(Part 1/3)

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From "For You" by Johnny Cash and Dave Matthews

I will drink the cup, the poison overflowing
I will lift you up, watch over where you're going
The first one in, the last one gone
I'll be the rock to stand upon
For you
For you

My spirit aches, and I can't stop this river flowing
In fear I take each labored breath I draw in knowing
That this could be my last, my final hour
But faith and hope and love give me the power
For you
For you

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Prologue

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

My partner never ceases to amaze me with his blind
faith in the bizarre. Just once I'd like to solve a
case based solely on solid, scientific evidence. So
when Skinner and a physician from the CDC's office in
Philadelphia asked me to consult on an unusual post-
mortem, I assumed I could enjoy the novelty of applying
standard procedures. As Dr. Bruin had phrased it,
"This investigation should begin and end under a
microscope." Alas, my good fortune was short-lived.
Barely two hours elapsed before Mulder intruded upon my
"slicing and dicing" in the Bureau's pathology lab.
Damn him.

All right, so I didn't exactly have an explanation as
to why an otherwise healthy, young African-American
male was melanin depleted, yet. Was that any reason
for him to immediately jump to the conclusion that a
sinister conspiracy was afoot? If we *are* dealing
with an infectious disease, it's not unreasonable to
assume three other men believed to have been recently
kidnapped succumbed to a similar fate.

Unfortunately, that premise is far too mundane for my
relentless partner to consider. Like a bird of prey,
Mulder swooped down and seized possession of the hair
and fibers I collected from Owen Sanders' body. For
all practical purposes, this was no longer my
investigation. Before I knew it, he had whisked the
evidence to the lab. Perhaps I should be grateful I
was spared another awkward encounter with Agent
Pendrell.

Soon afterward, Mulder called me from a pay phone. A
pay phone? From Mr. "I'm-so-totally-dependent-upon-my-
cell-phone-you'll-have-to-remove-it-from-my-cold-dead-
fingers"? I was processing that anomaly when he told
me Pendrell had identified a thorn-like seed from West
Africa that contained a cerebropathic glycoside. I
could already anticipate his next question. Could the
victim have been killed by an exotic poison? I almost
derived a perverse sense of pleasure informing him the
tox screen was negative. I briefly speculated Mr.
Sanders' depigmentation could have resulted from the
necrotized pituitary gland, but I got the impression
Mulder's mind was somewhere else.

Did I mention I'm currently trapped in a rental car
with my partner? In Philadelphia, discussing his
latest conspiracy theory? After another victim, Alfred
Kittel, was reported missing, Mulder and I arrived in
the city of brotherly love. I can't believe we're
pursuing leads based on a single seed. What is it with
Mulder and seeds? I'm surprised I didn't find any
errant sunflower seeds in Mr. Sanders' body when I
performed the autopsy. That could have seriously
skewed my findings. Death by sunflower seed. I'll bet
Skinner would have loved that.

According to Mulder, the New York Port Authority
reported a similar death on a chartered flight from
Burkina Faso approximately one week before the first
man in this area was reporting missing. However, the
man's embassy arranged for the body to be returned to
his home country before an autopsy could be performed.
We contacted the local INS office for assistance in
cross-referencing the flight's passenger manifest with
anyone who may have applied for residency or a work
visa within the past three months. Initially the
social worker, Marcus Duff, hesitated to help us until
we explained we could be dealing with a potential
public health threat. After consulting his notes, he
provided us with information about Samuel Aboah. To
make a long story short, Aboah was less than
enthusiastic to see us. He immediately bolted,
although we found him a few minutes later in a most
unusual place. Mulder spotted him through a drainage
pipe. I can't even begin to explain what I saw, or
what I *thought* I saw.

Since I suspected Aboah might be suffering from an
unidentified viral or bacterial infection, arrangements
were made to place him in quarantine at Mt. Zion
Medical Center and perform a battery of tests. The
results were perplexing. Not only did his x-rays
reveal an inexplicable object in his esophagus, his PET
scan indicated the absence of a pituitary gland. I was
still trying to digest that information when Mulder
announced the patient had escaped. Within minutes, the
Philadelphia police department provided a promising
lead. By the time we arrived at the scene, Duff was
being loaded into an ambulance. Curiously, a small
hollow spear was embedded in his nose. Mulder and I
exchanged knowing glances. It was the mysterious
object detected in Aboah's x-rays. Apparently this is
how he has been extracting melanin from the pituitary
glands of his victims.

Mulder is convinced Aboah will seek another victim
since his attack on his immigration counselor was
abruptly thwarted. So now we're in the car, canvassing
the neighborhood for a melanin-sucking vampire. Okay,
those weren't Mulder's exact words, but that's the
general idea. He surmises Aboah's ability to drain
hormones from his victims is the result of an
evolutionary adaptation that has allowed him to survive
despite his obvious physical defect. That almost
sounds plausible until he mentions a tale from African
folklore. Folklore? Great. This case has officially
become an X-File. I roll my eyes in frustration.
Sometimes I get so pissed-off at Mulder, I want to wrap
my hands around his neck and choke the living daylights
out of him.


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Chapter One

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

Mulder thoughtfully points to a demolition site and
stops the car. He recalls that asbestos fibers were
retrieved from Mr. Sanders' body. I already know where
this is heading. Asbestos fibers were found on the
victim, ergo; we'll find the suspect here. After four
years together, I've become accustomed to my partner's
extraordinary leaps in the deductive process. If I
were to ask him right now, I'm sure he could recite
statistics as to how often his intuition is correct,
give or take a decimal place or two.

Our weapons drawn, we cautiously enter the abandoned
building. Once in, we split up and begin our search.
We have only been separated for a few minutes when I
hear Mulder weakly call out to me. Already I fear the
worst, that Aboah has claimed him as his latest victim.
I anxiously return to the location where I last saw
Mulder, but he's nowhere in sight. His abandoned
flashlight lies on the ground in mute testimony to his
disappearance.

A nearby vent attracts my attention, and I peer inside.
The duct could have provided a convenient escape route,
but to where? I climb inside the cramped tube and
crawl through the musty labyrinth. Each movement
disturbs an accumulation of debris, and minuscule
particles float through the air. An annoying ticklish
sensation teases at my nose, and I struggle to suppress
a sneeze. I call out Mulder's name several times, but
he does not answer. My heart races as I consider the
implications. Is he physically unable to respond? Is
he...? No, I refuse to believe that. He's here. I
feel it.

As I continue my journey in this narrow maze, my
muscles begin to cramp. Even though I'm petite, some
of these hairpin turns are challenging to navigate. I
can't imagine how uncomfortable they must be for
Mulder. An involuntary gasp escapes my throat when I
stumble across Kittel's body, his skin totally devoid
of pigment. Oh, God! Please don't let me be too late
for Mulder!

An inert form lies close by. Mulder?! In the dim
lighting, he appears unnaturally pale. Is his ghastly
white complexion the result of injury, shock, fear...or
has Aboah drained the melanin from his pituitary gland?
I frantically crawl toward him and instinctively check
his carotid artery for a pulse. Yessssssss! The
rhythmic tattooing against my fingertips provides
reassuring, tangible proof he is alive. Mulder's eyes
are open, but he is completely non-responsive. Before
I can perform a more thorough assessment, a noise
startles me and I drop my flashlight. In the near
darkness, I see Aboah's face at the end of the tunnel,
and I fire my weapon three times. I can't tell if I
hit him or not, but at least he's not continuing to
advance. I'll worry about that later. Right now, I
need to get Mulder out of here and summon help.

There's a vent cover behind Mulder, and I awkwardly
reach across him to knock it out. A swift survey
reveals a courtyard littered with a couple of corpses.
I'll need to notify the police to search the area for
the rest of Aboah's victims as soon as I get Mulder
taken care of. After jumping out of the duct, I
struggle to pull him onto the ground. With one final
tug, I accidentally send Mulder falling to terra firma.
Oops. Sorry about that.

I immediately reach for my cell phone and call 911 for
EMS assistance and police backup. The operator
interrupts me to ask for my badge number. What? I
don't have time for this nonsense. This is a life-or-
death emergency. I'm not a giggly teenager calling in
a pizza order as a prank. I can't convey a sense of
urgency to this idiot. Nearly blind with rage, I
repeat our location, again. I don't believe this. My
partner is in dire need of medical attention, there are
at least three dead bodies on the premises, a killer
could still be nearby, and I'm arguing with a 911
operator because she's confused about our position!
Arrggghhhh!

I glance at Mulder to make sure he's okay, but the
expression in his eyes sends shivers down my spine.
It's one of pure, unadulterated panic. He seems to be
attempting to communicate with me, but about what? Is
he in pain? Is there something I need to tell the
operator? I'm desperately trying to figure out what he
wants in this psychic game of charades. How many
syllables, Mulder? Person, plant, animal,
mineral...help me out here.

His mounting agitation is almost palpable as he focuses
on something behind me. Behind me? Shit. Aboah!
Reflexively I simultaneously reach for my weapon and
turn around, firing several rounds at our menacing
attacker. To my profound relief, I hit Aboah in
midair, and he falls to the ground. Duty dictates that
I should evaluate the status of this worthless piece of
human debris that tried to kill my partner, so I go
through the motions. Okay, fine. I came, I saw, I
confirmed he's alive and not going anywhere soon. My
obligation has been fulfilled.

When I return to Mulder's side, his eyelids flutter
convulsively for a couple of minutes before they slide
shut. I try to rouse him, but he does not react to
external stimuli. He is drooling excessively, and in
his unconscious state, I'm afraid he will choke on his
saliva. I sit down on the ground and support his head
in my lap. As I cradle him in my arms, his lips turn a
slightly bluish hue. Damn it! Where are those
paramedics?


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MULDER
----------------

The pieces fall into place while I am informing Scully
of the results of the fiber analysis. The crippled hulk
of a building before us is the perfect place for Aboah
to hide. She agrees, and we decide to take a look. The
interior is dark, musty, and hopelessly crowded with
partitions and gangways. My favorite. I head for the
upper level while Scully searches the ground floor. The
beam of my flashlight seems to be devoured in the inky
atmosphere. The futility, and perhaps inadvisability,
of this venture strikes me as I climb the rungs to a
catwalk. A faint noise distracts me from the thought
almost immediately. The sound came from somewhere
above, just a soft stirring of the air.

I proceed cautiously, sweeping the walk with the
flashlight's beam before climbing up all of the way.
There is no further sound, but a primal fear grips me.
It is a programmed reaction to something here that is
equally primal. I train my weapon on the vent opening
in front of me, sensing that Aboah is approaching. The
hairs standing on the back of my neck are the only tip-
off.

Suddenly, the tingling wave of a shiver coursing it way
up my spine turns into searing pain. I reach back
reflexively and pull the offending object from my neck.
It is difficult to see, but it resembles the thorn
recovered from Sanders' body. Shit. I know I am in
trouble, so I call out for my partner while trying to
catch a glimpse of Aboah. A fire spreads rapidly from
the site of the wound, and gravity seems to increase on
an exponential scale. The gun and flashlight become too
much to handle, so I drop the flashlight and muster all
of my waning strength to hold onto the gun. Where the
heck is Scully? I am losing control fast, my muscles
burning with strain. I hear the sound again behind me,
much louder this time, but my legs ignore the command
to move. In spite of my best efforts, the weapon slips
from my hands. Okay, this is pissing me off. My stomach
turns to knots, and the floor rushes up to meet me.

I lie stunned for a moment, a few stars swimming before
my eyes. I could not even use my hands to cushion the
fall, so my head had obviously taken the brunt of it.
For a moment, the darkness seems very inviting,
whispering to me with promises of reprieve. A heavy
thud to my right reminds me that I should be afraid
right now, jolting me out of the reverie.

