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The first thing she is thinking about when the water begins to cascade down her body is how badly it stings her wrists.
Because they were bound together.
By a fucking psychopath.
She clenches her teeth together and her eyes trigger closed tightly and she stops herself from thinking for the hundredth time that night what could have happened if Mulder never found her.
She also has to stop herself from verbally abusing herself - telling herself if only she was smarter, if only she were a better agent, if only if only if only -
“Scully-“
She jumps at the voice outside the bathroom door. It sounds like he’s in the bathroom with her since she left the door more than cracked. And she can’t be bothered tonight to feel humiliated over that fact. Over the fact that she can’t even stand enclosing herself in a room by herself while she takes a fucking shower.
“Yeah?” She has to stutter out.
“Hey, I take it you need something to sleep in. I - I’ll just leave some clothes in here for you. Unless you want something else, you can just ask -“
“Mulder, whatever you brought me, I’m sure is okay.” She hates her voice in the echoey chamber of the shower. It’s dripping with insecurity and fear and something small like vulnerability and she hates it she hates she hates it what if Mulder didn’t come what if -
“Okay.” A pause. “I ordered food. Just take your time. Uh - “ She hears him tapping on the outside of the door, fidgeting, probably looking around awkwardly and ignoring the fact she’s naked in his apartment. He must have nothing else to add because she hears the door almost click shut, before he must adjust it back to how she left it. Half open.
The shower is cold even though the water is scalding her shoulders. It’s burning her wrists and it’s hitting all her bruises and she can’t imagine what her body looks like after falling down all those stairs. There’s pain in her ribs. Her throat feels raw. From crying or from physical harm, she really couldn’t say.
She needs to scrub this motherfucker off of her.
Of course, she doesn’t have any of her belongings. She told Mulder she didn’t want to go home. Are you sure? He had asked with puppy dog, crooning eyes, an expression reserved for her and she was still deciding if she hated it or loved it when he looked at her like that.
She stares at the objects lingering along Mulder’s shower, arms crossed, holding herself as she shivers against the spray. The infamous and obligatory 2-in-1 shower gel and hair wash stares back at her. Well, fuck it, she supposes.
When she pops the cap open, two small bubbles float out of the bottle and she is smacked in the face with Mulder’s scent. Woodsy, of course artificial, smokey and manly. She sighs. She squirts it directly into her hands, cupping the teal liquid and lathering it in her palms. She is surrounded by him.
Mulder.
His heart and soft shoulders and chestnut hair and boyish eyes but his voice, so manly, so deep and sultry and in her ears as she scrubs herself as best she can with her hands alone. She finds the act of using his body wash oddly intimate but like most events of tonight, she can’t be bothered to care right now.
Everything aches as she rubs herself down. She groans as she leans down to scrub at her knees and shins, hardly even able to clean her own feet. She feels something pop in her side as she cleans her lower extremities as sufficiently as she can, feeling half crippled.
When the water turns off, she is anxious. She’s cold, of course. But now she’s going to dry herself off with Mulder’s towels, wear his clothes, wear his fucking boxers, from what she can see is waiting for her on his sink.
The t-shirt he has left her with is faded. It says LEVI’S in navy blue letters, settled on a worn gray fabric. It’s soft. She knows just by looking at its well-loved cotton and the frayed collar and sleeves. She has to smile.
The boxers fit loose on her and she is thankful. Everything smells like laundry. His laundry. And his fucking body wash and the bathroom is suddenly too small for her and too small for all the ginormous things she feels for her partner.
She wraps her ginger locks in a towel and takes a deep and shaky breath as she opens the bathroom door entirely. Mulder is on the couch, on his back, arms behind his head as he stares intently at the TV. His gaze flicks to her and he notices her emerge. It’s like his face lights up, then. She’s Christmas to him.
“Hey.” She manages. Hey? Kill her now.
“Hey yourself.” He smiles. He sits up on the couch and is standing and crossing to her in two strides before she can walk any further.
