Title: Panic

Rating: K+

Spoilers: Abduction arc, cancer arc

Setting: Season 5ish, after Scully's remission

Warnings: People prone to panic attacks might want to avoid if they get easily triggered

Disclaimer: The X-Files is owned by Chris Carter and TenThirteen Productions. No copyright infringement intended.

DAYS INN

OUTSIDE BILLINGS, MONTANA

The motel room is pitch black and I can practically feel my pupils dilate to try to accommodate as I sit up in the creaky bed. Everything is quiet. Too quiet. When they say that silence is deafening, they're not kidding. I turn my head to peek at the alarm clock.

3:03 AM

Well no wonder it's so damn quiet.

Even Mulder is apparently among the slumbering, as I don't hear the muffled sound of his television. It's rather peculiar, actually; my partner has the most horrendous, wacked-out sleep cycle and it isn't unusual for him to stay up past three.

A feeling of disconcertion creeps up on me. The simple, familiar feeling of loneliness is replaced with the unfamiliar feeling of being literally alone. The rational part of my brain tries to tell me that I am far from alone. Alone in this room, yes, but Mulder is in the room next door and there are countless other motel guests in the various rooms to the left and right.

The rational part of my brain, however, is currently sleep-muddled and thus ineffective, while the irrational part of my brain is wide awake and telling me that the rest of the world, the sleeping world, has abandoned me, and I am now all alone in the awake world. Even Mulder has abandoned me.

I take a deep, slow breath and relax back into the pillows, telling myself to just close my eyes, let my anxieties fly away, and that soon I will be back in the land of the sleeping where I belong.

Sleep doesn't come to me, however, and that simple fact amps up my anxiety.

Oh dear God, I'm going to have a panic attack.

I feel my throat constrict as a small wave of nausea settles on me. I haven't had a panic attack in years. If I have one now, what will that mean? Does having a panic attack after such a long dry spell mean that there's something psychologically wrong with me? What if the cancer is coming back, pressing on my brain?

Dana, you're just making it worse. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it. Think about the case that you and Mulder have yet to wrap up. Don't think about the cold sweat that just broke out over your body.

Oh God, it's happening. My hands and the roof of my mouth are beginning to tingle and my taste buds detect a slight metallic flavor. I bolt out of bed and flip on the lamp, hoping that the sudden visibility in the room will bring about a sense of familiarity as well as shock me out of this feeling of weightlessness and non-existence. I hold up my hand to my face but I still don't feel "all there", in more ways than one. The tunnel vision makes it seem as though the eyes that I'm viewing the hand through, as well as all of my other senses, are just a tad farther away than my actual body is.

Oh God, oh God, what if I never come out of this? What if I'm stuck in panic attack limbo for the rest of my life?

That thought in itself only increases my panic, and now my throat is constricting. I know that it's only in my mind, and my throat isn't actually swelling up and closing off my windpipe, but sensations can often be just as powerful as the real thing. I hobble to the bathroom on unsteady feet, flip on the light, and am blinded by the sudden brightness. Splashing water on ones face always seemed like such a cliché, but right now I'm desperate for relief. Shaking hands turn on the cold tap and I splash a bit of water on my face before the fear of passing out on the cold tiles grips me and I exit the bathroom and return to the bed. I'm not going to let something as benign as a panic attack result in me cracking my skull open and bleeding to death next to a motel toilet.

I just need to sit down and relax. It'll be over soon. Remember what your therapist used to tell you – it may seem like you're going to pass out but you're NOT, and you'll get through it.

I have a sudden urge to call mom. She used to talk me through my panic attacks. But it's just after three in the morning; I can't call her now without her worrying that I've been injured, or that something's happened to Mulder, or that any of the countless other work-related hazards my mother's brain has been able to conger up ever since my abduction nearly five years ago has occurred. I want so badly to cry. I need my mom but I can't have her right now, and the thought simply destroys me.

Maybe a good cry will do the trick. Maybe I just need to let everything out and the panic attack will end.

So I do. Shameful tears begin spilling down my cheeks, and there's nothing that I want more than to have someone hold me and tell me it'll be okay. I need human contact. I'm desperate for human contact. My sanity depends on it.

Mulder.

My body reacts on impulse, and I'm opening the connecting door and entering his pitch-black room before my mind can talk me out of it.

"Mulder." I choke out, my tears coming in full force now with loud, heaving sobs.

My partner has always been hyper-vigilant where I'm concerned, dating back to my father's death. Pair that with his tendency to sleep lightly and he's awake in an instant, snapping on the lamp, throwing the covers off and taking me by the shoulders.

"Scully, what's wrong?" I'm seeing him through a tunnel and he sounds distant, but the concern in his voice is unmistakable.

"I'm having a panic attack and it won't go away andI'msoscared..." I must sound absolutely mad, my words jumbled together, but it's times like this that you just don't care. I'm sobbing in his arms in a way that I haven't sobbed in the longest time. The kind of sobs that literally shake your entire body and steal the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping for breath in between each wracking expulsion of air.

"Jesus, Scully, sit down." He steers me to the bed and sits down next to me, one hand tightly gripping mine, the other soothingly rubbing my back. "Shh, shh, just relax. Take a breath, honey, relax. Deep breaths, deep breaths, you don't want to hyperventilate. Shit, where's a paper bag when you need one?" He squeezes my hand and then moves to stand up. "I'm going to get you a cool washcloth."

"No, don't leave me, I'm so scared! I feel like I'm losing my mind!" I choke out as more sobs wrack my body. I fling my arms around his waist as a child would, desperate for an anchor as another wave of dissociation grips me and threatens, I fear, to hurl me into a universe where only I exist. I'm sure that once this attack is over I'll be mortified at my actions, but as I just said, I don't care at the moment.

