TITLE: Almost 2: Again 2/2 AUTHOR: Laine EMAIL: loislane@bright.net Missing Chapter one? Ask and ye shall receive promptly. Rated R All other related jargon in part one. Again 2/2 My whole life is in there on that table, and I'm out here caught in purgatory, waiting for judgment to be delivered. Oh, shit. Not that again. I do not need to be out here thinking the worst. I do not need to be out here alone with my morbidity and despair. Even as I'm trying to talk myself out of it, I feel my soul slipping into that dark place where all my private little monsters play. Horrid images start a full frontal assault on the fertile grounds of my imagination, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight against them and grab the wall for support. I have no idea how long I stood there like that, but the next think I know Monkey-Man the orderly is trying to get my attention. I guess it's judgment day. I pin him to the wall with my eyes and begin dissecting him for fun in my brain as he tells me in a fucking clinical voice that my Scully is being taken to emergency surgery for some sort of fucking abscess and resultant infection and would I please go wait in the proper waiting room on the fourth floor. Sure. And would you please stand real still while I shoot you, you heartless bastard? By the time I make it to the *proper* waiting area, my insides have turned to liquid. All I can think, all I can picture, is Scully laying white and drawn on a cold, impersonal operating table while some butcher hacks into her fresh scars and pokes his fat, stubby fucking fingers around her precious internal organs. I now know beyond the shadow of a doubt what a death row inmate feels like in the hours before his execution. The waiting is surely hell on earth, so much so that the end must be a blessed relief because you finally *know* that the governor is not going to call. It's finally over, and the blackness can claim you, and the hope that eats at your soul with gnashing, gnarled teeth is finally snuffed out along with everything else. Hell could be no worse than the hours of waiting, so there would be no fear just before they throw the switch, only relief. I cannot breathe properly on my own. Scully's breath is out of my range of hearing, so my own feeble gasps are out of sync and not nearly deep enough. My lungs feel tight and swallowing around the lump in my throat is painful. Not that there is any moisture left in my mouth to swallow. I've gone over and over the last week in my head, and other than the occasional slow movement, which is to be expected, Scully never gave any indication she was hurting. I remember her taking Tylenol once or twice, but since she should have been on demerol at the time, I didn't think much about it. Because I'm a worthless piece of shit who didn't pay enough attention, apparently. I do not doubt my fault in this matter. I do not doubt that I should have done something, anything, to prevent this. I should have noticed something, I'm a trained investigator for chrissake. And I *know* Scully. Well, not in the Biblical sense, unfortunately, but I do know Scully. And if something was going wrong with her, I should have seen it. Unfortunately, I was too fucking busy worrying about how everything affected *me* to be doing my job properly. My job is to watch my partner's back, and once again, I have failed miserably in that regard. Fox Mulder, failure extraordinaire. I'm at the point now where I truly believe things can't get much worse, and suddenly the elevator dings and I hear feet, more than one pair, scuttling down the hall toward me. I know without question that one pair belongs to Scully's mom, because I hear her voice, a little breathless, explaining what sounds vaguely like rules of procedure to someone. I can't make myself look toward the door of the waiting area, because I'm trying to put off the inevitable just a bit longer. I'm trying to put off looking into Mrs. Scully's eyes, eyes that will be full of worry and concern and free of the accusations that should be there, when she looks at me. "Fox? Do you know anything more yet?" Shit. Now I have to face her and I'm not ready yet. I haven't done enough bruising to my own psyche yet to be in the proper frame of mind to speak with her. I still have more than a few demons to slay before we talk about my latest transgressions, for which I know she will offer absolution that I don't deserve. I slowly lift my head, prepared for the full brunt of a gaze so like my Scully's it will shake my soul, when I am met with one of the most unwelcome sights I can think of right now. For the first time in a long, long time, I'm thinking there just might be a God, and He just might have one hell of a warped sense of humor. Or justice. Because Mrs. Scully is flanked by BillfuckingScullyJr. and I *really* can't believe this shit. I didn't even know he was in town. It doesn't make sense when you consider Scully was planning to spend the evening with me and not with her family. Our gazes lock instantly, and for a second I think we're going to just drop any pretenses and start swinging when the doctor walks in the room and heads straight for me as I jump up on shaky legs and tear my eyes away from the devil incarnate long enough to hear about Scully. Ha. Fuck you Billyboy. Doc here knows who's important and who's not. The doctor alternates looking from me to Bill for a few seconds, and I can tell she's wondering when we're going to whip 'em out to establish once and for all who the dominant male in this pack is, but then she shakes her head