In the days that followed, Mulder threw himself into the case with Fowley, his focus intense, almost obsessive. Every detail of the investigation became his escape, a means to drown out the emotional chaos that threatened to consume him. He worked late into the night, eyes bleary but unrelenting, sifting through evidence, running through theories, and collaborating with Fowley, who seemed disturbingly eager to maintain their professional momentum. Her presence, though familiar, was not comforting. It felt like a reminder of everything that had changed.
Despite his determination to stay immersed in the case, Mulder couldn't escape the shadows of his unresolved feelings. Every time he glanced at the empty chair across from him, he wished it were Scully occupying that space. He missed the sharpness of her intellect, the quiet strength of her intuition. Scully's ability to challenge him, to keep him grounded, had always been his anchor. Now, the void she left behind made everything feel disjointed. When Fowley spoke, her voice only heightened his sense of absence, and he found himself imagining Scully's counterpoints, her insights. The ache of her absence gnawed at him, and yet, he couldn't bring himself to confront the rift between them.
Meanwhile, Scully had made a conscious decision to distance herself from the tension surrounding Fowley and Mulder. Working with Reyes and Doggett on their current case was a reprieve, a way to avoid the complexities she wasn't ready to face. It was easier to throw herself into the work, analyzing evidence with clinical precision, her mind focused on the task at hand. But the distance she created came with its own sense of unease.
Scully felt the weight of separation, both from Mulder and from the emotional turmoil brewing beneath the surface. Though working alongside Reyes and Doggett provided her with a sense of purpose, it also deepened the growing chasm between her and Mulder. Guilt tugged at her, the knowledge that she was avoiding him gnawing at the edges of her thoughts.
Reyes, perceptive as always, noticed Scully's quiet demeanor and made an effort to engage her in conversation. One afternoon, as they sifted through files in a small conference room, Reyes looked over at Scully. "I know this isn't easy for you," she said gently, her voice filled with empathy. "But you're doing the right thing by focusing on this case. Just remember, you don't have to go through it alone."
Scully appreciated Reyes' support, but the words didn't quite sink in. No matter how much she tried to compartmentalize her emotions, Mulder's absence was a constant weight on her heart. She couldn't shake the memory of his concerned eyes after the incident, the way he had looked at her with a mix of fear and helplessness. It haunted her, knowing that she was the source of his pain and yet feeling powerless to make it right. Every time she thought about reaching out to him, a wave of uncertainty stopped her. How could she find the right words when her emotions were still tangled in knots?
In the evenings, Scully often found herself sitting in her apartment, staring at the phone with a knot in her stomach. Her hand would hover over the receiver, torn between the need to hear his voice and the fear of making things worse. She couldn't shake the image of Mulder working with Fowley, the woman she had long regarded with suspicion. It gnawed at her, adding a layer of frustration to the already complicated tangle of emotions. The distance between them felt insurmountable, and yet, she couldn't stop thinking about him.
Mulder, on the other hand, was acutely aware of the strain between them. Every moment of silence during the case became a painful reminder of what wasn't being said, of the unresolved issues they were both avoiding. He could feel the weight of his own silence pressing down on him, but he wasn't ready to break it. Fowley, sensing his distraction, tried to engage him in conversation, her attempts to reconnect as persistent as they were unwelcome. But Mulder kept his responses short, his focus laser-sharp, unwilling to let her in any more than he had to. It was Scully's voice he longed to hear, not Fowley's, and that realization only deepened the ache in his chest.
As the days passed, the tension between them—both in the field and in their hearts—continued to grow. Each agent was doing their best to navigate their separate paths, but the distance was undeniable. Mulder's relentless drive to finish the case was a thinly veiled attempt to ignore the emotional storm brewing inside him, while Scully's decision to work elsewhere provided only a temporary distraction from the pain of their separation.
Yet, beneath the surface, both Mulder and Scully knew the truth: the bond they had forged over years of shared experiences, trust, and unspoken understanding was unraveling. The weight of their unaddressed emotions was pulling them apart, piece by piece. Both were too stubborn—or perhaps too afraid—to confront it head-on. But no matter how hard they tried to distract themselves, they couldn't ignore the truth that lingered in every unspoken word, in every glance that didn't meet: they were missing each other. And neither one of them knew how to fix it.
Mulder sat in the car, staring blankly at the bar they were supposed to be watching, but his focus was miles away. Fowley was talking—something about a connection she'd made between their target and the case—but her words felt distant, like white noise. It all seemed flimsy to him, forced. The case, this stakeout, Fowley's presence—it was like he was trapped in someone else's routine, and his mind kept drifting back to Scully. The silence between them, the unspoken tension, the way everything had been spiraling out of control lately, weighed heavily on him.
He sighed, a deep, frustrated sound as he leaned back in his seat. The dimly lit street ahead seemed almost surreal, the neon lights of the bar flickering erratically and casting strange, fractured shadows on the pavement. Hours had passed with nothing to show for it. No movement, no leads—just the oppressive quiet and Fowley's voice, which only served to heighten his sense of disconnection.
"Something on your mind, Fox?" Fowley asked, her tone probing, but with a hint of that familiar curiosity she always carried.
Mulder grunted in response, not wanting to dive into whatever conversation she was angling for. "I need some air," he muttered abruptly, reaching for the door handle before she could press further.
