NEW: 'Notes II' by Octavian
Date: Wed, 09 Sep 1998

AUTHOR: Octavian
RATINGS: VAR(m) - lots and lots of 'A' and rated R for
graphic subject matter and language.
SUMMARY: Mulder makes a decision and Scully must deal with
the aftermath
SPOILERS: Everything up to and including the movie.
TIMELINE: Set in 2010, Mulder and Scully have been married
for over 10 years.
WARNING: This is a capital-A angst piece. A sequel to
'Notes I' -- this time from Scully's perspective.
DISCLAIMER: The X-Files, it's characters and situations are
the property of 10-13 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No
infringement or offense is intended, and no money is being
made from this story.
ARCHIVE: Gossamer is fine. Anywhere else, please let me
know and keep my name attached.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Chocolate Mulders and cries of 'I'm not
worthy!' to Shell, proofreader extrordinaire; Nonie for
wonderful character advice; Carrie for her eagle eye; Di
for medical advice; and Janet, Connie, Carolina, and Alanna
for the wonderful words of encouragement. If it's good,
thank them; if it's bad, blame me. Thanks, kids!
FEEDBACK: Will be welcomed like the Prodigal at:
Taverl@yahoo.com
SERIES NOTE: As I mentioned, this is a sequel to 'Notes I'
and it is recommended you read that first. It is available
at the wonderful MulderTorture Anonymous site or drop me a
line and I will be happy to e-mail it to you.

Notes II
by Octavian

This is *not* over.

I stand outside this rundown apartment building in a
questionable part of Richmond; hoping against hope that
maybe this time, I've found him. As soon as Mulder
disappeared after that terrible argument on our front lawn,
I started searching. If nothing else, our years together
battling shadows and conspiracies have taught him how to
hide and hide well. This is the sixty-eighth address I've
checked in the last four months; each time, praying that
the person who opens the door will be him. So far, I've
found nothing but sixty-seven strangers.

I tried. God knows how I tried to be there for him, and
help him through the nightmare of his sister's death. But
he took it even worse than I had imagined, shutting himself
off from anyone and everyone. Especially me. After
seventeen years of friendship and almost eleven of
marriage, I know Mulder too well not to realize that he
never held me responsible for the fact that he didn't find
Samantha until it was too late. It was his own innate and
well-honed sense of guilt that made him hurl accusations at
me; that made him blame me for not finding her it time to
save her. That didn't make it hurt any less, though.

I wish I'd never told him. When the newest X-Files agents
had brought the case to me, I just knew they had finally
found Sam and, contrary to what the Smoker had told Mulder,
she was not living happily ever after in a suburban home
surrounded by a white picket fence,and filled with a husband
and 2.4 children. She was dead. After twenty-two years
of incarceration in a mental hospital, she had managed to
escape, only to be run down and killed on a dark highway.
I battled with myself long and hard about whether or not to
break the news to Mulder, but in the end I knew I couldn't
keep this from him. We have always dealt in truths, my
husband and I; and as much as it hurt, I was not about to
change that.

Dammit. I'm getting teary-eyed again. Swiping angrily at
my eyes, I refocus on the printout in my hand. Thank God
for the Gunmen. Even though I haven't found him yet,
they've still provided me with more potential leads than
the FBI. There's something to be said for not following
legal procedures. Walter has made finding Mulder a
priority, and for that I'm more grateful than I can say.
Despite the fact that Mulder is no longer a field agent,
he is still 'Family'.

Enough brooding. It's time to knock on another door, flash
Mulder's picture, and pray to God that this time, someone
recognizes him.

Climbing the front steps, I feel the familiar combination
of fear and hope churning in my stomach and I take a few
deep breaths to try and calm myself. I press button #2,
marked 'Manager' and try to keep from fidgeting. There is
no speaker system visible -- it seems an extravagance for
such a lowly building -- so I just have to wait for someone
to acknowledge my call. Several eternal seconds have
elapsed and I'm getting ready to pass on this one and come
back later when the front door opens. The manager is in
fact an elderly Asian woman incongruously dressed in a
flowered polyester shirt, black slacks and white Keds.

"I'm sorry, no vacancies." She speaks loudly in order to
be heard over the two yards that separate the door from the
front gate.

"I'm not here about an apartment." I'm fumbling for my
badge as I talk. It's been years since I've had to whip
out the I.D. on a regular basis. Even though I have been
doing this almost daily for the last few months, my
nervousness still makes it awkward. Finally, I've got the
leather case disentangled from my pocket and I flip it
open. "My name is Dana Scully. I'm with the FBI and I'd
like to ask you a few questions."

She leans out the door in a feeble attempt to read the
three-by-five piece of plastic I hold out to her. I'd
gladly put my arm through the bars to get my badge a little
closer to her, but the wire mesh that covers them makes
that a little difficult. Finally, she leaves the security
of the doorway and walks up to the gate, opening it enough
to get an unobstructed view, but not enough to allow me to
enter.

"FBI?" She's moving her eyes back and forth between my
face and the picture on my badge. I hold the latter up to
my cheek to make it easier on her. I guess she's decided
I'm for real since she taps her chest, saying: "I'm Mrs.
Kwok. Is there something wrong?"

"No, Ma'am," I say, putting the badge away before taking
the picture out from between the pages of my address list.
It was taken just last year for the Faculty section of the
Quantico brochure. Mulder had complained mightily about
having to sit for it, but I could tell he was also proud to
represent the FBI as the head of the Abnormal Psychology
Department.

Even though I've done this too many times already, that
nauseating combination of fear and hope still makes my
hands shake as I hold up the photo for her inspection.
"I'm looking for this man. He's also with the Bureau and
he went missing several months ago. I was hoping you'd
seen him recently." How many times have I said those
words? How many times have I let myself believe that this
time I'd been successful, only to have my hopes crushed
with a shake of the head and a mumbled apology?

I'm steeling myself for rejection number sixty-eight as
Mrs. Kwok pulls my hand closer to study the photograph. I
will not hope, I will not hope, I will not hope. The fact
that she's studying his face means nothing; she's an
elderly woman and neither her eyesight nor her memory is
what it used to be. She's still staring and I'm starting
to tremble violently while she takes her own sweet time
replying. Finally, she's staring at me, her expression
confused. "Nathan's an FBI agent?"

What? What did she say? Nathan. She recognizes his face.
Oh my God, she recognizes him! "Y... you..." I've got to
clear my throat and try and talk around the tears that
threaten to choke me. "You know this man?" My voice is
weak in my own ears and I'm afraid she didn't hear me, but
then she nods.

"Yes, this is Nathan Mann. He rented an apartment from me
about four months ago." She stares down at his picture
again, shaking her head slowly. "Such a nice man, but so
sad." Suddenly, she looks up at me again. "Did he do
something wrong?" She sounds afraid, like she's worried
she's been harboring some kind of psychotic criminal. All
I can think, is that I've found him.

Try as I might, my eyes are tearing up and I rub them
roughly, stopping the tears before I can speak again. "No
Ma'am, he hasn't done anything wrong. But he has been
missing for four months and his family is desperate to find
him." Desperate is an understatement. It takes all my
control not to grab this woman by the shoulders and shake
her until she tells me where he is, takes me to him and
shows me he's all right. "Is he still here?" My heart
almost stops at the thought that I've missed him, that he's
already come and gone.

She's nodding, that's a good sign. I feel my heart beat
again. "He still rents from me. He doesn't seem to go out
much, so I guess he's still here, but I don't know for
sure." She's staring at me with this strange look on her
face and I realize that she's been holding Mulder's
photograph out for me to take, but I've been too distracted
to notice.