slightly and redirects her attention to me. "Mr. Mulder, the surgery went well, relatively speaking. It was a pretty standard procedure, really. "Ms. Scully apparently had some post-operative bleeding that was not absorbed by the surrounding tissue. Because it was not absorbed properly, the blood sat on top of the tissue and formed an abscess, which in turn caused a severe infection, the symptoms of which are fever and discomfort, not unlike the flu, until the fever spiked and the infection grew out of control." She pauses here for a minute, cutting a quick glance over at the room's only other two occupants. "Are you family?" Taking the quick nods of affirmation and not waiting for an explanation of relative status, the doctor continued, picking up where she left off but now including all three of us in the conversation. I want to shake her and scream at her to get to the fucking point and just tell me if I still have a reason not to eat my gun, but I settle for biting down on my lower lip hard enough to draw blood and holding my breath. "We reopened the wound and removed the abscess and washed the area with saline, after which the remaining fluids were suctioned out. Unfortunately, we can't rinse the infection out of the bloodstream as efficiently. We are administering intravenous antibiotics in an aggressive attempt to cleanse her system, and at this point, I can't tell you much more. I can, however, assure you that your quick response, Mr. Mulder, undoubtedly saved her life." I think that was supposed to make me feel better, but until I see Scully, 'everyone else can go fuck themselves' is pretty much still my attitude. "I need to see her." For once, I ignore the fact that her family is here and should probably be admitted first. Fuck that, and fuck being proper, mannerly or nice. Nice my ass. I wanna see Scully. And no, I don't care that I'm whining to myself like a petulant four-year-old. With a quick glance toward the official family, Dr. Whatserface takes me by the arm and leads me down the hall. I give a questioning glance toward the family and decide not to press my luck when the doctor tells me although it isn't standard procedure, prior to the surgery, Scully kept saying my name. I must look more pathetic than I thought. Or else, the doctor figures "partner" means something other than what it really does mean. Whatever. I don't give a shit. Just take me to my leader. A cinder block takes up immediate residence somewhere between my ribcage and my stomach when I slip through the door to her room. Scully is pale and small and fragile in a bed that seems too large for her and I all but collapse in the solitary chair beside her bed that is destined to become my new home for awhile. I carefully take her hand and idly begin stroking the back of it. My racing heartbeat eventually settles into rhythm with the gentle electronic blip that indicates the rate at which her precious blood is being pumped through her veins, and my breathing gradually takes up the cadence of the rise and fall of her chest. This is an all-too familiar and somewhat hypnotic pattern for me. I am so fucking sick and tired of keeping vigil at Scully's bedside that I feel the bile rising in the back of my throat, but I don't move. I just stare at her pale, motionless face for an eternity before I lift my free hand to her hairline and use the tips of my fingers to start the cascade of hair away from her face in my practiced motion. This time, thank God, it doesn't stick. I don't flinch, I don't even look up sometime later when Scully's mother and brother enter the room. I don't move. I just sit and continue to watch her face for signs of life so that I can start breathing on my own again. I'm aware of their presence in the room, I'm aware of Mrs. Scully patting my shoulder hours later when she and Billyboy take their leave, and I know that at least one of them will be back in the morning. But my entire being is focused on Scully's eyelids, waiting to see the blue that redeems my soul and makes me human. Nothing will be OK again until that happens, so the nurses and Dr. Whatserface can just continue to work around me. It'll take more than they've got to move me from this chair. Besides, I'm armed. For fun, I pass the time thinking of all the gory things I'd like to do to Peyton for his part in this mess, but invariably I come back to lay the blame on myself, where it belongs. Nothing in this world or any other can convince me that if I hadn't been so damned busy worrying about what I didn't do in New York and what *almost* happened to Scully there that I would've been able to see what *was* happening right in front of my face. Hours tick away around me and by the time I see a tiny movement on Scully's eyelids, I'm pretty sure I'm hallucinating, but I hold my breath just the same. And then she grips my hand. Just a slight pressure, but it feels like a vice grip on my heart, just the same, and I risk saying her name softly to see what will happen. My breath leaves me in a rush when her eyes open and I'm met with the unbelievably welcome weight of her clear, soft eyes on mine. She doesn't say anything, just stares at me, and for a minute I swear to Christ I can't speak. I just can't. And when I finally remember how, all I can manage is a pathetic "Hey" that sounds like it was dragged over sandpaper instead of my vocal cords. Scully swallows twice before she half whispers back at me. "Hey. Yourself." I am so fucking grateful to whatever powers that be that she might as well have declared her undying love for me and asked me to