Letting the Demons Go: Salvation
Date: Thu, 16 Apr 1998
*****
Summary:
Demons aftermath as told by ScullyLetting the Demons Go--Salvation
Mulder Summer Home, Rhode Island
April 14, 9:45pm
"Mulder, put down the gun."
God in heaven, how many times would I have to say those words?
How many times were we going to play this perverted form of
Russian Roulette? What would it take to end it? My death? His
death?
He was not listening. Or at least, not to me. I could see by the
closed eyes, the way he's caressing his cheek with the barrel of the
gun, like it was a lover's hand, a touch of silk. My stomach recoiled
at the thought. Autoerotic asphyxiation. Why did those words
invade my mind at that moment?
He mumbled something about how everything is clearer and the
cold of the room had nothing to do with the chills running relays up
and down my spine. I held my breath, wished my heart would stop
the incessant pounding in my chest. It's just Mulder, for God's
sakes, I wanted to scream at my reflexes. Just Mulder with another
fucking gun to his head. So what else was new?
A dead policeman and two dead senior citizens, all recent recipients
of the same 'treatment' my partner had just undergone. All dead by
their own hands or the hand of a loved one. That was new enough
for me. That changed the whole game plan.
I don't know when I became so monumentally stupid, but I think at
some point, I just gave up being scared. I started actually thinking I
could talk him down from this ledge he was teetering on. "Are you
going to shoot me, Mulder. Is it that important to you?"
There it was, the question of our lives together. Who's more
important to you, Mulder? A sister you haven't seen in 23 years, or
the woman who has stood beside you for the last five? A woman
who has given up everything, even her life, maybe, for you and your
search. I promised myself once that I would never make him
choose between us. Some promises are just made to be broken.
My question still hung in the air. "yes," came the whispered reply
and I wasn't really that surprised that I didn't feel anything in the
answer. Not hurt. Not betrayed. Not frightened. Just numb. A
cut too deep to feel. I would bleed to death before I would realize
I had been mortally injured.
But then, just when I thought to myself that it would probably hurt
less to die from a gunshot wound to the chest than a tumor in my
brain, Mulder changed all the odds. He swung his body around and
started firing at the wall. The first shot made me jump. By shot
number six, I was wondering how many rounds were left in the clip.
He folded in on himself. Crumpled before my eyes. Curled into a
tight ball on himself, the gun a forgotten mistress on the floor by his
feet.
I stood there, for a second, telling myself it was over. Instinct
overcame me and I lowered down around him, covering him as best
as I could. I laid my head on his back and heard his sobs through
his ribcage. I added my own tears to the sweat the ran down his
back.
There was movement behind me and I gathered the presence of
mind to give an 'all clear'. The SWAT team entered, glancing
around the small room as if expecting an armed militia. Nope,
guys, just one slightly mental FBI agent and his faithful sidekick,
the cancer-riddled pathologist. Geez, we make a sick pair.
Mulder was starting to shiver and I realized that the men in flak
jackets sure couldn't help him, so I calmly forced my emotions back
in their file cabinet and pulled out all my medical training. Any first
year med student could see he was in shock. What might have been
missed was the unmistakable 'aura' that I'd picked up on with the
seizures.
Mulder grabbed his head with both hands, his face contorted from
intense pain and I knew, God help me, I knew in my heart that the
seizures I'd seen in the last two days were nothing more than the
warm up for the one I was about to witness. It wasn't medical
school that had trained me how to respond to what happened next.
It was brute hard life experience.
He was holding his head, rocking, but suddenly, his whole body
snapped taut, his arms snapped to his sides and his head was
thrown back with the force of the muscles reactions to the strong
impulses from his brain. And then, in less than a split second, he
started to convulse.
It scared me the first time I saw it happen. I was just a kid, first
year in the dorms. Never had a beer in my life. We were out for a
night, just a few of us. Fake ID's and a pocket full of refunds from
books we had sold back to the college bookstore. Nancy forgot to
tell us that she had epilepsy. I'd never seen a grand mal seizure
before in my life, and I vowed that the next time I would know
what to do. Watching your best friend almost bite off her tongue
was not the kind of 'great college story' you want to hand down to
your grandkids.