I take the picture from her and return it to the sheaf of
papers. My hand shakes so violently that it takes four
tries before I succeed. "What apartment is he in?" My
voice is still waterlogged, but stronger than it was a
moment ago.

Mrs. Kwok points at the rows of buzzers and says: "Three-C,
third floor." She indicates that I should ring the bell
marked 'Mann'.

I look back at her and shake my head. "Thank you so much
for your cooperation, but I need to see him and I'm afraid
he won't answer even if he is home." I'm on the verge of
losing my control and I take a deep breath to keep from
shouting at her when she still doesn't move from in front
of the gate. "May I come in please?" I need to see him
now; I need to know he's okay.

She takes nigh on to forever to make up her mind. I swear
I've aged years in these few seconds. "Okay, but I need to
go up with you." Her tone brooks no argument and I nod
rapidly in agreement. Finally, she opens the gate, then
the door, and then she starts making her way up the stairs.
Mountains have been scaled in less time. We're not even at
the second floor and I swear ten minutes have already
passed since she first let me in.

I can't wait anymore.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I'm on the third floor
before my guide has a chance to say a word. Finally, I'm
standing in front of apartment 3C and I hesitate, trying to
regain my composure. Breathe, Dana, just breathe. I'm as
good as I'm going to get, so I rap lightly on the door.
There's no answer so I turn to the landlady who's just made
it to the landing. "Could you knock for me please? He's
probably not expecting anyone, so he won't answer."

She nods and knocks on the door more loudly than I had
done. "Mr. Mann?" she says breathlessly. "It's Mrs. Kwok.
I need to talk to you." Dammit, Mulder, answer the door.
"I guess he went out," she says with a shrug of her
shoulders and starts to turn away.

"I'll just wait here," I call out. I'm not leaving until I
see him again; if that means I've got to sit in this
hallway for the rest of the evening, then that's what I'll
do. I lean my forehead against the cool wood, feeling
frustrated and emotionally drained.

Wait a minute, I hear something. Turning my cheek to the
door, I try to press my ear to the crack between the door
and the frame. Yes, there's definitely sounds coming out
of his apartment, music maybe. I know my husband well and
I know he's not the kind of person to leave the TV or radio
going when he's out. I knock again, louder this time.
"Mulder? Mulder, I know you're there. Please open the
door."

He's not answering and I'm suddenly seized with panic.
"Mulder! Open the damn door!" I'm pounding on the door
with my left hand as I grab the doorknob with my right.
It's open. This is wrong, very wrong. There is no way the
most paranoid man in the world would leave his door
unlocked. My hand is fumbling for the gun at the small of
my back as I slowly push the door open. "Mulder?" My
quiet question is answered with nothing but the tinny
sounds of Mozart coming from a radio somewhere to my left.

I've finally got my gun clear and I'm holding it before me
as I scan the apartment. The living room is clean and
sparsely furnished -- the only signs of inhabitance being
three small boxes on the coffee table. I'm beginning to
think I might be in the wrong apartment somehow. But as I
look left, I see something that makes me stop breathing.
Mulder's suit. It's hanging on the door to what I assume
is the bedroom. Walking past it, I can tell it's my
favorite, the dove gray one we bought for him to wear to
our 10th anniversary party just under a year ago.

A lifetime ago.

The music is louder in here. The small radio on the
nightstand fills the room with the overture to 'The Magic
Flute'. There is a light on in the bathroom, but I hear no
sounds as I approach as quickly as I can, still keeping my
weapon ahead of me. Just outside the doorway, I'm hit with
wet heat of steam and a metallic smell I recognize all too
easily. Blood.

"Mulder?" My voice echoes back at me as I step into the
bathroom, scanning the small room in less than a second.

He's so pale. Oh God, he's so white and the water around
him so dark. I don't know how I got here, but I'm kneeling
by the tub. I try to keep my fingers still long enough to
find a pulse in his neck as I use my free hand to get my
cell phone. Through the scarlet water, I can see the long
gashes running up the insides of both his forearms. Jesus.
Is his chest even moving? God, please, he has to be
breathing.

There, I've found it. It's so weak and fast, but it's
there. Barely.

I dial 911 and tuck the phone between my neck and shoulder
as I work the belt off my trench coat. The gasp from the
door makes me spin around, briefly trying to find where I
dropped my gun. Mrs. Kwok stands there, her face ashen and
shocked. I motion for her to stay where he is as my call
is answered. "This is FBI Assistant Director Dana Scully,
I need an ambulance at..." Shit, what's the address?!

I look up to the elderly woman whose gaze is currently
fixed on the sight of my dying husband sitting in a tub
filled with his own blood. "The address!" I yell and she
finally looks back at me. "What the hell's the address?"

Her mouth works soundlessly for moment and I desperately
want to slap her. Finally, she seems to have found her
voice. "1710 Grove Street, corner of North Hamilton and
Grove."

"1710 Grove Street, corner of North Hamilton and Grove,
third floor, apartment three-c. The manager will be
waiting with the security gate open." I look back at her
and she nods in understanding, finally leaving to head
downstairs. "I've got a white male, forty-nine years old,"
I pause to look at the prominence of his ribs under the
deathly white skin, "one-hundred and fifty pounds. He's in
severe hypovolemic shock due to two wounds to the wrists
and forearms." There's a straight razor in the soap dish,
liberally covered with blood. Trying not to think about
it, I grab it and cut my belt in half, the movement almost
causing the phone to slip. I drop the razor back on the floor
and start tying one half around the arm nearest to me, just
above the elbow -- a makeshift tourniquet to try and keep
what little blood Mulder has left from draining out of him.

"Units are on their way, Ma'am. ETA two minutes," the calm
voice tells me. I lift my head and let the phone crash to
the tile as I pull the belt as tight as I can. The skin
puckers as I tie the knots roughly, too roughly. But I'm
mad, furious at him and I want him to feel the pain. I
want him to moan and complain and bitch because then I'll
know he's alive. But his face is still slack, his voice
silent. Part of me wants to try and take his pulse again,
but I can't waste time. I need to get the other arm tied
off.

"Damn you, Mulder." I lean over him, wrapping the other
half of my belt around his right arm. "Damn you and your
selfishness. How dare you do this to me? How *dare* you?"
I yank the ends of the belt so hard, I'm almost afraid I'll
break the bone. I can smell the reek of blood and bodily
fluids wafting up to me in the steam from the bathtub and I
want to retch. "You selfish bastard. You can't just run
away from this. I won't let you run away from this. Damn
you. Damn you!"

I pull his arms out of the scalding water, trying to raise
them above the level of his heart. Standing up, I move to
sit on the edge of the tub Holding his hands in mine,
watching the bright scarlet rivulets of water running from
the gaping wounds he's inflicted on himself. "Oh God,
Mulder, how could you do this to us?" Only a little blood
still flows slowly from torn veins -- whether from the
pressure of the tourniquets or simply because he has so
little blood left, I don't want to think about. Putting
his palms together, I hold both his hands in my right as I
reach with my left to release the drain stop. The hot
water has made his heart work hard, trying to cool his body
and ultimately forcing his blood out the cut vessels of his
arms. If I can cool him down even a little, it should take
some of the pressure off his already overabused heart.

There's no chain on the stop, so I'm going have to reach
into the water to remove it. Jesus, Mulder, I can't do
this. I can't reach my hand into this tub full of your
life. Swallowing bile, I reach down between his feet, the
red-tinged water wicking up the sleeves of my blouse and
jacket. I'm starting to vomit, but I choke it back; I
can't add this insult to his injury. Finally, I've got
hold of the rubber stop and yank it out, staring for a
moment as my husband's life drains away.