He’s in her personal space so fast. Looking down at her. Gazing, really. “I like your hair turban thing.” He gestures to her towel-clad head. “Maybe you can show me how that works sometime.”
She gives him a smile, half pity but half love, half adoration, half I need you so bad and I need you to shut up and hold me and let me cry and let me be pathetic and sad and whiny and weepy because we keep almost losing each other and it makes me so nauseous I can’t see anything.
She says instead, “did the food come?” She is proud that her voice doesn’t crack.
He nods, tipping his head towards the coffee table, which is covered in Chinese food.
“I didn’t know what you’d want so I got everything.” He smiles softly and sweetly down at her again.
She nods. She feels shaky.
He leads her to the couch, his right hand on her left elbow, guiding her. When they sit, she shakes out the towel holding her hair, and the scent of Mulder’s body wash looms over them both. He takes the towel from her and throws it haphazardly away from them.
“Hey. You used my body wash.” His eyes are glimmering with something she can’t place.
“I - I’m sorry - I don’t even know why I-“
“Scully.” His hand on her knee, tracing up her naked thigh and she shivers again and hopes he doesn’t understand.
“I like it.” He tells her. “Did you have a good shower?”
She nods. “Yeah. I feel, uh. Dirty, though.” She can’t look at him, oh god she really cannot.
“Scully.” He murmurs. She turns her head away, even more so, if possible, it makes her neck throb and the tendons there pull at her resistance not to look at him. He gently raises one of his hands and pulls her chin towards him, similarly as he had done earlier to her, so their eyes lock.
“I’m never letting you out of my sight like that again. Do you hear me?”
“I’m sorry -“
“No. I’m sorry. Do not apologize to me. You are the most important person in my life right now and I refuse to lose you. Okay? That bastard almost took you away from me and I would have never forgiven myself if I hadn’t gotten to you.”
He pauses, takes a shaky breath she knows too well.
“Scully, you’re safe. Whatever you need, I’ll do. Whatever you need from me, just tell me.” His soft voice. His angel eyes. One of his hands has snaked around her neck, his thumb nudging her ear lobe, stroking up to her cheekbone. His heartbeat is hammering out of his chest and hitting her own and she wants to cry. She does cry. She hates it but she does.
The sobs flood out of her and expel from her chest too quickly that everything feels tight. She’s hiccuping like she’s a toddler. She gasps and inhales quickly as her cries cascade out of her at a rapid pace. She’s immediately engulfed by Mulder, who all but pulls her into his lap, hands everywhere at once.
She feels him encase her, strong and muscular arms crushing her petite torso, then feels his hands trail along her back, rubbing gentle and soothing circles. When he speaks, she listens through her distress.
“Shh. I have you, Scully. I got you.” He murmurs against her neck, in her hair. Kissing the skin he can find. Her cheeks, her eyelids, her ears. He wants to kiss her on her fucking mouth but even he has some decency and common sense that she probably doesn’t need that advance from him right now - no matter how badly he wants to give it to her.
He’s never heard her cry like this. She weeps some more into his neck, wet tears and her lips, grasping his t-shirt collar, the fabric, anything she can cling to in order to ground herself. Her breath stutters out of her as her cries eventually calm down.
Eventually, she’s all but panting and shaking against him but the tears have subsided. Her eyes are swollen and her mouth feels like sandpaper from sucking all of the air out of the room. Her cheeks must be blotchy and her eyelashes feel tacky against her skin where salty tears have dried them out.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying sorry to me. To anyone. You went through something traumatic and you’re allowed to feel however you want to about it. I’m here for you, Scully.” He says earnestly, and she feels everything swell in her chest. He’s got both hands now on top of her shoulders so he can speak to her like he means it, like he needs her to believe him.
She returns him a watery half-smile. His stomach growls and then her eyes widen and she’s actually almost laughing at him now.
“Okay, I’m done weeping, we can eat.” She says to him, voice low and cracked and raw, but still with a trace of humor. Her eyes sting and burn from the shed tears when she turns away from him.
