After a long day chasing shadows and half-truths, Mulder's shoes crunched on the gravel parking lot as he walked Scully to her motel room. The night air had cooled sharply, thick with the scent of pine and the faint buzz of cicadas. She moved slowly beside him, careful with each step, one arm wrapped around her ribs like she was holding herself together.
She hadn't complained—not once since he'd picked her up from the ER. She'd shrugged off the bruising, the torn blazer, the ache in her spine from that stairwell tumble like it was all just part of the job. Classic Scully. Tough as hell, and twice as stubborn.
Mulder said nothing, his jaw tight with guilt. He should have seen it coming—the suspect doubling back at the landing, that flash of movement, the push. But instead, he'd only heard her sharp cry and the sickening sound of her body tumbling down the steps.
They reached her door. Scully fished out her key card and paused, visibly wincing as she turned the knob.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked, his voice low.
She offered a tired, lopsided smile. "Nothing broken. Just sore. And maybe a little humiliated."
Mulder stepped back, giving her space. "You did good, Scully. We got him. That's what matters."
She nodded once, then leaned briefly against the doorframe, the weight of the day settling into her bones. "I think all I want right now is to curl up in bed and not move for twelve hours."
Mulder gave her a small smile. "I can get you something. Food, drinks… aspirin, a neck brace, a body double…"
She huffed a soft laugh, already stepping inside. "Thanks. But really—just sleep."
He nodded, letting the silence stretch a moment before adding, "I'm in the room next door. If you need anything."
Her eyes lingered on his for a beat longer than necessary—an unspoken thank you, maybe. Or just understanding. "Good night, Mulder."
"Night, Scully."
He waited until the door clicked shut, then stood there a moment longer, staring at the worn wood, wondering how many times she'd do this—push past the pain, bury it beneath duty and grit. He turned away finally, heading toward his room, the faint echo of her fall still rattling somewhere in the back of his mind.
Back in his room, Mulder tossed his jacket over the back of a chair and peeled off his dress shirt, the dried sweat and motel dust clinging to him like a second skin. He changed into an old Knicks t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants, the kind that had survived half a decade of bad cases and worse laundry rooms.
The room smelled faintly of mildew and over-bleached linens. He grabbed the takeout menu from the nightstand, scanning the laminated pages without much interest before dialing the front desk. He ordered a burger and fries for himself, then paused and added a grilled chicken sandwich and soup—something light Scully might go for if she changed her mind. He told them to split it into two bags.
The television blinked on with a hollow click, bathing the room in cold blue light. Some late-night talk show filled the silence, all canned laughter and cheap sarcasm, the host waving cue cards like a magician. Mulder let it play in the background, white noise for the thoughts crowding his head.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, laptop balanced on his thighs, the screen lighting up his face. The report. He sighed, cracked his knuckles, and opened a blank document.
It wasn't that he hated the paperwork—it was part of the job—but something about writing it all out made it too real. The fall. Her cry. The way she'd looked at him when he helped her into the car, trying to smile but not quite making it. He knew she'd do the report herself if he didn't, wouldn't even hesitate. But after everything she'd endured today, the least he could do was spare her the formality of reliving it in bureaucratic detail.
His fingers hovered over the keys for a moment. Then, slowly, he began to type.
There was a knock.
Mulder blinked, surprised—it hadn't been long enough for the food, unless the universe had decided to be unusually efficient tonight. He stood, setting the laptop aside, and padded to the door. When he opened it, the sight of Scully standing there—still in her work clothes, looking tired but composed—caught him completely off guard.
"Scully?"
She didn't speak right away. Instead, she held his gaze with that steely, unreadable expression she wore like armor. Then, calmly, she said, "I need you to be mature about this."
His brows lifted. "About what?"
She exhaled slowly, clearly weighing how to phrase it. "I'm too sore to get changed by myself."
She held out a neatly folded pair of pajamas—soft cotton, light blue—and Mulder stared at them for a second before glancing back up at her. She went on, voice steady but quiet, "I've already exhausted myself with my blouse."
He looked. Sure enough, only the top two buttons were undone. Her hands hovered uselessly at her sides, fingers slightly curled, like even the thought of moving hurt.
Mulder's eyes flicked to the few undone buttons at her collar. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
She narrowed her eyes. "Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were going to."
He raised a hand in mock surrender. "Okay. Come in."
She stepped into the room slowly, carefully. He could tell even that small effort cost her. She stood near the bed, stiff and clearly uncomfortable.
Something protective and warm surged in his chest, but as always, it found its release through humor. He couldn't help it.