Before I know it, incredibly strong hands are lifting
me into the air. I try to struggle, but my arms only
dangle uselessly. Aboah turns me as he stuffs me into
the vent opening. His pink irises capture the scant
light, and he flashes his teeth in a huge, predatory
smile. I attempt to call to Scully again, but the
effort is frustratingly futile. My jaw hangs open, and
my tongue feels like nothing more than a wad of cotton.
Aboah squeezes past me and grabs my left arm. He yanks
on it hard, and I flop onto my back as the wind is
knocked out of my lungs. He begins to drag me like a
carcass. How prophetic.

As we turn the first corner, my right shoulder catches
against the metal, but he doesn't slow down. He pulls
harder on my left arm. I hear a sickening crunch, and
pain tears through my shoulder. I become completely
disoriented in the black space, lost to agony,
frustration, and the fading hope that Scully will
somehow find me.

Our progress slows for a moment. At least, I think it
does. I am not sure how darkness can spin aimlessly,
but it is doing so now. In the eye of the vortex, I
hear a distant scuffling sound. It echoes in my ears,
magnified unreasonably. I must be imagining things.
Before I can filter the thought through the throbbing
in my head, Aboah takes off again, elevating the strain
on my shoulder to an excruciating level. A scream wells
up but dies in my throat. A clicking sound is all I can
manage, and that does not last long.

After a few more seconds of being dragged through the
maze of ducts, I am tugged around another turn. This
time, my shoes catch on a seam, and my chest is pinned
against the corner. Aboah is obviously in a hurry, so
he grabs both of my arms and pulls for all he is worth.
A sharp crack announces the fracture of my ribs. The
stabbing sensation on the left side steals what is left
of my breath, and my stomach churns. I close my eyes,
trying to stay as calm as possible while functioning
with very little air. It seems that I am floating now,
and I cease to care what my destination is. I am
completely defenseless, so it does not matter.

Just as I am beginning to rather enjoy the gliding
sensation, it stops. I am lifted into a sitting
position, slumped over inside the small space, and left
alone. I pry my eyes open, preferring to face death
directly, but Aboah has gone. Perhaps he left his
pituitary extraction tool in his other pants. So, I
have little to do now except try to think about
anything but vomiting. The dreaded urge is building,
and I know I will choke if it happens. Must think about
something pleasant. Something Scully.

A warm trickle of drool runs down my chin. It is a
coincidence. Really. The cramped metal duct reminds me
of our last rental car. My entire left side hurts, the
intensity oscillating with each shallow, desperate
breath. My feet, already useless, have started to go
numb now. Perhaps that is for the better. Maybe the
loss of feeling will spread in all its mercy.

This waiting game is infernal. My vulnerability is
complete, leaving my otherwise idle mind to imagine and
dread what will soon follow. A few beads of sweat roll
into my eyes, stinging and obscuring my sight. I blink
hard, unable to wipe away the perspiration. It is now
that I notice the light coming from my right. I am
close to an opening, close to escape, and yet
impossibly far away.

Another shuffling sound catches my attention. It is
getting louder, approaching quickly from behind. Shit.
So this is the way it will end. I am not ready. I clear
my mind, focusing only on Scully. I want my last
thought to be of her.

Now, her image firmly ensconced in my head, I open my
eyes to face fate. My eyes are playing tricks on me,
but what great tricks. Scully is here sporting her "no
BS" expression. I love that. She touches her fingers to
my throat. She is checking for my pulse. That is just
creepy. Then, we both hear the same scuffling noise
echo through the ventilation system, and her eyes grow
wide. For a moment, the shining gleam of her fear grips
me. I forget to breathe. She is here because of me.

She disappears, and gunshots ring out, piercing my head
with sharp reports. What I wouldn't give to be the one
protecting HER right now. She hurries back to me,
relieving a totally irrational thought that she would
not return to my side.

The next thing I know, she is crawling over me.
Apparently, not quite all of my body is paralyzed.
Thankfully, she doesn't notice, digging her sharp
little elbows into my legs. Oh, but the pain is worth
it. She kicks off the vent cover and pulls me toward
the opening. Surely not. It is a long way to the floor.
She cannot support my weight. This is really going to...
Owwwwww! That's my Scully. Gentle touch.

I lie here salivating while she is busy doing all of
the dirty work, calling 911 and watching me like a
hawk. She is a very authoritative figure, barking into
the cell phone while gesturing with her gun. This is a
rare view. I seldom have the occasion to physically
look up to her. The moment is ruined by the growing
pressure on my chest. It feels as if my lungs are in a
vice. Each inhalation is excruciating, and each
exhalation grows increasingly difficult.

My vision blurs, but a flicker of motion catches my
eye. At first, I cannot make out any details. I almost
wet my pants when two pink eyes and a feral smile
materialize in the shadows behind Scully. Shit. An
attempt to yell to her is totally futile. I can't even
point at him. His lithe form creeps toward her, and I
can do nothing. I look at her, and the fear must show,
because she cocks her head slightly and frowns. Her
gaze is questioning as she prattles on to the 911
operator. Damn it, turn around!

This is my panic face, Scully. Right here. Please do
something. Anything. I try to guide her gaze toward
him, being as deliberate as possible with my eyes. He
crawls closer to her with each glance. I swear he is
dragging this out deliberately, reveling in my fear and
utter helplessness.

Scully suddenly balks. I can see her putting two and
two together, but Aboah has already jumped. My heart
flutters as she turns and fires. His body jerks in
midair and lands unceremoniously next to her. Thank
God.

As Scully checks on him, something goes horribly wrong.
My lungs seize up, and blackness descends. The odd
floating sensation returns, only this time, I can feel
Scully's hands guiding me, her arms supporting my body.
The air seems to turn to gel, and I feel the throb of
each heartbeat shoving blood against tender nerves. A
rushing sound envelops my head, broken only by Scully's
sweet voice. The pain and pleasure swirl together, and
I sink somewhere in between.


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(Part 2/3)


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Chapter Two

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

A small eternity passes while Mulder's condition
continues to deteriorate. I feel utterly helpless and
alone. Clutching him tightly against me in a macabre
embrace, I whisper into his ear. Stay with me, Mulder.
You're going to be okay. Hang in there. Everything is
going to be fine. His breathing is becoming
increasingly labored, and the cyanosis is more
pronounced. He needs oxygen and God knows what else.
And Aboah? To be honest, I really don't care what he
needs. A quick death to spare the taxpayers an
expensive trial and lengthy incarceration sounds like a
good start, although admittedly I'm hardly an unbiased
party.

Finally, the paramedics arrive with their precious,
life-sustaining equipment. Immediately, I bark orders
for them to start Mulder on five liters of oxygen via a
non-rebreather mask. Thankfully they're more
responsive than the 911 operator, and they comply
without question. I hastily explain that I'm a medical
doctor and an FBI agent, and they merely nod. The
taller, dark-haired man frowns as he assesses my
partner's status. A couple of ribs are broken, and
there are diminished breath sounds on the left side, as
well as bilateral rales. Not only is a tension
pneumothorax a possibility, Mulder may be developing
other serious respiratory problems. As he continues
his exam, I give him the Reader's Digest condensed
version of the toxin Mulder has been injected with, in
lieu of a better term. He echoes my confusion as to
why a drug that usually only paralyzes voluntary
muscles should be affecting Mulder's breathing, an
involuntary process. Shaking his head, he completes
the examination. In addition to the broken ribs,
Mulder also has a dislocated shoulder, sprained ankle,
probable concussion, and numerous cuts, scrapes and
contusions. Did I cause any of this damage when I
accidentally dropped him in the courtyard? Mortified
at the prospect, I close my eyes and bury my face in my
hands.

My self-pitying reverie is interrupted when a uniformed
officer politely calls my name. Police? When did they
get here? And how does he know my name? Sensing my
confusion, he explains he has already spoken to the
other paramedic who has been attending to Aboah. Oh,
yeah. The suspect. My mind is somewhere else.
Notepad in hand, the officer is eager to obtain my
statement. I know I'm always admonishing Mulder to
play nice with the locals, but I'm not in the mood to
play the role of Dana K. Scully, Special Agent at the
moment. I simply need to be a friend. With a forced
smile, I ask if we could defer this little procedure as
a professional courtesy, but he is determined. We step
aside for a few moments and I give him an abbreviated
account of events while the paramedics prepare their
patients for transport. I surreptitiously steal a
glance inside the ambulance, and I'm alarmed at what I
see. One of the paramedics is ventilating Mulder with
an Ambu bag while the other is in contact with the
hospital. I climb into the ambulance's doorway and
watch in stunned silence. Mulder's oxygen saturation
is dangerously low, and he is developing tachycardia
consistent with respiratory distress. As I numbly
watch the dark-haired paramedic retrieve the IV
paraphernalia from the drug box, I bang my fist against
the door in frustration. This is unbelievable. Can
anything else possibly go wrong?

The ambulance driver apologetically informs me I need
to step outside the vehicle so they can move along. I
automatically protest, citing my qualifications as a
physician, but he is compassionately firm. With two
paramedics attending to two seriously injured patients
in the ambulance's cramped quarters, I would be in the
way. He offers to let me ride in the front seat with
him as a compromise, and I grudgingly accept his
invitation. My heart aches, being separated from
Mulder like this. I want to actively participate in
his care and comfort him. My only small solace in this
arrangement is that he is mercifully unconscious and
doesn't know I've abandoned him to the care of
strangers.

From my perception, the seven-minute trip to the
hospital is interminably long. I peek in the back of
the ambulance, and am marginally relieved by the forced
rise and fall of Mulder's chest. Less than an hour
ago, I was so irritated I wanted to choke the living
daylights out of him with my bare hands. Now I just
want him to be okay. Oh, my God! Did I inadvertently
tempt fate? Is this some sick karmic justice for an
errant thought I entertained in a fleeting moment of
anger? I didn't mean it, really. I take it back.
Every single word.

The siren's incessant wailing ceases, and I realize
we've stopped at the hospital. By the time I scramble
out of the ambulance, the medical staff is helping to
unload the gurneys. Refusing to be separated from
Mulder again, I grasp the railing while a bespectacled
man in wrinkled scrubs shouts out a succession of
orders. Suddenly the gurney is rolling, and I curse my
short stature as I struggle to keep pace with the
group. After four years of working with Mulder, I
should be used to moving my little legs in a hurry.

We have barely passed through the doors of the trauma
room when the medical staff descends en masse. On the
count of three, Mulder is transferred from the
paramedic's gurney to the hospital's examination table.
They're very gentle with him, although he isn't able to
appreciate their professionalism. Listening to the
rapid-fire exchanges, I learn the man in the scrubs is
the attending physician, Dr. Daniels. During the
course of their update, the paramedics mention I'm
Mulder's partner. Dr. Daniels suggests I wait outside
until Mulder has been stabilized, but I let him know in
no uncertain terms I'm not leaving. I display my badge
and brazenly inform him it is FBI protocol to be in
attendance when an attempt had been made on a federal
agent's life. If he sees through my exaggeration of
the truth, he doesn't challenge me on it. Resigned to
my presence, he instructs me to move to the foot of the
gurney.

From my vantage point, I see only bits and pieces of
the organized chaos. Two nurses promptly cut away the
remnants of Mulder's coats and shirt. The paramedics
obviously needed to slit the right sleeve to establish
the IV. A tall, redheaded medical student unbuckles
his belt and efficiently slides it though the loops of
his trousers. With practiced ease, she cuts away his
pants, exposing his lime green boxers. Lime green,
Mulder? And is that a wine stain near the left thigh?
I feel my cheeks flush from embarrassment. I'm not
sure I want to know the story behind that puzzling
stain. The young woman strips the last vestiges of
Mulder's clothing and dignity and tosses the boxers
onto the floor with the rest of his discarded garments.
A thin hospital sheet is draped over the lower half of
his naked body.