He stepped out of the car, letting the cool night air wash over him, its crispness a brief relief from the suffocating atmosphere inside. The distant hum of the city seemed muted, and for a moment, Mulder welcomed the relative stillness. He didn't care if Fowley thought he was being reckless or disinterested—the case felt like a dead end anyway, and the last thing he needed was more time confined in that car with her.
As he walked down the block, Mulder tried to shake the frustration from his mind, but it clung to him, heavy and persistent. He passed by darkened storefronts, the faint glow of streetlights illuminating his path. Every time he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the windows, the same troubled expression stared back at him, a reminder of the mess he felt trapped in. His thoughts drifted to Scully once more—her distance, her silence, the way she'd avoided him for days. He couldn't blame her, but it left him feeling stranded, like he was losing his grip on something vital and didn't know how to stop it from slipping away.
Rounding the corner, Mulder came to a stop, leaning against the rough brick wall of an old building. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the coolness of the stone press into his back as he tried to still his racing thoughts. The truth gnawed at him—being out here with Fowley on this case, in this seemingly endless loop, wasn't helping. He wasn't solving anything. He wasn't making progress, either in the investigation or with Scully. The case felt like a distraction, but not the kind that numbed the pain. It was more like an excuse to avoid the inevitable.
Scully knew it, too. He could feel it in the way she'd pulled back, leaving him to deal with his guilt and confusion alone. And yet, here he was, going in circles—literally and figuratively—wandering the streets while his partner, the person who mattered most, slipped further away.
Mulder tilted his head back, staring up at the starless sky, his frustration bubbling to the surface. How had things gotten so complicated? A stakeout with Scully would've felt different—focused, purposeful, like they were in sync even in the quiet moments. But now, everything felt out of place. Being out here with Fowley only amplified the loneliness that had settled in his bones.
He kicked a stray pebble down the sidewalk, watching it skitter across the concrete before coming to rest against the curb. A hollow sense of helplessness tightened in his chest. He knew, deep down, that he had to talk to Scully. He couldn't keep avoiding the cracks in their relationship, couldn't pretend that things would just fix themselves with time. Whatever was happening between them, the distance, the pain—it was festering. Ignoring it wasn't going to make it disappear. If anything, it was only making things worse.
With a heavy sigh, Mulder pushed off from the wall, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he walked back toward the car. His mind was made up. He had to confront this—confront her. Because no case, no stakeout, no fleeting distraction was more important than finding a way back to her.
As Mulder's phone buzzed on the dashboard, vibrating softly, Diana Fowley shot a quick glance at it. The unexpected ring broke the silence in the car, and for a moment, she hesitated, her eyes flicking toward Mulder, who was focused on the dimly lit street ahead. With a hint of irritation crossing her features, she reached over and grabbed the phone without a second thought.
"Agent Mulder's phone, Diana Fowley speaking," she answered, her voice clipped and sharp, carrying the weight of someone who assumed she belonged in this position.
There was silence on the other end. An uncomfortable, lingering silence that made Fowley narrow her eyes in annoyance.
"Hello?" Fowley pressed, the edge in her tone hardening. "Is there someone there?"
Finally, a soft, hesitant voice came through the receiver, barely more than a whisper. "It's Dana Scully. Could I talk to Mulder, please?"
The vulnerability in Scully's voice was unmistakable, and Fowley immediately straightened in her seat, her expression shifting into something more calculating. She could sense Scully's fragility, the thin thread of emotion just beneath the surface. It was a moment that filled Fowley with a twisted sense of satisfaction, like she was holding an advantage Scully couldn't touch.
"Mulder's busy right now," she said, her tone measured and deliberately neutral, masking the smugness she felt. "Is this something urgent?"
A pause, longer this time. Fowley could almost hear the weight of indecision on the other end of the line, the silence stretching out as Scully hesitated.
"No," Scully replied finally, her voice even quieter now, as if she were pulling back into herself. "It's fine. Just tell him I called."
Fowley didn't miss the flicker of resignation in Scully's voice, that slight, almost imperceptible tremor that betrayed her emotional state. "Will do," she said quickly, her tone light, dismissive, before hanging up with a swift tap of the screen.
She placed the phone back on the dashboard with a quiet smirk, the satisfaction of controlling the moment still lingering. It wasn't urgent, Scully had said, so there was no reason to rush telling Mulder anything. She'd tell him later, maybe—if it seemed necessary. For now, it didn't seem to matter. Scully's vulnerability was tucked safely out of reach, and Fowley relished that small victory.
Mulder remained oblivious, his focus still on the empty street ahead, unaware of the missed connection.
Meanwhile, back at the hospital, Scully stood just outside the entrance of the emergency room, her phone still clutched tightly in her hand. The quiet hum of hospital machinery filled the background, the sterile scent of antiseptic lingering in the air even outside. She stared at the phone for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the conversation—or lack thereof—pressing down on her.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of soft footsteps approaching. Pat Micucci came up beside her, a look of concern etched on her face.
"Did you reach your partner, Agent Scully?" Pat asked gently, her voice carrying a warm, maternal tone.
Scully nodded, though her expression didn't change. "Yeah… I did," she said, though her voice was flat, almost as if the words carried no real weight.