"Could you please…" she started, but Mulder finished it for her, his mouth twitching into a grin.
"…undress you?" he said, mock astonished. "Scully, my wildest dreams are finally coming true. Or almost."
She gave him a look—tired, exasperated, but faintly amused.
"Would you like to sit?" he offered.
She shook her head. "I'm still in my pants."
"Right," he nodded. "Okay. Pants first, then top. Got it."
She turned slightly, offering him her side, and he stepped closer, his grin fading as he saw the faint bruising along her temple and the stiff line of her shoulders. Carefully, he reached for the waistband of her slacks.
"This is strictly medical," he muttered, more to himself than her.
Scully gave a soft snort. "Just don't get smug about it."
"I would never."
He moved toward her, the joking set aside now. He knelt in front of her, his fingers brushing the fabric at her waist. She didn't flinch, but her breath hitched slightly. He moved carefully, loosening the clasp and sliding the zipper down. The fabric gave way with a soft sound, and he gently began easing the pants down over her hips.
He kept his eyes focused on the task, his touch steady, clinical. The bruises along her thighs made his jaw tighten, but he didn't say anything. She didn't need sympathy—she needed help.
She leaned on his shoulder as he worked the pants down her legs. One foot, then the other. When it was done, he set the garment aside and looked up at her.
"Still okay?"
She nodded, eyes meeting his, unreadable in the low motel light.
Mulder unfolded the pajama pants and crouched again, holding them open for her.
"Okay, let's see if we can get these on without turning this into a crime scene."
Scully braced her hands on his shoulders as he gently tried to ease one foot through, then the other. But as he started pulling the fabric up her calves, she stiffened, a sharp breath slipping through her teeth.
"Okay, nope." He pulled back, concern tightening across his brow. "You know what? Forget these. I'll get you one of my t-shirts. It'll be like a nightgown on you. I'll grab some socks too—you'll be fine."
Scully didn't argue. She just nodded, quiet and still.
That, more than anything, worried him.
He watched her for a beat longer, then reached out and guided her gently to sit on the edge of the bed. She moved like every muscle was protesting.
"Alright," he said softly, kneeling again, "let's get the blouse."
His fingers went to the buttons, undoing them one by one. Detached. Gentle. Efficient. He told himself that's all it was. But as the blouse fell open, he couldn't help noticing the lacy bra beneath, pale ivory against skin painted in fading trauma.
He swallowed and kept his voice light.
"Nice shades of blue and purple."
Scully looked down at herself, then back at him. "I'll reconsider the color choices for my wardrobe."
He smiled, stood, and turned to the dresser. Pulled out a t-shirt—gray and soft with wear, the FBI academy logo nearly faded out—and came back to her.
"Is 'Arms up' an option?"
She tried, but only managed to lift them partway, face tightening with effort.
"That'll do."
He slipped the shirt over her head first, carefully guiding it down past her shoulders. Then he helped her arms through the sleeves. She let him, quiet and trusting.
Once it was settled around her, brushing the tops of her thighs, he went to the dresser again and grabbed a clean pair of socks.
He knelt at her feet, taking one foot at a time in his hands, easing the socks on with quiet care. The kind of care she would never ask for, but always deserved.
When he looked up again, she was watching him. No smile, no mask—just that calm, steady presence he'd come to rely on more than he ever let himself admit.
"You're good?" he asked softly.
She nodded, just once.
Scully shifted slightly, her fingers brushing the hem of the oversized t-shirt. "Uhm…"
Mulder looked up from where he was folding the discarded pajama pants. "Yeah?"
She hesitated, then said, "The… my… the bra."
Mulder's brow lifted, but he kept his voice gentle. "Too uncomfortable?"
She gave a small nod. "They're already not the most comfortable contraption when you're not sore."
He smirked, unable to resist. "Oh boy. I'm getting into Agent Scully's bra today."
She gave him a flat look, but it lacked any real heat. "You know how to open one?"
He tilted his head. "Clasp in the front or the back?"
"Back."
He let out a small sigh of relief, still trying to keep it light. Okay, it's just a bra. It's just helping her, nothing more. He thought, but the slight knot in his stomach told him otherwise. He'd been in enough awkward situations, undercover or not, but somehow this felt different. Professional, clinical—nothing more than a simple act of care. But still, this was Scully. He couldn't help but feel a little nervous.
"Phew. That's the kind I can handle without needing a manual," he said with a forced grin, trying to mask his discomfort.
Her lips quirked slightly, the smallest hint of amusement, despite the situation. It didn't quite mask the exhaustion in her eyes, though.
