Comfort, Support
Her apartment is alive. The unusually spacious home claustrophobic as various detectives and police occupy the area.
A small crowd has gathered outside the doorway, the residents of the floor all eager to know what has happened, what’s going on. It’s all just gossip to tell their friends and family later on.
It makes Mulder feel sick.
He doesn’t even stay to watch the body be zipped up. The final confirmation that the bastard is dead and can never touch her again.
Instead, Mulder makes his way over to her bedroom. Cautiously he pushes the door open so as not to startle her.
The room is a complete juxtaposition to the workings going on just beyond the feeble wooden door. They hadn’t gotten to the bedroom yet and its here that Mulder can see the literal damage done. Her usually upkeep room is littered with a sea of broken glass; large shards, tiny pieces. His eyes move over to the overturned bookshelf, its contents that only hours ago had once sat upon it now spread across the carpet, joining the broken bits of glass. His chest constricts to see her bedroom like this. The total opposite of how it should look. Just visible proof of the trauma she has gone through once again.
Its then that he finally finds the courage to move his eyes off the floor to her.
She sits upon the bed (the only thing in this room that resembles how it’s supposed to) Her hair obscures her face, covering the cuts and bruises he’d seen before she’d hidden away from the noise and the fuss. Her legs are crossed beneath her, she’s completely motionless, and she stares at the bible barely an inch away from her.
He wonders if she knows he’s even here. Or has she retreated away inside herself, her mind replaying the events of tonight. The events of five years ago.
There’s a sudden urge to reach for her then. To shield her, protect her, comfort her. To hide her away from any harm or evil that could come to her from this point onwards. But it would amount to nothing. He knows well enough you can’t hide away from the demons inside your head.
So he ignores all impulses and simply says her name.
“Scully.”
If she’d heard him say her name she makes no recognition. Instead she continues to stare at the book, miles away.
Mulder sighs, itching forward just a step. He can hear them packing up outside, the analysing and photo-taking coming to an end. They’ll be in here in seconds. He needs to get her away.
“Scully,” he tries again. He can hear the quiver in his voice, the strain to keep away the tears that threaten to engulf him. He breathes, reminding himself that this isn’t about him. This is about Scully.
“We need to go,” he tells her. “they’ll be in here soon. You don’t need to be here,” I don’t want you here.
She nods, blinking a few times as if coming out of her trance.
“I don’t want to go to a hotel,” she mumbles, barely audible, but he hears it.
“Were not going to a hotel.” He had no intention of dumping her in a hotel room. He has no intention of letting her leave his sight. For the night. For the week. For the rest of eternity.
There’s a hint of guilt that swirls within him. Circling around in his gut that he occasionally has a swallow to keep low. He should have gone home with her, been here with her. He should’ve killed Pfaster himself before he ever let it escalate to this. And now this is where they are.
“Where are we going then?” she asks.
“My place.” It’s cold and it’s dark but it’s away from all this. And that is much better.
Scully nods, beginning to manoeuvre herself off the bed. He watches as she fumbles around for shoes, finding an old pair and slipping them on her feet.
She stands before him then, looking up at him. The proximity is virtually the same as the time before but everything else is the opposite: she looks up instead of down. Her hands are free rather than bound. She isn’t fighting back tears. She’s isn’t mumbling a half-hearted I’m fine. They call that growth, he thinks. He calls it pain.
They make their way out of the shattered apartment, weaving through the sea of detectives who burst into the bedroom now it’s unoccupied. The crowd that had swarmed the doorway have now gone, slinking back into their homes now that the fuss and buzz has finished. There are the remnants that still linger, still float around for any sudden sound or movement, like predators watching their prey. They all eye Scully as they exit, eyeing up her appearance, sniffing out any weaknesses they could use against her later on. It makes Mulder uneasy, reminding him of that time up in Steveston, with The Kindred people, after the Brother Andrew situation. She’d been violated then, he remembers. God, how many times has this happened to her over the course of these five years?
He hugs her to him, for his sake as much as hers, just like he had done back then. An attempt to make her feel safe, to make up for all the times when she hasn’t. It’s pittance compared.
The drive to his apartment is shrouded in silence. Her gaze is locked on the outside, not looking towards him once. Mulder finds himself more focused on her than on the road- thankful for the hour as he’s sure he would’ve caused an accident by now. But he can’t help himself. The worry that threatens to eat him up is more powerful than any need to be observant. She’s a rubber band, one that’s being pulled further and further back as time passes. At some point it’s going to snap and fly off, but he’ll catch her when it does, he just needs to be vigilant.
