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DISCLAIMER: The characters herein are the property of 1013, Fox and Chris Carter. No infringement on their copyright is intended. Their usage here is non-profit and for entertainment purposes only.

Author's Notes: Thanks to willa as always, for helping me regain interest in matters equestrian.

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His heart beats in my chest.

It's odd only because I didn't realize it until now. I should know when it happened. But when I try to reach out and understand it, I just get images. The close-up fabric of his shirt as he clutched me in a hospital corridor. His face, distorted by a horrifying liquid and an icy wall.

I need help, Mulder. I need someone to help me find you.

I wake up on my cold floor, disoriented.

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I may not know much at this point, Mulder, but I know one thing. Time is running out.

There's a shuffling sound in my hallway. I get up, only to find another unmarked envelope waiting for me. A key. It's as if you can still hear my thoughts, and somehow, you're guiding me to the way. The way to save you. The key I need to save you, looking so strangely ordinary between my fingers.

Time is running out. But it hasn't run out yet. I close my eyes. Silence. All except the sound of my pulse. Constant. Beating.

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I call in a favor to find out where this key should lead me. After the ruse last spring, Byers and the boys certainly owe me that much. I remember telling them they couldn't lure a Federal Agent across the country on false pretenses.

Actually, as it turns out, they can. As long as they're willing to let me call in the favor later.

I don't know how, I don't want to know how, but they manage to figure out where and how I should use the key. And they even know who the key's original owner was.

Diana Fowley.

I shouldn't trust it. I shouldn't trust her, certainly. But something tells me this is legitimate.

She wants to save you too. And I'm the only one she can turn to.

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It's all a blur, Mulder. But there you are. You look sad and small in here, with that bandage on your head, the same lifeless look in your eyes. Helpless. But you're here. I was afraid I'd never see you again.

I don't remember driving here. I can barely recall evading the guard, slipping down this deserted corridor.

Another blur later, and you're in my car. My heart's beating fast now, the fatigue and stress and panic all catching up with me. You know the second my heart quickens, and you calm it with a single gesture, your hand covering mine as I struggle to steer the car.

The relief floods me all at once. All my thoughts, all my worries, all my hopes, jumble in my mind. Deafening me.

Deafening me until your voice cuts through the din.

"I'm okay, Scully," you say, quietly, as you smile serenely at me. Deja vu shimmers through me, as if I've seen this before. I shake my head - it must be the fatigue.

And your heart beats, clear and strong. I can feel it.

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There is, to my surprise, no familiar battle about going to the hospital. You quietly accept I must know you're okay. I have to see x-rays and blood cultures before my mind can believe what my heart, your heart, already knows.

I resist the urge to call Skinner, the awful memory of his admission still crystallizing in my memory. He's compromised.

Who can we trust now? Skinner can't help us. But Diana did.

Diana.

Surely they know by now. Mulder's disappeared. Would they link it to the keycard? Would they know who'd allowed it, wished it, willed it to happen?

And then, Mulder, you squeeze my hand. Perched there on the examining table, waiting for one more test before I'll let you go home. I'll check on her, Mulder. Because she helped me save you. But not until I know you're okay, that she didn't wait to help me save you until it was too late.

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I don't know what words are coming out of my mouth as I drive you back to your apartment. There's something so familiar about talking to you now, even after an ordeal like this, and I just seem to talk. Without having to think.

And then there's silence. The silence saying what I can't quite say.

You're safe.

I felt like I was dying with you.

I love you.

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Alertness. Noise. With my right hand on my gun and my left hand on my phone, I wake up in my own bed, and come to the realization that my phone is ringing. A quick glance at the clock tells me I'm still hours away from anything resembling rest. Sleep slurring my words, I hear my own voice.

"Scully."

"Agent Scully," Skinner's voice cuts through the line, jolting me awake.

"Sir," I respond, automatically. And then panic cuts through me. "Is it - "

"Agent Mulder is fine, Agent Scully," he cuts me off, answering the question he knew was coming.

"What is it, sir?"

"Agent Fowley was found this morning. Murdered. The local P.D. called the FBI when they saw her badge."

Silence cracked between us for a minute, the faint hum unique to a conversation between two cellular phones. A sound I realize I've learned to associate with Mulder.

"I thought you might be the best person to tell Agent Mulder."

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I couldn't make myself go to tell you for the longest time. Dawn turned into a bright, brisk Washington morning. One cup of coffee turned into two.

But now here I am, deliberate steps bringing me to your door.

And there you are, and you're talking, telling me about your ordeal, words flooding from you uncontrollably. With a more careful tone, you tell me what you know of Albert Hosteen, of his death, and the impossibility of his coming to help me save you.

And I tell you of Diana, unsure of your reaction. I hear myself stammer through an uncomfortable sentence, trying not to think of what the two of you may have meant to each other.

And when I look into your eyes, I understand.

My heart beats in your chest.

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end