"She’s going to be fine, Fox."
So her mother had said. So the doctors had said. So Scully herself had said. A miracle. Remission. She was going to be fine.
Now in the darkness, he was by her hospital bed in the deep blue night, watching her sleep. Scully, true to form, had insisted everyone go home (“I’m all right, I promise—I just need some rest.”) and Mulder had left with the others, but had found himself back less than an hour later, seating himself at her bedside.
The tubes and machines had been cleared away, save for the heart monitor that beeped quietly by the side of the bed. Slow. Strong. Healthy.
She was still too thin, the shadows beneath her eyes—although rapidly fading—still visible. She was sound asleep, her breathing deep, her lips slightly parted. He felt himself shudder when he realized that despite her returning color, her stillness could have been mistaken for the chilled threat of death that had so recently nuzzled at the back of her neck. That soft, steady beating convinced him otherwise.
He wanted to crawl into the bed with her, just to press his body against hers and feel the life simmering beneath her skin; to rest his hand over her heart and pray to a God he didn’t believe in that her soul forever remain aglow.
He glanced at his illuminated watch. Two-thirty in the morning. He should be home now, getting the sleep that he obviously needed and could now have, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave her side.
Sleep could wait. All he wanted to do right now was watch her live. He’d never stop from this moment on.