I grabbed Mulder's head with my left hand, his jaw, with my right.
I held his jaw shut against the bronco ride his body was taking, but
made no attempt to hold him down. Nothing I could have done
would have worked at that point, anyway. I wished I'd had the
time to look at my watch, time the damn thing. The doctors at the
ER would want to know how long the first one lasted. A baseline
to determine if the next one was of longer duration. I had already
determined that this would not be an isolated incident.
As his body shuddered to a halt, his eyes rolled farther back in his
head and I knew he'd lost consciousness without even checking. I
gently lowered him the rest of the way to the ground and stood up.
Five faces, pasty white, stared through me. Obviously, no one had
called the paramedics yet.
Then, I heard the sirens. At least someone on the outside didn't
have their head up their ass. But the team was starting to worry me
a little. "It's all right. He had a seizure. Remember, I said he was
in need of medical attention," I reminded the assembled masses. I
noticed that a few of them started breathing again. I looked at the
one most likely to be lucid and motioned to the door. "Show the
EMT's how to get back here," I directed. He was more than happy
to comply.
"I need blankets," I said and the others started to move, like 6 foot
wind up dolls. Mulder had the good fortune to go berserk in the
bedroom, so it wasn't long before I had enough blankets to keep
him warm in the dead of winter. I tucked the blankets around him
and then moved aside as the gurney was carried into the room.
I was advising the EMT's of the most recent seizure when I noticed
the blood on my left hand. Instinctively, I touched my upper lip,
and then realized that the blood was from Mulder's forehead.
Another little present from the now incarcerated Dr. Goldstein.
"Better tell base that he's going to need a PET scan, stat," I told
the nearest burly guy in powder blue.
"Is that a gunshot wound?" burly asked and I shook my head no.
"Dentist's drill," I informed him. He blanched, but went back to
work.
I wandered to the side of the room and tried to make myself look
anywhere else but at my partner. My hands itched to start the IV
myself, adjust the O2 so the edge of the mask wouldn't chafe the
bridge of his nose. I wanted to go tell them to start antibiotics, to
give him cortisteroids to reduce the swelling of the brain. In
essence, make myself a nuisance to the people who were trying to
help him more than I could at that moment. Luckily, Det. Curtis
arrived and pushed his way through the men standing around,
guarding Mulder from the as yet unseen intruder.
"Agent Scully, is he--"
I stopped him before he finished that statement. "I got here in time,
Det. Curtis. He's alive."
Curtis looked doubtfully at the gurney. "He's still bleeding?" A
small trickle of blood was marring the white starched surface of the
gurney's pillow.
"Yes," I said. "Did Dr. Goldstein say anything more?" I really
didn't want to dwell on the blood, or what it might mean.
Permanent damage to the dura matter of the brain was not
something I could fix with a cup of soup or a kind word.
Curtis looked disgusted. "Man, the old bastard must rake it in.
Called the best defense attorney in three states. He's not talkin'.
Claiming 'doctor/patient' confidentiality prohibits him from giving
us the details of the treatment, or some shit. It makes you wish for
the days of bright lights and rubber hoses," he concluded, then
looked at me, slightly embarrassed. "I didn't mean that--"
"I was thinking of bamboo shoots under the nails, actually,
detective," I told him and after he swallowed, he graced me with a
smile.
The burly EMT, who I noticed was named 'Stevens' according to
the label on his shirt, touched my arm to get my attention. "We're
ready to roll here. Do you want to follow?"
"I'd like to ride along," I said, wondering if I would need to use my
badge, my gun or both to get my way. "I'm a doctor," I offered.
He considered that a minute, then nodded. I turned to Curtis and
shook his hand. "How can I thank you? Without your help--"
"Not a problem, Agent Scully. Just, uh, well, get him back to DC
as soon as he's able to travel, if it's not too much bother."
I snorted at that. Yeah, I'm sure Mulder was one Fed Det. Curtis
would not miss. "I'll make sure he's out of your hair for the
remainder of our stay," I assured him.
The ride wasn't that long, maybe twenty minutes. Mulder was still
unconscious, and he didn't seize again in the ambulance. I wasn't
so far gone that I thought it meant that was over, I was just grateful
that they weren't right on top of each other. Maybe, just maybe, he
would be able to survive his own terminal stupidity. One more
time.
