Interlude By syntax6 Rated: G Spoilers: "Irresistible" Feedback: always welcome at syn_tax6@yahoo.com He was used to sleeping on the couch, but really it was his particular couch, leather worn to fit his body like a mold. The flowered sofa he occupied now had a straight back, tailored cushions, and high, curved arms. A settee, he thought, more than a couch. Not meant for sleeping. His feet hung over the end. No, not for sleeping, but good for lying in the dark and listening to the bedroom. This was why he'd ordered it. The doctor told him to stay close, to make sure she didn't go to sleep and not wake up again. He hadn't conceived the possibility. She was safe. He'd held her warm and quivering against him. The chance that he could still lose, that Pfaster could win after all, kept him wide-eyed and twitching on the couch. He watched the glowing numbers tick off the minutes until he had to go shake her awake again. Still with me, Scully? They would talk about what year it was and who was president and not about the man who'd tried to disassemble her like Legos. His knees cracked when he swung his legs to the floor, joints aching from their odd angle. He padded across the fine carpet to the desk, where he switched on the lamp and squinted as yellow light filled the room. He caught his reflection in the mirror: unshaven, hair on end. He'd removed his shirt but not his pants. It seemed wrong to wander around in his boxers, not when he was in charge. What if he had to take her back to the hospital immediately? So there he was playing doctor in a wife-beater undershirt and Armani slacks. Expensive white trash, he thought with irony. Maybe not so far from the truth. He pushed the door to her room open, widening the shaft of light until it crossed the bed. The king-sized mattress would hold a half-dozen Scullys, but his was curled on the very edge, closest to the door. He cast a long shadow over her. Even in the weak light he could see the bruising on her face, note the protective way she held her arm to her chest. If she breathed, he couldn't hear it. He took one step into the room and stopped, digging his toes into the carpet. She shifted, alive, and he almost turned and left again. No need to wake her. No need to be sure. She'd been deathly quiet on the way back to the hotel. He'd filled the space between them with empty chatter about how one time he got drunk in Minneapolis and ended up lost and a transvestite chased him down the street. He didn't give her any space to ask questions. People did, of course, people always did. He took his PhD in the field of Donnie Pfasters and so naturally everyone came to him for answers. Most of the time he had some to supply. Scully moved again, a small sound of distress escaping from her. The hair rose on the back of his neck. Violent crimes, always horrible, but he had picked murder for a very particular reason. All the victims were dead. Suffering over. No more pain. He could give them justice and walk away knowing there was quite literally nothing more he could do. Scully was still here, hurting, living, both a blessing and a curse. She'd thrown herself against him and all of a sudden he knew, in a visceral way he'd somehow never accepted before, that she could be hurt. Could bleed. Could die. Just because she'd been returned once didn't mean it was forever. He could never look at her the same way again. Stepping closer, he wondered if she would mark her life the same way, before and after. Already he had so many afters. He leapfrogged from tragedy to tragedy with little time for the spaces in between. His hand hovered above her shoulder. Was it okay to touch her there? She'd been hunched in the car, secretive about her injuries. She flinched and he drew back as if burned. He hadn't even made contact. Her brows drew together, lips parted. Very clearly, she said, "Help." Not a cry, not a plea, but the tiny word exploded in his heart. He knelt by the bed. "Scully," he said, his voice low. "Wake up." Her eyes shot open, wild. He could see she didn't know where she was. "It's okay," he said, and her hand groped for him. He gave her his hand as an anchor, letting her hold him as she came back into herself. "Mulder?" Her voice was roughened from lack of sleep. "Yeah, it's me. You all right?" She nodded, cheek on the pillow, but couldn't back it up with words. "He was so strong," she whispered eventually. "He didn't look that strong but he was." "You fought him off," he answered, trying to give her back some of her own strength. ""Did I?" He'd been right; Scully's questions were much, much harder. "He's not going to hurt anyone else ever again." Mulder stroked her knuckles with his thumb. "That's mostly thanks to you." "I didn't find him, Mulder. He found me." Her tone was final, clear: I don't want to own this. Don't make me. He backed off. "Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need, like pills or water or something?" "Water?" she repeated, as if she'd never heard of such a substance. "No, thank you." "Blanket okay? There are extras in the closet." "I'm fine." He lapsed into silence, mind whirling for something, anything, he could give her. Help, she'd said, and he had yet to provide any. Her eyes slid shut, drugs exerting their pull. "I'll let you sleep, then," he said. She hummed an answer and was lost to him again. His knees locked, screaming in pain, but he did not get up. She was still holding his hand. XxXxXxXxX