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A trail of blood whirled across the floor, dark red staining the scratchy carpet. A musky, unfamiliar scent wafted around the room. Scully stumbled to the officer taking notes and surveyed the area. The couch was on a slant, and a little too far to the left. Shards of glass littered the wet floor near the window, along with muddy footsteps and drag marks, illuminated by the moonlight. Her copy of Breakfast at Tiffany’s was left torn up on the floor.
“D’you need to be taken to the hospital, ma’am?” The older officer asked.
Scully shook her head. “No, I just need some rest.” She gestured to the scratches on her arms. “I can treat these myself.”
The officer shrugged, deciding not to push her to go to the hospital. “This is a crime scene ma’am, you can’t rest here.”
Scully groaned. That detail had slipped her dazed mind in the aftermath of fear and adrenaline. She nodded and made her way out, slipping on her heels and closing the door behind her.
Scully stared out the window of her parked car blankly, unsure of where to go. She almost drove to her mother’s house, when she realized that the police still hadn’t caught the man who had attacked her. She couldn’t possibly go there; she couldn’t put her mother in any kind of danger.
She made a mental list of places she could go, only to cross them out for various reasons. One place remained uncrossed, the one place she didn’t want to go.
She dropped her head into her hands with a sigh. It’s not that she was avoiding Mulder; she was just trying to put off the pity, worry, and protectiveness that were unavoidable whenever she was attacked. Why did it happen so often? He had saved her from being ambushed in her own home countless times. Going to his apartment would just let this become Mulder saving Scully once again.
She sighed and turned on the engine.
Mulder absent mindedly browsed through his video collection, trying to take his mind off their most recent case. A half-man half-cat, he was sure. The scratch marks he left on his victims weren't those of a human, and neither was his reported agility.
Scully walked down his hallway, eyeing his elevator; she could tell she wasn’t being rational. She needed somewhere safe to stay until she could go back to her apartment, Mulder was the only person who she wouldn’t be endangering with her presence. It was a rational choice.
She was drawn to the door, yet somehow scared of it at the same time. When she looked at apartment 42, she didn’t see the casual place to sleep she had told herself she was looking for; she saw the comfort she wanted from him, the comfort she had come to rely on. In times like this, a part of her craved his all-encompassing embrace, his nervous jokes, even his protective outbursts.
But Scully was a big girl, she could handle everything alone. She was only there out of necessity, she told herself.
Scully took a deep breath and knocked on his door.
Mulder stretched and got off the couch, making his way to the rapping at his door. He stumbled over his discarded jeans before kicking them away. It was too late to bother putting them back on.
He rubbed his eyes and opened the door, squinting at the redheaded agent looking up at him. Her sweater was torn, and her arms had dried blood covering scratches. Bruises littered her alabaster skin.
“Scully,” he stammered, “what happened?”
“I need to stay here,” she blurted out, ignoring his question. Scully paused for a moment, unsure of whether or not she should explain. She looked up at his confused expression; this was silly, he would find out that a suspect broke into her house eventually. “My apartment is a crime scene for 24 hours.”
Her shoulders dropped at the feeling of his hand on her back, rushing her into his apartment. His head spun. “Why is it a crime scene? Do you need anything? Are you safe?”
“I just need some rubbing alcohol and I’ll be fine.”
He scrambled to the kitchen, sifting through all his spoiled pantry food in hopes of finding anything she could clean her wounds with.
“I can go to the corner store and get some for you, will you be okay if I leave?”
The threat of an infection seemed dull in comparison to being alone again, but she shook the notion off. “I’ll be fine, Mulder.”
“I’ll be fast,” he said as he quickly put his shoes on. “You can take a shower in the meantime.”
“Mulder, wait.”
He stopped and looked at her, eyes wide.
She smiled weakly, “Put some pants on.”
Mulder opened the door, holding a plastic bag. Scully was on his couch in his Knicks t-shirt, making him swallow hard. Her hair was a shade darker and curled from the water, and her face seemed to have gained back a bit of colour.
She eyed him curiously. “I didn’t need that much rubbing alcohol, Mulder.”
He grinned and started unpacking the bag, revealing copious amounts of bandages, rubbing alcohol, and aspirin. “I didn’t know if you had your first aid kit.”
She accepted the materials gratefully. “I didn’t.”