Meanwhile, the ER physician is issuing orders for blood
work, a tox screen, ABG, urinalysis, x-rays and an
assortment of other tests. He tilts Mulder's head back
slightly and deftly passes a laryngoscope past his
vocal cords. I shudder when the ET tube is passed into
his trachea, knowing how much Mulder hates to wake up
intubated. Not only is it physically uncomfortable, it
is a painful reminder he has lost control over a part
of his life. Once the tube is secured and the
ventilator is set for the appropriate values, air is
mechanically forced into Mulder's lungs. A nurse
bathes his left side in Betadine in preparation for
placement of the chest tube. Normally a local
anesthetic is administered or the patient is sedated
for the procedure, but Mulder's unconscious state
allows the staff to dispense with these niceties. Dr.
Daniels makes an incision between the fourth and fifth
ribs and places a small clamp between them. Then he
introduces a finger into the wound to separate the
pleura and to confirm proper placement of the tube.
After one end of the tube has been placed into the
chest cavity and stitched into place, the other is
attached to a water-filled canister. Suction is
attached to drain air from the pleural space without
allowing more to seep in. A resident swabs an area
near his left collarbone with povidone-iodine, and then
applies a sterile drape. He makes an incision and
inserts a central line into the subclavian artery so
fluids and medication can be rapidly infused through
the superior vena cava, the large vein that feeds
directly into the heart's upper right chamber, or
atria. Mulder will require intravenous solutions for
an extended period, and traditional peripheral lines
tend to become blocked after relatively short
durations. Next on the agenda is an arterial line.
It's another uncomfortable procedure, but fortunately
Mulder is blissfully unaware of the deep, stabbing pain
in his wrist. As a final indignity, a Foley catheter
is inserted. Honestly, Mulder. I didn't peek.

Unable to see the pulse-ox reading, I decide to perform
my own informal evaluation. Surreptitiously, I lift
the sheet and expose his feet. His toes and nail beds
are pinking up, which tells me his oxygen level is
improving. I can't resist the urge to massage his
feet, telling myself the gesture is intended to help
promote circulation. Who am I kidding? I need this
physical contact with him, and at some level, I believe
he needs it too.

Dr. Daniels clears his throat and gently taps me on the
shoulder. No doubt he's wondering if this is also
official FBI protocol. Most of the medical personnel
have cleared out of the room. A couple of nurses are
checking monitors and cleaning up the minor landfill of
discarded supplies. I approach the head of the gurney
and impulsively reach to brush away an imaginary strand
of hair. Mulder's face is damp, and I'm confused. The
staff didn't need to irrigate his eyes. Are these
tears? They can't be, can they? That would mean he's
conscious and aware. If he is...oh, no. Please let me
be wrong.

I blindly reach for Dr. Daniels. Seconds pass before
I'm able to articulate my fears. Is Mulder conscious?
Has he felt everything that has been done to him?
Every agonizing, invasive procedure? The doctor is
skeptical, but at my insistence, he performs a few
tests and repeats his Glascow coma scale assessment.
Mulder is not able open his eyes, verbalize, or respond
to pain. Based on that criterion, Mulder is
technically considered comatose. But I can tell
something is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

I've heard stories about people being declared dead,
until a perceptive person noticed a few precious
teardrops streaming down the deceased's face. I used
to think those tales were only urban legends, something
Mulder would believe in. Under normal circumstances,
I'd place my faith in scientific findings. But
intuitively, I am convinced Mulder is aware. I should
have known this sooner. If only I had forced the issue
in the ambulance, I might have seen a flicker of
awareness. I should never have retreated to the foot
of the gurney. Maybe I could have witnessed something
significant. I should have threatened to have anyone
who crossed my path investigated by the IRS, DEA, FDA,
DOL, DOJ, EPA, or any other alphabetical government
organization. Damn it! How can he ever forgive me?
How can I ever forgive myself?

Another doctor enters the room, and Dr. Daniels
introduces him as the orthopedic surgeon. He has been
summoned to reset Mulder's dislocated shoulder. I
protectively move closer to my partner in nervous
anticipation. I adamantly refuse to allow the
orthopedist to perform the reduction without benefit of
anesthesia. I can't fail Mulder again. Dr. Daniels
smiles indulgently and reminds me Mulder has been
subjected to an unknown toxin, and that his respiratory
system and vital signs are significantly compromised.
Since they're not quite sure what they're dealing with
at this time, they feel it's best not to confuse the
issue by administering medication that could wreak
further havoc on his system. Grasping at straws, I ask
them to consider sedation or a local anesthetic, but my
efforts are in vain. From a medical perspective, I
know they are right, and I reluctantly provide my
consent. I just hope Mulder can forgive me for my
complicity one more time. While the surgeon performs
his unpleasant task, I hold Mulder's right hand. I
silently scream and cry for both of us.


----------------
MULDER
----------------

What the heck is happening, Scully? I can't see! It
feels like she's actually sitting on my chest. However,
her arms are wrapped around me, trembling slightly. I
think she is confiding whispers to me, borne on ruffles
of warm breath, but I only hear the hard edges of
consonants beyond the rush of blood in my ears.

I fight to breathe, barely holding onto awareness. The
panic rises a bit, but in spite of this, I know I am
safe in Scully's embrace. She will take care of
everything. All I have to do is stick around in the
meantime. My part of the deal. Oh, God. Difficult
enough. Each ragged breath may be my last. Amazing how
time can move so slowly. Scully, I want to stay here
with you. I want to stay.

Please, help me.

My body tilts as she lays me down on the hard floor.
Unfamiliar voices, deep ones, interchange with hers,
and soon there are rough hands poking every spot that
hurts. A smooth ring of soft plastic descends around my
mouth and nose just as my lungs are about to give out.
Air is forced into my lungs. My first instinct is to
fight the well-intentioned intrusion, but I cannot.
However, now that the air is actually moving I feel a
rattling inside. It is getting there, but it is not
doing much. I try to relax in an effort to ease some of
the pain, blocking out the prodding of gloved fingers
around the broken ribs. The cold surface of something
small and smooth pressed against my chest brings me
back to full awareness.

The voices come gradually into focus now. A male,
probably a paramedic, is discussing something with my
partner about the toxin and listing my various
injuries. The particulars do not matter to me; it hurts
all over. I am rolled onto my right side, and a flat
board slides underneath me. A couple of people converge
on either hand, strapping me down firmly. Not like I
can exactly make a run for it, or anything. Oh well.

They lift me up to another slightly springier surface,
a gurney, I think. More straps. Give me a break here,
guys. I try to open my eyes and follow what is
happening, but it is simply impossible. The gurney
rises with a click, and I am well on my way
to...somewhere. Scully's voice fades behind me. She's
talking to another person. Come on, Scully. I need you
here.

One bang and a big jolt later, the gurney is shoved
ever-so-gently into the back of an ambulance. Ah, crap.
That did not help matters at all. I feel the ends of
the broken ribs grating against each other, and my head
is ready to explode. The forced air is not getting very
far, either. My chest feels swollen inside. No room.
My heart begins to flutter, obviously not beating
correctly. Shit, shit, shit. I know. Must try to stay
calm. Another loud bang accompanies the squeak of
another gurney's wheels. Oh, no.

Did something happen to her? What's going on? Scully,
say something. There is her voice, behind me. Whew. But
who...? Oh right. I forgot about Aboah. What a shame.
Scully is trying to talk them into letting her ride.
Good idea. Very good. I cannot hear the verdict. Other
people are clambering into the ambulance. They shoot
some medical jargon back and forth, always referring to
me in third person. I hate that. Hello! I'm not quite
dead yet! I'm getting better!

No use. Someone opens my jacket and shirt, palpating
the ribs more. Freaking stop, already! Now they are
listening to my lungs again with the World's Coldest
Stethoscope. Just keep that air coming, boys. The
roughness of sandpaper scrapes against my chest in a
few places, and they attach monitor pads. Not long to
go, now. I only have to keep fighting until they get my
sorry ass to the hospital and load me up on the good
stuff.

I hear orders for a saline drip. Oh boy. A couple of
gloved fingers press against the inside of my right
elbow. A seemingly icy wad of cotton wipes the area a
few times. I know what's coming next. The ambulance
starts off just as a guy wraps a rubber tourniquet
tight around my upper arm, taps the vein a couple of
times and then... Whoa! Whose idea was it to jab an
industrial drain pipe in there? All of that for some
refrigerated saline?

He attempts to distract me with questions. Yes, I know
my name, the year, my badge number, every statistic of
the New York Yankees from 1871 to the present, and the
original radio broadcast of War of the Worlds in its
entirety, but my inability to speak pisses me off. This
is Scully's dream come true. I couldn't voice a single
smart-ass sexual innuendo if my life depended on it.
Every bump in the road intensifies the electrical
complaints coming from my ribs and shoulder. Even my
right ankle is getting in on the act. I try to remember
how far we are from the nearest hospital. I should have
the routes down by now, but my mind is still a bit
fuzzy.

I hear Scully's voice again, rising above the din of
the engine, the sirens, and the whoosh of the
ventilation bag. What did she do, kick the driver out
and commandeer the ambulance? Again, that's my Scully.

The ride stretches on for quite a while, it seems. One
paramedic turns his attention to Aboah, fussing over
his gunshot wound. If only I could guide my hands to
wrap around his neck, I would take care of that issue.
What am I over here, chopped liver? After reflecting on
past cases, I decide that perhaps the question is best
left alone.

The ambulance takes a couple of sharp turns, rocking
the gurney a bit. I really, really hope we are almost
there. Cannot take much more of this. Blood rushes to
my head as we come to a sudden stop. The door latch
clicks. Aaaargh. I think the sirens are quite loud
enough. My gurney bumps its way out of the ambulance
into a cacophony of orders, numbers, and unintelligible
medical mutterings.

They keep me moving, which is good. I am having some
serious trouble with flashes of light playing over the
backs of my eyelids. Ooooh. My stomach is not terribly
happy, either. The smell of alcohol and sickness mingle
in the air, not helping matters. Okay. I'm ready for
some magic drugs. Anytime, now. The gurney shudders as
it bangs through a pair of doors. The voices grow
louder, sterner, and more impatient.

The ridiculous straps are removed, and I am lifted onto
a fairly hard, flat table. It is very cold in here. I

strain to listen for Scully over the shuffling of many
feet and the squeaking of equipment dollies. Someone
pries open one of my eyelids but subsequently blinds me
with one of those damned pocket pen lights. Although
unable to focus or direct my gaze, I think I see my
partner's red hair and her small hands gesticulating
wildly as she argues with someone in scrubs. Go,
Scully, go. The image is short-lived, though, as the
eye exam is over quickly.

I hear someone give orders to prep me for a chest tube.
Sounds pretty dire, but I am relieved. Finally, they
might actually give me some happy juice. Hands
immediately begin to tug at my clothes, and I hear the
scissoring of large shears near my head. Someone takes
care not to disturb my shoulder as they remove my
shredded coat and dress shirt. I guess Scully will know
what to get me for my birthday. Next, I feel my shoes
being pulled off while another person tugs at my belt.
Oh brother. Is this really necessary? I would roll my
eyes if I could. The cold edge of the shears slips
under the waist of my slacks and makes short work of
them. Soon, they have me stripped down to nothing but
boxers.

Oh, crap! The wine stain! I bet she has a shit-eating
grin on her face right now, my addled brain muses. It
had been a long, long day, and I was trying to relax. I
had the bath water running, steamy hot. Even put some
bubbly stuff in there. Well, I do not keep actual
bubble bath on hand, so I used a complimentary bottle
of shampoo from a hotel. Anyway, I deftly and gradually
shed my clothes right up to the edge of the tub,
leaving a nice trail of garments on which to wipe my
wet feet before hitting the bedroom. Planned ahead, and
everything. I was set up with a glass of wine to sip on
while soaking my sore ass. It would have been fine if
I had not knocked it off of the side of the tub with my
big, stupid elbow. Right on my cleanest pair of boxers.
I will never drink and bathe again, cross my legs and
hope to exfoliate. Could this possibly be more
humiliating?

The shears return, pressing against my hip as they cut
away my boxers. This is stupid. I did not hurt anything
THERE. So, now I'm lying sprawled on display for all to
see in a freezing cold Emergency Room. Um, don't judge,
Scully. Really, this is not doing me justice. Someone
drapes a paper-thin sheet over my exhibition, for all
the good it will do now.