"Mulder, when you wake up, I'm going to give you such shit
for putting me through this. You *will* wake up, damn you.
You will." Keeping his hands in mine, I grab the ankle
farthest from me and pull it up so it rests on the edge of
the tub. He sinks a little farther down; when I put his
other foot over the edge, he slides onto his back like a
rag doll. I switch his hands into my left and reach for
his neck with my right, zeroing in on the carotid artery.
I'm sobbing hysterically, and I need to calm down if I want
to try and feel a heartbeat.

Where is it?

Okay, Scully, breathe calmly, concentrate on the feel of
the arteries underneath the skin of his neck. There's a
pulse. There has to be a pulse. You just need to be calm.

Nothing.

Don't do this to me, Mulder. Don't you leave me like this.

Please, Mulder.

Please love, don't leave me alone.

Please.

A flutter.

I'm not sure if I really feel a heartbeat at all. It could
be my own pulse beating in my fingertips. No, it's much
too irregular to me mine, so it has to be his. Thank you
God. My left arm is busy holding Mulder's up, so I can't
see my watch, but I know his heart rate is terribly fast.
The almost imperceptible pounding of his blood underneath
my fingertips is suddenly overshadowed by the pounding of
feet rushing up the stairs.

"In here!" I yell as I stand up and step into the tub
between Mulder's spread legs so the EMTs have unobstructed
access to him. The second they step through the door, I
start issuing orders. "Pulse and respiration are very
fast, probably over 140, he's lost a lot of blood, I've
only just tourniqueted him and he's been unconscious for at
least the last four minutes. Blood type is B-positive; he
was exposed to an unknown retrovirus about fifteen years
ago, but there have been no apparent complications. He has
no known allergies or serious health problems."

The man and woman rush over to him, placing their cases on
the floor One of them -- Gonzaga, according to his
uniform -- nearly steps on my gun and looks up at me,
startled. "FBI," I tell him quickly, irrationally furious
for pausing even a nanosecond on his way to try and save
Mulder's life. He nods, pushing the weapon aside with his
kit as he opens it and begins setting up the radio and EKG.

His partner has the stethoscope, placing the bell against
the side of Mulder's neck, checking for a pulse.
"Heart rate 147," she calls over her shoulder. "Pupils
dilated and unresponsive. Skin warm, but clammy." She
quickly checks the belts around Mulder's arms as her
partner puts the EKG leads on his chest. "Nice work," she
says as she reaches for the IV's and I can hear Gonzaga
reporting all the information I've already given them -- as
well as his partner's observations -- back to the hospital.

"Get him started on saline and Ringers Lactate, stat,"
comes the order from the doctor on the other end of the
line. The partners share a quick glance to communicate
that they both heard and understood. Just like Mulder and
I when we were partners. My nervousness increases as I
realize she's going to try and insert the IV in the jugular
-- this is not an easy move. I'm about to ask her why she
doesn't just put it in the top of his foot, when I see
Gonzaga approaching me bearing what appears to be a pair
of ski pants. Ah, MAST pants: when inflated they help
force the blood out of the extremities to the organs where
it's more important.

Before he can say a word, I step out of the tub, still
holding Mulder's arms aloft. The EMT takes my place,
quickly putting the pants on and pumping air into them.
"Rolland, what's going on?" I hear from the radio. I look
at the woman who must be the one they're calling, but she's
too busy trying to insert the needle as quickly and
delicately as possible into Mulder's neck. I'm not about
to do anything that would deter these two from their work,
so I reach down for the radio.

"The EMTs are currently working to stabilize the patient
and get him ready to move. MAST pants are being inflated."
I look to see the IV has been started and the two bags
attached to the main line are easy it recognize. "Saline
and Ringers Lactate are in and wide open." Dropping the
handset, I hold Mulder's hands in both of mine and glance
at the startled paramedics. "Are we ready to move?" I'm
using my best 'AD' voice because I can't waste time
answering questions.

They exchange knowing looks as Rolland finishes taping the
IV down. As much as I rue the additional seconds this
takes, I know that if the needle is jostled during
transport, it could easily finish the job Mulder has
already started. Gonzaga picks up the squawking radio
with one hand while putting their supplies away with the
other. "We're preparing to move him now," he says quickly,
and leaves to position the gurney as close to the door as
possible. The bathroom's too small to fit it, so they'll
have to carry him out, which means I'll have to let go of
his hands. That's one thing I desperately don't want to
do.

I see Rolland's hands on mine and I look up to see her
sympathetic expression. "We have to move him." I nod in
understanding, but still keep my grip tight. "*Now*," she
insists and I unclench my fingers, wondering if this will
be the last time I hold his warm hands in mine. She
crosses Mulder's arms on his chest and I suddenly see him
laying just like that, wearing the suit he'd prepared,
surrounded by the satin lining of a casket. I taste blood
from where I'd bitten my tongue to keep from crying, and
move to stand against the counter so the paramedics have
room to maneuver. "Let's go," the woman calls to her
partner, grabbing Mulder under his arms as Gonzaga takes
his feet. I watch as his limp, unconscious body is placed
quickly yet gently on the gurney. But over it all, I still
see the image of him laying peacefully in his coffin. I
can't help wondering if this is one of those 'psychic
moments' Mulder has suggested I'm prone to. If it is, I
swear to God I'll never forgive you for doing this to me.
I don't know who I mean, God or my husband. Maybe both.

Rolland quickly covers Mulder with a sheet as her partner
puts the equipment at the foot of the stretcher. "We're
movin'!" she calls out, and they start their way out of the
apartment heading toward the stairs.

As I'm following the gurney, one of the police officers who
was also called to the scene hands me my cell phone, but is
reluctant to do so with my gun. He must have picked them
up while my attention was focused elsewhere. I grab my ID,
flashing it at him. He hands over my weapon and I murmur
"Thanks."

"Ma'am, we'll need to ask you a few questions," he says
firmly. I know this is procedure, but there no way I'm
going to hang around and chat with him right now.

Slipping my gun into my holster, I call back over my
shoulder. "I'm Assistant Director Dana Scully, and this is
a matter for the Bureau. Deputy Director Walter Skinner
will be here soon himself to supervise the investigation.
In the meantime, secure the scene and make sure nobody
compromises any evidence."

I don't bother waiting to hear his reply before I'm running
out to catch up with the EMTs who are already loading
Mulder into the ambulance. "What hospital?" I yell,
pulling my car keys out of my pocket. I desperately want
to ride with them, but I'd only get in the way. I just
have to trust in God and the paramedics that he will
survive the trip to the hospital. Christ, I think I'm
going to be sick.

"Richmond Memorial," Gonzaga calls out to me.

Breathing deeply to try and keep from puking my guts out in
front of them, I nod and head for my car. The sirens are
deafening, but by the time I'm sitting in the front seat,
they're already out of hearing range. I want to cry. I
want to break down and weep for years, but I can't do that
yet because I still need to drive to the hospital and fill
out the forms and talk to the nurses and call my family and
friends and do all the same shit that I've always done
whenever Mulder's gotten himself hurt or sick. But this
time he did it to himself. This time he's trying to take
his own life, to ditch me one last time because he can't
take the pain anymore.

Well fuck you, Mulder. Fuck you for being a coward, for
not letting me help you, for making me love you and care
whether or not you live. Fuck you for putting me through
this guided tour of Hell that'll be with me for the rest of
my life no matter what happens now. Fuck you for choosing
to live in a city that I've never been to before so that
I'm lost and don't know the way to the hospital -- leaving
me stranded here, eyes too waterlogged to read the map
that's sitting on the passenger's seat. Fuck you for
trying to take away my future. Because you are my future:
my future happiness, my future comfort, even my future
pain. Fuck you for not realizing this and for making me
suffer through this.

Fuck you.

