Date: Tue, 19 Dec 1995
All the time 1/1


***********
Am I the only one who thought we jumped a few spaces in the
ending of '731'? Well, I decided to fill in the gap that Mr. Carter
left. So nice of him to keep doing that, and leaving us with ideas
for stories, isn't it? It's so nice, in fact that I have no intention of
infringing on his copyright. I don't want money, this was simply so
I could get some sleep tonight and not lie awake thinking of this
vignette.

Standard XA disclaimer applies.

WARNINGS: Definite Third Season Spoiler. Language, PG-13.
Not really a true 'relationship' story--no sex, real, imagined or
implied. Just a short story about how I would feel if my partner did
the boneheaded kind of things Mulder manages to pull off. Enjoy.

Comments, questions, Christmas greetings to me at
vmoseley@fgi.net. I love mail, especially mail I can read and not
have to pay.

ALL THE TIME
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net

Ft. Dodge Medical Center
Ft. Dodge, Iowa

The hospital had the usual sliding glass doors at the entrance.
And the usual reception desk with the usual gray haired lady with a
big smile and a shrill voice. At least he was in a private room, not
the ICU. <Not the morgue, either> she reminded herself. She
pushed the elevator button and tried very hard not to scream in
frustration as it took forever to open the doors.
Dana Scully was not a happy agent. She didn't like the fact that
her always errant partner had once again run off on his own, leaving
her to pick up the pieces, long distance. She didn't like that she had
to deal with the mysterious Mr. X, whom she was beginning to
despise almost as much as she despised the Cigarette Smoking fiend
that was always in Skinner's office. <Except, not as much
recently,> she smiled a little triumphantly. And she certainly didn't
like sitting in Mulder's apartment for six hours, crying her eyes out
because she was sure he finally had the proverbial limb sawed
off behind him and was dead, really dead, just waiting to be buried
dead.
That had been bad enough. Then, her cell phone rang and it was
some poe dunk hospital in the middle of Iowa who had contacted
her because she was his listed next of kin. She thought back to the
short conversation.
************
"Scully," she sniffed, trying to regain some semblance of a
normal voice.
"Dana Scully?" an unfamiliar voice asked on the other end of the
line.
"Yes, I'm Dana Scully," she answered, a little perplexed. She
was certain no siding salesmen had access to her cellular number.
Who the hell was this joker and what did they want with her now?
All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and die, not talk on the
phone all night.
"This is Dr. Dixon at Ft. Dodge Hospital. You are listed as the
emergency contact for Agent Fox Mulder, aren't you?" the voice
asked. Dana didn't answer. She didn't want to. She didn't want to
travel to where ever in hell Ft. Dodge Hospital was and identify the
body of her very best friend, especially after she had spent at least
an hour of the last six condemning his soul to eternal damnation for
putting her through the torment she was in. "Ms. Scully," the voice
of Dr. Dixon continued. "Are you still there?"
Scully swallowed. "Yes, I'm still here. Do you need me to I D
the body," she asked, her voice wavering, threatening to
disintegrate into sobs again.
"Ah, no, actually," the doctor said, surprised. "Then you are
aware that he's been injured?"
"I was on the phone to him when. . ." her voice trailed off.
"Wait a minute. He's. . .n-not dead?" she stammered.
"Well, he could be in better shape, but he's a long way from
dead, Ms. Scully. I called because I need your go ahead for
treatment. I know this is long distance, but I really think we should
start treating as soon as possible. He's been bleeding for some time,
from the looks of the wounds. With your permission, I would like
to start a unit of blood. I have his driver's license here and
understand him to be AB neg., is that correct?"
"What exactly _are_ his injuries, Dr. Dixon?" Scully asked,
frantically now and really only half listening. <He's alive! He's
really alive! I'm gonna kill him!> she ranted to herself.
**************
The elevator doors opened at last and she stepped inside the
compartment. The music was overwhelming. She hated elevators
in small hospitals. For some bizarre reason, it always took twice as
long to get to the second or third floor in a small hospital as it did
to get to the 15th or 20th floor in a large hospital. She was still
angry at him. She had tried unsuccessfully to calm down on the
plane to Des Moines and the little connecting flight to Ft. Dodge.
He was injured, beaten up pretty badly, according to the doctor.
But he had not been in an explosion, that was obvious.
So the door to the train car had opened. And he had gotten out
before the bomb went off. Then why the hell hadn't he called her!
She had been hanging on that damn phone, watching that stupid
tape he paid $29.95 for <plus shipping and handling> and
screaming his name and all she got was static. Then the line went
dead. She tried to redial, several times. So many times that her
fingers were sore. But no answer. Nothing. Just like Farmington,
New Mexico.
She sighed, still waiting for the elevator to reach the third floor.
A quick glance to her watch and an almost unconscious calculation
told her he had been at the hospital for at least 5 hours already.
And missing for 6 hours before that. He had a head injury, a
hairline fracture to the skull with a resulting concussion, so it wasn't
that unusual that he had not come around yet. <His skull is little