I hear a man ordering lab work on pretty much
everything my body produces. A nice oxygen mask would
be good about now. My entire chest is burning. Right on
cue, a pair of hands tilts my head back, holding it
steady. A couple of gloved fingers force their way
into my mouth, sticking to my dry tongue. My mouth is
pried open. This is seriously wrong. I should be
drifting through la-la land by now.

A piece of plastic is jammed into my mouth, but it
doesn't stop there. Scully! What are they doing?! The
tube scrapes its way down my throat. Every nerve in my
body screams, "Fight it!" I can't breathe at all for a
moment, gripped by panic. A stabbing pain accompanies
the tube as it shoves past my vocal cords and down into
my trachea. It feels completely wrong, and the foreign
object makes the inside of my chest feel crowded. Now,
the only movement my body was capable of is under the
control of a machine. I despise this, waiting for
Scully to speak up and tell them that I'm still in
here. I'm here, damn it! Surely, there must be some way
she can tell. The heart monitor beeps at a frightening
rate, but still she does not intervene. Scully owns my
heart; she ought to be able to feel it racing now.

Someone secures the tube, covering my lips with tape. I
have woken up with one before, but never had them
insert it while I was still conscious. Shit. The
possibilities make my stomach flip. Not now. I would
choke for sure. The hands are back. Lots of them. They
are rolling my limp body onto its right side. I feel
like a piece of meat, nothing more. An ache builds at
the back of my throat, and it has nothing to do with
the tracheal tube.

A cold liquid is being smeared all over my left side,
causing a grinding pain when the swab passes over the
fractures. I hear the male voice ask for a scalpel.
Ooooh, no you don't. Fuck, no. Scully! Please, please,
please make them stop! You can't let them do this to
me! The touch of the man's hand on my chest scares me
to death, and I soon realize that he is bracing himself
for the incision. My heart beats once before...

Shit, shit, shit! Stop the fucking bastard, Scully! Now
that he's sliced me open, he pulls the skin apart and
sticks a piece of metal inside, widening the incision.
The agony is unbearable, and I wish for the darkness
that I so foolishly rejected earlier. My inability to
scream only fuels my rage, gathering like the clouds of
a tempest. The gloved fingers return, only this time,
they reach INTO MY BODY. Fucking shit.

The fingers tear their way to my lung. I try to force
myself to wake up, convinced that this is a nightmare,
but I cannot. I am still trapped here, unable to move
away from the intruder. My soul cries out as he forces
the wound wide open and inserts a large, cold plastic
fitting into the gap. The torment continues as a needle
pierces the skin, slowly sewing its way around the
tube.

Scully, where the hell are you? Why are you letting
them do this to me? I sink into anguish at the thought
that she is here, yet allowing these people to butcher
me. This fact hurts as much as their invasive
procedures. My only directive is to resist, but my body
refuses the order. The many hands return, rolling me
onto my back. I hear a hissing sound, and the tube
creates a vacuum in my chest, partially inflating my
lungs. I feel mentally quicker and more lucid with the
additional ventilation. Crap. I was hoping for sweet
unconscious ignorance.

More of the liquid is swabbed on my chest, the upper
right side this time. Someone lays a smooth paper sheet
over the area, leaving the collarbone exposed. Not
again. This is not happening. Ooooh, shit. Yes, it's
happening. Steel slices through the skin just under the
bone. It does not stop there, either. A needle digs in
excruciatingly slowly. I feel an odd pressure and yet
another tube being led into my shoulder. They start
stitching around this latest insult to my body. I count
each penetration. I reach five before I am distracted
by a much more intense stabbing pain in my wrist. They
have skewered it, digging around for a nice, fat artery
to leech. Craaaaap. How difficult can it be? The pain
shoots up and down my arm as they hit a nerve. A
fucking artery, people, not a nerve! Finally, the
needle stops. Scully, please don't leave me to this
slow torture. I need you now. I need you always.

I cannot help but plead for her to deliver mercy, even
with the mortification from her inaction fresh in my
mind. God is obviously on vacation; she is my only
option. She clears her throat, the light sound flitting
from the direction of my feet, very close by. So, she's
had a front-row seat this entire time and still did not
intercede. What did I do to deserve this? Did I make
one too many smart-ass comments? Did I pull you into
harm's way for the last time? Did I ditch you too many
times? Did I take your trust for granted? If this is
what your trust gains me, you can have it back.

I hear a deep male voice order a Foley. The paper drape
is lifted from my chest while the longer sheet is
pushed down to my knees. Oh, you really are getting the
whole show, here, aren't you, Scully? Fucking enjoy it
while it lasts. She clears her throat again just as a
gloved hand wraps around the intended target. The
contact startles me, even though I expected it. A
frigid piece of plastic touches the tip and winds its
way up my urethra. God, this is humiliating. I want to
be alone. I want to run and hide somewhere. Anywhere
but here.

As soon as the sheet is repositioned, the other end is
lifted. I seethe, anticipating yet another sadistic
procedure. A pause seems to make time stand still as my
mind races. Small hands gently grasp my left foot,
kneading and rubbing the sore muscles and tendons, then
move to the other foot. Scully's familiar warmth is not
impeded by gloves. A few amazingly effective messages
of pleasure and calm reach my brain, blending with the
maelstrom of hurt. More than this, her simple touch
goes straight to my empty heart. The conflict of
betrayal and affection are too much for me to process.
I surrender to the conglomeration and allow countless
emotions to come to the surface. Why not? At least in
frailty I can feel somewhat human. The flood is
overwhelming, and I feel the hot tracks of tears slide
down the sides of my face.

I sense that Scully is nearby. Her scent, something I
cannot describe but instinctively recognize, tickles my
nostrils. She brushes her fingertips across my
forehead. A tingling sensation passes up and down my
spine. In spite of her trespasses, she is a part of me,
with powers no one else has.

After a moment, she mutters then calls for the doctor.
The last thing I want is that goon's attention. She
FINALLY asks him the question of the day: Might the
patient be conscious? Holy shit, someone give the woman
a prize. The doctor mentions a reassessment and soon
moves to hover close to me, saying my name deliberately
and asking me to reply if I can. If only I could laugh
in his face. A random song quote comes to mind: "You
can't swallow what I'm thinking." Satisfied that I
will not respond, he asks me to open my eyes. Nothing
doing right now. He scares the crap out of me with a
loud clap next to my ear. Okay. That was just
obnoxious. He jabs the sensitive skin near my eye with
a tiny needle, but the lids are not budging, for him or
anyone. The asshole asks me to move any limb. Yeah,
right. That's a good one. He pokes me a couple of times
in various places with the needle, but the muscles are
totally slack.

I hear him walk a short distance away and continue his
chat with Scully. They bicker back and forth, becoming
progressively quieter as they argue. Perhaps they
realize that I might be listening in. I strain to hear
the outcome, but they are interrupted by a third party.
He introduces himself as an orthopedist, here to repair
my dislocated shoulder. Party time. Just when I thought
that tube insertion was the pinnacle of undesirable
medical procedures, they come up with something new.
This bunch is definitely a step ahead of me. Surely,
Scully will put a stop to this.

She demands a sedative or pain-killer. The choirs of
Heaven sing. However, the doctor objects, citing
possible complications or interactions with the toxin
in my system. He also mentions that my vital signs are
not exactly all that and a bag of chips. I don't care
if they have to start using a crash cart as my alarm
clock, I need some medication. I need a sign that
someone gives a flying leap about me.

The doctor asks Scully if she is willing to let them
proceed without anesthetic. My heart sinks when she
agrees. I note reluctance in her tone, but it is of no
avail. The orthopedist grasps my left arm, bending and
raising it in preparation for the reduction. My
shoulder grinds in protest, but of course, I cannot
inform him. I feel my right hand pulled away, held
between Scully's. She squeezes it tightly, forcing more
tears from my eyes as the doctor begins his torturous
work.


+ + + + + + + + + +

Chapter Three

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

Once again I have shamelessly used my FBI and
physician's credentials to secure access to Mulder's
medical records and unlimited ICU visitation
privileges. Translation: I'm firmly ensconced at his
side, reviewing the copious notes and reports.

A pulmonary specialist named Dr. Wuensche is now
overseeing Mulder's care. He believes the respiratory
failure was caused by a combination of a severe
anaphylactic reaction to asbestos fibers Mulder
inhaled, an idiosyncratic response to the cerebropathic
glycoside and the pneumothorax, which resulted from the
broken ribs. In a nutshell, it was a classic case of
Mulderluck. If anything can go wrong, it will.
Theoretically, Mulder should be showing signs of
improvement by this stage, but fluid continues to
accumulate in his lungs even though he is receiving
diuretics. He is not aggressively fighting the
ventilator, but his distress is patently obvious to me.
I've maintained too many bedside vigils not to
recognize the subtle clues: the fine creases around
his eyes and mouth, the pallor of his complexion, the
light sheen of sweat on his face and the occasional
hitch in his breathing. I beg Dr. Wuensche to
administer a stronger sedative, but I'm not sure
whether it is for Mulder's comfort or mine. Every
involuntary flinch causes me to cringe in sympathy. Or
is that guilt?

A rational side of me recognizes Samuel Aboah as the
rightful culprit who put Mulder in this hospital bed,
yet my self-flagellating side accuses me of committing
this unpardonable offense. If only I had given
credence to Mulder's theory earlier, we would have
apprehended Aboah earlier in a more controlled
environment, or I would have called for backup before
we entered the demolition site, or...I'm not sure what.
Hindsight isn't always crystal clear. I feel there was
something else I could have or should have done.
Partners are supposed to watch each other's back. In
this sacred duty, I have failed miserably.

Aboah's endocrinologist has sought my professional
opinion, and I confess I have been less than helpful.
For that I am deeply ashamed. Mulder would probably
still consider this an open case, and would be pursuing
farfetched cures outside the realm of traditional
science. Unfortunately for Aboah, I'm not that
ambitious or benevolent. I have contacted Skinner, and
made arrangements for Bureau resources to be made
available at his discretion. It's the least I can do,
so to speak. In the interim, the doctor plans to treat
his unusual patient with an aggressive regimen of
hormone replacement therapy.

Marcus Duff appears to be in relatively stable
condition, all things considered. Unlike Mulder, he
did not suffer from any respiratory symptoms, and
barring any unforeseen complications, the
endocrinologist is optimistic he will make a full
recovery. I hope the same can be said about Mulder.

I put the chart aside and observe my insensate partner.
There's something oddly hypnotic watching the rhythmic
rise and fall of his chest. But he looks so pale and
fragile. A myriad of tubes invade his damaged body,
and several pieces of medical equipment emit a
cacophony of unsynchronized sounds as they monitor his
vital signs and force air into his lungs. His left arm
is immobilized and secured to his chest, and his right
ankle is wrapped in an ACE bandage and propped on a
small pillow. Multiple cuts and contusions attest to
Mulder's ordeal in the air ducts at the demolition
site. If only I had found him sooner, maybe I could
have prevented some of this.

I keep thinking about how Mulder was probably awake and
coherent throughout so much of his nightmarish
experience. I can't imagine being paralyzed and not
being able to communicate. When I was a medical
student, I heard horror stories about people who
endured excruciating pain during surgery and were
helpless to cry out for help. Sometimes
anesthesiologists add a muscle relaxant to paralyze
voluntary muscles for certain surgical procedures.
However, in rare cases, the sedating agents either wear
off too soon or do not render the patients completely
unconscious. Because they are temporarily paralyzed,
they are not able to alert anyone about their harrowing
plight.

Clearly I forgot these cautionary tales. As a result,
I caused Mulder unspeakable pain and suffering. I have
no right to ask for his forgiveness.