"Mulder, I think I'm going to pass out."

"No, no, you're not going to pass out. It's just a panic attack. I promise you, you're not going to pass out."

I feel his hands cease their circular rubbing of my back, and before I know it I'm up in his arms. He's wearing only boxers, so I grasp feebly at his shoulders, not quite conscious of the fact that there's no shirt for me to grab fistfulls of as he leans over the bed and places me gently in the center of it. Through my haze I can smell his familiar scent on the pillow, and it's comforting, but only momentarily. I reach out for him but he's gone, and in a second I hear the television turn on. He returns to my side and brushes the stray strands of hair from my face.

"Relax and listen to the TV and you'll start to feel better in a few minutes. Just let me go into the bathroom to get you a washcloth."

The bed shifts as he gets off of it and pads into the bathroom. I turn my gaze up to the ceiling and hear him turn on the tap. From the corner of my eyes I see the light in the bathroom flicker off and Mulder is at my side again, pressing a damp washcloth to my forehead. The sound of a seal being broken gets my attention and soon Mulder is propping me up and holding a bottle of chilled Poland Springs to my lips.

"Just take a small sip, Scully."

I obey, letting him tip the bottle slightly to allow a small amount of the cool fluid to slip down my throat. Mulder recaps the bottle and puts it on the nightstand. I close my eyes and through my pajama top feel his large hand come to rest on my chest.

"Your heart's pounding, Scully; try to relax. Keep taking slow, deep breaths." He begins to gently move his palm in circles on my chest.

I'm slowly beginning to come back to myself. My breathing has slowed, my hands have lost their tingly feeling, and my heart no longer feels as though it's going to burst out of my chest. My tunnel vision has cleared and Mulder no longer sounds like he's talking to me from inside a fishbowl. His hand has moved from my chest to my head, gently stroking my hair as my eyes close and sleep begins to take me in its embrace.

"You gonna go to sleep now?" Mulder whispers gently, still stroking my hair.

"Uh-huh..."

"I'll be here when you wake up."

A kiss is placed on my cheek and then I'm gone.

When I wake up I'm lying on my side facing the alarm clock, the damp washcloth next to me on the pillow.

4:12 AM

The bed shifts and a large masculine hand picks up the washcloth and, noticing that my eyes are open, whispers to me to go back to sleep. I close my eyes and as I feel the cool cloth run gently across my right cheek, realize that he's wiping away the dried tear tracks. He cups my chin and gently turns my head to give him access to my left cheek, quickly wiping it, before turning it back and standing up.

From beneath my eyelids I can see the light go on in the bathroom, then go off. The bed shifts again and squeeks a bit as Mulder climbs back into his side and falls asleep.

Swish, swish, swish.

What the hell is that?

Swish, swish, swish.

I open my eyes and peer at the alarm clock.

7:43 AM.

The smell of lousy motel coffee fills my nostrils as the Quik-Brew machine makes its final gurgles and spits out the remaining scalding water into the pot. My body is rebelling against the fact that it got so little rest, and the thought of coffee instantly nauseates me.

Swish, swish, swish.

Okay, so I wasn't dreaming those noises. The water comes on in the bathroom and it suddenly clicks: Mulder's shaving. That doesn't make the swishing any less annoying, though.

My eyes are blurry and sticky and I rub at them with one hand while sitting myself up with the other. My God, what a rotten night. I would give my left hand for just three more hours of sleep, but we have to be at the local police department at 8:30. The bed creaks as I lug my tired body out of it.

Oh, head-rush. I sit back down and rub my temples.

The water shuts off and Mulder emerges a minute later, drying his face with a towel.

"Mornin' sleepyhead. I've got a bagel here for you, cream cheese on the side. And I got you a coffee in case you don't feel like drinking the motel crap." He gestures towards the pot of black liquid sitting under the brewer.

"Thanks, Mulder." I mumble, attempting to rid my hair of bedhead.

"I'm going to head down to the station in a few minutes; I think you should try to get some more sleep." He says gently.

I open my mouth to argue but he beats me to it.

"I don't want to fight about this, Scully. This past week you've gotten so little sleep; you're exhausted, and frankly that's the last thing you need so soon after beating your cancer. You're a doctor - you know this. What happened last night was clearly a result of exhaustion, and maybe a few other elements as well."

A blush creeps into my cheeks. Seeing this, Mulder sits next to me on the bed.

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about, Scully. I get panic attacks every once in a while."

"Yeah, but you've never come running to me in the middle of the night in hysterics."

"I'm probably just more accustomed to them than you are. When was the last time you had a panic attack?"

"I don't know. Years ago." I shrug.

"I think my last one was a couple months ago. You probably woke up in the dark, something spooked you, you panicked, and then you panicked even harder at the realization that these attacks are so unusual for you."

"Yeah, but I don't want to talk about it. If I start reliving a panic attack I'll just be hurled right back into it."

"Maybe, maybe not. Talking has always helped me, as long as I have a tight reign on my thoughts." He puts a finger under my chin and tilts my head up to meet his eyes. "If you're open to it, maybe we can talk when I get back from the station, okay?"

"I'll think about it."

Mulder stands up so that I can climb back under the covers.

"You want me to put your breakfast on the nightstand?"

Ugh, I had managed to forget all about my roiling stomach until now.

"No, leave it over there. I'm not hungry."

Mulder puts down the bag and stuffs his keys, wallet, and cell phone into his coat pockets.

"I'll give you a call before I leave the station, and don't you hesitate to call if you need me, promise?"

"Promise."

To be continued?