Pat smiled sympathetically, her eyes softening as she watched Scully. Without warning, she reached up and began unwinding the bright, multicolored scarf from around her neck—a scarf so loud it almost seemed out of place in the drab hospital setting. She draped the garish fabric over Scully's shoulders with a delicate care, as though offering something far more precious than just a piece of cloth.
"Here you go, just until Agent Mulder gets here with your stuff. I wouldn't want you to get cold in those scrubs," Pat said kindly, patting the scarf into place around Scully's neck.
The scarf smelled faintly of lavender, its bold patterns a sharp contrast to the muted and oversized scrubs beneath. The gesture, however, was comforting, and for a moment, Scully felt a fleeting sense of warmth wrap around her, as if someone had physically anchored her to the present.
"Until then," Pat continued, her voice light but full of genuine concern, "the doctors here will take good care of you."
Scully looked up at Pat, managing a small, grateful smile. "Thank you," she whispered, though her mind remained miles away—still with Mulder, still trapped in the uncertainty of their fractured connection.
Pat gave her a reassuring nod before stepping back, leaving Scully to her thoughts.
At the same time, at FBI headquarters, the Lone Gunmen hurried down the hallway leading to Assistant Director Skinner's office, exchanging glances as they neared the guarded door. Langly was muttering something under his breath about this being a terrible idea, while Byers adjusted his tie nervously, though with a resolute expression. Frohike, ever determined, led the way, his eyes sharp with purpose.
As they reached the door, they didn't even bother to knock and bursted into the office, finding Skinner there despite the late hour.
Skinner, seated behind his desk with a stack of reports in front of him, looked up in utter disbelief. His expression shifted from irritation to full-blown anger at this blatant breach of security. He stood, his voice hard and commanding. "What the hell do you think you're doing? You can't just—"
Frohike raised his hands in a calming gesture, stepping forward quickly. "Sir, we wouldn't be here unless it was urgent."
Langly, who was usually more relaxed, looked as serious as Byers for once. "It's about Scully."
Skinner, already on edge from the tension swirling around Mulder and Scully's situation, shot them a wary look. "What about her?" he asked, his voice still harsh but with a touch of concern bleeding through.
Byers, always the diplomat, stepped forward, a folder clutched in his hand. "We received these—letters and a disturbing message on our answering machine. They're supposedly from Agent Scully." He placed the folder on Skinner's desk and glanced at Frohike to continue.
Frohike, grim-faced, set a small cassette tape down beside the letters. "It's her handwriting, her voice, but something's wrong."
Skinner looked at the tape and the letters, his frustration ebbing, replaced by confusion. He opened the folder, pulling out one of the letters. The handwriting was undeniably Scully's, but the content was startling—insults, accusations, all pointed at the Gunmen.
"'You're pathetic,'" Skinner read aloud from one letter, brows furrowed. "'I never trusted you, and I don't need your help.'" He looked up, bewildered. "This… this doesn't sound like Scully."
Byers shook his head vehemently. "It's not her. Agent Scully would never say something so hurtful, especially not to us. If she had an issue, she'd say it to our faces. We believe someone's trying to isolate her, and these letters—this tape—are part of that plan."
Skinner regarded them with narrowed eyes, his instincts telling him there was more to this than met the eye. He pressed a button on the small tape recorder on his desk, and the room filled with Scully's voice.
"You're a joke. I don't need you interfering in my life anymore. Stay out of it, or there will be consequences."
The words were mean, biting even, but her tone was measured almost monotonous.
Frohike crossed his arms, his expression dark. "That's not Scully. Sure, she's been under stress lately, but she would never talk to us like that, especially not on an answering machine."
Langly piped up, stepping closer to the desk. "We've been tracking this, AD Skinner. Someone is actively trying to cut her off, to make her seem untrustworthy or unstable. It's the only explanation for this sudden change."
Byers' voice was steady but filled with urgency. "Her connection to Mulder is already—"
"...gone," Skinner finished, realizing where this was headed. He sat back down, his face pale but resolute. He knew that Scully and Mulder's partnership had been hanging by a thread lately, and this might explain why. Something was pulling them apart.
Frohike leaned in, his voice quiet but firm. "No, sir. It's not gone. Mulder would never give up on her. You know that. But he can only help her if she hangs in there—if she isn't pushed too far."
The room fell silent for a moment. Skinner leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk, taking a long, deep breath. He understood now—the stakes were much higher than he'd thought. Someone was deliberately driving a wedge between them, and if they succeeded, Mulder and Scully's entire foundation could crumble.
Skinner glanced between the three of them, his voice steady but grave. "Whoever's behind this, they're playing a dangerous game." He paused, thinking it through. "What do you need from me?"
The Gunmen exchanged a glance before Byers spoke. "We need access. To the right databases, to records—anything that might help us trace the source of this sabotage."
Skinner nodded, his anger replaced by a fierce determination. "You'll get it. And I'll handle Mulder and Scully."
The Gunmen exhaled collectively, grateful for his support. They'd taken a risk barging into his office, but it had paid off. Now, they just had to move quickly—before whoever was behind this drove Scully and Mulder apart for good.
Early in the morning, the office was still, bathed in the soft, dim light of pre-dawn. The only sounds were the gentle hum of computers and the muffled echo of footsteps occasionally drifting down the hallway. Mulder sat at his desk, trying to focus, the glow of his computer screen casting a faint shadow over his furrowed brow. The case notes in front of him blurred as his thoughts drifted back to Scully—her recent absence and the growing distance between them weighed heavily on his mind.