"FUCK YOU!" My throat is sore; I don't know how long I've
been screaming to myself. I can feel the tears soaking the
collar of my blouse as I lean my head forward to rest on
the steering wheel and my body convulses with sobs. Damn
you, Mulder. How can you be so blind?

<end 1 of 3>
----------------------------------------------------------

Notes II by Octavian (2/3)

Summary and Disclaimer in part one.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Grabbing a handful of tissues from my purse, I blow my nose
and try to calm down. I'm useless right now and I've got
to pull myself back together. The hospital, I have to get
to the hospital. Blinking away a few more tears, I grab
the map and start plotting my route. Thank God, it's
pretty direct and easy to remember. My hands are shaking
so badly that I can't get the damn keys in the ignition.
Got it. Now I just have to remain calm enough to drive to
the hospital without crashing the car. I'm turning on to
North Hamilton as I reach for my cell phone, hitting the
power button and speed dial #4 without ever taking my eyes
off the road.

"Skinner." His voice hits me just as I put the phone to my
ear.

Clearing my throat as best I can, my voice is still hoarse
as I croak out: "Walter, it's Dana." I'm on the verge of
tears again, but I can't spare a hand to grab more tissues.

"Dana, what's wrong? Did you find him?" He sounds more
worried than I've ever heard him. I don't think he's seen
me cry before, so I'm sure the sounds of my choked voice on
the phone has given him reason to worry.

"Yes, I did." He's trying to leave me. He took a big
razor and sliced up his arms and he's lost so much blood
that I don't know if I'm going to be a widow before the day
ends and I'm so scared because I don't think I'll be able
to handle it if he doesn't make it. "He... he... Jesus,
Walter, he's tried to kill himself," I cry into the phone.

I blink a few more times to try and clear my vision, making
the final right turn which will eventually lead me to the
hospital. "Dana? Dana, is he okay? Is Mulder okay?" His
voice sounds panicked now and I realize I've been ignoring
him for a few moments. "Scully, talk to me." That helps
pull me out of my reverie and I clear my throat again.

There it is -- Richmond Memorial. I follow the signs that
point to the ER parking lot, heedless of the 10-MPH speed
limit. "He's in bad shape. I'm at the hospital now, but I
want you to go to the scene." 'The scene.' Like this was
just another crime and not my worst nightmare come true.
"The police are there, but..."

"You can never be too careful," he finishes my thought for
me. Mulder and I still have enemies and I need to be aware
of every possibility. But I know in my heart of hearts
that this wasn't a setup, this was Mulder's doing. That
knowledge makes my stomach clench and my breath stop. I
wish I could believe that this was some elaborate attempt
at murder; it would actually make me feel better to know
that Mulder wouldn't do this to me on purpose.

Pulling into the nearest spot, I'm out of the car before
the engine has stopped completely, running toward the ER
doors. "The apartment is in Richmond, Virginia, on...
Grove Street; the landlady's name is Mrs. Kwok." I have
neither the time nor a free hand to grab the list again.
Fortunately, Walter has a copy of his own and should be
able to find it easily.

The rush of air from the overhead fans as I enter the
automatic doors cuts off the first part of Walter's
sentence. "...be at his apartment in about an hour. I'll
come right to the hospital when I'm done. Call me if
there's any news."

There's admittance -- a quick turn and I'm standing at the
desk, waiting for the nurse to get off the phone. "I will,
thank you." Shutting the phone off before he can reply, I
return it to my pocket and reach for my badge again,
holding it up in front of her face.

She waves at me in acknowledgement and returns her
attention to the phone. I start drumming my fingers
impatiently on the desk, searching for someone else who
might be able to help me. "Okay... right... that's fine.
Just bring her in if her temp is still over 100. You're
welcome." Finally she hangs up and I jump on her before
she has a chance to ask me anything.

"I need to find out the condition of a Mr. Mulder, Fox
Mulder. He was brought in within the last ten minutes."
I'm really trying to stay calm, but I'm ready to start
screaming if I don't find out what's going on.

She takes her own sweet time picking up the clipboard,
scanning the names casually. "I don't see a 'Fox Mulder'
here," she says, glancing at the list again.

This can't be right. I'm certain they said Richmond
Memorial, and I know this is where I am. I know they would
have made it here long before me and would have at least
taken his name before going into surgery.

Unless the ambulance wasn't real. I'm assaulted with
visions of a dim hallway and Mulder's lips on mine for the
first time, of a sharp pain on the back of my neck and a
slow slide into unconsciousness. As absurd as the notion
is, I need to consider it. But I'm pretty sure I caught a
glimpse of Gonzaga and Rolland as I passed the waiting
ambulances. That's not it.

Unless he was pronounced on the way here. I can feel my
knees buckle and I grab the counter to keep myself upright.
If he... expired in the ambulance, they wouldn't bother
with the paperwork. "No." My voice is weak in my ears, a
mere whimper. "No, he has to be here. He *has* to be
here." The nurse looks at me quizzically as I begin to
talk to her, my voice becoming louder with each word.
"He was picked up at an apartment on Grove, two self-
inflicted razor wounds to the forearms, Caucasian, late
forties, brown hair, hazel eyes, six feet tall."
Brilliant, loving, witty, beautiful, demanding,
guilt-ridden, sweet as sugar, adoring and adorable,
the love of my life.

Her eyes open wide as I'm speaking to her. "You mean the
John Doe? He was brought in about ten minutes ago, rushed
straight into OR. Deep cuts up the inside of both
forearms, wrist to elbow -- brought in by Gonzaga and
Rolland?"

John Doe? Of course. Mulder didn't have an ID on him and
was renting under a false name. I just now realize that I
never told the paramedics who he was or even who I was, and
they never asked. My relief is great but short-lived.
He's made it this far, but the surgery required to save his
life will be long and demanding. "What theater? Who are
the attending surgeons? Who can update me on his
condition?" My words are coming thick and fast now as I
try to take control of myself by taking control of the
situation.

Leafing through the files, she pulls the appropriate one
and begins scanning it. Without a second thought, I snatch
it from her hands and murmur something about being a
medical doctor. The records are sparse and don't help me
in the slightest. "What's your relationship to the
patient?" she asks me in a tone which is distinctly huffy.

Without looking up from my study of the documents before
me, I mutter: "He's my husband."

When I finally lift my head, her expression is sympathetic.
"I'm sorry. Here," she says, handing me a clipboard
covered with at least an inch of forms. "I'll need you to
fill these out, but you can do it in the OR waiting room
instead of down here. I'll have someone inform one of the
attending nurses that you're here and want to be updated as
soon as possible."

My throat is choked with tears and I know I'll start crying
again if I try to speak, but she seems to understand my
expression. "Wait here a moment and I'll take you there."
Leaving me standing there, clutching the clipboard in one
hand and the counter in the other, she approaches one of
the other nurses. I'm assuming she's asking him to cover
for her for a while. She returns quickly through the
locked door that separates the waiting room from the
emergency theaters and takes hold of my arm, guiding me
through the maze of hallways to the elevators. She doesn't
try to speak; she knows better than to try and make small
talk. I take a look at her nametag. Amelia Torrich, RN.
I'll have to remember that when this is all over.

As we're waiting for the elevator, I gasp suddenly as I
realize I haven't made the most important call: my mother.
Tucking the clipboard under my arm, I reach for my cell
phone, turning it on and entering the speed dial as I feel
the nurse's hand on mine. "I'm sorry, you can't use those
here." She doesn't realize how important this is, and I
open my mouth to argue with her. "There's a phone in the
waiting room you can use. We'll be there in just a few
moments." Her voice is soft, but her grip on my hand
remains firm and I bob my head in acquiescence. "Thank
you." is all she says as she holds the elevator door open
for me to enter.