“Okay, good because otherwise I was gonna start weeping myself there out of hunger.” He bumps her shoulder with his own, giving her a lopsided grin, as they sit side by side, glued together.
He unmutes the television and gives her a fork and they dig in. She mostly picks at her own white cardboard containers of take-out, but does eat more than she’d think she would have.
He wolfs down half of everything on the table. She strains her eyes and forces her peripheral vision to watch him eat occasionally. She eyes his lips and his sharp incisors and watches when he absentmindedly knocks his knee against hers almost in an unspoken dance. The peach hair on her upper thighs that she didn’t bother shaving stands up.
When he’s full, he leans back on the couch, throwing his arms along the back.
This time, he catches her eyeing him and it’s too late for her to look away. He must see the way her eyes plead at him, looking at his chest, his arms, warm and inviting.
“Get over here, Scully.” He murmurs, his voice sending fireworks into her belly.
She doesn’t say anything, just crawls over and bridges the gap between them. She nudges her shoulder close to him, one hand on his chest. She snakes her other arm under his warm torso. Her cheek gets smushed against his chest. He reaches with his arm to bend and scoop her legs off the floor and gently tucks them over his thighs. She marvels at the feeling of his soft palms running up and down her shins. Her bare and naked feet are so close to his presence - he reaches with a hand and kneads into the sole of her foot, gently with his thumb, almost not even trying.
She feels his other arm wrap protectively and almost possessively around her waist to tug her closer to his body. His heat is radiating like a fucking open oven and her cheeks immediately burn up.
She feels her armpits getting hot with insecurity and some kind of teenage-girl wanting.
Mulder is then aware that while he is used to sleeping on his leather couch every single night, Scully might not be as liberated to do so. He suddenly feels insecure and inadequate for her. Of course, he is. But tonight, she deserves better. She deserved a fucking bed.
Why doesn’t he have a fucking bed?!
“Scully.” He tries, hoping she’s still awake.
“Mmm.” She mumbles against his t-shirt. If she’s drooling, he doesn’t say anything.
“I didn’t want to assume anything - uh, do you want me to make you a bed on the couch? I can go on the floor. My back’s had worse.” He strains to keep the neediness out of his voice.
Love me love me love me let me hold you let me love you let me open you up and protect you from the inside out, let me kiss you on this couch until your bruises fade -
“No.”
“No?”
“No to the floor. Stay here. With me.”
It’s bold and it goes against everything she stands for as far as work relationships go. But she figures they've crossed so many lines before. Always invading one another’s space. The jealousy when it comes to opposite sexes. The way Mulder will speak in her ear and send shivers down to her toes. Fuck, their first assignment Scully all but barged into Mulder’s motel room baring her ass and tits in a panicked frenzy. Surely, sharing a couch can’t make or break them.
He nods and she can feel it on the crown of her head. He can feel her nails even through the material of his t-shirt, stroking him gently.
“Lemme get some blankets and stuff. Can’t have you waking up stealing more of my clothes because you got cold.” Mulder murmurs, drawing a piece of Scully’s bangs behind her ear.
Her mouth drops into an amused but insulted expression and looks up towards Mulder.
“The clothes you so desperately wanted me to have that you broke into the bathroom to give to me?” She giggles a little, feeling drunk on her exhaustion and the cheap take-out.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. C’mon, my legs are fallin’ asleep.”
Mulder stands and stretches and goes to retrieve some linens from the closet. He knows he used to have bed sheets somewhere…
“Hey, I’m gonna use the bathroom. I’ll be back.” Scully calls out to him, and stands, wincing as her back and thighs and shoulders and everything else screams at her to sit back down.
When she looks in the mirror, well, it’s not ideal.
Her eyes are basically bloodshot. Red rimmed and swollen. Her lips are dry and cracked and her bottom lip is split, and dried blood lines the cracks. She takes a deep breath and goes to lift up the oversized t-shirt. She didn’t get a good look at her wounds following her shower.