He was pulled back to the present by the quiet scrape of a chair as Diana Fowley leaned against the edge of his desk, her presence uninvited but not surprising.
"Scully's really off her game lately," Diana remarked, her tone deceptively casual, but Mulder caught the thinly veiled criticism beneath it. "Her reports don't make any sense, and she didn't complete the analysis I asked for." She glanced at Mulder, gauging his reaction, the smugness in her expression unmistakable.
A surge of frustration flared in Mulder, his patience stretched thin, but he forced himself to keep his voice level. "You can ask someone else to handle that analysis," he replied, hoping to deflect the conversation. His eyes flickered back to his screen, a clear signal that he wasn't interested in engaging with her on this.
But Diana wasn't easily deterred. She crossed her arms, her lips curling into a smirk. "What good does it do having a pathologist on the team if she can't handle the workload?"
Mulder's jaw tightened. His fingers gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening as he fought the urge to snap back. The urge to defend Scully was overpowering, but he knew that engaging with Fowley in this moment would only make things worse. His mind raced, trying to form a response that would shut down the conversation without igniting an argument.
Just then, the sharp ring of his desk phone cut through the tense silence, a welcome interruption. Mulder reached for it, exhaling quietly as he lifted the receiver. "Mulder."
On the other end, Assistant Director Skinner's voice was unmistakably stern, his words clipped and urgent. "I want you in my office. Now. All three of you."
Mulder's heart skipped a beat, the gravity in Skinner's tone sending a ripple of unease through him. "Sir, what's this about?" he asked, trying to mask his concern.
Skinner's response was curt, leaving no room for questions. "I said now. And make sure Scully is there. I've been trying to get hold of her all morning, and she's not responding."
Mulder's eyes darted toward Diana, who was still watching him with that same smug expression, clearly sensing the tension but not fully aware of the growing urgency. He gave her a curt nod, rising from his chair, the weight of Skinner's cryptic command pressing down on him. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
As he hung up the phone, Mulder's thoughts immediately turned to Scully—why hadn't she answered Skinner? Why hadn't she checked in? And what was so important that Skinner was calling them all in so early?
Whatever was waiting for them in Skinner's office, Mulder knew it would be far more than just a routine meeting. The unease gnawing at his gut told him that things were about to get a lot more complicated, and the fragile balance of everything—his partnership with Scully, his dealings with Fowley, even the case they were working on—was about to be tested once again.
Scully stood in front of the washroom mirror, gripping the edge of the sink as she took a deep breath, trying to steady herself before the meeting with Skinner. The woman staring back at her from the mirror looked almost unrecognizable—pale, hollow-eyed, the exhaustion etched deep into her features. The light blue scrubs she wore hung loosely on her frame, several sizes too big, as if they only emphasized how much the last few days had taken from her. Her eyes were bloodshot, a visible testament to the sleepless night she'd just endured, filled with more than just work.
She splashed cold water on her face, hoping it would revive her, shake some of the fatigue from her bones. But the weight of everything—the cases, Mulder, the distance between them—clung to her like a heavy cloak. Grabbing a paper towel, she dabbed her face dry, her movements slow, methodical, as if by prolonging this simple routine, she could delay the inevitable confrontation awaiting her in Skinner's office.
The door swung open behind her, and Scully didn't have to turn to know who it was. Diana Fowley's presence seemed to fill the small space with a cold, clinical energy.
"Agent Scully," Diana greeted, her voice carrying that familiar, unsettling mix of false warmth and underlying condescension. "Good to see you. It's been a while. How have you been?"
Scully didn't respond immediately. She continued staring at her reflection, as if she could will herself to feel indifferent to Fowley's presence. The silence between them hung in the air, thick with unspoken tension. Scully knew Diana was looking her over, her eyes taking in every disheveled detail, from the oversized scrubs to the bloodstains that marred the fabric.
"An interesting outfit you're wearing," Diana added, her gaze lingering on the stains, her tone sharp and judgmental.
Scully could feel the weight of that scrutiny pressing down on her, but today it barely registered. Normally, a remark like that from Diana might have stung, but she was too drained, too emotionally spent, to care. She knew exactly what she looked like—worn down, bruised by the events of the past few days. The blood on her scrubs was a painful reminder of the night she'd spent. The toll of it, both physically and emotionally, was written all over her.
Diana's eyes flickered with something that almost resembled concern, though it was fleeting, quickly replaced by her usual cool professionalism. "You should hurry," she said, her tone shifting to businesslike efficiency. "Skinner's waiting for us."
Without waiting for a response, Diana turned and left, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she walked out, leaving Scully standing alone.
For a moment, Scully remained where she was, staring at her reflection again. She didn't recognize herself—not just the way she looked, but the way she felt inside. She had always prided herself on her resilience, her ability to push through anything, but today, she felt like she was fraying at the edges.
But there was no time for self-pity. She knew she couldn't delay any longer. Skinner had made it clear that this meeting was urgent, and as much as she dreaded whatever confrontation awaited her, she had to face it. She straightened up, squaring her shoulders and forcing herself to stand a little taller, though the exhaustion still weighed her down.