However, that rubber is the strong kind. It doesn’t break from the parking of the car to the unlocking of the door.
Mulder is quick. Flicking on all the lights like Scully’s life depends on it, scared of what the darkness will do to her- to the both of them- if the lights stay off for too long.
He makes himself busy, fixing them a cup of coffee just for something to do. All he wants to do is sleep. To wrap himself around Scully and hope the nightmares don’t come, and if they do, he’ll be there to fight them off, alone if he must- a self-induced punishment for not being there to fight off Pfaster.
He’d absorb all her pain, all her trauma of tonight and all those other nights before, just to have her be okay again.
“I want to shower,” he hears her tell him.
He turns, halting what he was doing just in time to see the quick flit of fear flicker across her eyes. He’s been going through the five stags of grief all night, all in the wrong order as anger replaces the worry. Anger at the sight of her fear at the thought of taking a shower. Anger at Pfaster for being the reason for it. Scully loved her baths; the hours she could spend in it no matter how pruned her skin became. Blanketed only by scented bubbles and hot water. Her only chance to de-stress after whatever wild adventure he’d presented to her that day. Hell, even showers could do the job if it was the only option there. And Pfaster had taken that away from her. He’d resurrect the bastard just to have him killed again if he could.
Pushing the anger away, he nods. And, pushing away from the counter does he make his way over to the bathroom to focus on his new task. Scully follows behind him, lingering near the door as he sets about turning the shower on, switching the dial to a temperature he knows Scully will like and letting his hand under the spray until the water begins to heat up.
Happy with the temperature, he shakes his hand, droplets of water showering the floor as he does.
“I’ll be outside if you need me,” he tells her, hesitant to leave her despite wanting nothing more than to respect her privacy. She doesn’t need one more person violating that tonight. He walks towards the door, pointing to the towels hanging around as he does. “All your towels are here,” he mumbles, legs feeling like lead as he forces himself out of the room. “They’re clean, don’t worry.”
He’s almost made it, just about to cross that threshold before she says something that completely stops him in his tracks, makes him wonder if he heard right, and takes him by utter surprise.
“Stay.”
He spins, unsure of what he’s read but knows he’d heard right her takes in her demeanour: her downcast eyes, the self-conscious way she chews her lip and refuses to look at him.
“Please,” she finishes, those eyes flicking up for a second to see his reaction before they fall back down again.
He’s completely gobsmacked. Unsure of what to do or how to respond, his voice lost to him. He manages a nod, one that comes across far too eager for his liking and he forces himself to remember the circumstances. This wouldn’t be happening if not for what had happened hours before.
He averts his eyes once her hands begin undoing the buttons of her top, not oblivious to the fact that he’s soon going to be standing in the shower with a naked Scully.
There’s another surge of anger towards Pfaster. Another thing he’s ruined. This moment. A moment that’s forever going to be cloaked in this traumatising event.
Not for the third time that night does Mulder want to kill the prick.
He pushes the thought away, banishing Pfaster from every inch of his mind (he’s intruded enough today, he doesn’t get to intrude on this anymore) and begins stripping himself of his clothes.
There’s a fight to stay level-headed, to not allow the situation to overwhelm him. It’s comfort, he tells himself, but he keeps his boxers on just to be sure anyway.
She’s already slipped into the shower once he’s ready. As he approaches and follows inside, he keeps his gaze firmly focused on the wall, regulates his breathing, and fights to not allow himself to be overwhelmed.
The shower is spacious enough for one person alone but add in two and the space is lost. There’s enough inches between them to be comfortable but they’re still in each other’s personal bubbles.
“Can you wash the glass out of my back?”
He’d been staring straight ahead, his vision clouded by the water from the showerhead falling over him, resisting the urge to let his eyes sweep over her. It’s only at her request does he allow his gaze to fall down to her.
His mouth falls open to the sight of the glass wounds on her back ranging from small slits to open wounds where the shards had scraped across on their way to falling on the floor. If he looks closely enough he can see the bits of glass still embedded within the cuts. How long had she silently suffered in pain for?
He reaches up to take the showerhead off its hold, turning the water pressure down. He guides the showerhead to where the bottom of her neck meets her shoulder blades, gently allowing the water to trickle down with just enough force to free the glass.
She whimpers at the contact and he mutters a sorry, trying his best to be careful, to make this as painless as possible.
“I’m gonna need to use tweezers,” he tells her when he encounters a few stubborn pieces that refuse to move.