----------------
MULDER
----------------

The scrape of wood on tile jars me from sleep. I slowly
re-orient myself and become disappointed at the
realization that I am still pinned inside an inert
body. A light sigh flows over the flutter of paper, and
Scully's sweet breath caresses my face. I have to
wonder if she is doing this on purpose, tantalizing me
with a promise that dissolves in the ether. I can feel
the warmth of her skin very close to my hand, yet I
cannot reach for her. It is reflexive for me to seek
her out, but I cannot ignore the part of me that is
abhorred by her negligence, by what she allowed to
happen.

With every breath, I am reminded of her transgressions
and the viciously afflictive ministrations of the
medical staff. The ventilator pumps air into me and
sucks it back out again at an unnatural pace. Every
time it fills my lungs, it puts pressure on the chest
tube, aggravating that tender wound. My body has become
some sort of macabre experiment for them, bypassing the
person inside. I am a mere display, like a fly trapped
in amber. I have lost every means of physical control
and now lie here with only my partner's intentions to
ponder. What are you thinking, Scully?

Would she really do this on purpose, betray my trust
intentionally, just to prove a point? She did
eventually inform the staff that I was conscious, but
something is still wrong. She is withholding her touch
and her words, the small comforts I so crave. I must
have pissed her off somehow, and my mind seizes that
idea, searching for a reason. The notion bounces around
relentlessly in my head, twisting and turning like a
Rubik's cube. Perhaps it is because I failed her,
because I've turned her into someone who takes lives
rather than saves them. Perhaps she has sacrificed more
than I realize, and now she's making up for it.

I mull over the issue for what seems like hours. It
consumes me, draining what little energy I have, just
as all of the infernal tubes slowly drain my life away.
I am on an endless schedule of unseen hands poking and
prodding until they are satisfied that my heart is
still beating and that I'm not about to go anywhere.
Time is of little consequence. It is a hollow invention
with no significance in this place. My mind finally
tires of chasing its own tail, and I drift again into
some restless semblance of sleep.


+ + + + + + + + + +

Chapter Four

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

These days my world revolves around cubicle number 4 in
the ICU, Mulder's latest home away from home. The
accommodations are cramped, the temperature is near
sub-Artic and the coffee should be condemned by the
CDC. It's eerily reminiscent of some cheap motels I've
stayed in since I've been assigned to the X-Files. I
truly don't believe Mulder deliberately books us in
dumps simply to annoy me. I guess a basic flaw in the
y-chromosome programs men to be less picky about their
surroundings. If a room comes equipped with a working
toilet, a bed rejected by the Marquis de Sade as being
too comfortable and a television set that will pick up
a couple of ballgames, Mulder is a happy camper.

Sipping hideously strong coffee at Mulder's bedside,
I'm startled into alertness when he turns his head
toward me and slowly moves his hand. I run my fingers
through his sweat-drenched hair and softly speak his
name. I'm paradoxically relieved and scared about this
development. I'm glad he is coming around, but I'm
afraid Mulder will blame me for his torment when he
wakes up. He lethargically opens his eyes and blankly
scans his surroundings. For a fleeting moment he
stares at me with an unreadable expression, then
suddenly all hell breaks loose. Mulder shoves me away
and makes a frenetic attempt to extubate himself, while
the high shrill of the vent alarm summons the medical
personnel. He is extremely disoriented and frightened,
and violently thrashes against the hard, unyielding bed
railing. Dr. Wuensche is paged, and every available
staff member in the unit flocks to the cubicle to
provide assistance. Several nurses try to restrain his
arms and legs, but he fights with the fury of a demon.
His fevered skin is slippery with sweat, and it's
difficult for the nurses to pin him down. Each side in
this battle is fiercely determined to accomplish its
mission, and despite Mulder's weakened state, he puts
up an impressive fight.

After several exhausting minutes, his energy begins to
fade. A nurse wearing brightly colored scrunchies in
her dark, thick hair attracts his attention, and he
fixates on her while she speaks in a soothing cadence.
Esperanza's soft melodic voice is mesmerizing, and
Mulder's struggles gradually diminish. I have mixed
feelings about her results. I'm glad he's quieting
down, but I'm a little jealous I wasn't able to elicit
the same response. Usually I'm the person he looks to
for encouragement and solace. Is this his way of
expressing his anger at me?

One of nurses returns with the much-needed sedative,
and injects the medication into the IV port. With
Mulder's attention temporarily centered on Esperanza,
someone fastens a Velcro restraint around his right
wrist and secures it to the bed. The action enrages
him, and he wildly kicks out at anyone within his
reach. The staff is impeded by their desire not to
further injure his right ankle, but Mulder has no such
concerns. After several frustrating, unsuccessful
attempts, the staff manages to restrain his legs. I'm
not sure whether he has succumbed to exhaustion or the
drugs, but he finally stops fighting. Mulder's
unfocused stare settles on my face again, and he
quickly turns away. Is he confused as the result of a
febrile delirium or residual effect of the toxin?
Doesn't he recognize me? Or is that the problem? Is
he remembering? Is he holding me responsible for his
predicament? What are you thinking, Mulder?

Dr. Wuensche quietly enters the partitioned cubicle and
assesses Mulder's current situation. He shakes his
head slightly as he listens to Mulder's chest.
Obviously he is not pleased with his findings. Putting
his stethoscope back into an overstuffed lab coat
pocket, Dr. Wuensche reaches for the voluminous
hospital chart. After reviewing Mulder's latest lab
results, he scribbles new orders before giving the
binder to Esperanza. I listen intently while he goes
over the instructions with her. A portable x-ray
machine will be brought in to take pictures of Mulder's
chest, blood and urine samples will be obtained and
sputum cultures will be collected. At least the
arterial line will spare him a painful stab in the
wrist for the ABG. That's one small blessing.

As she makes the necessary arrangements, Dr. Wuensche
motions for me to join him in the tiny consultation
room. I numbly sit down in the proffered chair and
wait for the bad news. The doctor reveals Mulder has
developed bilateral pneumonia, and he names some
potential sources of the infection. It could have been
triggered by contaminants from the asbestos fibers he
inhaled, or though any of the numerous tubes invading
his body. He changes Mulder's medication to a broader
spectrum antibiotic until the lab has identified the
causative organism.

This setback poses a difficult dilemma. We had hoped
Mulder would be off the respirator by the time the
effects of the cortical depressant had dissipated. Now
due to the onset of pneumonia, his battered lungs will
be dependent upon the machine awhile longer. Since he
is regaining motor function and fighting the vent, a
decision has to be made. In addition to the sedative,
Dr. Wuensche is inclined to administer Pavulon in order
to allow Mulder's body to recover faster. Pavulon is a
muscle relaxant commonly used in these situations. The
drug-induced paralysis prevents the patient from
exerting unnecessary energy, thus reducing metabolic
needs and elevating the oxygen level in the blood. His
medical judgment is sound, but I'm loath to subject
Mulder to any more traumatic episodes like the one in
the emergency room.

This decision requires Solomonic wisdom. It's as
though I've been asked to authorize the doctor to
amputate Mulder's right foot or his left one. Neither
option is desirable. Do I agree to the paralyzing drug
and possibly prolong Mulder's mental anguish, or do I
refuse and compromise his physical recovery? What if
the sedative doesn't send Mulder into oblivion? What
if he's trapped in a living hell? I recall the haunted
expression in Mulder's eyes at the demolition site, and
make my decision. Refusing to inflict that agony on
him again, I respectfully decline the Pavulon.


----------------
MULDER
----------------

I am sitting on the edge of a crystal blue lake
mirroring an azure sky and surrounded by mountains. The
water looks inviting. Its allure piques my curiosity,
so I reach out with my hand. However, instead of the
wet surface I expect, I meet impenetrable glass. It
flows and undulates, mimicking water in every way, but
I cannot get through. Suddenly, out of the depths, I
see Scully's pale form ascend. Her eyes are open wide,
and she is frantically clawing at the other side. Her
mouth forms the words "help me". She is drowning.

I throw myself on the surface and pound on it with all
of my strength. We are separated by a mere thin sheet
of translucence, but our efforts are futile. I grow
frustrated and weary, but I push myself. I cannot take
my eyes off of her. I cannot give up. Finally, my
strength gives out, and I collapse flat upon the glass.
Scully looks up at me. I see her hand reach toward
mine, and it goes through the glass as if it was never
there. Her freezing cold hand grips my wrist and begins
to pull.

I try to resist, but now there is no surface to push
against. I am submerged, holding my breath, dreading
the inevitable influx of water. I jerk and twist,
shoving against her with my other hand, but she will
not release me. I thrash about in anger and shock until
she stops and turns to me. Her mouth moves, and inside
my head, I hear her say "let go".

I suddenly find myself lying prone on a rocky surface.
When I open my mouth to breathe, water gushes out. It
continues at an unbelievable rate, as if my lungs hold
an endless supply. A pain begins to grow deep in my
chest, working its way up my throat. I try to call out
for Scully, but I am choking, struggling, and the words
die before they reach her...

I awaken with a start, the dream still firmly intact in
my mind. I am unsure where it ends and where reality
begins. My throat still hurts, compromised by the
endotracheal tube, and I know I was in the midst of
attempting to yell to Scully when I woke up. My heart
pounds furiously, and I feel the heat of adrenaline
coursing through my blood. I cannot stand the ET tube
dictating my every breath, reaching deep into my body
to steal my soul. I try to move away from it, rolling
my head to one side. Unsuccessful, I attempt to pull it
out, but my hand only twitches. Twitches?

I realize that the paralyzing toxin must be wearing
off. My relief is short-lived, though, as I feel
someone brush their fingers through my hair. Scully
must have seen me move. I flash back to the dream in
abject fear. She tried to kill me. I need to get out of
here, now.

My eyes peel open with some difficulty; the lids are a
little crusty and stick together for a moment.
Everything is blurry at first, spinning uncontrollably.
It takes me a while to adjust to the light. My hands
and feet are freezing cold, but my head and body feel
hot. Sweat stands in beads on my forehead. I feel
terrible, but I must find a way out of here. I search
the right side of the room. It is unfamiliar, with
several monitors on stands at the head of my bed, a
partly drawn privacy curtain, and the foot of an empty
bed. To the left, I see my objective: the door. A
motion catches my attention, and Scully's face swims
into focus. She reaches for me. Unexplainable terror
builds. I only know that I have to get away from her
before she drowns me.

First, I have to get this damned tube out of my throat.
Fear feeds my stiff muscles, and I lift my right arm,
grabbing and yanking on the tube. The tape around my
mouth hampers the effort, and I quickly grow angry with
the situation. An alarm sounds. Scully tries to hold my
arm still, and I shove her away in panic. She stares at
me with disbelief, as if I am the basest creature she's
ever laid eyes on. I simply want out of here. I want
privacy, and she will not leave me alone.

More people come streaming through the door. Oh, God.
What are they going to do to me, now? I am cornered, so
I lash out with everything I have. They can't take me.
They'll hurt me again.

They all reach for me, trying to pin me down. The hands
are suffocating, each touch an intrusion. My heart
jumps wildly in my chest. The bed shakes as I thrash
against the railing, trying desperately to knock them
loose. Their hands slip off of my arms and legs, and
my foot connects with soft skin, eliciting a grunt. I
look up, meeting Scully's gaze as she presses the
immobilized left side of my body against the bed. Her
eyes claim me. She is deeply hurt. Shit, Scully, what
am I supposed to do? Let them slice me open again? I am
still unsure of her intentions. The images of the
nightmare haunt me, but pangs of sadness grip me upon
seeing her expression. She looks as vulnerable as I
feel.

I do not have time to contemplate any further, as the
medical staff continues to struggle with me. My
strength ebbs as I look from one strange face to the
other, all set with grim, imposing expressions. One
nurse is different, though. She is not angry at me. Her
soft features convey concern. She moves up to help hold
my right arm. I catch a flash of color in her black
hair. Bright, solid colors. Their simplicity draws my
attention, allowing my mind to forget about everything
else as she talks quietly to me. She promises that she
will not hurt me. She will not let anyone hurt me. My
energy to resist is gone.

