Chapter Text
It was nearing midnight, and she had to go to work tomorrow. Normally, Scully would have liked to be in bed by now, if not asleep than close to it. But normally, she didn’t have an overwhelmed, feverish Mulder laying in her bed.
She pulled the thermometer from his mouth, lips pursed in a worried frown. It read 102°-- not dangerously high, but still not good. She brushed a hand unconsciously through his hair, and Mulder whimpered in response, his eyelids fluttering.
“Hey,” Scully whispered, shifting her hand to stroke his cheek, “it’s okay, Mulder. Try to fall asleep, okay?”
His head jerked to the side, and the wet cloth Scully had draped over his forehead slid onto the mattress. “No,” he mumbled, speaking through gritted teeth, “nnnn-- Scully, we have... we have to f-find the man who killed my ffff-father.”
“We will.” Scully gently tipped his head back, feeling his forehead with the back of her hand. He was still running hot, and beads of sweat were appearing against his skin. “But first, you need to rest.”
“...said that,” Mulder mumbled. His eyelids were drifting shut again. “Scully... promise?”
“Promise what, Mulder?”
Mulder’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and wet. His lower lip was trembling. “He’s my dad,” he whimpered, in a tone so childish and sad that Scully’s heart ached. She laid her hand against his face, trailing her fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, her thumb rubbing soothing circles against his cheekbone.
“Mulder, sweetheart,” she said, “I promise you, we’ll find the man who did this. Everything is going to be okay. But you have to do something for me first, okay? Can you do that, Mulder? Can you help me?”
A stray tear leaked from his eye, sliding down his cheek and spotting the collar of his shirt. “I’ll try,” he whispered.
“You have to lay still,” Scully told him, keeping her voice low and soothing, “and try to sleep.”
Mulder nodded earnestly, but he kept gazing at Scully with wide, tearful eyes, his lips quivering. Scully murmured gently to him, keeping up a tirade and soothing words and promises she wasn’t sure she could keep. But what else could she say? Poor Mulder was laying here in front of her, sick and weak and in shock, most likely, because who could stand to watch their own father die and then simply walk away from the scene? She remembered his voice over the phone; how broken and scared he’d sounded. Mulder always seemed to regress in age when he was upset. Scully doubted it was something he was aware of, and it would most likely be an embarrassment if he was, but she felt nothing but compassion for the man lying in front of her.
She stroked his hair until he appeared to have fallen asleep, twitching slightly but otherwise restful. She decided to replace the cloth, but before that, it occurred to her, with a pang of guilt, that Mulder was still wearing a shirt caked in his father’s blood.
As she gently peeled it off of him, she tried not to imagine him making the long, lonely trip all the way back here while wearing it. Feeling the blood drying against his skin, smelling its coppery tang, tasting it in the air. She balled up the shirt and tossed vehemently aside.
Scully managed about an hour of what could be classified as rest before she was roused by the sound of faint crying. Mulder wasn’t awake, but he was thrashing, tears pouring from half-lidded eyes, glazed over and unseeing. It was startling to witness, but Scully had seen worse. She’d seen a lot worse. It was just that she’d never been so... close... to the people she’d been treating.
“Mulder,” she cooed, kneeling at his side and laying a gentle hand on his arm, “Mulder, it’s me. It’s Scully.”
“Don’t,” Mulder sobbed, his head whipping wildly from side to side. “Please-- I don’t want—please--”
“Mulder,” Scully said urgently, shaking him slightly. This didn’t seem like just another fevered delusion. It looked more like a nightmare—specifically, a flashback. “Mulder, wake up. Wherever you think you are, you aren’t.”
“Don’t make me forget,” Mulder whimpered. He squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body tensing like he was preparing for some kind of attack. “Please-- please, please, stop it--”
“Mulder,” Scully said, her tone growing a touch more frantic. “Listen to me. You’re in my apartment—Scully's apartment. You’re sick, you have a fever. You aren’t in any danger. Nobody is going to hurt you.”
Mulder’s eyes began to flutter, and Scully breathed a soft sigh of relief as he turned to look at her, his eyes no longer completely glazed. He blinked at her dazedly, his lips forming words, but he didn’t say anything. Scully ran her fingers through his hair, whispering softly to him that everything was okay, and he seemed to accept this, settling against the mattress.
“’m sorry,” Mulder whispered, his glassy eyes turning fully onto Scully again. She smiled.
“It’s alright,” she said gently. “I don’t mind.”
Mulder’s eyes drifted shut again, and Scully waited until his breathing had evened out and he was more or less at peace before she took his temperature again. He was still warm, but the number had crept down to 101, and he seemed, for the moment, at least, to be alright.
Scully settled into an armchair, putting her feet up on the edge of the bed. She was too tired to care much where she slept, but she wanted to be close enough to Mulder to hear if he was in distress. Crawling into bed beside him would feel... wrong, given the circumstances, and besides, he was probably like a furnace, and Scully preferred to sleep cold.
Tomorrow, she knew, would bring about more stress and anxiety for them. More questions to be answered, more dangers to confront, more worries to address. But for now, the air was still and quiet, and the sky was dark, and it was time to get some well-earned rest. For her and for Mulder.