Taking one last deep breath, Scully walked out of the bathroom, bracing herself for what was to come. There was no running from it, no matter how worn down she felt. Whatever waited in Skinner's office, she would confront it head-on, just as she always did.
Skinner sat at his desk, shuffling papers to mask his irritation about the delayed start of the meeting, his agitation radiating through the small space though. The tension was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. Diana Fowley sat across from him, arms crossed in a display of casual indifference, her expression carefully calculated.
"She was right behind me, sir," Diana said smoothly, her tone almost too confident. "I'm sure she'll be here any second."
Skinner turned abruptly to face her, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. "You filed a formal complaint against Agent Scully," he stated flatly, no question in his voice, just cold confirmation.
Diana met his gaze without hesitation, her face a mask of composure. "I did. Her recent reports are sloppy and lack the necessary precision. She's compromising the integrity of this investigation."
Skinner's jaw tightened as he halted his pacing, fixing Diana with a hard look. "I reviewed those reports myself," he said, his voice steely, challenging her. "Aside from a typo on the word 'almost,' there was nothing in them that suggests any issue."
Diana didn't even blink. "A scientist shouldn't use the word 'almost,'" she replied coolly, her voice edged with superiority. "We need precision, especially with a case like this."
Before Skinner could respond, the door creaked open, and Scully walked in. She was breathless, visibly disheveled, her oversized scrubs clinging awkwardly to her slender frame. Her damp hair clung to her forehead, and faint traces of dried blood stained her sleeves, casting an eerie contrast against the light fabric.
"My apologies for being late," Scully muttered, her voice quiet as she entered the room, avoiding direct eye contact. She moved slowly, almost deliberately, taking her place behind Mulder and Fowley. With no chair available in front of Skinner's desk, she had to stand though. The exhaustion in her posture was unmistakable.
The room fell into an uncomfortable silence as everyone's gaze settled on her. Skinner's eyes widened slightly in shock; Mulder's face was a mix of confusion and concern. This wasn't the composed, controlled Scully they knew. The woman standing before them was visibly worn down, like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will.
Skinner, clearly taken aback, broke the silence first. "Agent Scully," he began, his voice unusually gentle, laced with concern, "what's wrong with you?"
Scully straightened a little, but still didn't meet his eyes. "I haven't had the time to change," she said, her voice soft but hollow, as if she were miles away from the present moment.
The air in the room felt heavy. Mulder stared at her, his worry deepening. He knew there was more going on than just her delay in changing clothes, and the sight of the bloodstains on her scrubs only intensified his unease.
Diana shifted slightly, her smugness momentarily faltering as she glanced from Scully to Skinner. But Scully didn't look at her, didn't acknowledge the tension in the room. She stood there, a shadow of her usual self, the weight of everything she had been through visible in the dark circles under her eyes.
The silence lingered, filled with the unspoken truth that whatever was happening with Scully was far more serious than anyone had anticipated.
Skinner's tone shifted from concern to incredulity as he continued, "I mean, why on earth are you here? AD Micucci and I have been trying to get hold of you all morning." His gaze hardened, his voice sharp with authority. "So has the Chief of Emergency at D.C. General Hospital."
Scully froze, her fingers gripping the edge of the chair in front of her, knuckles white. The already pale color of her face drained even further, leaving her looking almost ghostly. Mulder, who had been silently watching the exchange, now sat up straighter, alarm flashing across his features as his eyes darted between Skinner and Scully, trying to piece it together.
"D.C. General?" Mulder repeated, his voice low but thick with tension.
Skinner nodded grimly, his eyes boring into Scully. "Yes. Apparently, you left without being discharged. They've been trying to track you down, and now you show up here—" He gestured to her scrubs, the mismatched scarf draped around her neck. "Looking like this."
Scully's lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to respond, but no words came out. She lowered her gaze, unable to meet either Skinner's or Mulder's eyes, her silence louder than any explanation she could offer. Mulder's concern deepened, the worry etched into his brow as he studied her, searching for a reason—an answer—to why she was standing there in such a fragile state.
"Scully..." Mulder's voice was softer now, pleading rather than questioning. He rose from his chair, moving toward her slowly, his hand gesturing for her to take his seat. "Here, sit down," he offered gently, but Scully shook her head, taking a step back, instinctively retreating. The thought of his touch, even something as simple as his hand on the small of her back, seemed unbearable.
She put distance between them, and Mulder's face flickered with hurt—hurt that he tried to hide but couldn't fully suppress.
Watching the scene, Skinner exhaled sharply, then spoke, his voice lowering into something more measured, though still firm. "Agent Scully, AD Micucci and I are grateful for your service last night. I've read the reports—you did a hell of a job keeping Agent Miller alive during that explosion. But the Chief at D.C. General said you were injured too." His voice softened, concern creeping in. "He mentioned a broken arm, Scully. You need to be treated. Properly."
Mulder, sensing something deeper, something far more troubling than just a physical injury, took a step closer, his voice softening even more. "Scully, come on... sit down. Please."
Her eyes remained fixed on the world outside, on something far away, unreachable. "If I sit down," she whispered, her voice raw and strained, "I won't get back up again." It wasn't just fatigue speaking; it was something deeper, something in her that was cracking under the weight of everything she had been carrying.
Mulder's chest tightened at her words. He moved closer, carefully, his voice filled with the emotion he had been trying to contain. "You don't have to do this alone, Scully. I'm here. I'll help you."
