Mulder sat in the sterile, too-bright waiting room of the ER, surrounded by the low hum of activity but barely registering any of it. The place was swarming with agents, their faces a blur as they moved through the room, talking in low voices, coordinating efforts. He couldn't focus on any of them. His mind was somewhere else—still trapped in that room, still reeling from what had happened.
Scully had been rushed directly to surgery. That much he knew. Everything after felt like a fog, like he was wading through molasses. He stared numbly at his hands, covered in faint smudges of dried blood, unsure how much of it was his own. The adrenaline had long since faded, leaving behind only exhaustion and a gnawing pit of guilt.
He didn't even notice Skinner until he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Mulder," Skinner said, his voice measured but edged with concern. "You need to get checked out."
Mulder blinked up at him, his eyes hollow. "Where is Agent Scully? Can she go home soon?"
Skinner took a deep breath, glancing toward the double doors leading deeper into the hospital. "She's still in surgery."
"Surgery?" Mulder's voice cracked, fear cutting through the fog that had dulled his senses.
Skinner hesitated for a moment before answering, choosing his words carefully. "The doctors... they thought it would be best to repair the vaginal tearing. It's too extensive to let it heal on its own. She'll need to spend the night for observation."
Mulder's world collapsed a little more. The full weight of Scully's injuries hit him like a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless. He dropped his head into his hands, unable to process it all.
Skinner crouched down slightly, making sure Mulder could hear him through the haze of shock. "Mulder, you've got to let them take a look at you. That cut on the back of your head—it's deep, it needs stitches. And we need to figure out what drug they gave you. It could still be in your system."
Mulder shook his head weakly, still staring at the floor. "I'm fine."
"Mulder, you're not fine." Skinner's tone was firmer now, but laced with concern. "You've been unconscious for who knows how long. That hit to your head isn't just a scrape. You need to get checked out."
"I'm not leaving," Mulder muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I need to be here when Scully wakes up."
Skinner glanced around the room, taking in the sight of his disoriented agent, pale and trembling. "I know you want to be here for her," he said, softening his tone. "But you can't help her if you're collapsing from a head injury—or if that drug is still affecting you. Just let the medics take care of you while we wait."
Mulder was silent, his gaze unfocused as he stared down at his hands. Agents moved in and out of the room, but Mulder barely registered them.
"Look," Skinner continued, crouching beside him, "you don't have to go anywhere. You can stay right here. Just let them take a look. The cut needs stitches, and they'll draw blood, make sure you're clear of whatever they dosed you with."
There was a long, tense silence. Mulder's jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists as he tried to hold onto what little control he had left. Slowly, he nodded, though his voice remained flat. "Fine. But I'm not leaving. I need to be here when she wakes up."
Skinner studied him for a moment, seeing the pain and determination etched across his face. He sighed, knowing there was no convincing Mulder to leave. "Alright," he said quietly. "But promise me, once this is over, you'll take the help we're offering. Both of you need it."
Mulder didn't respond, his mind still on Scully, still waiting for her to come through those doors.
The soft hum of machines filled the quiet hospital room, their steady rhythm both reassuring and unsettling. Skinner sat in the lone chair beside Scully's bed, his large frame hunched slightly as he watched her sleep. The machines surrounding her—the heart monitor, the IV drip—seemed daunting, cold reminders of the trauma she had endured. He felt out of place here, unsure of what to do or say, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her side.
What would he even say to her when she woke up? What words could possibly convey the sympathy he felt, the guilt for not getting there sooner, the anger at what had been done to her? He stared at her face, pale but peaceful in sleep, and prayed she would find her way back from this.
The door creaked open suddenly, pulling Skinner from his thoughts. Mulder stepped into the room, his movements careful, though he looked as though he could barely stand.
"Mulder," Skinner said, rising from his seat, his voice low but firm. "What are you doing here? You should be in bed. You heard the doctors—you've got a concussion."
Mulder shook his head, his face pale and drawn, eyes tired but resolute. "I need to be here when she wakes up," he said quietly, his gaze fixed on Scully. "She'll be scared if she wakes up alone."
Skinner took a deep breath, seeing the exhaustion and distress in Mulder's face. He couldn't fault him for wanting to be there for Scully, but he also knew Mulder was running on fumes. The weight of everything that had happened was pressing down on both of them, but Mulder looked like he might collapse at any moment.