Three floors. It's only three floors up, but it feels like
this is the slowest elevator in history. God, what am I
going to tell Mom? She adored Mulder when he and I were
just partners, but was a little less than thrilled when I
told her he and I were engaged. I think she still harbored
some secret hope that I'd meet a nice man who would love me
as much as Mulder, but who would be a little more careful
with himself, and more importantly, with me. Even so, I
know she loves him as much as Charlie or Bill, Jr. She
just turned 70 and this is going to hurt her as badly as
any of the tragedies she's had to weather over the years.
How do you explain to a mother who's already lost a
daughter that she just might lose a son-in-law?

The doors are finally opening and I squeeze through as soon
as the gap is wide enough. Torrich follows close behind,
waving me down the hall. "This way." She heads to the
right and I follow blindly, focusing on the back of her
head as she guides me down the corridor. I'm so intent on
just putting one foot in front of the other that I almost
run into her when she stops suddenly. "You can wait here.
There's a phone on the table and there are vending machines
just next door. I'll see if I can find an OR nurse and get
an update." Before I can say a word, she's out the door and
down the hall.

Thankfully, the waiting room is empty. Four o'clock on a
Tuesday afternoon isn't a busy time for emergency
surgeries. The telephone is almost hidden among the stacks
of old magazines on the small end table. I try to pick it
up to set it on my lap, but it's bolted to the surface
right next to a laminated card reading: 'Local Calls Only'.
Lovely. My wallet's in my purse and my purse is in my car,
and the frustration I feel is making me cry again. Shit.
I'm not leaving this room until I know the outcome of the
surgery, so I guess I have no choice. It takes me three
tries just to dial 9 and 0; I can't imagine how long it
would have taken me if I were dialing Mom's number
directly.

"AT&T operator, how may I help you?" Wow, a real live
person -- will wonders never cease. I'm so stunned by this
revelation that I hear the voice again, decidedly pissed
this time. "AT&T operator, can I *help* you?"

"I..." Jesus, is that my voice? I sound like I've been
gargling with broken glass. "I need to make a collect
call."

"Number please?"

"Three-oh-one, eight-four-nine, six-eight-nine-one." God,
please don't make me repeat that, I'm already choked with
tears and I haven't even begun to tell Mom the news.

"Your name?

"Sc..." Shit, now I'm crying in earnest. No one calls me
just Scully. No one except Mulder. "Uh... Dana. Dana
Scully."

"Please hold while I connect the call." Her voice is so
bored and disinterested that I have this sudden desire to
scream at her. Doesn't she realize what's happening? How
can anyone be apathetic when the world is coming in an end?

The line's finally ringing but what if she's not home? Oh
God, I can't leave this kind of message on her machine.
Please be home. Please be home because I can't go through
this whole process again. Fourth ring. Great, I'm going
to get the machine, but I won't even be able to leave a
message if I wanted to. "Hi, there's no one here to take
your call right now..."

"Ma'am? There doesn't appear to be anyone home..."

Over the sound of the operator's voice I hear the message
cut off, replaced by a breathless "Hello?"

"Mom? Mom, it's Dana.

"AT&T operator with a collect call from Dana Scully. Will
you accept the charges?"

"Dana? Dana, what's happened? Uh, yes, yes I accept.
Dana? What's going on?"

If this were a movie, the cacophony of sound would be
amusing, but right now all I want to do is scream in
frustration. "Thank you for using AT&T," the woman parrots
as our call is finally connected. Like I care.

"Dana, are you there? Is something wrong?" Mom is getting
decidedly worried and I take a deep breath to calm myself
and try to find some way to tell her what happened without
panicking her even more. Blinking to clear the tears, I
see that nurse Torrich has returned. I mumble something
into the phone and place my hand over the mouthpiece.
There's no way in hell my mother's going to learn about
this by overhearing our conversation.

"What's the status?" My, I almost sounded calm there.
Nothing like 'medical mode' to keep my voice steady.

"He's still in surgery and he'll be there for quite a long
time to come. They've got a team of vascular and micro
surgeons working to repair the damage and they're still
trying to replace the blood he's lost. About five pints,
from what they can tell."

I nod dumbly at her report while the doctor part of my
brain considers the potential complications when a person's
body is drained of almost half its blood. Damn you Mulder,
I don't want to have to think about this. "Thank you," I
whisper, trying to smile at her but failing miserably.

"You're welcome. Good luck Mrs. Mulder." Mrs. Mulder?
God, that sounds so strange -- no one ever calls me that.
The Widow Mulder... Great, now I've cast myself in a Jane
Austin novel. The buzzing in my ears could be indicative
of a fainting spell, but as I look down at my lap, I
realize it's just the sound of my mother yelling over the
phone.

"...Dana, what the hell is going on! Talk to me, dammit!"
Dad wasn't the only one in the house who could swear when
the need arose.

"Sorry, Mom, I had to talk to the nurse." Well, there goes
breaking it to her gently.

"Nurse?" she says in a panicked tone. "What's wrong? Why
are you in a hospital? Are you all right? Is this about
Fox?" It could be my imagination, but she sounds a little
angry as she mentions Mulder's name. My mother is a woman
of boundless love and empathy, but she's also a woman of
immense strength. I don't think she understands what
Mulder went through when his sister died. I know she's
trying, but I get the feeling that she just thinks he's
wallowing in self-pity. I can't say that I blame her right
now.

The waterworks have started again, so I have to work hard
to get out the words. "Yes, Mom, it's about Fox." My
voice breaks as I say his first name -- one of the few
times I've ever said it -- and I'm sobbing noisily into the
phone.

"Is he okay?" The anger is gone in an instant leaving only
fear.

There are boxes of tissues on virtually every surface, so I
grab a handful from a nearby dispenser, hastily wiping my
eyes and nose. "No. No, he's not okay. He, he hurt
himself, Mom." God, I can almost feel myself regressing as
I talk to her. I'm old enough to have grandchildren now,
but talking to my mother still reduces me to a six-year-old
sometimes.

Her gasp is loud in my ears and I can hear her start to
cry. "Is he... is he gone?" She can't bring herself to
say the words, which is good because I can't bear to hear
them.

"No. But it's bad, it's very bad." A little scared
whisper is all I can manage and then I'm sobbing harder,
the gasps and coughs made worse by the fact that I'm trying
to hold them in.

I can hear similar struggles happening on the other end of
the line before she finally asks: "What hospital?"

Now I could give her some line about the drive being too
far, that she should just wait at home, but I'm too selfish
for that. "Richmond Memorial. I don't have the address,
but it's in Richmond, Virginia. I can find someone to give
me directions..."

"Don't worry about it, I can figure it out for myself.
I'll be there as soon as I can. I love you, Sweetheart,
and I'm praying for you both." I can tell she's calm
again; she has always had that amazing ability to do tamp
down her emotions when she had too. She was my role model.

"You too, Mom. Drive carefully." The line goes dead and I
just stare at the phone as if I'm not sure what to do with
it. Finally, the electronic buzz gets too annoying and I
rest the handset back on the cradle. I notice that my hand
is much darker that the beige of the phone; the healthy
pink of my skin standing out against the cold plastic. But
as I stare I see that the color is anything but healthy.
It's more brown than pink; it's cracked and flaking in
spots.

It's Mulder's blood on my hands.

I don't have time to find a bathroom, so the wastebasket
next to the door will have to do. The acid burning in my
esophagus only makes my cry harder, my retching
interspersed with sobs, which in turn make my throat hurt
even more. I'm caught in this horrifying cycle of
vomiting, crying, choking and coughing that threatens to
knock me out because I can't catch my breath. At this
point, I'm looking forward to unconsciousness. But I am
not going to be that lucky -- one of the nurses has her
arms around me and I can hear her issuing orders. I'm sure
my gagging could be heard in the nurses' station just a few
yards down the hall. "Call one of the doctors and see if
we can get a sedative," she tells one of her colleagues.
As much as I crave the oblivion of sleep, I need to be
awake and alert for when Mulder gets out of surgery. The
fear of being medicated helps me start to get my sobbing
under control. The dry heaves, however, are another matter
entirely. "Just breathe, Ma'am, deep breaths. It'll be
okay. We'll get you something to help calm you.