The nurse maintains eye contact, as I know she is
trained to do. She smiles at me, but her eyes quickly
flicker sideways. I follow suit, but it is a moment too
late. A nurse holding a syringe with a large needle
leans over, pushing a clear liquid into the port of my
central line. Simultaneously, I feel a wide Velcro
strap being wrapped around my right wrist. I am
infuriated, betrayed yet again, and immediately kick
out with my legs. A strange cold snakes into my
shoulder through the port, but I ignore it. I writhe
with all of the leverage I can manage, trying to twist
my legs free of the hands. All of the staff now moves
to the foot of the bed and bodily press my legs into
the mattress. Their combined weight is far too much for
me to move. This is not fucking fair. No matter what I
do, I am too weak to prevail. They securely strap my
ankles to the sides of the bed. It is over.

I am tired, body and soul, so I give up. Let them do
with me as they will. I can see that this ordeal has
affected Scully just as deeply. She tries to look
strong, but she cannot hide her disappointment, her
shock. What have I done? She moves away before I can
get her attention, making room for a doctor.

He looks at me with a bit of hesitation. I can sense
that he is afraid of me. I lower my eyes as a sign of
surrender. I cannot physically resist, anyway. Besides
the restraints, I am sinking into a drug-induced
stupor. The doctor presses the disc of his stethoscope
against my bare chest. Everyone holds very still so he
can hear my lungs clearly. He does not seem pleased.
He and Scully leave the room quietly. The dark-haired
nurse notices that I had kicked the sheet off of my
legs during the struggle. She thoughtfully replaces
it, but I do not look at her. I am gazing at the still-
closing door that stands between me and my partner
while I fade to gray. I spiral into oblivion before the
door clicks shut.

+ + + + + + + + + +

(Part 3/3)

+ + + + + + + + + +

Chapter Five

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

I've spent most of the afternoon listlessly glancing at
ancient magazines from the ICU waiting room. The
majority of the garish covers juxtapose ridiculously
incongruous titles like "Lose 30 pounds in 30 days!"
and "100 Decadent Chocolate Desserts!" That's so
unrealistic. A person can't have it both ways. In the
real world, we often have to make difficult choices and
accept the consequences of our actions. To quote sage
contemporary musical philosophy, "You can't always get
what you want."

This certainly isn't what I wanted for Mulder. Because
I chose to withhold the muscle relaxant, restraints
prevent him from accidentally injuring himself or
trying to remove the endotracheal tube again. His
immobilized arm, bandaged ankle, chest tube, central
and arterial lines, monitoring wires, butterfly
bandages, bruises, cuts and scrapes exacerbate the
grotesque sight. Have I really done him a favor? Did
I withhold a crucial medication purely to assuage my
guilty conscience?

Mulder's normally lean body is wasting away. I can
count every one of his ribs, and his face is wan and
gaunt. As he fights off the infection, Mulder is
rapidly depleting his limited reserves. In order to
provide additional nutrients and to keep his digestive
tract functioning during his ordeal, a
gastroenterologist put in a temporary g-tube this
afternoon. Great. One more tube for his ever-growing
collection.

His fever has been steadily climbing over the past
several hours. He shivers uncontrollably, and his
teeth chatter against the endotracheal tube in an eerie
staccato. Joshua, the respiratory therapist, reports
that the pulmonary secretions are becoming thicker and
more difficult to suction. A change to an organism-
specific antibiotic has not yet provided tangible
relief. Dr. Wuensche has been paged, and I'm trying to
prepare myself for the inevitable administration of the
paralyzing medication.

I lean over Mulder's bed and clear my throat. I don't
know how much he understands, but I explain what is
about to happen and beg for his forgiveness. The palms
of his hands are turned slightly upward as if in
supplication. Is the pose a coincidence, or is he
begging me not to do this? My voice wavers, and my
eyes sting with unshed tears. No longer able to speak,
I lean forward and kiss his perfectly sculpted hands.
The emotions of the past few days give way, and I
finally break down and cry in front of Mulder.
Unbidden tears spill from my face onto his feverish
skin. Reluctant to relinquish physical contact, I
ignore the box of Kleenex beside the bed and dry his
hands with my hair.

I'm startled into alertness by Dr. Wuensche's quiet
baritone voice. I struggle to regain my composure
while he performs a quick assessment of Mulder's
condition. I already know the outcome. His exhausted
body does not have the energy to fight off this
infection without help. Before the doctor finishes
delivering his rehearsed speech, I nod in agreement and
defeat. He knows how much I have struggled with this
decision, and assures me Mulder will not suffer. I
want to trust him. Reviewing the chart one more time,
Dr. Wuensche decides to use a stronger sedative. I
breathe a cautious sigh of relief.

A few minutes later Esperanza returns with a couple of
syringes. I gently squeeze Mulder's hand one more time
and kiss his forehead in a peculiar benediction. How
strange. I have just betrayed my best friend with a
kiss. Should I expect thirty pieces of silver in
return?

As the nurse swabs the IV port with alcohol, Mulder's
eyes flutter open and my resolve weakens. He stares at
me as if to say, "Et tu, Scully?" While the plunger of
the syringe pushes medications into his veins, a knife
is plunged into my heart. I have sent us both to Hell.


----------------
MULDER
----------------

I awaken from a dreamless sleep, pulled from the
blackness by Scully's voice. There is a soft rustling
of pages and a rhythmic tapping sound. My muscles, in
contrast with the stillness of a day ago, are now
quivering uncontrollably, tugging against the
restraints. I want to jump out of my skin. It's obvious
that I have a high fever, and I begin to wonder exactly
how much more my body can take. Or the rest of me, for
that matter.

I am ashamed at what I've become since the attack. I've
allowed Aboah to victimize me both physically and
psychologically, and I allowed him to drive a wedge
between me and Scully. She is my partner in more than
one sense; I am incomplete without her. I wonder what
she must think of me.

In spite of my anger, childish frustration, and
attempts to thwart the medical staff, she has been next
to me the entire time. She is giving up work, personal
time, and God knows what else to sit there and watch
over me. She does all of the little things that no one
else thinks of: she wipes the sweat from my forehead
and saliva from the corners of my mouth, she makes sure
my various tubes are not twisted, snagged, or pulling
against my skin, she covers me up, restoring my privacy
when the nurses are in too much of a rush to notice. It
hits me that she has been doing so all along, when she
could. She has always remembered that I am a person,
not merely a hollow shell to keep alive.

Still, I am puzzled by her lack of, well, affection.
Usually, when I am confined to a hospital bed, she
touches my hand, my face, or whatever is not wrapped in
bandages at the time. I've grown so accustomed to our
intrinsic form of communication that the absence of her
reassuring contact disturbs me greatly. I wonder if she
is mad at me. I know she saw the blame and outrage I
directed at her earlier. If this is so, I will spend
eternity kicking myself for using my one moment of
physical control to insult and hurt her.

In the midst of my rumination, Scully speaks my name.
It is followed by a wavering hesitation, an obvious
pause to collect composure. She speaks softly,
informing me that the doctor wants to give me a
paralyzing drug in order for my body to get more rest
to fight an infection. The constant shivering is
deleterious to the effort, she explains. Her voice
cracks a bit when she says that she was forced to
approve of the plan, in the end. She does not want me
to relive the effects of the toxin again, but she sees
no other choice. Scully apologizes profusely, because
she says that she knows I must be frightened.

You are so right, Scully. I don't want to face it
again. It scared the shit out of me the first time. She
interrupts my thoughts by saying that she will stay
with me and make sure that I am not hurt again. She
says that she just doesn't know what else to do. I hear
a shuddering breath, and my heart skips a beat when I
realize that she's trying to repress intense sorrow. In
a very small voice, she says that she's sorry for the
pain she inflicted and begs me to forgive her. It
finally hits me. The reason for her distant manner was
not anger. She was afraid to face me, afraid that she
had violated my trust beyond redemption. Blaming
herself. I truly want to forgive her, absolve her
completely, but first, I must deal with my own guilt
for causing her such consternation.

Suddenly, I feel the puff of her breath against the
palm of my hand, followed by the moist, gentle caress
of her lips. Her breathing hitches. The room is as
still as a tomb for a moment, and I wonder if she will
ever be able to be this open with me again. It is a
rare gift indeed, even bittersweet. In the midst of the
silence, a cool droplet falls upon my hand, clinging to
the heel for a moment before sliding down to the center
of my palm. It is soon followed by another and another,
one on my arm, one on my side. She sniffs once, a soft
and tiny sound, before bathing my hand in her own
misgivings.

Oh, God, no. She is sobbing, and I can't even hold her.
Her crying always rips me in two, no matter the cause,
and I need nothing more than to comfort her, be her
support and pull her close. My soul is but a collection
of her tears, each one a reverent reminder of how
valuable each moment with her is.

I feel her fine hair press against my palm, soaking up
the saline, but it has already made its way inside me.
A male voice brings an end to the sacred commune. He is
a doctor, here to check on my progress or lack thereof.
He listens to my lungs, checks my temperature with a
digital thermometer, and rustles the pages of what I
presume is probably my chart. He tells Scully that I
cannot afford to go without the paralyzing agent any
longer. There is a pause before he also mentions
prescribing a stronger sedative. I am looking forward
to the shelter it will afford, but I'm also glad that I
was able to share this time with Scully.

I hear her sigh with relief as she grasps my hand. She
toys with my pliant fingers for a moment, bending and
moving them about, entwining mine in hers, before
wrapping them into a fist. She holds them in this
position, her sign that she wants me to fight. I hear
another person enter the room. Scully's familiar lips
alight on my forehead in a brief kiss. It is not a
goodbye, but an "I'll be here". That is all I need.

Her confidence imparts a measure of strength, and I am
able to open my eyes. I see the nurse preparing to
inject the paralyzer and sedative into my IV. I am
unsure of what to expect, but I gaze at Scully while I
still can. She looks incredibly beautiful but sad. The
sight rends my heart, but I latch onto the image as a
reminder of what I'm fighting for. Who I'm fighting
for. Shortly afterwards, the cool tingling of the new
drugs spreads throughout my body. Instead of the usual
sensation of being pulled into an abyss, I feel wrapped
in a blanket, warm and secure, and Scully's poignantly
exquisite face lingers until sleep befalls me.


+ + + + + + + + + +

Chapter Six

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

I can't remember the last time I took a long, hot
shower or slept in a comfortable bed. I refuse to
allow myself any petty indulgences. To atone for my
sins, I must renounce all earthly pleasures. If Mulder
suffers, I must suffer.

I hope he's really unconscious this time. The
monitoring equipment would seem to confirm that theory,
but I have lingering doubts. After the drugs were
injected, I removed the restraints from his arms and
legs. Since he's paralyzed now, I realize it's an
empty gesture, but it's something I needed to do.

My thoughts are extremely disjointed. Stress and sleep
deprivation are taking their toll. For some bizarre
reason I've been thinking of a book I read in high
school. Strange, huh? It was called "The Scarlet
Letter." The story was set in Puritan New England, and
was about a young woman who bore a child out of
wedlock. As punishment for her sin, she was sentenced
to wear a scarlet "A" on the bodice of her clothing as
a public symbol of her shame. Sitting at Mulder's
side, I wonder what letter I would be forced to wear
for my role in his story. "B" for betrayal?

One of the nurses applied some ointment to his eyes
earlier. Grace explained it's to protect his corneas
while he's paralyzed. To be honest, I'm glad he can't
open his eyes right now. I can't see his tortured
expression or condemning glare. Selfish, I know.

Electrodes are attached to Mulder's wrist to help
determine the effectiveness of the paralyzing agent on
his muscle tone. An electrical impulse is delivered to
his ulnar nerve, and the response is evaluated.
They're trying to achieve a delicate balance. If the
neuromuscular blockage is insufficient, Mulder will
instinctively fight the vent and deplete critically
needed energy reserves. On the other hand, if the
muscles are completely relaxed for a prolonged period,
he may have difficulty regaining muscle tone and
function later. Later. I pray there *is* a later for
Mulder.

