She wakes to the sound of sunflower husks cracking on the tip of his tongue, papers being shuffled and turned, the occasional sigh.
The clock next to the bed reads 1:17 a.m., and it takes her a moment to remember why she's not in her own room. Her stomach does an uncomfortable flip to prove the point.
"Did I wake you?" Mulder is looking over at her from the table at the foot of the bed.
"No…no, I was dreaming."
"Anything interesting?"
"I can't remember," she murmurs. It's a lie, albeit a small one. There were lights, and faceless men, and a cold, surgical steel table beneath her back. Her subconscious fills in the blanks.
"Any new insights?" she asks, eager to change the subject.
He doesn't answer, distracted, frowning at the crime scene photos before tossing them on top of the stack. He runs a hand through his hair and down to cup the back of his neck, all restless energy, before standing and making his way to the bed.
"Mulder?" she prompts, easing herself to a sitting position. It hits her again, the sensation of being tossed about on a ship in rough sea, and she breathes through her nose until the vertigo subsides.
"It can wait until you feel better."
She sighs. "Mulder, I'm...I'm fine. It's just a virus."
"Sure you don't want me to call someone?"
She shakes her head, tries to ignore the way it makes the world swim as he sits beside her. He won't meet her eyes. "Mulder…what is it? What aren't you telling me?"
He chews his lip, picks at a spot on his jeans. "I booked our flights out," he says finally. "Tomorrow."
"What?" she balks. "But we're not even close to being done. We can't just leave—"
"I meant it," he continues, still frowning at his lap. "Seven years…it took us being here for me to see how little progress we've made. And the cost…it's time, Scully. I can't watch you sacrifice anything else."
She takes a shuddery breath, wondering if it's anger or love that quickens her heart. He's studying her face for signs of reproach, but she finds she doesn't have the energy to do more than take his hand with a sigh.
"I need you to promise me something," she whispers. "Whatever the cost…we make that choice together."
There's something distant in his eyes, but it's gone before she can place it.
"I promise," he murmurs, leaning forward to grace her lips with a kiss, before pressing his forehead to hers.
"Careful," she sniffs, annoyed by her own frailty. "You'll get sick."
"I'll take my chances," he smiles, breath fanning her upper lip as he kisses her once more, drawing a hand over her cheek. "Get some rest."
"You should, too," she yawns.
"Don't worry about me, Scully," he says, returning to the table, a wry smile on his lips. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."
Her stomach lurches, a chill creeping up before she can rationalize it away as the dream comes back to her in startling detail.
But it isn't her lifeless body on the cold steel table this time.
She opens her mouth to say something, to warn him, but nothing comes out. It's just a dream, after all.
"Scully? You OK?"
"Fine," she says automatically. "I'm fine."
You're tired, she chides herself, pulling the covers to her chin. She forces her eyes shut, willing away a wave of nausea and the sudden, inexplicable feeling of dread that's taken root in her stomach.
She doesn't sleep for a long time.