My stomach is starting to quiet down and I shake my head,
spitting bile into the trash. "No sedatives," I gasp out
as I lift my trembling hand and gently push her away. She
loosens her hold, but still insists on guiding me into a
sitting position against the doorframe. I'm too weak to
resist. Suddenly, there's a paper cup filled with water
being placed against my mouth and I open my lips
gratefully.

"Don't swallow, just rinse," she instructs me in that
'concerned medical professional' voice we all learn in
school. I know it's not an act, but I can't help but be
annoyed at her. I do as instructed, trying to get the
foul taste out of my mouth. "That's good," she croons.

I'm becoming irrationally angry at her perceived
condescension and I snap at her. "I know, I'm a doctor."
I am finally able to lift my eyes and I see the carefully
concealed anger in her expression. Like every member of
her profession, she has to deal with doctors' superiority
complexes every day. The last thing she needs is attitude
from someone she's trying to help. "I'm sorry," I say,
taking the wad of tissues she offers me and wiping my eyes.
"I'm scared and worried and pissed off, and the person
who's responsible is the one person I can't yell at right
now." She gives me a sympathetic smile in response and
hands me more tissues so I can blow my nose.

She's staring at my hands and the blood-soaked sleeves of
my blouse. "You found him." Not a question, a statement.
Another nod and more tears and before I know it, I'm being
pulled into her embrace, my head on her shoulder and my
arms wrapped around her waist. "It'll be okay, he's going
to make it and then you can bitch him out in person." She
laughs and I let out a waterlogged chuckle, feeling her
tighten her hold on me. "C'mon," she whispers, "let's get
you cleaned up."

I pull away slowly and she helps me to stand. Keeping her
arm around my waist, she guides me toward the gowning room.
She's a good six inches taller than I, her skin as dark as
her uniform is white. What a pair we must make. "I'm
Dana," I mumble as we make our way down the hall. "Thank
you." I'd like to say more, but I know I'll just start
bawling again.

"Martha," she says kindly. "And it's nice to meet you,
Doctor Dana." I can hear the smile in her voice. "What
kind of doctor are you?" We step into the prep room and
she guides me over to a chair, turning to grab some scrubs.

"Forensic pathologist," I reply with a much calmer voice,
"but I work for the FBI." Her eyes widen as she walks back
to me and starts to hand me the pale green bundle, but
backs away abruptly, staring at my hands. Without looking
down at the object of her scrutiny, I can feel the bile
rise again. I don't trust myself to speak; I can only nod
and take deep breaths to try and calm down.

She nods and sets the clothes on the counter as I trudge
over to the sinks, shedding my overcoat as I go. Folding
it over my arm, I notice the stains on the sleeves and hem.
Another London Fog ruined. Martha comes up next to me and
holds open a plastic bag for me to put my dirty clothes
into. "Thanks, but I think this one's a goner," I tell her
in a pathetic attempt at humor. A quick search of the
pockets yields my badge and keys, and I hand the coat over
to her leaving the rest on the counter. The white cuffs of
my blouse are now beige and the beige sleeves of my suit
jacket are brown. Looking down, I see dark splashes on my
pants and shoes as well. Oh God. Suddenly, I can't be out
of these blood-soaked rags fast enough. Toeing off my
shoes, I try to unbutton my blouse but my hands are shaking
so much, I'm not having any luck. To hell with it, it's
not like I'm going to be able to salvage the thing anyway.
The rending sound of fabric is immediately followed by the
soft plink of buttons hitting the floor and walls. I shrug
out of the jacket and blouse simultaneously; the fabric
gets caught at my wrists, but I just pull that much harder.
The pain is immaterial in comparison to my need to get the
damn things off. I can see Martha out of the corner of my
eye, picking up the ruined clothes and making a quick
search of the jacket pockets in case I've missed anything.
"Thanks," I mumble as I attack the fly of my pants.

They fall to the floor quickly, my gun and holster weighing
them down. I step over to the sink, slamming down hard on
the foot pedals for the faucet and plunging my hands and
arms under the spray. I'm vaguely aware of the sound of the
door behind me closing. I think she's left, but I don't
waste time turning around to check. I grab the scrub
brush, dousing it with antiseptic soap and then attacking
the stains on my hands and arms. The orange foam darkens
as it mingles with the dried blood that covers me. I work
the brush under my nails, between my fingers, on my hands,
and up my arms, trying not to focus on the thin blue lines
of veins that run up the inside of my forearm. Veins that
can so easily be sliced open if one has the will to do so.

Hiccuping on a sob, I keep working the brush along my arms,
developing a rhythm: scrub, rinse, add soap, scrub, rinse,
add soap. The feel of hands on my shoulders makes me jump
and I hear Martha's quiet voice in my ear. How long have I
been here? Didn't she just leave? "It's okay, it's gone.
It's all gone. Your hands are clean now." I can only take
her word for it, because my eyes are too filled with tears
to see anything. I rinse, feeling the sting of the water
and antiseptic for the first time. My skin glows an angry
pink from the force of the scrubbing I've given myself.

A sterile towel is placed gently on my hands, and I
automatically start to dry myself off, rubbing my face with
the damp cloth. What if there's some on my face? There's
no mirror above the sinks, but there is one on the other
side of the room. I rush over and start examining my face
and neck, telltale dots of reddish brown showing up easily
against my skin. If I wasn't already on the verge of
hysteria, this would certainly put me there. The view of
myself in the mirror is suddenly blocked by the white of a
washcloth Martha is holding in front of my face. I take it
with unsteady hands and start working it roughly along my
face and neck. It's damp and has some kind of soap on it,
but it's sweet-smelling not medicinal like the standard
hospital fare. Once that's done, I'm handed another towel
and I finish drying myself off. I realize I must look like
a fool standing there in nothing but my underwear and a
pair of knee-highs, but I can't say that I care much.

It's been a while since I've worn standard hospital scrubs
-- sterility isn't much of an issue when you're doing an
autopsy -- but they feel familiar, even comforting, as I
put them on. I roll up the pant cuffs so they don't drag
on the floor and put on the booties Martha has laid out for
me.

All I need is a cap and mask and I'm ready for surgery. I
want to go in there and see how he's doing, watch them work
and stay by him whispering in his ear, telling him that
it's going to be okay. But I know I can't, and the
knowledge that there's absolutely nothing more I can do
tears at me painfully. I've done all I can, now I just
have to wait.

And that's the hardest part of all.

<end 2 of 3>
------------------------------------------------------

Notes II by Octavian (3/3)

Summary and Disclaimer in part one.
----------------------------------------------------------

There are six-hundred and thirty-one tiles on the floor of
the hallway leading from the nurses' station to the
elevators -- and I've counted them all.

Seven times.

After I'd made my way back to the waiting room, Martha
brought me coffee -- made in the small break room at the
end of the hall, not from a vending machine -- and we just
sat and talked for a while. We chatted about careers and
educations, movies and music, even religion and politics.
But never about family. Finally, she had to return to her
station and I had to scale the paperwork mountain that
every hospital stay requires. Just call me Sir Edmund
Hillary, but where are the sherpas when you need them?