We arrived at the ER, and the lights always cause me to squint. I
caught the stare the triage nurse was giving me and again touched
my hand to my lip. Sure enough, I was having a nosebleed. I
excused myself and found a bathroom, cursed that damned cancer
that didn't have more sense than to leave me alone when Mulder
was the one in need of a doctor. I can only deal with one medical
emergency at a time, God damn it! Thankfully, the nosebleed was
just an annoyance and stopped rather quickly. I was able to leave
the restroom only to be escorted to a functional cubicle in admitting
to give the hospital all the necessary information to ensure their
payment for services rendered.
I did get one chuckle out of the evening. When the nice looking
admitting clerk, still not looking up at me, but only at his computer
screen asked me 'how did Mr. Mulder become injured?' I calmly
told him that he had some guy drill a hole in his head. The look on
his face was priceless.
Fun and games over, I went in search of my partner. He wasn't too
hard to find, the whole ER was whispering about him. He'd seized
again as they were moving him to the ER gurney. I glanced at my
watch, it was after 11 pm. Roughly, I guessed that he was having
them about an hour apart, but was probably miles off course. He
might have two in a row and then he might not have another for the
rest of his life.
No, we'd never get that lucky, I told myself.
As I was turning the corner, I ran right smack into a tall, middle
aged doctor, with an interesting handlebar mustache. He took in
my appearance and stuck out his hand. "You must be Dr. Scully.
I'm Dr. Nate Highland, I'm treating your partner."
I shook his hand and followed him into the exam room. Mulder
was now sporting more than just sterile water above his head. I
recognized IV antibiotics.
"While you were busy, we did a lumbar puncture. The fluid was
clear, no sign of blood. Mr. Mulder's blood pressure is 135 over
100, I suspect that's high," he said, stopping only for my answering
nod. "He's running a temp of 101. I ran some lab tests, they aren't
back yet, but judging from the placement of the wound and the
history of the last couple of days that you gave Larry in the
ambulance, I'm not ready to rule out an infection, possibly a form
of encephalitis. Either way, I've started him on antibiotics."
Told you so, Mulder.
"I understand he had another seizure," I said. "Have you done the
PET?"
Highland winced. "I'm getting him in as soon as possible. We had
a big crack up on the interstate--lots of head injuries. But believe
me, your partner is toward the top of the list. I expect to get him in
within the next half hour." Highland looked very uncomfortable all
of a sudden. "Could you explain to me how he got the injury?"
What, the good doctor didn't believe that a full grown man, an FBI
agent, would willing sit in a chair and have some joker take a
Makita (tm) power drill to his head? I didn't have time for this shit,
but then again, I had all the time in the world until we could get that
intercranial imaging accomplished.
"Agent Mulder was receiving highly suspect treatments for a loss of
memory that occurred during his childhood. He received the first
treatment some time after Friday night. I found him Sunday
morning. He received a second treatment tonight, late this evening.
The treatment incurred receiving an unknown dose of the drug
Ketamine and then having the patient sit with a strobe light attached
to a visor over his eyes. The last stage of 'treatment' was to drill a
small hole in the frontal lobe, right at the hairline. It was thought to
induce the hallucinations that would lead to the return of the lost
memory." I found myself looking intently at the floor during my
recitation. It was hard to even think about it, much less say it out
loud.
"Well, I can understand the seizures a little better, now," Highland
said with a decided frown on his face. "And I'm sure it produced
some vivid hallucinations." He then scowled at me directly. "Why
didn't you stop him from taking a second treatment?"
Gee, doc, I didn't know the gun was loaded. What the hell could I
say? I didn't think for a minute that leaving him alone with his
mother, of all people, would result in him running off without me
and doing the same damned thing again. Especially when he knew
how dangerous the procedure was. But then, knowing Mulder as I
do, that should have been my first thought.
Highland was still staring at me. "I tried to stop him. He took off
without me," I said and it sounded pretty damned lame to my ears.
Highland shrugged and obviously thought considerably less of the
federal government after our encounter, but there wasn't much I
could do.