Mulder's fever is dangerously high, and shows no signs
of abating. Standard antipyretic measures such as
Tylenol, tepid sponge baths, a cooling blanket and ice
packs applied to his groin and armpits have failed to
reduce his temperature. During one neuro check after
Mulder's vital signs went haywire, his pupils were
dilated and nonreactive. Dr. Wuensche hooked Mulder up
to an EEG for continuous monitoring because he
suspected the Pavulon would mask symptoms of seizure
activity. Unfortunately, his assumptions have proved
correct. Because of the drugs coursing through
Mulder's body, his seizures do not present in the usual
manner. Instead of violent convulsions, the only
outward signs of his distress are anomalous brain
activity readings and a few subtle twitches of his
hand. Oh, Mulder. I sincerely pray you're not aware
of any of this. I can't imagine how trapped and
violated you would feel.

Over the past five hours, Mulder has suffered seven
seizures of substantial duration. The neurologist has
prescribed hefty doses of Dilantin, an anticonvulsant.
He is also concerned about the poor pupillary reflexes
and other neurological findings. Mannitol is
administered to reduce the developing cerebral edema.
To combat the underlying organism, an infectious-
disease specialist adds additional medications to his
antibiotic cocktail. Unless a miracle occurs, Mulder
has a grim prognosis.

I'm overwhelmed by exhaustion, worry and grief. His
steady deterioration is painful to witness, and part of
me desperately wants to escape from this desolate
scene.

Joshua greets me almost apologetically. It's time to
suction the secretions from Mulder's lungs again. He
dons a pair of latex gloves and opens a package of
plastic tubing.

All of a sudden, I can't seem to breathe. My chest
feels tight and my pulse races. The room is closing in
on me. I have to escape. Now.

A lump forms in my throat and my eyes fill with tears
as I flee toward the door. I'm so sorry, Mulder.
Please forgive me.


----------------
MULDER
----------------

I am detached, blissfully so, drifting between moments
of awareness. Sometimes, I awaken in the middle of a
chest x-ray or a procedure to clear my lungs of
buildup. Other times, though, I awaken to Scully's
voice as she whispers her concerns to me. She obviously
doesn't know that I can hear her. Right now, she is
expounding on how responsible she feels for putting me
through this ordeal. She does not realize that I am
equally to blame, if not more so. I am the cause of her
guilt, a fact that is difficult to face.

My limbs are no longer tied down by restraints, so she
pulls my right hand above the bed rail, pressing the
back of it against her soft cheek. She caresses my arm
with words of love and regret. I am simultaneously
fascinated and embarrassed at hearing her confessions.
I do not know how I earn this attention and devotion
from such a remarkable person. In making me whole, she
leaves me at a complete loss.

Scully turns her head, brushing her lips against my
skin and moving my hand away from her face. She does
not lay it on the bed, however. She holds it against
her chest with both of her own hands, lowering her chin
to rest upon my knuckles. I can feel each heartbeat
through the fabric of her shirt, each gentle rise and
fall of her chest. I am stunned by her gesture of
compassion. If I mean so much to her, I must find a way
to dispel her worries. I must forgive myself first, if
only because it is what she asks. I know that she does
not want me to suffer.

I am absorbing this moment, recording every touch,
every smell, every sound for divine reference. As my
senses reach a plateau, however, I can tell that
something is wrong. I see an odd sort of pulsating glow
through the backs of my eyelids. It burns brighter and
brighter until the illumination manifests in shooting
streaks, like some exaggerated meteorite shower. The
light show is accompanied by a faint smell of ammonia.
A familiar nausea and dizziness follows, harbingers of
a worse affliction. I deny the fact for a moment,
thinking that maybe this time, it will pass by, but I
know it won't. Uneasiness builds, and I am already
dreading the coming seizure. I have had several already
today, still burning hot and disoriented from fever,
and lost count of the episodes. Scully squeezes my
hand, and I know I have reason to face the coming
throes without fear, because when they are over, she
will still be there, beside me.

My physical being slips away from me, and I waver
between total confusion and agitation. In spite of the
paralyzing drugs, tremors travel down my arms and legs.
My eyes roll painfully back, and my jaws clench around
the ET tube, bending it into an oval. I have difficulty
even conceiving what is happening to me. I feel like a
foreigner in my own body. An alien.

Scully must have noticed the faint spasms, because she
grips my hand tighter, murmuring a rhythmic stream of
comforting words. I try to focus on her voice as I ride
out the seizure. Finally, the attack stops, leaving me
disoriented, slow. I'm not sure what to do next, if
anything. I can't remember where I am for a short time,
only that Scully is here with me. She lavishes
comforting words upon my ears and soothing, cool dabs
of a damp cloth on my fiery skin. I allow her calmness
to overtake me.

I know this is taking its toll on Scully. She sounds
exhausted and worried. We wait together, both unable to
do anything constructive right now. After what seems
like several minutes, I hear the door open. The
shuffling entity approaches. It is the respiratory
therapist. He tells Scully that he needs her to move to
the other side of the bed so he can suction my lungs. I
hear her not only get out of his way, but she leaves
the room without a word. I am puzzled. Confounded,
really.

The man informs me that he will be inserting a small
suction tube inside the artificial airway. I will feel
the pull of the negative pressure as it clears the
sputum from my lungs, he tells me. He says not to
worry. It will not hurt. Just let it happen. The
medical staff all do this now, explain what they are
doing. Scully insists on it. I mentally prepare myself
for the unusual feel of the extra vacuum in my lungs,
but my thoughts are really with my partner. I hope she
is okay.


+ + + + + + + + + +

Chapter Seven

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

Once again, I have retreated to the relative sanctuary
of the hospital cafeteria. The serving line is closed,
so I am forced to resort to the bio-hazardous waste
material they call coffee from the vending machine. No
matter. My senses are completely blunted, so I am
fortuitously spared the deleterious effects of the
caffeinated swill. Then again, I don't deserve any
small mercies.

I can almost hear Mulder's voice telling me I'm not to
blame for his misfortunes, but I still feel
responsible. Ironic, isn't it? I'm usually the one
who seeks scientific proof to establish guilt or
innocence, and yet I refuse to apply those same
standards to my case. I will offer no defense for my
monstrous crimes. I shall serve as judge, jury and
executioner and mete out the most severe punishment
possible for my role in Mulder's sufferings.

And what about Aboah? How should he be punished?

Mulder would presumably argue that Aboah has already
been subjected to a death sentence, but I'm not that
forgiving. I'm furious for what he has done to my
partner. In my bloodthirsty lust for retribution, I
want to exact the most horrible demise possible. I
want to resurrect the penalty for traitors from days of
yore. Aboah should be grievously racked, publicly
flogged, drawn on hurdles, hanged, castrated,
disemboweled, beheaded and quartered, in no particular
order. For good measure, his mutilated flesh should be
boiled in oil or dissolved in acid. Once his evil
spirit departs its mortal coil, I hope Aboah's
miserable soul burns in the fiery lakes of Hell raining
with fire and brimstone. Amen.

Suddenly a more earthly tribulation demands my
attention. During my judicial musings I have crumpled
the paper cup in my hand, splashing cold coffee onto my
sleeve and the cream-colored tabletop. I promptly grab
a handful of napkins and mop up the toxic spill before
the liquid drips onto the floor. My stained
shirtsleeve will require more effort. Discarding my
cleaning supplies into an overflowing wastebasket, I
search for the nearest ladies' room.

As I wander the nearly deserted halls, a small
nondescript sign outside an ornate door catches my
attention. Catholic Mass celebrated daily. A list of
times is inscribed on the bronze plate outside the
chapel, and I glance at my watch. I'm not sure why I
did that. I no longer practice the faith of my youth,
limiting my grudging attendance to an occasional
Christmas or Easter service with my mother as a token
of respect for her beliefs. I've become more worldly
and sophisticated, and the church's simplistic
explanations have lost their appeal.

I furtively glance over my shoulder as though I'm about
to commit a felony and want to ensure there are no
available witnesses. Satisfied my secret is relatively
safe, I cautiously venture into the darkened chapel.
With the practiced ease of a skilled investigator, I
quickly survey my surroundings. I'm somewhat relieved
to discover I'm the only one here. Normally I'd
quietly slink into a pew near the back in order to
remain inconspicuous, but I feel strangely drawn toward
the altar as though reducing the physical distance will
close a spiritual gap. Emboldened by my privacy, I
approach the elaborately carved crucifix. Kneeling in
genuflection, I lower my head and cross myself.

Now what? I feel hypocritical being here. I'm not a
practicing Catholic anymore, much to my mother's
dismay. I place my faith in my irrefutable science,
while my partner believes in government conspiracies
and little green men. Excuse me. Little *gray* men.

An oft-repeated phrase from my childhood Sunday school
classes comes to mind, "By His stripes we are healed."
Hmm. Would God grant the entreaty of a skeptic and
cure an agnostic? I can almost hear Mulder laughing at
the absurdity. Well, he *is* always asking me to
consider extreme possibilities.

Clasping my hands together, I close my eyes and take a
deep cleansing breath. After all these years, does God
still remember my voice? Will He hear my pleas of
intercession? Will He, in His infinite mercy, heal
Mulder's tortured body and mind? I can't bear the
thought of losing him. He's my partner, my
friend...he's the other half of my soul.


----------------
MULDER
----------------

The respiratory therapist tells me that he's almost
finished. My lungs feel clearer already. He moves to
the foot of the bed and rattles the pages of my chart,
recording the results of his work. He wishes me well
and continues on his way.

I am alone in the quiet of the room. My skin is frigid,
covered by the cooling blanket, and my hands and feet
are blocks of ice. I have plenty of time to ponder
Scully's words. She sounded reserved, but barely so, as
if some gate inside her was bending but not yet
breaking. There was a strain in her voice, but I could
not tell if it was from stress or from words left
unsaid. I wonder with some regret why she cannot share
such thoughts with me. If I have done something to make
her too uncomfortable to do so, it is surely my
greatest violation of her trust.

The door opens again, and I am buoyed by the simple
thought that it might be her, returning to my side, but
it is not. It is one of the nurses. Esperanza. She
introduced herself on a visit subsequent to my
embarrassing resistance against the respirator. I
remember her well. She wears a light, pleasant perfume,
sweet with the scent of tropical fruit. I have learned
to shunt air into my nose and directly out of my mouth
using the back of my tongue. It is the only way I can
get any past the tubes. The damned tubes. I can't stand
them any more, always itching or pulling or...just
irritating me. The Foley is the worst. Why do hospitals
always insist on going the wrong way on one-way
streets?

Esperanza checks the chest tube, making sure the site
is clean and intact, but her touch feels chilly. It
elicits a shudder. She draws her hand away, momentarily
doing something else, but the shivering continues, only
spreading and growing in magnitude. I am broiling on
the inside. The mixed signals make me queasy and
skittish.

The nurse notices my distress, lays a reassuring hand
on my arm, and says that she will get something to help
me. She hurries out the door. In the midst of my
febrile misery, I concentrate on Scully. Even memories
of her small form leaning against me, arms wrapped
around my waist, head resting against my chest, make me
feel stronger. She does that like no one else.

I hear Esperanza return, interrupting my daydream. She
lays a plastic container on the small table to my
right. It sloshes with water. She tells me that it
isn't quite time for my regular sponge bath, but she
thought she would take care of it now, in hopes of
relieving some of the discomfort of the fever. A
regular sponge bath? I don't remember any such thing. I
must have missed that part while the sedative was still
working its magic. Right now, I am shivering in
earnest. I truly hope it does some good.

Esperanza carefully removes the cooling blanket.
Splashes sound as she dips the sponge in the basin and
wrings it out. She starts with my face. The tepid water
is a blessing, wiping away beads of cold sweat and
dried tear tracks. The sponge passes over my forehead
lightly, reminding me of the way Scully habitually
brushes stray strands of hair from my face. It is a
pleasant thought, a diversion from the ugliness of
reality. The sponge catches at my cheek on stubble that
is a couple of days old. I continue to shiver as
Esperanza gets fresh water and washes my neck. She
continues down my right arm, gently lifting it with
gloved hands for easier access. She cannot get to my
left arm; it is still immobilized by a sling.