At least it gave me something to focus on. Once that was
done, I handed it all over to Martha who kindly called
admitting and had someone pick up the forms. I didn't even
bother with the pretence of reading any of the ancient
magazines in the waiting room. I already know who won the
last election. So my only option was movement: up and down
the hall in measured steps -- twenty-eight each way. Next
was calculating distance: length of stride times the number
of steps equals... a hell of a lot of pacing.

I've had one update on Mulder's condition in the last two
hours I've been wearing down the flooring. About forty-
five minutes ago a nurse informed me that the surgery was
going well and Mulder was, quote, holding his own, end
quote. My personal favorite medical euphemism. It can
mean anything from 'He'll be fine, but we want to cover our
asses in case something unexpected happens' to 'Well, he
hasn't croaked on us yet'. When I tried to cajole her into
telling me more by using the old 'I'm a doctor' routine,
she simply said: "And as a doctor, you should know that any
surgery is risky and unpredictable." Thank you, Nurse
Ratchett.

Other than a call from Walter almost an hour ago telling me
he'd arrived at the scene, and another one from my mother
informing me that she'd be here within half an hour, it's
just been me and the hallway.

"You need to eat." I turn around to see Martha holding the
tuna sandwich she brought me over an hour ago. It's still
hermetically sealed in the little white plastic container.
I shrug and head past her on my next circuit, but her hand
on my arm stops me. "You're already underweight, the last
thing any of us need is you passing out here." I'm not
sure why I'm letting her pull me back into the waiting
room, but I am. We sit down on the couch and she unwraps
the sandwich, handing one half to me wrapped in a napkin.

I take it from her and dutifully shove a corner of it in my
mouth, chewing automatically and not tasting anything.
"Don't you have patients to bully?" I ask around a second
bite. Food is the last thing I want, but I know I need
nourishment and this is the only way to get it.

Holding up a cup of water for me to drink, she says: "Yes,
but they're all asleep so it's no fun." That gets an
attempted chuckle out of me and she smiles in response.
"Finish that and I'll stop hovering for a while, okay?" I
nod and pop the last bite in my mouth. Now we'll just have
to wait and see if it stays down this time. "It seems to
be going well," she remarks cautiously, watching me like a
hawk for any signs of my previous hysteria.

The over-processed wheat bread sticks in my throat as I try
to answer. "Yeah." I want to talk about this and don't
want to talk about it. "He... he's still strong and
relatively healthy," at least physically. "So I know his
chances are good." I start playing with the styrofoam cup
in my hands; pulling small pieces off the edge and letting
them fall on the surface of the water inside. "The
surgery's the easy part, it's the recovery that will be
rough." Understatement of the year there. Attitude is a
crucial part in any patient's road back to health. Can
anyone fully recover from such a physical trauma if his
overwhelming desire is to stop living? The bits of white
plastic are bobbing on the water in the cup and I realize
I'm shaking again. Martha's arm comes around my shoulders
as she sits down on the couch next to me.

My stomach is rolling again and I desperately don't want a
repeat of my earlier bout of vomiting. "It's okay," she
whispers in my ear, "it'll be fine." I take deep breaths
and try to calm both my stomach and my nerves. "That's it,
just breathe; you'll be fine." Easy for you to say.

I push Martha away gently and lean my forearms on my knees,
rubbing my face to erase the tears that have started again.
God, I'm sick to death of always being the strong one in
this relationship. With all the shit I've been through
over the last seventeen years, why aren't I the one who's
in an operating room right now? For all of his intelligence
and education, Mulder can still be blind to my weakness.
Oh, he can see my pain all right. He sees it and tries to
take it upon himself as just another tragedy he has caused
me, just another reason to blame himself for my suffering.

The sound of a throat clearing distracts me from my
wallowing and I look up to see Walter's wide frame filling
the doorway. His arms are filled with three boxes: the
one's I saw on the table in Mulder's apartment. I hide my
face behind my hands again. I don't know if I'm ready to
do this. "Dana?" Walter's voice is quiet and very
worried. I guess I don't have a choice now, I have to do
this. I don't look up, but I hear his heavy footsteps
coming nearer and the dip of the cushions to my left as he
sits down. At the same time, my right side is raised as
Martha gets up and makes her exit.

"What did you find?" I ask, letting my hands fall to dangle
between my knees. I keep my gaze firmly fixed on the floor
between my feet, not yet ready to face my superior and
friend.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn and place his
cargo on the couch next to him, then leaning forward to
mimic my position. "So far, there is no evidence that it
is anything other than what it appears to be." His voice
is muffled by his own hands as he rubs his face wearily. I
almost chuckle at his stilted phrasing; he knows I don't
want to hear the words. "The only prints we could find
were his, yours, the paramedics' and the landlady's."

I'm surprised at how disappointed I feel. Only now do I
realize that I was still holding out some hope that Mulder
had not done this to himself, that he would never hurt me
like this. I feel the tears threaten again and I try to
compose myself. "What's in the boxes?" My voice is tight
and watery, but I don't really care anymore.

I feel Walter move next to me; hear the sounds of cardboard
and paper rustling. "I don't know, I only opened one. I
can show it to you later, but I think you should open this
one first." A plain brown shoebox appears before my eyes,
firmly clutched in his hand. I lean back on the couch
wrapping my hands around my middle. I can't do this. This
was his last message to me and I don't want to hear it
because he is not going anywhere. "Or you can wait..."
Walter starts to pull his hand away and I lean forward,
grabbing the box and setting it on my lap. Curiosity and
anger war for dominance in my brain and my heart. By
opening this package and reading the letter on top, am I
giving in? Am I letting him win?

The envelope on the lid is blank except for my name written
in his familiar messy penmanship. Running my hand over it,
I can feel a few small bumps on the surface where the paper
had gotten wet, causing the fibers to swell. I wonder if
those are from his tears. "When he wakes up after surgery,
which would be better for him to hear: that I opened the
box or that I didn't?" I know I'm trying to reassure
myself that there will be an 'after' and I know Walter
understands.

I keep brushing my fingers over the envelope, listening to
the reassuring sounds of Walter's breathing, waiting for
him to respond. "I think..." he begins hesitantly, "that
it might help you understand his state of mind better. So
when you two talk about what happened, you will have a more
sound frame of reference." He sighs and I listen to the
change in pitch and volume as he runs his hands over his
face again.

His awkward speech almost makes me smile. "Whose
recommendation is that: the Deputy Director or the friend?"
He makes an attempt at a chuckle and clears his throat.

"Both," he responds. "No matter how well I think I know
him, I still need all the help I can to actually understand
him." The last few words are louder in my ear and I think
he must be facing me. I keep my gaze focused on the box in
my lap. "But you've always understood him, Dana."

I swallow a sob at the thought that Walter's observation
may no longer be true. "I always thought I did. But if he
can do this, then maybe you're wrong, maybe I never really
understood him at all." Mulder was always stronger than
this and I still can't comprehend why he believed this was
the only way out. 'I can't comprehend.' I guess I just
answered my question right there. "No, Walter, I don't
think I understood him." That realization brings tears to
my eyes again and I feel a strong arm snake gently around
my shoulders. Resting my head on his chest, I allow myself
few tears, but only a few. The end of something as
special and precious as what Mulder and I have shared
deserves to be mourned.

To his credit, he offers no empty reassurances or
platitudes -- he simply holds me and runs his hand up and
down my arm gently. I don't think I could list all the
different emotions rolling through me right now. Fear,
anger, sorrow, anxiety, hope, confusion, love. Betrayal.
The trust and love and communion that Mulder and I shared
has been betrayed by the very man who engendered all those
feelings in me. How could he do this to me? "I don't
understand," I whimper into Walter's shirt front. "I
honestly don't understand." The grip on me tightens
slightly and as I work on shutting off the last of my
tears.

