PA

Her leg was hurt, she thought. It was numb and could be broken, but she didn't know how badly because she hadn't tried to walk on it yet. Other things hurt - head, shoulder, stomach. There was a sudden pressure on her neck, enough to make her cough and gasp.

'Don't go,' he had said.

The pain in her skull preceded the blackout.

It wasn't hot and humid anymore, she was outside. The cold wind woke her a little and she started to shake. She came here looking for Mulder and maybe she found him. Someone was holding her up, whispering her name.

"Mulder?"

"No. Come on, Scully, we have to go."

Her legs were numb, but she knew they were working underneath her. The ground was too soft and didn't give her enough traction to move quickly enough. The darkness added to the confusion. She couldn't tell if her eyes were open or closed.

Someone had grabbed her and struck the back of her head. She tried to resist, but nothing worked. They dragged her somewhere inside, then she smelled gasoline and felt the vibrations of rolling pavement underneath tires. It seemed like a long time before the car stopped. They dumped her on the ground and pulled her across the gravel. Then she was inside again, the air was stagnant and unbearable but her pain was worse. They might have beaten her, but she didn't really remember.

Sometime later, she was cold and someone whispered her name. They were running on a soft surface made of leaves.

But now the ground was frozen and hard, pressed against her cheek. There wasn't any wind, but the air still stung. Someone was saying her name again. She knew it wasn't Mulder; if her body wasn't hurting so badly already then she would have felt the fresh pain that came with that realization.

"Krycek..."

No answer. Maybe he didn't hear her?

A hand slid over her body, warm and clinical. Feeling for broken bones. Scully whimpered at the physical contact and pulled away. He continued to brush his hand over her arms and her legs, then retreated. She kept her eyes closed and pressed herself into the rough floor.

But his hand was on her again, slipping underneath her waist. She winced in protest, but it didn't hurt as he lifted her steadily and positioned her upright against the wall. He placed her arm around his neck and brought her legs over his hips until she sat in his lap. She smelled leather as he drew her arm down from his shoulders and wrapped her in his jacket.

"It's too cold on the floor, Scully."

She didn't remember how long they sat like that.

Krycek had chased them for two days. In the afternoon he found the men's car parked outside an abandoned mill. He waited until it was dark and slipped through a back entrance. Inside he shot two of them dead, but the third man was still somewhere in the building. They were holding Scully in a small room on the underground level, he almost dropped her on the stairs when the familiar combination of oppressive darkness and stale air made him want to vomit.

They hid in a crumbling concrete storehouse less than half a mile away, obscured by a sparse strip of trees. Before they left the mill Krycek made sure to leave some things in disarray to create a trail for the third man to follow. He sat with Scully and waited for the man to find them so that he could finish things and take her home.

Three days in the hospital, then bedrest at home with the company of painkillers. Sometimes people were in her apartment, but Scully wasn't sure who everyone was or how often they came. Kitchen noises, running water, distinct and gentle voices. She thought she heard Frohike and Byers talking in the living room. No hint of Mulder.

On the second night at home she woke to find Krycek sitting in a chair in her bedroom. She wasn't afraid, but his presence irked her. It should have been Mulder sitting there, but it wasn't. She wanted him out.

A faint sob was the only thing she could articulate, muffled by her pillow.

"Scully?" He sounded almost apologetic.

The room was dark and she was tired. She just wanted the pain to go away so she could sleep.

"Here to gloat?" she managed to murmur.

"No," he said.

He didn't speak after that, and Scully decided to give in to her exhaustion and tried to sleep. But her headache intensified and soon she was awake again. The small bottle of painkillers sat on her nightstand, but the glass of water was on the other side of her room on the dresser. She vaguely remembered Frohike mentioning that he'd get her something to drink, but in his absentmindedness he must have forgotten to place the glass somewhere within reach. He meant well, and Scully couldn't fault him for it. She'd have to dry swallow the pills.

She started to sit up a bit, but the pain made it difficult. Her arms were trembling and clumsy, her legs felt like dead weight. She didn't notice he was next to the bed until she felt his hand slip under her. He gingerly eased her to a sitting position before straightening, his dark figure still at her bedside.

She was paralyzed. His familiar movements, the smell of his leather jacket - they had sat together on the cold floor that night, his arm rubbing hers to keep her warm. He had fed her food and water, brought her to a hospital. Told the nurses who she was before he left. He had killed the men who took her.

She was fully awake now, the aching of her limbs was inconsequential to the twisting knot in her stomach. She turned her head up to look at him, to search his face and understand why he helped her, why he was here at all.

But he was walking away, back turned. She watched him cross the room, retrieve the glass of water and bring it to her. When he bent closer, Scully turned away. She couldn't look at him. She took the glass, popped a pill and drank. It didn't hurt as badly to slide back down under the sheets than it was to sit up. Scully settled on her side, facing him.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

She heard him sigh as he crouched down beside the bed. His movements were stiff, his obvious discomfort filled the silence in the room. He was looking away, jaw clenched. In the dim light she could make out his profile. He looked as if he were cut from glass, the hard lines that shaped his brow down to his chin were raw and severe. Mulder had a soft, benign quality to his face, a stark difference to what she was seeing now. The man in front of her did not look human.

"I'm not here to hurt you," was all he said.

His head dipped suddenly and she couldn't see him anymore. She could only see darkness, the black color of his hair and shoulders.

They were silent for a long time. He stayed down on the floor, his form barely moving.

"Krycek."

His head jerked up a little, but his eyes were downcast.

"Why are you here?"

He let out a breath. "I don't know," he said. She had never heard him sound so mournful.

His eyes darted to hers, then looked away.

She realized then that he was scared. There was uncertainty in the blackness of his eyes, an emptiness that stunned her. She had seen him frightened before, when she found a crazed Mulder beating him senseless into the hood of a car. But that had been a different kind of fear, primitive and full of panic. Not the same as tonight. He looked broken and alone, folded into himself on the floor of her bedroom.

Her heart shrank a little, an involuntary reflex that quickly subsided. But the dull ache still lingered; his quiet, pointed sorrow was strangely troubling. Mulder would have sneered, but she was only human. Krycek was too.

She could absolve him of his transgressions for tonight. In the morning things might be different, but one night was enough in exchange for what he had done for her. She hadn't forgotten about Pennsylvania.

It was too much to put into words. She wasn't sure if there was a proper way to say it. So she reached a hand out - a sudden impulse, and let her fingertips come to rest on his brow. She slid her fingers through his hair, his skin trembled against her open palm. But he didn't pull away as she expected; he merely shuddered and tilted his head up slightly to meet her caress.

"Scully?"

She drew her hand back and spoke softly. "Go home, Krycek."

He looked up at her. His pupils were dilated, darkness edging out the faint color in his eyes.

"Go home," she repeated.

She felt him hesitate, then he rose from his position and moved noiselessly towards the door. All she heard was a soft click before she was alone again.

Scully slept and dreamt of Mulder. No nightmares tonight. Only mild dreams that would be half-remembered upon waking, then forgotten in the day. She almost expected to hear Mulder's voice before she opened her eyes.

When morning came and the pills wore off, Scully woke up to an empty apartment.