced in front of her eyes with fragments of horrible memories that wouldn't stay hidden. Sweat began beading on her forehead and under her arms. Her tongue became a beached whale inside her mouth and she white-knuckled the steering wheel with both hands.

No. No, not again. Not now. She swallowed back the bile rising in her throat and tried to push back the panic, but the wave came crashing over her. Suddenly she slammed back into the driver's seat, the terror taking hold, the darkness covering her like an ominous fog and sending her back into hell.

He was in front of her, looming over her like Satan himself. The rotten stench of the hell-hole that was her dungeon filled her nostrils, grit from the dirt floor covering her body.

He was inching closer, grotesque and vile and covered in filth and she knew he was going to rape her again. Panic rose like a geyser inside her chest - she tried to scream. A stifled, barely audible gurgle trickled out that could just as well have come from miles away.

She struggled against the bonds around her wrists and ankles, the ligatures cutting deeper with every pull – always fighting frantically to escape the horror above her. She knew he would make her pay for it but instinct wouldn't let her lay there and wait for the unimaginable.

His face an inch from hers, his rank breath threatening to eat away her skin, he let out a deafening howl and swung his fist like a wrecking ball, hitting her square in the gut. The breath rushed out of her lungs like a burst balloon as she flew against the far wall of the tiny room.

Through the nausea and pain, his gravelly whisper floated in her ears.

"Give it up, bitch...you got nothing left...your boyfriend is dead."

Her eyes shot open, anger and hatred filling every centimeter and she glared at the devil. Fighting the pain, she struggled to her knees and squared her shoulders as best she could.

"Fuck you!" she screamed, loud enough this time that it filled the room as he back-handed her face and sent her crumbling to the floor.

He spit on her and threw something hard and metallic. It hit just below her left eye, slicing deep into the flesh and making both tear ducts go into overdrive. Through the blinding pain, she saw the projectile on the floor in front of her.

The familiarity cut through her chest. The Michael Kors watch was unmistakable. Stainless steel links, the deep blue and silver - she could just make out the world map etched in the face. Reaching for the watch, her bound hands trembling, she fingered the face and turned it over. Through the tears and the hazy fog of pain, she read the engraving on the back -

'There is always hope.

Forever yours

Scully'

Ragged sobs choked in her throat and her hands clutched the time piece. The devil gave her another swift attack, his filthy boot crashing across the left side of her face, sending her into the quiet dark of unconsciousness.

Air One: AirOne – FirstCom.

FirstCom: FirstCom – AirOne go ahead.

AirOne: Enroute your location; estimated flight time 9 minutes with approximately 45 year-old female; single victim of two-vehicle MVC; patient's vehicle t-boned with roughly two feet intrusion to driver's side; positive airbag deployment and seat-belt; mechanical extrication required; patient unconscious at the scene and remains obtunded; large laceration to left forehead; multiple abrasions and bruising to left side of torso and extremities; bleeding controlled; suspect internal injuries and possible closed head but unable to determine at this time; patient packaged with full c-spine precautions; bilateral 16 gauge IV's running normal saline; O2 at 15 liters via non-rebreather; EKG and current vitals stable and being transmitted at this time; suggest Trauma Team alert and requesting transport assistance at the helipad upon arrival; over.

FirstCom: Copy you AirOne; Trauma Team on alert; see you in 9; FirstCom out.