take her to bed. Those two words sound that good to my Scully-starved psyche. She looks around the room then, and takes note of all the machinery she's hooked up to before locking me in her gaze again. "Not the flu, huh?" I actually manage a half-assed smile at her this time, even though it makes my face feel like it's cracking in two. "No. Not the flu, Scully." I let the words come out gently, hoping they won't catch in my throat. But they're too thick and Scully sees through me anyway. She lets go of my hand and I swear I can feel our skin cells separating. I know she's a doctor, so I know she's probably already figured out what's going on with her by now, anesthetic and pain meds be damned. I don' t have much time to analyze the wonders of her mind, though, because she's motioning with her newly-freed hand for me to come closer, which I do, despite the protests from my body that has spent far too long growing roots in this plastic chair. "Want to tell. Me about it?" I inch my face a little closer than necessary, just to be nearer to her, and shake my head. "Nothing to tell, really. You owe me a movie, though." I try for flippancy and it goes over about as well as a convicted child molester at a daycare center. A frown creases her alabaster skin, and I know I'm sunk. I knew that a long time ago, really. "Owe you so much more than that, Mulder." The way my name sounds coming from her lips is water after a seven hour trek through the Sahara. I shake my head at her, even as my heart implodes. One last ditch-effort here to lighten the mood, but of course, I don't pick the right topic for that. If I actually did do something right, I think the world might end. "I'm pretty sure we've had this conversation before, Scully, and I've told you. You owe me nothing." As soon as the words are out, the blood freezes in my veins. Shit. That was definitely out loud, and this is now the closest we've ever come to talking about *that* day. The day. The day in my hallway when I finally 'fessed up. Now I am really in trouble. Not to mention the fact that my timing invariably sucks. Bigtime. What better time to delve into this topic than when she's recovering from surgery and therefore vulnerable and doped up on who knows what? I could not be more of a prick, and I know it. I know it with a vengeance. But Scully, my Scully, has a mind that cannot be slowed by any amount of pain or medication. And she has a calm that centers both of us when it counts, like now. She raises her hand to my stubble covered face and rests it heavily there, and it takes every ounce of strength I posses in my miserable being not to lean into her smooth palm. Then, although it is weak, she does it. She gives me that almost smile thing again, and I'm thinking of poetry before I can stop myself. I am so far gone for this woman that no amount of reason or denial will ever bring me back from the edge. Couple that with the relief running like a narcotic through my system at the fact that I'm actually having a conversation with her at all after everything that's happened in recent hours, and you have a powerful scenario playing out in my brain, don't doubt that for a second. Her eyes are on mine, locked on them like a heat-seeking missile, really, and I know I cannot prevent her from reading what she does there. I watch hers soften and swirl for a minute before she becomes serious. So serious that I think my heart just stopped. With her next words, she proves just how well she knows my battered soul. "Thank you. For being there. For being here now." I feel my eyes start to sting but resolutely refuse to cry when there is so much to rejoice about right now. I start to speak, to thwart what she has said to me, but she moves her hand around to my lips and looks at me in a way that tells me she loves me and to shut up and don't dare argue with her or she will become a medical miracle, again, and get out of that bed and kick my ass. So instead, I kiss her palm and then clutch it to my chest before I bend in even closer and reverently touch my lips to her forehead. I linger just above her for a minute before pulling back and replacing her hand gently at her side, marveling all the while that this creature exists in the fucked up world that is my life. I don't deserve her, and I know it. I don't deserve someone who can always know exactly what I'm feeling and how to take the pain away, even as she lies in such a precarious state herself. But I have her, and I'm not going to let her go. Not now, not ever. And that's just the way it is. I watch her drift back off to sleep before I move to go and find the doctor and report her stint of consciousness and lucidity like a good little soldier. Before I leave the room, I hesitate at the door, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest again as she sleeps, and I before I can help myself I whisper the words aloud, sans Demerol. "I love you, Scully. I don't deserve you, but I love you." I freeze like a deer caught in headlights when my *sleeping* partner turns and pins me against the door with those incredible eyes again. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh no. Oh shit. But she just does that almost smile thing again and says "I know." And once again, for the billionth time, she saves me, redeems me and tells me she loves me with one blink of her eye. And I leave to find the doctor and become a medical miracle in my own right. Because I'm walking the halls of the hospital without my heart. It's still in the room with Scully. 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