He kneeled in front of her as she started washing the cuts on her arms. “Do you need any help?”
Scully rolled her eyes. “I’m a medical doctor, Mulder.”
He shrugged, “Medical doctors need help too sometimes.”
Her eyes darted up to his, searching his face for pity, but only finding a sincere look in his eyes, and an empathetic smile. She looked down, a yawn escaping her. Mulder stood up, “I’ll clean the bedroom for you.”
She followed. “Let me help, Mulder.”
He shook his head with a smirk. “Those who enter rarely return.”
Scully went in after him regardless, pausing at the sight. He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’ll be sleepable soon, I promise.”
She raised a hand dismissively, wincing at a sudden pain in her shoulder. “Don’t bother, Mulder, we can share the couch.”
“Scully,” he protested with his signature puppy eyes, “I don’t want you to hurt your back, you’re already injured.”
“You sleep on there all the time,” she snarled, “what makes you think I’m not capable?”
“Scully,” he pouted.
“Mulder, I’m sorry,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m just tired, I want to go to sleep.” And not alone, she wanted to add.
He put down the box he was moving and nodded, heading back to the living room.
“Mulder you’re going to fall off again if you keep tossing and turning,” Scully grumbled.
“Am not,” he insisted, turning more.
Seconds later, Scully heard a now familiar thump on the ground. Mulder groaned, rubbing his head and getting back up.
“Mulder, this isn’t working.”
He grinned, “Any better ideas?”
“Actually, yes,” she said, getting up.
“Lie down,” Scully instructed in a confident tone, despite the nervous feeling in her stomach. Like butterflies… if the butterflies were carnivorous and had been lit on fire.
“Ooh, I like where this is going,” he teased sleepily, following her instruction.
She rolled her eyes, “Mulder.”
He put his hands up with a grin.
Scully crawled on top of Mulder, trying to find areas of the couch to put her weight on instead of him. Mulder’s breath hitched as he studied her, trying to figure out what she was about to do.
She lay down on top of him, with her head on his chest. He tentatively wrapped his arms around her, tracing lines up and down her back.
“Good idea,” he mumbled into her hair.
She closed her eyes, trying to relax, but her own thoughts took over.
Mulder noticed her shoulders tense, and her expression grow colder. “Scully,” he started, “is something bothering you?”
She scoffed, “I wouldn’t call these cuts pleasant.”
“You know what I mean.” He hesitated. “You've been strange today.”
“Strange?” she questioned, though knowing what he meant.
“Distant.”
“It's just-,” she sighed, her tone softening. “Do you think I’m weak, Mulder?”
He gaped at her words. How could the strongest person he knows think of herself as weak? What did he do to give off that impression? He stroked her cheek reassuringly, his brows furrowed. “Of course not. Why would you say that?”
She stared at the ceiling. “I don't even know how many times I’ve been attacked in my home, nor how many times you’ve been forced to save me…”
“Forced?” He spat out, reaching for her hand, trying to see her face without disrupting her, “Scully, nobody forced me to do anything.”
“Why is it always me?” She questioned in a defeated tone, subconsciously tracing circles on his hand. “You’re the one who’s always looking for them, you’re the one with all the sources, you’re the one they should be after, why do they always go after me?”
He squeezed her tighter in his arms, fondly. “Because they know I would give anything to get you back.”
She held his hand tighter, eyes locked onto his.
“You said I’ve saved you countless times, but how many times have you saved me?” he continued. “A thousand times over, at least. Just think of all the times you’ve chased after me and saved me in the knick of time from monsters, people, and Skinner.”
She laughed a bit, making him smile. “You constantly get-” he stumbled for a better word, “bushwhacked- because of me and the X-Files, and yet you still put your all into the work every single day. You’re the strongest person I know, Dana.”
Scully giggled softly, taking in his words. “Mulder, you’re the only person I would get bushwhacked for.”
He chuckled. “It’s an honour.”
She snuggled into his chest as he raised a hand to stroke her hair.
“G’night, Mulder,” Scully murmured.
“I’ll be right here with you in the morning.”
She smiled against him, knowing he would be. His all-encompassing embrace, his nervous jokes, even his protective outbursts would always be here for her whenever she needed. Physically and mentally. Here and away. Tomorrow and always. And she knew she would always be there for him. Like a pair of reciprocal guardian angels. Her port in a storm.