THEY ALSO SERVE

by Halrloprillalar

The smell is the worst, the combination of antiseptic, illness, bad

food, and worry that's the same in every hospital everywhere. They

probably get it from a central supplier, in spray cans labelled

"Anxiety."

Mulder lies in the bed, decorated with a bloodied temple and a nose

tube. Hurt, unconscious, in over his head. Not again. Again.

I stand and watch and guard, trying to breath through my mouth.

Why does he fucking do this all the time? Why didn't he call us

before he got shot in the head, when we could have been of some

use? Why doesn't he fucking call?

Langly and Frohike argue about something, a cadence so familiar

that the words don't matter, only the melody. Bickering in the

dark. So normal. I study Mulder's face, calm in oblivion: stubble

on the jaw, lashes on the cheek...fluttering...

"I think he's coming out of it." I call the others and we stand

around him.

He struggles awake and lets fly a Mulder-quip so we'll know he's

OK. Thank God. Explanations ensue and I watch his face crease into

remembrance.

He sits bolt upright. "Where's Scully?"

We explain that too, what little we know. Concern mounts in his

expression. How can such small changes make such a difference to

what I see?

"I've got to get to her." Before we can do much of anything, he

struggles out of bed, standing precariously in his dignity-robbing

gown. In the middle of this, the door swings open and Skinner comes

back in, bee-lining to his woozy agent.

I'm glad he's here. Maybe Mulder will listen to him. We know a lot

about Skinner, of course, but we'd never met him until last night.

He was in the room when we arrived, pacing and sitting and filling

the room with so much ambient energy that some of it must have

soaked into Mulder. We didn't chat, just gave him what we knew, but

it was good to have him there.

We don't trust him, of course, at least officially. Frohike watched

him like a hawk. Langly couldn't make himself stay in the same room

for too long, but I think that had more to do with Skinner

reminding him of his father. So the vending machines were well and

truly visited, providing us with undrinkable coffee we consumed cup

after cup of and with candy and snacks we opened and left untasted.

Me, well, officially I still don't trust him either, but after a

night of silent shared concern, I think I can be fairly sure he at

least wants to be on Mulder's side. For today, that will do.

Skinner grabs Mulder by the shoulder, holding him up, holding him

down, holding him there.

"Mulder, easy, easy. Look, you're staying right here."

"You don't understand," Mulder says. "This goes all the way back to

Dallas."

Skinner persists. "Tell me where she is, I'll find her."

Listen to him, Mulder. We'll go. A flash inside my head and I'm

back in another hospital, smelling the anxiety, running down the

hall to her for him. I'll do it again.

"I don't know where she is. But I can think of someone who might."

Skinner's in his face, as if proximity might help convince him.

"You leave here unprotected, how far will you get? How far will

they let you get? Because they'll know the minute you walk out of

here."

"What can we do?"

I start. Langly. Why didn't I say that?

Mulder looks around. He fixes on me and his eyes narrow.

"You can strip Byers naked."

"What?!" It's a dream, that would explain the non sequitur. I'll do

a lucidity check and then I'll fix everything, wake up, and not be

standing here confused and painfully red.

"I need your clothes."

Of course you do. I always thought that giving someone the shirt

off your back was just a lame cliche, but I'll risk any number of

cliches for Mulder right now.

I shuck my outfit. There's no time for embarrassment, but I fit it

in anyhow. Mulder gets my suit; I get the gown and the bloody

bandage. I wish that by wearing these I could wear his injury as

well.

Then I'm tucked up in the bed, face towards the wall and Mulder's

out the door, Frohike and Langly in tow. I didn't even get to touch

his shoulder and say good luck. Skinner paces again, talking on his

phone. God, I want to pace too.

Five minutes go by. I count the seconds--nothing else to do. He

pulls the curtain further closed around the bed and sits down at my

side. For a minute we stare at each other.

"Thank you." We speak together, our gratitude meeting in midair.

The ghost of a smile touches his face. Mine too.

He hooks off his glasses and rubs his temples. His eyes are large

and deep before they close. His face looks like the castle gates

just before the battering ram. Such a big man, so much

responsibility. People probably assume that physical strength means

emotional strength. That might be true, to a point, but after a

while it crumbles away.

I sit up. I know his stomach twists like mine does, his mind

conjures up all-too-speakable visions, his muscles burn with

adrenalin. He needs to act. Like I do.

So I reach out and put my hand just above his knee, feeling the

energy coiling just beneath the cloth, and I speak.

"I'm sure he's only used up six or seven of his lives so far."

He looks up and again a smile haunts his face. "I hope so. Because

I'm going to kill him when he gets back." He doesn't touch me, but

he doesn't tense up either. Maybe it's just that he can't get any

tenser.

I leave my hand there. The connection helps me. I think it helps

him too. We sit. We wait.

"Dammit, we should have gone instead." I'm not sure he knows he

spoke aloud. His hand closes around mine, gripping painfully.

We should have gone. We. "Yes," I breathe. I'm not sure he heard

me.

I lean closer to him. "He would have hated us. And himself. But we

should have gone."

He's so strong. My fingers hurt. He's not Mulder. I'm not Mulder.

But we're here and we're connected and we can't do a damn thing.

We're falling inward, pain and worry and need and want and Mulder

snaking around us, pulling us to each other.

"We should have gone," he says and his breath is coffee-warm

against my face.

"Yes," I whisper. "Yes."

That's all it takes. Our mouths clash, teeth banging, tongues

plunging savagely. I thought I felt his strength before; this is

ten times the fury. I drink it down greedily.

How long do we battle, giving and taking? After a while, the anger

abates and now we feed each other comfort. I lift my other hand to

press against his face, sliding it around behind his neck. He holds

my shoulder, fingers slipping just beneath the gown.

Then I feel the slow burn flare up in me and feel it in him too,

feel it on his skin and in his mouth. Panic sours the kiss and we

break apart.

We look at each other. There's nothing to say. He doesn't let go of

my hand. I don't try to draw it away.

His eyes close. "We should have gone."

Yes, my hand says, warm between his palm and his knee.

We wait, like we're supposed to. After dreary years, Frohike and

Langly return with clothes for me. When they enter, Skinner's up

and pacing again.

He stops and fixes me with one more long gaze. "I'll call as soon

as I hear anything."

And then he's gone.

F I N I S

Any thoughts? I'd love to know them. prillalar@yahoo.com