He moved behind her, careful not to jostle her too much. His hands were steady as he adjusted his shirt, just enough to get a clear look at the clasp of her bra. His fingers moved with intention, but there was a quiet hesitation, a moment of hesitation before he reached for the clasp. He knew how to do this, but there was something about it that made his palms sweat more than he'd expected.
She's in pain, he thought, trying to focus. This is what you do for someone you care about. It's not about anything else.
He carefully eased the straps over her shoulders one at a time, his movements slow. He was conscious of the bruises on her skin, of how she winced when she moved. He didn't want to hurt her further—he just wanted to make her more comfortable.
Once the straps were free, he carefully slipped his hands beneath her shirt, guiding the bra from underneath. He didn't rush, didn't make her feel exposed, even though they were in a small motel room—only trust between them now, nothing else.
When the bra was finally out, he stepped back a little, giving her space.
"You're clear," he said, his voice low and reassuring.
Scully shifted under the oversized t-shirt, sighing in relief now that the tightness was gone. She glanced up at him, her gaze still a little tired but softer now.
"Better?" he asked, a trace of concern still in his eyes.
She nodded, grateful. "Yeah. Thanks."
Mulder smiled at her, that familiar, small smile of his. "Anytime, G-woman."
Scully sat there for a moment, her hands resting in her lap, eyes flicking to the floor, then back to him.
"I just need a minute," she said softly, almost apologetic. "Then I'll head back to my room."
Mulder shook his head, stepping over to the side of the bed. "No need to hurry. Actually…" He gave her a small grin. "I ordered some food when we got back. Should be here any minute."
She arched a brow, almost suspicious. "For me too?"
"Of course," he said, feigning offense. "You think I'd let you suffer alone while I eat a cheeseburger?"
Her expression softened, the corners of her mouth lifting. But she didn't argue.
"Why don't you get comfortable for a little longer," Mulder added. "Eat with me. I'm sure you're hungry."
She didn't answer right away, but she shifted—slowly, gingerly—and curled up on his bed, tucking her legs under her, resting her cheek against one of the pillows. She looked smaller like this, tucked into his space, wrapped in a t-shirt that swallowed her frame.
Mulder watched her for a beat, then crossed to the closet and pulled out an extra blanket. He brought it over and draped it gently over her legs.
"Sounds good?" he asked.
Scully's voice was soft, already edging toward sleep. "Sounds good."
He sat on the edge of the second queen-size bed in the room, glancing toward the door, listening for the knock that would mean dinner had arrived. But for the moment, he let the quiet settle in. The TV played low in the background, forgotten. Scully was in his bed, half-asleep, bruised but safe.
The knock came just as Mulder was starting to wonder if the delivery guy had gotten lost. He stood, careful not to wake Scully, and opened the door to accept the brown paper bags filled with food. The smell hit him immediately—warm, comforting.
He set the bags down and glanced over.
Scully was stirring, her eyes fluttering open as she shifted slightly under the blanket. She blinked at him, a little groggy but alert.
"Food's here," he said softly, and crossed the room to pull the small table from the corner. He dragged it over to the space between the beds, then laid everything out—a bowls of corn chowder, a mountain of fries, a generously sized salad, his burger and her sandwiche.
"I hope you feel like corn chowder," he said as he unpacked the containers. "If not, there's a really huge portion of fries, and the salad's big enough to feed a small village."
Scully sat up slowly, wincing but determined. She reached out and caught his hand before he could finish setting the plastic cutlery.
"Thank you, Mulder."
He paused. The sincerity in her voice was quiet but heavy, and he knew it wasn't just about the food. He squeezed her hand gently, offering her the smallest, crooked smile.
"Anytime."
Then, with a smirk as he handed her a spoon, "Can you feed yourself, or do you need help with this too?"
She shot him a look that might have held more bite if she weren't so tired. "No. You undressing me was more than enough, thank you."
He chuckled and passed her the bowl of chowder, watching as she took a careful sip.
They ate in silence, the kind of silence that didn't need filling. The TV murmured something forgettable in the background, and outside, the distant hum of traffic filled the air.
Scully ate slowly, clearly fading with each bite. She picked at the fries and managed half her sandwich before she pushed the plate away and leaned back again, eyes heavy-lidded.
Mulder stood and gently pulled the blanket back up around her, tucking it in lightly.
"We'll keep the rest for breakfast," he murmured.
But she was already asleep, her breathing even, the tension in her face finally eased.
Mulder watched her for a moment, then turned off the overhead light, leaving only the soft lamp on by the bed. He sat back down on the other bed, finishing the last of his fries, quietly keeping watch.
Just in case.