Skinner's tone softened, empathy cutting through his usual sternness. "Sit down, at least," he said, gesturing to the chair. "You can't help her if you fall over."
Mulder hesitated, his eyes flickering between Scully and the chair, before nodding slightly. He stepped closer, and Skinner moved aside, offering him the seat beside her bed. Mulder lowered himself into the chair with a quiet groan, his body betraying just how battered he was.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Skinner stood nearby, arms crossed, watching as Mulder reached out to gently brush a stray lock of hair from Scully's forehead. His hand lingered for a second before he pulled it back, his jaw tight, eyes full of unspoken anguish.
Skinner cleared his throat, not wanting to intrude on the quiet moment but feeling compelled to say something. "Mulder," he said, his voice low, "I know you want to be here for her, but you've got to take care of yourself, too. She'll need you when she wakes up—and you won't do her any good if you're out cold with a concussion."
Mulder nodded but didn't look away from Scully. "I'll be fine," he murmured. "I just need to be here. When she wakes up… she can't wake up alone."
Skinner sighed, understanding Mulder's resolve. There was no point in arguing. He stood there for a moment longer, watching them both, then turned to leave. "Alright," he said quietly. "But if you feel anything—dizzy, sick—you call for a doctor. Don't try to tough it out."
Mulder gave a slight nod, but his attention was already back on Scully, his hand resting gently on the bed beside her. Skinner paused at the door, glancing back at the two of them before stepping into the hallway, leaving Mulder where he wanted to be—by her side, ready to face whatever came next together.
Scully blinked slowly, her eyes struggling to adjust to the harsh hospital lights that filtered through the room, their sterile glow a sharp contrast to the haze she felt in her mind. The steady, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor punctuated the silence, a reminder of where she was. Her vision swam for a moment, blurry and unfocused, and she winced as the sharp, clinical scent of antiseptic filled her senses.
Her body felt heavy, weighed down by the lingering effects of sedation, but as her awareness sharpened, so did the grim reality of why she was there. The tug of the IV line in her hand grounded her, the sensation strangely foreign yet all too real. A deep ache blossomed in her chest—not just physical, but emotional, as the memories of what had happened began to surface, murky at first, but then all too vivid.
Her breath hitched involuntarily, and a wave of panic threatened to rise, tightening in her throat. She glanced around the room, searching, desperate for something familiar in the disorienting landscape of medical machinery and stark, sterile walls. Her eyes finally landed on Mulder, slumped in the chair beside her bed.
Relief mixed with something more complicated washed over her as she saw him there, his face pale and drawn with exhaustion. He looked utterly worn, as though the weight of the world had pressed him into the chair, his shoulders slumped and his eyes heavy with worry. But he was there. He was always there.
Mulder stirred slightly, sensing her movement. He tried to offer a reassuring smile, but it faltered as Scully's gaze moved past him, her face turning away. Her expression was unreadable, but the distance between them—the emotional chasm that now seemed to yawn wider than ever—hung heavy in the room. It was an unspoken pain, one that neither of them knew how to address, not yet.
Mulder's heart twisted in his chest, the silence between them more suffocating than the air in the room. He sat there, unsure, feeling the deep ache of helplessness settle into his bones. He wanted to say something, anything, to reach her, but the words stuck in his throat. He knew that whatever he said would only feel hollow, insufficient in the face of what they had endured. How could words even begin to bridge the gap between them now?
Scully's face remained turned away, her body tense, her silence speaking louder than anything she could have said. He understood why. He understood that she needed space, that the mere sight of him might bring back the memory of what they had been forced to endure. But that understanding didn't dull the sting of it. It didn't make it any easier to sit there, aching to comfort her, knowing he couldn't.
"I'm here," Mulder whispered, his voice barely audible, more to himself than to her. His hands rested on his knees, fingers gripping tightly as if to keep himself anchored. His exhaustion, his guilt, all of it threatened to pull him under, but he fought to stay present—for her.
In the sterile quiet of the room, the soft beeping of the machines filled the space, marking each slow, agonizing moment. Neither of them spoke, but the silence between them was thick with unspoken emotions—guilt, pain, fear—and the unbearable knowledge that no words could undo what had been done.
But despite it all, he stayed. Because no matter how wide the distance between them, he needed to be there for her, even if he couldn't fix it, even if she couldn't bear to look at him. He would wait. And when she was ready, he would be there.