Scully swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. "I... I didn't want to make a scene," she finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just needed to be here, for the case."
The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment, as her quiet admission hung in the air. Skinner stood, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but softened by concern. Mulder's brow furrowed deeper, his clenched jaw a sign of his internal struggle. He wanted to reach out to her, to pull her away from whatever abyss she was teetering on, but Scully's entire body language screamed that she didn't want to be touched, didn't want anyone to look at her too closely.
And yet, she felt it—everyone's eyes on her. Their concern, their judgment. Since the incident, every glance felt different. Colleagues, doctors, even Mulder—there was a subtle shift in how they all regarded her now. It wasn't just concern; it was as if they were waiting for her to crack, to fall apart. She hated it. Every sympathetic nod, every worried look—she could feel the pressure to live up to their expectations, to prove she was still strong, still capable. But inside, it was getting harder to hold on.
But Scully, her face unreadable, began to move towards the window, her back to everyone. She stared outside, the weight of everything she had been holding back seeming to bear down on her shoulders. The view blurred through her glassy eyes, the bustling world outside contrasting sharply with the stillness she felt within.
Fowley, still sitting on her chair in front of Skinner's desk, remained indifferent, her arms still crossed as if this whole thing was an unnecessary inconvenience. She didn't care about Scully's condition, her exhaustion, or the emotional toll that was evident in every fiber of her being. To her, this was just another opportunity to criticize, to widen the gap that had formed between Mulder and Scully.
Skinner's eyes roamed over Scully's appearance as she stood by the window, her light blue scrubs hanging loosely on her frame. Something about her attire caught his attention, especially the vibrant, loud scarf wrapped around her neck, clearly out of place.
"Where'd you get that scarf, Agent Scully?" Skinner asked, raising an eyebrow at the mismatched accessory.
Scully glanced down briefly, barely acknowledging the bright colors. "AD Micucci lent it to me last night," she replied softly. "I had to leave my clothes for forensic analysis, and she didn't want me to get cold."
Skinner then took in the rest of her outfit and pointed to the embroidered name on the scrubs. "Who is Dr. Benton? Do you know him?" he asked, nodding at the stitched name.
Scully exhaled, clearly weary but patient with the questions. "He's the head of cardio-thoracic surgery at D.C. General. His assistant gave me these scrubs after the blast. I don't really know him, but based on the size of his scrubs, he's about eight feet tall and 600 pounds."
Skinner chuckled briefly as he took in the information, her attempt at humour not going unnoticed. His concern deepening as he pieced together the picture of just how much Scully had been through the previous night. Mulder's eyes flicked between them, worry etched on his face.
"You left your clothes?" Skinner echoed, his brow furrowing. "What exactly happened last night, Scully?"
Mulder stepped closer to Scully, his voice soft but insistent. "Come on, sit down. Please," he urged, grabbing a bottle of water from the conference table and pouring some into a cup. He held it out to her gently. "Have some."
Scully hesitated for a moment, her hands still trembling slightly as she looked out the window. Her voice broke as she said, "Miller might not make it. They were still operating when I left."
Mulder, trying to reassure her, spoke calmly, "I'm sure you did everything you could."
Skinner, now visibly concerned, chimed in, "You opened his chest on-site and massaged his heart all the way to the hospital. It's a miracle he made it that far. Agent Mulder is right; you should take a seat. Please, Dana."
Scully didn't move at first, her shoulders rigid, but Skinner's use of her first name seemed to reach her. Her breath hitched slightly, and she turned, accepting the cup of water from Mulder. Still, she resisted sitting down, her exhaustion obvious but her resolve just as strong.
"If I sit down," she repeated, her voice raw, "I don't think I'll get back up again."
Mulder exchanged a worried glance with Skinner, his hand hovering near her back as if he wanted to offer comfort but wasn't sure how. "I'm here," he repeated softly. "I'll help you."
Mulder's focus remained on Scully. "Dana, you seem to be in shock," he said firmly but with care. "You will sit down now, please." Without giving her a chance to resist, he gently guided her into a chair. He then knelt in front of her, his eyes searching hers for a sign that she would be okay.
He glanced at Skinner. "Which arm needs setting?" he asked.
"The right one," Skinner replied.
Mulder carefully looked at Scully's right arm, noting how she winced slightly as he inspected it. "Does that look broken to you?" he asked softly, trying to inject a bit of humor into the tense moment.
Scully gave him a faint smile. "I don't know; my X-ray vision isn't working today. It sure hurts though."
Mulder nodded, his tone lighter now. "Hurts really good, as they say?" he asked, his eyes narrowing with concern. "What happened, Scully?"
Scully exhaled slowly, the weight of the last 24 hours pressing on her. "Ritualistic Crimes had another victim. I did the autopsy. Their suspect leaves clues in the body of each victim. Tiny things of personal significance. It was the first time, it was something bigger, visible without much effort. Miller and his partner were taking pictures of it, while I had turned around to get some tools and then the blast hit."
Skinner added, "It took out quite a chunk of the morgue in Quantico."
Mulder only half-listened as he brushed a stray lock of hair from Scully's face and gently inspected her forehead for any signs of further injury. His mind was elsewhere, processing how close he had come to losing her again.