"Then maybe reading this will help," he says, lightly
placing his fingers on the lid. "But he wanted you to have
this as a reminder. Since he's not going away, you can
leave it unopened if you want." He sounds certain of what
he says. I wish I shared that certainty. Wiping the tears
from my eyes, I straighten up and pull away from the
comforting surety of Walter's embrace. Clearing his
throat, he starts to speak but much more hesitantly than
before. "I also..." he sighs, "I also found this. It was
with the suit that he'd set out." Placing his fisted hand
in front of me, he uncurls his fingers to reveal a large
gold band in his palm.

Mulder's wedding ring. I thought it was gone forever and
he'd had it all the time. In the rare down time I had
during my search for him, I scoured our front yard looking
for it. He had thrown it at me after our last argument,
the coup de grace after verbally assaulting me for hours.
My control had never wavered; for days I remained dry eyed
and calm, believing that everything would be all right if I
could just find his damned ring. I never did, and the
thought that it had disappeared finally made me break down,
sobbing for hours in the middle of our lonely bed. He'd
had it all along, the bastard.

My jaw hurts and I realize I have my teeth clenched. I
make no move to pluck the ring out of Walter's palm; I'm
not sure I want it anymore. I hear him sigh again as he
closes his hand around it. I stop him, placing my hand on
his and he unclenches his fist. The metal is warm and
familiar -- the plain band worn and scuffed from a decade's
wear. Just like its companion I still wear on my left
hand; that I will wear for the rest of my life. I study
the inside of the ring for the first time since I put it on
his finger ten years ago. 'In Love I have found Truth -
9/9/99' Slipping the band over my thumb, I clench my fist
and feel the edge of the ring bite into my hand.

I need time to think now, time to decide what to do. I
hear Walter's quiet voice in my ear. "I'm going to get a
cup of coffee, would you like some?"

Walter and I are alike in so many ways: we both value our
control above all else and we both hate our own weaknesses.
He understands my need for space and gives it to me without
asking and without making me ask him to leave. I can't say
the words, but I hope my choked 'Yes, please.' will convey
my gratitude. His look tells me my message has been heard
and he gives me a small smile, squeezes my shoulder
quickly, and is gone.

Nothing but me and this ring and Mulder's parting gift. I
don't want to open it, I want to give it back to him and
let me tell him what he has to say. Actually, I want to
walk into his hospital room, throw the damn thing in is
face and scream: "Keep it, you selfish son of a bitch! If
you have something to tell me, do it to my face!" Of
course, I don't think this method of treatment would be
recommended by most mental health professionals, but it sure
as hell would do my mental health some good. So, I'll open
it, read what he wanted his last words to me to be, and
hope I can find some clue as to how to help him during his
recovery.

Now I just have to work up the courage to make my hands
follow my mind's instructions.

Just lift the lid and look inside.

Tear open the envelope and read his letter.

Why am I not doing it?

I can hear Mulder's voice in my head, teasing me into
action with the phrase that has become our version of
'double dog dare'. "What are you, Scully, yellah or
somthin'?"

"Bite me, Mulder," I mumble as I start to pull the envelope
off the top of the box. It's secured with only a small
piece of tape and comes away easily. Running my fingers
over the letters of my name, I wonder what exactly Mulder
was thinking when he addressed this. I still can't
understand why he has done this to me. I wonder if there
are any answers in here at all or just more questions.
Wouldn't that be typical?

Closing my eyes and breathing deep, I pull open the flap
and remove the letter inside. Without unfolding it, I can
tell there is only one sheet of paper. Does he have so
little he wants to tell me? Another stabbing pain goes
through my chest, the familiar feeling of betrayal. The
paper is plain white -- no lines, no decorations. Only the
faint mark of his words on the other side mar the pristine
surface.

The ridges in the paper are like Braille, and I close my
eyes and try to decipher their meaning. But I know there
is only one way I'll be able find out what he has to say.
Keeping my eyes shut, I unfold the note and run my fingers
over the groves of his penmanship. Maybe I can just sit
here a while and the words will find their way to my brain
by osmosis. Now who's the one that believes in Extreme
Possibilities, Mulder?

Another breath and I'll be ready to face this. Opening my
eyes, I see the words swim slightly and I blink back tears.
The print on the paper is small and neat, unlike his usual
scrawl. He obviously wants to make sure I can understand
each word.

Okay, Mulder, talk to me.

'Scully,

Please don't hate me.

I know how upset this will make you, but I need to
stop hurting and this is the only way left. Because
not only is the pain mine, but I have made it yours
as well. You have suffered for me and because of me
for too long now and I have finally realized that the
only person who can end both our nightmares is me.

For the last 17 years, you have been everything to
me: partner, friend, companion, therapist, lover,
wife... Salvation.

You really have saved me -- not only my life, but my
heart and soul as well. The ultimate price you have
paid for my rescue has always been too high, but I
was far too selfish to let you go. If I had just
been able to end it earlier, just think how much
better your life would be. I often dream of your
children that should have been: smart and strong with
their mother's unfathomable blue eyes. I can see
them, playing with their Aunt Melissa; living a safe
and normal life, far removed from the insanity that
is the life you have lived with me. You would have
been such a wonderful mother, Scully. I am more
sorry for the loss of those sons and daughters you
can never have than for anything else.

Please forgive me for taking that joy from you.

No one should have to shoulder the responsibility for
another person's happiness, heath, sanity, and
career. Yet that is the burden I saddled you with
for almost two decades. If there is a God, I hope He
will forgive me for what I have done to you over the
years. I know I cannot.

That terrible argument we had the last time I saw you
keeps replaying in my mind. I know it hurt you, but
I believe what I said about Melissa Rydell. You see,
if she is my soulmate, that means that yours is still
out there. Now you are free to find him, and I know
he will love you the way you deserve to be loved.
His love will be generous and giving, not selfish and
consuming as mine has been. But I know you love me,
Scully -- it is the one thing that I have never
doubted. The knowledge of your love has been the
only thing that has kept me going over the last few
months. Hell, the last ten years. You have made me
happier than I had ever thought possible; you brought
me joy. Now it is time for you to find that same
joy.

I am sorry, _so_ sorry, for the pain you have endured
because of me, and the pain of what I have done now
will cause you. I hope you can find it in your heart
to forgive me -- and if I can, I will watch over you.

Always remember that I loved you more than anyone;
that I will love you forever.

Be happy, Scully.

Mulder'

I can't breathe. I can't think. 'Now you are free'?
Dammit, Mulder, why the hell would I want to be 'free' --
especially in this manner? You stupid, blind fool.

I will not let myself cry, but I can't stop the agonized
moan that escapes my throat. My hands are on my face,
trying to desperately muffle the sounds of my keening. I
clasp them both over my mouth, so hard that I cut my lip
and taste blood. Where's the note? I can't see a thing
through my waterlogged eyes, so I wipe them with the hem of
my scrubs.

There, on the floor under the table. The cracking sound of
my knees hitting the tile makes me think I should be in
pain. I don't feel anything. Pulling the paper off the
floor, I gently dust off the dirt, smoothing the creases
where I held it too tightly. I press it to my chest --
Mulder's words as close to my heart as I can physically get
them -- and sit down, bringing my knees up and resting my
forehead on them.

As I rock back and forth on the cold floor, I finally let
the tears flow. They run over my hands; over the letter I
clutch like a life preserver, smearing what may be my
husband's final words to me. And I don't care, because I
only know one thing:

If he dies, I can never be happy again.

END

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the second in a series of four
first-person vignettes dealing with Mulder's decision in
the wake of his sister's death. It is also my first
attempt at Scully's POV, so I would love to hear what you
think. Comments, questions and suggestions will be happily
welcomed at Taverl@yahoo.com. Flames will be ignored, so
please don't waste your time or mine.

Thanks for reading!
Octavian