When she lifts the t-shirt up above her torso, she wants to lie down in agony. She hates that motherfucker. She hates him so much.
Bruises already scatter her pale skin. There are angrier ones, already blue and purple and red like a demonic sunset. She sees indents from fingernails in her soft flesh. Oval marks from where she was grabbed by his hands. Her chin, her fucking chin, that scrape that just screams I am a shitty FBI agent!
Mulder appears in the mirror and her shirt is lifted. She’s aware she’s not wearing a bra and the bottom halves of her breasts are on display. She shoves her shirt down and tucks hair behind her ears, looking down and away from Mulder’s gaze in the mirror.
“Scully..” he trails off, stepping towards her, hand reaching out like God.
“I’m f-“
“I’m fine Mulder.” He mocks her, but it’s not malicious or mean. It’s sad. “I know. Let me see.” He all but whispers.
He’s in that personal space again, his breath hits her collarbones and tickles the baby hairs framing her face.
She just nods. He holds the edge of the bottom of the shirt, almost asking permission before lifting. She nods again but can’t look at him.
He spares her, giving her modesty, only lifting the shirt so he can see her ribs and belly. She knows now he is clenching the fabric tightly. Mulder sees a white hot rage behind his eyes and has to fight to not whip around and drive his fist into the wall because of what was done to Scully, his Scully.
One hand holds the shirt up, and his other hand skates across her ribs. Fingertips scale delicately across the splay of her torso. Her skin lights up under his touch, feeling goosebumps rise.
“Is - nothing's broken right?” He croaks out.
“No. No, it looks worse than it is. Those damn stairs is all.” She tries to manage a chuckle but it comes out as a broken sigh.
Mulder traces a finger over one of the indentations from a fingernail scored into her flesh. She holds her breath, instinctively sucks in her stomach, pulling her body taut to herself.
“I would fucking kill him. If anyone touches you like this again, Dana, I swear, I’ll kill them.”
She’s never heard his voice sound like that. Ever. It’s essentially a growl, something instinctual and animal-like. Primal and territorial. Plus, the utilization of her first name in his mouth makes her knees buckle. His hands fall to her hips and he squeezes and he can’t help it.
“I’m okay. It’s okay. Let’s sleep.” She looks up at him. His eyes are dark and heavy and full of anguish but he nods. He leans down and kisses her cheek, her forehead, then her chin. She feels silly having her chin kissed. But he’s cupping her head so softly like she’s fine china and his lips linger on the scrape and his lips are cool but hot -
“I made up the couch.” He says when he pulls back. She smiles. He tries to smile back but it doesn’t work right.
Going back to the couch, Mulder lies down first. He pulls Scully down by the waist, his fingers tickling her midriff as they sneak under the oversized shirt. She lets out a tiny yelp as she falls down against him, but he supports her, has her. He pulls her to him, chest to chest, and tugs the blanket over them both. He has a pillow for himself, and figures Scully will be using his chest as hers.
The warmth that fills Scully’s body is immediate. She’s aware of his hot breath on top of her head. He smells like orange chicken and beer and love and Mulder. She can feel his groin hardening underneath her but she knows this might just be the most action Mulder has had in awhile that wasn’t a steamy phone service or an explicit VCR tape, so she lets it go.
She wants to get into his skin, live in his body cavity, eat him whole, breathe him in until she’s high. She settles for nuzzling against his chest, hands feeling his palpating and stuttering heartbeat though his shirt. She wonders - how warm would he be with his shirt discarded entirely?
“Scully.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re safe with me, you know that right? You believe it?”
She nods and then realizes he’s probably looking for something more vocal.
“I know it.” She lifts her head. Chases his lips. It’s soft. Almost like they can pretend it didn’t even occur.
“Okay.” He says, as she tucks her head back down. “Okay.” He says, as she cuddles to him and he wraps his arms around her body, pulling and tugging her close and tight.
They sleep.