Skinner's voice broke through his thoughts. "Why didn't you call your partner when you arrived at the hospital? You know the rules, Scully—when you're down, you inform your partner."
Scully sighed, her voice a little weaker. "I did try to call Agent Mulder from the hospital."
Mulder frowned, looking back at her. "You did?" he asked, feeling a flash of confusion.
He pulled out his phone to check his call log. As he scrolled through, he saw a number that had called during the night. It was marked as answered. A knot of confusion tightened in his stomach. "I see a call here from you, Scully. Why didn't I get a notification?"
Fowley, who had been watching quietly, finally spoke up. "She really did call. You had stepped out from the stakeout at the time. It didn't sound urgent, though." There was a moment of hesitation as Fowley continued, her guilt creeping into her voice. "I even asked you and you said it wasn't urgent." She said as she turned to Scully.
Mulder's gaze shifted sharply toward Fowley, frustration building. She should have said something last night. He looked back at Scully, the regret and anger swirling in him as he tried to remain calm for her sake.
Scully caught the tension in his posture and shook her head slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's okay, Mulder. I'm here now."
As she spoke, Scully felt the weight of their concern, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that everyone was looking at her differently. She just wanted to blend into the background, to not be the center of attention. The last thing she wanted was to become a distraction.
Mulder glanced down at Scully, his heart sinking as he took in her disheveled state. Her usually composed demeanor was replaced by a haunting vulnerability, and his gaze fell on the dark stains marring her scrubs. "There's a lot of blood on those scrubs," he pointed out, struggling to keep his voice calm while feeling anything but.
Scully gave a small nod, her eyes flickering with uncertainty. "It's not mine… I think," she replied, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as him.
Noticing the tremor in her frame, Mulder instinctively reached out, gently placing a hand on her back. "There's some fresh blood on your back. I'm going to lift your shirt to have a look, okay?" He paused, sensing the hesitation in her eyes. "Trust me?" he added, offering her a reassuring smile that belied the storm of worry brewing inside him. "Just a quick look."
Too exhausted to protest, Scully finally nodded, her resistance crumbling beneath the weight of her fatigue.
Mulder shot a quick glance at Skinner, who watched the unfolding scene with a grave expression, then carefully lifted the back of Scully's shirt. His heart dropped as he saw the deep gash along her lower back, the crimson staining her skin a stark contrast against the pale fabric. "That's a really nasty cut, Scully," he murmured, his voice tight with concern. "I'm sure you'll need stitches." His eyes widened as he spotted a large, dark bruise encircling her waist, sending a jolt of alarm through him.
"Scully," he said softly, forcing himself to maintain a steady tone, "I'm going to check your belly too, alright? You've got a really bad bruise here."
Again, she didn't resist, too drained to argue. As Mulder gently examined her abdomen, his mind raced, seeking a moment of levity to cut through the tension. "Nice abs, Scully," he quipped, attempting a lightheartedness that felt hollow against the gravity of the situation. But as he trailed off, the seriousness returned to his gaze. "Could that bruise… be a sign of internal bleeding?"
Scully sighed, her voice barely above a whisper, weighed down by exhaustion. "A closet fell on me… so, maybe."
The realization hit Mulder like a punch to the gut. Skinner, fully aware of the severity of the situation, quickly pulled out his phone. "I'm calling an ambulance."
But Mulder shook his head firmly, the determination in his eyes burning bright. "No, call that chief of whatever who's been looking for Scully. Tell him we're on our way. I'm taking her."
Skinner, recognizing the fire in Mulder's resolve, nodded and swiftly dialed the hospital, as Mulder stayed close to Scully, his concern etched across his face like a second skin. Every heartbeat echoed the urgency of the moment, each breath a reminder of how close they had come to losing everything.
Mulder stood in front of Scully, concern etched on his face as he navigated the delicate balance between offering support and avoiding causing her more pain. He noticed her wince as he gently helped her to her feet, her movements stiff and labored, each step a testament to her exhaustion. "You think you can walk to the parking garage?" he asked gently, mindful of the pain that lingered in her body.
Scully glanced up at him, weariness shadowing her features. "As opposed to what?" she replied, a hint of her trademark sarcasm creeping into her tone.
Mulder couldn't help but flash a playful smile despite the tension hanging in the air. "I could carry you—piggyback, fireman, bridal style. Take your pick."
For a fleeting moment, Scully just stared at him, her expression inscrutable, as if weighing the absurdity of his suggestion. Then, finally, she replied, her voice firm, "I can walk."
His smile widened slightly, a flicker of relief washing over him, as he saw the old Scully in this banter. "Wow, you must be feeling like crap. You hesitated—and you didn't even call me an idiot."
As she started toward the door, Mulder quickly shed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, the fabric enveloping her like a protective shield.
Scully frowned, glancing down at the blood already staining the material. "What are you doing? With all that blood, your jacket will be ruined."
Mulder shrugged, his voice soft but resolute. "So will my day if you're freezing on your way to the parking garage."
Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and Scully felt something warm flicker briefly in her tired gaze—a spark of appreciation amidst the haze of fatigue and pain. But she said nothing as they moved together toward the door of Skinner's office, the warmth of his gesture offering her a small sense of comfort in the chaos surrounding them.
As they walked toward the elevator, Mulder thought aloud, "You could wait at the main entrance, and I'll get the car."