He hears her suck in a breath before she nods her consent. It’s a quick hop in hop out and in seconds he’s back in the shower, tweezers in hand. With the hand of a gentle giant and all the concentration he can muster in the world he begins dislodging the glass. Her whimpers and gasps don’t go unnoticed by him and he’s once again whispering an endless stray of sorries to her as he continues on with his tasks.
He’s almost done when the realisation hits him; how rare it is that he gets to play doctor to her, to be the one that cares for her wounds and injuries. He’s not as good at it as she is. Occasionally, he’ll put too much pressure on the tweezer thus putting pressure on the cut and she’ll let out an audible “ow!” in response but he gets better, the last few he manages to get no sense of discomfort out of her though he can’t decide if he’s actually done a good job by the end or if she’s just supressing any hints of pain. He hopes it’s not the latter.
When he’s done, he places the tweezers on the shelf by the soap, restores the showerhead back to its rightful place. Before he can move, however, she spins around, arms circling his waist as her head falls against his chest.
He’s careful to hold her, placing his own hands on her hips so as to avoid the injuries. He tries to ignore the way her breasts graze his skin each time she breathes out, the feel of skin on skin. Instead, his nose nuzzles against her wet hair, pressing his lips to the crown of her head.
“Do you want me to help wash your hair?” he whispers against her, unsure if the feel of his hands would remind her too much of what she’s been through and hopes to whoever’s out there that it doesn’t.
She shakes her head, however, whether she doesn’t want to or doesn’t need to he’s not sure.
He lets her go once he feels her pulling away from him. They look at each other, blue eyes finding hazel.
“I think I’ll be okay now.”
Mulder nods, swallowing. It takes all his might for his hands to leave her body, they fall limply to his side.
“I’ll be outside if you need me.”
It’s her turn to nod then, and his traitorous hand creeps up behind her head, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
Then he’s out of the shower, stepping out into the stream-filled bathroom. As he dries off, he picks up her pyjamas, tossing the bloodied clothing- along with his own- into the laundry bin on the way out.
He listens to the sounds of the water pressure being amped back up, listening out for any signs of distress emanating from the bathroom as he begins picking clean clothes out for himself and Scully- lying her’s on the bed ready as he throws on his own.
It’s a few minutes later when he’s lying on the couch and hears the bathroom door opening. It’s strange hearing another person pottering about in another room of his apartment. Usually it’s quiet- the only sounds coming from the TV or the fishbowl or even the bouncing of the basketball. They’re all sounds coming from this room, however, rare are there sounds coming from another, his bedroom, no less.
He sees her attentively pad into the front room, noticing that she’d foregone the sweatpants he’d laid out for her and opted only for the T-shirt that falls to just above her knee, her footsteps muffled by the carpet. It’s oddly domestic.
She stands before him, hand fidgeting with the other as she waits for him to say something, do something.
“You take the bed,” he says, shifting to find the comfortable space he’d found a long time ago. “I’ll stay here.”
She doesn’t move. Her eyes flick over to the bedroom then back to him, the question clear as day in her eyes.
Stay with me. Please.
Just like with the shower she doesn’t want to be alone.
And he’ll kill himself before he refuses her anything.
She steps out of the way as he heaves himself off the couch and follows him into the bedroom.
He’s getting his wish. His wish to lie next to Scully, to possibly hold her through the night, protect her in his embrace. Excitement swirls in his stomach, a smile breaking out at the thought, until he looks over to Scully standing on the other side, sees how trepid and unsure she is. He reminds himself what he’s doing this for- comfort, support- tells himself had Pfaster not broken into her apartment tonight she’d be tucked away in there. Alone. And he’d be here. Also alone.
Maybe it’s true that everything happens for a reason.
He pulls the sheets back, allowing her to climb into them first. He waits until she’s lying down before he follows her into them.
It’s almost like he’s on autopilot, like something else is controlling him. Without a second thought his arms fall around her, mindful of her back as he brings her closer to him.
She accepts his embrace, wrapping herself into a ball in front of him and using his arms as a pillow. It’s amazing how perfectly they fit together- standing up, lying down- like two jigsaw pieces that slot into place with no hassle.
She snuggles into him, finding the right position that allows her to fall asleep. The hand that had been idly stroking her side worms its way up, falling into her open palm, fingers entwining together.
Tonight, Mulder falls asleep knowing that Scully is safe in his arms. Away from crazy psychopaths with a death fetish, away from aliens and men dressed in black who take her away in a flash of light and return her, unnoticed, in the same amount of time.
He’s failed her in so many ways, put her in arms way in his own selfish attempts to find out the truth. We’ll be damned if he does that to her anymore.