Mulder blinked, his vision swimming as he struggled to orient himself. His head pounded from the blow, and for a moment, the room was an unfamiliar blur. Panic surged through him as reality clawed its way back — he was still draped over Scully. Her face, streaked with tears, sent a sharp jolt of terror through his already-frayed nerves.
"God," he muttered, scrambling off her as fast as he could. His hands shook as he grabbed for his discarded clothes, pulling his shirt over his head and yanking his pants back on. The familiarity of the motion gave him a sliver of control in a situation that felt otherwise impossible to manage. Once dressed, he quickly grabbed the blanket from the floor and carefully draped it over Scully's exposed body, his mind barely registering the blood that had pooled around her lower body.
But there was no escaping the guilt that tightened around his chest, choking him. He couldn't even bring himself to say anything. The whirlwind of emotions—shock, disgust, shame—twisted inside him, and for a brief moment, it threatened to overwhelm him.
He needed to focus. He needed to get them out of there.
Mulder scanned the room frantically, looking for anything their captors might have left behind. Keys, weapons, something—anything. His hands fumbled around the edges of the bed and the dresser, but he found nothing. The door, as he tried it again, was still locked. He pounded his fist against it, stifling the frustrated growl in his throat. They couldn't know he was awake.
His gaze flicked back to Scully. She hadn't spoken, still restrained by the handcuffs. Her small, fragile movements—the shallow rise and fall of her chest—were the only signs she was conscious at all. The sight of her like that, vulnerable and hurt, made Mulder's heart break in ways he wasn't prepared for.
"Scully," he whispered, his voice hoarse as he knelt beside her. "I'm gonna get you out of here, okay?"
She shifted, curling away from him as much as the restraints allowed, pulling her knees to her chest beneath the blanket. The sight of her retreating from him—turning her back, trembling—was a gut punch. His heart felt like it was being torn apart.
"God, Scully, I'm so sorry," he whispered, the words barely audible as he fought the tightness in his throat. His hand hovered over her, longing to offer comfort, but he hesitated, unsure if she'd even want him near her right now.
Scully didn't respond. She didn't acknowledge him at all. Her body language, the way she curled up so small, clearly shut him out. And Mulder understood. He hated himself for not being able to protect her from what they'd been through. The silence between them was thick with unspoken anguish, filled with everything he couldn't say.
Mulder clenched his fists, standing and pacing the room. He had to find a way out. He couldn't just sit there, powerless. The walls felt like they were closing in, the room itself a prison in every sense. He pressed his forehead against the cold wall, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to think past the panic clawing at him.
After a long moment, he turned back to Scully. "I'm going to find a way out of here," he said softly, though he wasn't sure if she was even listening. He needed to say it, needed to promise her something—anything.
But time had become meaningless in that suffocating room. He didn't know how long they had been trapped in that haze of fear and helplessness when the door suddenly exploded open with a deafening crash. Mulder jolted upright, instinctively shielding Scully with his body as heavily armed officers stormed the room.
"Clear!" one of them shouted, his weapon raised, sweeping the area with military precision.
And then, through the chaos, Skinner emerged. His face was set in stone, his voice cutting through the room as he barked orders with the intensity of a man who had spent the last agonizing hours scouring every inch of the city to find them. "Get a medic in here, now!" he yelled, his eyes scanning the scene with grim focus.
Mulder, still disoriented, stumbled to his feet. "Scully… she's hurt," he choked out, pointing to where she lay on the bed, still curled up, barely responsive.
Within moments, paramedics rushed in, one of them swiftly cutting through the handcuffs while the others began assessing her condition with swift, practiced efficiency. The sight of them working over her made Mulder feel like he was drowning. He couldn't protect her. He couldn't even help her.
Skinner approached Mulder, his expression dark but steady. "What happened here?" he asked, though his tone was softer than his usual bark.
Mulder swallowed hard, trying to force the words out. "They—they forced me to hurt her." His voice broke, the confession falling heavy in the room. Guilt and shame weighed down every syllable.
Skinner's eyes darkened, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. But it wasn't directed at Mulder; it was aimed at those who had done this. He took a deep breath, his voice low and resolute. "We'll get them," he promised. "But right now, we need to get you both to safety."
Mulder nodded weakly, his gaze never leaving Scully as the paramedics continued to work on her, carefully loading her onto a stretcher. Her breathing was shallow, her skin pale and fragile, but she was alive. That single fact was the only thing keeping him from collapsing under the weight of it all.
As the flashing lights of the police vehicles and ambulances bathed the room in harsh colors, the cacophony of radios and orders echoed around Mulder like background noise. But none of it mattered. The only sound that mattered to him was Scully's ragged, uneven breathing, a reminder of how broken they both were—and how far they had to go to ever feel whole again.