Scully, still moving with her trademark determined stubbornness, replied quietly, "I'm fine walking, really." Her voice, though soft, held a firm resolve that belied the fatigue etched on her features.
Suddenly, Diana Fowley caught up with them, her heels clicking sharply on the floor, each step punctuating the tension in the air. "Fox, you're just hailing her a cab, right? We have that meeting with Blevins, and—"
Mulder halted in his tracks, turning to face Fowley with a sharp glare that conveyed both frustration and protectiveness. "No, Diana. I'm taking her to the hospital."
As he turned to respond to Fowley, Scully continued walking ahead, her movements almost mechanical, as if her exhaustion was pulling her into a trance. Mulder's gaze flickered between Diana and Scully, a silent plea for understanding in his eyes. "That meeting can wait."
Fowley's expression hardened slightly, her resolve evident as she crossed her arms. "This case—"
"Is not as important as this," Mulder cut her off, his tone unyielding, leaving no room for argument. The words hung in the air, a clear declaration of his priorities.
He turned away from Fowley, quickening his pace to catch up with Scully, who hadn't stopped walking. As he reached her side again, he could sense her struggle, the effort she was exerting to appear strong, even as her weariness radiated from her.
Fowley remained behind, her expression unreadable, watching as Mulder walked away with Scully. There was a flicker of something—perhaps annoyance, perhaps concern—but it was quickly masked as she resumed her usual composure.
As they stood by the elevator, Mulder couldn't help but notice how Scully swayed slightly, her exhaustion clearly catching up with her. He instinctively moved a little closer, ready to steady her if needed, his concern etched on his face.
A couple of cheerful agents joined them, blissfully unaware of the tension surrounding Scully's condition. "Agent Scully, have you heard? Doggett and Reyes made an arrest this morning!" one of them said, their excitement almost jarring in the somber atmosphere.
Scully, pale and struggling to stay focused, gave a faint nod, but it was clear she wasn't really processing the news. Her eyes were glazed over, the effort to appear engaged taking all she had left.
Just then, Pat Micucci hurried down the corridor toward them, her expression shifting from relief to concern as she spotted Scully. "Agent Scully, I just heard from Skinner. I'm so glad they found you and that you're on your way back to the hospital." Her voice was laced with worry, darting between Scully and Mulder as if assessing the gravity of the situation. "I'm really sorry you felt you needed to make us all believe you were fine and that nobody noticed. I really failed you there."
Scully offered a weak smile, appreciating the sentiment even in her current state. Micucci's sincerity momentarily broke through the fog of fatigue surrounding her.
"I can have one of my guys take you," Micucci offered, her glance lingering on Mulder. Then, with a knowing smile, she nudged his arm gently. "Or not. You've got this, I'm sure."
Mulder forced a quick smile back at Micucci, grateful for her support but fully focused on Scully, who looked ready to collapse at any moment. "Thanks, Pat. I've got her," he said softly, his voice steady as he turned his full attention back to Scully just as the elevator doors dinged open. He placed a steadying hand on her back as they moved inside, feeling her wince slightly beneath his touch but not letting go.
"Good luck, Agent Scully," Micucci called after them, her voice warm but tinged with concern. "You're in good hands. Call me if you need anything. Mulder, let me know how she's doing after the doctors turned her inside out."
As the elevator doors slid shut, Mulder leaned closer to Scully, his expression serious yet comforting. "Just a little longer, Scully. We'll get you the help you need."
As they arrived at the hospital, Mulder barely had time to park before a team of doctors rushed over to the car, their expressions a mix of urgency and determination. One of the doctors, with a calm but firm voice, addressed Scully as they opened the car door. "Agent Scully, can you lie down on this gurney for me?"
Scully, utterly drained and still wincing with pain, barely had the strength to respond. Her eyes fluttered as she tried to process the chaos around her. Sensing her struggle, Mulder immediately stepped in, gently but firmly helping her out of the car and onto the gurney. He could feel her body tremble with fatigue, every movement a reminder of the pain she was in, and he guided her with a tenderness that spoke volumes of his concern.
Just then, the tallest doctor in the group, presumably the one in charge, glanced over Scully's bloodied scrubs, his brow furrowing in disapproval. "Who in the world gave you one of my scrubs?" he asked, more to himself than to anyone else, shaking his head as if baffled by the situation. He quickly turned to a nearby nurse. "Get her some clean clothes in her size. We can't have her in those."
The doctor wasted no time lifting the bottom of Scully's shirt to examine her abdomen, where Mulder had noticed the deep bruising earlier. As he pressed gently around the area, Scully inhaled sharply, her body instinctively recoiling from the touch. The doctor's expression turned grave. "We're taking her up to CT, stat," he said decisively, urgency cutting through the air.
Before Mulder could even process the enormity of the moment, the team was already wheeling Scully away toward the elevators. He felt a surge of helplessness wash over him as he watched them disappear down the hallway, leaving him standing alone in the emergency room, the echo of hurried footsteps fading away. His stomach churned with worry, feeling utterly powerless to help, yet knowing deep down that she was in good hands.
As he stood there, Mulder's mind raced with thoughts of everything Scully had endured, and the image of her pale, bloodied form weighed heavily on him. He clenched his fists, desperate to be by her side, wishing. But for now, all he could do was wait.