more than scar tissue, anyway, it's amazing he managed only a
hairline fracture this time,> she groused and it made her that much
angrier.
For the first time since she began this trip, she thought about her
options. She should call it quits. He was too damn stubborn, too
willing to commit suicide at every turn. She did not need this in her
life, not after the year she had experienced. The trauma of her
abduction had been enough. Then Missy's murder. Now, she
wasn't sure what had been done to her when she had gone missing,
but she had at least some proof that it was probably very
dangerous. If she was going to have only a few years left on this
planet, did she really want to spend them acting as a nursemaid to a
suicidal manic with depressive tendencies? Maybe it was time to
start thinking of herself, for a change.
The ding of the elevator brought her to the present. She took a
deep breath. This was it. This was where it all ended. He could
have his precious X files, his beloved conspiracies, he ever present
goddamned alien abduction theories! He could have it all! <I
sound like a bitter wife contemplating divorce,> she thought wryly.
Maybe that was exactly what they needed. A divorce. He could
continue with his work, for a while at least. Until he stepped his
foot in something really mucky again and his next partner wasn't
fast enough, or smart enough, or resourceful enough. And then,
since he would never remember to change his emergency card, she
really would stand in some cold, white, sterile morgue and calmly
tell the medical examiner, 'yes, that's Fox Mulder lying on that slab.
I'll call and make the funeral arrangements.' It would finally be over
and he'd get exactly what he had wanted all along.
She walked the hall, noting the room numbers on the doors.
Room 348 was in the corner. She pushed the half open door in
front of her easily. She had already decided she would sit by his
side, just this last time. She wouldn't abandon him <yet.> Where
had that thought come from? If anything, he had pushed her away.
He had ignored her pleadings not to get on that train. Then he
ignored her warnings to tell the conductor to stop the train and let a
bomb squad handle the mess. It was hardly a case of abandonment
on her part when he was always running away from her, was it?
Her heart jumped into her throat at the sight of him. His face
was all bruises and dried blood on the right side. She couldn't see
the bandages on his ribcage, but she knew they were there.
Cracked, this time, not broken. They would still hurt like hell.
<Good! I hope he hurts for a nice, long time!> she gloated. An IV
ran fluids into his left arm. The right shoulder had been dislocated,
but the doctor had treated that. It would hurt, too. She knew that
his right kidney was bruised, they were watching it for any signs of
hemorrhage. <He's a bloody mess,> she thought, shaking her head
ruefully.
Oddly enough there weren't many signs of the explosion. His
leather jacket had some nice cinder burns, but it had protected him.
He must have been some distance when the train exploded. That
was odd, too. Dr. Dixon had made no mention of the explosion.
Or the train car for that matter. All he had said was that Mulder
had been found by the rail line, in the middle of nowhere. An
anonymous caller had alerted the paramedics to his whereabouts.
She sat down quietly and took his hand. It was warm. The
fingers were long. She winced when she noticed his knuckles were
scraped, like he had been in a fight. There was an ugly cut on his
throat, almost as if he had been strangled. <What happened,
Mulder? Who did this to you?>
An almost imperceptible sob reached her ears. She looked up at
his face and suddenly realized it had come from. . .her. She didn't
think she had any tears left, especially not for this man lying before
her. With a single word, he could shatter her world. With a single
thoughtless action, he destroyed her faith in her country, her
beliefs, herself. Why on earth was she crying? Just because she
could see the worry lines beginning to form on his forehead? Just
because she knew when he awoke he would feel the pain of his
injuries, but they would be nothing compared to the agony of
having his beliefs torn asunder? Then he would have to come to
terms with the bitter, cold fear that maybe, his little sister was in the
bottom of some unmarked grave, horribly disfigured, the victim of
untold atrocities. How would he live with that? How would he
ever be able to go on?
Her heart broke and with it the thick shell of anger and ice that
had enfolded it. All that remained was the very definite feeling that
she could no more walk away from this man than she could readily
accept his outlandish theories. Or walk on the moon.
The hand she was holding moved, just a bit. He moaned softly,
turning his head before opening his eyes. When, at last, his eyes did
open, they were unfocused, searching. Finally, he settled on her
face, so close to his. "Hi, Scully," he rasped.
"Hi, Mulder," she returned.
"Bet you're mad at me," he surmised.
"Now, what would make you think that?" she asked, but she
couldn't keep the smile off her face.
"Because I screwed up big time," he answered. "God, I hurt."
"Because God answers prayers, Mulder," she teased.
"There was an alien in that train, Scully. I know there was. I
don't care what you've been told. I know what I saw," he rambled,
but his eyes were drifting closed again.
"We'll talk about it later, Mulder. Right now, you need to rest.
There'll be plenty of time to discuss this when we get you out of
here," she said, reaching up and caressing his forehead. "We have
all the time in the world."

The end.>