God, occasionally, you do look out for me. The orderlies arrived to
take Mulder to the X Ray department. I looked over at Highland,
certain he would bar my admittance, but he jerked his head toward
the gurney and I followed after them.
end of part one
*****
Letting the Demons Go: Salvation (2/3)
by vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimer in part one
We were just getting to the X Ray room when Mulder started to
come around. He gets so scared in the hospital. I don't know what
happened to him before I got on the scene, but he wakes up hard
and usually panics unless he sees me in the first few seconds. I
pushed around an orderly to get into his line of sight.
He was just getting his mouth to work. "Scully?"
"Right here, partner," I assured him. My gut wanted to scream at
him, pound a few holes in his head myself, but I knew it would be
wasted effort. Much better to reserve that kind of display for when
he was lucid and well enough to receive the blows. Now, I just had
to be the caring friend and next of kin. I could do that. I didn't
even mind that much. We do these things for each other.
"Head hurts," he whimpered. I would hope so, but I didn't say
that. They weren't even close to giving him pain killers, not till
they knew if there was internal bleeding that might require surgery.
"I know. I'm sorry. Just hang on a little longer, then I'll make 'em
give you the good drugs," I said, trying to keep my voice light.
It was as if a light went off in his head. He struggled to sit up,
looked around frantically. "Where are we?" he demanded, and the
orderlies were holding him down while I tried to get him to listen to
me.
"Mulder, you're in the hospital in Providence. They need to do a
PET scan. You remember those. You don't like them because
they stabilize your head and you aren't supposed to move, but it
can't be avoided."
"No, Scully. I wanta go home," he pleaded, but it wasn't taking
that much to hold him down. The seizures had taken all the fight
out of him and the fever was knocking him down a bit as well.
"No, Mulder. Not yet. I told you this before. You have to be
monitored. Mulder, you've gone past the headache variety
episodes. You had a grand mal seizure back there, and one since
you got here," I reasoned.
He looked at me like I'd grown two heads. "No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did," I said, as reasonably as I could under the
circumstances. I was the one holding your mouth closed, stupid, I
wanted to say, but the orderlies might think that was a bit harsh.
"Mulder, now is not the time. You had that idiot quack drill a hole
in your head," I hissed in his ear and again got the shocked look in
return. Oh shit. He didn't remember. It was time to regroup.
"Mulder, relax, OK?" I begged. "Just let them get you in for the
test and I'll explain everything later."
He wasn't that happy with the abbreviated explanation, but he
accepted it. He nodded and took a deep breath, then closed his
eyes.
They pushed Mulder's gurney through one door, I was ushered
through the one next to it. Inside, it was like every observation
room I'd ever had the pleasure to visit. Mulder was carefully
loaded on the movable table, eyes still clenched shut. He wasn't in
pain, I knew that. Mulder hates having his head examined. I've
reminded him of that every time he's put himself in a position that
requires medical intervention. His photographic memory always
manages to take a walk during those discussions.
Since we'd been this road a couple of times, I knew my part well. I
gestured to the microphone that was connected with the procedure
room. The technician shrugged and flipped a switch, I was on the
air. "Mulder. I'm right here. It's all right. Just relax."
"I'm not gonna open my eyes," he responded. Gee, no change in
dialogue so far.
"That's OK, but with your face all scrunched up, you're going to
scare the nurses," I told him. Variation on a theme. Last time it
was 'scare the doctor' but that was when he'd pulled a really cute
female resident.
I know I heard him chuckle under his breath and his face did visibly
relax a little. The tech made a few corrections on the computer and
hit a button. The machine whirred to life and Mulder entered it's
maw slowly.
It takes time to map the brain, but the area of concern was easy to
spot. Sure enough, the good Dr. Goldstein had nicked a small
artery. There was bleeding within the cranium, but fortunately not
enough to cause undue pressure. The question would be one of
time. Given a few hours of rest, the bleeding would more than
likely stop on it's own, and we could avoid surgery. If there
appeared to be pressure building, we'd have no choice.
Dr. Highland seemed to relax beside me. Good, he wasn't one for
cracking open skulls without good reason, I figured. I relaxed a
little. Mulder could safely be given some pain killers to help him
sleep and we'd see what would happen during the next 24. At least
it was looking good.
I was about to discuss options with Highland, having turned away
from the computer screen, when the tech let out a low whistle.
"Ahh, I think we have a problem."
The amazing thing about a PET scan, as opposed to the older MRI,
is that you can actually see the brain working in color. And as I
turned back to the computer screen, I could plainly see the flashes
of color appearing in the frontal lobe. Electrical activity in glorious
Technicolor. Massive, chaotic, almost hypnotizing in its
beauty--but dangerous and unwanted like a nearby lightning strike.
"Get him out of there," Highland was yelling, and I knew he was
afraid Mulder was about to grand mal again. But this one was like
the others, the ones from the last two days, and I held Highland off.
"He'll be all right. It's one of the hallucinations," I tried to explain.
I could hear Mulder moaning, like he had in the summer house. A
low keening moan--not of agony, but of understanding. "Give him
a minute," I pleaded with Highland, who was on step away from
calling for a large syringe of dilantin--extra strength.
"Why? Why her? Mom, why the hell did they take her? How
could you let him take your baby girl?" Mulder's voice was more
pleading than mine, speaking to a woman who was not only miles,
but years away from us. The mother of an eleven year old boy and
a seven year old girl.
"Not him. No, no, no, no, no--please Mom, not him," my partner
was crying and all the while I could see the storm move across the
lobes of his brain, raining down memories, fears and anguish as they
raged on.
"Mulder," I called out. I couldn't leave him all alone with this, it
was too much for him. "Mulder, I'm here. It's OK. It's going to
be OK."
"No, Scully--it's not. It won't ever be OK. Not ever, not ever," he
cried all the harder but I could see on the screen that the storm was
starting to wan. I think that's the only reason he was able to
acknowledge my voice, because the synapses of his brain were
finally firing down. "Not ever. Not ever."
Highland was staring at me when I had a moment to notice. "I'm
ordering dilantin," he said as if he was expecting me to object.
I shrugged. "He might do better with tegretol. He hates feeling
fuzzy," I offered.
"Dilantin is a little faster in the bloodstream. We can talk about the
longterm in a few days."
That certainly made my blood run cold. Longterm. Highland was
talking chronic epilepsy treatment. Cerebral damage, permanent.
Restricted duty, desk and office only. No more trips to the field,
Agent Mulder.
"We don't know--"
"You're right, we don't know. But we have to treat this as if it will
be a permanent condition, Dr. Scully," Highland said in
authoritative tones. I think I pissed him off when I wouldn't let
them pull Mulder out of the machine at the first sign of trouble. I
didn't really had any room to argue, I was just the 'concerned
partner' and Highland was being more than fair by letting me in the
observation room.
"Whatever you think is best," I said, hoping I had appeased him
somewhat. It's not a good idea to alienate the man treating your
best friend. I wasn't about to let him do something stupid,
however. "But I think it might be best to consider these seizures in
the scope of the head injury, at least for the moment," I added.
Drill a hole in anybody's head and they were likely to have
seizures--for a while. But if there was no permanent damage, the
seizures would eventually subside and not return. I had my toes
crossed hoping for just that set of circumstances.
"I'll keep him here for 48 hours, at the inside. We'll do an EEG
and another PET day after tomorrow and see what we're dealing
with," he offered to me, like it was the best offer I was likely to get.
I nodded gratefully and let my heart start beating again.
In the room beyond the glass wall, they hoisted Mulder back on the
gurney. He was already starting to drift off. I noticed that the
episodes were no longer leaving him 'feeling really good', but were
wearing him out. He was groggy as hell when I got out to the
hallway to join him.
"Where are we goin'?" he asked, but he didn't bother to open his
eyes to find out for himself.
"Up to a room. No 'roach motel' for you tonight," I told him
lightly.
"So tired, Scully. So sleepy," he yawned.
"Then go to sleep," I whispered, and reached up to stroke his hair
as we walked. "I'll take the first watch," I said as I watched his
breaths grow shallow and even, watched as he finally slept.
Once Mulder was settled in a bed, I realized a promise I'd
reluctantly made and picked up the phone in his room. A scrap of
paper, hastily scrawled upon, provided the numbers that I would
never have known otherwise. The phone rang three times and a
sleep laden voice answered.
"Mrs. Mulder? This is Dana Scully." I said.
"Oh dear. Have you found him? Is he--"
I didn't let the question hang in the air too long. I knew the woman
was probably on pins and needles. "He's alive. We've taken him to
the hospital in Providence."
"Where had he gone?" she asked, and I knew she was still trying to
figure out exactly what had gone on over the past three days. A
tiny part of me wanted to tell her everything, lay it all out at her feet
and let her take part of the blame--hell, all of the blame. But
Mulder would never forgive me for that. Judging from the voices
I'd heard raised through the French doors of her little house, he felt
that was his responsibility.
"Mrs. Mulder, it's not that important where he went. I need to
know something. Has Fox ever experienced seizures? Probably
febrile seizures, when he was little. I know he has fevers, and I
know he was hospitalized after Sam--"
"I thought he'd outgrown them," I heard with a heavy sigh. Strike
two against us. This was not good.
"Outgrew what?" I heard myself asking.
"The convulsions. The seizures. He had them from the time he
was two or three until . . . He had a couple of them when he was in
the hospital."
My mind was reeling. Mulder said he was catatonic at that time.
Catatonic and seizing? I didn't understand. "Mrs. Mulder, are you
saying your son had epilepsy as a child?"
"Yes. He did. It wasn't that severe. He had several smaller
episodes, but he only had one really bad one. Right after he woke
up in the hospital, after we asked him what had happened the night
Samantha--"
Strike three. You're out. When the Bureau found out that he'd
been epileptic as a child, his gun would be taken, he'd never get out
of the office again. He'd be lucky if they didn't give him disability.
"How is he? Is he all right? Why are you at the hospital?"
Question after question and I was the only one with answers.
"He's, uh, he's having seizures. But that's not the major concern.
There has been a small hole drilled--"
"His forehead, yes, he was bleeding. Remember I told you he was
bleeding," she said anxiously. Oh, yes, I remember quite well
standing at the bottom of the stairs, trying to figure out exactly how
I was going to go after my partner when he took off with my car.
Then having his mother reappear and all but accuse me of putting
him up to the fight they'd just had. But after tempers flared, they
settled and we got down to contacting Det. Curtis and getting me a
ride.
"That's the problem, as I said. There is bleeding beneath the skull.
It's minimal at the moment, but the doctor wants to keep a close
eye on it for the next two days."
"Is he awake?" she asked, her voice calm and even. It never ceased
to amaze me how detached the woman could appear at times like
this. No wonder Mulder wanted me to be the person contacted in
emergencies, to act as his next of kin.
"He was awake for a few moments, but he was pretty out of it. He
can't remember very much. The seizures have been severe and
they've tired him out. He's sleeping now."
"Then he hasn't made any more . . . accusations," she said tersely.
"No, he hasn't said anything except to tell me his head hurts and to
ask where we are," I returned in kind. She was seriously starting to
piss me off. "I'm sure he'd like it if you could come up to--"
"I don't think that would be a very good idea right now, Ms.
Scully. Fox is obviously very confused right now and my being
there would only upset him."
Yeah, just what I was thinking. Your son is lying in a hospital,
seizing every couple of hours, in pain when he's not convulsing and
has no idea what's been going on for the last three days, but seeing
his mother would upset him. Sure, fine, whatever. Deja vu all over
again. Why should this time be any different?
"Whatever you think is best," was what I said to her. Maybe my
mom would be able to come up if I called her. I hung up the phone
before I told the woman what I really thought of her and her
so-called concern.
But after the phone call, there was way too much time to sit and
think.
end of part two
*****
Letting the Demons Go: Salvation 3/3
by vmoseley@fgi.net
disclaimed in part one
I should have called Skinner, but it was going on one in the
morning and I just didn't have the strength to deal with a complete
report at that time, so I decided it could wait for morning. I could
have asked one of the nurses to bring me a pillow and blanket, I
could have caught a few winks. Mulder was so out of it, I could
have slept for a while at least. If he had another seizure, I would
know immediately. I wasn't going to leave him alone. But I just
couldn't manage to get my eyes to close. I had too much on my
mind.
Everytime I've done this 'sitting at his bedside' thing, I go through
the same steps. It's sort of a ritual now. My first thoughts are
purely righteous indignation. How dare the son of a bitch--a title
they have both earned--lie there and put me through this kind of
anxiety? How does this selfish bastard manage to get me, much
less himself, in these predicaments? I've always made a list, it
makes me feel better. Start at the top--Ellens Air Base, skimming
over the next several examples so I can linger over Arecibo, and
Dead Horse and on and on. Each time, wondering if he'd come
back, if he'd be in the office ever again, making my life miserable
with his crazy theories and lecherous comments. Wondering if he'd
finally left me for good.
I like it dark during those times. I don't want the nurses coming in
and seeing the tears streaming down my face, see the sobs when my
shoulders shake so hard I'm afraid I'll break something. My heart.
That night was no exception.
But then other memories invaded my tearful thoughts, just like
always. A reassuring hand at my back, a touch of my shoulder, my
cheek. I can't shove back the memory of a voice in the darkness,
telling me of my own strengths, my own beliefs. The sadness of
that voice, the longing, the hope, acting as a beacon to bring me
home.
Other times, too numerous to mention always flood me then.
Feelings. Senses. Hearing his voice through the dark, assuring me
that he's there. Pounding on the door of an abandoned trailer
while a broken mind quotes German and tabloid psychology at me.
His arms around me in a hospital hallway outside a dying patient's
room. Mulder to the rescue. How many times? It's been too many
to count.
As I said before, we do this for each other. I stopped crying. I was
as exhausted as my partner and in minutes, I fell asleep.
I awoke a long time later to my partner thrashing in the bed. At
first, I was certain it was another seizure, but as I reached for the
call button to notify the nurse, I heard him speaking, soft and
hurriedly. It wasn't a seizure, just a nice, normal nightmare.
He has them. Hell, I have them. We have some that are common
to both of us and some that are distinctly our own. I've told him
some of mine, I know some of his. But what he was saying was
new to me, he'd never spoken of it.
"Where is it? Where is the cure, goddamn you black lunged
bastard," Mulder growled in his sleep.
I stopped, sat down. Waited for the next words.
"I want the cure. She won't die--not because of what you've done.
I won't let you kill her. Give me the cure!"
My stomach was knotted as I sat there, listening to my partner
arguing for my life with a man who had no name and definitely no
soul.
"I know what you did. I remember now. You are responsible for
Samantha. You took her. You son of a bitch. I know that now. I
won't let you take Scully, too. I'll kill you first, I swear to God this
time I'll do it and I'll do it right."
Ice water was pouring down my back, I realized I was close to
hyperventilating. Was this what he'd been doing when he
underwent those treatments--trying to find information to exchange
for a cure?
He rolled over and quieted again, dropping back into a deep sleep.
I sat there for a long time, too stunned to think, too devastated to
go back to sleep.
It was so much easier when I could blame his behavior on 'the
quest'. It was something familiar, something I was used to dealing
with. Mulder would do anything to find his sister--anything, even
to the point of his own death. But to think that he'd undergo an
experiment so dangerous in an effort not to find his sister, but to
find a cure for my illness--that was terrifying. I never asked for
that, never wanted that.
It really made sense, in a Mulder sort of way. I once told him that
not everything was about _him_, and at the time, I was feeling that
everything was about me. In the end, I realized that Mulder is
terribly myopic and self-centered, but not in a way that makes him
the center of the universe. To Mulder, he is the center of the storm,
the center of a black hole, the center of hell. People don't revolve
around him, tragedy does. So it would make sense for him to tie
his lost sister to his dying partner--maybe even exchange one for
the other.
I couldn't ask him to do that. But the harder question was, should
I let him? And if I decided I couldn't live with that knowledge, live
with the guilt of this trade--how could I stop him?
I didn't sleep anymore that night. I sat there and wiped the tears
from my eyes.
A new shift, a new doctor. David Anderson, MD. A resident,
fairly recently promoted from intern from the look of him. He
greeted me with a nod and an extended hand, mistakenly addressed
me as 'Mrs. Mulder' a couple of times before I could correct him.
He came in bearing gifts--lab results.
"The good news is, Fox doesn't have encephalitis or meningitis,"
Dr. Anderson said, and I nodded, relieved. Mulder's a medical
magnet, and I would not have been surprised if he'd picked up
either one, regardless of their rarity. There was more good news.
"And it looks like the severity of seizures has decreased," Anderson
offered.
I had pretty much come to that conclusion. There hadn't been
another tonic clonic seizure since the middle of the night and
although he'd had a couple of the partials, they seemed to be
shorter in duration. It was my guess that the swelling in his brain
was going down and the bleeding had stopped sometime before
morning. Dr. Anderson concurred with my unspoken assessment.
"His blood pressure is down this morning. Temp is still up but only
100.5, so not really much to worry about. He's been without a
major seizure for over 7 hours--considering how closely they were
coming last night, that's good news. I've consulted with Dr.
Highland, and we feel that he should stay for a couple of days. The
intercranial swelling he experienced is going down, but given the
injury and the onset of fever and the seizures, it's better to be safe
than sorry. We feel bed rest and continued antibiotics following
discharge will be the best course of treatment."
Bet he learned all that in senior seminar. But it was no time to be
catty. I was grateful. "Thank you," I told him, and meant it. It
appeared that no complications were forthcoming, and if I could
nail him to his couch for a week, Mulder would recover fully.
My partner graced me with his consciousness somewhere around
lunch time.
"I'm gonna throw up," he said, no greeting as a prelude.
"Right now?" I asked, but I was already moving the curved bowl
toward him. He glared at it, silently communicating that I was out
of _my_ mind if I thought that small bowl would be enough. I
rolled my eyes and grabbed the dishpan that all the tissues, cup,
pitcher and other assorted crap came in. He grabbed it out of my
hands and vomited mostly bile, then had dry heaves for a few
minutes. Finally, he leaned back and closed his eyes.
"I feel like shit."
"What happened to 'I feel _really_ good'?" I asked as sweetly as I
could.
"Don't be mean, Scully," he pleaded and slowly opened his eyes,
but squinted immediately. "My head hurts--bad."
I would have loved to bitch at him at that moment, but he looked
too miserable. Mulder does the best 'miserable' I've ever seen. I
decided to cut him some slack. OK, so that's 'co-dependent' of
me--find a lawyer to take the suit.
I walked over to the window and closed the blinds, then turned off
all the lights save the small light in the bathroom. The room was
plunged into relative darkness.
"Better?" I asked.
"Umm mmm," he said with a slight nod. He opened his eyes and
looked at me. "OK, let me have it."
What? No blindfold? No last meal of sunflower seeds? My, my,
Mulder was feeling a tad guilty that morning.
"How much do you remember?" I asked him. I wasn't being mean,
I really needed to know.
"Most of it, I think. I remember going to Goldstein's and I
remember the summer house. I know it was stupid, Scully, but . . .
but I had my reasons." He clamped his mouth shut and studied the
IV shunt on the back of his hand. He had no intention of telling me
what those reasons were. Of course, he didn't know that his little
nightmare had already filled in those blanks for me.
Maybe I should have jumped on that. Maybe I should have said,
Mulder, I know what you were doing. I know that you think if you
get enough dirt on what happened to Samantha, you can trade that
knowledge for a cure for me. OK, I should have said all that. But I
didn't.
Instead, I sought a promise. "Mulder, don't ever do anything like
this again. Please. It was more than stupid. It was suicidal. And I
won't sit by and let you do that. Understood?"
He nodded, not speaking.
"No deals with the devil, Mulder. None. Got it?"
His head shot up and he looked me in the eye. He knew that I
knew. But would that be enough to stop him?
No. I knew better. I could tell by the look in his eyes that nothing
would stop him if he thought he could find the cure. The thought
chilled me to the bone.
And left me with more hope than I'd had in weeks, months. My
slightly manic Archangel Michael, with his battered wings and
broken halo. My salvation.
We do that for each other.
the end.
Vickie
"Your ability to juggle many tasks will take you far."
My fortune cookie, Feb. 28, 1998