Instead, she turns her attention to my chest. The
sponge feels shockingly cold there, jerking slightly as
I shake beneath it. Its path meanders around the
various conduits attached to my body. The soothing
touch soon begins to calm the shivering, though. It
does not take much for me to imagine Scully here,
tenderly ministering to me, caressing me in a way that
is entirely separate from my present circumstance,
these sterile surroundings. She might brush her hand
across my chest, as she did during my seizure, barely
sweeping over the hair as I lie completely still,
basking in her attention. Of course, in my fantasy, I
am not impeded. I can reciprocate her actions as she
explores the warm skin of my stomach, tracing the
muscles and making me twitch as she finds a ticklish
spot. Then, she draws her finger over my belly button
and follows the trace of the dark, curly hair...

Oh, shit. I am shaken from the illusion quite rudely as
I realize what is happening. I try to sever the
association of the dangerously encroaching sponge with
any thought of Scully. It began as a single innocent
memory, but it is quickly warping into a depravity. I
desperately do not want her image to be reduced to a
mere temptation, just another craving upon which I may
sate myself.

It is too late. Losing the internal conflict, I am both
ashamed and incited as I feel my body begin to react to
the nurse's ministrations. The freaking sponge grazes
against my groin, and that is all it takes to make the
blood run south. Oh, God. The nurse is the least of my
worries. I know she has probably seen it all, although
I must be quite the sight, still catheterized and
shivering, my internal heat now considerably
concentrated. My fevered pleasure is simultaneously
heightened and compromised by the hard plastic curve of
the damned Foley. The nurse continues on in a
professional manner, bathing my legs, but I am in a
vulnerable state of mind. Scully brings me so much
comfort, so much happiness, I hate to think that I have
taken advantage of her in any way, even through a
careless moment of mental self-indulgence.

I am savoring the guilty pleasure, though. I am a
naughty boy, I have to admit. The thought of her gives
me a reprieve from my dismal infirmity. Even my
involuntary physical response is a confirmation of
life, after days of lying trapped and hopeless in an
immobile body. I soon realize that she would not want
me to be ashamed that she has such an affirming, if
arousing, effect on me. The power she wields is
extraordinary indeed, in conjunction with the fragile
heart I have relinquished to her, a burden I cannot
bear alone.


+ + + + + + + + + +

Chapter Eight

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

Over the past four days, I have visited this chapel
many times. Its familiar symbols and ancient liturgies
comfort me. I am reminded of a less complicated time
in my life when all things were possible. It's a pity
we lose that childlike faith.

I have converted Mulder's bedside into a confessional
of sorts. I babble incessantly about my faults, and
beg for his understanding and mercy. The last of my
reserves has crumbled, and in a torrent of emotion, I
unleash the secrets of my heart. I tell him how
important he is to me, and how much I have come to
depend on him. After four years together, I have
crossed the proverbial Rubicon. In the midst of his
drug-induced slumber, I wonder if he understands
anything I have said. To be honest, I'm not sure
whether I reveal my innermost thoughts for his benefit
or mine. Doubt gnaws at me. What if he's not in a
conciliatory mood when he awakens? What if my words
come back to haunt me? Can the damage be repaired?
What have I done?

I may not have to wait much longer for my answer.
Mulder's condition has vastly improved. Approximately
forty-eight hours ago, his fever broke and has been
steadily declining. His lungs are clearing, and Dr.
Wuensche is so pleased, he is tapering Mulder off the
Pavulon and weaning him off the ventilator. I was so
ecstatic I celebrated by taking a long, hot shower and
getting a good night's sleep for the first time in
ages. Do I know how to have a good time or what?

I offer one last prayer of thanksgiving before I leave
the chapel. A multi-colored shower of light streams
through the stained-glass window and bathes the altar
with an ethereal glow. For the first time in days, I
am imbued with a renewed sense of hope.

When I return to the ICU, I hear Grace cooing
encouraging words to Mulder as she finishes towel
drying his freshly shampooed hair. He is freshly
shaven, and the scent of aftershave lingers in the air.
Her cherubic face lights up the moment she sees me.
She excitedly tells me he is beginning to wake up.
Grace dresses him in a clean gown and ceremoniously
adjusts his pillows. Gathering her washbasin and
supplies, she smiles and leaves us alone.

I tentatively approach his side. I'm afraid. What if
he remembers everything that has happened? What if he
blames me? What if he rejects me? Can I accept the
consequences? Deciding I have to know, I rest my
elbows on the railing.

Maybe it is my imagination, but Mulder's face appears
almost peaceful. Strands of damp hair loosely frame
his face, and I instinctively brush a lock from his
forehead and place my hand in his. He slowly opens his
eyes, and I hold my breath in fearful anticipation.
But there is no expression of condemnation, only
unconditional forgiveness. His long, slender fingers
awkwardly curl around mine and he lightly squeezes my
hand. With that one small gesture, he has bestowed
upon me perfect absolution. Relieved of my burden, I
feel reborn. My soul smiles.


----------------
MULDER
----------------

I have been able to do some serious thinking lately.
Since the doctor started tapering me off of some of the
drugs, my mind has been free to contemplate this time
I've spent with Scully. I am her captive audience,
surreptitiously accepting and collecting her inner
thoughts one by one. I am not sure if she really means
for me to hear, or if she is just trying to straighten
things out for herself. Either way, I anticipate her
revelations with rapt attention. I feel like a voyeur,
although I have no way to communicate with her, tell
her that her painful honesty is not as secure as she
might believe. In fact, I am still wrestling with the
option of informing her of the unintentional deception
when I am able. I'm not sure what the point would be,
really. I feel the impetus to be totally honest, but I
also do not want her to think that she has betrayed
herself.

She addresses subjects we rarely discuss, things people
usually leave unsaid until it is too late. I am
overwhelmed, hearing the person I most respect beg for
my forgiveness and express in unreserved detail exactly
how much I mean to her. These feelings are gifts we
have not yet found a way to openly share. They are the
elephant in the middle of the room that no one
mentions.

I realize that the tribulations of this case, the
circumstances of my affliction, have provided a rare
opportunity to witness the stunning unconditional love
Scully holds for me. She has stayed at my bedside many
times before, always a source of strength, but I never
knew the excruciating torment she feels or the
desperate prayers she offers on my behalf. I decide to
keep her statements in total confidence. I am willing
to return to our status quo, playing our game of
unspoken devotion. Words are incredibly powerful, but
her actions have always said it all.

My musings are interrupted by the nurse, Grace, as she
finishes rinsing shampoo from my hair into a basin. The
clean scent compliments the aftershave still tingling
on my freshly-shaven face. It is a relief to no longer
carry the ubiquitous and unexplainable hospital scent.
Grace says jokingly that she is going to make me look
pretty for my partner. Very funny. She removes the
basin and begins to rub my hair dry with a towel.

I hear the door open and the unmistakable tapping of
Scully's high-altitude heels. As she approaches the
bed, Grace informs her that she thinks I might be
waking up. It's true that I am having some minor
success in commanding reluctant muscles to move, but
I've been awake far longer than she knows. The nurse
leaves quickly, giving us privacy.

Scully sits next to me. She is silent, but I can feel
her gaze. I wonder what she is pondering while she
watches. I feel her fingertips graze my forehead,
brushing some hair from my face, as is her habit. She
lays her hand in mine. The contact sends a jolt through
me. I have something to tell her.

My eyes open with some difficulty, slowly revealing her
face before me. She looks questioning, perhaps even
intimidated. She has been alone through this ordeal,
fighting for me. I want to support her now. I answer
her gaze with one of gratefulness. I need to let Scully
know how much she means to me, how much I appreciate
her. I need to support her, reciprocate her devoted
respect. I do all of this the only way I can; I squeeze
her hand and hold on tight.

My eager imagination takes over, and I see the ice
dream again, superimposed over reality. Scully reaches
for me, pulling me along behind her into unfamiliar
waters. The simulacrum does not frighten me this time,
though. I know now that Scully is not trying to drown
me or drag me into the abyss. She is showing me
something new, ushering me into the depths of her soul.
This time, I will follow.


+ + + + + + + + + +

Epilogue

----------------
SCULLY
----------------

Mulder is being uncharacteristically cooperative with
the hospital staff since being extubated and
transferred to the intermediate care unit yesterday
afternoon. He meekly tolerates the requisite tubes,
wires and other insults to his dignity, and even allows
me to feed him the much-despised green Jell-O without
complaint. Respiratory therapy remains the only aspect
of his care he hates with a vengeance. The fact that
Joshua is a rabid Knicks fan does little to endear
himself to his miserable patient. Mulder complains
about the bitter tasting medication he must inhale, and
the vile secretions he is forced to cough up from his
sore lungs. When the session is over, he begs me to
procure a voodoo doll resembling Joshua. In a moment
of whimsy, I create a balloon from a latex glove and
scribble his therapist's likeness on it. My amateurish
efforts are embarrassingly awful, but Mulder positively
beams with delight and demands I tape it above his bed
as a friendly warning.

My task accomplished, I settle back into the tattered
blue chair next to Mulder's bed. I am deliriously
happy he is alive, and that I'm able to spend this time
with him. I am also profoundly grateful he has
generously chosen to absolve me of my transgressions.
Each moment together is precious. I promise myself not
to take him for granted anymore. Yet, my celebratory
mood is dampened by the fear I may have permanently
sabotaged our peculiar relationship. Neither of us is
comfortable discussing our feelings, and I hope I have
not irrevocably betrayed his trust. I'm afraid to ask
if he heard my incoherent declarations of affection,
and so far, he hasn't volunteered any information. I'm
not sure how to proceed. For now, I am content not to
pursue the subject. I merely smile at him and
playfully kick off the high-heeled pumps he's been
teasing me about this morning. He jokes it's a wonder
I can sneak up on a suspect in them. Why, they've even
been known to wake up people in comas! God, it's
wonderful to hear him laugh again.

His voice still raspy from the endotracheal tube, he
asks for an update on the case. I try to keep my
summary devoid of emotion, and I wonder if my deception
is glaringly transparent. I tell him Duff has been
discharged from the hospital, and will probably be
subpoenaed to testify before a Grand Jury when our
suspect is charged with five counts of capital murder.
However, since Aboah is not responding to hormone
therapy, it's doubtful he'll live long enough to be
indicted, stand trial or serve out his sentence. I'm
ambivalent about that prospect. Part of me is
disappointed he won't suffer temporal justice for
taking innocent lives and nearly depriving me of my
partner, while another part of me hopes he'll be
subjected to excruciating torment in the afterlife for
his heinous deeds. I'm sure Mulder is more charitable
than I am, and attributes Aboah's actions to an innate
need to survive at any cost. Whatever. My best friend
is alive, and that is all that matters to me right now.

If Mulder sees through my clumsy attempt to gloss over
subjects of a more personal nature, he has the decency
not to show it. He sagely nods and stares at his
hands. The same beautiful hands I have recently held,
kissed and bathed with my tears. We have traveled a
most unusual journey over these past several days,
alone, and yet together. Our unique bond has been
strengthened, one which transcends mere words. But
already I sense we are retreating back into a
comfortable distance. Regrettably, our carefully
constructed masks are slipping back into place as we
resume our well-rehearsed dance. Perhaps our fear of
intimacy causes us not to seek the truth within
ourselves, but rather to "deceive, inveigle, and
obfuscate." If so, is it possible to overcome these
self-imposed barriers? I want to believe.


+ + + + + + + + + +



Finis



Additional notes:

Lines quoted from the script of the episode "Teliko"
were written by Howard Gordon.
Contains quotes from "You can't always get what you
want" by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards and "Dead and
Bloated" by Stone Temple Pilots.
Also contains a quote from Monty Python and the Holy
Grail, written by Chapmen, Cleese, et al., property of
FOX.

The X-Files and related entities belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox.